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It’s silent, as Vash leads Wolfwood into the first hotel he lays eyes on in the town. It’s been hours of riding through the desert, escaping their latest shootout, and Vash has been silent for all of them. Wolfwood hasn’t had shit to say either, spent the entire time smoking his way through an entire pack, in pain from the bullet wound on his shoulder and the icy silence Vash radiated every second.
It had been another day, another shootout, running from bandits that didn’t still haven’t realized what Vash the Stampede looks like. And Wolfwood, he’s been good. He knows that traveling with Vash means adhering to the man’s stupid fucking philosophy, so he’s dampened his instincts and his impulses, and he’s been good. That never stops Vash from getting pissy everytime Wolfwood shows a hint of the wolf beneath the sheepskin, because he thinks Wolfwood should be good all the damned time, just soak up bullets like a sponge, because that’s what Vash does! And he’s so, totally fine!
It has him seething as he stands behind Vash, as the man pays for a room. It has him boiling over as he follows Vash up the stairs. It has him setting the Punisher against the wall with the loud thud the second they get into the room, and he’s not surprised when Vash whirls around to face him.
He’s sparking with anger, and Wolfwood knows he matches it. He’s angry and in pain, been so for fucking hours, and he can tell by the look in Vash’s eye that he’s about to get lectured at. The suns are dipping below the horizon and Wolfwood can’t believe that, just twelve hours ago, they were sharing a bed in another town like they were some fucking couple.
He knows it doesn’t last. He’s not sure why he keeps doing it.
“You didn’t have to kill him, Wolfwood,” Vash says finally, and his voice is like thunder across the desert during a lightning storm. There’s a slice of blood high up on his cheek, from where a bullet grazed him, but it doesn’t bother Vash at all. Not when he can heal quicker than anything natural.
“I didn’t want to,” Wolfwood grits out, which is a lie and Vash damn well knows it. Wolfwood holds to the no killing rule so he doesn’t have to hear Vash proselytize, but they both know he was meant for it. That’s why it grates on him, every time Vash holds him to that high standard. “It was on accident.”
The way the bullet went clean through the bandit’s eye socket, brain and viscera spurting out the back of his head, it wasn’t an accident. It was the trained instincts of a man trained for violence. Vash turns a blind eye to it, but Wolfwood is too aware of his own nature. He shoots to kill.
“His death is an accident?” Vash repeats, his voice twisting on the word. His gaze is incredulous, once he turns it on Wolfwood. “You can’t—It’s not an accident, when you kill someone. It’s murder!”
“Well, I’m a goddamned murderer then,” Wolfwood growls. “What’s another one to the tally I’ve already racked up? Damned for one death just as much as I am for the second.”
Vash doesn’t say anything. He glares at Wolfwood, his face and neck flushed with anger. Good, Wolfwood thinks. Let’s see what happens when he finally snaps. Wolfwood has seen the aftermath of July, watched as Vash blasted a hole in the fucking moon. Vash is a coiled gun ready to fire when the right trigger is pulled, and Wolfwood has spent far too long feeling them out.
“You can’t take away someone’s right to change,” Vash says, and now he’s trying for pleading, like that’ll make Wolfwood change his mind. “Violence begets violence, Wolfwood, and it’s—”
“Do you ever fucking shut up about that?” Wolfwood cuts over him. “‘Don’t kill them, they could change!’” he says, pitching his voice higher to mock Vash. “Don’t know where you stuck your head for the past hundred years, Spikey, but it sure as hell wasn’t on this planet. Ain’t no one gonna lay down their weapon because they didn’t get shot tryna to rob some travelers. That just lets them go after the next group, until someone finally puts them down.”
And it’s not like this was a regular group of bandits. Wolfwood’s gut still aches, even with all the ampules he’s crunched between his teeth. He already had two in such a short time frame, can’t take a third without risking death, so there’s still a hollow point in his shoulder and the pain radiates out from it. He’s not in the mood to do anything, much less have another philosophical disagreement with Vash, and the longer he stays in this hotel room the hotter his temper flares.
“You don’t get to decide that,” Vash says, stubborn to the day he dies, the set of his jaw rigid.
“Fuck that,” Wolfwood says, crossing the distance between them with just a few angry and thundering footsteps. “I do get to choose. What if the buck stops with me? Why do they keep getting to make the ‘choice’ to hurt people, hurt women and children, hurt you, but I can’t deal it back at them? There’s only so far this can go, Vash.”
Vash smiles, but it’s more like the baring of his teeth, and something wicked crawls its way down Wolfwood’s spine. He prods Wolfwood in the chest, not on the wound but close enough for pain to run through him. “Is that the type of man you want to be?”
Wolfwood sees red. He slams his head down, hearing the crunch of cartilage as Vash goes wheeling backwards. He didn’t learn from his mistakes, the last time he slapped Wolfwood. Vash doesn’t fall to the ground this time but he staggers in place, one hand covering his nose. The smell of blood and something floral wafts through the room.
