#DON'T FALL FOR IT JUST SHOOT HIM VASH

[knaivcs]

He doesn't stop. Will not, can not.

"You've always been stubborn, but this is... This is the very definition of madness. How many more wounds will you suffer? For them? Little more than animals ripping and tearing at each other over scraps? You keep letting them do THIS-" he seizes Vash's shirt and pulls at the loose collar, exposing scar tissue layered over scar tissue. Gouges, bullet wounds, lacerations, even savage claw marks. Pockets of nothing where flesh should be.

It hurts to see them. It pains his very being so much, he could cry right then and there.

Again and again, Vash continues to reject him. His twin. His other half. The only one who truly understands and wants nothing but the best for him.

Again he lashes out, tries to catch Knives in some twisted fabrication of the truth. Yet the elder of the pair is not the one who has to lie- to his sibling, to himself.

What reason, for what purpose? What do their kind gain by engaging in lies? It's all such a very... human approach to problem solving.

"You're right. It's never been about you. It's always been about us, together. Can't you see that? This was supposed to be OUR paradise, OUR home. This world was never meant to change or be changed for their comfort- They weren't even supposed to have survived at all! If it weren't for her..."

He knows that woman is a sore point, that Vash still feels she was a 'mother' to them. In the end, Rem was no better nor different than any other human: a coward and a fool.

A liar.

"I will stop you every single time.”

He leans into the firearm, until the barrel is placed over where his heart would be.

"Do you love them... more than you love me?"

It's a valid question.

@knaivcs

❛  nobody else will ever love you the way i do.  ❜

“Stop it, Knives.” 

What lies in the difference between the name he has chosen and the name that he was given? Once upon a time, one of those had been the person Vash remembered to be his brother. 

Vash crosses his arms tightly over his chest, and his finger curls so harshly around the trigger guard of his gun that he can feel the metal biting through the material of his glove and push up against bone through skin. It always, always came to a fight. Why? Without gunpowder and bullets, he has no other means to halt an otherwise unstoppable force. They have visited the same argument time and time again, spanning the natural lifespan of humanity two times over.

The word 'love' twists in his gut not because his brother uses it as a weapon, but because it’s the truth. Knives means every single word. Imperfect, an off-color perception of a topic so complicated that even ancient texts struggled over the many definitions into which the concept of love fits. 

Brotherly love. Well-intentioned concern for the wayward.

Brutal and unforgiving.

“Enough…” Vash rasps, and he can feel the syllables catching in his throat as it constricts. He knows his way, and he does not need his brother's guiding hand to find it.

Their definitions are so very different. Foolish, to hope that someday it might be the same. He is used to being a fool. 

“This has never been about me!” 

It’s about saving them. 

The ever-present desert sun glares at them from high above, forcing Vash to squint as he stares up at Knives. Outlined in a golden halo of light, his brother has, whether consciously or not, tried to physically place himself above reproach. 

Knives. 

Nai. 

His brother’s entourage lingers a respectful distance behind him. Followers that have never known ‘Nai.’ Unwanted shadows, people made monstrous, tailing after their master. Waiting.

Vash extends his arm, leveling his gun until Knives’s right shoulder is perfectly indexed behind his front sight. “It doesn’t matter why you’re doing it. I will stop you every single time.” 

[bakughosts]

how real hunger has a real taste

Trigun Stampede ✮ Wolfwood/f!Reader, 18k. Also on AO3!

You want everything. You want the real and the not, who he is and what he sells people. You want to run your thumb across his jaw without the expectation of anything else afterwards. A touch for the sake of a touch. You’re struggling with understanding whether these thoughts are because of who he is or because he’s the closest thing you’ve had to an object of affection since—ever. Maybe if you closed your eyes, it wouldn’t matter if it was him or someone else. (It matters. And then he inevitably betrays you.)

notes: mutual pining, angst, wolfwood in early twenties but looks older & reader implied to be in mid-to-late twenties, a little praise kink for the both of you, love confessions (but who knows if they're real? definitely not you), spoilers for all of trigun stampede s1 (HEAVILY canon reliant so it probably won't make sense if you haven’t seen it; if you don't have the time etc. and still want to read this, reading on from 'before julai' should be just un-confusing enough to work for you hopefully???)

The Fall of JuLai

It’s not like Nick thinks he’s a good person by any means. 

He delivered Vash to JuLai Tower like he was supposed to, and even though he begrudgingly likes the guy, Nick knows that he doesn’t stand a chance against his brother. His ‘do no harm’ bullshit is gonna put paid to that. Meryl and Roberto are there, too, because they're nosy and got swept up in all the things happening on this hellish planet that Nick has too much to do with. You’re there for the same reason—and when you had your chance to leave, to get out of the city safely, you didn’t. Because you’re entirely too idealistic and you’re delusional enough to believe that Vash can save the world.

The streets of JuLai are crawling with vines and blooming flora, petals and leaves black as the heart of a killer. Fluorescent blue pestles illuminate ruined homes, collapsed buildings, bodies. Some moving, some not. 

People are crying out, begging for help—from others, from God, which is funny considering Nick has known since long before he signed his pastoral contract that there’s no way any God could’ve seen this planet and not been disgusted enough to destroy it.

Navigating the streets is easier now that there aren’t guards shooting at him every five minutes. He ignores the people around him—the moving ones and the motionless ones. Kicks rubble as he walks much too slowly towards the exit of the crumbling city. The cigarette that he bummed off of Roberto is mintier than the Skulls he usually smokes. He didn’t know you could get menthols these days. The taste is unpleasant. Explains why the old man always smelled a little like toothpaste under all that stale tobacco.

Roberto’s dead now. His blood is still drying on the floor of the elevator where his life abruptly ended. These people are going to die if they haven’t already. Meryl is going to die. Vash is going to die. You are going to die.

So no, Nick doesn’t think he’s a good person. He never has.

But his freedom is his own. The orphanage is safe. His family—whatever remnants are left, without Livio—are all safe. That’s what being the bad guy gets you, because no one gives a rat’s ass about how good you are. No one cares about anything but themselves. No one was gonna give Nick his freedom, give the orphanage its safety. Not without something in return.

He’s moving so goddamn slow that you wouldn’t expect him to have just given up everything—to have betrayed the only people that were kind to him, that cared about him when he saw his brother die, when his childhood home was almost obliterated. If he doesn’t start running, he’s gonna go down with this city, and all of it will have been for nothing.

He can’t stop thinking about the look on your face when you realized what he’d done.

Meryl’s nattering is something he hardly remembers, something about him being unbelievable, I thought better of you, why isn’t everyone a goody-fuckin’-two-shoes like me, but every time he blinks, he can see you in perfect resolution, like there’s a screen on the back of his eyelids replaying his worst memories.

You hadn’t even said anything. That was the worst part.

The street beneath his feet shudders, the entire city groaning, the metal hull on which it stands screaming out in protest. Nick stops. He stops moving, all because he can’t get you out of his goddamn head, like you’re some sort of worm that’s crawled its way in there, all cozy and nested where he wants you least.

Knives is gonna tear you apart. You and the bratty reporter. You’re strong—you’ve shown that to him in your travels, that you’re not one to back down from a good fight, and he liked seeing a gun in your hand, fire in your eyes, blood on your teeth—but Knives is on a whole other level. Even Nick couldn’t take him out, and he’s a freak of nature thanks to all the shit Conrad did to him. 

He and Vash moved a fifteen-ton ion cannon with their bare hands because they were built to, and you’re up there in that tower all soft and kind and human . 

“Fuck.” His cigarette burns down to the filter, the taste more like plastic than mint. His cross is heavy, shoulder protesting the one-handed hold with which he carries it. He’s not going back there. He did all this for a reason. He saved his own hide because he’s a bad person and that’s what bad people do. You shouldn’t have expected more from him. 

Even though you did. Even though sometimes you looked at him and he really thought—and don’t get him wrong, it’s because you’re delusional—that you might’ve actually believed he could be a better person.

“Fuck.”

He’s back in the building before the butt of his cigarette has a chance to hit the ground.

Following Meryl seems to be a bad idea, but you do it anyway. Even as she calls after Vash, climbing through the broken window of JuLai Tower’s penthouse office, even as you hear the sound of metal hitting metal, knives and bullets clashing in violent bursts of embers, even with Doctor Conrad behind you—a man who, not even fifteen minutes ago, you would have ripped apart with your bare hands—you keep going.

What else are you going to do? What else is left?

There’s the gleam of silver, the sound of something very sharp slicing the very air, and before you’re able to get outside, Meryl is thrown across the roof of the tower, the dome of the office collapsing inwards. Glass tumbles down on your shoulders and you have to move—that’s all you’ve ever known. Just keep moving.

You’re out of the window frame and running towards her in an instant, lungs burning, but Meryl is still rolling, still sliding towards the downturned side of the roof edge, and you’re going to lose her, you realize—she’s going to fall.

Maybe you call out to her—you’re not sure. Your throat is raw already from yelling, your bones aching from the multiple injuries you’ve sustained. You’ll die here too, most likely.

The realization feels peaceful in a very empty way.

But before it can settle in, you see a familiar figure—a dark suit, a too-large gun in the shape of a cross, and Meryl is yelling, “Undertaker?” and Nick is there and you hate him for coming back.

When you reach them, he barely looks you in the eye. Just motions to his shoulders, asks, “Think you can hold on?”

You don’t want this man to be your salvation. You don’t want him to have anything he can possibly use to redeem himself. But you’re not going to die because of your pride. You let him turn and kneel before you, and your arms are around his neck and he’s got his gun in one arm and Meryl in the other and you’re flying—

Honest to god flying through the air, falling far off the top of the tower and then further, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Nick taking the brunt of each fall. You have to close your eyes or you’re going to throw up, and your legs are wrapped so tightly around his waist that you think you could cut him in half, and he smells like Roberto’s menthol cigarettes—and you knew something was different about him, that he was inhumanly strong, but the way he waltzes through the city from rooftop to rooftop while carrying a couple hundred pounds of extra weight is simply incomprehensible.

Things don’t feel real because there’s no way this could be really happening. You feel the wind against your face, the dulled impact of Nick’s feet hitting hard concrete and metal, and you can hear his labored breathing, hear Meryl scream for him to hold her tighter or she’s gonna fall, hear the gunshots of soldiers on ground level who have still, for some reason, decided that you are the enemy they should be after and not the miles-tall Plant aberration that’s growing out of JuLai Tower.

You can’t open your eyes even when Nick stops moving, when you’re far outside of the city. Even when his gun is on the ground, when he’s put down Meryl and lowered himself so your knees are on the desert floor. Prying your arms from around his neck would feel the same as dying.

Gently, Nick does this for you—moves your arms, but not off of him completely. Enough that he can turn so you’re both kneeling and facing each other, and only then do you open your eyes. He lost his sunglasses at some point during the escape. JuLai is a mess of pulsing blue behind him. He says your name very, very quietly. Your hands are curled at the back of his neck, fingers carding through the hair at his nape because at this point it’s instinct. His eyes are so dark they look black, and there’s blood smudged on his cheek, and your first instinct is to wipe it away for him—to remove any sign of hurt, any sign of injury. 

But Vash is gone, and Nick's the one that made sure it happened. 

You push away from him so quickly that you fall on your ass, sand dusted in a cloud around you. Maybe he was going to say something, some other half-assed excuse, but the hull of the ship that JuLai grows from groans loud, its metal body screaming for help into the desert night as if it’s not far past the point of salvation. The roots that pulse from the city begin to recede, crawling back through the holes they’ve made in infrastructure, curling back up to the top of the tower.

Much more quietly than it should, the largest city on the planet creaks, falls, and goes completely dark.

Before JuLai

Nothing annoys Nick more than routine gun maintenance, and the fight on the Sandsteamer had really done a number on the Punisher.

He always hated the way the doctor called him that—this is your duty, Punisher, this is what I created you for—as if he was nothing but an extension of his weapon. Though that’s all he’s really supposed to be. An executioner, an undertaker, a priest. A sentient trigger.

He doesn’t let things like that get to him. Seeing his brother as what he’d become, seeing him kill himself to escape the life he was living because he wanted to be just like Nick—

None of it gets to him. He doesn’t let it. He doesn’t care.

You sit down next to him when he’s in the middle of oiling one of the crossgun’s many chambers, kicking up sand in your wake. He probably shouldn’t have decided to sit out here to clean his gun, but where else is he gonna do it? In the car? Everything on the planet is covered in sand. He’ll have to deal with it. Still, he gives you a nasty side-eye for putting him back about three minutes of work.

“Am I interrupting? Sorry,” you say, and he can tell you’re not. “Thought you were gonna help us set up camp.”

“I’m busy.”

“You can get hot and heavy with your cross later. Meryl needs help getting a fire started.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t want to. The cloth he uses to clean the chambers is black with grease and he wonders when he’ll have to tear a piece of his shirt off to replace it with and he wonders if you got hurt earlier keeping the Bad Lads Gang off the reporter duo and he wonders what he could possibly do to get you to quit staring at him. His collar feels too tight even though the buttons start four inches down his chest. “Get Blondie to do it.”

At the top of the dune closest to camp, Nick has an excellent view of the stretch of absolutely fucking nothing that surrounds you all. Vash said his home was near here—needed to get his prosthetic arm fixed up by the people that built it. He probably isn’t in good shape to help anyone do anything. You both know that.

The wind pushes the dunes further out, transforming the desert into a rippling, golden sea. The sun is about to set, the sand already cast a shade of light pink by oncoming dusk. You’re silent for long enough that Nick is forced to look at you, which he doesn’t do often because it always makes him feel a bit hot under the collar, a bit hunted. He can’t explain it. Sure as hell doesn’t like it, though.

You’re not even paying attention to him. Instead, you take in the wide open desert as if it’s the first time you’re seeing it, and the sun touches your face soft like a lover and—there’s a pang of something in his stomach. Like jealousy. 

He can’t escape you. It isn’t like the others don’t try with him—he has to deal with Vash, who thinks he can befriend the entire fucking planet and bombards Nick with friendly remarks that he’s dying to see turn into banter; Meryl, who isn’t interested in him as more than a journalistic pursuit but still asks some very pointed questions; Roberto, who offers him a smoke every now and then and thanks him for doing shit that he didn’t do for anyone but himself in the first place.

And then he has to deal with you, too, but you approach him in a different way. A way he isn’t used to—not that he’s used to any of it—but that he can stomach. You’re open with him, but you don’t inundate him with things he doesn’t care about. You ask questions when they’re necessary. You give him disapproving looks when he runs his mouth a bit too much and much more pleased looks when he lets Vash wax poetic about saving the universe from evil. He finds himself shutting up sometimes just to see it—the slight curve of your lips, fond exasperation at Vash’s unyielding hope, a silent thank you in the pointed look you send his way.

“You grew up there?” you ask. “At that orphanage?”

You’ve decided, it seems, that these questions are necessary. He’d talked about the orphanage at some point in front of you, so he’s not exactly surprised that you know about it. Still, he’s in a shitty mood and he doesn’t want to talk about this with anyone. Especially you, even though most days you’re the person he’d be most willing to tell. “I never liked twenty questions. Too much talking involved.”

“I already know the answer,” you say.

“Then you shouldn’t have asked the question. That’s not how you win.”

“I’m trying to—I don’t know. Is it so ridiculous for me to ask you something personal every once in a while?”

He scoffs. “You’ve got more questions than bullets. And you fire them quicker, too.”

You fix him with a look, and he can only hold your eyes for a moment before looking back at his gun. Too much shit to do to get distracted, anyways. 

“How long have we been traveling together?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Couple months. Why?”

You shrug, and he can see it in his peripherals. You move fluidly, in a way he catches himself noticing too often. “Are you gonna tell any of us something real about yourself?”

“You should talk to Meryl,” he says. “I’m sure she could find you some kind of job in investigative journalism. Or maybe you could do some cam work, since you’re so far up my ass.”

“Fuck off, Wolfwood,” you say, but he can see the edge of your grin, hear the mirth in your voice. Something he likes about you: his attitude doesn’t piss you off. You take it in stride and on occasion, give it back. 

“I was here first,” he reminds you. “You should be the one doing the fucking off.”

You don’t fuck off. You sit next to him and things feel heavy but no heavier than they always do. 

He wants to hear you say his first name—a misplaced thought that he shouldn’t have had, like finding a coin in your pocket after it's already been through the dryer. (He’d kill to find a town with a laundromat, but they’re few and far between.) Wolfwood is so impersonal, what everyone he’s ever traveled with has called him. Punisher is out of the question. Nicholas he likes even less, somehow, because it feels like a name that was taken from him when he was too young to ask for it back. But thinking about the idea of you saying fuck off, Nick, or Nico, or whatever the hell you want to call him and trying badly to hide that little smile from him has his heart racing a thousand miles a minute. He looks at you and realizes what a bad idea it is because once he starts, he can't stop.

You frown—ruminative. Something’s on your mind. Something he’s worried you might try to tell him. “Are you ever, maybe…” you begin. Your words are quiet, measured. “Would you ever tell me something real?”

Nick’s hands are too clammy to keep working on the intricate parts of his gun. You’re setting him back even more. He hates it when you ask questions like this. He hates it when you mention the thing that sits between the two of you, the quiet understanding that even though you’d been a gun-for-hire traipsing around the planet and Nick had been tortured until his fucking eyes bled, you can somehow understand each other. He wants to knock you down a peg. To get you to leave him alone before he says something he’ll regret telling you. “I don’t know how you got the idea that you’re special,” he says, and the air in his lungs feels like too much for his body to hold, “but you’re not.”

You stare at him, hurt slowly curling your lips downwards. He shrugs his shoulders as if this isn’t how he wanted you to react and goes back to cleaning his gun. Tries to let himself breathe. It’s difficult. His big fucking mouth is gonna get him in trouble again if you don’t say something soon, or slap him, or leave, or—something. Nick doesn’t apologize for things. Never finds himself wanting to like he does right now.

“Forget it,” you say, standing to leave. “You—fuck. No, forget it.” 

You won’t look at him and he hates that you won’t. Some days it’s all he wants.

Traveling with Wolfwood is torture when he’s in a bad mood. He’s barely spoken to you since your conversation a few days ago—hasn’t even looked at you. That sucks for multiple reasons, but partially because today it’s you, him, and Vash in the backseat of the car, Roberto in the passenger (as always), and Meryl driving. 

You like Meryl—she’s sweet, and she has a lot of grit—but you don’t like the way she drives. The three of you slide all over the backseat like butter across a hot pan, your seat belts barely holding you in place each time she takes a hard turn—you’re in a desert, for Christ’s sake, and your destination is a straight line away from you, so you have no idea why she has to steer somewhere new every thirty seconds.

Vash had (without Meryl noticing, which would save everyone an earful) arranged the order of seating so you wouldn’t get crushed between him and Wolfwood, and took the driver’s-side seat so his prosthetic wouldn’t smack into whoever sat to his left and leave them with some nasty bruises.

Every two minutes your entire body slams into Wolfwood’s side, and he was already in a sour mood—by the time you reach the town you’ll be staying in for the night, he’s steaming, practically shoving Vash out of the car so he can leave the enclosed space he’s been forced to share with you.

Sometimes—or maybe more than sometimes, because you think about it often—you want to tell Wolfwood how childish he can be. You want to tell him that there’s more to life than smoking and sulking. But you prefer him when he isn’t giving you the cold shoulder, so you keep it to yourself.

The motel you find is cheap and clean. Well—clean might be a strong word, but at least it isn’t bug-infested like the last place you stayed, so everyone agrees to stay in town an extra day in order to rest. 

You all have lunch together (where Wolfwood ignores you), play games of pool in the motel lobby (where Wolfwood decides to go back to his room when you and him are finally up against each other), and even share a few drinks at the town’s bar after the sun sets (where Wolfwood flirts with any person that even so much as glances his way all night).

It’s not like you want to watch him shoot whiskey, head back and the long line of his throat exposed. It’s not like you want to hear the depth of his voice, its seductive edge, when he gets the bartender wrapped around his finger in under a minute flat. There’s just nowhere else to look, nothing else to listen to. The bartender leans in, smiling softly, as Wolfwood tells her something secret that has her face dusted a pretty pink. 

There’s a hand in front of you, snapping, and Meryl is asking you, “Are you even paying attention to me?”

“Yes,” you lie, “of course I am.”

She rolls her eyes. “What’d I just say?”

You genuinely have no idea. You didn’t even realize that Vash and Roberto had left the table, both fully concentrated on a game of darts across the bar.

“Yeah, thought so. Look—can you do something about it?”

“I still don’t know what you were talking about—”

“New subject. Keep up,” she says. “Can you and the Undertaker stop fighting? His moods drive me up the wall.”

