Trigun Stampede X Reader - Tumblr Posts

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。SCARS — VASH THE STAMPEDE.

「 SYNOPSIS 」 ⋮ you wonder how vash smiles so easily with all his scars, and he shows you (.7k words)

☽ contents ⋮ just fluff for my lil wonder boy :(, mentions of scars

☽ notes ⋮ i tried my best to characterize him im on episode 5 okay :,)

vash has scars.

you expect as much with the way he lives, just not to the extent that’s before you. he stares at you blankly for a moment as you walk through the door before blushing, the soft, red flush bleeding from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he scrambles to hold his shirt to cover his chest.

vash has scars—and much like they did his skin, they slash at your heart.

some run long and deep, from his shoulder blade down to the middle of his back. it makes you think about all the times he turns his back blindly to people, hoping, trusting he won’t be betrayed. who could ever slash someone like vash across the back, you wonder, with his guard down and his heart out in the open.

some are small, like tiny bullet holes that heal to form uneven skin, a testament to the way he’s so selfless. you can almost envision him jumping in front of someone, blocking the bullet just seconds before they penetrate skin. because that’s who vash is—he’ll bleed to put out the fire for others in this dry, cruel desert.

even for those that start the flames to burn him down.

distantly, you think maybe you should leave. you should cover your eyes and apologize for intruding and walk out, but you can’t. not when the most vulnerable part of him is right here in front of you. it almost feels like to ignore it is to ignore vash, to ignore his kindness, his sacrifice, his pain and the cruelty he so casually suffers.

vash doesn’t deserve to cry—nor does he deserve to bleed, so you reach out tenderly, slowly, finding the scar that sits over the left side of his chest, letting your palm soothe over the bumpy skin as if it’s still bleeding, as if your touch alone can stanch the flow of blood.

maybe it can—maybe it does with the way his eyes close and his breath exhales shakily as though he’s in relief.

“sorry to walk in unannounced,” you murmur, giving him a tiny smile, making him chuckle lowly. he takes a step closer, lowers his shirt that covers his chest just like he turns his back when he trusts people.

he trusts you to see his back, maybe more than that.

“you could knock,” he teases lightly. you reach out and cup his cheek, running a thumb along the soft swell of skin as he hums appreciatively.

“i could,” you nod, “but then i’d miss the view,” you squeeze his left pec with a giggle, making him flush deeper as he looks away to the side.

and because you love him, because every part of him deserves to be loved no matter how scarred and imperfect it might be, because you cherish the parts of him that no one else did when it counted, you lean and press a kiss over the old bullet wound.

“you shouldn’t open doors hoping for half dressed men,” he mumbles, pouting slightly, “that’s not very polite.”

“i wasn’t looking for half dressed men,” you grin, “i was looking for a half dressed you. otherwise roberto’s room is right next door.”

“you probably don’t wanna see that,” vash shivers, making you giggle as he slumps his cheek against your hold, sighing softly in content when you lean to peck his jaw.

“no, i probably don’t,” you agree, “good thing i walked into this room instead, huh?”

“i guess it was the better alternative,” he says shyly.

it’s silent for a bit. you don’t know how to bring them up, how to so casually ask him to tell you the stories behind every harsh branding across his skin. so you settle for a question you can ask—one that you have, one that you know the answer to, but you can’t help but wonder no matter how many times he replies.

“how…why do you keep going? after all this?” you ask softly, staring at the rough marks across his body, the witnesses of the cruelty he’s faces who never quite leave.

he shrugs, stretches that easy grin on his face. “i deserve to smile,” is all he says.

and he does—painfully, you’re aware how much he deserves to smile and laugh and feel the sun soak him with warmth as the gentle breeze tickles his skin.

“do you?” you ask, slowly like you’re scared to hear the answer, “smile?”

his grin only widens. “yes,” he says sincerely, glancing down at your lips. “i do.”

and then his lips meet yours in a slow, smiley kiss, warm and gentle and tender enough to make you forget about his pain.

© hanmas do not plagiarize, repost, translate to other sites, or recommend on platforms outside tumblr such as tik tok

𝘛𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵

Vash the Stampede x reader (no pronouns used)

The piece below contains the bleak words from a remitter that considered not deserving a response from its addressee. A mere confession from a worn out soul to another.

A farewell letter dedicated to the man with a geranium colored spirit.

A farewell letter dedicated to the man that will be loved until the five moons that adorn the sky, fall before the eyes of this desolate heart.

Seguir leyendo

𝘛𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵

Vash the Stampede x reader (no pronouns used)

The piece below contains the bleak words from a remitter that considered not deserving a response from its addressee. A mere confession from a worn out soul to another.

A farewell letter dedicated to the man with a geranium colored spirit.

A farewell letter dedicated to the man that will be loved until the five moons that adorn the sky, fall before the eyes of this desolate heart.

Seguir leyendo

I think of cutting Vash's hair. Intertwine your fingers and subtly untangle it, he will nestle in your hands and start to hum in delight. When his hair begins to grow and lose its spiky shape, he will come to you as a symbol of pure affection and full trust.

Such a simple act becomes very intimate and domestic. Cutting his hair shows that he allows you to handle something so characteristic of him, something that people he appreciated deeply have only done.

And don't forget that he enjoys finishing off with a kiss after you show him the result.~

𝘛𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵

Vash the Stampede x reader (no pronouns used)

The piece below contains the bleak words from a remitter that considered not deserving a response from its addressee. A mere confession from a worn out soul to another.

A farewell letter dedicated to the man with a geranium colored spirit.

A farewell letter dedicated to the man that will be loved until the five moons that adorn the sky, fall before the eyes of this desolate heart.

Seguir leyendo

A/N: I HAD TO GET THIS OUT BEFORE I WENT TO BED, you get a quick lift from the gang. (I'm sorry if there's any errors, I wrote this and then got tired LOL) Vash x Reader, no pronouns used. Vash is a blushy mess.

Walking through the desert was a different kind of hell, the terrain was vast, empty, unforgiving. You were running dangerously low on water in your canteen, your desperate perspiration drenched your clothing and the pull of gravity made your steps feel ten times heavier. You could have sworn you were having hallucinations, the sound of a motor was heard, very distant, but enough to catch your attention. You turn toward the humming sound, in the distance a large vehicle could be seen, hastily making its way into your direction. 

“Thank God.” you throw your hands up into the air waving them from side to side in an attempt to get the driver’s attention. You knew it was a risk, asking for a ride from a stranger. But your critical thinking was at bay, mostly because you were severely dehydrated. And you knew you had somewhat of a fair chance of a possible escape. 

“They must have a death wish.” Roberto commented, referring to you miles away from them. Meryl squinted, you were barely visible but she was able to makeout a human’s form. A bead of sweat rolled down her brow, she couldn’t even imagine the possibility of walking around in such heat. 

“We should stop, maybe they need a ride.” Vash chimed, “Are you crazy needlehead? It might be another person trying to kill you.” Wolfwood quipped. Vash frowned, “Meryl, stop the car. I’m going to see if they’re alright.” Before Meryl could argue Vash was already halfway out of the car, hopping onto the dune you stood at. 

Wolfwood leaned over, you didn’t look very threatening, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the view. Cargo pants hung low at your hips, and your shirt was cropped and ill fitting. Way too tight to keep any weapons concealed. And was definitely enjoying the view of your exposed skin slick with sweat. 

“You need a ride?” Vash offered, a small smile at his lips. Your hand was placed above your brow, blocking the harsh light of the sun. “Please?” you smiled wide, the sting of your chapped lips more apparent. 

After your short introductions you trailed behind Vash approaching the door when the sound of Meryl’s voice stopped you both. 

“Vash, we don’t have any room, the car is full.” She furrowed her eyebrows in frustration, you could also hear the distrust in her voice, “I’m sorry, I really wish we could help but-” She was quickly cut off by Vash’s interjection. 

“It’s okay! They can sit in the middle. We can make room.” He motioned you to go in, you crawled into the cramped space to be met with another man beside you. A giant cross was wedged between his legs, “You weren’t kidding, there isn’t any room.” You acknowledged Meryl’s truth. Vash soon hopped in after you closing the door shut, any remaining space gone. 

“I have a better idea.” You moved yourself into the blond’s lap, he was obviously taken back by this, a small yelp leaving his mouth. He raised his hands upward innocently, trying not to make any inappropriate contact with his hands. Wolfwood grinned, slightly jealous, but mostly entertained with Vash’s innocent demeanor.

“Hold on tight, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.” Roberto warned, the car began its movement, quickly picking up speed. Every bump sent Vash’s thoughts somewhere else, somewhere not so innocent. Feeling the pressure of you in his lap caused a heat to rise to his already blushing cheeks.  Even though the air was warm, you closed your eyes enjoying the breeze fan over your face. You leaned forward, your back now arching against his lap placing your head further out of the window. His lips parted at the sight of your bare back in this position, his brows furrowed briefly before returning his attention elsewhere. This was going to be a long ride.

“Like this Vash?” you asked innocently, you were handling his gun farthest from correct but little did the outlaw know it was on purpose. 

“Not quite, just a little more like this-” He grabbed your hand from behind, placing it properly on his gun’s handle, his fingers curling over yours carefully squeezing the trigger. “More like this.” He spoke by your ear, his attention on the position of your hand. Catching him off guard you leaned against him, your back flushed against his chest. Vash’s eyes widened at the sudden intimacy, his cheeks flushed feeling the friction of your behind held firmly at the center of his waist. You held your concentration, shutting one eye and centering your aim at a stray can sitting on top of a wooden barrel. Pulling the trigger you shot a single golden bullet, hitting the can dead center forcefully knocking it off of the perch. 

“Oh.” he interjected, completely taken by surprise of your sudden skill. “I’m beginning to think you didn’t need my help after all.” 

“Can you show me how to use the “punisher”?” You look up at Wolfwood through your lashes, a flirtatious smile playing at your lips. He turned his head to the side, watching your finger drift down the base of the covered weapon, drawing circles along the way. 

“Big gun for a little thing like you.” He smirked, amused by your question. “You think you can handle it?” he peered down at you, his eyes drifting along the sight of your body. You picked up on his tone, knowing his question wasn’t really about the gun. 

“I can handle a lot more than you know.” 

He nodded appreciating your bold answer, making a mental note to take you up on that challenge later. Reaching forward he grabbed the cross from your wandering hand and set the hefty weapon in front of you now standing behind you. “How much do you know about weapons?” you shrugged at his query, “Not much, looks cool though.” 

“Well, it is cool.” He grabs your hand, placing it over the handle, showing you its mechanism. His movement is firm over yours, you feel the panels shift open, exposing the barrel of the gun. As he explains each part's function you begin backing yourself into him, your body flushed against his as he moves your hands to different parts of the cross.  A breathy laugh hits the back of your neck as you push up against him, his hips pushed forward letting you know he’s just as interested as you are. You felt a hand rest on your hip, Wolfwood leaning in to whisper, “I can teach you how to use something else too.”

Before your mind could process what was happening, you were trapped beneath two strong arms caging you in, a vine of sharp wire began wrapping its way around you, metal thorns digging the delicate flesh of your skin. You cried out in pain, feeling the wire tighten, your body now flushed against the intruder. 

“Nai don’t!” Vash yelled, running toward you. But his twin’s reflexes were much faster, immediately shooting a wire toward him. 

“Vash!” you cried instinctually lunging forward, but the wire wrapped around you grew even tighter to prevent you from moving at all. You grew lightheaded from the constriction and within a few seconds you were unconscious. Knives sneered feeling your body become limp in his arms. 

“You humans are so weak.” He scoffed. Vash used the side of his gun’s barrel to block each strike of Knives’ blades. With one wrong step, a single wire wrapped around his ankle, tossing him across the lab effortlessly. Vash quickly recovered, rolling out of his fallen position. 

“This one is pretty Vash, I actually might feel bad this time.” Knives held your head in his hand, his hand at your mouth, clenching harshly at your cheeks to hold your head up in front of Vash, as if it was his trophy. Knives knew he had won, he found Vash’s weakness, someone he could use as bait to further the success of his plan.

“Please Nai! Let them go!” Vash plead desperately, he couldn’t watch someone else die because of him. Not you.

In The Heat of The Night

A/N: Stemming from my previous fic and inspired by this text post I thought I'd write a lil something 18+ for the thirsty Vash fans out there, Vash x Reader, (no pronouns used), might continue/rewrite this with a bit more sm*t eventually. Summary: Vash's first bj, this IS this space cowboy's first time at the rodeo. Thank you @holydayaria for reading/editing. ♡

“Make a right here Meryl! There should be a nearby stop!” Vash called out from the back seat pointing a mechanical finger in the direction of the nearing town. As much as he unconsciously enjoyed the pleasant pressure of an attractive stranger's weight in his lap, his limbs were becoming increasingly sore by the second.

