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Wolfwood runs ridiculously warm, not so much that it’s like he has a fever, but certainly warmer than any other human Vash has ever met. It makes him endlessly pleasant to curl up on, legs tangled, arms thrown carelessly over one another. Right now Vash is curled over him like a shrimp for easy access to his hair, Wolfwood’s head tucked under his chin with his arms freed so he can page through a book. It’s been a few hours of nothing but the warm, easy quiet and the soft flip of Wolfwood turning the pages, and Vash has been dozing on and off since they laid down.
He’s awake right now, and fully, more focused on detangling Wolfwood’s curls than anything else. He takes good care of his hair—his hygiene in general—as hard as that is to do given the lives they live. It makes his hair soft, indulgent to run his fingers through, so Vash never really gets bored of it. Besides, when the sensation gets too repetitive, Wolfwood is pliant enough to allow Vash to trail fingers over his forehead instead, the tips of his ears, the gentle curve of the bridge of his nose. Though the latter makes his face scrunch a little, and it’s such a cute look that Vash can’t help angling his thumbnail for a better tickle.
Wolfwood turns his head to the side and sneezes, and Vash bites down hard on his lower lip to hold back a giggle. He’s clearly not very successful, because Wolfwood’s mouth is open when he turns around, as if gearing up for a complaint. Vash hears the way his breath hitches before he can speak, his eyes widening slightly, and then they’re so close that Vash can see the pretty flush that spreads across his cheeks, edging towards the top of his neck.
“What’s with that face?” Wolfwood asks through a puff of laughter. His thumb slots between his pages, his other hand lifting to press the heel of his palm into Vash’s forehead. Not hard by any means, but Vash still whines at the push, stubbornly clinging closer to Wolfwood and hooking his knees around his waist.
“What face?”
“That one. The dumb one you’re making.”
Vash lets out a sharp gasp, even though it’s far from the first time Wolfwood has called his face dumb. “You mean the face I make because I love you!” he cries, and has to sink more teeth into his bottom lip at the way Wolfwood’s face darkens further, his eyes widening minutely before he lets out a sharp exhale and turns his head away. Vash is whining again by pure instinct, his hands creeping down from Wolfwood’s temples to his chin, drawing him back in. “You’re always so mean to me, the least you could do is let me keep looking…”
“Like anyone’s stopping you?” Wolfwood’s eyes roll; Vash is enthralled by the simple motion, the full expanse of his deep brown irises visible with his sunglasses folded on the bedside table. They cuddle like this often, these days, so it’s not like Wolfwood’s eye colour is new to him, but even in their more easy life, Wolfwood doesn’t like to go without them. They do live on a desert planet, after all. Beyond that, it’s vulnerable in a way that Vash would have to actively pretend not to understand, hence why he doesn’t usually push Wolfwood to take them off.
This isn’t the sort of moment that Wolfwood has to hide from, though, and Vash is close enough that all he has to do is lean in a little closer, press the tips of their noses together, and watch the way Wolfwood’s pupils shrink into pinpricks in his embarrassment, giving Vash an even better sight of that pretty brown.
“You,” Wolfwood says, and he whiffles, as if he’d been caught off guard by Vash’s proximity, “you like that about me, anyhow.” He clears his throat.
“That you’re mean to me?” Vash clarifies. Wolfwood nods once, his lower lip jutting out in just the slightest pout—which Vash doesn’t call attention to, because it would disappear if he did. It’s a delicate balance with Wolfwood. He’s so—distant, mature, to a fault, because he’s had to be. Vash likes the amount of responsibility that he takes for other people, because it’s telling of his good heart. It’s constant, undeniable proof of how much and how often Wolfwood cares, how hard he has to try not to care, how unsuccessful he is even when he does try. But it’s nice to see him—well. Take a load off, act a bit bratty too—
And in that regard, Wolfwood is correct, Vash does like it. He likes to see Wolfwood get a little mean or whiny, because it means that he feels safe. When he complains about doing Vash’s laundry or gripes that he’s too tired to get out of bed in the morning, it’s just further proof that Vash has been trusted. And it’s not like that is a secret—what they have here is mutual, or Vash himself wouldn’t have lowered his guard enough to indulge in it—but still, it’s nice when you have a bit of a complex to be reminded, again and again, that what you have is good. Vash loves Wolfwood for all of his parts, even the ones that sometimes are so annoying that Vash finds himself with sudden migraines.