Your eyes narrow. She’s doing that Meryl-thing where she asks you a question about something you’ve never established because she wants you to confirm whether or not it’s true. The amount of times Vash has been caught out by this technique is comical. 

“We’re not fighting,” you say. Fighting implies more than lukewarm camaraderie and routine disgruntlement. Fighting implies caring enough about each other to fight about something.

“Uh-huh,” she says, and you both watch as Wolfwood looks at the bartender and grins, all pretty white teeth, before glancing back at the table where you and Meryl sit. “So he’s doing this to, what, make me jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” you say, and the speed with which the words leave your lips has already damned you. “And he’s not—it’s not for me. It’s—he’s just being Wolfwood. What else do you expect? He likes the attention.”

Meryl only looks smug when she gets someone to say something she wants them to say, and she looks very, very smug. 

“We’re staying here extra time to rest,” you tell her, “not to—do whatever he’s doing. I’m not jealous, I’m annoyed. If I have to cover his ass in a firefight because he spent his spare time with some—some random, then I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Some random,” Meryl parrots, using her fingers to put quotes around the word. “Would you rather it not be someone random, then?”

You stand too quickly, the booze going to your head. You haven’t had that much to drink, you don’t think, but you sway a little on your feet. “I’m not going to be the one that lets down the team,” you tell her. “So I’m gonna get some sleep. For the team.”

Meryl hmms, amused, playing at believing you. “Go get some sleep for the team. We all appreciate your sacrifices.”

You laugh, and though you can only see him from your peripherals, you think you see Wolfwood’s head turn just a little. Probably looking for back-ups in case the bartender loses interest.

The walk to the motel is brisk and cold with the sun finally in bed for the night, and you hate the way you think about the slope of Wolfwood’s throat and the points of his canines when he grins and the darkness of his eyes peering over the rim of his sunglasses when he glanced back towards you—

You sigh, stopping outside your door and pushing your thumb and middle finger against your closed eyes, as if you can massage the images out of your sight permanently.

You can’t. No matter how hard you try. And you know why—really, it isn’t even buried that deep down. You like his cocky grin and dry sense of humor and the way his inky hair falls soft across his forehead. You like the way his hands look when he cleans his gun, long and pretty fingers removing and reloading clips of bullets that he clicks into place one-by-one with his thumb, quick and confident. You like talking to him in the middle of the night when you camp out in the desert and everyone else is asleep, and even though you’re both in your sleeping bags, you look up at the same stars and tell each other about your worst fights or about the people you used to know, and sometimes he makes you laugh so hard that you have to cover your mouth in fear of waking everyone else.

Sometimes, you think that—maybe he feels something like that too. Maybe there are things he likes about you that he keeps to himself, little secrets lined up like cigarettes in a pack. But he keeps you at arm’s length and it kills you. No matter how much he gives you, it’s never enough, and he knows it. You know a lot about him, but you don’t know him.

So when he flirted with the bartender, it wasn’t him trying to make you jealous. Because making you jealous implies that he wants something from you. 

Maybe he just wants to fuck you. That’s another fairly viable option, but not your favorite. It’s not like you’re asking him to profess his undying love—that doesn’t exist out here. You meet people and you form tenuous connections and you enjoy the time you have until it inevitably finds its end. Law of the wasteland. 

You just want something a little more real. You want him to like things about you the way you like things about him.

If it’s a physical connection he’s looking for, he can find it with the bartender once her shift is over. You’re in travel clothes still, cargo pants and the most worn shirt you own, and you’re covered in desert grit besides. The bartender is clean and pretty and much more accessible.

He can do whatever he wants. He just lost someone. Even if you were on the other side of the Sandsteamer, you’re positive you could've heard Wolfwood cry out when Livio’s body tipped over the side of the ship and melted into the sea of sand below. Maybe fucking away the pain is what he wants to do. And that’s fine.

When you get to the door of your room, you hear hurried footsteps and your hand is on your hip, finger already ghosting the trigger of your holstered pistol—but it’s him. Not enough for him to plague your thoughts, apparently. He had to follow you back to the motel and remind you that you aren’t going to be able to escape him for the foreseeable future.

“Why’d you leave?” he asks. Blunt, for him. You wonder how much whiskey he’s had. There’s a cigarette in his mouth and the smell of tobacco overwhelms you, makes you want one yourself. Smoking’s an expensive habit.

“Got tired,” you say. You’re pretty sure he knows you’re lying. It’s hard for you to not speak out of bitterness after you've had a little too much to drink. “I didn’t think you’d care that I left.” 

You don’t know how to define what you feel for him. It’s a soft spot, maybe. You like the way he looks at you. You like the way he seems to enjoy you looking at him. Maybe you’re both vain. Maybe you’re both lonely. Whatever it is, it’s been going on for too long and you’re tired of the uncertainty. 

“Nightcap?” he asks. You hadn’t noticed the bottle in his hand, some unlabeled, murky brown liquid.

“Have one with Vash.”

“I don’t want one with him.”

“What do you want, Wolfwood?”

He meets you at the door, and sometimes you forget how tall he is. But not right now. His hand covers yours on the door handle, cigarette between two fingers, and he’s standing closer to you than he ever has outside of a fight. Nothing you’ve felt has been as warm as his skin against yours. The ash that falls on your hand burns a little. “I want to have a drink with you,” he says. “And I want to tell you something real.”

“You’re drunk,” you tell him. His palm is softer than you expected it to be. “But I’ll humor you.”

When he grins, there’s something animal to it—something on the wrong side of feral. He pushes your door open and you follow him inside, sealing your fate for the evening.

There are no chairs in your room, so the both of you sit on the floor, backs against the foot of the twin-sized bed. There are no glasses either, so you both take turns with the bottle, choking a little after each sip. Whatever’s in there could level even the rowdiest bars in November, where you’ve seen more bourbon consumed in one night by your then-traveling companions than you’ve seen altogether in one location since.

“This your way of apologizing to me?” you ask.

He laughs a little then takes a long swig of liquor, inhales sharply through his teeth as the liquid burns down his throat. “I owe my fair share of apologies. What am I sorry for, exactly?”

What are you going to say to that? He hurt your feelings? He didn’t call you special, like some sort of child that needs the recognition, the assurance? He gave you the cold shoulder for a couple days? The way he’d laugh himself to death would definitely bruise your ego more than you can handle. “Tell me what you want to tell me or get out.”

“Don’t sound too eager,” he says. He hands you the bottle, whittling down his cigarette. The smoke that escapes his lips seems to sit between you instead of floating upwards and dispersing. Everything is hazy, soft-edged. “What do you wanna know?”

You wonder if you’ll only get one question, or if he’ll have patience for more. You wonder what the hell you’re even doing here, sitting on the floor with him, making progressively worse decisions. “Who was he to you?” you settle on. “The person that attacked us on the Sandsteamer?”

“No foreplay, huh? Getting right to the main event?”

You try to hide the choking noise that wants to escape you by taking a sip of the booze, but this makes you choke harder, and you have to cough for a few moments before you can even begin to consider a response that doesn’t bring your mind closer to Wolfwood and foreplay. Once you’re able to breathe again, you manage to say, “You were the one that said you wanted to tell me something real.”

He pulls one knee up, leaning forward to rest his elbow on it, and you watch as he cracks his knuckles slow and loud. Not a threat—a nervous tic. You’ve seen him do it after confrontations with Vash, after Meryl asks a question that hits too close to home. “He was, uh… someone I knew when I was a kid. Someone I was supposed to take care of. But I didn’t do a very good job.”

You’re sure he’s also thinking about Livio falling hundreds of feet to the planet’s surface, the sound of the gunshot when he killed himself, Wolfwood calling his name, crying out as he watched this person that he was supposed to take care of meet an untimely and awful end.

Guilt is something that everyone on Gunsmoke is familiar with. Its constant presence doesn’t make it any lighter to carry, any easier to share. Wolfwood bears far more than the cross on his back. The look on his face tells you he already knows where your mind is going and that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He holds out his cigarette to you in lieu of speaking.

You accept what he offers. Close your lips around the filter, try not to think about his lips touching the same place, about the nicotine you could probably taste on him. The drag you take doesn’t feel deep enough. 

“Your turn now,” he says, his deep voice almost too loud in the small room. “I want something real.”

You clear your throat, hand the cigarette back. “I give you real things all the time. You just never reciprocate.”

“My stuff comes with a price. Not my fault you give yours out for free.” Without his sunglasses, his stare is piercing. It makes you feel warm all over. 

Your fingers brush his as you both reach for the neck of the bottle, and neither of you move away. As if the liquor is a safe-ground where contact is okay. It doesn’t have to be questioned, because there’s reasonable doubt when it comes to either of you wanting to touch the other. The problem is that you’ve never wanted so badly to touch someone before now. 

“Tell me something,” he says.

“I want you to kiss me.”

His brows raise, shocked by your boldness maybe, but the cigarette is already out of his mouth and he’s flattening it against the floorboards beside him. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and you need to know what he would feel like against you more than you need to breathe. “Yeah? You want that?”

You nod and everything else is forgotten. The liquor is pushed aside, his body flush against yours, his big hand cupping your jaw, and—how long has it been since you’ve been touched like this? 

His lips find yours too easily, the first kisses slow, exploratory, but he’s impatient—this shouldn’t surprise you. His tongue slides against yours, permission for more granted without the question ever being asked. You want him messy—you want him warm and whole and unrestrained. Every slide of his skin against yours feels electric, sparks flaring and wires buzzing. 

“This good?” he asks—as if he’s worried, as if this isn’t what you’ve wanted for weeks .

You can only hum in response, pulling him back to you by the lapel of his blazer—his dumb fucking blazer that he fills out so perfectly, all wide shoulders and strong arms and—it needs to come off. 

Pushing it down his arms yields little in terms of results, but he takes over for you, carelessly tossing it across the room before returning to the kiss, allowing your hands to run across his chest, up to his muscled shoulders, twining your fingers in his soft hair.

He doesn’t push—just takes what you give him, which means you have to give him more, breaking the kiss and hooking your leg over his lap to straddle him. 

“Fuck, okay,” he says, more to himself than you. His hands find your hips and squeeze, eyes locked on the touch, pulling you closer to him. Through his slacks, you can already feel how painfully hard he is for you. “Okay,” he repeats.

His uncertainty begins to worry you. You tilt his head up carefully, forefinger crooked under his chin. His stubble is rough against your hand and you can’t help smoothing your thumb across the cut of his jaw. “Wolfwood—you know we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Are you—? Of course I want to,” he says, incredulous even though only a moment ago he looked absolutely at a loss for what to do with you. His hands move past the boundary of your shirt, warm palms against your sides, fingers digging into your skin a little desperately. “Fuck, baby, of course I want to.”

“But there’s something on your mind.”

From the way he pauses, you gather that there’s more than just one thing on his mind. He looks conflicted. His hands are still warm against you, and he squeezes your sides once again, warmly, before responding. “Use my name.”

“Okay,” you say, soft. You move your hands to the back of his neck, carding your fingers through his hair. It feels so good to touch someone after so long—but it also feels so good to touch him, specifically, after wondering what it would be like for all those months. “I can do that.”

“Nick.”

Something about the way he tells you this makes you laugh. “Do you think I didn’t know your name?”

He looks up at you, unimpressed. Even if you’re joking, he doesn’t like to be made a fool. “Didn’t want you to call me Nicholas.”

“Okay,” you concede, leaning closer to him. You won’t ask the reason because you’re sure it’s locked behind at least six boundaries you aren’t allowed to push. Into his ear, you whisper, “Is there anything else you want, Nick?”

You can feel his cock twitch against you, and he tries and fails to bite back a groan, exhaling hard, his lips ghosting your neck, the curve of your jaw. “Can you, uh—I just need to know that you… want this. You’ve gotta tell me. Keep telling me.”

Seeing him vulnerable is something you’re not used to. You get the sense that he’s not entirely comfortable with it either. He kisses your shoulder, bites softly at the junction of your neck, intent on not looking at you, you think, before you answer. 

“I’ve wanted this for a while,” you tell him, because it’s easier for you, too, when you don’t have to look at him as you say these things. “I’ve wanted—I want you.”

Before you can say more he takes your chin in his hand, pulls your mouth to his and kisses you hard, his teeth knocking against yours, and stands—stands while you’re in his lap, inhuman strength displayed in such a careless action. Your arms tighten around his shoulders, but his hands are on the underside of your thighs, holding you as if you’re lighter than air. He takes you to the bed and your back hits the mattress, a little dust springing up from the threadbare comforter. 

Looking at him above you is a religious experience. His eyes are black, clouded with lust, lips kiss-reddened, face flushed.

There’s an unparalleled need in his expression, his movements. He pulls your cargos off impressively fast, his knees hitting the wood floor hard enough that the impact rings through your bones as well as his. You’re wearing boxer briefs, you realize, because underwear is at a premium out here in the desert, and they’re fine but they don’t exactly make you feel sexy. Your face flushes a little, suddenly so worried about what he thinks of you, what parts of you appeal to him. “Nick—”

“What do you need, pretty girl?” He kisses the inside of your thigh after asking you this, eyes never leaving yours.

Christ—the pet name alone could kill you, but the look on his face is worse. Desperation doesn’t even begin to cover it.

His long fingers dip into the top of your briefs, and suddenly whatever you’re wearing doesn’t feel all that important. “I’m gonna take these off. That okay?”

You nod because you’ve been rendered unable to speak and he takes care of everything for you. He returns as soon as he’s physically able, kissing the inside of each thigh with a reverence you wouldn’t have ever expected to see from him. It draws a sigh from you, and it’s so nice to be touched, to feel Nick’s skin against yours, to feel the heat of his breath between your thighs.

The second his tongue is against you he groans, vibrations running straight through your body. “All for me, huh?” he asks, half-lidded eyes meeting yours, and you miss the heat of his mouth already. “I’m gonna make you feel so good. So good, I promise.” 

He kisses the inside of your leg once more and wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to him, and he eats you out like a man starved—there’s some sort of technique to it, but it’s lost in the fervor of his movements, in the desperation of his mouth, in the depth of the noises he makes, like he’s been waiting for this for months and now doesn’t know what to do with all the pent up want inside of him.

You tell him he’s doing so good, so perfect, treating me so well, and the encouragement spurs him on, but when he’s opening you up with his long, pretty fingers, when he curls them inside of you just right, your words lose their shape. 

You’re at the edge before you realized you were approaching it, and Nick doesn’t stop his movements. He’s intent on getting you off, tongue moving in rhythm and fingers hitting the perfect spot, his other hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. There’s nothing you want more right now than for him to mark you, to stake some sort of claim on you. To want you for more than just this. 

On instinct, your fingers curl into his hair, guiding him to where you need him—and a second too late you worry that it’s too much, that he won’t like it, but when your grip loosens and you begin to pull away, he grabs your wrist and places your hand back on his head, urging you to take what you need.

And you do—his soft hair thick between your fingers, your grip tightening as you pull him into perfect position, as he lets out a half-broken noise against you, grip tightening painfully on your thigh. His fingers reach a feverish speed and that’s all it takes—you cum hard against his face, your legs tensing around his head, and he couldn’t pull away if he tried. 

But he doesn’t—he works you through your orgasm until you’re oversensitive, until you’re tugging at his hair to get him to stop, until words come back to you and all you can say is please, please, Nick, please.

When he finally relents, he’s breathless, his mouth and chin shimmering and slick. He wipes his face off on the inside of your thigh, which instinctually you want to give him shit for, but immediately after he licks up the mess, placing a kiss to your sensitive skin when he’s finished. “Was that good, baby?” he asks, his breaths heavy, arms still loosely wrapped around your thighs.

He can’t possibly be serious. Yes, it was good. You don’t think anyone will ever be able to follow that up, and all he’s done so far is eat you out.

His face lights up wickedly, and—you said that out loud, you realize, without meaning to. You can’t find it within yourself to care. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so wholly true. “So far, huh?” he asks. “Think you can take more?”

You tug at his shoulder because you want him close—you want to kiss him again, because you’ve gone so long not kissing him that even now, only five minutes feels like too long without. He follows your commands with no complaint, a knee up on the bed, leaning over you to kiss you and you can taste yourself on him, on his swollen lips and the wet slide of his tongue.

“Nick,” you say when he gives you a moment to breathe, and—you had an idea of what you were going to say, but you can’t fully reach it. Any time you’ve slept with someone, it’s been quick and perfunctory. Either you ask them to fuck you or they do the same, and that’s that. But this is so different. You want him to fuck you more than anything, but telling him that you want him to fuck you feels too small for what you actually want from him. 

You want everything. You want the real and the not, who he is and what he sells people. You want him to kiss you when you’re not in a bed in a cheap motel, and you want to sleep next to him, and you want to run your thumb across the stubble on his face without the expectation of anything else afterwards. A touch for the sake of a touch.

You’re struggling with understanding whether these thoughts are because of who he is or because he’s the closest thing you’ve had to an object of affection since—ever. You want him to touch you again. Maybe if you closed your eyes, it wouldn’t matter if it was him or someone else.

“I know,” he says, and he doesn’t because he can’t, because everything that’s going through your head isn’t allowed because that’s not how the world works. Because you think even if you closed your eyes, he’d be the only thing in your head, just his name on a loop and the sounds he makes behind it. He kisses the corner of your mouth and you wish you were in a different reality entirely. “Give me—five minutes, and I’ll be good.”

So he knows what you’re asking for. And he can’t give it to you right now. “Did you already—?”

He stops you before you get further. “It’s—I, uh. Fuck.” His olive skin hides any blush that’s not very deep, but there’s pink staining his cheeks, painting the tips of his ears. “Yeah. You just—yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

“Look, if you’re gonna have an attitude about it—”

“I want you so badly,” you say, and nothing has ever been more true. You’re kissing him before you can stop yourself and you’d thought five minutes was a generous estimate, but that’s really all it takes, his body pinning you to the bed, your hips moving beneath him, your hands running up his back and fisting in his hair. You pull at his shirt, barely buttoned now. “Take it off?”

It didn’t even need to be a question. He stands and his shirt is on the floor in seconds, his slacks following quickly behind. His skin glows in the low light, dark hairs peppering his chest and trailing lower, and you can’t stop yourself from reaching out, running a hand up his stomach, feeling the indents of long-healed scars and the coarseness of his hair. When he breathes out, it’s shaky, poorly controlled. He, too, is wearing boxer briefs, and even though this is normal because they're best for the heat, you somehow feel less self-conscious about anything from earlier. He’s hard again, the boxers stained dark because he came while eating you out which you wouldn’t have believed possible before right now and he’s so disgustingly sexy without even trying that you need him to fuck you right now, actually.

You’d been too enraptured watching him to undress, and his patience is short. Your shirt is pulled up over your head and quick work is made of your bra, and Nick’s breath comes out a little less steady when he palms your breasts, when one hand runs up your sternum, up the column of your throat, before tilting your head up for a surprisingly soft kiss.

He smacks the side of your ass lightly, herding you up the mattress, laying you out fully. When he’s fully undressed, when he’s completely yours to admire, you can’t take your eyes off the precum rolling down the tip of his cock, down the incredibly pretty length of him.

The things you would do to this man if you had time—which you do, but it really seems like you don’t, the pent up energy making you both hazy, rushing you towards what you need. With him on top of you there’s barely any room to move, the twin not built to hold a man as large as Nick, let alone a second person. 

He kisses down the length of your neck and your eyes flutter closed. You tell him how pretty he is, how badly you want him, and his hands squeeze your hips in response, pulling your body so, so close to his. He’s hard against your thigh and you need him right now—you could die tomorrow and be happy if you could just have him inside you this instant. He sucks a bruise into the skin right above your collarbone, and you’re too far gone to worry about whether or not your traveling clothes will cover it tomorrow. “This okay?” he asks, moving a hand between the two of you to position himself at your entrance and ever so slightly push.

“You don’t ever have to ask,” you tell him, voice almost too breathy to be heard, because you would have him whenever, wherever—whatever he wanted. 

Slowly, he thrusts inside, and each inch has your legs clenching tighter around him, your nails digging into his perfect shoulders, most assuredly leaving marks. When he bottoms out you basically whimper—it’s embarrassing, the sounds he’s coaxing from you. 

But you can’t help it—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, and his face is buried into the curve of your neck, moans muffled by your skin, teeth digging into your shoulder.

“Kiss me,” you manage to stutter out, the pace he sets slow and deep, and you want him closer, somehow, as if you could have him living in your skin and it wouldn’t be deep enough. 

He does what you ask, hips snapping to yours, the old mattress squeaking in protest beneath you. The kisses are sloppy, wet, at some points your tongues simply pressed together. He pants something against your mouth—your name, you think, though it’s too quiet for you to know for sure—and with each kiss his thrusts get sharper, deeper, hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. 

