[ None of this is anything like it ever was with Sophie, and definitely not with anyone since; itā€™s gripping, biting want that chases through him like the chain lightning of his own attack striking him over and over again. It would feel almost like a fight if they werenā€™t so busy trying to haul each other closer; Versoā€™s hand pulls hard at the small of his back and Gustave fists his fingers in the material of his jacket and pulls right back, shoving himself close at the same time as he drags Verso directly into him, and that flower heā€™d so carefully placed in that lapel canā€™t possibly survive the way they collide.
His back slams into something hard, smacking what little air heā€™d managed to get right back out of him again, and when Versoā€™s mouth finds his throat the sound he makes is charred around the edges, singing the breath he manages to drag in right before he loses it again. He doesnā€™t think anyone has ever wanted him this way, rough, hunting, taking and taking and painting every nerve and vein into life with the sweep of hands and sharp grazing teeth and a body thatā€™s pressed irrevocably against his, covering him like a landslide. He doesnā€™t think heā€™s ever wanted anyone else this way before, where his hands canā€™t grip hard enough or touch enough; the hand in Versoā€™s hair releases to run a palm roughly over his neck, blunt fingernails scraping against skin. He smells something crushed and green and fresh behind him, feels plants and leaves break between his back and the thing Verso has him pinned against. The back of his shirt is going to be stained indelibly green. He doesnā€™t care.
His own eyes are huge and black, widely dilated when Verso looks up at him; his mouth is flushed and pink and a little sore from where the man had bit him, from the force of his kisses. Gustave swallows, curves his hand around the back of Versoā€™s neck, thumb running along skin, and nods. Once, twice, again and again. ]
no subject
His back slams into something hard, smacking what little air heā€™d managed to get right back out of him again, and when Versoā€™s mouth finds his throat the sound he makes is charred around the edges, singing the breath he manages to drag in right before he loses it again. He doesnā€™t think anyone has ever wanted him this way, rough, hunting, taking and taking and painting every nerve and vein into life with the sweep of hands and sharp grazing teeth and a body thatā€™s pressed irrevocably against his, covering him like a landslide. He doesnā€™t think heā€™s ever wanted anyone else this way before, where his hands canā€™t grip hard enough or touch enough; the hand in Versoā€™s hair releases to run a palm roughly over his neck, blunt fingernails scraping against skin. He smells something crushed and green and fresh behind him, feels plants and leaves break between his back and the thing Verso has him pinned against. The back of his shirt is going to be stained indelibly green. He doesnā€™t care.
His own eyes are huge and black, widely dilated when Verso looks up at him; his mouth is flushed and pink and a little sore from where the man had bit him, from the force of his kisses. Gustave swallows, curves his hand around the back of Versoā€™s neck, thumb running along skin, and nods. Once, twice, again and again. ]
Yeah. Yeah.