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Wolfwood isn’t one to wax poetic or any of that bullshit, but Vash the Stampede is a goddamn angel.
And he doesn’t mean that in a mushy-gushy, goo-goo eyes type of way, like how Meryl looks at him—no, Wolfwood is pissed about it. Vash lets himself get shit on twenty times a day and still manages to put everyone before himself, every time. He totes around a fancy gun but if Wolfwood suggests using it, Vash balks at him like he just threw an infant in front of a sandsteamer, like the thought of using a weapon on a degenerate planet is unthinkable.
Wolfwood can’t for the life of him comprehend why Vash is the way he is—and why he’s being paid the biggest pile of money he’s ever seen to guide him into a trap.
His journalist posse isn’t any help. Two days into their journey, when Wolfwood waits for Vash to go get them drinks to ask what the fuck is wrong with him, Meryl just frowns at him. “He has a lot going on.”
“You’ve got no idea,” Roberto mutters.
Wolfwood is an observant guy. It’s one of the perks he got from the whole violent experimentation thing he lived through, but he’s been watching Vash for forty-eight hours straight and he’s still got nothing.
Even in his downtime, when he should be bone-tired from whatever hell they’ve been dragged through, he’s gracious. He offers his first drink to the woman sitting next to him at the bar, smiling at her in that infuriatingly charming way of his.
She eats it up, and when she ruffles his hair, Vash leans into the touch. When she puts her hand on his knee and whispers something in his ear, Vash’s smile only falters momentarily before it’s back in full force, and he nods.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Wolfwood asks no one in particular.
“I wouldn’t ask,” Roberto advises. “We learned the hard way not to.”
“Hah? I thought he was your next big story. Seems like poor practice not to ask.”
“We don’t need to report on everything,” Meryl grumbles. “Besides, he always comes back. He tries to run away a lot, but never like this.”
Yeah, Wolfwood is sure that’s what Vash wants them to think. Lousy excuses for kidnappers—he’s probably just waiting for them to let their guard down, to trust him enough for him to disappear into thin air. Not on Wolfwood’s watch. He stands to go drag him back to the table but freezes in his tracks when—when the woman fucking kisses him.
Vash kisses back and Wolfwood jerks away like he’s been burned. “What,” he says flatly.
“We tried to warn you,” says Roberto. Meryl pointedly inspects her nails. Wolfwood briefly loses his mind. Vash the fucking Stampede—making a move on someone. Just like that, like it’s just another Tuesday.
“I’m supposed to believe Spikey is some kinda fuckin’—womanizer?”
“Men and women, from what I’ve seen.” Roberto’s shrug is heavy, long-suffering. “Happens almost every night. Doesn’t seem to have a type at all, but he’s always leaving with someone. Can’t say I understand it.”
What. There’s no—sure as shit, Vash is making out with a stranger in the middle of the bar. No one pays him any mind, like they’re used to this. If Wolfwood doesn’t close his mouth, he’s gonna swallow a worm, but—“that guy?”
“I mean,” Meryl says, “I get it.”
Well, yeah, Wolfwood gets it, if you’re just looking at his face. He’s not blind—Vash is hot, but he’s a disaster, goofy as hell, ninety-percent legs, and a magnet for chaos. Wolfwood hasn’t even been around him a week and he’s already considering taking out a life insurance policy—and he’s nearly fucking indestructible.
But there is the magnetism there—Wolfwood felt it from the very first minute, when he cracked one eye open to stare up into the sky and was met instead with a same-colored gaze. He knows what draws people to Vash, but Wolfwood really didn’t think he had it in him to act on it.
The woman takes Vash by the wrist and leads him away from the bar, and Vash goes dutifully behind, throwing their table a salute and a small smile.
It doesn’t reach his eyes, but none of his smiles do.
-x-
The insane thing is it keeps happening.
They could be on the brink of death just hours earlier, and Vash still lets himself be led up dingy staircase after dingy staircase, reappearing the next morning and refusing to acknowledge that he ever left.
Wolfwood has watched that man get his soul crushed in real-time, and still somehow have it in him to bat his eyelashes at the first stranger who looks his way.