Your vision spirals at the edges, white and black stars sparkling in your peripherals. And in the center, Nick: pupils blown, lips a perfect pink, cheeks reddened, and his eyes always, always meeting yours when they can, as if it’s essential whenever your lips aren’t slick against his, like he wants to be connected to you in every way possible.

“Want you to cum again,” he murmurs. “You can do that for me, right?”

All you have to do is hum an affirmative and his hand is between your bodies, thumb honing in on your clit and rubbing tight circles, his pace measured and even and so, so deep, and the closer you get the harder it is to keep your eyes open, to stop yourself from curling into him.

His forehead is flush against yours, his explicit groans all breaths against your mouth. “Look at me, pretty girl,” he says. “I wanna see you.”

You moan his name like a prayer, your eyes opening, still so close to him and he’s beautiful—sweat dripping down his forehead, face so open and earnest, as if this is the closest he’s ever come to being completely vulnerable with you.

It only takes a few more thrusts, his cock curved in the perfect way to hit the right spot inside of you, and you’re coming apart, arms wrapping around his neck and fingers gripping his hair and his name on your lips over and over, because he’s the one that did this and you want him to know that you’re only thinking of him. 

Your vision is blank, head hazy. It takes a long moment for you to feel like you’re a part of your body again, Nick still fucking into you, thrusts becoming sloppy, his hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in so hard you’d be surprised if they weren’t meeting bone. He mumbles something into your neck that you can’t hear, and you can feel his muscles tense, and you say please don’t pull out and he’s cumming inside you while holding your hips flush to his, and he keeps saying things to you like he can’t stop himself. When your senses return to you, you realize he’s saying so good, baby, knew you’d take me so good—and then, out of nowhere, “Love you. Fuck, I love you.”

After a moment, Nick pulls out, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. He lays his head against your chest, one hand curled into your hair, the other gently tracing your side.

You can feel the exact moment that he realizes what he said. 

His entire body tenses, his hand stills, and it reminds you of the way a prey animal locks up when it knows it’s been spotted. When panic fills it so intensely that all bodily autonomy is removed.

What he said isn’t true, obviously. The words barely faze you. There are people in some towns that you can pay to sit in a room with you and tell you how much they love you, that they would do anything for you, that they would die for you. There are so few people scattered across the desert. If you’re a lonely traveler passing through, or even someone city-based but just as alone, being able to say you love someone and hear it back is intoxicating. The chances of anyone saying it to you organically are essentially non-existent. 

It’s certainly not something you’d have expected someone like Nick to be into, but who are you to shame him for the things he likes? He wants praise, he wants to feel wanted, he wants to tell someone that he loves them—there are much crazier things he could like. You’re fine with this.

What you’re not as fine with is the strained look on his face when he pushes himself up on his elbows, the way his words tumble out so quickly when he says, “I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay,” you say, but a stupid part of you stings in the face of such an emphatic rejection of any feelings he could have for you. “I know.”

Connections on Gunsmoke are forged fast and broken bullet-quick. You could meet someone and travel with them for a week and convince yourself you were in love with them because they’re the only person you talk to, the only person to offer you kind touches and pretty words. But those connections aren’t real. They don’t have weight to them, a foundation to stand on.

You and Nick don’t really know each other, despite the nights you’ve spent talking. Despite the ways he’s made you laugh and the ways you’ve made him smile genuinely—even if it’s a small ghost of a thing that doesn’t often grace his handsome face. Logically, he doesn’t love you. You don’t love him. There’s not even a fraction of you that’s tempted to say it because you know it’s not true. 

And yet, a small part of you yearns to have something like that—to have Nick tell you he loves you and mean it, and for you to love him back.

His face is red despite the aplomb with which you handled everything. He doesn’t quite look you in the eyes. “I’m, uh… Damn. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You still like him being close to you. You like the way he touches you, the way he looks at you. You don’t want this to ruin the chance of getting to do this again.

“That was—a lot.”

You run the back of your knuckles across his stubbled jaw, pull him towards you with a hand on the back of his head. He follows without any complaint, even kisses you back when you lean up to kiss him, which really was a gamble because some people don’t like any kind of affection once the sex is over. “You can tell me you love me if that’s what you like,” you murmur against his lips. “I can say it too, if you want.”

He breathes in deep—his exhale almost sounds like a sigh, as if he’s about to deliver bad news but has to gear up for it first.

“If you want to do this again,” you say, pulling back to look him in the eyes—to make sure he knows you’re serious. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so presumptuous. “If you don’t, we can go back to how it was before. That would be okay.”

“I want this,” he tells you, eyes flicking to your lips for an instant. “I mean—I want to do this again.”

Smiling at him is easy. Identifying the warmth you feel in your chest is harder.

He kisses you and you sink into the comfort of him, his easy grins and soft moans and light touches. He only stops to ask you very quietly if he should be worried about finishing inside of you, but years of radiation exposure from the dual suns have taken care of any risks there. In turn, you ask him to stay the night. The questions both somehow feel extremely intimate even though they’re normal questions to ask someone you’ve just slept with. He doesn’t hesitate to say yes, and you think—maybe this will end well. Maybe it’ll be exactly what you need for the limited amount of time you have it. 

When he falls asleep, he has one hand on the back of your head, holding you to his chest, and the other in yours, your fingers loosely intertwined. It’s sweet in a way you’ve never experienced.

Maybe this will end well, but you’re almost entirely sure it won’t.

For the next three days of travel to Ship Three—or Home, as Blondie calls it, which is a stupid name—Nick feels like he’s dying. He chain-smokes faster than normal, burning through a pack every couple hours. It’s like his skin is being express-washed with sandpaper and bleach. He wants to touch you so badly it burns.

And you just sit there all pretty, in the back seat next to him and in front of the campfire and on the car’s hood when you have to pull over because Roberto gets too sick from the driving and the alcohol. You sew up the bullet holes in his blazer because of course you’d do that for him, and you laugh at Vash’s jokes and talk to Meryl about the time you both spent in November and you look at Nick and smile like it’s nothing—like your eyes on him don’t drive him insane. 

He gets lucky on your final night of travel, everyone asleep except the two of you, and he takes his time kissing you against the side of the equipment trailer, the car shielding the two of you from your snoring companions.

He’s not gonna ask you to say you love him—when you told him you’d say it if he wanted you to, it felt like there was a bug crawling around in his stomach, an unnameable feeling that he didn’t ever want to experience again.

Saying he loved you in the first place was embarrassing as hell for multiple reasons. First off, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t. Secondly, it was his goal when he approached you that night to play it cool, and he ended up finishing before he’d even started because of how good you tasted, how much he liked the way you pulled his hair, how pretty you sounded saying his name—and then on top of that, you let him cum inside you and you felt so good, so fucking right, and he spilled those words because in that moment, he loved you like absolutely nothing else.

He’s half-hard thinking about it, kissing you slow and deep because fuck, he loves the way you sigh into him when he kisses you like this, the way your hands grip the open sides of his shirt right below the collar as if you wouldn’t let him pull away if he tried. 

There’s not a second where he’s not tempted to mark you, to suck a deep bruise into your neck right below the jawline so everyone knows exactly what’s happening when they’re not looking. But he won’t. He won’t. He’ll be good. He’ll stop kissing you, he’ll ask if you want to lie with him for a little before you go to sleep, he’ll talk to you until you begin to nod off.

Let it never be said that Nicholas D. Wolfwood isn’t a paragon of restraint. He’s the king of it.

The only slight relief he gets is when you all arrive where Vash grew up, when you get to stay in rooms that are a little more private. When he can sleep next to you at night, sometimes after he fucks you as quiet as possible so no one but him gets to hear the noises you make and sometimes after he doesn’t. 

He thinks it should only be about the sex—that’s what everything else he’s ever done with someone has been about. But he gets possessive over your time. He likes to listen to your soft breathing as he falls asleep, likes to feel the weight of you against his chest. Likes when you wake up before him and trace the angles of his face and the planes of his chest with a feather-light touch until he’s up too, and he could never be mad about losing sleep over you.

And he’s a shitty person for doing this. For letting you sleep in his arms, for enjoying the way your hands feel on his skin. There’s so much you don’t know about him, but that doesn’t stop you from asking. He can’t tell you his actual age, he can’t tell you exactly what made him into the freak he is, he can’t explain to you why Livio was after Vash and how he was like a brother to Nick. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, doesn’t want you to pity him. And most importantly—

He can’t tell you what his mission is. The cost of his freedom. You’d never forgive him.

He tries not to lie to you. He avoids questions, omits information where he can. And he knows that this is essentially lying. It’s the same as a broken promise. He’s a hypocrite for calling out Vash’s lies while adding on to his own burning pyre.

This doesn’t stop him from wanting you. He takes back all the paragon shit—Nick has never been very good at denying himself what he wants.

It’s when you’re having breakfast with everyone on an unremarkable morning that Nick reaches his breaking point. Vash’s foster parents are keeping you all fed well, vegetables grown in actual gardens and meat cloned from animal cells on your plates every day.

Nick doesn’t eat breakfast—doesn’t need as much food as other people. He has his coffee like always, a cigarette soon to follow. He sits next to you because that’s his unspoken and permanent spot during meals and at the campfire and absolutely anywhere else. He leans back in his seat, sips from his mug, chimes in on the chatter when he has something to say. Everyone else is chowing down, and Vash says some stupid joke about forgetting what greens taste like when they’re not covered in sand, and you laugh—and something snaps in him.

Nothing big. It’s wishbone-small, the slightest crack. But it’s enough.

He drapes his arm across your seat, cups the back of your neck with his hand, strokes his thumb over the dip of your spine right below your hairline. You swallow hard and he can feel the vibration in his palm.

Everyone is silent. You turn to look at him slowly and he can feel the heat that crawls up your neck. He thought you might be mad—but your eyes are wide, mouth parted in surprise, as if you thought he wouldn’t want everyone to know you were his, as if he’d never claim you publicly.

He’d do a lot more to you publicly if you’d let him, but he doesn’t want to push his luck.

“What?” he asks, as if this is something perfectly normal for him to be doing. He looks between the four of you, and every single one of you is looking at him dumbstruck. “Guess staring problems are an epidemic.”

Vash’s face is a deep pink. He stutters out, “Wow, guys—congrats. Or, uh—I mean. That’s nice that you’re… that—”

“It’s just puppy love, kid, you don’t have to make it awkward,” Roberto says—and Nick barely stops himself from bodily flinching at that word. It shouldn’t be spoken in the context of the two of you so soon after his mistake. “Let the Undertaker have his moment in peace.”

Peace isn’t what Nick was aiming to achieve by touching you like this—but he still got what he wanted. You and Meryl are staring at each other, communicating in a series of complicated eyebrow maneuvers. Vash is looking anywhere but Nick. Roberto, somehow the voice of reason in all this, is already shoveling the rest of his breakfast into his mouth.

He’s itching for a cigarette. He slides his thumb over your soft skin once more, then stands, curling a finger under your chin to tilt your face up. You don’t protest as he leans down, as he kisses you softly and extremely chastely. It’s not like he doesn’t know that he’s pushing boundaries right now, that you might be pissed at him for this. He’s not gonna stick his tongue down your throat in front of everyone. But he couldn’t stop himself from having just one kiss. 

Whatever broke inside him couldn’t be patched up, and he just—he needed everyone to know what you were. That you were something. That he was the one that’d take care of you if you needed it, that he was the one you were sleeping next to every night, that he was yours.

“Nick…?” You don’t look angry with him. Just confused. Concerned, maybe.

“Gonna go out for a smoke.” He knows you don’t like him smoking next to you while you’re eating, or he’d already have a cigarette lit between his fingers. His thumb swipes across your lower lip because he has a hard time keeping his hands off you once they’re on. 

He turns from the table and heads towards the hallway—where he’ll be breaking out his smokes, because he’s not walking through the entire damn ship to have a cigarette if they haven’t complained about him smoking inside yet. 

Before he makes it to the door, he hears Meryl loudly whispering at you, questions pouring from her lips, and Roberto saying, “Christ, Newbie, let her breathe.”

Outside the mess hall, Nick turns to the wall of the hallway. Presses his forehead against the cool metal. He’s an idiot for doing things like this. For acting on impulse. For not being entirely honest with you.

Maybe if he could get his contract from the church, you’d understand. You’d see the clauses on there that he remembers watching Conrad write— if this contract is breached, the Hopeland Orphanage will be destroyed and the lives of every child that resides within will be forfeit. You’d see the thick black line at the bottom that he was forced to sign when he was too young to know what a signature was. Vash wanted to see his brother anyway. All he had to do was deliver the kid to Knives. It wouldn’t even be extra work on Nick’s part. 

But he knows you well enough now. Too well to ignore the fact that you don’t forgive easily.

And this still doesn’t stop him, because he’s an awful person. Blondie’s arm puts you back a few weeks—weeks spent gathering materials and waiting for the old scientist to finish his repairs. 

And even as you spend more and more time with him, holding his hand when you walk into the mess hall for breakfast, laying against his chest as you read old books from the ship’s small library, kissing him goodbye when you or he take turns helping out on scavenging trips, he doesn’t tell you the entire truth. 

Even as he finds such simple happiness in talking to you about your day, even as he finds some kind of divinity in the way you moan his name, in the way your nails scrape against his scalp when he fucks you—always face to face, because he loves the way you look at him, like he’s the only thing that exists to you—even then, he doesn’t give you the most delicate, secret parts of him.

Just once—just one time while he has you laid out beneath him, while he has you in his ear telling him what a good job he’s doing, he considers taking you up on what you’d proposed to him all those months ago. He thinks about what it would sound like if you told him you loved him, even if you didn’t mean it, and he cums so unexpectedly that his vision whites out, that he feels a tipsy sort of dizziness, that you ask him if everything is okay after.

You mess with his head. He doesn’t know whether he likes it or hates it. Doesn’t matter how he feels about it, really—wouldn’t stop it from happening every time you smile at him after you’ve been away from him for a little while, the first time you woke up in his arms and said morning, handsome and every time after that.

When Brad finally tells everyone that he’s almost done with Vash’s repairs, Nick is disappointed. He wants time. He’s only had a month of this. He wants all the time in the world and more because he’s greedy and needs every part of you.

Only a few days later, you’re in the mess hall for dinner and Wolfwood is coming back from helping Blondie scavenge around for old ship parts. There are specific metals the scientist needs for his final repairs, all located in burnt out scraps of fallen spaceships that litter the wasteland around Ship Three. He’s been gone for eight hours and it’s been too damn long with you out of his sight.

It’s later in the evening—most of the crew have cleared out, but stragglers sit at the tables around the edges of the room and chat tiredly. You’re already done with your meal and Nick is so ready to pick you up and carry you all the way back to his room and get you in his shower, because he can’t wait to touch you until after he’s clean, free of the sweat and sand that feel like a second skin at this point. 

Except you’re talking to some asshole with a lopsided smile on his face, obviously already half in love with you. The guy isn’t even your type. Too soft, baby-faced, completely untested by Gunsmoke and its inhabitants. He looks like he wouldn’t know how to shoot a gun if Nick put one in his hand with the safety off and positioned his finger on the trigger.

He leans the Punisher against whatever’s closest to him and its weight causes the metal table it falls against to scrape across the floor harshly. You turn to look at him and you smile so softly despite the loud noise, and maybe he’ll just hoist you out of your chair and carry you to his room right now even though you’d complain about him being rude to this wet rag that wants to fuck you.

You greet him when he sits in the chair next to you and he missed your voice so much. The guy you were talking to looks at Nick, brows raised, as if expecting—what, that you’d actually want this asshole? Over him?

Nick shoots the guy a withering glare, then puts his arm around your shoulders lazily, murmuring hey, pretty girl into your hair while this idiot keeps staring at him as if it could intimidate him into leaving.

“I’ve heard about you. The Undertaker, right?” the guy asks, holding his hand out, as if Nick would actually shake it. “I’m—”

“Leaving,” Nick says. “Unless you’re looking for a problem.”

You turn to look at him, his name a protest on your tongue, but the guy is already getting up, muttering to himself about Nick having awful manners. Doesn’t matter—he’d rather have every person on this ship hate him if it meant keeping you to himself.

“You can’t talk to people like that,” you say.

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” He could see the hunger in that asshole’s eyes, no matter how well he was hiding it from you. “He wanted something that wasn’t his.”

“Nick…” You pull back a little further away from him to really look at him, and he curls his arm around your shoulder because he doesn’t want you further away. He wants you against the wall of his shower right now, and then maybe on the countertop next to the sink, and then preferably in his bed for the rest of the night. “Maybe… we should go somewhere more quiet. To talk.”

Dread settles into his stomach so quickly that it’s like being hit by a bullet to the gut—and Nick’s taken plenty of those over the years, but none have felt quite as cold and heavy as this. He refuses to panic right now. “To talk,” he repeats.

You must see it in his eyes—the fear. Your hand is on his cheek in an instant, and you kiss him so soft and chaste, exactly like the first time he kissed you in front of everyone, and he feels safer. His heart stops beating out of his chest, the dread in his stomach warms to a tepid anxiety. He’s beginning to like kisses like these. Still not as much as when he can really kiss you the way he wants, long and deep and thorough, but there’s something in the simplicity of them that pleases him. They’re a message more than anything. An assurance. You still like him. You still want him.

Regardless, he follows you to your room with a stone in his throat. He’s not a big talker. Not when it comes to serious stuff. And this feels serious. You start pacing and his pulse quickens again, a raging beat against his sternum, an echo that rattles around his head.

When you stop, it’s sudden enough to rock you in place a little, as if you didn’t realize you were going to cease moving before it happened. “Sometimes,” you say, not looking at him, “you say things.”

He waits, but you don’t continue. “I tend to do that.”

“Nick—unless I’m not understanding things right, we’re not… we’re not together.”

Refusing to panic seems to be something he’s no longer good at. “We’re not together,” he repeats, because he’s an idiot that can’t string two words together if you haven’t already said them.

“Okay, that’s—that’s what I thought. I didn’t think you… yeah.” You still won’t look at him. You’re picking at your cuticles so hard that there’s already a little blood on your fingers.

His immediate instinct is to stop you—to step forward and take your hands in his, to smooth his thumbs over the wounds you’ve given yourself. “Look at me.”

When you look at him, your eyes are full of an emotion that Nick can’t name. Not desire—but want, on a certain level. There’s something you want that he can’t give you.

And he knows what it is. He’s not an idiot. He knows that the way you smile at him isn’t the way you smile at someone you’re not together with. He knows you don’t give him those reassuring kisses because you don’t want to be together with him. You don’t ever press him about it because this kind of stuff doesn’t happen. People don’t connect like this. Whatever the two of you are doing—it’s fragile, and you’re ready for it to fall apart at a moment’s notice. He is, too.

If there wasn’t so much he wasn’t telling you, then—he doesn’t even want to think about it. Because maybe he’d like that too. Maybe he’d be able to give you parts of what you want, to be enough of what you need in order for you to be happy. 

You’d do it for him, no question. You already do it for him. 

“I’m not great at this,” he tells you. He’s not. He’s slept with a lot of people, but that’s easy on Gunsmoke. If you’re even a little good looking, half the planet wants you. But he hasn’t held anything more real than that, hasn’t felt the weight of it in his palm. “But I want… just you.”

You bite the inside of your lip, unsure—because what has he given you, really, beyond vague answers and truths that aren’t fully fleshed out? He can understand your hesitance. You’re so devastatingly beautiful and he wishes he wasn’t a piece of shit.

“Okay,” is your eventual response. 

He can tell that what he said wasn’t enough. But it’s all he can give you. It’s selfish of him to want reciprocation, he knows. “Do you…?” 

“Yes,” you say, but you look so sad and he keeps fucking up more and more. “Just you.”

He wishes he could see what kind of thoughts are running through your head—whether you hate him now, whether you’re okay with just this, whether he could ever make you forgive him for everything he’s about to do.

“Kiss me,” you tell him. “Please.”

How could he deny you that?

He doesn’t take you to his shower but you don’t seem to mind the grit and sweat of the desert on his skin—you’re pliant underneath him, you come apart on his hands, you kiss him like you mean it, and when he’s inside you and he whispers I love you, I love you, I love you into your skin, you don’t question whether it’s real or not and he doesn’t tell you.

You don’t say it back, but he didn’t ask you to.

After JuLai

There’s nowhere you can go but Home.

The entire coast of the Great Sand Ocean is covered in the debris of JuLai, and even then—no Sandsteamer is going to stop on a random stretch of coast to take you somewhere safe. If you can all make it to Home, Meryl can go north to November, Nick can go back to December, and you can figure out what you’re going to do since you didn’t have the good fortune to die.

So many people didn’t make it. You should be happy you’re still alive. But traveling with Nick makes you wish that someone else was here instead of you.

