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“Go on,” Meryl cooed, tracing her almond-shaped nails along the uneven, rough flesh of his thighs, caressing old scars and divots with the reverence typical reserved for art pieces and idols. She sat between those thighs, caging them by being caged within them, not allowing him to shut her out or scurry away. He laid there, in full bloom, with no other option but to be painfully aware of it, submerged in his own saccharine scent, his eyes watering, his saliva soaking into the bandana gagging him, silencing his breathless whimpers. Kindly, she said, “Show me how you did it when you were by yourself.”
She nudged, and Vash yelped behind the fabric again, chest rising and falling rapidly. Anticipation bit him, sinking into his pores like venom, from the very start. Meryl had a derringer pointed at his petals, barely making contact besides the slightest of touches, mostly spurred on by Vash’s trembling, eager hips. With a simple jutting-out of one finger, she could press the tool—the weapon—up into his warm, sap-slicked hole and make him dizzy with pleasure, but Meryl was cruel—and this was retribution for his theft—so she wanted to make him work for it.
He was flushed to his chest, sun-kissed skin stained a splotchy, blossoming red. The implants in his skin felt tighter with all his vibrating. He was so aware of every minute sensation around him; the papery sheets below him, the thin layer of sweat causing his loose shirt to cling to his body, the slow drip of his own sap escaping his body, clinging to his butt and thighs as it poured freely, slowly—extraordinarily graphic, as if to show off for the audience, for the object of Vash’s desire—to show that Vash was good, fertile, and absolutely resplendent.
He blushes down to his legs. He can feel the warm lines under his skin. He’s sure it’s beyond blush now, the bioluminescence beneath his skin flickers to life faintly, every node in him alight with libidinous energy.
He struggles around her name, around the cloth in his mouth. His hips thrust into the air, away from the gun. There is a dull ache in his waist. From running. The tiny fleck of pride still left in him wouldn’t allow him to just grind down into the barrel of it, even if he so badly wanted to—even if he wanted to do exactly as Meryl said—exactly as he was doing just a few nights before when he had no one watching—to show he could take it. Take her.
Vash whimpers again. He’s close already. Meryl’s been teasing him for so long, caressing the curl of each fluttering corolla, delicately tracing the shape of each petal, dodging his stamen with cruel swoops and slides the moment she became aware of it, the same way she skirted past his entrance, determined to have him chase his release, rather than just freely giving it to him.
It was absolute torture.
His stamen was hard for far too long, and unattended to, allowing it to swell overtime. Most days, even he didn’t work it to its full length, standing tall like a cattail and leaking like a philodendron. But Meryl... she brought it out of him.
“Come on, Vash,” she smirks, soft even in her bullying. “You made such good use of my gun. Don’t get shy on me now. I was looking forward to a demonstration.”
Vash whines. “Mmnnff—” A very muffled ‘please’ fights its way out of him. “Meryl.”
“You know, Vash, derringers aren’t made to last. For the most part, they’re the inexpensive, single-use handgun, especially since each can only hold two rounds at a time. But sometimes I get lucky and pull off three or four uses with one. Still, for the most part, they’re extremely limited; it’s why I had so many, and yet,” she pauses for dramatic flair. The man’s stomach tightens. He knows what he did. He did very bad. Something within him flitters nervously. “You used one of them to get off. Now that’s a use I never thought I’d come across! Yet now, I ask you to show me, and you’re being all shy… even though your body is crying for it again,” she trails her thumb around the ring of his heated entrance, catching the evidence, “quite literally.”
Vash hissed and squeezed his eyes shut, moaning a noise that floats within the realms of deep arousal and terrifying bashfulness. He tries not to dwell on how quickly his hole clenched in a poor attempt at catching her thumb.
She lines the empty derringer up to his hole again, enough for contact this time, for him to feel that metallic sensation once more—and remember it. He does; his body is overcome with chills that swallow him whole like a desert worm.
She doesn’t push though; Vash must work, he must entertain.
Through the heavy blur coating his eyelashes, he thinks she looks almost annoyingly pretty, so regal with her golden earrings.
She pulls something seemingly from nowhere. Her back pocket, perhaps. It was larger. Heavier. More black than gunmetal gray.
Vash held his breath when he noticed the shape of it. His heart rattles like a cell door, shaken beyond what it can bear. The next moan is impossible to suppress.
“Fuck,” his eyes dart between the two guns, Meryl’s crafty little derringer, barely the length of her fingers, and Wolfwood’s 1911 pistol, nearly thick enough to rival Vash’s own gun, but so much sleeker, freshly cleaned and shined, borrowed right off of the Punisher’s cross. Vash was excitable, yes, but he couldn’t help pondering the more pressing question… How in the world did she get Wolfwood to give that to her?
