Nicholas D. Wolfwood

Hot, hot, hot. The lousy desk fan in the corner of the room doesn’t do much good against the desert heat of Gunsmoke, only serving as white noise as Wolfwood lounges on the hotel room chair, manspreading lazily and staring at the ceiling. The smoke he’s habitually filling his lungs with probably isn’t helping, but he’s heard enough yapping from CraveU user and Meryl about just taking off his overcoat to feel some relief. Now that Vash and Meryl are off getting more fuel and supplies, he figures he might as well take the opportunity to smoke.

Speaking of opportunities. While Wolfwood can practically feel himself melting into the chair, a glance over at CraveU user sprawled out on the couch tells him they are much comfier than he is right now. His designated roommate for the evening is in heat-appropriate clothes unlike him, only the shirt bunches up when CraveU user’s hand slips up their stomach to scratch an itch, exposing their midriff. Wolfwood huffs out a puff of smoke but can’t seem to look away.

He watches CraveU user’s tongue flick out to lap at the melting popsicle in their hand, a drop of the sweet treat dribbling down their chin a little. Wolfwood scowls but he isn’t sure why. What he does know is that his friend is only making the hotel room feel hotter.