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It hadn’t been what Wolfwood would really call a wedding, inasmuch as what the church says a wedding should include.
But it had included what had once been a church, a lot of (inebriated but no less heartfelt) vows, two witnesses, a Bride (bottle), and it’d all been sealed with a kiss, so who is he to argue? It’d made Vash happy.
It makes Wolfwood pretty damn happy, too, but he saves that for when he’s out of sight of the girls, to preserve some semblance of dignity.
As if he has any left, after hitching himself to the one and only Humanoid Typhoon.
“Wolfwooooood,” Vash whines, voice muffled by the way he’s mashed his face into Wolfwood’s collar.
“Yeah? Don’t tell me you want a divorce already,” he jokes, reflexive.
But Vash yanks himself away with a scandalized gasp—and real hurt tightening the corners of his eyes. Wolfwood’s heart drops. “No! No, I don’t, I don’t ever—jeez, you really know how to make some cutting remarks, huh? Maybe I should divorce you for that…”
Yeah, it stings coming in his direction, too.
Who knew marriage was like a wound: if you poked at it too soon, it still hurt.
“It’s just. You know.” Vash’s eyes drop and Wolfwood finds himself enthralled with the fan of his dark lashes across his cheeks. Who allowed Vash the Stampede to be so damn pretty?
“I know? Don’t think I do.”
“You do!” Vash insists and jams his face back into the crook of Wolfwood’s neck. “…It’s night.”
“…Sure is, spikey.” There is no way in hell that Vash is so drunk he’s surprised it’s gotten dark. He’s sure the alcohol burned out of him by their last set of ‘I do’, based on that all too sappy expression he’d worn.
“Wolfwoooood. It’s night. It’s our wedding night.”
Despite himself—and by God, is it despite himself, because he’d love nothing more than to sink into this fuzzy, warm, sentimental space with Vash, together—Wolfwood snorts a laugh.
Vash draws away from him again, bottom lip jutted out, brows furrowed deeply. “Don’t laugh! I thought that was supposed to be important to all you God-fearing people, you have to make babies right away to please the big guy or whatever.”
“Oh, we’ll be revisitin’ your thoughts on how fast the good Lord cares about us makin’ babies, spikey,” Wolfwood says, grinning, and keeps a firm hand on Vash’s arm to prevent him from slithering away in indignance. Vash tries anyway, pouting harder. “But I didn’t think the great Humanoid Typhoon would care about such a thing! Ain’t like we saved ourselves for marriage.”
Marriage.
Still feels a little strange to say.
(He’ll have to practice more.)
Vash is truly pouting now, as strongly as Wolfwood has ever seen. And that’s saying something. “I want to make sure we do this right! For—For your religion, you know.”
Wolfwood almost laughs again. He almost makes a joke about doppelgangers, or evil twins (except he actually had one of those), or a prank.
But then, Vash comes out with the truth, pout in full effect and eyelashes just as sinfully long as ever as he glances away. “I’ve never done this sort of thing before, so I want to do it right…”
And that pulls Wolfwood up short, well out of his jackassery.
He knows he’s not Vash’s first in any sense of the word. He’d never put any real stock into caring. Vash has lived so much longer than he had, and his life had been full (even if too much of it had been guilt and pain), and just about every damn day he was referencing having already done this, been there, experienced that.
He didn’t specifically think Vash would have been married before, no.
But he hadn’t thought otherwise, either. Not with how much Vash had already lived through.
“S’my first time, too, y’know,” Wolfwood says. He softens. His tone, his expression, his grip on Vash’s arm—everything gentles.
But then Vash snorts a rude laugh. “Liar. I bet you tell all the boys that.”
“All the ones I marry?” His voice is still a little too soft. Wolfwood will bristle about his sappiness later, he tells himself, because Vash deserves to hear this now. He has no further need for dignity.
And Vash melts against him. Wolfwood could swear he even sees tears glittering in his eyes as he gazes at him, bright blue eyes glimmering in emotion—
And then a knock at the door interrupts them.
Wolfwood glares into middle distance. Vash heaves a great sigh. Neither move or respond, wordlessly agreeing on hoping to wait out whoever it is. Meryl or Milly would simply speak through the door.