Having said that…
“You’re not wrong,” Vash admits and trails his thumb under Wolfwood’s chin. He’s warm here too, and unshaven, so there’s a bit of stubble beneath the pad of Vash’s thumb. He nags Wolfwood about it, but he likes the scratchy texture, and he thinks Wolfwood knows that, because he’s been letting it grow out more and more lately. Cheeky bastard. “But I think I like it even more when you’re good.”
“When I’m—” Wolfwood stops abruptly and swallows. Loud enough that Vash hears his jaw click, can watch the way his adam’s apple bobs. He’d like to bite it, but he’d also like to hear what Wolfwood is going to say next, so he restrains himself, keeping his fingers curled loosely over Wolfwood’s jaw as he watches the subtle changes in his expression. The way his eyes widen and then soften, his eyelids starting to droop—and already, Vash can tell what Wolfwood is thinking, what he’s going to say, before he even opens his mouth.
Vash smiles, despite his best efforts, and feels his stomach pool with warmth. “When you’re good,” he repeats, and Wolfwood’s lower lip twitches as if to draw between his teeth. It doesn’t, though.
“I can be good,” Wolfwood says, and Vash has to hold back a coo. He doesn’t want to overdo it, particularly not this early. Wolfwood’s relationship with praise is fraught—and for good reason, because much of the positive affirmation Wolfwood received as a teenager was from a nasty, vile man, the one person Vash has never regretted watching bleed out into the sand. It means that as much as Vash enjoys Wolfwood’s embarrassment, as much as he would like to heap compliment after compliment until Wolfwood is so red he can do nothing but squeak out his arguments, Vash—
Well, he just can’t push that hard. There’s a thin line between pleased embarrassment and genuine humiliation, and it has taken Wolfwood—has taken both of them—a long time to learn how to distinguish that for themselves, much less for each other. More than anything, Vash never wants to say something that makes Wolfwood genuinely upset or troubled, already regrets so much the callous things he let fly during previous arguments, and those weren’t even said with the intent to provoke. Some of them, Wolfwood has thanked him for.
Regardless, Vash will take his time, because he’s never really loved someone the way he loves Wolfwood, with either the intensity or the specificity of the flame. What he wants is for Wolfwood to feel good, all the time, and if that means Vash has to swallow back some of the powerful urge to dote and take his time, then he’ll do that. He would frankly rather get castrated than ever take a step further than Wolfwood wants him to.
Vash slides the fingers of his prosthetic through Wolfwood’s hair. It isn’t quite the same as petting it with his non-prosthetic, because his feeling is limited in this hand, but the impression of the texture is enough, along with the way that Wolfwood sighs and leans into it. He’s easy today, must be because they’ve been having a good, slow day, no gunfire or high-speed chases, just calm and warmth and a good book. Vash releases Wolfwood’s chin in favour of putting his book aside, knowing Wolfwood wouldn’t want to risk damaging it.
Then he cradles Wolfwood’s cheek in his palm. “You’re always good,” he murmurs, because Wolfwood needs to hear it. Even when he’s petulant or frustrated, even when he’s pinching Vash so he’ll squawk or kicking him under the dinner table, Vash would never deny him of that, because it would be disingenuous. There isn’t anyone who fits the label more. “I think you just get a little nervous to say what you really feel… isn’t that right?”
“...‘M not nervous,” Wolfwood mumbles, and Vash hums agreement, thumbing under his eye.
“No, I guess not. What’s the word you’d use?”
“I…” Wolfwood’s gaze flits away. Vash lets it, though he strokes over Wolfwood’s cheek with his thumb until those eyes return to him. “Guess it’s embarrassing. When you look at me like…”
“Like I love you?” Vash can’t help but grin now, particularly at the way Wolfwood’s eyes widen. They don’t say it often, because neither of them are very good at it. Frankly, Vash is even worse when he hands Wolfwood the reins, skittish in the worst of ways, but it’s so much easier when it’s for Wolfwood’s sake. To say it, to luxuriate in it, that what he’s feeling—that what they feel for each other—is love, as mortifying and scary as that is. “That’s embarrassing for you, Wolfwood?”
