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]

( 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?

[louboutinjudas]

[ Tendrils and what? The hell's a petal?

Blondie sounds embarrassed, but he’s still hanging on, nuzzling into the side of Wolfwood’s neck and dammit, that’s nice. He can admit to himself, here in the privacy of his own mind, that it’s nice to be held, even if he’s the one doing the holding. It’s nice to be close to somebody, nice to be a source of, what, comfort and safety and shit like that. It’s nice to have someone near.

At least, it’s nice until Vash reaches out, surely to poke him in the gut for the crime of letting himself get too comfortable and close. Wolfwood doesn’t give him the chance – he lets Vash go and jolts back at the touch, his face a brilliant, humiliated red. ]

It’s not like I’ve got any control over it!

[ That’s not entirely true, okay… there’s an amount of self-discipline that he calls on when he’s out in the world and a pretty somebody or other bends over or bats their eyes or flaunts their rack. Going through an accelerated puberty in a prison full of killers was a great way to learn quick how to keep himself in line, but he’s never fingered somebody into a whole parade of climaxes before. His dick was going to have things to say about it and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Except leave.

Should he leave? Is this, finally, what crossing the line here looks like? ]

Just ignore it, it’ll go away.

[ecad]

( maybe he'll explain it, once everything is over and done with here, and maybe he won't; he's not so much embarrassed as he is … hm, what's the right word to use here? sheepish? he knows enough about plant and human anatomy to know that neither of the things he has going on for him downstairs are normal for human beings, and maybe there is some embarrassment laced through there somewhere, but for the most part, he can't help but wonder if wolfwood minds it.

if he might even like it, given his … current predicament. even if there is a minimal amount of control he has over what his body does without his express consent, because he knows bodies do a lot of what they want, when they want, perhaps when it's most inconvenient. but.

is he so wrong for wondering?

but then the other jolts away from his touch, and at the very least vash doesn't flinch himself, not like he had when he'd first admitted what would make this whole thing easier on him; he is quiet, though, for a moment, teeth idly chewing on the inside of his cheek as wolfwood insists that he has no control over it. maybe he doesn't, and maybe he does to some degree, but that isn't all that important at the bottom of it. is it?

he makes a humming sort of noise behind lips that are pressed firmly closed, something that sounds almost like one of the pleased hums that had come out of him earlier, and he feels comfortable enough that another egg isn't coming soon, if at all, enough to pull his legs up and beneath him until he's kneeling in the other's direction. )

Maybe you don't, but I … ( his voice is so quiet, so soft around the edges that it's almost a whisper, and if wolfwood hasn't moved too far away from him, he'll reach to very, very gently trace over the side of his neck with bare fingers. ) You helped, and you didn't have to. ( he fidgets, trying to choose his words so, so carefully again, sitting up just a little straighter. thighs still glistening with slick, slightly parted. ) It felt so … good. ( for lack of more elaborate phrasing, that is the truth of it! he's convinced he'll never feel anything that good ever again. )

Wolfwood … ( he swallows again, at war with himself on whether or not he's brave enough to say what he wants to next. his eyes are so bright, still just a little bit watery, shining behind the fringe of his lashes when he chances his next glance upward. ) Let me help. I want to. ( a beat, and then, a bit more breathlessly than is strictly necessary: ) Please.

[louboutinjudas]

[ No, he hasn’t gone further than just far enough so that Vash couldn’t touch him without moving. And there’s tension thrumming through him all the way to the ground when Vash does move, and those gentle fingers raise goosebumps – among other things – as they skate lightly across his throat.

He could do it. He could turn into that touch, say yes, damn himself to an even further, colder level of Hell with Vash’s hands all over him. It would even be good – Vash, for all his hesitance, is clearly no blushing virgin, and Wolfwood’s seen how thorough he can be, the strength that he hides beneath that oversized coat. It would be good.

It would be a sin, to fuck his target like they’re friends. Like he’s somebody deserving of good things. And that’s not even getting into what Millions Knives would do if he found out!

Wolfwood jerks his head to the side in a brusque, angry no. ]

You don’t owe me a goddamn thing, Spikey. This was about you.

[ About the sweet sounds he made, about the way he bucked up so perfectly into Wolfwood’s touch, about the scent of him still clinging to Wolfwood’s fingers, and not about how good it felt to put his hands on somebody and have them cry out from pleasure instead of in pain. Not about how big his heart felt with Vash clinging to him, gasping with relief. ]

You and those damn big eggs, that’s all.