Instead, the knock comes again, with a male voice. “Sorry to interrupt yer evenin’…”
Wolfwood heaves a sigh. They’ve done this song and dance before. Vash skitters over to the wall, pressed out of sight, and begins silently packing their things. Not the first time they’ve been run out so soon.
Wolfwood forces a smile as he opens the door a crack. “Evenin’ there, sir. How can I be of help?”
He doesn’t recognize the portly man. What he does clock immediately is that he’s well-armed. “Sorry to interrupt your night, but we’ve had word of the Humanoid Typhoon bein’ seen in these parts. We’re makin’ sure everyone’s aware that trouble might be comin’ soon, don’t want no one gettin’ hurt by that devil.”
Wolfwood’s mask is impeccable. (Two feet to his left, Vash gives the greatest eye roll and mute groan combo the planet has ever seen.) “That does sound like trouble.”
The man eyes the careful way Wolfwood holds the door open, foot braced against it going any further. “Are you stayin’ here alone?”
“The missus isn’t exactly fit for company, if you catch my meaning. So if there’s not going to be any trouble tonight, then I’d appreciate getting back to that.”
Vash throws another silent tantrum, though his face is endearingly red. Whether it’s for announcing to this stranger that they’d like to return to having a sex life or calling Vash his wife, Wolfwood doesn’t yet know. He’s sure he’ll get an earful of it later.
“Sorry about interruptin’, then. You two enjoy your night.”
They wait a full five minutes until Vash pops. “You’re the wife!”
“So that’s what you’re upset by,” Wolfwood says, sighing, and goes to help pack. He grabs a cigarette first. He would’ve enjoyed an actual night to sleep—after the wedding night part, anyway. They could both use the rest. And release.
Vash pastes himself against Wolfwood’s side again, this time with a petulant, “You’re my wife.”
“Yeah, yeah, just get to packin’. We don’t wanna be in town if a posse forms up, so we’ll have a rain check on the wedding night.”
They’d both agreed that a half-assed tent in the desert was no place for a wedding night. They didn’t like doing anything in the sand on a regular night; with how Wolfwood can now see that Vash has placed special importance on this, he sure as hell agrees that they can wait until they get a bed and roof for their consummating.
The next town is a pleasant little place with a water-creating plant and a nice-smelling bakery. It’s charming. It has two whole inns to choose from. Perfect place for a wedding night, surely.
By now, Wolfwood is a master at disrobing Vash. Vash smiles at him, a bit of fang poking out, and Wolfwood’s heart stutters in his chest.
“I’m a lucky guy,” Wolfwood declares before capturing Vash’s mouth for his own. He tastes like sweat and sand and donuts, which is pretty standard fare for him. But God above, it’s Vash’s taste and that’s all for Wolfwood.
Because they’re married now.
It has more weight in his brain now, after days of heated looks and wandering thoughts.
And then—there’s a knock on the door.
Wolfwood freezes against Vash’s mouth, displeased.
But when Milly’s voice floats through the door, Vash jerks away with a beam.
“Mr. Vash, Mr. Wolfwood! We wanted to let you know we just got into town, since we got your note, and it’s very nice that you left us a note this time! The innkeeper knew right away who we were looking for when I said you were happy newlyweds with black hair and a red coat and a lot of guns, so we didn’t even have to search all over town for you! Do you want to join me and Meryl for dinner?”
Is that how we look? Wolfwood wonders, instead of the more pertinent fact of how easy it had been for someone to find them.
But dinner with the girls doesn’t sound terrible. He can’t say no to Vash’s grin, anyway.
Even if Vash and Meryl get food poisoning, so the rest of the night is spent in the bathroom, rubbing his husband’s sweaty back.
The morning suns aren’t hot yet, only bright, softening the room through the gauzy curtains. Wolfwood isn’t sure what woke him, given that Vash is still asleep, tucked tight into his side. He shifts, rolls a bit, and wraps his arm around Vash’s shoulders to pull him even tighter against him.
“Mmgh,” Vash says, very sexily.
