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novasintheroom · 2 days ago

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Knives is a horrible barista (knives)

trigun knives x reader. (no version of knives in my mind! pick whichever you'd like!)

tags: coffee shop au, barista!knives, slow build. He's kinda rude but your drink is perfect every time, wc; 500 (a short one :D)

You just happened to show up at the same time every weekday -- well almost the same time at 6:50 am -- because it's the only place near your train stop that opens early enough for your schedule is a nondescript little cafe, which feels less like a business and more like a dare.

The drinks are great, the barista's a nightmare. He's the worst barista you've ever met. No smile. No eye contact. Eyes that make you feel like you’ve personally offended him just by existing. Minimal conversation. He never wears a nametag, never smiles, never says more than he has to. He hates everyone, and it's probably mutual. But your order is always perfect, he knows your order and recites it with a bored expression before you even finish speaking.

Perfect every time, always just the right temperature. You don't know how he gets it right without the milk curdling, but you're not about to ask.

The first time he said it aloud -- your drink -- it caught you off guard.

He just handed it to you, he didn't ask for your name hence the blank stare. Didn't clarify anything, just rattled it off like he'd memorized it accidentally and resented that fact deeply.

You almost felt guilty accepting the cup. Almost.

Now it's routine. Kind of. He never smiles at you, but something always passes between you two when your fingers brush against the cardboard sleeve. It was cold, but familiar.

One time you had shown earlier than usual, so you had time to sit by the window. It was one where he could see you from behind the counter. He never really looked directly at you, but you swear you caught him glancing for a second, almost as if he was checking that you were still there.

The rest of the cafe was empty. Short glances that you're not just some figment of a bad dream, or worse, a good one.

You wonder if he prefers it that way, the silence, the stillness. You can sort of see it in his shoulders the way they sit a little lower when he doesn't have to pretend.

He slides your drink to your table without a word. It wasn't... careless, just intentional.

You linger longer than usual, maybe it's the cold, or the way your fingers ache from the wind outside. Maybe it's the fact that he hasn't pulled away yet either.

Glancing up from the drink in your hands, he squints at you. Then, quietly, he nods towards the seat next to you.

"Can I sit," he says, flatly. It didn't really sound like a question.

Barely having the time to nod, he sits there. Two people, a too-hot drink, and the strange hush of a city just waking up. You take a sip, and it's still perfect. It always is.

You stay, and so does he, and somehow it felt more than enough on this quiet morning.

#gnawing on “it feels like a dare’#such good imagery as always!!#trigun #knives #millions knives #knives x reader #millions knives x reader #fic recs

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novasintheroom · 3 days ago

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Wrapped Up in You

Rating: G

Pairing: Vash the Stampede x Reader Summary: Vash stumbles back into your shared inn after a night of drinking, looking for your attention. Content: fluff, a hint of angst, yearning, alcohol, non-consensual cuddling, vomiting Word Count: 2.1k A/N: I haven't written in forever and I kinda hate this but if I don't post it now, I think I never will sooo

The hallway is dimly lit, a flickering overhead light casting shadows along the peeling walls, and Vash’s boots clack loudly against the old floorboards as he unceremoniously stumbles down the corridor, his unsteady steps betraying the extent of how much he’s had to drink this evening. The sound echoes in the otherwise quiet building–an old, somewhat shabby inn at the edge of town. It’s a temporary haven, a place to rest before he’s inevitably on the move again, and though the room may not be much, it’s become a small comfort.

He reaches the door to the room he shares with you, fumbling in his pockets for the key. It slips from his grasp a couple of times before he manages to unlock the door, grumbling something under his breath as he pushes it open, stepping in and swinging it shut with a soft thud behind him.

“I’m back!” Vash calls out, his voice a little louder than he means it to be. He kicks off his boots and shoves them aside, his eyes scanning the room. The warm light from the lamp casts a soft glow, but something is missing. He frowns, his brows furrowing.

This isn’t right. Usually, you’re here, waiting for him, with that warm embrace and the gentle scolding that always follows his drunken returns. He may always be on the run, but having a person to come back to every night makes even the dingiest of hotels feel like home.

But tonight? The room is eerily quiet. Too quiet. No greeting. No teasing. No reassuring voice telling him everything is okay.

