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Vash Saverem loves lesbians. Truly, they are a staple of society vastly underappreciated and he would do anything for them. Theoretically. Potentially. Okay, anything but what one particular lesbian requests of him at this very moment. She’s a cute little thing–tiara crooked on her head, white sash that reads “bride” draped across her chest, burgundy drink between her fingers. Her fiancée stands tall behind her donning a matching tiara and sash, one hand on her partner’s shoulder, the other holding something with brandy in it.
Vash Saverem loves Meryl Stryfe and Milly Thompson. They’ve kept pace with their drinks tonight and their massive difference in build made for a very drunk Meryl and a buzzed Milly. It’s of no consequence; in Vash’s plan for their weekend-long bachelorette party, this evening was dedicated to a bar crawl where they pay for nothing and enjoy themselves as much as they want. He and another attendee both elected to remain sober and keep watchful eye on their friends. It’s the least he could do–they are a staple of his life and he would do anything for them. Theoretically. Potentially. Okay, anything but what Meryl requests of him at the moment.
“ ’m the princess of this bar and I declare you have to go talk to the hot bartender,” Meryl slurs, stumbling into Vash’s chest. The “princess” refers to the game Vash has had the group play. In one of his coat’s many pockets are slips of paper, each with a prompt that must be followed for that particular bar. In the first bar, they all were to swap drinks whenever someone mentioned Milly or Meryl’s name. In the second, they could only drink Vodka-based drinks, and so on and so forth. Vash had a collection of ideas of varying quality penned on tattered strips. There were a few he was certainly enthusiastic about, including the scrap that read “Meryl is a princess and we all must follow her lead.”
They truly did not examine the potential consequences of giving a short, wasted woman so much power.
The Eye is a shoddy space tucked between a tattoo shop and a take-out-only pizza joint. Brick walls and patchwork wood floors house far too many patrons for the tiny, rectangular space. If not for others in their party swearing the drinks made the claustrophobic scene worth it, Vash would’ve had them dip in minutes. Nearly all the mismatched bar stools are taken, the neon signs lining the walls cycle through flickering, sputtering out, then arbitrarily reviving, and the music is loud. Vash is honestly far too neurodivergent to be stone-cold sober in this atmosphere.
There are a few key details that keep him grounded away from overstimulation. The first is the reminder that he’s here for Milly and Meryl. The second is that one of the bartenders is so painfully, incomprehensibly, fucking attractive that it verges on ridiculous. Tan skin, messy dark hair tucked into a stubby low ponytail, a nose that demands to be sat on, stubble accentuating a jaw sharp enough to grate cheese–and that’s just his face. Apparently, the term “button-up” is simply a suggestion as this lovely creature has decided that only the bottom few buttons are necessary to fasten and he should allow his rippling pectorals to be displayed to the universe. And, y’know what! Good for him!
This bartender’s distaste for buttons likewise reveals that the tattoos that line one of his arms (because of course he has his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow and of course he has tattoos) are not contained to his forearm. Oh no, they extend up his bicep and shoulder and sneak onto his chest. He’s a work of art. A statue by Michelangelo…if Michelangelo’s sculptures had tattoos and instead of being carved to inspire people to pursue further Biblical knowledge, they inspired people to want to know others biblically.
Though Vash’s gaze has made recent habit of falling on this bartender, the moment they entered the bar they resolved to not approach him. Tonight is about Milly and Meryl, not some modern Adonis. Vash Saverem is really fucking gay but they also really fucking care about their friends and want to ensure their safety.
And yet.
“You better go talk to him!” Meryl huffs when her previous demand is met with silence, “or else I’ll be so sad.”
She starts to frown and Vash laughs, straightening her tiara as he explains, “Your Highness, it’s a knight’s duty to make sure you’re safe. I can’t do that if I’m attending to more, uh, commoner-type matters. Besides, I don’t have an excuse to talk to him and he doesn’t seem like the idle chit-chat type.”
Meryl purses her lips and narrows her eyes. She hums for a bit before her features illuminate. “Get a drink! I’m sure he makes great drinks. That’s why so many people are crowding around him!”
Vash finds himself chuckling again, internally reasoning that it’s because he looks like he walked out of the cover of a romance novel that he’s attracting so much attention, not his drinks. Externally, he reminds her, “You’re forgetting the safety part, Mer.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Vash!” Milly pipes up, “We will be fine. Remember, you’re not the only sober person here and I am barely feeling it myself. I think you deserve a drink too after all the wonderful things you have set up for us.”
God bless Milly. Vash turns to the other sober person who gives him a thumbs-up and a smile. Something still doesn’t feel quite right, so he starts, “Well, I guess if you think it’s okay. But what about–”
Milly cuts him off, wearing a wide beam. “If it helps at all, he clearly thinks you’re very attractive too! He keeps looking over here whenever he’s doing something that could be deemed impressive like a trick and he flexes as he wipes down the bar.”
Vash blinks once. Twice. Within moments he’s planted firmly at a recently opened barstool.
Another bartender, one with navy hair and cruel golden eyes, steps in front of Vash’s position and opens his mouth to speak. Vash doesn’t like his vibe. By some grace above, the walking definition of lust slides over and bumps hip with the intruder. He mumbles something into his coworker’s ear and gestures to a group of patrons down the line. The bad-vibe guy nods and shuffles to help the others, leaving Vash seated a few feet away from fruit dripping with sin. And by “fruit,” he means those damn tits. Plump and squeezable, hanging deliciously between open shirt as the bartender leans over the glossy wooden counter.
Vash doesn’t even have time to cringe internally at his desire to take a bite, to learn the knowledge of good and evil. He’s never considered himself one to stare! He hates to be that person and objectify a stranger. Vash doesn’t even have time to cringe because the bartender pipes up, “What’ll it be, Spikes?”
Their head whips up and they deem that gravelly voice of his unfair. A serpent’s tone to match the apple’s gleam. Vash isn’t even religious and yet they sense that they’re being tested as Eve was.
Oh!