That’s probably Wolfwood’s morning wood talking for him. But who said the wedding night had to be night? It’s been two days since Vash (and poor Meryl, even if she’d acted doubly waspish about it) ‘nearly died’, according to the man himself. He definitely felt well enough to empty the bakery of their donuts yesterday.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” Wolfwood says into his hair and presses his hips against Vash’s. Just to further lure him into the land of consciousness. And wedding nights-turned-mornings.
Vash makes another sound, then pulls his head up from Wolfwood’s shoulder. He has drool all along one side of his mouth and his hair is even more of a mess than usual. His eyes can’t quite open all the way—he’s stubbornly squinting like he’s offended by the daily rotation of the suns—and he’s goddamn beautiful.
Vash melts into sleepy adoration when he registers it’s Wolfwood before him.
Wolfwood’s heart surely isn’t going to survive this marriage business if this continues.
“G’morn,” Vash says, or something like that. Something vaguely conscious and vaguely affectionate. Works for Wolfwood. He thrusts his hips against Vash again, earning a sleepy little chuckle. “Aha, good mornin’ then…”
“Don’t have to be night for a wedding night,” Wolfwood reasons, pleased with his logic—and quite sure that Vash won’t argue the point, either.
The slow, syrupy curl of Vash’s smirk is answer enough.
The window shatters with a spray of gunfire.
“Come on out, Vash the Stampede! We know yer in there! Iffin ya come out nice an’ quiet, we won’t shoot up the whole town!”
Vash groans (not in the way Wolfwood wanted) and Wolfwood prays for patience. Nothing kills a boner faster than gunfire, even if the idiots decided to shoot up into a second-story room from the ground and thus had done nothing but property damage and waste bullets.
“We’ll lure ‘em out of town, same as usual,” Wolfwood reassures. He presses a quick kiss against Vash’s forehead before rolling out of bed.
“Same as usual,” Vash agrees, staring after him with all fondness. It makes Wolfwood’s cheeks flush when he catches his expression.
“C’mon, then,” he says, extra gruffly to cover how badly he wants to slide back into bed and keep kissing Vash to earn that expression.
“Back to business.”
They’re in a defunct Eye safe house and they are exhausted. Maybe Wolfwood’s getting old—he certainly never thought he’d live this long—but he’s not cut out for multi-day chases from bounty hunters anymore. He wanted to settle into bed and make love to his husband.
No, not getting old. Just getting sappy.
And not actively horny, but sure as hell nursing a low-level, multi-day horniness that wears on them both. He hadn’t given a single shit about the importance of a wedding night until Vash had flashed those baby blues at him and mentioned that it could be special for them.
So Wolfwood decides that a little bit of exhaustion is nothing. He will fuck his husband, by God, and if an idiot bounty hunter tries to interrupt again, then he supposes their first argument as a married couple will be their oldest and most rehearsed, because Wolfwood will certainly murder whoever does it.
Vash leaves his coat for Wolfwood to peel off. Wolfwood has half a mind to snark something about unwrapping presents, but the heat sparking between them is distracting. Vash’s hands go straight to his belt buckle instead of returning the coat-shucking favor.
By the time he wrests the long coat off his very unhelpful husband, Vash has his hand down Wolfwood’s pants, rousing him to hardness with a skilled touch. (And no small amount of horny desperation.) Wolfwood bares his teeth at Vash, as if that old threat did anything other than make Vash pant, but Vash grins back at him with even longer fangs.
“Thought you wanted a proper weddin’ night,” Wolfwood manages. He gets his blazer off one arm before Vash gets it in his pointy head to twist his grip just right across the head of his cock.
“I know your stamina isn’t one and done,” Vash coos and crowds into him. Wolfwood realizes his mistake a heartbeat too late: Vash pins up against the wall, mostly dressed and at his mercy. Few places he’d rather be, but a special, lovey-dovey night, this is not.
But Vash wasn’t joking about his stamina, so they’ll just claim a do-over in the room’s actual bed.
“At least—let me—fuck, come on, stop bein’, fuck, you’re distracting!” Wolfwood pants. He darts into Vash’s space to demand a bitey kiss, but he can still feel Vash’s smile. And his hand doesn’t stop on his cock, either. His other reaches up under his buttoned shirt to splay across his chest, a near-tease and reminder that he’s pinned here at Vash’s discretion. He’s here for Vash’s use, and isn’t that a thought.
