Chapter Text
Wolfwood stares with unmitigated hatred through the rear-view mirror at Knives, who is sliding into the backseat of their 20-year old Honda Civic alongside old boxes of grocery store doughnuts, a random smattering of napkins and shopping receipts, forgotten notes written on said napkins and receipts, a threadbare neck pillow, three jugs of spare antifreeze, the semi-automatic Wolfwood keeps stowed under the seats, a St. James Bible that has seen better days, Wolfwood's good navy blazer he'd never bothered to retrieve after jumping Vash that night three weeks go in the drive-in theater, Vash's gargantuan messenger bag, and Vash himself.
Wolfwood had meant to clean the car the night before the trip, but when Knives had announced he was coming Wolfwood decided to get a good night's sleep instead, knowing he'd need it.
Knives makes a noise of disgust as he shoves something to the floor to wedge himself up against Vash, and Wolfwood rolls his eyes at how much of a princess Knives is. And at the fact that Vash is sitting all the way on the other side of the fucking car.
Fuckssake. Wolfwood wants to point out that Knives acting like being in physical contact with his brother is a mortal necessity is pretty fucking pathetic, but they're still sitting in the parking lot of their apartment complex and Wolfwood is not going to get into it before they've even hit the road. He's an adult. He's mature. He's the only person in this car that doesn't want to fuck their brother. He's capable of being the better man.
"Get in the fucking front, Vash." Wolfwood bites out, barely managing to keep all-encompassing fury out of his voice. If anyone thinks he's going to drive a five-hour trip with Vash sitting practically fused shoulder-to-thigh with his twin in the backseat, then they are sorely fucking mistaken. There's really only so much a man can be forced to tolerate, and Wolfwood is in the process of hurtling over his limit at breakneck speed.
Vash blinks up from where he's fiddling with his new handheld game console (a gift from Knives) with Wolfwood's battered coffee thermos clamped haphazardly between his legs, open and steaming the smell of an expensive, pretentious-ass french brand coffee (also a gift from Knives) into the air. He blinks owishly at Wolfwood, eyes big and sleep-hazed behind his orange prescription lenses. Vash is not an early riser, and it's currently 5:45 am.
"M' fine here, Nico," Vash slurs, hiding a yawn against his wrist. Something bright and cheery and looking suspiciously like a tricked out cartoon animal trots across his gaming screen. What the fuck is he even playing? "Nai called shotgun."
No, the fuck he didn't.
Knives catches Wolfwood's eye in the mirror, a speculative bit of malice in his look as he knocks his knees against Vash's, presses just that much more against him. He's too broad-shouldered against the grey-beige seats and sits too widely to be even halfway comfortable wedged where he is, but he has a nasty satisfaction playing around his mouth. "I changed my mind," Knives says smoothly. "I don't mind sitting back here."
He's fucking lying, and Wolfwood knows he's fucking lying because it was only last night when he had been treated to an entire song and dance about Knives wanting to drive them to L.A. Wolfwood had given him the ultimatum then while Vash was in the shower, Wolfwood was driving, Wolfwood was choosing the music, Wolfwood was choosing the route, and if Wolfwood wanted to stop and fuck Vash in a rest stop bathroom, then he was going to do so.
Firstly, because it will be a cold day in hell before Wolfwood ever gets into a car driven by Knives motherfucking Saverem, and secondly, because like the rich bitch he is, Knives owns and drives a fucking current year convertible Porsche, silvery-white with of all things, a sky-blue leather interior. Obviously made custom. That piece of self-indulgent Beverly Hills bullshit is now sitting under three ratty tarps in Vash's parking stall, and one day when Wolfwood finally snaps, the first thing he'll do before hauling the fucking thing off to a chop shop is take a crowbar to the goddamn windows and knife the tires.
For a man who runs an eco-terrorism slash christian fundy anarchist cult on the low, Knives does not do subtlety well. Vash, the most precious klutz in the world, is at least more appreciative of the benefits of keeping a low profile. But then again, Vash is on the FBI's most wanted terrorist watchlist and several illegitimate ones, and that's no thanks to his fucking brother.
