Archive of Our Own

“Behold a pale horse! And his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.”

“Shut up, Nicholas,” Nai bites out, dismounting from his striking, pale gray mare. She snorts in concurrence with her rider, a cloud of condensation unfurling from the dark gray of her muzzle into the cold, pitch-black night. With steam curling out her nostrils like that, she really could be a steed straight from hell. 

Nicholas D. Wolfwood laughs at the overly-serious countenance of his companion.

Wolfwood, as he prefers to be called, doesn’t find humor in much aside from sarcasm or irony. He’s got to admit, there’s something a little funny about Nai being a shepherd. Jesus was a shepherd, after all. But despite what Nai believes about himself, there ain’t much Christ-like about him. There’s nothin’ Christian about the nights they spend together, either. 

That’s alright though—Wolfwood is a natural-born sinner. At least he’s got the guts to admit it. It’s a song he’s been singing since the day he was born.

Somewhere out in the dark, a sheep lets out a disgruntled bleat. Wolfwood tenses, listening hard, but when no further commotion echoes through the mountains, he relaxes against his log pillow and stares up at the stars.

When he was younger, Wolfwood used to imagine that God’s face hovered just beyond them, a touch too far for his eyes to see. Growing up was learning that God is just a little bit further away than that. 

The fire crackles at his side. It licks upwards, reaching for the empty heavens and chasing away his sudden chill. Wolfwood’s eyes track the embers that float up with the plume of smoke. They blink a few times against the night before giving up and burning away. The fire only warms Wolfwood skin-deep, but the whiskey in his flask does the rest. It always reaches where the flames can’t. With a hefty sigh, Wolfwood’s eyes drift lazily over to his herding partner, observing the brick shithouse of a man from over the tall bridge of his nose. 

Unlike Wolfwood, Nai isn’t a cowboy. He’s a rancher. Plenty of folks have heard about the Saverem Family and their ranch, Eden . The Saverems are of the rich variety. Wealthy and insular, it’s only fair that rumors about the family run long and wide. They were the type of people you wouldn’t normally witness getting their hands dirty. But for all the expectations Wolfwood had held about Nai, he hasn’t met a single one. Wolfwood has been proven wrong at every turn. 

Nai Saverem is stoic and brusk, but past that outer layer—or two—his manner is still genteel. Somehow. He’s fastidious and careful, but quick-witted and experienced. He’s got a good work ethic, and is more than willing to get his hands dirty. God-fearing, too. Extremely. 

He is the antithesis to everything Wolfwood is. Scrupulous and put together. Pious and prim. Well nourished. Nai is from old money—from family. Raised with a silver spoon but with a big enough chip on his shoulder that Wolfwood can’t help but wonder at what tarnished it.

For one reason or another (Wolfwood hadn’t asked and Nai hadn’t offered) the Saverem boy had been in need of a gig. Roberto had heard down the grapevine that Nai was particularly good with animals and in need of hiring. It was that old drunk who brought them two together. They each had accepted the job, site unseen, willing to spend months secluded with a stranger, shepherding a few hundred sheep across the mountains from one state to the next. 

With the way he’s dressed tonight, Nai really could be Death himself. And if not the man, then his Harbinger. A ghost, at the very least. Much like his spectral horse, Nai’s gloves, coat, and poncho are all variations of dove gray, the wool washed and left undyed. Even his jeans are light wash. It’s a little excessive if you ask Wolfwood. He’s got no idea how Nai keeps them so clean.

Nai removes his flat-brim cowboy hat, well worn and bleached white by the sun. Shaking his towhead, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and runs bare fingers through his flattened hair to work some volume back into it. The fairness of his skin, eyes, and hair does nothing to make him appear any more living—even still, he’s goddamn handsome. Death is probably an angel anyway, Wolfwood thinks. 

He watches in silence as Nai anchors his horse to a tree and relieves her of her saddle. He’s much better—gentler, and more patient—with beasts than he is with humans. It’s true that Nai is a brute of a man, but he treats animals with respect. That makes him mostly decent, from Wolfwood’s point of view anyway.

When Nai’s finished brushing down his mare and fastening a blanket across her back, Wolfwood holds the flask up in the air and shakes it, listening to the moonshine slosh around inside. The earth crunches under Nai’s heavy boots as he circles ‘round the fire to take the flask. He drinks deeply and drops onto the log beside Wolfwood’s head. With his hands now free, Wolfwood digs around in his pockets for his cigarette case.

“All good out there?” He asks around the butt of a hand-rolled cigarette. Now if he could just find his damned lighter. 

Nai only grunts in response. By the time he speaks again, Wolfwood has found his treasured sterling Zippo and flips it expertly through his fingers before flicking the wheel and lighting the end of his cigarette. 

“You eat yet?” Nai’s voice is gruff and a little accusatory. Still, it’s sweet he cares. 

The corner of Wolfwood’s mouth can’t help but twitch. He drops the lighter against his chest and lets his eyes travel sideways. Shadows cast from the campfire cut harshly under Nai’s brow and cheekbones, making him look more avenging than usual. 

“Nah… not yet…” Wolfwood's words are loaded with sin and intent. 

