[ For a moment he thinks Verso might fight backā€” but then the man is crashing into him like a landslide, arms around him and hands everywhere, skating over his body like he needs to touch every inch of Gustave to make sure he's real. His own metal left arm winds around Verso and drags him just as close, his right hand fisting in the man's dark hair and running hard down along his neck, his shoulder, his chest, over this uniform he's never seen before, so why does he feel like he knows it?
Verso's busy working at his own, fingers impatient on the clasps and fastenings keeping his cloak over his shoulders, and Gustave's eyes press shut as Verso's mouth runs hot and hard down over his neck, as that growl scratches against his skin. ]
Oh? Having trouble with the uniform?
[ He sinks his fingers back into Verso's hair and pulls, dragging him back off his dedicated assault on Gustave's throat even as his left arm keeps the man pressed possessively against him. Gustave gives him a flat look, desire and need and anger still simmering in his eyes as he slides his hand from Verso's hair and reaches to grip the furred collar once again. ]
[ It's accusatory and exasperated and still singed at the edges all at once, and Gustave can't stop touching him, running his palm and fingers flat over the uniform to Verso's chest, over to his shoulder, up his neck. Gustave's gaze drops, heavily lidded, to that throat, and it's all he can do to keep from leaning in and setting his mouth there against flushed, heated skin. He forces himself to look up, to meet Verso's eyes with his own blown dark and wanting even as he tries to get a grip on himself. ]
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Verso's busy working at his own, fingers impatient on the clasps and fastenings keeping his cloak over his shoulders, and Gustave's eyes press shut as Verso's mouth runs hot and hard down over his neck, as that growl scratches against his skin. ]
Oh? Having trouble with the uniform?
[ He sinks his fingers back into Verso's hair and pulls, dragging him back off his dedicated assault on Gustave's throat even as his left arm keeps the man pressed possessively against him. Gustave gives him a flat look, desire and need and anger still simmering in his eyes as he slides his hand from Verso's hair and reaches to grip the furred collar once again. ]
Why is that, Monsieur l'expƩditionnaire?
[ It's accusatory and exasperated and still singed at the edges all at once, and Gustave can't stop touching him, running his palm and fingers flat over the uniform to Verso's chest, over to his shoulder, up his neck. Gustave's gaze drops, heavily lidded, to that throat, and it's all he can do to keep from leaning in and setting his mouth there against flushed, heated skin. He forces himself to look up, to meet Verso's eyes with his own blown dark and wanting even as he tries to get a grip on himself. ]
Isn't it familiar?