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“Don’t get any ideas,” Knives says. “I’m doing this for Vash, not for you.”
Nicholas, of course, can’t answer him. Not with his mouth full as it is, at least -- which is perhaps slightly more for Knives’ benefit than for Vash’s; Vash loves to hear Nicholas talk, loves to hear all the sounds he makes. Knives doesn’t. He’d muzzle or gag the man at every opportunity, if at all possible.
Before now, Knives hasn’t had the chance.
A week ago, Vash had come to him with a proposition. A request.
Knives hadn’t been surprised, of course. Not entirely, anyway. Vash is gentle -- or he strives to be. He refuses to do harm to others, sometimes to the point of detriment. He’s both a strong and stubborn man, capable of so much violence and harm, and therefore he shies away from it. Dances around the possibility just as much as he refuses to glance backward at his past. Eyes always forward, hands always gentle.
Knives can’t deny that he had been slightly surprised by why exactly Vash was coming to him. Knives doesn’t know much about Nicholas and doesn’t try to -- other than to compile a list of grievances, a multitude of things that irk Knives about the man. But, when it comes down to it, Knives doesn’t know Nicholas at all.
The only truly important thing about Nicholas, in the end, is that he takes Vash’s precious time away from Knives. And he has for over a year now. The situation is -- unideal. But Nicholas seems to make Vash happy, which has kept Nicholas safe from Knives’ wrath. For now, at least.
But for all that Knives doesn’t care to know about Nicholas, he has a general shape of the man in his head. A picture painted by actions, posturing, and all of the various and sundry things that Knives cannot tune out. Not just a shape -- a target, perhaps.
With that picture, Knives wouldn’t have assumed Nicholas D. Wolfwood would want something like this. Something Vash cannot -- or more accurately will not -- give him.
But Knives has never put much thought into trying to figure out the intricacies of anyone outside of Vash, especially their innermost desires. No one else is important.
Perhaps it makes sense, though. That someone like Nicholas would want to lose control. That he might want something more violent, more rough. That he might seek out someone like Vash to provide that for him -- someone strong, but someone with restraint.
Unfortunately for Nicholas, Vash’s restraint is so pronounced that it knows no bounds. Lucky for him, Knives chooses to eschew the concept entirely.
Knives is here to do whatever Vash does not feel he can. That has always been Knives’ role in their brotherhood and he fills it with a sense of duty and responsibility that leaves him feeling full, satisfied. This is his purpose in life and no one can take it away from him. Not even Nicholas, who has tried his hardest to drive a wedge between the two of them ever since he arrived.
But in the end, Vash had still come to his big brother for help.
Vash discussed all the specifics with them separately -- at both of their requests. Knives had little interest in having such a discussion with his brother’s newest fling, and Nicholas is simply far too cagey with his desires and weakness around anyone except for Vash.
Despite his dislike of Nicholas, Knives had been helpless to say anything other than yes.
“Is this really alright, Nai?” Vash asks.
He’s sitting on the couch with Nicholas perched next to him, a few feet away from where Knives currently stands in the middle of the room and where all the action will take place -- too far away for Vash to touch, but close enough to swoop in and play savior if needed.
It’s a coin toss if he will. Vash wants what Nicholas wants, which is only something Knives can give him. But he also won’t like seeing Nicholas in distress. Despite asking for this in the first place.
Either way, with either outcome, Knives has decided that it’s fine. Knives will be doing what Vash wants, what is best for him, and if anyone is to lose out, it’s Nicholas. Which is none of his concern.
“Of course,” Knives says.
Nicholas just grunts.
Knives hadn’t told either of them his plan for the day. He had simply shoved two large bottles of water at Nicholas a couple hours or so ago and told him to stay hydrated. And for perhaps the first time in their acquaintance, Nicholas hadn’t been able to meet his eyes -- perhaps too nervous about the immediate future, or perhaps too ashamed of the situation in the first place -- regardless, the ensuing thrill of satisfaction at that obvious submission that had gone through Knives had been exhilarating.
Moments before this, Knives had given Nicholas the gag. A leather bit clenched between his teeth.
“No one asked what you thought,” Knives tells Nicholas. He doesn’t have to keep his voice uninterested, it’s already there. “Come here.”
He clicks his tongue as if he were calling a dog and Nicholas’ face goes red.
But still he obeys, pushing himself up from the couch and stepping up to stand before Knives. More obedient than Knives might have thought.