And not that Wolfwood has been thinking about it, but it’s hard to imagine Vash fucking somebody he doesn’t know. He’s so… soft, has to be the romantic type. He remembers names. He would balk at the thought of pulling someone’s hair or roughly driving his—
No, Wolfwood isn’t thinking about it. He just has to notice these things. It’s in his job description, and his interest doubled after learning that Vash isn’t human at all. He’s going to tear Conrad a new asshole when he sees him next for keeping that detail a secret. A different species—it would explain why he’s so weird, passionate in a way that’s disproportionate to how things work on this planet. It could be species-specific, but Wolfwood has had the pleasure of meeting Knives, so he doubts that it’s a shared personality trait.
Could be biological, but that’s also a rabbit hole that Wolfwood shouldn’t go down, and he won’t.
“He’s not going to notice you staring,” says Meryl one night, two weeks into their journey. “You have to go up and wave in his face if you want his attention, you know that.”
“Who’s staring?” asks Wolfwood. He’s staring. Vash is yet again chatting up some gun-slinger wannabe at another dusty bar. It’s the same story on repeat. Wolfwood is getting sick of watching it, but he can’t look away.
“You, every night,” offers Roberto. “If you’re worried about him, you can just tell him and he’ll probably stop. He likes you, for whatever reason.”
Wolfwood crunches a cigarette between his teeth and grunts instead of an answer. He’s not rising to Roberto’s bait—that’s all it is. Wolfwood isn’t worried about Vash and Vash likes everybody. Clearly.
He’s not concerned with what Vash does in his free time, and he’d probably benefit from getting laid too, but he knows what he’s into, unlike Vash who has been through a dizzying number of people of all shapes and sizes. Like, this guy—who the fuck is this guy? He’s Vash’s height but double his size, and he’s leering at him like he wants to break him, and, fuck, you know what—
Wolfwood slams into the man as he approaches the bar. “Go somewhere,” he tells him.
“You lookin’ for a fight, kid?”
God, Wolfwood is. He would love to throw this man across the bar, maybe through a window, but he can feel Vash glaring holes into his back, and he tries to minimize the time he spends getting pouted at, so he holds back. “I’m looking out for you, is what I’m doing,” he says instead. “This guy here is a thief. He seduces men and steals everything—he’ll take the clothes off your back.”
“Hey!” Vash cries. “Why are you—”
“I’ll rough him up for you,” Wolfwood promises. “But you should get away while you can—they say he’s got powers or some shit. Hypnosis.”
The man gives a sideways glance to Vash, like he’s considering if he might be worth being hypnotized and robbed blind, but ultimately, he spits on the floor and scoffs. “Whore.”
Wolfwood’s hand twitches towards Punisher. He plasters on a fake smile instead of reacting, and waves the man away, before sliding into the stool next to Vash.
He’s not happy. “What was that for?” he demands.
Wolfwood rolls his eyes, stalling for time because honestly, yeah, what was that? Wolfwood just reacted. He didn’t plan this far ahead. “Did you a favor, Spikey,” he settles on. “Don’t think you wanted to end up in that guy’s bed.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” Vash grumbles, but then he sighs. It’s a sigh of relief. “You couldn't have come up with a better excuse? My reputation is bad enough.”
“I’m not good under pressure,” Wolfwood says, not apologetic. He pokes Vash in the chest. “What’s up with you, anyway? Why were you talking to someone like that? The best-lookin’ people in this bar are those two.” He nods toward the journalists.
Vash crinkles his nose. “No way.”
“You’re gonna make the little missy cry with an answer like that.”
“I didn’t mean it like that!” Vash yelps. He groans. “You love to antagonize me.”
Wolfwood grins. “You make it so easy. But seriously—don’t bullshit me. You’ve been sleeping with the entire fuckin’ planet, so what gives? You can’t be desperate enough to lose all standards.” He ashes his cigarette on the counter, adding to the millions of burn marks already there. “Though I guess if you’ve got someone to stick your dick in, it doesn’t matter what they look like."
Vash can’t react in time. He chokes on his drink, sputtering it halfway across the bar. Wolfwood dodges the spray, but the bartender can’t. He grimaces, and Vash raises his hand in surrender, a silent, shaking apology as he coughs it out.
When he finally turns back to Wolfwood, he’s redder than his jacket. “It’s not like that,” he says.