“Someone’s eager to get out of the car.” Wolfwood chuckled beside the blond, he could tell Vash was not only in physical pain, but obviously going through some sort of mental tug of war with what he assumed was his human taught chivalry and his instinctual libido. His dark brows were knit tight the entire car ride, his body ridged, his fists balled up against his sides, like a little kid who was put on time out. Each bump the car went over you bounced in his lap, earning a deep groan every time.

“A drink does sound nice.” you chimed, leaning yourself back against his chest. Vash flinched at your sudden movement, quickly moving his hands to grip the dusty cushions for stability. “Thank you for being such a comfortable seat.” you smiled, turning your head to the side glancing at him from your peripheral. His lips curled upward into a small smile, a droplet of sweat rolling down his brow. “Glad I could be of service.” He laughed breathlessly, rubbing the back of his head with his gloved hand.

To his relief, the truck finally came to a stop in front of a desert inn, you climbed out of the car first, Vash still close behind you holding the door open.

“Thank you for the ride, I would have been a goner without your help.” you turned toward him, bowing forward gratefully, “I’d love to buy a round of drinks for you before we part ways.”

Vash shook his head with a smile waving his hands in front of him in unison with his words, “No, no, you don’t have to do that! It’s the least we could do for a stranger in need.”

“I’d love a drink.” Wolfwood interjected as he hopped out of the car “Me too!” Meryl sang, following alongside Wolfwood, “What they said.” Roberto motioned his hand for you and Vash to follow along.

“I guess it turns out everyone wants a drink!” Vash sighed, raising his hands in defeat.

“Order whatever you’d like.” you reassured your new found saviors making your way over toward the inn’s bar. And after a few moments you all were presented with a frothy beverage in a wooden mug.

“You sure you don’t want anything, I owe you one.” You took a sip from your tankard before placing it to rest on the rustic table Vash was sat at. “You must be thirsty.” you pressed, taking a seat beside him.

He shook his head, “I’ll be alright.”

You raised a single brow taken back by his unusual answer, “Alright, suit yourself.” Before you could inquire about his odd behavior, Wolfwood joined the two of you at the table. “Thanks again for the booze.” He gestured his mug in a silent cheer toward you.

“It’s the least I could do.” You turned toward Vash with a small frown, “guess I’ll have to thank this guy another way.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Wolfwood responded, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, nestling a stick into the side of his mouth.

A few moments later Meryl and Roberto joined the table carrying on their previous conversation that was held in the truck. As they spoke among themselves, you took this time to get to know your makeshift knight in shining armor, and grew more fond of him the more he shared. Wolfwood sat back and spectated your interaction with Vash, it was obvious to him you had quite the attraction to the outlaw.

“I’m going to get another drink, ‘you sure you don’t want anything?” you asked, standing up from your seat. “I’ll just take a glass of water please.” Vash caved to your polite persistence. The priest could swear on the mighty God above him he saw a twinkle in needlehead’s eyes when he gazed at you. He was clearly enamored by you as well, which was quite rare for him.

“Be careful needle noggin’.” The Punisher warned, his eyes still studying you as you approached the bar alone.

“What do you mean?” Vash asked, obviously confused by the implication of his comment.

“They’re obviously interested in you. Just make sure to use protection.” Wolfwood chuckled, picking up the carton of cigarettes off of the table, now standing from his seat “P-protection?!” Vash stammered, “I’ll leave you two alone.” Waved him off, exiting the bar. And before Vash knew it, Meryl and Roberto followed suit, taking their leave as well.

“Guys, where are you going?!”

“We are going to get a room! We might as well stay here for the night! See ya tomorrow!” Meryl waved before exiting the bar. Vash swallowed thickly, directing his attention back to you leaning against the bar awaiting your drink. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to pursue anything more than just a friendly conversation. But physically, he was very drawn to you, more so than he’s experienced with any other human before.

As you made your way back to the table you immediately noticed the empty chairs,“Where did your friends go?” you asked, “I hope I didn’t scare them away.”

“Oh no! Not at all,” he chuckled, humored by your worry but also, trying to soothe his anxiety of being left alone with you, “they went to get their own rooms. I guess we are staying here for the night.”

“Where do you plan on staying?” you asked curiously. He swallowed once more, his mouth dry, clearly struggling to retain his eye contact with your flirtatious gaze. He reached for his water, taking a small sip before replying, “I’m not too sure.” A way to thank him, you thought to yourself. And you weren’t opposed to spending more time with your newly found friend.

“I know you just met me but, you could stay the night with me? But only if you’re comfortable.” you placed your head in the palm of your hand trying to come off nonthreatening in the hopes he would say yes. His cheeks slowly began to flush pink, caught off guard by such an intimate offer. So cute, you thought to yourself.

“You sure?” he asked, you nodded, reassuring the desire of his presence.

“Thank you.” What have I gotten myself into?

After a bit more conversation you decide to call it a night, tired from today’s journey. Vash followed a safe distance behind you as you led him to the purchased room. “You sure you don’t mind me staying with you?” He asked hesitantly, still unsure of the situation.

“I trust you.” Vash’s shoulders relaxed at your comforting words, feeling slightly less tense about his intrusion. With an audible click the door opened, before Vash could make his way in you ran forward throwing yourself on top of the bed, sinking into the plush material with a content sigh.

“Sorry, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a bed this nice.” you apologized with a small laugh, Vash responded similarly. While you enjoyed the bed, he made himself comfortable, pulling free from his heavy red trench coat, leaving him in just his black poloneck and matching cargo pants. His eyes caught your gaze while you watched him unbuckle his gun’s holster. He looked back down, working at the metal buckle, “Sorry, I should have told you I had a gun.”

“It’s okay, I felt something hard when I was sitting in your lap and figured it was either a.) a gun or b.) you were just very happy to see me.” you smirked. A shiver went up his spine hearing your obscene joke, he didn’t know whether to laugh or be embarrassed about the possibility of it not being his gun to blame.

“Vash? You seem tense.” you sat up, resting your forearms behind you for leverage. “Why don’t you come lay down with me.” Vash glanced over at you for a brief moment and part of him wished he didn’t, your soft lips were now contorted into an attractive pout, narrowed eyes luring him like a siren’s call. “Ah, s-sure.” he agreed before he could think about what he was saying, pursing his lips into a thin line trying to keep the nervous shake in his voice hidden. After his struggle unbuckling the holster with nervous fingers he placed it alongside his other belongings, now approaching you from the bedside.

He sat on the edge of the mattress unsure of what to expect from the close proximity. That is until he felt your hands at his shoulders, kneading into the sore tendons. A small sigh left Vash who was enjoying the soft touch of your hands slowly working away the years of knots undone. “Relax,” you purred against his ear, the palm of your hand now flat against his chest pushing him to turn toward you, “I want to make you feel good.”

As Vash turned his torso you guided him back against the bed, positioning him to lay down beside you. He watched as you threw your leg over his, now straddling his hips. His hands fell down to your thighs squeezing the soft flesh gently feeling you roll your hips, trying to comfortably disperse your weight on top of him. His jaw clenched, his glasses slipping to the lower bridge of his nose as he looked down at your semi lewd position on top of him.

You leaned forward pulling the arm of the glasses upward, tucking them behind his ear to rest on top of his blond tresses. “You have beautiful eyes.” you smiled admiring his features that were mostly hidden behind his sunglasses.

“S-so do you.” He said breathlessly, internally cursing himself for being unable to make a coherent sentence. His thoughts were hazy, his brain busy trying to process what was going on. He was soon pulled out of those thoughts feeling your hand slip underneath his shirt, “What do you say about taking this off?” As you pulled the shirt further up you noticed the abundance of scars and protruding pieces of metal that were deeply engraved in his abdomen and chest. Your lips parted in shock at the gruesome sight.

“I’m sorry, this is embarrassing.” His cheeks flushed feeling the harsh sting of your scrutinizing gaze. “Can’t say I didn’t expect an outlaw to have a few battle scars. But I didn’t think it’d be ones like these.” You gently skimmed your hand over each scar, feeling the cool touch of the metal patchwork and seams over your fingertips. “You’re interesting Vash, one of a kind.” you smiled. His eyes widened at your response, one of a kind, he mulled your kind words over in his head.

As your hand drifted back down his abdomen, you felt each muscle twitch underneath your palm, nearing closer to his hips. “Have you ever been with anyone, Vash?” you whispered, placing a hand between his legs, palming his cock through the thick material of his pants. You watched his lips part, a soft moan escaping his lips. He finally processed your question, shaking his head no in response.

You were genuinely surprised by his answer, he hasn’t been with anyone else? But you were too consumed by lust to entertain the idea.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” you whispered against his neck placing soft kisses along his nape. You rested one hand against the opposite side of his neck, continuing to pleasure Vash through his clothing, his cock quickly hardening underneath your palm from the friction. With soft kisses and small licks you made your way down his abdomen before stopping right above his navel. You looked up at him through thick lashes searching his eyes for approval, he nodded granting you further access.

As you pulled his pants down you were soon greeted with his aroused length springing forward from the confines of his underwear. The tip was blushing red, weeping profusely, silently begging for attention. Before attending to his needs you pulled away, crossing your arms at the hem of your top, and as you pulled you at the fabric, you unveiled the sight of your bare chest for his display. Vash wasn’t sure if he should look away, but it was clear by your hand grasping his to touch you, you wanted him to acknowledge you.

“It’s time I give you my thanks. You know, for saving me and all.” you smiled innocently, but what you planned on gifting him for your gratitude was anything but. You repositioned yourself between his legs, refocusing your attention back on his cock. 

You pressed your soft lips against the sensitive skin before laying your tongue flat, gently licking along his slit. Vash’s head fell back onto the pillows, his gloved hand raking carefully through your hair, tugging at the strands with each bob of your head. Vash’s moans were rasped, desperate for his release. Feeling an unfamiliar tension build up inside of him, he threw his other arm above him hitting against the wood with an audible “clank”. His metal fingers curled around the delicate headboard in search of relief. 

“I feel, I feel, like-” his words were frantic, unsure of how to express this overwhelming sensation. Looking up at him, you could tell he was probably close to his climax. His brows were furrowed, the quiff of his hair stuck against his forehead now sticky with sweat, and his pale cheeks illuminated with a dark pink hue. It was enough to motivate you to begin your motions with a little more vigor, encouraging his oncoming orgasm. His hips bucked forward in response to your change of pace. His moans were now broken, uncontrollable. The cracking of wood could be heard between each whimper as he quickly claimed his release. Ropes of thick cum spurting down your throat. Vash winced, feeling his prosthetic grow hot against the flesh of his bicep, and before he could control it he formed a metal fist creating a hole in the headboard. He looked up in shock at his accident trying to regain control of his prosthesis.

“That’s never happened before, I guess I got too excited.” He practiced clenching his mechanical hand as his arm recalibrated.

“Maybe next time, we will keep our hands to ourselves.”

A New Religion

Pairing: Wolfwood x Fem Reader

Rating: 19+ MDNI

Song Inspo: Soweto by Victony, Rema

Summary: You're reunited with Wolfwood after all this time. You thought you were catching up with an old friend, but he tells you that you’re everything but that.

Word Ct: 4.1k

“Come onnn preacher man, you’re gonna let a woman like me walk all by herself?” 

“You came here by yourself, didn’t you?”

You pouted and batted your eyes. “What if something happened to me? Here in Mecca city with a man with a 300 million double dollar bounty on his head, don’t you think it’s a little unsafe for me?”

Wolfwood flicked his eyes down to you hanging off of his arm. Your hands were warm enough for him to feel it through the sleeves of his suit, and you weren't letting up your grip. He tried to look into your eyes to see if it was the beers that you had that were talking instead of your true self, but you only had one glass that you nursed the entire time he had been in the bar. His eyes followed the way you licked your lips and pulled them back to smile again. Wolfwood quickly looked away, but you didn’t want that so you cupped his face with one hand and plucked the bent cigarette out of his mouth to smoke. 

“I feel like priests shouldn’t be able to smoke,” you said after a long drag. “Ain’t it in the Bible somewhere?”

“God cares more about my heart than my lungs.”

“I’m sure your heart is struggling to keep pumping your dying lungs,” you said, and to Wolfwood’s surprise you placed your ear right on his naked chest. You pulled back to move your hair out of the way and your face was pressed up against his chest again. You took another drag of the smoke and tapped his sternum. 

“It’s beating so fast, the poor thing. Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of the pack for you. Your body’s a temple and I’m willing to keep it that way,” you winked up at him. 

“I don’t need you to finish anything for me,” he reached into his breast pocket to pull out his stash of cigarettes. He tapped out a new one, and before he could get his lighter you stopped him.

