how much do you know about plant cycles ( closed );

[ecad]

( if you happen to have noticed anything off about him recently, no, you most certainly have not.

he's never claimed to understand much about plant cycles, just that they always seem to come about at the most inconvenient of times, and have gotten increasingly more uncomfortable over the last few years. decade, maybe, but he hasn't been paying that close attention, because at the end of it all it's just one giant inconvenience and he would really rather not have to deal with them in the first place.

but he can always tell when it's coming, because it isn't exactly subtle and generally doesn't leave him with a whole lot of wiggle room to prepare; it begins with an altogether restlessness that overshadows his general skittishness, something that could easily be overlooked or blamed on something else. an itch beneath the surface of his skin that he can never manage to scratch well enough, figuratively speaking, and that's before the low-grade fever sets in. chills and all! because it can't just be a tip of his temperature in the wrong direction, no, because nothing has ever and will never be easy for him, if his track record in all things life are anything to go by. flushed cheeks and the tips of his ears and chills that are more annoying than anything else, but at least that's less embarrassing than the nesting instinct.

which … unfortunately for him is where he's at right now, because he can never have anything nice, but at least … they'd been able to stop at an actual inn, able to afford that sort of thing for a night or two, and if he's lucky? ha?? this whole nonsense will be over before they have to pick up and carry on again.

the only problem with that is that he isn't the only occupant of the room he's currently holed up in. wolfwood had only gone out in search of a new pack of smokes, he'll probably be back any freaking minute, and what is he going to find when he crosses that threshold again? one ( 1 ) humanoid typhoon curled up in the middle of the singular bed, buried beneath what linens he could find — of which there weren't many, because there never are — shivering and hugging his knees and praying to whatever god that is still around to listen that he could just get it over with already.

how many are there going to be this time, hm? )

Comments

[ecad]

( at the very least, he tries to keep as much of the strain out of his voice as he can, but sometimes — especially when it comes to the largest part of the first egg — he just can't help it, and it only adds to the embarrassment of the whole thing. is wolfwood going to think him weak, after this? that he can't handle a little bit of discomfort that will, ultimately, subside?

( in vash's defense, it isn't exactly like this is normal for someone human-shaped, and he hadn't known what he was even supposed to do the first time it happened.

that's something he would really, really like to forget, if he's perfectly honest. )

he almost doesn't register that wolfwood has spoken when the words leave his mouth, a tinny sort of ringing in his ears making focusing a bit more than difficult for a handful of seconds before his eyes come fully into focus. there's a breathless sort of laugh, no humor in it at all as he shakes his head in an attempt to get the hair out of his face. when had he started sweating? )

It's not that bad. ( he says softly, as he would anything that seems as bad. like getting shot at point-blank range. you know how he is.

he's quiet when that question comes, though, cheeks seeming to burn an even deeper shade of pink and his markings flare for a half-second or so before he gets himself back under control. remember that, if it just so happens again in the future. it definitely means he's flustered. )

… Yeah. ( darn near inaudible, because it's just as embarrassing to admit it for a second time. ) Something about the muscle contractions, uh, moving things along? If I had to guess. ( he hasn't exactly thought too deeply about it, okay? he just. knows it helps. ) I dunno. I try not to think about it.

[louboutinjudas]

[ It’s okay, he doesn’t have to go into specifics! Wolfwood really doesn’t want to hear the details. His attraction to Blondie here is complicated enough without any more details… although he’s about to get more, isn’t he? Because Vash is about to…

He’s gonna…

With Wolfwood right here, he’s gonna…

Dear Lord in Heaven, please send a sandworm, the biggest You’ve got, with an appetite to boot. ]

Okay.

[ It’s so much easier to turn his focus to the closed and shuttered window, and the door with the big gun resting against it, pretending to himself and Vash both that his concern here is intruders, and privacy. He stares hard at Punisher, and if he weren’t such an asshole he’d march right over there, lift the gun out of the way, and put it and himself out in the hall. There’s no reason to be in here. ]

Then you do what you have to do.

[ Just because he thinks that Vash shouldn’t be alone, just because he finds this shit frightening, just because he’s never had anyone stay with him when his body did painful, unwanted things, that doesn’t mean Vash wants him here! He just marched in, full of demands and threats – who the fuck would find that comforting? He’s just fucking everything up, isn’t he. ]

D’you want me to go?

[ecad]

( here's the thing about everything you are, nicholas . wolfwood; your threats, your demands, your coarseness that is so uniquely you is comforting. for reasons beyond his comprehension, maybe other than the fact it's the closest he's felt to someone in a really, really long time, and does he have a right to feel that way? absolutely not.

does he feel that way, anyway?

yeah.

so maybe you think you shouldn't be here, or that he doesn't want you here, but he does. even if he doesn't have a right to want you here, because this isn't your rodeo and you don't have a dog in this fight, but you standing silent sentinel somewhere within the vicinity is decidedly better than going through it alone.

even if! no! he isn't going to go into any kind of specifics, especially when do what you have to do comes out of his mouth and vash starts so violently that he almost ends up knocking himself over on the bed. like a complete loser.

what!?

he can't say anything for a handful of moments, mouth working to form words and failing entirely, an effective fish out of water and is he really implying what he thinks he's implying? that he — he — )

I really can get through it without it! ( he ends up stammering out, tripping over his words like the last missed step on a staircase fumbling for some measure of calm down that he can't quite get a grasp on. his markings flicker again, bright and then dim and bright again as he flusters himself so badly that it just makes the embarrassment worse. he reaches for the egg between his thighs, holds it for the span of a breath or two and remembering that they stay warm for a good while after, and for some reason that warmth is comforting when it doesn't have any right to be at all.

he sets it gently to the side, in a part of the makeshift blanket nest that hasn't been completely disturbed. ) … No, I don't want you to go. ( he inhales deeply through his nose and exhales the same way, trying to find some sort of grip on whatever reality this has turned into. ) But I won't ask you to stay if you don't want to.

