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demainvient) wrote2025-04-30 11:56 am
demainvient) wrote2025-04-30 11:56 am
๐๐๐๐.
๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐
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Putain. The things he wants to do to this man. A breathless laugh; ]
And how am I to resist?
[ He draws him into another kiss, just as hungry, just as raw -- but maybe a little elss edge, now. Dialing back a bit on pure instinct, on that drive he has deep in his chest to just take and take and take, more trying to meet Gustave where he is. Like an instrument, tuning himself to Gustave so better to pluck at his strings and drive him wild. Its no less passionate, tonguing deeply into his mouth to taste him, teeth catching against his lower lip in nips and bites.
Now, he doesn't hesitate. He lets his hand palm down, over the top of his trousers, just to drag it out for a few seconds more, finding the shape of him, an easy but firm pressure. And then back up, callused fingers teasing back over the flat of his stomach, tracing the muscles there and feeling the way his belly quivers under his touch -- before finally dipping down, past the fabric, following hot and bare skin. His fingers are firm, taking him into his hand, making some quiet appreciate sound into their kiss.
He lingers in that, just feeling him, merde its been a while, a long, long time. He breaks from their kiss briefly, catching his breath -- and just watching him, for a moment. Wanting to drink in Gustave's every response. The way he touches him and starts to slowly work his hand over him, the way his eyes are dark and focused in entirely on Gustave -- there is nothing else in the world, for the moment, other than this heat, nothing that matters more other than making him feel good. ]
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His touch. That hand sliding down over the front of his trousers, making Gustave's hips rock reflexively into his palm, wanting more even as Verso teases him, slips his hand back up again along his belly, leaving Gustave shaking and almost crazed with want before finally, finally, dipping his fingers back under the band of his trousers, andโ ]
Merde.
[ A strangled curse as Verso's elegant, callused fingers close around him, hot and firm and perfect, and Gustave's head pushes back again, eyes sliding half-closed and his brows drawing inward into a furrow like he's in pain. It might look that way, if it weren't for how blown dark his eyes are, drugged and hazy with pleasure as Verso moves his hand against him, strong fingers and a rough hot palm against sensitive skin.
It's been almost two years since Sophie, and longer still since he was with anyone who looked, felt, anything like Verso, and all he can do is shudder against the metal trellis, both hands running feverishly over whatever part of Verso he can reach, gripping, holding on, while his hips try to push further, harder, into that mind-melting touch. His lips part, breath coming hard, and his heart has not slowed since the moment that grapple point crumbled and gravity took over.
He feels like he's still falling even now, as he forces his eyes open to meet Verso's, watching as the man watches him, how he can't keep everything he's feeling from scudding across his face like light over water. ]
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He leans forward to brush a is against his mouth, catching Gustave's lower lip in his teeth, tugging on it slightly. Chasing it with his tongue, swaying back again so he can see him. ]
Gustave.
[ Its not even necessarily to say anything. Just a heated echo of his name, half-lost against his lips. Appreciative as much as it is wanting. ]
I thought you looked good before. [ Punctuating it with another squeeze, nimble fingers letting pressure ripple along the length of him. That thigh pressed between Gustave's legs stays where it is, warm, solid, a steady pressure to add to everything else. His other hand lifts to Gustave's cheek, cradling it against his palm, touching him just to touch him -- but also distinctly keep his head in place. So he can just keep -- watching him. ] Merde, you look better like this.
[ He wants to do more. He wants to push him down and spread him out across the grass and concrete. Wants to pick him up and sweep him away. Wants to sink to his knees, take him in his mouth -- and its there, in his eyes, just how much more he seems to want to do. But he's not pushing. Not pressing, at least not yet. Taking what he can, in the time they have. ]
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But he can't stop watching Verso, his eyes heavy and half-lidded but steady on the man's face. Offered a little bit of control and Verso has already taken the bit in his mouth, ready to run wild. There's a promise in his eyes, in his voice, in the way he squeezes his hand and punches another low moan from Gustave's chest. And this promise, at least, looks far more reliable than the half-answers and evasion of earlier. Whatever else might happen, he thinks he can take Verso at his word when it comes to the things he's planning to do, wants to do to him.
Gustave, he murmurs, sending a hard, sidelong lurch through Gustave's chest, his already sprinting hard tripping and falling all over itself against his ribs. He wants to hear Verso say it again, wants to pull it off Verso's lips when it falls from them like a reflex. ]
I thought you looked beautiful.