“Lucky you, I have one last match,” you opened your matchbox and showed him the stick. You stood like a flamingo, holding onto Wolfwood’s shoulder for stability and struck the match against the heel of your boot. A bright flame erupted before sizzling down to where you could bring it up to his face safely. The cigarette hung loosely from Wolfwood’s lips, and he made the mistake of looking directly in your dark eyes instead of the butt of the smoke. The fire danced in your eyes with delight, like a pyromaniac finally finding their passion. When he was able to hold a flame you blew the match out, and before he could stop what you were doing you switched out the cigarettes, putting the bent one back into his parted mouth and taking the fresh one for yourself. 

“Hey!”

“It’s the least you could do for me, Wolfy. I got a long walk back to the motel. This’ll keep me warm,” you tipped your hat to him and turned on your heel. 

“And what about me?”

“What about you, Nathan?” You yelled, but you never stopped to face him. Your hair bounced and your hips swayed as you walked down the street, and he could hear you smirking as you got his name wrong.

“That’s not my name,” he grumbled to himself, and he readjusted the Punisher hanging on his shoulder. He was about to leave the opposite direction himself, and the cigarette smoke filled his lungs enough for him to puff it out, but it tasted different. He held the smoke between his fingers and saw the light pink tinge of your lipgloss on the mouthpiece. It was barely there but suddenly cherries were the only thing he could think about. His head whipped around to find you and he could barely see the top of your cowboy hat poking through the crowd of people who were also leaving for the night. Then he saw your hat jerk violently to the side and into an alleyway. 

Wolfwood parted through the ocean of bounty hunters, his blood rushing in his ears. The seconds stretched for miles and he pushed aggressively through the crowd as he got closer to where he saw you disappear, and when he finally rounded the corner he was moments away from unlatching the Punisher. He saw a dying cigarette and your white hat flipped upside down on the floor. Equal parts fear and anger surged through him. Before he could make any hasty moves a motion caught his eyes in the corner of the alley. You stood there hunched over and trying to catch your breath, your hair flopped over and filled with debris. A large man laid flat on his back, groaning and mumbling incoherent thoughts out loud. His fingers twitched to reach his gun on the floor but Wolfwood crushed his fingers with his foot. 

“You okay?”

“Nevel!” You said, genuinely surprised to see him again so soon. “Me? Oh, I’m just peachy. Never been better,” you shook your hair out and put on a sweet smile. 

“Do you need to…” he started, but you shook your head.

“Don’t let my breathing fool you. He’s so drunk he couldn’t tell his dick from his gun. I’m just a little out of shape, but I can still protect myself.”

“Your shape is fine,” he said, dusting off your hat and handing it to her. 

“And what about my shape do you like?” You asked playfully, and snorted when he turned away to hide his flaming face. “Is it because I shared a holy cigarette with you? Is that why you can’t let go of me yet?”

“Let’s get you back to your room.”

“Now you want to walk with me,” you rolled your eyes. 

“I just want to make sure you get to bed and then I’ll leave. I’ll carry you if I have to,” he warned.

“Carry me and that death machine at the same time? I don’t even think you could do that. I’m not that tiny—“

But you were hauled over Wolfwood’s shoulder before you could finish your sentence. You caught your hat before it could fall again and he adjusted both you and the Punisher to sit comfortably to leave the alley. 

“Oh I’m going to tell the church about this, just you wait. A priest , manhandling an innocent bystander ! Is this because I haven’t paid my tithes? That doesn’t make me a sinner!”

“No, but killing people does,” Wolfwood jerked his shoulder up and you grumbled. 

“You’re no better than me.”

“I just do my job.” 

“Tell me, Father, do you ever do anything outside of your job,” you twisted and whispered in his ear. Your lips grazed the shell of his ear and a shiver went down his spine. “Caring for everybody else seems tiring. What do you like to do to unwind?”

“I’ll tell you if you can be quiet until we get to the motel.”

You pinched his butt in frustration, but surprised him once again by keeping your mouth closed. Wolfwood didn’t understand why you wanted to know, and he couldn’t tell if this was all a game to her. The only other time you talked was when he begged you for your room information so he could walk you right to it, but you were convinced he was trying to make you lose. When he reached the destination, he gently placed you back on your feet and fixed your tilting hat. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I kept track of all of your transgressions,” you tapped your temple. “See you in the morning paper, you corrupted church man.” 

Wolfwood chuckled as you turned around and unlocked the door to your room. He scoped behind him to ensure that nobody was watching you get inside. Before you stepped foot inside you asked him the same question. 

“I don’t ‘unwind’. I’m given a job, I do my job, and another one is given to me. There’s no time for anything else.” 

“Sounds… boring. Lonely,” you brushed the lapels of his suit and peered up at him. Wolfwood wished you would stop looking at him like that. It moved something in his chest he couldn’t identify. “You really don’t have time for anything else? Not even for a friend?”

“We’re friends?” He asked incredulously. 

You slapped his chest and frowned. “Of course we are! Why else would you come back running to me? We always find each other no matter how long it’s been.” 

Your eyes softened and you wrapped your arms around his waist. “I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on you. Thank you, Nicholas, for helping me tonight.” You kissed his cheek and let him go. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again but it wouldn’t kill you to write a letter.”

“I can’t be friends with you,” Wolfwood said lowly, and your eyes clouded over.

“What?” 

He hooked his free hand around your waist and drew you in close. your eyes widened and you splayed your hands on his chest to stop from crashing into it. You looked up in confusion but you could see Wolfwood trying to gather his thoughts. 

“What I’m feeling for you isn’t friendly ,” he said carefully. His grip tightened around your body like a vice and your eyebrows sprung up. You ran your fingers over his bare skin, almost able to hear his heart thumping behind his ribs. 

“And what is it… what are you feeling, Wolfwood?”

He could try to explain it to you, tell you how you’re one of the first people he thinks of whenever he brushes death, or how he prays that the time you spend apart would shorten from months to day or hours, but the words couldn’t make it out of his throat because it is impossible to accurately describe just how much space you take up in his mind. You hide in every crevice of his being, taking up residence in his heart, stealing every smoke filled breath and making it your own because in reality it was never his, and each breath he takes carries him closer to the next time he’ll meet you again.

He could try to explain that to you, but it’s much easier to close the gap between them and capture your lips with his. It’s much easier to guide you into the motel and kick the door close behind him. It is so much easier to gently lay your on the bed after shrugging off the Punisher and swallow your moans as you clawed his back to hold him closer. In a frenzied mix of tongue and lips Wolfwood tastes you fully, doing what he has dreamed of doing a thousand times before but could never bring himself to. Despite spending your whole life out on this godforsaken desert planet, every part of you is soft, his fingers sinking into the exposed skin of your stomach. Your fingers scrape his scalp and his eyes roll further back into his head, and the only times he unlatches his lips from yours is to rip off articles of his clothing and you do the same. 

Your teeth bump each other when you meld your mouths together again, and it’s like touching a live wire. 

Every nerve of his sings for you and it’s like you’re jump starting his heart. He gives you a moment to breathe, instead kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the veins in your neck and the hollow in your throat. Wolfwood runs his tongue over your collarbone, licking the sweat that sat on your skin. His previous suspicions were confirmed. He could never be friends with you. Not when he’s on the verge of devouring you. His tongue skated down your body until he reached one of your breasts. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, inviting him in and he listened. He sucked and flicked your hardening bud until you were gasping his name, crooning praises at him and begging him for more. He had to lavish the other nipple with the same amount of affection, and came back up to kiss your lips once again. 

“Do you understand why we can’t be friends,” he mumbled into your mouth. You nodded fiercely, snaking your arm around his neck to deepen this kiss. Wolfwood’s hand trailed in between your legs, gathering your wetness and stroking your clit. You mewled again, spreading your legs wider, grinding into his palm. You tugged his bottom lip between your teeth and urged him. 

“I need more, Nicholas.”

“Can I—“

“Yes, yes, go ahead,” you rushed out, holding onto the last bit of restraint you had before you were dragged down to the depths of depravity with him. Wolfwood leaned away from you, which was the last thing you wanted him to do, but when he did you were finally able to take in his body the same way he was doing to yours. Red welts were already forming around his neck and creeping over his shoulders, marks that you made on him. He pushed strands of his hair up and out of his forehead and gazed down at you in your entirety. You were almost too bright to look at, like he had to avert your eyes lest he hurt himself. He wanted to kiss every inch of your skin, murmur praises into your ear, send you to heaven above over and over again. So much desire coursed through his veins he was unsure as to where he wanted to start. 

You saw his eyes filled with awe and it was like a spotlight on your body. You were still on your back while he rested on his knees between your legs, his pants still on but unzipped and unbuttoned. Although he wasn’t as close to you as you would like, his hands never left your body, and he caressed your calves as he canvassed your body. You could see his erection straining through his slacks and you bit your lip. 

“It’s not fair that I’m the only one naked here, Wolfwood.” 

You weren't even sure how he managed to undress you completely when you were sure that you had on more layers than him. His stares only heightened your sensitivity, but before you could say anything else he grabbed your ankles and dragged you to the edge of the bed, sinking to his knees on the floor in front of you. You propped yourself up on elbows and looked down at him. He knelt down, kissing the inside of your thighs before hooking his hands underneath them and resting them on his shoulder. 

“Forgive me,” he said, alternating which thigh he kissed, creeping closer to your heated sex that fluttered with anticipation. “I want to do this first.”

The sight of Wolfwood’s tongue flattening and licking a stripe from the seam of your sex to your clit was almost too erotic for you to watch. Your breathing trembled as Wolfwood wasted no time to open you up with his mouth and drive you to the edge. He lapped at your folds, moaning into your sex and his nose rubbed on your clit in a way that forced you to lay back down and silently cry into the sheets around you. You reached down and gathered his hair in your hands, pushing him deeper into your heat and he surged forward. He loved the way your nails scratched his head, and with that he showed his silent approval.

Pleasure filled every corner of your body. You arched your back, your hips lifting off the edge of the bed but Wolfwood was quick to follow and tightened his hold on your thighs. You jerked when his lips pulled back and he bared his teeth around your sensitive bud, and you snapped your head down to look at him again. His eyes were closed, but it did nothing to hide the sex drunkenness he was experiencing. 

Wolfwood did the same thing again, mixing pain in with pleasure, and you rolled your hips into it, taking anything he gave you. Choked sobs tumbled out of your mouth, and they fell on deaf ears as Wolfwood was lost in his own pleasure. The mixture of your come and his saliva made it even easier for his face to glide against you, and he was getting addicted to the feeling. The sacrament he had consumed could never satisfy him the way you did. Your thighs started to shake around his head and he finally opened his eyes to look at you. Tears stained your face and with parted lips you whispered his name. You had this disbelieving look on your face, unsure of how he had gone this long without gasping for air. The sheets were clenched in between your fingers and your orgasm was dangerously close from breaking you. Wolfwood stretched his hand over to pinch your nipple, his fingers mimicking the movements of his tongue and you rode his tongue to oblivion.

With his tongue pressed on your clit, Wolfwood allows you to fuck his face, only slowing your down so he can ease his fingers into your dripping entrance to find your spot inside of you. With that you were both panting, and you felt the coil in your stomach tighten unbearably. 

“Nicho las ,” you moan, your breath catching at the end as you finally crests over and you’re falling helplessly back down to earth. Wolfwood doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside of you, making you curl up and you try to push him away. You’re blubbering, and the tremors in your legs are crushing Wolfwood’s head between your thighs but he had no intention to stop. He thought maybe if he kept going it would dawn on you how he would completely devote himself to you. 

“Nicholas, baby, please,” you groaned. “Please that’s enough.” He lifts his head up, a string of your arousal still hanging from his lips, and the bottom half of his face was shiny with your come. He licks his mouth clean and pressed one last kiss to your clit, and you release a weary groan from the sensation. He then kisses up your navel, your ribs, your sternum, your lips meeting each other when he crawls on top of you and you move back as well until you feel your head hit a pillow.

With all the strength you can muster up, you wrap your legs around his waist and flip him on his back. With him below her, you grind into his erection and his hands are firm around your waist. You attack his neck, sucking and biting all the skin you can see, and Wolfwood melts into the bed. His fingers find your sex again, stretching his fingers to prepare you. You whined into his neck and licked at his skin. 

“You make me feel so good,” you said, rolling your hips on him. “Nicholas, I need you right now. ”

Your words only made his cock ache and strain in his pants. He couldn’t believe that you were begging for him, needing him almost as much as he needed you. He wondered if he ever kept you up with thoughts of “what if” like he did you, but he didn’t have time to dwell on that when your hands feverishly shook while pushing down his pants. They would be ruined if you didn’t pull them down off of him completely, but neither of you couldn’t find it in themselves to care. 

You pulled him out of his pants and stroked him gently. He was the perfect size for you, and you wanted to use your mouth on him, but the pained look on Wolfwood’s face showed that it would have to wait at a later time. It didn’t stop you from teasing him.

“Can you have sex? You know, as a man of God?”