[louboutinjudas]

[ He really doesn't know how to feel about the egg. He really doesn't. It's not a baby -- Vash wouldn't have talked so casually about disposing of them if there was any chance it was alive -- but it was born like a baby, and even though he understands as only a farm kid can how eggs can be both alive and not at once, it's still... well, it's a complexity, isn't it? He likes simple. This isn't at all simple.

Vash doesn't want him to go, he says, following by some blathering about Wolfwood's wants, but he established from the get-go that his wants didn't factor into the evening's activities one bit. What he wants has almost never factored into what he was going to do, and this isn't the time to start caring about little things like his preferences and comfort level. Vash is going to sit here and squeeze out who knows how many more eggs, and Wolfwood's got permission to stay. That's most of what matters.

The rest is what that staying looks like. ]

Don't be stupid!

[ He doesn't bother to acknowledge that he's been granted to right to remain, because nothing more needs to be said there -- he's here, he's staying, end of discussion. ]

If that makes it easier, then you're doin' it, and that's all there it to it!

[ He's not thinking too much about what 'it' entails, for both their sakes. Vash is going to make things easier on himself, he's going to get things moving, he's gonna clear a path, maybe. The mechanics will sort themselves out later. ]

[ecad]

( they're not — they're not babies, at least not in the real sense, but they could be, if they were fertilized. again, like he said! they're easy enough to dispose of when he needs to, even if it's never going to be that easy, because sometimes. he can't stop himself from thinking about it.

when he doesn't have a right to, because there's no way in any universe ever that he could have any kind of offspring. ( despite, uh. what his brother might think in the future, what he's probably thinking now, because he needs therapy and maybe a hug, but that is absolutely not the point.

they're not babies. they're empty, lifeless things that he has to pass every so often, even if they're warm for so long after he does. it's fine. it's not that complicated.

wolfwood does have permission to stay, the sort of permission he's never had to think about giving anyone else and there's a vulnerability in that that he feels deep in his bones, whether he wants to or not; he wants him to stay, even when he's practically growling at him to not be stupid. to take advantage of this permission to do what needs to be done, to make this easier, to make it go more quickly, and vash. needs a moment to process all of that before he can come up with a response.

he chews on the inside of his bottom lip until he tastes blood, a stupid, nervous habit he's not entirely sure when he'd acquired, but it's been years and it isn't something he's going to let go of, if only because of the comfort he gets from it. freak that he is.

you're doin' it, he says. like it's just that easy, like it would have been that easy when he'd first mentioned it. but even still, his thighs part a little bit more, his flesh hand slipping back down to sift through his petals again; those tiny tendrils have been reaching, and when those fingers make contact they curl, another wave of slick seeking to coat the insides of his thighs as though to say yes, please, finally. )

Wolfwood.

( he murmurs, quiet and somehow intimate, still not looking to meet the other's gaze. even if there's no real chance that wolfwood is actually looking in his general direction. ) Are you—

Are you sure?

[louboutinjudas]

[ No, he’s not looking at Vash. He’s looking just past Vash, where the reality of everything that’s happening on the bed is visible, but only in his periphery, a blur of shapes and colors without anything concrete to remember later. And he turns away a hair further when Vash keeps dithering, snarling at the far corner of the room like it’s offended him personally. ]

How many times do I have to say yes? Yes!

[ Really, he’s a little in awe of what Vash is suggesting. Wolfwood’s got no body shame – as a child it didn’t occur to him to be ashamed of his body, and once with the Eye he wasn’t given the option of modesty – but jerking off in front of somebody is different than just being bare, isn’t it? Even if he wasn’t here, he still can’t quite wrap his head around Vash’s solution. The last thing he’s thinking about, when he’s in pain, is fucking. It seems like getting off under these conditions would be hard as hell, but he can only assume Vash knows what he’s doing.

As much as Vash ever knows what he’s doing. ]

You don’t fuckin’ eat, half the time you don’t wake anyone else for their turn at watch, you pretend not to be hurt when you’re bleedin’ all over the damn place.

[ Sin after sin, he counts them off on his fingers, a litany of self-sacrifice that just makes him madder and madder with every word. ]

And so for once, you’re gonna do the smart thing and make things a little easier for yourself, even if I have t’come over there and…!
[ His teeth snap together audibly as he realizes where his ranting’s landed him. He didn’t… that’s not what he meant to say. That’s not why he’s here. Some of the tension drops from his shoulders as he forces himself to calm down, but you’d better believe he’s keeping his back fully turned to Vash for the foreseeable future. ]

You know what I mean.

[ That last is much quieter, almost apologetic. ]

Just… just get on with it.

[ecad]

Sorry—!

( it comes out of him without him even thinking about it, because it feels like he's spent his entire life apologizing for things that aren't entirely his fault; it's just how he works, how he operates, and there really is no denying how much his body wants what it's been denied up to this point. he doesn't touch himself outside of this, more because he just doesn't think about it than anything else, because wolfwood is right and he never thinks about is own needs. his own wants, even, because those are even less important than needs, and pleasure is something that comes to something tertiary, at the very best. secondary? please.

he's only just barely registered the last of wolfwood's words as his mouth snaps shut, and he doesn't let himself think about it; his body knows only the touch of his own hands, his own fingers sifting through the softness of his petals and the tendrils that still reach for more. what — what would it be like, to feel another's touch? unfamiliar, calloused fingertips over his most sensitive, inhuman parts, learning the lines of him and committing them to memory?

