( if he's perfectly honest with himself — really, truly honest — he doesn't think there could ever have been another that could get him like this. there could never be another that could even hope to try and, again, that's a line he's crossing with the thoughts of human boundaries, but they're there all the same, and there really is no coming back from them, is there?
whatever vash wants to pull from him, sound or reaction or some measure of both, they're only ever going to be his. for the taking, for the keeping because he doesn't want anyone else to have them. because what they have here is something nothing and no one else can touch, and he intends ( hopes, prays, please ) to keep it that way.
the praise going both ways … it surprises nai more than it surprises vash, it seems. but then, he hasn't heard anything like it since rem, has he? since she'd called them both her perfect boys.
( he doesn't deserve it and he knows it. but. that's neither here nor there. )
you want to see him like this again? you don't even have to ask —
because even where knives' own plea falls short, asking but not, begging but not, vash fills in the spaces between his words like fingers parsing out braille; he knows what he isn't saying without him even having to hint at more, and when those two prosthetic fingers press inside him, when they curl he nearly doubles over. nearly pulls himself as tight as a plucked bowsting, that mouth around him and those fingers inside him wringing his pleasure from him as though it wasn't his to give in the first place, but vash's to mold as he sees fit.
he isn't going to last like this. he isn't going to last and he hates the thought of it, because vash hasn't let him touch and he wants to touch so badly that he sobs out his next moan, breath hitching and cutting into his throat like something tangible. bleeding on its exit. )
Vash.
( his teeth grit around his name, a snarl more than anything else, fingers pulling at his hair and pressing harder into the column of his throat in turn, even as his hips give a traitorous buck upward.
baby brother … you are going to be the death of him. you know that, don't you? )
no subject
whatever vash wants to pull from him, sound or reaction or some measure of both, they're only ever going to be his. for the taking, for the keeping because he doesn't want anyone else to have them. because what they have here is something nothing and no one else can touch, and he intends ( hopes, prays, please ) to keep it that way.
the praise going both ways … it surprises nai more than it surprises vash, it seems. but then, he hasn't heard anything like it since rem, has he? since she'd called them both her perfect boys.
( he doesn't deserve it and he knows it. but. that's neither here nor there. )
you want to see him like this again? you don't even have to ask —
because even where knives' own plea falls short, asking but not, begging but not, vash fills in the spaces between his words like fingers parsing out braille; he knows what he isn't saying without him even having to hint at more, and when those two prosthetic fingers press inside him, when they curl he nearly doubles over. nearly pulls himself as tight as a plucked bowsting, that mouth around him and those fingers inside him wringing his pleasure from him as though it wasn't his to give in the first place, but vash's to mold as he sees fit.
he isn't going to last like this. he isn't going to last and he hates the thought of it, because vash hasn't let him touch and he wants to touch so badly that he sobs out his next moan, breath hitching and cutting into his throat like something tangible. bleeding on its exit. )
Vash.
( his teeth grit around his name, a snarl more than anything else, fingers pulling at his hair and pressing harder into the column of his throat in turn, even as his hips give a traitorous buck upward.
baby brother … you are going to be the death of him. you know that, don't you? )