[ Earnest, even now, even as he's being systematically burned into ash, just as completely as the Gommage itself. His eyes are dark, wide black pupils surrounded by a thin ring of color, but they're hazy and affection, as he reaches with his right hand to palm the man's cheek in return, fingers sliding through scruff, thumb brushing the scar that mars the skin beneath his eye. Fuck, but he had been beautiful, impossibly so, sitting there at that piano in front of a crowd of empty chairs, eyes downcast and fingers moving gracefully over the keys.
Here in the sunlight, in reality, he's almost painfully, heart-wrenchingly beautiful, every part of him like one of the tumbling measures of notes in his music. Beautiful and untouchable, warm and generous all at once. An impossible, infuriating dream of a person, somehow real and here and wanting Gustave just as much in return. ]
I still do.
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It makes something ache and twist in his lungs, in the pit of his stomach, distinct even through the haze of lust and want. Maybe Verso just wants what he can't have. What he can't be. ]
I feel like -- [ He turns his head into Gustave's hand, letting him thumb along that scar ( old, but prominent, somehow not healed over enough to fade ), pressing a kiss to his palm. ] -- I feel like you're going to be the death of me.
[ He won't be. But in the moment, at least figuratively, it feels true. Gustave is beautiful, too, and he'd seen it that night, a stranger framed in the shaft of light from the opera house door, stepping haltingly towards the stage. Light catching in his hair, on the lapel of his suit, in those brown eyes that were so eager and curious to hear more. Beautiful in how he didn't just hear the music, but was listening, really listening, opened himself up to it, let it carry him away. Verso has spent so much of his long, long life behind a dozen different walls, and to have one man so effectively, disarmingly pull them down, even for moments at a time. It's devastating, leaves him clinging to the other dozen walls he still has, equal parts desperate to hold them in place and desperate to have them all torn down.
Verso suddenly feels a bit in over his head. Probably what he deserves, when he'd went into this wanting to flood Gustave out, to make him feel like he'd gotten into something he couldn't control and get swept up in heat and want under his mouth and tongue, but with just a few words . . A little shudder runs down his spine. His hand works over him just a little harder, a little more firmly. ]
Gustave. [ He leans in again. A kiss to Gustave's neck, up to his jawline, to the corner of his mouth. ] I want you.
I want more of you.
[ Simple. Direct. It doesn't have the ring of aching earnestness that Gustave does -- Verso simply can't do that. But it's raw, real, not lowering his voice to make it sound a certain way, not dancing around anything, just those words and the gravel of his voice, the heat and weight of his hand as he keeps touching him. But it is, intentionally, nonspecific. He wants to see what it does to him, what his face might look like as he imagines and wonders what Verso might want, what he might mean -- because he does want more. He wants more than this. But only as much as Gustave will actually give him, as much as Gustave himself might want. ]
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His own laugh, a breathless, burned-out groan chasing the tail end of the sound. ]
I hope not.
[ But right now it certainly feels like Verso might be the death of him. His heart is pounding, his breath too shallow and rapid to clear the steam of desire from his head. His hips push helplessly into the man's touch as his fingers curl into Verso's shirt. More.
A hot mouth chasing up his neck as he moans, head tipping back into the metal trellis, the leaves and vines there tangling in his hair just like Verso's fingers. I want more of you.
Merde, but what else can he say other than I want all of you in return? They're entwined just like these climbing vines, here in the sun, and he's almost as desperate to get his hands on Verso as he is for the man to never stop touching him. ]
I wantโ
[ So much more. Verso's body, and his smiles, and the way his eyes light up. More songs, drifting through the air. He wants time. To sit at a cafรฉ table with him and drink wine and let his warm, gravelly voice wash over him. He wants to run his mouth over every inch of the man's skin, here in the sunlight and again in the dark, sheets and shadows muddled around them.
His fingers slide into Verso's hair, curving around his skull, blunt nails running lightly over his scalp. ]
Yes. I want more of you, too.
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Putain, but he does love this. He answers him with another kiss, full on the lips, drowning a pleased sound against the other man's tongue from the feel of his fingers in his hair. When he breaks away its again to start to kiss down his neck, his other hand working firmly and languidly over him stilling in its rhythm. He pulls back, just enough to catch his gaze, his eyes lowered, pupils completely blown out -- and a smirk tugging at his lips. ]
-- Good.
[ Just the one word. Nothing more, and then Vero starts to ease down. Squeezing around him, fingers rippling pressure along his length, his free hand shifting between them to press against the flat of his stomach, to roll his shirt up until more of his skin is exposed to the air. Verso kisses at his neck, his collarbone, mouths lightly over his shirt and hotly over the muscle of his stomach, tracing hard lines, kissing near his navel, easing down to his knees. His hand moves to his trousers, pulling them down until they're tangled around his thighs.
