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Wolfwood wakes to the rustle of fabric, the rhythmic squeak of old springs, and the unmistakable hitch of a breath followed by a subdued moan. A moan Vash tries to hide. Discretion is clearly not his strong suit, or so Wolfwood learns some time past 2 AM cooped up in the same room.
The second moan isn’t even quiet.
Wolfwood’s eyes shoot wide to the ceiling. Shadows flicker across it from the street lamps peeking through thin curtains. Whatever slumber he may have been on the cusp of is unceremoniously yanked out from under him. He thinks to grumble and toss his pillow across the room. His aim is good. He’d nail that spikey head dead on.
But Vash shudders, and the wet pop of fingers leave little for interpretation.
Dammit, Vash. It’s the third night in a row. The third sleepless night Wolfwood has had to suffer with this ridiculous outlaw jerking one out when he thinks he’s finally fallen asleep, and then whimpering into his pillow until the early hours of the morning, so that no one gets any shut eye.
Wolfwood has heard it all.
The moans, the cries, and the sobs. Those nightmares which shake him awake with a gasp, only for Vash to bade them away with a hand and an orgasm.
That is one way to do it. Wolfwood prefers booze and a fresh smoke, but Vash doesn’t seem like the self-medicating type. Pleasure balms the pain, even if short lived. He can’t fault the guy too much, if only he could get one good night of sleep.
Tonight, Wolfwood realizes, is worse than usual.
A desperate whine rises from the Vash shaped lump across the room. His legs kick out beneath the blankets, pathetically writhing and arching from the mattress as if on the verge but not quite hitting it. Wolfwood shouldn’t be watching. He should turn on his side and pretend he’s asleep just like the nights before. But, this one feels different. He feels different, and the next anguished sound rises gooseflesh along his arms along with something a little more south .
Fuck, is it finally getting to him too?
His teeth grit, his own fingers twitching as if to palm himself. He doesn’t . And instead, Vash slumps back on the bed with a defeated groan. In the motion, he turns on his side . Wolfwood’s breath catches in his throat, but he doesn’t break the blurred eye contact that forms across the room.
Yes, Vash meets his gaze, but can he tell? Can he see through the darkness and tell that Wolfwood has been watching this entire time? A silence lingers. Neither of them moves and neither of them breathes. It is only with a heavy sigh from Vash that he whispers, “You heard all that, didn’t you?”
And Wolfwood finally feels blood pump through his veins again. The breath he held releases in a dry rasp, “ Yeah.”
Vash lets out a stilted laugh. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to keep you up. I…”
There’s more he wants to say, but Vash swallows it down and tucks his head beneath the sheets like a child hiding from monsters in the night. There are none here, and the only thing that plagues Vash is what is in his mind. So, what he hides from this day is him. From Wolfwood’s stare, his judgment, and–
Wolfwood gulps.
This has to be the worst idea he’s had in months.
“Hey,” he sits at the edge of his bed. Vash remains turned from him, and if he didn’t know better, he might think the man is asleep. But Wolfwood does know better, and he knows Vash is faking it. “You didn’t cum.”
It's not a question, but a statement. The sound of Vash’s orgasm has been burned into his mind over these nights. He can tell the difference.
Vash doesn’t answer, so Wolfwood fills the void.
It comes with the fall of footsteps to creaky wood, and then a tentative hand that he hovers over Vash’s shoulder. He shouldn’t touch him. He shouldn’t offer this. What a fucked up mission this has turned out to be, but Wolfwood finds his care for the details slipping day after day. And, tonight is when they completely shatter apart.
It’s an excuse when he says, “ You’ll sleep better. ” Maybe, they both will. Two bodies tucked into a much too small bed with an orgasm wrung between them. It will give Wolfwood some precious silence, and Vash some much needed relief. A win-win in Wolfwood’s book. The mattress dips under his weight, and it becomes less of an excuse when he says, “Let me help.”
