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“And I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem
But if I know you, I know what you’ll do
You’ll love me at once
The way you did once upon a dream”
Once Upon a Dream, Lana Del Rey
Wolfwood isn’t sure what rouses him.
The air has settled into a chill as the suns set over the desert, and the moons shine at only a waning crescent, not bright enough to disrupt his sleep. The motel is quiet, deep enough into the night that even the benchwarmers at the saloon have turned in, and only the window creaks against the wood pane with the occasional, sandy wind.
Wolfwood stares up at the ceiling, blinking sleep from his eyes and listening to Vash’s slow, rhythmic breaths that offer to lull him back under sleep’s heavy hand, but Wolfwood finds that even if he closes his eyes his body won’t give in to the pull.
There’s a murmur under his skin more like a whisper that provides reminders, tantalizing memories of their earlier evening, and the lingering scent of sex in the room urges the murmur into a purr.
Wolfwood chances a glance at Vash, unsure what to do with himself but satisfied momentarily just to lay eyes on him.
His hair is messy against the pillows, and his mouth is open around each inhale and exhale. Wolfwood can just see the tip of his tongue, wet and soft, and squeezes his eyes shut against the memories of openmouthed kisses and the indulgent pressure wrapped warm around his cock that invade whatever peacefulness he was holding on to. The images are sudden and sharp, cutting through the last of his decency, and Wolfwood inhales harshly in the silence as he struggles to keep them at bay. But with his exhaustion, his defenses are weak, and it’s too easy for the ideas to slip past, to stoke his flames higher and build the memories around Vash’s sleeping form.
He opens his eyes after the memories have retreated only to lap at the shore of his mind rather than flood it, but Vash remains indifferent to his struggle. The sparse moonlight should make it difficult to make out much in the dark, but perhaps Wolfwood is so familiar with the shape of Vash or perhaps those years of experimentation have simply left his eyesight better for it because he can still see the fan of Vash’s lashes against his skin, can see the mole under his eye well enough to have to fight the urge to kiss it.
Instead, he abates the desire by lifting his hand and reaching out, carefully pushing back the hair from Vash’s face. He tucks it behind his ear, revealing the soft outline of his cheekbone, and Wolfwood brushes his knuckles against the skin so gently that he can see the action more than he can feel it and leaves him wanting more.
The thin sheet the motel provides barely covers Vash with his tossing and turning in the night, and Wolfwood can watch his chest rise and fall under the weight of his sleep. His fingers skim over his neck, laid bare for Wolfwood to press his tongue flat against the skin and suck hard until bruises rise to the surface, but he continues his wandering over Vash’s body, resisting the urge even as it takes hold of his mind.
His fingers pass over the prominent edge of Vash’s collarbone into scarred territory. Everything below the neck is marked by welts, raised scar tissue, and dips in his muscle, skin marked by the old indentation of stitches and metal rods to keep the whole of Vash together; one man built back together for the sole purpose of being torn apart again.
Even now, there’s a wound on his shoulder sewn up a little lopsided because Vash had insisted he’d do it himself, and Wolfwood has only ever known little, glass vials and not the delicate prick of a needle and thread, gauze, or bandages. The injury is shallow though, a bullet graze, and though Wolfwood can still smell copper in the air he knows it’s just the experiments that have given him his sharper edge, lets him taste blood in the air better than the sweet relief of water or the sting of cheap alcohol, and Vash is recovering so well it’s almost as if the bullet had never fired at all.
Wolfwood is used to this—the scent of injury, old scars and new ones forming in real time—it’s as familiar to them as a paper cut or splinter is to anyone else. Something would be amiss without the hint of blood or danger like the calm before the storm; better for there to be a little pain then none at all, or else what follows is infinitely worse, and it’s not a gamble Wolfwood wants to make.
Vash is still asleep, soundly so, and Wolfwood leans forward, pressing the gentle curve of his lips against the sewn skin. He doesn’t have to lean far, Vash is turned so the injury is close to Wolfwood, right above the edge of his prosthetic and which Vash had taken off last night in a rare and terrifying display of confidence in Wolfwood—Vash never takes off his prosthetic if it can be helped. The perpetuating threat to him is too great to risk. It is the same reason Wolfwood carries his cross with him like an old ghost, never letting go unless he knows he can reach behind him and still find its haunting presence.