He lingers there for a moment, turning his head away to trail his mouth along one inner thigh, roughness of his beard and scruff scratching lightly at his skin -- but he won't drag it out for too long. Flicking his eyes up to look at him, as hungry to watch him respond as he is for this, tongue wetting his lips before his mouth falls open and he starts to swallow him down. ]
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What are youโ
[ But the question is answered before he can even finish the words, as Verso pushes at the material of his shirt and starts working his way down the shaking line of Gustave's body, trailing fire in his wake. All Gustave can do is watch, his throat working, going dry, and thread the metal fingers of his left hand into the trellis behind him like he's bracing himself.
Cool air scuds over bared skin, kissing the tops of his thighs with an even more teasing touch than Verso himself, and Gustave shivers at the brush of his beard, rough and soft all at once, over flushed, sensitive skin, only to shudder hard as Verso ceases his mischief and turns to the task at hand, leaning in to slide him along the hot wet warmth of his tongue and into his mouth. ]
Verso.
[ His eyes squeeze shut involuntarily, metal fingers gripping the trellis so hard the wire bends. His other hand, shaking, palms the side of Verso's head, runs down his neck to his shoulder as Gustave marshals every last bit of control he has left to keep from simply rocking his hips mindlessly into that perfect wet heat.
It's an effort to open his eyes even halfway, pupils blown huge and dark and drugged with desire, but he wants to see, to watch, as much as Verso wants to watch him, even as the sight of Verso's mouth wrapped around him threatens to shove him over the cliff edge without even another moment's pause. A breathless curse falls from his lips as his breath catches, as melting heat threatens to overwhelm him. It's been so long and it feels so goodโ ]
Putainโ
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Verso lets his eyes slip shut for moment -- its been a while, but he knows what he's doing. Sinking down further, inch by inch, making a low pleased sound that Gustasve would be able to feel rumble in his throat. He likes the taste of him, the weight of him on his tongue, the way he can feel him hot and throbbing, likes his desperation. He's been trying to get really overwhelm him this entire time, push him out of his head, away from his thoughts, make it so he can't think or do anything but feel, and feel good -- and this seems to have finally gotten them there. He'll savor it.
He winds an arm around one of Gustave's legs, hand sliding up the back of his thigh -- and not at all helping Gustave hold himself back as his hand palms roughly over his ass, pulling him closer, almost urging him to move. His other hand moves instinctively to brace himself against the metal frame through crushed and broken vines, blindly brushing against Gustave's metallic hand and immediately moving so he can cover it with his own, holding onto him. Verso breathes in, smells crushed grass and greenery and dirt, smells him and his eyes flicker open again to look up at him as he shifts slightly where he's knelt on the ground.
He pulls back. Slowly, deliberately, letting his tongue drag against him in his mouth, all the way back along the length of him until Gustave is leaving his mouth with a wet pop. One fleeting second where he'd be without that heat, without any pressure and touch, before he's pressing his tongue to him and immediately starting to swallow him down again. Faster, this time, closing his eyes again on another muffled pleased groan, finding and settling into his an easy rhythm. ]
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His lips part as he watches Verso pull slowly back, as he feels it in his gut, like the man has reached a hand into him and is now dragging his stomach, his lungs, his heart right out of his body. The sweet suction and the feeling of the man's tongue sliding along the underside of his length is almost enough to drive him mad, cool air brushing over hard wet skin and making him shiver again.
And then Verso's there again, dragging another groan out of Gustave's chest and filling his world with heat, with the softness of his tongue and the slick hot perfect pressure of his mouth, and this time Gustave can't stop himself, pushes his hips forward to rock more firmly into that mouth, tiny movements to match Verso's rhythm for the moment. If Verso doesn't stop him, though, they'll speed up, little by little, and the rolling motion of his hips will push a little harder, a little deeper, as he pants for breath, as he watches Verso's face, his closed eyes and the smudged line of his lashes against his skin.
He's beautiful. Again, again. As beautiful here on his knees, making that indulgent, pleased sound that rumbles in his throat and straight into Gustave's gut, making his hips jerk and a flash of white heat run right up his spine, as he was there at the piano, idly picking out a melody. Beautiful. ]
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Verso himself doesn't stop either, not content to let Gustave just move against him, keeps building his own rhythm with him, working his tongue and his throat around him as much as he can. Verso's hand shifts over Gustave's left hand on the frame, his own fingers fitting between the gaps of Gustave's metallic ones, gripping onto him tightly.
