.-: Pretty

.・゜-: ✧ 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.

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.

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...?”

I’m so very deep in my Trigun obsession, so it’s only fair that I write something about it

! Minors dni !

Fingering headcanons ; Vash x reader ; Wolfwood x reader

Warnings: afab!reader , fingering , slight impact play , slight temperature play , praise , just a whole lot of pussy worship

! Nsfw below !

Vash absolutely adores fingering you, it’s his favourite pastime. He loves being in control of your pleasure, and boy is he good at it.

He knows every single spot that gets you all whiney, a proud smile curling his lips every time he earns a breathy “Right there!” or “God, don’t stop..”. Vash has every one of your sweet spots stored in his memory, and it has your mind foggy with every stroke of his fingers.

If he’s feeling extra playful or just in a giving mood, he’ll finger you with his prosthetic arm, the cold metal of the fingers making you shiver and your eyes roll back into your head. Vash’ll even alternate between his two arms, the contrast in temperature always manages to have your toes curling.

Also, if you’re okay with it, Vash will finger you while wearing his glove. I mean, he wears them on his two middle fingers for a reason, right? The rough material of the fabric makes you cum so fast and so hard, and Vash can’t help but marvel at how your juices soak his glove, turning it an even darker black. He’s had to throw away a few gloves before, but it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. He loves making you feel good, even if it’s at his expense.

Vash makes it his mission to have you cumming on his fingers at least 3 times before he actually gets down to business. He can’t help it when your pussy just clenches so good around his slender fingers. Bonus points if he can make you squirt.

His favourite position to finger you in is to have your back against his chest, having you on full display as his deep blue eyes are glued to how you gush around his fingers. This way Vash can whisper as many praises as he desires, telling you how pretty you are and how good your perfect pussy sounds and feels.

“Does that feel good?” Vash’s voice comes out in a husk, low and gravelly as his lips brush against the shell of your ear. His fingers curl against your walls, pushing against the familiar spongy flesh of your g-spot. He has you seeing stars, your moans coming out as high-pitched whines as your hips rolled against his hand, your clit brushing against the heel of his hand and causing your eyes to flutter shut.

“So, so good…Gonna cum, Vash.” You croak, your chest heaving as the familiar heat of an orgasm pooled in your stomach. Vash groaned as you spoke, his lips nibbling at your earlobe as he curled his fingers inside you with a newfound eagerness. “That’s it…Go on, love. You can do it, know you can. My good girl..” he purrs, and he has your pussy spasming in seconds, your arousal spraying all over his hand, soaking both him and the sheets.

Your hand grips his prosthetic arm, your fingers trembling as your head falls back against his shoulder, your hot breath tickling his ear as you pant. Vash just lets out a breathy laugh, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple as he slowly pulls his fingers away from your aching cunt.

“So perfect..”

——————————————————

Wolfwood isn’t as gentle as Vash, if anything he’s the other side of the coin. He fingers you before and after sex, he’s a greedy man. He loves how you whine and weakly push his hand away, saying how sensitive you are as he pushes his cum back where it belongs.

His fingers are calloused from carrying around that heavy cross every hour of the day, and he knows how to use them. Wolfwood’s fingers scrape against every bump and dip of your pussy, making you jolt and cry out every time.

Will slap your pussy if he thinks you’re cumming too fast. He loves to rile you up as much as he can until you’re begging him to just let you cum, your voice like heaven to him.

Wolfwood’s fingers are thicker than Vash’s as well, and they stretch you out so good it has you practically drooling every time he pushes them into your sopping pussy.

His favourite position to finger you in is having you on your back, holding your legs to your chest as Wolfwood hovers over you, abusing your cunt with his rough fingers. If he notices that your legs are closing, he’ll give your pussy a slap, warning you to keep your legs open or else he’ll leave you high and dry.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart; and keep those legs open, yeah?” Wolfwood’s deep voice rings in your ears, his dialect rough from nicotine. His hand slaps against your wet pussy, causing you to wince and let out a whiney cry. He’s been bullying your cunt for hours now, only letting you cum twice in that timeframe.

Your legs snap open, your hands gripping the back of your thighs as you pull them back to your chest, your face beet red and dripping with sweat. “Please, Nico…Wanna cum so bad..” you mewl, your voice cracking from how long and loud you were squealing as Wolfwood’s thick fingers continued to curl against your spongy g-spot.

Your begging earns a playful smirk to pull at his lips, his eyes flashing as he purrs, his fingers picking up the pace. “Oh, well…since ya asked so nicely, I guess you can cum.” His words have you gushing in an instant, your knuckles going white as your pussy clenched around his fingers, spraying against his abdomen. It makes a groan rumble in his chest.

Wolfwood removes his fingers from your exhausted cunt, moving them to his lips to lick them clean. Your taste has him groaning again. “Good girl..”.

——————————————————

A/N: I’m actually super proud of this one, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Vashwood brainrot

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

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

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

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

wc: 0.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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