They make books for things like that? ( he asks ( again, rhetorically ) as he nips at the line of his brother's mouth; not sharply, barely even enough to register against the split he's inflicted himself but maybe … maybe bringing the taste of blood back with it again as he pulls back, because pardon you, mister the stampede.
he's just speaking the truth, here. he has been since the beginning of all of this and while it's brought them closer, vash is right in thinking it had been so much … sharper a moment before. a shade more desperate and he'd be lying to himself and vash and god himself if he tried to get away with saying it hadn't been exhilarating. that desperation, that need to have the other body close, to have and taste and test every boundary set by humanity.
because they are not human. and such rules of boundaries shouldn't apply to them, should they? but that line of thought is neither here nor there.
he nuzzles at his neck, sweetly. ) You should be told that all the time … I would, given the chance. ( some might say there is some kind of hopeless romantic in this murderer of a man, and some might be right, though it never seems to quite come to the surface except for when his brother is around. funny, that.
he dips a little bit lower, attention to the shared conversation wavering in favor of mouthing over the line of an exposed collarbone, mapping out the shape of it, the feel of it beneath his lips and the sweep of his tongue, the gentlest press of his teeth that is nowhere near a bite or a nip. just a scrape, really, because sometimes he can't help himself.
it's enough to distract him from the way vash pulls at the zipper now at the back of his suit; something he'd never needed before but is keenly aware of now, and the sound of the slow, downward drag of metal teeth has him flexing his shoulders. bidding — asking vash to touch him where he never has before, where no one else has before, a quiet, infinitesimal gasp filtering up from the back of his throat at such simple contact.
in return, his tongue dips into the space between his collarbones, his teeth bearing down just enough to leave the hint of an indent that will surely fill back in before this is over — but he quickly follows suit with the suction of his mouth, bringing blood to the surface and encouraging a light purple mark to make a home for itself there. a waypoint between the places he's been, and those he hasn't been allowed to touch yet. )
no subject
he's just speaking the truth, here. he has been since the beginning of all of this and while it's brought them closer, vash is right in thinking it had been so much … sharper a moment before. a shade more desperate and he'd be lying to himself and vash and god himself if he tried to get away with saying it hadn't been exhilarating. that desperation, that need to have the other body close, to have and taste and test every boundary set by humanity.
because they are not human. and such rules of boundaries shouldn't apply to them, should they? but that line of thought is neither here nor there.
he nuzzles at his neck, sweetly. ) You should be told that all the time … I would, given the chance. ( some might say there is some kind of hopeless romantic in this murderer of a man, and some might be right, though it never seems to quite come to the surface except for when his brother is around. funny, that.
he dips a little bit lower, attention to the shared conversation wavering in favor of mouthing over the line of an exposed collarbone, mapping out the shape of it, the feel of it beneath his lips and the sweep of his tongue, the gentlest press of his teeth that is nowhere near a bite or a nip. just a scrape, really, because sometimes he can't help himself.
it's enough to distract him from the way vash pulls at the zipper now at the back of his suit; something he'd never needed before but is keenly aware of now, and the sound of the slow, downward drag of metal teeth has him flexing his shoulders. bidding — asking vash to touch him where he never has before, where no one else has before, a quiet, infinitesimal gasp filtering up from the back of his throat at such simple contact.
in return, his tongue dips into the space between his collarbones, his teeth bearing down just enough to leave the hint of an indent that will surely fill back in before this is over — but he quickly follows suit with the suction of his mouth, bringing blood to the surface and encouraging a light purple mark to make a home for itself there. a waypoint between the places he's been, and those he hasn't been allowed to touch yet. )