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Wolfwood has never been one to abide by rules and commandments.
He is far from a man of God in the eyes of others. He smokes and he drinks and foul words fall from his mouth with ease; there was no shortage of them. His sins weigh heavy on his back and he carries them anyway. He never bothered with lessening the load, getting on his knees for a chance at that.
God would only laugh if he started begging for forgiveness now.
There would be no saintly words said in Wolfwood’s name, and he knows this well. But, for Vash, as Wolfwood holds his form in his hands—taking it in much the same way a reverend worships holy text, its aged brown paper held in calloused fingers delicately—he was a pious follower. Praise and adoration flow out from between his ribs onto his tongue, abundant.
Wolfwood licked at his chest, he did it as if it provided him with life, with faith—like it's all he was meant to do. He grazed sharp canines over the stretch of Vash’s throat, and he shivers as he does, the grip on Wolfwood's hair deathly tight. He wanted to dig his teeth in, break skin and be met with crimson red, something more heavenly, more holy than human blood. That, that is what Vash was to Wolfwood: he was the heavens and he was the angels that danced in it. It was all Wolfwood needed, to be close to him in this way, the form of him he could take to be sanctitude. He could make it home, this spot in Vash's arms, pulling him impossibly deep. He could make it a place to rest, a place to wake and a place to fall to his knees—to worship. He'd take his daily bread, have his wine. He'd carve a spot for himself there, in the cavity of Vash's chest.
He lapped at Vash’s throat with a warm tongue, and painted it with small kisses. Wolfwood kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth. He moved to place a kiss on his cheek, met with a wetness running down it. Tears tracked down slow and steady from Vash’s glossy blue eyes.
“Why're you crying, Angel?”
Vash was surprised by it, caught completely off guard by the presence of tears. He moved his hand from where it gripped the hairs at the back of Wolfwood's neck, he felt for the them.
“Oh–I didn't even notice, sorry.”
Wolfwood took hold of his hand, pulling back from Vash’s face, placing a soft kiss on his wrist.
“Stop apologizing, Needle noggin.”
Vash pushes further into him, cupping Wolfwood's face, melting into the comfort of it.
Wolfwood pressed a kiss into the palm of his hand, moved back to Vash, staring close into bright blue eyes. Wolfwood places chaste kisses where his tears fall before leaning in to press his lips on Vash’s open mouth
Kissing Vash like this was so different than anything Wolfwood had felt before. It was warmth—it was comforting food in an empty stomach, and it was a warm yellow light in the window of a house. He held his sides, grazed over his chest and stomach, thrumming with life, its vibration subtle to touch. Vash was purring under him, and Wolfwood felt himself shudder with the knowledge of that.
Wolfwood didn't want to put words to it, the way they were so deeply intertwined in one another. He could easily find himself getting tangled up in it, unable to free himself of the knots. He’d cherish the way it digs into his skin, where it leaves its mark. It was a sickeningly sweet reminder, and Wolfwood could hardly bear to sit with that for long.
Wolfwood kissed him with everything he had, he licked at his mouth, trying to find a way to be closer , he etched himself into his skin, the grip on Vash’s waist tight and suffocating, the other cupping his face as if he were something fragile, something like glass that would've shattered in his hands if he pressed a little too hard. Vash squirmed, and Wolfwood held him there, feeding him every bit of love he had left to give.
Wolfwood didn't stop till his lungs ached. He imagined if he were something a little less human—more than he already is—he'd find himself with Vash under his touch for as long as he could, 'till the end of the era. He wondered if Vash thought the same, wondered how long he could keep kissing him breathless if it weren't for Wolfwood's more human aspects.
When he did come up for air, grieving the too large space between their lips, he found Vash's glasses uneven, the glow of his hair a halo against white linen sheets. Wolfwood couldn't help but say a prayer under his breath. He couldn't help but stare, unable to comprehend how he got himself here, hands full of divinity.
“God, aren't you just the prettiest thing right now, sugar.”
The red that dusted his cheeks, the tips of his ears, turned hot on his skin—nearly glowing in the low light of the room. Vash's eyes were lazy and glossy, trying to find himself in the mess Wolfwood left him drowning in. When his eyes did settle on Wolfwood's own, they were wide and soft, impossibly bright. He smiled at him, his lips red and swollen from Wolfwood's efforts. He raked his hand through his hair, he couldn't find it in him to respond—a too full heart that took over any and all intelligible thoughts he had left.
“Cat got your tongue, darlin’? What's going on in that pretty lil’ head of yours?”
Vash’s words are slow and breathy. He was drunk off Wolfwood’s words, his touches. He could hardly get the words out.
“You–you kiss too good, can't think straight.”
“Well, glad to know I'm up to standards, sweetheart.”
Vash looks away at that, the pet names that rolled so easily off Wolfwood's tongue having gotten the best of him.
“You're very clingy today, Nico.”
“That a bad thing, love bug?”
“No– just, different. So many names too, you gettin’ all soft on me now?” Vash says it with a smile, big and genuine.
Wolfwood wouldn't say it outright, not when he could keep kissing Vash the way he was—a prayer placed on the curve of his neck in the form of searing, open mouthed kisses—scripture in the form on his hands holding his face, fingers squeezing his thighs. He didn't need to say anything more than the sweet names that made Vash’s breath hitch in his throat, made him whimper in Wolfwood's hands.
“Hm, maybe I am needle noggin, maybe I am.”