Wolfwood’s jaw tightened. He watched your hand wrap around him and pump him leisurely, and it was almost enough to make him come. “I thought it goes against the religion.” you were pushing his limits, you knew it, but the way he swallowed and his eyes fluttered close only spurred you on. You thumb his slit, collecting the pre-come that beaded at tip and he drew a harsh gasp. 

“I’ll throw it all away for you,” he promised. “I’d do whatever you want.”

“That’s a really big promise, Nicholas,” you whispered. you lined him up to your entrance, rubbing the tip of his cock up and down your sex and he was begging for release. “What if I abused that?”

Wolfwood couldn’t take it anymore and thrusted his hips up to seat himself inside of you. You silently cried out, your hand flying to his throat to steady himself but he welcomed it. The way you squeezed around his cock left him with no cognizant thought other than to get you to come again. His hips piston up, hitting the spot deep inside you until your moans turned to hymns. It made your toes curl and your hand tighten around his throat. He then realized in that moment, looking up at you with your name dancing on his tongue, that you are his religion. He only lived for you and it took him so long to finally accept it. 

“Use me,” he panted. “Any way you want. I want to be yours,” he grounded your hips down on his and you traveled your hand up his throat to put two fingers in his mouth. You pinched his tongue with your thumb and finger before spitting in his mouth, which you sealed off with a kiss. Your hand went back to his throat and squeezed the sides just enough for him to whine into your mouth and switch positions. 

With your back laid flat on the bed he pounded into you, and the bed threatened to give out. The sound of the coupling was enough to wake up other guests in the motel with the creaking of the bed and your wailing. Wolfwood was too enraptured in every emotion that flitted across your face, every change in pitch in your moans, the pressure of your hands on his body to be considerate of anyone else. The only thing that mattered was you . 

“Tell me how you feel,” he prodded, kissing away your tears that he couldn’t truly feel sorry for. “Tell me you want me.”

“God, Wolfwood, I’m about to—“

“Say Nicholas. Say my name, please,” he reached down between you and found your clit. He circled his thumb around it at a much slower pace than what he was fucking your with, and he reveled in the way your eyes rolled back into your head.

“ Nicholasohmygod !” You tried to keep your orgasm at bay but Wolfwood was on a mission to break your consciousness. You tried to clear your mind for one last time, your hand resting on the back of his neck and feebly pulling his hair. 

“Can you come for me, baby? Please, I want us to come together, Nicholas.” 

Your wish was his undoing, and with a few harsh thrusts Wolfwood came right when you reached the peak the second time. You spiraled down together, and Wolfwood rolled his hips into yours until he had nothing left to give. You locked him in with your legs, breathing heavily as you finally stilled but you still couldn’t let go. He pulled out of you carefully but you still sighed from his absence. He quickly got up to go find a washcloth in the bathroom and came back with it damp to wipe your down. You would still have to take a shower, but you convinced him to hold you in his chest while your legs regained function.

“And if I asked you to run away with me?” 

The question took wolfwood off guard. He wasn't sure he heard you correctly, but the way you looked up at him with wide eyes proved that you meant what you said. 

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere. We could visit everywhere. You can’t leave me, not again.” 

Wolfwood kissed the crown of your head. You were right, he couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t be able to live the way he had before now that you took this step. It would be too much for the both of you. 

“Let’s leave before the sun rises.”

You squeal, jumping up on the bed and covering his face in butterfly kisses. 

“I’m not tired enough to sleep, and sunrise is only a couple hours away…” you wiggled your eyebrows, and Wolfwood kissed you for the first time to mark forever.

pairing: vash the stampede x fem!reader warnings/tags: jealous insecure vash, you get hit on twice, vash's pov gets kinda depressing, takes place before and after and I know it’s hard enough to love me, stampede coded vash word count: ~4.3k

Vash the Stampede is a complete enigma to you.

In the span of the four hours you’ve been following after the blonde, you’ve witnessed him get bullied and dragged around by a group of children who had unanimously decided to tie him up for fun, help a distressed woman find her poisonous pet gecko, and frantically try to explain his startling similarities to the humanoid typhoon to a threatening group of individuals who had cornered him on the street, loaded guns in their possession. 

You watched him nervously laugh off their claims until they had left, one by one. Then he breathed a large sigh of relief, before meeting your eyes with a grin and two thumbs up.

He just can’t say no.

You’re still thinking about this troubling tendency of his when you slide off the rooftop, and twist through the alleys to the bar you had seen when you and Vash had first entered the town yesterday.

This time, he’s following you. He must have run out of people to help. All the way to the bar. And when you enter through the swinging entrance, you don’t need to turn around to hear the doors swing open again, not even seconds later.

Shouts ring throughout the bar, as several patrons happily greet him with a raised mug of beer and smiles. Already, he’s grown on people.

You slide onto a barstool. “I’ll have a drink,” you say, giving the idling bartender your order. The aged man proceeds to pull several bottles from the rack hanging behind him. You look over your shoulder to see Vash sitting down at a round table behind you. When he catches your gaze, he smiles, hand already lifting in an eager half wave as his fingers curl into air. 

You don’t understand how he can look so happy to see you, as if you're an old friend he’s seeing for the first time in years, every time you meet his eyes. As if you haven’t been traveling together for the last few months. You've never stayed with an individual for longer than a week or two, other than your mother, but you know for sure Vash is strange. An outlier. You don’t understand how he constantly stays happy, upbeat and optimistic. No man is that happy, upbeat and optimistic. It’s suspicious.

The acrid scent of smoke and alcohol enters your nose before anything else, and then a hulking man with a bulbous nose is sidling up close to your side, despite the empty seats next to you. You ignore him as he gives you a long look up and down. The man in front of you mixing your drink gives him a distasteful glance. 

A wide, crass grin stretches his face as he licks his lips. 

“Yer a pretty thing, ain’t ya?”

You stare ahead. He’s not even worth brandishing your gun for.

He frowns when you don’t respond, trying again. “Whatcha doin’ in here, in this part of town? A lil’ lady like you is going to get eaten by the wolves.” He leans in close, and his breath fans against your cheek. You don’t bother to hide your distaste when he indiscreetly adjusts his pants. “I’ve got a place downtown…”

You’re going to shoot him, you decide.

Your hand goes to your side, but before you can remove your revolver, a blur of red rushes into the sliver of space between the two of you, forcibly separating the man from you. With his back to you, Vash lifts his hands in an act of surrender. The man tries to no avail to move towards you in either direction, but Vash swiftly meets him every time before he can step towards you.

“We—”

“What’s yer deal!?” The man asks angrily, drawing Vash close, hands fisted into his shirt, teeth gritted. Vash is taller than the man, so to see him tuck his knees inwards to be level with the man would be almost comical if you weren’t so annoyed.

A high pitched laugh escapes through his teeth. “Ahaha! About that—”

“She yours or somethin’!?”

Your already short patience stretches thin.

Panic floods his face as he glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Of course n—”

“Then it’s none of yer business anyhow,” he grouses, leaning in close. “Why dontcha butt out, and that way nobody gets hurt.”

“No,” Vash says firmly, unusually solemn, all pretenses of distress fading in a blink. He grabs the man’s arm with a steady hand of his own. “I can’t.”

You step to the side, and point your gun right at the man’s temple, already cocked. The bar quiets, eyes on your standoff. In your peripheral you can see multiple hands on belts, ready for a shootout. Vash’s eyes go wide, mouth agape as he looks at you. Then your gun. Then at you. 

“Put him down,” you say plainly. “I’m not going to ask again.”

“Yeah, put him down Eli!” A voice exclaims. 

Others voice their agreement. 

The man blinks. Then he throws his head back and uproariously laughs, fist loosening on Vash’s shirt, letting him down with a slump. “Playing with guns, little girl? Why don’t you come on over, I’ll teach you the right way—”

You aim down, and pull the trigger.

A single shot rings through the bar. The man shrieks in agony as the bullet goes through his foot, clean. You watch him jump around on one foot, holding his other foot in his hands, crying out for help as blood gets everywhere. What a mess. The bartender only shakes his head as people begin to surround the hollering man. You think he might as well kill himself now. Not a single survival instinct. The last thing he should be doing after a bullet wound is moving around like a headless lizard.

You throw a sack of coins on the bar. The drink you hadn’t even gotten and damages to the floor. You grab Vash by the hood of his red coat and drag him out the bar as he gawks at you. You drop him outside and start towards the town’s caravan stop. In a few seconds, Vash has caught up with you, side by side.

He looks troubled. Lost in thought. 

“I didn’t kill him,” you say. Although you probably would have not even three months ago. That would have ensured you wouldn’t be bothered in the town again by a handsy drunk.

You don’t know why you feel the need to explain yourself. You figure you can’t keep silent when he’s looking at you like that , waiting for some kind of explanation that you would usually never entertain.

“Should I have let him all over me?” You ask tonelessly.

The snaps him back to attention. “No! It’s just…” he sounds unsure, almost uneasy. “You were just…protecting yourself.”

You wonder what kind of life he’s led. To be able to be the way he is. A pacifist, in this world. Someone who refuses to pull the trigger on his .45 long colt unless absolutely necessary.

“Not everybody gets to choose to not kill,” you reply, not as curt as you could be. “Some people don’t have a choice.” Not everybody has the strength to protect themselves without violence. Sometimes, it’s just survival. The choice between you or them. Sometimes, it wasn’t anything more than that. No hard feelings. The second your hands had touched your revolver, you had gained your footing in the world. The gun, the great equalizer. And in your hands, death. 

You never had a choice. And then you did.

Vash’s face falls. “I…I see.”

You find yourself searching for words, anything at all to wipe the miserable expression on his face away. “I didn’t kill him,” you say slowly. “But I could have.”

He lifts his head, blinking. “You… could have,” he repeats.

You don’t say that had the man come any closer, if he had touched you, you would’ve put a bullet in his head, right through his brain. And then you would’ve let the animals have him.

Vash slowly regains his smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you didn’t.”

Although the smile on his lips often seems more trained than instinctual, a defense tactic, you can’t deny that in the end, a smile suits his face much more. 

“I can take care of myself,” you say, fixing your gaze straight ahead.

He hums. “I know.”

You sigh.

-

-

-

“Over here!” Tony exclaims, wildly waving at Vash for a pass.

Vash kicks the ball over, watching as the other children surround the freckled short boy, eager to steal the ball back to their side. They had divided the teams seven to three, the children citing that the team with Vash on their side had the upper hand, therefore it was only fair for the teams to be unevenly divided. Vash had no qualms with it, neither did Tony or Sonya, who had grabbed Vash by the arm (shorter frame pulling him down to her level) and declared that the next victory would be theirs.

He can’t help himself. He looks towards where you’ve been sitting by the benches in front of the town square’s fountain, watching him kick around a ball for the better half of the hour with the town kids, unmoving, except for the small curve of your lips. Vash can tell when your gaze is on him. Some eighth sense that also has him gravitating towards your orbit, unconsciously and consciously. His feet take him to you, wherever you are. Lucky for him, nowadays, he doesn’t need to walk more than a couple steps to reach you.

Usually you’d be gone, taking care of your own business while he explored the town or city, and its inhabitants, before the inevitable bounty hunter or criminal looked a bit too closely to his face, his red jacket, and made the connection. Maybe you’d stop by the sheriff’s office, flashing your identification badge, and then flip through recent wanted posters. Maybe you’d get a bite to eat. Then you’d just follow the bullets and the trail of destruction to easily meet up with him.

He never knew definitively. You had never really answered his curiosity with more than a noncommittal comment or two. It doesn’t matter now though, because now you stay with him.

The sun looks good on you. He doesn’t realize he’s staring at you until a ball hits him smack in the face and drops to the ground, leaving him with a sore, red face and a bruised nose. The kids startle to a stop, gawking at him with wide mouths. There’s silence, and then raucous laughter.

“Vash!”

“Is he okay?”

“C’mon Vash, you lost the ball!”

“It hit him in the face, did you see that?”

“That’s a foul! You did that on purpose Lock!”

“Nu-uh!”

He sees you shake your head, amused, and knows that the warmth he feels isn’t entirely from the sun.

Tony runs towards him, ball held against his chest, breathless. The blue cap he wears is askew. Vash fixes it for straight. “You alright, Vash?”

Vash runs a hand through his hair and laughs. “No harm done,” he says cheerfully. “Guess I wasn’t paying attention, sorry about that!”

Sonya looks concerned. “Don’t worry about that! It’s all Lock’s fault anyway!” She turns around, sticks a finger under her eye, pulling it down, and blows a raspberry. “You’re horrible Lock!”

The older boy returns it with a raspberry of his own, and then crosses his arms. “He should’ve been looking in the first place, instead of at his girlllllfriend!”

Sonya’s eyes are wide as he feels his face go red. He nervously tugs at the collar of his shirt. The kids gathered around him erupt into laughter again. A quick glance in your direction, and he sees the raise of your eyebrow, lips tight in suppressed laughter he wishes he was there to hear.

