angels in suburbia [trigun; knives/vash/wolfwood; mature]

[sodomhipped]

Title: angels in suburbia [or read on ao3]

Fandom: Trigun

Pairing: Knives/Vash/Wolfwood, Knives/Vash, Knives/Wolfwood, Wolfwood/Vash

Rating: Mature

Warning: None

Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hybrids, Alternate Universe - Angels, Wolf Hybrid Wolfwood, Angel Vash the Stampede, Angel Millions Knives, Brother/Brother Incest, Threesome, Under Negotiated Poly, Slice of Life, Grooming, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Trans Vash the Stampede, Trans Millions Knives, Illustrations

Author’s Note: this piece was written for the plantwood reverse bang! the story is based on these gorgeous artworks and the alternate universe created by weiyi_swy! i am so grateful that they let me play with their world. ♥

and, as usual, thanks to my partner for editing this and making it far better than it otherwise would have been.

Summary:

“I see you looking at my brother,” Knives says, apropos of nothing and in a tone that makes it clear that there’s an unspoken ‘too much.’

Wolfwood’s pulse kicks up a notch. Of all the scenarios he thought this might lead to, Knives wanting to have a heart-to-heart did not register on the list.

He tries his best to seem nonchalant, but he can feel the tip of his tail flick nervously against the wall behind him. “Yeah, and what of it?”

“His preferences have always been…unfortunate.”

『Or, the one where Wolfwood is a wolf hybrid and Vash and Knives have wings.』

[all art is by weiyi_swy. click to view larger images or visit twitter.]

---

Vash and Knives have been at Wolfwood’s house more often than not these last few months. After the first few weeks, Vash stopped texting to ask if he could come over and started to show up at Wolfwood’s door unannounced.

With Knives in tow. Knives was always there, like a glowering shadow.

Even with that shadow, these are the brightest days Wolfwood has had in a long time.

Maybe ever.

Lately, Knives and Vash have taken it upon themselves to help rehabilitate Wolfwood’s yard to keep the local Homeowner Association off his ass. Knives had originally suggested hiring contractors, but after Wolfwood rejected the idea, he had taken to the work in particular. Often, he would wave Wolfwood or Vash out of the way to do whatever task himself.

Today they knock out the last of the major work—planting a series of bushes that will provide some privacy. They walk into the house together, each spotted with dirt. Wolfwood had started the day in a ratty shirt and sweatpants, but as the sun rose, discarded the shirt. Vash, who had worn skimpy shorts and a tank top, was soaked through by the day’s end. Only Knives withstood the heat without complaint, though his ears were tipped with red sunburn and his forehead was shiny with sweat.

As soon as they’re inside, Knives makes a beeline to the kitchen—probably to get water. But Vash pulls up alongside Wolfwood, yawning widely and stretching his arms as high as he can. His wings droop so low they practically drag on the floor. “I’m beat. Mind if I crash on your couch for twenty minutes or so?”

“Take my bed,” Wolfwood offers. “The damn couch is a torture device.”

As soon as he says it, he imagines it. The mess of Vash’s wings and limbs tangled into his sheets, head resting against Wolfwood’s pillow. It’s so intimate it scorches him, sending an inappropriate pulse of want right to his dick.

He feels like he’s been stupid the last few months—too much blood to his dick, too little to his head.

“Mmm, thanks,” Vash says sleepily. He gives Wolfwood a lingering peck on the cheek—practically on his mouth—before heading towards the bedroom. “I’ll shower first, don’t worry.”

It isn’t lost on Wolfwood that there isn’t a single beat of hesitation in his words or actions. Wolfwood doesn’t need to tell him about the en suite bathroom or where anything in the house is located. He doesn’t know when they got so comfortable with each other.

They’ve been heading towards something for a long time now.

Vash disappears into the bedroom, not bothering to close the door. Although he can’t see anything, he can hear the rustle of clothing, and he guesses Vash is pulling off his shirt—maybe his shorts, too?—before sliding under the covers.

Later, his bed will smell like Vash. Warm skin and earthy feathers. Wolfwood will jerk off once they go back to their own home, he realizes dully. He’ll lie in that bed, smelling Vash in the pillow, and think about what he could do to Vash on that mattress if he ever got the chance.

Wolfwood’s libido has been in overdrive ever since he met Vash, and he’s dying for more. To hell with Knives, Wolfwood could join Vash now, even. Lie down beside him, bodies pressed against each other, and let their scents intertwine. They’ve kissed before, so he knows how Vash tastes, even if he only gets to do so in eager, stolen moments whenever Knives isn’t looking.

He would do more than taste; he wants to eat Vash whole.