Wolfwood raises an eyebrow. “No way you’re tryin’ to act like a prude now.”
“Really, I’m—” Vash glances around the bar. For once, no one is minding his business. He lowers his voice, “I’m not…”
It’s incredible, watching Vash get more and more flustered. Wolfwood could probably just stare at him, and he’d trip even more over his tongue, but he’s way too intrigued to quit the questioning now. Especially with an answer like that.
“Oh, you like it the other way then?” he leans in. “I see you leavin’ with a bunch of ladies, so what? They peg you?”
“Please stop,” Vash begs. “There’s no—fucking. I’m just helping people. People who need it.”
“I’m not following, Spikey.”
Vash stares up at the ceiling, like it might collapse onto them and save him from this conversation. Wolfwood would just dig him out of the rubble and keep it going. “People need the… release, or the company, so I help. With my hands. Sometimes my mouth.”
Wolfwood needs a minute, or a hundred of them, to process that. Vash isn’t even sleeping around—he’s basically offering a service. He’s getting people off for free because he thinks they need it.
God, it’s so on-brand, it’s sickening.
“So you go around askin’ people if they need someone between their legs?”
“I can tell,” Vash admits. “With other plants, I can feel everything—their emotions, their thoughts. With humans, it’s more muted, but it’s there. I try to find the person who needs it the most and talk to them.”
“And are they… returning the favor?”
“I don’t want them to,” Vash replies quickly.
“Can plants not get off or something?”
“I can,” Vash hisses, furiously pink and so agitated. “But I don’t need to. It’s not about that.”
Fucking astounding. Wolfwood is the one with the priest persona, and yet here Vash is, a living saint. Wolfwood is getting paid for nothing because Vash would walk to his own slaughter if he was only asked.
“There’s no way that you’re spending every night just getting strangers off for nothing,” Wolfwood says. “I don’t know what you’re trying to atone for, Spikey, but Christ, you’re probably forgiven.”
Vash’s eyes flash, but he bites back whatever he wants to say. Wolfwood sees the moment his brain beats out his mouth. Instead, he sighs, and there’s a fire in his expression that Wolfwood has found himself pushing for more and more lately. “I’m good at it, so it makes me happy. Giving.”
It throws a stone into the conversation and the ripples smack Wolfwood in the face. The reality of the conversation is horrifying. Selfless, sweet Vash, with talented fingers or a talented tongue, who gives and gives and gives because he knows he’s good at it. Because he probably gets feedback to prove it. Fuck.
Does he get off on it? A praise kink? Does he wait until whoever he’s with has fallen asleep and then touch himself?
Shit. Wolfwood needs to recalibrate. This conversation is entering dangerous territory. Vash is his mark—just because he’s delivering this one alive doesn’t mean he needs to develop any kind of fucked up feelings about him, even if those feelings are that he would love to show Vash what he’s been missing.
None of the dirty bar leeches Vash gets into bed with could give him anything close to what he deserves, but Wolfwood spends every day with Vash—he knows what Vash’s self-sacrificial behavior warrants.
No. Fuck, no, he can’t. He needs to back out, to shut up, to wave Vash off to his night on his knees and —
“Doesn’t have to be that way, you know,” he says instead because he’s an idiot with no impulse control. “Pleasure can be reciprocated.”
“Ah.” Vash smiles, sheepish. “I don’t need it to be.”
“But do you want it?”
Vash considers that, the revelation that he could possibly ever want something and be granted it. In the end, he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not asking somebody to do that.”
“And if they offered?”
Stupid. So stupid. Wolfwood never learned when to keep his damn mouth shut and it’s gotten him in enough trouble to last a lifetime, but this is next-level idiocy. He’s hitting on his bounty. It’s just been a while. Being a murderer by trade isn’t exactly a conversation starter—not the kind he’d want for this, at least.
Vash stares at him and Wolfwood prepares himself to be brushed off. Vash is going to laugh, throw his hands up, say something nonsensical and change the subject. It’s his tried and true avoidant tactic.
But he just keeps staring, serious as a heart attack. “Are you offering?” he asks, slow, cautious. A spooked animal.
Wolfwood tries not to let the shock show on his face. He twists the extinguished cigarette between his fingers. “Sure.”