He’s barely aware of when he tugs his gun out of his holster, but its weight is familiar in his hand. He thinks of the last time he did this, forcing Vash’s hand onto the trigger, the muzzle digging into his temple, and thinks He should’ve done it back then. If he did, then none of this would have happened.
Vash stares up at him, wide-eyed, as Wolfwood points the gun at his forehead. “This the type of man you are?” he asks, voice thick as gravel. “Turning belly-up for anyone that asks?”
“You wouldn’t,” Vash says, and his gaze is piercing. He doesn’t say the words, but Wolfwood hears them all the same: this is not what your job is. It hangs between them, the air thick with tension, but Wolfwood has never been one to back down from a fight.
He cocks the gun, the sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber loud in the quiet of the room. Unlike Vash, he makes sure his weapons are loaded. Unlike Vash, he doesn’t have any hang-ups about protecting himself. Unlike Vash, Wolfwood has the follow through to pull the trigger if he points his gun at someone.
“I would,” he says, and he thinks of standing on that rooftop, knowing that Vash would let him do it. “And you’d just let it happen.”
And that’s what makes his anger boil over. Here’s Vash, capable of destroying entire cities and the fucking moon, and he’s as pathetic as a worm. Wolfwood wants to figure out the mechanism of his mind, because something is rusty and corroded in there, and he wants to set it to right. He’s sick of this pathetic act, of Vash acting all holier-than-thou, wants to see the anger he’s certainly holding under lock and key.
He thinks, he hopes, that Vash has some sense of self-preservation. That under all those fancy trappings and altruism, Vash still has that desire to live. The same one Wolfwood felt, all those years ago. That there’s still something human under the things that have twisted them into monsters. Wolfwood holds the gun level at Vash’s forehead, and drops his finger to the trigger.
He doesn’t get the chance. The same way Wolfwood didn’t let Rai-Dei get the chance, Vash bursts forward in blurry movement, ramming his shoulder into Wolfwood’s gut. It’s not enough to make him drop the gun, but it’s enough to send him sprawling onto the floor. His bad shoulder hits the wood flooring first and a shout forces its way out his mouth, screwing his eyes shut as the pain washes over him. He can’t do much to stop Vash from pinching his wrist, his grip loosening enough for the gun to fall out of his hand.
“You wouldn’t,” Vash repeats, as he straddles Wolfwood’s stomach. The gun is kicked out of reach, too far for him to strain for it. It’s all he can do to focus on Vash above him.
The weight of him resting on Wolfwood’s stomach, the way he has his hands on Wolfwood’s shoulders, the way his hand is close, too close, to the bullet wound, all of that has him flushed with desire. It’s all he can do to keep himself from rutting his hips up into nothing as Vash stares down at him.
Vash pulls his own gun out of its holster, the metal gleaming in the low lighting of the room. Wolfwood can’t tear his eyes away, the way Vash is holding it, his trigger discipline as impeccable as ever. It’s not loaded—it never is. But then Vash reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of bullets and Wolfwood’s mouth turns dry.
There’s something vulgar about it—the way Vash moves his hand down the barrel to steady the gun as he pops the cylinder out, as he loads one, two—all six bullets in the chamber. Vash’s gaze is thoughtful, as he pops it back in and spins it. A game of Badlands Roulette Wolfwood is destined to fail.
“Is this what you want?” Vash says, his voice dangerously low and hard in the quiet of the room. Wolfwood’s aware of his own breathing, how it’s turned stuttered and ragged with Vash weighing down on his longs. “So quick to give up, Wolfwood. Do you remember?”
He remembers. He remembers the way Vash’s leather glove was warmed from the sun under his fingers, the way Vash’s finger rested on the trigger, just for a moment. You are the coward, Vash had said, like Wolfwood hadn’t just saved his life.
Vash turns the gun on Wolfwood, the muzzle hovering inches above his face. Point blank like that, he’s done for. The pain would hit him just seconds before it’s all over. Wolfwood wonders if Vash has ever known pain like that—if he’s taken bullets to the head and still walked them off. A dead man walking the sands of No Man’s Land. Wolfwood wonders how much damage Knives would’ve wrought against the world if that’s how it went down.
“I remember,” Wolfwood says, and he can’t help the cold smile that crawls over his face, “that you were the one to turn your back first. Walking away’s the same as giving up, Spikey.”
Wolfwood has followed after Vash as he’s walked away from town after town, disaster left in their wake, a death, a fire, the vitriol of humans who want to do nothing more than survive on this planet. Vash just keep walking, like that makes everything better. It doesn’t.
Vash’s face crumples before he manages to smooth out his expression. His hand doesn’t waver, though. (It never does.) It holds steady, right at Wolfwood’s head. “That’s not fair,” he says, his voice thin as a wire. Dangerous. It does nothing more than add to the sparks in Wolfwood’s stomach.
“Nothing is fair,” he spits. “Or did you forget that, with the way you get to cheat through everything?”