Vash isn’t religious. He can flirt with sin. He doesn’t believe in some cosmic consequence to following the snake’s hiss. Something within him settles and he places both elbows on the table and folds his fingers into a hammock for his chin. “Dealer’s choice.”
They’re met with a raised brow. “Any restrictions?”
“Nope! I trust you.” Vash hits him with their famous beam, the one that has even the stoniest rendered soft for him.
“That fake ass smile makes me think you’re just saying shit.”
His expression plummets. It’s like he rolled a nat one at a critical point in a campaign. Expertise couldn’t even save him. If but for a moment, his brows furrow, and irritation nips at his stomach. He’ll simply have to be a tad more creative with this puzzle. Any tabletop game offers a multitude of solutions.
“I was just trying to reassure you,” he promises with gentle laugh, peeling away from the counter’s glossy surface, “besides, why wouldn’t I trust someone with a Virgin Mary tattoo?”
Vash’s eyes flicker down to his forearm simply to confirm. The work is truly stunning–a hyperrealistic piece of black and white. Thin lines form the image of the saint, shawl draped over her hair, gaze falling to her hands. Her expression is serene as she prays, rosary dangling between closed palms, a halo peeking from behind her head. She nearly tucks into where his shirt has been rolled to, but it seems intentional that her entire form is revealed. From under the fabric’s cover, Vash catches roses and skulls peeking out. He catches some form of a design on the back of the bartender’s hand but, determined to no longer ogle the man, his gaze returns upwards and he doesn’t have enough time to make sense of it.
“Ya really think everyone who goes to mass is Catholic?” the other man counters, tossing a rag over his shoulder.
“And when’s the last time you went to mass?”
A scoff. “What’d’ya think, Blondie?”
“Got a lot of nicknames for me, don’t you?” they reply before humming and pretending to be deep in thought. Their eyes roll up and they lean back onto the counter. A guess follows. “A few weeks at least.”
“Years,” he corrects as he begins to collect bottles of various liquor. “Was told I was goin’ to hell for starin’ too long at pretty blonds with spikey hair and sweet baby blues.”
Satisfaction and excitement spike within Vash. Milly was right; he had caught the bartender’s attention. Not that Milly had made a habit of being wrong. He figures that nat one from earlier wasn’t as brutal as predicted–he’s rolling with advantage.
Satisfaction and excitement spike within Vash. It makes him grin, genuine and real. The bartender nonchalantly says, “That type-a smile looks better on you.”
“Are you this forward with all your patrons, Mr…?”
“Wolfwood. And fuck no.”
Vash rather enjoys being special. But, he’s doubtful of the status. He searches stormy eyes for hint of a lie and finds the skies are everclear. Well, he’ll take the ego boost! He doesn’t quite know what he did to attract the dictionary definition of sex to his welcome mat, but who is he to not swing the front door open and let the honored guest in for libations?
There’s a pause in Wolfwood’s preparations and one of Vash’s hands slithers forward, ghosting against the Guadalupe. “She’s gorgeous. I love the shading.”
Wolfwood rolls his arm, inviting the touch. “She damn better be. Spent my whole first paycheck on her. Lived on beans for a week.”
The underside of his forearm exposed, Vash catches a faded line of black dots that vaguely read “hi” if they squint. They tap it, noting the surprising softness of the skin there, and smile. “Is this what she’s praying for?”
Wolfwood chuckles and retracts the limb, returning to the act of preparing his concoction. Vash is finally able to discern the enigmatic tattoos that ornament his hand as Wolfwood squeezes a lemon into a silver shaker. Extending along each finger is a map of the bones that lie underneath skin and muscle; the tattooed anatomy disappears at each knuckle as skeleton slips beneath the petals of a blooming rose. Watching the etchings curl around the fruit has Vash’s mouth watering in ways that could not be attributed to just being excited for his drink.
“Stick-and-poke,” Wolfwood explains, “first day of freedom, me and mi hermanito in our freshman dorm. The alcohol was cheap and I was stupid. He got upset I wasn’t doin’ it right in my drunken state and finished it for me. It’s why the ‘i’ looks better than the ‘h.’”
“I have a stick-and-poke on my thigh!” Vash laughs, “similar story, even. Though it’s only half done because I knew my roommate would yell at me if she caught me. I heard her coming and skedaddled so fast. Poor little bumblebee, forever only half done. I could finish it but I always forget about it and it’s been years .”
The bartender smiles ever so slightly as he rims a glass with sugar. “Got any more tats?”
“Mostly on my legs, yeah.” Vash raises their voice to breach the clanging of a shaking can. They wave their mechanical hand and continue, “This is a sleeve in and of itself. I have some pretty neat designs down there, though. I kind of owe my life to biomechanics and I have always had a big green thumb so I wanted something that’d combine the two. I have a few pieces of biomech work with vines and flowers woven in.”
Wolfwood’s eyebrows raise as he listens, mouth forming a “O.” Vash can’t help the pleased little smile that inches onto his features; he considers it an honor to wear the work of the artist that transformed his mishmash of erratic ideas into solid masterpieces. As he pours the soft red drink into the prepared glass, the bartender asks, “Got any pictures? That sounds sick as fuck”
Vash takes the drink betwixt his fingers, fully planning on whipping out his phone and displaying the stunning ink that graces his legs. Admittedly, he’s never been particularly smooth but occasionally he is blessed by Eros himself with a line or two. A flirtatious arrow strikes as the drink hits his tongue–an arc of sweet then tangy that goes down the throat easy. He hums, pleased with Wolfwood’s choice. “I do have pictures,” he starts before taking another taste, “but I was hoping I could just show you later, actually.”
Oh, fuck yeah! That was so cool.
The offer earns him a bemused huff from his opposite. “Are you this forward with all your admirers, Mr…?”
“Vash. And fuck no.”
Another bemused huff.
Oh yeah, I’m doing so well!
Apparently, they wear their giddiness like a brand as after a beat, Wolfwood comments, “Either you’re happy as a pig with that little exchange, or the drink I made is the shit.”
