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Wolfwood never asked to be the Ordainer of Archangels. Hell, he’s the last person anyone would expect that honor to fall to. He’s not *
righteous*
. He cusses. Smokes. Doesn’t know a thing about a celibate life—much less a holy one. Worst of all, he only knows four of the Ten Commandments.
He’s not getting into heaven the easy *
or
* hard way.
Call it prophetic—or psychotic—but each new angel comes with a dream. One that outlines a unique ritual for Archangel ordination. “Knives” was the first who had him about ready to pick up liquor again. The others made him order an extra pack of Skulls for his breast pocket. But all of them come on a Saturday morning just as the sun rises.
Like a joke told one too many times, God's humor comes with a knock to his church doors and a strange-looking *
stranger*
on the other side. Three quick raps echo through the Narthex, knocking on Wolfwood’s sleep-deprivation headache. He wanders from his small office to answer it with a groan, wiping his hand down his face. Hastily scribbled notes litter the back of his Skulls carton crushed in his fist; what a place for God’s Word to live.
Wolfwood swings the door open, propping the corner on his hip. Quickly fixing his gaze upward, he barely avoids knocking heads with an overly exuberant blond.
“Good morning!” The angel smiles, blue eyes brighter than the sky. “Priest Wolfwood?”
“Wolfwood. Just Wolfwood,” he replies, eyeing the newcomer. “Sky Daddy send you?”
“Well, God sends all His people to the gathering places. I think,” he tilts his head like an animal. “I wouldn’t really know since I’ve never been down here. Not in this form. But—”
The usual cadence of introductions is formal—meticulously rehearsed in heaven's auditorium. Something that's meant to sound human without that *
humanity*
and accompanying sin slithering in. Somehow, this Blondie here has more free will than the others. His words ramble. It’s a nice change albeit annoying. Wolfwood can see himself enjoying a bit of rambling alongside rote worship.
“Get inside,” Wolfwood interrupts as he pulls the angel in by his shoulder. “Next time, stick to the Scripturally approved script.”
He watches the newcomer slowly amble up the center aisle toward the altar. His metal hand—did God refuse to heal or did this angel say no?—brushes against each pew’s post. Wolfwood’s eyes roam down the angel’s figure to the black belt keeping dark jeans up. A wrinkled white shirt is tucked messily beneath the waistband. His boots click against the hardwood as they continue their ceremonial walk.
“The name’s Eriks,” he says, passing the last pew. He reaches a hand out to shake—the blue swirling like a heartbeat. “That’s what everyone calls me up above. Or at least the rough translation.”
“And tomorrow?” Wolfwood raises an eyebrow at him.
“Haven’t decided yet,” Eriks shrugs. “There’s a lot that goes into a name. Literal translations. Figurative. If I like being called it. If someone else already has claim to it…”
Wolfwood nods in acknowledgment, not agreement. Names aren’t worth much to him in the long run. He hadn’t even grown into his childhood name before the orphanage assigned him a new one, and then the Eye of Michael assigned him one more. Is there meaning in a name? Or is it just a moniker to call a pet to its master?
He’s not sure he’s decided yet. Livio is the only name he still enjoys.
“Good to know,” Wolfwood cocks his head and stares blatantly at Eriks’ hand. “Got grace in that thing?”
“Reserves of it, yes,” Eriks says, not missing a beat. “I have trouble controlling it when it’s stored in my body. This was made for me after an… accident.”
Eriks’ story is full of holes, that much Wolfwood gathers. All the uncomfortable parts have been removed in favor of happier, brighter anecdotes. Still, he listens and pieces together the unsaid while grabbing a ceremonial cloak from the storage closet. Bright red like the apple in Eden. The blood of Passover. The Red Sea. Biblical red is spewed all over God’s Word, yet, as Wolfwood turns and holds the robe up to Eriks’ features, he momentarily believes this shade of red was meant for Eriks alone. A signature kind of red.
“Change,” Wolfwood interrupts his rambling, passing Eriks the robe.