There’s a blur after that. Vash’s expression darkens and then he’s grabbing Wolfwood by the collar and hauling him off the floor. His mouth goes dry like it does every time Vash displays those impressive muscles he keeps hidden under leather and that ridiculous coat, as he manhandles Wolfwood like he weighs nothing.
He gets shoved onto the bed, hard enough that he bounces, but then Vash is crawling on top of him, keeping him pinned to the bed. Wolfwood stares up at him, Vash a vision of righteous fury, an angel sent on a mission by the Lord, the lamplight painting shadows on his face. The gun is still in his hand and Wolfwood’s gaze drops to it, the way the metal gleams. Vash’s calves pin his hands to his side and Wolfwood lets him do it, lets himself be held under the weight of Vash’s body and gaze, lets himself sink into it.
“You don’t get to say that to me,” Vash says, and his voice is thrumming with anger. Like it’s double-layered, filling the entire room. “Pot calling the kettle black, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood doesn’t cheat, not the same way Vash does. He gets his hands dirty. He takes the guilt he deserves, the blame he deserves. Vash acts like everyone has the same option as him, that on this planet it’s not kill or be killed but some secret option that everyone has. No one does.
Wolfwood bares his teeth. “Shut me up, then,” he challenges, and doesn’t miss the way Vash’s eyes darken and narrow like a predator sensing its prey.
Vash presses the muzzle of his gun to Wolfwood’s forehead, the metal digging in hard enough to hurt. He stares at it until he goes cross-eyed, his mouth agape but successfully silenced. And then Vash shifts on top of him so his knee digs into the bullet wound on his shoulder, and the groan it wrenches out of Wolfwood is nothing short of sacrilegious.
“Fuck, Vash, please,” he’s saying, but he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. He wants a bullet in his brain; he wants more pain radiating from his shoulder; he wants Vash to make it hurt.
“Are you going to be good?” Vash asks. He presses more of his weight onto Wolfwood’s shoulder and he feels blood pouring from the wound, the metal digging into the muscle under the skin, and he chokes on a sob. “Are you going to shut up and be good?”
“I will, I will,” Wolfwood promises, words slurring together as the pain washes over him. Everything is narrowed down to the weight on his shoulder and the searing pain spreading through his body, to the way the muzzle of Vash’s handgun is digging into the tender skin of his forehead. It’s not enough. “I’ll be good, Vash, please, fucking do something,” and whether he means pull that trigger or finally relieve the pressure of his aching cock, Wolfwood doesn’t know.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re shutting up,” Vash says. The gun disappears from his skin and he keens at that loss, as Vash shuffles around on him. He’s aware of Vash climbing off the bed, but then fingers dig into the bullet wound, and Wolfwood slams his head back, his vision whiting out as pain washes over him like a torrent. When he finally makes sense of what’s happened, Vash has discarded his pants and briefs and is straddled higher up over Wolfwood, his cunt flushed and dripping, here’s the gun, metal gleaming in the low lamp light. “Do you need something to help you with that?”
Wolfwood nods and Vash’s gaze sharpens like a predator and he smile. Like this, his fangs are more visible. Like this, Wolfwood thinks Vash might have finally shed some of that damned pacifism.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, and he brings his gun down. Wolfwood opens his mouth on instinct, the ghost of the taste of gunmetal on his tongue, but Vash doesn’t put it there. Instead, he rubs it against his cunt, grinding down on it, slick covering the barrel. It’s the most erotic thing Wolfwood has seen in his life, and his hips grind up into nothing. There’s no relief, just the sheer want, as Vash keeps rubbing his gun against his cunt. The metal gets coated quick, and Wolfwood’s mouth waters.
Vash grinds against the barrel until it’s covered in slick before drawing the gun away, a line of slick connecting it to his cunt, and then pressing the muzzle to Wolfwood’s mouth. It’s warmed and sweet with the taste of Vash, and Wolfwood mouth drops open as Vash presses the muzzle against his lips. It’s big, the biggest thing Wolfwood’s taken in his mouth, but he stretches his mouth wide around it as Vash fucks it in. There’s gun oil and the taste of Vash’s slick on his tongue, the metal catching against Wolfwood’s teeth, and he groans around the barrel.
He wants Vash to press it to the back of his throat. He wants it to hurt. But it’s all he can do to lave his tongue over the side of the barrel, cleaning up Vash’s slick. Vash moves, the gun pressing up into Wolfwood’s mouth, tilting his head back, and when he can finally look back at Vash he’s even closer, pressing the grip of the gun against his cunt. Vash grinds down and the barrel presses deeper into Wolfwood’s mouth, and he gags around it, as Vash lets out breathy moans above him. He can barely see past Vash’s grip on the gun, but he can see the way he’s grinding down onto the grip, his cock pressing into it. With every movement of Vash’s hips, the gun drags deeper into Wolfwood’s mouth, and he keeps gagging around it, drool and spit filling his mouth.
