( he's sure wolfwood doesn't mean to look, means to give him any measure of privacy that could even serve as such a thing when he's so exposed — but even knowing that he is looking, can feel his gaze on him despite the fact that his own is focused on a scattering of freckles on his right knee, it doesn't make him feel … self-conscious? something like that. but it does make him feel warm, and some distant, latently debauched part of him wants him to look. to understand what he's getting himself into here, and … he doesn't know. appreciate how vulnerable he's allowing himself to be with him.
it sounds silly, even in his own head. but he can't help what his thoughts do or where they go, and especially not like this.
his petals seem to fan out even more under the other's eyes before he looks away, the tiny little tendrils scattered through them acting almost as if they want to reach for him, and vash thinks stop that, we don't do that, we usually do this alone and this isn't about to be any different! there's just … an audience … moral support! that's it!
he's in the process of peeling off his glove when that question comes, and he hums a bit under his breath as he sets the slip of fabric aside, bare hand now slipping down to absently sift through the topmost of his petals, and the touch is nowhere near sexual by any means, but maybe trying for some measure of comfort? yeah. we'll go with that. ) No more than a handful, usually. ( he finally says, almost conversationally, made easier by the fact that the discomfort has subsided for the time being.
he holds up that hand and uses prosthetic fingers to measure the length of his palm where wolfwood can see. ) About that size. Sometimes a little bigger, sometimes smaller. When I say there's no consistency … ( oh boy does he mean it!
he unfolds his legs again, letting them stretch out in front of him. ) You're not … creeped out, are you? Told you it was— ( he knows, vash. you really can stop repeating yourself. ) Sorry.
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Date: 2024-11-06 01:36 am (UTC)it sounds silly, even in his own head. but he can't help what his thoughts do or where they go, and especially not like this.
his petals seem to fan out even more under the other's eyes before he looks away, the tiny little tendrils scattered through them acting almost as if they want to reach for him, and vash thinks stop that, we don't do that, we usually do this alone and this isn't about to be any different! there's just … an audience … moral support! that's it!
he's in the process of peeling off his glove when that question comes, and he hums a bit under his breath as he sets the slip of fabric aside, bare hand now slipping down to absently sift through the topmost of his petals, and the touch is nowhere near sexual by any means, but maybe trying for some measure of comfort? yeah. we'll go with that. ) No more than a handful, usually. ( he finally says, almost conversationally, made easier by the fact that the discomfort has subsided for the time being.
he holds up that hand and uses prosthetic fingers to measure the length of his palm where wolfwood can see. ) About that size. Sometimes a little bigger, sometimes smaller. When I say there's no consistency … ( oh boy does he mean it!
he unfolds his legs again, letting them stretch out in front of him. ) You're not … creeped out, are you? Told you it was— ( he knows, vash. you really can stop repeating yourself. ) Sorry.