[ He can't help but laugh, a mental chime that isn't quite a sound but lands the same way -- at the eagerness, perhaps, or the easy acceptance. He allows his own wings to unfurl, like stepping out of a costume and into something that feels more . . . natural.
(Perhaps a place such as this is the only one where it would feel that way.)
Feathers mingle with feathers, the sensations novel but not unwelcome. A glimpse of what never was, but could have been, maybe. It's an abrupt and unexpected pang of longing.
wonder? the feeling of someone who not only hasn't learned to fear any of this, but doesn't want to. there's something rusty about the feeling, like this person hasn't felt it purely in a long, long time, and is more than a little surprised at themselves about it. an echo of protectiveness. an association of respite, and relief.
there's a hand decisively on his, drawing him in through the screen of wings.
Perhaps he didn't expect a human hand, or perhaps that makes sense, doesn't it, if this is all a figment of his own mind? But it's welcome, too, the wonder brushing against something far more humble, perhaps even sheepish.
He doesn't want it to stop.
His fingers curl around the answering ones, allowing himself to be drawn in without question or hesitation. ]
[it's close quarters here. the wings gather in around them, throwing light and shade in soft, shifting patterns. the touch of Charon's mind stays easy and gentle, even when they come face to face.
that's so strange. there's almost never anything easy or gentle about Charon. everything of him in the mind-meld had been violent, bright intensity too, his angry care like formless knives and battlefire in that desperate situation. this is like a big predator at rest in comparison, perceived but lazy, curled up against the warmest thing in the room -- which happens to be Minuet. a subliminal rumble: stay, stay here.
his hands are bare. he's in a loose dark collared shirt without the everpresent heavy coat or scarf. Minuet can see the edge of a scar that cuts across one collarbone. it's hard to say if the other wings in the dream belong to him, or if he's just lost in them too.]
[ The surprise redoubles, but it's different now, tinged with a hesitant confusion.
Charon.
He doesn't drop Charon's hand, or pull away; every fiber of his being screams at him not to, and he listens to it, a rare selfish impulse. This feels comfortable. This feels safe. This feels . . .
He doesn't know. But the longing is still there, along with something else, and he's compelled to chase it.
Do I? Well, that is inherent to an alliance, is it not?
[in proximity, they can speak. he can feel the easy, returned
(fondness? teasing?)
amusement. Charon's hand is still sure in his, shifting to lace their fingers more firmly together.
in this dream, both his habitual guardedness and his peculiar distancing version of propriety have both been put down somewhere very far away, not gone, but -- unnecessary. in their absence there's room for other things, and he not only reaches for them willingly but tugs Minuet closer in yet, eyes on his. the feelings between them deepen.]
[ Vash's eyes latch onto him in a way they haven't before. Like pinning a butterfly to velvet and analyzing it, considering its shape and color.
Probably his own walls should slam back up. Safely place the pane of glass between himself and the butterfly. That would be the right thing to do -- but he's already primed to be greedy, having felt something he desperately wants and seeing no evidence of it being pulled back.
You shouldn't do this. It's a terrible idea.
That's what his thoughts say. But Charon will be able to tell how harshly his feelings want to disagree, and he makes no effort to pull away. Maybe he's too weak to. Maybe he needs Charon to be the smarter party and do it instead. ]
Edited (HOURS LATER I NEED AN ICON) 2023-07-26 21:39 (UTC)
[he's being taken in, in turn. maybe they don't know a lot of each other's truths yet, but they can both see clearly what's in front of them, to some capacity. the struggle and the lack thereof. the meanings behind words, laid out like the delicate insect wings of Minuet's metaphor.]
To get close, you mean. But you want me to, nevertheless. And I would like to, despite my own reservations.
[most men would probably reach for Minuet's face here, in this moment of unstudied intimacy. Charon reaches for the closest of Minuet's wings with his free hand, fingers sliding delicately along it in much the same way Minuet was petting earlier, bringing one of the unfurled pinions up to his mouth to kiss.]
[ There's something of a lurch in their shared mental space, then stillness.
Part of him wants to rebuke an act that tender and intimate, when the perpetrator has no idea the destructive potential he's holding against his lips. The other part wants to grip Charon and yank him in closer, breathe the truth into him and see if he still refuses to back down.
Mostly it feels like a fire just sparked to life in him.
A feather slides over the apple of Charon's cheek, the gentleness of it at complete odds with the ferociousness in everything else that crosses the bond.