“Is it true?” She asks him, brown doe eyes wide. “Is she your—” her voice drops conspiratorially “— girlfriend?”

He sticks a hand in the girl’s hair and gives her a good natured ruffle as she giggles. “Something like that,” he says, despite the elation that fills his stomach, to avoid fully answering the question, as if speaking whatever fragile thing the two of you have into existence might permanently alter it. 

Girlfriend.

What a mundane word for something as all consuming as the love he feels for you. He feels as if his chest might just burst with it all. But he can say that now, call you his in some way that makes him both terrified of overstepping his bounds and even more terrified of you leaving.  

“Hey Vash,” Tony says, insistently tugging on the sleeve of his coat. “There’s a guy chattin’ up your girl!”

You aren’t happy. That he can see clearly. Your expression has shuttered as a man closes into you with a wide smirk, overtaking his view of you. The last thing Vash can see is your thoroughly unamused expression.

He’s not aware of his feet taking him towards you. He doesn’t think. All he sees is how the man rests a hand on the holster of the gun attached to his hip, as if flourishing it, and he’s moving.

“A good ole’ romp in the bed is what you need,” he hears the man remark vulgarly. “Promise, it’ll fix you right up.”

“No,” you reply bluntly.

His cocksure grin fades with a scowl. “Now, don’t be like that. Nobody likes stubborn broads. I’ll be sure to show you a good time.”

An arm reaches out to roughly grab you, but Vash reaches him first, the metal of his left hand wrapping around the man’s wrist, tightening. The man yelps.

Vash blinks at the noise. You stare, looking at him with your head slightly tilted to the side.

He tears his arm back so quickly it gives him whiplash. His hands are automatically raised in a show of harmlessness as he nervously laughs.  

He hadn’t meant to grip him that tightly .

Unless… he had.

The man’s face is bright red in anger, looking at his left arm as if it’s the devil. “Who do you think you are!?”

Vash shifts ever so slightly to keep his arm out of view. It’s been a while since he’s been so self conscious. People asked questions, and sometimes they looked at him funny. It used to hurt his feelings, the way he was looked at as an outsider, even though he was. The rest of No Man’s Land wasn’t like the inhabitants of ship No. 3, who knew his origins. His identity as a plant.

Now it’s a constant reminder of it. Of Nai. Of their first of many confrontations a hundred years ago.

He’s not human, not like the man in front of him. Not like you. 

You stand, asserting yourself into the space between him and the man. You give him a dismissive look, before grabbing him by the left hand, and turning on your heels, pulling him along. Your fingers squeeze his metallic fingers in a way that shoots sparks up his arm, right to his heart. As you drag him along the kids holler their goodbyes, and all he can do is smile, wave back, and follow. He’d follow you anywhere, he thinks, easily keeping up with your pace. To the ends of No Man’s Lands to space and back.

He wonders if you’re angry. If you’re annoyed at his intervention. He hadn’t meant to be so…forward. His body had moved before he could think. 

But…you’re…you’re his now, aren’t you? You kissed him, held his face between your hands, and smiled. You don’t smile a lot, but you smile for him. He thinks that if anything, that means the most. When he told you he wasn’t human you readily accepted it, as if you had been expecting it. Then you asked him if it hurt when Nai had cut off his arm, and when he told you he hadn’t felt much of anything, really, from the shock, because he was a plant, you had frowned and told him to stop lying. 

Now, the two of you sleep together. You let Vash hold you in his arms, and he tucks you into the crook of his neck, and you don’t even complain when he locks you in his embrace, even though you could. Even if you could leave. And on nights he can’t fall asleep, terrified that in the morning you’ll have been nothing but a fantasy, he counts your soft slow breaths in his neck until the sun rises, the seconds until you wake up and give him that sleepy smile he likes to think is reserved just for him. 

So now Vash stands closer to you than he had ever previously dared. In larger cities with crowds, he’s right at your side in the bustle taking the brunt of the jostling as you lead the way. And when there are no locals to make conversation with, no children to entertain, he trails after you, wherever your whims take you. You like heights. Rooftops. High vantage points from where you can look down. He thinks it makes you feel safer. You’ve always been aware of his presence, even though you never used to acknowledge him. Now you do. Now you let him hold your hand, and he doesn’t feel like Vash the Stampede, whose sins stare back at him every time he catches his face in a reflection, but a man hopelessly in love.

You push him up against a wall in an abandoned alley, and he relishes in the close proximity, smiling dumbly when you lean into him. He’s not expecting you to kiss him, but it sure would be nice—

Until he remembers that you might be mad. That he had accidentally hurt that man. The yelp that had been twisted out of him. The smile promptly falls from his face.

“I—uh—”

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“Of course I am,” he says cheerily, but all he can think about is that man reaching for you, the gleam of desire in his eyes (directed towards you ), and his two whole arms (one more arm to hold you with), and there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, a wretched miserable thing that hovers a bit too close to the surface of his face. “Just fine!”

Your eyes narrow, just imperceptibly, while you scrutinize him in silence. His gaze momentarily darts away, fleeing, and then back, to see that you’re still staring at him, eyebrows furrowed as if you’re trying your best to think of something to say. Words don’t really come easy to you. Vash thinks it’s cute, that thinking silence of yours, where he can almost see the gears in your head turning as you struggle for an empathetic response after years of curt silences and dry one worded responses.

You purse your lips, bottom lip jutting out ever slightly.

Cute.

“Liar.” You glance down at his left arm, and Vash resists the urge to hide the prosthesis behind him.

A shadow falls on your face as you look down. “Is it me?”

“No!” He blurts out. Guilt churns in his gut, and he’s not sure if it’s because he hurt that man or because he isn’t sorry. He wants to say that he didn’t mean to, but that would be another lie. He hadn’t wanted to hurt him badly. Just… enough that he’d leave you alone. That he’d stop looking at you like that as if he wasn’t there. There was already someone by your side.

“I shouldn’t have hurt him,” he says finally. He can’t help himself when he adds, a touch defensively, “But he shouldn’t have been…” Vash feels a rush of heat reach his ears from your discerning gaze. “He…” almost touched you. He would’ve yanked you up, been rough with you, and just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean that it’s okay. Sometimes, he thinks you’re too used to it. Every night he counts the scars on your body with the same tenderness you’ve afforded him, that he doesn’t deserve, and he feels his heart weigh heavier.

Vash would never forgive himself if you got harmed on his watch. 

You look up at him. “He…?”

He isn’t…getting ahead of himself is he?

He loves you, and not a night goes by where he doesn’t think it. He’s loved you since the night you pulled him close and kissed him. He’s loved you since the moment he realized that the silence wasn’t so bad, so lonely, when he had someone to share it with.

He had assumed he meant as much to you as you do to him—

Your lips twitch into a small smile, and the sight stops his thoughts. You step closer and bury your face into his neck. His arms automatically wrap around you as he relaxes into your body, smiling at the ground.

“I love you,” you murmur, so soft that even his ears strain to hear it. He doesn’t even have the time to feel giddy before you pull back, reach for his neck, and bring his lips to yours.

He’s eager to reciprocate. The worry that maybe he’s holding you tightly around the waist doesn’t even strike him until a second later, but by then you’re happily exhaling into his mouth, and raking your fingernails down the back of his neck until he’s shuddering into you. 

You back him against the wall without a missed beat and he happily follows. One of your hands snakes down to his prosthetic, entwining your fingers together. He gives your hand a squeeze back and when you smile against his lips, he knows that it’s the most lovely sight he’s ever seen. The first time he had ever seen you smile, it had invoked the same amazement and wonder in him as seeing Rem’s red geraniums for the first time. 

But you aren’t a flower to be gazed at and plucked by curious onlookers. This smile is just for him. And Vash thinks, once again, for the fifth time in a day that hasn’t ended, that as much as he loves you, he also doesn’t deserve you.

He’ll tell you again tonight. This time, while you’re awake. Not…everything. Not enough that it could scare you away. Just enough, like how he likes gazing at you when the sun hits your bare frame in the scarce mornings the two of you have a bed, or the way your eyes light when they meet his, after a few hours apart. How it makes him feel…

Like a child again. Happy. The world at his fingertips. In the bed he and Nai would share, watching clips of some old earth movie underneath the covers. In Rem’s hugs, his arms wrapped around her neck, clinging to her tightly, as if she might disappear if he opened his eyes. The sound of her laughter in his ears. Lovely and fleeting.

Pressed against him, all the warmth of your body and lips, a breathy moan builds up in his throat as you have your way with him. As selfish as it seems, he wants more. As much as you’re willing to give. As much as he dares to take. He likes the way you say his name, especially when you’re in the throes of pleasure, when you’re looking down at him with so much love that he’s choking on his words, and his chest aches with it.

Someone giggles.

You separate, your lips enticingly spit slicked and swollen, your thumb tracing the underneath of his right eye. You like his beauty mark, have remarked on it more than once, the color of his eyes, and every other part of him that makes him flush from head to toe. He knows he’s not much to look at, but every part of him, except his burdens, belong to you. And if you can find something worthwhile to look at when you look at him other than disgust and horror, then that’s more than enough.

He lets his arms fall from your waist as you step away, and he already misses your closeness.

“Children shouldn’t be eavesdropping,” you say coolly, but not coldly. There’s a glint in your eyes as heads pop up from the crates towards the back of the alley. 

“We were just making sure everything was okay!” Tony exclaims, running up to you. He grins knowingly at Vash and attempts a wink.

You raise an eyebrow.

Sonya approaches, dragging Lock with her. “ And Lock wanted apologize for hittin’ Vash in the face!”

“Wha—!?” Lock sputters, looking at the girl in betrayal. “Sonya!” He squints at the ground. “...Sorry.”

Vash kneels down. “Apology accepted,” he says softly, a smile on his lips. He’s a good kid. So are all the kids in this town. Sonya with her ever present glowing smile. Tony and his mischievous wit. The blue cap he doesn’t go without. Lock and his grudges which hide a large, genuine heart. Billy and Mary and Kirk and everyone else.

Vash is almost tempted to stay a couple more nights, but he knows he can’t. Not with Nai having been spotted to the South. Another plant stolen, more fatal casualties. He has to leave before there are more. If he were a better person, he’d leave you behind. He stares at the ground.

He briefly feels the weight of your gaze. You gather the kids’ attention.

“You kids hungry?”

Tony and Sonya and Lock perk up.

“I am!” Tony says.

“You’re always hungry!” Sonya scowls.

“Are you the one with the money?” Lock asks. “Cuz’ Vash is broke.”

That draws a huff of laughter from you as Vash smiles sheepishly, pushing the worries plaguing his mind away for now. Until night falls upon No Man’s Land, and you’re peacefully sleeping in his arms. That’s when he’ll worry about whether or not he deserves to be happy with you.

Sonya reaches up to grab your hand with a big smile. You glance at him.

“Any good pizza places around here?”

And I know it's hard enough to love me (But I woke up in a safe house)

pairing: vash the stampede x fem!reader warnings/tags: babygirl vash, Depressing Pillow Talk, slighty nsfw towards the end, sharing one bed trope, title taken from let's get married (MITSKI VERS) word count: ~4.2k

“My husband and I would like a room,” you say with a smile as you wrap your arms around Vash’s and lean into him. You feel his body startle at your touch, his gaze on top of your head as you play the part of the excited bride. You think he might pass out on you if you don’t get him to room, and fast. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

“In this shithole of a town?” The innkeeper asks with a raised eyebrow, looking from you to Vash, who only lets out a sheepish chuckle as he scratches the back of his head. Despite his sluggish breaths, his slow blinking gaze, and the red slowly staining his shirt.

You shrug, trying hard not to be impatient. “There are worse places.”

There are. You’ve survived them. Compared to the slums of December or September, this shabby, worn inn is paradise.

“Yer right ‘bout that,” he laughs, acquiescing, as he tosses a ring of keys into your hand and takes your pouch of money. Vash is slumped into you now, and you can tell he’s trying his hardest not to place the full weight of his body on you. To anyone else, it would look as if he was clinging to you, the picture of a loving couple.

“Cheers to the happy couple!” the man calls out, tipping his hat down as the two of you move to the stairs in front of you. 

Vash grins brightly, and manages a cheery, polite, “Thank you!” as the two of you pass.

You can’t resist the huff of a laugh that escapes your lips as you make your way up the stairs, and then into the small, modest dust lined room.

Vash collapses on the bed with a sharp exhale, and you immediately move to take off his shirt but his hand stops you by the wrist before you can.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering. His fingers tightens, just imperceptibly, (even on the brink of sleep, he’s overly conscious about his strength, you think). In a way, it feels like he’s wordlessly imploring you to stay. “Jus’ need sleep. Not gonn’ take long.”

You blink. His fingers loosen, and in a few seconds his breathing has evened out into steady breaths. You’re relieved. He’s already stopped bleeding. From the months you’ve traveled with him, known him, he’s healed quickly enough that any other person wouldn’t understand. You still don’t. Not fully. But you’ve never asked questions. And as long as he never asked you any questions, that was fine with you. 