Not that he has given Nicholas’ expected demeanor all that much thought. He simply struck Knives as a man to not roll over easily or bend so quickly.
Perhaps the disobedience, the resistance, is yet to come.
In front of him, Nicholas stands with his arms crossed over his bare chest, track pants riding low on his hips. And perhaps here is the defiance Knives expected: the bored posture, the challenging look shining bright in his eyes. Nicholas is a hair taller than the Saverem twins, a long line of lithe muscle with broad shoulders and a slender waist. He isn’t a chore to look at, though Knives has always preferred blondes. But with his toned body; his dark, expressive eyes; and his soft, tousled hair, Nicholas is still a fine specimen of a man.
Knives does not ever particularly want to touch anyone but Vash, but he understands the necessity of it today. And Nicholas, he supposes, is not the worst option he could come up with -- at least when his mouth is kept shut.
Around Nicholas’ neck sits a collar. Something Vash gave him, a big thick piece of leather with a soft, suede inside that fits comfortably around Nicholas’ neck -- not too loose, and of course not too tight. If it were Knives’ choice, he would have gone with a choke-chain.
Knives slips his fingers underneath the collar, his fingers grazing warm skin, and then yanks down with a sharp tug, forcing Nicholas to kneel at his feet.
Again, Nicholas yields more easily than he expected.
“Does he always come to heel this easily?” Knives asks his brother. There’s little point in talking to Nicholas. The gag in his mouth keeps him delightfully quiet.
“Sometimes,” Vash says.
His voice sounds affected, just a little gravely, a little rough. Perhaps it’s seeing Nicholas on his knees. Perhaps it’s seeing Nicholas under Knives’ thumb. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.
“I did tell him to be good for you,” Vash admits after a moment.
If Nicholas weren’t currently gagged, Knives would put that mouth to use. He’d make Nicholas crawl over to Vash, kneel between his legs, and eat him out until Vash had come at least three times. Until he was begging Knives to stop. But today isn’t about Vash’s direct pleasure, as much as Knives wishes it were. It’s about how Vash had come to him, quiet and almost nervous, asking for something Knives never thought he would -- for Knives to join him in the bedroom.
Metaphorically, of course. Their living room is much larger. And the rug is easier to clean than the bed.
“Have you spanked him before?” Knives asks disinterestedly.
He already knows the answer. Vash and he had a long discussion about things Knives never wished to hear. Anything Vash does with others isn’t something Knives particularly wants to know about; he already hears enough through the walls of their shared apartment as it is. But it had all been important to formulate a plan. And, of course, to alleviate Vash’s nerves.
“Some,” Vash says. “Not as hard as he would like.”
“Good,” Knives says, with a touch of disinterest, “then I don’t have to be gentle.”
Nicholas doesn’t even flinch at the implication. Instead, when Knives looks at him, he’s smiling around the gag, looking pleased with himself, like the cat who got the cream. There’s a certain devilish quality to Nicholas’ face that Knives can see now, something bright and enticing and handsome -- something that makes it easy to comprehend what Vash likely sees in him. Suddenly and desperately, Knives wants to be the one to wipe that look off Nicholas’ face, to make his eyes go all startled and his mouth go slack around the leather between his teeth. He wants to knock that cheeky confidence right out of him.
He wants to cut it out with a knife.
More self-assured than he has any right to be, Nicholas clearly thinks that he’s getting everything he wants out of this situation. He told Vash that he wanted something harder, wanted to be taken out of his own head. Knives can do that, can make that happen for him and by extension for Vash -- and it’s not going to happen by feeding Nicholas everything he expects, right out of the palm of his hand.
“All fours. Hands and knees, Nicholas,” Knives tells him.
Casually, Nicholas places his palms down on the floor.
He paints a pretty enough picture like this, posture slightly strained as if he’s trying to show off, with the muscles of his back tensed and toned. Knives knows he spends enough time on passive strength-building activities as well as time at the gym -- and it shows.
Nicholas mumbles something around the gag and shimmies his body, as if to perhaps get comfortable, as Knives looks down on him.
“I didn’t catch that,” Knives says with slight amusement added to his voice, walking around Nicholas’ form as if to appraise him. It’s rewarding to hear Nicholas so gagged, so hindered from his usual crutch of filling the silence of a room.
At least it is not a new crutch; Vash is the same way, sometimes.
