( how sweet it would be, to leave a scar in the wake of his attentions, a physical reminder of where he's been and ( hopefully, dear god, please ) undoubtedly will be again, the way he desperately wants to map out the scarred lines of his body with lips and teeth and tongue —
well. it should be embarrassing, really. but he's never known anything close to shame, and that could very well be a plant thing — not so given to the whims and wills of mankind, as it were — but it could also be the fact that he's spent the bulk of his time secluded, and doesn't know any better.
little from column a, little from column b. that's where we're leaving it. )
I don't have to, no. But I want to.
( even in passing, when they're passing by one another in their tiny, shared space, even with wolfwood not too far away he could lean in to whisper sweetly against the shell of his brother's ear; you're beautiful, you're lovely, you look good enough to eat and perhaps it will only be because he'll find himself starving after this. willing to give in to a sense of hunger his body informs him of, though a hunger for vash seems much, much more preferable to the need to consume actual food.
( is he still bitter about that? just a little. he'll get over it eventually. )
he takes that breathy apology with a low chuckle in the back of his throat in response, having a feeling of where wandering hands are going once the zipper is pulled near the end of its track. ( the very end of it is somewhere near the top of his ass, but that's for vash to find out for himself, if he wants — )
he sighs at the first touch of fingers against cool skin, shoulders rolling and flexing beneath their light pressure and he only pulls back from the worrying of the bruise at his brother's collarbone when that request comes, and it's his turn to blink a bit owlishly at it, ice chip eyes blown wide and dark with both wonder and want.
leaning in to brush another kiss over the line of vash's mouth, he shrugs the fabric down off of his shoulders in one smooth motion, pushing it down to pool around his hips and leaning back — purposely — with something this side of a shit-eating grin pulling his mouth upward. it's all pale, unmarked skin from his neck all the way down, save for perhaps a light dusting of freckles over his chest and stomach. a constellation of tiny waypoints over a pale, otherwise unmarked canvas. )
You're going to have to get up if you want to see more.
no subject
well. it should be embarrassing, really. but he's never known anything close to shame, and that could very well be a plant thing — not so given to the whims and wills of mankind, as it were — but it could also be the fact that he's spent the bulk of his time secluded, and doesn't know any better.
little from column a, little from column b. that's where we're leaving it. )
I don't have to, no. But I want to.
( even in passing, when they're passing by one another in their tiny, shared space, even with wolfwood not too far away he could lean in to whisper sweetly against the shell of his brother's ear; you're beautiful, you're lovely, you look good enough to eat and perhaps it will only be because he'll find himself starving after this. willing to give in to a sense of hunger his body informs him of, though a hunger for vash seems much, much more preferable to the need to consume actual food.
( is he still bitter about that? just a little. he'll get over it eventually. )
he takes that breathy apology with a low chuckle in the back of his throat in response, having a feeling of where wandering hands are going once the zipper is pulled near the end of its track. ( the very end of it is somewhere near the top of his ass, but that's for vash to find out for himself, if he wants — )
he sighs at the first touch of fingers against cool skin, shoulders rolling and flexing beneath their light pressure and he only pulls back from the worrying of the bruise at his brother's collarbone when that request comes, and it's his turn to blink a bit owlishly at it, ice chip eyes blown wide and dark with both wonder and want.
leaning in to brush another kiss over the line of vash's mouth, he shrugs the fabric down off of his shoulders in one smooth motion, pushing it down to pool around his hips and leaning back — purposely — with something this side of a shit-eating grin pulling his mouth upward. it's all pale, unmarked skin from his neck all the way down, save for perhaps a light dusting of freckles over his chest and stomach. a constellation of tiny waypoints over a pale, otherwise unmarked canvas. )
You're going to have to get up if you want to see more.