Nai tenses and then rolls his eyes, sucking his teeth before taking another deep swig. He caps the flask and tosses it on the ground too far for Wolfwood to reach from where he’s laid down. Wolfwood tsks— message received—but Nai ignores him in favor heading over to his pack. 

“If you don’t eat you can’t pull your weight.” Nai turns away when he says it, working the buckles open on his bag and unrolling the top. “We’ve got vegetable soup, beans, canned tuna in oil…” 

“Cat food,” Wolfwood grumbles through a mouthful of smoke. “Need real protein.” 

“Beans are a great source of protein and fiber—” 

“I can think of something else full of protein. Some all-organic, grass-fed, grade-A red mea—” He cuts off to dodge a can of beans that goes sailing past his head. 

“You really like to double down on your stupid, don’t you? Eat the beans, Nicholas.”

“Only if you’re for dessert, angel.” 

The can opener hits him straight in the gut.

“Tomorrow I’ll catch us a real dinner.” Wolfwood wheezes, sitting up with the cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth as he works the opener around the edge of his beans. “I’m craving trout, or maybe catfish.” 

They heat dinner up over the fire and eat in silence, smoking and drinking as the logs burn to little more than charcoal and glowing, blistering bark. When the fire dies down it’s time for bed. It’s routine by now. They brush their teeth, spitting foam into the dwindling flames before using a water pail to douse what’s left of ‘em. Smoke and steam billow up toward the black satin sky, and Wolfwood watches it go, bringing one last cigarette to his lips. He’ll have to roll more tomorrow. 

He turns expecting to find Nai still outside—either kicking dirt onto the fire or wishing his horse goodnight—but he’s already gone. Wolfwood is alone. The tent has been left open and the flap quivers in the gentle breeze. It’s as good an invitation as Wolfwood is gonna get.

He places his cigarette back in the holder and stows it in his breast pocket, crossing the campsite and kicking off his boots before ducking into the tent.

“On your knees then.” Nai never did seem like the kind to mince words. 

The air in the tent is cold, but it will warm up soon enough. Wolfwood sheds his coat and tosses it into the corner. He lowers himself down on his knees, sitting back on his heels as he watches Nai undress. From this angle, Wolfwod can see the dark shadow of the scars that run thick across his chest. He looks down at Wolfwood, expression expectant.

“Well… aren’t you going to get to work?”

Wolfwood could say something snarky. He could ruffle Nai’s feathers and rile him up—it’s not hard to do. But he doesn’t have it in him tonight. Tonight Wolfwood just wants to touch and taste and be good. It’s chilly and he’s tired. Even if Nai is frigid, lily-white, he’s still warm inside. If he’s sweet, maybe Nai will be too. 

Like a supplicant, Wolfwood crawls on hand and knee until he’s at Nai’s feet. To most men, Nai is intimidating enough when faced eye-to-eye, but to look up at him from the ground is somethin’ else. He’s imposing—more like awe-inspiring, really. Wolfwood isn’t sure if he’s looking up at an angel, or the reflection of the devil from below. Though by now he’s gathered the two are one in the same—it just depends on which side you find yourself.

Nai’s alabaster skin glows even without any light for it to reflect, and his thick lashes nearly touch his cheekbones as he looks down on Wolfwood in silent judgment. There’s not much to the expression he wears, but as the seconds tick by, one brow furrows and then lifts a pinch. He reaches out with a broad palm and caresses Wolfwood's cheek. Even if the gesture is gentle, the impression it gives is anything but tender. 

Nai’s thumb brushes slowly back and forth over the apple of his cheek—like he’s wiping away a tear. Wolfwood imagines Nai would like to see him cry. Maybe someday he’ll let him. At the thought of it, Wolfwood’s lips part around a shaky exhale. Nai’s finger slips unexpectedly into the corner of his mouth, thumbing curiously at the inside of his cheek. It’ll feel like velvet—Wolfwood knows from experience—hot, soft, and wet. 

When Nai is satisfied with his exploration, he pauses, staring softly down at Wolfwood. It makes his stomach flip and pinch, cock swelling against his zipper. Nai’s eyes spark with somethin’ unholy, and then he’s pulling Wolfwood’s cheek harshly to the side. His head dips into the movement, trying to ease the painful stretch of his lips, but his eyes well up at the sting anyway. 

Hooking his thumb, Nai yanks Wolfwood forward. He smiles, small and contained, before he speaks.

“I am the gate.” In the silence of the night, Nai’s voice has the power to make the air inside the tent quiver. “Whoever enters by Me, he will be saved.” 

Wolfwood chuckles. He’s close enough now to smell him—warm, sweet, and intoxicating. Saliva pools in his mouth and he struggles to swallow it down.

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd who gives his life for the sheep,” Nai continues. He keeps pulling Wolfwood forward, until the tip of his proud nose bumps inside his slit. 

He’ll start drooling soon if Nai doesn’t remove his thumb.

“ The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.” 

Wolfwood wants a taste so badly that he has to bite his tongue to stop from seeking it out.

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd gives His life for the sheep. But a hireling—he who is not the shepherd, one who does not own the sheep—sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and flees.”

