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Summary
“Tongari,” Wolfwood manages, “y’couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”
“Always underestimating me,” Vash tuts. His hand moves in Wolfwood’s peripheral, slow, like Wolfwood will spook if he goes any faster. When he doesn’t, Vash’s palm moulds itself against Wolfwood’s cheek, warm through the leather of his glove. His fingers are long enough to brush Wolfwood’s pulse point, where he can feel his own heart continuing to race. That same prey instinct. And when Vash tips Wolfwood’s head back, face upright, he can just barely make out the sharpness of Vash’s features through the fuzziness of his vision.
Wolfwood is only human.
“The way you look at me sometimes,” Wolfwood gasps. “I want—”
“Hey,” Vash responds at once. His hand slides back to Wolfwood’s nape, fingers threading through his hair.
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It's human to want, and Nicholas D. Wolfwood is only human.