what would it feel like —

( to feel wanted? )

no, no, he can't think like that, because it isn't his place and it isn't fair, even if he isn't asking for anything. vash swallows hard, thick, useless as index and middle finger slip down to frame his clit, and just the barest hint of pressure is enough to bring another sound to the surface. soft, quiet, more pleasure than discomfort as the tension in his hips begins to build again, and he knows another egg is coming soon.

wolfwood is turned away from him, he'll miss the way golden lashes flutter as he gently presses his hips upward into that almost-too-light pressure, sighing around an undeniably pleased sound as the tip of his middle finger gently pulls the hood back, exposing the swollen nub in a way that finds him almost hissing. )

O-Okay. ( he exhales breathlessly, fingers slipping down just a bit farther and teasing at his entrance, still unreasonably tight despite the first egg's passing. okay. he's going to do this, isn't he? he's going to do this.

and he should feel worse about it. he should. he should feel guilty, and shameful, and embarrassed and maybe all of those things are still circling beneath the surface, waiting to bear down on him when his brain isn't a fuzzy mess of radio static and the hum of please, more.

he swallows again around another muffled whine, lips parting once more with shallow pants as his attention returns to his swollen clit and the resulting wave of pleasure finds him moaning openly. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ He doesn't snap back at that sorry only because he's busy pretending that he can't hear a thing that's coming from the bed anymore. Back to the bed, arms tightly folded -- so tightly that the material of his suit jacket is creasing in long curves across his back. He's starting to outgrow his clothes, his arms and shoulders filling out more and more seemingly every day -- Wolfwood is pretending hard that he's got no idea what's happening behind him.

But his hearing is excellent, and he's been trained to assess a room without the need for sight. He can all but see Vash sitting on the bed, can tell from every hitch of his breath or quiet hiss exactly what's happening. He can hear the slide of fingertips over soft flesh, and can hear exactly when that flesh stops being just soft and becomes soft and slick. The mattress creaks ever so faintly, and Wolfwood knows -- knows, as though he was staring openly! -- that Vash's fingers are circling his... his...

He really didn't want to learn about Vash this way. He didn't expect anything to ever come of his traitor body's interest in the blond idiot -- sure, Vash has a pretty face and a good body, but he's here on a job. Other than a stolen glance or two, and maybe a daydream while stuck bouncing around in the back of the damn truck, he was never going to have anything more, and that was fine. More than fine! Even if a guy like him deserved to have something as normal as a relationship, it sure as hell wasn't going to happen with the asshole he was escorting off to his imprisonment (and, although he tries not to think about it, most likely death).

But he knows what Vash's little gasps sound like now. He knows how he touches himself now, knows he'll be smelling this perfume in his dreams for years to come. Vash moans, and Wolfwood grits his teeth until he can hear them creak, willing his bastard body to stop listening so hard. His suit slacks don't hide anything. As soon as he turns around again, Vash is going to see the effect he's having on Wolfwood. He's going to know.

He shouldn't have stayed. He shouldn't have. ]

[ecad]

( it should be more difficult, shouldn't it, to do something like this with wolfwood so close? with wolfwood listening, because it isn't like he has much of a choice otherwise? any little sound he makes, every hitch of breath, he hears it all and there's no telling what else gets picked up on his radar, the sound of fingers on slick skin, the subtle shift of thighs spreading infinitesimally wider. prosthetic fingers twist into threadbare fabric, and maybe he would normally tease himself a bit more, work himself up a bit more, but he isn't here for the sake of his own enjoyment.

not … exactly, anyway. yes, this is going to make things easier, make them go more smoothly and hopefully more quickly, and that doesn't mean he has any right to take the luxury of taking his time.

he reclines, just a little as his thighs spread open, flesh-and-bone hand sweeping the tips of index and middle finger over his swollen clit in a way that has him gritting his teeth not unlike wolfwood is across the room; they creak as his throat works in a thick swallow, as his inner muscles clench down around nothing and another wave of tension makes itself at home at the apex of his hips. another egg will be coming very, very soon, and somehow it already feels like it's going much more easily than the first one had.

( maybe it is going to be smaller, like he'd originally thought. or maybe this sort of thing helps more than he'd originally realized. it doesn't matter much either way, just as long as he can find himself finished here and they can get back to … some semblance of normalcy? aha? )

it isn't fair, the way his mind recalls the first time he'd seen the other make use of that giant cross he bears. long fingers working effortlessly, and are they rougher than his own? more calloused? it isn't fair the way he can't help but think of how they might feel in place of his own, and that alone makes him whine with want, high and thin in the very back of his throat.

stop, you idiot. you'll never be able to look at him the same way again. it's bad enough that he'll never look at you the same again, isn't it?

don't make it worse.

and even still, he swirls the pads of his fingers over his clit and slips them back down to tease again at his entrance, press them inside up to the first knuckle, and it's. it's so good that he can't help but to bite back another sound of pure want, need, because those slender fingers of his aren't anywhere near enough.

needy thing you are, vash the stampede. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ He's so loud. Wolfwood shifts his stance out a hair, glowering at the room's door like he expects the whole of the Julai militia to come storming in, and tries to think about anything other than what's happening behind him. But while he can ignore the little wet sounds, the quiet hiss of skin against skin -- or he's pretending he can, anyway -- there's no ignoring all those moans and gasps and whines.

He didn't expect dead silence, but he was honestly anticipating more heavy breathing and less of those high, needy whines. When he touches himself, those rare evenings or early mornings when the mood takes him -- and they are rare -- he's silent as the grave. Whether it's a legacy of his training enforcing a level of stoic endurance on his every behavior, or a personal preference, he doesn't know and frankly doesn't care -- he's quiet, and for some reason he assumed Stampede here would be quiet too.