“Does that make me the hired hand, or the thief?” Wolfwood asks around the finger in his mouth. His words are muffled against tulip lips, fair curls of coarse hair tickling his weather-worn skin. His dark eyes drink in nothing but the angelic face hovering above him, staring down in faux benevolence. He speaks as if addressing a child. 

“You are the wolf, Nicholas. A thief driven by his own selfishness and carnal, rudimentary desires.” Nai hums, thoughtful, and then lets out a tired sigh, his posture sagging slightly.

“And what kind of shepherd would I be to cower at the sight of a beast? Even the wolf can be brought into the fold if it is trained right.” 

As the last words are spoken, Nai withdraws his hand, pulling his thumb from the pocket of Wolfwood’s cheek and letting it fall lightly to his side.

It’s both permission and an order. Wolfwood has been let off his lead. He surges forward like a hound starving, tongue unfurling to lap at Nai’s small cock that’s quickly hardening against his upper lip.

Wolfwood shifts, sitting once again on his heels and tipping his head back for a better angle. He drags his teeth carefully, drawing Nai into his mouth and sucking gently. His hands wrap around Nai’s firm calves and squeeze. 

Nai’s legs are covered in pale down, and it drags against Wolfwood’s palms as he slides them up the back of his legs. When he reaches the top of his thighs, Wolfwood squeezes again and his fingertips brush the wet of his cunt. It makes Wolfwood press harder to him, tilting his head back and breathing out through his nose as he flattens his tongue.

The taste of Nai will always remind Wolfwood of spring in the mountains. Of warm days and chilly nights; of shockingly cold, freshwater streams, muddy banks, and blooming wildflowers. Even years from now—when his tongue hasn’t touched Nai for some time—he’ll think of that taste and recall grass and sunshine, the hum of bees, and the trill of starlings. He knows it sounds like a goddamn fairytale, but a cunt that sweet could rightly be called a dream. It was a transformative kind of experience. Close to Godliness. In Wolfwood’s book, anyhow. 

Going down on Nai for the first time had been a baptism of sorts. He was doused and redeemed, forever changed by the sacrament of Nai’s own design. 

The day of his purification had occurred not long after Wolfwood stumbled upon Nai bathing in the river, milk-colored skin turned strawberry from the cold water and midday sun. 

His own loud, teasing, wolf-whistle cracked through the air at the sight of those sculpted shoulders and bare backside, and Nai had startled, dropping his bar of soap into the stream.

Wolfwood was too busy stripping down and skipping his way across the rocky bank to notice the tension that seized Nai’s posture. He clipped him on his way into the water, catching Nai’s shoulder carelessly as he ran by, stark naked and holding his balls. 

It wasn’t until he emerged, tossing his head to fling the water from his shaggy black hair, that Wolfwood realized what was (or rather, wasn’t) between Nai’s legs. 

It would work out that the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen ended up belonging to a man. 

Nai crossed his arms and stared him down from the shallows, haughty and challenging. Proud, even. Maybe he was expecting Wolfwood to get angry or flustered. But if there was anything that could ruffle Nicholas Wolfwood, it surely wasn’t that. A wolf is never one to turn down a meal, and my, what big eyes he has.

A sharp tug at the roots of his hair pulls Wolfwood back to the present. His neck is starting to ache and a tear escapes from beneath his closed eyelids at the burn of his scalp. His eyes flutter open, drifting up to look at Nai. 

From this angle, all he can see is the long column of his neck and the underside of his sharp chin. He’s rocking his hips back and forth, sliding himself across Wolfwood’s tongue, slippery and soaking. Every so often the hook of Wolfwood’s nose catches on Nai’s swollen cock, making his fingers twitch in Wolfwood’s hair. 

Maybe he should remember Nai like this. Tasting of pine, leather, campfire, and moonlight. He should remember that Nai is more of a nightmare than a dream; more devil than angel. But even if this is how they fuck most nights—with Wolfwood on his knees—he can’t help but recall that first time they had lain together. 

He yearns for it with the same desperation a sinner wishes to relive their first time meeting God. The first time repenting in church, ferried up to The Father by the clawed talons of a swarming, starving congregation. Nothing cures loneliness like company, and what loves company more than misery? 

Nothing is quite like your first time. All that gaping loneliness filled up with the “love of God” and the falsified acceptance of your peers. But even an imitation still soothes. So, like a drunk on Sunday easing his hangover with intoxicating lies of hope and forgiveness, Wolfwood crawls towards the altar of Nai. On bended knee, he lifts his chin up to pray. Sure, it’s all make-believe—a blind grab at comfort—but it’s a balm to his restless, burning soul. Hair of the dog. 

Even now, Wolfwood can still feel the chill of the water as he emerged from beneath the surface of the stream. Can still feel the weightlessness as the current pulled all around him. Every deep breath he takes between Nai’s legs is like being baptized all over again. Even if he were only allowed to admire during that first encounter.

“Well, I’ll show you mine then. It’s only fair, right?”

Wolfwood stands up out of the water, and it runs in thick rivulets down his back and stomach. The man is no fool. He’s well aware of what he looks like, and he’s practiced in using it to his advantage. Tall and long-legged with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, he’s plenty accustomed to the types of lingering, sideways glances like Nai is giving him now. 

