Alright so I’m gonna try and wrap all my thoughts about these stupid little guys (affectionate) into one cohesive post because I am in so much pain thinking about Vashwood in Trigun Stampede specifically.
For starters: I like to think that Tristamp Vashwood specifically had the most whirlwind romance out of every iteration of Vashwood. With Wolfwood (or as some of my friends like to call him in this iteration: Bratwood) being a lost and traumatised little boy trapped in the body of a stone cold killer, or in layman’s terms, everything Vash’s moral code is against. And also in Tristamp Vash is probably the shyest so far. If he wants something, or in this case, someone, he’s too hesitant and self deprecating to think he deserves any sort of happiness.
Wolfwood truly begins to care about Vash, slowly but surely. I say this because in episode 4 when Vash defends ww to Roberto with the “I can see it in his eyes”/ “those are the eyes of a good guy” comment, his eyes literally light up.
This scene vvv
And it shows later in that same episode when Vash finally eats something after what happened in Jeneora Rock. Wolfwood’s eyes lit up again when he realised that Vash took his advice. And the way he smiled, too.
And how could I forget episode 5, and the way Vash’s eyes soften when ww says “Mercy.” Like before that point, he was understandably furious because his morals were treated like nothing more than a fancy garnish that gets tossed out by someone he has grown to care about, but ww, calm as ever, explains that being alive in the way Rollo was would have been a life of nothing but pain, suffering and loneliness. In that moment, after that single word, “Mercy,” Vash’s anger fades. And what is it immediately replaced by? Guilt and regret. Not for anything he did, but for what he didn’t do to prevent Rollo from turning out the way he did twenty years prior.
And let’s not forget WW’s reaction to Vash being shot. Like you could see the genuine fear on his face when Vash’s blood flew across his cheek. He was immediately moving to act, to make sure that Vash was okay. This, and the way that Vash got so used to Wolfwood’s physical habits within just a few days of knowing each other says a lot about their relationship. He literally could tell that Wolfwood was about to go into a fight, guns blazing and was like: “don’t do it.” And WOLFWOOD LISTENED. He grumbled a bit, but he listened and lowered his weapon a little. It might have only been a little, but it was enough.
But we also can’t forget all the times that Vash said Wolfwood’s name with all the softness in the world. Both in episode 7 and episode 10. And the way they parted ways for the rest of the season in the latter episode and how Wolfwood sounded so vulnerable in that moment right before they split up? I might be reading too much into it, but that’s the point of this post. Wolfwood cares deeply about Vash and vice versa. It’s never stated because of their characters, but it doesn’t need to be. They just care for each other, and that’s enough for them.
In conclusion: what originally started out as a whirlwind romance between them turned into a genuine love and a deep, almost guttural sense of longing for one another that ww only realised he reciprocated when Vash disappeared.
I hope y’all enjoyed my silly little ramble about Vashwood in Tristamp and how important they are to me! I can’t wait for season two!
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Qifrey is such a sweet, kind-hearted child and i don't think thats recognized enough.
Olruggio is kind, almost to a fault, with a strong moral compass (even if those morals don't always align with society at large) but Qifrey... look at his face. He didn't even believe he and Olly were friends, but he was sobbing at the thought of Olly getting hurt because of him. He tried so hard to come across as cold, convinced that his lies would put a large enough wedge between them to finally dislodge olly from his side. so that he would not get hurt. Sweet, sweet boy who doesn't even know when his birthday is. You deserve the word.
My name is Tominaga Haruka. I was chosen by a magical talking animal, and for the last 29 years I've been Earth's one and only... Wonder-Sparkle Princess.
she's been fighting the same villains for three decades and they are also tired of it. Most of them aren't giving it their all.
Half of them are in a groupchat they've added her to where they schedule their evil plans to make sure they don't interfere with each other, or more importantly, with *her*
Xalkrax the space demon from outer space decided to attack the city when she was taking her vacation time once, and now he's dead, because even the power of friendship and redemption can't save you if you interrupt her rare vacations
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Summary: You love Vash. Does he love you back? It's complicated.
Pairing: Vash the Stampede x reader
Wc: 1.8k
Cw: angst, smut, situationship, penetrative sex, pwp, crying, rough sex.