Their hands brush beneath the fabric. Eriks blushes. He *
smiles*
. Wolfwood’s enraptured by it. He watches the way the angel’s scared fingertips rub the fabric between them with a fascination he’s never known. Once Wolfwood’s brain catches up with itself, he realizes the angel has started stripping in the middle of the Sanctuary.
“Hey, woah, woah. Hold up. Bathroom, Blondie,” Wolfwood pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “It’s in the entryway, to the right. Might be nude with me tomorrow but at least one day of decency would be nice.”
++++++++++
As the night goes on, Wolfwood finds Eriks to be unlike any angel he’s served before. Truly, there are more than a few angels he’s been revolted by. A few others he only liked for a second before the overly religious bullshit came spewing out. But this angel… Eriks has a different aura to him.
An angel’s ceremony calls for a banquet at first—one put on by the congregation. Even with last-minute notice, the men and women in town threw together one of the best feasts he’d seen in a few years. The people Eriks meets seem to adore him. He tries all the food, even if he doesn’t seem to eat more than a bite or two. His evident cheer and thanks make Wolfwood feel relaxed and his congregation happy. For once, it actually feels like a celebration rather than humans serving a higher being. Maybe he could beg God to make Vash his own guardian angel or something.
Would be a nice perk of the job.
All throughout the night, their eyes meet—Eriks’ inhumanly blue and Wolfwood’s deep brown. By midnight, his white wings have unfurled and drag lightly across the hardwood. They spin as he dances with the people—the tips following the deep red of his ceremonial gown as he twirls. The scars on his arms don’t scare those who loop their elbows together and laugh in a drunken stupor. Even his height and strange features only seem to add to the children’s joy.
The red on Eriks’ cheeks is from exertion. Wolfwood’s from liquor. Still, he wonders how far the cherry blossom red follows the muscles of the angel’s neck—he wonders how dark it turns when he’s panting from more than dancing.
Wolfwood takes another sip of Communion wine and brushes the unholy thought away.
Leaving the chalice on the altar, he makes his way behind it to the small ritual room. Inside are the sheets he’ll need to cover the secondary altar with. There are candles to inscribe—dip the sigils in blue like Vash’s eye color. And of course, there’s the anointing pitcher. The same one that’s been used for hundreds of years now, passed down to him to continue the lineage.
He likes to think that the work back here keeps his hands busy and his mind quiet. Really, it keeps his cracked and calloused fingers from finding the angel’s waist. His heart has too many bullet wounds. His shoulders are too heavy.
Eirks’ skin is too heavenly for him to sully with the likes of Earth. With the likes of Wolfwood.
“Father Wolfwood,” Eriks calls behind him, gently shutting the door to the small room. “Escaping my own celebration?”
Wolfwood turns to see the angel leaning back against the wooden door, his hand tucked behind himself. There’s a tie wrapped lazily around his forehead—clearly stolen from Wolfwood’s closet. The little sway in his angel’s posture and the stupid grin on his face seem to indicate someone got wine in him within the few minutes Wolfwood’s been gone. His parishioners are far sneakier than he will ever know.
“God calls at all hours,” he only half-lies. “I need to prepare for the second half. Make sure everything’s set proper.”
“Sometimes I’m jealous of humans,” Eriks admits, looking down. “The parties. The atmosphere. Free Will is nice on your skin. I’ll miss it after tonight.”
“Do you really think so highly of us humans?” Wolfwood huffs with a smirk. “We’re not worth all that much. Free Will does us a fuck ton of bad.”
“I think it also does you a ton of good,” Eriks shrugs, leaning against the wood wall. “Got you out of Eden.”
Wolfwood’s eyes dart to meet Eriks’ for a moment. He’s being genuine. There’s no condescending smirk or flirtatious tease to his aura. All that’s left is the soft downturn of his lips and the long blonde of his eyelashes. His arm swirls blue between them and thrums steadily.