It is perhaps less Vash’s safety that he is concerned with than his own; he knows enough of Vash to know he doesn’t need his prosthetic to fight, to win, to keep himself safe. But removing it is a silent admittance of trust that Wolfwood wants to make Vash take back—Vash doesn’t need two hands to put a gun to his head, but Wolfwood would find it easier to sleep at night if Vash didn’t give him any ground to stand on; he might be more willing to redo his childhood experiments than accept Vash’s faith in him.
The feel of stitches against his lips is almost a mistake—a weakness, at least; with the awareness, Wolfwood’s intermission is brief, a moment of admission so short he could blink and it was gone.
Sex is easy, but such a display of tenderness feels too much like a display of shortcoming . But in the dark, no one is awake to witness Wolfwood show his hand save for him, and he can close his eyes against the knowledge of his faults, feel Vash’s chest rise and fall under his palm, and open his eyes again like he hadn’t seen anything.
In an effort to maintain his false ignorance with distraction, he continues his downward descent over Vash’s body.
His nipples are already hard in the cold air, and Wolfwood can’t resist pinching them, first rolling it between his fingers and then squeezing. He freezes as he hears Vash huff in his sleep, a muffled sound following from the back of his throat before he settles into the pillows again.
He stares at Vash’s face, waiting for him to wake or make any other acknowledgement of his ministrations, but none come.
Wolfwood feels embolden, fingers quickly falling to his other nipple before rolling and squeezing it. His eyes are locked on Vash, waiting with bated breath for his reaction—whether one will come or not, and it does. He whimpers softly, his nose scrunching and eyebrows furrowing, before he turns his head to the side and relaxes into sleep again.
Wolfwood is more enthralled than he expects himself to be. He wants to hear more, see more, but finds it difficult to figure out how without alerting Vash. He doesn’t want to wake him, to bother Vash with his own interests, but he wants to satisfy Vash despite it.
He attempts to test the waters further, Wolfwood’s fingers slipping past Vash’s chest over the ridges of scars and muscles, past his stomach. He ignores Vash’s cock for now, resting soft over the swell of his balls, and dips his fingers between Vash’s thighs. Cautiously, Wolfwood presses his fingers against Vash’s hole, rubbing easy, soothing circles over the tight muscle.
Vash’s breath hitches in response, and Wolfwood pauses, suspended in motion, as Vash’s body tenses before just as suddenly relaxing back into the mattress with a sigh.
Wolfwood exhales shakily, more from the sudden spike of arousal than the fear of being caught; the last remaining dredges of sleep cloud his thinking, and Wolfwood turns too warm at the thoughts of pleasure that swim in his head. It is less about the guilt than it is of failing to satisfy Vash, which is arguably its own variety of guilt—though Wolfwood had awoken to his own desires, a new focus made itself the center of his attention, and he would be remiss not to fulfill it.
With renewed resolve, Wolfwood leans back, careful to make as little sound as possible and though the bed creaks, Vash doesn’t show any signs of having heard. He creeps downward, the mattress dipping under his weight as he slips between Vash’s legs, and, as gently as he can, Wolfwood grips the firm muscle of Vash’s thighs, slowly pushing them up and apart to make room for himself.
He takes a deep breath, steeling himself in a weak attempt for self control, before he lays between Vash’s thighs, nose nearly pressed to his balls, and carefully brings Vash’s legs back down over his shoulders. He wraps his arms around Vash’s thighs to anchor himself, a warm weight over his shoulders and around his head to keep him firmly attached to one of his only constants—an ever changing cycle of motels, inns, saloons, mercenary assignments, and between it all is either Vash or his cross, and more and more Wolfwood has been picking the comfort of his friend’s warm body than the cold, solid reassurance of a bullet.
Wolfwood presses his tongue flat against Vash’s taut hole, licking over the muscle before pressing in. His entrance gives in to the urge of Wolfwood’s tongue, still tender and slightly relaxed from their earlier evening.
Above him, Vash moans, mouth open and slack like he never does when he’s awake. Wolfwood is used to calculated control from Vash, a determination to never take more than he gives, and the easy, wanton gasps and groans that spill from his lips set Wolfwood into a fervor. He presses further into Vash, licking into him with wet, sloppy sounds as he forces himself to take it slow in effort to stoke pleasure into Vash’ dreams. More sounds fill the cool night air, and Wolfwood huffs and breathes in the musky scent of sweat and sex from Vash’s balls as he tastes his own seed spilled inside Vash from earlier.
