#it's also worth noting that Knives views a lot of his instincts as a good thing or at least neutral

[yellowocaballero]

HEY!! Your trigun swap au is so very good!! I've always loved roleswap aus as a concept, and yours is the perfect example of why. it's all about the balancing act of twisting the (swapped) character's background/mentalities for maximum domino effect while not actually *destroying* the character ya know? you still gotta recognize them, it's half of the fun. just some little nudges here... and there... with the delightful result of a changed plot/world that you can discover anew

Also I surprisingly vibe with Dr Knives. a lot. what can I say I guess it's the fucked up superiority-inferiority/guilt complex with a dash of imposter syndrome. also the transgenderism. he's just like me fr fr (minus the speciesism and bloodlust) 1/3

SPEAKING OF! I'm literally a week late for that but chapter 4 may be my favorite so far. it's got it all: Ww's bloodlust coming through and being given a GUN, M&M being #JustNormalGunsmokeKidsThings about it, Knives being incredibly tired and enthusiastically murderous in turns, TRANS PEOPLE!! Funky morally dubious trans men ! Intersex nonbinary Knives (in humans terms) !! small internal rants about ecosystems!

I particularly like that one bc I too found myself twitching whenever I see (in fics or fandom at large) Gunsmoke being shown as a ~hostile, barren~ planet when, like.... *waves agitedly at the Tomases* *waves frantically at the WORMS, in all their INCREDIBLY DIVERSIFIED sizes and shapes* tell me there isn't an entire ecosystem supporting and including these bad boys. And god do I wanna know about it. Terraforming this terraforming that. Enough. I want bio-worldbuilding fics that are just as weird and unhinged as the rest of trigun (2/3)

To go back to Nicholas : I loved his discussion with Knives about fate and predestination and stuff (esp since -I may be reading too much into it, but it’s interesting that Knives says he doesn’t believe in predestination anymore, and just a bit later goes about how his personality is Like That bc he’s Biologically Programmed for it), and his last words in it are especially ominous. WHAT were you gonna say about Vash. How does it concern Nicholas. This is gonna bite them in the ass later isn’t it.

Also ur last asks/answers REALLY doesn’t reassure me about woowoo’s fate. Is he gonna die. Is he gonna end up going thru the same things than his canon counterpart (concentrate of medical-and-general unethicality). Idk what those flags are for but boy They Are There.

Aallll that to say I absolutely love that fic and can't wait to see what you do next with it, thank you so much !! (3/3)

This is so nice thank you so much :D :D :D To comment in order:

Roleswaps are no fun if you can't recognize the character. You're absolutely right - the funnest part is to make the smallest changes possible, and see how they cause the biggest differences. That's true of every AU, honestly - you guys know those 600k shonen manga aus where something major is different but every story beat is identical to canon? Or they're identical to every other au? They're addictive but without substance. Also sounds boring to write.

It's so funny that you (and others) vibe with Dr. Knives! From my end, he has my own very wry deadpan and self-esteem problems. Characters who have both a ridiculously inflated ego for comedy purposes and some real self-esteem problems for drama purposes work great.

I was surprised that so many people enjoyed the trans thing so much! I didn't expect it to make people so happy. Of course it's a nice surprise. I don't remember why I made the BDN decision (funny, probably) or the 'Knives invented gender reassignment surgery' thing (funny definitely), but a very active decision and something that made Knives above every other character fun to write is that he is not a human being and does not think of himself as such. The way his body experiences emotion is different, his body itself is different in a way that probably includes genitalia, and there's no reason for him to experience gender the same way. As I'm about to talk about in the upcoming chapter, he casually refers to himself as a thing and with it/its and it doesn't affect his superiority complex whatsoever.

I...would not have said that this is trans by myself, if that makes sense, because I wouldn't have wanted to say "in order to really hammer in how this character is INHUMAN then I'm gonna make him not male or female and prefer neopronouns!". It's just the shape of the character, to me. BUT LIKE IF Y'ALL LIKE IT! NO PROBLEM! I was just worried I might be saying the wrong thing, so I didn't want to say it, if that makes sense. Y'all can say it though.

Trigun worldbuilding is nonsensical and hideously vague and as a writer if you stop and think too hard about silly questions like "where does the wood come from" or "why is Vash eating salmon sandwiches" then you go insane. But...yeah, Gunsmoke's like any other ecosystem, and its worms and thomases seem to be doing great! It's not Gunsmoke's fault it is almost completely uninhabitable to humans. It sucks for us, but...does Knives care about that??? Lmfao???

