#he doesn’t even have livio

[cryptids-and-muses]

The trimax, 98, and stampede boys meeting their alternate selves:

The kniveses: mean girl bullshit, so much posturing, so much passive aggressiveness. It ends in trimax and stampede ganging up on 98. (He doesn’t even have knives)

The vashes: starts out with them joking with each other but quickly turns into impromptu group therapy. There’s crying, there’s donuts, at some point they all trade glasses just for the fun of it. This does nothing to hide the tears

The wolfwoods: Mexican stand off that somehow devolves into drunken never have I ever with a side of bullying each other. At some point the vashes wander in and they team up to give them shit. Finally a United front.

[anachronistic-falsehood]

the problem with trying 2 write a crimsonfang fic is what is the setting. what’s the real dynamic here. r they just chilling in the ark. do they take turns bullying legato in his dumb little coffin. does knives sit down all the gung ho guns for meetings and do elendira and livio make stupid jokes to each other during these meetings. do they have a prank war. r they having disrespectful nasty sex or can they even hold hands without blushing. how much is razlo involved. is he besties with elendira and pushing livio to actually fucking talk to her. what’s the vibe here

[revenantghost]

Tristamp Wolfwood is a bit different than his counterparts, yeah? And I don’t mean that in a bad way, Orange is going somewhere with it, but it’s very different from what they’ve done with Vash and Meryl imo. With them, I feel like we got a glimpse of pre-canon. With Wolfwood... Orange is up to something, and it goddamn terrifies me. I love him dearly, he has some many moments that make me smile and go, “Yeah, that’s Wolfwood, my beloved asshole.” But it’s different. Oh so very different.

I’m just gonna point out a few examples of things I think are different enough to note here (drawing comparisons from Trimax since that was the source for Tristamp, but I’ll try not to spoil much--just don’t Google names you don’t recognize), and then go a little off the rails with a couple theories (spoilers there, click the read more at your own peril). This is DEFINITELY not everything, and maybe my takes are a bit off, idk. If there’s something you’ve picked up on, definitely feel free to add it!

Well, here goes:

My dude is a mess. Wolfwood is typically put together and some would call him smooth (he’s a mess inside always, though) in his other incarnations. Orange pointed out at Sakuracon that the characters are supposed to look younger and more immature in Tristamp, and Wolfwood specifically is supposed to look like he can’t dress himself (lmao). They said they have their reasons but just didn’t have time to explore them in canon. So, I can make assumptions, but I’ll wait to see what comes in the future.

Another one that staff talked about in a recent interview is that Wolfwood is technically a priest according to his contract, but he calls himself an undertaker. Yeah, yeah, edgelord Tristamp Wolfwood and all that, but I’ve seen people call back to how, in the manga, it’s Vash that always takes the time to bury the dead. Wolfwood even chews him out a bit for this. But it’s literally in our introduction to him in this version. He carries the weight of the dead with him enough to make it part of his title, and that’s different for him.

I could be misremembering with this one. But I distinctly remember being surprised when I read Trimax because Wolfwood going into the Eye of Michael seemed more of his own choice than it is in Tristamp (not that a literal child could consent to, you know, torture and abuse)? But either way Wolfwood loathes the Eye of Michael from the get-go here, he doesn’t stay by choice and actively tries to escape. Just like all these choices he makes in Tristamp (which is MASSIVELY different in general), he does it for someone else. He can’t try to escape again, because they have Livio.

Speaking of! Livio!!! This was another thing that caught me by surprise going from Tristamp to Trimax, their relationship is so much different here, so much softer and it hurts in a beautiful way. I feel like less is more here to avoid spoilers, but this introduction pre-Trimax-canon and any future conflict with this backstory... is very different.

Holy hell, a moment like this happening so early?! Vash and Wolfwood having ideological differences and not understanding each other takes up so much time in Trimax. But over the course of three episodes, we go from Wolfwood killing someone that Vash wanted to save (props to Tristamp for making that gutpunch even more personal, ouch--though points deducted for not having the, “Shoot,” moment there), to Vash seeing how very similar they are and getting a grasp of why Wolfwood is the way he is. Wolfwood is so much softer in Tristamp. He’s way more emotional, he cares so deeply for things outside of himself, and he doesn’t have that apathetic bitterness. Staff have said that our main characters will be a lot more recognizable post-timeskip, so some shit is gonna happen to this man, but this is a fundamental shift in the early days of their relationship.

AGAIN!!! Wolfwood is doing this whole mission, betraying Vash, to save the orphanage. He didn’t have to listen to Vash trying to save the sandsteamer. It doesn’t matter if Vash is pissy if Wolfwood blew up the ship to save the orphanage, because that’s his end goal. He has a giant laser that just blew through an entire giant worm, this ship is nothing. Wolfwood’s trying to cling to the monster that he sees himself as, trying to stay the Punisher, but he’s not. He already has enough faith in Vash to trust him with everything he cares about. This takes a lot of development time for Wolfwood to trust Vash like this in Trimax--and even in the very end, he still doesn’t trust Vash with this. (If you know, you know.)

AGAIN!!!!! Wolfwood cares!!! He does not need to question if Vash is sure, if he thinks he can make up with or convince Knives or whatever, in fact he shouldn’t. He should give Vash no reason to question getting to July. But Wolfwood, be careful, your feelings are showing. Wolfwood’s getting worried about Vash. Even though all he needs to do is keep his head down and get this dork to July.

This was never Trimax Wolfwood’s motivation. Whatever drove him left him hollow and empty, he did not care. Even when he saw things starting to go south and he wanted out, Vash ended up being right: he was too much of a coward to do anything about it. (If you know, you know.) I had wondered, after Legato tried to bulldoze everything he loved, why the hell didn’t Wolfwood just desert the mission and team up with the gang. He already has such a deep connection with them. But this would be why.

WOLFWOOD IS NO LONGER CONTRACTED BY THE EYE OF MICHAEL AT THE END OF THE SEASON??? Some people say that Wolfwood still works for them, but tbh for what reason? They’re about to end the world. And then what about this line? He wouldn’t exactly have a choice, would he? I do think we’re gonna meet Chapel (right before Livio shoots himself, you’ll hear a voice and see a silhouette (not Razlo, though he’s there too) that seems to be a “new” character), and Wolfwood might end up working under him for some fucked up reason... But if not, this changes everything. It already changes everything considering how big Wolfwood escorting Vash to Knives is. But that’s done now. And because Vash saw right through him the first time, if Wolfwood comes back to do the same thing again, it might feel cheap and a little silly.

MERYL!!! Trimax is basically the Vash and Wolfwood show, right? The girls are around, but mainly their interactions are with Vash. But he and Meryl interact so much just over the course of twelve episodes. They even have that adorable group shot. She matters enough that he came back to rescue her, and the two of them worry about Vash together in the finale. Who knows what happened post-finale, but Wolfwood’s self isolation is already shot to hell. He’s more big brother Nico than he’d had the chance to be in awhile, he has so many people to care for.

So the danger has passed, Vash’s roots are back inside of him, the orphanage should be fine. But Wolfwood comes back for them. Yeah, yeah, the stupid cigarette excuse, but this is Wolfwood, not Vash. He didn’t come back because of the cigarette debt and we all know it. (Also kinda hoping that him saying what he does about fighting Knives being crazy is foreshadowing for some ridiculous 1v1 fight between them, had to throw that in there)

Now, theories Trimax spoiler time bby (I’ll also post any corrections under the cut):

EDIT 1: I was bonkers wrong on the Tristamp timeline (it takes place from May 25th to July 21st, not including the epilogue), so I just deleted that bit from the og post. I cannot remember where I got that number in my brain.

They are doing something with this man and I hate it as much as I love it. Every other character can go off and follow similar paths but they just nuked the entirety of Wolfwood’s storyline by having him be finished getting Vash to Knives and him choosing to trust Vash so goddamn early. And in less than a week of canon time!!! ORANGE WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!!

They’ve knocked everything out of the park so far, I had so many concerns about what they were doing while watching, and they squashed most of them. So I choose to have faith that Orange has a brilliant plan that will crush my emotions in mind. It will probably eviscerate us just like Trimax did. But I have two theories as to how this could go:

First: And by far the most likely: all roads lead to that goddamned couch. They changed a ton of things, but just to make it all hurt in a new and exciting way. Don’t get me wrong, this was the final straw in making Trimax one of my favorite manga ever--Wolfwood’s character arc is one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever read. I’m a bit nervous because we’ve already shifted that arc so much, but there’s a lot of room to fuck us all up in this one. I imagine the final confrontation will still be between the two brothers, but I imagine the context will be different.

