Cock [Trigun]
He was asleep -- Wolfwood would have known if he had not been asleep, so feigning would have done him no good; he simply was asleep until he wasn't. That is to say, until Wolfwood hit his chest. And then there was simply no sleep to be had.
He had been asleep since he had flopped down on his bed after his shower, tossing the slightly damp towel at his companion and promising that he hadn't used all the hot water in the small hotel. He must not have slept long, he reasoned, as there had not been enough water for a long shower, and Wolfwood was still wet. Dripping wet, actually, from his hair onto Vash's face; this was what had awakened him, even before he had registered the pressure on his body. But by the time he opened his eyes, he had a priest on his chest.
To be more accurate, and Vash was never one to skimp on detail, he had a still-damp, shirtless priest in tight, dark, damp denim straddling his chest, resting his centre of gravity somewhere around Vash's stomach. He could feel Wolfwood's bare feet next to his thighs, through his drawstring pants, could feel that they were still wet. His first thought was that the towel had been too damp to be effective, and it occurred to him to apologise for his body's water retention.
"Shut up," Wolfwood growled before Vash could even open his mouth to a degree that might indicate the possibility of speech following. The look on his face, though not precisely angered, bore no relation to the large platsic grin plastered there more often than not out of habit. "Just shut up."
Vash shut up, lips closing together and folding back between teeth to make sure they stayed that way.
Somewhere outside, children made their way down the street in a noisy tangle, all arms and limbs and voices in the dusty sun; people went about their businesses, making the chatter they needed to make and no more; no one paid attention to a pair of men on a rickety cot in a run-down hotel who themselves did not make a sound. Neither moved, even, more than the distance a chest must travel to breathe or an eyelid must travel to blink. The curtains stirred at the window, shimmering transparently, before quieting again. The day was heat and summer, and Vash wondered what of the water dripping on him was bathwater and what was already sweat.
Wolfwood tasted like sweat, more often than not. Everything tastes like sweat during an eternal dusty summer. He tasted like a man who had been dragged through the sand, then a gym locker, then a church, and finally washed off with too much whiskey. Vash did not find this unappetising.
But more than the taste was the smell. Vash had recognised long ago his inability to smell himself; his gauge for how badly he needed a bath was how much the more delicate men and women wrinkled their noses when he walked into a room. He had occasion to be in proximity to men who apparently ignored the wrinkled noses they received, occasionally several such men at once, and did not particularly associate Large Sweaty Man with pleasant experiences.
And then there was Wolfwood, who more often than not smelled just like he tasted and then some. What before had made him gag now made him want to rub against something. Like the very prominent denim-clad erection located just above his sternum. He swallowed hard.
Wolfwood neither said nor did anything to discourage this drive. He stood there, hands locked behind his neck, hair draped around his face, like a rock formation that had stood since long before either of them had fallen to earth. His eyes looked black, deep and poisonous, and Vash wondered why that colour made him think of poison at all. They looked at him with an intensity that made him feel as though he had been pressed on a slide and placed beneath a microscope -- Wolfwood would have no idea what a microscope was -- for observation and dissection.
Daring -- because there was no other word for it -- to lift his right hand, Vash placed it on the weblike scar on the left side of Wolfwood's abdomen, just above the waist of his jeans. If he splayed his hand, and he had large hands, in just the right direction, he could pretend that the skin he beheld was as smooth and unmarked as the rest of the priest's broad body. He looked at Wolfwood's chest for comparison, the dark hairs matted by moisture to the skin, twin nipples the colour of coffee with milk, muscles beneath providing topography. Then he shifted his hand to the right and the scar reappeared, testimony to the time Wolfwood had almost died, even though Vash did not know that. It spread out, ridged and almost white; Vash traced it thoughtfully.
His hand slipped down further, and he brought up his other until the two rested on Wolfwood's thighs. Though his hands felt different things, both could feel the dampness lingering on the material, dampness that had transferred to the jeans from the powerful thighs beneath and not the other way around. The jeans were the same colour as Wolfwood's suit, the blue so dark as almost to be black, the same colour as Wolfwood's eyes, except no one but Vash would ever have noticed the blue there. No one else cared that much.
A body's length (minus the calves and feet) above him, Wolfwood sighed a deep, low sigh. His eyes began to shut, then opened again, watching Vash carefully and with an expression layered with meaning the blonde man had no hope of discerning intellectually. His hands remained locked behind his neck.