Vash is nowhere to be found. You don’t think he’s dead—because it’s him. Even with everything that happened to him in that tower, you have such a strong belief that he lived through Knives’s torture, through that bright pink light in the sky that exploded up into space, through the collapse of the world’s largest city.

Maybe that’s naive. But if you can go look for him after you get situated, that’s—something. You can do something and not feel so empty. Or you could follow Meryl to November, become a gun-for-hire like you’d been for so many years.

It’s a week's journey to Home on foot. You barely sleep. You and Meryl take turns keeping watch at night, always right beside each other, because there’s no way you could trust Nick to keep the two of you safe after everything.

But you can’t kick him out of your little group, either, because you’re without cover and without your weapon, lost somewhere in the escape, and Meryl’s Derringer only has three low-caliber shots before the bullets Roberto gave her are gone.

As much as you hate it, he’d be your only chance of survival if you got caught in a firefight out here.

Nick doesn’t seem willing to leave, either. He doesn’t speak to either of you—out of shame, you wonder, or because he simply doesn’t care?—but he nods when you say that Home should be your next destination, follows quietly when Meryl begins to lead the trek with her unflappable sense of direction, smokes cigarette after cigarette until his borrowed pack of menthols runs out and he gets twitchy, bouncing his leg whenever he sits down, toying with the buckles on the cover of his gun tirelessly.

The noise doesn’t bother you when you’re walking, but in the middle of the night, it sounds like a fucking alarm going off. And he doesn’t sleep—at least, you never see him unconscious during your trek, even though you know firsthand that he’s capable of sleeping—but obviously there’s a lot he hasn’t told you about himself.

The night before you get to Home, it’s too much for you—you’re about to wake Meryl for her watch, and you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week, and he’s flicking a buckle open and closed, and you find the half-finished pack of cigarettes in your pocket that, before everything, you’d been holding for him.

There are no campfires these nights. You don’t have the resources, and you sure as shit don’t want to be spotted by anyone that might be heading to JuLai to scavenge its corpse. In the shine of the five moons, you make your way over to him—he’s never too close, maybe because he’s trying to be conscientious. 

He looks up at you, surprised, and—he’s terrible enough to have something like hope on his face. It’s not a good look on him.

“Here,” you say, and you hold out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. He takes it from you slowly, like you’ll scare if he moves too quickly. “You need to stop fiddling with shit so I can get a good night’s sleep.”

“Thanks,” he says, but you’re already walking back towards Meryl, shaking her from sleep. 

The sound of his lighter clicking, the sound of him taking a deep drag and exhaling a long moment later—it’s so familiar. You’ve fallen asleep to that many nights over the past month or so, when Nick hadn’t been able to rest without a little nicotine to calm him down. He was always thinking hard when you were quiet in his arms, something in his eyes that spoke of conflict. You wonder now if he was thinking about the things he was keeping from you. The way he was about to betray you.

Meryl eyes the lit cigarette in Nick’s mouth when she wakes up, but she doesn’t look at you with any kind of judgment. She squeezes your hand and smiles at you, quietly says, “It’s okay. You need some rest.”

Maybe she’s talking about the noise that kept you awake every night—maybe she’s talking about something less tangible, an unrest that lives deep within you. You still don’t sleep well, and it’s his fault. Without the sound of the buckles clicking, you can hear him smoke, hear his deep breaths in the silence of the night. When you dream, it’s a hazy memory on loop, Nick holding you close and whispering things he didn’t mean.

Luida cries when you arrive and tell her what happened. You can’t blame her—you want to cry too. It’s all you’ve wanted to do for days. You just want to get to a room where you can be by yourself and finally, finally be allowed to feel.

Brad tells you that the room you’d stayed in is exactly how you left it, and you leave Meryl talking to the two of them, leave Nick leaning against the wall next to his gun, quietly smoking one of the last cigarettes from the pack you’d given him.

You get to your room, untouched to the point that it still smells a little like the body wash you used the last time you showered here, a little like stale smoke from when Nick would come to you at night because he basically refused to sleep if it wasn’t next to you, and you find that you can’t even do what you’ve wanted to do this whole time.

There are no tears. There’s no terrible cracking of the makeshift foundation you’d built to hold yourself up over the past few days. No collapse, no city falling dark. There’s nothing.

You shower and sit on the tiled floor, letting the spray hit your hair, your back, until the water goes lukewarm. Even after you’ve scrubbed every inch of your skin, you can still feel the desert on you, sand under your nails, baked into your hair, seared into your bones. You lay in your bed in clean clothes—truly clean clothes for the first time in more than a week, comfy pajama shorts and an actual sweater—and all you can do is stare at the ceiling, waiting to sleep, or to sink into the sheets and melt away, or to simply cease to exist.

He comes to your door in the middle of the night, knocks and waits outside, as if he couldn’t simply open the door himself. They don’t lock. People on this ship are respectful about privacy. There’s a large part of you that wants to leave him out there. He won’t come in if you don’t let him. You may not know a lot about him, but you’re at least sure of that. 

When you open the door, he’s flicking the butt of a finished cigarette to the ground. It bounces, crosses the threshold of your room. “Shit—didn’t mean to do that,” he says. I didn’t mean it, you hear. “Didn’t even think you’d see me, to be honest.”

“Do you need something, Wolfwood?” you ask. Whenever you’re not speaking your jaw is clenched so tightly that you can hear your molars grind against each other. He’s doing irreparable damage to your teeth. “Or are we done here?”

His face falls—not that it hadn’t been in a state that could be classified as ‘fallen’ before that—and he jams his hands in his pockets, swaying back on his heels, looking more above you than at you. The mask he wears to hide his thoughts from you doesn’t fit very well anymore. “I’m leaving,” he says. 

It’s what you wanted him to do, but it doesn’t stop you from inhaling sharp, from feeling a sudden pain against your ribs. 

“Thought I’d, uh…” He shakes his head. He’s replaced his sunglasses, or maybe he had them the whole time, and you can’t see his eyes in the hallway’s ambient night-time lighting. “Nah, never mind. Get some sleep. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

He turns to leave and the lapel of his jacket is suddenly in your hand, sandworn and stitched through. You sewed up the bullet hole that rests snug beneath your thumb. You ran your fingers over the skin of his chest not long after that, marveling at its smoothness, the lack of scars to follow the wound. You thought then: was he disappointed that he didn’t have any marks to show for the trauma he’d endured? Or did he prefer that—a blank canvas that let him pretend that everything he’d ever known hadn’t really happened?

You had eventually come to the conclusion that he didn’t care. His scars were littered across bone and organ, never to be shown to another person. The cross he bore was his own terrible burden to shoulder.

Back then, you had been okay with that. After everything that happened, you shouldn’t care. You should let him shoulder the weight. You should let him leave. 

There are more holes in the blazer now, wounds he picked up on the way to his betrayal. “Let me fix this for you.”

He says your name small, quiet, the same way he’d said it when JuLai was burning with life behind him, exploding in flowers and vines.

“Before you go,” you say. You have no idea what you’re doing. “I want to fix it before you go.”

He swallows, nods. You can tell he wishes he had a cigarette right now. “Alright. If you want."

It takes a moment for you to let go of him, as if he’d melt into sand once you let go, as if this is only an apparition before you and your grip is the only thing tying him to the physical realm. 

He doesn’t melt. He doesn’t fade away. He follows you into your room and shrugs off his blazer, offers it to you. 

You take it from him silently. The sewing kit you use is somewhere in your travel bag, right where you left it before you were stolen away to JuLai. The sooner it’s unearthed from your stockpiled life, the sooner he’ll be gone. You should get it. “What did you come here for?”

He leans back against the doorframe, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his side. After a moment he takes his sunglasses off, puts them down on the table at the end of your bed. Drags a hand down his face like he’s the most exhausted he’s ever been. “There’s not a lot I can give you. I don't have much.”

You weren’t asking him for anything. You bite your tongue when you go to remind him of this.

“But I have answers now. The ones you wanted. Before.” He clears his throat. “If you still want them.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. 

When you don’t stop him, he continues. “I had a contract.”

“A contract.”

“The people that drew it up weren’t above breaking a couple bones to get me to sign it. ‘Cause I’d just heal up, right?” He laughs, and it’s an awful, bitter noise. “I’d be back in one piece so they could break the same bones again.”

You’re quiet.

He holds out a crumpled piece of paper, obviously balled up at some point in time—at the top: Pastoral Contract. At the bottom: Nicholas D. Wolfwood in a series of childish curls and shaky lines. Nick had written the terms of his contract out in the careful cursive of someone still learning to use it. The word ‘receive’ is misspelled. “How old…?”

“Nine,” he says. “I’d just turned nine.”

The first thought that crosses your mind: how many people has he killed in his time as a pastor, and could he remember each one if he tried? “How long have you—”

“I’m twenty-two.”

You’re stunned into silence. There had been no question in your mind that Nick was older than you by at least four or five years. 

If things weren’t the way they were, he’d probably make a joke about looking good for his age. If things weren’t the way they were, you’d be examining how much his age matches up with the way he acts, his impulsiveness and brashness and possessiveness, the way he couldn’t even handle someone else looking at you.

But this is how things are, and you can only stare at him. “How.”

“Conrad created his perfect weapon. I paid a price.”

You sit on the floor. You’re not sure why. You just can’t be standing anymore. 

Nick looks at you for a moment, quiet—then slides down the doorframe, joining you. The room is small enough that there’s only a foot or so between you. His knees are bent, forearms resting across them, and he somehow looks small like this. Like there’s a weight compressing him, curling his edges closer to his center.

“You weren’t—when we… was it your first time?”

His eyes snap to yours and he’s incredulous, amused, unable to stop himself from laughing. “You didn’t defile my innocence, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Something about his smile makes you want to scream. He looks so soft when he’s not being entirely too serious, the kind of soft you can’t fully comprehend until it’s felt, like the leaves of lamb’s-ear you touched in Home’s gardens when Vash told you I have something to show you that you’re gonna love. Because you’ve always longed for softer things, for things that have no chance of survival in the desert. “How long have you… looked older?”

“Since I signed my contract.”

You try not to think about it and fail. How old did he look when he was nine? How old was he when the church he worked for sent him out on his first terrible assignments? You know what he’s done—you’d known the reputation of Nicholas the Punisher long before you met him—and though innocence isn’t something you find in spades on Gunsmoke, you can’t help but feel a gut-wrenching sadness because his had been ripped from him so early. When did he take his first life? When was the first time someone took advantage of him at such a young age without even realizing they were doing it?

Nick hates it when people pity him. He knows he was dealt shit cards—he didn’t hesitate to let you know that anytime he told you the smallest details about his childhood. Now you have the big details, and you’re positive he wants you to pity him even less. 

You toy with the collar of his jacket, resting atop your crossed legs, because you have to do something with your hands. You have to have somewhere to look other than him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You really think that would’ve gone over well?”

How could he even be asking that question?

“Yeah, I do. You know how Vash is.” Was, your mind supplies. You’re so, so tired. “He would’ve understood. He would’ve gone with you anyway if he knew what you were being forced to do. He would’ve jumped at the opportunity to help you. He cared about you so much.”

He cared about all of you. And you’d all failed him. He was the only fully good person you’d ever met and you all failed him.

“He knew,” Nick says. “Before he got to Knives—we talked about it.”

You know without having to ask that Vash forgave him. He’d probably pieced it together already and forgiven Nick long before they even got to JuLai. There’s cotton in your throat, your tongue is a stone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

A memory crosses your mind—sitting in the desert with him atop a sand dune, his gun laid out before him, telling you that you shouldn’t think you’re special.

If he’d told you everything, maybe you’d be sitting with him and Vash and Meryl and Roberto in a bar in JuLai, drinking to your victory. Maybe you’d be here with everyone, and Luida wouldn’t have let out that awful noise when you told her about Vash—a long, drawn-out note that she couldn’t hold inside, a keening that begged the question of why? and tapered off into silence. 

Maybe nothing would have changed at all.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I should have. I just—I didn’t want to disappoint you. I thought that if I didn’t give you all of me, then it’d be easier when we… when I did what I had to. When things were over.”

So he’d also known from the start that things wouldn’t end well.

“I would’ve done anything for you,” you tell him. It’s embarrassing to say out loud. You shouldn’t have said it in the first place—shouldn’t have even thought it. But you’re past keeping things from one another, it seems.

He stretches out his long legs, leans a little closer toward you. His hand reaches out towards you, an invitation to be taken or refused. “C’mere for a minute?”

You let him hold you. Your legs are across his lap, your body pressed into his chest, your arms curled around him so tight that it can’t be comfortable on his end. He has your head tucked beneath his chin, one hand on your hair and the other pulling you closer by the thigh, like he could crawl into your skin if he just had you close enough. 

“Was it easier?” you ask him.

“No,” he murmurs into your hair. “I think it made things worse.”

“How?”

“I didn’t want things to be over. Still don’t.” His hand tightens on your thigh, his entire body shifting to get you closer. “I know I’m selfish for that. You don’t have to tell me.”

Maybe you’re selfish, too. Maybe the words are softening the wall around your heart because if you were in his position, you probably would’ve done the same thing. You still can’t forgive him. “Nick,” you say. Pull back and look at him. 

“What do you need, sweet thing?” His voice is quiet when he asks this. It reminds you of the first time you kissed him—the first time he said those three heavy words to you, accidental whispers that held no meaning. 

“I want you to tell me you love me.” Even if it’s not real. Even if it’s just for right now. Even if it’s something he only murmurs into your skin when he’s between your thighs, when he makes you see the face of God in the way he touches you.

You expect him to kiss you. To start this final goodbye. But he doesn’t. He pulls you close to him again, lays his cheek against the top of your head. “‘Course I love you.” 

It’s nothing above a whisper. It’s a breath released into the air, something you wouldn’t hear if everything else wasn’t completely silent. But it makes you feel like crying and maybe you don’t hate him like you thought you did, but why shouldn’t you? All this wasteland has taught you to do is never trust people. Nick showed you exactly what Gunsmoke had already shown you a million times over. There’s not a person you know outside of Vash and Meryl that hasn’t betrayed you at least once. 

You’ve committed your fair share of betrayals, too. Law of the wasteland.

When you pull away from him, he looks a little panicked—but all you do is perch yourself on his lap, your knees boxing him in on either side, your face above his. “Could you ever mean it?”

He looks up at you blankly.

“If we stayed together. If we traveled. Or settled down, whatever,” you say. “Could you ever be able to say that and mean it?”

His brows scrunch, confusion painting his handsome face. “I mean it now,” he says, as if it’s obvious. 

And it’s like everything comes to a screeching halt inside you: all the hurt, all the exhaustion, all the emptiness. Emotions flood into the cavity of your chest so quickly that you’re drowning, your lungs full of too many things that aren’t air. 

Because this doesn’t happen. Not on Gunsmoke. Not to you.

“How do you know it’s real?”

“How would I know it’s not? Is there a checklist I should be consulting?”

You don’t know how to answer that because you feel like there should be a checklist, something that was left behind on the planets before Gunsmoke, burnt up in the crashes of the ships that populated the planet. Something you’ll never know the contents of—only that it existed.

“I know because it’s how I feel. Not gonna argue with myself on that,” Nick says, and maybe it’s that simple. He cups your face with a warm, careful hand and you melt into the contact. The first time you’d touched him like this, you worried that it might’ve been the contact alone that you liked. Not the person providing it.

But you know now that anyone else could touch you like this and you wouldn’t feel even a shadow of the way he makes you feel.

“You’re being awful quiet,” he says.

“You hurt me really badly, Nick.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

You think he is. You want to stay angry with him but he makes it hard. He made a mistake. He didn’t trust anyone enough to share his burdens. And could you blame him for that? You know firsthand how frightening it feels to trust someone. To want to.

“Would you want that? Us—together?” you ask.

“Yeah, I want that.” He laughs, as if any of this is remotely amusing. “Thought I made it clear.”

“You’d have to tell me everything,” you say. “Be honest about whatever I ask.”

“For you, anything,” he says, because he’s a corny idiot who likes his one-liners too much and it’s this stupid line above anything else that actually brings tears to your eyes, that makes you realize how badly you would’ve missed him if he’d left without saying goodbye, how much you want to keep him and how much you want him to keep you.

You still don’t know what to do, so instead you kiss him and he kisses you back and he feels exactly like he did the last time you’d been together like this. Things devolve quickly, as they often do between you. He pulls your hips against his to create friction and you missed him. It’s messy and his teeth find their way into the kisses a little too often and he can’t even stomach moving from the floor before he touches you, it seems, because he’s already pushing your sleep shorts to the side, feeling exactly how badly you want him. 

“Shit,” he breathes. “Shit, I’m sorry, baby. I can’t wait.”

He unzips his slacks and pulls them down along with his boxers, just enough for him to free his cock, and you inhale sharply when he pulls you further into his lap, ruts against you, coating himself in your slick wetness. The noise he makes is haunting, a little broken.

You cup his head with your hands, fingers twined into his hair, and kiss him hard, licking into his mouth, grinding against his pretty length. He makes sounds you want to lock up and keep under your bed. He says your name as if it’s the name of God. “Can’t wait,” he repeats. “Need you to take it. Be good and take it for me, pretty girl.”

He positions himself so you can sink down onto his length, shorts pushed to the side, strong hands guiding your hips slowly. It hurts a little more than usual, but everything is so rushed, so feral, that it doesn’t really bother you. The warmth of having him so close, the delicious stretch of him inside you, the way he groans when he bottoms out—it’s all worth the pain. 

It’s almost a disappointment when he goes still, when he waits for you to acclimate to his size. “Okay?” he manages to ask, because he always has to make sure you’re okay with things, even when he’s being reckless. 

You nod and you don’t even get a chance to move against him—his feet are planted on the floor, still in his dumb little loafers, and his hands hold you exactly where he needs you for him to thrust into you over and over again, root to tip, so fucking deep that you can feel him in your stomach. 

Your hands are pressed flat against the wall behind him, your face buried in the crook of his shoulder to muffle the noises you can’t keep yourself from making. He just feels so good—so perfect inside of you and against you, where he was made to be, and you tell him this because he needs to know.

His hand finds the small of your back and pushes you into an arch that has you seeing stars with every thrust. Not even pressing your mouth to his skin can quiet the moans he’s eliciting from you, so you bite down on the junction of his neck and shoulder and he whines, body tensing, arms circling your waist to pull you against him in a crushing embrace as he buries himself deep inside of you. He twitches hard, talking without a thought like he always does when he finishes, saying that he needs you, saying that you’re the only person that's ever made him feel like this, saying that you’re the only person he ever wants to do this with for the rest of his life.

After his body loosens up, after he pulls out and his breathing slows to something manageable, he says, “One of these days I’m gonna be able to last more than a minute. Just need you to stop feeling that perfect.”

You laugh—honest to God laugh, and you want him so badly and you’re still so turned on and he’s exactly what you’ve always wanted. “You think that’s ever gonna happen?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he says. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, the ghost of a bite. A hallmark of want. “Are you gonna let me take care of you?”

Always. You’ll always let him take care of you.

He carries you to the bed and your shorts are gone, your sweater is gone, your sense of dignity is gone because you would give this man anything right now. He lays you out and takes his time pulling you apart, breaking you down with his tongue, his hands, his long, pretty fingers.

When he finally gets you off he keeps going, driving you to a point where you can’t handle any more and then pushing you through it, and when you reach your second peak, he laps up everything you give him, sighing soft against you.

He tries to wipe his face off like usual and you stop him, pull him to you, gaze at the shimmering mixture of your slick and his cum that covers the lower half of his face. You run the flat of your tongue up his chin and you could get drunk simply off the taste of the two of you together. His eyes are half-lidded when you pull away, and he whispers, “Christ, you’re perfect,” almost more to himself than you. When he kisses you, he holds you so close you can hardly breathe.

The after with him is always soft. He undresses himself because you’re undressed, then holds you gently, kisses your hair, tells you sweet things that he’d never say in public.

At least—that he wouldn’t before. Maybe things are different now.

You’ve been lying together, quiet, for a long while before he says, “I’m not gonna ask you to say it back.”

The air conditioning kicks on, a low drone that hums through the room like a distant insect swarm. You feel frozen, unsure what to do with your body.

“But do you think you ever could?”

You sit up because everything suddenly feels too heavy. Your face feels hot. You’ve never been good at thinking through your emotions because you haven’t had to. You’ve been a mercenary for a long time. You’ve killed a lot of people for a lot less than they were worth. You’ve traveled with so many companions over the years that you can’t remember all of their faces anymore. There’s never been anyone you’ve had to think over your feelings for—it’s been either like or dislike for so long that it feels like it’s all you know.

The things you feel for Nick, though—would they be classified as like? Or something more? He makes you laugh. He makes you so frustrated you could scream. He makes you want to travel to places you’ve already been just so you can see them together. He makes you want to cry, sometimes, because you’re scared of this, and you forgot what fear was much too long ago to feel comfortable with it now.

