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VashWood (I wrote the one I posted previously two hours ago and then got this idea and wrote this fifteen minutes ago?? Idk why I’m on a VashWood warpath?? I hope you like it tho)

Warnings: Uhh scar mentions. A lot. That’s it. Smoking? Wolfwood things.

~*~

“-And that one was from a Bounty Hunter. I really nearly got got that time.”

Wolfwood huffs out a column of smoke, watching with low and heavy eyelids as Vash maps out the scars on his naked abdomen. He can’t remember how they got onto the conversation exactly. A joke, he thinks vaguely, about putting a cap in the blonde’s ass if he carried on being annoying that turned into a rather funny story on how he very nearly actually got a cap in the ass once.

Not a single scar was an accident. From small, barely visible things that could pass as birth marks to the large, horrifying and knotted tragedies that took up vast amounts of his skin. They all had a story.

Wolfwood can remember a time in the early stages of their romantic relationship when Vash was self conscious of the network of mutilated flesh his body adorned. Shying away if the Undertaker looked too closely, ever so subtly hunching his shoulders forward whenever he was shirtless as if to shrink in on himself. He was a little bit proud to say that the Typhoon didn’t really hide from him anymore. Evident in the confidence he had in drawing attention to each and every twisted little scar on his form, hesitant only in explaining how it got there if the origin was a touchy subject.

“Anyway,” the blonde chirps, clearly having had enough of the skeletons in his closet for a day, “do you have any scars?”

The question catches Wolfwood off guard a little bit. And he doesn’t realise the ash on the end of his cigarette is getting a bit too large until it falls, landing right between his naked collar bones, and he hisses at the little sting. Vash laughs as the other man shoots up into a sitting position, swiping the ash off of himself, and stumping the half-smoked cig into the ashtray on the floor beside the bed. He grumbles, laying back down with a grunt and thinking for a moment.

“I got one.”

“Just one?”

“Yea’. When I was a kid.”

Wolfwood holds his arm up skyward, and Vash scoots in, until his cheek is resting on the inky-haired man’s shoulder, peering up at the arm as Wolfwood brings his other hand in to point at a spot in the centre of his forearm.

Vash squints. It’s… green. Like an old bruise.

“That’s a scar?”

“Mhm.”

“What is it?”

Wolfwood inhales, squinting at the spot himself for all of a few seconds before exhaling again.

“At the Orphanage. There was this kid I hated. Constantly made the other kids feel like shit cuz’ apparently he was only there ‘temporarily,’ n’ his Mom and Dad were gonna come back for him. Total lies. Just wan’ed to feel better than everyone else.”

Vash nods, soaking in every word, his big blue eyes shifting their focus from his partner’s arm to his tawny face. The square of scruffy jaw, the hook in his nose. His eyes soften fondly.

“Anyway, I got sick of it. Told him to shut up, n’ that his parents wan’ed about as much to do with him as the rest of us. And…”

The Typhoon blinks.

“And…?”

“… And he stabbed me in the arm with a pencil.”

Vash the Stampede was a good man, despite what others may think of him. Or what he may think of himself. He was open minded, understanding and endlessly kind. He’d never judge anyone for their origins, and would always lend a listening ear if someone needed it. So when a little sound forces its way out of his lungs, he clamps a hand over his mouth. But it does nothing to slow down the sudden onslaught of laughter that uses his entire stomach.

The Undertaker snarls, shoving a hand in Vash’s face and barking at him to stop his laughing. And Vash tries. He really does, but it doesn’t work. He laughs and laughs until his midriff is aching and Wolfwood is on top of him, hands braced either side of his head, straddling his hips and threatening violence.

“I-I’m sorry!” Vash giggles, wiping his eyes, “I just… A pencil.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean, if you’re so inclined.”

Wolfwood scoffs, rolling his eyes and climbing off of his companion, stomping around to grab his cigarettes.

“I can’t believe that’s the only scar you have.”

“What can I say,” he grumbles, “everythin’ that came after the experiments healed like it never happened.”

“Right…”

Wolfwood turns to look at the man still lying prone in the bed, but his expression is now one of guilt, remorse. His eyebrows are drawn together, looking at nothing in particular as he thinks.

“Oi, Spikes,” Wolfwood calls out, “don’t go gettin’ soft on me now. You were just laughing at me a second ago.”

“Yeah, well that was until I remembered your tragic backstory,” Vash sulks, looking sullen and a bit upset with himself. Wolfwood can tell he’s worried that he may have insulted him with his laughter and rolls his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed with his new cigarette and lighter in hand, and leans down to catch his lips in a sudden kiss that catches the blonde off guard.