Nicholas tries again to speak through the gag, meaning lost once more to Knives but apparently -- of course -- intelligible to Vash.
“He wants to know if you’re going to take off his pants,” Vash says.
Knives hums as if he’s thinking. He’s as barefoot as he usually is in their home, but he doesn’t let that lack of a barrier stop him from reaching out and kicking slightly at Nicholas’ cotton-clad flank.
“I don’t think so,” Knives says. “I’d rather look at him like this. Covered up.”
The affronted noise of indignation Nicholas makes needs no translation from Vash. When Knives completes another circle of Nicholas’ body and catches Nicholas’ gaze, he’s red-faced again, though this time it’s likely more out of anger than anything else.
“If you spank him,” Vash starts, “won’t the clothing--”
“Vash,” Knives cuts him off.
Vash stops talking immediately and mimes zipping his lips, cheeks slightly flushed under those ocean blue eyes of his. His eyes have always been a little bit darker than Knives’, more friendly, more open. More human, some have even said.
“I’m going to hit you,” Knives tells Nicholas as he drops down to his knees next to the man. “If you weren’t gagged, I’d make you thank me for it. As it is, you’ll just have to take what I give you.”
In reply, Nicholas only grunts. The response would be mildly annoying if it didn’t perfectly affirm that he’s already exactly where Knives wants him, mentally: falsely assured that he’s ready for what Knives is going to give him.
With no further warning, Knives hits him, palm landing with a loud slap over his cotton-clad left cheek. There’s no need to warm him up -- or rather, this is the warm up. Nicholas just doesn’t know it yet.
Nicholas doesn’t quite jolt at the hit, but he does tense up. And then he barks out something like a laugh through the gag, like he thought Knives might hit him harder -- he can practically hear Nicholas saying Is that the best you can do? in his head. It elicits a small flare of annoyance that sparks Knives to hit him again, a little quicker than he had planned on. Same place, same degree of force. This time, Nicholas does jolt -- just a little bit.
And from there, Knives keeps going.
The hits are not hard enough to actually give Nicholas what he wants, but just enough to keep him from getting suspicious and to keep Knives entertained for the moment.
It’s not awful, touching Nicholas -- but Knives didn’t particularly imagine it would be.
Knives takes his time. He spreads out the time between each hit, giving space for the sensation to settle into Nicholas’ skin, time for the palm of Knives’ hand to stop tingling after each smack. Time enough to eat up the minutes since Nicholas drank those bottles of water that Knives gave him hours ago.
It takes a little while for Nicholas to begin to squirm, but finally, it happens -- the telltale sign that Knives has waited long enough for Nicholas’ physical discomfort to arrive: a little shimmy of his hips, a shifting of his knees, a sharp intake of breath as he begins to realize the sensations of his body’s need -- likely dulled by the pain of Knives hitting him, pushed back until they were too impossible to ignore.
Nicholas grunts out another sound, something akin to a protest, before Knives can hit him again.
“Nai,” Vash butts in, voice tinged with worry. “I don’t think--”
“You discussed limits with him, yes?” Knives asks. “Then he knows what to do if he wants to stop.”
With that, Knives hits him again. This time, it’s a little harder than before. Not quite a punishment, but a warning. A call to attention.
“Do you realize what’s happening now?” Knives asks.
Vash might not yet, but Nicholas is smart, despite how often Knives enjoys telling him otherwise. Knives fully expects him to understand, to have caught up with the program. Especially given that it is his body, his physical limitations, his need.
In answer, Nicholas whines in protests around the gag. Judging by the tone of the sound, he gets it, but Knives’ real answer is in Nicholas’ ensuing movements, because his instincts propel him forward on his hands and knees, as if to scramble away from the situation. Without hesitation, Knives grabs him firmly by the hips to hold him steady, to keep him where he is. Not allowing him to crawl away from his discomfort. Not allowing him to hide.
“Where are you going?” Knives asks, letting his fingers dig in a little harder than necessary and letting his tone lilt toward condescending, something he knows Nicholas hates.
At the pressure from Knives’ fingers, Nicholas gasps. Satisfaction ripples through Knives’ chest like lightning, a spark of undeniable electricity he didn’t think could be elicited from anyone but Vash. Somehow, that realization does not deter him; it only fuels Knives’ determination to hold Nicholas firmer, to make him squirm even more.