Wolfwood's skin was the colour of skin that had been left in the sun too long under unpleasant conditions; it was the colour of too many tannings as a child that had never bothered to fade away completely. The new skin cells his body made took all their cues from the old ones, and the old ones the ones before them, and those the ones before them, all the way back to some sun-scorching experience. Next to Vash, he looked positively swarthy. Everything about him was dark, Vash had observed once, back when he had been trying to ignore the priest in any potentially sexual respect. His hands on Wolfwood's thighs showed exactly how well that restraint had worked.
He ran his hands back and forth, enjoying the texture there. The individual ridges created soft friction, warming the soft fabric, which felt as though it had been worn so often that it might disappear into component threads any day now. A tiny hole had begun to sprout near Wolfwood's knee, and Vash let his fingers dawdle there, sorely tempted to press his finger into the hole, yet restraining himself with the knowledge this would just make the garment's problems worse. Then he slid his hands upward again, back to fine hair-covered skin. Vash watched his hands; Wolfwood watched Vash.
Eventually, his eyes wandered away from his own body and towards Wolfwood's. The top button of the jeans had come undone, or had more likely never been done in the first place, and a tiny row of dark hair ran from Wolfwood's navel down, disappearing behind dark denim. He slipped one arm around Wolfwood's ass, noting to himself that the cloth there was even softer and more worn than that around the thighs, and pulled himself closer. A less flexible man would not have been up to the challenge, but Vash was less than very little.
Wolfwood's jeans did nothing to disguise or conceal his rather impressive hard-on, and Vash's proximity did nothing to diminish either its perceived or actual size. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the jeans, brushing the rise there with his face, nuzzling it gently. A hissing intake of breath sounded his approval, and he nuzzled with a little more enthusiasm. A tiny wet circle began to appear on the fabric at the tip of the cloth-covered cock.
Craning his neck, he reached up and grabbed the tab of Wolfwood's fly between his teeth, feeling the cold metal warmed by his breath. Above him, he could hear Wolfwood's expression melt into a dark, sincere smile (was there any other kind for the priest? Vash didn't think so), and he almost smiled himself. For better leverage, he propped himself up on his right elbow, leaving his hand resting across Wolfwood's thigh. He was certain he looked awkward, but as he lowered his head and the zipper purred open at his behest, he decided he didn't really care.
For a man who had spent over a century with, really, only his and his brother's bodies for reference, Wolfwood's cock had come as something of an interesting new experience. Shorter, thicker, dark, and uncircumcised, it looked very little like Vash's -- to Vash, at least. Grabbing one side of Wolfwood's jeans with his teeth again, Vash pulled them back enough to expose Wolfwood's cock, protruding from a mass of black curls and two flaps of worn-soft denim. He nuzzled its hardness with the side of his mouth; a soft moan slipped from the lips of the priest who now sat exposed astride Vash's chest.
Experimentally only in that he had done it many times before, Vash slipped his tongue from between his lips and licked the tip of Wolfwood's cock. There the dark-haired man also tasted like sweat and sun and sand and whiskey, but Vash knew the taste as something else, something identifiable that he had begun to think of as 'sex.' He hadn't ever had sex with anyone else, so he supposed it was natural that Wolfwood should be associated in his mind with it. Idly, he wondered if other people tasted like this. He had no desire to find out.
"Tongari...." Wolfwood's pet name, ridiculous as it was etymologically, had a deep and growling edge as Wolfwood said it then; he stretched his arms as much as he could while keeping his fingers intertwined. He had almost stopped dripping, but not quite, and a few drops ran down his near-dry chest. He leaned his head back and let his eyes fall closed.
Vash licked his lips; they tasted like Wolfwood. Smiling, he opened his mouth enough to close the head of Wolfwood's cock between his lips, then left it there, tongue flicking over the tip lightly. Everything he had learned about blowjobs he had learned from Wolfwood, and he judged from Wolfwood's reaction that the priest considered himself an adequate instructor, to say the least.
When Vash had first decided to work up the courage to reciprocate sexually, he had been tentative about his approach, to say the least. But he had found that cocksucking took less talent or effort than he had previously thought, and aside from adding too much teeth at just the wrong moment, there was not much he could do incorrectly. This theory had been confirmed, mostly, by Wolfwood's vocalisations. Quiet while giving head -- as his mouth was somewhat occupied -- and still relatively quiet while actually engaged in sex -- as his mouth tended to find things to occupy itself -- Wolfwood receiving oral sex was another matter entirely. Something about the act served to disconnect his brain-mouth filter, and he tended to babble; never quite managing full sentences or even very coherent trains of thought, he fixated on single words and simple phrases. Vash tended to take this as a good sign.
