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Wolfwood has a shit list a mile long, filled with heinous, barely-human beings, monsters, and murderers. At the very top of it—Meryl Stryfe.
“Sorry back there.” Said living nightmare grins into the rear-view mirror; it’s a smile laced with evil. “The road is so bumpy today for some reason.”
Vash lifts his head from where it was, three seconds ago, against Wolfwood’s chest. This is the third time in an hour that Meryl has ‘hit a bump’ on the smooth, endless plane of desert, and subsequently, the third time Vash has careened into Wolfwood, ending up with some body part pressed against him.
First, it was his hand, which ended up loosely clinging to Wolfwood’s neck; then, when Meryl encountered a ‘really big one, wow’, Vash’s legs ended up stretched over Wolfwood’s lap, and now—this.
When they get to wherever the fuck they’re going, Wolfwood is going to pick Meryl up and stick her on a building ledge and walk away. He should’ve known that she was plotting something like this—should’ve realized that she would never spend a single double-dollar of her precious journalist salary on buying Wolfwood drinks—but he was high off the adrenaline of yet another near-death experience and never said no to free alcohol. When she started questioning him about Vash, Wolfwood didn’t think twice. Vash was the journalist duo’s pet project, so of course Wolfwood would be expected to give an interview—he just didn’t think Meryl would ask dirty questions, like: “Are you attracted to Vash?”
She claims Wolfwood blushed. The details are fuzzy, but he does remember his answer because he didn’t even have to consider it: “Who the fuck isn’t?”
What he doesn’t remember is the rest of the conversation, because he instantly downed the rest of his drink. Meryl, a known liar (journalists—dishonest as hell), says that he started waxing poetic about Vash’s eyes or something. Allegedly, he also added something about how he would love to get his mouth all over Vash, which he doesn’t want to believe he said out loud, but sure as hell thinks regularly, so it’s possible. The nail in the coffin, though, was that he apparently gave a damning confession about how sometimes, when the road gets rough and Vash careens into him in the backseat, he has to try extremely hard to not get a boner.
Whether or not he said something so obscene is neither here nor there—whatever was said led Meryl to her current plot: to literally force Vash and Wolfwood together.
“Oops!” she cries as she rolls over another figment of her imagination. Vash hasn’t even had a chance to fully recover, and there he goes again, swaying into Wolfwood’s personal space. Vash braces himself with his hands on Wolfwood’s collarbone, and Wolfwood tries to think of the least arousing thoughts possible, like Roberto passed out in the passenger seat, drool drying on his chin.
Vash chuckles, a little nervous, and drags his hands down Wolfwood’s chest, nearly skirting over his nipples. What a life Vash must live, being wholly and blissfully unaware of his effect on people, even after one-hundred-and-fifty years of existence. Wolfwood is at risk of popping the aforementioned boner any second, and he’s considering climbing out the window to grab the Punisher. If he shoots a hole in their tire, then Meryl’s reign of terror will end.
It’s not like Wolfwood is this pathetic. It’s just—Vash. He’d like to see Meryl deal with him pawing at her. Wolfwood is damn sure that he’s keeping his sanity more than she would be.
But not for long if Vash keeps groping him, fucking Christ. He’s so oblivious, no urgency in the way he lingers against Wolfwood, half slumped in his lap at this point. Wolfwood has had too many wet dreams that start like this.
“She’s usually a better driver than this,” Vash mutters, barely audible over the buzzing of the portable fan and whatever ancient pop song Meryl is blaring. Wolfwood can only hear him because Vash is practically whispering in his damn ear. “Maybe I should…”
Thank God. Vash shifts, scooting over to the opposite end of the car and giving Wolfwood time to catch his breath and gain back some of his senses. With Vash wedged in the corner, Wolfwood gets a moment of reprieve. Vash pulls his knees up to his chest and braces himself, like he’s about to be shot out of a canon.
Wolfwood sighs, relieved, and follows Vash’s lead. He lifts one of his legs, digging his foot into the ripped leather of the car seat and planting the other firmly on the floor. Take that, Stryfe—they’re two immovable fucking objects.
Maybe he should learn not to celebrate early, because Meryl can either read his mind or smell rebellion. She jerks the car so violently that it dislodges Vash from the corner and launches him like a pinball, straight into Wolfwood.
Several things try to make themselves apparent in Wolfwood’s mind all at once—they’re in a car with two others, just an arm’s length away; Wolfwood has had a half-chub for twenty minutes and now it’s fully revved up; and he had decided, somehow, that having his legs spread would give him the most leverage in this torture situation, thus leading up to the only thing that Wolfwood can focus on at all:
Vash’s crotch is pressed right against his.