His other hand palms hard over his ass, back down to the back of one thigh, gripping hard enough to leave some bruises in his skin alongside everything else -- and then falling away. It's a bit clumsy, compared to how he touches Gustave, its clear where his focus and attention really is, his mouth and tongue never faltering as he bobs against him and he pops open the front of his own trousers. He starts to work a hand over himself, languid, unhurried, almost an afterthought compared to his focus elsewhere but doing it all the same, groaning appreciatively around his mouthful, eyes flickering open to look up at Gustave again.
This is nice. This is good. No need to think about anything other than this, Gustave in his mouth and under his hands and under his tongue and above him and under him and everywhere else, Gustave and his breathless gasps and moans, Gustave and his hips rolling deep and hard against his mouth, his grip tight over his neck and shoulder, anchoring him close. If Gustave wants to stop, he'll have to summon self-control himself, because Verso isn't stopping him, hungry to keep pushing him on and on and on until he hurtles over the edge. ]
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He's watching when Verso slides his own hand down between his legs, opening his trousers with casual ease to take himself into a curl of fingers, and it sends another wave of heat boiling through him, tightening low in his belly. The thought that Verso is doing this to him, enjoying it that much, that he's touching himself at the same time, and Gustave wants to feel it, too. Verso hard and hot and wanting in his hand, his mouth, against his body. He wants to hear the sounds the man might make, see his expression cracked open and bared.
And then, suddenly, it's all overwhelming. Too much, too fast, it feels too good and his hand is tightening against Verso's cheek. ]
Versoโ
[ He doesn't know if it's a warning or simply another helpless reflex, unable to say anything but that name that comes hard off his tongue, chased by a long, low groan and a stumbling, fraying collection of curses. ]
Putain, Versoโ my godโ
[ Everything tightening and tightening, coiling hard until his hips judder and the pleasure peaks almost painfully, punching out of him in sharp bursts, his body shaking like he's been hit with round after round of chroma shots as he comes hard into the man's mouth. He groans again, rough, as his hips jerk a last time, a dull, blooming ache following the wave of sensation as it crests through him and slowly settles again. ]
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And fuck, he loves it when he says his name. Especially like that, when it doesn't even sound like he's calling him, when it just sounds like the only thing he can think to say, when he tumbles on over and in the mess of his thoughts as he's overwhelmed by the heat and pleasure the only thing he can do is curse and call his name.
When that tension builds, when he knows he's right on the edge, Verso shifts. He lets go of himself, lets go of Gustave's metal hand, instead running his hands along his thighs, gripping his hips tight, bracing himself, bracing him, relaxing his throat and sinking down and taking him as deep as he can, all the way, lips stretched around his base even as Gustave's hips continue to jerk and try to push himself deeper -- and fuck, when he comes. He shudders with it, leaning in, sinking down, swallowing him easily and readily. His throat burns, just a little, still out of practice, but he doesn't even care or mind, thumbs pressing into the line of his hips, kneading into skin and muscle as he rides it out.
He stays there, suckling and swallowing down, until he feels him soften, until he knows he's completely spent and even then lingers just a while more, sweeping his tongue over him in his mouth just to savor it that much more. Verso shifts his weight back slightly on his calves, finally leaning back, letting him slip from his mouth and immediately turning his head to press a kiss to one thigh. Still with that smirk, looking quite self-satisfied.
He'll wait. You take your time and catch your breath. ]
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Well, he's earned it. Little aftershocks ripple their way through Gustave's veins, trembling and twitching in his muscles. His body feels heavy, sated in a way he hasn't been in... longer than he'd like to recall, and his head is only just beginning to clear of the smoke that had filled it, driving out every thought but how good it felt and how impossibly beautiful Verso is and how his every touch seemed to coax Gustave's body back to life.
One by one, he carefully uncurls his fingers from the trellis, where they've dented the wire beyond hope of repair, until the only thing keeping him upright is the metal behind him and his own dazed and trembling legs. Slowly, Gustave shifts down, knees bending, keeping his weight back until he can finally come to his knees in front of Verso, and he's smiling, wide and white and laughing, his eyes pressed into cheerful half-moons. ]
What a mess you've made of me.
[ His pants around his knees, his shirt a stained and wrinkled mess, his body bruised and scraped and aching and still feeling as though he's flying, even now, as he reaches for Verso with both hands, curving his palms at either side of his jaw to drag the man in for a lazy, heated kiss. He can taste himself on Verson's tongue, sex and musk and salt, and it jolts into him again. The edge is gone, but he still has wants, and they still involve the man kneeling here with him. ]
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Which, ah. There it is. That sinking feeling, the reminder of who he is and where they are. His eyes flicking briefly from Gustave's to the sky behind him, still bright, the shards of the Continent and the monolith suspended between clouds stretched across the sky. But before he can even start to think about what kind of excuse he could try to make to leave -- Gustave is there, sinking down beside him. Instinctively Verso reaches to his waist, the tiniest flicker of a frown creasing at his brow, watching how he holds his weight, remembering he's still hurt, but he seems well enough. Not just smiling, but laughing, reaching close.
