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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.

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vash—nsfw alphabet [J-Q]

welp. this is about the point where ya’ll realize how absolutely feral I am for this man-plant. talk about no self restraint, I wrote this in a stupor of simpery, was guided by the spirit of the horny ghost on this long journey. I also did not edit it, because nobody has time for that. anyways, starting off part two strong with J, for Jesus Christ, I Am So Down Bad I’m Literally On My Knees. it also stands for Jack Off, which is funnier, I think.

warnings/tags; afab, fem pronouns, p in v descriptions, public sex, overstimulation, oral/cunnilingus, edging, praise kink TO THE MAX, pain kink, [we know how I feel about this, but imma be real and say he’s a not-so-closeted masochist] rough sex, hair pulling, biting, BEGGING, so much begging, and probably a ton of other things but you get the point.

word count; 3.6K [lord help me]

part one, [A-I]

J = Jack off [masturbation headcanon]

⍟ Vash may be a Plant, but some might argue he’s more human than he believes himself to be. He still has to sleep, and eat, drink water or he’ll succumb to the tribulations of dehydration, and so he does indeed find himself burdened with the very human ailment of sexual frustration.

⍟ Although opportunities to relieve himself with another happen rather frequently [he’s not blind, he can tell when a woman wants him], he never entertains them. It’s not that they’re not beautiful, or kind, or caring—they certainly are, most of the time—it’s just that he doesn’t really allow himself that easy relief. Something about it just feels wrong, like he hasn’t done enough to deserve it.

⍟ A voluntary celibate, if you will. Besides, the idea of a quick romp in the tattered sheets with some nameless girl rings very hollow to Vash. The connection would be purely physical, and he believes it wouldn’t be fair for either party. If he’s going to let himself be that vulnerable with someone, he has to know them, trust them entirely.

⍟ Countless times he’s brushed off a flirtatious hand on his bicep, excused himself from the sultry, half-massed gaze of a pretty girl to sequester in whatever decrepit motel room he’s in for the night. It’s there that he finds his relief, alone.

⍟ When he’s enveloped in the privacy of a room or even the vast solitude of sand for iles around, the only light being that of a luminescent glow from above, Vash takes his time. His palm smooths down his torso, feeling the ridges of tender scar tissue, the protrusions of metal implants, before passing his belt entirely to press firmly against his groin.

⍟ He waits to shuck his pants down, just enough to wrap a hand around his stiff cock—waits until he’s panting softly, desperately. He has a tendency to tease and inch his way to a point where he can no longer hold back, and sometimes, longer still. But when he finally does, the sensation is strong enough that it feels like the first crack of rapture. His rolling breaths catch in his throat, moaning loud enough that he’s scoring his lower lip between his teeth, harshly stifling himself.

⍟ Vash is both embarrassed and shameful of this, but he tends to favor his prosthetic over his remaining hand. He takes pleasure in the initial contrast of cool metal against the stiff, hot silk of his length, and the sensors are dull enough that he can suspend his disbelief, if just for a moment—imagine that the tight fist stroking his cock belongs to another.

⍟ The guilt nearly ate him up alive the first time he envisioned your delicate hand there, your beautiful face resting against the sharp crescent of his hipbone, lovingly and patiently shattering him to pieces. It does still, but it’s a gnawing thing now, and Vash thinks that this is a guilt he’s capable of bearing; he simply can’t imagine anyone else.

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Erm so...

If you don't hear from me it is because I am writing a Vashwood fanfic

They are my roman empire.

(Idea credit from @fatouisthinking on TikTok)

I wrote a thing about Vash burying Wolfwood in the 1998 continuity

Twin Sized Mattress

(1.6k words)

He was dead.

Vash had to keep telling himself that as he looked at the upturned dirt, the makeshift grave. He didn’t have the resources for the burial Wolfwood deserved, who was laid gently in the hole in the ground, around the size of a twin-sized mattress.

People often recounted their loved ones looking peaceful in death. This was nothing like that. Wolfwood looked like he loathed everything about the situation. But he couldn’t.

He was dead, he reminded himself.