Wolfwood’s already chosen to spare Livio, so that won’t be the clincher, but there are so many things that Wolfwood wants to fight for now to use against him. Something in the timeskip will probably firm up his ideals to be the opposite of Vash’s in a different way than before, but I imagine we’ll get at least a season of them being goofy and learning how to live and regain their humanity together before they’re couched. :’) And now the girls are going to be a bigger part of it to make the grief all that greater :’))) Thanks in advance, Orange :’))))))

Second: No couch??? I know, then what would be the point? He’s doomed in every universe, how will it be as powerful if they don’t do that here??? And I agree, I think this is way less likely. But Wolfwood has already accepted the power of anime Jesus friendship into his life, and that’s a huge part of what lead to his death. Not that I don’t think it’s still likely for Tristamp Wolfwood to think it’s too much to ask Vash to step away from the conflict with Knives for whatever his personal struggles are, but... man that sandsteamer incident is foreshadowing something and I’m afraid. It shifted so much in a way that is so significant, I feel like I’m not doing it justice with my words.

Speaking of possible foreshadowing: Wolfwood isn’t the product of random experimenting like he was in Trimax, he’s the product of plant experimentation. And Vash can heal plants. Again, that’s a big ol’ stretch, as I think that they made the Gung Ho Guns a product of plant experimentation to try and explain the magic powers they all have, and it’s a very smooth idea imo. But it haunts me. Also, given that Conrad has probably been kept alive through fucked up plant methods and how long Rollo remained the same, and Conrad said the only flaw in his experiments were that they had to eat and drink... does Wolfwood and Gung Ho Gun friends have an extended lifespan??? Okay, getting off topic, sorry :’D

Basically, Wolfwood has already made huge leaps and bounds in trusting Vash, even listening to Meryl, and growing a heart for humanity. To the point I was half-afraid this guy was going to die in the finale, because we’ve already seen so much of his character arc. (It would have been a poor choice and I’m happy it didn’t happen EVEN IF I’M STILL AFRAID). And he’s based off of Trimax Wolfwood quite heavily! You can see it in the core of his personality still!!! WHAT ARE THEY GOING TO DO WITH HIM???

I doubt either of these ideas are going to be quite right, watch as Orange works in a secret, third thing that I can’t even imagine lmao. But this has been driving me absolutely bonkers and I had to share. This is still Wolfwood, and I have a feeling he’s only going to be more and more of the lovable asshole from here on out. But I have no idea where we’re going with it.

Holy hell, this was a long post. If you made it to the end of my insane ramblings well, uh... congrats??? I hope it was somewhat worth the read???? I’m so sorry?????? Thank you??????????

[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.

[hypermoyashi]

Hello, Trigun fandom! Recently, we ran a server exchange event on the Pen Pals discord server, where everyone made something for everyone who signed up! I wanted to promo all the works that were created for this event, as everyone really went above and beyond to create something amazing for it.

I want to thank everyone who contributed, and for making it a wonderful event to run.

Please check out the works created by our wonderfully talented members! And be sure to check to ao3 itself for any additional warnings and tags that may be relevant.

to new heights by @beesinspades for @nexadarling: 2k | G | Livio & Razlo

Razlo stiffens, fighting the urge to rip his hand away. Only reason he’s not shaking her off is because she’s holding on so tightly he might snap her little wrist. Don’t wanna deal with angry parents and bills Livio will insist on paying with the money he just earned. That, and it turns out when one does honest work, hurting clients doesn't bring more jobs. (They won’t be welcome in Voldoor for a while.) (Bastard deserved it, though.)

The Phantom Pain by legendofthesevenstars for @fish-ears: 3k | G | Livio & Wolfwood, Razlo & Wolfwood

Livio and Razlo deal with an unexpected haunting at the orphanage.

Oh, let the suns beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream by @spectre-writes for @hypermoyashi: 10k | T | Tesla & Vash, Luida & Tesla, Brad & Tesla | CWs: Mild Body Horror, Disability, Trauma

Tesla dreams that she dies. It must be a dream, because it doesn’t last.

Frosted Snow Trees by Plumerias_of_BlueMaroon for @spectre-writes: 10k | G | Meryl & Vash & Wolfwood & Milly | CWs: Chronic Pain

Weather fluctuations were common on No Man's Land, tending mostly towards heat, and less towards anywhere close to cool during the daytime where two suns bore down on the planet's heat-reflecting sands. However, on occasion, there were times where cold could descend unpredicted by anyone. That is to say, anyone human. Among the many items of Lost Technology that the crashed colonies had lost, so was the knowledge that plants, of all things, tended to be incompatible with the cold, and actually fell into a sort of stasis that resembled, faintly, the concept of hibernation. But who would ever think to remember that on a desert planet? Even Vash hadn't known, not to this extent.

blossoming by @markcampbells for Plumerias_of_BlueMaroon: 5k | T | Milly/Vash, Milly & Vash | CWs: Referenced Transphobia

"Can I ask where you're taking me?" she asks softly. "I know I found the place for the mochi ice cream, but you said it wouldn't be just that…" "Well, of course not. Just dessert wouldn't be a proper night out. I wanted tonight to have all the trimmings." He puts on a goofy smile, just for her. "We're almost at the restaurant, so I'll let that speak for itself, but after—it'll be a light meal beforehand, so I thought maybe you wouldn't mind—would you like to go dancing with me?" Following their getting to know each other better, Vash and Milly go on their promised night out for mochi and many other things besides. A followup to lend a friend a hand.

We Get Through by @nexadarling for legendofthesevenstars: 2k | T | Meryl & Milly & Vash & Wolfwood, Milly & Wolfwood, Vash & Wolfwood

“I had it under control,” Vash yells, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. “You didn’t have to–” “Like hell you did!” Wolfwood interrupts. “You even had the girls involved, and I was supposed to, what, just let it–” Vash pokes a finger hard into the center of Wolfwood’s chest. “I wouldn’t have let anything–” “You know, and a ‘thank you’ would be nice every now and–” Wolfwood’s mouth clicks shut as a gunshot rings out in the clearing. Wolfwood watches over Vash’s shoulder as Milly’s shoulder jerks back, as she falls with a scream, hand curled around her arm. Milly gets shot. She also takes it better than pretty much anyone else.

A Good Feeling by @hypermoyashi for @bendycxmet: 5k | T | Vash/Wolfwood, Vash & Meryl, Meryl/Milly | CWs: Misogyny, Heteronormativity, Amatonormativity

Vash, as the princess's personal guard, is meant to ward Meryl from physical threats during the ball; too bad most of the threats aren't physical ones, with Meryl forced to deal with the expectations of high society and Vash not able to say a word. Thankfully, a chipper princess comes to her rescue.

Deck the Malls by @bendycxmet for @markcampbells: 6k | T | Vash/Wolfwood, Meryl/Milly

Especially with the hustle and bustle the holidays bring, Vash and Wolfwood were two much-needed seasonal hires for the fashion shop. And who was Wolfwood kidding, he also thought of this job as an excuse to hang around Vash more often, to see his boyfriend and sneak kisses in the stockroom throughout the day, breaking apart when they would hear the incoming echoes of Knives’ loafers or Elendira’s heels on the tile floor.

And then finally!! @tea-n-shade did some wonderful artwork for @beesinspades based on their fic for the event!! Please go take a look at the artwork, as well!

[yurinaa-world]

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Trigun Stampede and Honkai Star rail men x Gentral-neutral Reader

𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Shower them in kisses

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: fluff, spelling mistakes

𝒯𝓇𝒾𝑔𝓊𝓃 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓂𝓅𝑒𝒹𝑒

Vash: Oh, he's utterly red in the face just from the kiss you placed on the side of his lips. What a cute expression he was making—his eyes all big and his mouth open completely—and as soon as you kiss his hands, you can see him squealing with pure happiness, watching every kiss you place on him.

Nicholas: When you finally kiss him on the lips after kissing his entire face, he’s not going to let you pull away; he wants more than just a peck—a real kiss. You could taste tobacco on his lips from how much he smokes, making your head spin before pulling back. Seeing your face all red and panting for air, he couldn’t help but smirk.

