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Knives

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Love & Peace

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Okay but Vash slowly letting himself get used to touching someone again through you.

He’s so hesitant at first. So many people don’t like being touched by a stranger, and he’s probably the strangest stranger on the planet. He only touches you when he needs to – to pull you out of the way of a bullet, shield you from an explosion, catch you from falling off a ledge. He’s old, he’s used to doing this for others, and most of the time, people don’t mind the touch when they’re being saved.

But you’re in it for the long haul with him, and suddenly he’s faced with everyday touches. Handing each other supplies and fingertips brushing. Pats on the back. Pulling him into a hug when you finally, finally shot a bottle off the fence post for practice. He’s jumpy about it all at first, so used to touches being harsher. But yours aren’t. They’re kind, friendly.

And that isn’t to say he hasn’t come across friendly people in his life before. Of course he has. But those are few and far between, so forgive him if he yelps or apologizes a few times for touching you.

Easing into regular touches opens something in him that Vash long buried: he loves touch. Touch is his love language. And the longer you travel together, the more he looks for opportunities to touch you. Dragging you by the hand into a saloon to celebrate another close call, pulling you in for a wacky dance. Ruffling your hair or pulling at its strands when he wants your attention, or just to let you know he’s there. Leaving his hands on your shoulders a little too long. Leaning down to whisper when you’re hiding from some goons, just to feel his lips brush your ear. He’s thrilled the more you allow it, and how you actually seem to like it.

And when you do it back? Holy Hannah. Stars live and burn out by the strength your touch has over him. You sit by him and rub shoulders at the bar, and he stops himself from leaning his whole weight on you. You play with his fingers by the fire of your camp at night, trying to figure out how his robotic arm works compared to his flesh one. When your thumb brushes over his palm, he keeps himself from kissing your forehead. Even if he love love loves (you) your touch, he still knows boundaries. He’ll take whatever you offer. And if one day that involves more that friendly touches, if it means cheek kisses, long hugs, sleeping on each other’s chests, well, he’ll gladly wait for that day to come.

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How many wedding photos of them am I planning to draw....

[Stampede] [post Trimax]

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wyll 🗡️✨🔥

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Drive—Nicolas D. Wolfwood

drabble: riding passenger seat while Wolfwood drives gives you a front row view of how he handles the wheel of the car.

content: 525 words. a lil thirsty, wolfwood's hands, wolfwood is always a tease to me, nothing explicit just some thirst

a/n: something something wolfwood's hand. i thought about this while i was driving and just had to get it out of my system lmao

Riding in the car with Wolfwood is always…something else. His driving is smooth, don't get him wrong. Although, he can’t know that for the sake of your sanity. He would brag about it for days until you contemplated jumping ship. No, riding in the passenger seat can be such a treat. 

You were supposed to be looking at the paper map in your hands to determine which direction Wolfwood should be driving to get to the next town, but your eyes were certainly not on the map. 

Your eyesight instead was glued to Wolfwood’s hands on the wheel. The way his tanned hands caressed it, lightly grazing the edges with his nimble fingertips, suddenly gripping the wheel to swerve out of the way of a half-buried Wam. 

The strength in his hands was shown in the way his veins were accentuated, his sunkissed skin pulled taut from the force in which he was gripping the wheel. The muscular cords in his forearms flexed as he wrestled the car back into a straight path, returning to his relaxed position as his fingers lightly drummed against the wheel to a tune you could not place. 

You’ve seen him manhandle the Punisher, slinging the hefty cross all around his body as if it weighed nothing. Yet, he handled it with such grace that you could’ve believed the steel weapon was made from scraps of cardboard he had found lying around, sliding his hands up and down the cross as if he were worshipping the very thing that brought so much destruction when in use. However, seeing his hands stroke a circular piece of a rusty, old car also did things to your mind and body you hated to admit. 

If he handles objects like this, how would he handle-

You struggled to swallow the lump in your throat, a dryness not caused by the sweltering heat of the two suns in the sky. Letting your imagination run wild like this was not helping, especially since you were stuck in a car with him for who knows how long. You force your previous thoughts to sizzle out into nothingness, willing the phantom touches of tanned, sturdy hands across your body to dissipate. You shift in your seat as you take in the sight in front of you one last time, peeling your eyes away before he could notice. 