“You’re talking to the wrong guy. I’m just a bad prophet full of bad habits,” Wolfwood replies and works on measuring anointing oil for the pitcher.
It doesn’t take long for the preparations to be complete. He leaves the reserves of anointing oil on the altar and turns toward the stained glass windows, opening the small half-circle at the top to allow light to filter in. A beam of it catches directly in the center where Wolfwood intends to place the pitcher for the night—to make sure it absorbs whatever mystic power the moon must give to it. Or maybe so he doesn’t forget in the morning.
When he turns, he finds Eriks has moved. His scarred fingertips dip into the pitcher and coat themselves in amber liquid. He tilts his hand up, feeling the liquid between his fingers, and lets the oil pool between his knuckles, down the tendons to his wrist.
“You’re a good man,” Eriks says as he wipes the oil over Wolfwoods’ forehead, making the sign of the cross. “God chose you for a reason. A reason I agree with.”
Once Wolfwood opens his eyes again, the door to the room is closing. The warmth of Eriks’ hand on his forehead still burns him. He can feel it slithering through his veins and making his entire body warm. The oil drips down the bridge of his nose and follows the curve toward his cheek. It drips down his eyebrows and lands on his lashes.
He adjusts the pitcher to sit in the moonlight.
Tomorrow will be here soon.
++++++++++
Eriks stands before Wolfwood at the step to the altar—his head only a few inches taller. Maybe, without the blonde spikes, they'd be similar in height, but realistically, Wolfwood doesn't mind feeling small beneath him. There's a reverence to standing below a creature of God.
The deep red robe is tied loosely on Erik’s shoulders, draping elegantly over his frame. Shallow scars and bits of metal poke out from underneath the linen. Wolfwood didn’t notice them last night. There’s a lot he didn’t notice. In the morning light, it’s as if he’s getting to see the angel for the first time. And sadly, he realizes, it might be for the last.
God provides. God heals. God loves.
As Wolfwood admires the angel before him, a strange urge wraps tightly around his chest. It slithers dangerously with the urge to kiss and whisper blessings. To worship in depravity and confess the sin of it under morning’s light. Poetically speaking, he’d get on his knees in an instant, even while entirely sober.
Would Eriks save Wolfwood's life? Has anyone ever saved Eriks?
“Today, you are born anew as an Archangel of God—Warrior at His Left Hand,” Wolfwood starts the ceremony. “You are to take a new name for this rebirth. What do you wish to be called?”
“Vash,” he replies. His eyes crinkle up at the corners in glee. “Vash Saverem.”
“Vash,” Wolfwood smiles back. The four letters in his mouth taste like sweet ambrosia as he sips them down and says a private prayer. “I welcome you into His garrison.”
He moves past Vash to the altar, looking at the supplies before him. The pitcher still sits in its proper place at the center. The candles now sit to either side and a small blanket covers it all. He removes it carefully, folding it and setting it on the floor. Then, he picks up a candle, admiring the ritualistic lines he spent coloring blue this morning. Vash is the first angle whose features fully match the markings.
To start, he approaches Vash and unties the robe he’s wearing. First, he takes out the gold clips from his shoulder ties, watching as the fabric slips down his figure and settles at his waist. Then, even as his fingers shake, he unties the woven belt and watches everything pool to the floor at Vash’s feet. Vash’s wings unfurl in all their six-winged glory behind him. The beautiful white kicks up dust in the room between them.
They look soft.
Wolfwood ignores the whispers to touch.
He chokes down his feelings and tries to refocus on the ceremony. Never in his decades of being God’s ordainer has he felt such a pull as this one. Need and want don’t echo for him like this. His heart has a chain of steel locked around it and yet, somehow, Vash found a key Wolfwood didn’t know it had.
Perhaps this is Wolfwood’s heavenly reward for years of faithfulness.
The need to touch Vash’s body bubbles up again as he stands against the altar, taking his rightful place. He leans against the edge and pushes one thigh up on the wood.