Millions knives: when you kissed his hands before going further up to his neck Before you get to kiss him, he just can't be patient anymore, grabbing the back of your head and roughly smashing his lips onto yours. What breath do you need? Well, you can wait; even when you try to pull back for air, he won’t budge. Once he’s done, you're gasping for air while he looks down at you with a small smirk planted on his lips.

Legato: With permission, he’ll allow you to do so, yet he looks quite tense with every kiss you place on his lips. You don’t blame him; he’s never been the type to ever do anything physical with that he doesn’t like getting into, like interwinding your fingers with his as you kiss his knuckle while staring at him to see if his blank expression had changed.

Livio: has such a sweet smile on his face, with a little bit of blush on his cheeks. While you kiss him, he does the same, wrapping his arms around you and showering you in kisses instead, while you both giggle with happiness. Before he starts kissing your lips over and over again, he can't help it; he just wants to kiss you over and over again.

𝐻𝑜𝓃𝓀𝒶𝒾 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇 𝑅𝒶𝒾𝓁

Dan Heng: It’s so cute of his ears to light up red and avert his eyes away from you even when you just kissed his face. Oh,  now you can't resist the urge to tease him about it and how he tries to deny it but just keeps on going. Oh, you’ll definitely be the death of him for sure.

Welt Yang: He loves it, those soft kisses on his cheek, especially the best when he’s tired and just feeling down. You push his bangs up and kiss him on the forehead as he has a small smile on his lips. It makes his day a thousand times better. He's always saying, "What could he do without you by his side?

Arlan: You see his face burn up; he is usually serious and professional. How can you blame him? He has such a big soft spot for you that even just a couple of kisses can make him melt onto the floor!

Gepard: Another one that gets flustered easily by you; don’t blame him; he’s just never had a romantic relationship with anyone before, so he’s not used to it. It doesn't matter how many times you do it, he still can't get used to it, and his heart starts to race, aww maybe you should do this more often.

Sampo: He'll be the one teasing you. It seems that you just can't keep your hands off of him; he loves it whenever you decide to wear lipstick, especially a red or pink color. Those marks you left all over his face, hands, and neck gave him a feeling he couldn't even explain but that he just loved.

Jing Yuan: How sweet you are to him! He’s so lucky to be blessed with you as his lover, and having that stupid smile that he always has on his face, he wants to chuckle while you do your thing; it gives a feeling of almost bliss. Oh, what shall he do with you?

Blade: He smirks at you. How cute you are to kiss him all over so innocently and sweetly. He’ll just cup your chin and pull you into a kiss, and bite your bottom lip, and your eyes widen. How cute you are with such surprised expressions! Oh well, keep on going; finish what you started. Oh, are you blushing now?

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

[deludedfantasy]

"Shoot" Scene Mirrors and the Flaws in Vash's Ideology 

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this for two weeks now so let’s see if I can put this into words. The main point being: when Vash kills Legato, it’s a mirror of the “shoot” scene with Wolfwood. 

Visually, they’re stunningly similar, the only difference is Vash willingly points his gun at Legato while Wolfwood forces it to his forehead.

But you know what really gets me? It’s the conversations surrounding these moments.

The scenes are mirrors in that Wolfwood predicted this would happen, and he was right. Wolfwood challenged him because he wanted to know that Vash would be able to make the hard choice and get his hands dirty, that he wouldn’t hesitate. Because in a situation like this, hesitation can get you or someone else killed. But what does Vash do just as he finally decides to kill Legato? He hesitates, putting Livio in danger. Legato even says that if Vash hadn’t paused, hadn’t taunted him, he wouldn’t have done that. 

What gets Vash to finally pull the trigger? It’s not fear for his own life or even Livio’s. It’s the memory of Wolfwood’s sacrifice. Wolfwood said he was willing to lay down his life if he could get Vash to pull the trigger. “I’d trade my life for it,” he says. In a way, he did. It took Wolfwood dying for Vash to finally be able to kill. 

Another thing I’d argue is that hesitating can be cruel. Legato doesn’t read Vash’s pause as a moment of moral conflict but as a taunt, because that’s what he would do. If he paused like that, it would be to toy with his opponent and make them suffer. While that certainly isn’t what Vash intends, that’s how it comes off, especially in Legato’s twisted worldview. It reminds me of something Sam Vimes says in Men at Arms. “Something Vimes had learned as a young guard drifted up from memory. If you have to look along the shaft of an arrow from the wrong end, if a man has you entirely at his mercy, then hope like hell that man is an evil man. Because the evil like power, power over people, and they want to see you in fear. They want you to know you're going to die. So they'll talk. They'll gloat.

They'll watch you squirm. They'll put off the moment of murder like another man will put off a good cigar.

So hope like hell your captor is an evil man. A good man will kill you with hardly a word.” 

Now, to be clear, I’m not saying that Vash is evil for hesitating. He’s fighting against ideals he’s been carrying for 150 years. But that’s not how it reads to the person on the business end of his revolver. Vash basically lives on that moment of hesitation, the second chance, and he paints Wolfwood’s instant reaction as the work of the devil. And as we see that isn’t necessarily true. Not only can hesitating get you killed, it’s just cruel. It can easily be read as toying with someone. And isn’t the first rule of gun safety to not point your weapon if you aren’t willing to shoot?  

So not only is the “shoot” scene a fundamental part of Vash and Wolfwood’s relationship, it’s an incredible bit of foreshadowing that also directly challenges Vash’s pacifism and ideals. 

[varilien]

(character uses they/it) i keep wanting to start posting my ocs over here again and then Just Not Doing It so uhhhh !!! some stuff from february, had a dream about knives that made me think of a plant oc with a constant power output so extreme that it generates a deadly radiation field around them. because of that they've been living alone this whole time, avoiding contact with other living things, and over the years they've learned how to suppress that output for short spans of time or "safely" pour out the excess in order to be safe to be around, though they ultimately prefer their solitude due to a history of bad experiences with humans. they're very blunt, spiteful, and curious

@whatever-you-can-give-me suggested lr would make good friends for them since they are 🤝 about being extremely hard to hurt lol

also! wrote like 2k about they and razlo's first meeting below the cut if anyone's interested in some good ol violence + gore :3

that was a fr content warning btw read at ur own discretion:

Chance encounters with violent strangers out in the open desert are nothing new to LR, even when Livio purposefully had tried to find the quietest possible route to travel.  It’s not even necessarily surprising to run into someone a little to the left of human, someone a bit bigger or stronger or more durable than they really have any right to be.  The Eye aren’t the only ones designing freaks on this planet, that much is obvious, evidenced sufficiently by the odder fights LR have ever gotten in.  

And this one is shaping up to be one of their oddest fights yet.

Livio hadn’t seen the fucker coming, occupied as he was with the slow realization of why this stretch of road doesn’t see much use anymore: a creeping heat across his nerve endings unrelated to the overcast, evening suns, the taste of metal in his mouth, and a deep-rooted nausea twisting up his guts.  Radiation sickness.  He’s dealt with it before, and as unpleasant as it is, it’s hardly enough to slow him down too bad.  

It’s damn distracting, though.  A good enough excuse for not noticing them hiding up along the rockface above his head.  Not a good enough excuse to keep Razlo from tagging in, especially after something’s pierced straight through the back of his neck, nearly taking his head clean off.  

Razlo rolls for cover with a strangled sound, blood gushing from his forced-out throat and foaming at his lips.  Even with his senses jarred and his vision blurred, it'd take more than a near-decapitation for his instincts to be overridden.  He's slinging out a Punisher before he even knows what he's up against.  

There's a blur of motion to his right as soon as his sights are raised.  They're probably surprised Razlo's still standing, but so was everyone else who's gotten a lucky shot at him.

He can track their motion by sound alone.  They're sloppy.  Feet hitting the cracked earth in hard thumps, every one a warning that Razlo can aim a spray of bullets at.  And by now Razlo's healed enough to notice and wonder why the hell his head is still so fucked up.

At least now he can mostly see them when he turns, hanging back a ways, out of Razlo's reach.  Shorter than him by a head and a half, covered toe to tip in layers of sun-bleached rags, save for their face.  That's hidden behind a tall, curved mask, shaped in a way that looks an awful lot like a tomas' crest, with the false eye markings to match.  Even the glass for the lenses is opaque.  The only part of them that’s exposed is their left hand, extended delicately aside to keep Razlo’s blood dripping off it from getting on their clothes.