“It’s fine,” Wolfwood breathes against the softness of Vash’s mouth, “I don’t mind you bein’ a bit mean.”

“Well I mind,” Vash pouts in retort, “makes me feel bad.”

“You need thicker skin.”

“Coming from the guy with a pencil scar.”

“I thought you felt bad.”

“I’m over it.”

VashWood fluff drabble (I only ever write drabbles these days)

Warnings: None

~*~

When Vash the Stampede opens his eyes that morning, he wonders, briefly, to himself if the Reaper has finally come calling. Because what on Earth could he have done to deserve this?

Sunlight is breaking through the sheer drapes. Streaks of golden warmth filter diagonally through the small room, reflecting off of glass vases, old mirrors, golden drawer-knobs. Below the window, in the street, people are talking. Walking. There’s laughter, kids hollering. There is life. The bed is comfortable. Not the usual, cheap whatever he ordinarily settles for. The journey had been long and tiresome this time, more so than usual, so he’d sprung for something a bit more luxurious. Not fancy. But liveable.

The sheets are soft, pillows filled with down, and as his cobalt eyes adjust against his drowsiness, they come to rest on the sleeping figure beside him. Blissfully unaware of the Typhoons wandering eyes.

Vash can’t see much of Wolfwood. His back is turned. But he can see the movement in his shoulders as his lungs inflate. Can see the bare, dark skin of his neck and upper back. His hair is a mess, but really, when is it not. He looks at peace. A foreign concept. To both of them.

Adoration. That’s what Vash feels as he saddles up to the back of the man at his side, threading a warm, flesh arm over his waist and cozying his face into the space between his shoulder-blades. Wolfwood would likely complain about this when he woke. He doesn’t do being cuddled, he’d say. He does the cuddling, he’d insist, through a huff and pink cheeks. Vash can’t wait.

Can’t wait for him to open his eyes to the world and flood it with his cynicism. Can’t wait for him to huff and puff and grumble around his cigarettes, curse every minor inconvenience, the nicknames, the antagonising, the everything. Whatever the Punisher had to give, he’d take. And take and take and take despite the nagging in his head telling him he’s undeserving, selfish, greedy. Because the man in his arms had made it perfectly clear he was just as selfish. Just as greedy.

And wanted to spend all his tomorrows revelling in the trouble that Vash the Stampede brought to his plate.

And as Vash drifts back off into early morning unconsciousness, he thinks,

Alter(cation): Father! Nicholas D. Wolfwood/AFAB reader

Warnings: Church sex, pussy eating, religious themes. The good shit.

-*-

It’s a sin. You’re aware, vaguely, somewhere in the recesses of your brain that haven’t been clouded and warped by your lust for him that this is absolutely a sin. And if God is real then you’re definitely being sent into the deepest, firiest pits of Hell for what you’re doing; but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Not when your upside down view of the stained-glass window, obscured by a grand and tall crucifix, casting bright streaks of gold and red and blue and green is as stunning as it is. And not when the Father with his face between your legs is as good with his tongue as he is.

And really, how did a man of God get so good at eating pussy if he wasn’t already wrapped in a little sin? There’s not a chance he’s this good at it without having done it before.

Your legs are hiked up over either shoulder, and he has your thighs pulled taught either side of his chest, holding onto them with a death grip. Chancing a look down reveals to you that he’s staring, dark brown eyes locked firm on your face as his tongue runs laps around your clit. You whine when you catch his eye, he growls, your hips jerk and he closes his eyes, burying his mouth further into you.

If pleasure like this was such a sin, then why did God create it to feel so fucking good?

His hands are moving. One thick, broad palm pressing at your tummy, the other coming to join the onslaught between your thighs, two of his fingers sliding into you to the knuckle. He crooks the digits, hits a spot that makes you arch and cry out for him, snag his tawny black hair in both hands. And he likes that, if the depraved and deep moan he replies with is anything to go by.

You don’t get to give him much of a warning when you cum. It just kind of hits you like a battering ram, sending all your senses sideways with a squeal. He works you through it. Fingers curling into that little spot inside you, tongue lapping at you leisurely. When he comes away, his mouth is swollen, wet, chin covered in drool and cum. Holy Shit. He’s gorgeous.

He looks… Otherworldly, framed in an array of colours, outlined by pews and high, ornate ceilings. His fingers make quick work of his belt, his zipper, and when his cock comes free, fisted into his dark and tanned hand, you’re certain you see a little bit of God. Somewhere. Maybe.