[ He takes another step away, to shake off Vash’s touch if it’s still there – and to move out of range, if it’s not. What’s being offered here isn’t for him, and he knows it. Why doesn’t Vash get that?! ]

That’s all.

my turn to apologize prioritizing one thread but i desperately needed to get this reply out

[ecad]

( vash might not be such a blushing virgin, but the only hands that have ever touched him other than his own have been wolfwood's, and even when he's offering to give him some measure of relief, release, he could not, with any level of confidence, say that he knows what he's doing. if the other even let him try in the first place.

— which, by the sound of that ground-out no and the more distance put between them, he isn't going to. which he'd expected, mostly because that's just how wolfwood is, as far as he can say he knows the man to begin with, but the resounding way his offer feels like it's being met with rejection on a level he has no right to feel sits so heavily in his chest that he can't help but to take it for as much.

is he being selfish, wanting to give something back? for wanting to try to make wolfwood feel good, too?

he lets his hand fall away, absently fidgeting with the edge of his topmost layer that he still, ridiculously, has in place, having not thought to remove all of his clothing before everything had started, and is now silently grateful for. more scars covered than on display, blemishes and pockmarks and ugly covered by a thin layer of fabric, and he still feels so exposed that he might as well be completely bare. )

Okay.

( he says after a moment, trying to keep his voice steady, to not let it betray him. his face feels hot, he feels hot all the way down to his shoulders, but it doesn't matter. this was always how it was going to be. ) Yeah, sure. Um. ( his tongue feels strange in his mouth, like it doesn't quite fit as it should, and his words are clumsy. too thick, as he stumbles over them. ) Can I ask you something, though? Just. Just one thing, I promise.

( even if wolfwood wants a chance to say no, to pull away even more and put an end to this on his own terms, vash charges forward before he loses the nerve entirely. if this is going to be his only chance, he doesn't want to waste it, even if he doesn't get the answer he's hoping for. at the very least, he'll be able to say he tried. )

Can I kiss you? ( just the one time, it's all he wants. he's been just a little bit enamored with the shape of your mouth since the very beginning, the little smirks you give when you think no one's looking, the softness that belies all the gruffness. this, he understands, is him being selfish and he's expecting another resounding no just for daring to ask, but if he hadn't, he'd end up spending the rest of his days wondering if it could have ever been yes.

he won't press. he understands just how important boundaries and respecting them are, but sometimes … sometimes you have to try, don't you? )

[louboutinjudas]

[ Vash takes his hand away, and says okay in that quiet disappointed voice of his and Wolfwood knows, even before he takes breath to speak again, he fucking knows that this isn’t over. Spikey can’t accept a good deed without having to turn around and do ten good deeds in return, and with the evidence of Wolfwood’s traitor body between them, he no doubt thinks that this is what Wolfwood wants.

And he’s not wrong either, not entirely. Vash is attractive – anyone with eyes could see that – and eager, and beautifully responsive. Hell, Wolfwood just spent the last however many minutes fantasizing about all the ways he could touch the idiot, all the sounds he could draw from those pink lips, all the tricks he’s learned, or read about, or dreamed that could make Vash buck and cry out... and all that before he got his hand as far inside the man as he could reach, before he learned how slick he is inside, how soft. How hot.

So yeah, of course he wants this. He shouldn’t want this, and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve it, but in another life he’d have said yes twenty minutes ago.

But in this life, here and now, he can’t say yes. It’s too much of a risk if anyone – the Eye, Legato, the man himself – finds out what Wolfwood did to their precious angel. Helping Vash was one thing, but taking pleasure for himself? That’s not right. That’s not his role here. Wolfwood shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Vash out of the corner of his eye as though waiting for the man to pounce. He can’t say yes… and he can’t say no either, can he? His job is to stay close, and if things between them get awkward, who’s to say if Vash won’t decide to disappear in the middle of the night? He has to do what he can to keep Blondie here happy, and willing to endure his company, and telling him no now, of all times… it wouldn’t go over well. He can’t say no.
He can’t say yes.

And really, it was never his decision to make anyway, was it?

With a shrug Wolfwood turns back to the bed, head high and jaw tight like he’s facing a firing squad. His cock, not having received the memo, throbs eagerly in his slacks, the smeary wet spot there growing even larger. ]

Do what you like.