Wolfwood swears that he hears a giggle from the front seat, and then, to add insult to injury, Meryl goes over another bump.
It pushes Vash even further against him—against his dick, for Christ’s sake—and he knows he’s done for. He’ll have to make an exit plan, from this planet preferably, because he can never face Vash again. He’ll take Meryl down with him; she’s not getting out of this unscathed. Wolfwood is going to tie her to the Punisher and spin her into the stratosphere, he’s going to—
His thoughts spasm worse than Meryl’s goddamn driving when he hears a small noise, almost breathed into his ear, coming from Vash’s lips.
Wolfwood must be imagining things. There’s no way Vash just whined.
He’s frozen, shock-still, and Vash is hiding his face in his neck. He’s hiding his face in Wolfwood’s neck and he’s sitting snug in his lap, their crotches just—just there. Touching. Is Vash radiating heat, or is that Wolfwood? He’s sweating all the sudden, nauseous, at risk of sudden death by spontaneous combustion, and Vash isn’t moving.
No. Wait. He’s moving. What the fuck. He’s moving, alright—a minuscule, barely-there movement that Wolfwood only clocks because he’s hyper-aware of the situation. Vash is… Vash is grinding against him.
What.
When Wolfwood’s brain recalibrates, it graces him with one singular thought before all the blood floods south, and that thought is: fuck it. What does he have to lose?
Wolfwood bucks forward, just enough to apply pressure, to test the waters, and Vash fucking whimpers.
Wolfwood acts on instinct, shoving Vash further into his neck to muffle any sounds. As much of a perv as Meryl clearly is, he’s not subjecting her to this. Wolfwood rests his hands on Vash’s hips, drags him even closer, and lets Vash’s resulting shiver wash over him. Warmth spreads through Wolfwood’s body like a hit of nicotine. He needs to evacuate the car and get Vash under him, stat.
“Oi, princess,” he grumbles. “Find us somewhere to stay. Your driving is makin’ Blondie here sick.”
Meryl’s eyes flash in the rearview mirror; her smirk is borderline feral. Wolfwood fears her. “What a coincidence, there’s a motel just up ahead.”
A coincidence—right. Wolfwood is going to kill her, and then he’s going to buy her a drink and whatever else she wants, because damn if he doesn’t owe her one.
-x-
Sometimes Vash is damn complicated. Wolfwood has had his fair share of migraines that come from trying to win an argument with him, and he’s nearly cut his losses and hauled ass away from his trouble multiple times over their journey.
But other times, he’s wonderfully simple. He follows Wolfwood up to his room without a word, and when Wolfwood closes the door behind them, Vash crowds him against it before he can even set the Punisher down.
Wolfwood doesn’t even get to take his jacket off—Vash starts doing it for him, pushing it away as nimble fingers fly over the buttons of his shirt. He’s efficient. “Do you think she was doing it on purpose?” he muses. He’s already breathy in a way that’s going straight to Wolfwood’s dick—not that it can physically get any harder.
“Now, why would she do that?” Wolfwood drawls sarcastically. He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders and forces all his concentration on not stuttering when Vash starts running his hand over his chest. “Can’t really be mad at her if this is the result. How long have you wanted this, Spikey?”
“A while,” Vash admits. He squeezes Wolfwood’s pec and God, his knees are going to buckle if Vash does that again. “I wasn’t going to do anything about it, but I’m happy I get to.”
“Well, then we’ll buy her dinner later. C’mere.”
Wolfwood isn’t going to pretend he hasn’t imagined kissing Vash. He’s imagined a whole lot worse, most of which he’s hoping to make a reality tonight. He’s surprised, though, when it’s not anything like his wet dreams—Vash isn’t a passive, gentle kisser like you’d think with his whole do-gooder, sweet-boy persona. He’s hungry, possessive—he wraps an arm around Wolfwood’s neck and slips his tongue into his mouth without permission, without giving him even a moment to adjust.
Wolfwood’s back smacks against the door, and he gets a hand around Vash’s waist at the same time he wedges his thigh between his legs. Vash and his tiny waist, Vash and his long-ass legs, Vash, Vash, Vash—it’s so fucking impossible not to be consumed by the guy. Of course Wolfwood is attracted to him; he’s obsessed, has been since he first woke up to his beautiful blue eyes staring down at him—what a way to come to after a car crash.
You know. Maybe Meryl has always been the ultimate wingman. Her shitty driving is a blessing in disguise.