Yes. I do want you to.
That longing from earlier, for connection and acceptance, unchanged even with the reveal of Charon's identity.
[just because Charon's guard is down doesn't mean the contact is without danger on his side. physically, he only sways into the touch, into the brush of Minuet's wing, into the line of Minuet's body. in the space of thir linked minds, heat finally flares back, a touch of answering intensity, an echo of something recent.
--take what's offered or have it shoved into your arms. take it or be seized--]
Since when did you think I'd retreat from the prospect of risk, once I offered you what I did? You should know better.
[the danger and ferocity attract, not repel. but more than that...Charon wasn't hovering on the edge of a choice here, to be pushed one way or the other. he already chose. it's a strategist's job to stare down looming disaster and find the way through to the other side -- for them and theirs. that resolve has fangs.
it is possible Minuet may have made a miscalculation here.]
[ Perhaps he did miscalculate. Certainly wouldn't be the first time.
That doesn't mean he can just not test it, though.
The wings morph and move in a way Charon hasn't seen before, lashing tendrils from every direction that move almost too fast to track. Pushing him back against the wall of (comparatively) harmless wings. Binding his wrists, his throat, burning hot in every place they touch his skin, as if they could disintegrate flesh if they decided to.
No actual physical harm comes to him. Nothing new touches his mind beyond the already established parameters of this dream. But the unsettling pressure is in the air, a thrumming danger like unseen electricity.
He steps close enough that he's just a little too close.
There are good reasons no one else has ever done this.
It's a warning and an entreaty to see reason at the same time. ]
[Charon's pinned, easy as breathing with a Plant's strength. the wings around them rustle in something like alarm. Minuet registers his brief wary tension against the bindings, a reflex resumption of what he's shed for this dream that he can't completely stop. steel shields, always ready to go up in his mind as soon as this passes back into pain, to close around it in a hundred layers while whatever damage happens to his body happens. it's too automatic to not be the product of long expectation, a history of pain. do not scream.
but reflex passes. the shields don't close, because allowed to think, he can register the different between imminent harm and a warning. he doesn't struggle or thrash or finally attempt to break away; he relaxes instead, head tilting back against the soft wall of feathers like a challenge, feeling the tendrils put more burning pressure against his neck. not all the surprise in his eyes stems from perceived threat.
some part of him -- reckless, impulsive, uncalculated -- wants. he has just consciously registered it, for the first time.]
[ There's no movement for a long time, just that same fiercely calculating stare.
But then the wings fall away as easily as they'd bound him up in the first place, settling around Vash like some feathered Biblical thing.
You idiot.
It's lacking in heat -- of a kind, anyway; that burning flame is still there. He actually can't believe how much of an idiot Charon is. And resents himself for his reaction being a suddenly dry throat. ]
[there's a tinge of something complex as he's let go. not just those strange echoes of expectation and longing of a different sort, but something muted, grey, very close to grief as he watches Minuet's wings settle back. a little bit of scratchy irritation at himself, and directed out at that disbelief -- didn't I tell you outright, that you should know better?
but Minuet didn't actually manage to dispel what made Charon draw him in here in the first place, even if his heart's now pounding faster about it. he extends his hand again. not far. they're still standing in each others' space.]
[ Vash's eyes drop to the extended hand. He's conflicted, still; if he were truly the hero everyone makes him out to be, he'd slap it away and turn his back. Better for Charon. Better for himself, too, probably.
But he's not always that good a person. Reciprocated want certainly makes it even more difficult.
Regardless of which hand Charon holds out, it's the flesh-and-blood one that settles in his. ]
[he puts both hands around it anyway. draws him back in if he'll come, man and metal and scars and feathers, everything. he doesn't have the strength or leverage to yank and force him; he almost never dreams himself more powerful than he really is. Minuet must step forward.
inarticulate, but sure, half principle, half feeling: you don't always pick your allies because you know everything you're getting into with them. you don't always pick them for safety, or predictability, or camaraderie. sometimes you land in a strange place and happen to jump in the same pit, happen to meet each others' eyes. share a drink, share truth and stories, have common people, find a common goal. find other things you desire, or need.
they're already trying something new to the both of them. why not keep on trying?]
[ He's very weak to arguments like "why not keep on trying." They've propelled him through 150 years of hell and counting.