Vash smiles, but it’s not his real one. Wolfwood has seen that a handful of times, all bright and disarming, enough to make his heart stutter. This one is too practiced and Wolfwood knows exactly why. He huffs and grabs Vash by the jaw, wiping it away instantly.
“Oi, none of that bullshit,” he snaps. “I ain’t one of your leeches, so don’t give me the seduction act.”
It’s not the first time they’ve been in each other’s faces, but it’s different—charged. Vash is frozen in his hold, and his eyes drop to Wolfwood’s lips like he can’t help it. That’s not part of his act—not that Wolfwood has seen.
“Got it, Spikey?” he murmurs.
Vash shakes himself free of Wolfwood’s grasp. “Yeah, got it,” he says. He stands and glances up towards the stairs. “You know where my room is.”
“Sure do. Can’t wait for our first sleepover.”
Vash rolls his eyes, but his blush spreads all the way to his forehead and Wolfwood can’t hold back his grin. He gives Vash two minutes, three tops before he saunters over to the others.
“Hey,” he says. He inclines his chin to where Vash just disappeared. “I’m gonna go fuck him, so don’t wait up.”
Roberto sighs, taking another swig of his drink. Meryl blinks up at him, her mouth opening and closing like she can’t form the words. Wolfwood doesn’t blame her—he’d have the same reaction.
“Treat him nice,” calls Roberto to Wolfwood’s retreating back.
“How?” he hears Meryl choke. “How does he get Vash? What am I doing wrong?”
“Can’t take it personal, newbie.”
Wolfwood laughs all the way up to the rooms.
-x-
Vash answers after one knock. He’s dressed down by his standards, his boots by the door and his jacket hung over a chair. Wolfwood’s only seen Vash without his glasses once, when they got blown off his face in a fight, but there are no barriers to his eyes now. They assess him, curious and cautious, but still so trusting.
Wolfwood’s stomach curdles.
Vash’s attention on him like this—it’s enough to wipe out any remaining common sense that might be trying to claw its way into his impulse control. He’s not one-hundred percent sure that he’s not being brainwashed by some plant voodoo, but he wants to fall to his knees and get his mouth all over Vash. His past lovers have been all selfish pricks to let him spend even a second on them when this was in front of them.
Humanity is shit to Vash. Wolfwood included—but he can make up for some of his sins tonight.
Vash chuckles, breaking the tension enough for Wolfwood to take a breath. “This is weird,” he says.
“How? You do this every night.”
“Yeah, but you’re…” he trails off. “No one looks at me like that. Like you’re looking at me.”
Wolfwood should hunt them down, kill every one of them. It’s a manic thought.
“You’ve been sleeping with shitty people,” he says. “I’m not shitty.”
Vash swallows, a minuscule, blink-and-you-miss-it reaction, but Wolfwood is paying attention. He toes off his shoes, leans the Punisher against the door, slips out of his jacket and lays it on top of Vash’s, and stands in front of the bed.
This is usually the part Wolfwood hates the most. Foreplay is fine, but the banter, the flirting—waste of time, in his opinion. He’d always preferred to get in and out, but now, with Vash watching his every move with clear anticipation, Wolfwood wants to slow down, to fluster him more.
He lets a hand fall to Vash’s collarbone, fingers dancing over the fabric of his top. “You wanna get out of this? Might be more comfortable.”
“I don’t usually…” Vash starts then stops. “You should get comfortable.”
“You’re too fuckin’ much. What did we just talk about?” Wolfwood presses his hand to Vash’s chest and pushes, light as a feather. He’s seen Vash take on an entire gang all at once, has witnessed him move thousands of tons with just his arms, but he goes down without protest now. It’s so obvious he wants this; that he can’t make himself ask.
“How does it usually go?” Wolfwood wonders. He drops onto the bed, crawling on his hands and knees until he hovers above Vash, caging him in. “You always take control?”
“Yeah.” Vash is honest. He’s always honest with Wolfwood, more so than the others. He doesn’t know what he did to earn that, but he takes it. “That’s what people want. To have someone take care of them.”
“But no one takes care of you,” Wolfwood muses. “Anyone ever asked what you want when you’re doing this?”
“Sometimes,” Vash says, but it’s small—a lie to balance out the candor.