Vash’s soft cock slowly fills in response to Wolfwood, curving stiff and heavy over his belly, and Wolfwood’s hips twitch involuntarily against the mattress at the sight. He hadn’t thought far about how he’d continue through the night, but seeing Vash’s cock turn dark with pleasure makes Wolfwood’s mouth water and his cock jerk.
Vash’s abdomen clenches and his back arches shortly like he’s searching out friction, but in his sleep he doesn’t know which way to turn and his body falls pliant against the mattress again. Wolfwood takes pity and pulls back from his ass to take Vash’s balls in his mouth, gently sucking but ignoring his cock in an attempt to draw out his release as long as he can to complete his plan.
Vash sighs, legs shifting wider, but Wolfwood retreats before he can get too comfortable, and Vash only wrinkles his nose before falling silently back into his measured, even breaths, still soundly asleep.
Cautiously, Wolfwood leans over him and reaches out for the bedside table where he knows he’ll find a bottle from the evening. He finds it easily, fingers wrapping around the container before drawing it back to himself.
Vash doesn’t stir as Wolfwood leans back on his knees and thighs spreading out wide. He opens the bottle to drip lube over his fingers, and though the bottle snaps loudly in the night as he closes it, he receives no response.
His eagerness gets the better of him, and he doesn’t take the time to warm the lube. He presses his lips tight against the cold intrusion, Wolfwood’s fingers between his legs and urging his entrance open one at a time.
He watches Vash as he stretches himself. His mouth is parted wide after his shamelessly moaning, drool creeping out onto the pillow. He’s spread wide over the bed, taking up more space in Wolfwood’s absence beside him; his arm bends at the elbow and rests back on the pillows and leaves his chest exposed for Wolfwood to touch and stare at, his legs open wide and haphazardly spread when he had twisted to find friction and was only met with the cool night air. His cock curves hot and dark with pleasure and neglect, drops of precum sticking to his stomach.
It’s not as if Wolfwood hasn’t seen Vash in compromising positions and situations before, whether it’s a gun to his head almost comically begging for his life or six shots in falling over drunk or his mouth slack and eyes squeezed shut in orgasm. But those moments are allowed, moments Vash lets slip passed the iron gate into the world for Wolfwood to see; he doesn’t allow himself real rest, real respite, as if Vash is trying to convince the world that he doesn’t need it, like he thinks he can sneak it passed Wolfwood, like Wolfwood won’t notice.
It’s an insult is what it is.
Vash thinks he can hide from Wolfwood when all Wolfwood can do is see. While Vash watches over the world, Wolfwood watches over Vash. He knows the man’s control, his adherence to his morals and philosophy. But it extends even past that, a thief taking all of Vash’s life—he acts and plays pretend, crocodile tears and false smiles, worries first for the comfort of others than for himself as if putting himself last is his choice in damnation.
Embarrassment and shame steal over him as he watches Vash, making his cock twitch and his ass clench involuntarily around his fingers. He feels the weight of their differences in the way the dark night presses down around him, a blanket for the entire town that drapes them in an oppressive dream. Vash who is so controlled, Vash who never takes a life, Vash who worries for the lives of others, and Wolfwood kneeling above him like a mockery of a guardian angel; Wolfwood who lies, Wolfwood who kills, Wolfwood who steals breath and daylight from God’s hands because he’s too afraid to face the hellfire.
A thief and a saint incomparable in virtue but somehow finding themselves partners in crime. Wolfwood would laugh if the humiliation of it wasn’t making his cock drool and his thighs tense with phantom pressure in anticipation of movement and strain at the idea of straddling Vash and taking his time because if he can’t hold back until the morning he can at least exercise enough control to satisfy Vash without waking him.
And that too—Wolfwood has to bite into the flesh of his palm to hold back a groan, squeezing his eyes shut in a moment of false stability. The suspense of taking care of him without Vash binding himself with rules and boundaries runs shivers of thrill through him; Vash won’t hold back, and Wolfwood will take care of everything.
He moves cautiously, hovering just above a straddle over Vash’s hips. Wolfwood swallows, glances at Vash’s sleeping face before carefully wrapping his fingers around Vash’s cock to line up at his entrance.
Wolfwood hesitates, just a second of pressure with Vash’s cock head against his hole and Wolfwood’s cock is jumping. He’s sweating, eager and desperate and far too weak to hold back, but he grapples briefly with self-restraint before sinking down on Vash’s cock slow, slow, slow.