Razlo physically tries to shake out the buzzing in his skull that only gets worse by the second, only to notice the foul smell of burning meat and risk an instinctive glance down at his arm, where his flesh has started to bubble and steam seemingly on its own.  He looks between his arm and his opponent, the way their body tenses and head begins to tip, shaking hard, simultaneous with his skin boiling that much more fiercely.  

Something clicks in his brain.  There’s no way.

And no time to find out.  This time when they dart in he’s expecting it; he takes a swing at their head, and they dodge right into his follow-through, slamming his Punisher into their skull with a crunch and a wet sound from their throat.  They drop, like he’d expect them to, like anyone would.  And like no one does, they just roll out of the way and onto their back, braced to spring back up again.  Razlo puts his boot through their ribcage before they get the chance to.  That should be the end of it, too, but the fucker just keeps kicking, trying to get away, the only sound they make being the gurgle of their lungs filling with blood, and they keep kicking.

At this point Razlo doesn’t even have a plan anymore.  Needless to say, he doesn’t go up against an awful lot of guys who match him in the department of being a pain in the ass to take down.  Razlo's just starting to come up with a new idea when those long arms swing up, claws digging into and making ribbons of his right leg.

Razlo curses and tries to pull away, which only makes them hold on even tighter.  He's staring that four-eyed glare down when that burning feeling across his whole body raises in pitch again, and it's the sight of his flesh starting to disintegrate around their fingers that finally makes him back off.

Razlo rather gracelessly falls on his ass in trying to take a step back, not expecting his right leg to simply break off halfway down his thigh.  He scrambles back a ways, ready to keep going, missing limb or no, but— they aren't following him.  They're collapsed in the sand, limbs akimbo as they fight to draw a full breath.  Razlo watches with morbid curiosity as his severed leg dissolves into nothing more than an off-colored patch of sand beside them.

All that angry tension has gone out of their body, leaving them limp and motionless except for the stutter of their chest, and Razlo can hear the damp gasps muffled behind their mask.  By all rights, it should look like more of a struggle.  They should be dead, really, but from where Razlo is sitting, it looks a lot more like they’re just taking a rest.  He feels more sure of that when they roll their shoulders back a bit, arms braced in the dirt as they delicately arch their spine.  There’s some sharp popping sounds, and a little exhale from them; setting their ribs, Razlo figures.  He’s had to do the same thing before.  Once they can move their arms more effectively, they start to gather themself up into a seated position, bones and joints still crackling like popcorn here and there as they go, til they’re all the way up, with their hands resting in their lap, looking far too fucking comfortable for the fight they’d just had.

"You're not dead."

Their voice startles Razlo despite being as soft as it is, and his gaze flicks up to that mask, just slightly tilted to the side, orange lenses glinting in the harsh sunlight.  They don't move at all that Razlo can see.  Even their breathing has evened out enough to have become imperceptible under their heavy shroud; if they're in any pain still, Razlo sure can't tell.

"Nope," is all he says, or can manage to say.

He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking hard a couple times to scrunch up his face in the hopes his nerves might start feeling right again soon.

Another wave of nausea hits him, but his stomach was empty before the fight even started, so he leans forward to put his head between his knees and dry heave for a while.

The whole time, he's aware of his little opponent continuing to sit in silence, watching and eerily unmoving, even when Razlo manages to sit up again and wipe his mouth with his wrist.

"The fuck's yer deal, anyways?"  Razlo asks.

"'Deal'...?"  They echo.

"Couldn't exactly kill you, either."

He wasn't expecting them to spill their life story or something, but he was thinking he'd get something more of a response than their head tilting back the opposite way.  There's not a lot to work with here in trying to get a read on them, but Razlo feels it's safe to hazard they're probably just pretty damn confused, the same as him.

"You kinda smell like a Plant.  M'not an expert, but I've met two others."

Now that gets something out of them.  A tiny wiggle of their head that makes the pieces in their mask rattle.

"I wouldn't know.  I've only met me."

“Huh.”  

Whether it’s a confirmation or rebuttal hardly matters at this point.  He’s feeling sure enough that his assumption was correct, now, anyways.

"You, uh…"  Razlo has to pause for breath.  Unlike the thing across from him, he's having a hell of a time getting his back.  "You're the one making this radiation field?"

"Yes."

"Any way you could turn it down?"

They say nothing, though Razlo feels suddenly that he's being studied very intently.  And shortly after, slowly, slowly the fire in his cells begins to go out, and he can spit the worst of the sourness off his tongue.  Eventually he can't feel any radiation left at all, though his body's had a rough enough time from the dose he got, he'll be getting the sickness out of his system for a while yet.

Regardless, Razlo’s fingers twitch against the triggers when he hears that mask rattle again, and his eyes are on it in an instant.

"You didn't answer my first question," Razlo reminds, cautiously.

More silence, for a while.

"You wanted to hurt me."

There's no malice in the statement, at least that Razlo can tell.  Just the simple facts.  Still, he narrows his eyes.

"You started it.  Figured it was mutual."

"That's true."

Razlo grins.

"So, what now?  Regrow my leg, and get back to not killing each other?"

"If you'd like to."

That gets a laugh out of him.

"Nah, I think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is.”

That much is obvious.  They stay put, seeming transfixed on watching Razlo’s leg grow back, only a little more slowly than any of his other injuries, now that he doesn’t have the radiation to slow him down.  It leaves him feeling itchy and achy all over, and he’s got a bad hunch that right ankle doesn’t have the best chances of coming back right.  Once there’s enough of it to fuss about, he gets his foot in his hands and starts experimentally rolling it on its hinge, checking that the range of motion is right.

And still, those orange lenses glint at him curiously.  They don’t flinch or look away when Razlo considers them in return; he guesses they don’t know it’s not polite to stare.

“What's yer name?"  Razlo asks.

"My name?"

"Don't tell me you ain't got one."

The silence that follows is pretty self-explanatory.

“I’m Razlo.”

He can just make out the sound of them mumbling his name under their breath, like they’re not sure how it’s going to come out.  Almost warmly, almost shyly, they manage to say: “hello, Razlo.”

[lunaecoll]

trigun guys with a plus sized reader ! ◡̈

vash, wolfwood, knives, livio & razlo, and legato !

i feel like there is a criminal lack of plus sized representation and i need that to change asap!

mentions of ; can be read as pre-established relationships or not, body insecurity, skipping meals, non-sexual touching (but you can definitely read it as sexual touching cause oh goodness gracious!!!!),

VASH ;

- vash has a preference for chubby people when looking for a romantic partner, chubby people always seem to catch his eyes first! he loves the way clothes hug you just right and make you look even more irresistible

- he loves everything about you. your strech marks and curves, and how your and him seem to fit together like puzzle pieces. he loves it when you wear revealing or tight clothes, it shows off your spectacular body AMAZINGLY and he has to hold himself back from doing some.. unholy things !

- your tummy makes such a great pillow after a long day of walking in the scorching desert

- if he hears you talking negatively about yourself he immediately jumps to the rescue. his hands coming up to rest on your sides, his thumbs caressing over your rolls and strech marks as he kisses you over and over, whispers of praise slipping through his lips between every kiss.

- vash has a habit of skipping meals whenever he’s upset, and if he sees you doing the same he feels his heart shatter for you. he offers to buy you ANY food you want, even if it’s from a place an hour away or he’s a little short on money. if you don’t want anything from any restaurants, he’ll offer to cook for you! even though he’s not the best cook, he can make a mean boxed mac and cheese!

NICHOLAS D. WOLFWOOD ;

- i have a personal headcanon that wolfwood has a dad bod! he has a cute little tummy that he can’t seem to shake, and he’s overall soft all around. (his thighs especially awwoooooogaaaa…)

- wolfwood thinks body fat is sexy as hell. unlike vash, he’s a bit more handsy and almost perverted (respectfully though. if you are ever uncomfortable with it he stops IMMEDIATELY.)

- he likes to pinch your sides, slap your ass, pinch at your rosy cheeks, and he constantly has an arm slung around your shoulders or waist. he physically cannot keep his hands off of you.

- when the gang gets a hotel for the night, you and wolfwood usually stay in the same room together. wolfwood loves watching you come out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, water beading down you in the most enticing way. wolfwood has to excuse himself for a while.. wink wink!

- wolfwood is extremely protective of you. if he hears ANYONE mention a backhanded comment on your body, he is throwing hands. he will absolutely destroy them, and he won’t even blink an eye. he’s so crazy for you, and he isn’t afraid to show that.