There is a shitton to say about Knives' relationship with predestination and inevitability, because it's why he made the worst decision of his life. I think of it as...reasonable, in a lot of ways. If all you knew about humanity was what you read in history textbooks, and human history ended with the destruction of Earth and themselves, how would you feel? Everything humans have done, they do again. And if they dissected your sister, in an act of cruelty that they had done to even themselves...of course you'd worry. Of course. If you're young and scared and you can hear the screams of the dead in your ears, of course you feel like it's going to be you or them. And if you're.........Millions Knives.......and reverse!Vash.....then eliminating the threat is just good business sense.

And you aren't reading too much into it - Trigun in so many ways is about choices, and the impact of your choices. Your decisions are you own, and you must take responsibility for them. Decisions have weight in Trigun. I think what ppl miss sometimes about Vash is that he also wants to fuckin' murder people sometimes. He wants to be violent, he wants to hurt. He just chooses not to. Sometimes choosing pacifism is a hard fucking choice, and I think wiping that away does a disservice to the character. So if Knives would say, "Well, it's just who I am, I had no choice, I had no control, I just go nuts and murder it's not on me..." - what does that mean, in Trigun? It's??? Like??? A pussy thing to say???

But, the way I thought about it - what Knives is fighting is his internal sense that he is predestined for cruelty. He knows "who he really is" and any attempt at goodness is futile, because he's secretly bad and will always be bad. And he fucks up sometimes and starts exploding worms. But Knives chooses goodness, and I don't think he's really cottoned on that his choice to do good is more important than his internal desires to do bad and his history of badness. Because he hates himself.

I think what Knives knows now as an adult is that our lives have paved a path for us to tread. Sometimes that path is innocent, and sometimes your life paves a very nasty path. But it's our choice if we walk it or not. Knives knows what his path is, and it gives him extreme shame - but he chose which one he walked, and that's what I judge him on. Still funny how much he loves murder though.

[meowdymista]

Van der Driscoll

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Warnings; injury, Micah, angst

Part 2 & Masterlist

Redrafted and continuing on AO3

Notes: There hasn’t been an abundance of fic floating around (and what has been published is making my arthur head explode with love), so I figured I might as well throw out this old thing I thought I would finish but never went back to. I submitted a fic request to @the-awkward-outlaw who took a much less angsty approach. This is far from perfect, but eh

******

You swallow the blood filling your mouth, but it does nothing to wet your throat. A dozen faces have thrown you dirty looks mixed with confusion and apprehension. The cowboy that brought you here on the back of his horse has been retained in the large tent - which in turn is on the other side of the cart to where you’ve been bound.

You’ve been trying to eavesdrop, but all you’ve made out is bickering, scolding and multiple hushed insults aimed at you. Whenever Arthur begins to raise his voice, someone comes from around the cart to spit at you or kick your feet.

Closing your eyes does nothing to help your headache, nor the sting of the bullet wound in your side. Your tongue is repeatedly drawn to an unusual sharpness inside your cheek, making you wonder if the mexican broke a tooth when he smashed the handle of his gun into your face. Not that it matters. You were surprised you weren’t already dead, but still lacked any doubt of seeing another sunrise.

“What are you doing, O’Driscoll?”

You open your eyes in time to see a heavy bearded man grab a smaller man by the arm. The slosh of water hitting the grass is heaven, but also draws out the dire thirst in your throat as it's lost to the ground.

“N-nothin’, Bill.”

“Are you in on this? You set us up?”

“No! No, of course n-not! I’ve never even met her-”

“You gonna free her so she can slit our throats in the night?”

“No, sir! No! I was just-” He grunts as the man called Bill punches him in the stomach. A woman shouts and runs over, but Bill is stalking away into the trees, still growling threats at nobody in particular.

“I’m fine, Miss Gaskill," croaks the somewhat familiar man.

“Are you sure? He didn’t need to hit you!”

“I-I was comin’ over to see her. I jus’ wanted to know if she’s ok - bein’ tied to that tree, well, it ain’t no nice thing, Miss Gaskill.”

“I know, but Dutch is talkin’ with Arthur about it now. I don’t reckon they’ll keep a woman there as long as they did you.”

“I hope not.” The pair give you a forlorn look and disappear to the other side of the cart. You close your eyes again, trying to distract yourself from the memory of fresh cold water sliding down your throat.

