#did I read this wrong a million times and think you said vash seeing reader’s hair down? yes

[shmothman]

hi sef! a vash request you say? how about reader seeing vash’s hair down for the first time & acts all giddy & clingy because he just looks so damn good 👁️🫦👁️

Hair down vash is LITERALLY my weakness so. Yes. Absolutely. (This took a different direction, but. Still reader’s first time seeing his hair down 🤣)

(Vash x Reader, 744 words, rated G)

It’s surprising how long you’ve been traveling with him before you ever see his hair in any style but the one he usually wears: that sort-of-ridiculous (yet somehow still so cute) spiked-up disaster. But you’ve been wandering the desert for days now, and when you finally get to town in the early evening, the first thing both of you do is go to your rooms and wash off all the sand and sweat and grime. You’re already clean and nursing a drink at the bar when he comes downstairs in a white button-down and jeans, and honestly, with different hair and without the coat? You have to do a double take before you recognize him—and then you have to look away quickly, because your cheeks immediately begin to burn. You’ve always thought him attractive, obviously, but… damn.

He sits down beside you at the bar with a grin, raising his hand toward the bartender and ordering a drink for himself before turning the full force of that sunshine smile on you. “Don’t think I’ve ever been this thankful for running water before,” he says. His bangs fall soft and damp over his forehead, and your heart is racing.

Pull it together.

You cock a smile of your own. “Me neither. I think I was wearing half the desert.”

Vash’s laugh does nothing to calm your hammering pulse, and when his blue eyes crinkle, it draws your attention to the cute little mole beneath his left one. It’s so unfair, how can he be this adorable, this drop-dead gorgeous?

“What?” he asks, cocking his head. “Do I have somethin’ on my face?”

Oops, you were staring.

You blink as he scrubs at his cheek with the back of his hand, trying to remove a smudge that doesn’t exist, and then you give a nervous laugh and wave your hands slightly. “N-no,” you say, “just spaced out, that’s all!”

He looks at you skeptically, though he stops rubbing at his face. You should really say something else—anything else—but the only thought in your head is how much you want to run your fingers through his hair. Your mouth opens and closes, and then what comes out is, “your hair looks nice like that.”

Vash stills, and you watch as his cheeks turn a slight pink. He runs his prosthetic hand through his hair, ruffling it—oh god, he’s made it even cuter—and gives a nervous little laugh that makes your own face grow warm. “Oh, ya think so? Th-thanks!” Then, he reaches for his glass, but he’s not looking, and he’s clearly misjudged the distance, because he knocks it right over—he catches it with lightning reflexes, but not before it’s already spilled all over the counter—and your lap.

You startle, jumping out of your seat, but he’s already apologizing, cheeks growing darker as he searches for a towel, grabbing one from behind the bar and immediately pressing it to your thigh—then his blush crawls up to his ears as he realizes what he’s doing, straightening up quickly and handing the towel to you.

“Sorry!” he splutters, “Aw jeez, sorry—“

But you’re already laughing, not angry in the slightest (in fact, you’re feeling rather the opposite with the way he just had his hand on your thigh), telling him that it’s okay, and not to worry about it.

Had you… flustered him? Just by complimenting his hair? The thought flusters you in turn, but you can’t dwell on it long, because you’re drawn back to just looking at him as he frantically cleans up his mess, cheeks so cutely red, hair so cutely mussed. You find yourself smiling as you use the towel to dry your pants, and when you’re finished, he won’t quite meet your eyes. He lets out another strained laugh.

“Happens to the best of us,” you tell him with a smile, and he seems to shake himself out of whatever that was, going back to that wide smile that he so often favors, the one that he seems to think masks all of his emotions. You’ve known him long enough to see through it, though.

Still, he manages smalltalk again as he orders another drink, the bartender rolling her eyes as she brings it to him; and you manage to pretend your stomach isn’t fluttering from whatever it was that just happened, from the way he looks so soft right now.

How are you supposed to keep pretending you don’t have feelings for him?