Too late. 

“Know where we’re headed? Or did you enjoy looking at me more than that map in your hands?”

“Asshole,” you tsked, heat blooming across your face as you throw the map up in front of your eyes, obscuring your reddened face from Wolfwood’s eyes.

He peeked at you from the corner of his eyes, chuckling darkly. He was up to something.

His right hand moved from the wheel to the gear shift, grazing two fingers over the stick, rubbing and encircling the roundness at the top before gripping it. Your eyes didn’t miss his sudden movements, teeth clenching at the subtle, obscene gestures. 

“Whatever town we’re headed to, I hope the hotel patrons won’t mind us for the night.”

The undertones of his statement had your eyes widening.

“...right.”

divider by saradika

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A SELFISH LIFE

eriks!vash x reader | 3.3k

synopsis; you were a doctor's apprentice when you met eriks for the first time two years ago. since then, you always felt there was more to his story and scars than he let on.

story warnings; mentions of a gun, not entirely canon complaint, trimax-coded vash, sweet smoochies at the end

please reblog if you enjoyed reading!!

On occasion, you noticed that he wouldn't respond to the name 'Eriks', even while looking him dead in the face. There'd be a certain glazed, faraway stare in his eye that speared straight through you like ice, telling you stories of unknowable agony and misery and guilt that you believed you would never be prepared to understand.

You had been there the day Lina happened across that man—beaten, broken, donning the devil's red garb in complete tatters as the remnant strips billowed out around him as though extensions of his own body. It was advantageous to him that you were there, traces of relief ebbing the severity of his brow when you assured him you were the doctor's apprentice.

In those fleeting seconds before his eyes rolled into his head and he collapsed, you thought he looked at you as though you were star-filled sky on a clear night—hopeful and soft.

Two years had come and gone since then, possibly the longest of your life. The old doctor in town had passed in his sleep six months ago, bringing your apprenticeship to a screeching halt, and now you were stuck bringing water cups and handfuls of painkillers to disgraced bounty hunters and rowdy children.

"Is it really so bad?" Eriks asked, tipping your stool on two legs as he nudged you. "You're still helping people, you're still saving their lives. Without people like you, there'd be so much more death."

"Do you know how bad it sucks to have spent years and years studying and studying, only for some random travelers to come swoop in and say my apprenticeship is invalid?" you shot back, air hissing between your teeth as you sighed. "I don't want to be a nurse, Eriks. This wasn't how it was supposed to be!"

Eriks stared a while, you couldn't see his eyes through the orange lenses he had tendencies to keep on his person—like an old habit he couldn't break. He settled himself deeper into the old rocker, reaching to the opposite side for two long cans of beer.

You didn't say anything as you took one of them and pulled the tab.

"It's hard to accept, I understand." Eriks let his knees and heels do the work to rock himself in the chair. He sipped the froth from the top of the can. "We come into this life and do our hardest to achieve something—anything—and it just... doesn't turn out how we want it to. No matter how desperately we wish we could change things, we're limited by what we can control."

Mustering the energy to leave your stool, you stepped off the front porch to sit on the edge, legs swinging circles while you drank. "So, what's the point, then? What's the point of having goals, dreams, desires if those things can just be ripped out of hands? Just like that?"

"It's a hard pill to swallow, I'm sorry," he continued, "more than anyone, I... wanted to see your dream come true. You would have made a great doctor."

The can cracked and crumbled under your fingertips, chin dimpling as you suffocated the ache pulsing in your chest. "It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks! It's not fair! Screw those fucking assholes, screw the university!"

There weren't many things you could control, but you were able to quiet your sobs to an occasional wheeze and shudder of your shoulders. The can of beer fell from your hands, bubbling as it pooled above the parched, fissured earth.

The slabs of wood under your body vibrated just as long arms wound you, pulling your weight into Eriks chest. The point of his chin nestled on your shoulder, tips of his blonde hair tickled your neck.

"It's okay to cry, you should cry." He assured, guiding your body into a gentle sway side-to-side. "There's nothing wrong with mourning what you've lost but, please, don't give up on your patients. Don't give up on the people who truly need help."

"I couldn't do that, even if I wanted to." You confessed, eyebrows creasing inward as a bitter smile inched itself across your lips. "No matter how much I hate the clinic and the university, I can't let people suffer and die. I'll find my own way forward..."