A small wave of disappointment washes over him. He’d been looking forward to it—you—even the usual sighs of exasperation and tired mutters about how late he’s come back, how terribly drunk he is. But now, the silence makes the space feel even more hollow.

Quite frankly, he’s missing the hug he was expecting to get, and maybe even the scolding a little bit.

“Mayfly? You here?” Vash calls out again, and his voice carries a note of concern that he can’t quite mask.

Did you not come back? Are you still out? Maybe you went out for something, or just stepped out for a walk. But the longer he stands there, the more the quiet of the room settles in, uneasiness gnawing at him.

His mind races, and finally, he drags himself across the room, and luckily his eyes fall on you, finding you curled up in one of the two beds. Relief floods through him, feeling the tension melt from his shoulders, hazy sapphire eyes tracing over your peaceful form. He's happy to see you sleeping. You shouldn't be staying up waiting for him, especially considering how late it is, but the sentiment is quickly followed by a slight twinge of frustration, as selfish as he knows that is. If you were awake, he’d be getting the attention he craves. Hugs, scolding, anything, really. But instead, you’re asleep like an angel, depriving him of all the attention he’s been longing for.

How rude. He had a whole list of annoying drunk antics he was going to put you through, and now he has to settle for watching you sleep? What a cruel, cruel fate for the Humanoid Typhoon.

His eyes linger on your face, soft in the light, every detail etched into his memory, as if he could never forget the way your features softened in sleep. His gaze mindlessly falls on how your lips part slightly, like a subtle invitation, and he swallows hard.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This wasn’t supposed to be something he could yearn for so deeply. You’re his friend, his closest companion, and yet, something about seeing you like this makes him want to reach out and hold you close and tell you things he’s never had the courage to say out loud, even when you’re wide awake and in front of him. But, of course, he doesn't. He just stands there, quietly aching, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest, afraid that if he ever did cross that line, your inevitable goodbye would hurt far worse than any other pain that could etch his flesh.

He watches you, hesitating, unsure whether to poke your cheeks and wake you up just so that he can see that adorable, annoyed pout you do, or simply enjoy the sight a little longer, but the thought of being close to you, feeling the comfort of your presence, overpowers any rationality he usually has. He was expecting at least a hug when he got back, after all, and he's too far gone to think clearly.

With a quiet sigh, he sheds his coat, tossing it haphazardly onto the second, empty bed. He turns off the flickering lamp and lifts the blanket to slip beside you, careful not to disturb your peaceful slumber. He settles in behind you, curling around you with surprising tenderness and care for someone so drunk. As much as he loves the sound of your voice, your scolding might ruin his plans of snuggling up against you. His warm arm wraps around your middle, pulling you gently against him, and immediately the soft rise and fall of your chest calms him in a way all the alcohol from the night never could. The rhythmic softness of your breathing helps to clear his mind, like the haze from the booze is lifting, and he’s left with something more real, a warmth far greater than the feeling of whiskey burning his throat.

This is okay… isn't it? You two have cuddled a few times before. Albeit, it was more for preserving body heat out in the cold than it was for the mere closeness, but this room is awfully cold.

And he's plenty warm.

He can keep you warm.

His cheeks feel embarrassingly warm, that's for certain, and it's not just from all the booze. He tries to reassure himself, telling himself it’s fine. He’s just keeping you warm, but even his drunk brain knows that's not the whole truth.

He wants to be close to you, to hold onto this feeling, just a little longer. And so, with your steady breathing in his ear and the soft hum of the night surrounding him, Vash allows himself to relax. He's careful not to disturb you, but somehow, even in your sleep, you manage to snuggle closer, turning toward him, as if you're instinctively seeking him, or maybe you're just trying to warm up. Either way, he can’t help but smile at the way you nuzzle deeper into his chest, your face soft with sleep as his fingertips trace a delicate, absentminded pattern on your arm, each movement slower than the last, as if savoring the fleeting moment. He wonders if you realize just how much these small moments mean to him, how much he craves them. How, despite the teasing and the lighthearted distance he often keeps between you, this quiet closeness, this simple peace, feels like everything.

But the ache in his chest lingers, because even in this serenity, he knows things are more complicated than he lets on. How could they not be, when all he wants is to stay like this, knowing that tomorrow he’ll likely retreat into his usual joking demeanor, hiding everything that feels too fragile to say out loud?