So he steps forward, acutely aware of the proximity it necessitates and deciding that's fine, actually. It's the same compulsion that drew him into the sea of feathers in the first place, but stronger now with clarity behind it.
His own wings shift as if to ensconce them, and the daring thumb that drags along the line of Charon's jaw moves much the same way it had when it was touching the feathers earlier. Testing the reaction. Half-mad but in too deep now to care. ]
[he turns his face into that touch like he did into the feathers, his lips parting a little. some of the ease has faded from his expression and thoughts, replaced by restrained avidity. the dream-wings are curling closer around them too, feathers on feathers on feathers. he does finally touch Minuet's face here in turn, palm light against his cheek.
there's something complex going on here, woken up all at once from under a shroud of disinterest. he's not used to being touched gently at all, or even to allowing the possibility; in many ways the burning bindings were a more familiar dynamic, and made him want to squirm less. he also feels drunk, to a point he never actually reached in the bartending ritual: genuinely unbalanced, internally tipped past some point of no return as he reaches for that fire. the offer made, and for once taken.]
Minuet.
[he leans up. if there's no retreat, he'll kiss him.]
[ There's no retreat, unfortunately. Fortunately? Unfortunately.
He leans in, pressing Charon deeper into the embrace of those wings. The kiss somehow thrums with the same electrical danger the rest of this has, but as they've both established now, that isn't a deterrent. His hand grips the nape of Charon's neck, thumb pressing pointedly into the pulse point at his throat. He wants to chase that heat and yank it out of Charon by the mouth, if he has to. Force him to embrace the unfamiliar. At the same time, there's something deep in him, hungry, rattling against its rusty time-worn chains.
Don't say you neither need or want things you've never had, not on his watch. At least let yourself feel them before choosing to forsake them. ]
[it's distantly funny, isn't it, how the tables turn between them. Minuet now the incipient threat, Charon made to face it down after inviting it in and catching its eye.
hard to find the humor when he's caught up in the pace, kiss hot and hungry and sparking nerves he thought himself devoid of before. all that slow and vital force to press back into, his body entirely human against Minuet's, still somehow welcoming. he's got an arm around him, a solid point in the feathers. his heartbeat's at a riptide pace. he wants to use his teeth--doesn't, yet. tightens his own fingers in the dark of Minuet's hair. drags him further down.
it's working. he's feeling it right along with him. it's getting very hard to think.]
[ Charon is so very fond of sowing; maybe it's finally time to reap. And, perhaps, take a break from thinking quite so damn much.
He's encouraged by that hammering pulse against his finger, even more so by the hands dragging him in closer. The kiss wasn't entirely chaste to begin with, but he can sense something of that hesitation, and responds in kind -- the press of his tongue into Charon's mouth suggesting he does know exactly how to do this, and simply hasn't. In a very very long time.
Where Plant feathers brush Charon's skin he'll feel the same heat from before, but recontexualized now, the burning something different altogether. ]
[that comes very close to shutting his thoughts down altogether for a moment, another haptic jolt in their minds. in its wake everything feels disarranged, overturned, charged; his own startled groan rings in his ears, the first noise he's made aloud here. he'll be offended by the moment of weakness--later.
right now he's answering his own greedy, seizing impulse. he's never backed down from a challenge in his life once he's initiated it, and the kiss stops being hesitant or slow on his end at all: deep, aching, urgent, almost rough. Minuet wants to force him to embrace the unfamiliar? joke's on him, when he's the one being wound up in Charon's arms, a leg bracing over his like a promise or a trap. that answering want roars up, as inarticulately powerful as his feelings on alliance: you want it? I'm here. I can take anything you want to give, give anything you want to take.
it's a lot of trust to thrust at him. that lack of reservation's the stuff of dreams, for sure, but there's nothing false about it, either.]
[ Anything is certainly too much to promise. But Vash has already called him an idiot, and there's no sense treading that ground all over again. Not when the unfamiliar ground is this rewarding, anyway.
His fingers bite just a little harder into Charon's skin at that sound, echoed through their shared dreamspace and then right to the core of Vash, it feels like. He exhales just a little too sharply, letting that selfish greed flow over him with relish. Good. Good. Less thinking. More feeling. Exactly what he's wanted for Charon since their shared drinks.
He presses forward as he's reeled in and trapped, bracing a forearm against the wall of wings, grateful for their improbable stability. He's too wired onto every reaction pulled from Charon, not unlike his pinning analysis earlier, but more primal now. Visceral. I'll tear you to shreds.
