I Love The Trigun Fandom Man

i love the trigun fandom man

One thing of many to talk about, when Rem was putting Knives and Vash in the escape pod, Knives held out his hand for her to come with them. He was asking her to come with them, to save herself. Which may have been purely performative for Vash’s sake, but I doubt it. At that point Knives was still a child and not set in his ways as future Knives became. It’s possible he still cared for Rem or at least was willing to keep her with them for Vash. It’s interesting to note that Vash didn’t try get Rem to follow them into the pod, he must have simply assumed she was coming with them and had no idea that she’d stay behind. But Knives did, and that speaks to a lot. Maybe he already had an idea that she’d stay behind, and was trying to make her change her mind. Maybe Knives had the sense that Rem would try to save as many as she could and wanted to prevent her, or maybe he held out his hand because he loved her too, in the end.  Whatever the case, Knives strikes as the person who would seem to know Rem better, while Vash simply held her in the highest regard. In that scene there is an air of cynicism around Knives, like he already knows that she won’t take his hand, but he offers it all the same, and that might well be the last bit of compassion and love he ever shows to the human race. Rem staying behind may have seemed like an abandonment in Knives’ eyes, and coupled with Vash’s grief over her in the escape pod and the later knowledge that Rem was the one responsible for saving the ships may have snapped any lingering connection to her, especially if he knew or suspected from the start she would not come with them. td;lr, Knives held his hand out to Rem as a last offering of faith to humanity, and Rem, rejected it. She loved them, adored them, but not enough to give up humanity to stay with them.

vash's favorite part about sex would definitely have to be giving you pleasure. watching your brows scrunch up, your mouth drop open with your tongue lolling out, beads of sweat dripping down your features, he just can't get enough.

he'd dip his fingers inside of you all sorts of ways, figuring out which one garners the best reaction and sounds from you and he'd use it to his advantage. abusing that gummy part that makes your eyes roll back, mewls forcing your lips to part, crystal tears falling from your eyes, he wants to see it all.

he just has to get a taste too, gratefully slurping up everything you have to give him, leaving loving kisses on your thighs, stomach, and everything else within his reach while he's down there, giving you as much love as he can for the love of his life.

a/n: geto has glasses in this / based on what i wrote below for someone:

On Sunday morning, the sun seeps into the blinds we argued over (you let me choose in the end) and there is a ripe clementine on the kitchen top. I relish at having woken up before you (because you said how European people are always early birds. Birds can oversleep too.), and seeing the mess of blonde and the freckles you said you hated so much.

My thumb rubs away something on your face like how I’d peel away at the fruit and I use a little too much force. In the next hour it happens again and you laugh at how the juice misses your eye by an inch.

“Thank God I have my glasses on your bedside table, at least. I’ll wear it after.” And after the mundane statement and a graze of your lips on my cheek, I realise how much I like having your things on my furniture and a just-ripe clementine for sharing each time the sun awakens.

wc: 0.7k

the sun is burning when you wake up, back slick with sweat when you rouse from slumber, and you catch the culprit sinking more and more into your rear: geto suguru, one of the special grade sorcerers and a teacher at his alma mater, mumbling into your neck.

it’s a sight to see, to be honest — you’ve seen his demeanour with enemy curse users, with satoru at times — it’s nothing like how geto is when he’s with you.

a flip switched even when he senses you, because he always has a curse guarding you. his eyes soften and his features relax and sometimes he can feel his curses leaving his body with how unstable his heart is and he finds it so hard to control his cursed energy.

sleepily, you inch away from his warm body before sitting up, huffing out a sigh at how your shirt sticks to your back. you’re not complaining, but sleeping in was something you cherished, and waking up sweaty is not the best way to go about it.

you find that your body is warm like helios, but your heart burns brighter than the god’s rays that filter through the blinds that geto let you choose. you have to clutch onto your heart, shaky breaths leaving you.

because you’ve shared a bed so many times, but you still feel like the you who resided in the basketball court, watching suguru practise his shots. your cheeks are flushing from hearing him say this is for you! and then almost missing it if it wasn’t for his curses helping him.