Vash’s smile falters slightly and they still, only then realizing their shoulders have been bouncing. “It is a good drink. Why’d you pick this one?”
Before he’s given an answer, the blond’s heart sinks lower as Wolfwood’s attention is peeled away to someone else. The reminder that Wolfwood is working shatters the illusion that the bar is empty save for the two of them, and in its cracks seeps a certain sadness. Perhaps Wolfwood is an excellent liar, perhaps this charisma is simply for a better tip. He stares solemnly into the half-empty glass, perking up again when Milly’s promise that Wolfwood has hinted at interest since the moment the party entered rings in his brain.
“You do this long enough you start to read people.” That rasp has Vash’s head snapping up. Wolfwood plucks various bottles and fruits and sodas and returns to right in front of Vash. “Could tell from the moment you walked in that you were one of those sweet types with some bite that you’re tryna hide. Something ‘bout the way your ass walked in; I dunno. Got me interested, though.”
They can do nothing but gawk at him, rendered functionally speechless. They wonder if this is another Milly-type of person, someone whose demeanor betrays an uncanny ability to read people. Though, admittedly, Vash doesn’t consider themselves to have that much of a sour side. Perhaps in another life where, say, their twin had genocidal tendencies and they’re some sort of criminal on the run and they’re forced to watch those close to them suffer until they hit their breaking point or something…Maybe? But this life? Nah. But they suppose…
Vash springs out of the fog of amazement. “Really? You picked up on all that?”
Wolfwood snorts once. Twice. Then proceeds to burst into laughter. “I’m screwin’ with ya! This is just the shit I make whenever people can’t decide what they want and don’t have any preferences.”
“Oh.” He offers an awkward smile in return before half-heartedly attempting to laugh with him. “You got me there!”
“Raspberry lemon drop,” Wolfwood explains, eyes on his own hands as they work, “For next time you don’t got an idea of what to order.”
“Thanks.”
There’s a long pause and Vash scrounges his thoughts for ways to continue conversation that did not involve ordering another drink. He knows his time is limited, not only in this bar itself but with this leg of the bachelorette party. Meryl wouldn’t be able to take much more. Well, she may want to but it wouldn’t be wise. He nurses the final drops of his drink as Wolfwood attends to other customers, trying not to listen to various people throw themselves at Wolfwood as he had earlier, trying not to dwell on the sparks of joy that pop whenever Wolfwood rather harshly turns them down.
Vash sends his head back and finds the rest of his crowd. Their laughter, dance, and merriment are a balm on Vash’s nerves. Milly catches his gaze for but a moment, beaming bright as any star and tossing him an encouraging thumbs-up. He returns the smile and swivels back around, only to be met by the sight of those glittering pectorals. Like, actually, glittering. The sheen of sweat on curly dark hair, neatly trimmed, has them gleaming. The silver cross that dangles on his sternum is doing nothing to draw attention away. Though, admittedly, the one (well, two) thing(s) that are truly make it impossible to keep his focus anywhere but Wolfwood’s body are the damn piercings running straight through his nipples.
“Want round two?” Wolfwood asks, not bothering to remind Vash where his eyes are.
“Not tonight. I have a drunk bride-to-be to get home safely. I’m not really used to having to be the responsible one, y’know? So I’m trying hard.”
“Good on ya’. Maybe another time.”
“Yeah…” Quick, Vash! Think of something to keep him talking. “Though, I think her fiancée would love a good old-fashioned. Maybe one of those while…you…tell me about your other tattoos! I can tell you have more.”
Tattoos have been proven to be a safe topic! This should work excellently. Not wanting to appear rude, Vash tacks on, “Please?”
Wolfwood hums and Vash swears he can see a twinge of a smile creep onto his lips. He darts around to gather the necessary items and returns. “Got shit everywhere, but this sleeve of mine is a favorite of the people. No shoes, no shirt, no service applies to keepin’ my job so I can’t just strip for ya’ but…”
He rolls his sleeve up to the middle of his upper arm to reveal the weaving of skulls and roses giving way to another larger design. It’s a simple banner, waving centimeters above his elbow. Vash starts to reach forward to trace the shapes stamped on tan skin until he reads the word delicately inscribed on the banner. His fingers curl and he draws back, wondering who this “ Juanita ” is. Pings of worry that he’s flirting with a married man scramble his thoughts. Though, maybe he has a kid or something. Wouldn’t be all too bad! Vash loves kids! And it’s not like he’s intending on settling down with this bartender or something, it’s just—
“Don’t go worryin’ that pretty head of yours,” Wolfwood interrupts his thoughts, tugging the fabric back down, “she’s long gone and was barely in middle school when she passed. It’s a reminder of some shit now.”
The anxiety dissipates and solemness replaces it. As the other man attempts to reveal his shoulder work as tastefully as possible, Vash frowns. “Sorry to hear about that.” They know it’s not their place to ask a stranger for more information about their history, particularly not in a bar of all places.
“What’d I say about worryin’ that pretty head of yours, needle-noggin?”
Vash offers a half-there smile, though it transforms into awe as he soaks in the art on his shoulder. It’s nothing like he’s ever seen before. A clown mask, tears streaming down plump cheeks, breaks in two to reveal a woman even more beautiful than the Mary on his forearm (thank fuck Vash isn’t religious, lest he be worried about being smited for thinking that). A dollar bill spans her face, covering her eyes, and she holds a finger to her lips, asking the onlooker to quiet. The lines are thin, the shading immaculate. The true boldness of the piece is its size, its realism, its message. Though Vash is sure he’d extract a meaning unintended from the art, there’s something so real and raw within.
“She’s beautiful,” Vash sighs, not close enough to touch. “I’ve never seen anything like her.”
“Sure, you have,” Wolfwood retorts simply, “You’re just too gringo to notice it.”
“Hmm?”
“Chicano tattoos. My sleeve’s full of ‘em. Hell, only got ‘em on here. They started as gang and prison tattoos for Mexican Americans but since have broken out into the wider public and influenced a lot of black and white artists. To us, though, they still represent the struggle, family, loyalty—all that good shit.”