Though before he can delve too much in the thought, you stir, and your voice, still heavy with sleep, breaks through the silence.

“Vash?”

He hums, his breath warm against your hair as he tightens his hold on you, like he’s anticipating you trying to pull away. “Mayfly~” he says in a cheerful sing-song tone that does little to hide the slurring of his words.

“Did you… pass out on me?” You mumble, half-dazed as you blink and try to focus your sleepy eyes, and seeing the tired look on your face brings a warmth to his cheeks that definitely isn’t from the alcohol.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh, take over your bed. Must've accidentally gotten into the wrong one,” he lies blatantly.

“Accidentally, huh?” You groan in response, but don’t pull away. “And what’s that smell? Did you bring the bar home with you?”

Oop. He might be in for a scolding after all.

“I may have had a few too many.” He replies, leaning his cheek on the top of your head.

“You say that every time,” you mumble. “You're not gonna throw up on me this time, right?”

Vash cringes. “Are you going to hold that against me forever, mayfly?”

“Yes.”

Fair, actually. He can’t really blame you for that one.

"You can scold me all you want later, but I just need a little more of this before you tell me off, okay?” He says. “Besides, you always end up forgiving me anyway.”

You pull the covers up a little higher, trying to ward off the chill of the evening. He wishes you’d snuggle up closer to him instead.

“I just worry about you, Vash,” you say, your tone softer than it was before. “Don't like it when you come back so late, or when you drink so much.”

Oh.

He doesn't want you to worry about him. He doesn't deserve that much, but knowing that you do… Well, that does something to his heart that he wasn't anticipating.

He's way too drunk for this right now.

“...Sorry,” he whispers, his arm carefully tugging you closer, holding you delicately like it's an apology, a way to somehow make up for the distress he causes you even when he's not around.

“Well,” you mutter again, but this time, there’s something more affectionate behind it. “You're lucky you're cute.”

"Mmh?" His voice is more awake now, and he's incredibly thankful that you can't see the way his cheeks flush in the dark. "Cute, huh? Tell me more, mayfly. What about handsome? Dashing, even?"

You crack one eye open, sending him a sleepy glare. "Enough, or I might really throw you out of this bed."

Vash groans in mock frustration. "Fine, fine, geez. You're no fun sometimes.”

“It's 2am, Vash. I don't usually have fun at 2am,” You quip back at him, and if the exasperation in your tone is anything to go by, he's starting to get under your skin, something he was looking forward to when he got back this evening.

“Closer to 3am, actually,” Vash corrects you very matter-of-factly, and he knows you don't appreciate his smartass tone by how you're suddenly pinching and pulling his cheek.

“Yowch!! Ow ow okay okay sorry!” He exclaims, pulling the soft skin of his cheek out from between your fingers. “How about breakfast? I’ll buy us both something in the morning to make up for all the trouble."

“It’s your turn to buy breakfast anyway, dummy,” you murmur, your eyelids fluttering closed again. "How about next time, maybe less bar and more... water."

"Deal. I’ll be on my best behaviour from now on," he says back, his voice softer now as he tucks his head against yours, keeping you nice and close.

You snort. “We'll see about that.”

Your presence wraps around him like a soft blanket, and for once, Vash lets himself sink into it completely. He can feel you against him, the steady comfort of being so close, and it feels like enough, knowing he does have someone waiting for him, wanting him to come back safe every night. The weight of the world, the uncertainty of the future, all seem distant now, and he can pretend things are simpler. Just for tonight, he can forget everything else and let the simplicity of this moment be his only reality.

Until a few minutes of silence pass between you two, and he suddenly feels his stomach churn… and the room spins a bit more than it should.

“M-May…fly,” Vash groans, his tone hoarse and pained.

Your head shoots up at that, no doubt recognizing that tone in his voice, taking in the funny look on your companion's face. He sees your eyes go wide, feels you suddenly try to pull away, but his arm stays firmly wrapped around you despite knowing he should really be letting go, using that superhuman strength to keep you there when he really shouldn't be.

Everyone likes having someone around when they're not feeling too good, after all.

“Vash. Vash, let go! No, please! Not on me! Not again please!!!”

divider source.

#aww this was sweet!!#until the end that is lmao vash you stupid stupid man #fic recs

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