Vash’s grip slips on the slide, his fingers catching on the trigger guard, and Wolfwood thinks yes and squeezes his eyes shut, but the bullet doesn’t come. The muzzle of the gun digs into the roof of his mouth as Vash readjusts his grip, clanking into Wolfwood’s teeth. He wants more. He needs more.
But he can’t ask for more, with the way the barrel of the gun fills up his entire mouth. He can only take what Vash gives him, the steady thrusts of the gun choking him with every roll of Vash’s hips. The taste of Vash is gone, just the metal against his tongue, and Wolfwood mourns that more than anything else.
And then Vash is drawing the gun out of his mouth. Wolfwood whines, chasing after it, but Vash presses onto the wound and Wolfwood sucks in a breath, his vision whiting out. His head slams back into the pillow, his hips thrusting up into nothing, as Vash bears into the wound and pain washes through Wolfwood’s body like a baptism by fire.
The pressure lets up and he pants, struggling for breath, and he looks up at Vash. He’s staring down at Wolfwood with contemplation, but he can see a spark of desire in Vash’s eyes. He wants this, wants to do this, just as much as Wolfwood wants him to.
“Ask for it and I might give it to you,” Vash says, his voice low.
“Please,” Wolfwood grits out, shame and desire pooling together in the pit of his stomach. Vash’s eyes are feverbright, a smirk curling the edge of his lips something wicked, and the gun is still in his hand. Wolfwood doesn’t know what he wants, that’s the issue—his entire world is narrowed down to Vash, hot and dripping above him, and the gun dangling from his hand. Even the bullet wound on his shoulder feels like nothing, with Vash looking like a vision above him.
Vash adjusts his grip on the gun and presses it to Wolfwood’s temple. “Use your words,” he commands.
“And if I don’t?” Wolfwood asks, his voice raspy and sore. He can still feel the ghost of the gun’s barrel in his mouth.
The gun slips from his temple and fires right next to his ear. Wolfwood jolts out of his body, his ear ringing, but Vash’s weight holds him still. “Fuck! Spikey, what the hell?”
“Ask for it,” Vash commands, as the muzzle of the gun is held to his temple. It’s hot from the bullet and Wolfwood presses into that sting of pain.
Wolfwood swallows, tongue heavy in his mouth, and says, “Please, make it hurt,” he says. The words slip out easier than he thought they would—it’s what he’s been itching for this entire afternoon, for Vash to stop acting like he’s so above Wolfwood and all his violence. Do finally shed that pacifism and showcase the anger that lives beneath his skin.
“As you wish,” Vash says, and then cracks the butt of his gun against Wolfwood’s temple.
The impact forces a harsh breath out of Wolfwood, his head snapping to the side, as the left side of his face radiates with pain. He doesn’t even feel like he can open his eyes, but then he feels Vash’s prosthetic on the right side of his face, thumb digging into the tender skin under his eye, and he finally cracks them open.
There’s a hint of worry in Vash’s eyes, but most of it is covered by the same lust that Wolfwood knows is reflected in his own. He hurts all over, his face, his shoulder, the press of Vash’s bones against his abdomen, and that only makes every sensation more intense. Vash lightens the pressure of his thumb, but Wolfwood tilts his head to the side before Vash can fully withdraw, pressing a soft kiss to the metal of his palm.
It’s okay, he’s trying to convey, because he can see the way Vash is receding, and that’s the last thing Wolfwood wants. He watches the way resolve settles over Vash’s features like a curtain, and the press of his thumb turns almost painful.
“Look at you,” Vash all but purrs, and Wolfwood can’t imagine he looks all that good right now. He feels busted, from the wound in his shoulder to the probably-cracked ocular bone on his left side. But Vash is staring down at him like he’s something special, something good, and Wolfwood chafes at the weight of that gaze.
Vash adjusts his grip on the gun again, and presses the muzzle against the tender skin of Wolfwood’s temple. He can’t help the gasp of pain he makes, but Vash doesn’t let that deter him as he carefully drags the muzzle of the gun from his temple, down his cheek, resting at the curve of his jaw. He lets it linger there, just long enough that Wolfwood feels like snapping at it, but Vash’s gaze has him pinned in place. The muzzle feels like holding a flame to his skin, Wolfwood boiling up inside. It slips under his jaw, digging into the tender skin of his neck, and Wolfwood tilts his head back with the pressure.
“Look at you, being all quiet,” he praises. “I think you deserve a reward.”
He shuffles forward, rising up on his knees. Wolfwood draws in a deep breath when the pressure on his chest disappears as Vash’s cunt settles just inches above his mouth. His mouth waters looking at it, the way Vash’s cock is chubbed up, the way he’s sloppily wet already, the way he smells like iron and something floral.
The muzzle of the gun is dragged up the other side of his face, Vash looking down thoughtfully as he does it. He taps it against Wolfwood’s temple, like he’s thinking, and Wolfwood knows he must be making a stupid face, must be wide-eyed like a damned alley cat begging for scraps, but he’ll take anything Vash gives him at this point. Even just the press of the gun is enough to make his gut coil, his cock straining against his slacks, but there’s no relief as Vash doesn’t look in no hurry at all.