It’s so slow Wolfwood thinks he’ll die; at the very least, he’s suffocating. He gasps, whispers of air as he tries not to suck in ragged breaths in effort not to wake Vash, throat closing tight around noise that wants to spill out, but he can’t. He can’t do it because he can’t wake up Vash, he can’t give in to himself anymore than he already has, but he’s filling himself with Vash inch by painful inch, hurting only because Wolfwood aches to take him all at once, wild and hungry.
He’s been so focused on maintaining his own control that he doesn’t notice Vash’s nose scrunch again, his brow furrowing, and the corners of his mouth bowing downward in a frown—the familiar expression Vash makes when he isn’t getting exactly what he wants. Almost fully seated on his cock, Wolfwood feels it—Vash tries to thrust up into his heat, and Wolfwood freezes.
“Oh,” The small word is drawn out long and deep from Wolfwood’s chest as arousal burns through him.
He stares at Vash in the dark, takes in his childish scowl, and feels him try again—a weak thrust that doesn’t do much of anything, clearly driven on instinct rather than Vash coming into consciousness—and then his scowl smooths into an open mouthed, raspy whimper and placated expression as if he’s satisfied with the few centimeters he’d managed to gain and falls back into sound sleep.
Wolfwood exhales, shaky but relieved as he hears Vash’s even, measured breaths return. Lungs burning with the need for a good, sharp draw of air and thighs trembling with want and the effort of self-restraint, Wolfwood finally feels all of Vash make himself at home in his body. He’s stretched full, clenching around Vash’s cock experimentally just to feel the reach and thickness that momentarily satisfies his craving.
Slow and gentle, Wolfwood lifts his own hips up and feels Vash’s cock retreat from inside him, then he cautiously slides back down, urging his cock back in. It’s horrible the amount of self control it takes not to abandon his objective and ride Vash with the same vigor they use to argue and drink—stupid, mean, and rough. But he forces himself to push onward slowly despite the ache in his balls and his cock heavy and dripping at a steady rate onto Vash’s stomach.
While Wolfwood’s mouth waters, and he has to hold back moans, Vash’s back arches, skin growing clammy with feverish sweat in the cold night. His mouth is slack and open, gasps and whimpers and drawn out groans falling more freely than his usual, meaningless rambles. Wolfwood tries to temper himself, balancing delicately between self-gratification and authority over his own body even as raw, unfiltered heat surges up from within Vash and greets Wolfwood like a sweet dream.
His thighs are tight with each measured thrust it takes to ride Vash, and his abdomen clenches with every deliberate breath drawn between gritted teeth. Wolfwood’s hips are angled so each steady, firm stroke meets his prostate, a perfect threat to his self control, and though Wolfwood knows the risk he still can’t help aiming for it every time. Warmth pools in his belly, impatient and demanding, and each stroke coaxes the flame until Wolfwood is biting down on his tongue just to choke the sounds and ground himself as briefly as he can in reality.
Beneath him, Vash grows more restless as Wolfwood continues; his hand twists and balls into a fist, he turns his head to drool onto the other side of the pillow, and his eyebrows pitch up in arousal. His hips buck up into Wolfwood, shallow and instinctual as he seeks pleasure, and his breaths come in short huffs, desperation rising to the surface to sit feverish on his skin.
Wolfwood is weak to Vash’s muffled groans, and the way he can see the muscles in his abdomen work as he tries to roll his hips up into him. He wants to take care of him, smooth the crease in his forehead and promise Vash he’ll take him all the way to the end; he can keep on sleeping, and Wolfwood will fulfill all of Vash’s needs so he rises in the morning satisfied and content. But Vash will wake now if Wolfwood isn’t careful, he knows it, but despite his own wishes he can’t even pause to catch his breath or wait until Vash has worn his restlessness out—Wolfwood is close, every muscle drawn tight like a bow, dripping with a need that runs straight through him and makes him reckless.
His hips pick up pace without intention, impulse working ahead of reason, and it’s with that same overzealousness that Wolfwood suddenly makes a mistake—he lowers himself too quickly, dropping down hard on Vash’s cock and, consequently, his body. Wolfwood’s cock jerks and threatens release as Vash’s cock fills him up more harshly than it had all night and adrenaline courses through him like a gunshot.