“Yes,” Wolfwood huffs. “And it’s embarrassing when you talk like that too.”
Vash leans closer, nudging Wolfwood’s chin with a curved index finger. Wolfwood moves obligingly, tilting his head back and parting his lips to accept Vash’s kiss, his eyelids immediately fluttering. He’s already so loose, easy to manoeuvre onto his back, easy to guide his arms over his head and swing a knee over his waist. Vash is careful not to sit down (he’d be right on Wolfwood’s stomach) but hovers near Wolfwood’s sternum, kissing him until Wolfwood’s breath starts to get all shallow and whiny, his eyes taking on a hazy film.
“I think you like it, even if it’s embarrassing,” Vash murmurs. He slides his fingers back through Wolfwood’s hair, using his other hand to keep his wrists where they are, laid against the pillow overhead. Wolfwood’s arms are broader than his own, but Vash’s fingers are still long enough to encircle the majority of his wrists, and Wolfwood is patient enough to keep them both in place. In fact the only way he shifts his arms is to press his wrists into Vash’s hand, as if asking for a harder grip—and, well, Vash would give him anything, in general but especially right now, so he does. “I like to hear you say it, you know. When you do.”
“Y’want things to be too easy,” Wolfwood responds, eyes closed. Vash traces his thumb over Wolfwood’s pulse point, where his heart is beating a little fast, just enough to intensify the heat in Vash’s own chest. He swallows and makes an effort to focus on Wolfwood’s next words: “Who says I wanna do all the heavy lifting, Blondie?”
Still so bratty, even now. Vash can’t help an endeared smile, leaning in to kiss him again, and Wolfwood sighs into his mouth, his eyes cracking open now. They’re just as hazy as they were before, warm and affectionate in a way that betrays his bluffing, makes Vash want to bite down on him more than he wants to keep talking. He keeps his fangs to himself for now—Wolfwood likes that, but there’s a time and a place—and instead kisses right above his lips, at the crest of his cupid’s bow, and lingers there until Wolfwood’s expression is all gooey soft.
“I’ll do it if you want me to,” Vash whispers. “I’ll do anything you want me to… but you said you could be good, didn’t you?” He keeps one hand locked around Wolfwood’s wrist, trails the other one down to his shirt collar, slips his fingertips underneath to run over Wolfwood’s clavicle. “You wouldn’t have offered if you didn’t want to… Won’t you give me just a little?” Vash lets his own lower lip jut out, wettening his eyes in the way that he knows makes Wolfwood weak in the knees. “Won’t you tell me what you want, Nick? Please?”
Wolfwood’s head tilts back. “Fuck,” he breathes out, and Vash watches his throat bob again, hears him murmur, “I want you t’ keep—to keep—”
“Calling you good?”
Wolfwood groans this time. “Yes. Please. And—” His arms shudder in Vash’s loose hold, his abdomen flexing hard enough to skim the undersides of Vash’s thighs, where Vash is hovering over him. “Whatever you—I want whatever you, Tongari—”
Dipping closer, Vash kisses along the column of Wolfwood’s neck, nothing enough to distract him, just a firm press of his lips to ground Wolfwood in the moment, encourage him to finish his request. “Keep going.”
“I want you to do what you want, I like,” Wolfwood swallows against him, “I like takin’ what you have to give me.”
“Good boy.” Vash smiles into Wolfwood’s neck as he says it, is close enough to feel Wolfwood’s gasp, the way his breath hitches and shudders before his wrists are flexing in Vash’s hold. Vash releases him in favour of grabbing for one of their pillows, the tiny one Vash uses to support his neck at night, setting it in the seat of Wolfwood’s palm so he has something to hold onto. As nice as it is to keep him down just like this, Vash sort of needs both his hands for this next part.