Some part of him thinks, now. Now he should pull away. But the thought never materializes beyond that, not when it's so easy to just lean back into him, to wind both his arms around his waist and let himself be pulled in. He kisses him back easily, that heat and want still present even if some of the urgency has edged back.
This has gone poorly, technically. But it feels good. He breaks from the kiss, sitting back a bit to look at him, pupils still blown. Gustave is still beautiful. Maybe more beautiful, like this, all freshly taken apart. One hand stays around his waist, sliding up a bit under his shirt, following the notches of his spine -- the other reaches for his face, tucking some messy hair back. Its futile, it falls back forward, Gustave's hair is a mess with how much he's been gripping it. ]
My finest work.
[ A smile. And -- ]
I -- shouldn't stay.
[ Even to his own ears it sounds half-hearted. ]
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He'd kept everything so neat and tidy and closed-off until then. Until this. And now he feels a lot like this ruined rooftop garden: a mess of color and life and damaged goods. He leans his head into Verso's touch and chuckles, rumbling low in his chest as his own right hand runs down along the line of the man's neck to that rumpled collar, starts working at the buttons of his shirt. Fingers patiently slipping each out of their buttonhole, one by one. ]
You think I'd let you go right now? Really?
[ He has no intention of letting Verso disappear again so soon, not when he can't extract a promise of tomorrow, of another day, an evening, a night. Gustave angles his left hand at Verso's jaw, tipping his head so he can lean forward and taste the flushed skin at his throat, mouth working slow and warm over the pulse point there as his fingers drift lazily down his chest, working his shirt open. ]
When I haven't even had the chance to get my hands on you yet?
[ His burning need has been sated, little ripples of it still coursing through him, but his desire still burns. And it's his turn. ]
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But his protests are half-hearted. He wants to be convinced. Spend a bit more time as this man's monsieur le pianiste. So while he does look up, again, at the sun moving through the sky, at the shattered Continent beyond -- he does not move to stop him when Gustave's hands start to run along his shirt, working at each button, one at a time. ]
Perhaps I thought -- [ his voice breaks off quietly on a quiet sigh, the heat of the other man's mouth in his throat, his jaw. Those fingers continuing to wind their way down his body, that coiled-tight heat still burning in his own stomach, between his legs. Would it be so terrible? Does he have to be so above everything? That sigh edges into a laugh. ] -- I thought you might want to get me more flowers.
[ For his performance, obviously. This one is just as deserving. Merde, he really is awful, and it's a good thing its unlikely Gustave will ever have to learn any of the thousand truths that Verso has to hide, a good thing that he'll likely never even have to try to hear Verso apologize. He shouldn't have come back to Lumiere at all, not so soon.
But now that he's here, well. He lets his arm stay around around Gustave, hand sliding up the long line of his spine, tangling back through his hair. ]
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But Verso doesn't do any of those things, and in fact his arm stays around Gustave, coaxing him even a little closer, his fingers carding gently through the hair he'd mussed so thoroughly, and he doesn't look all that unhappy about it. His throat moves beneath Gustave's mouth, a sigh lowering his chest, and Gustave wants to drink every part of it in: the sounds he makes, the way he tastes, the feeling of his skin beneath the tips of Gustave's fingers as he works at the buttons of his shirt, methodical. And he laughsโ merde, Gustave could go drunk on that laugh. He wants to pour it into himself like wine. ]
I do want to get you more flowers.
[ For this performance. For the last one. Simply to try and spark that surprise and that smile again. Or maybe because he has known Verso for less than two hours but the man is already doing his best to run off with a significant chunk of Gustave's heart and attention. He's... irresistible.
The last button parts easily from its buttonhole and Verso's shirt swings open, baring a wide swath of pale skin and firm muscle, the lines of him as beautiful as any of the statues gracing the streets and galleries and museums of Lumiรจre. Gustave pulls back just enough to lean his forehead against Verso's shoulder, eyes hooded as he watches his own hand palm over his exposed chest and stomach. Slipping up over the muscle of his abdomen to rub the pad of his thumb over a nipple before his fingers drift lower again, to his side, the angle of his hip, the loosened waist of his trousers. ]
Would you like more?