Vash wakes with a shocked groan coming deep from within his chest that makes itself more familiar as a startled growl. He gasps, and Wolfwood throws caution to the wind, giving in to himself and fucking himself on Vash’s cock with rash abandon.
“Wh— oh shit— “ Vash moans, already lost and succumbing to the pleasure that has found itself a bridge between his sleeping and waking. “What are you doing?”
It’s such a useless statement it nearly sounds rhetorical. As it is, Wolfwood neglects to answer directly, and the weight of desire cracks the rest of his resolve.
“I’m sorry,” Wolfwood says, but still he can’t stop himself from the up and downward motion of his hips, frantic and needy, chasing pleasure like a greedy sinner admitting at the confessional just to throw it all away again for the high. “I’m sorry—I should’ve—shouldn’t have—I’m sorry—“
Instead of rebuking him, Vash grabs at Wolfwood’s hip with his hand and squeezes fingers into flesh like he’s a living, breathing anchor to keep Vash afloat between waking and dreaming.
“It’s okay…you’re okay,” Vash mutters under his breath distractedly, eyes caught on the shared point of contact where Wolfwood drops down, his ass coming in full contact with Vash’s hips, and Vash meets him desperately, thrusting into him in undisguised desire as Wolfwood’s cock jerks with the force.
Vash’s eyes are still heavy lidded, sleep and pleasure making it too difficult to rouse himself any more from the hazy dreams that had blurred with his arousal so that it feels as if he’s still walking the edges of unconsciousness even as he makes the concerted effort to push his body to meet Wolfwood’s, the exertion making the cool night air taste sweet on his tongue as he gasps even with the heavy scent of sex in their room.
“You just couldn’t wait, could you?” Vash breaths out, and Wolfwood’s head snaps up to look at him. Vash’s mouth had started to curve, and his eyes are mirthful even in the dark. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”
He’s teasing Wolfwood. Even now, roused from sleep only to find himself this deep in pleasure, Vash still has it in him to tease Wolfwood. But still, indignation rises to flush his face, and he opens his mouth to bite back only to find embarrassment and shame choking him.
“I was supposed to take care of you,” Wolfwood admits.
It’s not much for an explanation, inadequate words that only help to console himself of his failure to properly satisfy Vash without waking him, not needing to bother him with Wolfwood’s desire but still fulfilling Vash’s needs. Now he is back to square one. Just a thief in bed with a saint.
“You are taking care of me,” Vash says, and it should be soothing but it stings more like a door in the face.
Fear makes it hurt; the door slams shut, and fear turns the lock. Panic runs through him in an instant, and his body goes weak with it, only the determination not to cave makes Wolfwood push onward, but bitterness coats Wolfwood’s tongue, sharp, pungent, and disagreeable and makes it hard to swallow the frustration and alarm.
Underneath him, Vash whimpers and huffs as Wolfwood rises and falls on his cock, and Wolfwood wonders resentfully if this is how it will always be—Vash who gives and gives and gives, and Wolfwood who tries but always falls back to taking, bad habits learned from youth and shaped by a harsh planet that wanted nothing but to steal him away; Wolfwood had learned to fight his way out of the ground when he was buried six feet under, dirt under his nails and a mouthful of mud, and maybe that is the way it will always be. His own life is barely earned, more of it stolen by taking those precious days from others, gun in his fist and hand on a cross daring God to refute him.
Gentleness looks strange on Wolfwood, something he doesn’t deserve to try on, but still finds himself waking from it like a memory buried in a dream, a boy sitting cross-legged in the dirt with a baby in his lap teething on his finger while he stares down at the odd, little creature who makes funny, huffing sounds when it fusses. Gentleness is an innocent’s tool, a saint’s tool, a torturous tool. He wishes the years would roll off his shoulders like water off a duck’s back, wishes he could forget how to clean and load a gun, wishes his prayers were worshipful and honest and not a begging for the opportunity to try again.
Vash tries to soothe him, and Wolfwood aches .
He’s right, Wolfwood can’t help himself around Vash; emotions rise to the surface like a dead body bloating in water, ugly and honest saying— someone lived here once. Vash gets the ghost of him, what’s left behind after the torture and the murder and the thievery. And Vash is gentle with the remains.
Vash can’t help himself, not around Wolfwood. The bold act of a man trying for gentleness, lost to his childhood and dreams, is like a moth to a flame to Vash—there Wolfwood stands, defying the world, takes cruelty in his hands and tries to shape it into gentleness because even if Wolfwood claims himself to be harsh, gentleness makes up the bare materials of him, bone and blood and muscle built on softness.