Wolfwood gazes down at him. He’s seen Vash in more compromising positions than he can count on one hand, but this one feels the most dangerous. “What do you want, Spikey?”
“I don’t know.” Vash frowns. It’s fucking devastating, how truthful it is—Vash has no damn idea what he wants because he’s never needed to consider it. However many years he’s been alive and he doesn’t even know how to express simple desires. It makes Wolfwood’s blood run hot under his skin; he’s pissed.
“Well, we’ll fuckin’ try some things and see what sticks. Starting with this.”
Wolfwood leans down and kisses him. It’s slower than he’s used to, steady and a little soft, because he doesn’t want to spook Vash, and for a minute, he thinks he did anyway. Vash doesn’t reciprocate; he’s frozen against Wolfwood’s lips, and maybe he read this entire situation wrong. Maybe Vash is changing his mind in real time. Maybe it was a stupid fucking idea to begin with and—
Vash sighs against his mouth, and when Wolfwood opens in surprise, there’s Vash’s tongue.
Vash runs cold, so Wolfwood tries to blanket him in heat. The kiss turns scalding quick, and any nerves seem to dissipate when Wolfwood wraps one hand around the back of Vash’s neck, giving himself more leverage to deepen the kiss. Vash whines into his mouth, muted, like he’s trying to hold it back.
“You don’t have to do that,” Wolfwood mutters, not even bothering to separate. He speaks it against Vash’s lips. “Don’t know who made you think you had to keep quiet, but I want you loud.”
Vash gives a weak nod, but when Wolfwood bites his lip he cuts off his moan, and fine, if Vash doesn’t want to let himself have this, then Wolfwood will force it out of him. He digs his fingers into Vash’s hair and yanks his head back, baring his neck. Vash gasps, and it melts into a broken moan when Wolfwood licks a stripe from his clothed collarbone to the edge of his ear.
“Knew you could do it,” Wolfwood rasps and Vash laughs once, breathless. Wolfwood takes Vash’s earring into his mouth, swirls it around, before making his way back down to where Vash’s nipples are hiding under his shirt. He laves his tongue over the fabric, dampening it, and Vash twists his fingers into the sheets.
“You’re good with your mouth,” he manages, already sounding weak. It’s music to Wolfwood’s ears.
“Oh, you have no idea.” He grins, lightly biting at a pec. Vash shivers, and God, he’s so responsive—pent-up from denied pleasure. Wolfwood could make him lose his mind. He pets down Vash’s sides, caresses his hips and his cock twitches in interest when Vash fails to hold back his moan this time. Beautiful—Wolfwood wants to eat him up. “It’ll feel even better if you ditch the clothes.”
Vash frowns under him. “I can keep them on.”
“Won’t really work like that,” says Wolfwood. “And we gotta be on equal ground here. You’re not getting to see all this for free.”
Vash smiles at him, so honest, like he forgot to put his normal mask on. “It’s not like your outfit leaves much to the imagination.”
“Slut shaming me?” Wolfwood raises an eyebrow and Vash giggles. Wolfwood’s heard it a handful of times, in moments where Vash feels like he can let his guard down, or if he can’t help it, but it’s startling every time. “I could dress sluttier. Don’t tempt me.”
“Ah, I would never subject Meryl to that.”
Wolfwood snorts and he kisses Vash on the cheek. This is—not what he expected, and he should probably steer things in the direction they’re supposed to go, but it’s hard when Vash is so… Vash.
“Come on, Spikey,” he says, toning down his voice. “Let me see what you’re hiding.”
“It’s ugly,” Vash promises.
Wolfwood scoffs. “You know damn well nothing about you is ugly. That’s why everyone is falling all over themselves for you.”
“They haven’t seen me with my clothes off,” Vash mutters. “But fine, alright.”
Vash lifts his shirt over his head, struggling with the prosthetic, and Wolfwood can’t school his expression in time. Vash frowns.
“See—you’re freaked out.”
“By how little self-preservation you have. Jesus.” Vash is patchwork, held together by duct tape. He’s covered in knicks and scars and scratches—from guns, knives, teeth? It’s horrifying. It’s infuriating. “You’re getting torn up out there.”
Vash shrugs. “I’ve been alive for a long time. It happens.”