He’s staring at you. Appraising you with low eyelids as he strokes himself leisurely, and a quick swipe of his thumb at his tip has his head tilting back, a loud groan echoing through the empty Church. When his head comes forward again, his eyes fix on the Crucifix behind you. Only briefly. Before all his attention is back on you, pulling you in at your hips, angling his cock towards your entrance with a thumb. He sinks into you easily with a push, sounds wrenching their way out of both you, and he stays comfortably seated for a moment, heaving in laboured breaths.

Bowing forward, Nicholas D. Wolfwood catches your lips in a sloppy kiss. Teeth and tongue collide, and, you think to yourself, if he were to devour you whole, right here and now on this alter, you’d die happy.

He doesn’t go far when he pulls away. Eyes barely open as he looks at you, lips almost touching. A little whisper when straightens himself upright and starts moving, punching a high keen from your lungs.

“O-Ohh- That’s good, you’re good-!”

Vash’s hips buck off the bed, and you can see his control begin to slip. He’s tried to be a such a good boy up until now; laying still and pretty as your mouth works wonders around his length, peering at you those big blue eyes, all full of pleasured tears. Embarrassed colour sits high on his cheeks and ears, lips parted as he pants like he’s been running for miles. His chest is heaving, and he has a death grip on the bed, though his hands do twitch towards your hair every time you do something he particularly likes.

And the sounds he makes. God above.

Vash has always been a vocal person. Even if he’s not talking, he’s humming, or whistling, filling the silence somehow. You didn’t really think about it translating into the bedroom. But it was a pleasant surprise, at least.

Drawing your head back, you suckle on the sensitive tip of his cock, tongue darting out lick just beneath the head. Vash whines. His back arches, and he flings his flesh arm up hide his face.

“Hnh-! A-Ah, please…!”

You smile, pull away from his length and rest your cheek against his either thigh, feathering little kisses on the sensitive skin there that makes his leg jerk and twitch.

“Please” what, honey…?” You tease, voice sing-song and the blonde above you whimpers, slowly removing his arm from over his eyes so he can look at you. The tears in his eyes are close to overflowing, and his lower lip is wobbling now (he’s always been so easy to tease.)

His voice is shaky and high pitched when says, “w-…wanna cum… please,” and his absolute obedience in everything he does makes you giddy.

You give him what he wants. You’ll always give him what he wants. It only takes a few more minutes of his cock hitting the back of your throat before Vash is crying out, a hand finally finding the courage to snare in your hair and keep you in place. You’re happy for him to do it. He’s boneless when he finally comes down, staring at you with total infatuation as you swallow his load. Crawling up the length of his scarred body, you settle against his chest and give him a long, slow, lazy kiss that he returns messily.

-*-

It’s dark when you open your eyes. No light enters the clinically clean room, no sound. It’s the middle of the night, you register vaguely. It must be for it to be so dark.

The alluring call of more slumber speaks to you, enticing you slowly into its welcoming arms as you begin to close your eyes again. And you’re toeing the line of unconscious when somewhere, in the REM clouded corners of your mind, warmth and pressure at your back tells you to wake back up.

You’re all too conscious when realise Nai is there. In bed. With you. And he must notice when you notice him, because no sooner than realisation sets in is his low timbre voice rumbling into your shoulder.

“You’re awake,” he says simply.

“I am,” you say, simply, back.

It had been a week since the conversation in which you had distracted him from his thoughts by chastising him for leaving you every night. It was light-hearted, you never really expected him to spend his nights in bed with you when he couldn’t sleep himself. He knew that, and he never made any effort to actually lay with you from that moment. You hadn’t seen much of him at all really. He’d been far too busy. His work was beginning to come to fruition, and you’d heard someone around the lab vaguely mention they’d managed to track Vash to a bus heading near Hopeland. Surely making its final call in July and-

Oh. You feel cold all of a sudden.

Slowly, oh so slowly, you turn in your bed, in Nai’s embrace, and face the man now in front of you. He’s looking at you with unreadable eyes and you simply return the look for a moment before saying softly,

“Why are you here with me, Nai?”

He scoffs. He likes doing that, but where he usually marks the sound with a patronising look, he averts his gaze instead.

“You were complaining about it a week ago, and now you’re interrogating me? You’re far too hard to please.”

You don’t say anything to that. Just continue to stare at him in silence until he chances a glance at your face again. Your forehead is creased, lips and jaw set tight. You search between his eyes for an answer, one he doesn’t want to give you but he knows he must. Your lover swallows. Thickly.

“… Vash is in the city.”

Your heart seems to stop beating.