For once, Vash says very little, “Wolfwood…”
“Doesn’t roll off the tongue right. Nick might suit it better.”
The embarrassment that holds Vash’s tongue lets go, and he huffs. It's a bit of a relief, cutting through the tension that has them both tempered and awkward. “You’re teasing me,” Vash complains, and it feels more like their normal banter.
Wolfwood shrugs, “Habit.”
Vash scoots over a foot. The space offered to him is hardly enough for a man his size, but the bed’s barely built for someone like Vash, let alone them both. Nonetheless, he takes it as Vash’s answer and crawls beside him in a tangle of sheets and limbs. Their thighs slip together, his chest pressed along the curve of Vash’s back.
Every breath and whimper they both feel, and Wolfwood feels it when he drapes an arm over Vash’s waist. The man crumples pitifully with a shaky breath. Part of it stabs at him, a cold knife burrowed between Wolfwood’s ribs. When was the last time someone touched him like this? Showed Vash this bit of kindness?
The scars on his body betray a history that makes Wolfwood think the answer just may be never. That Vash has taken care of himself, patched his own wounds, and held himself into the night. Always, always… alone.
(And, were Wolfwood to allow some self reflection he might see a bit of himself in Vash’s touch-starved form.)
The scars fall beneath Wolfwood’s fingers as he traces down from his navel and through coarse hair. He stops just when Vash flinches, tucking his chin over his shoulder, “Is this okay?”
He’s overstepping. Has been this entire night, and if he were to be frank, so has Vash. It's a wreck waiting to happen. He has his job, his duty, and Vash, well… it would be better for them both to not grow attached.
Amazing how he's failed so spectacularly at that in such a short time.
A clammy hand takes his. The fingers slide into the spaces between Wolfwood’s own, guiding it downwards to the slick mess Vash has made of his thighs. The heel of his palm grinds against Vash’s swollen clit.
“ Yeah,” he practically fucking purrs.
“Good,” he murmurs behind Vash’s ear. Wolfwood ignores the reactions of his own body, content to the heat of Vash against him. It’s his that he devours. The sighs, the needy way in which he tangles their fingers bossing him around even like this.
His wet clit is pinched between pointer and forefinger, lazily stroked when Wolfwood chuckles to his nape, “You’ve been driving me nuts all week, spikey.” Vash’s hips jerk forward, and his grip grows slack. It falls away completely when Wolfwood teases the same two fingers through his folds. “God, you’re so wet.”
It webs between them, all sticky and warm. A detail Vash seems wholly embarrassed by. “It's no wonder you can't cum, spending yourself dry night after night, but don't worry, I’ll fix it for you.”
Vash opens up so easily. His cunt trembles, hungry for the intrusion of fingers that sink knuckle deep. A strange tenseness runs through him, as if unused to giving up the reins and having someone else touch him. Wolfwood hushes those worries away with a gentle crook, and it’s as though the man melts before him.
Vash mewls pitifully, rocking himself deeper onto Wolfwood’s fingers.
“Didn’t realize you could beg like that, blondie. Sounds good.”
A bit too good given the current state of his dick, which Vash is very aware of. It ruts between them, pinned to the lower notches of Vash’s spine. He wriggles back and lets it slide higher, almost as if he’s trying to get Wolfwood off too.
Vash sighs. The fist balled at his mouth does little to keep him quiet, because if there’s anything the Eye of Michael taught him, it’s how to be good with his hands.
Where once Wolfwood was convinced they only brought pain, Vash has convinced him, in more ways that one, that the opposite is true too.
There’s a perverse satisfaction he gets knowing Vash now falls apart because of him. This is why he should have never crossed the threshold between their beds. What will change come sunrise when they both wake? If they both wake. The tears Vash sheds now are no longer those of sorrow and desperation. His cheeks dust warm and pink, and his thighs pin Wolfwood’s wrist in place.