Guess he was wrong about that. Add another tally to the Wolfwood doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about score, huh? Because Vash is anything but quiet.

And since there's no possible way that he's being loud on purpose, not with Wolfwood standing right here fuming so hard he's about to burst into flames, then that means that Blondie can't control his volume like this. It means that what he's doing feels so good that he can't help but make noise about it. He'd be a whole orchestra with somebody else in the bed with him, wouldn't he? With somebody else's hands on him, touching him deeper than he can reach himself, pressing harder than the light touches he chooses for himself, working him up into a writhing mess... bet he'd sound like a siren. Bet they'd get a knock on the wall telling them to keep it down.

If he can pass an egg that big, would he even notice a couple fingers? He might need more than that, to really feel it. Could he take a whole hand? Would he want to? Wolfwood's hands are big and broad, but that egg was huge -- it'd be less of a stretch to work his fingers inside that slick space, one by one until his got his whole hand in there. What would it feel like, to touch someone from inside like that?

Fuck, now he's thinking about it. He's so hard that he can feel his cock pulling against his shorts with every breath, and if he doesn't do something soon there's going to be a wet spot on his only pair of pants. If he turns around and tells Vash to hurry up it'll only make the idiot flustered and slow everything down, and he knows this, but come on, Spikey, hurry the fuck up! ]

[ecad]

( trust him to be incapable of keeping his mouth shut even like this; it's funny, or maybe it isn't that when he's by himself, when he's completely alone in this he doesn't make much noise, or at the very least, he doesn't think he does. but he also doesn't let his thoughts wander, doesn't have any thoughts at all that aren't within the realm of getting this over as quickly and efficiently as possible, but … here, now, maybe he's letting his thoughts veer into territory he doesn't have any right at all to even approach, much less breach the barrier of, because he's —

he's thinking about those pretty hands, those long fingers and how they might reach more deeply inside him than he's ever been able to himself. he's thinking about being full, even if he never quite has been to the point of complete satisfaction before, he's thinking about taking more than he ever has and begging for more, because it still isn't enough, it never is, and. oh, it would be so nice to get some measure of satisfaction from this, even if it's just a means to an end to find it all finished.

( is it just because wolfwood is in the room with him? is it just because he can hear him, and vash is so acutely aware of it? it isn't a show by any means, and heaven knows he can't quite help all of those helpless, shameless little sounds that are all but pouring out of him, but he might have to wonder later. if he can bring himself to think about it at all. )

two fingers first-knuckle-deep is nowhere near enough, at least if the tension spreading through his hips is any indication; he's given himself as many as four before, because at such an awkward angle it's difficult to make even that work, but … a whole hand … a whole hand that might just be bigger than his own? he could take that, and he would cry from how good it feels to be so much fuller than he has been before, fat tears at the corners of his eyes spilling over and wetting his lashes as he begs, please, please, more, please and he would say he's never asked for much of anything in his life.

but god, he might just pray for more of that.

those two fingers press deeper, another ripple of pleasure thrumming its way through him as between one breath and the next he adds a third, hips canting upward in search of more of that delicious pressure, thumb pressing hard against his clit and gasping with the wave of heat that comes from it. he's close already, and that's something else new, because he's never been very good at getting himself worked up. knowing that it's just to help, to make everything go more smoothly, more quickly, but there is no denying that this is different in a whole slew of ways.

which. goes without saying, of course. but. that's neither here nor there.

three fingers pressed as deeply as he can manage, and his body trembles with the ache for release, for more than that, and the fact that it remains just beyond his reach is maddening. )

… Please. ( he whines, not even realizing he's spoken aloud, brows furrowing as he twists those fingers, thrusts down onto them like the shameless, needy thing he is in that moment. ) Just— please, please—

( sorry, wolfwood.

he really can't be quiet to save his damned life. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ It’s a good thing his life’s not on the line because goddamn Blondie! Twenty minutes ago he would have sworn up and down – and possibly shot whoever was asking – that Vash was as meek in the bedroom as he is everywhere else. Oh sure, there’s steel in there when somebody’s threatening harm to somebody else, but nine times out of ten when he opens his mouth, it’s to giggle, or whine, or say something patently idiotic about being nice.

If he hadn’t seen that first egg, he’d never believe for a second that this was anything other than selfish pleasure. By God the sounds coming out of that man! Wolfwood’s heart is pounding so loudly it’s making it hard to hear the more subtle sounds, the wet slick stretch that he’s pretty sure was Vash working another finger into himself, but those breathy gasps more than make up for it.

His knuckles all crack, in sequence, when Vash cries out begging for more and he clenches both fists to stop himself from spinning right around and helping. Vash doesn’t need his fucking help, he chides himself, blunt nails leaving indents in his calloused palms. He’s not actually asking for anything – he’s just close. People say all kinds of things, when they’re close.

At least, that’s what he’s heard. His own experience Is limited, and the folks he’s been with have either screamed all kinds of things they thought he wanted to hear, or their union had been a furtive, silent thing, with both parties holding onto a firearm just in case.

With Vash, though… with Vash there’d probably be kissing, wouldn’t there? He seems the type – and fuck it, if he’s thinking about it then he’s damn well thinking about it! With Vash there’d be kissing, and gentle touches. Or would he want gentleness? When he’s fumbling and babbling and falling over himself he sure seems like a gentle kind of guy, but here he is, whining and groaning while three – three? – fingers deep into himself, in front of an audience! Maybe he doesn’t want it gentle. Maybe he’d like to be held down, and made to come.

Shit, he’s absolutely going to come in his pants if this lasts one minute longer. ]

C’mon.

[ How the hell does he sound more wrecked than Spikey here, when all he’s been doing in standing guard? His voice is a rasp, tight as his shoulders and the line of his back, and it’s taking everything in him to stand right where he’s at. He can handle torture, and he can sure as hell handle temptation. This?