He edges backwards until he can sit on Wolfwood’s thighs instead, hands running down his strong shoulders, the softness at his stomach. Wolfwood shivers under the touch, lips parting around a wordless more and since Vash has already pushed him to say so much he obliges without complaint, twisting his wrists to press his palms against Wolfwood’s chest, the base of his ribcage. He reaches under Wolfwood’s shirt with intention this time, caressing his stomach and trailing fingers up to one of his nipples, taking the entire pec in hand as he leans down for a kiss at his navel.
“Vash,” Wolfwood sighs—and that’s how Vash knows he’s unravelling, beyond the fact that he can feel it beneath his lips. How Wolfwood tenses and begins to ease into the sheets, his lips parted around another sigh, a lovely flush spread as far down as the exposed parts of his collarbone. Vash mouths at his stomach, skims teeth to hear Wolfwood whimper, and then moves his hand to hook fingers under his waistband and expose his cock.
He’s at half mast already, unsurprising considering that Vash has been feeling him up. Vash takes his time kissing around him, along the sensitive lengths of his inner thighs, the undersides of his balls, listening to Wolfwood whine and moan until he’s fully hard.
It’s not like there’s an aspect of sex that Vash truly dislikes, not with Wolfwood, but he’d have to say that getting to do this is probably his favourite. Wolfwood is restrained, awfully composed for a man who plays at having such a temper. This is by necessity—and Vash would never dream of disparaging him for it—but getting to see him reactive, honest and loose and safe in the way he only gets in these moments alone under the covers—is truly inimitable. Letting Wolfwood take him apart is nice, and getting to top him properly wonderful too, but having him in his mouth…
Vash spits in his hand and encircles Wolfwood with his palm, smiles at the way his hips jump. “You’re being so good for me,” he coos, unable to help himself. “So patient. You’re always so good for me, aren’t you, Nick?”
“Vash,” Wolfwood whines, his expression screwing up—and it’s lovely, the way his lip is allowed to tremble now, the way he thrashes his head and clenches at the pillow over him without protesting even a little, overwhelmed with visible want. Vash thumbs over the head of his cock to hear Wolfwood warble, completely unintelligible.
“You are,” Vash murmurs, as if it’d been up for debate. “You’re so good… you’re perfect. Always so perfect. Can you tell me what you want, Wolfwood? I want to hear you say it, please.”
Wolfwood obeys immediately—always good, no matter what he’d have anyone else believe. “I want—in your mouth—”
It’s not the most articulate request, but Vash wasn’t asking for that. He doesn’t have the heart to tease, not when Wolfwood is laid out with his chest heaving, eyes open with great effort, peering at him through a film of tears. Vash licks a stripe along the underside of his dick, kisses the head, then slowly starts taking him into his mouth.
Back when they first had sex, Vash lied to Wolfwood—admittedly, he lied. He told him that Plants don’t have a gag reflex. This is not true. Actually, Vash used to gag pretty terribly when he did this, but he’s had a lot of practise. (Not even, necessarily, always on real people, but even having come clean about the gag reflex thing, Wolfwood will never know the lengths Vash has gone to to refine his skills.) Enough that he’s able to loosen his jaw and take Wolfwood into his mouth until his nose brushes the coarse, curlier hairs at the base of his cock—and Wolfwood is clearly expecting it, because he chokes a moan, his abdomen tensing before he sits up abruptly. His thighs clench on either side of Vash, but remain splayed, his hands falling to his own knees rather than Vash’s hair.
He really is so well behaved. Vash takes a moment to steady himself, breathing through his nose, but finds one of Wolfwood’s hands to guide into his hair. Anything he wants, he can have. Even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it, Vash will give it to him anyway until he finds the words—over and over again. If what Wolfwood wants is complex or needy, truly selfish in a way that Wolfwood has never been—all the better, really. If Vash could spend the rest of his life here, on his knees, Wolfwood down to his throat—
He still doesn’t think it would come close to expressing the depth of how much he loves him, how much he—fuck. Vash screws his eyes shut against the tears that are starting to build. This is generally not a great time to tear up, especially because Wolfwood always gets so worried about him when he does this—it’s not because he’s choking, he’s just emotional, but it’s not like he can exactly say that with his mouth full.