An: trying to get myself back into writing after being gone for a little bit so sorry if this is a little bit messy! Also I don't usually do song recs buuuuut
Song Recommendation: Sugar - Sleep Token
Vash is emotional.
He'd probably never outright admit that to you, and he seems awfully intent on keeping you at an arm's length no matter what you do, but you've been around him long enough to notice those rare and faint cracks in that perfect facade. As much as he tries to hide it, you can see it. His eyes are sad and his smile is hollow. He desperately seeks for love in a world where it feels impossible to find, and yet denies himself of it when it's right there, walking alongside him.
But there are some nights, after particularly strenuous travels and when too much venom has been spat his way where that handsome facade finally cracks.
He's vulnerable, and he reaches for you, baring to you his fleeting moments of weakness. Deep down, you know what he's really searching for. Forgiveness, acceptance, love. But now, he seeks you for comfort in any way you're willing to give it to him and as much as you are willing to give him. He wants mercy. At least for the evening.
His will is strong enough that he'll never allow himself to have you, but just weak enough that he can't truly resist you. He yearns for you.
And you're not quite sure how it all started, or how you both got to this point - how you let things get so messy - but damn it you'd be lying if you said you didn't want this in any form. As long as you can have him. Even if it's just physically. Even if it's just for a night.
Sometimes it's loving, with worshipful hands – one smooth and cold, one warm and calloused – tracing your lines with a reverence you have to tell yourself isn't real. With wet lips pressing featherlight kisses along the curves of your neck and down the divot of your collarbone, his mouth wandering a slow, meandering path along your body and meticulously etching out every spot that makes your breath hitch like he's trying to commit it to memory.
It's tender, with languid strokes that have one orgasm flowing into the next, until you're left a pliable, boneless mess beneath him, whimpering his name over and over and your body begging for him to do whatever he wants to you. Luckily for you, you're in good hands. He's here to take care of you, even if it's for his own selfish reasons.
Your name falls off his lips like a plea for forgiveness, kisses oh so tender, drinking your moans like they're the sweetest ambrosia. He roves over your body with intimate familiarity and pulls you apart piece by piece with his fingers, his mouth, his cock, cataloging every inch of your skin before he puts you back together so he can do it all over again, all while whispering a litany of praises and sweet nothings.
“You're so beautiful when you're like this. Always so perfect, mayfly.”
“You're doing so well, feel so good around me.”
“Am I hurting you? Don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart. Just wanna make you feel good.”
“Let me just move your legs like– Yeah, like that. That feels good, right? Just like that. Now I can fuck you deeper.”
“You like me filling you with my cock like this, mayfly? You take me so well. So perfectly.”
“You're so pretty like this. All flushed and delicate.”
“Not so fast, angel. Wanna make this last. Wanna savour you.”
“So beautiful when you come. I could watch you for hours.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
Sweet, beautiful, angelic, the words dripping from his lips like syrup. You hold on to them while you can, because you know they'll be gone come morning.
You wish he'd let you in. You wish he'd truly open up to you and not only seek you out when he's desperate. Fuck, you love him. You see him at his most vulnerable moments, you hold him close when he lets you, and you let him take pleasure in your body as he needs because you love him, all sides of him.
But, Vash is also angry, and that's a side of him he keeps hidden even in his most delicate moments.
Sometimes, those feelings he keeps buried deep bubble up. When he's completely run out of those briefly lucky moments and he's forced to face the darkest, sickest sides of what humanity has to offer and he's made to question what it's all even for.
Sometimes it's almost selfish, possessive, with him wordlessly cornering you and his large frame caging you in against the nearest surface, strategically leaning his arm up on the wall next to your head so that you have nowhere else to run off to, nothing else to look at, only him - wholly commanding your attention with sapphire eyes begging for something he knows you can give him. He needs a reminder, and you're far too swooped up in the typhoon to deny him.
