#geraniumplant

He positions himself in front of Sephiroth and stares down the masked grayface with a look of icy disdain.

"No, you may not sit on his lap and you may not have a kiss from him either. And now, begone from our sight."

Tseng eyed Rufus, amber gaze almost unreadable. Almost. He knew Rufus would be able to see how unamused he was- the man could read him like a book almost as easily as he could Rufus. He simply pulled out a container instead of answering the statement.

Vash smiling with his giant puppy eyes. "I knew he was good." 😃

incorrect quote generator 📋

(   is this a love confession, @geraniumplant ?  )

Life has some beautiful moments to offer. Some are so golden that they cause a man to lose himself; to melt into their precious seconds like a grain of sand melts into a shifting dune. It takes control, and anyone with a soul is helpless to combat its atmosphere.

Wolfwood finds himself caught in such a moment, as the final sun sets over Noman's Land. On a rooftop, with distant city lights below his perch and Vash at his side. The orange glow of evening has become trapped in the feathered edges of Vash's hair. They light him up, like a little lamp. His face appears carved from flawless amber, and his coat seems brighter than it's ever been before; sharp and capable of cutting the world down with its vibrancy.

The Stampede is laughing hard enough to tear up. He's all clenched lashes and gleaming teeth, and Wolfwood is painfully aware of the motion of Vash's quaking chest; the heaving cage that holds his heart, moving up and down - a home he wants to occupy. He grins back but is removed from the reality surrounding their conversation. He leans over without thinking, like a moth drawn to neon sign. Mesmerized and hypnotized and eager for a taste of Vash's luminescence.

Wolfwood doesn't much allow himself these deep, reflective moments. First of all, it's dangerous-- he's in firefights often, after all. He doesn't want to lose sight of the future in spite of the past (in spite of losing it and finding it again and again)--

But sometimes one has to take a moment for himself, turn to his companion and say:

"This is a stupid fucking plan. No one is gonna believe you're a scientist with that hair."

Let alone anyone believing he is, in his coffin-nail suit and coffin-nail-scent. Cross not-withstanding.

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