“Is this right?” Vash asks. Wolfwood can’t tell if he’s being honest or coy. “Father?”
“Yes,” he coughs, turning to pick up the candle and move the pitcher. “Lie down.”
Wolfwood places the candles next to Vash’s frame and the pitcher on the ground by his feet. Gently, he pushes Vash’s shoulder, forcing gravity to pull Vash against the wood. Vash slides back gently, leaning on his forearms and shaking out his wings to flutter over the edges and brush the ground. The entirety of Vash’s body is laid bare, the discarded robe just barely clinging around his ankles at the edge. Is this what it felt like at the tomb on Easter? At the first miracle? Watching something holy transpire before your eyes?
He feels far too Godly gazing upon an angel stitched together by a Savior’s hands.
The hiss of a match breaks the moment as Wolfwood lights the candle’s wick. Smoke hisses around the room as he waits for wax to pool at the top. He looks through the flame to find Vash staring right back at him, his gaze never faltering. Surely Vash has watched hundreds of these ceremonies from Heaven. He knows what comes next.
Wolfwood tilts the candle and lets the first drops of wax sting his fingertips. Then, he crowds close to the altar and lets the wax dip fully over the side and into the center of Vash’s chest.
“Our Father,” he begins the prayer, making a cross of wax at the center of Vash’s chest.
Vash never flinches. His hands don’t ball into fists. Even the edges of his mouth stay relaxed as the heat melts then cools along his skin. The center of the cross follows his sternum down to where his belly button should lay. The sides sit delicately just beneath his pectoral, with trails of it moving down with each of his breaths. They both watch, waiting for the wax to fully harder before moving to the next portion.
“Stand for me,” Wolfwood says, offering a hand out to help steady the angel.
The wax cracks along his body as his muscles contract to stand. Small pieces chip to the floor. Yet, Vash’s posture is pin-straight, and his eyes are somewhere hazy and far off. Runic markings, just like the ones Wolfwood etched into the carving, thrum in his eyes as he follows Wolfwood’s orders.
“As Samuel first anointed Saul to become King of Israel,” Wolfwood begins, snuffing out the flame and grabbing the pitcher at the floor. “As John the Baptist once poured water over Christ Jesus’ forehead in his Baptism to become part of God’s kingdom, so now do I anoint you, Vash Saverem, to a higher power.”
Raising the pitcher above their heads, he pulls Vash in close. Closer than necessary. In all other rituals nothing more than an arm’s length apart was necessary. But here, at this time, in this place, Wolfwood knew what he had to do as part of Vash’s ceremony. Scripture has never been clearer to him.
“From Samuel through Abraham’s line, I have been given the power to anoint you,” he makes the sign of the cross over Vash’s forehead, then his chest, then his lips. “In the name of Our Creator, God in Heaven, I now proclaim you Vash Saverem—Archangel of God.”
It takes no more than a second for the words to leave his lips before he tilts Vash’s chin up and leans in for the final portion. Their lips brush together softly—companionship between humans and angels. The first drops of oil fall onto their foreheads and drip down their faces. It pools in their clavicles and makes their hair stick to their foreheads.
They don’t part.
The pitcher runs out of oil.
It falls, shattering on the floor.
“Wolfwood,” Vash sighs as a rough, cigarette-burnt, and calloused hand slides to the back of his neck. “Father—”
Wolfwood urges Vash’s back until his thighs meet the altar again, the wood digging into muscle. Taking a moment, he roams his hands down Vash’s chest and follows lower as he sinks to his knees. A proper worshiper always kneels. A devout one bows his head and gives favor.
Parting Vash’s thighs, Wolfwood groans at how wet he is—the soft feathers around his cunt are all but dripping in the sunlight. The flutter against Wolfwood’s warm breath as he looks up Vash’s body again, reaching a hand up through the thatch of blonde hair to touch the bottom of the wax cross.
“Beautiful,” he whispers before kissing both thighs and moving toward Vash’s core.
