lies on the lips of a priest

[anthophilia]

[ When you live the kind of life Wolfwood does, you have to have rules in place. Like: some things you remember, and some things you forget, because if you don’t do the second thing there’s no way you’ll survive the first. Or: children are pure, and adults, in general, are shit. Or: People can call him Wolfwood (for preference), Punisher (if it’s work), or Nick (at a stretch), but nobody gets to call him Nico anymore. Or: it’s better to fuck without kissing if you can get away with it, because kissing – faces close so close you share breath, the thing that everyone needs to keep living – is how you catch feelings.

Vash has an irritating way of blasting right through all his rules.

Rule one, they’ve done okay with. He can’t remember what it was that tipped him off that the restless, fidgeting way Vash tossed and turned when they shared a bed meant he wanted to cuddle. And that’s good, because it’s probably some tearjerking, traumatic bullshit that causes Vash to be so fucking anxious when someone’s that close that he can’t be at ease unless they wrap him up close and kind. He did, though; figured it out, caught Vash up in his arms and felt the other man go pliable and sweet in his embrace, and he finally managed some fucking sleep. After that is where is all turned to shit. They next time they’d done it Vash had just been watching him with those big, clear eyes, his permanent blush starker even in the dark, and maybe it was some stupid plant power at play but Wolfwood lost his mind and kissed him. It had been good, warm and wet and heated, and Vash had said please, Nico, can I- with his hand already halfway in Wolfwood’s pants and of course he’d said yes. But when it came time to repay the favour Vash had brightly said oh, that’s okay, I’m actually really tired! and immediately done the worst job of pretending to fall asleep Wolfwood’s ever seen in his life, complete with little snoring sounds that were a hair’s breadth from the honk-shooo mimimimimi bullshit you see in old cartoons.

The next time they’d done it Vash had kissed him first, and he’d been really into it until he shoved one of his thighs between those stupidly long, slender legs with the idea of grinding it against Vash until he had no option but to let Wolfwood give him a blowjob or at least a handy, and realized Vash wasn’t hard. That had felt shitty, but he still let Vash get him off, and that’s how he knows he fucked up when he broke his rule: he kissed, and then he had to lay there feeling like worm shit after he finished and Vash answered his groping hand with thanks, but that was enough for me! and faked falling asleep again.

This time, when Vash thrashes around and Wolfwood pulls him in close, he jerks his head back when Vash leans in for a kiss. He wants it – of course he does – but his stomach’s sour as a hangover when he thinks about going through that whole performance again. Rocking his hardon against a pelvis so flat Vash might as well be one of those dumb boy dolls they make so the dolls with long blonde hair and ballistic plastic tits have someone for little girls to marry them to, coming in a way that makes him want to watch Vash’s face and tell him things he doesn’t tell anyone, laying there hating himself for it when Vash makes fake little mnm mnm sleep sounds.

He squints against the dark. A wasted effort, when the colour of Vash’s big eyes almost seems to glow, but he does it anyway. ]

You know you don’t have to do all that shit. I’ll still hold you.

Comments

[spiculatus]

[ the thing is, vash knows better.

he's been around long enough to know what happens to people if he hangs around them too long, like he's the carrier of some disease that catches slow but deadly. it's better to keep the world at arm's length -- and if he's lonely, at least that's better than people dying because he was selfish.

but vash isn't perfect. he makes mistakes. and no matter how hard he tries to be better, old selfish habits always have a way of rearing their ugly head.

it starts the first time he and wolfwood share a bed. no closer quarters than being crammed together in the backseat of the truck, but there's something different about it that makes him itch. maybe it just treads too close to one of those old aches that even time hasn't been able to heal -- the knotted-up scar tissue of a wound where infection still lingers underneath, a memory of the only other person vash has ever shared a bed with.

still! vash thinks he's being good. he's staying on his side of the bed, polite as you please, and resisting the urge to needle wolfwood awake with a thousand inane questions just to hear the rough rasp of his voice in the dark. sure, he can't seem to manage the trick of keeping his limbs still, can't remember how to lay still instead of tossing and turning. maybe it's just the way he's fighting the magnetic pull of the body next to him; vash wants to plaster himself up against wolfwood's side, wants to tangle their legs up together, wants wolfwood's arms snug around him. but it's better! not to get too close, not to risk the stain of ruin on him rubbing off on someone else --

and then wolfwood hauls him close in one abrupt motion, growls out something about bein' a fuckin' idiot into vash's hair, and proceeds to hold him so sweetly that vash has to struggle not to cry. (maybe he does. a little. but only after wolfwood's breathing evens out again, when there's no risk of ruining this enough to make him let go.)

it should be enough. but that's the thing about being selfish -- once you let yourself have a little taste, the hunger only grows.

and that's how he ends up with wolfwood's tongue in his mouth, his hand on wolfwood's fly, and it's all downhill from there. greedy. because he likes wolfwood, and finds that he likes to make him feel good just as much. likes using his hands for something that isn't hurting, likes the proof that he can be good for this, too. wolfwood deserves to be touched with kindness, with affection, and vash likes being the one to do it for him.

but he has to have limits to how much he can take. and that's why, each time wolfwood fumbles to return the favor, vash has to wiggle out of his grip and shut the whole thing cheerfully down. what he has is already more than he deserves; the further he lets the scales tip, the worse the risk becomes.

of course, trust wolfwood to not leave it at that.

the other man jerks back when vash tries to lean in for a kiss, and vash is only half-embarrassed about the little whine of protest when he's denied. this quick, and it's already become the kind of thing that he aches to be without.

but. ]

Oh. [ and vash lets it hang there for a long moment, puzzling the words over to himself. it's not wolfwood saying we shouldn't or i don't want to; it doesn't feel like a rejection so much as an offering. so, slowly: ] ... but if I want to?