- if he catches you skipping meals or under feeding yourself, he gets protective again. he’ll give you a stern look, sit you down, and force you to eat. it isn’t the BEST way, but he isn’t good at emotions, especially sappy ones. he’ll do anything to see you eat, even if it makes him look desperate. (he is by the way.)

- he’ll offer to do anything for you to eat. he’ll offer to spoon feed you, offer you a distraction so you can eat without a worry, anything. nothing is too big of a request if it means you’ll eat and be healthy.

MILLIONS KNIVES ;

- knives does not care about your body shape, at all. he thinks all humans are pitiful, all of their shapes and sizes are irrelevant to him. (he is in love with you…)

- knives, a lot like his brother, especially likes chubby people. he doesn’t admit it, but you can tell.

- you can tell by the way he looks at you, the way his gaze lingers on you. one thing about you that he especially likes is your stretch marks. your marks remind him of his marks, and he undeniably really likes it. if you’ll allow it, he likes to run his fingers across your stretch marks.

- knives doesn’t understand human beauty standards. he doesn’t understand the dislike around stretch marks, cellulite, big thighs, a big tummy, etc etc. knives sees those things as irrelevant to him.

- knives isn’t a man who relies on actions to express himself, and if he catches you not eating he won’t confront you at all. you will, however notice more small snacks placed in your room on your nightstand. the snacks are always ones that you’re particularly fond of, some of them being your favorite. if he sees you eating them, you’ll notice a small smile playing on his lips.

LIVIO THE DOUBLE FANG ;

- LIVIO IS CHUBBY! HE’S A BIG BOY!!!!!! SZA WROTE THAT SONG ABOUT HIM AND HIM ONLY!!!!!!

- livio is a softie, he’s such a softie for you. just looking at you makes him weak in the knees and suddenly feeling really hot. he is smitten for you, everything about you. livio could care less about you being bigger, he loves you regardless of any physical traits!

- livio is very easily flustered around you, no matter what you’re wearing. you could wear a trashbag out to dinner, and livio will be on his knees worshipping you (as usual.) he doesn’t have any favorite clothes he likes to see you in, but his favorite thing is when you’re confident and comfortable. no matter what you wear, he will be a flustered mess, sputtering out flushed compliments as he looks everywhere but you because you’re so breathtaking.

- livio loves when you wear things that make you feel good! he thinks confident is the sexiest thing in the world, especially on you. livio is intimidating to people who don’t know him, so even if you wear the most revealing thing, nobody will say anything.

- if he notices you skipping meals, he comforts you in anyway that you need. he’ll hold you to his chest, rocking you back and forth. he lets you cry, scream, whatever you need to do to feel better. when you’re ready to eat, livio will eat with you. he’ll do anything to make sure you feel good, holding your hand, letting you sit with him on the couch, nothing is too big of a request for him (especially if it means seeing you happy.)

RAZLO THE TRI-PUNISHER OF DEATH ;

(there is such a criminal lack of razlo content. i am determined to fix this btw!!!!!)

- razlo is like wolfwood but he’s so much more perverted and extroverted with it, he finds you so undeniably sexy.

- razlo is definitely a thigh and ass man. he loves slapping and squeezing your ass (with your consent of course.), and he especially loves squeezing your thighs.

- seeing you in shorts drives this man fucking wild. he will be so distracted, eyes constantly drawn to your ass and thighs as he dumbly nods and mumbles in reply. good luck talking to him because it takes him a good few minutes to even register your words, and then a few extra words to even get his words out.

- if anyone comments on your body, razlo will beat the shit out of them. he literally doesn’t care, he will destroy them. no one shit talks you like that.

- if he notices you’re skipping meals or eating less, this is when his soft side really shows for the first time. he’s an emotional softie.

- he’ll run his hands up and down your body, but with no sexual intent (at that moment.) he takes his sweet time as he presses kisses to every spot on your body. he traces his fingers on your stretch marks, and all the while he’s mumbling out praises. they’re not over the top praises, but ones like “you’re so sexy”, etc. (he’s not a softie like vash)

LEGATO BLUESUMMERS ;

(im just gonna say, i didnt like legato until i read his backstory on the wiki and now im like really sad……)

- legato is canonically gluttonous which is kinda teehee (love me a man with a big appetite)

- he appreciates someone with a big appetite its really attractive to him. he especially loves if you love food as much as he does, and you get even more points if you can COOK. legato will be at the table with a fork and knife and napkin tucked into his shirt for your food TT

- legato genuinely loves your body. everything you wear is incredibly sexy to him, it makes him insane. he’s that meme where its like “wear whatever you want, i can fight.”

- legato is so genuinely mesn to people who shit talk you. he’ll gently guide you away and use his power things whatever to snap their BONES BRO!!!!

- he’s not an affectionate or sentimental guy at all. if he catches you not eating, he will ask you to cook for him. while you’re cooking, he’ll slyly make comments about how he’s “so excited to share a meal together”, implying he wants you to eat with him.

- if you’re still not eating, legato will be like “this tastes good. here, try some.” and bring a forkful to your lips. he will make sure you take a bite, and another, and another, until his plate is gone. even if he doesnt get to eat, seeing you healthy is like the sweetest dessert.

[magebird]

What if a His Dark Materials AU? Details of my thoughts under the cut.

So Roberto and Meryl have a badger and a lemur and Meryl is so excited to be in the black-and-white fur club with her senpai. Something something metaphors about learning to see shades of grey lol if we want to be heavy-handed with it. Definite primate vibes from Meryl— outgoing, loud when angered, high level of connection to her social group. Very intelligent and not so good completely solo.

Roberto meanwhile is a nocturnal animal, but still a social one. Badgers have been known to share their burrows even with other species, but can be really ferocious when under pressure. Also a very vocal species— they talk a lot.

I like the idea that for WW and Livio, the EoM tries really hard to force their members to settle according to their wishes, just as an extension of that manipulation. Mostly aiming for dogs probably or other animals that they feel can be forced to obey. For WW, a wolf was as close to a dog as they could get, and I like the idea that Livio(/Razlo)’s dæmon seems to flick back and forth between just a big dog and a true wolf depending on which personality is dominating. I imagine you’d also see some of the EoM lackeys being severed, as well, since that would make them biddable even if the rest of the brainwashing didn’t.

Vash’s mourning dove dæmon is also a prosthetic lol. I imagine Brad knew he’d need one to pass among humans and the form is a version of Rem’s white dove.

I also considered a St Bernard or some sort of hunting hound for Roberto, but I ultimately decided that something outside the domestic dog category would fit better. WW I think would also fit with a lot of different wild dog options, maybe something like a melanistic coyote, jackal, or painted dog that has that hunting instinct.

Legato was maybe severed as part of the abuse he had growing up, or forced to settle as something they could easily control like a butterfly or something else very vulnerable to harm, so he’s extremely protective and hides his dæmon.

Zazie is one of the first kids who ever settled as a worm on the new planet and then became part of the worm consciousness.

As a Plant, Nai doesn’t have a dæmon either in this setup, but I thought also about him and Vash sharing a dæmon or a chimera/two-headed dæmon. Ultimately I like the idea of them just not having an external dæmon and it being just another Othering thing. Perhaps Nai’s blades often end up shaping into a dragon or something.

I’m imagining part of the Plant-reveal on the sandsteamer would be Vash’s fake dæmon getting fried or destroyed which causes them to realize it’s not real.

[mediocreanomaly]

Baby Fever with Trigun Boys!

Authors Note: I’ve been so obsessed with the Trigun baby post recently it’s been filling my head with thoughts, so here’s all the Trigun boys with if they would want kids + how many kids I think they’d have! (w Livio, Razlo, and Legato because they never get enough love 💔)  

Trigger warning: hints of pocd in Legatos (his is at the very end so you can stop reading before his if it’s a sensitive subject) 

Vash:

Would Vash want kids? Yes...eventually 

•When he first thinks about having kids with you he’s over the moon excited but then the longer he thinks about it the more nervous he gets. He does want a baby but he already feels bad for dragging you along and putting you in danger, and he’s got a bit of a self loathing streak (he makes me so sad) so he’ll probably slow down and try to convince you to wait until he stops his brother to have a family

•The other thing is he’s also not even sure if it’s possible, plant and human hybrid??? it’s never been done, not that he’s not eventually down for trying

•Although once he gets it in his head that you want a baby with him he discovers a side of himself that he didn’t know existed until now, rest assured you won’t be leaving the bed anytime soon.