His long eyes—framed by a fan of dark lashes thick enough to make any girl jealous—are a brooding, toasted honey, and his teeth are as white as the snow caps in the near distance. Even with a farmer’s tan, his skin is handsome and inviting—warm chestnut where he’s usually covered up, and tanned a rich mahogany where his shirt don’t cover. He pushes through the stream, fighting the drag of the water as it rises and parts around his naked thighs.

“Well, someone’s mighty proud of themselves…” Nai begrudges, staring pointedly down between Wolfwood’s legs. 

“God only gave me so many blessings.” Wolfwood flashes a sharp grin, one shoulder shrugging casually. “It would be rude to deny him praise where it’s due.” 

Nai's only response is to roll his eyes. 

They’re still new companions, a few weeks in on their months-long migration through the mountains. It’s enough to learn that Nai is a pious man. And a pescatarian. He’s arrogant and firm in his beliefs. Smart, too. Annoyingly so. He’s not the kind to be easily convinced of anything and is mostly quiet unless he gets to preaching about something.

Wolfwood approaches Nai, confident but with his gaze trained on the glacial blue of his eyes. Nai has to squint in the high, afternoon sun, and water has clumped his lashes. They remind Wolfwood of wings, feathers thick and white. When he’s got close enough to discover the freckles decorating Nai’s collarbones and shoulders, he stops.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. Swear I won’t touch you. Not if you ain’t want me to.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Well, that’s fine enough then.” Wolfwood nods and looks down, smiling to himself. Something catches his eye under the clear water and he bends down, fishing out the bar of soap from between the rocks.

Nai shifts, as if to grab it back from him, but Wolfwood quickly puts it to his sternum, rubbing it into a lather across his chest, over his delts, and then under his arms. 

“You don’t mind if I borrow this, right, cowboy?”

He scrubs lower, brushing the soap down his abdomen and running it across his belly. 

“Don’t bother. You can keep it.” Nai seethes, dropping his arms and damn near stamping his foot. If he were anyone else, Wolfwood would laugh. But he imagines Nai isn’t the type to appreciate being laughed at.

He must be able to see it in Wolfwood’s eyes because he turns heel and stomps his way back to the shore, throwing on his clothes and heading back to camp without a backward glance. 

Not even a week later, their roles were reversed. 

Nai found Nicholas on the bank of some other stream, stretched out on his blanket with water still clinging to the smattering of hair on his chest. His eyes were closed, face turned up to the sun, and a curious pinch on his brow. Nai watched, standing silent as a gazelle grazing while Nicholas fisted himself, slow and lazy—like the flies buzzing around in the grass. He had grown up with a brother, and had heard the sound of masturbating enough, but he hadn’t ever seen it. Not like this—proudly and shamelessly out in the open, instead of hidden under guilty sheets. 

He stood there like a scarecrow, knowing it was wrong, but unable to look away. It was with both envy and attraction, disgust and desire, that Nai watched. He shouldn’t…he knew that…but even David had Bathsheba.

Nicholas runs a large palm over his heavy, uncircumcised cock until the small of his back lifts up off the blanket, and the fat of his lower lip catches between his teeth. When the cadence of his stroking becomes erratic, and Nai is certain Nicholas is on the cusp of completing his sin, something dangerous bubbles up from his gut and compels him to speak.

“Does it really feel good enough to make you this stupid?” 

Nicholas chokes on a moan, releasing his dick and scrambling to his feet like a dog on a tile floor. His chest heaves and his eyes are glazed, but they still burn deep underneath their lust-infected haze. Like coals in dying fire. He lets out a few humorless breaths of laughter, running a hand through his hair in frustration. 

“Yes it feels good, you fuck’n—what, you never jerked off before?” 

Nai stares in silence. He hadn’t. Not really. It always felt wrong to him. Bone deep wrong. Nothing like a normal sin—like lyin’ to Rem to save Vash’s skin, or cheating on a test if he got stuck on an answer. 

He doesn’t say a word, but Nicholas is smart enough to hear what he don’t say.

“You—you’ve never come, have you?” He asks, eyebrows shooting up to disappear under his messy hair. “Do…do ya’ want to?” 

Not a word is spoken. Nicholas lets out a puff of air, running a hand through his hair and pushing it off his forehead as he looks out across the mountains. It falls slowly back down over his brow all disheveled and out of sorts. He seems to be thinking hard about something. When he comes to the end of it, he meets Nai’s eyes from under his lashes.

“Everyone deserves to feel good, Nai. It ain’t a sin to enjoy the body God gave to ya’.” 

He approaches through the tall grass, and Nai recalls a painting he’d once seen of Eve in The Garden. Beautiful and tempting in her shameless nudity. Nicholas stops an arm’s length away and lets out a sigh. 

“I’ll keep my promise, I won’t touch you if you say so. But, I’d like to try…?” He smiles and Nai can’t help but think that there’s probably never been a wolf dressed in fleece more handsome than Nicholas D. Wolfwood. 

“…Might help get that stick out of your ass n’all.” 

Too bad his mouth is as foul as they come.

“You’ve ruined it.” Nai sniffs, looking away.