“sweetheart? what’s up?” geto is groggy in the morning, voice scratchy and raspy from the lack of use (he doesn’t sleeptalk like gojo). you shake your head, letting your lover wrap his arms around you, pressing a kiss to your nape.

“just thinking ’bout how much i love you,” you mumble quietly, putting your hands to your face and screaming into it, feeling a smile upon your neck. “you’re so sweet and so cute and hot and—”

“you just take care of me so well.” the last part is a little sentimental, now a little embarrassed at your outburst. geto notices this, easily manoeuvring you into his lap.

“baby. of course i do,” the other removes your hands from your face, kissing both of them before putting them around his shoulders. “i’d die before i put my needs before yours.”

“if you wish to be the stars, then i’ll become the night sky that wraps around you. if you’re a praying mantis, i’d give you my body to eat up.”

you make a face at that, pushing him away at that disgusting image he put in you and he laughs; he sounds like everything right in your life and it’s like you don’t know what disgust is anymore.

“gross. and cheesy. and also was that an oral joke?”

it’s later when geto says that instead, although just the first word, because you absolutely suck at peeling oranges and clementines; you insist on doing it. you’re digging your thumbs all the wrong ways into the fruit and you burst out laughing as another spurt of juice meets with geto’s face.

it just barely misses his eye and he just narrows his eyes at you, reaching for the clementine. you just put it further and further from him, chairs scraping the floor from the chaotic scene.

although suguru is insistent on taking the fruit from you, he lets you win anyway, because it’s so natural to him. video games, random races, rock, paper, scissors. god, he’d let you win at the stupidest games. and with this simple gesture, he knows you want to take care of him.

so while there’s a scowl on his face, you know he never means it when you chase him around the house with a half peeled clementine and juices spraying from how badly you peel it and booming laughter at how he frantically puts on his glasses.

you know suguru could never mean it as long as his glasses take its place beside your phone (and his), as long as there’s clementines in a grocery bag — and as you pop a wedge of the orange fruit into his mouth and the sweet flavour of the citrus floods his mouth, geto suguru hopes you’ll never share your uneven slices with anyone but him.

Stretchmarks

Summary: Vash learns about those little markings he's seen on his lover, and oh God does he fall head over heels.

Authors Note: This is written with Tristamp! Vash in mind, and this idea was sparked by this post :) This is written as a fem! reader. I hope you all enjoy! (Also, here's your tag @blackkiwi! I hope you like it :) I went in a bit of a different direction so I might revisit this idea in the future!!)

Warnings: Mild nudity, sexual themes, self-hate.

Vash didn’t understand it—how could someone so beautiful, holding something so unique and precious, hate themselves and their markings? He felt bad for staring, he really did, but the damp air from the shower seemed to settle around her, water droplets becoming stars and her eyes morphing in a galaxy of possibilities. She, though, didn’t seem to understand his awe. All she saw was the man she loved staring at a part of her she didn’t hate, per se, but rather didn’t love completely. He knew he should’ve looked away, apologized and let her know that he was stunned with adoration, not disgust. Yet he didn’t. Like the fool he was, and always will be, he didn’t have the bravery to confess.

“Ah, sorry,” with a nervous grin she had tried to cover her hips, where the most prominent of her stretch marks were. “I didn’t know you were coming back so soon.” She grabbed her things and shuffled back into the bathroom, wearing only her underwear and a towel loosely draped over her shoulder, “I was just getting my clothes.” With a quiet click, the bathroom door shut and the room was plunged into a somber darkness. 

Idiot, he bit at himself, why did you just stare? The patterns though, those curlings lines and loveable little dots and spots, it reminded him of himself; when he looked in the mirror and saw his face staring back, covered in blue lines that marked him as alien, foreign. Was she. . . like him? He turned to look at the bathroom door, listening to the quiet rustling within. No, he thought, she’s human. But there was something so remarkable about those lines, he couldn’t stop thinking.

Like me, she’s like me. 

Later they sat in their shared room, the silence acting as a tyrant, holding its grip tight and solid over the melancholic atmosphere. Neither one had spoken since she had retreated to the bathroom an hour earlier; she being silent out of fear and embarrassment, and he out of nervousness and curiosity. 