You stay on the bed, by his side for a few minutes, watching him. You take off his sunglasses and put them on the nightstand after wiping the blood off them. He’s an unusually pretty man. Too pretty for No Man’s Land. You trace his face with your eyes. The beauty mark right under his right eye to his parted pink lips. Then down to the rise and fall of his chest to the plates of the cybernetic prosthesis of his left arm. 

Lost technology. Not many people had access to that kind of technology. Or the knowledge to build that arm, let alone repair it.  

Standing, you give him one last glance, reload your revolver and tuck it into the holster at your side, before you leave in search of medical supplies to patch him up when he wakes. You scope out the town while at it. It’s small; a handful of residents armed to the teeth with guns, and even less children. There are pipes that run through the town that you assume are fed fresh water by a nearby plant. You locate a medical shop at the center of town. 

You buy antiseptic, gauze, and a few other things, before making your way back to the inn. The innkeeper gives you a wink.

When you open the door to the room, Vash is awake.

The sound of his harsh breathing fills the air. His metal hand fisted into the sheets so tightly you think it might tear. You meet his frantic gaze, and almost immediately, he slumps in relief, eyes dropping to his lap. 

You quietly shut the door. “Nightmare?”

Sometimes, in his sleep, you hear him call out for a woman named Rem.

He lets out a loud laugh. You pretend not to notice the shaky undertone of it. “I slept for longer than I thought!” His metallic hand curls and unfurls, catching on the dull light of the room. “I thought you…” he trails off, suddenly embarrassed. He looks away. 

“I brought supplies.” You place the bag on the table, next to Vash’s nickel revolver. You turn back to him: “Strip.”

His arms immediately make a cross on his chest, as if he’s already stripped, face bright red.

“I can do it myself—!”

Vash the Stampede. The humanoid Typhoon. The Sixty Billion Double Dollar Man. The man you originally only followed after to collect the criminals who swarmed to him, like flies to corpses. The man who leaves a trail of calamity and disaster in his wake. The man who continuously, everyday, without fail, begged you to leave the criminals you captured alive. A constant enigma and a headache. A walking contradiction. 

“I’ll leave the room,” you say. “Don’t take too long.”

You leave the room, leaning against the wall, and wait two minutes.

You open the door, and Vash jumps with a yelp, stripped to the waist, arms covering whatever he can manage.

Scars cover his entire torso, running all the way down his flesh arm to his hand. Deep scars, shallow scars, scars that have never entirely healed, leaving the skin dark pink and the flesh caved in. There are more scars than there is unblemished skin, missing chunks of skin replaced with metal plates and seams.

It's not a pretty sight, but you’ve never much cared for pretty. 

His face is flushed. “I thought—”

“I lied.”

“!?”

You shut the door with your heel, and then grab the gauze and antiseptic. “Turn around.”

Wordlessly, he turns, ears reddening. You direct him to sit on the bed, and then you begin to apply the antiseptic. The two of you sit in silence. You, disinfecting his fresh wounds and wrapping his back, while you also ignore the way his body tenses at your touch, his pointedly straight gaze, the constant bob of his throat, as if he’s looking for the right words to say.

He reluctantly speaks up. “You’re…not hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you reply. Just a few scrapes and a bruised arm from where you had landed wrong after trying to dodge multiple rounds of bullets from the latest batch of criminals that had schemed to capture the humanoid typhoon. After hauling them to the police, Vash hiding away, you had gained yourself a hefty paycheck before being run out of the city, a bleeding Vash in tow.

You’re nearly done. The wounds aren’t nearly as severe as they had been only a couple of hours ago. The skin has healed enough that it’s already forming a scar. You don’t know much about Vash the Stampede, but you know enough to understand that he isn’t human. Not completely.

But he smiles. He laughs. He detests the very violence that nurtured you. He likes pizza and donuts. He’s moved to tears almost as easily as he seems to get hurt. He’s good with children. They trust him. Children love him in a way they don’t you: pulling him down to their height, climbing him, leading him and all his long limbs along. The way he takes their words seriously, nodding with all the gravity of a legal proceeding as they talk about the weather, their favorite foods, the silly argument they got into with a sibling. He smiles, and when he turns that smile onto you, it makes you think of everything warm and how you had forgotten what it meant to be happy.

He may not be human, but he is. Everything good about humanity that had been lost and forsaken when mankind crashed onto this unforgiving, harsh planet. 

You pull away, resisting the urge to press your fingers down on his skin, to trace the map of his scars and feel him shudder underneath you. He’s as warm as a furnace. The heat of his body stays with you. “How do you feel?”

He beams at you, one hand on his upper arm as he swings his arm around. “Perfect!”

You sigh. “Don’t push yourself now. Let me finish wrapping you.”

He retreats back to his original position, still smiling, all reservations about his partial nudity forgotten as he waits for you to finish.

Vash speaks. “You didn’t kill them.”

You glance up. You can only partially see his expression from your position behind him, but the pull of his lips is unmistakable. He’s smiling. And you don’t need to look at him to see it. That sweet smile of his that pulls at his eyes and softens his entire face. 

Your hands still. You hadn’t killed them. The Archie Brothers, the two brothers infamous for targeting banks and other commercial properties, who had gotten wind of Vash being in the city and emptied hundreds of rounds into the bar the two of you had momentarily settled in for a quick drink. It’s not as if you could’ve killed them in the first place. Vash was nothing if not easygoing, but keeping the criminals you turned in for a paycheck alive was the one thing he firmly enforced. Going as far to shield their bodies with his own.

He’s so troublesome sometimes.

You want to ask if he would’ve let you in the first place. If you had a choice. 

You force yourself to wind the bandage over his arm. “You must be rubbing off on me.”

Vash turns, faster than you anticipate, eyes wide. You can see the pale irises of his eyes. He’s delighted. “Really!?”

You blink, staring at him in silence. He goes red, jerking back, scuttling backwards with his hands like a crab until he reaches the end of the bed and then air. He falls back first, legs raised up in the air. 

He sits up with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. “I…I guess I got a little ahead of myself…”

“...pffft.”

He straightens just as you dissolve into full blown laughter. And when your laughter dies down he’s looking at you, eyes wide, like he’s seeing you for the first time. You clear your throat and look away, embarrassed. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed in front of him.

“...Something on my face?”

He jumps, frantically waving. “No, no. I just thought,” he hesitates. “You should laugh more.”

Something in your chest gives. You can’t stand it. Not when he looks at you like that. Eyes shining, lips curved softly, face animated like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

People like him aren’t supposed to survive No Man’s Land. They aren’t built to. But you’ve seen with your own eyes how capable Vash is. It didn’t take much to kill a man in these lawless lands, but you had never seen him miss his target. Your didn't need to take pride in your aim to know it was excellent. You just didn’t have the same consideration for criminals Vash did. A life or two wasn’t something you lost sleep over. Casualties happened. And if it was a criminal, then it was simply divine judgment.

You stand from the bed and walk towards the desk. You take a doughnut out of a brown paper bag and throw it to him.

“For me?” He exclaims, easily catching it, even though you had thrown it to him.

You don’t respond. He enthusiastically tears it in half, and offers you the bigger piece.

You shake your head, the quirk of your lips, fond. “I don’t like sweet things.”

“I see…” he says thoughtfully, as if he’s digesting the information. “That makes sense. You don’t normally eat…”

It strikes you that this is the most you’ve ever talked about yourself. You’re unusually talkative today, and he notices. You find that you don’t mind. It’s alarmingly easy to talk to him now.

In the handful of months you’ve been traveling together, you’ve learned that all the crimes attributed to him had been the work of his twin, a man called Million Knives. A man you had managed to steal a glimpse of only once before Vash had locked you in a closet before rushing away. You were still sore over that. Even though he retrieved you soon after, apologizing profusely, accepting your cold shoulder with grace. Until you couldn’t bear the way he trailed after you with a pathetically sad expression on his face, and told him to stop. 

You never asked him for details. Of why his brother was terrorizing towns and cities, stealing plants and lives along the way. You’ve never pushed. You weren’t following the man to learn his life story. You were in it for the money.

Until one day, you realized he knew your exact bar order by heart. The kinds of alcohol you’d drink, and the kinds you wouldn’t touch. It was a small thing. But he looked so pleased when he placed the glass down, as he waited for you to drink it.

You knew his fear of you becoming potential collateral damage, but somewhere along the way you think you had grown on him. Somewhere along the nights listening to him cry out in his sleep for a woman named Rem, somewhere along watching the sliver of light heralding sunrise on the horizon together, somewhere in the silence in the dark of nights shared. 

You think he’s grown on you too.

“Have you eaten?” He asks. 

“Not hungry,” you reply, glancing out the window. Pitch black other than the glow of a single lone street lamp nearly a block down. “I’m going to sleep.” It wasn’t often you got to sleep on a bed, and you planned to make full use of it.

You go to the bathroom to wash up. When you walk out, Vash enters the room with a load of blankets. You look at him curiously.

“I asked the innkeeper for some blankets.” He laughs, recalling the conversation. “I said that my…” he trails off. “My…ah…wife…” Red paints his cheeks, and he looks away, raising the mound in his arms a bit higher to cover his face.

“...”

“...”

You watch as he makes his way to the other side of the room, keeping his gaze pointedly straight, and places the pile down. 

“You’re sleeping on the floor?”

“That’s right!” Vash pats the floor a little too vigorously for your liking. “Just like usual!”

You look at the bed. It’s big enough for the two of you so you had assumed you’d be sharing it… You’ve never shared a bed together before, but you had no problems with it, not with Vash.

He darts into the bathroom quickly enough that you don’t have time to say anything else. You hear the water run, turn off the lights, and get underneath the covers.

Then you wait.

When he leaves the bathroom, he gingerly folds his red jacket and sets it down on the chair. You wait until he passes the bed to strike, grabbing him by the shirt, and hauling him down onto the bed.

He yelps, a surprised, high pitched, noise that tears out of his throat. 

“We can share,” you say to him, his face inches apart from you. You can see his wide eyes, the bob of his throat working, pink lips parted as he stares at you, but your gaze is resolute.

And that’s that.

You figure that it might be easier for him to sleep if you aren’t facing him, so you turn to face the wall. You stare at the wall for ten minutes, waiting for him to settle into his side of the bed. Not even a faint rustle of the sheets. You wait a little longer. You can’t even hear him breathing.

You turn back around to face him and immediately he draws back even farther from his original position, on the tip of the bed where he’s precariously close to falling off.

A nervous chuckle. “I…”

“Sleep. I won’t say it again.” You study him, his slightly panicked expression, the grip of his metal hand fisted into the sheets. Oh. “Is it me?”

“N-nothing like that—!” He inches forward, just a little bit (still keeping his distance), puts his hand underneath the pillow, and squeezes his eyes tight. You watch him for a few seconds longer, specifically at the bead of sweat forming on the side of his temples. Your gaze drifts down, from the delicate slope of his nose to his lips.

You turn back around. 

Silence settles in the room like a muffled blanket. You still can’t tell if he’s breathing or not, and for some reason, sleep doesn’t come to you as easily as it usually does. The bed is too soft. 

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s because you’re awake. Maybe it’s because you know Vash isn’t asleep. 

“When I was a child, a plant saved me.”

A few heartbeats pass.

Vash’s voice is softly hesitant. It feels like something gentle and your stomach coils tight, as if in preparation for the inevitable recoil that always follows. “Were you sick?” 

“I was.” The darkness reveals patterns in the wall, and your eyes go blurry with them. “The entire town was sick. Children were dying.” Religious fervor had taken ahold. Daily ritual acts of praying and calling out for salvation.

Taking you to your town’s plant when you were on the brink of death had been your mother’s first and final act of love. Afterwards, your mother often recounted in a drunken stupor that she was sure you were going to die. That it may have even been a mercy if you had. The plant cured you. Your mother was sure of it, the plant worshiping denizens of the town were sure of it. Nobody knew how. Nothing except for the fact that shortly after—

“The plant died the day after. I’ve never forgotten it.” You killed it. It was the first life you took.

It changed you. On a fundamental level. Something had happened to you on that day you can’t even remember. But that’s something you don’t think you can share. How sometimes, you don’t even need to dodge bullets.

That plant died, and now you are here, sharing a bed with a self proclaimed pacifist who refused to kill under any circumstances. A man who defied all logic and reasoning. A good man anyone would call misguided. A fool. An idealist.

In the end, lives would always demand sacrifice. It was either you, or them. It was kill, or be killed.

You don’t know what face he’s making behind you. Is he horrified to know that your life had ended before it started? That you were responsible for taking away the source of life for hundreds of people? That your existence was predicated on sacrifice and death before you even learned how to walk? You were at inherent odds with the idealism of pacifism. With him. Not out of choice, but because of circumstances out of your control.