“Aw, don’t say that. C’mon… here…let me…” 

The first part of him that Nicholas touches is his wrist. His fingers encircle the bone, leading him gently across the bank over to where the blanket is laid out. Nai kicks off his boots and loses an inch of the height between them. He swallows, staring at the scruff on Nicholas’ chin as he undoes every ivory button on Nai’s shirt with ease, pushing it from his shoulders with calloused, work-worn hands. 

One of those hands finds a hold on his hip and tries to pull him in. Nai takes a step back instead, shoving Nicholas away by the chest. His heart is pounding enough to make him lightheaded, blood rushing through his ears as he gasps for breath badly enough to make you believe he’d run a mile uphill. He’s scared yellow of pushing forward, but more afraid of the fact that they’ve already gone this far. 

Nicholas pauses, observing Nai with a tilt to his head. The wolf is not discouraged by the rejection. Curious, he presses forward again. He grabs Nai by the wrists again, both of them this time, tugging them down as he leans in and puts his lips to the side of Nai’s neck. Their chests brush, skin warm and clinging. It’s the only other place they connect. 

The sensations are foreign. It tickles, but not in an unpleasant way. Nicholas’ lips are still cool from his swim, but his tongue is warm where it flicks against Nai’s skin. 

It’s a sinful tongue, driving away all of Nai’s good, Christian thoughts as it trails up the side of his neck and jaw, begging for entrance at the seam of his lips. 

Nicholas steadies himself with a hand on Nai’s hip. This time he isn’t shoved away. His spare hand comes up, cupping the back of Nai’s skull as he finally connects them, chest to knee, licking into his mouth. He moves slow enough that Nai can copy the cadence of his tongue, but fast enough to chase away his rationality and keep it at bay. 

Wolfwood tastes like temptation. Like cigarettes, whiskey, and earth. But he also tastes like salt and sun-soaked skin. Like melted snow that’s run downhill over miles and miles of rocks, wearing them down until they’re flat. Until they’re broken apart. Until they’re dust.

It should feel disgusting to have another man’s tongue rolling against his own, but instead, it warms Nai’s belly, raising the temperature until sweat begins to prick the back of his neck. Unbidden, his hands find their way to the small of Wolfwood's back, reveling in the way just one can span so much of it. It’s a whore’s waist—built for holding on to. 

Nai must be sun drunk to let Nicholas kiss him down onto the blanket; it has to be some spell he’s cast that allows Nai to be stripped naked and laid under another man. A man whose hands are on either side of his head, thighs pressed up under his own, and erection laying heavy against Nai’s pelvis. 

Nicholas bends forward, first kissing him on the mouth and then his neck, down to his collarbone and over a nipple. He scoots down the blanket, and Nai feels like he can breathe easier without the weight pressing between his legs. The wolf dips his tongue into his belly button, nibbling gently at the skin before moving lower, kissing the hood of his cunt. 

He’d always hated the way Rem used to call it his flower. The problem with flowers is that people always want to pick them. Ruin them. Kill them. A garden is a place of fragility.

“Touch me like you touched yourself.” Nai demands, tucking his chin to look down at Wolfwood.

“Like I touched myself?” Nicholas looks genuinely confused, hovering above the plump erection Nai can see peeking from between his own parted thighs. Then it dawns on him. 

“Nai—getting your dick sucked… there’s nothing better. A mouth always feels better than a hand. Will you trust me on this—or at the very least believe me? I promise to make it good.”

Nai stares for a long moment. With one simple nod, he dooms himself. 

He blooms on Nicholas’ tongue and into his mouth. The man bobs his head, sucking him in and caressing him with a velveteen tongue. He changes pace, lapping inside and making room for fingers that reach deep enough to ache. He mouths at a spot that seems to unfurl from someplace within, right at the top of his entrance—a place he didn't know was sensitive until it was licked clean and raw. 

Nai’s cock twitches, thighs shaking violently as a tidal wave of pleasure radiates from his core all the way to his fingertips and toes. He cries out as it rushes up his spine, making him jackknife off the blanket and release enough cum to overflow Nicholas’ mouth and leave a spot on the blanket. 

Spent and sweating like a whore in church, he watches from beneath his heavy eyelids as Nicholas licks the shine off his lips and sits up on his knees. He wipes his fingers through the wet between Nai’s legs and uses it to touch himself. He masturbates while staring between Nai’s legs until ropes of translucent white catch in the hair on his chest and stomach. 

After that, most of their nights were spent with Nai’s cock on Nicholas’ tongue. 

Cumming made Nai feel close to God—made him feel like God. And if he were God, he could save a sinner. Even one as bad off as Nicholas. 

Nai won’t admit that Nicholas’ affections are more than he is capable of accepting—more, even, than he is able to come to terms with. It’s much easier for him to accept that what Nicholas offers isn’t real. Isn’t even about him. Nicholas is just a lost soul looking for salvation.

If history has taught Nai anything, it’s that folks need something to believe in. As long as there’s an altar, people will worship. Build it and he will come. For a man like Nicholas, it doesn’t matter who or what he believes in as long as there’s something that can fill him. Cigarettes, booze, God, rage. Sex. If it’s all the same, why can’t it be Nai? At least Nai can watch over and guide him. At least Nai is a good shepherd.  

And isn’t that what he’s doing now? Standing in this battered tent that serves as their place of worship, Nai is guiding Nicholas. Providing for him, fulfilling him, and giving him a place to atone.