This is something new. ]

Harder.

[ This is something entirely new, and he’s so adrift. ]

[ecad]

( it really, really is a good thing, isn't it? but of course he wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut, even now, because he's always babbling regardless of the situation; trying to talk his way out of a fight? rambling about some thing or another that no one really cares about, but at least meryl pretends because she's the most sensible one of all of them, and plays conscientious objector more often than not, whether or not she really wants to? cracking a dumb joke, most often at his own expense just to break the tension, even if it doesn't end up working the way he wants it to —

his mouth is always going, so it really shouldn't be any surprise at all that that particular part of him extends to things that happen behind closed doors. granted, he is usually, mostly quiet when it's just him by himself, doing this, but it's been mentioned before that this is so much more different than any other time, and he really is going to think later that it has everything to do with wolfwood being present, and not just the fact that he is effectively putting on a show. for an unwilling audience, or not.

he doesn't quite know what he's asking for, just that he wants, he needs more, and that his mouth is forming the plea before his brain can catch up; he isn't going to realize he's even spoken aloud until that low, grating rasp reaches his ears and bids him harder, but. oh, once it does? his markings are going to flare so brightly that they look as if they might just burn right off of his skin, a sound catching in the back of his throat that is so high in pitch, so threadbare thin and sharp that if it were a tangible thing, it might as well leave him bleeding.

c'mon.

harder. )

W—

( it's the beginning of a syllable, the beginning of a name that rests on the tip of his tongue as his hips cant upward again, as he rides his fingers with a sort of aching intensity that he's never felt before that he tries to stop before it's even fully formed, because that name has no place in his mouth and it shouldn't, but he wants it to.

just like he wants to be touched by hands that aren't his own, just like he wants to be kissed softly and handled roughly in equal measure. just like he wants to be held down and told to be good as much as he just wants to be held. as much as he wants to be left with finger-shaped bruises on his hips and the indents of teeth on his thighs, and made to feel like he's something to be cherished.

the duality of one ( 1 ) vash the stampede really is a thing to behold.

three fingers turn into four, and his voice breaks on another moan as he tries to simultaneously press the heel of his hand against his throbbing clit; the angle isn't quite right, but it's almost as though he needs to be filled more than he needs anything else, inner muscles rippling and bearing down as a wave of what would normally be discomfort washes over him. tells him that another egg is coming, and soon, and all he feels is the electric pleasure that's turned his body into little more than a livewire, an open, raw nerve that feels too much and not enough all at once. )

—Wolfwood.

[louboutinjudas]

[ Well, he didn’t stop. He didn’t jerk his hand away, didn’t start babbling apologies, didn’t tell Wolfwood to leave. Wolfwood’s impulsively barked orders didn’t leave Vash adrift, to suffer through that next egg without assistance. No, it’s far worse than that.

It’s not a conscious decision, to turn around. There’s no intent to close that short space between himself and the bed. He doesn’t mean to lean over the brilliantly glowing figure, his markings so bright that there’s negative spots in Wolfwood’s vision when he glances away, and he sure as hell doesn’t think he could actually reach between those scarred thighs to lay his hand over Vash’s until it’s really happening.

This is really happening.

He cups those thick, calloused fingers and broad palm over the back of Vash’s hand, urging those fingers deeper, and that palm to grind harder on his… well, he can only presume there’s something like a clit in there, from the attention he’s been hearing Vash pay to it. The tentacles – the man has fucking tentacles -- are soft as they brush against the sides of his hand and he doesn’t know if he should touch them or not. He knows (more or less) what to do with a pussy, but this? All he knows is the images burned into his brain by the sounds Vash has been making for the last few minutes. All he knows is that this is going to change things between them, forever.

Fuck it. If Vash didn’t want him here, he shouldn’t have called out his name so desperately. ]

You can take it.

[ He doesn’t know a damn thing about bedroom talk – his only experience there is the overblown praise of a paid companion – but he knows what’s it’s like to be struggling against his body’s ability to endure, to push through discomfort and past his own limits. He still can’t quite look Vash in the eye, so his encouragement is directed as a spot on the side of that ridiculous blond head. It might make it easier for Vash to tell him to fuck off, if they’re not staring each other in the eye.

Because Vash is going to tell him to fuck off, isn’t he?

God, he can’t believe he’s doing this. ]

You’re almost there.

[ecad]

( he's so far gone now, so close that he might not have been able to stop even if he'd tried, or thought to try; maybe he'll offer his stuttered apologies later, when there's room for a single, coherent thought in his head, maybe he'll stumble over his words until wolfwood barks at him to shut the hell up already and they'll move past this, but not like nothing had ever happened.

there is no coming back from this, not exactly, but he's not entirely convinced he could bring himself to have any regrets.

he's only distantly aware of the sound of the other moving across the room, of movement in general until he's right there at the edge of the bed. until that big hand is covering his own and urging his fingers deeper, the heel of his hand finally offering the pressure he'd been seeking and his petals and tendrils both react instantly, curling around those thick digits as though to try to keep him close.

or encourage him closer.

his hips buck upward into their hands, the line of his spine curving into a sleek arc that finds his ribs standing out in stark relief beneath scarred skin and no, he is not going to tell you to fuck off. never mind that he would never think of using that particular phrasing in the first place, he doesn't want you going anywhere, and if he gives over anything that isn't a startled, broken keen it's going to be a gasped-out curse under his breath that comes out with his next shivery exhale.

fuck!

there's wetness at the corners of his eyes again, constellations spreading over dark lashes as his head tips back to expose the line of his throat, pulse a rapid-fire, staccato beat just beneath the surface of his skin. ) So close, socloseWolfwoodplease—!