Flowers, I mean?
[ And not just flowers, he means. ]
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Verso tucks his face against Gustave's, kissing at his cheek and jaw, his breath catching noticeably when that thumb moves over his nipple. And down, to his already loosened trousers, still just barely staying slung around his hips.
It's intoxicating. He wishes he could stay, that he could just -- forget everything else, for longer than this.
He haind cards through his hair, slipping down to Gustave's jaw, tipping his head up -- getting briefly distracted just looking at him, how fucking beautiful he looks with those lips bruised with his kisses and cheeks still flushed from everything he's done to him before now -- before kissing him on the mouth again. ]
You make that sound hard to resist, monsieur le fleuriste. [ A laugh there. The guilt wallowing in his chest is still a bit distant, hasn't fully hit him yet. Maybe he'd like to keep it at bay just a little longer, even if it's going to make the regret that much work. ] I think I would like more flowers.
You have me here now.
[ And later, he'll still have to leave. Time to make the most of it, Gustave. His other arm wraps around him again, keeping him close, his hand palming up over the back of his thigh, squeezing over toned muscle. ]
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Do you think I'm a florist?
[ It's cute, a mirror to his own monsieur le pianiste, a title that might be more playful than wholly accurate, and he finds himself not caring at all if Verso calls him monsieur le fleuriste. What do they know about each other, really? One of them plays the piano, the other brought flowers. Perhaps it's enough.
He meets that laughing mouth again for another kiss, then works his way across cheek and the angle of his jaw to the other side of his throat, mindfully attentive to all the patches of skin he'd neglected kissing earlier. He mouths down along Verso's neck, paying particular attention to this spot or the next, whichever the man seems to like best, sweeping his tongue against warm, salt-spiked skin, nipping at the curve of his shoulder.
Verso had seduced him like a hunter, predatory intent in every touch, every kiss, burning him down to the ground. Gustave is warmer, sweeter, less taking and more giving, offering the adoration of his mouth and fingers to this man he has not been able to forget in nine long months. He shifts a little to give himself room, dips his fingers into the open front of Verso's pants to wrap warm, firm fingers around him. His own breath shudders out of him at the touch, lust curling back into his gut in a slow hot coil. He moves his hand firm and slow, long languid strokes as he lifts his head to watch Verso's face, studying his reactions, wanting to learn what makes him feel best. ]
Good.
[ A rough edge to his own voice as he savors the sensation of Verso in his hand: the weight and shape and length of him, soft hot skin hard against his fingers. He runs the pad of his thumb over the ridge of flesh, gently over his head. ]
I want you here.
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I think you can be my florist.
[ Already a bit breathless, a bit of emphasis when he says my -- a dangerous amount of it, maybe, like everything else about this is. Much like how he can be Gustave's pianist. Verso knows that Gustave couldn't hope to understand that, really, how much it makes Verso's heart ache for someone to know him just as that. Still a few lies, they are a loadbearing pillar of Verso's entire existence, now, but few enough that it doesn't matter, that Verso could almost convince himself they're harmless. Someone who knows him for music played to an empty concert hall for no one else's ears, someone who knows him for the heat of their bodies tangled together. No shadows. No memories of fire and waking up to lungs that feel like they're full of ash and soot. No staring down the face of death and never reaching it, knowing the blood he tastes is just ink. No staring past the veil and wondering if any of him is real or it's all just an echo, resounding miserably into nothing. No lies. Or at least, almost no lies. Just -- monsieur le pianiste.
It might register as nonsense to Gustave. And that's fine.
He sinks into Gustave's attentions, his kisses. It's easy to be swept away by his own aggression, by the predatory intent which which he zones in on people, but Gustave's lavished adoration is intoxicating all on its own, even if -- subtly, but distinctly, there's part of him that's almost uncomfortable with it, holding himself back from relaxing into it completely. Little shivers and groans when Gustave finds the right places in his neck, his shoulder, holding himself back, just slightly. Gustave is painfully earnest and disarming as always, even here, maybe especially here, and right now Verso is still thinking enough to remember he shouldn't be here. To feel like he can't possibly deserve even half of Gustave's gentle adoration.
But then Gustave's fingers are wrapping around him, and that goes a good way to a suitable distraction. He's been hard and aching this entire time, just tends to give himself over to focus on another person, but that doesn't mean he didn't feel that strain and want and having it finally met by a touch that isn't his own, is enough to make his head spin, his eyes briefly falling shut on a groan.
