Trigun Stampede Fic - Tumblr Posts
bounty - vash/f!reader/wolfwood (trigun stampede) 1.4k, poly!au, wild west!au even tho it's hard to tell in a fic this short lol, bounty hunters, this is an equilateral triangle of a relationship, fluff but suggestive, wolfwood calls reader 'kid' as a petname, i may expand on this but rly who's to say
the mattress dips beside you, rousing you from sleep.
you don’t open your eyes, nor do you feel any panic. instead, you find yourself reaching out towards the form that’s curled up into your side; familiar and warm to the touch.
“welcome home,” you whisper quietly, slumber still clinging to your throat and making your words rasp a little more than usual. “good morning.”
“it’s not morning yet,” vash whispers in reply with a laugh creeping into his voice. he presses a kiss against your temple, nosing into your hair. “you should go back to sleep.”
he sounds tired as he clings to you tightly, and you open your eyes to meet his sleepy gaze. he smiles, even through his exhaustion, and you watch fondly as his eyes crinkle at the corners in the dim light of the oil lamp at your bedside.
you shift a little closer to him in your bed, craning up to press a kiss to the little mark below his eye. he sighs contently as your lips brush against his skin, his body slackening into yours as though he's finally allowing his weariness to catch up to him. finally allowing himself to rest.
you pull away, brushing a few strands of blonde hair back from his face.
he has a bruise at the edge of his jaw, and dark rings of shadow that are deepest at the inner corner of his eyes. his skin looks sallow, and his lips dry.
you wonder how rough these past few weeks have been.
“where’s nico?” you ask gently, cradling his face in your hands. the question has been at the back of your mind since your bed dipped only on one side.
vash averts his eyes from yours guiltily.
“vash?” you press, a sudden knot of anxiety winding in the pit of your stomach. you sit up in bed, your quilt pooling in your lap as it slips from your body and reveals the cotton of your gauzy nightdress.
“he’s outside,” the man beside you murmurs, pink blooming high across his cheeks as his head rests against his pillow. he pouts a little, finally peeking back up at you through his lashes with a wounded gaze. “he’s mad at me.”
“oh?” you ask, fighting back a laugh at how sheepish and petulant the man below you looks. “and why is that?”
vash purses his lips even further.
“the guy we were after…”
“the wanted man whose bounty you were hunting,” you correct vash lightly, a lilt of playfulness in your tone.
“yeah, him,” vash nods, and then grimaces, “he sort of… got away.”
you let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“vash, that’s…”
“the third one in a row, i know. i know.” vash wraps his arms around your waist and pulls his head into your lap. you card your fingers through his hair as he nuzzles into you for comfort.
“did you let this one get away again?” you ask quietly, but not in an accusatory way.
vash says nothing, but that’s an admission in and of itself.
you sigh, your fingers stilling as they trace through the strands of blonde, the locks curling around your knuckles. you shift towards the edge of the bed, and vash tries to keep you where you are by tightening his hold around your waist.
“i’m just gonna go check on him,” you assure him when he looks up at you with wide eyes. you dip down and press a kiss to his lips—the ones you’ve been missing so much for the fortnight he and nicholas had been away. he whines as you pull away, and you smile against his mouth. you kiss him again, more chaste this time. “i’ll be back.”
nicholas is on the front porch, staring out into the sea of sand that surrounds the little ranch you call home. his beloved boots have been kicked off beside the door, and his shirt is unbuttoned to reveal the undershirt he wears beneath. the tails of the shirt are still tucked into his trousers but he’s unfastened their button at his waist too, and his suspenders are the only thing keeping them on as he reclines back onto his elbows against the wooden slats of the porch deck.
you know he hears the screen door open to let you out, and you're even more certain that he hears the sound of it shutting behind you once you've stepped outside. the smell of tobacco clings to the edge of the night wind. it’s familiar, comforting. reminds you that he’s home. you draw in a long breath to savour it.
“you should be in bed, kid,” nicholas rasps, tapping the ash off the end of his sad, vaguely mangled cigarette.
“i’m not allowed to come and welcome you home?” you kneel behind him, wrapping your arms around his neck. it feels nice to have him in your arms again. feels right.
“not when you’ve got a crybaby to coddle in there,” he grunts, but you still feel him lean back into your embrace. you hide your pleased smile against the crown of his head.
“he’s probably already asleep,” you murmur into the top nicholas’s hair, swaying him gently. “he feels bad. he thinks you’re mad at him.”