It's impatient, with his flesh and bone hand holding your hip in a bruising grip while cool metal keeps your face forcefully pressed down into the dusty sheets. You wouldn't be able to cry out for him to stop even if you wanted to as he steals your breath away every time his scarred hips slam against the softness of your ass, your desperation making itself obvious to him in the form of the slickness pouring from between your thighs. He has your mind swirling under his ruthless onslaught of pleasure as he takes full advantage of each and every one of your lewdest weaknesses. He knows exactly where to touch, where to taste, where to tease, where to bite, red marks littering your pretty neck that'll bloom into faint purples and blues come morning. The dingy walls echo with the wet sounds of flesh connecting as he starts greedily chasing his own pleasure with every rolling buck of his stuttering hips, your name spilling from his lips like a curse, fucking you like it's another sin for him to bare.
“Take it. Take all of it, mayfly. I know you can.”
“Spread your legs wider. Wider.”
“Look at you. Such a mess.”
“Gonna fuck you dumb, make sure you don't know which way is up or down when I'm done with you. Until the only thing you know is me.”
“Say my name.”
“Say it louder.”
“Touch yourself. Wanna watch you cream on my cock.”
“That's it. Fuck– That's it.”
“So fucking pretty when you fall apart.”
“Come for me. Come for me now.”
“Such a good little thing for me. Nobody else gets to touch you like this, make you moan like this, fill you up like this.”
“Tell me it's all for me. Tell me it's all mine.”
“Look at me.”
“Let me see you break.”
And when his breaths calm and his pleasure filled haze fades, when that fleeting moment of rapture dissipates, the guilt comes flooding back, leaving him faced with where he is, what he's done, and worst of all, who he's done it all with.
No matter how it goes, it always ends the same way, with him whispering his broken apologies as streams of tears pour from those ethereal pools of azure.
“I'm sorry.”
“I'm so sorry, mayfly.”
“I'm so sorry.”
It doesn't matter how many times you try to comfort him, how many times you tell him that you want this, or that you want him. Your sweet and gentle words do nothing to ease the ache he feels in his chest. If anything, you're making it worse.
“I don't deserve this. Any of this.”
“Especially not you.”
“Never you.”
He always stays close to you for the night. He sobs and lets his tears fall on the skin where your neck meets your shoulder, brokenly weeping his regrets, begging you for forgiveness. He cries until the exhaustion seeps into his bones and pulls him into a deep sleep, his tears still staining his cheeks and his limbs still tangled with yours.
You wrap your arms around him and keep him pressed to you, savouring the soothing heat of his body on your skin, the feeling of his breath on your neck, the peaceful tempo of his inhales and exhales. Your thumbs brush away any remaining tears, your fingers ghosting over his sun-kissed skin, dancing over the curve of his jaw, the highs of his cheekbones, over that cute little mole, down along the bridge of his nose until you're tracing over those slightly parted lips. You keep him close while you still have him, holding on to these fleeting moments of intimacy you get to indulge in. Like always, it'll be gone come morning.
It never goes into the morning.
No, when the morning light spills through the curtains and when the suns rise, you both pretend none of it ever happened. He rolls off of you and walks off towards the shower without a word. His tear-stained eyes are still puffy and red, but they don't even look at you. He keeps quiet, and when you're both cleansed of any evidence of your passionate evening together, he gives you that lovely, empty smile that you've grown to recognize.
It hurts every fucking time you see it.
You wander through empty dessert together, making small talk, just like friends do. Never do you discuss what's happened, what you two are, what you feel.
Once again, you're kept at an arm's length.
Until the next night, or maybe it'll be the night after, when he's suddenly hugging you from behind with his breath on the column of your throat, whining and apologizing as he begs for you.
“I'm sorry. I know I don't deserve it, don't deserve you, but just… please. You're the only one I can trust with this.”
“Please, mayfly. I need you. I'm sorry.”
Sometimes, he waits until the marks he left on you have faded. Maybe it's so he can mark you up again, pretend like any and every part of you belongs to him and give in to that satisfaction he gets from knowing he's the one who does this to you, that he's the one who leaves you writhing and moaning and begging on soiled sheets for any ounce of his touch.
Or maybe it's so he can admire every inch of your divine, unclaimed flesh, and he can pretend he was never selfish enough to try to mark you to begin with. He can pretend that he was never so foolish as to believe he could touch the holy body that is you with his blightful and wicked hands.
And he can pretend that those three beautiful words never fell from his perfect lips.