Nicholas pulls away from between his thighs and looks up at him, eyes glazed and chin shining. Nai knows he’s about to say something stupid when the corner of his mouth lifts up, the tip of his canine peaking out. My, what big teeth he has.

“What was that you said before?” He asks, voice raspy. “About he who enters you?” 

“You’re so crass, Nicholas.” Nai’s fist unclenches, releasing his hold on Wolfwood’s hair. With a sigh as light as down, he places his palm upside down on Wolfwood’s throat, fingers curling around the side of his neck. He gives a gentle squeeze, and then drags his touch leisurely upwards, until Wolfwood’s chin hangs off the tip of his index finger.

“You think you deserve that?” 

Wolfwood doesn't answer but sits up off of his heels and rises to his knees. Nai’s touch falls away, hands hanging against his thighs as Wolfwood’s own rough palms slide to the small of Nai’s back. Wolfwood pulls him close and leans in to place his tongue underneath Nai’s cock. He kisses with an open mouth, slow and indulgent. It feels a lot like worship. 

If he’s being truthful, it always has between them—Nai, the angel, and Nicholas the beast who glorifies him. 

Wolfwood pours his devotion into the roll of his tongue, into the kneading of his fingertips, into the sigh that becomes a moan, vibrating from his chest, up through his throat, and straight into the slice of heaven Nai holds between his legs. 

Maybe Nai is right. Maybe Wolfwood is nothing but a dog out hunting for eggs; a wolf circling the pen, lookin’ for a way in to steal his fill. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re born, but not loved. Maybe a man just grows crooked when he has to fight for what most get for free.  

All things considered, Wolfwood is decent—though public opinion might vary depending on who you ask. He’ll be the first to admit that he’s weaseled his way into too many warm beds, raiding roosts of hens and cocks alike. A wolf is always hungry. After a while, he felt no shame in it. In this world, survival isn't meant for the weak, nor the soft. Don’t people always say that God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers?

As different as the two might be, Wolfwood knows that Nai is a man who can appreciate that kind of sentiment. But appreciatin’ it and livin’ it ain’t really the same. As much as that man tries to hide it, Nai’s blood is about as thin as it comes. His skin is just a bit thicker, is all. 

Wolfwood can’t help but wonder if that’s not the kind of sentiment that’s been playing out between the two of them. Have they been put in each other's path just to act as some sort of trial? To test the strength of their commitments—Nai to God, and Wolfwood to himself. If that’s the case, Wolfwood can play his part. It’s what he’s always been good at, after all. 

Tonight Wolfwood is careful as he pushes two fingers into Nai’s cunt. He works slowly, until Nai’s breath turns ragged and he begins to drip down Wolfwood’s wrist. 

Nai doesn’t lay his hands on Wolfwood again until he’s cumming—knees knocking together as he wraps his fingers around the back of Wolfwood's head, holding him firmly in place as he rides the pad of his tongue.

The air of the tent has gone warm and Nai’s heart beats so hard he can feel it behind his eyes. Nicholas continues to tease with his mouth and it makes Nai’s skin jump with sensitivity. He tries to swat him away, but Nicholas grabs the back of his legs and won’t budge. 

“Shhh… shhh… Angel,” Nicholas murmurs in the dark, shushing him with wet lips still pressed against his skin. He kisses a desperate path from his folds up to his belly button, dragging his teeth against the soft skin of his belly in a way that has Nai’s eyes fluttering. 

The wolf is still hungry and he leaves a shining trail, glistening in the low light, where his mouth has been. Without much warning he rushes up to his feet, cupping Nai’s face and pulling him close. His mouth is warmer than normal—almost uncomfortably so—and the taste of tobacco and whiskey is laced through with a sweet and intoxicating musk. It’s him. Nai. He can taste himself on Nicholas’ tongue. A flower plucked and consumed. Crushed, no matter how gentle the teeth gnash.

Nai would never admit it, but Nicholas is good at a great many things. He excels at horse riding, at keeping constant count of the sheep, at smellin’ a storm out of the air, and picking out the best spot to camp. He’s good with a knife. Nai has seen him filet fish, and whittle countless little crosses out of fallen branches, tossing their bodies into the fire. And he’s good—real good—at this. At kissin’, and making Nai cum hard enough that it feels like he's floated off to see God himself. But after each time when he opens his eyes again, he only ever finds his own reflection staring back.

Hungry hands drag down Nai’s shoulders and squeeze at his waist, asking wordlessly to lay him down. Maybe it’s the weakness that still lingers in his knees, but Nai goes down without a fight. They break only long enough for Nicholas to pull his shirt over his head. 

As soon as his head is free—dark hair tousled and lost in the shadows—he leans back into their kiss and pulls his belt loose with one hand. The sigh of a zipper, the jingle of a belt buckle, and the scratch of skin against thick, quality denim is unnaturally loud to Nai’s ears. Somehow, the tent feels even darker now that he's on the ground. The shadows around them stretch and reach like the naked branches of a petrified tree or the cold, black flames of Hell. 

Nai bears the extra weight as Nicholas lays himself down, skin to bare skin. He’s bracing his weight to one side, knuckles bumping into Nai’s thighs as he grabs hold of his own erection.