Vash nods along, gaze flickering between the ink and Wolfwood’s eyes. He makes a mental note to do more research later, though predicts his ADHD brain will forget. He makes another mental note to make a note in his phone to research it later. Admittedly, he doesn’t quite know how to respond, but attempts, “That’s…really cool, actually. I guess I haven’t really explored the various types of tattoos past what I wanted for myself.”
“Not faultin’ ya’ for it, Blondie.” Wolfwood’s focus is on the counter, pen in hand, scribbling something on the back of a post-it note. He slides both the drink and the note to Vash. “This is for the big girl that came with you, I’m assumin’. Feel free to call me if you wanna learn more about my tattoos or feelin’ like showing me yours.”
Vash tucks the note away in one of his pockets and takes the glass. “I think it’d be pretty stupid of me to not text, at least,” he laughs to himself mostly.
“Gotta agree with you there.”
“Later, then, I guess.”
“Lookin’ forward to it, Vash.”
Before his giddiness can get the best of Vash and has him doing something that is objectively more stupid than not taking Wolfwood up on his offer, he politely smiles and scurries back to the bachelorette party. Enthusiasm still has him speeding faster and with more abandon than usual, leading to him tripping over his feet. If not for the long reach of Milly Thompson, catching his shoulder, he would’ve fallen flat on his face. Not only would that have been supremely uncool, but there’s an iota of a chance he would’ve somehow got the note wet, and smeared ink would’ve rendered it illegible.
“Is this for me, Mr. Vash?” Milly asks, taking the drink when Vash nods. In true angelic fashion, she’s a blessing for not mentioning his slip-up. “Thank you!”
Meryl sloshes forward, steadying herself with a vice grip on Vash’s bicep. “Knight Vash, did you woo the princess?”
“I thought you were the princess,” Vash chuckles, ruffling her hair.
“Don’t make use of my short stature for your own pleasure!” she retorts, pouting, “and I’m kind of a visiting princess. A hot bartender can be the real princess of this realm or something.”
“Sorry, sorry! And, well, I got his number.” He rubs the back of his neck and tries to seem bashful as he explains.
Meryl swings his arm, merriment taking hold of her pixie-like features. “Mazoltov! I’ll be sure to just hand you my bouquet at the wedding since clearly you’re getting married next and I don’t wanna be wrong. Milly can still toss hers.”
All he can do in return is laugh and nod, knowing full well Meryl wouldn’t remember a lick of what she’s babbling about. Meryl continues to plan Vash’s future with Wolfwood as Milly leans forward and whispers into his ear, “I don’t mean to cut the activities early, but I think we should go before Meryl remembers she’s not Jewish or that she really wanted to try to have the same number of drinks as me.”
They hand a quick nod to Milly and gently escort Meryl into her arms. They close out the check with Wolfwood’s decidedly less attractive coworker (sadly a group of college students were flocked around their bartender, all giggling louder and louder every time he shot down their advances) and round up the rest of the party. Fortunately, everyone seems willing to close down the night and return to their lodging. Long gone were the days where they could all collectively party too far past midnight and it is long past pumpkin time.
A short walk and an even shorter drive later, the group of eight people total tumble into the townhouse they had rented for the weekend. Vash and the other designated sober person miraculously manage to convince their intoxicated friends to hydrate. They make a spontaneous game of it, holding laughter behind their teeth as the pair watch drunk people guess what flavor combination of Liquid IV packets are in various cups. No one wins but no one seems to care, all of them flopping onto beds and couches before anyone can complain that there wasn’t a prize.
It’s not hard for Vash to persuade the other sober friend to go to bed. Though sleep heavies Vash’s eyelids, he still has enough energy for some late-night cleaning and laying out a buffet of breakfast foods and ibuprofen for the potential hangover victims to wake up to.
Busy hands take the charge seriously, perhaps too seriously.
Do people like ketchup on their bagels? Sounds like a weird combo but sometimes a hangover has people wanting the weirdest combos. I’ll set it out in c—
“Oh good! I was hoping you’d still be up.”
Vash’s head whips to the source of the voice, finding Milly in a nightgown featuring bunnies hopping across a blue sky, wiping her tired eyes.
“Hey, everything okay?” Vash sets down the ketchup beside the cream cheese selections.
Milly yawns. “Not really. I can’t find Meryl’s wallet. Have you seen it?”
The anxiety that spikes through him is nowhere near a ping—it’s a siren. He’s jolted awake, scrambling around the immediate area looking for it as he rambles, “I haven’t seen it at all. Clearly, she had it at the Eye or else she wouldn’t have been able to get in, right? You both drove back with me so I can go check my car but I’ve been cleaning up here and I definitely would’ve noticed it but, oh my God, this could be b—”
“Mr. Vash,” tender voice cuts through his nerves, “we can look for it more tomorrow. We just have to rule out that it’s not at the Eye first. I don’t particularly like asking you to do this, but if it’s there could you pick it up for us? If Meryl really did leave it there and found out about it, I don’t think she’d be able to enjoy herself that much again any time soon.”
Meryl does have a habit of being especially hard on herself—Vash sees Milly’s point. He whips out his phone, reading the time as 2:12 AM. Shit. Vash distinctly recalls noting that the Eye closed rather early for a bar when he walked in and read the hours sign. If the signs are to be believed, they had shut their doors 12 minutes ago. Some establishments would likely allow their guests to dawdle past closing, but something about Wolfwood and the other bartender’s demeanor gave the impression that they would have no issue seeing lollygagging stragglers out when the time came.
An idea sparks and he fumbles around in his coat for the square of blue paper. Explaining what he’s doing to Milly as he punches the number in, he texts:
Vash: Hey! It’s me from earlier, Vash. I know it’s good flirting practice to wait a few days, but my friend may have left her wallet at the Eye. Have you seen a blue wallet with a white zipper? The name on the ID card inside should be Meryl Stryfe. I don’t know if there’s some policy in place, but I know you saw me with her, so you know I’m not some random person asking!
The first taste of relief hits his tongue when gray dots immediately show up after the text is marked as “delivered.” It inundates his senses as he reads the reply.
Wolfwood: to hell w/ “standards.” couldve texted me ten min after u got my num and i wouldnt judge. but, yeah, got the wallet here. we gotta safe here and i can leave a note or u can drop by. im closing so rn its just me.
“It’s there! And the bartender is still at the bar. He’s closing and will be there for a bit it seems like so I’ll go pick it up,” Vash announces, a beam illuminating his face. He hurries to throw his coat back on and step into his shoes.
“Yay,” Milly returns, excitement unable to break through exhaustion. “Thank you. I trust you so I’m going to go back to bed because I don’t know how long you’ll be. Be safe for me, Mr. Vash, okay?”
“Don’t worry about me! I’m a trained kickboxer, remember? I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, I know you’ll be fine there.” Another yawn. “I meant don’t get any STDs or pregnant or something.”
Milly disappears back into her bedroom and leaves Vash with a furious flush enveloping every inch of his skin. He takes a few breaths before reminding himself that nothing will necessarily happen tonight, though he cannot ignore how so very, horribly, down fucking bad he’d be if the opportunity presented itself. Deciding not to dwell on it too much as any sort of expectations are doomed to leave him disappointed.
Vash: I’ll be over in about 15! Thank you so, so much.
He’s buckling in when he receives a reply.
Wolfwood: looking forward to seeing those tats of yours.
…Okay, so having expectations seems not to be a super bad move at the moment. Tired brain fumbles to formulate a reply that matches the energy.
Vash: Think you can make it worth my while? :)
Wolfwood: don’t got an oral fixation for nothing, blondie
Wolfwood: also youre a fucking dork if you type a smiley face when flirting
Wolfwood: its cute.
Vash doesn’t read Woflwood’s texts until after they’ve parked and begun their trek to the Eye. For the second time in barely 12 minutes, the heat of pink punches across their cheek. It’s difficult to persuade their feet to not tumble forward, to not allow anticipation to dictate their speed. They’re still somewhat trying to seem cool and casual. Even when the chill of night nips at their nose, their pace remains something they can excuse with a wave of the hand and something about not wanting to keep Wolfwood at work for too long.
The aura of the Eye is, understandably, vastly different post-closing. A soft, soulful rhythm and blues blanket the empty space. Freshly mopped floors gleam under dim lighting, all the neon signs shut off. Instead of his sinuses being inundated by the stench of sweat and something sordid, there’s the simmering aroma of pine and cedar. It’s only because of memory is Vash able to picture the venue buzzing with people dancing in every crevice and laughing in every corner. It’s spotless, though the swirl of seduction is unmistakable.
Wolfwood’s not immediately in sight when Vash enters, but he’s quick to eye Meryl’s wallet at the edge of the glistening counter. Not quite knowing what to do, he stands by it and waits. Idle hands tap the wood in rhythm with the music.
Fortunately, it’s not too long before the clank of metal from the kitchen precedes Wolfwood’s reappearance. Shirtless. Gaze not turning to Vash, he takes a rag to the far end of the counter. The ink he struggled to display earlier is beautifully showcased as he works. Muscular arms drag up and down the surface, the lines etched into his body pulling along with every swipe. The swing of that silver cross nearly meets the Virgin as he leans and sways. Scattered rose petals, not before noticed, almost appear to float in the motion. The most stable piece is that of the woman between shattered clown mask, reminding Vash to be quiet and enjoy the view of Wolfwood working.
Mesmerized focus is broken by a gruff voice. “Just gonna stand there?”
“And enjoy the unfettered view? Yeah.” Despite his words, Vash slips down the bar. Yet again, he finds himself across the counter, pinned to his position by the sight of the hottest motherfucker he’s seen in ages. Finally, he says, “Thank you, again, for letting me come back for the wallet.”
“’Course. Would be here this late anyway. Some closers are shitty but I take pride in keepin’ the place clean.”
“Well, it does look great. I would hate to ruin your work, so I’ll head out.” Despite his words, Vash doesn’t slip anywhere. Wolfwood’s eyes flicker up, eyebrow cocked. It’s then that Vash notices the tattoos on the other side of Wolfwood’s neck. How he did not catch them previously is beyond him, but he blames it on poor lighting. Starting directly below his ear are the beads of a rosary, stringing down to a cross laid just above his clavicle. Intentional fingers reach across the table to trace up and down the line of circles.
“Makin’ real big moves to leave, I see.”
“I guess it wouldn’t be terribly rude to stay for a bit.”
The bartender breaks the touch and rounds the corner. He invades Vash’s space, stepping between slightly parted legs. Careful not to spare any ounce of touch, Wolfwood’s face inches ever closer, breath beating against Vash’s lips. “Think it’d be terribly rude if you didn’t stay.”
Now, Vash can be patient. Truly! They simply have no intention of waiting at this very moment. No, not when they snatch Wolfwood’s jaw and cut through the millimeters separating them. All pretenses of being “cool,” of playing some kind of game be damned. Their eagerness earns them a soft laugh, but they care not when warm lips are on his.
Wolfwood is a slow kisser. An even one. One that enjoys taking his time memorizing the planes of his partner’s lips and steadily unraveling the other through deep, languid motions and leaving them gasping for air. It’s sweet. It’s surprisingly delicate. It’s cute.
Vash is having none of that. He entertains him for a few seconds but is quick to demand more. Needy hands first settle on his lower abdomen before raking up strong chest. Palms catch the cool metal of his piercings. One remains in the area, latching onto his necklace and tugging him in closer. The other continues their trek into Wolfwood’s hair, soft in a way that’s betrayed by shaggy appearance. It’s not until teeth teasingly graze Wolfwood’s bottom lip, though, that Wolfwood’s appetite becomes equally ravenous.
Deft hands grip his hips and pull him forward. They climb into the back pockets of Vash’s jeans and knead the muscle underneath. His interest is made very clear when Vash gasps at the contact, and Vash takes the opportunity to grind as he can against the hardness. Callused hands climb back up, resting an inch over the hem of his jeans and under his shirt. Goosebumps are left in the wake of stroking thumbs.
Vash breaks the kiss. “Wait.”
“Yeah, sug’?”
“Okay, so, before we do anything. I’m trans. If you wanna stop now, I understand.”
“No big deal.”
“Great, great, cool. Thing two is I have a hell of a lot of scars. Please don’t freak out and don’t touch the metal parts and we’re fine.”
“Sounds like a plan. Anything else?”
“Yeah, actually. Is that…do you…have a tongue piercing?”
Wolfwood smirks before sticking out his tongue, revealing a silver ball right in the center of the muscle.
Vash responds, promptly, by taking off his jacket. “Okay, yeah, fuck that’s kinda hot.”
Wolfwood responds, promptly, by taking Vash’s lips again. His arms fall low under Vash’s thighs and haul up. Though Wolfwood is clearly strong, Vash knows he’s no waif (he’s worked his ass off to be), so he helps the process by jumping upwards. Combined force gets Vash on the counter without much struggle. Immediately, he locks his legs around Wolfwood’s waist.
No time is taken to strip Vash of his shirt. As Wolfwood peels the fabric off, he says, “Nicholas. My name is Nicholas D. Wolfwood. Just so you’re not callin’ my last name.”
Vash strokes his cheeks and hums, “Well, Nick, do you wanna see my leg tattoos?”
“Been thinkin’ about them all night, Blondie.” Nicholas crashes back into them, mouth gliding against theirs with unmoored desire. After kicking off their shoes, they lift their ass so Wolfwood can seamlessly tug the denim down, revealing both scarlet boxers and sketched thighs.
Nicholas studies the adorned skin, the warmth of his fingertips tracing along the design. The design is first an illusion, tricking the eye into believing the epidermis has been torn through wear, revealing what makes a man underneath. Gears of gray and gold and a teal that matches his current arm prosthetic interlock. When working with his artist, Vash perused more alien designs before settling on this one. Something about its simplicity, its statement, drew him to it. That and the natural features of the red geraniums that blossom in the crevices of the mechanical work are amplified by the stark dichotomy. One piece spans the entirety of his right thigh, though there’s hint of a similar structure underlying the skin on his left.
Gingerly, Nicholas pushes the muscles of Vash’s legs apart and turns them ever so slightly, thorough in his exploration. His fingers burn on Vash’s skin, their reverence building a pooling want within the pit of his stomach. Nicholas pipes up, voice far, “‘Pretty neat’ is a real big fucking understatement, Spikes. Can’t imagine how long this took ya’.”
Vash laughs and massages the back of his neck. “I’m definitely happy with them, yeah. They took quite a few sessions, you know the drill. Oh!” He slides his left leg further to the side and points to the array of dots high on his inner thigh, a constellation that vaguely makes the shape of a half-there bee. “The stick-and-poke I was telling you about earlier.”
Wolfwood brushes a hand against it, chuckling, “Does he have a name?”
“Beenard,” they return simply.
“Of course .”
The fingers that have been stroking his legs are now dangerously, painfully, horribly close. There’s only so much more Vash can take before that pooling lust overflows. They’re positive it must be embarrassingly obvious; they can sense that dripping wetness blooming beneath him.
Digits dance along the edges of his boxers and Wolfwood’s eyes flick up. He ghosts over his clothed center and leans forward, humming, “This doin’ something for you, sweetheart?”
Yep. Definitely obvious.
Vash jumps at the tease, taking Wolfwood’s bicep. “Don’t act like it’s a surprise that someone is turned on by a hot guy touching their mostly naked body.”
A chaste kiss is offered before Wolfwood sinks down to his knees, tall torso and shorter bar leaving him at the perfect height. As he descends, he muses, “Can do so much more than touch.”
They open their mouth to say something, but quickly snap it shut the moment Nick’s lips hit their inner thigh. They are not going to fuck this up–no sir-ee! Instead, their hand loses itself in the locks of his hair, extending not-so-subtle encouragement as open-mouthed kisses are strung up their leg. It is his lips now that have taken the mantle of worship–gentle, languid, wanting. The touch of his hands is anything but respectful as they massage their skin–hard, bruising, needing. The contrast has Vash shivering, and if they were not distracted by the sensation between their legs, they would be uncomfortable in their soaked underwear.
Not that Nick truly seems to care about whether or not the dampness of Vash’s boxers is comfortable for him. No, not when his tongue drags along the length of the open-skin illusion. No, not when he breaks for a moment to flow hot breath right over his cunt. No, not when he mouths at the fabric covering the apex of his heat. It’s not even his mouth that’s the real issue at this point, what really gets Vash’s grip tensing in his hair and breaking into a moan as he throws his head back. It’s his nose , how it buries right against his clit.
“ Fuck, Wolfwood,” he groans, “I gotta…gotta wear these home.”
The chill of Wolfwood peeling off of him is worse than any discomfort of walking in wet underwear. He’s about to speak up about his changed mind when fingers hook into the black elastic of his underwear. “We’ll just have to take these off then, won’t we?”
Vash nods enthusiastically and he is promptly removed of the pesky fabric. Wolfwood dives back in, planting languorous kisses outside his folds. The contact, the almost there contact, lights pricks of yearning across tender skin. He can’t help the way he bucks slightly, chasing reprieve from the coiling lust that bubbles within. Vash would claim the tease to be cruel, would rage in his anguish, but then Wolfwood’s eyes brush upward and Vash is struck again with the veneration by which Wolfwood reveres Vash. It’s an admiration that seeps from that stormy gaze. A sense that this denial is equally as coarse for Wolfwood as it is for Vash permeates; it soaks onto the counter as desperate as Vash’s weeping cunt.
“You can,” Vash shudders, quiet craving tinting his words as he brushes through his hair, “ please, Nick.”
Tension strangles the silence as Wolfwood does not oblige at first. Vash stills, fearing his pleas triggered some sort of disdain. His mouth falls open, an apology prepared to leap off his tongue, but a sob shatters through any semblance of words as wet muscle drags up the seam of his cunt. Then once more. Then again. As with his kiss, it becomes clear that Wolfwood intends to unravel Vash thread by thread. Now, though, he has no bid for control. He cannot persuade Wolfwood to meet his heady desires with reckless abandon.
All Vash can do is take. And they do. They take as Wolfwood’s tongue flicks his clit, as he leisurely swirls around that bundle, as he closes his lips around it and sucks. They take it with their back arched, steadying themselves on an arm. They take it with a symphony of whines tumbling out of their chest, a chest that can only find shallow breath. Heat flares through every limb, bliss zips up their spine. Even with the measured manner by which Wolfwood toys with Vash, that silver ball ornamenting his tongue bullies Vash in ways they’ve never experienced before. Smooth and a few degrees colder. They know they’re fucked, ruined for anyone else.
“ More .” The request slips out amidst a slew of Nicholas’ name. It takes him a second to even register that the sentiment aired, and when he does he tacks on, “Please.”
Nicholas hums around him, the vibrations injecting dopamine and oxytocin and all those feel-good chemicals he can’t quite remember the name of at the moment into his bloodstream. Another hard suck. The graze of his teeth. A finger slips inside of him and holy fuck he forgot Wolfwood had hands for a moment. The sudden reminder has a cry tearing through Vash’s throat and he loses balance, toppling onto an elbow.
It’s the surprise that catches him off guard. Though the digit strokes adeptly through his velvet walls, it’s not enough. Fortunately, another is slipped in soon after. The pace of Wolfwood’s fingers matches that of his tongue–an adagio unconcerned by the rutting of Vash’s hips, the nonverbal (and verbal) calls for the tempo to hasten. It’s with undivided attention and intent that he’s worked open, fingers scissoring and pulling and filling him below. Vash’s eyes screw shut as he’s overcome with simply feeling, but whenever baby blues flutter open, they catch that gaze. That gaze that has not changed, save for pupils blown by salacity. It’s the gaze of a servant worshiping at his deity’s temple, praying that his works may be pleasing to the divine. If not the silver on his tongue, it would be this very look that keeps Vash forever tethered to this moment. No matter who else he beds, he’ll be doomed to remember the exaltation laced in the bartender’s eyes. He’ll be doomed to wade in the knowledge that nothing can compare to this altar created at 2 AM in some dingy hole-in-the-wall bar. He’ll be doomed to yearn for the supplication of this apostate.
Sweat soaks his brow and incoherent phrases reverberate against the walls. They sound like his voice, but Vash isn’t entirely sure if he said them.
“So good.”
“God, yeah.”
“Fuck, Nick–Nico, you’re so– ”
Each addition to the pile of fragments is some secret passcode, something that unlocks something else and finally has Wolfwood’s pace quickening. Orgasm builds in time with the speed, faster and faster, feet flying quicker and quicker as he runs to release. Wolfwood sustains extended moans against him, the trickle of vibration from the simple hum earlier an appetizer of what was to come.
Whimpers, whines, sobs, and cries (literally–tears river down his cheek). His legs quiver. His mind loses all thoughts to the fog of ecstasy. The cliff is right there. It’s so close. Just a few more seconds, a few more pushes; just a little more.
“Close, babe, I’m so–I may…God, fuck, please. Nick–”
The plummet into euphoria racks his body, the release of tension yanking straight through him, and he falls completely onto his back. Time slows as the adrenaline disperses across his cells. His hold on Wolfwood’s hair releases and he runs a hand through his own damp hair, reveling in recent rapture. A few seconds pass where he lays on the cold wood and allows his senses to return to him. It’s only after those seconds that he realizes Wolfwood’s tongue is dragging through his folds, carrying him through orgasm and collecting the rewards of his worship.
“Okay.” Vash’s voice is shaky as the ability to speak returns to them.
“Okay?” They get in reply.
They sigh, laugh a little, and then prop themselves back up on their hands. “More than okay. You’re, uh, really good at that.”
“Told you.” Wolfwood stands, cocky grin on that blessed mouth. A sheen coats the lower half of his face, which must mean–
“Oh, shit, sorry!” Vash scrambles to snatch a napkin and dab himself off of Wolfwood. “Should’ve warned you that I do that on, uh, rare occasion.”
Wolfwood allows himself to be cleaned, but shoots him a perplexed look. “You’re…apologizing…for squirting?”
“Yeah…?”
“Fuckin’ weirdo.” He punctuates the phrase with a quick kiss.
Vash’s hands climb onto Wolfwood’s arms and a comfortable moment of silence blooms. They nip it, offering, “Let me return the favor, please? I’m tall; we can swap positions and–”
“Wooden floors are a bitch on the knees even with clothes on. I ain’t letting you do that.”
With a pout, Vash complains, “I did not come here solely to get myself off. I didn’t bring a condom and, y’know, I trust you but also safe sex so I could give you a–”
Nicholas reaches over him and fumbles around blindly inside the counter before presenting a condom and a tiny bottle of clear liquid.
“Oh!” Vash’s eyes widen before pleasant surprise dissipates into confusion. “Why do you have lube in the bar? I thought this wasn’t a regular thing for you. Like, I understand keeping a condom in your wallet or something. Like, if this is your usual thing, it’s no big deal but-–”
“I ran out of it recently. Picked some up the other day and kept forgetting to take it into my apartment. Guess I somehow knew I’d need it. I grabbed it from my car when I knew you were coming in case the night went like this.”
“That’s pretty convenient, Wolfwood.”
“You gonna question it?”
“No, because I want you to fuck me.”
Wolfwood responds with a laugh and a kiss, deep and stocked with the famished sort of craving Vash adores. Needy hands grab at scarred skin and Vash responds to the eagerness in kind, snapping the buttons of Wolfwood’s pants open. He scooches forward bit by bit, careful not to suspend contact, and Wolfwood follows his lead by stepping back. Sadly, their kiss must be broken when Vash fully hops off the counter. Decisively, Vash takes the hem of Wolfwood’s trousers and the elastic of his boxers and hauls them down. Wolfwood completes the process, stepping out and kicking the garments away.