•If you get pregnant before Vash can stop his brother he might mope just a bit apologizing despite you not really being mad, but it doesn’t last long. Then he’s both super excited and super stressed! What do babies need? are you hot? cold? do you need him to carry you? need help reaching something? he’s there fussing over you like a mother hen

•If you get pregnant after he deals with Knives, then he’s a lot more eager right off the bat, excited to start a family after everything he’s been through (still a mother hen though)

•Vash 👏 has 👏twins 👏

•Two little girls to be exact! one for each arm, one for each parent! Double the cuteness!

• Vash is a very good dad, eager to raise his children the way he thinks Rem would want him to, plus he has you! They grow a bit faster than human children thanks to the plant genes but not nearly as fast as Vash and Nai grew up so luckily you guys get to still enjoy them being small

• As the twins grow up they are eerily similar to how Vash and Nai were as children. In fact Vash gets a bit nervous when his other little girl takes on so many personality traits of his older brother, he stresses about it a bit, not that he didn’t love Nai but he doesn’t want history to repeat itself. Luckily he has you by his side, every time he lets his thoughts run wild, he watches the way you so gently parent the twins...he takes a small breath of relief. He feels in a way...he failed his brother but this is different, this time it’ll be okay

Wolfwood:

Does he want kids? Yes  👍

•Wolfwood loves kids so it’s natural he’d want some of his own and especially if it’s with you

•Thing is slightly similar to Vash he’d be a bit reluctant to have kids right now. He’s got a lot on his plate and he also has a bit of a self loathing streak (Trigun boys x therapy) he isn’t sure he deserves to start a family with someone as good as you

•When you do start a family Nick goes from 0-100 real fast, and by that I mean he goes from being protective to guard dog mode 24/7 but can you blame him? He’s seen how dangerous the world is he’ll die before he let’s anything happen to you or his unborn child

•Your first kid is a little girl, one that grows up to be...a little too much like her father. Sarcasm is her default speech and she’s a little head strong, but very protective of her family

•Now I don’t see enough people talking about this but??? Wolfwood??? would for sure want to adopt a kid??? He grew up in an orphanage, so of course your second kid was adopted. As much as he loves your daughter he knows how much the kids at the orphanage need a good home, so you welcome in a little boy. One that's a bit timid and shy and reminds Wolfwood all too much of little Livio when he was young, safe to say it pulls on his heart strings

•The last kid is the baby! Your daughter and son are a bit older and the third was admittedly a bit of an accident, not an unwelcomed one, but not planned. Either way Nick is happy about it (plus he’s really good at taking care of babies) In all you tie off your happy little family with three kids (four if you count nick lol)

•Wolfwood is a good dad though. Also he’s the kids favorite, so expect to get jealous when after school all the kids run into his arms. Don’t expect condolences either, this man will look up at you, all the kids in his arms and give you the biggest shit eating grin too...the bastard.

Knives

Would he want kids? Yes if you take care of them lmao

•Okay so unlike Vash and Wolfwood, Knives sees himself as an apex, so he can protect you and his kids from anything, if he decides he wants kids he doesn’t feel the need to wait

•The only thing is...it’s cannon he’s got a thing for impregnation right? but you have to realize this is for Plants, plant children aren’t like human children (or in this case plant/human children?) they grown alot faster, understand alot quicker, and he’s not the most...nurturing guy in the world. 

 •So buckle up because you’ll be in charge of most the children's care! don’t worry too much though, if you ask for something he’ll provide it so you won’t ever need to stress about not having anything. 

•During the pregnancy he’s fiercely protective over you, keeping you in his private wing in a plush bed. Only letting Legato help take care of you and Conrad whos in charge of your check ups

•Now honestly I’m not sure how many kids he’d have, so I see one of two options

•option one, an only child. One that he has you raise then begins to take more under his wing as he or she grows up. A child that's, in a way, the heir of everything Nai has built, one that will grow to be as strong as their father (with hopefully a bit more care thanks to you)

•option two, lots of children. Once he sees your pregnant the first time...well he likes you like that, might as well keep you like that all the time right? Besides don’t you want to continue his legacy?

•Either way he does like love  his children, he just has a hard time showing it. He tries to show he cares though i mean you’ve seen how he is with Vash. Honestly I think it’s easier for your kids to understand their fathers affections since their half plant, gives them a better insight you know? (if you mess with them it’s literally the quickest way to die though so it’s not like that aren’t under his care still) 

Livio

Does he want children? 100% Yes!

•This man...ugh this man

•Livio 100% wants kids with you, he’s a gentle giant and a soft soul at heart. He wants nothing more than to settle down with you and have a couple little feet running around.

•This man is so patient so caring with you. He’s also a little scared he’ll hurt you once you’re pregnant I mean look at you!!! you’re so cute! waddling around all that baby weight, what if he crushes you? or bumps into you and hurts the baby? what do you mean that's not how that works?

•Despite his worries you welcome a happy healthy baby girl, who he’s still a little apprehensive about hurting at first but once you guide him through holding the little bundle of joy he’ll settle a bit

•So you have your first little girl, and after about a year you decide to try for another. You and livio decide you want to try to have one boy one girl, only thing is...you have another little girl! but that's okay! because a year after that you try again...and have another little girl. Livio accepts his fate after that.

•all jokes! Livio really does love his little girls to death, he doesn’t really care if he has a little boy or not, besides it’s endlessly hilarious to come home and see this hulk of a man surrounded by three little girls, one of which has dressed him up in a pink tutu so he can attend her royal tea party, another using her cheap kid make up to make him “the prettiest girl at the ball” while she smears eyeshadow on his face and another one yet pulling what hair he has into multiple little pig tails. 

•Now I do have one small headcannon that only applies if you are in a relationship with both Livio and Razlo. If you are in a relationship with both the boys then Razlo sees the girls as his kids but not his kids if that makes sense...as in he helps raise them as his own but he doesn’t feel like he in particular made them you know?

•Razlo will probably ask if he can try for one kid with you (if you know what I mean) and you'll end up with one more kid, your youngest and ofcourse...it’s a boy! Razlo will never let Livio live this down, he will tease Livio about this fact forever. “What like it was hard?” “Shut up Razlo” 

Razlo

Does he want kids? Maybe?

•Razlos a little on the fence about kids at first. He’s spent his life training, protecting, killing. As cocky as he acts he isn’t sure he’d be a good dad.

•Once he get’s more settled into his life not constantly fighting he’ll start to consider it though, because Razlo does like kids it’s just...he spent his whole life protecting Livio he had just never really considered the fact he might one day have a family of his own

•When you’re pregnant he follows you around like a puppy, his broad form is like a large shadow keeping a watchful eye over your smaller form. Unlike Livio though he’s a little less scared of his strength, in fact he likes to use it to his advantage, why waste his gift right? so expect him to try to carry you around everywhere. Also don’t even think about lifting anything, that’s what he’s for!

•As mentioned in Livios if you are in a relationship with both Razlo and Livio then Razlo will only really try to get you pregnant once after all Livios kids born. He’s content with raising all the girls and one little boy. (Razlo also gets swept up into the parties. He puts up a bit more of a fight and complains and bit more then Livio does but he loves them so he deals with it.) 

•As for his little boy he tries to get him into more traditionally masculine things so he can have a break from playing princess but he’s actually very accepting of whatever his kids want to do. If his little boy end up liking the stuff he does? great! If he doesn’t and just wants to join his sisters? also great! I mean, he’s a little less thrilled there's now four sets of hands hastily applying lipstick to his face, but that’s life. (Jokes on him, it ends up being one of the little girls who’s a little tomboy. “papa Razlo? can we go catch bugs?” “Oh thank god yes let’s go”) 

•But!!! If you are in a relationship with just Razlo then it’s a bit different. He’ll probably end up with two kids, both boys. The first boy is alot like him, very loud, blunt, and protective. He’s also a bit of a trouble maker and it doesn’t help Razlo is a bit of a yes man which ends in both of them with their heads bowed while you scold them

•Your younger one is a bit more of a gentle soul. A lot more shy, more of an introvert and defiantly glued to you in his younger years. Razlo doesn’t 100% understand his interest as he gets older but he does try, in fact his shy nature reminds him a lot of Livio which makes him a bit protective of your youngest. in all he ends up being a great dad

Legato

Does he want kids? No.

•Now listen, you need to understand, this man did not have a good childhood, in fact he didn’t have a childhood.