Maybe a part of you wants him to hate you. Maybe a part of you is looking to be understood. But you thought that part of you had died long ago.

You shut your eyes, prepared to go to sleep.

Vash exhales. “I don’t…”

You open your eyes.

There’s a conviction in his voice you don’t understand. “You didn’t kill it.” You wonder how he can be so confident. “The plant saved you.” I know it did. 

You face him once more. He’s closer than he was before, close enough to easily touch. “Sometimes,” you start, hating the way he’s smiling at you in a way that touches his eyes, framed in the pale moonlight. “You really make me mad.”

His jaw comically drops open. You watch as panic instantly overtakes his face until he realizes the lack of heat in your words. His lips push back together to form a pout. He says your name.

“Why is your brother stealing plants?”

Money. Power. Recognition. Those would seem to be the most likely answers, but you’ve seen the wreckage that Million Knives leaves in the wake of his destruction. It’s cruelty. It’s too calculated to be careless. It’s pure hatred. You can’t fathom a man like as Vash's brother. Twin brother. 

But then that voice inside you speaks. Are you really any different?

Vash blinks, and then his face falls, gaze downcast. It feels odd to see him like this. You rarely catch him without a big, sheepish smile on his face nowadays, especially when he catches you looking at him, but you had seen him with a forlorn expression, shoulders slumped, in your early days of traveling together. When there were no children to demand a ride on his back, when the two of you momentarily passed an overcast shadow, in the darkness of the night when he thought nobody was looking.

You almost regret asking him in the first place. But he’s so close you can count his pale eyelashes, and you lose your train of thought.

“You could say it’s…” his mouth twists, “revenge.”

Revenge.

He’s not the first misanthrope in these lands. You think the occasional mass murderous thought, and you resist acting on it more often than you didn’t, the days before you met a blonde pacifist gunman. There’s only so much a human being can take.

You think of the kaleidoscope of scars that line his body. You only saw the ones on his upper body, but you don’t doubt the existence of countless others everywhere else.

It must’ve hurt. It must’ve been other people. People intent on capturing him. People who wanted to hurt him. You hate them all. Every single person that has permanently marked him a way that wasn’t theirs to do in the first place. You hate whoever severed his arm, whoever had repaid his kindness with violence.

Desire strikes you, hot and sudden. You want to count them all, trail your fingers over the heat of his body, the uneven layers of skin, and feel his breaths underneath you. You look at him, as his gaze lifts, remeeting your eyes, pleading for your understanding. Ball and chain to his brother. Shouldering the sins of family. You don’t understand it. Why he’s looking to you for acceptance, as if it’d even make a difference.

He is the only good thing in this harsh world, and you’ve found him.

“Maybe,” you tell him, as he hangs onto your every word. “We deserve it.”

You see the split second sadness weighing in his eyes, at your words, right before you curl your fingers into his shirt and pull him to your lips.

His eyes go wide, and something that sounds like a mixture of an exhale and gasp leaves his lips. You separate, your lips a hairbreadth away from his, as he stares at you.

“Is this okay?” You ask. If it wasn’t, you’d go back to sleep, and forget it ever happened in the first place. You made your move. It wasn’t reciprocated.

But then he nods, so vigorously that his blonde hair flops into his eyes.

You smile, and Vash lights up.

You kiss him again, drawing his face closer with your hand on his cheek. He complies with his entire body, closing the distance immediately, like if he can’t help himself. His lips are clumsy against yours, too eager, too desperate, wet and messy, as he pants into your mouth. Heat pools in your stomach, and you want more. You run your tongue over the seam of his lips, and he lets out a sigh of something that sounds reverently like your name against your mouth.

Then your tongue is in his mouth, and his flesh hand jumps. There’s a breathless, throaty whimper, the entire weight of his body pressing tight against you. So you can feel every part of him. How he’s willing to give you everything in the name of desire, of love. And when you pull away, his lips follow yours, spit slicked and swollen.

You easily lay him flat on his back as you move to straddle him. You kiss him again briefly, tenderly. Then you sit up and pull up his shirt, just enough to expose his torso. His metal fingers fist into the sheets when your finger goes to a scar of pink skin right about his hips, lightly following it to right below his chest.

He chokes with a shudder that wracks his body. You can feel him, heavy and hard pressing against you. The slight jump of his hips, barely restraining himself from rutting into you.

“It’s not…” Vash struggles with the words with heaving breaths, face bright red, embarrassment splayed out. He looks to the side. “A pretty sight.”

You think of heated irons and blistering pain. Thousands of blades slicing you open, needles penetrating flesh, blind white heat enveloping your body, and the mindless oblivion that would follow.

You realize you’ve been silent a beat too long when Vash looks like he’s preparing for your inevitable rejection.

“I’ve got scars too,” you say, finally. Quietly. You take his mechanical hand in yours and slowly slide him up underneath your shirt. “You want to see?”

𝘛𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵

Vash the Stampede x reader (no pronouns used)

The piece below contains the bleak words from a remitter that considered not deserving a response from its addressee. A mere confession from a worn out soul to another.

A farewell letter dedicated to the man with a geranium colored spirit.

A farewell letter dedicated to the man that will be loved until the five moons that adorn the sky, fall before the eyes of this desolate heart.

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𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳

Nicholas D. Wolfwood x reader (fem)

nsfw . male masturbation . multiple mentions of religious themes . minors please do not interact

"I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth...shit, what's next?"

Despite of what others think, Nicholas D. Wolfwood has come to the conclusion that he is indeed, the perfect example to belie the thought commonly held by people that him, and all the other children of the Lord who is high in the heavens, are made in his image and likeness. He is just a man, a mere mortal, vulnerable and weak in the face of temptation, son of original sin. Trying to atone for, and amend, the errors that life has brought within his path, and from which he cannot seem to escape.

Same life that unfortunately has also placed him in the way of your so intoxicating self. As if it were an unforgivable and cruel test to endure the strength of his already cracked spirit, a test to prove how much he is capable of resisting when the sharp claws of lust slowly scratch his back when he tries to sleep and the image of your beautiful face invades his mind. He also claims being able to feel them scratching once again when, after what seems like an eternal week of waiting, he manages to spot you sitting among the 47 people that fit in the orphanage’s chapel at the time of the religious ceremony he presents on Sundays at 10 in the morning.

Nicholas talks to himself all the time. He talks about a whole bunch of different things to stay busy and distant from the loneliness that his profession entails. He also writes, on a small black notebook that shamelessly reads Holy Bible on its cover, which he keeps in the inside pocket of his suit all day. It is possible to find random thoughts scrambled between its pages, occasional unfinished sketches of the kids who visit him frequently, prayers and attempts at poetry that, despite the ease he possesses to release a speech towards an audience made up of people full of faith in the word he preaches every weekend, the simple idea that one day you might inadvertently read what lies on those yellowish paper sheets terrifies him to the point where he can feel each and every one of his nerve endings on the surface of his skin, pulsing with the same intensity as the wings of a flying hummingbird.

He writes for you, more specifically. Even though in life, there are weaknesses that sometimes, do not allow the deepest feelings of the heart to flourish freely.

"I am just an object waiting to be ashes, and it is precisely for that reason that I would like my body to burn until it is consumed as one with yours. So at the end, dust will be the only thing that remains of our spirits, mixed together, to be later carried away by the wind of this unforgiving desert we call home."

“I have reached such a degree of insanity that, not even with the help of a thousand divine healing rites, my composure will return. I have even considered exchanging the blood of as many sinners as necessary to the Devil in order to melt into the blazing but purifying fire that surely arises with the single touch of your lips, and if you allow me, to endulge in the perfect contradiction that lies between your legs. A place both sacred and infernal, a place where good and evil converge and is powerful enough to drive even the most righteous and ruthless of religionists to an infinite madness. A place that I can only imagine feels like heaven and hell at the same time, capable to burn but also soothe the wounds in the soul of a disgraceful believer, one such as myself, your humble servant.”

“And I am not ashamed to affirm in front of the cross in which the son of God was punished because of filth like me, that, your mere presence encourages me to violate every order imposed by the invisible power of my belief, all that for what he, the same guy I mentioned earlier, sacrificed himself for in the first place. He sacrificed himself for you and especially for me, and above all, for the atrocities that come with the human race to disappear from the world. Such as the kind of things that flood my mind when my gaze manages to distinguish a little glimpse of your underwear when you put on that pretty dress of yours and you take a seat in the front row. A dress I like to imagine you only use for me.”

When Sunday comes, the ceremony starts and it's your turn at the moment of communion. It all happens in a matter of minutes every single time, a fleeting contact that is difficult to remove from his system. The host is delicately held by Wolfwood's hands as he stares at you, the abyss of his obsidian orbs capturing your attention to ask for your permission. You nod and look back at him too, subtly batting your eyelashes and slowly sticking out your tongue in an inviting way, that more than innocent, seemed diabolical, as if you knew which cards to move to obtain an absolute victory. And he feels it, he feels something struck his chest. Like a pair of magnets who can't fight the silent attraction that tries to unite them. You glance at the thick fingers infront of you for an instant, and then once again, you lift your stare towards him to take the host. His breathing stopped the moment he felt the back of his fingers get in contact with the wetness of your tongue while accommodating the wafer on it, and he almost, just almost, stutters in his words, but he doesn't, it takes all of his will not to. He blinks and his hand moves away from your lips to continue with the the other presents. You turn around and go back to your place without looking back. Luckily for him, the robe that covers his body does not allow to reveal any trace of what could give away his growing hunger for you.

Reminiscing something that he himself already wrote once in his notebook.

“It’s a disgusting sight, truly. How you take the sacramental bread from the hands of a sinful bastard, how you try to be purified by the same hands that are permanently stained with the obscene thought of consuming your body, your entire being. But you don’t have an idea of how much I love it, how much I want you to be mine.”

The lecture finished at 10:57 a.m. Nicholas remembers glancing at the watch on his wrist to regain the track of time he lost when you got close to his body. Seeing that people were starting to get up, he decided to clean his instruments to leave everything in order, and at the same time, bring some peace to his mind. He didn't have long arranging his space when Wolfwood felt a sudden and intense urge to look back, and when he did, you were the first thing that he focused on, stumbling upon the surprise of your eyes already searching for his while walking to the exit, wearing the most precious smile he’s ever seen on your face. A smile just for him.

By 11:23 a.m. the chapel was completely empty and Wolfwood walked with an unbearable weight on his feet towards the confined space of the confessional, along with a box of matches in hand that he took from an old cabinet. He closed the door, took a seat and leaned his head against the wall, which protested with a slight screech, as if it knew what was going through the troubled man's mind. Of course you appeared immediately, the images of every time you two have exchanged greetings in the streets, in the market, or even at the events to raise funds for the orphanage.

First came the color of your eyes, which seemed to dominate and illuminate the darkness of the small space he was in, then your eyebrows and the expressions that characterize your words while speaking. Thirdly, your mouth, the Eden he dreams of so much, reflected in the shine that your lips acquire when you bite and wet them with saliva. Imagining how they move to the compass of your voice, if they are rounded, if you smile or if you stay quiet. Nicholas raised his right hand and gently touched his own mouth to try to calm the urgency of joining it with yours. He closed his eyes and remembered the slight meeting he had with it an hour ago. The warmth of your breath on his knuckles and the softness he touched with the pads of his mistreated fingers. How easy would it be to draw a whimper out of you, the sweetest sound he can think of. His pants began to feel more and more uncomfortable with every passing minute, the pressure exerted by the growing erection in his groin started to become unbearable. Will he be able to obtain salvation if he confesses everything, here and now?

"God...please" And just as he often does, he began to talk. "I want her more than...a-anything in this world...can't I have her either?" The hand that previously touched your lips, traveled up to his crotch and gave a first cautious squeeze, allowing himself to be carried away by the venom of the serpent that condemned us all as sinners centuries ago, which little by little contaminated his veins and blinded his sight. Now not only did he imagine the Eden in your beauty, he was about to enter that precious place, only to break the rules. "I haven't been...a g-good man, but..." His breathing began to falter, with great gulps of air, his chest rose and fell, trying to oxygenate his racing heart. "I swear I...I can treat her right." The restraint of the stiff bottoms was starting to be painful for Nicholas, so he reached for the button, hastily undoing it to reach into his underwear. The burning heat of desire greeting him. And as he could, he pulled out his member from the base without removing his pants. The cold edge of the zipper brushed against the prominent veins of his rigid sex while his hand tried to conciliate the relief he so desperately needed. He kept traveling with his mind through your neck, your chest, your waist and your navel, the unknown nudity that he longes for unfolding before him in an imaginary scenario within the four small walls of the confessional. His breathing became more and more disturbed and growls began to sprout from the depths of his being.