[ecad]

( can he really be disappointed, when he'd been convinced before he'd even asked that the answer would be anything other than no? maybe he can, maybe he just sounds like that when he understands why a certain thing has to happen a certain way, even if he wishes it could be different, if it could be anything other than that, but the problem with vash the stampede is that there's always going to be just a little bit of hope mixed in with everything else. even if the bottom-line realization is that nothing is ever going to be the way he wants it to be, no matter how hard he tries.

it's been that way for pretty much everything in his life up to now. so. why would that suddenly change?

he isn't asking because he thinks it's just something wolfwood wants, even if it would be nice to feel wanted, for however long or short a time that ends up being. even if it's just a means to an end, some measure of relief for what his body wants. the heart could be different, the heart could not even be involved, because what does he know about their resident undertaker, beyond what he deigns to give over for himself, the surface barely scratched that vash is sure hides more than it gives up. because walls are always going to be there for a reason, he might know that better than either of them, better than either of them combined, but —

do what you like.

the way he blinks in response is clearly surprised, but maybe wolfwood will miss it before he turns back to face him again; maybe he'll miss the way vash's back straightens just a little bit, or the way he stops fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, or … the way his thighs press together as a renewed wave of heat sees fit to make its way through him, and it has nothing at all to do with the fact that another egg might be coming, because it might not be, and it's his own stupid, traitorous body responding to wolfwood.

as if it hasn't been, already, but one thing at a time, or something.

their undertaker turns back toward him, and he may not even be looking at him directly, but vash reaches for him all the same; hands on either side of his neck as he closes a bit of that distance again, his own knees edging closer to the edge of the mattress, a breath catching in the back of his throat that resonates with a bit of that purring from before. low, quiet, hesitant, but he can't help it as he raises himself up and brushes lips against lips.

it's sweet. soft, almost tender in a way he doesn't really mean for it to be, but ends up happening anyway. first, the very center of his top lip, and then the bottom, both at once as he leans into it as the fingers of his flesh hand absently make their way into the dark, fine hairs at the back of the other's neck, a point of contact he hadn't expressly asked permission for, but will apologize for all the same once he finally pulls away, if he needs to. one short inhale, the same sort of exhale and he's pressing their mouths firmly together with the faintest hint of his tongue.

the tiniest flick, because he wants to know what he tastes like, and if this is his only chance … what is it, he'd heard someone say once?

ask for forgiveness, not permission? he's already done that once, and the answer had been do what you like, and if this doesn't count, he'll ask for that forgiveness. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ Oh he’s damned. He’s so damned for this.

Vash kisses him so sweetly, like they’re friends, like he’s worth savoring, worth gentleness. Like he knows what to do with sweet and gentle. He can’t even lie to himself – or to the paranoid, skittish voice in the back of his mind – that the hands on either side of his throat are there for anything other than softness. Vash could snap his neck so easily, he knows. He’s strong – he could squeeze his throat shut with one hand, could dig a thumb into the corner of his jaw and sever the big artery there. He’s the Humanoid Typhoon, the brother of Millions Knives – he’s dangerous. He’s off limits.

He's so far above Wolfwood that he shouldn’t even be able to see the man, down here in the dust and shadows. He’s the closest thing this miserable planet has to a god and it’s stupid that he’s here like this, stupid as hell that he’d want anything to do with Wolfwood at all.

How fucking desperate must Vash the Stampede be, to seek tenderness from an undertaker and a traitor?

Vash’s tongue flicks against Wolfwood’s lips, sweet as candy and Wolfwood parts his lips without hesitation, letting Vash taste any part of him that he wants. His body moves in response to Vash’s touch, his own hands coming up under Vash’s shirt to rest warm and heavy around that ridiculously small waist. Behind his glasses – which Wolfwood foolishly still believes block the view of his eyes from the rest of the world – his gaze is wide and wild, just a stupid, nervous thing. There’s no signs of hesitance in the rest of him, though – he’s better than that. From the neck down he’s eager, hands moving smoothly up Vash’s sides, and as he licks into Vash’s mouth he can’t help but groan quietly, a mirror of Vash’s faint purr. ]

[ecad]

( if wolfwood is damned, vash may as well be, too. how was he supposed to know it would feel this good, just to kiss someone?