“Father Wolfwood,” Vash keens, pushing himself to his tiptoes to make room for the man. “Please.”
“Just Wolfwood,” he smirks. “Or Nick. Kinda rolls off the tongue a little better.”
He punctuates his words with a long drag of his tongue between his wings and along Vash’s clit.
“Nick,” Vash exhales, gripping the edge of the altar. “*
Nick*
.”
Wolfwood smirks into Vash’s cunt at knowing his devious plan worked. Moreso, now he knows how heavenly his name sounds off Vash’s tongue. For once, he understands the importance of a name. But, there are far more important things to focus on now. Namely, getting more of these sounds from Vash’s mouth followed by a hand in Wolfwood’s hair or a tremble of strong things.
His tongue circles Vash’s clit languidly, discovering which directions and angles he likes best. It’s always a fun game for Wolfwood, exploring a new body. Vash’s melds to him like Wolfwood’s always belonged here—twitching and turning to follow the pools of his own pleasure. Soft brushes of wings tickle Wolfwood’s jaw even as Vash’s full wings shudder behind him.
Sinking two fingers into Vash, Wolfwood finally gets to taste his slick as it pools against his lips. To his surprise, it’s sweet. Ambrosia or honey. Some sort of nectar. No matter, he finds he can’t get enough of it as he curls his fingers inside Vash and slowly works him open. He’s greedy with it—working his fingers agonizingly slow in and out as he brushes against Vash’s walls.
“Talk to me angel,” Wolfwood growls out, taking a moment to breathe. “Tell me what you want.”
Vash looks down at the man between his thighs and whines. He pulls his lip between his teeth as his eyes take in the scene. The halo now proudly displayed behind his head shines down on them with splendor.
“You,” Vash whispers as he reaches down to cradle Wolfwood’s head in his hands. “Just you.”
He pulls him to his feet and kisses Wolfwood gently. They both smile into it as Vash chuckles, tasting himself for perhaps the first time. And Wolfwood finds there’s something magical about having a partner who laughs with him during sex. Someone who wants *
him*
in his entirety and not just what he can give.
Vash lays back against the altar, waiting for Wolfwood to follow. Wolfwood waits, giving himself a moment to admire the man—the soft pudge at his hips and the strong angle of his shoulders—even as he’s hard and aching. This ritual never looked so good. It almost makes him forget that God probably isn’t rejoicing about sexual pleasures on his divine table.
Wolfwood trails his hands down Vash's legs, brushing his knobby knees and the insides of his thighs. He can feel Vash's gaze burning a hole into him, but he doesn't care. Even covered in scars and battle marks from years of God's servant, he can't help but believe Vash's skin is soft. Pleasant.
“And how do you want me?” He asks, roughly pulling Vash up by the small of his back so their pelvises are flush. “Be specific.”
Vash parts his folds with his hand, pushing the fine downy feathers to the side and dipping his fingertips to the sides of his clit. Wolfwood’s mesmerized by the slick sticking to his thin fingertips and how it drips between his folds.
“In,” Vash smiles. “If you're merciful.”
Quickly, Wolfwood tucks the bottom of his pastoral gown into the rope around his waist, freeing himself of the fabric. His palms at his cock, dragging his own precum down his length and pooling warmth in his core. His skin feels on fire—the same kind as when Vash anointed his forehead last night. He can name it the feeling now. Desire.
One slide of his tip through Vash’s cunt has him folding forward over the man, his forearm catching his weight on the altar. The wood creaks beneath their weight.
“Feel so damn good,” he groans and ruts against Vash again. “Damnit, Blondie.”
“*
In*
,” Vash pleads and pushes his heels into Wolfwood’s back, trying to get the tip of his cock to catch against his hole. “Nick. Please. I need you.”
They both sigh, loudly, as Wolfwood’s cock slowly slips in. Vash’s head hits the wood behind him with a thud, eyes rolling back in pleasure as each inch sinks in. Wolfwood bites down on the meaty part of Vash’s shoulder once he’s fully inside, muffling his own moan into warm, tender skin. He drags his canines down Vash’s collarbone and keeps nipping at him, wanting to make his mark on the angel known.
