#fullofmercy

He looks almost innocent as he rests, eyelids framed by long and pale lashes dotted with opalescent pearls of blue liquid, various tubes and pipes keeping the serum flowing in a constant stream around his body. The hum of machinery is punctuated by a metronome of vital signs, all recorded and monitored carefully by the good doctor Conrad and his circle. It all makes for a rather clinical tomb, no hewn and polished gems or statues handcrafted in gold, no mummified servants nor stacks upon stacks of double dollars to speak of.

There is the retreating form of a cat, a flash of wide green eyes and the curled tip of a tail disappearing behind a cloud of fog generated from the low temperature of the room- rising off of the surface of Knives' embalming fluid (of sorts). Even Wolfwood's breathing should be coming out in wispy trails of steam as he approaches, not even the metallic click of the human's revolver hammer cocking seems to disturb the angelic being in repose- His aura retains a haunting and terrific gloom, oppressive even as he sleeps.

However briefly the Punisher hesitates, it still remains a second too late. The bullet ricochets off coiled tendrils made up of curving blades, strikes a pipe that releases more steam into the room, obscuring the pool in which Millions Knives rests. He opens his eyes to nothing but humid white, a cheshire smile curling at the corners of his lips. His gate suit manifests around his body, the cloak he normally wears pooling around his waistline and draping around his lower body artfully. Like a saint immortalized in painstakingly carved marble mimicking flesh, his beauty is immaculate- Perfectly symmetrical, the golden standard of physical allure, dazzling in it's innate sensuality.

Yet there is a quality that feels off, that such perfection could exist as a living and breathing creature seems... wrong. Unearthly grace coupled with a predator's economy of movement, even with near floor-length tresses fanning out in loose waves down the broadness of both his chest and shoulders.

"Is that any way to greet your master, Nicholas? Has it been so long, you've forgotten basic politeness, or have you always lacked such social graces? I genuinely believe you to have been more charming than this, in the past..."

He presses in close, leaning to one side in an almost coquettish pose for someone being visibly threatened by a weapon. Knives' index finger trails along the barrel of the gun slowly, as though it's little more than a toy or a prop needed to complete Wolfwood's heartless Eye of Michael assassin act.

The fear above and beyond the rigors of surviving on this dustball has begun to fade. Humanity is battered and bruised and wary, but rebuilding.

And so here, now, tonight, past midnight and tucked into bed, it is quiet. Something stirs Wolfwood alert, but it is not pulse-pounding adrenaline.

Inhale.

Vash is still asleep, curled up on his right side.

Wolfwood realizes that his arm is asleep too, shoved between Vash's neck and his pillow. Pins and needles...

He'll have to do something about that without just pulling away. So, then, with a crooked smirk, he shuffles closer, peppering Vash's nape and left ear with soft, stubbly kisses.

for once vash dreams are not filled with screams, pain and blood. it's a calm kind of sleep where even his dreams seem more soothing colors than proper scenes and moments.

underneath it all he can always hear their song.

the plants have been fine for a while now, terra forces showing people how to properly treat them without causing a last run over time. their song has been more tranquil since. the added warmth of a beloved body near him only helps vash to find peace in his rest.

wolfwood's kisses are noticed - barely. enough for him to grumble and frown but not wake up. he makes a protesting sound and curls up, releasing the other's arm from the weight of his head as he moves closer, pressing himself against wolfwood.

the feathers and wings soon appear - the glow of his pattern spreads over them. the light pulsates slowly, like his heartbeat and touching them does not show any memories. just soft colors and the feeling of love, safety and peace.

"nicholas..."

it's a quite murmur followed by a little giggle and smile before vash snuggles his head closer to wolfwood's chest.

He's eyeing that cross warily... He shouldn't, really, it's a common symbol, but one of that size was certainly an odd sight.

oh? are they going on an adventure? are those his adventure goggles? vash lets wolfwood do as he pleases before hopping into the motorcycle's sidecar.

lead the way wolfwood ! this creature will follow you to the end of the world - or road -.

WOLFWOOD | @full-of-mercy | x

ㅤIf God does witness that little retaliation, they're not gonna say a damn word about it because the sheer overabundant amount of wriggling that Vash partakes in to get comfortable has the ability of negating such perception. It doesn't help that the blond can feel himself wobbling within the chaos of it all, the tip of his tongue poking out to rest against the Independent's upper lip in concentration, the gentle erratic sway of his head revealing amber hued snippets of the surrounding town square - children happily play while the commerce of a weekly market is in full swing, the distraction of a thousand and one delectable scents permeating the air not enough to deter him on this occasion ( ...ok, maybe later ). Vash is fairly certain that a boot had made contact with the brunet's cheek at some point during the scrambling, a gloved hand tentatively reaching down to lightly pat at the area, as if the gesture was a sufficient means of cajoling such a careless move.