[Fingers stretch and spread before passing his mouth to cup the side of Klavier's face. In case he's still feeling orally fixated, Greed generously brushes his thumb over his lips for him to continue working at.
It's a terrible idea, but that doesn't usually stop him. A free hand presses down on his thigh and eases up his hospital gown, hiking it up as far as he can without making Klavier move for it. Only once it's up far enough to be perfectly indecent does he settle for groping the rest of the way up his body on the outside of his clothing. If it seems a little more thorough than a simple frisk, it's because he's mapping out what's hooked in, making sure there's no wire or tube he's missed in the low lighting.
A hand on each shoulder eases down his arms and back up. He may have lost weight, but Greed's not sure if that's an objective fact or an illusion borne of laying bound in a hospital bed. Not as cautious of the electrodes as he is of the IV, he strokes at his torso, debating whether to just shred the gown off and let the staff deal with it when he's good and finished or whether to spare himself the full view of Klavier fresh off the brink of death. As many snide remarks as Greed had about his face, there's a frustrating charm to it. He wonders if he was too good at convincing himself to develop a crying fetish. Just feeling body heat beneath his hands or finding the occasional throb of a pulse is a rush. He's pretty sure that's just plain weird, being excited over nothing more than a warm body with a pulse.
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It's a terrible idea, but that doesn't usually stop him. A free hand presses down on his thigh and eases up his hospital gown, hiking it up as far as he can without making Klavier move for it. Only once it's up far enough to be perfectly indecent does he settle for groping the rest of the way up his body on the outside of his clothing. If it seems a little more thorough than a simple frisk, it's because he's mapping out what's hooked in, making sure there's no wire or tube he's missed in the low lighting.
A hand on each shoulder eases down his arms and back up. He may have lost weight, but Greed's not sure if that's an objective fact or an illusion borne of laying bound in a hospital bed. Not as cautious of the electrodes as he is of the IV, he strokes at his torso, debating whether to just shred the gown off and let the staff deal with it when he's good and finished or whether to spare himself the full view of Klavier fresh off the brink of death. As many snide remarks as Greed had about his face, there's a frustrating charm to it. He wonders if he was too good at convincing himself to develop a crying fetish. Just feeling body heat beneath his hands or finding the occasional throb of a pulse is a rush. He's pretty sure that's just plain weird, being excited over nothing more than a warm body with a pulse.
Sex with guys was weird.]