"Good." His jaw moved, stubble coarse against your skin as his hold slowly eased. "Find your own path, and never stop walking."

The sun had come and gone by the time eriks decided to let you go, inviting the chill of the cold, lonely desert night to caress your back and skin in a way that didn't compare to the warmth he had given you. Inside the house, Lina and Granny had already retired to their rooms for the evening, whereas Eriks busied himself with emptying the rest of his beer off the edge of the porch.

"It's getting pretty late," he said, glancing out into the vast nothingness beyond the house. "You should stay the night. Don't go trying to walk home when those gangs have been running around causing problems."

"Eriks, I need to get back to town. I need—"

"Stay." He said, voice carrying a hard edge that made your jaw clench and a shiver race down the back of your neck. "Don't be so willing to put yourself in danger. You can't help anyone if you're dead."

He kept the screen door open with a hand, saying nothing and waiting patiently for you to duck below his arm through the threshold into the house.

You took a glance around, everything looked the same as it always did, even with Eriks' presence floating about for the past two years. The layout was sparse, but not hurting for necessities that had earned their title of 'well loved'. It was the type of house you expected would feel amiss if something were removed, leaving a spot on the floor oddly pristine and free from the wear and tear of shoes and messes and life.

The old floorboards bent underfoot, amplifying yours and Eriks steady footfalls to the opposite end of the farmhouse where his room was.

This wasn't anything out of the ordinary: being led down a narrow, inky black hallway to where this lumbering man slept. You'd seen it a few times before, even sat on his bed once or twice when Granny's health issues stirred up during a dust storm and he wanted to know the details—privately.

"I have a couple extra blankets, so you can take the bed and I'll sleep on the floor." Eriks said, jolting you from your thoughts as linens and pillows landed in a heap, rousing clouds of dust that had settled quietly, undetected for a time.

"Are you sure about that?" you asked, sweeping the side of your shoe along the ground. "This is your room. It's bad for your back to sleep without support."

His smile was daring, almost lewd. "Are you saying you want to sleep together in the same bed?"

"I—" your jaw unhinged, chest flouncing as you choked out a laugh. "That's not what I said! You—ah, you really need to go to the brothel, buddy. Get some of that energy out."

"Nah, I'll pass." He sighed, shoulders rolling forward into a slumped posture. "Are you good here if I go and take a bath? You'll probably be asleep by the time I get back."

"I never sleep." You withered against the bed, seating your rear right on the edge. "Never could fix my sleeping schedule after university. But, are you gonna be okay?"

He perked at that. "What do you mean?"

"Eriks, you let yourself get beaten on all the time by the gangs in town," you said, gesturing to his entire person in as many places as you could. "I was the one who treated you when you showed up, and I'm the one treating you now when you're covering for Lina being a loudmouth."

"Hey, now, c'mon," Eriks shook a hand towards you. "She's just a kid. She doesn't know any better yet."

You couldn't understand how he was taking this in such stride, not when you were the one who had seen him in the beginning and watched blood ooze from the gouges and lacerations in his flesh, turning the clear bathwater red by the time you finished cleaning him off.

"All I'm saying is that we should start talking some sense into that girl." After a moment, you continued, "I don't want her to get hurt. She's so strong, Eriks, but that kind of strength gets beaten out of you around here. She doesn't deserve that—no one does."

Eriks took steps towards you, the scuffed tips of tawny shoes just on the fringes of your eyesight as you stared at the ground. "Do you want her to hide herself? We don't get to choose who people are—how they are—we just have to accept them. She hasn't done anything wrong."

It was your turn to return the venom, eyelids reaching your brow as you looked up at him through your lashes. More than upset, he seemed disappointed.

"Sometimes, it's better to blend in than to be another client for the undertakers, Eriks."

You saw his jaw twitch, thought maybe you heard his teeth clicking as well. His eyes were ablaze with emotion you had never witnessed him from, glistening like clear crystal in the pillars of moonlight streaming in through the window. As much as you wanted to believe you knew this man, you truly didn't, and definitely not now as he warred with himself through frustration and defeat.