“i am mad at him,” nicholas snaps, but you see through the sharpness of his tone. he’s tired, probably hungry, but not sincerely angry. “he fucked up another job for us.”
“guess that’s what you get taking in a fugitive as a partner, mister bounty hunter,” you tease him, pressing a kiss to his throat. his skin tastes of salt and desert sand, like days spent in the sun and labour. you feel how he shivers at the gentle brush of your mouth against his pulse. "and a bleeding hearted one at that."
“you’re the one who took him in like a stray,” nicholas complains, “i’m only putting up with him for your sake.”
it’s a lie, and he knows it as well as you do. he’s just as attached to the blonde presently curled up in your bed, the one too big for just him, as you are. it's the reason nicholas wears a thin gold band that he takes impossibly good care of, just like the two of you do, on his left ring finger.
nicholas tips his head back so he can finally look at you, his cigarette still dangling from his lips. the corner of his mouth quirks slightly as he draws a breath in, the cherry burning red in the night. you pluck the cigarette from his lips as he lets the smoke slip out on his exhale, his dark eyes still fixed to your face as he appraises you.
you observe him similarly, scanning over him as though taking inventory of the state he's fallen into since he's been away. he’s in the same shape as vash, from what you can tell. you spot some bruises mottling his skin, some rough stubble coming in at the edge of his jaw. there’s a blood stain on the collar of his shirt, and you aren’t sure if it’s his own or someone else’s, but you know it will be a pain to wash out.
but that’s a problem for tomorrow.
“if he’s a stray, what does that make you?” you ask him with a little laugh, his cigarette still pinched between your thumb and forefinger.
he quirks a brow. “if i say ‘the luckiest guy in the world’ are you gonna think i’m just trying to take you to bed?”
you snort, stamping the stub of the cigarette out onto the wooden porch and then flicking the butt away into the sand. you dip down until you’re nose to nose with him.
“of course I am,” you reply to him, your lips brushing against his as you speak the words. you can taste the tobacco that clings to his mouth from this close, but you don't mind it when it tastes like home. “and it’s our bed, nicholas. so take me to it whenever you’d like.”
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.
The reason why I am writing this letter to you is somewhat difficult to explain. It's something much bigger than me, a greater power beyond my comprehension that unfortunately, is slowly consuming everything around me. I’ve come to find myself plunged into deep despair, and at the same time, I learnt to accept the cowardice that has been invading me for not being able to muster the necessary strength to look at you in the eyes and tell you what you will read here in a few moments.
Pretty easy right? To hide between words, ink and paper. I'm sorry about that.
I will start by saying that, when I first met you, I came to realize that everything I knew and defined as my world would transform into something entirely different. You were the strike of lightning in the pouring rain, a hit that came with enough force to demolish an entire city. Your presence was all over the place, making it hard to ignore you. Every step you took resonated loudly in my head. And despite of what your name represents and what people often acknowledges you as, I have realized that it only covers a small part of what you truly are.
I think you are incredible, Vash. You are kind, you are a gentle being. You are the most wonderful coincidence that I have met in my life. You are an imperfect creation, but so am I. And so is everything else. And no matter how hard I try, I'll never be able to fully comprehend your greatness. But that's okay, because I already came to create my own conclusions. Just like you don't need to fully understand why I feel the way I feel when I notice you are near me. Or how the blood flows violently in each and every of my veins when I hear you breathing softly while you are sleeping on my chest. Even when, I suppose that you too have already come to create your own conclusions about it.
My love for you has grown so unbridled that I fear of losing my mind. So, that's why I decided to get away from you, from the room we shared, from the city where we used to travel together. Having you by my side hurt, because despite the suffocating closeness, you were still miles away from me.
And it hurt, it hurt immensely because my heart is exposed. Open the palm of your hand and there you will find it, bleeding and throbbing with emotion and life. While yours, is hiding behind an iron barrier attached to the left side of your chest. A barrier I could never cross no matter how hard I tried.
And because of that, I wish your gaze had never met mine. I wish you had never saved my life. I wish our lips had never touched. I wish you had never felt embarrassed to undress yourself in front of me. I wish I never had to see you cry while nightmares tormented you at midnight. I wish your pain would just go away. I wish you never had to suffer. I wish you had never deprived me of the right to love you.
I wish for so many things.
And I also foolishly wish that you loved me as much as I do, despite everything, despite all of this.
