[ One second they're tangled in each other, Verso's mouth hot on his skin, busy driving him out of his mind, and the next Verso's staring up at something, cursing, before clutching Gustave to him and sending them both in a messy roll across the rock, not unlike the landing they'd managed back in that garden all those months and years ago.
And not a second too late, it seems, because even as Gustave is tumbling free, rock scraping at inconveniently bared skin and the haze of desire evaporating fast, he feels the ground they're on shudder with the impact of something huge, right before the air shakes and cracks with a cry he's coming to truly despise hearing. ]
Merdeโ
[ Like Verso, he rolls to a stop and gets himself braced in the next second, his metal left hand gripping the rock to keep himself from skidding right over the edge and into another freefall. Verso's already furious enough; no need to exacerbate the situation, eh?
The look he gives the Cruler is less angry, more exasperated as he pushes to his feet and catches Verso's nod. He nods back, rumpled and resigned, what's left of his uniform hanging off him in a disreputable mess. His shirt is unbuttoned, falling open over a lean, pale chest and firm stomach; his trousers are half-loosened, the top button slipped open and the pants themselves slung low on his hips. His hair is in wild, disheveled disarray from Verso's fingers carding through it, from the rock his head had been pushing back against.
He's not as angry. But he is annoyed, and there's a certain amount of pique in the intent way he strides forward, only to halt in surprise as Verso flings himself at the Cruler, chroma blazing in his hands and forming into a sword โ the source of those calluses he remembers feeling under his fingers, his lips, against his body years ago in the garden โ and a wickedly edged dagger. The weapons gleam, reflecting moonlight and dripping chroma, and Verso is arrowing at the Nevron like a shot from Gustave's own pistol. He's a study in ferocity, in athleticism, the way he moves, the sweep of his blades.
He throws himself at the thing like a man who has never known fear, eyes blazing, and for a second Gustave considers simply stepping aside and letting Verso vent his frustrations on this unwitting, pathetically outmatched creatureโ
But even if Verso could take it alone, he doesn't need to. Gustave's sword appears in a streak of chroma; his pistol spins into his life, held at the ready, as he too leaps to the attack. He places himself at Verso's left side, out of habit, holding back on his own strike as he watches with bright, almost hungry eyes to see what the man will do. He's never seen Verso fight before, has only imagined it, and he doesn't want to miss a second. ]
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And not a second too late, it seems, because even as Gustave is tumbling free, rock scraping at inconveniently bared skin and the haze of desire evaporating fast, he feels the ground they're on shudder with the impact of something huge, right before the air shakes and cracks with a cry he's coming to truly despise hearing. ]
Merdeโ
[ Like Verso, he rolls to a stop and gets himself braced in the next second, his metal left hand gripping the rock to keep himself from skidding right over the edge and into another freefall. Verso's already furious enough; no need to exacerbate the situation, eh?
The look he gives the Cruler is less angry, more exasperated as he pushes to his feet and catches Verso's nod. He nods back, rumpled and resigned, what's left of his uniform hanging off him in a disreputable mess. His shirt is unbuttoned, falling open over a lean, pale chest and firm stomach; his trousers are half-loosened, the top button slipped open and the pants themselves slung low on his hips. His hair is in wild, disheveled disarray from Verso's fingers carding through it, from the rock his head had been pushing back against.
He's not as angry. But he is annoyed, and there's a certain amount of pique in the intent way he strides forward, only to halt in surprise as Verso flings himself at the Cruler, chroma blazing in his hands and forming into a sword โ the source of those calluses he remembers feeling under his fingers, his lips, against his body years ago in the garden โ and a wickedly edged dagger. The weapons gleam, reflecting moonlight and dripping chroma, and Verso is arrowing at the Nevron like a shot from Gustave's own pistol. He's a study in ferocity, in athleticism, the way he moves, the sweep of his blades.
He throws himself at the thing like a man who has never known fear, eyes blazing, and for a second Gustave considers simply stepping aside and letting Verso vent his frustrations on this unwitting, pathetically outmatched creatureโ
But even if Verso could take it alone, he doesn't need to. Gustave's sword appears in a streak of chroma; his pistol spins into his life, held at the ready, as he too leaps to the attack. He places himself at Verso's left side, out of habit, holding back on his own strike as he watches with bright, almost hungry eyes to see what the man will do. He's never seen Verso fight before, has only imagined it, and he doesn't want to miss a second. ]