Without a word, he swiveled on his heel, grabbed a pair of towels from a chair and pulled the door shut after him when he left the room. You were alone now, needles in your thighs and ass from where you sat, to consider what it was he was most upset about.

The man you knew as Eriks hardly seemed to be the one you had just spoken to. Eriks was a man who enjoyed dallying and drinking in his free time, unflappable, and always willing to lend a hand. This man was scared and confused, something felt fragile about him.

It made you feel bad.

"Goddamn, I'll just take the floor." you complained, picking up the linens to fold them as thick as you could get them, pillows stacked out in a row to give some cushioning to your back through the night.

You lasted thirty minutes on those dirty down pillows and blankets before the tossing started. Above your head on the nightstand, a round alarm clock clacked on monotonously to remind you how long a minute really could last.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me..."

First, you faced the door, hands tucked under your chin while you stared at it, half believing you had seen the doorknob twist a few times in the dark. The ground didn't vibrate under your body, no distant cries of flexing wood slabs—no one was awake, Eriks was still in the bath.

When it became too tedious for you to gawk expectantly at a door, you beat your way across the pillows onto your other side, facing the bed and streams of moonlight. Your hands nestled in the same spot under your chin, elbows digging down into the makeshift mattress just as one of the wooden boards beneath you jiggled and lifted a couple of inches.

"Did that dipshit put a hole in the floor?"

It sure seemed that way, you confirmed with yourself, pressing against it to raise it higher into the air until the bulge through your pillows was impossible to ignore.

Everything was ripped away from formation, lifting wild spirals of dust into the air and letting you choke on it while fussing with the board. You caught it just then, when the soft white glow from the window glinted off of something metallic in the hole. It beckoned you, lured your curiosity to the point of pressing your chest flush to the floor, arm buried to the shoulder, fingers desperately groping around.

"Has to be the foundation of the house." you growled, kicking your legs out to reach deeper. "None of the other boards are loose... he did this on purpose."

What unsettled you more than that realization was when your pads struck something freezing, large, and metallic. You recoiled some, arm catching those jagged edges, making you spit.

Prayer didn't save lives, but in this moment of sinking your arm back down to fully grab the thing, you prayed it wasn't what you thought it was.

And, as you used all the strength in both arms to reel it out from its hiding space, the moonlight fully revealed to you the ominous glow belonging to a monstrous pistol.

"Fuck!" your shoulders dragged from the weight of it, making it a task to heave it onto the bed to rid your hands of it. "Fuck, this guy is packing some heavy fire power here."

Your mind was in a spiral. Of all things secrets that you expected Eriks to be towing around, being a gunman wasn't one you set high on your list of possibilities. He didn't seem the type, not easygoing, loveable, kind, gentle—

"What are you doing?"

For the second time that night, you felt needles prickling against the back of your neck, down your arms, making your palms start to sweat. If it weren't for the fact that you knew Eriks voice by heart, in a crowd, in a rowdy bar—you wouldn't have believed that tone belonged to him.

You took a deep breath, heart thundering in your ears as you turned to him. "Who are you? And don't feed me some stupid bullshit."

Vash's eyes were wide, frenetically skipping across the scene of the upturned board, the pistol on his bed, and the way your face warped in confusion and fear. When he took two steps forward, you were already on the other side of the bed, dragging the gun closer to you and further from his reach.

"Don't—don't do this..." he showed you his palms, coming as close to the bed as his knees would let him. The only thing he wore on his body was a pair of gray sweatpants and a white towel across his neck. He wasn't hiding anything, surely you could see that. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Fat fucking chance I'd believe that," you spat, nearly grabbing the old chair next to you to fling at him when he tried to round the bed. "If you come any closer, I'm going to scream. Are you a gunman?"

Vash kept his hands up, managing to uphold a neutral expression despite the way his insides felt like they were being ripped apart. "No, not anymore. That's all in my past."

"You expect me to believe that? After I pull this thing out from a hiding spot?!" you strained your voice to a hoarse whisper, for some reason not fully convinced you needed to yell. "Are you insane? Are you a hitman? Part of a gang? A bounty hunter?"

"No." He said.

The corners of your mouth twitched, eyes tracing a path from the gun to him, and then towards the closed bedroom door. You wouldn't have enough time to get around him to escape, and the window was too high for you to break and climb out of. You wondered if he was also aware that you were cornered without an exit.