I love the scars in your body that form together a map I have traveled so many times with my lips, a map vividly embodied in my memory. I love your eyes and the color of your hair. I love the little mole that adorns the highest part of your left cheekbone. The aroma of your skin and the contrast of temperatures that your hands emit when you embrace me. I love when you laugh and I also love that you are easily moved to tears. I love the sound of your voice at any time of the day. I love listening to you hum that song you like so much and I love dancing with you that waltz we drunkenly invented one night out in the dark alley of a bar, and therefore, only you and I know. I love all the versions I've met of you.
I have even come to hate that word, ‘love’, because I consider that is too vague to describe what arises within my being when I lift my stare from the floor and see you standing in front of me. But I've learned to settle for it, so yes, I love you. I absolutely love everything about you, your worst and your best. I love you, Vash. And I am a slave to my own body because it refuses to feel otherwise, to think otherwise.
I will be devoted to you until eternity comes to an end, even though I don't really have a clue of how long that will be.
Knowing you, that idea does not please you at all.
So, forgive me.
Forgive me for stumbling upon your way that rainy day, and for trying to love you the days that came next.
Forgive me for that, and for all the other things, so I can leave without wanting to look back.
-Yours entirely. Yours forever.
What followed after was the image of Vash going through the door, running after those faint footsteps of your boots imprint in the unforgiving sand of May City. Holding against his chest the crumpled piece of paper that had the last bit of your essence. The trace that a weak, broken heart left behind as an old souvenir. Pieces slowly intermingling with the ground, waiting to be picked up by the hands that undid them in the first place. And as he ran, it wasn't just the scorching sun of a summer afternoon the only thing that burned. The love you felt for that mysterious man with the empty smile and tender eyes was consumed in ashes. The sun was burning, but your heart and your soul, were burning even stronger. And Vash ran, he ran for hours until his legs sank in the dryness. Ran until your trail was lost. And he cried too, cried until exhaustion did not allow a single more sob to come out of his throat. But he managed to stand up, just like he always has, and kept searching. Praying silently to the heavens for another coincidence, another way to find you once again.
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
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
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...?”
Confessions
Vash x Reader tags: nsfw, plant-vash biology, female reader, smut, feelings.
// sorry for any mistakes, i’m sleep deprived lmao //
The first time that you saw Vash, you assumed he would be a passing thing, a person who would take up too much space in your mind before fading away like everyone else. That’s how it usually goes, anyway.
Funny, you think, that you’re so incredibly close to him now. The fact that the two of you happened to meet in a tavern the same night you saw him wandering through town and you helped him escape a gunfight, well, that surely cemented the fact that you would follow him practically anywhere.
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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
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
.・゜-: ✧ pretty
vash x reader
you let vash know what you think
warnings; mild cursing
a/n; rewatching tristamp and the urge to do this was strong whenever his face was on the screen. so welp this was born <3 I have no shame
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Vash the Stampede.
He was a vision to behold with his tousled blond mane that seemed to have a life of its own, falling in charming disarray around his face. His piercing sapphire-blue eyes sparkled mischievously, revealing a playful glint that danced in their depths. His boyish features and carefree grin gave him a youthful and almost puppy-like charm that was hard to resist.
He had no business being so attractive.
After spending the last ten minutes admiring him, feeling your impatience build, you found yourself unable to hold back the urge to approach him.
Spontaneously, you closed the distance between you and Vash, your eyes narrowing as you reached out and aggressively grabbed him by the collar, pulling him towards you. You could feel his surprised gaze on you as you locked eyes with him while your brow furrowed in determination as you gave a snort.
"Vash," you said, your voice filled with a mix of frustration and admiration. "Do you have any idea how fucking pretty you are?"
Vash blinked at you, clearly taken aback by your sudden display of boldness. His cheeks turned a faint shade of pink as he stammered, "Uh, I-I, um, thank you?"
You tightened your grip on his collar, your frustration growing. "No, you don't understand. You're not just 'handsome' or 'attractive'. You are drop-dead gorgeous, breathtakingly stunning, and it's infuriating!"
Vash's eyes widened, and he looked at you with a coalescence of confusion and curiosity. "I… I don't know what to say…"
You leaned in closer, your grip on his collar not relenting. "Well, you better start getting used to compliments because I won't let you forget how stunning you are. It's like looking at a goddamn work of art, and it's driving me insane!"
Vash's lips parted, but he seemed at a loss for words, his cheeks now a deeper shade of pink. You took a moment to appreciate the effect your words had on him, but then you let go of his collar and took a step back, regaining your composure.