( he aches, god he aches, but he's right there. right at the very edge just waiting to tip over, coming apart at the seams in all the ways he's never let anyone else see before. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ He could get used to this.

Wolfwood rocks his hand over Vash’s, fingertips tracing the edge of tight, slick skin where Vash’s fingers vanish into himself, and the thought slips unbidden into his mind – he could really get used to this. Vash is pretty on a good day – especially if he’s managed to keep his idiot mouth shut, especially if he hasn’t thrown himself into the line of fire or done something else equally self-destructive – but like this? Chasing after his own pleasure, breathlessly eager, with those tears making his lashes look longer, those pink lips just right there… Wolfwood doesn’t even like kissing, so why’s he thinking about it now?

Why’s it so important, suddenly, that he knows what Vash tastes like?

But that’s going too far. That’s too intimate, and that’s not what this is. This is just helping out a… a guy, a traveling companion, not a friend, nothing so familiar as that, but… but a guy. A good guy.

His fingertips press against that soft boundary again, and Vash is so wet, so warm, so inviting that Wolfwood doesn’t let himself think about it for one single second. On the next thrust forward into that slick heat Wolfwood keeps his hand right over Vash’s, sliding two of his own fingers up inside Vash’s body. It’s got to be a hell of a stretch, but he saw the size of that egg. Vash can take it. ]

There you go.

[ The whole point here is to get Vash off, to get him opened up and slick enough that the eggs move through easily, right? They should be running towards that finish line at top speed, so why in the fuck is he thinking about slowing down? Vash is gorgeous like this, sure, and it’d be a hell of a thing to be able to savor this moment awhile longer, but how cruel to even consider stopping now! Stopping, and then starting again, keeping Vash on edge but never letting him tip over, just so Wolfwood could enjoy the flush beneath his skin and the tightness running all through him as he struggles towards his completion. What the hell is wrong with him that he’d ever think something like that? That’s torture, is what that is. That’s torment, even if he’s imagining inflicting pleasure instead of pain.

He doesn’t get to keep this, come on. It’s enough of a privilege to get to see Vash like this, to get to help. Blondie’s putting a lot of trust in him letting him be a part of this, and there’s no goddamn way he’s going to fuck that up.

No matter how hot it would be. ]

[ecad]

( you're not the only one that could get used to this, undertaker. yes, it would have been good enough to do this on his own and yes, the other's presence alone is more than he deserves, but that strong body so close to his own, those long, calloused fingers holding his own where he so desperately needs them, the sinful rumble of his voice is the sweetest thing to ever touch his ears and he. he can't be selfish, he can't, because he's never been able to keep anything for himself.

this might not be much in the larger scheme of things, just a ( seemingly begrudgingly ) kind heart offering help when it's needed, and wolfwood is kind, he'd seen it in the very beginning! this is so much more than he ever would have thought to get from him, the press of those fingers and the low, growling pitch of his voice the delicious sort of thing that is going to invade his dreams for the rest of his life, no matter how long or short that ends up being. he can't be selfish, he can't he can't he can't.

but. within the realm of being selfish, if wolfwood were to give in to the temptation of finding out what he tastes like, of course he'd be sweet; like the donuts he loves so much, the coffee he nurses when he can actually get it, the occasional piece of candy like the ones that line wolfwood's pockets at any given time. his lips might be desert-chapped more often than they aren't, but his tongue is soft, and warm, and slick like the space between his thighs, and with that in mind —

if the other ever entertained the idea of what he tasted like elsewhere, it would be the same thick, syrupy sweetness of the scent currently clinging to the air around them. food for thought, if you'll pardon the pun.

he's so, so close, and the addition of wolfwood's two fingers next to his own have him shaking; he can feel the cresting wave of his pleasure reaching its peak, but he still can't reach it, not quite. he whines again, high-pitched and sharp, turning his face toward the other with his eyes still closed, craning his neck like he wants that kiss nicholas is thinking about without realizing it. every inch of him is drawn tight, trembling like the plucked string of an instrument, and when he rolls his hips against their hands again something in him shifts, and he's very, very distantly aware that that egg is going to come soon, whether he does before it or not.

his heels dig into the thin mattress, and he presses the hell of his hand against his clit again, as hard as he can, and wolfwood will surely be able to feel how his inner muscles flutter. tighten. hold on to that added intrusion of their own accord, his body craving so much more than it really needs in order to see this through. )

… So good. ( he whispers, barely audible, and his markings flicker again as the egg begins its slow descent toward his stretched hole. it doesn't feel as large as the first, but that just might be from how wonderfully he's being stretched open. ) You're so, so good.

( never mind that, ah, if wolfwood were to give in to the intrusive thought of edging the hell out of him, whether in this instance or any other, he'd have one of the prettiest messes noman's land has ever seen on his hands. quite literally.

maybe he'll find himself thinking about that, once again unbidden, his wanting mind a sea of betrayal when he's left to his own devices. his own thoughts. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ He’s close. That’s what the light show means, right – that there’s about to be another one of those giant eggs pushing its way out of his body? He can’t feel anything yet, nothing other than the fluttering of those silky inner walls, nothing but the heat of Vash’s body and the tightness of forcing so many fingers into him – but it’ll be here soon. It’ll be here soon, and as stretched and slick as he is, Vash wanted to come first, didn’t he?

So he’s going to, if Wolfwood’s got anything to say about it. ]

Let me drive.