“He’s on his way here.”

Your following breath is shaky. Emotions rush around you all at once. This is it. The final step in his scheme is on his way to your location. Once Nai manages to capture Vash, it’s the beginning of the end, and this is likely going to be the last time you see him like this. If at all. Tears boil hot in your eyes, and you desperately yearn to let them fall. You don’t want this to be the end. Don’t like knowing that your life with him will be over soon, as fleeting and short lived as it was. Despite your peace and contentment with Nai’s ultimate plan, there’s something about not knowing what will become of you next that rends a gaping hole in your heart that gushes anxiety. Grief.

But you don’t show it. Or you try not to. You just nod, cup his face with gentle, delicate fingers and lean in. Kiss him. He returns it. You hope it puts him at peace somehow. Even just a little bit.

“It’s… It’s not too late to change your mind. About staying alive. I have a plan for you, and I will deal with my brother-“

You smile. Shake your head.

Nai clenches his teeth. But doesn’t try to convince you anymore.

“… How long can you stay here with me?”

“Conrad will alert me when Vash is on the premises.”

You nod this time, keep your hand on his face, smooth your thumb over the birthmark that sits beneath his right eye. You’ve always loved it.

“Okay.”

You’re not sure when the idea crosses your mind to act asleep. Make it easier for him to depart from you without having to worry about any final words, or you seeing his reaction, but that’s what you do. And you’re not sure how long it is before Nai moves. Disentangles himself from your body, sits up. You don’t feel any other movement for a beat after that. Not until he leans down, kisses your temple and silently, leaves the bed. The room. You’re not sure how long you cry. How long it takes for the facility to erupt into noise. For the room to start to shake. For everything to go wrong. You’re not sure when the fight moves outside. When Vash and Nai take a final stand in the sky. When Vash comes plummeting to earth.

Millions Knives (Nai)/ Reader

Warnings: Soft angst, mentions of readers inevitable death, mentions of enslavement (Plants) etc etc.

-*-

It’s disorienting waking up to a room that’s entirely white, no matter how accustomed to it you are. The bed, the sheets, the floor, the walls. It’s all a pure, bright white.

A whine. A stretch. The sheets pool around your hips as you sit up, and had you not noticed your lover was missing, maybe the distant but familiar sound of piano keys being struck would’ve fallen on deaf ears. You hum. He did this often. With no need to sleep or eat the ways humans do, Nai frequently laid with you until you were asleep, only to slip away and leave the bed cold before you woke. You understood it. You couldn’t exactly expect the man to lay motionless with nothing but his thoughts for hours just so you had a cuddle buddy. Not that he was a cuddler anyway.

Your mind begins to clear, drowsiness fading from your brain, taking the possibility of falling back asleep with it. Your clock said it was 05:21. Far too early, but you were up now.

Dragging yourself from the comfort of your bed, dressed only in a button-down sleep shirt and your underwear, you leave your room, and follow the melodic sound of the piano to your lover.

Nai didn’t like people intruding. He didn’t like humans first and foremost so the fact you had not only managed to circumvent those feelings, but wriggle yourself deep enough beneath his skin that he allowed you to push otherwise hard boundaries, was quite something. Only you can wander into his solitude with no repercussions. Invade in his privacy and be met with nothing but acceptance.

He’s engrossed in his playing when you enter. Back to you, hands moving furiously yet with elegance across the keys. It’s always the same tune he plays, one you’ve never heard before, only from him. It’s beautiful. It’s emotional, and you suspect it may be the only taste of any kind of emotion he will grant himself. You’re certain the song means something to him. Sentimental, although he’d probably never admit it. And you just watch, enamored by him and his talent, until the final chords are struck and Nai’s hands go still.

Silence.

“I was under the impression humans thought it rude to stare.”

You smile.

“Sometimes. It can be a complement though, if what you’re staring at is pretty.”

You hear him blow a humoured puff of air through his nose, before he’s turning over his shoulder to look at you, a smirk on his pale lips.

“Are you going to come here? Or am I to come to you?”

An eye roll and a laugh heralds your movement towards the Independent, and he moves to the side of the bench to make space for you as you take your seat. A kiss is placed against your temple, his favoured display of affection, and you look at the dark keys in front of you.

“Your kind confuses me,” he begins simply, and you look at him with a cocked head and raised brows, prompting him to continue, “staring can be construed as rude, but also as flattering. You are meant to know which only with context clues. It’s ridiculous.”

You nod in agreement, turning your attention back to the grand piano before you, following the great expanse of it upwards to the haunting form a dead Plant situated at the top.