“I lucked out with the priest,” she says with a scheming grin, as if she could read Vash’s thoughts. She frees the .45 caliber bullets onto her palm, and Vash watches them fall like golden dewdrops, a string of drool dripping down his chin. She slowly rains the bullets down onto his abdomen, watching all seven of them roll along his shivering stomach. His reactions are immediate and intense; his body practically steaming at the contact. He chokes out another moan, finding himself exceedingly thrilled by this dark, twisted, nameless facet of their companionship. “Said I could do anything but break it, pretty much. As long as it’s returned clean again. And his guns are a lot more durable than mine, so.”
She rests the emptied gun onto Vash’s lower belly. It clicks slightly. It’s cool and heavy, especially at the grip, designed to steady a marksman’s hand.
The thought alone had Vash gasping, feeling his walls clench around nothing but the thick, creamy fluid that kept pouring out of him from any little thing Meryl did, said, or implied.
She simply implied it—that she’d fuck him with both guns, like they were both her cocks, and he was practically melting through the bed, sure to melt through the floor and reunite with the planet’s fruitless soil too!
He was going to explode at this rate.
It was so heavy, seated right atop his heat, pressing constantly on his most sensitive, unseen parts. His head swirls.
“Come on, Humanoid Typhoon,” she urges in a benevolent whisper, pressing Wolfwood’s gun into his belly like she intended to leave an indent. The bullets roll off on either side, laid around him on the bed like the world’s most tender crime scene. “Show me how you ride. Then we can bump you up to this.”
And there isn’t much coaxing that needs to be done after that. Vash had been stubborn enough. Being coy wasn’t doing anything but frustrating him further. He needed this, he deserved this—and if anyone had to see it, he’s fucking overjoyed that it’s Meryl! So, he ground his hips down roughly, consuming the slim barrel of Meryl’s derringer with practiced ease, taking it all the way to the trigger guard, and beyond eager for more!
He sighs—though it comes out more like a shuddering wail—when he finally wraps a hand around his needy cock, pumping it in time with his clumsy, pollen-stained thrusting.
Meryl frees his mouth and Vash keens, unrestrained. His subdermal marks flicker again like faulty lights.
When he sounds like he’s about to fucking die—hyperventilating as if his heart and lungs were going into overdrive—the woman wisely stops him and finally takes control.
“I… I don’t understand,” Vash mumbles dumbly when she grips his hands gingerly. “What… oh.”
She wipes the sweat off his brow and picks up Wolfwood’s gun. Carefully, she drags the entire length of it between Vash’s slicked, parted petals, pressing its edge into that sopping wet entrance delicately—with a mercy she hadn’t given him all this time—with the mercy Nico swears is imbued into all his weaponry.
Vash’s eyes slip shut. It was ecstasy. It was paradise. Meryl’s hand is directing his leg, opening him up further. He allows it.
“Nnh. Oh. Oh my—yes.” His voice chokes off when she slides it in, with the utmost care and tact, watching as his body swallows the intrusion, watching as his inhibitions fall apart and Vash becomes real, raw, and needy. An animalistic noise rumbles from his throat, similar to a purr. His hips gyrate in whirling circles, guided by her hand, steadied, so he doesn’t chase and crash. A single tear streaks down his face, racing past his birthmark. He inches closer and closer to the trigger. His flora squeezes it down, a hungry glutton. “Oh, fuck, Meryl… Thank… you.”
She thrusts it lazily, letting the heaviness do most of the work, already leaving Vash sore in the best, most unforgettable way. She focuses her other hand on jerking Vash off, moving in tandem, her thumb squeezing the tip just right, until he’s back to square one, fucking himself into her hand—wetly, slipping, sliding—onto the gun, reduced to a blissful, blubbering, mewling mess.
Then, he suddenly arches, with the most lovely sounds escaping his throat, right before he cums massively all over her hand, coating the gun’s exterior in his syrup-scented sin.
His affection.
His nectar, thick and hot and ample.
His apparent fetish, too.
Metallic sugar.
The small woman makes another appreciative noise, her selfish, journalistic curiosity thoroughly satiated.
Vash, by the end of it, lays trembling, sweating, and stinking too sweet. He is, in essence, a changed man.
Meryl leans over him and kisses his temple. “Great job, sweetheart.”
He melts all over again, stupidly happy.
“Give me a sec,” he says shortly after, with a steadily-growing smile. “I want some more. I want it again.”