( even if there's still a part of him that thinks it's all because it's him, and nothing else could ever come close, but it isn't as though he has some brain cells to spare for that level of coherent thought, so. moving right along. )

he kisses like he wants to be kissed, or rather, the way he's always thought he would; because he's always tried to be gentle in everything he does, to be tender and kind and all the things this world needs, but doesn't often lend itself to, because how much tenderness can there be in a world that has hardly known anything other than the harshness of going without? and how can he be greedy, in turn, when he's never even had this to begin with?

but wolfwood … he deserves that tenderness. that sweetness, and for as long as do what you like is in effect, he's going to let it pour out of him in droves, and he's going to hope the other accepts it for everything it is.

those big, warm hands slip beneath his shirt and he can't even think to stop the way it makes him shiver, from the back of his neck to the point at which his knees dig into the thin mattress, his own arms coming around wolfwood's neck fully and seeking to pull him closer. to line them up, to press their bodies flush together, and if the clothed head of the other's cock brushes against any sensitive part of him — well, you'll have to forgive the shocked little moan it pulls from him, sweet and muffled against parted lips.

his markings glow faintly at the flick of wolfwood's tongue into his mouth, against his own and he wants to kiss him even deeper, he wants to bite, he wants to suck on that soft, slick muscle until there's nothing but the taste of wolfwood in his mouth — and he does that last bit, tentatively, still not entirely sure what in the world he's doing but letting instinct take over. just a little bit of suction, almost delicate, and if that syrup-sweet scent begins to come back around, just a little bit stronger —

he's dripping down the insides of his thighs again. just from a kiss, and his own eyes might be closed, so he misses that wide, wild gaze behind dark lenses, but the next time he can be bothered to put any distance between them, make no mistake. those glasses are coming off, if he'll let him take them. )

[louboutinjudas]

[ To be fair, it’s a really good kiss.

Wolfwood’s fucked a couple of times – there’s no other word for those encounters – but kissing is just about as new to him as it is to Vash. Blondie sucks on his tongue and Wolfwood has to squeeze his eyes tightly shut against the vision, immediate and desperately wanted, of having that gentle suction elsewhere. He’d said do what you like and he’ll stand by that, whatever happens, but God in fucking Heaven, Spikey, don’t… just don’t. Don’t be sweet. Don’t be gentle. Don’t make him want this.

Don’t treat him like he’s a person, instead of just a tool.

The scent is making his head swim, and his hands move of their own volition, up Vash’s broad back and then down, over his skinny hips. He freezes in his caresses when Vash reaches for his glasses, but he doesn’t protest, not even when the dark shades are lifted away and Vash gets treated to a front row seat to his anxious uncertainty. If Vash sees how spooked he is, he’ll say something – he’ll be even more gentle – and Wolfwood can’t bear the thought. Quickly, as soon as the glasses are moved, he leans in, capturing Vash’s mouth in a searing kiss, sucking at his tongue and keeping their faces close enough so that Vash can’t see him. ]

[ecad]

( but he wants him to want this. unfair as it might be to the both of them — because there's no way it could be anything more than this, a one-time offer of help — but he wants him to want this just as badly as vash wants it himself, to be felt and seen and held, no matter for how short a time. he wants to touch, he wants to taste, he wants to commit everything to memory and god he just wants, not only for his sake, but to give back as much as he's been given.

his breaths are already coming in quick little pants again, sweet puffs of air against the other's mouth when that suction is turned back around on him and he whimpers; flesh fingers drag between wolfwood's shoulder blades, nails digging into fabric, heat pooling low in his belly and he can't quite help the way his hips seek to press forward, seek some kind of friction, and maybe … maybe later, he'll feel some manner of shame for how shameless he is in this moment. how his body betrays him, even if there's no way he could possibly hide anything from the other man now.

not the scent of his arousal, not how soaked he is, not the eagerness with which he kisses him back and silently begs for more with the subtle scrape of teeth over a bottom lip. he doesn't know how to be anything other than gentle, perhaps especially like this, even if he's never gotten this before — but wolfwood deserves gentle, hasn't he thought that before?

he has to breathe, or at least try to, just for a moment. pressing a smattering of tiny kisses to the other's lips, he swallows around another purely wanting noise that catches just behind his teeth, eyes finally slitting open, little more than a sliver of brilliant, shining blue behind dark lashes. ) Did you mean it? ( he breathes, barely more than a whisper, flesh hand coming back around to wolfwood's front and brushing the backs of his knuckles against the flat of his stomach.

do what you like. did you really mean that? )