Verso shifts against the grass until he's not just on his knees, but seated down, propping his back against the edge of some raised flowerbed, using that arm still wrapped around Gustave's waist to pull him in between his thighs, keeping him close, lifting his hips slightly against his touch, leaning up to press another kiss to the corner his mouth, mouthing hot and hungry down over his neck. There's something in him, for a moment, that clearly just wants to push Gustave down again, to roll him beneath him on the ground --
-- But he'll hold back. This once. Leaning back again to look at him through lidded eyes, pulling his hands back so he can palm up over Gustave's chest and then start plucking at the buttons of his shirt in turn. ]
-- Yeah.
[ Breathless, encouraging, his hips rolling once to press against Gustave's palm. ]
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Verso shifts back, sprawled against the edge of a raised bed, looking like a dream of desire with his shirt awry, baring the expanse of a pale, perfect chest and his trousers hanging loose on his hips. Sunlight pours down over him like molten gold, kissing the white streaks in his hair and tracing loving fingers over his skin, and beautiful doesn't even seem like enough for the way he looks, open and inviting and half debauched already.
Gustave shifts, too, moving forward to brace himself on the wooden edge of the flower bed with his metal left hand as Verso trails his mouth over his neck, meeting those heavy, half-lidded eyes so full of promise and desire with his own intent and flickering with heat. Verso's hands start working at the buttons of his shirt and Gustave lets him, bending his head to catch the man's mouth with his again, harder now and deeper as he works his own hand lower, caressing soft, heavy pouches of skin, cradling him in his palm as he traces the pad of a finger in a firm, deliberate line between the man's legs.
It's been a while since he's done any of this to anyone but himself, but he has never been anything but dedicated and intent in his work, focused on every small detail. He listens to the way Verso breathes, the sounds he makes, and focuses on the way he moves, when he moves into Gustave's hand, wanting more, or not, and adjusts accordingly, hand moving with him, running back up to curl fingers around him again in a firm caress, following the rise and fall of his hips, never letting him escape sensation for even a second. He wants to surround him with it, like he's sinking into a warm bath, fill Verso's whole world, just for these moments, with him alone. ]
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And there's his touch. Its been so long that Verso can't even really remember what the last time he let someone do this with him was like, likely some flickering moment of heat and and comfort with an Expeditioner a world away from their home -- and Gustave is a great deal more attentive and sweet than any touch Verso remembers, especially his own. It's different, but good, groaning low and quiet against the other man's mouth as Gustave cradles him against his palm, feeling those by now familiar calluses against him -- from a grip of a sword, he knows. And he wonders what how he fights. How long he's been with the Academy. If he has an Expedition in mind, how far away he might be.
He keeps one hand pressed against his chest, his other hand reaching up, tangling back through Gustave's hair again ( he does love the feel of those curls parting through his fingers ), tugging gently to pull him closer into their kiss, down to this nape and over his back, just -- feeling him, the shape of him, his muscles and angles and lines. Gustave's touch seems to move with him, every slight instinctive twitch of his hips or an upward press into a certain touch or pressure, the other man responding attentively to his every breath, every twitch of muscle, every pulse of heat under his fingers to chase after just what he likes. It's good, makes him think of wine, sinking into it deeper, more.
And it's -- subtle, but present. Not impossible to notice, especially for someone who's currently trying to pore attention over every part of him. A bit of tension that he seems to be carrying everywhere, in his shoulders, the pit of his stomach, in his chest. Gustave is beautiful and his hand and his mouth feel so fucking good, drawing a breathless curse from him that's completely lost against the other man's mouth and tongue, in their kiss. He's so attentive, feels like he's set on lavishing him with adoring attention. And Verso can't quite -- relax into it. Not completely. Not as much as he wants to. Not because there's anything wrong, or because Gustave is doing anything wrong.
But when Gustave is as painfully earnest as he is, especially now, he can't help but think -- whoever might deserve something as perfect as this, this man's focus and attentions and touch and his hands and mouth and tongue -- it's not him. He doesn't deserve this. Couldn't deserve anything even half as good. He can only pretend to and leave Gustave to wonder why when he vanishes, yet again.
He breaks from the kiss, ducking his head to kiss over his neck again, over the bruise he'd left at the join of his shoulder, even darker now than it was before. Pulling Gustave over him a bit more, like he just wants Gustave to really surround him, everywhere, pulling him a bit further down so he can mouth hotly from the jumping pulse in his throat down to his clavicle, over his chest, tonguing languidly over a nipple, his gaze still lustful and with that hunter's focus as he watches him through lidded eyes. ]
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Verso's thumb rubs over his nipple, which tightens at the touch, sending a flare of electricity through him that's dragged deep into his gut by the fingers that sink into his hair again. It's impossibly mussed, and he can't care. He can't remember the last time anything felt so good as Verso's fingers sifting through those soft waves.