"Anyway," you mentioned casually, as if it was inconsequential, "I just thought you should know."
With that, you turned and walked away, leaving Vash standing there, still looking bewildered.
vash—nsfw alphabet [A-I]
interrupting my irregularly scheduled program to drop these incredibly self-indulgent headcanons! this is totally unedited, completely off the cuff simpery, and I hope it tickles your fancy. part one of three, because I have absolutely no self restraint. I mean can you blame me? just look at himmmm!
warnings/tags; afab, fem pronouns, p in v descriptions, oral/cunnilingus, edging, praise kink, pain kink [listen I have thots and I’m sorry in advance but this gets a little dark], vash is insecure but we been knew that, 18+ [obvs], pls don’t read if you’re underage, or I’ll be forced to punt you into the stratosphere <3
word count; 3k [my hand slipped]
part two [J-Q]
A = Aftercare [what they’re like after sex]
⍟ Vash is the absolute king of aftercare. He is so inherently caring, and that kindness extends to everyone, whether that be some stranger on the street or a dear friend, he just cares. So, best believe that his lover—his mayfly—is going to be treated as nothing short of royalty.
⍟ It starts before it even ends, bodies melded together with sweat and lust; hot, rolling breaths dampening your skin, Vash will immediately ask you, “Are you okay? Was that good? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
⍟ Admittedly, you were surprised after your first time together. Even when he’s utterly wrecked by pleasure, his first and only thought is whether or not you’re comfortable. Whether you enjoyed yourself, if he gave enough, if you need more from him. He will give you everything, you only need to ask, and even when you don’t, he will give.
⍟ Entirely at your whim afterwards, as though you’ve cast some intangible love spell on him. He’s so adorably eager as he cleans you up, presses his canteen into your hands, pulls you close like he hasn’t been inside you for the last two hours. He has a tendency to borderline coddle you, but you’re certainly not complaining.
⍟ He’s well aware of how dangerous it is to be associated with him, and as the long years have passed, he’s tried not to grow attached. It’s better that way, for everyone, but Vash can’t seem to muster the strength to leave you…so he’s going to do everything in his power to keep you safe, to ensure you are never hurt, to do right by you. It goes without saying, but Vash absolutely cherishes you, and he shows it whenever, and however he can.
Keep reading
bounty - vash/f!reader/wolfwood (trigun stampede) 1.4k, poly!au, wild west!au even tho it's hard to tell in a fic this short lol, bounty hunters, this is an equilateral triangle of a relationship, fluff but suggestive, wolfwood calls reader 'kid' as a petname, i may expand on this but rly who's to say
the mattress dips beside you, rousing you from sleep.
you don’t open your eyes, nor do you feel any panic. instead, you find yourself reaching out towards the form that’s curled up into your side; familiar and warm to the touch.
“welcome home,” you whisper quietly, slumber still clinging to your throat and making your words rasp a little more than usual. “good morning.”
“it’s not morning yet,” vash whispers in reply with a laugh creeping into his voice. he presses a kiss against your temple, nosing into your hair. “you should go back to sleep.”
he sounds tired as he clings to you tightly, and you open your eyes to meet his sleepy gaze. he smiles, even through his exhaustion, and you watch fondly as his eyes crinkle at the corners in the dim light of the oil lamp at your bedside.
you shift a little closer to him in your bed, craning up to press a kiss to the little mark below his eye. he sighs contently as your lips brush against his skin, his body slackening into yours as though he's finally allowing his weariness to catch up to him. finally allowing himself to rest.
you pull away, brushing a few strands of blonde hair back from his face.
he has a bruise at the edge of his jaw, and dark rings of shadow that are deepest at the inner corner of his eyes. his skin looks sallow, and his lips dry.
you wonder how rough these past few weeks have been.
“where’s nico?” you ask gently, cradling his face in your hands. the question has been at the back of your mind since your bed dipped only on one side.
vash averts his eyes from yours guiltily.
“vash?” you press, a sudden knot of anxiety winding in the pit of your stomach. you sit up in bed, your quilt pooling in your lap as it slips from your body and reveals the cotton of your gauzy nightdress.
“he’s outside,” the man beside you murmurs, pink blooming high across his cheeks as his head rests against his pillow. he pouts a little, finally peeking back up at you through his lashes with a wounded gaze. “he’s mad at me.”