“Look at you, dripping wet,” Vash grabs Wolfwood’s cock, hot and heavy and leaking with the desperation his previously slow and steady pace had coaxed into him, and the fear abates for a moment to make way for arousal. “Trying so hard to make it good for me.”
Vash’s voice is raspy and low, sleep still thick in his voice as he pumps Wolfwood’s cock and smears precum along his shaft. “I’m here now.”
Wolfwood’s chest tightens. His body is strong, made to cross deserts and cities and take the merciless force of bullets, but Vash’s words make him weak, and he curls in on him, head burying itself in Vash’s shoulder, the bridge of his nose pressed to Vash’s neck, his arms trapped between them, and hands on his chest. He feels the metal grate over Vash’s heart and breathes heavier for it, trying not to feel it even as his fingers bear down on the corners and divides along the overlap of the metal.
Even like this, Wolfwood urges himself down around Vash’s cock, and Vash digs his heels into the mattress to push his hips up to meet him. The force of their combined effort sends waves of suffocating heat through Wolfwood, and he puffs into Vash’s skin.
He pumps his fist around Wolfwood’s cock, and he groans, trying to thrust his hips into the tight grip as Vash forces himself into Wolfwood with another firm roll of his hips. The mattress underneath them creaks, the bed frame old and useless, and Wolfwood’s hand bears down on the metal grate as he holds on, battered between turbulent emotions and deep pleasure.
Fear rises in the back of his throat again—Vash’s prosthetic removed for comfort, his silent trust in Wolfwood that Vash allows himself to be comfortable beside him; Vash’s stitches and scars and metal rods for Wolfwood to touch, a faith in him to allow Wolfwood the full expanse of his body, wounds and all; Vash’s metal grate warm under Wolfwood’s palm, his life in his grasp.
This is wordless tenderness, supposed to be merciful and forgiving but harsh and painful like torture to Wolfwood who has come from poison and needles pushed under his skin, leather straps to keep his hands and feet to a cold table as he cries and thrashes, bullets embedded in muscle and glass vials full of liquid meant to simmer in his stomach and push the bullets out. Even healing is torment, skin burning hot with rapid regrowth, muscles igniting with flaring pain, choking down bile that rises in his throat.
Gentleness is even harder to swallow.
Pain returns whip quick, easy to find on an unforgiving planet, but softness is coveted and hidden away, more easily ripped from his grasp than it is to hold on to. He grips Vash’s shoulder in one hand, palm firm to the metal grate with the other as he hopes to steal it for just a moment longer.
“So good, you’re doing so good for me,” Vash mumbles into Wolfwood’s hair. “Trying so hard for me, aren’t you?”
Wolfwood’s grip on his shoulder turns painful with the words, but Vash doesn’t push him away.
“Can you say it for me?”
Wolfwood rocks against Vash desperately and considers pretending not to have heard, but the words find their way on to his tongue like they’ve been begging to be uttered. “Yes, yes, I’m—“
He chokes, teeth biting hard around the words, and Vash strokes his cock. “You’ve got it, I’m right here, I’m the only one here—it’s okay.”
That’s the problem.
Sex is easy, but tenderness —Wolfwood is too weak to bear the burden.
“I— oh God— “ Wolfwood’s voice breaks as Vash’s cock presses against his prostate, and he buries his face hard into Vash’s shoulder. “Need a cigarette. Vash, get me a cigarette—it’s on, uhm, the table—“
“No. Finish what you started.” Vash says.
His words are soft, luring Wolfwood in. He wants to bite back, spit out a mouthful of anger, but the heavy weight of the moons and stars and dark night pull him under, making gentle words feel soft in his mouth, dreamlike and almost—finally—easy.
“I’m—I’ve—I’m trying,” Wolfwood’s throat closes around the words, but sweet night air feels forgiving and he forces on. “For you. I’ve got you.”
“ Yeah , that’s right,” Vash tells him, hips stuttering at Wolfwood’s words before finding a more brutal force to fuck into him. “You’ve got me.”
Wolfwood moans, and his voice breaks like a sob is trying to make itself known, and Vash responds with a wounded sound of his own.