Wolfood hitches his leg up, giving Vash the leverage to grind down on it. Vash moans louder now that he’s not in public, but he buries his face in Wolfwood’s neck all the same, this time adding feather-light kisses to his assault. Wolfwood’s fucking legs are going to give out.
The thing about it is, he really has been down bad for Vash for some time now. It was easy to deny for the first few weeks, to write it off as an adrenaline-fueled fascination, or a taboo, because you’re not generally supposed to sleep with men who you’re guiding to their downfall. Wolfwood could deal with intrigue; he can’t deal with infatuation. The lines have long since blurred.
There’s just something about Vash—something that makes Wolfwood want to behave, to turn over a new leaf. He was fighting it, sticking to his mission because he would rather not have Zazie and Legato on his ass, but now that he has Vash pressed up against him, has his lips on his neck—yeah, he’s a fucking goner. Vash is the kind of man that destroys ideologies.
Vash ruts against his thigh and kisses his jaw. Wolfwood gets a handful of his ass and uses it to guide him, up and down, using Vash’s desperate sounds and fluttering eyes as guidance. It gets heated fast, and Vash gasps and whines like he’s already at the edge. As much as Wolfwood likes the thought of that, he’s not letting this end so quickly— he's going to draw it out, make it good for him.
Wolfwood tangles his fingers into Vash’s undercut and pulls, baring the line of his neck. Wolfwood wants to lick it. “You up for getting fucked against a wall, or would a bed be better?”
“I like the idea of a bed,” Vash says, smile so endearing it’s sickening. Wolfwood needs to take such good care of Vash that he never wants anyone else—wants to fuck him better than anyone could manage in the entire one-hundred-and-fifty years that Vash has been alive.
Wolfwood walks him back to the bed, grinning when Vash’s knees hit the back of it and he goes down easy, dragging Wolfwood with him. They topple over each other, and Vash laughs, a windchime of a sound, and kisses Wolfwood’s neck, his cheek—anything he can reach. He gets to Wolfwood’s lips, and Wolfwood deepens the kiss instantly, taking his fill of Vash. He digs his fingers into the hem of his shirt, trying to ruck it up.
But he knows Vash, so he’s not surprised when he halts him—blush taking over his whole face. “Uh. Wait a sec, wait a sec. I’ve got a lot of—”
“Seen ‘em. Don’t care.”
Vash’s eyes widen. “What? When?”
“Spied on you gettin’ out of the showers once.” He would’ve been ashamed of that thirty minutes ago, but as it stands right now, he doesn’t have the functional brain cells to worry about it. He and Vash have shared motel rooms plenty. They’re broke as hell and if Wolfwood tried to share with Roberto, he’d probably get smothered in his sleep. Wolfwood can’t be expected to close his eyes when Vash leaves the bathroom door cracked. That’s asking too much of him.
Vash tries to frown—it wavers immediately and a grin fights through. He laughs, loud, and smacks Wolfwood’s chest. “You’re horrible.”
“Can’t all be saints, now can we?” Wolfwood leans in, kisses the smile off of Vash’s lips. “You’re the one always trying to convince me I’m a good person.”
“You are,” Vash insists, and it should be illegal for someone to look at you like that—sweet blue eyes, so damn genuine. Something mischievous flashes in them. “And if we’re confessing—I shot the top button off your shirt on purpose last week.”
Wolfwood smacks a hand to his chest where the phantom button would be if he weren’t halfway undressed. “You’re something else. A confident shot, huh?”
Vash grins like the menace he secretly is. “They say I’m a very talented gunman.”
It’s these moments with Vash that fuck Wolfwood up the most—the moments where he’s so goddamn human, where he takes a breather from being a living tragedy and smiles, laughs, teases. Wolfwood wants an eternity of this Vash, the one unburdened by all the shit that he’s gone through, the shit that’s still to come.
Wolfwood was supposed to be guiding Vash to July, making sure he didn’t stray from the path to his deranged brother, but early on in the journey Wolfwood realized he was less of a guide and more of a stowaway. Vash already planned to go to July; he didn’t need Wolfwood to force him there—but he did need someone to look out for him. It wouldn’t be all that much of a job change if he kept doing that for a different reason.
“We’ll call it even then,” Wolfwood decides. “If you stop playing shy for me.”
Vash rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath, but he’s not so much of a brat—not when he wants this just as bad as Wolfwood does. He lifts his shirt, and Wolfwood makes sure to keep his expression neutral. Just because he’s seen the scars before doesn’t mean he fucking likes them, but he’s going to have to save his lectures if he plans on staying with Vash for the long run—he’ll surely have to give more of them. Now, Wolfwood can speak without his words.