“oh?” you ask, fighting back a laugh at how sheepish and petulant the man below you looks. “and why is that?”
vash purses his lips even further.
“the guy we were after…”
“the wanted man whose bounty you were hunting,” you correct vash lightly, a lilt of playfulness in your tone.
“yeah, him,” vash nods, and then grimaces, “he sort of… got away.”
you let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“vash, that’s…”
“the third one in a row, i know. i know.” vash wraps his arms around your waist and pulls his head into your lap. you card your fingers through his hair as he nuzzles into you for comfort.
“did you let this one get away again?” you ask quietly, but not in an accusatory way.
vash says nothing, but that’s an admission in and of itself.
you sigh, your fingers stilling as they trace through the strands of blonde, the locks curling around your knuckles. you shift towards the edge of the bed, and vash tries to keep you where you are by tightening his hold around your waist.
“i’m just gonna go check on him,” you assure him when he looks up at you with wide eyes. you dip down and press a kiss to his lips—the ones you’ve been missing so much for the fortnight he and nicholas had been away. he whines as you pull away, and you smile against his mouth. you kiss him again, more chaste this time. “i’ll be back.”
nicholas is on the front porch, staring out into the sea of sand that surrounds the little ranch you call home. his beloved boots have been kicked off beside the door, and his shirt is unbuttoned to reveal the undershirt he wears beneath. the tails of the shirt are still tucked into his trousers but he’s unfastened their button at his waist too, and his suspenders are the only thing keeping them on as he reclines back onto his elbows against the wooden slats of the porch deck.
you know he hears the screen door open to let you out, and you're even more certain that he hears the sound of it shutting behind you once you've stepped outside. the smell of tobacco clings to the edge of the night wind. it’s familiar, comforting. reminds you that he’s home. you draw in a long breath to savour it.
“you should be in bed, kid,” nicholas rasps, tapping the ash off the end of his sad, vaguely mangled cigarette.
“i’m not allowed to come and welcome you home?” you kneel behind him, wrapping your arms around his neck. it feels nice to have him in your arms again. feels right.
“not when you’ve got a crybaby to coddle in there,” he grunts, but you still feel him lean back into your embrace. you hide your pleased smile against the crown of his head.
“he’s probably already asleep,” you murmur into the top nicholas’s hair, swaying him gently. “he feels bad. he thinks you’re mad at him.”
“i am mad at him,” nicholas snaps, but you see through the sharpness of his tone. he’s tired, probably hungry, but not sincerely angry. “he fucked up another job for us.”
“guess that’s what you get taking in a fugitive as a partner, mister bounty hunter,” you tease him, pressing a kiss to his throat. his skin tastes of salt and desert sand, like days spent in the sun and labour. you feel how he shivers at the gentle brush of your mouth against his pulse. "and a bleeding hearted one at that."
“you’re the one who took him in like a stray,” nicholas complains, “i’m only putting up with him for your sake.”
it’s a lie, and he knows it as well as you do. he’s just as attached to the blonde presently curled up in your bed, the one too big for just him, as you are. it's the reason nicholas wears a thin gold band that he takes impossibly good care of, just like the two of you do, on his left ring finger.
nicholas tips his head back so he can finally look at you, his cigarette still dangling from his lips. the corner of his mouth quirks slightly as he draws a breath in, the cherry burning red in the night. you pluck the cigarette from his lips as he lets the smoke slip out on his exhale, his dark eyes still fixed to your face as he appraises you.
you observe him similarly, scanning over him as though taking inventory of the state he's fallen into since he's been away. he’s in the same shape as vash, from what you can tell. you spot some bruises mottling his skin, some rough stubble coming in at the edge of his jaw. there’s a blood stain on the collar of his shirt, and you aren’t sure if it’s his own or someone else’s, but you know it will be a pain to wash out.
but that’s a problem for tomorrow.
“if he’s a stray, what does that make you?” you ask him with a little laugh, his cigarette still pinched between your thumb and forefinger.
he quirks a brow. “if i say ‘the luckiest guy in the world’ are you gonna think i’m just trying to take you to bed?”
you snort, stamping the stub of the cigarette out onto the wooden porch and then flicking the butt away into the sand. you dip down until you’re nose to nose with him.
“of course I am,” you reply to him, your lips brushing against his as you speak the words. you can taste the tobacco that clings to his mouth from this close, but you don't mind it when it tastes like home. “and it’s our bed, nicholas. so take me to it whenever you’d like.”
(read part 2 here!)