He looked like he was simply having a nightmare, his brows furrowed, even in rigor mortis. Vash felt heavy, ill, as he looked at him, wanting to memorize his features. He didn’t want to forget him, the way he looked, the way he talked, the way he loved. The way he cared , even when the man really didn't want to.

The reality was, Vash couldn’t forget him, even if he wanted to, even if he tried. It wasn’t possible. That didn’t stop him from being paranoid anyways. A man, involved in his life for such a short span of time compared to the 150 years Vash has been alive, had altered many things within Vash. The way he saw himself, most prominently.

Wolfwood didn’t see Vash as a monster nor as an abomination. He saw him as a person , even when Vash physically wasn’t one. Wolfwood defended Vash, even when Vash himself wouldn’t. He blocked the stones thrown at him by the townspeople, he felt anger for Vash when he refused to.

He called him an angel frequently, almost nonchalantly. As if he wasn’t aware of the words he was uttering. But Vash knew Wolfwood was aware. Aware of the impact it held on Vash, aware of the way those words pierced through him, so intimate it hurt.

He wouldn’t hear Wolfwood call him angel ever again.

He was dead, he reminded himself.

Vash sucked in a breath, painfully aware that he was the only one still able to draw in air. The nagging feeling that the man in the ground should be him ate away at his insides. His hand idly reached into his pocket, taking out the pack of cigarettes he had taken out of Wolfwood’s suit pocket before laying him in the grave.

The edges of the box had been stained dark crimson, almost brown now, with blood from Wolfwood’s wounds. Vash traced his thumb over the stains, almost reverently. Blood spilled in a human sacrifice. He took out a cigarette, placing it between his lips, trying to imitate the way Wolfwood usually held it. He didn’t want to forget that either.

He didn’t light the cigarette, as he looked down at Wolfwood. He had to finish burying him first. But even imagining it, the dirt thrown onto Wolfwood, felt innately wrong. Vash shouldn’t be burying him like this. He should have a coffin, a gravestone, not some hole in the middle of the desert. A nameless grave, known only to few.

“Well…” Vash sighed, “This is shit, isn’t it, Nico?” Vash said, his voice hoarse. He wasn’t sure why his voice was so rough. He hadn’t cried yet, not allowing it. He knew if he cried now, he would latch himself to Wolfwood’s body and never let go, opting to bury himself with him. A lump formed in his throat and he struggled to swallow it back down.

Vash stood in silence for a moment, just looking at Wolfwood, raking his gaze over his form. It was almost physically painful to look at him. It always hurt to look at Wolfwood. It was like looking directly into the sun. Vash’s sun. It hurts for a different reason now, similar to when a star dies, so do all the planets around it.

“Nico…” Vash started, not quite knowing what to say. He hoped Wolfwood could even hear him, he hoped that God, the one Wolfwood whispered prayers too when he thought no one was looking, would deliver his message. The rosary Wolfwood had given to him months ago felt like it weighed fifty pounds, hanging around his neck. It felt like a magnet, connecting him to Wolfwood, wanting to drag Vash down with him. He clutched it with his metal arm, too holy to touch with flesh.

“I always thought I was going to be the one to bite the bullet first.. It’s ironic that it’s the opposite…” He said, his voice breaking. Tears fought their way to spill, and still, Vash wouldn’t allow it. “I hope you can still protect me from up there…or wherever you are now” There was still so much to say, but he can already imagine how Wolfwood would reply. Vash wanted to apologize for not being able to help him, but he can practically hear Wolfwood scolding him.

“Stop beating yourself up. It’s not your fault, Needle-noggin’” He would say. Yet, Vash would still feel like it was. He always did. There was silence again, like Vash was waiting for Wolfwood to reply.

He was dead, he reminded himself.

How many times was he going to say it to himself until he believed it? No matter if it took centuries, millennia. He couldn’t, not after all that happened.

His subconscious rendered him useless. He felt…he didn’t know what he felt. Vash and Death were old friends. He experienced death first hand, lived and breathed it. He caused it. This was different.

The grief he felt was different .