And then there comes a pounding on the door.
Wolfwood’s frustrated snarl ruins any chance of ignoring the interloper, but Vash shushes him anyway—and tightens his fist over his cockhead like he plans on continuing. Wolfwood’s growl is less sultry this time, a genuine warning, but Vash’s eyebrows knit together and his bottom lip pushes out in maximum pout mode.
“If it’s anyone other than the girls—” Wolfwood hisses at him.
“C’mon, you said this was an Eye hideout, right? The door will hold,” Vash whispers back and keeps stroking him.
Wolfwood’s head thunks against the wall. Vash (and their shared horny brain cell) has a point. The intruder’s voice is indistinct, but definitely deep enough not to be the girls.
And then the door splinters with an undeniable—and powerful—kick against it.
Quick as a flash, Wolfwood shoves Vash behind him and goes for his shoulder holster. Vash squawks something about nonviolence that Wolfwood ignores. Then something about his dick poking out from the top of his boxers, which Wolfwood ignores slightly less.
He stuffs himself back into something like decency, checks the clip on his gun, and times the kicks on the door to unlatch it just in time for their assailant to stumble in. He has the gun pointed square at the man’s forehead and is ready to pull the trigger when he freezes.
Livio, of all people, bats the gun out of his face with a blubbery, “What d’ya mean you got married?!”
There are not enough sighs in the world for this.
“Livio, hello!” Vash says, clearly happy to see him—which is unfair, because Wolfwood is not. They can do the family song and dance later.
Except, even though he is conspicuously hiding his wet hand, he can see that Vash is happy to see him. He loves the family song and dance. Hell, if he didn’t suspect Milly and her letter chain, he’d think Vash himself had been the one to break the news of their nuptials to Livio.
Realizing that if Livio knows, then Miss Melanie knows (plus all of the emotional fallout that entails) is enough to kill the mood for good. While Livio and Vash chatter in that happy-go-lucky way he’s glad neither of them lost, he fixes his pants, grabs a smoke, and wonders when his luck got to be so shit.
A microscopic shack ten iles out from a no-name town isn’t the greatest setting for a wedding night, but Wolfwood is a man who works with what he’s got. They weren’t followed, everyone who knows them has been told (sternly) to give them time away, and Wolfwood himself installed a barricade on the door.
It’s musty and sandy and cramped and absolutely perfect, because he has Vash sprawled out on the tiny bed, already undressed and looking wonderfully harassed. He’s partially unfurled, even, which has never happened without Wolfwood getting his hands on him, but he supposes a two-week dry spell and the anticipation of a night of desperate lovemaking would do that to a man.
“Are we good?” Vash asks, breathless, but like he always asks when he and Wolfwood stop for the night and check their safety. It’s familiar, but with a layer of domesticity over it that melts Wolfwood just a bit further.
“Yeah, spikey. Locked up tighter than a nun’s asshole.” This earns a surprised snort of a laugh. “Certainly tighter than you. Lookit you, already all worked up. Dry spell leave you pantin’ for it, darling?”
“Like you’ve been any better, jabbing me every morning with a hard-on that could hammer nails,” Vash retorts, but he makes grabby hands for Wolfwood. As if he were putting up a fuss about joining him.
Wolfwood shucks the rest of the clothes, eyes locked on to where Vash idly plays with his loosening petals. Another night, he might demand a show, given how desperate Vash seems. But now, he echoes the sentiment. He sidles between Vash’s spread legs and bats his hands away—then pauses.
“You want this one off?” Wolfwood asks, taking the prosthetic hand in his. “You’ve been wearin’ it nonstop for awhile now.”
The tenderness in Vash’s eyes could kill a man. Wolfwood avoids looking directly at him, in case he melts. “I want—need to be able to touch you as much as I want tonight. I’ll take it off before we sleep, promise.”
That’s enough sentimentality for one night, Wolfwood lies to himself. He rubs the pads of his fingers along the outer edges of Vash’s petals, already gummy and damp from the slick waiting to seep out. How many nights had Vash been like this, pent up and yearning? (Probably as many as he’d had.) Vash lets out his breath in a whuff and flops against the bed, limbs spread, allowing Wolfwood to do as he pleases. For the moment.