Wolfwood doubts Knives has any scars like this—Wolfwood has never seen anyone in this shape, and he’s an expert in the art of the fucked up. Wolfwood assumed Vash was like him, some kind of indestructible, to have made it this long, but he’s falling apart at the seams.
“I can put it back on,” he offers. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Shut it,” Wolfwood growls. “I ain’t turned off by your damage. Pissed off, but not turned off.”
Vash tilts his head to the side. “Why?”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” he grunts. “You know damn well you’re too fuckin’ nice, letting yourself get beat up all the time. I don’t want excuses,” he adds, seeing the protest on the tip of Vash’s tongue. “Let me just… make you forget about it for a while.”
“Wolfwood—”
“That’s why you do this, isn’t it? You help people forget, so fine, I’ll do the same.” He slides down on the bed, unbuttoning his own shirt as he does. He lets it sag open on his chest, not bothering to slide it off his shoulders. He’s preoccupied with a long, jagged scar right above Vash’s hip bone. He wants to kill whoever put it there. Instead, he seals his lips over it, pressing feather-light, teasing kisses to the puckered skin. He follows the path, focusing on every single rip in Vash’s body, every blemish that he thinks makes him ugly.
“Relax,” he breathes against Vash’s stomach, because he’s tense as hell, holding his breath and liable to tear a hole in the sheets with how tight of a grip he has on them. “I’m not gonna bite you.”
“It’s not that,” Vash squeaks. “It—feels good. No one’s ever…”
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. No one’s ever bothered to touch Vash like this. Their loss. Wolfwood is going to take full advantage. He’s going to devour Vash the Stampede.
“Keep talking to me,” Wolfwood growls. “Tell me what you like. You like my mouth up here?” he asks. Vash’s chest is an unfinished painting; he’s only half put together, more metal than skin, but Wolfwood navigates through the maze with his mouth. He holds Vash tight by hip the and circles his tongue around his nipple, and that’s what finally does it—Vash throws his head back and moans, long and tortured. He loses the fight in him, the uncertainty, and when he lifts himself back up to look at Wolfwood his eyes are hooded—none of that artificial bullshit, real desire.
“I like your mouth everywhere,” Vash responds. “I don’t usually like kissing but…”
Wolfwood doesn’t have to be told twice. He moves up to capture Vash’s lips again. Kissing isn’t really his forte either; it’s a time waster, but with Vash, he could do this all night. Vash groans into his mouth, and finally releases his death grip on the sheets to wrap his arms around Wolfwood’s neck, to pull their chests together.
Wolfwood shrugs off his shirt and gives all his heat to Vash.
It’s embarrassing, how fast it gets frantic, how skin-to-skin makes all the difference. Wolfwood opens his mouth wider, wants to swallow Vash up, and grinds down between his legs.
Vash whines, pitchy and desperate, and Wolfwood wants to play it on repeat for the rest of his life. He reaches down between them and presses down on Vash’s—on Vash’s…
“Wolfwood,” Vash chokes, but whatever he wants to say is lost in Wolfwood’s urgent need to explore. Vash does not have a cock in his pants. That’s unexpected, but it shouldn’t be—given the whole different species thing. Wolfwood never thought to ask, only assumed that if Vash looked like a human man, he’d have all the same parts. Clearly it’s not the case, but he has something, and it’s sensitive.
“I have to—” Vash tries, but Wolfwood presses down again, experimentally rubbing Vash’s crotch. There’s something warm and wet that’s spotting his pants. Holy shit. “Ah, please. Give me a minute. I have to explain it.”
“I ain’t waiting. Whatever it is, I want it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Trust me, Spikey. I do. Let me see it.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Vash’s pants. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Vash whines. “Yours is normal.”
“As far as you know.” Wolfwood grins. “C’mon, don’t get shy on me now. You like my mouth so much… you’ll fuckin’ love what else I can do with it.”
Vash’s eyes dilate at that. It’s a beautiful sight—the sight of defeat. “Okay, but if you think it’s weird… we can stop.”
“Short of someone breaking in here and trying to kill us—nothing's gonna stop me.” He pops the button on Vash’s jeans, kisses the exposed skin around his belly, and gently eases his pants off of him. Seeing Vash in just his underwear is a wet dream come to life, one that would’ve had to have been tortured out of him last week, but now he’d scream from the damn rooftops. Plain black boxers, no bulge—Wolfwood presses a kiss to the fabric experimentally, before laving his tongue all over, wetting it.