Nicholas mumbles out a response, another whinging protest. He’s drooling around the gag now, too distracted to try and keep his face from getting messy, pride summarily abandoned. The harsh light of reality has clearly sunk in, and now shame has made a home inside Nicholas’ psyche alongside panic. Good.
“I don’t care,” Knives tells him, because regardless of whatever argument Nicholas could come up with, it’s the truth.
Another sound, first from Nicholas and then from Vash. There’s a part of Knives that thinks perhaps Vash should have sat this one out, lest his protective instincts run too rampant -- but if Vash wasn’t here, Knives certainly wouldn’t be here either. And then Nicholas would not be getting what he desires, what he needs.
If everything were different, though -- if it wasn’t Vash who came to him, if Nicholas were not an annoyance between them -- it would be best for Nicholas to be taken apart alone, without the crutch of Vash, without the hindrance of him being mothered.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Knives asks.
He lands another hit while holding Nicholas’ waist firm with one hand, keeping him in place. It’s easier to spank him like this, allowing Knives more control to get a better hit in. It’s exhilarating, the way he can feel Nicholas’ body flinch in his grip with every hit, kept steady under his fingertips. Even if the spanking isn’t Knives’ end goal, the act of it is satisfying in a way impossible to ignore.
“He wanted --” Vash starts.
Again, Knives can’t let Vash finish. He hates to cut Vash off, but he also doesn’t want Vash’s imagination to get the best of him and run rampant. Knives has put at least a small degree of planning into this and he would prefer not to have wasted his time.
“He wanted to be taken apart,” Knives says. “He wanted to feel out of control. Do you feel out of control now, Nicholas?”
Knives gives Nicholas a little squeeze to his hip, fingers brushing over smooth skin and cotton alike.
Hesitantly, Nicholas nods. A jerky, stilted little motion. It’s a far cry from his demeanor earlier: smooth and confident, almost cheeky.
Knives tightens his grip, moving his fingers a bit more toward Nicholas’ front. Digs them in. “Are you afraid of losing control?”
Nicholas makes another garbled noise around the gag. This time, it sounds almost adjacent to a moan.
“Are you afraid of losing control in front of Vash?” Knives asks.
Nicholas nods again, more frantic this time. His muscles are tense and his back has lost its proud arch. Now, he almost curls into himself, as if he can hide his shame that way.
“How badly do you need to go?” Knives asks, laying all his cards on the table, just for Vash.
Out of the corner of his eye Knives can see Vash staring at him with wide eyes, but Knives only keeps his gaze on Nicholas, appraising. He wants to catch every flinch, every tremble.
Nicholas whines. This time it’s clearly not even an attempt at a word -- just a sound, needy and desperate -- like he already knows whatever response he has would be futile.
He learns quickly, like a good dog. Knives almost praises him for it but catches himself and decides against it. That’s not what Nicholas is here for, that’s not why Vash came to Knives for help.
“Do you think you can hold it for me, or are you going to make a mess?” Knives asks.
“Nai,” Vash says from the side, but his voice now sounds less like a protest and more like a plea. Good.
Knives watches as Nicholas adamantly shakes his head, likely in a refusal to wet himself in his clothes. Or in front of Vash. Or at all. Little does he know that there’s very little choice in the matter: Knives is patient -- he can wait out Nicholas and the limits of his body. Stubborn as Nicholas is, Knives is more so.
He does not hit Nicholas again. Instead, Knives takes his free hand and follows along the waistband of Nicholas’ pants to his front, finally coming to rest over the curve of his now-slightly distended stomach, his bladder. He lets his fingers knead that swollen stretch of warm skin.
Nicholas chokes around a surprised sound.
And then he starts to squirm.
The reaction is likely less voluntary and more one born out of panic, the animal instinct to flee from discomfort, from shame. Unfortunately for Nicholas, Knives does not intend to let him go anywhere, to escape.
Again, he grabs Nicholas by the hips and holds him steady and firm, delighting in the way Nicholas gasps when Knives fingers dig in tight, putting pressure on his full bladder.
It should be strange, maybe even difficult, to reach down and change his grip, to grasp Nicholas by the cock, cupping him in his hand through the thin layer of his track pants, but it is not.
Before, when Knives asked how and where he should touch Nicholas, Vash had told him anywhere, had cleared that with Nicholas too. Likely -- given Knives’ evident and vocal dislike of the man -- Vash had simply assumed Knives would not touch him there.