[ If he tugs at Vash’s wrist with his free hand, will Vash understand what he means? Wolfwood’s thrusting fingers don’t slow for an instant, twisting and scissoring against those velvet walls. If Vash pulls his hand away, Wolfwood can add another finger, big and sturdy and strong, pressing up against Vash’s insides so firmly that he can see that flat stomach bulge. And if he can take three, then surely he can take four – Vash had four of his own inside himself, after all… and if he can take four, then maybe, maybe, if Wolfwood strums his free hand over Vash’s clit, if he goes carefully, murmuring encouragement in a soft voice that he didn’t know he was capable of -- you’re doing so well, look at you, that’s it, let me in, you’re being so good -- then maybe Vash can take his whole goddamn hand.

And if that’s still not enough, then shit. What else can he try? ]

[ecad]

( the light show does mean that and, on a very basic level, he's happy; his markings flaring up or blinking can always mean a whole slew of things, when this had first started he was both frustrated with his current situation and flabbergasted by wolfwood's agreeing to stay, and now everything is sort of. melting into an amalgamation of everything, he doesn't exactly know where one feeling ends and another begins, but it doesn't quite matter at the end of it all, does it?

let me drive, he says, and the tug at his wrist says everything the other isn't, and if that makes his markings shine just a bit brighter, makes his next exhale come more breathlessly than the one before it, it isn't like he has much control over it. he pulls his fingers free of his body with an undeniably slick sound, ultimately curling them around wolfwood's wrist when he thrusts his own fingers back in and adds another, and that — oh, that would have been enough, more than enough because those digits are so much thicker than his own, but it's the praise that's going to end up sending him over the edge. hell, it's what's going to shove him over it, whether he wants it or not, the words thrumming through him like something tangible and taking root, even if they don't belong.

-- so well.

look at you.

let me in.

you're being so good.

his eyes flutter open and he makes the mistake of training his gaze downward,. taking in that powerful hand between his thighs and the way the other's fingers make a bulge beneath his skin, and the pleasure that washes over him is blinding, maddening. glorious in a way he's never felt before, might never feel again, and his markings seem to spark as though a match has been lit and he's powerless to stop the fire that will come from it. )

W—Wolfwood, I— fuck—!

( that curse comes again and his voice breaks around it, shatters with how sharply his orgasm takes him; his entire body draws tight, inner walls seeking to milk those fingers for everything they're worth, in lieu of something else, and while the pleasure usually fades quickly enough into the aftershocks, it doesn't this time.

vash's free hand reaches for any part of wolfwood he can reach, the sleeve of his jacket, his shoulder, anything for just one more point of contact as he rides this seemingly unending wave, tears spilling over his cheeks as he babbles, whines, pleads.

keep him coming, undertaker. he's all yours. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ Well, how about that. He got Vash the Stampede to swear.

It’s a relief – for them both, he’s sure! – when Vash finally, finally seizes around him, tension gripping his whole body. After all that buildup Wolfwood’s sure that this’ll be an explosion, big and over quickly, and so he’s paying close attention to all the little physical signs for when good passes into too much. But the heartbeats tick by, and Vash is still clenched tight around his fingers, long past the point where Wolfwood expected him to fall limp.

Is this how it is, for plants? Wolfwood laughs quietly under his breath, both hands still working Vash for as long as the other man needs. ]

Think I’m jealous!

[ Eggs or no, he’s glad he got to see this, to be a part of this. Vash is amazing, lost to pleasure and glowing so brightly that Wolfwood’s vision is going to be shot to shit for minutes afterward. He’s never given one single moment’s consideration to the Eye’s theology – the twins aren’t angels and God saves nobody – but this is a kind of worship he could get behind. This is a kind of divinity he’d get on his knees for. ]

Just a little more, you’ve got it.

[ecad]

( good on you, undertaker, there … might be more where that came from, stay tuned to find out for sure.

they're both expecting the tension to die down, they're both expecting there to be some manner of reprieve but vash's body is so far beyond his control at this point that he doesn't fight it, he doesn't question it, and those fingers working inside him aren't doing him any favors in the interim, beautiful and thick as they are, working his body over like it's never been before and dragging pleasure out of him like he was made for nothing else.

except, they are doing him favors, aren't they? making those inner muscles work, and in turn working that next egg closer toward his entrance, and the fact that it still feels so good is something he's going to remember long after they've finished here. long after wolfwood has any reason to touch him at all.

his petals, his tendrils both stay curled around wolfwood's hand as he continues to work him over, little shocks of pleasure making him jolt, and wolfwood laughs, vash answering in turn with a harsh exhale, something that is supposed to equate that laugh, but doesn't quite manage it. )

Je—ha— jealous?

( he can't think, he can't breathe for how good he feels, for how good wolfwood is making him feel, and he can already feel his pleasure cresting again, crashing down on him like he has no control over it, and maybe … he doesn't, now.

just a little more, he says, and even as the words leave his mouth vash feels it, that wave crashing down on him and he has no control, the whole of him tensing even more than it already was, muscles bearing down even more around those fingers, and. there, it's coming, the next egg, it's right there. )

It's— s'coming— ( the only kind of warning he can give as he feels the egg making its way downward, and if wolfwood doesn't withdraw his fingers quickly enough he'll feel it, the rounded edge pushing its way out, and … at the very least, as he'd thought, it isn't as big as the first.

it's out of him so, so much more easily than the first, he hardly feels it all, still riding the high of his orgasm as he is, and once it's out — he pants, gasps, whines, still grasping for any part of wolfwood he can reach, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket and unconsciously pulling him closer, trying to nuzzle into him without realizing he's doing it.

he's quiet, for a moment after. maybe his brain is rebooting, maybe it's getting ready for the next one — if there is one, he isn't sure — but his breaths are coming short, abbreviated, like he's reaching but can't quite reach them. he's never come twice like that, never been able to do it himself, and you'll have to excuse him if he needs a second to realize it even happened. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ He absolutely will not be pulling his hand free, no matter what Vash says, until he feels for himself the smooth edge of that next egg bumping up against his fingertips. He’s still got no idea where they’re coming from – other than the obvious – but he’s used to not entirely understanding what’s being asked of him.