“Luckily for you, you won’t have to worry about figuring us out for long, will you?”

Nai goes silent then. And the chill that fills room quickly alerts you to the fact you may have struck a nerve. You glance at him, to find the blonde already staring at you through a frown.

“You’re perhaps the most enigmatic of them all.”

“Me?” You balk.

“You.”

“Pray tell.”

Nai scoffs, looking away from you and reaching out to the piano, striking a single index finger down onto one of the keys.

“You are human. And you’re aware of my plans, and yet, here you sit. Devoted to me. My lover, knowing of the imminent genocide soon to come, and agreeing with it despite your own humanity.”

Your lips purse together, watching as he repeatedly strikes down upon random keys, the notes hitting your ears not nearly as beautiful and methodic as before, but just as haunting. You’re not entirely sure what to say to that. To him. You recognise it’s contradictory to be in agreement of the liberation of the Plants, knowing that if Nai accomplishes his life’s work, you will ultimately die when No-Man’s becomes uninhabitable without their aid. But the Plants had been exploited for far too long. Trapped in oversized jars, leached off of until the day they died, and for what? For humanity to inevitably turn the already inhospitable planet into another wasteland? For centuries of labour to be for nothing?

Is it worse to enslave a race to ensure the survival of another? Or liberate that race and doom the other to their death?

The right answer is entirely subjective. But you’d made your choice.

“… I can ensure you survive. Somehow.”

You feel your eyes go wide in your skull. Feel your heart stop. He’s looking at you again. Entirely serious, and you stare at him with those wide eyes as you try and process what you have been told. That was never what had been pitched to you. Nai had always made it clear to you that every human was to be scoured off of the planet. That the Plants must be set free to create a better world for not just him, or them. But his brother too. Vash.

Not one human would be the exception.

The Humanoid known to many as Millions Knives isn’t sure what to expect when you utter his name beneath your breath, an honour only you and his brother held. Thinks that when you lean into his personal space, embrace him with shaky arms and hide your face in his neck, that perhaps you’re relieved. Happy that his affection for you had reached such heights you would be the only human to survive what was soon to come. Humans were like that. Would do anything to survive. When their lives are threatened, there’s seldom anything off the table they’d do to save their skin.

But you do none of that.

“You can’t.”

Nai goes stiff.

“What?”

It’s the first time you’ve heard him taken entirely off guard, and he forcefully extracts himself from your embrace as he looks at you, eyes cold and confused and angry.

“You can’t do that, love.”

“And why not?”

“I’ve already made my peace with dying.”

“Well, become un-at-peace with it-!”

“What about Vash?”

His expression darkens further at the mention of his brother. His voice is strained, trembles at the back of his throat as he speaks,

“What about him?”

You sigh, fixing him with a look he can’t quite place. Sadness, maybe, or melancholy. It’s emotional, whatever it is, and your eyes are turning glassy.

“From what you’ve told me, your brother seems dead-set on stopping you and your plan, doesn’t he? He’s fond of us humans. Doesn’t want to see us all die.”

“Correct.”

“How would he feel if, after all this, after you achieve your goals and set free your siblings, you kept one human alive? He will experience loss. And he may never forgive you for it. But, if after all the loss he’s going to endure, he comes to find that you get to keep a human you hold dear, while he is left with none… I think any chance you’d stand at redemption would be snuffed clean. And your Utopia would be for nothing.”

Nai doesn’t like admitting he’s wrong. He doesn’t like admitting someone else is right even more, especially not a human, and especially on a subject as sensitive as this. But he is wrong. And you are right. He can’t bring himself to vocalise that as he stares at you, finding, for the first time in his over-century long life, that there’s water filling his eyes. Instead, he pulls you back into his body, embracing you tightly and squeezing closed those bright, icy blue eyes of his.

You stay that way for a while. In somber silence, clinging to his muscular frame until you find the courage to mumble.

“Let’s not spend our time together sitting in dread.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You left me alone again, you know,” you chastise, forcing some life back into your voice, “you really need to stop leaving me alone in bed.”

He huffs again, finally, rasps against your hair, “you’d have me lay next to you, awake, for hours?”

Your laughter fills the room as you lean away once more to look at him, tears clinging to your cheeks, but humour and joy filling your eyes. His brow creases in confusion as you kiss him, giggle against his lips and sigh.

“Oh, Nai. You want to kill every human, and yet you’re far too human yourself.”

“Pardon?”

“You would make your life’s work be for nothing just for my sake, but won’t lie in bed with me for a few hours? How contradictory.”

Nai rolls his eyes. You kiss him again.