He fists himself a few times, biting his lip as he aims the head of his cock between Nai’s legs. He pushes his hips forward, sinking into Nai’s flesh, and a hiss cuts through the dark. The stretch is new, but not painful. 

“ Jesus…” Wolfwood breathes into the humid air between them. 

Jesus. Nai thinks to himself, with a smile. 

Nicholas moves against him in the dark, the rolling of his hips fluid and slow. When they’re pressed flush together, he reaches so much further than his fingers. The tip of his cock kisses deep, and the feeling is at first sharp—like tearing—and then dull and aching. The spark of pain soothes over quickly, cauterized and numbed by hot pleasure.

He wants more. More worship. More of Nicholas. More of feeling carved out and filled up. If the wolf is willing to be devout, Nai wants to be the altar he kneels before. An angel of deliverance. 

He can feel it building. Simmering deep in his belly. The way that it forms is different from his other orgasms. It’s elusive, teasing as it slips away from his grasp. Every so often Nicholas brushes by it, as if by accident. He makes Nai chase it, leaning into the tide of his hips, gritting his teeth and gasping when the angle is right. 

The wolf is perceptive. My, what big ears he has. 

“There?”

Nai doesn’t answer with words, but with the way his head pushes back into the blankets with a broken moan. After that, Nicholas doesn’t miss. He pulls away and grips behind Nai’s knees, pressing them towards his chest. He stops pulling his hips back so far, keeping his thrusts short and contained. Relentless. Nearly grinding. The snake in Nai’s gut coils tighter, rearing its head and preparing to strike. 

Rage flashes through Nai. He’s suddenly furious—at Nicholas for taking him apart so easily, at himself for inviting a wolf into the garden, and at God, for denying him. 

Nai lifts his head from the pillow and watches as Nicholas penetrates him. His own cock is swollen and hard, flushed nearly purple. It looks so pretty nestled against Nicholas’ girth. It’s the sight of their two cocks dragging against one another that finally does Nai in. 

The snake in his belly lunges forward, sinking its teeth into his womb and releasing its venom, making him cry out. Poison disguised as pleasure is delivered straight into his bloodstream. Ungovernable moans radiate from Nai like ripples in a stream as his cunt clenches, flutters, and spasms.

“Fuck Angel… You’re gunna… I’m gunna…. ” 

It isn’t until Nai slaps a hand over Nicholas’ mouth that he realizes his hands were curled into his back, tearing into his flesh like claws—like he were a beast himself. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but there might be blood under his fingernails. 

Nicholas pulls back abruptly, leaving Nai feeling chilled and empty. Sitting on his heels, thighs spreading over his calves, Nicholas drops his head back so that he’s staring at the roof of the tent. His neck shines with a thin film of sweat, and his chest heaves as his hand moves furiously over his weighty cock. A wet, lewd shlick echoes, bouncing back and forth between Nai’s ears. He’s heard this sound before. In the dark, when his brother thought he was sleeping. 

Vash tried to keep quiet, but Nai was always there, bearing witness. 

When Nicholas drops his chin to stare down at Nai, his smile is bright and wolfish. It hangs in the dark, almost cartoonish. It borders on arrogant, but is, at the very least, maddeningly proud.  

Spite begins to curdle in Nai’s blood. Maybe if he were clearer-headed he would think before acting. But Nai is past the point of return. He’s been cracked open, but not filled up—not yet. He’s been discovered, stripped bare. And in being seen he’s finally been awakened. He’s finally come face to face with himself. He no longer sees himself, but a direct reflection of God.

He has found the path forward to sovereignty. Acceptance in this body that has done nothing but betray him. He hasn’t allowed the wolf to violate him—not yet. He’s lured him into the garden and straight into a trap. It might be at Nicholas’ hands that Nai has found this part of himself, but like hell Nai will let anyone feel like they’ve pulled the wool over his eyes. 

His lips curl in a smile laced with malice. 

“The Lord detests the proud of heart,” he whispers, seething. “Be sure of this: They will not go unpunished.”

Nicholas’ hand slows and the smile begins to fall from his lips. Before he can speak, Nai lunges, knocking him back against the earth with a grunt. Nai mounts him, crawling atop his prone form and sitting down on his belly. He wraps his hands around the wolf’s thick neck and squeezes until the tendons protest. Nicholas doesn’t fight him, instead he laughs. 

Pained and wheezing, he has the audacity to laugh and bear his teeth.

Nai raises up on his knees and Nicholas brings his hands to Nai’s wrists, circling them but not trying to push him away. He arches his back, aiming his hips for Nai’s cunt, but Nai grabs his cock with one hand and aims him lower. Further back. 

There’s a way around his vile sin.

When he was younger, Nai used to touch himself. In the dark he’d listen to his brother’s muffled moans carryin’ across their shared room. From his own twin bed, Nai’s curious, traitorous fingers would touch where it wouldn’t count. He didn’t lay a hand on his dick, nor his cunt.  He’d lay there in the dark, tucked under the covers, fingering himself without pleasure just to feel a little less left out. Just because he was jealous.

Before Nai sinks down he remembers a verse that both emboldens and absolves him. 