"I'm sorry, God...I'm so s-sorry" He started to apologize because he knows exactly what is next. He enjoys being rough with his wicked self, he is violent. Pulling his own hair with one hand while the other strokes himself harshly. He spits on the tip, and watches how saliva slowly rolls to the base. He grunts, an animalistic type of sound that reveals the wildest part of his existence, his human predatory instinct, the part that he tries to repress with calling himself a preacher of the Lord’s word. He likes to tighten the grip in his member to the point where the veins on his forehead begin to become visible and the color of his shaft changes entirely with the accelerated flow of blood. Suffocating in his own body, a prisoner of his dark desires.

"Our Father, who...a-art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is...i-in heaven." It was in that moment when he began to pray. And the drops of fluid that came out of his slit with anticipation gave his hand more access to stroke with a quicker pace. From outside the confessional, it was possible to hear the faint slippery sound of friction from skin to skin and the murmured pleas of a man sunk in perdition.

"Give us this day our daily bread, a-and forgive us our trespasses...as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temp-temptation...but deliver us from...evil."

Would God be able to truly forgive such an act?

"A-Amen."

And it's just when he finishes his pleas that he finds himself betrayed by his own mind, letting your name slip from his lips, over and over again, like a renovated prayer, but profane and corrupted. The peculiar burning sensation in the lower part of his abdomen starts to approach. He bites the collar of his white camisole and drool escapes from the sides of his mouth in the delirium of a near orgasm. Squeezing his eyes shut he imagined your breasts swaying in front of his face as you grind on top, your angelic face contorted with the ecstasy of a fictional encounter, and your core eagerly receiving each of his thrust. The sweet aroma that your sweat must have and all the possible ways you could moan his name.

"Ni..cholas, ah...Nicholas...Nic..."

The entirety of his skin crawls to the thought. And his hips begin to move with an unbridled, involuntary frenzy, consequence of the carnal instinct that species keep hidden in their bodies.

"Oh...God..please, please...ple-please." He calls uselessly for the only one who could redeem him, the only one who could accept a sin like this. Finally, he rapidly drags his hand a couple of last times and the orgasm begins to hit his senses. A last growl comes out of his chest before his teeth unconsciously loosen the fabric of the shirt to let out a deafened cry. With some last thrusts, his hips rise in a lost rhythm from the bench on which he is sitting as his seed spills violently into his right hand, staining some of the fabric of his black pants along the way.

The warm sensation of contact with his own release brings him back to himself, and he can only at this point, contemplate more clearly the mistake he has made.

“Divine forgiveness, what a bunch of shit.”

He drops the other hand that was tugging at his brunette locks in the heat of the momentum inside his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, places it in his mouth and proceeds to wipe the remains of cum on his right palm with a handkerchief, so he can pick up the matches he had brought with him, light the stick, and take a hit, trying to quell with smoke the latent nectar of lonely intimacy impregnated in the air. He takes a few moments to let the haze of the moment pass completely as he watches the mess in his lap and his now softened member.

The cigarette is half finished, he is a fast smoker.

He inhales and exhales once more, and then, there’s a subtle, almost silent, knock on the door, followed by what he recognizes is your voice coming from the rusty confession room's grate.

“F-Father Nicholas...?”

𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳

Nicholas D. Wolfwood x reader (fem)

nsfw . male masturbation . multiple mentions of religious themes . minors please do not interact

“I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth…shit, what’s next?”

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𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳

Nicholas D. Wolfwood x reader (fem)

nsfw . male masturbation . multiple mentions of religious themes . minors please do not interact

“I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth…shit, what’s next?”

Seguir leyendo

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.

Vash x Plant!Reader Drabble

NSFW! Minors, shoo

When Vash makes love to you, he unconsiously expands his wing to coccoon the both of you, creating this safe space for you. This safe space is so warm and full of love and so beautiful because of how Vash's black wing is adorned with his blue flowers and the occasional purple energy that shimmers on his wing. It's like another galaxy in his coccoon. Roots will emerge from his back and they will lovingly carress you. Your body unknowingly brings out your own roots, too, to entertwine with Vash's.

When the both of you reach release, your tangled roots will create numerous flowers, a sign of your love for each other.

Bonus:

Vash will joke that the flowers are now your flower kids. (But inside, he's going to name each one of them.)

a smoker and his consequences

this is very self indulgent and wrote at 6am with a headache so pls forgive any mistakes, i jus wanted to write wolfwood secretly caring the absolute most

nicholas d. wolfwood x reader

gender neutral, only fluff! reader has headaches because of his smoking and wolfwood cares in an unexpected way.

No one ever mentions the headache that comes with knowing a smoker.

They mention the cough, one that burns your lungs like you were smoking yourself, and the smell that lingers on your clothes for days even after washing, but never the headache. Never the headache that makes itself at home behind your eyes, makes even keeping them open too painful to manage. The headache that makes nausea welcome itself in your stomach, making it hard to hold a conversation or even close your eyes for rest. Knowing a smoker is hard, which meant knowing him was hell.

Him being your close friend and the person you had sat next to all day, Nicholas D Wolfwood. Being susceptible to these headaches means knowing Wolfwood wasn’t easy. Not when he goes through at least one pack of smokes a day, not when he causes nearly as much damage to himself as he does you with his cigarettes. Despite the pain, the almost permanent headache you had around him, you couldn’t help but be fond of the man. He had been travelling with you for a while now, and saying he didn’t make you happy would be a lie. Despite the headache, and his brash attitude towards everything including life itself, you cared for him. He was attractive, someone you could rely on, and if it wasn’t for his damn smoking you would have made much more of an effort to act on said attraction. You were always happy to talk to him, even about the most mundane things, but it was hard to stay invested in conversation when constantly seemed to have a cigarette on hand, revitalising the pain in your head each time.

You had recently gotten to a small village in the middle of nowhere, decided now would be the best time of any to make sure the car was charged and prepared for the rest of your journey,  make sure you all had food to last, and to get as much rest as you could before you set out again, either tomorrow or the day after, depending on the weather and how you all felt.The hostel had three rooms available for a decent price, three doubles that meant you’d all be able to get at least a decent sleep. Meryl and Milly would share a room, as would Vash and Wolfwood. With the odd amount of people in your party, you all took turns in who had a room to themselves, and you consider yourself lucky that this time it was your turn. The headache you had was raging, as a result of having to sit next to Wolfwood in the back of the car, and you really needed the rest. You knew that going to sleep this early wouldn’t be good for you, not when it meant you’d be awake in the middle of the night, but you really could not bring yourself to care. The pain between your eyebrows was only growing, and it showed in the way everyone was making conversation around you, and you couldn’t even bring yourself to join. Something that Meryl noticed quickly.

‘’Hey, you okay? You don’t look so good,’’ She spoke to you gently and quietly, knowing of your previous headaches.‘’If your head is hurting, you don’t need to join us for the supply run! You should go and rest whilst you can.’’ 

You let out a hum in response, returning the gentle smile she gave you with one of your own, and a small nod of your head. As you turned to walk up the stairs, you heard Vash jokingly mention his own ‘headache’, to which Meryl quickly swore at him and told him to shut up before she really did give him his own headache, to which Milly let out a loud (but not as loud as usual, she knew of your headache, and you really appreciated her in that moment) laugh. Despite the pain in your head, you couldn’t help the small, affectionate smile that came to your face. You really did care about all four of them so much, despite Wolfwood’s current out of character silence. 

Whilst you walked away up to your room, away from the noise, you missed the furrow in his brow and frown on his face. He wasn’t stupid. Wasn’t the type of person to miss little things, so when your headaches only happened around him, only happened when he was either currently smoking or had recently smoked, it didn’t take him long to connect the dots and realise what was happening. It’s what caused him to currently have a strawberry lollipop in his mouth instead of his usual cig, despite currently craving one so bad he felt like he could strangle needle noggin’ if he so much as tried to comment on the unusual action he was taking. He sighed, walking out of the hostel and ignoring the yells of ‘’Hey, where are you going?!’’ and ‘’Dude, you were meant to help us pick up the food!’’. He had his own plan, one that he deemed more important than helping the others, even if it meant they were angry with him. He didn’t mind, he’d deal with the yells and any punishment. His current task was more important to him, you were more important to him, he’d deal with everything else after he did what he needed to do.

A few hours later, in the middle of the night, you awoke from your nap. Despite the time, despite the fact you were currently awake in the middle of the night and felt as if you were now wide awake, you finally had managed to get some good sleep. Enough good sleep that your headache was almost entirely gone, and that you felt hungry enough to try and eat something. Standing up slowly, trying to avoid the old floor creaking, you slowly shuffled over to your shoes and put them on. You really were thankful for your own room, you wouldn’t want to wake anyone else with your midnight cravings, not when they’d all worked so hard during the day whilst you slept. With a quiet sigh, you slowly made your way downstairs, listening out to make sure everyone else was asleep. You could hear Vash’s snoring, and the quieter snoring from Meryl and Milly’s room was enough for you to know they were all asleep. The fact everyone was sleeping soundly made you smile, and you were careful not to make too much noise as you went downstairs.

The last thing you were expecting when you got downstairs was Wolfwood waiting for you, sitting in a chair with his arms crossed and head leant forward. He was… asleep. Asleep with a paper bag in his lap and surprisingly, not smelling of smoke. Walking towards him quietly, you knelt next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘’Wolfwood…’’ Voice gentle, you didn’t want to wake him unpleasantly, not when he already did not look comfortable in his position. ‘’C’mon, wake up, it’ll be better if you sleep in bed.’’

His eyes opened slowly, blinking the sleep out of them and letting out a loud yawn. It took him a moment to realise what was going on, where he was and who woke him up, and he gave an unusually sheepish smile once he knew what was happening.

‘’Ah, damn, must have fallen asleep waitin’...’’ His voice was quiet, deep with sleep, and it shouldn’t have sounded as attractive as it did. He stretched his arms above him, before grabbing the paper bag and throwing it towards you, despite how close you actually were to him. ‘’Here, for you.’’ 

The paper bag was light, and you furrowed your eyebrows. He had never gotten you anything before, never waited in the middle of the night for you to wake up just so he could give you something. Glancing between him and the bag, you sighed quietly before opening it. If he was so kind as to get you something, you would absolutely appreciate it. It was… headache tablets. He had gotten you medicine for your headaches. You knew he was aware of your headaches, but you never thought he would go so far as to get you medicine, not when you were scarce in resources and you knew how expensive medicine could be.

‘’For y’r headaches… I’m not stupid. I know i make them worse.’’

Your eyes widened, and you quickly looked up at him. You didn’t expect to see him so… sheepish, shy even. He genuinely looked guilty. You would never blame him directly for your headaches, but knowing he was aware he didn’t help and would go so far as to try to fix that… that meant a lot to you. Enough that your eyes filled with tears, the fact he had been paying attention enough to notice and wanted to help… It meant a lot to you. You quickly brought your hands up, wiping away at your eyes and turning away from the man sitting in front of you.

‘’Aw, Jeez..’’ Muttering to himself as he moved to kneel on the floor with you, gently taking your face in his hands. ‘’’M sorry, i really didn't mean to make you cry.’’ 

‘’No, no…’’ You started, letting out a quiet laugh and leaning into his touch, ‘’I'm really happy. I didn’t… I didn't think you noticed. Let alone enough to do all of this..’’ arms referencing the medicine in your lap, you offered him a gentle smile. ‘’Thank you, Wolfwood, really.’’

Another surprise was the way that his face flushed at your words. He gently rubbed any tears away with his thumbs, offering another sheepish smile. The act of kindness wasn’t unexpected from him, but he was always discreet in showing the fact that he cared. Saying he was full and giving you the rest of his food when he hadn’t eaten much at all and could tell you were still hungry, purposely running late so you could bathe first and get the hot water whilst he would be left with lukewarm at best… He’d never been so upfront about how far his affection for you went, and it was obviously new to him as well. The flush on his face was sweet, he was embarrassed at the fact he was being so open about everything. 

‘’Nicholas. And nah, don’t thank me…’’ a soft chuckle followed by a scoff, ‘’I caused you pain, this is the least i can do for you.’’ 

At his response, you brought your own hands up, mirroring the way he was holding your own face. You ran your thumb over his cheekbone, admiring him.In the dark dingy downstairs of the hostel, you could look at him closely. Usually, you weren’t alone with him, so your admiration was always a lot more secret, a lot more stolen glances and fantasising about him in your room at night. Being able to touch him like this, being so close to him with no interruptions and no one else around.. It was really, really nice. It was obvious Nicholas felt the same, if not by the affectionate look in his eyes then by the fact his hands had dropped to your shoulders, involuntarily moving you closer to him. It was almost by nature, the fact he wanted to be closer to you, wanted to be as close as he possibly could.

‘’Nicholas…’’ a quiet mutter, eyes glancing between his eyes and lips. He muttered your own name in response, his voice low and deep. In response to him glancing down at your own lips, you leaned forward to gently press your lips together, an intimate kiss.

And surprisingly, he only tasted of strawberries.