The teeth that pierce Charon's lower lip make good on that, just inhumanly sharp enough to be uncanny. And yet, all the same, the feathers that brush against his cheek are as tender as ever. ]
[some stubborn part of him fights all this anyway. the part that keeps thinking even when he's being thrown around and mauled, inviolate; the part that keeps thinking all the way up until he dies. it's fighting a more losing battle than it's used to, though, floundering at how to counter what's neither hurtful nor an enemy at all. unprecedented.
his hands are moving, exploring the planes of Minuet's torso, what he can feel of it through his clothes; sliding over wings with care but less gentleness, literal heavy petting. they tighten when he's bitten; the sting pulls a challenging tiny snarl out of him, a returned nip. the more he feels predator-pinned by Minuet the more he feels too hot for his skin and the less he can focus. the more the feathers burn without violence the more he feels like he's slowly losing his mind. he wants to turn them around and shove Minuet up against the wall in counterpoint. he wants this to keep going exactly as it is until he's fully given over, to see just how far Minuet will go.
[ They're having . . . some problems. This was not supposed to happen.
He senses that conflicted desire -- submission or rebellion, and either way, Vash is pretty sure it's a win for him. Dragging reactions out from under that perpetually cool, calculated exterior, forcing him to not just resign himself but embrace it.
Still. The hands on him send his hammering pulse straight to his throat, the beating loud in his ears, and he goes still. Conflicted, briefly, before swaying into the touch.
His gloved hand slides from Charon's neck, down across his throat, leather and callouses brushing the top ridge of his collarbone --
And then the touch is gone. His lips are gone, the wings that burn to the touch are gone, replaced by emptiness and feathers that drift like falling snow, glowing just a little too brightly.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
featherduster) wrote2023-06-15 02:30 pm
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
(Perhaps a place such as this is the only one where it would feel that way.)
Feathers mingle with feathers, the sensations novel but not unwelcome. A glimpse of what never was, but could have been, maybe. It's an abrupt and unexpected pang of longing.
But he still moves through the mass, searching. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
wonder? the feeling of someone who not only hasn't learned to fear any of this, but doesn't want to. there's something rusty about the feeling, like this person hasn't felt it purely in a long, long time, and is more than a little surprised at themselves about it. an echo of protectiveness. an association of respite, and relief.
there's a hand decisively on his, drawing him in through the screen of wings.
it's human, and warm.]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
Perhaps he didn't expect a human hand, or perhaps that makes sense, doesn't it, if this is all a figment of his own mind? But it's welcome, too, the wonder brushing against something far more humble, perhaps even sheepish.
He doesn't want it to stop.
His fingers curl around the answering ones, allowing himself to be drawn in without question or hesitation. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
that's so strange. there's almost never anything easy or gentle about Charon. everything of him in the mind-meld had been violent, bright intensity too, his angry care like formless knives and battlefire in that desperate situation. this is like a big predator at rest in comparison, perceived but lazy, curled up against the warmest thing in the room -- which happens to be Minuet. a subliminal rumble: stay, stay here.
his hands are bare. he's in a loose dark collared shirt without the everpresent heavy coat or scarf. Minuet can see the edge of a scar that cuts across one collarbone. it's hard to say if the other wings in the dream belong to him, or if he's just lost in them too.]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
Charon.
He doesn't drop Charon's hand, or pull away; every fiber of his being screams at him not to, and he listens to it, a rare selfish impulse. This feels comfortable. This feels safe. This feels . . .
He doesn't know. But the longing is still there, along with something else, and he's compelled to chase it.
You have curiosity where your caution should be.
He kind of wants to laugh again; he refrains. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
[in proximity, they can speak. he can feel the easy, returned
(fondness? teasing?)
amusement. Charon's hand is still sure in his, shifting to lace their fingers more firmly together.
in this dream, both his habitual guardedness and his peculiar distancing version of propriety have both been put down somewhere very far away, not gone, but -- unnecessary. in their absence there's room for other things, and he not only reaches for them willingly but tugs Minuet closer in yet, eyes on his. the feelings between them deepen.]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
Probably his own walls should slam back up. Safely place the pane of glass between himself and the butterfly. That would be the right thing to do -- but he's already primed to be greedy, having felt something he desperately wants and seeing no evidence of it being pulled back.
You shouldn't do this. It's a terrible idea.