The fucking brother in question has just slid a hand up on Vash's thigh, it rests there, natural and possessive, Knives' fingers curling over the bare skin showing through a rip in Vash's black jeans. Vash, oblivious, has already turned his attention back to whatever kiddy game he's running on that three hundred dollar plus tax toy of his. Jesus Christ Lord in the heavens above, Wolfwood fucking. hates. Knives.
"Vash." Wolfwood says, gritting his teeth so hard he feels a lance of pain shoot down his neck. He's not going to be baited that easily.
"'S fine, Nico, really," Vash mumbles at him, several anthropomorphic horrors dancing in the lenses of his glasses, not giving a single fuck that his brother is currently borderline molesting him, or that Wolfwood is being forced to watch. Vash takes a hand off his game to blindly grope around for a second, and comes up with the neck pillow. "M' gonna take a nap. You know how uncomfortable the front seat is."
Wolfwood knows. He abandons all hope of rescuing Vash from the claws of the (not metaphorical) beast, shoves a cigarette into his mouth, lights up, keys the ignition, and peels off into the rising sun in a sullen squeal of fan belts. When he gets to L.A he'll have to run the car down to a shop if he has the time. Knives had offered - said he was going to - to buy (Vash) a new car the first time he'd been forced to ride in Vash and Wolfwood's old reliable, and Vash might have caved and let him buy up whatever monstrosity of a sports car he deemed a worthy enough form of transportation, but Wolfwood had pitched such a fit that Vash had forced Knives to shelve the issue.
They get out of town and into the desert beyond without much incident, half an hour in and Vash makes good on his word to take a nap, passing out against the window in the little neck pillow, cuddled up in his stupid poppy-red bomber jacket even though it's eighty-two degrees at seven o'clock in the morning and rising out. Vash never goes anywhere without that jacket, or the 44. Magnum he keeps tucked away under it.
That gun, apparently, had been a gift from Knives. Vash mumbles something in his sleep with the vibrations of the road, Wolfwood automatically looks back and sees the sheen of sweat beading up on his forehead, sees Knives duck his head to check what Vash is saying, as if he needs to get any fucking closer than he already is.
Wolfwood flicks on the AC to its coldest setting. He must get a filthy look for that, but Wolfwood has decided not to pay attention to Knives anymore than he can help it, for his own sanity. Vash being asleep will limit the amount of utter fucking incestuous weirdness Knives can get up to with him.
In the end, he's going to wonder just how stupid he was to believe that for a second.
Wolfwood turns away for a minute or ten to wrestle with the radio and chainsmoke in the freedom of the open road, and when he takes a random look back, Vash is stretched out across the somehow cleared backseat, his head fully in Knives' lap, an arm thrown across both Knives' legs, still soundly asleep.
"Did you move him?" Wolfwood snarls at the backseat, dragging down a too-large mouthful of smoke at the new development.
Knives gives him an are you stupid look, flicking a stray receipt off the seat and onto the cluttered floor, scowling. "No." The indignant motion is enough to make Vash shift, muttering before he lapses back into sound sleep, his arm pulling in to draw Knives' thighs with it under his head like he's handling a pillow, nuzzling into Knives' white slacks.
Knives stops scowling to look down at Vash with such intense, unmasked affection that Wolfwood feels his throat tighten. Motherfucker. What.
"Yeah, let me guess, he did that all the time when you were kids," he pokes, just to wipe that look off Knives' face.
It's the excuse Knives and Vash alike are so fond of using when they're caught doing something that can't be stretched to be explained as simply familial affection, Wolfwood had called utter bullshit the first time they tried to pull it on him. They don't fool anyone with two good eyes.
Wolfwood doesn't blame Vash in the slightest, he's had a fucked up childhood from what Wolfwood knows and can't really be blamed for whateverthefuck it is he resorted to to cope - so he fucks his own brother on the regular and has been since they were barely legal and has started to again ever since the bastard brother came around again - okay, everyone has their vices and demons and so on and so forth. Wolfwood has plenty of those himself.
Knives, however, is the literal fucking devil, and as far as Wolfwood is concerned, is the reason for everything wrong ever.
"Fuck yourself." Knives says, as if he hears Wolfwood's thoughts.
-
An hour later, Vash returns to the land of the living, props his head up on Knives' knee, and asks, "Are we there yet?"
"We are not." Wolfwood tells him over the impossibly cheery beat of some pop song he's letting play solely to annoy Knives, who legitimately listens to shit like fucking...Mozart and Chopin and Van-fucking-Beethoven. Vash considers this a moment, then pushes himself up and leans into Wolfwood's half of the car to plant a sleep-tacky kiss on the corner of Wolfwood's mouth. Wolfwood keeps his eyes on the road, but turns to brush his own kiss back against Vash's lips.
"I'm bored." Vash says up against his ear when he doesn't receive more than that, sending a little burst of warmth down Wolfwood's spine. Wolfwood plucks a cigarette out of his mostly empty pack, flicks it to life and offers it to Vash after a drag.
"Go back to sleep," he suggests. Vash is a handful when fully rested, and he still has four hours of driving ahead of him. Vash pouts, but takes the cigarette and retreats into the backseat, flopping down with an affected sigh and rolling down his window to smoke.
Knives seems forlorn at the loss of Vash in his immediate personal space, and Wolfwood smiles to himself, turning up the music's volume.
When he checks in on the backseat a little while later, Vash has passed off his cigarette to Knives and is tapping halfheartedly at his game, but stops to look up at Wolfwood. "I'm bored," he says again.
Wolfwood can't tell if he actually is or has just gotten it into his head to be a brat. "Do your homework," he says, jerking his head towards the stack of medical books Vash's messenger bag is resting on. Vash is enrolled in medical school now, and is juggling that alongside the hospital job he refuses to leave, even though Knives is richer than jesus and is making noises about wanting to move out on the coast.
Which will not be happening. Wolfwood and Vash have been doing just fine the last six years in their tiny, shitty little corner of the world, and Knives isn't going to fuck it up for them.
"Already did it." Vash says, chewing on his lip and looking back at his game with another little sigh. Knives is watching him out of the corner of his eyes through curling cigarette smoke, gaze slitted and predatory. Wolfwood ignores him, because that's how he always looks at Vash.
Big fucking mistake in hindsight.
The road is empty and Wolfwood really has little to do except keep his foot on the gas pedal, so he zones out for a bit after digging out a new pack of smokes. He's brought back by the sound of talking, heated enough to be heard over the radio, from the tone Wolfwood knows Knives and Vash have struck up one of those philosophical debates they're always having. The kind that usually ends with Vash crying over a wine cooler in the kitchen and Knives going off sulking to kill a puppy or order a hit on a government office.
Wolfwood eyes the rearview mirror to see what's going on, just in time to see Knives pitch the butt of his cigarette over Vash's head out the window, and then reach in to catch Vash's chin between his fingers, thumb pressing firmly down on Vash's lower lip. Then he leans in, tipping his head so close to Vash's that their lips almost touch, and begins whispering to him.
Wolfwood wants to scream - it is entirely too early in the morning for this shit - when whatever Knives is saying makes Vash go as red as his jacket, and he pulls away from his brother's hand, wide-eyed and blinking rapidly.
"Nai!" he squawks, "Be serious, I..I'm not-"
"You know you want to," Knives interrupts, not yet grinning but his voice definitely amused, his hand still outstretched towards Vash.
Vash bats his hand away, his cheeks burning up. "No."
"Vash," Knives purrs.
"He said no." Wolfwood reminds no one in particular, already fed up, even though he doesn't know what Knives is asking of Vash, and probably shouldn't want to know. Two sets of jewel-blue eyes snap to him, one pair icy, the other mortified.
"I'll thank you to mind your own business-" Knives starts, but Vash slaps a hand against his ample chest, probably more harder than he'd intended to.
"Leave him alone, Nai."
Knives shuts up, which means he considers whatever he wants from Vash more important that arguing with Wolfwood. Not good. That's never good.
The backseat goes quiet, and Wolfwood drives in uneasy silence for another twenty minutes, his resident peanut gallery silent. It's only when the radio decides to trail off in a fateful buzz of static that he gets an idea of just why it's been so quiet.
There's whispers coming from the backseat, and a plethora of little noises Wolfwood can't make out until he jabs off the radio. Then there's more whispers, rustling, the distinct thump of something half-filled with liquid hitting the floor, and then Wolfwood hears the sound of a motherfucking zipper. Wolfwood snaps his head back to look so fucking fast he gives himself vertigo, and is greeted with the sight of Vash halfway in Knives' lap, a knee between his thighs, one hand pushed down between their bodies, working the front of Knives' fucking slacks open.
Knives predictably has his hand on Vash's ass, lust in his eyes, and a shit-eating-grin on the corners of his mouth as he bites a mark up on Vash's throat, making Vash give a little kitten-mewl that has blood shooting in a direct line south to Wolfwood's dick.
Jesus Fucking Christ.
Neither of them have noticed Wolfwood yet, and he's gearing up to give them one rude awakening when Knives shifts his attention to Vash's mouth, claiming it in such a wet, needy kiss that it's all Wolfwood hears for a moment. Knives breaks off, and Wolfwood can make out something like be good, before Knives is grabbing Vash by the waist and twisting him around bodily to settle him back-to-chest against him, tangling their legs together.
Vash lets himself be manhandled like a doll, his glasses are teetering on the edge of his nose, his eyes drooping behind them, and his mouth is red and kiss-swollen. He's a fucking sight, just how long was he getting molested behind Wolfwood's turned back? Knives must have gone for it the moment Wolfwood was stupid enough to stop paying attention to them.
The thought should not be giving Wolfwood's budding erection any headway. But it is, and even worse, Knives is staring at Wolfwood from over his brother's shoulder now, all smugness and too-sharp canines.
Shit.
Knives slips his hand up Vash's belly as he pulls him back flat against his chest, taking the hem of Vash's tight black shirt with him, and Wolfwood is dazzled by the scarred, trim slope of Vash's waist before the view is obscured by Knives' hand diving back down to pop the button on Vash's jeans, everything done in a slow, measured, teasing motion, and it's then that Wolfwood finally finds enough self-control? Idiocy? Jealously? to make a sound of protest.
"What. the. fuck. are. you. doing?"
The way Vash's eyes blow wide when he snaps back to himself and sees Wolfwood staring back at them is comical, as if he'd forgotten he's in a car that Wolfwood is currently fucking driving.
"Nico," he whimpers, and makes a valiant effort to unstick himself from his brother. Knives just slings an arm around his waist and pins him back, showing all his white teeth at Wolfwood.
"Watch the road," he says, and Wolfwood looks ahead on instinct.
"-Motherfucker!" It's only years of reflexes that lets him yank the dangerously veering car straight again. Vash gasps as everyone takes a good shake, and Knives mutters something low and soothing.
"You could have told me sooner, asshole!" Wolfwood rages as soon as he's done hauling on the steering wheel and is back in the middle of the road.
"Tch. I was distracted."
"Let him the fuck go."
"I don't think so, Wolfwood."
"You are not fucking him in this car."
"Like you haven't? He told me about the movies-"
Despite almost crashing not a minute ago, Wolfwood turns back to level an accusing glare at Vash's traitorous ass, who blushes even deeper, giving another performative wiggle against Knives. Why would he tell Knives about that? Does he want Wolfwood to get murdered in his sleep? But yeah, yeah. He's fucked Vash in the car before.
But certain things - things being Knives' habit of putting his dick up his brother's ass at any given opportunity - are only allowable up to a certain point. This, this is fucking-
-fucking hot, is what it is. And Wolfwood really wants no part in it.
Vash suddenly makes a sharp, whimpering type of noise, startling Wolfwood, but Knives only grins darkly.
Oh, the fucking cunt. Wolfwood is going to fucking kill him.
While he'd been distracted by Vash's faux pas, Knives had gotten Vash's jeans down past his hips, and his fingers up his ass. Wolfwood muses on the semantics of that in a hazy way, - as well as the revelation that Vash had apparently being going commando, since fucking when? - struggling to divert a modicum of attention to the road and failing. He sure as hell hadn't seen Knives pull out lube or get his hand up anywhere nears Vash's mouth-
-and then he sees Knives' spit-shiny lips pressing a sloppy kiss just under Vash's glittering earring.
Uh-huh. The burst of arousal that comes at that revelation is so intense that Wolfwood finds himself white-knuckling the steering wheel. Somewhere deep in the back of his head, dancing a malicious jig, is disappointment that Wolfwood missed Knives slicking up his own fingers to open his brother up.
What the fuck is wrong with him? Wolfwood glares at an approaching cactus in a moment of disingenuous self-contemplation, decides to blame it on the influences of his childhood religion and the man that's three fingers and knuckle-deep in his own brother in the backseat.
Mostly him though.
Wolfwood is going to try a last ditch effort to regain control of this situation, and he looks up into the rearview mirror just in time to see Knives pull his fingers out of Vash with a slick pop. Jesus.
The strangled moan that leaves Vash's mouth as Knives lines up and fits his cock into him instead drags every bit of righteous fight Wolfwood has in him down below and out into a wet patch on his good pants. For the next odd half-hour, give or take, Wolfwood is plunged into a hell very much not of his making.
Knives starts off slow, fucking Vash with the vibrations of the car, rolling his hips up and into him, doggedly keeping a steady, brutal pace until Wolfwood is ready to start babbling nonsense alongside Vash-
"Please...p..please, Nai, ple-please, I want it harder-m..more, fuck, Nai...Na-Nai...pleasepleaseplease, har-h..harder, h..harder! N..Nai, Nai, NAI!"
See, Wolfwood knows enough at this point (more than he ever wanted to) to know that Vash begging like that gets Knives off hard, and that Knives could draw this on for hours. Has done so.
He's going to hate himself for it later, but now he has only a split second of hesitation before opening his mouth and helping the issue along.
"C'mon, baby," he growls, putting the hint of a sneer into his voice, the tone that gets Vash all squirmy and hot and humiliated for him. "You just gonna sit there and take it? Just gonna take your brother's cock? Do some of the work."
High holy fuck Wolfwood is going to hell.
Vash lets out a pitiful little whimper, his whole body bucking on his Knives' lap before he starts to move his hips, jerkily fucking himself down on his brother's cock, whines escaping him every time flesh hits flesh.
Wolfwood fancies he hears the steering wheel groaning from how hard he's gripping it to keep composure, because he is not jacking off. He is not. He wants to at least have some claim to dignity and decency and good old family values, even if the three of them in this car have ground those things to dust in the wayside a long, long time ago. So he goes to look behind him again, and blanches.
Knives gives Wolfwood a brilliant, satisfied grin before his head falls back against the seat as Vash bounces in his lap, lashes fluttering over a breathy sigh that is an exact approximation of the kind Vash makes when sinking down onto Wolfwood's dick, and Wolfwood can only bring himself to think is that Knives is too used to getting what he wants.
The next moment, he's feeling fucking used. Okay, Knives using Wolfwood to get Vash to ride him isn't the worst he's done, not by a long shot, but fuck.
A few minutes later of Vash working on him has Knives' hand on Vash's waist and one up and curving around Vash's throat, his fingers digging just so into the flesh of both as low, guttural moans are forced out of him.
Wolfwood hates that he can identify exactly when Knives is close to cumming his guts out. It's not really the type of thing the average person tends to know about their significant other's brother.
Vash writhes against the grip Knives has on him until Knives relents and drops it, and then he still writhes, his thighs spasming and his stomach clenching around Knives' cock. Because he knows all too well what Knives sounds like too.
"Nai," he pleads, sounding like he's been punched in the gut, his hips stuttering to a stop. The hard stretch of his lower belly is trembling, making the sweat he's worked up there shimmer. "W..wait, don't c..cu-don't c..cum,"
"Can't," Knives moans back, as breathless as Vash at this point. His hips piston up as Vash scrabbles at them, frantic even as he comes apart on his cock.
"Nai," he whines again, high and wrecked, "d..don't please, I..I can't have a mess, a..ah, N..N- N..Nai!" Knives doesn't stop, can't stop, Wolfwood knows, and Vash writhes through a few more seconds of relentless fucking before he catches hold of Knives' thighs and summons up the willpower to lift himself cleanly off his brother's cock with a desperate cry.
Knives growls in a way that's purely animalistic, grabs for Vash's hip, but Vash twists himself around and slithers to the floor, crammed up against all the shit that's there at odd angles, and gets his mouth on Knives' cock just as he comes, hard.
It is, without a doubt, the most erotic thing Wolfwood has ever had the pleasure of witnessing on God's wretched, green, good-for-nothing Earth. If he doesn't come within the next five seconds, he's going to fucking die.
Five seconds pass, Vash chokes Knives' release down and Knives in turn pants for what seems like an eternity as they both wind down, until Vash finally pulls off his brother with a wet sound, his glasses knocked to fucking hell on his face, his hair slicked down into his eyes.
Knives reaches down, rights Vash's glasses on the bridge of his nose with two fingers, and then swipes Vash's sticky hair away from his eyes with the back of his hand with infinite tenderness. His eyes are bright as he looks at him, his mouth slightly open, a mimic of an awed expression. It's the last gesture that makes Wolfwood see red. Knives having Vash like a two-dollar whore in the backseat at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning? Wolfwood can live with it. But not with the love, the want that Knives is touching and looking at Vash with right now.
Yes, he's aware of his own hypocrisy.
The poor car grinds rocks and tumbleweed brambles as it comes to a stop off the road, Wolfwood ignores Knives' haughty demand of just what the fuck are you doing, Nicholas? to swing himself out of the driver's seat, wrench open the backdoor, reach in, and bodily haul Vash the fuck out. Vash stumbles against him, pants still around his hips, flushed and debauched.
Knives just stares placidly at them both, as if Wolfwood's reaction is something beneath him to react to. "He hasn't finished yet," he says in a tone that insinuates he cannot believe Wolfwood's savagery.
"And who's fault is that?" Wolfwood grunts, not trusting himself to say more as he forces himself to step back and march Vash around the car to the passenger's side, physically warring against every instinct in him that's demanding he slam Vash up against the car and fuck him screaming.
He gets Vash's pants up before he settles him into the front seat, takes a moment to contemplate driving the car into a nearby boulder before he gets back in and sets about getting a desperately needed smoke.
Like a looming, hunting snake, Knives leans forward, catches Wolfwoood's eyes in mirror as he curls a arm around Vash's seat and up over his chest to take his chin, firmly dragging his thumb up to collect the fat little line of cum that had been running unattended from Vash's mouth. Vash makes a hot, humiliated noise, visibly shuddering, and Wolfwood opens his mouth to tell Knives to get his fucking hands off of him, but it comes out as an unintelligible growl.
Smirking, his eyes shining like the sun overhead, Knives pulls his hand back with all the regal grace of a king and fucking sucks his cum and what is undoubtedly a good deal of Vash's saliva off his thumb.
Wolfwood wants to shout at him, Wolfwood wants to drag him out of the car, wants to shoot him in the kneecaps and leave him on the side of the road, wants to go back in time and smother him as a child, wants above everything, to shove his hand down his own pants and give his tortured cock an ounce of fucking relief.
But he does none of those things, just slams the stick to bring the car out of park and shoves it protesting back onto the road. FuckhimfuckhimFUCKHIM-
Wolfwood hits the gas like it will do him any good, but it feels good to hit something, and the road spreads smoke hazed in front him. He rolls the windows down a little while later because everything stinks like sex, and the heat-charged wind whips some clarity back into him.
But out of the corner of his eye, he's aware of Knives watching him with that expectant, tiger-eyed look. Because Wolfwood is going to have to pull over soon to take care of Vash, who is shifting pitifully around the front seat, breathy whimpers escaping him occasionally, one slender hand digging into the over-worn upholstery to ground him against the problem in his pants, casting little desperate looks out from behind his glasses at Wolfwood. There's no way Wolfwood is making it the rest of the trip with that right by him.
And Knives, the motherfucker, knows it.