He grabs Vash by the waist and presses him back into the bed as he starts his descent. It starts slow, purposeful—Wolfwood has good intentions, really, to kiss every one of Vash’s scars—but it’s borderline impossible to keep a grip on his self-control when Vash is making these noises. Whimpering, eyes aimed at the ceiling, lip bruising between his teeth—how is Wolfwood supposed to deal with that? Another time. This will have to happen another time, because patience is not his virtue today.
He makes it to the edge of the bed and spreads Vash’s legs. Vash sighs at the movement, like something so simple can feel good, like everything Wolfwood does to him is pleasurable. It makes Wolfwood’s cock ache, and he palms himself through his slacks, dragging down his zipper at the same time he peppers kisses over Vash’s clothed thighs.
“Wolfwood,” Vash calls. “Before you take my pants off—”
“Seen that too,” Wolfwood says. “Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that. I’m not the one who showers with the door open.”
Vash is the most human creature Wolfwood has ever met, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s something not from this world, in all sorts of ways. Wolfwood has seen what he has between his legs, but only briefly, stolen glances, never as up close and personal as he would’ve liked.
“Someone needs to stop you,” Vash mumbles.
Wolfwood stares up at Vash, who is already half out of his pants. “Yeah, looks like you’re in a big hurry to.”
“Later,” Vash promises, and Wolfwood barks out a laugh. He helps Vash shimmy out of them, then his boxers, and he can’t control the hitch in his breath when he’s faced with a fully naked Vash.
He’s something beautiful, scars be damned. There’s a few on his thighs, one right under his belly button, but it’s smooth between his legs. There’s just a thin slit, already shiny with something slick and wet. Wolfwood groans—he can’t help it. This is every wet dream he’s ever had come to life, right in front of him. He leans down, ghosts his breath over Vash’s cunt, and Vash whines.
“Are you going to tease?” he asks, impatient.
“Maybe, if you complain about it.” Wolfwood hums, fingers climbing up Vash’s thighs and landing outside of his hips.
“Who’s complaining?”
Wolfwood laughs, but it catches somewhere in the back of his throat as he gets his lips right up against his slit and gives it a kiss. He runs his tongue along the seam, digging his thumbs into Vash’s hips, and Vash starts shaking underneath him.
He figured he’d be sensitive, but already, this—oh.
Something is happening. Vash is opening up, his slit spreading to reveal something new, something like a rare piece of art. Wolfwood has never seen a flower in his life, but he’s studied pictures, pretended to put them in his siblings’ hair, without ever thinking he’d have one right in front of him. But sure as hell, Vash is blooming. Petals unfurl between his legs, presenting themselves to Wolfwood.
He could spend the rest of his life staring, admiring, damn near drooling, but he lets instinct take over instead, and he dives in.
Vash squeaks. He reaches for Wolfwood’s hair, tugging him closer, closer, and Wolfwood licks into him like he’s starving. He is—he’s desperate. Vash tastes delicious, and Wolfwood wonders if he’s under some kind of spell, drugged by Vash’s mystical, otherworldly genitalia. He wouldn’t put it past him—Vash can do all sorts of crazy shit, and Wolfwood wouldn’t be opposed to brain control by plant pussy. He pushes his tongue into Vash, as deep as he can go, before pulling out to suck on Vash’s clit. Vash cries out, so damn loud, so unrestrained, and bucks up into Wolfwood’s mouth, riding his face. He can feel the slick gathering on his chin, soaking his skin, and he licks harder when Vash starts trembling around him.
It’s a messy orgasm, wet and loud. Vash’s legs spasm around him. Wolfwood is trapped between his thighs, held in place by nails digging into his hair as Vash grinds against his face, whimpering and whining like his filter has long since left the building.
Addictive—fucking incredible. Wolfwood eats Vash out through the aftershocks, until the grip on his hair turns aggressive, and Vash shoves him away. Wolfwood isn’t backing down that easily; he fights against the force, trying to get his mouth back on Vash, but Vash kicks at his chest.
“If you keep doing that,” he pants, “I’m going to pass out. I can’t—I can’t come like that more than once. Not if you want to keep going.”
“Sure you can.” Wolfwood licks another stripe up his sensitive pussy. “Let’s try.”
“Wolfwood,” Vash yelps. His legs kick involuntarily. “Wolfwood—Nico!”
Wolfwood pauses just long enough to meet Vash’s eyes—his desperate, fucked out, beautiful eyes. Wolfwood wants to see those eyes when he fucks him, which is probably what Vash is trying to tell him he wants too. Wolfwood’s losing his lucidity.
“Feral,” notes Vash.