And judging by Nicholas’ reaction -- a sharp intake of breath accompanied by his entire body going still as a statue -- he had assumed similarly as well.
To Knives, body is a body. The fact that Nicholas irks Knives to an impossible extent does not particularly set him apart from anyone else, nor does it make him any less or more appealing than any other. Touching Nicholas is simply an action. Easy as anything else.
Nicholas’ cock is hard and warm in his hand, even shielded underneath the cloth of his track pants. Given the way he throbs, the way he shudders at the attention, his body has evidently not been dissuaded by any of Nicholas’ discomfort or shame.
Knives hums, pleased.
“And here I thought you hated this,” Knives says, kneading Nicholas' cock, fondling it in his grip.
The noise that tumbles from Nicholas’ throat sounds like it’s been ripped straight from his flesh, low and garbled and ruined. It catches something alight in Knives’ gut, hot and molten and dangerous. It makes him want to push harder, to make Nicholas make that sound again and again, until his throat is raw.
Knives reaches forward and slips his fingers back underneath Nicholas’ collar to give it a tug, holding tight as he re-situates himself, positioning himself to kneel right behind Nicholas. He presses his groin to Nicholas’ ass and slips his other hand underneath the waistband of Nicholas’ pants, fingers teasing along hairy skin until he gets his hand on Nicholas’ bare cock before beginning to stroke him off fully. The flesh of Nicholas’ cock in his hands is fire-hot and shockingly soft.
Nicholas keens and chokes, shoving back against Knives’ crotch like a bitch in heat.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” Knives asks, leaning forward to grind his hips against the swell of Nicholas’ ass.
He can’t help but feel warm at the insinuation, at his own threat.
He won’t fuck Nicholas today. He’s not prepared for that. And neither is Nicholas -- and perhaps most importantly, neither is Vash.
But reality won’t stop Knives from teasing. From pressing his crotch against Nicholas as if he were grinding a hard cock there, ready to fuck him, teasing them both.
Nicholas whines like he wants it, like he’s thinking about it.
For once Knives can’t fault him -- he’s thinking about it, too.
With a renewed fever buzzing underneath his skin, Knives strokes Nicholas off even more decisively, dredging a shocked and pained sound once again from the depths of Nicholas’ chest. The sound is hindered by the tension Knives has put on the collar, which is cutting off some of Nicholas’ airflow. The sound of Nicholas’ restricted breathing, the way it makes him pant and whine, shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And yet.
“Would you let me?” Knives asks, swiping his thumb over the head of Nicholas’ cock. It’s dripping precome and the skin is soft under Knives’ touch, slick. “Would you let me fuck you while you’re like this? When you’re about to piss yourself?”
Nicholas groans. He shoves back against Knives.
“Disgusting,” Knives tells him.
He lets go of his grip on Nicholas’ collar and uses his now free hand to reach down and knead at the swell of Nicholas’ bladder as he strokes him off with his other hand.
The dueling sensations drive Nicholas to shudder, full-body. His arms wobble dangerously underneath him, as if he’s struggling to hold himself up.
“Which do you want more, to piss or to come?” Knives asks.
Nicholas just groans.
“If you give me an answer,” Knives says condescendingly, “I might just listen.”
It’s futile, of course. Nicholas can’t answer. Not with his mouth full as it is.
Knives is aware, distantly, of the sound of Vash’s breathing off to the side, heavy and affected -- Knives is always aware of Vash, of course -- but his focus remains on Nicholas, on the way that the man twitches underneath him, the way that he trembles. Soon, Nicholas finally falls to his elbows with a groan, like his arms can no longer fully support him. His hips buck, driving his cock into Knives grip even as he whines, as every thrust of his hips also grinds Knives’ fingers into his bladder even harder. It must make the pressure painful, overwhelming.
“Are you going to come?” Knives asks.
Again, Nicholas chokes around the gag. Knives can’t see him from where he’s positioned now, but he can hear the way his mouth opens, the way he is panting around the bit between his teeth. His face must be a mess of drool. But he does not think that Nicholas is crying, which is a pity. Perhaps he should have pushed him harder.
“You’re going to come just from this?” Knives asks, keeping his strokes even and teasing, just like his voice. “Are you going to make a mess in your pants?”
Nicholas’ hips jerk against Knives hand, trying to urge the touch into something harder, faster -- but Knives holds steady and only gives Nicholas what he wants to give. No more, no less.