After finishing getting ready for the night, she laid in her bed across the room. Vash, on the other hand, was sitting criss-crossed in his, staring at his fumbling hands. 

“You know,” he said, cringing at the abruptness of his voice, “I think you’re really pretty.”

She shuffled slightly in bed, blankets falling off her shoulders, “thank you, I appreciate it. You’re pretty as well.”

He blushed at the compliment—thump, thump, thump, beat his heart. It roared at him to confess, to open his mouth and say everything he wanted too. He didn’t. He fiddled with his hands and lightly tapped his cheek to cool the scorching redness that had overtaken him. “Earlier,” his voice was quiet, a pip-squeak of a noise, “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s okay.”

He started to disengage his prosthetic arm, small clicks and whirs making the silence seem louder than before. “I—” he gently set his arm on the ground beside his bed, rubbing the raw and sore flesh. He didn’t often sleep without his arm, for a fear of being attacked in the middle of the night, but his body couldn’t handle it much longer. It pulled and gnawed on his shoulders, making his entire body ache with a pain he can only describe as deafening. “I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings, but if I did, I apologize.”

She finally turned over, watching as he hopelessly stared at her with a twinge of fear and. . . something else she couldn’t describe. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she smiled softly, “I was jus’ thinking.” She could never be mad at him—not that she was mad at him in the first place, in fact, she had only felt mild embarrassment towards the whole situation. The day had been long, and even if he hadn’t caught her getting out of the shower, she would’ve been quiet and exhausted—, and looking at him now only made her feel like she was gazing at a kicked puppy.

He tilted his head, “about what?”

“My body,” she huffed and sat up, “you know those days?’ Her voice was a little quiet, less teasing than it usually was, and so, painfully somber.

He understood. Sometimes he’d sit out in the desert, watch the sunset and wonder why he felt so unnatural; as if he wasn’t a person, but a thing occupying space in a body that didn’t belong to him. And sometimes he’d cover up mirrors with his coat, afraid to look into them and see what he really looked like. And other times he’d look down at himself and shove back the tears because he was a mural of pain and he wouldn’t have it any other way but God, did he wish there were other options. And sometimes he’d simply lay in bed and think about everything he hated about himself, starting with his personality and then moving on to his actions, and then he’d think about his body and then he really felt the pain because he belonged to this prison of flesh and bone, this sacred thing, and he had managed to decimate it in so many ways it would never be able to recover. And, sometimes, he hated how he looked because she deserved better. And sometimes he, without any reason really, despised the man he was, and the way he looked. So, yes, he understood those days. He understood better than anyone really; and it made his heart hurt thinking she had felt the same way. 

In his eyes she was the most beautiful thing. She rivaled the stars, the ones he watched on that ship all those years ago. The greenery of flora and the nature of Earth couldn’t even compare. And even if some Goddess was to descend from the heavens, bearing all her glory and luxury at her bosom, he would deny it and find himself back in her arms. In his eyes, she was worth everything and more.

He stumbled over to her bed, momentarily forgetting himself as he slammed into the mattress with an abundant lack of grace and caution. “I get it, I do,” 

She blinked at him.

“Somedays I–I hate myself and sometimes I can’t even look in the mirror, and really almost everyday I can’t even look at myself,” he forgot he had taken his prosthetic off, trying to grab her face with his hand. He paused and cursed a little under his breath, stub awkwardly hanging between them. “I forgot I took that—okay whatever,” he used his other hand to grab her face, fingers tracing her jaw, “but you know what makes me feel better about myself?”

She huffed a little and laughed, crossing her arms. “What?” she asked playfully. 

“You.”

She smiled softly, “I’m glad I can help.” A little sliver of anxiety still rested in her eyes.

He took a deep breath and steeled his resolve. “Yeah, so, let me help you this time,” he sat back on his knees, suddenly realizing how close he was. “If–if that’s okay. . .?” All his confidence, his burning determination to help, dissipated into the air and floundered about his mind in a wave of unease and mild embarrassment. 