“How can I know?”

He looks a little hurt by this. He’s terrible at hiding his emotions even though he thinks he’s good at it.

“Genuinely, Nick. I haven’t… had anyone like you. I haven’t wanted to be with anyone like this. I haven’t cared about anyone like this.” You look at his jacket, discarded on the floor, still riddled with bullet holes that you were supposed to fix. “But how do I know if that’s enough?”

He sits too, takes your hands in his. He’s always so beautiful like this—when he’s taken off all the armor he shields himself with and lets you touch what’s underneath. “It’s enough for me.”

You look at your hands, fingers intertwined with his. “I could, I think.”

“Don’t want you to feel pressured,” he tells you. “Just—if it happens, you know, I’d appreciate it if you’d clue me in.”

“I can do that,” you say, and you can, because he doesn’t look disappointed that you didn’t do something you weren’t ready to do. He doesn’t look angry. He smiles at you, so warm and genuine that your heart feels like it’s cracking open, like everything inside you is spilling out. “I do. I already do.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I love you.” You cover your mouth with a hand after you say it, because it feels so heavy and damning. But it feels so right , too, and you don’t know what to do with that. How to fit the rightness into the way you’ve built your life on the foundation of so many wrongs. After a long moment where he waits for you to collect yourself, you’re able to lower your hand. “I love you,” you tell him. “I want it to be enough.”

“It is,” he says, thumb caressing the back of your hand. “It’ll always be enough.” 

You’ve never expected to get everything you want in life, and you most definitely won’t. But you can have this. This delicate thing that you’ve been building together, despite the missteps. Despite the fear. And it’ll be okay, because there’s no checklist. No requirements. You just love him, and he loves you back, and you're both allowed to decide what that means.

It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

[peachyloveswriting]

If you’ve done this prompt before, I apologize, but what about red string of fate with Vash? But they stumble into one another at the worst times like during a shoot out in a town or a robbery!

I have never written for this before, as a matter of fact soulmates is one of my favorite subjects to touch on. If I could get anymore with different soulmate AU's that would be awesome!

You Picked The Worst Possible Time to Show up --- Vash the Stampede

SUMMARY: it's funny how you happened to meet your soulmate, and during a shootout of all situations.

"Everyone get down!"

You look towards the commotion at the front of the saloon, standing in the doorway is a tall fattened man. In his hands he holds a gun pointed at the people inside, annoyance on his face. Screams erupt around you as people drop to their knees and cower in fear, you don't bother to move, raising the last of your whiskey to your lips before slamming it back down on the counter. Suddenly, heavy clamoring footsteps make their way to you and cold metal is pressed to your temple.

"I said get down!" He shoves at your head with the barrel of his gun.

You cut your eyes at him, your hand itching to grab your gun. The man's eyes bore into your own, there's intent to kill behind those eyes yet the tension only rises. "You should probably just listen to him." A voice says from behind you.

From the corner of your eyes you can see a blond in a red coat looking up at you through the guise of yellow tinted shades. "What he said!" He shoves your head again. You grimace, pulling your gun from the holster. "Like hell!" Knocking the gun away from your head you whip your gun back upz catching him on the side of the head. He cries out in pain, shakily pointing the gun at you again.

There's a tug at your pinky finger right as the gun goes off, in a red blur the man who was cowering behind you had pulled his gun and shot the bullet away from you. It happened so fast that the man in front of you began to tremble in shock, turning on his heel he began his way out the saloon. Jolting forward, you begin to chase after the man with Blondie still at your heels. The closer he gets to your side the more noticeable the tug at your finger is.

"Please don't kill him!" The blonde cries.

Before you can open your mouth to speak, a voice cries out from behind you. "That's him! Vash the Stampede! After him."

The blonde looks back in a panic, suddenly something is tugging at you hand. Gunfire lights up the dirt behind you. Heart pounding furiously in your chest you gasp in surprise, the blonde is leading you forward without ever touching you. Somehow he's faster than he was before, it becomes hard not to trip over your own feet.

"What's happening?!"

He cuts a tight turn, pulling you with. Unable to stop yourself in time, you stumble and fall forwards on top of him, your faces only inches apart. Your eyes widen in shock as he lifts a finger to his lips signalling for you to be quiet. His breath is fanning your face, the close proximity brings a bright red flush to your cheeks.

"Shh..." Footsteps thunder past the cut, you stay still, your heart pounding in your hearts as you wait for them to grow distant. Slowly lowering the finger from hai mouth, he nods. "We can move."

You release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding before as you moved to sit back. "You're-" a sudden sharp tug at your finger keeps you from sitting back all the way. Worried you might be caught in something you're surprised to find a blood red string looped around your pinky. It tugs taut just inches away from Vash's hand connecting them both.

Your eyes widen, your gaze falling to his face. "My soulmate is Vash the Stampede!?"

Panicking, he hurriedly hushes you. "You picked the worst possible time to show up." His eyes narrowed for a moment while he listened for footsteps.

"you're gonna have some explaining to do, you know that right?" You ask sternly.

His bright blue eyes meet you again with a nod. "You do too. Till then we're stuck like this." He lifts your hands as a gesture. "let's get out of here first."

[anyasathenaeum]

*KICKS DOWN DOOR* YOU ASK FOR ERIKS AND I SHALL INDULGE ok so what im gonna need is some where the reader thinks Vash (they were dating before everything went to shit) is dead until they blow into town with Woofboy and they do the whole Recognition thing yknow. Ok and so after all the Bad Shit gets dealt with and they have a moment alone to talk, he thinks that they're not gonna be in love with him anymore after all this time and might even be pissed at him for sort of "abandoning" them but they just express nothing but joy at having him back in their arms again and how they're soulmates and sappy stuff like that and its very sweet and emotional and raw because they missed each other so so much. And if you sprinkled just a little spice at the end I wouldn't mind cuz the long hair and stubble is so sexy on that man. Maybe it would be great part 2 bait idk I don't wanna put too much on you. Might be best to play that by ear.

Sorry this is so long I got excited when I saw ur post ily bye.

Across Time and Space (Part 1)

A/N: HECK YEAH ANON I AM SO HERE FOR THIS. ERIKS!VASH HURT COMFORT LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I'm mostly going off of 98!Eriks with some Stampede!Eriks mixed in hehe and this is gonna have to be split into 2 parts because I'm INSPIRED. This part is mostly set up and some hurt in the hurt/comfort part of things. :P Read the continuation in part 2 here!

Pairing: Eriks!Vash x reader

Warnings: Some slight violence, mention of nudity, literally just going off episode 18 of Trigun so potential spoilers, potential spoilers for episode 12 of Trigun Stampede, the "hurt" part of "hurt/comfort"

You brought your hand up to shield your eyes from the glaring sunlight as the tiny town came into view, the bus you were on finally arriving after what felt like an eternity and a half.

"Remind me again why we chose to come to this tiny town, Wolfwood," You grumbled under your breath, grabbing your backpack and strapping it to your back as you started to get ready to disembark from the bus.

"Cause we gotta see if we can find the Humanoid Typhoon here," The priest replied, shooting you a smile that you couldn't bring yourself to return.

"Vash is dead, Wolfwood," You snapped back, your heart tightening in your chest as you said his name for what felt like the first time in forever, "He's dead, and we're not finding him."

Wolfwood just stayed silent, watching you carefully as you let out a deep sigh, rubbing your face with your hands, trying desperately to brush off the pain that the mere thought of Vash had brought you.

Wolfwood wasn't a fool - he knew you and Vash had been in love with each other. He knew that you and Vash were more than friends, that Vash was everything to you. Wolfwood remembered how you seemed to stop living after the disaster in the city of July, when the city was turned into a crater and Vash was nowhere to be found. You had watched the man you loved fall from the sky and the city cave in on itself in a massive explosion of energy - there was no way Vash could've survived that.

When Vash died, so did you. You existed, sure - you walked and talked and drank and ate, but you had stopped living. It was heartbreaking to watch - both Wolfwood and Meryl couldn't stand to see you so broken, but nothing they did could bring Vash back. And so, you became silent, closed-off, and you never smiled anymore.

"I'm sorry, Wolfwood. I just... don't see the point in hoping for what can't be," You apologized, your voice quiet as you stared down at the floor, your heart aching in your chest as Vash's smiling face appeared in your mind.

Wolfwood sighed a bit and just stepped forward, throwing his arm around your shoulder casually. However, when he spoke, his tone was surprisingly gentle.

"It's okay. You're still hurting, (Y/N). Let's just get off this bus and settle in, yeah?"

You nodded, pulling up your hood to cover your head as you followed Wolfwood off the bus, shoving through all the people who were fighting to get on the bus you had just arrived on.

"What the hell is all that about?" You muttered, glancing at Wolfwood in confusion as you both watched the crowd of people swarming the bus, many of them shouting at the driver to let them on.

"No clue, but I have a feeling we'll find out real soon," Wolfwood replied, his shades glistening in the sunlight as he turned his head, gesturing towards a building not too far away, "Let's start at the saloon. If anybody's got information, they'll likely be there."

You just nodded and followed Wolfwood, keeping your head down and your face hidden - you didn't feel like starting a conversation with anybody who recognized you as new to the town.

However, that plan immediately went out the window the moment you and Wolfwood stepped foot into the saloon, as you suddenly found every person in the saloon pointing their guns at the two of you. You let out a stifled yelp and threw your hands up, your heart beating fast in your chest. You heard Wolfwood let out a small sound just like you had, his hands up in the air, too, sweating slightly as he glanced around.

Thankfully, after a few seconds, the townsfolk decided you weren't a threat and lowered their weapons. With that, you and Wolfwood slowly approached the bar, and you could hear Wolfwood chatting with the bartender. As he did, you walked over to the window of the saloon, gazing at the people walking by and watching the mob chasing after the bus you had arrived on.

'Man, what a weird place,' You thought to yourself, 'Feels so tense here.'

Suddenly, you watched the ground near the bus explode, sending people flying through the air and causing Wolfwood to exclaim, "What happened over there?"

The bartender explained that the town was overrun with bandits, and then you heard the name "Vash the Stampede" escape his lips and your heart just about stopped in your chest. However, you immediately recognized that the kind of violence being orchestrated by this gang being run by "Vash the Stampede" was everything Vash opposed. There was no way this was Vash's doing.

'Like it matters, he's been dead for almost two years anyway,' You thought to yourself bitterly, your mouth pressing into a thin line. You weren't listening to whatever the bartender was telling Wolfwood, but you found yourself glancing over at the entrance as you heard the door swing open.

All the patrons immediately had their guns pointing at the intruders, which in this case, happened to be a tall man with long, blonde hair wearing glasses, holding a young girl with short, brown hair in what almost looked like a chokehold. You found yourself reaching for your own weapon, readying to fight the man until you heard the girl speak.

"Uh oh. Hey, what's the big idea you guys?!"

You jumped a little at how loud she was, and you heard the patrons mumbling to themselves, "Oh, it's only Lina."

"What do you mean "only Lina"?! Let go of me, Eriks!" The young girl, Lina, shouted, freeing herself from the grasp of the tall, blonde man who simply let her go and watched her walk towards the bar, his expression surprised.

"Lina, what's the big hurry?" The bartender asked as the girl walked over, standing right next to you and Wolfwood. You studied the girl carefully, deciding that she couldn't be older than 12 at the most.

'She's very brave, I gotta give her that,' You thought to yourself, your lip twitching upwards a bit.

"I was wondering if you could hide me somewhere," Lina asked, a sheepish smile on her face as she asked.

The bartender looked a bit concerned as he inquired, "What did you do this time?"

"She doesn't know when to quit."

You jumped out of your skin at the sudden, new voice - the tall, blonde man, Eriks, had walked up to the bar without you noticing. You physically jumped, your hood falling from your head and revealing your face, not that it mattered - you weren't trying to hide anymore.

"Oh, sorry! Did I scare yo-?" Eriks began to apologize, turning to look at you as he did so, but his sentence died in his mouth as he looked at your face, his eyes widening behind his glasses.

"It's okay," You let out a jittery half-chuckle, just trying to recollect yourself, "I just didn't hear you walk up to the bar, just startled me a bit."

Eriks didn't say a word - he just continued to look at you, his eyes almost owlishly wide. You couldn't decode the expression on the man's face, and you began to feel uncomfortable at the level of intensity in his gaze.

"Um... is something wrong?" You asked, your voice making it clear that you were becoming uncomfortable.

That was enough to snap Eriks out of whatever stupour he was in, with him shaking his head a bit as though trying to clear it, his tone a bit embarrassed, "S-Sorry! No, nothing's wrong, you just... you look like somebody I knew once."

You found yourself wanting to smile a bit, but the words struck pain into your heart again and you just nodded, your lips pressing into a thin line once again.

"I see."

The man, Eriks, let out a nervous laugh before extending his hand to you for you to shake, "I'm Eriks. Sorry about startling you...?"

It was clear he was asking for your name. You just extended your hand and took his, shaking it firmly, "(Y/N). (Y/N) (Y/L/N)."

You thought you felt Eriks' grip on your hand falter for half a moment, but you brushed it off - probably nothing of note.

"N-Nice to meet you, (Y/N)," Eriks replied, his voice breaking slightly. He was evidently very, very nervous.

"Are you okay?" You asked bluntly, "You look ready to pass out."

Eriks just nodded before letting your hand go, "Y-Yeah! I'm good, I'm fine. Just, um... Lina's in trouble."

You didn't entirely buy that sudden excuse, but you decided to go with it, "Uh oh, what did she do?"

That's when you heard Lina explaining that she thumped a bandit across the face and that the bandit was coming after her.

"What are you telling me?" The bartender asked, his voice full of worry and his expression becoming one of horror, "Oh, my dear..."

"Yeah... I'm afraid so," Lina confirmed, leaning on the bar with a sad expression on her face, "And they weren't real happy about it. But, at least I don't think they saw me come in here."

The bartender immediately began to yell, and before you had a second to process what was happening, the wall next to you exploded, causing you to cry out as you got thrown across the room.

"Hey... I wasn't done eating yet," You heard Wolfwood complain, and you groaned as you sat up from the floor where you'd landed. You could've laughed at the image of Wolfwood holding his knife and fork over his plate, which was now crushed by a piece of broken wall.

"(Y/N)! You okay?"

You looked up to see Eriks standing above you, offering you his hand to help you up, which you took gladly.

"Yeah, I'm okay," You replied, brushing yourself off as you got to your feet, wincing slightly as your back ached from the impact, "I'm probably badly bruised, but I don't think anything's broken."

The look of relief on Eriks' face didn't feel like it matched what it should've been for a stranger he had just met - he looked relieved as he would look if you had been one of his closest friends. It was weird.

However, before you had a moment longer to think about it all, you heard yelling coming from outside the bar - the bandit who Lina had hit, yelling to give her up or that he'd shoot again if they didn't.

You grit your teeth, anger surging through your body - how dare this bandit threaten a child? She may be feisty and fiery, but she was still just a child. You grabbed your weapon and began to walk towards the hole in the wall, but somebody stopped you in your tracks, putting their arm out in front of you - Eriks.

"No, wait. Let me handle this," He spoke, his voice quiet but very sure. A surge of familiarity coursed through you - where had you heard this before? That tone... that calmness... it unsettled you as you knew you'd heard it before, but where? You couldn't pin it.

That split second of you being thrown off by the sudden feeling of déjà-vu was all Eriks needed before he walked out of the bar, his hands in the air, trying to appease the bandit and stop him from doing further damage to anybody or anything.

"Wolfwood," You mumbled, coming up to the priest, "Is it just me, or does Eriks feel... familiar to you?"

The priest just looked at you carefully, "Familiar? Familiar how?"

"I don't know," You confessed, "Just... the way he spoke to me just now reminded me of-"

Your eyes widened and your words died on your lips as you realized exactly who Eriks had reminded you of.

Vash.

You didn't need to say anything - Wolfwood could see the immediate look of shock on your face, the realization dawning on you. You could feel your breathing picking up and your heart rate was starting to go through the roof - why did Eriks sound so much like Vash? Hadn't you suffered enough? To lose Vash once was agony. But to be reminded of him now? It was unbearable.

"Woah, (Y/N), woah, calm down, breathe. You need to breath."

You could hear Wolfwood's words, but you couldn't understand them, couldn't process them. You were bordering on a full-blown panic attack. The world suddenly became quieter, all sounds muted, as though you were underwater. You couldn't process anything else going on around you right now. All you could do was stumble to your feet and run to the hole in the wall of the saloon, your eyes landing on the blonde man who reminded you so much of the love of your life.

You didn't really understand what was happening - you could vaguely hear the tones and timbre of Eriks' voice and the voice of the bandit, but you couldn't make out the words. You watched as Eriks bowed to the bandit all the way to the ground, trying to apologize on Lina's behalf and diffuse the situation, but it apparently hadn't been enough.

The bandit yelled something at Eriks, to which he apparently agreed. To your surprise, you watched as Eriks suddenly... began to take off his clothes?

"W-What?" You mumbled, not understanding what was happening. All you could make out was the sound of Lina crying next to you, and Wolfwood comforting her as Eriks defended her, even at the cost of his pride.

When you looked back at Eriks, you suddenly felt as though you had been hit by a truck.

Those scars... that body... the missing arm replaced with a prosthetic...

All you heard before the ground came up to meet you and the world went black around you was the sound of Wolfwood exclaiming your name - "(Y/N)!".

You don't know how long you'd been unconscious for, but when you found yourself waking up, you didn't recognize your surroundings. You were in a rather large room, laying on what could've only been a hospital bed, right next to a large window. There were no other beds or patients in the room with you - it was just you. And-

"Morning, sweetheart."

You jumped, turning to see Wolfwood sitting at your bedside, a smirk on his face as his cigarette dangled between his lips crookedly.

"W-Wolfwood," You spoke, your voice strained, "W-What-?"

"You dropped like a stone," Wolfwood explained, standing from his chair and walking over to sit right next to you on your bed, "You saw Eriks' scars and I guess the realization of who he was was just too much for you to handle. Can't say I'm surprised, it's not every day you learn that supposedly dead love of your life isn't actually dead."

Wolfwood just grinned at you, but you just sat there, unmoving, eyes staring forward like you were a statue, not really seeing whatever you were looking at. The memories of what had preceded your passing out came back to you in flashes, and before Wolfwood could continue speaking, you were suddenly sobbing as you had never sobbed before.

All the pain, the sadness, the grief, the loneliness, the feeling of having part of you missing for so long overwhelmed you, making you feel every bit of emotion you had been repressing over the past two years. You sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, crying your eyes out as you buried your face into your knees, unable to comprehend what was happening. Surely you were dead, or dreaming, because there was no way that Vash was really alive.

Unless...

"I'll leave you be," You heard Wolfwood say gruffly, before he stood up, patting your back and leaving you alone to confront your emotions.

After that, Wolfwood walked over to another patient's room - that of Eriks, or rather, Vash the Stampede. He had already spoken to Vash earlier, telling him about the fact that Millions Knives was still at large, but now... this was going to be a very different conversation.

Wolfwood didn't even bother knocking, just letting himself right into Vash's room, walking over to where the blonde young man sat in his bed.

"You know, I'm surprised you didn't straight up kill (Y/N)," Wolfwood started, a small smirk on his face as he sat next to Vash, who was just watching him carefully. He watched Vash's expression become one of concern the moment your name left Wolfwood's lips.

"What do you mean?" Vash asked, eyebrows furrowing at Wolfwood's statement - the last Vash saw of you was when he stopped you from taking on the bandit yourself, and you were fine, then.

Wolfwood sighed, "(Y/N) saw your scars, Stampede. It was too much for them to handle and they passed out cold. Smacked their head pretty bad on the way down, but that was my bad, I didn't expect them to go down."

"What?!" Vash exclaimed, his blue eyes widening in worry. He immediately began to try to get out of his bed, but Wolfwood stopped him.

"(Y/N)'s spent the last two years grieving you, Vash. They believed you were dead. This is a bigger shock than you know. They heard nothing from you and the last thing they saw of you was when July city imploded on itself."

Vash's eyes somehow managed to widen even more, and tears were beginning to well in them as Wolfwood explained the situation to him. Wolfwood told him everything he knew - about how you'd essentially become a living statue, not truly living beyond basic existence, about how broken you'd become, how closed-off and sad you were now. You'd been changed so badly that neither Vash nor Wolfwood were really sure if you'd ever rebound from this.

By the time Wolfwood was done explaining, Vash found himself crying silently, his heart torn to pieces at the thought of what this had done to you.

"They loved you more than anything, Vash," Wolfwood stated quietly, standing up as he went to take his leave for the second time that day, "I think you owe them an explanation and a very big apology."