Knives drags it out, easing Nicholas closer with every pull of his hand. The angle isn’t perfect and his movements are hindered by working underneath Nicholas’ clothing, but that doesn’t seem to bother Nicholas in the slightest, because soon he is trembling, muscles tense and tight like he’s close, just barely holding himself on by a thread.
Knives doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t indulge the whining, squirming form underneath him.
He stays steady, pace unwavering, until Nicholas’ entire body goes taut like a string, until his breath comes up short. And then -- he snaps.
Nicholas is beautiful when he comes, his whole body falling into the sensations. His back arches into an angle befitting a work of art and his skin, slick with a layer of sweat, trembles over defined muscles. He groans, low in his throat, like Knives just gutted him like an animal. Delighted, Knives cannot help but smile.
He keeps stroking Nicholas through his orgasm, until he can feel the pulse and throb of Nicholas’ cock in his hands, until he swipes his fingers over the tip and they come back sticky. Then he slides those messy fingers over Nicholas’ length, teasing him into the aftershocks, until Nicholas is twitching, gasping, groaning.
And then, until he’s whimpering. Overstimulated and still so desperately full.
Once the distraction of pleasure has passed, Knives knows that his need will come crashing back like a wave.
With quick, deft hands, Knives frees his hand and unclips Nicholas’ gag, letting it fall to the floor beside the two of them in a wet heap. And then, before Nicholas can gather himself and even think about moving, Knives hauls him into his lap. It doesn’t take much effort -- Nicholas is weak, limbs shaky and thoughts disoriented. He’s almost boneless, rendered useless by his own orgasm.
After a moment, though, his awareness seems to come back to him.
“Can I get up? I still gotta—” Nicholas asks, voice raw and groggy. Almost as if he’s on auto-pilot, not quite there.
The thought is laughable. Knives does not think Nicholas’ legs could hold his weight all the way to the bathroom. Regardless, Knives has no plans to find out.
“No,” Knives says, already bracing himself for the inevitable struggle, gripping Nicholas tighter in anticipation.
The sound that Nicholas makes is broken, ragged and rough. And then, just like Knives predicted, he begins to squirm in Knives arms.
“Knives, please man, you have to let me—”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Knives says. “You didn’t think I was actually going to let you up, did you?”
Knives pitches his voice toward condescending and delights in the ensuing shiver that runs through Nicholas’ body. Is it fear, anger, or trepidation? Does it matter? The result is the same, a brilliant rush of electricity right to Knives’ gut.
Once again, Nicholas tries to get up but Knives holds him firm, unrelenting. Nicholas is a strong man, but Knives is stronger.
“You’re going to piss yourself,” Knives says. “In your clothes. In front of Vash.”
A beat passes before Nicholas finally whimpers. It’s a better sound than a whine, so much more defeated and so much more satisfying.
“No, I’m—”
Before he can finish, Knives shoves his fingers, still halfways dirty with Nicholas’ come, into Nicholas’ protesting mouth. Immediately, as if on instinct, Nicholas’ mouth closes around them, wet and warm. Knives ignores the ensuing press of teeth as Nicholas bites down, and just holds Nicholas more steadfastly, grip made of iron.
“You’ve already made a mess in your pants,” Knives tells him, leaning in close to whisper the words in Nicholas’ ear. “You’re going to do it, and you’re going to do it for me.”
Nicholas kicks his feet, bucks his body, and squirms like a desperate thing. The sounds coming out of him are frantic and pained, ripped right from his core. And they’re more than a little panicked, too. And Knives holds him through it all, patient. Firm.
And unrelenting. Giving space for Nicholas to realize that this is a fight he will not win. That he does not want to win.
Nicholas thrashes until he doesn’t. Finally, he stops, body going limp in Knives’ arms. Exhausted. And likely in not a small amount of discomfort.
But, despite the lack of movement and struggle, he is the furthest thing from relaxed. Everything about him is held tight; his muscles are tense and his breathing is coming in short and shallow. Holding him like this, Knives can feel every little twitch, every little change. The way Nicholas has yielded, has submitted in his arms, is invigorating. Addictive.
The next breath Nicholas takes in is ragged, wet.
When Knives looks down at his face, his eyes are closed tight but his cheeks are streaked wet with tear tracks.
Something bubbles up in Knives’ chest. Pride. Exhilaration. Hunger.