It's funny that life always worked out like that.

"Your name isn't Eriks, is it?"

He frowned. "It's not, no."

"What is it?" you asked, pressing harder, "I think I have a right to know after two years of lies."

"I can't tell you that, I'm sorry," he said.

Oddly, you were more frustrated by this situation than you were scared. If he was a gunman of the bad type, he could've killed you by now, could've dropped you with a single round in cold blood, done the same to Lina and Granny and no one would ever know. He had a chance to do this everyday for two years.

He never did.

"Don't look at me like that," he rasped on a single breath, refusing to let his hands drop until he saw the tension ease out of your body. Slowly, he tried rounding the bed again, eyes never leaving yours even when he caught the motion of your fingers twitching towards the pistol. "It's not loaded. I haven't had bullets for it in a long time. I swear, I didn't keep it hidden to hurt you or Lina."

"You won't even tell me your name." You were staring at his chest once he was in front of you, studying the scars and patchwork metal across his pectoral. Faintly, but there, something called to you to reach out and touch him. "What do you expect me to think when you say that?

"It makes sense now. Your scars. You showing up in the condition that you did. The secrecy—hiding the gun. You don't make it easy for people to figure you out."

His eyes softened, an even more brittle smile formed across his lips as he reached out with his left arm, the cold fingers were a strange sensation against your cheek. You flinched from him a few times, tilting your face away, but he followed until you let him touch you.

"I'm sorry, I wish I could tell you everything, but I just... can't.'' His voice was purposefully gentle, soothing and reassuring, reminding you of how he was when he had held you earlier in the evening. "Please, don't tell Lina or Granny about this. My life right now is all I could have ever wanted. The chores. The dinners. Everyone in town... you."

It was hard for you to think when he was stroking your face so sweetly, lovingly. "You're lying to them. You've been lying to them. You've been lying to me."

"I'll never complain about another chore, or when you poke and prod at me with needles, or when granny makes me help her ball her yarn." Vash pressed his false hand into your face, angling it so you could see the sincerity in those brilliantly blue eyes. "I want this for me, however selfish it may be. This quiet, peaceful life carrying around groceries and bringing you lunch at the clinic."

"Eriks—" that name didn't sound right on your tongue anymore, but he didn't correct you.

"So, please, I'm begging you, don't say anything to them. Let me live in peace with them, with everyone—with you."

Those eyes of his seared into your soul; a beautiful, yet tumultuous storm of emotions swirled in them. There was then wetness just below your eye, warmth streaking along the curves of your face. The second time you realized that they were not your tears, but his.

"I don't want to let any of this go," he pleaded.

The dull ache behind your ribs never subsided, not as you leaned into him to place a fleeting peck to the corner of his mouth, and especially not when he intercepted that with his lips for a kiss he seemed to revel in forever.

"What's your real name?" you had pulled away long enough to ask. "Tell me."

"Don't make me tell you. Not right now."

Vash took you by the shoulders, one large hand cradling the back of your head, thumb stroking your face as he kissed you feverishly and long.

divider by; @/anlian-aishang

reposted from my deleted blog officiallytheduchess/cardeneiv

[galactiquest]

It's just another F/O Friday...

Wish it was Sunday, 'cause that's my fun day--that's a different song. We celebrate our loves today!

Send me a request, talk to me about your F/Os, ask me about my F/Os... Whatever you like! It's up to you!

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It's just another F/O Friday...

Wish it was Sunday, 'cause that's my fun day--that's a different song. We celebrate our loves today!

Send me a request, talk to me about your F/Os, ask me about my F/Os... Whatever you like! It's up to you!

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Welcome to my self-insert blog!

Hi there! My name is Jason. He/him or they/them pronouns thanks. I'm 21 years old and I've been doing self-insert stuff for as long as I can remember, but I've been in/around the community on Tumblr for 5 or so years now.

That guy up there, Vash the Stampede, has been my light and joy for the past ~8 months! (Same goes for the rest of his friendly cast, but whatever!) I've had other F/Os for longer, but Vash is most close to me right now, and I don't see that changing for a while.

Some other things about me...

I take requests for drabbles, imagines, and things of that nature for Trigun characters! Check my blog description to see if requests are OPEN. They usually are, unless it says otherwise.