With that, Wolfwood left Vash to his own thoughts, just as he had done to you earlier.

Vash sat there, just replaying everything Wolfwood had told him in his mind. He was telling the truth, Vash knew - he had seen the look on your face when he initially saw you as Eriks. Vash had been so taken aback by you when he took a good look at your face - you looked so much like yourself, but simultaneously so different.

Your face had new scars, and lines engraved in your skin from frowning and worrying rather than from smiling, as you used to in the past. Your expression was tired and somewhat empty, even as you greeted him, and your tone was dull and serious. And your eyes...

Tears began to course down Vash's cheeks freely, soft sobs escaping from his throat as pain jolted through him as he recalled your eyes.

Your eyes were utterly lifeless. Like you had died in every way except physically.

Vash had had to restrain himself from gasping loudly, sobbing his heart out and begging you for forgiveness when he'd looked at you for the first time in two years. He had wanted nothing more than to pull you into his embrace as he used to do before July then and there, but when you failed to recognize him, Vash knew that he couldn't do that to you.

'There's no way they still love me now,' Vash thought to himself, his pain intensifying and his cries becoming louder as he sobbed into his hands, 'I've destroyed them, too.'

You were the love of Vash's life. Nobody ever meant more to him than you did, and after the destruction of July city... Vash couldn't face you. He was a murderer, while you were innocent, pure, and good. He couldn't bring himself to look for you, or try to reach out to you, because he had wanted to keep you safe. Especially now that his bounty was 60 billion double dollars and everybody was hunting for him.

But when he saw you in that saloon... and he saw how damaged you'd become... he realized that he'd done had been wrong. So, so wrong. You'd loved him all that time, to the point where his supposed death broke you beyond repair, and it was all Vash's fault. In trying to protect you, he'd been the one to hurt you worse than anybody ever had before.

And now, he had to find the strength to face you. But how could he?

"Your gun! Give me your gun, hurry!"

Vash suddenly heard the frantic, panicked voice of Lina's grandmother, Grandma Sheryl, coming from downstairs. He focused in, wiping the tears off his face as he listened.

"It's Lina, they got her!"

The arguing continued, and Vash knew what he had to do then. Once he'd rescued Lina, he'd talk to you. He'd face you, and finally pay for his mistake.

As Vash dressed and exited his room, he found Wolfwood standing there, leaning against the wall, a cigarette between his lips once more.

"They got (Y/N), too, it seems like," Wolfwood stated, looking surprisingly calm despite having to deliver terrible news, "Guess they thought (Y/N) was a worthy hostage."

Vash's eyes widened, and his gaze hardened slightly, his heart twisting hard in his chest at the thought of you in danger - despite the two years that had passed, Vash still loved you more than anything in his life, and he still sought to protect you. He had thought of you every day, wondering where you were, what you were up to, if you'd missed him...

He had to rescue you and Lina as soon as possible.

With his teeth gritted and his gun holstered, Vash headed out with Wolfwood trailing in his wake.

"Then, let's go get them."

Wolfwood just smirked.

"There's the Stampede I used to know."

[tenabrye]

Cam we get some how they are when they have a crush for Reboot! Vash and Nicholas?

Vash

It's the kind of sweet that's tooth-rotting when he has a crush on someone. Yes, he's still nice and all, but he goes the EXTRA MILE and does it just for them. If they're traveling with him and he notices that they've been eyeing something in the town they're currently staying at for a day or two, and he has enough double dollars, he's getting them that item. If they ask him about it, he chalks it up as it being a coincidence, even though it really wasn't. Is also the type to get things that make him think about them, blatantly saying so, too. The smile on their face brightens his day and he'd do anything to continue seeing it.

As much as he is sweet for them, his protectiveness skyrockets. He doesn't show it in front of them, but he's actually very, very scared of what could or will happen to them since trouble does seem to follow him, especially with that trouble being his merciless twin. The thought of what could happen if Knives were to hurt them, or do worse, keeps him up a lot at night. He'll lose sleep over those thoughts, but at the same time, he really doesn't dwell on them for too long with his crush around. Their smile or their laughter is enough to break him out of his bad thinking. As much of a pacifist as he is, if it really, and I do mean REALLY, came down to it, especially after the words of Wolfwood playing in his mind, he would do anything to keep his crush safe.

Them being sad is literally impossible with him around. Vash will make it his mission to brighten up their day the best he can. They want to talk about the problem? He's one hell of a listener. May not have the advice they might be seeking, but he will absolutely do his best. They want to cry as a way of dealing with it? His arms are wide open and his clothes ready to be stained with their tears. Keeps his cybernetic arm wrapped around them while using his free hand to rub gentle, soothing circles on their back. They want to take everything out on shooting something? He'll collect as many empty cans and bottles as he can and let them use his weapon, or if they prefer their own, to shoot at them. Whatever they need to feel better, they really just have to ask and he will make it happen, if he can.

Gets giddy when their hand brushes up against his own as they're walking beside one another, or if they happen to fall asleep against him, using his non-cybernetic arm to lean against. Definitely watches them while they sleep, but not in a creepy way. No, he admires them, oh so lovingly. Carefully brushes their hair back from obstructing their face. He will also give them his portion of food a lot of the time, insisting they take it because he's full. He's not, but he wants them to get enough to eat for the day. Whenever they camp out on the sand, if they can't make it to a town, he always puts their sleeping mats/bags close to one another. He passes it off as a safety precaution, which it is, but he really just wants to be closer to them.

He didn't think it was possible for him to like someone as much as he did with them, nor can he tell if they've picked up on his little crush. Until they make it obvious that they know he likes them in such a way, things will continue on like this, or until something happens that he just blurts it out. Like a situation in which he could have lost them forever. He holds them close as he whispers his feelings into their ear, voice shaking from the fear of the scene that went down prior. He'd be fine if they didn't feel the same way. A little sad, but he doesn't mind simply being friends. If they don't and accept his feelings for them? Absolutely ecstatic and will hug onto them, lifting them up while also twirling around. He's just a happy man.

Wolfwood

He's actually very subtle when crushing on someone, or at least tries very hard to be. It's actually very noticeable to others, and maybe even his crush, due to how he acts around and with them versus everyone else. People can see the way his eyes soften when he looks at them, the way his voice is softer when speaking to them, and that little smile on his lips. Even his crush would start to notice, unless they're oblivious, then they definitely wouldn't have a single clue.

He's VERY protective of them. Unlike Vash, he'd actually put a bullet in someone if they so much as make his crush even the SLIGHTEST bit uncomfortable. Okay, well, he actually wouldn't at first, but if the person kept it up even after being told to knock it off? You better believe Wolfwood is doing something about it. He's also the type to hold his crush's hand and say it's so that he doesn't lose them in the town they're currently in, but he really just wanted to hold their hand. If they don't mind it, he'll even wrap an arm around their waist to keep them close to him, but only if they give him consent or make it obvious beforehand that doing so is okay. May the heavens have mercy on whoever decides to lay a single hand on his crush, because he sure as hell won't have any.

Same as Vash, he will actually give them the remaining portion of his meal if he knows they're not full. He just says he's a light eater and isn't that hungry, even though it may be the opposite. He loves touching his crush, and not in a creepy way. He can't really pinpoint the exact reason why, but it gives him some relief when he's holding their hand, them having fallen asleep with their body leaning against his, or even waking up somehow wrapped up in each other's arms when they camped out instead of staying in town. He especially loves when that happens, because he's usually the first one to wake up at their little camp, so he gets a bit of time to admire their sleeping face before having to pull away when they wake.

Wolfwood is great with children and he will apply that with his crush if they're having a bad day. Offers them a lollipop of their choice and will sit and listen to their problems. He's actually really great at giving advice because not only has he seen a thing or two, but he's been through so much, which he doesn't want his crush knowing about, yet. He applies what he knows and has been through in order to give them the advice that would best help to solve, or make, their problems better. He's also open for a hug, if they really want it. Seeing his crush in any sort of pain absolutely pains him, so yeah, he's doing what he can to make them feel better. If need be, he'll tell them a story from his childhood to make them feel better. A fabricated story, obviously, but he has his reasons of why he has to. Feels better after seeing that little made-up story cheered them up a bit.

Unlike Vash, he would actually be devastated if his crush didn't feel the same way he did. At least for a little while. He's an adult, so he obviously won't be sulking like a teenager. Will abide by the friends only thing, but sometimes it slips his mind because he will still find himself doing romantic-ish stuff. However, he's got the biggest grin on his face if they do feel the same way. Will want to celebrate with a kiss, which he's practically dreamed about for far too long while traveling with you.

[mediocreanomaly]

Love your soulmate au for vashwood so much. What if it was with reader and knives?

Knives would be so confused with feeling random pains like a stubbed toe or a random pinch.

🌻Hope you have a good day🌻

Authors note: Yo! ofcourse I had to turn this into a post!!! My main story will be Vashwood but I'm basing this in the same world as the Vashwood x reader stuff, consider this a little side story I might expand on if it gets enough love lol you don't have to read the other parts to understand this tho

Read the Vashwood Parts Here!: Part 1 | Part 2

Read Part 2 Here!

Knives X Reader Soulmate AU

•Knives had learned about soulmates during his studies with Rem, a person all humans had that was tethered to them in some sort of spiritual or metaphysical sense, one that could feel your pain.

•It was stupid. In all honesty he was glad he wasn't human so he didn't have to deal with something so tedious. It would only slow him down, he couldn't imagine how humans dealt with such a hinderance

•He often listened to Vash ramble on about soulmates and offered little assurance, often saying things like "We aren't human Vash we don't have soulmates", "You shouldn't want a soulmate anyways it's pain for no reason", "Will you stop talking about it already? it's beneath us"

•After the fall Knives all but forgets soulmates even exist. He's focused on bigger things and he doesn't have a soulmate anyways so the thought is nonexistent

•Then the oddest thing happens. He's busy destroying a town attempting to take their plant, it's a routine stop, when he swears he feels a pain shoot through his foot

•He quickly whips his head around, looking around to figure out what exactly could have done that but there's nothing but his own destruction. weird.

•He thinks about it for a couple days because he isn't used to getting hurt but reluctantly chalks it up to him some how being careless with his blades, even though that explanation doesn't really sit right with him it's the only thing that makes sense

•Then a couple months later in the sanctuary of his own quarters he feels a burn across his hand. He furrows his brow and slowly looks over his hand over and over to see where the burn is coming from yet there's no mark, just the feeling

•Fool him once shame on him fool him twice....

•He marches down to Conrads office irritated about whatever's happening. Conrad listens as he explains the two incidents, how there's no mark, how it's annoying and distracting him from more important matters

•Conrad nods and says he's going to run an experiment, before Knives can fully ask what says experiment is Conrad reaches over and roughly jabs him in the side

•Safe to say Conrad almost lost his head that day. In fact Knives blades where pressed to his neck when he felt a returning jab in his arm

•Once Knives realizes what's happening he's furious. He's a superior being he doesn't need a soulmate he's been fine with out one for a century, he doesn't even understand, why now? Why when he's so close to achieving his plans?

•After this he makes it a top priority to kill you. What? you thought he was going to be merciful just because your his soulmate? This whole thing is just a bump in the road of his plans, it'll be easy. He'll kill you and then he doesn't have to worry about feeling your pain. Besides, right now it's just a stubbed toe or a burn but come tomorrow he can't afford to be distracted if you break an arm or get shot

•So he rampages towns non-stop, trying to find you, hoping he'll feel his own blade for a split second before it can go back to normal

•During his rampages...is when you join Dr.Conrad in his studies. You were a plant specialist, the most renowned in your field, yet...the most you studied plants, the more you interacted and saw...the more you hated humans for how you used them

•You felt humans didn't deserve plants, didn't deserve the sentient life force the human race had created, so when you found out about Dr.Conrad you'd practically begged him to let you join the cause

•So ironically Knives was pretty much wasting his time being out causing mass destruction, if he had stayed he might've put the pieces together a bit faster, but he didn't

•Unlike Vash Knives doesn't really let himself get hurt, he does the hurting so Knives doesn't realize you're his soulmate for a long time, but this is good because if he realized right off the bat you'd probably be dead

•Instead he slowly comes to learn of your existence. He doesn't really care much about you one was or the other when he first meets you. Your Conrads help? Okay. That's it, that's all there is really he doesn't care

•Yet for some reason...every time he passes through to speak with Conrad he can't help but watch you work while he pretends to be focusing on whatever the man was saying

•It's almost maddening because he doesn't understand why you of all people have caught he attention so he starts trying to interact with you more. It's a little unnerving at first, I mean...it's Knives. He either silently stands over you as you work or makes less that nice comments about how your doing things wrong

•But you aren't deterred in fact you're pretty interested by Knives. You've studied plants your whole life but Knives...Knives is something different, something more. So you use the time he hovers to ask him questions about himself, how his gate works, if he sleeps or eats, logging each difference between him and humans and him and other plants

•Maybe it's the way your brain is wired from interacting with so many plants, maybe it's the fact Knives seems to pay particular attention to you,(maybe it's the fact you're soulmates lmao) but you're basically the only one who can read him. You don't know how but you pick up on the slight mouth twitches, the shifts in his shoulders, the difference between his "i'm annoyed" grimace and his "i'm enjoying this but I don't want you to know" grimace

•He won't admit it to you, not yet, but he's starting to feel...fond of you. He'll pretend he needs to speak to Conrad about the progress of his experiments but really he's just there to answer whatever questions you have and to talk to you in return

•Now don't forget, you can feel your soulmates pain...and this is Trigun. You are the first to realize you're soulmates. How you might ask? Well let's put it this way, would you want to feel yourself getting destroyed during the events of Ja'Lai?

•The Ja'Lai incident. It's possibly the worst pain you've ever felt in your life, despite the way Knives grits his teeth through it till the end to an average person? It's unbearable. You black out multiple times from the feeling, body laying in a heap as you try to figure out what's happening

•Once you hear about what happened in Ja'Lai...you instantly know. Luckily (and much to his protest) Legato eventually lets you help nurse Knives back to health

•You sit on the side of Knives bed, your own body still feeling like you have third degree burns as you watch the body of the man you'd been falling for. You knew he didn't want a soulmate, part of you wondered if you should even tell him when he wakes up...

•Well...who knows how he'll respond. Doesn't matter now though, he wont be waking up any time soon, so you have time to come up with a plan. Let's just hope your previous time with him has proved enough to win him over.

[fuck-you-upmusicbracket]

Sunlight (Hozier)

All the tales the same/Told before and told again/A soul that's born in cold and rain/Knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight/And at last can grant a name/To a buried and a burning flame/As love and its decisive pain/Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

But whose heart would not take flight/Betray the moon as acolyte/On first and fierce affirming sight of/Sunlight, sunlight, sunlight/I had been lost to you, sunlight/And flew like a moth to you, sunlight, oh, sunlight/Oh, your love is sunlight

"I come down with the shivers and start hyperventilating when i hear this song and it makes me want to go outside which is the scariest part"

"I'm not gonna go full infodump here but this song is Peak Vash and Nicholas D. Wolfwood from Trigun-- specifically Nick's feelings towards Vash. Vash's (literal) evil twin brother Knives hired (read: threatened to eradicate the orphanage he kidnapped Nick from as a child if he didn't do what he was told) Nick to act as bodyguard for Vash and guide him to where Knives wants him to go so he can manipulate him for his own gain. Like, he chose the name Knives. This bitch is crazy beyond crazy but this ain't about him. Nick starts out 100% willing to guide Vash like a lamb to slaughter because he HAS to for the orphanage, and this is just some random guy he doesn't know or care about. But then he gets to know Vash, how good of a person he is despite the shit the world (and Knives) has put him through. How he'd rather risk his own life and health than kill another person because he believes he doesn't get to make that choice for people. And despite being someone who'd rather shoot first, pray for them after, Nick starts trying to wound rather than kill just because Vash doesn't like it. It puts them both at risk and he fusses and argues about it and still kills sometimes but he tries anyways. Eventually he decides that he'll do what he can to protect Vash from Knives without provoking him to destroy the orphanage. He ends up caring about him deeply against his own will to the point that his idea of Eden would be to live with Vash and their friends in a peaceful world where none of them have to fight and die. In the manga, Nick's dying request is to see Vash smile again- the genuine smile that he's complimented every time he's seen it. Vash can't give him that, because he knows Nick would see that it was a forced smile. Instead, he just sits with him until he dies. Afterwards, Vash kills willingly for the first time in his entire life (over 150 years. He's not human btw) in order to protect Nick's childhood friend Livio. He wouldn't just do that for just any friend or ally, no, that was out of love. Love so strong he could go against his own mother's teachings that all life matters and people don't get to choose when a life ends, the thing that has kept Vash pacifist all these years, to keep someone that mattered to Nick alive. So while Nick never knew that Vash cared for him the same way he did him, the fact matters that he does."

Your Body, My Temple (Will Wood)

So, when the cattle fall dead and the waters run red, I'll be your lamb's blood on the wall/God isn't dead, but that's exactly what I've been dreading after all the meek inherited fuck all/Jesus Christ, I will die for my own damn sins if you help those who help themselves/My superstitions, your visage, my visions furtherin' the fever of your fervor, for believing, I will

I'll be your blessing in disguise, whip the mask off my good side/I'm all stripped down naked for you but still asking you to loosen up my buttons, baby/You've got my whole world in your hands, got that little blue spot/And you really ain't got no idea how much this thing orbits you, now, do you honey?

"the DEDICATION, the DEVOTION to whoever you can imagine is being sung to...the imagery is so so so good 😩 it's so catchy, it gets stuck in my head every time i listen to it, the emotions are just so good...you can imagine an individual so deeply infatuated with their lover to the point of revering them as holy, to the point of death...the way the word choice just flows so smoothly is so good aughhh- its also got surprisingly good loopability, in my opinion. 10/10 i want to beam this song into my brain it makes me froth from the mouth and shiver like a rabid animal and i'll be DAMNED if i don't make an oc inspired by it eventually. all the lyrics are peak. i am getting riled up just thinking about this song, will wood is elite"

"1. I want to sing this to my Muse. (If I had one...) 2. Will Wood songs just slap. 3. I've listened to the CHnT podcast, and get *all* the references! (Pink Elephant Man starts a cult dedicated to the camp nurse) 4. I'm using this song for the antagonist of my story, who gives yandere vibes."

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Trigun Stampede Character Thoughts: Vash

I've been putting off this write-up since I finished the show if for no other reason than whenever I go to analyze this funky little dude my entire brain just stalls and goes

✨ Hi, Vash. Hi. :) ✨

...anyways.

Here's a quick collection of thoughts on him now that I am finally more coherent! The hardest part of this was trying to make something readable with the sheer amount of things I could say about him. Geez.

(Please note that I have only watched Trigun Stampede! As of this moment, I am starting the manga and have not seen 98 Trigun. I thought it might be interesting to compare and contrast once I've read the manga. Bear with me in the meantime!)

Right off the bat, the show introduces us to who Vash is as a character - a pacifistic gunman who, while incredibly skilled, avoids confrontation when at all possible. When Meryl accuses him of running away out of fear, it's pretty quickly made apparent that, while it is out of some semblance of fear, it is not fear for himself. Rather, his concerns lie with other people's well-being first and foremost.

Or, really, his concerns lie near completely with other people's well-being. What happens to him is of very little consequence if it means everyone else is okay.

I want to talk about three different things when it comes to Vash, namely:

His incredible skill and competence

His terrible self-image

His solidly held pacifistic convictions

Skill and Competence

Ohhhh ok. So, I can't really comment on exact positions or maneuvers (I used to do martial arts pretty extensively, but it's obviously not the same kind and I know absolutely nothing about guns or marksmanship sorry), but I can sure tell you that I loved the way the animators had Vash move in episode 1 right before he pulls out his gun for the first time. I wish I knew how to make gifs properly because I would totally make one of that part. Even before Roberto's line that "acting brave is foolish" and "he's not long for this world" had finished, I was already convinced of the exact opposite. As someone who's done martial arts. Guys. The way he moves here.

It's a three step movement - he steps to the right, then to the left in an almost meandering way, shifting his body weight as he goes, before he grounds himself in a wide stance. It's slow, fluid, and calculated - a distinct contrast from his often jerky, exaggerated motions that we saw earlier. God I wish I had a gif. I don't think I can simply explain how insane it makes me. The animators could've just had him approach directly or run up to it - a lot of the times, with action heroes, there's a lot of flashy motion or jumping around, etc., which looks cool but isn't exactly something to be role modelling in an actual fight lol. But here? In the next episode, Nebraska mockingly says "this isn't the ballet" with regards to the dodging and spinning Vash does, but a lot of his motions... really are dance-like. He's damn near effortlessly shifting his center of gravity while remaining fluid in motion and completely balanced. No novice moves like that. He clearly has a lot of experience. For me watching, Roberto's line was refuted before he even finished it.