Vash pulls back—would’ve had to anyway—and catches his breath, licking a droplet of saliva off his chin as he huffs out, “‘M fine, just love you” before diving back in. Wolfwood barely has time to give more than a choked gasp by way of reply, head ducking forward as he curls even further over Vash. His hand fists in his hair, and Vash hums approval.
It’s not the pain. Vash has never really been into pain, has never seen it as a needed part of the bedroom experience—but the sensation of Wolfwood’s hand in his hair, the intensity, it’s a constant reminder that he is here. He is all around Vash, in his mouth, against his chest, fingers woven through his hair, and he is so good and he has made Vash feel so strongly in ways he didn’t think he was capable of feeling—and their lives aren’t perfect by any means but they’re together, and they lived long enough to have an after, and Vash should’ve taken off his pants before doing this because it won’t be the first time but he is absolutely going to blow his load untouched.
If he could, he’d curse. As it is, Vash just groans around Wolfwood’s dick and moves faster, his free hand moving to fondle Wolfwood’s balls. Over him, Wolfwood’s voice has gone high and breathy, letting out these desperate, tapered moans he’s usually too self-conscious not to muffle—and he’s being so good right now, keeping his hands on Vash and his mouth open—Vash can’t help but pull off again to speak.
“I love you,” Vash groans, with his cheek pressed against Wolfwood’s cock, his hand moving along the base. “I love you so much, Wolfwood.”
“God,” Wolfwood groans, “you damn sap, I never—why don’t I ever get tired of hearin’ you say it?”
Vash kisses him, because he has to. On his dick and his thighs and his stomach, and then he’s using the bed cover to haul himself up and press their lips together, angling his own hips to allow Wolfwood to grind against him, his sleep clothes, they’ll have to do a load of laundry but Vash doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He feels overwhelmed and out of his goddamn mind, and Wolfwood is so solid beneath him. His lips are so soft.
“Wolfwood,” Vash sighs into him, “Wolfwood, I—”
“I love you too,” Wolfwood finally says, and Vash makes a downright hideous sound. He thinks he even comes first, but his vision fizzles out so abruptly it’s hard to tell. It’s not his longest orgasm by any means (he is, for one thing, fully dressed and fully untouched) but he might’ve been a little dehydrated already, with all the napping. It takes him a while to come back to himself at any rate, and he’s moved a bit by the time he does, laid out on his side with Wolfwood’s bicep cushioning his cheek.
There’s a cheeky grin floating somewhere in his line of sight. Vash manages enough coordination to smack it.
“That ain’t very nice to the guy you love so much,” Wolfwood coos. Vash curls his hand into a fist, then again so he can squeeze Wolfwood’s cheeks, only letting go when he sees Wolfwood’s lips purse. The guy is insufferable, but Vash feels so boneless, he can barely see. The moment he releases Wolfwood’s face, his arm drops, and he lets out a sigh. It’s suddenly a bit of an effort to keep his eyes open.
Vash feels lips against his forehead, then the bridge of his nose.
“You need some water there, casanova?”
“Maybe.” Vash groans, furrowing his brow and summoning his concentration. “You stay, I’d better get it—I was the one who—”
“Easy.” Wolfwood’s hands press, firm, against Vash’s shoulders. “You look like you’re gonna pass out. Think you might’ve gone a little overboard there, Blondie.”
“Nuh-uh.” Vash does let Wolfwood push him back into the bed, though. “Not my fault. Can’t control myself around you.”
“I’m flattered.” Another kiss against his forehead. Vash whines and leans after it when Wolfwood pulls away, hears him laugh. “You’re so needy. Don’t you wanna be good and let me get your water?”
Vash’s eyes pop back open. Wolfwood’s grinning at him, the faintest of flushes still left on his face, his eyes sparkling too much for it to be anything but a tease. Considering all they just did, it shouldn’t get Vash—but he finds himself groaning regardless, his cheeks reddening to match.
“You’re playing dirty,” Vash points out.
“Because I love you,” Wolfwood singsongs. Another quick kiss, then a quick pass of his thumb over Vash’s lips, Wolfwood’s expression softening into something downright embarrassing. “Be back before you know it, promise.”
Well. If he promises. Vash supposes he has no choice but to believe it. It’s not as if Wolfwood would lie to him, after all.