Wolfwood realizes he’s staring at the space where the door has been left ajar. He shakes himself out of it—only to find Knives standing at the other end of the hallway, watching him.

And that’s the other thing: he and Vash are definitely dancing around each other—but he doesn’t know how Knives fits in. He’s always there, always hovering. A little too close and protective of Vash. Jealous.

“What?” he asks when Knives only keeps staring at him, eyes dark.

“Come with me,” Knives orders.

“What?” Wolfwood asks, ears flat to his skull. “Why?”

“You’re going to fix my feathers.”

“Like hell I am,” Wolfwood says, still feeling caught. “Ask your brother instead.”

“No,” Knives says. He seems unbothered by Wolfwood’s protestations. He strides through Wolfwood’s house as if it were his own, not even looking behind him to confirm that Wolfwood is coming.

Wolfwood, like an idiot, does follow him.

Knives walks into the ground floor bathroom and leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a polo shirt today, and the sleeves strain against his biceps.

To this point, Wolfwood hasn’t actually spent much time alone with Knives. Vash has always been there to buffer Knives’ stony glares and curt comments. It feels awkward to be looking at each other in Wolfwood’s downstairs bathroom.

“Let me at least pull on a shirt,” he says.

“Doesn’t bother me,” Knives says, dropping his eyes—unimpressed—to Wolfwood’s bare chest. “And you would wake Vash.”

“Fair point,” Wolfwood concedes.

Knives looks at him longer. There’s always something so calculating in his eyes, it gives Wolfwood the chills. He’s measuring Wolfwood now, he knows, though he can’t imagine what Knives is trying to determine.

“I see you looking at my brother,” Knives says, apropos of nothing and in a tone that makes it clear that there’s an unspoken ‘too much.’

Wolfwood’s pulse kicks up a notch. Of all the scenarios he thought this might lead to, Knives wanting to have a heart-to-heart did not register on the list.

He tries his best to seem nonchalant, but he can feel the tip of his tail flick nervously against the wall behind him. “Yeah, and what of it?”

“His preferences have always been…unfortunate.”

“Weren’t you asking me for a favor?”

With a rustle of feathers, Knives spreads one wing away from his body. The span of it is impressive, dark quills catching the light as they shift. It’s immediately clear to Wolfwood that they won’t have enough room. The bathroom is large, but there’s not enough space to accommodate it when stretched to full length.

Knives realizes the problem a beat after Wolfwood does and scowls, folding his wing instead to angle around Wolfwood’s body. Because Knives has to keep the great wing bent, he effectively has Wolfwood enveloped inside the crook. Like this, Wolfwood is surrounded by Knives—all that he can see other than glistening black feathers is Knives’ chest and face.

Knives looks at him steadily, like he’s waiting for Wolfwood to act.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do,” Wolfwood says but steps forward nonetheless. “Don’t I need a—I don’t know—a brush or whatever?”

“Use your hands,” Knives says. The folded edge of his wing nudges Wolfwood’s back, bumping him with enough force that Wolfwood has to catch himself with one hand against Knives’ side.

“Watch it,” Wolfwood growls, warning.

He snatches his hand away from Knives’ warm skin, realizing belatedly that Knives hadn’t seemed to mind. None of this really makes any sense to him. All he knows is that it has to do with Vash, even if Knives hasn’t brought him up again.

It feels like some sort of test.

Knives raises an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to do this or not?”

“So pushy.”

“You should be thanking me,” Knives says. “Please feel free to take notes for the sake of your own hygiene.”

“Hey, I’m not the flea-ridden bag of feathers asking to be groomed,” Wolfwood says with a huff.

“If I have fleas, I got them from you,” Knives responds.

Knives’ voice is brimming with disdain—but he’s still offering his wing to Wolfwood’s hands.

Wolfwood still doesn’t have any clue what he’s expected to do. He surveys his options and decides to start at the top of the wing, right under the protrusion of curved bone. The feathers are out of alignment throughout the area. The delicate-looking quills overlay others in a way that looks uncomfortable.

He wonders if this is a task that Knives and Vash have to do daily. His imagination offers the unbidden image of Vash in his place, running reverent hands through his brother’s feathers.

The thought sparks hunger low in his belly, so he sets it purposefully aside.

Wolfwood places his fingers—which feel clumsy and unwieldy—over a section of feathers that are in the worst state of disarray. He runs the pads of his fingers gently over the tangles, trying to coax them into place without breaking anything or making the situation worse. They shift slightly but don’t settle from their odd angles to lie flat.

“Are you afraid?” Knives asks. “You need to have a firm touch.”