Vash nearly thrashes. “Shit!” he yelps. “S-sensitive. So sensitive. I didn’t know it was so—”
“Never touch yourself?” Wolfwood’s own voice is foreign, the words nearly tremble.
“It’s not like that when I do it,” Vash admits. “It doesn’t feel like—ah!”
Wolfwood grinds his hand down, applying pressure blindly because he doesn’t know what Vash has, but he knows this is making him feel good and that’s all Wolfwood wants. He’s insane for it, and suddenly, he can't get them naked fast enough. Wolfwood undoes his own jeans and stands to kick them off, before dragging Vash to the edge of the mattress and falling to his knees in front of him.
He breathes Vash in, pressing one more chaste, sweet kiss to his inner thigh before he pulls his boxers down.
“No way,” Wolfwood marvels. “Alien pussy.”
“Stop it,” Vash grouses. “You know technically you’re the alien—oh.”
Vash closes his eyes, silenced, as Wolfwood runs a curious finger over his folds. At first, it didn’t look all that different from a human woman’s, but with an unnatural smoothness and shine to it. He’s leaking from the small slit, slick starting to slip down to his thighs, and when Wolfwood tentatively presses a finger in, Vash—
It’s like a goddamn flower blooming. Wolfwood’s only seen it in movies, but it’s uncanny, the way his folds unfurl like petals, showcasing a small bud at the top. It’s gorgeous, otherworldly.
“You’ve never let anyone see this?”
“Why would I?” Vash mutters. “They’d react like you are—you’re being weird about it.”
“Because I’m obsessed with it,” Wolfwood admits. “It’s a goddamn shame that no one’s ever gotten their mouth on you.”
“It’s fine,” Vash says, soft. “Really.”
“Nah, it ain’t.” People are so fucking selfish. To have this beautiful creature in bed and not even ask to taste. Wolfwood could shoot down every last one of them. He’s never letting Vash take another stranger to bed. He’ll make up for their shortcomings and then some—it’s a damn vow.
Wolfwood holds Vash down with one hand on his thigh. He’s not protesting anymore, just waiting, practically quivering.
And fuck, it’s inviting. Vash smells sweet and he’s so wet, the physical manifestation of Wolfwood’s effect on him. He’s intoxicating, heavenly, and so Wolfwood takes his taste, dipping his tongue in between Vash’s opened folds.
Vash shoots his metal hand out, grabbing a handful of Wolfwood’s hair. Wolfwood glances up at him and sees his pupils blown out, face frozen in a shock of pleasure and fear. Oh, Wolfwood is going to enjoy this.
He takes his free hand and spreads Vash further open for him, exploring every inch of him. He pets along his thigh while he fucks him with his tongue, not leaving a single part of Vash untouched. He uses Vash’s reactions as his cues, a constant feedback loop, all positive. It’s dizzying; it’s gone straight to his head and his cock. He adds a finger alongside his tongue and Vash keens.
Vash has lost most of his coherence. It didn’t take long. Wolfwood relies on the hand in his hair, tightening and loosening, and on the sounds that are now constantly flowing from Vash’s mouth. He traps Wolfwood in with his thighs, pressing them to either side of his head, and Wolfwood stops teasing.
He licks up to the bud—to Vash’s clit—and sucks, hard.
It’s damn near instantaneous. Vash gasps, a devastating sound, and bucks into Wolfwood’s mouth. “Please,” he whispers.
“You don’t have to beg me for anything,” Wolfwood growls. He curls two fingers into Vash’s cunt and flicks his tongue against his clit, fast, hard, unforgiving. Vash’s whines increase in frequency and pitch, a cacophony of nonsense and pleas and various forms of Wolfwood’s name. He catches it then—Nick, Nico, please.
“Baby,” Wolfwood groans. Vash is soaked; it’s making him crazy, ravenous. It’s not enough—Wolfwood could eat Vash out for hours and it wouldn’t even be close to enough. “I wanna feel you come on my tongue. Don’t hold back.”
