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Left Hand	By : roguebitch Category: +S to Z > Trigun Views: 5154 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Trigun, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Left Hand
- 1
Vash thinks Meryl loves his left arm more than she loves any of the rest of him.

His left arm, the twice-replaced-cybernetic-not-even-pretending-to-be-real-arm.

(As opposed to his angel arm, which is, after all, a weapon and admittedly hard to love.)

He has expressed as much to her and received an exasperated whap across the back of his head in answer. From that, he could reasonably have inferred that his suspicion was incorrect, but still.

Why was it that when his nose was satisfyingly buried in her salty folds, her moans of ecstasy would become full-throated cries accompanied by the drumming of tiny heels on his back and his ears being nearly twisted off when he inserted one or two cyberdigits into her warmth?

(Meryl had once cut her foot on one of his exposed bolts that way -- there had been blood everywhere. She hadn't felt a thing. She was so furious and embarrassed that she didn't let Vash touch her for a week.)

Why was it that she would struggle and squirm when pinned by his natural hand, yet surrender blissfully when pressed to the bed by the prosthetic one?

Why was it that she would capitulate gracefully to the gentle pressure of his cybernetic hand on the back of her head, making her take him into her mouth much more quickly than she would on her own?

(Using his real hand in this way had earned him a smack, a growl, and a warning edge of teeth, Vash shuddered in remembrance.)

He was beginning to feel like two men, and that Meryl liked the fake one better than the flesh one.

He finally felt he had an opening to discuss it with her one morning, after a satisfying session of dealing with his morning wood (although he was sure he didn't help by yelling "Timberrrrr!" at the moment of crisis). She was soft and receptive and drowsy in his arms.

"Meryl?"

"Hmm?" she smiled up into his face, grey eyes wide and relaxed.

"Do you like my prosthetic arm better than, um, the rest of me?" he stammered, nervous.

The post-coital haze was gone from her eyes instantly, her brows drawn together, an 'oh-not-this-again' look on her face.

"Broomhead --" she started warningly. Then she stopped. Sighed. "I love you. All of you."

"But -- you let me do things with this one," Vash thrust the artificial limb out, "that you don"t with the real one."

Meryl gave him a penetrating look.

"You can crush metal with that hand. You could easily crush me with it."

"But I would never --" Vash hastened to say. How could she think he would?

"I know you wouldn't. But sometimes, it's nice to have the decision taken away from me. Do you know what I mean?"

Vash thought about what she said. Meryl was the brain center of their strange little household. She knew how much money they had and how much they could spend. She kept track of groceries and utilities and when seasonal maintenance needed to be done. She would never let that facade of being in control slip, even if he knew, and Milly knew, and even Knives knew, that it was just a facade.

Maybe it felt good for her to let someone take control for once, someone she could trust. If she had to use the excuse of powerlessness because of the greater mechanical strength of his left arm -- well, maybe that was something Vash could live with.

"I-I guess I was worried that you didn't want what the real me could give you any more."

Meryl's gaze swept down Vash's body, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that "real" in his case was a bit of a contradiction. Normally, when he was naked with her, he didn't remember the scars, the bolts, the grates. Normally, he was suffused with his love and wanting for her, fulfilled by the fact that she loved and wanted him back.

"Stupid Vash." Meryl murmured, taking the sting out of the words. "It's all real. You're all real."

"But -- why do you fight me when I use my flesh hand?"

Meryl shrugged. "Because I have to. Because I can."

"And when it's my artificial limb, you can't fight me. So you don't have to." Vash finished.

"Exactly." Meryl nodded.

"Besides," she continued, an impish light in her eyes, "it's not like the rest of you isn't doing anything while I'm enjoying the services of your left hand."

Vash realized she was right -- even if he did have her pinned to the bed with his left hand, he was often buried to the hilt in her sex, his flesh hand holding him up over her body. Or if he was holding her head with the left hand, he was often stroking her cheek or interlacing his fingers with hers even as he thrust himself into her mouth.

"Oh!" he said, as the light dawned. "Ohhhh."

She was giving him that smile that said she found him desirable and sexy despite the fact that he was occasionally a complete idiot. And even though Vash knew that Meryl wasn't quite ready for another go, he flipped her onto her back and held her wrists together over her head with his right hand. With his left, he traced a path down her chest, between her breasts, and over her little mound of curls, to the folds and bump of her sex. He couldn't feel much through his hand, mostly sense impressions and pressure, but he could tell from the lack of friction that she was wet.

Vash looked up from where his hand was, into Meryl's face. Her lips were parted, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. In her eyes, he saw everything that he had ever hoped for -- total acceptance.

"Kiss me, Vash." She breathed, and he did, releasing her hands so she could put her arms around him. In his arms, both "real" and artificial, she held him, scars, bolts, grates, flesh and all.
- 1
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Left Hand