Wolfwood grits his teeth, wondering how he even got put into this position. He gives the feathers a stronger push, raking his fingers from the quill’s base down. His fingers sink into the plumage, going through the shiny top layer of feathers until he’s one knuckle deep in the soft down hiding beneath.

“Ah,” Knives says, barely more than a hiss of air. He reaches out, takes Wolfwood’s wrist, and redirects his hand so it is a few inches to the side. “Avoid that spot.”

Wolfwood suppresses the urge to apologize. How should he know where not to touch? It’s not like he’s got any damn wings.

“Keep going,” Knives says, low.

Wolfwood does as he’s told. He keeps his hands where Knives puts them, sinking them into the down again. Knives shudders under his fingers. With more confidence, he rakes his hands through Knives’ feathers—still careful, but a firm, long drag—and Knives makes a noise that has more effect on Wolfwood than it should.

It’s a physical reaction. He’s half-hard and if Knives keeps looking at him so intently and making those noises, he’ll have a worse problem. A problem he really can’t afford while wearing thin sweatpants and bare-chested in an enclosed space with Knives of all people. It’s too intimate; the air is warm, filling with the scent of Knives and the down of his wings—and underneath that, a musky and sweet smell.

Still, he can’t help but needle Knives: “Enjoying yourself, angel?”

“You certainly seem to be,” Knives responds. He looks down pointedly where Wolfwood’s dick is clearly outlined by the thin material of his pants. “This is nothing more than routine for me.”

Knives looks as untouchable as always—even with Wolfwood’s hands still on him. There’s something in his expression that is always closed off, far away. But Wolfwood knows better than to believe it now.

“Forgot about my sense of smell, huh?” Wolfwood says, breathing in an exaggerated breath through his nose. “Any man would be hard-pressed not to pop a boner when you’re so wet that you’re soaking through your panties.”

“I do not wear panties.”

“Well, whatever you got under there,” Wolfwood says, pitching his voice low and crude as he gives a pointed look to Knives’ crotch. “One thing you can’t hide is how turned on you are right now.”

Wolfwood shouldn’t be pushing this line of conversation. He definitely shouldn’t be wondering what Knives is wearing under his shorts. Not with Vash upstairs in Wolfwood’s bed, oblivious to whatever is happening here.

These goddamn twins.

He presses his fingers into Knives’ wings again, massaging the soft down, and Knives shivers again.

Wolfwood only just registers the sound of footsteps outside the door and manages to yank his hands off Knives as Vash steps into the doorframe. His fingers feel coated in a powdery, chalk-like substance. He wipes them on his thighs roughly.

“There you are!” Vash says, too bright and cheerful for the atmosphere. There are pillow creases running across his cheek. “I was looking everywhere. I didn’t think to check the bathroom.”

“We’re here,” Wolfwood says, weakly. He tries to take a step away from Knives, feeling like he’s been caught for the second time that day.

Vash looks them both over, face going through several emotions in sequence.

Wolfwood is suddenly keenly aware that Knives looks far more rumpled than his usual self. His hair and wings are tousled and there’s an uncharacteristic red in his cheeks. He looks like they got interrupted on the brink of fucking.

“What were you two up to in here anyway?” Vash asks.

“Nothing like you’re thinking,” Knives answers, brusque. “He was taking care of my wings.”

“You preened Knives?” Vash asks Wolfwood, eyebrows so high they are lost in his spikey bangs. He makes it sound like a more significant act than if they had been fucking. “Knives let you preen him?”

“Made me,” Wolfwood corrects. There’s no reason to feel embarrassed and yet he does.

He might say more about it—nervous chatter to stop Vash from looking at him with such wide, surprised eyes—but then Vash has his hands on both of Wolfwood’s cheeks and he’s pulling Wolfwood into a kiss.

They shouldn’t be doing this in front of Knives; Wolfwood can feel Knives’ eyes burning holes into his back—but he kisses Vash back anyway. Maybe he even puts on a little show of it to get back at Knives a bit. Wolfwood leans into Vash, bending Vash back so he is snug against his body, and licks into Vash’s tempting mouth dirtily.

When Vash breaks away, they’re both breathing hard and Wolfwood keeps a hand low on Vash’s back to make sure he’s steady.

“It’s nice you two are finally getting along,” Vash says, smiling at Wolfwood.

Wolfwood hears movement behind him—Knives. He doesn’t turn to watch what he’s doing, but he’s keyed into every sound as Knives walks by Wolfwood until he’s placed himself on the opposite side of Vash. Once there, he gives Wolfwood an imperious look. Then he plants both hands on Vash’s waist, twisting him so he’s turned away from Wolfwood. The wings on Vash’s neck flutter in Wolfwood’s face before settling downward, accommodating his presence without requiring him to step back. Then Vash is sandwiched between Wolfwood and Knives, all three stacked in a close line of bodies.