...which of course makes it even funnier when he realizes he's out of bullets. Oh, buddy. You looked so cool for a second there. Hjhdfnv

Really though, pay attention to the way he moves while fighting or shooting. He's always well-grounded, and the more serious the situation, the more fluidly and less exaggeratedly he moves. It's so, so cool. I don't know if I've quite seen that kind of motion in animation before, especially cgi (though it is possible I just haven't seen enough too...hehe...).

The episode 12 fight too! Again, Vash is balanced, even as he's being knocked backwards. He falls correctly, and allows his body to move with the gun. All his motions are precise and fluid. Contrast that to Nai, who is, uh... totally unbalanced lmao.

And then the way he tucks before he jumps out the window! The animation actually convinced me of this guy's over 100 years of experience. I actually believe it.

What's nice is that Vash, too, is aware of his own skill. He moves with a lot of confidence, and he clearly has a great degree of trust in his own ability to fight and shoot without seriously harming anyone - not once does he show the slightest bit of doubt in his abilities. One might expect, given Vash's refusal to kill, that he might be worried about accidental injuries when in the middle of a gunfight - but he isn't. Ever. The only way I can interpret this is complete confidence in his own abilities, and he most likely trained hard to specifically ensure that this would never be a concern. The trope of "character who doesn't want to fight or hurt people turns out to be really insanely skilled/strong" is always cool and fun, but in this context it's really a neat take on it, since I feel it is only because he refuses to kill that he intentionally developed such god-tier level marksmanship - I am going to go out on a limb here and assume it is much easier to accidentally inflict serious injury with a gun than it is to actively avoid doing so lol. He probably worked at being a really good fighter and gunman specifically so he could avoid killing.

I also find it kind of refreshing that he never calls his skills into question, since that does tend to happen with characters who have a poor self-image or low esteem. Which, uh, takes me to the next point.

Self-Image

Yeah, Vash's self-image is kind of in the gutter. He places the blame for all the tragedies that follow him on himself, despite the fact that he always puts in his full effort to prevent them from happening.

The majority of this ties back to his feelings of culpability for the fall. I want to direct your attention to the scene where Vash is digging the tally marks into the wall in episode 8 - it can't possibly be the number of days that have passed since we see the transition of the sun only twice and Brad looks shocked when he sees the all the tallies (which he wouldn't be if they had been there for that many days). With the way Vash's tallies look a bit like crosses and the fact that he greeted the people in cryosleep on Ship 5 by name in the first episode, suffice to say, he is probably making a tally of all the people who didn't make it through the crash - people whose deaths he feels personally responsible for.

Really, I wouldn't consider Vash even remotely responsible for any of that - he had the access codes but like. Zero intent or knowledge of what Nai was about to do with them. Regardless, Vash carries the guilt from it in the way Nai won't, because in his mind, someone needs to take accountability. Also important to remember is that the only reason any human being still lives on No Man's Land is because of Rem's sacrifice. Vash needs to maintain his belief in the capacity for human kindness and his no-killing code, because if he doesn't, her sacrifice would be in vain. He keeps her values and beliefs alive. She's in everything he does. Even hollowed out and stripped of his memories and identity, the mass of roots and flowers that engulf July take on her likeness.

So, really, in addition to Vash just being a generally compassionate soul, his staunch pacifism is a refusal to betray her beliefs and let his mother figure die a second time. I need to fucking lie down.

With all this strain he puts on himself, it's really not surprising that when tragedy inevitably strikes, he is very hard on himself, and from what we've seen this actually manifests in a set of consistent self-punishing behaviours - I am of course referring to episode 3's "I don't deserve to cry" and his refusal to eat in episode 4 (despite apparently needing to, unlike Nai). This is very similar to what we see in episode 8 with him as a kid, where he goes somewhat blank (no crying, no anger, all his negativity directed inwards and at himself) and refusing all food except what little he needs to survive because "it's a waste".

The worst part of this though, to me, is that we see from certain throwaway bits ("one bullet is two slices of pizza/two dozen donuts!", his kid self's eagerness at the sight of the birthday cake and the spread of food, his first question on seeing the geranium being to wonder if it is edible) that he not only needs to eat but also seems to enjoy eating - so his refusal to eat is not only a denial of a basic necessity but also of one of the few things he genuinely likes that he will allow himself to partake in. In the context of Rem framing food as something to share with everyone, it also makes me wonder if his self-denial is something along the lines of "I don't deserve to share this with them". In that sense, it's really important that Luida echoes a similar sentiment as Rem (implying she wants to share this food/include him, and that some of Rem's views survive in these remaining people).

I do wonder if, because food is associated with sharing to him, that it has something to do with needing to "earn a place at the table" in a way. While I think Luida was trying her best to juggle a lot on Ship 3 behind the scenes after the fall and clearly didn't want to keep Vash locked up like that, the crew only started treating him better and trusting him after he found a way to help them. The unfortunate view that Vash receives then is: "I need to earn their trust by being helpful." Vash is a chronic people pleaser - I can't think of a single point where he does something solely for his own benefit. He has no desire to scare or harm anyone (quite the opposite!) so he goes out of his way to be as helpful and non-threatening as possible - hiding his true nature as a Plant (to such an extent that he doesn't know anything about his powers and has effectively sealed them away - he's practically human), masking his facial expressions by cleverly hiding his face or letting the light reflect off his glasses, trying to laugh off his competence as luck and his scars as embarrassing.

Is it because he doesn't want to scare people? Is it because he doesn't want to feel othered from them? It's hard to say. It's probably a bit of both.

Nai accuses Vash of loneliness and desiring love, and of seeking to fill that gap by appeasing humans. While I don't think this is necessarily wrong, it can't possibly be accurate as a core motivation, since Vash doesn't seem to really... accept a lot of positive interaction. Whether out of concern for others' safety, a lack of feeling like he deserves it, being secretive about his past and identity, or some combination of the above, Vash tends to leave a lot. He leaves Jeneora Rock's celebration early, tries to walk away from Meryl even as she's calling out to him, runs away from Home when Brad and Luida listen to the recording. He throws walls up and distances himself by laughing things off, or smiling, or simply not explaining anything.

I mentioned this during my live blogging while watching episode 9, but as Independents, it's intriguing to me that both Vash and Nai exist outside the cycle of dependence we see between the Plants and the humans - both of which cannot survive without the other. Nai appears to revel in this detachment, but Vash also seems to self-impose a certain distance between himself and everyone else - for all his friendliness and inability to leave someone hanging who needs help, he practices a lot of recognizably avoidant strategies. He exists on the periphery, never staying in one place too long (he can't), and treating every interaction with a certain kind of resignation - an understanding that it is temporary. He seems to expect the inevitability of being chased out over and over. The slightest of kindnesses given to him he always feels incredibly grateful for. Perhaps he feels that kindness is more than he deserves.

I honestly dread to think how he'll react once he regains his memories of what happened to July. I trust that he'll keep pushing on, as he always does, but is he going to remember that he deserves to eat and smile?

I really hope so. Otherwise I will need Meryl and Wolfwood to bonk him on the head.

Pacifism and Conviction

The thing about Vash's pacifism is that it's very difficult to tell whether it is primarily motivated by love or guilt. Vash carries an incredible amount of survivor's guilt with him and he absolutely is doing his best to keep Rem's memory alive, but I don't think it can be denied that he isn't just acting out Rem's beliefs - he really does believe in them himself. He's also genuinely compassionate and does care and become invested in the well-being of others. In the end, I'm not sure it really matters. I don't think the guilt or love can be easily extricated from each other at this point; they are both powerful drivers of his actions and core to his identity as a person, and while this is not exactly ideal for getting him to be kind to himself, they both strongly feed into his continuous choice to be kind to others.

And it is a choice, not naivety, as pacifism is so often brushed off as. Vash's compassion is something he chooses over and over again, in spite of the way he is often treated, and the way his powers hold far more potential for destruction than even Knives. Wolfwood thinks that Vash doesn't understand harsh realities and is going to receive a rude awakening but he does understand - Vash just chooses not to accept violence as the only way forward and believes that things can change and improve, and is willing to expend that energy and extra hurt into making that a reality. Nai thinks Vash is helpless and brainwashed into his belief - note the way Vash frequently appears as his child self when Nai tampers with his Gate or his memories; the implication here is that Nai sees Vash as incapable of making choices for himself and in need of protection - but not only is this horribly demeaning to Vash's personhood, it simply isn't true. Even Meryl chews him out for what looked like running away to her early on, and Roberto thinks he's going to get himself killed sooner or later. Everyone underestimates Vash, at least at first. And well, it's easy to. He's just a silly little guy! He's a bleeding heart who tries to help everyone he comes across! He talks about nobody needing to die in a world where most everyone is starving and desperate! To the people in-universe, he would look like a total fool, and far too idealistic to last long.

Except, he has. He's around 150 years old, he's scarred to hell and back, but he's still alive and he still chooses kindness. That takes a special kind of improbable mental resilience and stubborn conviction - and that's what most of the other characters overlook. Vash is, indeed, very sensitive and emotional and an idealist - he's also much tougher and more rational than hardly anyone gives him credit for. He's an excellent judge of character too!

His ideals and that stubborn faith are everything that makes Vash who he is.

This scene in episode 12 is the only true moment of triumph in what is otherwise a tragedy all around. Nai would go as far as to destroy Vash’s very identity to get his brother back, but at the cost of losing everything that makes him Vash. These ideals are the core of “Vash the Stampede”, and no matter how foolish they may seem or how little others understand his conviction, this is an identity he has chosen for himself. It’s who he is. And this assertion, coming directly on the heels of Nai trying to erase him and remove that autonomy, is an undeniable brief triumph in the midst of it all. Nai will always be Vash’s brother, and he will always love him I’m sure, but they diverged in their persons a long, long time ago, and Vash adamantly refuses to be an extension of or accomplice to his brother’s crusade of hatred… even if that means going against him.

Vash’s kindness is so necessary to a world like the one we see in the series, on the verge of extinction and giving up. Approaching situations with understanding and communication is really the only way to help improve understanding amongst others - and this is one of his biggest strengths; it's even reflected in his use of his Plant abilities (communicating between himself and the other Plants, the way he can open a path both to and from the higher dimension unlike anyone else). In this way, Vash is something of a necessary conduit. I just wish he'd let himself feel a little more tbh. He represses a lot - he canonically won't allow himself to cry if he feels responsible, any flashes of anger are brief, he doesn't stick around to have fun really. Personally, I'd like to see him allow himself grief through tears, a little bit of genuine letting loose and celebrating, and actually expressing things like irritation and annoyance next season. Perhaps that's wishful thinking.

I don't know how to accurately summarize my thoughts on Vash well enough other than to say, in keeping with the whole Plant thing, he reminds me strongly of dandelions. Bright, cheery, grow through cracks and root where you don't expect them to ever be able to eke out a living. Regarded as a weed by many but very difficult to get rid of. Hardy, resilient, and pop back up after being beaten down. Kids make wishes on them.

Anyways. Hugs him hugs him hugs him x 60,000,000,000

[yurinaa-world]

Mmm idk Vash Wolfwood reaction of you sacrificing for them but like gets badly hurt but y/n doesn't die or u can decide that

Thanks in advance buddy 😊

Characters: Vash x Gender-Neutral Reader

Synopsis: Vash and Nicholas see you sacrificing yourself and getting hurt.

Warnings: Mention of a gun, blood, and spelling errors

Vash "The Humanoid Typhoon

Sitting on the ground of an abandoned building, the floorboards creak from your weight as a gunshot rings through the building. "Damn!" you grunted, clutching your gun to your chest while reloading your bullets. "Are you alright, (name)?"" Vash asked, "Who was sitting beside you? "I'm good, but this is not the time," you snapped back, reloading the one last bullet in the barrel.

A small round bullet went through the window, almost hitting "those sons of..." You growled under your breath, going up to the window and peering outside before shooting a bullet out at the window, breaking it with another shot. A loud bang filled the air as the bullet ricocheted.

"Vash, get out of here as fast as you can," you said. "What about you?" He exclaimed, "At this point, we both will get killed!" You responded, "Don't worry about me; I'll come join you when I'm done with them." You replied, "Please don't die." Vash begged, "I won't." You answered, turning your head towards Vash. "Just go!" Vash nodded his head and scrambled to his feet as he ran out the back door.

Before a sharp pain shimmied your shoulder like a bullet, you fell backwards onto the ground and dropped your gun by your side, blood pouring down your wound. You gritted your teeth, clenched your jaw in pain, and gripped your wound's hand tightly to stop the bleeding. You gritted your teeth together and took deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down.

Grabbing the gun again to end this before another bullet flew past, hitting the wall behind you, You cursed quietly before pulling the trigger again, shooting the remaining men who were shooting at you and Vash. Once you empty the bullets, you put the empty gun to your side of your pants.

You gritted your teeth again and tried to push yourself up, but the pain in your shoulder made it hard to move. You sighed deeply, closing your eyes for a moment, before starting to limp towards the back door. The door handle was broken, but you didn't care as you pulled the handle open, wincing at the cold air that hit your wound.

You stumbled out of the ruined building. "(Name)," a family voice shouted, causing you to flinch and nearly fall over. Vash runs up to you and says, "(Name), you're bleeding!" He gasped, grabbing your arm, helping you stand straight, and supporting most of your weight on him.

He helps you limp into the alleyway, sitting you against the cold wall. You sigh and lean against the wall, trying your hardest to keep breathing and not pass out as your shoulder pulses in pain every time you breathe. You couldn't focus on anything other than the searing pain, which you had no doubt was going to scar. "It's going to be alright, I promise," Vash reassured, letting out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob, his hands shaking as he held onto you. "........I....promise..." you replied, hot tears rolling down your face.

".......Promise....." you repeated.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood "The Punisher"

Curses leaving you and Nicholas' mouths as you both shoot bullets at the enemy and run away from it, bullets going all around your heads and hitting the ground with loud bangs, making your ears ring in pain while running and jumping for cover, you and Nicholas being meters apart from each other and trying to avoid the bullets that are coming your way.

"you alright" He asked you, "Yeah, I'm fine; how about yourself?" You reply back, panting from the adrenaline rush that has been flowing through your body. You were still able to keep your feet moving, but you could tell Nicholas was getting tired.

 No wonder when he's carrying around a huge cross, looking out to see or shoot your enemies, your heart sinks seeing a gun pointed Nicholas' way. "NICHOLAS!' you yelled out, pulling him out of the fire, feeling the bullet hit your body, the sharp pain shooting through your body.

Your vision is blurry as you fall on the ground, tears stinging in your eyes, and your ears ringing loudly as the world falls silent, even gunshots going still, as if time stopped for you as you lie there on the hard ground, breathing heavily.

"Hey, are you alright, (name)?" Nicholas lifts you from the ground, placing his hand under your head to support your weight. "What happened to men who were shooting?" you ask, still gasping for breath. "Forget about it, damn it," he replies with annoyance laced in his voice. You smile lightly, seeing the anger and sadness mixed in his expression. "I'll be fine; it takes a lot to kill me," you say, trying to joke to lighten up the situation.

His expression turns into a glare. "It's like you'll let me die anytime soon." You let out a shaky laugh before coughing again. "You better not die or I'll kill you first."

"I won't"

if you liked this, consider tipping me on ko-fi! it'd mean a lot!

[selineram3421]

*little dancey dance* I got snacks.

Isekai'd

Part 6: The One Bullet

Part 5

~

Warning! ⚠

⚠ cussing, weapons and guns(pew pew), reader is surprisingly calm, all caps for screeching dialog, bold red italics = sound effects, the probability of death is inching closer and closer ⚠

"Of course this would happen!", you say pacing around your room that you got at a nearby Inn. "Thank you SO much universe! I really wanted to be fucking yeeted into a hell hole of a planet and get stuck in the clusterfuck of events!"

You threw down your coat and let out a frustrated yell, kicking the foot of the bed.

"JUST MY FUCKING LUCK!", you huff and sit down on the bed, starting to calm yourself down.

Ok, think. Its not long till the July military police get here. You look out of your room window. I probably have enough time to get a .22 caliber bullet.

Putting on your coat, you got ready and made sure to take your scythe.

As the suns began to set, you made your way over to see the duel. Making sure to stand nearby to give the bullet to the lady from the diner.

The crazy ass captain shot out the cluster bomb and screams went off.

"Vash! Get down here!", Rosa shouted up at the blonde.

"Tell everyone to take cover!", he responded and turned around to face the falling bombs.

5.....4....3...2..1. You count down in your head.

"BULLETS! I COULD REALLY USE SOME BULLETS!", Vash shouts out after rushing towards the edge of the cliff he's on. "A FEW .22 CALIBERS WOULD BE DANDY!!"

You calmly walk over to the woman backing up.

"COME ON GUYS! ANY TIME NOW!?"

" 'Scuse me Ma'am.", you startle the woman when tapping her shoulder.

"Huh?", she looks at you confused.

"Bullet.", you say and hold it out to her.

She gets the message quickly and takes the bullet before making her way to Meryl.

Whelp, I've done my bit for today. You think and start walking away, not wanting to feel the heat from the explosives.

You don't notice the woman looking for you to properly give thanks.

.

"HURRY! HELP! PLEASE!! I NEED AMMO!", Vash yells before crying out in stress, tears streaming down his face as he lifts his hands to the sides of his head.

"Special delivery!"

The blonde turns his head when hearing Meryl.

"It's from Rosa!", the small woman shouts before reeling back her arm and throwing the one bullet at him.

He jumps to catch it but the bullet is shot out of his reach by the captain.

Not wasting any time, he runs after it.

"Come to daddy!", he gasps between breaths, pushing himself to go faster.

Jumping forward with an outstretched arm, it feels like time slows down as he manages to catch the bullet.

"Got'cha!"

Quickly moving to load the gun, he mumbles, "Much obliged.", in relief as he puts the bullet in the barrel.

As he aims up to the sky, his gun is shot by the captain.

"I don't think so!", the man in uniform says as he runs over to shoot at the blonde.

Vash dodges the bullets quickly and flips the man over his shoulder, letting him bounce off the ground before hitting the man on the back of his neck to knock him out.

Running over to get a piece of the rock, the ace gunman breaks it out before tossing it up high into the air with a shout and takes aim.

BANG!

The rock breaks apart when shot and the pieces shoot off, hitting the bombs surrounding it.

It only takes a second for all of them to explode. The power of the blast forms a dust cloud that extends until it falls off of the rock.

After the July police were detained, the town threw a party at the diner to celebrate.

Vash walks over to the bar and waves at the pregnant woman on the other side. "Thanks Rosa! If it wasn't for your bullet, we wouldn't be here.", he smiles, leaning on the bar counter.

"Don't thank me. Some stranger gave it to me.", she says, getting drinks to serve to one of the tables.

"What? Really?", the blonde says surprised. "Are they still around?"

"Can't say. When I looked back to thank them, they disappeared.", she says and goes out from behind the counter. "Must have been an angel."

Rosa leaves him be and makes her way over to the table with singing drunks.

"An angel?", he blinks.

For some reason, the medic he met a while back comes to mind.

No way. He shakes his head and goes back to his table. It couldn't have been them.

.

..

...

Could it?

.

You were back in your room, making a list of medical supplies to buy before all Hell breaks loose.

Mother fucking Knives. You think and grumble out a few more curses.

"I'm gonna end up broke because of you.", you huff, letting your head fall back and look up at the ceiling.

Doesn't matter, as long as I can help out to ease his conscience. You tell yourself.

Then all of a sudden you feel your ears burn.

"What the heck?", you say and touch one of your ears. "Is someone talking about me?"

You shrug and get ready for bed.

I should sleep now, I'm gonna need the energy for tomorrow. You think and have a feeling that another weird dream is waiting for you.

✴

For some reason you snapped your eyes open.

Standing up and looking around, you find the ship's green house empty. No Rem or little Vash in sight.

Weird. You think, not moving from your spot. Someone's always here.

Then when you decide to turn around, you see an almost identical blonde child standing behind you.

Freezing on the spot, you just stare.

WHAT THE FUCK!? NAI YOU LITTLE CREEP!

"Vermin.", the pale blue eyed boy says randomly.

Did this.. You get pissed off. This little shit!

"Oh please, not every human is trash.", you respond. "Yeah a good amount of them are but that doesn't mean all of them have to die."

All the boy does is frown at you.

"Whatever, all you're doing is trying to protect your brother.", you say and turn away from him to look at the red flowered meadow. "You do carry it out in the worst possible way though."

Silence settles in between both of you after.

At some point you look over at the kid and find him standing next to you, also looking at the flowers.

Not wanting to break whatever 'peace' this is, you look back at the flowers.