You must fall asleep, because when the boots come into view your neck is stiff and the horizon is brightening the ink of the sky. You try to look up, but the muscles in your neck decide otherwise.

“What were you doing there?”

You try to speak but your throat is too dry to even cough. A hand reaches down and lifts your chin firmly. Arthur’s face is without humour, and his brow the lowest you’ve seen it. You inhale sharply as his lips thin with impatience.

“You been with’em this whole time?” You shake your head instinctively, but he catches your hesitation and releases your face with a grunt of disgust. “Shit.”

You close your eyes again, trying to ignore the crackle of his stubble as he rubs a hand along his jaw. A lump is rising in your throat, but you try to swallow it. Now is not the time to be showing weakness, but the deep sense of betrayal is suffocating you.

“You been-? Too?” you manage to choke.

“I been what?”

“Van der Linde,” you hiss, forcing your head up to glare at him.

He scoffs and shakes his head, turning on his heel and stalking away. You hear a frail voice call after him, but you don’t care anymore. The tall broad frame of Dutch Van der Linde himself is marching towards you with a thin frail frame of a man following closely behind.

“-be easy on him, Dutch. He thought he was doing the right thing.”

“You are both getting far too soft!” You yelp as Dutch pulls you to your feet, the restraints burning around your wrists. “Since when did Colm hire women to do his dirty work?” You snicker, but a slap across your face cuts it short.

“He’s always had working women in camp,” you manage to gasp through the blossoming stars. “Not like you, though. He doesn’t keep them round.”

“I mean as gunslingers. That’s what you are, ain’t it?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t?" he scoffs. "How’d you fall in with them?”

The thin man steps forward, scrutinising your mess of a face.“You a spy? A lookout of sorts?”

You force yourself to withhold the hysteria bubbling inside of you. “You think Colm has thought of using spies?”

“I think Colm is always thinking of ways to catch us out,” growls Dutch. “It’s more a matter of what we do with you now we have you.”

“Just kill me already.” After all, it would be easier. Arthur’s look of disgust turns your stomach and not just from guilt. If you had known, you would have steered clear or even shot him there and then.

You can almost hear the men musing in front of you. Bird song is beginning to erupt as well as life elsewhere in the camp.

“Is that what you want, Y/N?”

The sound of your name jolts through you. Your gang had never used it because you had never made it known to them. This was a man’s world, and the only way to protect yourself had been to become one.

So you had. You’d bound your chest, cut your hair and changed your clothes. Before the camp woke, you would use the ash from the fire to disguise your soft jaw and thicken your brows in addition to mascara from your past life. Escaping for a few days to hunt was an excuse to bathe and become yourself again. Packing your things into your saddle bag, you made a stop in a stream off the road to wash your face and change clothes. It was the only way you could guarantee yourself some solitude when O’Driscolls were so plentiful in the local area. Any enemies you had made would ride by you as you rested or hunted game.

It was after a bath you had first seen him. He had been trying to de-escalate an argument with the hotel owner - something about him beating a man who had hurt a friend of his. Seeing your wet hair curling over your shoulders, he had given you a nod.

“They run good baths here?” he asked.

“They run ‘em hot and private enough."

He had immediately set down a coin. “I’ll have what she had.” When advised of the wait, he had waved his hand. “If this lady reckons it’s worth it, I can wait.”

That had been weeks ago. It felt a lot longer, but multiple brushes with death every day made everything count that much more. You had brushed off rumours of Van der Lindes in the area. How bad could they be compared with the headless chickens you ran around with? After riding out with Colm to scope a new camp, you had returned to Cumberland Forest to find everyone slaughtered. Any stragglers were shot on sight. How could they be any worse than what you were already with?

“I don’t know, Dutch. She’s a woman.”

“She’s an O’Driscoll!” Your body was too tired to flinch as he got up in your face, trying to intimidate you. “Whether Colm knew it or not.”

“What do you want to do with her? We can’t let her go, not now.”

“Suppose we could always kill her. Or better yet, get Kieran to do it.”

Hosea shakes his head. “I don’t think that will go down too well.”

“How else are we supposed to deal with her? We already have enough mouths to feed, plus another O’Driscoll in camp is begging for trouble.”