Wolfwood starts to say something, the need to goad Knives automatic at this point, but it stalls in his throat when Knives leans in, tilts Vash’s face to a precise angle, and kisses his twin.

The kiss is sweet, even as Knives tries to remove the taste of Wolfwood from Vash’s lips. Knives kisses Vash with familiarity, which would almost be patronizing if it wasn’t so affectionate.

Wolfwood is, somehow, not surprised at this development.

They were always too close, even for twins. Mostly, it feels like Wolfwood shouldn’t be allowed to see. If Vash’s wings and body weren’t brushing against him, he might be tempted to retreat to give them privacy.

As it is, Wolfwood feels pinned in place. His dick is insistently hard—tented damningly against his pants—and he waits to be noticed again. He’s had no idea what has been going on all day, and he still doesn’t.

But heaven above, he’s starting to hope.

After a minute, Knives presses one last soft kiss on the corner of Vash’s mouth, which earns a pleased sigh from Vash. Then he looks over Vash’s shoulder at Wolfwood.

“Hold still,” Knives says.

It’s all the warning Wolfwood gets.

Of all the weird things that have happened in the last hour or so, the strangest thing is the fact that Knives leans forward—squishing Vash between himself and Wolfwood—and plants his mouth against Wolfwood’s.

This kiss is nothing like the one Knives gave to Vash; Knives all but mauls his mouth, aggressive teeth and tongue from the outset. Wolfwood is too shocked to do anything more than let it happen for a second—then he pulls back, teeth bared, and leans in again. Knives narrows his eyes but gentles somewhat. He lets Wolfwood take over, and so he does, shoving his tongue into Knives’ mouth, feeling a thrill at the fact that Knives lets him.

When they break apart, Vash looks utterly delighted. He’s darting looks at one then the other, and Wolfwood half-expects that he’ll demand that they kiss again.

“His turn,” Knives says, looking at Vash.

Wolfwood’s mind races at what that might mean. His dick jumps at the idea—an emphatic yes to any suggestion Knives might make. But Knives only runs a hand through Vash’s wing, punching a delicious noise out of Vash.

“Preening,” Knives clarifies, like he knows the exact gutter Wolfwood’s mind is drifting towards. Like he didn’t intend to jerk Wolfwood around with the obvious innuendo.

If it’s not Wolfwood’s imagination, Vash’s wings fluff up. He’s also turning his lop-sided smile on Wolfwood, like he’s trying to be inviting. Like the idiot thinks he has to coax Wolfwood into touching him.

“I’m basically an expert now,” he says. “Might as well.”

“You can wait; I’ll get him started,” Knives interrupts. Then to Vash, he says, “You’ll want to sit down.”

Vash hops onto the counter gamely. He’s already spread out his wings for inspection, more content than Wolfwood has ever seen him before.

Wolfwood surveys Vash’s flurry of wings—today there are eight sets visible sprouting all over him, each in varying sizes. There is a pair from the back of his neck, another between his shoulder blades, yet another set below that, and then an impossibly small set just above his elbows. There are so many they are hard to make sense of when Vash is in motion, lending to a general sense of chaos around him.

Compared to Knives’ two large wings, which are always uniform and always the same, Vash’s wings are suited to his personality. They come and go with a mind of their own, managing to be both playful as well as tailored to his exact intention and purpose.

“So why are the two of you so different if you’re twins anyway?” Wolfwood asks out loud.

“Vash is poorly adapted,” Knives says. Although he says it factually, there’s an edge to the words.

“Hey!” Vash objects. “That’s rude. Who says two wings are better anyway?”

Knives ignores Vash, cold eyes still trained on Wolfwood, waiting for his response.

Wolfwood shrugs and says, “Aren’t we all?”

Knives nods with something like approval. Wolfwood has the feeling that—whatever the test had been—he must have passed.

It doesn’t last long. He turns back to Vash, sweeping his palms through the expanse of his largest wings. Vash leans into his touch with a whine.

“Nai, c’mon.”

Knives switches his grip, shifting so his hands are rake-like, dragging through Vash’s wings in long swathes. The first few strokes efficiently organize Vash’s feathers into place.

Wolfwood stands back, content to watch. They look so good together, blond heads bent close. Even better, they smell delicious. The scent of fresh sweat and the signature smell he associates with them fills the small space. And under that, he can still smell arousal, except now it’s the heady combination of Knives and Vash filling Wolfwood’s nose.

As business-like as Knives is at his task, it feels more intimate than watching them kiss.

Vash looks like he’s enjoying it, leaning into Knives. His eyes are on Wolfwood, though. For all that he acts carefree, there’s always some sort of half-baked plan cooking in his brain.

“This would go faster if you helped,” Vash says to him.

Knives very specifically does not look at Wolfwood. But he doesn’t stop his task either, righting Vash’s wing feather by feather.

“Yeah, okay,” Wolfwood agrees. “If your brother doesn’t mind.”

Knives gestures to one of Vash’s wings, “You get the left side, I’ll do the right.”

Knives shifts to the side, leaving just enough room for Wolfwood to join him in front of Vash. Wolfwood fills the space, shoulder brushing against Knives’.

There are too many bodies in the small space. Wolfwood feels hot all over. The place his shoulder presses against Knives’ side is damp with sweat and he can’t tell if it’s his own or if Knives is as overheated as he is.

Otherwise, he tries to put Knives from his thoughts and focus on Vash. He’s always been a quick learner. He thumbs his way along Vash’s wing until he finds the spot. Vash’s wing jerks forward, chasing the feeling.

“Wolfwood,” Vash says, breathy. Surprised.

Wolfwood grins and presses again. “Knives taught me a few things while you were out.”

Knives scoffs—a harsh noise—but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he deliberately presses into Vash’s wing right at a sensitive point, causing him to buck up with a gasp.

Wolfwood’s head is spinning; he can’t believe this is actually happening. After months of Vash and Knives in his space, he had just about given up on even hoping for anything more. But now they are all crammed in his too-small bathroom, and he feels like there’s not any room inside of him for anything except for how badly he wants something to happen.

“Keep going,” Vash says, voice rough around the edges.

Wolfwood licks his lips and digs into Vash’s wings again, right into the downy part he now knows will make Vash react; Vash yells, reaching out—gripping Wolfwood’s shoulder with one hand, the other on Knives’.

“You’re being greedy,” Knives says.

Vash flushes with embarrassment. “So what?”

Knives doubles down on Vash’s wing, and Vash melts into the touch.

“Nai!”

“You have something to say, Vash?” Knives asks. “This was your suggestion.”

He doesn’t let Vash answer, taking his mouth in a forceful kiss. He’s probably trying to remind Wolfwood he’s peripheral in all this.

Except Wolfwood doesn’t even care. Watching them make out is hot as hell, and every time he strokes a particular spot on Vash’s wing, he trembles and makes sexy little noises. Vash doesn’t try to hide how much he’s enjoying being touched. He squirms, hips almost sliding off the counter only held in place by the bracket of Knives and Wolfwood.

Wolfwood and Knives work him over—a competition to see who can make Vash writhe the most—until Vash can’t seem to take it anymore. Wolfwood watches as he dips a hand into his shorts, feeling like he might die because it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“Can’t keep your hands off yourself, chicken?” Wolfwood asks, working into Vash’s wings ruthlessly.

Vash’s mouth falls open, his eyes half-shut, as he grinds on his own fingers. Just when Vash is getting really into it, bouncing against his own hand, Knives grabs Vash’s wrist and pulls his hand off.

“Nai,” he whines, “I’m almost—I’m nearly—”

“You don’t need it,” Knives says. “Why not show your little boyfriend what you can do?”

The word ‘boyfriend’ rumbles through Wolfwood’s brain, echoing without meaning but kindling want all the same. Then he is distracted by Vash, who groans and squeezes his eyes shut. He writhes that much more desperately against Wolfwood’s hand in his feathers. Wolfwood kneads into his wing, and Vash grinds his feathers against Wolfwood’s fingers in return, taking what he needs.

“You look fucking amazing like this, Spikey,” he says. “You gonna come for us? Like your brother says? With just this?”

“Yeah,” Vash pants, and then repeats, “Yeah.”

When he comes, Wolfwood can feel the convulsions through his hand. And when Vash falls forward, too overcome to hold himself up, he lets him land against his chest. Vash nuzzles into him blearily.

He and Knives look at each other over Vash’s head, Vash’s wings surrounding them both.

“Bed?” Wolfwood asks. He wouldn’t have been brave enough to suggest it except he can still smell how wet Knives is, knows exactly how much touching Vash together turned him on.

Knives doesn’t answer for a beat. Finally, he agrees, “Alright.”

The bed will be too small—he can’t even imagine how they’ll manage with three large men and wings splayed everywhere. He is, however, pretty motivated to figure it out.

“Lead the way,” Wolfwood says.