It’s with a certain renewed hunger that they take each other’s lips again. The heat of Nicholas’ cock sears against his belly as inked arms hold him close. He’s sizable, because of course he is. Of course, a motherfucker like this just works at some shitty bar in the middle of nowhere.
One of Vash’s hands sits squarely on Nick’s deltoid and the other sneaks between them. They take the head of his cock and roll their thumb around the slit, smearing the drops of pre-cum, before stroking downward. Then up. Then down. The motion is punishingly slow–returning the earlier tease. Nonetheless, it has Nick’s breath hitching on the first few strokes. It has his low groans sinking into his ears on the next few.
“Need in you, now,” he growls (growls!).
Vash is happy to oblige, guiding Wolfwood a few steps back with the press of their hands on his pectorals. They whip around and lean onto the counter, presenting themselves with a few shakes of their ass. “Does this work for you?”
He hisses as digits graze his cunt, gently teasing along the seam. Wolfwood sighs, “Shit, Blondie, you gotta let me eat this pretty pussy out like this next time.”
Not quite an answer to his question, but Vash is too busy thinking of “next time” and listening to the crinkle of a condom wrapper and pop of a bottle to ask again. The squelch of damp latex and the chill of oil pressed into him is soon to follow. Anticipation burns deep within, the flame turning blue by sheer heat.
Blunt nails drag up his spine before pressure right in between his shoulder blades keeps him pinned to the counter. Seconds later, the hint of a stretch tugs at his entrance as his partner asks, “You ready?”
“ Please .”
To no one’s shock, Nicholas presses into him slowly. Vash relishes in the fullness inch by inch, gripping the edge of the counter tighter and moaning louder as Nicholas descends further. For the third time tonight, he ponders simply how decimated he is for other people. No tongue can serve him so well, no eyes can gaze upon him so reverently, and now nothing else can stretch him so grandly. The blessing of Nicholas coincides with a curse, the curse that no one else is Nicholas. A curse he’ll have to suffer with until, well, death, really.
Wolfwood’s groan as he seats himself fully within them draws Vash back to reality. He leans forward and swipes his tongue up the shell of Vash’s ear. Raspy voice whispers, “You take me so well, Vash.”
“You’re, ah, welcome,” Vash chokes back.
Chuckling, Wolfwood slides out. Then back in. Vash has never considered himself a size queen, but he’s thinking of adopting the label. Every measured stroke fills him, completes him in ways he didn’t realize he could want to feel complete. He needs not worry of tomorrow, of his stupid boss he needs to see tomorrow, of the stress of his friend’s wedding looming in the distance. He’s safe and settled and, well, complete.
Briefly, he’s snapped out of his haze and questions his decisions on if a dick really could make him feel like this. Wolfwood plummets into him harder than before.
He formally decides that yes, yes a dick really can make him feel like this.
Specifically, a dick and the ramblings of Wolfwood in his ear. He coos words of encouragement, of how perfect Vash is. How beautiful Vash is. How he’s doing so well. How pretty his whimpers sound. How perhaps his pussy was made for him.
“How’re you doin’, Blondie?”
Vash’s words slur together. “S’ good.”
“You think you can take it faster?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good boy.”
The praise has Vash reeling, careening brazenly. The rhythm of Wolfwood’s hips does pick up, but it’s steady in its rise. There’s something unequivocally caring about the way Wolfwood takes him and Vash is fully ready to admit he’s madly in love with this man. Every damn time Wolfwood hits spots within him that have his nerves lighting up like it’s Christmas in a rich neighborhood. The faster he goes, the more lost Vash finds himself in the sheer concoction of sensations inundating him. Sweet and heady and warm and so, so fucking good.
The babblings of Nicholas give way to guttural sounds and variations of Vash’s name he has not yet heard. “V,” “Va-,” and “Vabe,” are a few notable ones.
The plateau is in sight again, though they know they are not the only one rushing towards it. Wolfwood is by his side, chasing reprieve just as ardently. “Keep going, please,” Vash begs.
Admittedly, the second time he falls into bliss is not as mind-numbing, all-encompassing, as the first. He still cums with Wolfwood’s name on his lips and neurotransmitters invading every cell of his body, using the final bits of his strength to squeeze his walls around Wolfwood in hopes that he’ll be soon to follow.
The four letters that make Vash’s name have never sounded more beautiful than when they tumble from Wolfwood lips as he is overtaken by ecstasy. He takes the dive moments after Vash with one final burst of energy from his hips and fingers latching onto Vash’s hair. Wolfwood stands for a second, firmly pressing his hips against Vash’s ass before his chest drops onto Vash’s back and he releases his grip.
“Okay,” Wolfwood breathes out after a moment.
“Okay?”
“More than okay.”
“Me too.”
A minute or two later they find themselves in a booth, Vash tucked into Wolfwood’s side, his jacket draped over them. Not much conversation has been shared, save for both of them agreeing cuddling would be nice and figuring out the best way to accomplish this task given the limited options.
“Can I help with cleaning up?” Vash asks through a yawn.
“Nah, you gotta get back to wherever you’re staying, right? I can drive ya there and then come back,” Wolfwood offers, carding his fingers through their hair tenderly.
“I’ll be fine. I promise. I just feel bad not helping you cle–
“Oi, none of that, y’hear? This is my job and I’m off the next two days so I can sleep in.”
Normally, Vash would be relentless in his determination to help. It’s nearly 3 AM, so he doesn’t quite have the energy. Instead, he proposes, “At least let me make it up to you.”
“You free tomorrow? Like not later today, but tomorrow.”
“Should be. Wedding’s not until this weekend, but one of the girls may need me.”
“If they don’t, let me take you on a real date. That’s how you can make it up to me.”
A tiny beam climbs onto Vash’s features. “That doesn’t seem entirely fair, but I guess it wouldn’t be terribly rude if that’s what you want.”
“Vash, I think it’d be terribly rude if you didn’t let me.”