“You’re doing such a good job for me, so good—here,” Vash’s hand suddenly disappears from between them, leaving Wolfwood’s cock neglected. It twitches painfully at the abandonment, and the sob trying to sneak out from between Wolfwood’s lips wins over his restraint. “Shh, it’s all right—“
Vash’s body stretches under Wolfwood as he shifts and reaches for the bedside table where he fumbles before finding the carton of cigarettes and lighter Wolfwood had placed there last night, smoking as Vash drifted off to sleep. Now, Vash opens the carton one handed, pulls out a cigarette and leaves the carton on the bed.
Wolfwood ruts back on his cock as fingers push his chin up and a cigarette is pressed to his mouth. He takes it instinctually between his lips and catches a hint of Vash’s smile before he’s turning away again to look for the lighter.
He grabs it and flicks it open. The flame lights up their skin, sweaty and orange in the flickering light, and Wolfwood can feel the small heat radiating from it as Vash lifts the lighter up close to his face and lets the cigarette catch.
Wolfwood breathes in through the cigarette filter to make sure the tobacco lights. Smoke curls heavy in his lungs, his inhale too deep, and his head reels with the rush of nicotine.
Vash flicks the lighter shut, the warm orange light disappearing, but Wolfwood can still see Vash’s face in the dark, can see his eyes still on him, can see him drop the lighter on the bed, can see when he reaches forward to rest his hand on Wolfwood’s hip and drag his palm up the side of his body to pull him down.
Wolfwood exhales smoke as he goes, and Vash leans up to kiss his neck with more tongue than lips, and Wolfwood rocks back on him with a groan.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Vash says, breath fanning over Wolfwood’s skin so he shivers. “Doing so good, Angel.”
It’s like a punch to the throat. Wolfwood chokes, whining and groaning and cursing at the same time so that the sound out of his mouth is more a garbled mess than anything intelligible. But Vash responds as if he can understand, and maybe he can. If Wolfwood has been watching him, maybe Vash has been watching over Wolfwood.
“You’re doing so good taking care of me, Angel,” He says, and Wolfwood puffs desperately on the cigarette, trying to breathe in a clear lungful of oxygen but growing clouds of smoke make the outlines of their bodies look hazy as if slipping into a dream. He whimpers and gasps, and Vash’s hand returns to his cock with renewed enthusiasm. “Yeah, that’s right, doing so well—“
Wolfwood has been kept on edge for too long, forcing his own orgasm back and cock neglected, but his head rushes with nicotine and Vash’s words, his grip around him and his cock thick inside him. He grits his teeth around the cigarette filter, body drawn tense and aching, groaning deep from his chest as he finishes. His hips roll sharply into Vash’s hand, and Vash lets him until his thrusts become too weak and his cum is wet on Vash’s stomach.
Wolfwood whimpers as Vash continues to fuck into him, rough and hurried, but lets him, squeezes down around him, and Vash moans. He goes tight, abdomen clenching, and Wolfwood feels his cock twitching inside him as Vash releases with a gasp.
They breathe in the silence, chests expanding and deflating around mouthfuls of air and smoke. Sleep and the lulling effects of nicotine drag at Wolfwood’s mind, but still he stares down at the man beneath him.
The smoke makes the night even more fuzzy, but Vash stares back at him blinking slow and calm and satiated. There’s a sudden feeling of being caught, but not the fear and alarm of a thief with his hand in a cookie jar, but that of a butterfly to a board—something worth staring at, worth coveting, worth the gentle effort of working with the fragility.
Vash stares at him like he wants to pin Wolfwood and keep him exactly as he is, preserve the flaws and the roughness and the softness he was built upon.
Wolfwood breathes in smoke, allows one moment, two, three—he lifts off of Vash, feels his cock slip out of him, and rolls to the side even as the emptiness aches. The spell isn’t broken as if the night time is conserving it, but Vash doesn’t turn to stare at him again, and Wolfwood can accept that.
He lets the cigarette burn out in his mouth and has to reach over Vash to put it with the rest on the bedside table. Vash, though he hasn’t spoken, must still be awake because he takes the opportunity to curl closer to Wolfwood as he falls back into the pillows, not close enough to touch but he can feel Vash’s hair brushing against his shoulder. If he wants to, he could reach out to touch him, and he does want to—he wants , but Wolfwood thinks he’s wanted enough for the night.
Maybe Vash is right. Maybe softness is the foundation he was built on, but softness isn’t what he’s allowed to be and wanting it doesn’t make it any more attainable; there’s too much to come for Wolfwood to allow himself to want more, and Vash doesn’t push because they both know.