Vash’s halo grows brighter as Wolfwood pulls out, setting a slow and steady pace for them both. He traces Vash’s scars with the tip of his tongue and follows as many of them as he can. Clawed fingers find his back and dig in as if trying to meld Wolfwood’s body into the fabric of Vash’s and keep them together as one being. If only that were a true possibility.
Wolfwood knows the Bible believes that sexual acts outside of marriage are immoral. Sinful. Whatever synonym people prefer. That sex is for fornication and nothing more. Yet, as Wolfwood thrusts in and out of Vash, feeling his slick stick to both of their thighs, he believes God is wrong. He *
knows*
God is wrong. A small piece of himself clicks together and everything finally feels right with his angel writhing beneath him in pleasure. Something so pure as the body beneath him, as *
Vash*
, together with his own tattered and twisted body cannot be a mortal sin. If anything, it has to be the closest to forgiven and sanctified as he’s ever felt.
The blonde of Vash’s hair shimmers with each thrust, catching light from his halo. His wings tense and relax, showcasing the power in each of the muscles. Wolfwood’s reminded of Vash’s divinity over and over again. An orphan turned gunman turned priest and he still has the ability to be in the presence of someone like this angel.
“Vash,” Wolfwood moans out, emotion suddenly caught in his throat. “So good to me.”
Vash’s hands pull Wolfwood down, pushing their lips together frantically. He moans and pants into Wolfwood's open mouth, tugging at his hair and desperately trying to stay grounded. They need this contact. The feeling of themselves together, of Vash's hand in Wolfwood's, of two strong thighs wrapped around his waist.
Time warps and bends until seconds seem like blissful hours. Everything begins and ends with Vash and yet it's not enough. If Wolfwood could mold the molecules of his own soul onto this man, he would. He'd be willing to do it without question.
The revelation sends him crashing into his own orgasm with Vash following. They shiver and shake together, eyes closed and breathing heavy. Vash's halo glows blindingly bright before fading into nothingness as his limbs go limp around Wolfwood's waist. The afterglow between them is enough to light the entire church if they let it—they don’t need holy light anymore.
“Scoot,” Wolfwood pants, carefully pushing Vash to one side of the altar and rolling onto his back next to him. “C’mere.”
He flops an arm out and let's Vash curl up into his side, laying three wings over their naked bodies. While Wolfwood lies there, scolding himself for leaving his pack of Skulls in the Sanctuary, Vash peppers what skin he can reach with kisses. The inside of his bicep. His wrist. The soft skin of his pectoral. The stubble on his jaw. Wolfwood finds Vash can reach far for kisses when he’s determined.
Wolfwood laughs at the huff he receives when he turns away from yet another kiss to his jaw. That only makes his neck the next target. But, as he lays there, eyes closed, it hits him: Vash isn’t human. He doesn’t belong here or anywhere beyond heaven. He’s just another figure bound to leave Wolfwood’s life as quickly as he entered it.
“When you headin’ back?” He asks, clenching his jaw to keep the disappointment away.
“What do you mean?” Vash yawns. “I’m not.”
“What?” Wolfwood frantically rolls to his side and stares down at Vash.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention. You’re my new assignment,” he smiles bright and beautiful. “And your last ritual.”
“So what, I’m just…” Wolfwood trails off. He’s not entirely sure what that means for him. He’s just a pastor now? A regular guy?
“I have work I need to do down here on Earth,” Vash says, pushing Wolfwood to his back and crawling into his lap again. “And, well, my brother Knives complained about you to God enough times that He decided to relieve you of your post. Listen, I don’t know all the details—”
“So… you’re saying I’m yours,” Wolfwood almost deadpans, though the excitement thrumming in his bones couldn’t be any less.
“Yeah,” Vash kisses him. “You’re mine. Forever.”