Knives presses down on his tongue, feeling that slick muscle flex against his fingers. So soft, so tender. So malleable, just like Nicholas is now, just for him.
“Come on, Nicholas,” Knives says, dropping his voice again to a low whisper, something only for Nicholas’ ears. “Let go.”
Nicholas whimpers around his fingers. He sounds so close. And yet.
Nicholas shifts his leg, one last little kick, before he goes fully still. He swallows around Knives fingers and then just -- keeps the pressure, suckling on them. The sensation, warm and wet and tight, sends shivers down Knives’ spine.
Knives lets him have a moment just like that, held in uncomfortable quiet, before stroking over Nicholas’ tongue gently.
“Be good, Nicholas,” Knives says. “I know you can.”
Another whimper shakes out of Nicholas, so broken and pitiful.
“Be good. Let go for me,” Knives says.
He would reach down and knead his hands over Nicholas’ bladder, but he doesn’t want Nicholas to stop sucking on his fingers. And Knives doesn’t need to do that, because Nicholas is good, when it all comes down to it.
He breaks like a dam. First, just a crack: Nicholas chokes.
And then, the immediate fallout: His body jerks, spasming in Knives’ arms before he goes very, very still, a whine trickling out of his throat like water. And Knives could watch the rest of him, could let his eyes fall to the crotch of Nicholas’ pants where he knows there would be a darkness blooming -- but instead he cannot tear his eyes away from Nicholas’ face.
In misery, in absolute submission, Nicholas is beautiful. His usual angry obstinance has been completely erased from his face, replaced with a relaxed blankness that speaks to total annihilation.
“Good,” Knives tells him, even as his bladder continues to empty. “Very good.”
Soon, Knives can feel the liquid seep through Nicholas’ track pants to his own clothing, warm and wet. Under normal circumstances, Knives would detest this. But now there is only room inside him for satisfaction. And pride.
Nicholas’ mouth has gone slack around Knives’ fingers, opening to pant out ragged, wet breaths. He sounds so wrecked that it’s almost as if he came again -- but release, relief, is a powerful thing. It has gutted him wide, pried him open at the seams, leaving him splayed for Knives to look at and admire.
“Well done,” Knives says, and Nicholas trembles.
They sit in still silence for long after Nicholas finishes. Knives does not release the steady grip he has on him, nor does he pull his fingers from Nicholas’ mouth. He simply sits, relishing the moment as it pulls long and almost tranquil. Knives grounds himself with the pounding of his heart in his ears and the warm body in his lap. It is only as Nicholas’ breathing returns to normal and his face begins to crease in realization -- and perhaps shame -- that Knives allows himself to stir. First by giving Nicholas’ form a small squeeze and easing his fingers from his mouth, and then by turning, finally, to look at Vash.
Vash’s face is flushed and while he is still mostly clothed, his fingers are glistening wet. Ah, Knives thinks with a dull kind of clarity. Unsurprising, given the show that Knives put on for him -- only surprising that Knives hadn’t noticed Vash’s hand down his pants, too focused on Nicholas squirming in his own lap. Maybe it had been fast; Vash has always been able to get himself off quickly, especially provided with the right stimulus.
Still, Knives had missed it. His attention had been elsewhere.
The realization leaves his stomach feeling slightly strange. Like his feet have been kicked out from underneath him.
He swallows. And takes a breath.
“You need to shower,” Knives says, turning back to focus his attention on Nicholas.
He squeezes him again and tells himself the pressure is for Nicholas, to bring him back up. It helps that Nicholas groans and shoves his face against the crevice of Knives’ neck for the first time. Hiding his wet face there against Knives’ shirt.
“Fuck,” is all Nicholas says, voice raw and wrecked. It’s more articulate than Knives might have bet on.
His shaky breath ghosts over Knives skin.
“We both need to shower,” Knives says.
“Inna minute,” Nicholas mumbles. “Don’t think I can look at either of you right now.”
A huff of laughter escapes Knives’ chest before he can stop it, shoving that strange discomfort out of the way to make space for prideful amusement. Off to the side, Vash giggles. The sound fills Knives with warmth just as it always does. A soothing balm.
“Nai,” Vash says.
Knives swallows. He looks over at his twin, at those big expressive eyes of his.
“Thank you,” Vash says. His smile is wide and it makes Knives feel perfect.
“Of course,” Knives tells him. “Anything for you.”