It’s as though he wants Wolfwood buried in him all night.
“P-please,” Vash’s voice fractures delicately. Each splinter is driven by the thrust of his fingers, so wet and dripping as they fuck through Vash’s hole. It tenses around him, his inside’s fluttering when near the edge. “Don’t… don’t leave, Nico. Don’t–”
Vash bites down on a sob. It leaves his lips bloody, and when he’s almost at his peak, he tears himself away. The harsh bone of Vash’s elbow jabs him in the gut. It’s a mess. He twists and writhes, scraping his hands over the bed, and then against Wolfwood.
It’s like he can’t bear it.
“What’s wrong? Talk to me, Vash.”
“No, no, it's not you. I–”
Mournfully, Vash goes still. His red framed eyes bury into the pillow, but it does not escape Wolfwood’s notice. It's something he understands more than Vash thinks.
Do you not think you deserve it? It's what he wants to ask, but the answer, he knows, would be too cruel to hear.
“I made a promise,” Wolfwood murmurs, smoothing his hand down Vash’s side. He leans into the touch, starved for it yet denying himself when it matters the most. “Give yourself this, Vash. At least for tonight.”
Wolfwood pauses on the verge of crossing yet another boundary he shouldn’t. He was so good at this before Vash came along. Guy really managed to trash all semblance of professionalism Wolfwood maintained in a handful of weeks.
Ah, fuck it.
The kiss he places at the nape of Vash’s neck is sickly sweet, along with the tentative curl of his arm around Vash’s stomach. “Please,” he says with an uncharacteristic politeness, and Vash, he might just smile at that.
“Are you going to beg, too?”
Vash doesn’t cry anymore, and he doesn’t rebuke Wolfwood’s advances. In fact, he encourages them. Carefully, Wolfwood teases the outer rim of his hole, waiting for Vash to turn him down, and when he doesn't, he hooks his fingers back inside.
“Only if you want to hear it. Though…” Wolfwood chuckles. “Think I’d rather watch you cum first.”
Vash clenches around him and lets out an absolutely miniscule, “Oh, fuck, Nico.”
Now, that’s more like it. No more tears, not tonight and not with him. Not while he buries himself knuckle deep in Vash’s cunt, pulling noises from him that could only ever fill his wet dreams. They fall effortlessly now. Moan after moan, silly strings of nonsense that Wolfwood finds oddly endearing when it’s from the man beneath him.
It doesn’t take long to guide him back to the edge. Vash’s body is already strung tight twice over from orgasms that never came. In their wake, the one Wolfwood brings hits him full force. Vash’s legs kick out. They scrape over the bed, nailing Wolfwood a few times with a startled grunt. Vash twists, back arching on a moan that quickly becomes Wolfwood’s name.
It's a first. Vash has never cried out in any specifics before. It left him wondering for the longest time just what he thought of while fingering himself. Now, the answer is sure. Him. Him. From here on out, those sordid thoughts that carry Vash through the night will be of one priest a little too eager to be handsy with his offers of help.
Wolfwood can’t say he minds. This is getting filed somewhere in his own spank bank too.
Vash deflates after a good two minutes, sinking into the mattress with the specific brand of exhaustion only a good orgasm brings, and Wolfwood falls along with him. They’re tucked together tightly. A bit too cramped to be comfortable. But Wolfwood’s slept in worse and he has no plans to move for the remainder of the night.
“Was this a bad idea?” Vash asks quietly when Wolfwood is just on the cusp of sleep. Again.
Wearily, he yawns. Second thoughts so soon? Come on, they at least have another four hours before dealing with the ramifications of their nighttime activities. And Wolfwood has little doubt. The warmth of the man next to him and the pleasure that filled his belly purely from Vash’s own, assures him that– given another chance– he would do the exact same thing.
Wolfwood makes no claims to grand rationality. Despite it, he knows reality will not be nearly so kind to them.
“Probably.”