•He doesn’t have any experience with kids and the way he was treated as a child...yeah he’s got a lot of trauma around the whole concept of children as a whole, and honestly it’d have to be pretty far in your relationship for him to even be willing to be physical enough with you to even have the chance to conceive a kid.    

•so no he doesn’t want kids. 

•but lets say accidents happen and somehow the two of you are a bit careless and you end up pregnant 

•oh boy are you ready? Because Legato makes me really sad. He’d be a bit distant during your pregnancy, he doesn’t really know how to feel about all this, he never imagined himself as a father and now...

•When your baby is first born (a little boy) you’re going to have to do all the care. It’s rough but honestly with his trauma? he’d be scared to death to touch his kid. He’s paranoid. He knows what he went through and he’s scared. What if he hurts his kid? What if the same thing happens to him? In reality he’d never and I mean never hurt his kid but it’s a common for this kind of paranoia in victims of the type of abuse Legato suffered.

•It’s a rough couple of first years but after some reassurance (and therapy! please get this man therapy!) He slowly comes around. No matter what though he’s protective. Like I said he knows how cruel humanity can be, and even in the first years with his paranoia he’ll be damned if anyone hurts his little boy. In fact he might go a bit over board and refuse to let anyone even touch him or pick him up besides you

•Once he settles in though...it’s not so bad. He slowly warms up to him, admittedly it’s a bit rocky at first. To your little boy Legato is a bit of a stranger living in the same house of him since Legato refuses to let himself get too close, but give it time and they’ll slowly bond.

“I’m told you like to read?” “...yeah” “maybe...I could give you some of my favorite books? would you like that?” “...okay.”

•Don’t worry!!! the two end up okay. Despite the less than ideal start, Legato gains more confidence the more he interacts with his son. Especially since they have a lot of the same interest. At the end of the day Legato realizes something, he want’s to give his kid the childhood he never got to have.

[leavemyelevator-alone]

Okay, I know I’m a few days late, but I want to talk about Nicholas the Punisher. This theme shows up in either episode 6 or 7, during Wolfwood’s fight against Livio on the Sand Steamer, and it starts playing when Wolfwood declares that he’s gonna be pissed if he has to hurt Livio. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen Wolfwood fight (far from it), but with such high stakes on the outcome on this fight, both concerning Livio’s safety and Vash’s survival, and the fact that this is the theme that is supposed to reflect Wolfwood as the Punisher, we would expect something fast-paced and tense, maybe, if it wanted to lean into the looming outcome if Vash and Wolfwood lose. 

   But no. Wolfwood’s theme (as the Punisher) is so slow, and seems to carry a melancholic, tragic theme to it. It feels so weary, like Wolfwood is exhausted of having to play this part, and is sick of hurting people he once knew (and even loved, in Livio’s case). It carries an undertone of determinedness, but it’s so overwhelmingly melancholic it makes me pause. Does it mean that under all of his blunder, Wolfwood had already given up on Livio, from the start of the fight? This theme plays before he spits out who he really is to Vash, so does that mean that this is how Wolfwood views himself? Does he see himself as this tragic, unforgivable monster? Does he think that he doomed Livio, albeit unknowingly from the start by letting his little brother follow him around? I think so, but the cool thing about music is that everyone has their own interpretation of it. 

   Knives’ theme is strong gorgeous and victorious, Vash’s is chaotic and clearly feels like someone on the run, but Wolfwood’s stays tragic. It is mean to show who he is with the Eye of Michael — what they’ve made him into. Not this strong, unbreakable inhuman fighter, but a scared, broken man who feels like not only his brother but his humanity was ripped away from him. Let’s compare it to Undertaker, his introductory theme: as @/fatalwhims mentioned, this piece is overall kinda unsettling. It’s slower as well, but is more confident. It’s relaxed, and arguably a little mischievous, as opposed to Nicholas the Punisher’s despondency. This is absolutely the musical personification of Wolfwood’s persona he shares with the gang. This is the relaxed, knows what he’s doing, “big-brother Nico” vibes he attempts to use to get Vash to trust him. But Nicholas the Punisher is so far from that. 

Okay, we got the melancholy, “woe-is me” music out of the way; now it’s time for the action-packed, Vashwood-fighting-back-to-back fight music, right? Wrong. Whom to Kill, Whom to Let Live is the track that plays next, and it is just as (arguably) hopeless. The piano creates a bit more of a determined feel, as well as the bass (I think? Correct me if I’m wrong, cause I probably am) that comes in at 1:07 and the addition of another instrument at 1:37, but if you listen closely, the determination that it invokes fits more that of a grim one than that of a triumphant, I-can-beat-him! feel that most series like to do. That aforementioned piano piece? It’s lifted directly from the track Orphanage. Whom to Kill is just as sad of a song as Nicholas the Punisher, and I feel like this is the perfect score for this fight scene. This is not an epic showdown like it was against the Nebraskas at the beginning of the series, or even against Knives at the end of it. This is what I would call the “Last Agni Kai” fight: Wolfwood doesn’t want to fight Livio. He understands that he seems to have no choice, but that doesn’t mean he wants to fight his baby brother. That is why the Orphanage piano piece comes back and haunts this track. That is why it is grim determination. He will either have to let Livio kill his ward (which will get him killed by Knives), or he will have to kill Livio himself (which will break him worse than death). The entirety of the Livio-Vash-Wolfwood fight is tragic, somber, almost desperate music; not what you would expect to hear from an epic fight scene. None of this might make any sense, but I had to get it out of my system. Thanks for indulging my rambling! 

@tristampparty

[annaofaza]

"Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent." Written for day 3 of @vashwoodweek. Set in TriMax/TriStamp soup universe.

After Wolfwood gets them shelter for the night, he slams the adjoining door to their rooms shut and cranks open the window.

He still can’t believe Vash is alive and not scattered across the cosmos or the ruin of JuLai in pieces. He still can’t believe Vash is snoring in the next room over, drool pooling onto his pillow, his head wound wrapped up in strips from the motel towels.

And he still can’t believe Vash is acting like the same self-sacrificial idiot when they first met.

Not even bothering to turn on the light, Wolfwood sets a dish on the windowsill with a clatter, yanking out his last carton of cigarettes and lighter before shucking off his jacket and throwing it onto the bed.

The night air is cold and clear, the cherry a tiny dot of flame, and for a few minutes, he hangs his face outside, closing his eyes, allowing the chill to freeze the inside of his nostrils and pebble goosebumps up his bare arms, then brings the cigarette to his lips.

How is it after all these years, that spikey-haired moron still drives him crazy?

“Violence,” Vash had blearily murmured, before passing out on the bed, “is the last refuge of the incompetent.”

Wolfwood feels his world go white, sharply inhaling the smoke in one long deep breath. His other hand clenches on the windowsill.

How dare Vash—the Humanoid Typhoon—judge him? How dare he call Wolfwood a coward? Hasn’t he told the idiot time and time again that he would have to make a decision, that bad things will happen anyway, that doing nothing doesn’t stop people from dying? Has Vash wandered around in a fairy tale world for the last 150 years?

No, he imagines Vash saying, perched up criss-crossed on his bed, the same pose he’d affected in the years Wolfwood spent wandering. He even has the same turquoise prosthetic, the voluminous red coat. Don’t you remember what I told you? Didn’t you see my scars? Nai believed what you did—that only his violence would stop the endless cycle of violence on this planet. Was he right, then?

No! But you wanted to find a way that would save the humans, the plants, and him. How did that work out, huh?

He turns away from the visage on his bed, staring harder at the two moons, luminous and silverly. Wolfwood flexes his fist, tosses his cigarette out the window, and lights another. Do you know what that did to me? To Meryl? How can you still think the same damn way?

Vash, screaming at him over another body. Vash, indignant and furious in a way that never applies to himself. Vash, who refused Wolfwood's offer to be able to save his own life before he has to face Knives—even more dangerous—a second time.

Do you care? Do you want that to happen again?

Wolfwood recalls Rai-Dei face down in the dirt, the clench of Vash’s fingers tight in his fist, the unyielding press of the muzzle against his forehead—not the first time, not the last. He’s experienced violence long before Chapel put a gun in his hands. Wasn’t starvation an act of violence? Wasn’t whatever Livio went through violence? Wasn’t what happened every day to Vash violence?

But violence set him free. Violence encaged him but liberated him. Chapel had made him; Wolfwood had unmade him. Incompetent? Violence saved his goddamn life!

But it didn’t, Vash reminds him. You still kill. You still hurt. You still choose to pull the trigger. You’re caught up in it, every day.