That's what his thoughts say. But Charon will be able to tell how harshly his feelings want to disagree, and he makes no effort to pull away. Maybe he's too weak to. Maybe he needs Charon to be the smarter party and do it instead. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
To get close, you mean. But you want me to, nevertheless. And I would like to, despite my own reservations.
[most men would probably reach for Minuet's face here, in this moment of unstudied intimacy. Charon reaches for the closest of Minuet's wings with his free hand, fingers sliding delicately along it in much the same way Minuet was petting earlier, bringing one of the unfurled pinions up to his mouth to kiss.]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
Part of him wants to rebuke an act that tender and intimate, when the perpetrator has no idea the destructive potential he's holding against his lips. The other part wants to grip Charon and yank him in closer, breathe the truth into him and see if he still refuses to back down.
Mostly it feels like a fire just sparked to life in him.
A feather slides over the apple of Charon's cheek, the gentleness of it at complete odds with the ferociousness in everything else that crosses the bond.
Yes. I do want you to.
That longing from earlier, for connection and acceptance, unchanged even with the reveal of Charon's identity.
But that doesn't make it less of a bad idea.
It does, potentially, make him a worse person. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
--take what's offered or have it shoved into your arms. take it or be seized--]
Since when did you think I'd retreat from the prospect of risk, once I offered you what I did? You should know better.
[the danger and ferocity attract, not repel. but more than that...Charon wasn't hovering on the edge of a choice here, to be pushed one way or the other. he already chose. it's a strategist's job to stare down looming disaster and find the way through to the other side -- for them and theirs. that resolve has fangs.
it is possible Minuet may have made a miscalculation here.]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
That doesn't mean he can just not test it, though.
The wings morph and move in a way Charon hasn't seen before, lashing tendrils from every direction that move almost too fast to track. Pushing him back against the wall of (comparatively) harmless wings. Binding his wrists, his throat, burning hot in every place they touch his skin, as if they could disintegrate flesh if they decided to.
No actual physical harm comes to him. Nothing new touches his mind beyond the already established parameters of this dream. But the unsettling pressure is in the air, a thrumming danger like unseen electricity.
He steps close enough that he's just a little too close.
There are good reasons no one else has ever done this.
It's a warning and an entreaty to see reason at the same time. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
but reflex passes. the shields don't close, because allowed to think, he can register the different between imminent harm and a warning. he doesn't struggle or thrash or finally attempt to break away; he relaxes instead, head tilting back against the soft wall of feathers like a challenge, feeling the tendrils put more burning pressure against his neck. not all the surprise in his eyes stems from perceived threat.
some part of him -- reckless, impulsive, uncalculated -- wants. he has just consciously registered it, for the first time.]
I refuse to fear you.
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
But then the wings fall away as easily as they'd bound him up in the first place, settling around Vash like some feathered Biblical thing.
You idiot.
It's lacking in heat -- of a kind, anyway; that burning flame is still there. He actually can't believe how much of an idiot Charon is. And resents himself for his reaction being a suddenly dry throat. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
but Minuet didn't actually manage to dispel what made Charon draw him in here in the first place, even if his heart's now pounding faster about it. he extends his hand again. not far. they're still standing in each others' space.]
You hoped. I am here.
I would suggest...you grow used to it.
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
But he's not always that good a person. Reciprocated want certainly makes it even more difficult.
Regardless of which hand Charon holds out, it's the flesh-and-blood one that settles in his. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
inarticulate, but sure, half principle, half feeling: you don't always pick your allies because you know everything you're getting into with them. you don't always pick them for safety, or predictability, or camaraderie. sometimes you land in a strange place and happen to jump in the same pit, happen to meet each others' eyes. share a drink, share truth and stories, have common people, find a common goal. find other things you desire, or need.
they're already trying something new to the both of them. why not keep on trying?]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
So he steps forward, acutely aware of the proximity it necessitates and deciding that's fine, actually. It's the same compulsion that drew him into the sea of feathers in the first place, but stronger now with clarity behind it.
His own wings shift as if to ensconce them, and the daring thumb that drags along the line of Charon's jaw moves much the same way it had when it was touching the feathers earlier. Testing the reaction. Half-mad but in too deep now to care. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
there's something complex going on here, woken up all at once from under a shroud of disinterest. he's not used to being touched gently at all, or even to allowing the possibility; in many ways the burning bindings were a more familiar dynamic, and made him want to squirm less. he also feels drunk, to a point he never actually reached in the bartending ritual: genuinely unbalanced, internally tipped past some point of no return as he reaches for that fire. the offer made, and for once taken.]
Minuet.
[he leans up. if there's no retreat, he'll kiss him.]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
He leans in, pressing Charon deeper into the embrace of those wings. The kiss somehow thrums with the same electrical danger the rest of this has, but as they've both established now, that isn't a deterrent. His hand grips the nape of Charon's neck, thumb pressing pointedly into the pulse point at his throat. He wants to chase that heat and yank it out of Charon by the mouth, if he has to. Force him to embrace the unfamiliar. At the same time, there's something deep in him, hungry, rattling against its rusty time-worn chains.
Don't say you neither need or want things you've never had, not on his watch. At least let yourself feel them before choosing to forsake them. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
hard to find the humor when he's caught up in the pace, kiss hot and hungry and sparking nerves he thought himself devoid of before. all that slow and vital force to press back into, his body entirely human against Minuet's, still somehow welcoming. he's got an arm around him, a solid point in the feathers. his heartbeat's at a riptide pace. he wants to use his teeth--doesn't, yet. tightens his own fingers in the dark of Minuet's hair. drags him further down.
it's working. he's feeling it right along with him. it's getting very hard to think.]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
He's encouraged by that hammering pulse against his finger, even more so by the hands dragging him in closer. The kiss wasn't entirely chaste to begin with, but he can sense something of that hesitation, and responds in kind -- the press of his tongue into Charon's mouth suggesting he does know exactly how to do this, and simply hasn't. In a very very long time.
Where Plant feathers brush Charon's skin he'll feel the same heat from before, but recontexualized now, the burning something different altogether. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
right now he's answering his own greedy, seizing impulse. he's never backed down from a challenge in his life once he's initiated it, and the kiss stops being hesitant or slow on his end at all: deep, aching, urgent, almost rough. Minuet wants to force him to embrace the unfamiliar? joke's on him, when he's the one being wound up in Charon's arms, a leg bracing over his like a promise or a trap. that answering want roars up, as inarticulately powerful as his feelings on alliance: you want it? I'm here. I can take anything you want to give, give anything you want to take.
it's a lot of trust to thrust at him. that lack of reservation's the stuff of dreams, for sure, but there's nothing false about it, either.]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
His fingers bite just a little harder into Charon's skin at that sound, echoed through their shared dreamspace and then right to the core of Vash, it feels like. He exhales just a little too sharply, letting that selfish greed flow over him with relish. Good. Good. Less thinking. More feeling. Exactly what he's wanted for Charon since their shared drinks.
He presses forward as he's reeled in and trapped, bracing a forearm against the wall of wings, grateful for their improbable stability. He's too wired onto every reaction pulled from Charon, not unlike his pinning analysis earlier, but more primal now. Visceral. I'll tear you to shreds.
The teeth that pierce Charon's lower lip make good on that, just inhumanly sharp enough to be uncanny. And yet, all the same, the feathers that brush against his cheek are as tender as ever. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
his hands are moving, exploring the planes of Minuet's torso, what he can feel of it through his clothes; sliding over wings with care but less gentleness, literal heavy petting. they tighten when he's bitten; the sting pulls a challenging tiny snarl out of him, a returned nip. the more he feels predator-pinned by Minuet the more he feels too hot for his skin and the less he can focus. the more the feathers burn without violence the more he feels like he's slowly losing his mind. he wants to turn them around and shove Minuet up against the wall in counterpoint. he wants this to keep going exactly as it is until he's fully given over, to see just how far Minuet will go.
THEY'RE HAVING SOME PROBLEMS]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
He senses that conflicted desire -- submission or rebellion, and either way, Vash is pretty sure it's a win for him. Dragging reactions out from under that perpetually cool, calculated exterior, forcing him to not just resign himself but embrace it.
Still. The hands on him send his hammering pulse straight to his throat, the beating loud in his ears, and he goes still. Conflicted, briefly, before swaying into the touch.
His gloved hand slides from Charon's neck, down across his throat, leather and callouses brushing the top ridge of his collarbone --
And then the touch is gone. His lips are gone, the wings that burn to the touch are gone, replaced by emptiness and feathers that drift like falling snow, glowing just a little too brightly.
If Charon touches one, it's warm. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]