“Ask for it,” Vash commands again. The muzzle digs into Wolfwood’s temple like a warning.
Wolfwood’s mouth is dry and he has to swallow before he can get any words out. He looks at Vash, a vision above him, the gun held to his head, and all his pride and shame washes out of him. Wolfwood feels half out of his body as he says, “Please, use me,” all the pride and shame a desire pooling together in his gut and washing out of him as Vash’s face lights up with a smile, one of those real ones.
“Good boy,” he praises, and then drops down.
The taste of him explodes in Wolfwood’s mouth as the breath is knocked out of him. Sweet and floral and the tang of metal, and he’s so wet, smearing his slick all over Wolfwood’s mouth and jaw. He gets his wits about him after a moment and licks a stripe from Vash’s hole to his cock, feeling the man grind down on his face as a quiet moan fills the room. Wolfwood gets his mouth on Vash’s shaft, using the point of his tongue on the head, and Vash’s moan sounds like a hymn, sounds like a benediction.
Wolfwood is getting into the rhythm of it, his world narrowing down to the heat of Vash on his face, the warmth and the wetness and the sweet taste, but then Vash reaches behind him and grinds the flat of his palm into his stinging bullet wound. Wolfwood almost forgot about it, not caring about it when Vash is above him like that, and the press feels like fire licking down his arm and across his chest. He makes a noise but it’s muffled by Vash’s cunt—he’s not sure if it were a moan of pleasure of pain, and Vash doesn’t seem to care.
The pressure lightens up as Vash grinds down onto Wolfwood’s face, rocking into him with a series of tiny moans that go right to his cock. He wishes his could move his hands, but Vash didn’t say he could touch, so he keeps them at his sides. There’s no relief for him. He’s just being used by Vash and that makes it worse, a feedback loop that has his every nerve lit on fire.
He feels the gun move. Wolfwood’s eyes snap open—when did he close them?—to find Vash peering down at him, his mouth hanging open from how damn vocal he is, but his eyes are clear. Vash knows what he’s doing, as he moves the muzzle of the gun to Woflwood’s temple to the center of his forehead. The movement of his hips goes from harsh grinds to shallow rolls of his hips, fucking his cock into Wolfwood’s mouth.
Wolfwood wants—more. He wants it to hurt. He wants Vash to drive him out of his head, maybe to crawl into Vash’s and figure out everything that makes him tick, figure out how to take the pain without having to let it reflect right out of him. Vash ain’t no God, but he’s the closest this planet has to one, and Wolfwood wants to knows what a God’s vengeance feels like. He wants to know what it feels like to have lightning strike through him, to be blinded by the light, to be turned to salt and waste away. He wants to feel the power Vash hides under his smiles and clumsy movements. Wolfwood wants to feel Vash—no restraints, no withholding, wants to burn himself against the star that’s hiding in his chest.
Wolfwood cranes his head forward, pressing into the muzzle of the gun and Vash’s cunt at the same time. He’s trying to make his pleas known with his eyes—make it hurt, I want it to hurt, please, Vash, please—and it most get through, because Vash reaches behind him and—
Wolfwood chokes around a howl of pain as Vash digs his fingers into the flayed skin of his bullet wound. There’s just exposed muscle and sinew, raw to the touch and blistered and angry, and Vash digs his nails in like the maw of a lion sinking into its prey. He’s choking suffocating under the weight of Vash, his breathing blocked by the cloying taste and scent of Vash above him, his lungs lungs tightening as his airflow is blocked off.
Vash lets out a high moan and his hand moves from Wolfwood’s wound as he curls over Wolfwood’s face, his prosthetic coming down to brace him as he bends like a bow over Wolfwood’s head. The muzzle of the gun slips to rest at his temple, and Wolfwood still can’t breath, as Vash fucks into his mouth with his cock, and he’s thinking of supernovas, of the heat death of the universe starting at this point, a strike of fire at his temple and then it’s all over, his world narrowed down to Vash above him sounding like a goddamned miracle, and it would have been a good time.
Wolfwood has had plenty of things to die for, but if he thinks Vash told him to shoot himself right in the temple, brain blowing out the other side, he’s do it without question.
His vision is darkening. Wolfwood feels the coiling in his gut, a familiar that’s as familiar as the taste of Vash at this point, and Vash is still above him moaning wantonly, shallowly thrusting into Wolfwood’s mouth. He manages to gather what remains of his consciousness and licks at the head of Vash’s shaft, his thighs trembling around his head. He can feel the muzzle of the gun dig into his temple, a flash of pain that grounds him into the moment.
He knows Vash is close, can hear it in the way his voice breaks as a mix of moans and fuck, Nick, you’re so good, fall from his lips, but Wolfwood doesn’t know if he can keep this up until Vash cums. He swirls his tongue around the head, sucking on it, and there’s another flare of pain and Vash gets his free hand in Wolfwood’s fair and clenches tight, and his groan is muffled by the dick in his mouth.