She glanced down at herself, thumbing the edge of her shirt before nodding, “alright,” she wrapped her arms around his neck, “you’ve convinced me.” She gave a nervous smile, one unsure of what was going to happen but trustful in the one before her—she had no doubts that he would keep her safe, happy, and comfortable.

He let out a goofy grin, slowly pushing her back onto the bed, “okay so um,” he stared down at her, blushing a delicious red as he slowly came to understand what position they were in. Her arms were slightly settled to the side, hands above her head and chest slowly rising with each suspenseful breath. Utterly divine, was the only description he could think of. “Uh, could you. .  uh, take your shirt off, maybe?” He wanted to cry when he realized his voice had cracked—uncool, so uncool.

She laughed, “alright, what are you really trying to do?” She grabbed the ends of her shirt and whisked it off, tossing it somewhere in the room. Neither of them really cared where it landed.

He waved his hand in the air and panicked, “no! No! I promise I’m not trying to do anything like that unless you want that—or, I mean, not right now! Uh, sorry!” His hands slapped over his face, covering the vague blue markings that had begun to peak through his skin.

She let out a boisterous laugh and grabbed his hips, lovingly drawing circles into his skin, “calm down, I was joking, pretty boy.”

The tips of his ears turned red, nearly drowning out his wonderful, brilliant blue, “pretty boy,” he mumbled. “Where’d that come from?” he squeaked out. 

“Jus’ tellin’ the truth,” she hummed, “now, why is my shirt off?”

“Oh!” his hands flew off his face and came to settle on her torso, nervously pressing into her skin. “I wanna—well, can I see your markings?” he leaned a little closer, tempted to put his forehead to hers, but he was too scared—what if she knows what that means? What if she hates doing that? What if she hates me?

“Markings?” she raised an eyebrow, “what do you mean?”

“On your hips.”

“Hips?”

He gently hooked the edge of her pants, looking up at her for permission and when she gave it, he pulled them down slightly, revealing the little lines he had been so obsessed with earlier. Despite everything in him trying to keep his smile back, he couldn’t. “These,” he mumbled, tracing the marks with his fingers. His markings, no longer dull and scared, flowed to the surface of his skin and danced along his fingers. “They’re really pretty.” He wanted to see them in their entirety, observe how they rested along her skin and how they intertwined with one another—that would require less. . . clothing, and the thought made him blush madly, making his markings blink a bright blue for a moment.

She grabbed his hand and gave him a questioning look, “they’re not markings, they’re stretchmarks.”

He tilted his head.

“It’s like. . . little scars from when our skin stretches or shrinks too fast,” she smiled somberly, “they’re not as precious as your markings.”

He huffed and went back to caressing her skin, “I still think they’re amazing.”

“Not many people do,” she closed her eyes and savored the feeling of his touch, “so I appreciate it. Thank you.”

He hesitated and pulled his hands back, “do you. . . do you have more?”

She hummed. 

“Can I see them? If that’s okay with you?!”

She sighed and opened her eyes, “you love them that much?” A slight bit of hesitance, disbelief.

A child-like joy seeped into his voice, “yes! They’re like mine, but they’re so much prettier.”

She blinked, a small embarrassed expression coming to rest upon her face. “I mean, if you really want, I can show you.” 

He grinned excitedly and sat patiently on the bed as his lover slowly shimmed out of her pants, leaving them hidden by only two, thin articles of clothing that covered barely anything (not that he minded, but he was trying his hardest to focus on the markings solely—he didn’t want to be a creep. He was also trying to ignore the fact that this was only the third time he had seen her so vulnerable before. It made his heart soar, thinking that she trusted him so). After a moment, she returned back to bed and presented her thighs, where stretch marks were painted across her skin like a mural of heaven. “Here’s some more. They’re mostly on my legs and hips.”

“Oh,” he breathed out, “they’re a lot prettier up close.” He leaned down and pressed his forehead to her legs, closing his eyes. For a moment, he could’ve sworn he felt her very soul, as if he was connecting to a plant, and he shuddered out a sigh. “So, so, pretty.” He was lost in her now, gently tracing his fingers along her skin, nose buried into the side of her leg and he cherished every giggle and breathy laugh that came from his lover. 

