#Vash the Stampede x Nicholas D. Wolfwood | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mushi-shield · 5 months

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thechaoscryptid · 1 year

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but heaven still holds me

Prompt: Childhood Trauma

Fandom: Trigun Stampede

Content Warnings: childhood medical experimentation, flashbacks, panic attacks, ignoring personal limits during sex (there's praise kink and body worship too but if you're here for the sex you're leaving disappointed), dissociation

Find it on AO3

Note: POV you are Nicholas D. Wolfwood, your boyfriend has tied you up and told you you're being good, and you are having a VERY bad night about it. Title comes from Gemini Syndrome's Mourning Star.

There's no wrong way to have a body.

That's what Vash says, at least: nothing they have done has made you a monster. You are wholly perfect; you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Fearfully, yes. Vash finds no protest there, even as the holy words feel blasphemous caressing the sweat-slick skin of your throat. You know fear like you know the burden of your cross—it has been your closest companion since the day Miss Melanie led you to the end of like as you knew it. Fear is the clap of manacles and the heavy kerthunk of locking cell doors. It is blue hair and glasses shine and the wait, the interminable seconds before—

(Your bonds are cloth. You are free to look about the room, and Vash's eyes remain unhidden. The door is not locked. You are free to leave.

You do not have to do this.

The thought of leaving scares you more than anything.)

Fearfully and wonderfully, he says, and perhaps he's correct when he draws upon the Psalms.

You are a marvel. A miracle, a blessing from and for the Eye—no one can claim otherwise, not after watching spent bullets wrench themselves from your steaming skin. Your body has been thirty-two for decades, but you have been twelve for six months more than that, cowering behind prison-bar ribs with the knowledge no one is coming to save you. You are a god among men, and that fact rots in your stomach, and in your spine, and all the way into the center of the brain they tried so hard to break.

(They did, years ago. Vash is doing so now. Everything is fractals; everything is fog. You cannot hear the ever-present sinnersinnersinner any more than you can hear the thick wet sob that crawls out of your chest when Vash names you good boy, pretty thing, my love.)

There is no wrong way to have a body.

This doesn't feel like the right way to inhabit one.

Vash's metal fingers click gently by your ear as he smooths sweaty hair away from your forehead, curled over you and smiling down like you're the only bright thing he's known. You stare up, but see nothing: not his eyes, not the tessellation of feathers at his temple—just the bright gleam of his too-long teeth, bared in a waiting grin.

"Nick," he murmurs. The susurrus of his voice amplifies and folds in on itself until your name is a knife, and Vash is the carver who fashions your wooden, deadened limbs.

"Nick."

He does not lay a hand on you. This is not a blessing, and it is the kindest he's been tonight. Your skin blazes with the ghost of his touch, thrills with the proximity of his body as he leans closer.

"Nicholas!"

(It's easier if you stay still. You cannot fight the bonds; the sedation renders you wholly useless, you're good, you're a fighter, child, miracle, pretty little—)

"Jesus, Nick, hey, come on. Hey. Nick."

Fabric tears. Warmth envelops you, searing and sudden and sinful, you're wrong, this isn't what He wants—

It's instinct that forces your hands to Vash's chest and shoves him away from your heaving remains. The table—mattress—dips with your weight, and you claw at the the faux wood—not steel, not cold, not biting and bitter—of the bedside table in search of nicotine to quiet the muttered no, no, nonono that spills out of you.

"Wolfwood?" Vash tries eventually.

You look at the moon-stained floor. Ash smears across it when you move your foot an inch to the right, and you bite your lip when you chin threatens to crumple. This is not who you are; words cannot tear the Punisher asunder.

(They can, and they do, and the way Vash's tongue cradles your name is just the beginning.)

You lean away when he pads to your side, but he makes no move to reach for you. He curls both arms around his stomach and hunches his shoulders, but even the miserable set of his jaw cannot detract from his inhuman grace.

You do not deserve to stain his holiness.

"...'m sorry," Vash whispers. "I didn't realize it would...like that, I...I'm sorry."

Your shaking fingers drop the remains of the cigarette; the pinprick sparks shower across your foot. The pain does not bring you any closer to yourself.

"I never want to hurt you," Vash continues. "Never. I'm not— Fuck."

He's talking underwater, voice a warbling tremor that takes its time to chip away at the knot of your mouth.

"It wasn't you," you manage, but do not move closer. You cannot shatter further under his hand. "'s fine."

"You're shaking."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I won't ask you to." He leans heavily against the window frame, and his breath mists on the glass when he sighs, then rubs his hand down his face. "Can I touch you?"

You consider the request, let it tumble through your distant and fractured head, and stare out at the silver-lined rooftops. Your body throbs with the want for it; it will break you all the same. You say, "No."

Vash smiles.

You can't bring yourself to tease its emptiness tonight.

#bad things happen bingo #prompt: childhood trauma #fandom: trigun stampede #my writing #vashwood #trigun #trigun stampede #vash the stampede #nicholas d. wolfwood #vash the stampede x nicholas d. wolfwood

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kaa-05n2 · 5 months

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