And then Vash is coming, moaning above Wolfwood, his thighs clenching tight around his head as a flood of cum fills his mouth. Wolfwood laps at it, the sweet taste and floral notes, using the point of his tongue on the underside of Vash’s shaft. It earns him a full-sized shudder, before Vash rises a few inches from Wolfwood’s mouth.
He sucks in a greedy breath, relishing in the fresh air. Vash’s cunt is still wet with slick and his cum, and Wolfwood has half a mind to chase after it for another round, but then the gun taps against his temple and he stays frozen in place. He’s still painfully hard in his slacks and Vash knows it, his expression turning thoughtful even with the fucked-out bliss evident in his face.
“What to do with you?” Vash asks, but it’s clear he’s not looking for an answer. Wolfwood wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to do much—if he feels just the leather of Vash’s gloves on his aching cock, it’ll be over within seconds. But this is Vash’s show, and Wolfwood stays quiet as Vash decides.
Now that his attention isn’t consumed by Vash, he’s aware of all his hurts. The throbbing of his shoulder, the way his ear is ringing, the tenderness at his temple. He feels chewed up and spat out, and he’s willing to submit to it again and again, because he finally sees Vash’s teeth. He’ll take the pain, take it all, just so Vash will keep looking at him with that glint in his eyes.
(Wolfwood doesn’t think about how it feels like being flayed open, like Vash can reach inside of him and find all the secrets and lies that have built his body. He doesn’t think about how he wants to fall out of his own body and find someone else’s, find the right one.)
“Wolfwood,” Vash says, and Wolfwood drags his gaze back to Vash. He didn’t realize he was drifting, eyes filled with the burned impression of the lamplight. Vash’s eyes are deep and possibly blue, like the entire fucking sky, and oh, he said something else.
Wolfwood blinks.
“Are you good?” Vash’s hand is a gentle touch on the painful side of Wolfwood’s face. “Say something, please,” and his voice sounds like it’s about to crack, and something in Wolfwood twists. All that hard work to drive Vash out of his damned martyr complex ruined because Wolfwood feels too good to stay in his body.
He finds his voice after a minute. “It’s gon’ take more than that t’break me, Spikey.”
Relief flashes through Vash’s eyes. He smiles down at Wolfwood. “Good, good.” Vash presses his fingers into the tender skin of his face, making Wolfwood wince. His hips rut up into nothing, and Vash’s expression turns sly again. “Do you want something?”
Wolfwood nods, pressing harder into the fingers on his face. “Can you,” words slurring together, his tongue heavy in his mouth, the taste of Vash still lingering in the back of his throat, “I don’t want to think. I just want to feel you.”
Vash’s expressions softens again, but his resolves strengthens again. “I can do that.”
He moves off of Wolfwod’s chest, but just so he can bully Wolfwood into sitting up against the headboard. The pillows on the bed are thin and sparse, barely a comfort against him, but Wolfwood doesn’t care much about that as Vash settles back into his lap, finally providing some pressure on his aching cock. It makes him groan deep in his chest, as he feels the way Vash is still wet with slick and cum, leaking through the fabric of his slacks.
He’s not going to last very long, not with the way Vash is crowding in him, all long limbs and hot skin, not with the way Vash presses the muzzle of his gun to the soft underside of Wolfwood’s chin. It tilts Wolfwood’s head back, forcing to stare down his nose at Vash. He’s grinning in Wolfwood’s lap as he grinds down, feeling more like a damn temptation than anything holy.
Wolfwood wants to get his hands on Vash, but he can’t, keeps them obligingly tucked to his sides. He was already on a hair trigger, all of him narrowed down to the feeling of Vash in his lap, of the gun on his skin, and it’s not a surprise that when Vash leans forwards, his lips grazing Wolfwood’s ear, he almost shoots his load. And then Vash cocks the hammer, the noise going straight to his dick, and his breath is warm on the shell of Wolfwood’s ear as he whispers, “bang,” and the hammer strikes down.
It feels like a concussive blast, the way Wolfwood’s orgasm hits him. He’s dimly aware of the gun dry firing, the empty noise of the hammer hitting nothing, but Vash presses it harder into Wolfwood’s chin and his orgasm is wrenched out of him with a wail of a moan. Vash grinds down against him until it turns to the painful side of oversensitive, and then Wolfwood is aware of the quiet whines slipping out from behind his clenched teeth.
His hands stay at his side as Vash finally lifts off his lap, tossing his gun to the side. Wolfwood feels like he’s floating, like Vash did blast his brains out of his skull with that, even though he knows Vash wouldn’t. Vash is at his side, and then he isn’t, and Wolfwood blinks slowly as he tries to take stock of the room, take stock of himself.