This is God’s will. 

Anchoring his weight on the hand still around Nicholas’ neck, he pushes his hips back and lowers himself down. As Nai swallows up his cock, body protesting, he murmurs the scripture into the air between them. 

“God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.”

It doesn’t feel good, not the penetration at least. What feels good is watching the way Nicholas’ eyes blow wide, his grip tightening on Nai’s wrist and his feet sliding on the blanket, searching for purchase as he feeds Nicholas’ cock into his ass. 

It’s uncomfortable and it burns, but it’s worth it for the way that Nicholas’ sounds go high-pitched and thready. Nai bounces on strong thighs, fucking himself and watching Nicholas struggle beneath him.

“S-slow down. God, f-fuck… slow down... ” 

“No.” 

Who is being cracked open now? Who is being remodeled in whose own image? 

Wolfwood begs pointlessly for Nai to have mercy. He wants this to last. His dick is growing sensitive, and the way Nai rides him—fierce and unrelenting—is starting to thread through with pain. It will only make him cum faster, and Wolfwood has a sneaking suspicion Nai knows as much. 

He’s being driven to his climax, corralled into a corner by the sharp crack of a whip and the snapping of pointed teeth. Even angels have fangs, and Wolfwood has no choice but to walk straight into this righteous fire. If Nai is his fateful trial of self-commitment, Wolfwood is willing to lose.  He’ll surrender to the man above him, and give in to the devil ringing him dry, riding him like a hell-bound horse.

Just when Wolfwood had started to grow accustomed to chasing that lie of imitation, Nai bestows on him an honest-to-God purgative—cleansing him from the inside out. The angel burns hot enough to eat through Wolfwood’s good sense, melting him into liquid gold and scraping away the impurities. Nai is like a refiner’s fire, intense and purifying. It reminds Wolfwood of a song that used to play at the orphanage.

There burns a fire with sacred heat

White hot with holy flame

And all who dare pass through its blaze

Will not emerge the same…

If he has to be clarified and forged, what better vessel—what a more beautiful crucible—than Nai Saverem?  

Wolfwood’s eyes roll back in his head as a long, broken cry is ripped from his lungs. He comes with the force of a freight train heading downhill, flexing against the scorching heat that cocoons him. 

Distantly he feels the angel’s hands wrap around his throat once again, and it only serves to bring him higher and higher. So far up he might be able to touch the stars that start to swim in his vision. 

When his cock stops twitching, and his consciousness begins to drip back into his body, Wolfwood opens his eyes to see Nai hovering above him, smiling from behind the pinpricks of light that dot his vision. After all these years, Wolfwood has finally laid eyes on God beyond the stars. 

Eventually, Wolfwood rolls over, slipping out of Nai even as he pulls him to his chest. Nai protests for only a moment before he stills, hand on Wolfwood's chest, half caressing and half holding him at bay. As the warm, cloying embrace of sleep begins to pull them under, a lone wolf howls somewhere out in the dark. Neither is sure if it’s real or merely a vestige from their dreams. 

In the morning Wolfwood wakes to an empty tent, but the blankets still hold a little warmth. With sleep-mussed hair and crusted-over eyes, he pulls on his jeans and buckles his belt. He finds his flannel shirt and pulls it on, too lazy to bother with the buttons this early in the morning. Finally, he fishes his cigarette case and lighter from his coat and steps into the boots he left just outside the tent. Nai’s are already gone. 

Wolfwood puts the cigarette to his lips—thanking God that he hadn’t smoked it last night—and heads for the river. He finds Nai in the shallows, covered head to toe in gooseflesh as he washes soap from his thighs. It isn’t until he reaches behind himself, fingers teasing at his puffy, pink rim that Wolfwood clears his throat to announce his presence. 

“You gotta clean it out or it’ll drip later.”  

Nai wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.” 

“Need some help?”

“Your fingers have been enough places today, I think.” Nai grumbles, but his cheeks go a little pink. Wolfwood nearly drops the cigarette from his mouth with the way his jaw goes slack. 

“Don’t have to be my fingers,” he drawls, recovering nicely and dragging his tongue along his teeth. 

Nai levels him with a hard gaze and then looks away quickly. Wolfwood swears to God that he very nearly cracked a smile. 

“Maybe next time.” 

When camp is packed and the horses loaded, they ride down to where the sheep have been sleeping. 

It’s Nai who finds it first. If it had been Wolfwood he would have tried to hide it. 

A lamb, with its pink nose and knobby knees, lays dead in the tall grass. Red soaks most of what was once snow-white wool. It’d be clear to anyone who spent time around a farm that it was a wolf who’d done it. 

“Don’t—it wasn’t…” Wolfwood starts, looking over to Nai with worry in his eyes. 

Nai is staring at the lamb. By either a stroke of good luck or God’s good grace, its eyes and mouth are still closed. If it weren’t for the blood, you could believe it was just sleeping. 

Nai kneels down and pinches the soft down of its ear between his fingers. He’s gentle, as if the lamb could still feel him. His voice is low and sad. 

“I am the good shepherd.” 

Wolfwood swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat. 

“And what am I?” 

Nai turns over his shoulder to look at him.

“You’re the wolf, Nicholas.”