He took more of Wolfwood into his mouth, moving his tongue aside to accommodate, and heard a distinct, "Fuck, Tongari," followed by a rather satisfied moan. Almost in spite of himself, Vash smiled. At the same time, Wolfwood's hips rocked slightly backwards and Vash became quite suddenly aware of his own erection, hiding comfortably beneath his light cloth pants. He lifted his hips to rub against Wolfwood's ass.
Though he had, again, no way of knowing this, part of the reason that Vash had become so good at sucking cock was that he honestly enjoyed it. Even if he hadn't, certainly, he might have felt somewhat obligated to return Wolfwood's favours once in a while. But he had discovered, much to his surprise, that he actually liked performing oral sex. He liked it a lot. He enjoyed the taste, the texture, the weight of Wolfwood's cock between his lips. Part of him wondered if he would enjoy the act so much were it not Wolfwood on the receiving end, but he didn't ponder this much either.
Relaxing, he swallowed as much of Wolfwood as he could, sliding up until his nose brushed against the thick pubic hair at the base. It tickled his nose, but not in a way that he construed as offensive; it did, however, get his face a little damp, as all the moisture there had not quite evapourated into the air. On a whim, keeping Wolfwood's cock in his mouth, he nuzzled the hair and found that it smelled more distinctly like sex and sweat, with less of the other smells. Under any other circumstances, he might have protested, and he certainly wouldn't have bought it in perfume form. But it seemed right, now.
Wolfwood growled. "Fuck, Tongari, your mouth.... God, fuck...." Finally, his arms fell to his sides, each landing palm-up on the bedspread; he looked almost like a supplicant, on his knees, head craned back to face Heaven, and only the blonde man sucking him off gave this away. "God...." His still-damp hair fell away from his face and lingered at the back of his neck.
Vash didn't really notice Wolfwood had moved at all until he felt something deliberately rubbing his cock. He stopped the rhythmic motions of his head long enough to ascertain -- by feel alone, as he could see very little from his angle -- that Wolfwood had reached back and was gently stroking his rather fierce erection through the loose cloth. Vash found himself suddenly and immensely glad that he had chosen the sweatpants instead of his tighter trousers.
In response to this stimulus, he worked his mouth even harder; his neck was growing a crick and he was certain he had grown careless with the occasional unintentional application of force, but no longer really cared. He bent his knees, drawing his bare feet closer, bending his body rather uncomfortably in the middle to make up for the awkward positioning. But he had been in worse positions before for longer periods of time, and they hadn't been nearly as fun or rewarding, so he decided not to complain, even if only to himself. The taste of Wolfwood's cock began to fill his mouth, began to slide down his throat, and he welcomed it.
It was, then, with some reluctance that he felt Wolfwood's hand slide into his hair and pull his face away. As he let his head be guided back to the pillow, he looked up at Wolfwood with sea-coloured eyes wide and innocent and highly confused. Everything about his expression read the same: have I done something wrong?
Grinning and ruffling Vash's hair, Wolfwood winked and slid backwards, away from Vash's face and toward his knees. Once there, he made short work of Vash's sweatpants, depositing them on the floor in a heap. This particular combination of dressed and undressed always unnerved him a bit, somehow made him feel more vulnerable than total nudity. Unwilling, however, to use his newly liberated upper body to complete the disrobing, he was pleased when Wolfwood leaned up and urged the shirt over Vash's head. Pleased in a relative sense, of course, as he had never particularly enjoyed nakedness at all. But the gesture necessitated Wolfwood's proximity to his face, which earned him a rather lengthy kiss, and that made things somewhat better.
He wrapped his arms around Wolfwood's bare back, clinging as best he could to the bare skin he found beneath his fingers, and relinquished only with greatest reluctance the lower lip he had caught between his teeth. He made a face, though it was not even half-serious and gentle in its indignance. "I thought today was Sunday. Don't you shave on Sundays?"
Wolfwood's grin grew a little wider. "I forgot." He supported his weight on his hands and hovered a few inches above Vash's face. By now, he had dried considerably, and only dripped once, right in the middle of Vash's forehead. Still grinning, he leaned down and licked the moisture away.
Vash wrinkled his nose. "You don't know where that's been."
Smirking a little, Wolfwood wedged his knee between Vash's long legs, right up against the exposed skin of Vash's crotch; the friction from the denim made Vash's head swim a little. "What, your forehead?"
"No, your bathwater." Vash arched his hips a little and tried to look sincere.