To his amazement, Vash opens up easier than he’s ever seen. His topmost petals unfurl first, pushed out of the way by his burgeoning cock, more than half hard and looking so sorry for itself that Wolfwood has to put his mouth on him. He coaxes the rest of Vash’s weird alien bits with his practiced fingers as his lips meet his cock. He tastes like heaven and sounds it, too, when he moans above him.
Vash completely blooms when Wolfwood takes him down to the base of his growing cock. He’s not full just yet, but it’s enough to threaten his throat, and Lord above, feeling Vash’s petals curl and sway around his dripping fingers does something. A lot of somethings. In other circumstances, he’d tease him for being so damn easy, but tonight?
For their wedding night, Vash can have it.
“Wolfwood,” Vash moans again, hand flapping against his skull before tangling in his hair, “oh, oh, Wolfwood, you feel so good, but—but I need—I need you.”
Wolfwood slides two fingers into his sopping slit, and Vash whines and arches his back, but then he gets a heel to his back.
“Your dick, you dick. C’mon, c’mon, I’m ready already—oh, that’s, that’s so—come on!” Vash hauls him bodily upward, Wolfwood’s fingers leaving him with a sad squelch. If having Vash all wanton and needy didn’t do it for him, being manhandled sure as shit does.
Vash flips them with ease, sitting on Wolfwood’s stomach, smearing his sweet wetness all over without shame. Wolfwood raises his brows, but can’t give a damn, because there’s few places he’d rather be than beneath his desperate husband.
Fuck, his husband.
And fuck his husband, because he’s too damn good at driving him wild. Vash sinks down over his cock with hardly any stretching, leaving a choking tightness, and Wolfwood bites his own lip bloody to stop from blowing his load immediately. Vash helps none at all with the long, sinful moan of pure satisfaction he lets out.
Wolfwood grabs his hips in a bruising grip and his hold does nothing to stop Vash from moving.
Little chants of “oh, oh, oh” drip from his mouth and Vash’s eyes go lidded and hazy, the way when he’s stupidly close, too. Looks like they’re both going to be quickshots this first round—but Wolfwood adds that, too, to their quip pile for later, because so long as he gets to see Vash come undone, he doesn’t care if it’s five seconds or five hours from now.
Wolfwood grabs Vash’s cock, finally fully out and slapping wetly between their bellies, and Vash damn near convulses atop him. Both of them curse but then Vash is curling down to mash their mouths together, swallowing down their noises. He tightens like a vise around Wolfwood’s cock and his hand is trapped, hardly moving, on Vash’s own length, but Vash makes no move to correct any part of their tangled posture. He ruts his hips hard and fast and takes his pleasure.
Wolfwood kind of wants to marry him all over again, because it’s so damn lovely to see Vash finally be selfish.
“C’mon, darling, give it to me,” Wolfwood growls against Vash’s lips. Vash babbles something garbled back, then drops his head. He smears uncoordinated kisses along his jaw until he starts teething against his neck. “Yeah, fuck—bite me, you know you—I want it, too, Vash, come on, come for me, mark me, make me yours.”
“Mine,” Vash groans, then bites.
It’s hard to tell who’s coming first, but Wolfwood absolutely knows he’s done for when Vash’s teeth sink into him. He thrusts up with a shout to the ceiling and Vash shoves his hips down, flush together, squeezing him so tight that Wolfwood thinks he sees heaven.
After the first few clenching pulses, Vash releases him with a moan, then starts rutting their hips together again. Slick and come is smeared all between them, leaking out despite the cock still plugging his hole, and Wolfwood notes with delight that neither of them are going soft.
“It’s,” Vash starts, hoarse, then continues, “it’s a wedding night. Not just one round. It’s gotta be the full night.”
“It’s gotta be,” Wolfwood agrees. He twitches within Vash, sensitive as all hell, but more than willing to cherish this wedding night of theirs. He grins up at his husband, using his hand still clutching his hip to rock him back into a grinding rhythm. “Come on, then, sweetheart. Still got a lotta hours left in the night.”