“You’re poisoning me with that thing,” Wolfwood grunts, rubbing his thumb against Vash’s clit, just to hear his gasp. “But alright, angel. Want me to fuck you now?”
“That would be nice,” Vash manages, high-pitched. Wolfwood grins and stands, hopping out of his pants, eager enough that he nearly trips and face-plants. When Vash laughs at him, he tries to sneer, but he can’t keep a straight face. He laughs too, and when he finally untangles himself, he collapses onto Vash, kissing him for all he’s worth. Vash returns it in earnest. Wolfwood’s never kissed like this, like it means something, like he can’t get enough.
Wolfwood can’t fucking get enough of Vash.
“You wanna ride me?” he asks against his lips, and Vash smiles.
“I do, yeah.”
He presses a hand to Wolfwood’s chest, and Wolfwood sits up, dragging Vash with him. He settles, pats his lap, and Vash clambers into it. He’s not patient either, apparently—he doesn’t wait longer than the second it takes them to get their bearings before he’s lining himself up with Wolfwood’s cock and sinking down. Vash isn’t merciful here like he is everywhere else—it’s not slow, it’s not gentle, and it's fucking amazing.
For once, Vash drops the selfless act and takes what he wants, in the way that he’s only been able to do with Wolfwood. Vash doesn’t fake it with Wolfwood, never has.
He bounces on Wolfwood’s cock like he’s chasing a high, pulling out to the tip and going in deep enough to make Wolfwood's head spin. He settles his hands on Vash’s waist and lets him have whatever he wants of him. God knows that he’s earned the right.
Vash leans down to kiss him, and Wolfwood knows he’s not lasting long. He’s not long for this world, probably—Vash is going to kill him in one way or another, unintentionally, through no fault of his own—but if Wolfwood gets to live out his final days like this, then he’ll go willingly. He kisses back, thrusts up into Vash, and swallows down his moans as he shakes around him for the second time that night.
Vash calls Wolfwood’s name when he comes—calls him Nicholas—and Wolfwood’s orgasm hits him with the intensity of a sandsteamer.
It’s a euphoric kind of high, like accomplishing a goal he’s had for months. Wolfwood has never had any kind of satisfaction from his job—hasn’t had any choice with it, hates the work, really—but this? Wolfwood feels something. Fuck delivering Vash anywhere. Wolfwood is finding new employment.
“You look like you’re having an epiphany,” Vash says. He’s slumped in Wolfwood’s arms, still sitting on his cock like he has no intentions to move. He draws a finger up Wolfwood’s collarbone to his neck, tracing the marks that he left on him. Wolfwood will wear anything Vash gives him proudly.
“Something like that,” Wolfwood agrees. He tilts his head up for a kiss, and Vash leans down. Wolfwood lets himself be kissed, for a few moments more, before he pulls away.
“Oi, Spikey—what’s your game plan, really? You gonna go up against Knives?”
Vash gives him an unreadable look. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”
“Changed my mind,” he offers, and at that, Vash gives him a smile—a real one, reserved for Wolfwood.
“Does that mean you’re in?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Whatever you’re doing, I’m with you.” And he means it. Goddamnit. “The girl’s gonna be so fuckin’ annoying about this.”
Vash cocks his head before his eyes widen. “So she was doing it on purpose! I knew she wasn’t that bad of a driver.”
Wolfwood laughs. “Yeah, we can’t say shit to her about it ever again, even if she drives us off a cliff.”
Vash shrugs, pressing a chaste kiss to Wolfwood’s forehead. “I don’t mind the bumpy ride. I kinda enjoyed it, actually. It gave me a reason to touch your chest. I could never think of a good excuse to.”
Wolfwood snorts and pushes Vash back into the bed. He doesn’t mind it either—doesn’t give a shit about what kind of journey this is, how uncomfortable or exhausting or insane it is, as long as he’s on it with Vash.
-x-
“Alright, newbie,” grunts Roberto, gripping the sides of his seat for dear life. “You accomplished your goal—the two of them got it together, so can you take it easy on the road?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Meryl glances up into the rearview mirror, meeting Wolfwood’s eyes. He’s got one hand tucked securely around Vash’s waist, keeping him in place. He sees the moment Meryl clocks how close they are, sees the damn smile on her face turn feral right before she jerks hard to the left, forcing Vash head-first into Wolfwood’s chest.
“Whoopsie!” Meryl sings. “Didn’t see that one there.”
This time, when their gazes meet in the mirror, Wolfwood grins with her. Meryl fucking Stryfe—he’s keeping her at the top of his shit list, but really, it’s a place of honor.