Your mind wanders back to Arthur’s look of disdain. The hatred was on a different spectrum to the crinkle of his eyes when he had found you again in the saloon. The cold that rolled off him was nothing like the heat of his hand when it had brushed yours on the ledge overlooking Valentine. You’re too angry with yourself to worry about the outcome. Even if they let you go, Colm will make sure you’re strung up for deceiving them. All your things are back at camp, and you know you won’t be able to bind your chest again for another few weeks with the wound in your side.

You lean your head back against the trunk and close your eyes again, ignoring their chatter but still unable to stop a tear leak down your cheek as they walk away.

***

The smell of food makes your stomach growl, but you ignore it. A small boy walks past staring at you openly, but his mother ushers him away with an air of distrust. You can’t blame her; you know the O’Driscoll’s are nowhere near as reserved as this gang when it comes to robbing and killing. You had heard them boasting about a stage they’d intercepted, filled with women and children. Apparently they weren’t the first to stop them, but they were the first to go all out and rob them.

You knew at the retelling of the stories that it was best to remain a man.

“Who do we have here?” A sinister chuckle rolls you out of your thoughts. The first thing you notice is the thick handlebar moustache, followed by the thin curtains of blond curls from under his white hat. His sneer makes your blood run cold, and you are tied too tight to move your face out of his reach. His long fingers stroke along your jaw. “I gotta say, this set up?” He steps forward, his lips almost brushing your ear. “It’s working for me.”

You squeak as a knife thuds into the wood above your head. The stranger steps back, and scoffs.

“Didn't your daddy tell you not to play with knives, Morgan?” He reaches up and pulls it out, playing it between his fingers. His grey green gaze transfixing you, the cool blade touches your chin, forcing you to lift your head and expose your jugular. “Don’t want anyone to get hurt now, do we, cowpoke?”

The humour is replaced with irritation at the click of a gun being cocked. He lowers the knife, and you realise you had stopped breathing.

“Try me, Micah,” Arthur growls, his revolver pointing at his temples.

Chuckling, he steps back from you and approaches his new target. “Sorry, didn’t realise you was practising your white knight act with Guinevere, here.” He throws you a look over his shoulder, looking you up and down and licking his lips. “I’ll be back, princess. Save some for me, hey?”

A gunshot rips through the camp. You’re breathless, blinking rapidly trying to work out where the bullet has entered your body, if you’re still alive. It takes all of ten seconds for you to realise Arthur had fired his shot into the sky.

You feel the rope tying your wrists together tugging up and down as Dutch storms around the corner with his entourage.

“What in God’s name are you playing at?” he spits as your hands suddenly fall free.

Arthur has already gripped your arm and is dragging you away from the crowd. You stumble, your legs having forgotten how to move themselves after days. You are dumbstruck as he reties your hands in front of you and hoists you onto a cart.

"I didn't bring her here for her to be Micah's plaything."

"What are you talking about, Arthur?" Dutch splutters. "Micah has been back all of two minutes-"

"I know I ain't put y'all in the easiest position bringing her back here, so jus' lemme take care of it, aight?"

Hosea walks forward, surveying you gently. "She can't go free. Not with the Pinkertons after us."

"I know," he growls, retying your hands to your legs to prevent you running off despite your lack of effort. “Don’t I goddamn know it...”

The old man reaches out to touch his arm. "Stay safe, Arthur.”

“Not you again!” you had teased as he waved a lazy salute in your direction.

“Any recommendations?” he asked, nodding at your plate. You shrugged and he ordered the same, bringing you over a fresh beer and sitting at your table.

“Fancy seeing you here, Mr Morgan.”

He smiled and removed his hat, running his hands through his hair. "I'm always in here, me."

"How odd… I seem to remember you getting barred for life a few weeks ago?"

"Ah, well. The bartender's a reasonable man." He shrugged, embarrassed as you laughed at him. "Can't say the same for that Tommy guy."

The sparkle in his eye has long gone. Not that you're looking at him, you're too busy trying to take in the smell of the trees and the birdsong, trying to ignore the fear in your thoughts. Who knows how he intends to kill you? Or where he will dump your body afterwards. What does it matter - no one is going to come looking for you. The O'Driscoll's mind their own and even if they did recognise you, you'd be strong up for treason. If the law recognise your identity, they'll consider it a blessing. You are on your own, restrained in a caravan with your captor.

"Why didn't you let your friends kill me?" you hear yourself ask.

His silence is stoic. You begin to wonder if you didn't say it out loud after all when he finally clears his throat.

"I couldn't."

"Why not?" You laugh, looking around. "Would've been easier than killing me out here - at least at my camp I was just another body from a gang fight. