#((...also didn't mean to shove all the decision making onto Wolfwood fgdjkdjg))

[goldendivinewrath]

@full-of-mercy

Another victory for grabby hands, it seems, but he feels victory in more than that. Wolfwood was, is, a sight, looming over him. Or, really, hardly looming; he looks a lot more like a patient predator trying to decide whether he wants to pounce or wait a little while for his appetite to get bigger. Vash almost laughs at his own nonsensical thoughts, but he's... distracted. Easily, willingly distracted, letting himself take that stretch of time to admire, memorize. it isn't as if he doesn't know what the other man looks like, obviously, in most states of being. So drunk he looks perfectly sober is a personal delight of his, but...

Attraction. And want. And need. Separate categories, words that have meaning. Concepts that have words. It's all a little bit of metaphorical sand scattered across a floor that hasn't been cleaned in who knows how long, and who cares. In the face of experiencing things, the academic thoughts about them vanish. Good riddance; he much prefers to have room in his mind for this.

For inviting the man who is no more predator than he is don't think about it, don't think about it closer, with enthusiasm. With the power of want alone, quite possibly, but it's something that he sees reflected back at him. It's good, it's good, it's--

Easy. He doesn't let himself dwell on that thought long enough to worry it through, to tug at edges that are perfectly fine not being thoroughly explored to the point of unraveling. They've fought together long enough, traveled and drank and spent enough quiet moments together to understand bare basics. Signals. Motion. Things that even he would swear have no physical cues, but they're known and followed regardless.

Still. it is nice to have that touch. The physical, the feel of a branding-hot hand even through leather to lift and move, then the touch of eye contact. Gazes meeting. Recognition. Asking, permission, playful curiosity. He won't get ahead of himself, though. Won't let himself.

There's no resistance, body or mind, as Vash lets Wolfwood lead and winds up making an inviting sort of sound that he might feel slight embarrassment for under other circumstances, welcoming teeth, welcoming contact, gazing down and trying to let himself relax enough to be directed. Not that he's tense, exactly, it's just-- Maybe he's a little too used to fighting alongside the man underneath him, and the movement abruptly stopping without good reason is the strange thing. He almost laughs all over again, but the instinct to breathe in the still moments takes over. Quiet. Watching. Lungs filling, deep rumbling resonance not stopped completely but calm. Low. His thighs relax minutely, shifting to a more comfortable position, keeping most of his weight off, but it's more curiosity that drives him to draw his knees just a little more forward, a little more in, gentle squeezing at Wolfwood's sides as he partially kneels, partially sits, head tilted lightly as he gazes down.

Then he does laugh, something which almost sounds shy. For no reason, he's sure. No reason in the least. "Different kind of cleaning guns, I guess--" He's only vaguely disappointed in himself. Mostly, he's grinning back too brightly to be anything but privately congratulating himself. "Different methods, different tools--"

Some of them. Most of them.

He's utterly lost the direction of whatever he's been saying. Wolfwood looks-- Alright, "happy" isn't exactly it, but he looks... ready and willing and comfortable in spite of the circumstances. Because of the circumstances? No pretence, no hiding, but no need to elaborate. It's a comfortable middle-ground. Possibly. Something like that.

It's warm eyes and the warmth of skin and the way he can feel the resonance increase, spread, and then calm again. It's the way it doesn't feel like he's approaching some big decision, some make or break moment. It just is. And he wants to savor it before it-- In case it all--

Leaning down, back bowed prosthetic hand splayed out against the mattress beside them and flesh and blood hand delicately splaying over the other man's bare chest (it takes effort not to tap at the metal so very close to his fingers), the rumbling vibration is barely present in his voice, low and soft. "Any requests? Or you just wanna take something apart and slide it back together again?"

Sound. Both of them can be bombastic, occasionally fulsome about it, at least when they have an argument to make, something to prove, butting heads over stupid things with the same strident passion that they argue about the most important things of all. Just the same, they can be loud in their accords, a clash of masks and miens, frustratingly disparate and simultaneously in lock-step despite the mysteries they present to one another.

At least they did.

And maybe that hasn't changed in spite of everything else that has.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood has been studying Vash the Stampede for years in close proximity, and even after all of this time he has not teased out every possible thread. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It is impossible to know another person in their entirety, to live behind their eyes. There is always something to learn, always something to discover, and now is no different.

It's the quiet that draws tighter attention, that deserves the fullness of focus. At this distance even soft sound is rich and encompassing, and Nicholas finds his senses are awake to it, to the little noises, the tempo and timbre of them, textured, layered, intertwined.

With taste, with scent. With pressure, questing, barely-there, unbearably gentle. With weight in cupped hands, the resistance of mass and inertia, the ease with which they move from point to point where either or both of them could simply stop if they wanted to. Moan, squeak, bounce, crush, lisping leather and fabric, it all paints an evocative undercurrent to the pitch of heartbeat.

Looming at the edge of the bed, Wolfwood takes in this change of perspective, completely unaware of the look on his own face.

Kiss-reddened lips parted to swifter breaths, eyes blown dark, flushed warmth scalding his cheeks and his ears, he is equal parts disheveled and ravenous. His interest is undeniable. Nothing can truly conceal it, for all that he is both poised and hesitant.

But then, the whole impetus was… it was…

To stop thinking. At least for a little while. Turn the brain off. Shove the doubts aside. Just move. Just be. Just do whatever it is that comes to mind. Lack of mind.

Instinct. Impulse.

Tongue curled to test the sharp tip of an eyetooth, he looks. He looks, he sees, nostrils flared, and he cannot help the husk of a chuckle as Vash—

Well, it isn't quite a whine, but then he spreads out with such an inviting posture. He reaches. Reaches out. He wants.

Want.

It hits him like a sledge to the gut, punching breath from his lungs all at once, the idea, the notion, jarred against self-worth and all the things that they have done, the things left unsaid. Best to move, to direct the sudden weakness in his knees. Just as Vash makes grabby hands, Wolfwood bridges the gap after keeping him waiting for an eternity in a couple of seconds, maybe just to prove to himself that he can.

(To dubious effect).

He bends forward, sinking down onto the mattress to rest the whole of his weight on Vash's torso, one palm swiped down to hike a leather-bound thigh up over his hip. Just a beat. Two. Muscle tenses, stacks. A flicker of eye contact. He telegraphs his intent to roll them just as he might indicate his aim to fire, although combat rarely comes with teeth to neck.

Rarely. Not never. But he leans, cranes just the same, sets his maw to skin as they settle further onto the otherwise undisturbed sleeping surface like a couple of heathens still wearing shoes.

"Close enough?" he rumbles, edging on a laugh.

Stupid. It's stupid, utterly ridiculous. But the point is to not think.

Maybe there's something to that, and he finds himself wearing a grin suited to his namesake.

"Better'n cleaning guns up here, hm?"