...

"Do you think you can protect him?"

✴

I re-watched episode one over and over to get it right.

~Seline, the person.

Next: Part 7

Taglist@

@summerdazed @lunar-archangel @+?

ML Vash | ChL Isekai'd

[beanibon]

Hey hey, different anon but that Vash arguing with reader angst was so good, could I request a Wolfwood version? (Because let's be honest as much as I love him he'd be the one to say something he didn't mean in an argument)

Nicholas Arguing with S/O

TW: angst, some swearing.

Rage seeped like lava in his veins, blood boiled as anger caused his heart to pound furiously. Nicholas was livid, even more so when you appeared like nothing was wrong.

You could have fucking died!

The Punisher was slammed into the ground, in favour of grabbing your shoulders, hands shaking you in anger.

"You could've fucking died! What is wrong with you!?" Nicholas yelled, just speaking such fears had him shaking. What if I lost you?

"You were hurt, I watched them shoot hundreds of holes in you, h-how are you still-"

"That doesn't fucking matter, what matters is you being a moron and running through a shootout! What is wrong with you!?" Your eyes dragged along his torso, bullet holes evident from the torn cloth and blood soaked fabric. Yet he was perfectly fine, how?

Nicholas's yelling brought you back, the Undertaker reprimanding you from stepping in. Then it happened, a sentence in which should have never been spoken.

"I don't need your pathetic help, you're useless to me in gunfight! When will you learn, that all I need from you is to get out of my way!" Wolfwood's breathing was erratic, teeth clenched and grinded together. Had he not realised what he had said?

Your tears were instant, even as Vash intervened. The words spoken between them both weren't heard by you, quiet sobs had the town corner fall into silence.

Only then did Wolfwood recognise the hurt he spat at you, the pain he brought upon that angelic soul.

He reached for you, yet you moved away. You moved to be comforted by someone else.

Nicholas watched with agony, heart shattering as you ran to Vash, arms enveloping the blonde in a desperate hug. Your cries had him feeling sick, nauseous as Vash looked between you two, hesitantly hugging you back.

That was all he needed, picking up Punisher as Nicholas looked back once more, before walking off. The sound of your cries repeating in his mind, all because he was too stupid to keep his damn mouth shut.

[pancake-breakfast]

Shameless Self-Promotion Time in honor of Trigun Fanfiction Appreciation Week (@trigunfanfic)!

As it happens, I have exactly seven Trigun fanfics, and while I don't intend to promote them all in chronological order, today is a day of beginnings, so we will start off with the first one I wrote.

Wishing on Shooting Stars

Words: 1,682

Status: Complete

Rating: Teen

Relevant Tags/Warnings*: Vash the Stampede, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Meryl Stryfe, Milly Thompson, Ambiguous Relationships, Fluff and Angst (but mostly fluff), Wolfwood and Vash Suck at Emotions (platonic), Slice of Life, Canon Compliant ('98/manga, though if you allow for Milly instead of Roberto there's nothing keeping it from being Stampede)

Summary: As the gang settles down for the night, they notice a meteor shower, but Vash has very different associations with shooting stars than the rest of them.

Once a year, I try to write a handful of short stories based on a prompt list, and when I got to the prompt "star," my first thought was the scene in the manga with Millions Knives celebrating as the debris from the fleet rains down around him during the Great Fall. I got to thinking how deeply that must have affected Vash, how something so beautiful and wondrous would likely have completely different connotations for him, and I wanted to explore that.

So I did. And I brought his friends along for the ride.

One of the things I still really enjoy about this story is the third-person limited perspective focusing on Vash. Since he spends a chunk of the story pretending to be asleep, a decent chunk of it is told through what he hears rather than what he sees, and how his own thoughts and memories interweave with those sounds.

I love the interplay between the characters here. I tried to capture their unique voices and tones despite how little action takes place in the scene.

I hope you will love this story, too.

*We all know some AO3 tags are added for fun/shits and giggles, so I'm just listing some of the basic ones that might be of use to people when deciding whether or not this is for them.

[bendycxmet]

Happy New Year—Vash the Stampede

summary: bringing in the new year with that special someone

content: 830 words. fluff, some drinking, teasing vash, the gangs all here

a/n: happy new year yall! lets celebrate the new year with some vash kisses

new years eve. you didn't think it possible that you and the crew could actually catch a break to embrace the festivities but here you were. vash had recommended this quaint little bar he often visited over the years as he weaved through countless towns.

a lively band played in the corner, an upbeat melody sweeping everyone on their feet and onto the dancefloor. you sipped on a cocktail in the corner with the girls, chatting and giggling as the alcohol took effect. your eyes searched for your partner, spotting him standing opposite of nicholas, the latter wiggling his eyebrows as he leaned in. vash looked down, almost as if in thought, before glancing sideways at you over his shoulder. a shudder ran through your body at the look in his eyes.

what's he thinking?

"-and that's when i decided to throw caution to the wind and swing on the guy!" milly drunkenly blabbered, head slamming onto the table right after.

"milly, you didn't do that. you cried yourself to sleep one night because you accidentally stepped on a tomas' foot. anyways we were there. y/n, don't you remember that day?" 

you giggled at meryl's slurring. "c'mon meryl, let's humor her for once and just accept-" 

one second you're staring at your friend's pouting face, and then the next your whole world goes black and an enveloping warmth covers your mouth. you barely get a chance to recover and realize what's happening when the feeling passes and you see meryl and milly's aghast faces. 

you cover your mouth, shooting your gaze upwards to find vash smiling down at you, pink dusting his cheeks. 

"we have two more hours left till the new year mayfly. expect the unexpected." he winked at you, leaving you with that bit of advice before walking back to the bar. you hadn't revealed to the group yet that you and vash had become a thing. to be fair, it was just last week that he confessed to you. 

"and you weren't gonna tell us?!"

….

throughout the night, just when you relaxed from vash’s first kiss, your world would fade back into darkness as vash would come back in to steal your breath away, but only for a second. you were beginning to feel on edge, heeding his previous warning.

still sitting in the booth with the girls, you feel hands slither around your neck, before they tilt your head back. you catch a glimpse of vash’s quirked grin before he seals his lips against yours again.

"so you're not gonna tell me what you're up to? i mean not that i'm complaining, but still." you asked after he pulled away.

he only chuckled before extending his hand out to you. 

"wanna dance again? I gave you a long enough break. we have a couple more minutes before the countdown." he wiggles his fingers, inviting you along. you sigh teasingly, sliding your fingers into his palm, before he hoists you up and onto the dancefloor.

his hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer as your hands fall around his neck. the band’s music entrances the horde of people on the floor, nicholas and the girls following after you two to dance. vash’s face comes to rest near your ear.

"left you wondering why i kept kissing you tonight?"

"it was a surprise, a nice one, but maybe we should've told everyone we were a thing before you came to smash your lips against me." you tease your finger into his side, eliciting a boyish laugh from him that rang into your ear.

the band abruptly ends their song, before yelling out to the crowd.

"alright everyone, the new year is upon us, so grab that special someone and saddle up! don't get too graphic though, no one wants to see that. go across the street to the inn for that. count with us now! 10! 9!-" every person in the bar is on their feet, glasses raised, and voices chanting the countdown.

you feel vash squeeze your sides, begging for your attention to be back on him. you peer up at him, both of you saying the last couple of seconds together.

"2! 1! happy new year!" confetti explodes as screams fill the air around you. none of that matters. all that matters is vash closing the distance between you two, only this time he indulges you in a kiss that lasts more than a second. he pulls back slightly, nuzzling his nose against yours before saying a number. you quirk your eyebrow at that. 

"were you counting? the number of kisses i gave you signifies this new year, a year i get to spend with you." you blush at his words, heart fluttering. 

"let's keep the number going, for all the next couple of years i want to spend with you, vash." 

you see several emotions swim in his eyes before he's leaning back in.

"happy new year mayfly."

"happy new year vash."

masterlist

divider

[2dboisloyal-devotee]

coping mechanism real

>)~ONESHOT

Never Could Have Been Worse (Vash the Stampede x Gender Neutral Reader)

Summary: Reader has been feeling fearful and avoid going outside because of the lurking dangers when they meet the Humanoid Typhoon himself.

Warning: reader being held at gunpoint, very little shooting action

You nervously smile as the innkeeper woman is wearing you down with another scold early up in the morning. “This has been a week and don't think that I'm gonna fall for it even if your made up reasons are different every time! Honestly, I think I've already been too lenient on you but you're not picking yourself up either so you're going to—oh hey Vash! Come here!”

The blond man in crimson trenchcoat looks up as he approaches her with a clueless smile. “ssup, lady? Ya need something?”

“Damn right, I do, accompany this person out and find a job for them. I really can't handle them being around cooped up in here anymore for 7 days straight!” she leaves you with a pat on the shoulder and whispers. “Good luck, you'll really need it.”

Quickly you glance between her back and his tilting face. “You doing alright?” he asks, gently smiling.

With a hesitant nod, you answer him while wondering if he's that Vash the Stampede. “Yeah... um, I'm fine, sorry I got you in a bind I ..didn't even wanted.” your sigh is followed by his perking up voice.

“Don't mind me! Hey, how 'bout we take a stroll outside? Maybe tell me your thoughts while we're at it?” Vash points at the door with his thumb.

On the way, you tell him about how your circumstances led you to stay in the inn before getting kicked out is just like any other day—a bad habit of your cowardly self trying to avoid danger in these wild places. Whenever you're out, you just feel as if anything could happen to put you in a death's chokehold for a good moment.

“Ah, I know the feeling, you ain't alone there... I wish the reaper would buzz off for once darn it!” he dabs his tears with a handkerchief out of nowhere.

It's weird that the so-called paranoid feeling is disappearing down bit by bit as you're walking in peace with him.

“I'm just glad you're surviving till this moment—”

You come to a pause behind Vash. A gun aimed at your temple by a man who raises his voice roughly. “Put your weapons down if you don't want this person hurt, Vash the Stampede!”

You nearly smack a hand to your face. Of course you got to be involved with the guy himself, he's like the whirlpool of dangers at this point.

Vash stops without turning his back. He pulls out the guns from his pocket in a slow motion. “Now, now, let's solve this peacefully yeah? I wouldn't want anybody get hurt y'know!”

The man behind you shouts again. “I-if you do what I said!!” he releases the safety luck on the gun in a shaking grip.

Risking it, you are about to send a kick backwards but Vash already went straight to shot the man's gun out his hand.

With you stepping aside and securing the gun, Vash walks closer towards him when two girls come out of nowhere—already tying up the guy for good. “Thank God that doesn't result in other casualties.” The shorter one of them speaks up, agreed by the other with long hair beside her.

“Good job for another one, Mr. Vash!”

“No probs.” he turns to you with a faltering smile. “Are you alright? That must've been real scary for you. My bad.” Vash scratches his head as he slumps down, dejected.

“It's fine, you saved me anyway. Then, are you really... Vash the Stampede?”

He raises his eyebrows. “That's me a'ight.”

“At least you're not as scary as I thought, I'm glad you're just a nice guy overall. Thank you.” You smile.

“...Aww—haha, thanks, but I'm not that—”

The long-haired girl claps her hands as her statement is backed up by the short girl's sigh. “Congratulations, Mr. Vash! You finally get yourself a friend who appreciates you!”

“Gee, is the world coming to an end? I kind of feel worried...”

“You girls don't have to be that cruel...” Vash mumbles, about to cry.

Amidst of their bickering, you let out a small laughter which Vash takes notice in. He walks to your side. “Are you feeling better now? That stroll wasn't so bad now, was it? 'scuse me for the gun part though.” He muster up a smile.

“...Thanks to you. But honestly, I'm thinking it will be worsening from here on out. Am I even going to survive just by myself..?”

He narrows his eyes, staring at you intensely. “That shouldn't do! You should survive, you will! You've come this far already, don'tcha think that's big enough of an impact you have?”

“Well, true but I—”

You nod. In the near future, you two will meet again someday after you improve yourself better, having enough courage and experience to go explore with him. You both say your goodbyes to each other then leave with your back turned on the opposite way as he waves off.

“No buts! And you don't have to be that rough with yourself.” He gives you a warm grin and pats your back. “It won't be easy but you still got yourself standing here, I believe in you! By that, I hope you can believe in yourself sooner or later. Take your steps slow and steady, you hear me?”

“Remember; love and peace, that includes yourself. See ya later!”

[chibivesicle]

Asks that I will never really answer. My apologies; life gets busy and I get distracted.

I'm dropping these here today, so I can clear out some of the asks from my inbox. Apologies for some of these going back to when Trigun Stampede was still airing. >_< If I don't have a clear and concise answer, I'll let things sit in the inbox but they occasionally do fall off my radar.

Uuummm sorry Anon, I meant to give this more of a response but as I got angrier at Stampede, I just couldn't bring myself to give you a well thought out reply. My overall vibes for the Christian themes that were missing in Stampede had to do how they kept a lot of the surface content, images/style/design from the original but with the sci-fi emphasis removed the weird esoteric Christian stuff and made it look that way. Vash was more willing to engage with others in the original manga/'98 anime based on what Rem taught him. Yet, we never get why he does what he does in Stampede. By changing Wolfwood from being a traveling preacher where Vash lambasts him with 'thou shall not kill' the nuance of his character's moral conflict is lost. He's a trained killer for a quasi-religious organization that might be using a Zia in a really not cool way. We also do not see him act in a self-sacrificing way, which he does from the get go in the original. The angelic body horror was gone, replaced by a sci-fi reading of plants and the concept of plant worship was missing in there as well. There is a lot of internal dialogue that many of the characters pose through the anime and manga and its just gone from Stampede and it revolves around forgiveness, violence, and justice.

For me, the complete re-interpretation of the world and loss of the moral conflict that all characters show hurt the Christian (and Buddhist) themes that underpinned the original. It really came down to how the characters acted and talked. There is no point to a gunslinger who is almost completely passive when one who is active but uses a non-lethal method based on principle. There is a chapter where Vash gets taunted by some enemy for how bad his target practice is until they determine he was that accurate at shooting someone but not killing them. The best way to summarize is that they took some of the aesthetics of the original and didn't follow through on how the characters acted. There is so much contemplation in the original and that is missing in the remake.

Let's just make this a list: 1.) Leo would actually have a real girlfriend. I already have issues with White, I think adding her in as a quasi-girlfriend was a disservice to Leo's character. 2.) Zapp would be white. Less of a manwhore perhaps? 3.) Chain would be cute as opposed to cold and distant. No drinking assholes under the table and vomiting in her bathroom later. See Meryl Stryfe.

4.) K.K. would have boobs, and somehow be more sexy than an awkward and doting mother. See Rem and Luida. 5.) Steven's scar would be smaller or missing to make him a real lady killer. Either they'd lean way too far into Steven's shady side or they'd clean it up completely. Like he'd wink at women as opposed to sleeping with them to get intel. Be Klaus #1 fan! But like all the time, making himself to work too much. His hangry side would either be missing or played up for laughs. 6.) Zed would be dropped because he's the non-human team member. What's the point of having him? 7.) Luciana Estevez would only appear in her super sexy doctor form not her silly clone or normal form.

8.) They would try to create lore and filler to explain things that you have to assume are just how things work. Or they would info dump as opposed to leaving it up to you to worry about things and figure it out from the context. 9.) The entire cast gets aged down, because having a bunch of 30+ cast members who don't have all their shit together is too embarrassing aka very realistic. e.g. K.K. has a house husband (not a good mother like Rem and Luida in Stampede), Steven will die single and alone, Daniel will die single and alone, Patrick carries a torch for Guinness but is single, Abrams is a walking disaster.

10.) Character designs which are super unique and fun, especially in the manga all get 'isekai treatment' were they look homogeneous. The whole point of the diversity of the cast is lost. Women are short and cute, men are tall and slender or tall and buff. No other options.

11.) They attempt to rationalize the 13 Kings and give deep meaning behind their behaviors. Which maybe we will get that someday, but part of the fun is how fucking chaotic they are.

12.) Hellsalem's Lot is an empty city. Somehow, the city lacks people on the streets and we don't get the rooftop betting scene between the giant stomping creature and super-sized Riel. Sex, drugs, gambling are minimized in their version.

13.) The entire Prosfair story line is cut because it is so fucking bizarre and awesome; they wouldn't understand the point of the entire game.

14.) The OST is bad.

[kindaoptimisticsquirrel]

Trigun Bookclub Trimax Vol8 Part2

Vol01: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3  | Vol02: Part 1 | Part 2

Trimax: Vol01 Part 1 Vol01 Part 2 | Vol02 Part 1 Vol02 Part 2 |

Vol 03 Part 1 | Vol03 Part2 | Vol04 Part1 | Vol04 Part2 | Vol05 |

Vol06 | Vol07 | Vol08 Part1 | Vol08 Part2

Oh hell yeah we'll get to one of my favourite spreads of the whole series in this Part.

I will also not excuse any swearing that I'm doing while writing this review.

Now I don't think I got this on my first read through, but the sound here ("Gakin") sounds very much like no bullet was loaded? Sooo I guess Wolfwood very cleverly anticipated this move by Legato so we have him double-tricking him! Good boy! (I haven't read all bookclub posts to vol8 yet, if smb else already said this, whoops)

He's free...but instant knock-out. Ouch.

"Oh no fucker, I WON'T have you staring at my bf's ass." (loosely interpreted Wolfwood's thoughts)

If he missed, does this mean Legato changed the trajectory of the bullets with his powers? Sounds like a wild thing to do (but I'm not sure if it's a wild thing for HIM or completely within his normal powers?)

THIS shit was not part of the plan.

Reclaimed his ass (good for him)

This panel of Livio shooting behin him and saying "Amen"? It's pretty fucking cool.

Much less cool is that he's shooting Wolfwood.

And now Chapel literally casting judgement upon Wolfwood from above. God has this boy not suffered enough?

It's started, guys. The inner thoughs of Wolfwood...You know when I started reading Trigun, I had just watched ep4 or 5 of Trigun and I thought Wolfwood was "just" another cool character, but basically a sidekick to the main character Vash. Then I binged the manga in 3 days and saw that, although none of the other characters like Meryl and Milly are any less fleshed out or any less important, next to Vash he's probably the only one about whom we get so so much wonderful insight. So much deep character feelings, so much thoughts...and I'm so so in love with his inner monologues. They hurt to read but they show he's not just the cool priest with the machine gun, but he's hurting, he's self doubting, he's vulnerable and afraid at times and he has wishes too...

And when he's sitting there, riddled with bullets, it's the thought of Livio and how he still has to save him, that manages to get him to keep going.

They were friends, brothers! Memories of happier times...

Which fucker shot my Wolfwood.

Gnaring, biting, chomping on wood.

It's coming it's coming

SJAKD fskfa Vash literally answering his prayer. Cradling Wolfwood in his wings gently!! And protecting him from the bullets. And also being turned to him with his body, partly shielding Wolfwood with himself, too. This whole page. is so...romantic. And that feels almost like it doesn't even describe it accurately. This is most definitely the part where I really started to ship them, but then, is it romantic or platonic? It doesn't really matter because as much as you want to or NOT want to interpret into their relationship at this point, to me it's clear that there's some kind of love here that's based on their mutual understanding, trust, and how they both have supported each other until this point.

sjkADfaf *sighs*

Big fan of this Vash drawing with this pose here.

Reading this for the thousandth time and falling only deeper into the Vashwood hole.

Knives your vulnerability is showing again.

Cheeky bastard! (I say with love)

The right page is absolutely beautiful. And I love how the panel on the left pages insinuates how they are bumping againest the ship on their way through very comedy-style.

Next chapter! Chapter 5:

I'm cherishing every panel where we see them close and caring about each other. Imagining Vash gently leaning Wolfwood against the rock after catching them both from the fall (did they land on his feathers or did they fly to the earth? I'd have loved to know how they did it)

Love that panel at the bottom of Wolfwood! And, Vash with his hair down (and cloak off) like this looks soo young! More like Wolfwood's age instead of 150 haha

Baby Wolfwood Baby Wolfwood

The situation is turned into a funny one on the next page, but these pleas, they are very much real and urgent and from the bottom of Wolfwood's heart...and he rarely ever begs or asks for anything.

Marlon!! So so happy to get some characters back that we know, and he's a very lovable character!! And, of course, Meryl <3

Knowing that his friends are there to back him up, even from afar, he looks more sure of himself. Because you're not alone!

And THEN you had to go and ruin the atmosphere, Wolfwood. Because you just WALKED AWAY you big idiot

Anybody else got reminded of the Cowboy Bebop ending notes?

And that's all of the Vol8 recap I'm gonna do. There's one more chapter but I don't really feel like doing that, others have already discussed it anyway, so that's it for me! Now I can really dig into vol9 this week, oh lord I can't wait.