Shaking his head, Wolfwood dropped down to nibble at Vash's collarbone. "Some things you just take on faith." The nibbling did not last long, however, as both men were painfully hard and each man knew it, and before long Wolfwood had knelt between Vash's legs, still wearing his jeans, and was stroking scarred thighs with his fingertips.
"Faith," Vash echoed. "Right." His hands fell by his sides again, and he closed his eyes. He was fairly certain he had himself under control, but wasn't quite willing to take the change that Wolfwood might look up and see the distinctly inhuman fire behind his eyes.
He therefore was not looking as he felt Wolfwood's cock, half-slick with saliva, slide relatively gently inside his ass. For a moment there was the discomfort that was becoming familiar, the distinct sensation of hey that doesn't go there. Wolfwood held still, though, and after only a few seconds Vash let out a soft moan that was far from being pain-related. Taking this as his cue, Wolfwood began to move in and out of Vash's ass, slowly at first, but not too slowly, nor too gently.
The feeling of having Wolfwood's cock buried inside of his body was something Vash would never have expected enjoying. More than a century of living as the world's most valuable man had familiarised Vash quite quickly to the sensation of having foreign objects lodged in his body -- bullets, shrapnel, surgical instruments, and the like. As a general rule, he tried to avoid them. Even on an everyday basis, his body was not entirely of its own creation; as if a prosthetic arm weren't enough of a foreign object, the multiple plates on his body stayed in place thanks to several small screws and half a dozen large pins that went straight to the bone. He was now even less human than he had been when he began, thanks in no small part to the ten pounds of metal he carried with him wherever he went.
But Wolfwood's hands had glossed over the metal, avoiding the places too tender to touch and caressing the scars that still held sensation, as if it had been skin. In the same way, though on a conspicuously more metaphorical level, had Wolfwood taken what should have been alien and made it quite natural. The slight ache of the pins, the friction of Wolfwood's cock, the rubbing and grating of that which started from without his skin and worked its way in -- of these was Vash consciously aware. But here the invasion no longer felt uncomfortably alien.
Wolfwood leaned forward over Vash, and Vash responded to this by wrapping his legs tightly around Wolfwood's waist, locking his ankles one over the other, powerful leg muscles assuring that the priest atop him wouldn't go anywhere anytime particularly soon. His feet came to rest with his ankles against the jeans across Wolfwood's ass, and he smiled. With a soft hiss, Wolfwood lowered his body so their chests pressed together. The change of angle caused Wolfwood's cock to slip slightly; already it had begun to lose some of its lubrication, but the warmth of friction was not entirely unpleasant. "You all right?" he breathed into Vash's ear. His words were warm and wet.
Eyes still shut, Vash nodded rapidly; his brow remained slightly creased, eyebrows furrowed in an expression that could easily have been mistaken for high distress. His teeth closed on his lower lip, and he tried to manage a smile. The smile, however, became mostly a moot point as Wolfwood pressed his mouth to Vash's again. There was little polite or cuddly about this kiss, however, as teeth and tongues brushed against one another. Wolfwood twined one hand through Vash's hair, finding the places where the wanted man's hair still held its own moisture and twining the locks around his fingers; his other hand he kept by Vash's side, giving him leverage.
When Wolfwood's hips moved, the bed moved slightly, thin metallic legs scratching semi-audibly across the thick wood floor. This gave them both cause to pause and blink the first time it happened, but eventually the thin, rhythmic creaking noises became as ignorable as any other distraction. Vash's hands grasped at Wolfwood's back blindly, eventually gaining purchase as he slipped his arms underneath the priest's and locked his fingers over broad shoulder muscles. He managed to keep the presence of mind together to hold his eyes tightly shut, certain they would be seen like beacons for miles if he opened them.
Lips parted, he broke the kiss to turn his head aside, gasping audibly for breath with every hard thrust. His fingers clenched as tightly as they could without breaking Wolfwood's collarbone; tiny whimpers, though again not of pain, began to sound in time with the sound of the bed's being moved. Fuck me, his mind pleaded with words he did not have enough coherent control to speak, and so he begged silently and most redundantly. With every grinding thrust into his body that he felt all the way through to his skill, his brain formed the mantra fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me.
Freed from the immediacy of the kiss, Wolfwood leaned his mouth over and made a cursory attempt to nibble on Vash's ear. This proved rather quickly, however, to require more concentration than he could muster, and he simply buried his face in the crook of Vash's neck, panting heavily. Their bodies alternately slipped against one another and stuck together, depending on the capricious bond between planes of their skin. Wolfwood let out a growl that sounded purely unconscious, as if there could be no way he could be aware of making this sound, and shut his teeth none too tenderly over Vash's shoulder.