First: the pain. The bulletwound in his shoulder doesn’t feel any better, and it fucking wouldn’t, not with the way the hollowpoint blasted skin away and Vash dug his fingers in. His head still feels fuzzy from that pistol whip, his ears still ringing from how Vash discharged the gun right next to it, but that all can be fixed. He’s not dying tonight, though he won’t mind if he did.
Second: the sounds of Vash unloading the gun. Wolfwood hears the clicks of bullets in the man’s hands, all five of the ones that didn’t fire, and wonders how Vash pulled off that neat trick. He held a loaded gun to Wolfwood’s head, five bullets in the chamber, and still managed to keep from blowing Wolfwood’s head out. He’s not sure if he’s disappointed about that or not.
Vash is back. He’s found his pants at some point, the loose pair he wears when sleeping, and he’s got a container of water and towels in his hands. Wolfwood blinks down at them, then up at Vash, whose steely-eyed expression has been replaced by one of gentleness and worry and Wolfwood wants to snarl and bite until that expression wears away.
“You with me?” Vash asks, as he settles on the bed. Gone is the anger, the righteousness, the part of him that must’ve liked holding his gun to Wolfwood’s head. All that remains is the martyr. “I didn’t mean to, uh, be so rough.”
It takes Wolfwood a moment to remember how to use his mouth. All his muscles and bones feel like they weigh tons under his skin, like it’s a gargantuan effort to do anything. “Ain’t nothing I didn’t like,” he finally manages to say, and he means it. Wolfwood holds Vash’s eyes, because he needs the man to understand that he means it. And he keeps holding that impossibly blue gaze until Vash flushes and looks away.
“I figured,” he said, more flushed by Wolfwood admitting he liked it than he was by fucking Wolfwood an inch within his life. He looks down at the water and towels in his hands, carefully sets them onto the bedspread. He moves slowly, like Wolfwood is a scared tomas, like he’ll spooky at too fast a move. “Can I look at your injuries?”
Wolfwood tries to nod and a stab of pain runs through his eye. He groans, head tilting backwards as the pain doesn’t recede. “Fuck, just gimme one of my things.” He might need Vash’s help to drink it, but he’s crunched the glass between his teeth before, and those cuts heal just the same as any other.
“It’s barely been a few hours,” Vash says quietly. Morosely. “It hasn’t been long enough.”
“Fuck,” Wolfwood says, a noise of complaint escaping him as he keeps his eyes firmly closed. It figures—can’t take two ampoules too close together, and the hollow point hit him just moments after he downed his second of the day. He’s seen the damage it’s done to other members of the Eye of Michael, remembers the warnings, has had to explain it to Vash a few times.
Taking one might tip him closer to death than anything they’ve done tonight.
“Do you mind?” Vash asks again after a moment. His fingers are soft at the base of Wolfwood’s throat, where his collar is crumpled against his skin. He’s aware of the way his blood as turned tacky, gluing the fabric of his shirt to his skin.
“Fucking, whatever,” Wolfwood mutters. He reluctantly, slowly gets up, letting Vash fumble with the buttons of his shirt and ease it off his arms. It pulls at the wound on his shoulder and he can’t help the hiss of pain that escapes him as the cotton fabric slowly, slowly separates from raw skin.
Vash is making the worst kind of face, his eyes are big with tears and brows creased with worry, and Wolfwood stares up at the ceiling instead of at him. This is why he prefers the ampoules, lets the drugs take care of piecing his skin back together cell by cell. He doesn’t have to see the way Vash acts like he’s something fragile, when Wolfwood has shown time and fuckin’ time again that he isn’t. He swallows the noises of pain as Vash slips his shirt down his arm, as he maneuvers Wolfwood’s arm so he can care for it better. Free from the mess of blown-apart cotton and blood, it looks terrible. Like someone gouged a piece of his skin and muscle out, and Vash messing with it didn’t help, but Wolfwood doesn’t mind that too much.
He keeps looking at the ceiling as Vash washes the blood away, the tepid water feeling like fire on his torn skin, trying to keep all his noises inside of him. He tries to ignore the way his stomach is twisting itself into knots with every gentle wipe of Vash’s hands. Wolfwood—he wants it hard and dirty, wants to feel the pain and tear himself apart on the jagged edges of Vash that the man tries to sand down, but Vash keeps shifting just out of reach every time.
Vash presses the wet washcloth against the wound on his shoulder and Wolfwood wants to knock it out of his hands. He wants to grab Vash by the shoulders and shake him until his brain finally knocks some sense into itself. Wolfwood thinks of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples, washing the feet of his betrayer, and has to close his eyes against the pressure building up in them.
He’s not successful.
“Oh, does it hurt?” Vash’s voice is quiet in the room. His ministrations stop. “I’m sorry, I’ll try to go faster.”
“It’s not that, Spikey,” Wolfwood says, his voice thick with tears and guilt and a thousand other things he doesn’t want to say right now. “It’s fine. Keep going.”
Vash’s silence voices his doubt, but he keeps going. He washes the blood away, packs bandages around the wound, and wraps it up. It would be a waste to try and stitch it up, because they both know Wolfwood will just down an ampoule in the morning. There’s no point in carrying the pain when he can just wash it away.