I'm a chatterbox at times 🔊. I love to talk about my F/Os (and also about myself, let's be honest) so you're always free to go into my askbox and ask me about them or myself!

Request guidelines!

I'm pretty lenient with how requests go. I try to lean more towards a gender-neutral or sometimes masculine reader/insert.

I don't mind if you send in multiple requests in separate asks, just know it'll take me time to get to them all.

I might ask you to be more specific with a request if you send it in and I don't fully understand it. I don't mean any offense! I just want to get it right!

On the same note, if I write something and it isn't really what you expected, you can send in a different request and specify.

🔞 I do take "naughty" requests, but understand that these might take a little longer, and there's only a few situations I'll write for--just ask and I'll let you know if I'm comfortable or not.

I maintain the right to refuse any request for any reason! I'm not a machine and I'm also fragile. There's some things I just won't tolerate, so I can't write about them. I usually try to give my stuff a happy ending, okay...?

I think that's it overall!! Hope you enjoy your time on my blog and I'll be updating this post later with more information.

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💌, 💕, 🔞 for knives with a human s/o who somehow managed to get his actual honest to god love. maybe they're a lot like vash, maybe they're just that sweet and nice. maybe they were kind to him during a moment he needed some empathy without realizing it, who knows. point is they're his now (and he's theirs)

YES!!! YES ABSOLUTELY 100%.

I have a good friend that I talk with a lot about Knives, and we've discussed this a lot--how long does it take to get to Knives's true love? And what does it take? Is it possible? (Anything is if you're a persistent cockroach like me.) And what does it end up looking like?

I think you'd enjoy my friend's work, wreckage of july. It's really good. I find myself going back to it every so often for Knives savior goodness.

Let's do this thing.

💌 a romance-themed headcanon: I keep getting this funny idea that Knives reads up about very archaic and stiff forms of romantic courting in order to get some semblance of "normalcy" in his relationship, so cue Knives knocking on your door in a nice suit holding a bouquet of flowers (he made them himself, literally; he grew them from his body) and stammering out the most rehearsed lines possible. "Would you like to, um. Accompany me. On a. Daaaate." You don't have it in your heart to say no, because his awkwardness is just too damn charming.

💕 a loved-themed headcanon: I think it's hard for him to receive love in return. (Just like his brother. And like Wolfwood. Wow... Seems to be a common problem.) The first time you return affections to him, he just sort of... short circuits. He's totally still, not sure if he should start screaming or if he should beg you for more. He'll slowly get more and more used to it, but there's still times where you might catch him off guard with a kiss and he just looks like a deer in the headlights.

You know the drill--NSFW below!

🔞 a nsfw-headcanon: Like above, it takes Knives a while to open up to physical intimacy. There's a lot of things to be scared of, like what if he hurts you, what if he's not right for you, etc. It takes lots of reassurance to get to this point. But once you do? I think there's some things that he gets into.

He starts letting you take control more often. Whatever that means in the relationship--if that means topping, if that means dominating through words and dynamics, if that means both, he's urging you to take those roles more often. Show him what you want to do. Claim him instead of the other way around--he's done enough claiming, the mantle should be passed to someone else.

Oh, yeah. He's into cumming inside. On both ends. Get what I mean? Whether it's him into you, or you into him... Right? You get it.

Guess this part didn't turn out too naughty... I need to just buckle down and write some fanfiction, don't I?

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Wait I'm a writer. I can literally just write this.

I love, love, love dad Vash things. But what a man wouldn't give to have it revolve around, well... maybe a reader who isn't a mom...

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I love, love, love dad Vash things. But what a man wouldn't give to have it revolve around, well... maybe a reader who isn't a mom...

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Getting noticed by some of my favorite self-insert blogs... I'm charmed ( 〃▽〃)

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I LOVE THE WAY YOU WRITE

I think you write the characters very well! I feel very much in the story when reading!!!!

Thank you Anon, that really means a lot to me 🥺

I guess I'm just afraid that in the end, I'm neither bringing anything new to the table nor expanding upon what's already known. Like I'm just writing and writing and writing about the shadows of these characters... Like others seem to have a far different grasp of them than I do.

Maybe I just read everything with different eyes, with a different mind. Maybe this is just the way I see the world and I can't change that.