Vash yelped, startled. His grip tightened as much as he dared; had he been possessed of fingernails of any notable length, they would have been digging into the priest's bare skin. He began to gasp louder, whimpering sounds that might almost have been words, though no one, not even Vash himself, could possibly have understood what he was trying to say. He did not even think fuck me anymore, not in so many words; he only thought the ache of Wolfwood's intrusion and how he wanted more.
The combination of the denim rubbing against the back of his thighs and surface of Wolfwood's stomach rubbing across his cock encouraged Vash to rock his hips as much as he could, looking for friction, looking to feel anything. Part of his rational mind reacted to the pain of being violated, but the truth had become that it hurt so good that pain had ceased to be a reason to stop. It hurt, most assuredly, being fucked like this, but the pain was part of the sensation, and the sensation could not be embraced without it. Intellectually, that made a rather tentative reasoning; stripped naked, wrapped around his lover, it made all the sense Vash needed it to. With a choked cry from the back of his throat, he threw his head back and gasped for air as he came.
The evidence of his orgasm seeped between their bodies, warm sticky liquid making the place where their abdomens met slick. Wolfwood's continued motions spread it all over Vash's stomach, and Vash idly wondered if this negated the showers they had taken earlier. He was distracted from this musing, though, as Wolfwood arched his broad back. He thrust into Vash's body a few more times, only a few, before hissing and biting hard into Vash's shoulder, hard enough to draw blood. Wolfwood's orgasms were never predictable -- some were gentle, others, like this one, desperate and almost violent -- but all bore a trademark intensity that matched their owner perfectly. This time the intensity caused him to let out a growl much like Vash's, only deeper and more anguished. And then he collapsed against Vash, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.
Vash had never been precisely fond of the few minutes following mutual orgasm; as much as he had enjoyed whatever they had been doing, his body's immediate post-climax behaviour seemed to be to let him know exactly all the ways it had been wronged. As delicately as he could, he unhooked his ankles from behind Wolfwood's back, wincing as the metal on one foot brushed unkindly the metal on the other, and stretched out his legs down the length of the bed. His knees added their voice to his body's general protest.
His change in position gave Wolfwood, who had regressed into a post-orgasmic proto-mammalian state, enough of a hint; the priest carefully withdrew his softening cock from Vash's body, and Vash sighed softly as he felt all the muscles below his waist relax in unison. He opened his eyes experimentally and smiled at the rather boneless mass of Wolfwood sprawled out across his body. He lifted one hand to stroke the disgruntled mop of black hair resting on his shoulder.
After a few minutes, Wolfwood grunted and extended a hand blindly across Vash's body, reaching into the air next to the bed. When his hand came away with nothing, he groped a few more times, frowned, and let his arm collapse with a cranky grunt. Vash smiled, a real smile, which he was certain Wolfwood would have commented upon had he been watching. "What are you looking for?"
Wolfwood grunted again. "Cigarettes." He sighed and lifted his head enough to look at Vash. "Or a drink of water."
Raising an eyebrow, Vash surveyed the room. With a small grin, he pointed in the direction of a spot further down the bed, near his knees. "They're down there."
"Where?" The effort of lifting his head to follow Vash's line of sight seemed almost too much for Wolfwood.
"There." He pointed to the table that had previously been near the head of the bed, the table that now either of them could touch with his foot were he willing to put forth the effort. Of course, the table hadn't moved an inch since the proprietor of the hotel had put it there with the idea that its location would conveniently serve its guests.
The look on Wolfwood's face told that he now found the location decidedly inconvenient. With a grunt, he collapsed against Vash. "Good night," he murbled.
Vash raised an eyebrow. "It's mid-afternoon."
"Did we have anywhere to be today?"
"No."
Wolfwood moved his arm out from beneath Vash's head so it wouldn't fall asleep later. "Then wake me up before dinner." And with that he began to snore with all the intensity of a man who has forced himself to sleep for fear of the alternatives. Like, say, conversation.
Smiling softly -- a real smile, and one Wolfwood would have been proud of had he been awake to see it -- Vash stroked Wolfwood's hair and stared at the ceiling. "Good night," he echoed again. The cracks on the ceiling made patterns like treasure maps, or topographic charts, or cracks in the earth after years without rain. He stared at them until long past sundown.
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