Vash knew what grief was too. He knew it with Rem, with the people Knives had killed because of him. This feeling he felt, weighing heavy in his chest, was nothing like that.

This was deeper. He didn’t even know how to put such an emotion into words, he didn’t know how to make it tangible, for him to understand. But it was there, festering. It threatened to consume him if his guard was down, desperately trying to claw its way out of his chest. It wanted everyone to know Vash’s pain.

Vash forced it back down. He wouldn’t suffocate others with his own grief.

For him, guilt and grief usually went hand in hand. And the guilt Vash currently felt was continuously running scenarios through his head, on loop. Scenarios where he had done something. Scenarios where Wolfwood would still be alive.

He snapped out of his stupor, cutting those running thoughts off. He couldn’t let those types of thoughts take hold right now. He sighed.

“I’m sorry…” was all he said, his teeth biting into the unlit cigarette he still held in his mouth as he picked up the shovel again, preparing to cover Wolfwood’s delicate corpse—in reality it was anything but delicate, covered in scars and calluses, open wounds—with coarse sand. But before that, Vash grabbed the hem of his coat, the ends already tattered with wear, and used his metal arm to tear off a piece the size of his forearm.

It wasn’t much, but Vash needed something to shelter Wolfwood from the roughness of the world. Vash had tried to do that when Wolfwood was alive too. In those quiet moments they shared. They were nothing amazing, no grandiose professions of love or anything of the sort. Those feelings were shared in quiet, small moments. Moments when Vash watched the sunset silently next to Wolfwood, who was smoking a cigarette. Or moments when they could only afford one bed at an inn, and they lay together, backs facing each other.

They would always wake up pressed against each other in the morning. Even in sleep, they would be seeking comfort from each other. Vash knew the same thing would apply in death.

Vash began to cover Wolfwood now with shaking hands. The shovel felt heavier than it should be, the sand he lifted with it even more so. He moved like a machine, rhythmically dumping sand onto Wolfwood. This was wrong, he repeated to himself. Yet, Vash continued anyway. The sun was setting when he finished, and he let the shovel fall to the ground, scrounging through his pockets.

He pulled out Wolfwood’s lighter, holding it in his palm. There were scratches littering it, and it was obvious that Wolfwood had had this lighter for a while. It was a miracle it still even worked with how many packs the man smoked in a week.

He clicked the lighter to life, bringing it to the end of the cigarette. He inhaled deeply, the sting of the tobacco searing through his throat and nose. He coughed harshly, tears stinging his eyes. He sobbed. The sound surprised him, as if it wasn’t coming from him, as if he wasn’t expecting it at some point.

Vash rubbed furiously at his face, trying to force the tears to stop, but the relief he felt wouldn’t allow him. He took another ragged inhale, the tobacco stinging again, but this time the sting was dulled by the nicotine. The smell of the cigarettes would linger, buried in his coat, his hair, his skin. Any other time, the smell of Marlboro Reds would be comforting to Vash because it reminded him of Wolfwood. Now, it felt like he was being crushed under the weight of grief, under the tears that wouldn’t stop spilling.

He gasped between the sobs, feeling like he couldn't breathe. He had half the mind to start clawing at the sand, to dig him back up. He wanted to. Vash wanted him back, wanted to see his face. But he knew that no matter how much he looked at Wolfwood, how much he memorized, how much he reminisced, Wolfwood wouldn’t wake up. He wouldn’t come back.

He was dead , he told himself.

He is dead . His mind refused to stop repeating it.

No, Vash wouldn’t learn to accept it, even if he repeated it a million times. He inhaled the tobacco again, his tears reluctantly ebbing to stop. He was sure this feeling was going to be permanent, and for however long Vash lived, he would have a bleeding wound. A wound around the size of a twin-sized mattress.

This fic is lovely please read it 🥺

Come Home, Please

Trigun: Plantwood 🔞

There is something off about the people of July. Wolfwood and Nai can feel it in the air as soon as they arrive. It’s something familiar, Nai thinks.

——————

150 years of running has finally caught up to Nai. Vash has found him, and this time, he’s not willing to let him get away.

A collab with the amazing @kaczsia 🥹