Simon is fascinated by the way his hands fit upon Verso’s rail-slim waist: the heels of his palms dip flawlessly against the dip of muscle and bone alongside his hips, his long fingers curling ‘round his waist and falling to splay towards the curve where spine met the swell of his ass. He feels —— giant, coarse, his calloused hands seeming massive and brutish.
And still: the way Verso looked at him with that purely exasperating crooked smile, the keen ice-blue of his eyes seeming to pierce through him and see him, purely and completely. Simon is not a man who bends to others easily, and yet he realizes with a sharp pull in his chest that whatever judgment they render he would accept as truth and gospel both.
Verso utters a sound in his throat, infuriatingly low and softly humored, and Simon burns with the sudden desire to seal his mouth over his throat and feel it against his tongue. There’s an impatience to the way Verso shifts against him, rolling towards him in a bold hint that drives Simon mad.
“ You stopped, ” Verso says, a tch of his tongue on the last consonant: a slow lazy grin, fingers walking up Simon’s middle like he’s mapping territory that already belongs to him. Bold. Careless. Simon adores it, wildly.
“ I’m taking my time, you little villain, ” Simon breathes in response, a soft fond humor of his own in the words — and he realizes then that yes, yes, god he belongs to Verso already. Fully. It aches to realize, but it’s a pleasant ache, a beautiful ache. Mark me, he encourages, desperately. Mark me, claim me, I’m already yours. “ Have some patience. ”
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