“No, no—” Vash can’t—he can’t even try to stop himself. It’s like Wolfwood’s words send him over the edge, and what a thought that is. It’s not a quiet orgasm; it’s explosive. Vash soaks Wolfwood’s face, spills onto the sheets, and Wolfwood can’t lick him clean fast enough. He tries, though, getting every last drop that he can.
“I’m so sorry,” Vash gasps. “That’s — that’s never happened before. Not when I do it to myself.”
“Guess you weren’t taking very good care of yourself then,” Wolfwood says, licking his lips. He’s so horny he could pass out, and he doesn’t remember the last time he’s needed it this bad, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it.
“I think you just take too good care of me,” Vash says, soft, and something snaps in Wolfwood’s heart. Something that he’d been trying very hard to keep in-tact. It’s the last tether of his self-control, and he loses it. He tears himself out of his underwear, the last remaining layer, climbs over Vash and crashes down onto him, covering his mouth with his own.
Vash moans into the kiss, and he must be tasting himself on Wolfwood’s tongue. The thought is delicious. Wolfwood grinds his cock down between Vash’s legs, rubbing against his folds, and he nearly busts when Vash starts begging again.
“Tell me what you want,” Wolfwood demands. “I’ll give it to you—anything.”
“Fuck me,” Vash says without hesitation, like he has a lifetime of experience expressing his desires. Wolfwood grins. So much progress in such little time. What else does Vash want—what more can Wolfwood give him?
“With pleasure.”
And Vash is still so wet, so smooth and easy to slip into. He squeezes the life out of him, and Wolfwood has to pause to take a deep breath before he slides in, inch-by-inch, until he bottoms out inside of him.
Vash runs cold, but not here. He’s all-encompassing, blazing fucking hot as he clenches around Wolfwood’s cock; it’s a special kind of torment.
“I’m not gonna last,” he groans.
“I don’t care,” Vash whispers. “Can you kiss me again?”
“Yeah, angel.” The name slips out, but it fits him better than baby—Vash is an angel. Wolfwood clocked that the moment he met him, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to give him up now. He hovers over Vash, pulling out to the tip, and kisses him as he slams back in.
Vash moans into his mouth.
Wolfwood might black out then. It’s a blur. He can hardly hold onto his sanity, has to put all his focus into keeping his thrusts measured while Vash cries into his mouth and scratches his back to hell.
Wolfwood reaches his hand between them to feel for Vash’s clit, and pinches it between two fingers when he finds it. Vash yanks away as if burned and wails, falling back into the bed like a boneless, fucked out mess. It’s insane, seeing Vash like this—a complete loss of control, and it’s Wolfwood who’s doing it to him.
“Fuck, I’m never—never letting you talk to another loser at the bar ever again,” he grunts. “They’ll be fine without you. I ain’t sharing.”
“No,” Vash agrees. “No, I want—you. You’re the only one I actually want.”
“You have me, angel. God, you fucking have me.” More than Vash knows. Wolfwood will go to war for Vash at this point; he’ll kill anyone who tries to take him away from him. Contracts are nothing. He’ll burn his. He grabs Vash by the back of the neck and pulls him into a bruising, desperate kiss, conveying everything into it. Vash jerks, and then trembles around Wolfwood’s cock and his fingers, and he comes with Wolfwood’s name in his mouth.
Wolfwood follows him down, emptying himself into Vash.
It takes him a minute to come back to himself. When he does, Vash is glowing. Literally glowing. There are markings all over his body, reflected in his eyes. “Christ. Did I do something?”
Vash tilts his head, and then looks at his hand. “Oh. That’s also never happened.”
“I’m uncovering all sorts of fun stuff about you,” Wolfwood says and Vash snorts.
“Sorry, I know it’s—”
“Oi.” Wolfwood shoves his hand in Vash’s face before collapsing onto his chest, spent. Vash wraps his arms around his back, and Wolfwood settles in. Cuddling after sex—also not usually on his agenda, but he’s learning that he’d change his opinion on a lot of things, if it were for Vash. “No more apologies. That was the best sex of my life. I fuckin’ love your alien pussy.”
“I’m not an alien.”
Vash is right—he’s not an alien. He’s an angel, and Wolfwood is going to make sure he gives him the heaven he deserves. He’ll wake up early tomorrow, sneak out before Vash can notice he’s gone. He has a message he needs to relay, a deal he needs to call off.