Vash finally settles down next to him on the bed, the soft fabric of his sweats brushing against Wolfwood’s hand. He’s craving a cigarette. He’s craving the freedom of the desert. He’s craving anything besides being in this room, with Vash, with the weight of the day pressing down on them.
“I’m sorry,” Vash says finally. “I didn’t… That was too much.”
“I said I liked it, didn’t I?” Wolfwood replies. He finally opens his eyes, looking over at Vash. He’s soft-edged in the way he only gets at night, like once the suns go down it gets harder to stay present on the planet. Hair down, soft clothes, wringing his fingers in the fabric of his shirt. Wolfwood wants to tell him that he’d stretch it out, but he swallows the words. “I’m not accepting any apologies, dumbass.”
Vash falls quiet again. Wolfwood is aware of the way he’s sticky in his slacks, the way the air in the room is turning cold with the desert chill settling in. He wants to get out of this bed; he doesn’t want to move his hand from where it’s touching the sun-warm fabric on Vash’s thigh.
He stomachs the quiet for a few moments longer before he hauls himself off the bed. First to his discarded jacket, grabbing the pack of smokes out of the pocket. He’s aware of Vash’s eyes on his back as he moves, as he cracks open the window, as he grabs the spare pair of clean boxers he has left, until he closes the bathroom door behind him and the line of sight is cut off. Wolfwood leans against the wood of it, knocking his head against it as he leans his head back.
The smoke curls up into the harsh lighting of the bathroom, and Wolfwood smokes half the cigarette before he moves from his spot. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror for as long as he can, but he’s never been able to stop himself from staring at the ugliest parts. He looks—bad. Sallow-skinned with dark circles under his eyes. It’s a wonder Vash even bullied him onto the bed in the first place. There’s a dark bruise on his temple where Vash clocked him with the pistol and Wolfwood presses his fingers to it, hissing from between his teeth. That’s the worst of the marks Vash left on him, even though he can still see the imprint of the muzzle under his chin from the way Vash kept driving it up and up.
He keeps looking at himself until the cigarette burns down to the filter, and he presses it out in the porcelain of the sink as he turns the water on. It doesn't take long before steam clouds the mirror, until Wolfwood can stop looking at himself. He’s aware of Vash on the other side of the door, like a fox waiting for a rabbit to leave the warren, so Wolfwood stays in the bathroom until his pulse stops feeling like it’s going to skip out of his chest.
When he opens the door to the main room, Vash makes a terrible attempt at pretending he wasn’t waiting for Wolfwood to return. His gaze skips from Wolfwood to the ceiling, then back to Wolfwood and away again, and it’s so damn Vash that fondness breaks its way through the ice in Wolfwood’s chest.
He bullies Vash onto one side of the bed, throwing the covers over the both of them. He’s still craving another cigarette, craving something to do with his hands and mouth, the rush of nicotine through him, but Vash complains when he smokes in bed so he’s made an attempt to keep it out. Wolfwood isn’t surprised when Vash presses against him, throwing an arm carefully around his midsection, and his touch is so fucking gentle it makes Wolfwood want to cry again.
He doesn’t say anything, and Wolfwood thinks it’s the end of the day. They’ll put the shootout, and their argument, and their sex behind him and move on, like they do every time. Wolfwood likes it that way, likes that he doesn’t have to look at the size of this thing between them. It’s easier to pretend like it’s nothing, when it’s only stolen moments in hotel rooms and under the desert suns.
And then Vash says, “I don’t want you to give up,” and it takes Wolfwood long moments walking through the day’s events to figure out what he means.
Wolfwood isn’t going to give up. He has to stay alive, to protect the orphanage. He has to stay alive because that’s the only way he can right all the wrongs he’s left in his wake. And still, the weight of Vash’s gun felt like a benediction against his skin. Here’s Wolfwood, judged and found wanting by the holiest man on this shithole of a planet.
He sighs, the noise loud in the hotel room. He turns his head, his mouth brushing against the fluff of hair on Vash’s head. “I’m not going to,” he says, and means it. He has a lot more to see through, and that guilt rests heavy in his stomach. He wonders how much that adds to the weight of his sins. If that is what finally tipped the scales.
That much, he knows, is deserved.
Vash doesn’t say anything else, but his grip tightens on Wolfwood’s side. Outside, the town is still alive with laughter of townspeople, the slamming of doors and windows, but the sound of Vash’s breath leaving him fills up the entire room. Wolfwood focuses on that, on rapid heartbeats he can feel right against his own. He doesn’t try to hold Vash back. No point in trying to hold onto someone that will just slip away in the end, Wolfwood knows. Doesn’t stop him from wanting to, though.
He knows where this road ends, and it’s not with Vash curled around him, not with the feeling of being sated and happy deep in his stomach. Maybe on another planet, maybe in another life, but this is the only one Wolfwood has.