He withdraws slowly, keeping in gentle contact with the egg the entire time, so that when it finally slips free it’s just an extension of his hand, smooth and easy. He might not understand what’s happening here but he understood his assignment sure enough, and when Vash reaches for him Wolfwood wraps both arms around the man to hold him close, if that’s what he needs. ]

There you go.

[ Just a few seconds ago he sounded so sure, didn’t he? Giving direction, giving encouragement, that steady rumbling voice guiding Vash where he needed to go. But now that it’s over – at least for the moment – Wolfwood sounds much less certain. The whole room is redolent with the scent of Vash’s arousal, his hand is slick to the wrist, and there’s a wet spot on the front on his trousers that’ll require soaking, and soon, if he doesn’t want to advertise to the world that his cock drooled right through his shorts.

Everything’s going to change now, isn’t it? ]

[ecad]

( he isn't expecting to be held, but he surely hadn't expected wolffood to stay in the first place, much less offer to help him through this in the way he had; of course it's already been infinitely easier, almost enjoyable on a level that he's never going to let himself think about for too long, because it feels wrong, wolfwood is just helping and there's nothing more to it than that! but to say again that he's never come so hard in his life, and then being held on top of it —

he doesn't realize when he presses his tear-stained face into the space between the other's neck and shoulder, or that he's still trembling from the aftershocks until his ears stop ringing so loudly, and even when he comes back to himself little by little, in the tiniest of increments he can't think to pull away. selfishly, he doesn't want to, and his breaths are still coming in quiet, abbreviated pants against wolfwood's neck, lips just barely parted against the beat of his pulse, the semblance of a kiss that he would give openly if he had permission to do it in the first place.

his arms are practically crushed against his own chest with how tightly wolfwood is holding him, and he shifts as minutely as possible to get closer to him, to angle more of his body in his direction until some part of him — whether it's the back of a hand, forearm, elbow, something — accidentally brushes up against the front of his slacks, and.

… oh.

it makes his markings flicker again, the barest hint of light and color and that absolutely means he's both embarrassed and curious all at once; wolfwood doesn't know that, of course, so maybe if he doesn't draw attention to what just happened completely by accident he can pretend that it didn't happen at all. right? isn't that kind of the name of the game they're playing?

even if that curiosity is going to end up getting the better of him, and he wants to say thank you properly, and not just with the words out of his mouth. uh. stay tuned, because he's reasonably sure there's at least one more egg in there, there really never is any consistency with size or quantity, and some deeply selfish part of him wants to find out if he can make the other feel anywhere near as good as he'd made him feel.

… also if you feel something a bit like a low-grade vibration coming from the very bottom of vash's chest, no you don't. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ Of course Wolfwood’s holding him. Vash reached out, clinging with a desperation that spoke to parts of Wolfwood that he’s ignored for a long, long time. What was he supposed to do, wipe his hand on the sheets and go back to his own room? Vash needs to be slick, yes, but relaxed too, if he’s going to process however many more of those weird eggs are up in there. If he wants to be held, he’ll get held, and that’s all there is to it.

It's just to make this all easier on Vash, that’s all. He’ll ignore his own body’s reaction if Vash does, and it’ll be fine. This isn’t about him.

However, he never said one thing about ignoring what Vash’s body is doing! ]

Are you purring?!

[ He won’t let go if Vash is still crying into his shoulder, but that rumbling encouragement voice is gone like it was never there. In its place is a disbelieving kind of mockery, only underlined by the snort that follows. ]

You lay eggs like a tomas, you purr like a cat, you glow like a worm and your pussy’s got tentacles.

[ You’re weird, sir. None of that was judgment, though. He’s more amused than anything else. Today’s been strange, but he’s here for the ride. ]

Got any other critters in there you want to introduce me to, while we’re here?

[ecad]

( well. he's not entirely sure what wolfwood would do? especially considering he's never been a part of something like this? he very well could have washed his hands and gone back to his room, regardless of whether or not there was another egg on the way — there might be, vash still doesn't know himself, he never does until the thing is already making itself known, which is honestly downright rude, if you ask him — but he's still here, and he's holding him, and it feels so nice that he's already talking himself out of even thinking of getting used to it. because this is never going to happen again. he's never going to get this kind of intimacy again —

even if he can't quite stop himself from pressing his face a bit more into the other's neck, a startled … almost chirp of a noise coming out of him at the question of whether or not he's purring.

you're not beating these critter allegations, mister the stampede. ) —Um!

( very intelligent. very responsive. very much not the answer wolfwood is looking for, obviously, and his face is practically on fire by the time the other ends his observations with your pussy's got tentacles.

… to which he mumbles, somewhere in the vicinity of wolfwood's collar, helpfully: ) They're tendrils. And … uh, petals. ( that's what you're focusing on!? sweet baby jesus on fire.

he knows he's weird, okay? and not even just by human standards. he doesn't have a whole lot to go on as far as independents go, just for the record! he knows it's surprising and strange and weird, but it's not like he can help any of it!

which means he's going to end up deflecting, like he's gotten very good at; face still burning, markings a dim shimmer at the surface, he noses at the spot just beneath wolfwood's ear, that deep-set purr still resonating at the center of his chest. ) No more critters that I can think of, but … ( he swallows thickly, unsure of whether or not he thinks this is going to be okay at the end of everything, but. oh, he's curious.

it could have been easy enough to ignore how hard the other man is beneath his layers, behind his zipper, and he. he wants to touch so badly that before he's even spoken up the very tips of his flesh hand have brushed against the flat of wolfood's stomach, just above his waistband, hinting at his next question before it even comes out of him. )

Are you hard?