“I never knew you’d like ‘em so much,” she tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging slightly when he got a little too dazed and trailed his head up further than he should’ve.

He kissed the inside of her thigh, “they’re so. . . you’re so beautiful.”

She smiled softly, “you are too.” 

The compliment flew over his head, focused solely on the Goddess before him. The divinity that had graced his presence. He sloppily kissed her thigh again, trailing his love up and up and—

She tugged on his hair, “hey,” she warned, “you’re getting a little too close there, pretty boy.”

He stared up and blinked, chin settled in between her legs and nose dangerously close to the bottom of her underwear. It took a moment for him to come back to reality, realizing that he was in a position he’d only dreamed about. “Oh,” he blinked again. “I’m sorry!” he shot up and rested back on his knees. With her hand still in his hair, he was slightly bowed forward, eyes deliciously plastered to her legs. 

“Don’t apologize,” she whispered, “you’re fine.”

He whined a little, “I made you uncomforta—”

“When did I say that?”

He peered up at her through his eyelashes, watching her coy smirk expand into a sly smile. He stumbled over his words and quickly decided it would be better to shut up. What’s happening? Wasn’t she supposed to be yelling at him? Ashamed he had given into his desires a little too much? This was supposed to be about her, and how wonderful she was. Not him and his inability to hide his lustful curiosity. 

“In fact,” she tugged on his hair a little more, forcing him to crawl halfway on top of her to stop the dull pain in his scalp—he really didn’t mind it though, which made him rethink some things about himself. “I really enjoyed it.”

His markings glowed so bright, she had to look away for a moment. She snickered and brought one hand to his chin, the other leaving his hair and slowly trailing down his chest. “If I’m being honest,” she sighed, “I didn’t really like my stretch marks. They’re ugly and gross, but,” she stopped trailing her hand down when she got to the hem of his pants, “you made me feel better about them.” She smiled.

“I’m glad!” he nervously grinned and tried to adjust himself so the position would be less. . . intimate, but she didn’t let him. Part of him was begging her to do something, and the other part of him was screaming with fear and embarrassment so loudly he almost didn’t hear what she said next.

“So,” she drawled out, “if it’s okay with you, can I help you feel good?”

“What?” he squeaked. “Like–what? What does that mean?” Oh my god, he cried to himself, I’m an idiot! He beat down a whine that threatened to erupt from his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted the ground to swallow him up and never let him go.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed herself into him, hips bucking up and creating a delicious friction. He sucked in a strangled gasp and let his face fall into the crook of her neck, “sen–sensitive!” he cried. He gripped her waist, fumbling for a moment before once again realizing he had taken his prosthetic off. Vaguely he wondered if he should put it back on, but she bucked again and all thoughts fell out of his mouth as he cried.

“What do you say?” she purred, “up for a little fun?”

“You’re a,” he panted and ground his hips into her, muffling his moans in her flesh, “a tease.” He shouldn’t be doing this, should he? Should he have asked before he pressed himself into her, or was that normal? He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing here.

“C’mon pretty boy, I have to hear a yes,”

“Y–yes!” He whined and ignored the blue light that bathed them both—this is so embarrassing.

“Good boy.”

He squeaked and buried his face deeper into her neck, “oh my god.” This was going to be the death of him—not that he really minded.

Confessions

Vash x Reader tags: nsfw, plant-vash biology, female reader, smut, feelings.

// sorry for any mistakes, i’m sleep deprived lmao //

The first time that you saw Vash, you assumed he would be a passing thing, a person who would take up too much space in your mind before fading away like everyone else. That’s how it usually goes, anyway.

Funny, you think, that you’re so incredibly close to him now. The fact that the two of you happened to meet in a tavern the same night you saw him wandering through town and you helped him escape a gunfight, well, that surely cemented the fact that you would follow him practically anywhere.

Seguir leyendo

Vash calling his baby "lil seedling 🌱" 🥺

This hits so hard after finishing Tristamp that I am bawling in real life. Balling with a W.

HE WOULD LOVE HIS CHILD SO MUCH HE WOULD BE SUCH A GOOD FATHER AND SO GRATEFUL AND HAPPY AND breaks down into hysterical sobbing