So yes: it's very nearly perfect, as Verso coaxes him even closer, shifting below Gustave to trail a path of heated kisses over his throat, his collarbone, down to his chest, but... it's not, quite. Something's wrong. The man is warm and languid beneath him, a gleam of wolfish desire in his eyes, and he's letting Gustave touch him however he likes, hips rolling up into each stroke of his fingers, butโ
Something's wrong. However much Gustave tries to coax him from his thoughts, from that last inch of reservation, of distance between them, Verso stays just slightly out of reach. An absurd thought, maybe, when the man is dragging him close and arching into his hand and his mouth, drinking down everything Gustave can offer him and seemingly wanting more, but it's there, he can feel it. A slight stiffness, something still withheld.
It hadn't been there when Verso had been so utterly focused on burning him to the ground, and now there's a slight hesitation in the way Gustave touches him, too, his mind worrying over the problem like a dog gnawing on a bone. Maybe Verso wants something faster, harder, more like what he'd done to Gustave himself; maybe he regrets staying, after all. Maybe he's already thinking about leaving. Maybe there's something wrong in the way Gustave is touching him, something he doesn't like but is too polite to mention.
He doesn't understand, and now something new curls into his stomach: frustration with himself, with the way he's not getting it quite right, not offering whatever it is Verso needs. Verso's tongue slides warm and wet over the taut bud of his nipple and he groans, the sound singed at the edges, and redoubles his efforts, hand firmer now around him, stroking faster, more deliberately as Gustave shifts his weight and winds his metal arm around Verso's waist, his knees spreading between the man's legs, pushing them further apart. Taking room that he needs to tighten his left arm around the man and lift as he himself twists, aiming to lay him back down again on the grass beside the flowerbed and following him down with his mouth chasing hard kisses along Verso's neck. ]
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He wants this, wants Gustave, wants to lose himself in his touch. Earlier it'd just been easier, when he was just acting, taking, raw and aggressive, still chasing and hunting even when he'd started to slow down to match himself better to what Gustave seemed to want. He's just -- good. Earnest, sweet, wanting to make him feel appreciated and wanted and just awash in pleasure, but Verso's thoughts just can't help but linger a while on all the ways in which he's already lied to him and remind himself he doesn't deserve it at all.
Verso's surprised when he starts feeling that hesitation in Gustave's touch. Slight flickers of hesitation, uncertainty, worry. At first he just keeps leaning into him, drawing the nub of his nipple briefly into his mouth and sucking, a hand urging him closer, trying to be encouraging, assumes that like Verso himself it has just been a while. It takes him a few moments, his mind hazed by easy pleasure, to realize that Gustave is probably noticing, and, ah.
A twist of guilt through his stomach. He isn't lying in this. This isn't performance. Gustave above him with the sun in his hair and his shirt pieced apart looks like he might as well be an angel, and the way he works his hand over him feels incredible, every bit of friction making him feel like he's sinking deeper and deeper into some warm, intoxicating bath. He doesn't want the man to think he's doing anything wrong, but how does he even say anything to assure him?
Gustave takes care of part of that, at least. ]
Gustave -- [ breathed on a moan, saying his name because that's what's in his mind and on his tongue when he feels Gustave's hand work over him even faster, firmer, harder. Even feeling that arm braced around him he simply wasn't expecting for Gustave to literally lift him, even just partially, and lay him down. He's already breathless and so muddled with heat and want that the movement is enough to make his head spin, and again when he looks up the other man is already bearing down and Gustave is all he can see.
He wants to let go. Wants to give him this. Wants to be able to give himself over completely, even if just for this moment before reality sweeps him back to the Continent and beyond. And if anyone can quieten that last quiet tension that Verso is carrying -- it has to be this man, who'd been so captivatingly disarming even the first time they met with nothing more than a look and a smile. Verso arches slightly into his touch with a low groan, tilting his head to the side to give Gustave better access to his neck, throwing an arm back around him, sliding up over his back to twist once more through his hair and pull him down. He doesn't know how to put this into words, and so doesn't try, but in the way his hands roam hungrily over Gustave's body, his fingers pressing into the notches of his spine, the way he pulls him down to try and fit their bodies together, he hopes something gets through:
More. More of him. Gustave doesn't need to change anything, to try and chase after what Verso himself did or whatever else he thinks might "work" -- he wants the man himself, the same man who's been the most intoxicating wine he's had in what feels like a decade. So more, more of him, whatever he wants to give, until Verso stops thinking. ]
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