But is it my fault?

Vash pauses. No. It’s not.

Wolfwood's heart tightens in his chest. Vash is looking at him, pursed lips, naked sympathy in his eyes. He wants to grab him, shake him, kiss him.

Then what do you want me to do, if you won't make a choice?

Vash is silent.

"So you don't know everything, tongari," he mutters to himself, knowing deep in his bones he'll try to finish what he didn't even start, back on that rooftop. "And you'll just die again."

The last cigarette drops onto the floor, and Wolfwood grinds it to ashes with the heel of his boot.

[nexadarling]

Ohhhh I would love to hear about Reaching Out To Find Another Hand, that is a very cool title!!!

yeeessss i was hoping someone would ask, this one is my baby!! sending you a thousand kisses, Allen 🥰🥰

you've actually read parts that i have shared in the server, this is the post-trimax wolfwood lives piece where he struggles with intrusive thoughts as he adjusts to living in a more domestic setting that doesn't require the violence he is used to and trained for. just about anything angsty i have shared has been pulled from this one lol

the title comes from Tomorrow Is Closed by Nothing But Thieves, which to me is The Trimax Vashwood song. This is the part it comes from, which hopefully also explains why I picked that as a title:

So here's your last kiss Won't wanna miss this Only piece of heaven I ever had We're all sinking, you know the feeling We're all reaching out to find another hand No, I don't think it's for nothin' But I hope someday we're gonna get it back

god i love this band so fucking much.... anyway, since i haven't actually shared any snippets with the intrusive thoughts i based this whole idea on, here ya go!

(warning obviously for intrusive thoughts and the instability that comes with that, but they do also include non-explicit acts of violence towards children and very brief descriptions of blood. nothing worse than what already appears in trimax, but enough to mention, if only because there are kids involved, but it is all only in Wolfwood's head)

There are moments where he wonders if he came back right. If maybe something happened and he came back not entirely there somehow. Physically, he’s back 100%. Even more than, if he takes into consideration what a normal human is capable of. But he’s back to his 100%, just without the vials. In other words, it would take a hell of a lot longer to come back from a gunshot, but he’s pretty sure he’d still be a hard motherfucker to kill. Thankfully, they haven’t had a need to test that particular theory. But then there are times, short snippets that sneak up on him, where his mind doesn’t quite feel his own. The first time it happens is when Miss Melanie finally convinces him to play with the kids. He’s just able to tuck away that voice that tells him he’s too dirty, too bloodstained, to be trusted around life so fragile. Thinks maybe (maybe) he’s good enough. And he forgets for a moment. Just long enough to be blindsided by the image of the kids bathed in blood, bones snapping like twigs between his own hands.  It’d be so easy, he thinks, and then freezes. He forces a smile on his face, manages an excuse, and tucks himself far, far away in a corner where no one will look for him. Watches his trembling hands in the sand as he tries to steady his breath. That’s not him. That’s not him, he’s here to protect those kids. He’d rather die again than to hurt a single hair on any of their heads. But that was his voice in his head, and Legato is no longer around to invade his mind, Livio was sure of that much. So it had to be him. But it’s not. It doesn’t stop after that, but it always catches him off guard. I could kill everyone in here in less than a minute with this, as he’s helping cut vegetables in the kitchen. It’d be so easy to break her bones, as he helps patch up Sara’s hand where she fell. He would let you, when he looks at Livio one day, the two of them recounting what little childhood they had and laughing. Happy moments, shot through with the violence left in his skull. He doesn’t tell anyone. He never stops being appalled by himself, never stops freezing in horror as the thoughts punch their way in, unwelcome and unignorable. He gets better at recovering, at pulling on a mask so no one notices. He stops running away, and just tries to shut it out. I would never, never hurt them, he reminds himself. Quite literally over his dead body.

this is first draft writing, remember, so it's not as fleshed out as i want and i want to hit harder with pretty much everything, but it's a good idea of the overall tone.... my poor baby, i do so love to torture him before i let him recover

thanks for asking about this one!! ✨🖤✨

[drunkenlionwrites]

My bad! Marked as in having hickeys and little bites left on them.

Got it, nonnie 💕

Nicholas will be elated in the moment, especially if it’s during sex or foreplay. He’ll groan into your ear and will throw his head up to provide you easier access to his neck. In the morning tho, he’ll be in a grumpy mood and will regret it, cause your travelling companions teased him a lot and made him feel flustered, which he doesn’t enjoy.

Vash would be extra excited about it, he will mewl and whine and shift under you, when you cover his neck and collarbones with hickeys. He’ll also enjoy love bites and due to him wearing turtleneck and a coat with high collar he’s totally unaffected by it, happily smiling at you the next day

Livio will also enjoy being marked by you, and will place a lot of hickeys on you in return, tho he prefers to bite and kiss your thighs more. He’s also almost not a bit concerned with people seeing him. And no one actually says anything to him, most people just terrified of his size and appearance.

Knives will not even let you mark him. Once he feels you sucking on his neck, he’ll immediately push you back and berate you for even thinking about doing that. It’s just degrading for him. Though he’ll me more than happy to tame the brat and leave your neck almost entirely bruised. The next day standing with a total poker face next to you, while legato and others are averting their eyes from your neck, no one daring to say anything about it.

[mayfly-stampede]

Character changes? - thoughts

(warnings: Trigun Maximum manga spoilers, Stampede episode 4-9 spoilers)

Wolfwood

Unlike the manga and ‘98 anime, this is not a smiling and relaxed Wolfwood that presents himself shaking hands friendly with Vash.

Instead, Stampede Wolfwood has a sarcastic and bitter humor being always upset with Vash’s kindness with everyone, even their enemies.

Wolfwood wonders about Vash but in Stampede he doesn’t even try since their personalities are directly opposite.

And although Wolfwood didn’t tell all the truth, he never lied: he was never a friend, he was always the babysitter and actually never said he didn’t have something to protect.

But, as I said here, Vash can see though Wolfwood and knows he is actually a good person even when Wolfwood doesn’t accept it.

And I think this is why we feel Stampede Wolfwood that different:

He to protect everyone and take care of them, and be strong for them…and that means never show his true feelings or weaknesses.

In Stampede, we have a deeper perspective of this big brother complex that is maybe stronger than manga and ‘98 Wolfwood, stronger enough to be shown in his personality.

(mmm should I do a deeper analysis of this?)

Meryl

She can’t stay still when someone is in danger and I LOVE that of her. Maybe that’s why Roberto mentions she’s similar to Vash. I talk more about this in this post.

At the beginning of the manga and ‘98 anime, Meryl seems to be more mature than Stampede Meryl since she doesn’t let her emotions take the control that easily and she focuses to do her best at her job. Although in Stampede she’s 2 years older, it can be because she hasn’t used a gun yet as we all think.

Also, manga Meryl doesn’t have the same chances to lead to the action as Stampede Meryl.

All the conditions in Stampede are very different, and we know for sure that if manga Meryl were through the same situations she would act the same…but of course with a better plan.

Knives

I believe the change they made here is maybe one of the most important in all the characters.

We already know, specially for the manga, he cares about Vash and he longs to be by his side as brother although he doesn’t show this side that easy.

In the manga and ‘98 anime Knives cuts Vash’s arm in a moment of anger and/or arrogance already consumed by his plant savior mission…

but in Stampede he cuts it to save him.

“Don’t touch Vash!” he orders and we know how desperately worried is for his brother.

Also, after watching episode 9 that has his name in the title, all his actions and motivations since episode 1 seem really different, just as I posted here.

Vash

I believe one of the biggest differences in Stampede Vash is he caring about the enemy.

In the manga and ‘98 anime all the enemies are practically dehumanized and strongly decided to kill, that’s why we don’t see Vash connecting with them.

In Stampede, Nebraska father begs for his son, Rollo fights his sickness, Wolfwood worries for Livio and Elendira cries for his master…Vash empathizes with all of them and never shoots anyone directly, not even as a warning…the only exception is Knives and it was really hard for him specially being his brother.

Another change, we would say, is his soften and less comical personality. We see him more sensible, calmed, nostalgic…

BUT

If we look for this in Trigun Maximum manga, specially around chapter 38 where the problems become really complicated, Vash actually begins to show this side: less comical, more nostalgic, sad, painful…tired. And we begin to learn more about his way of life.

And when he smiles, it’s like a painful smile and all the comical situations are reduced to little details or moments.

Doesn’t this sound like Stampede Vash?

What do you think?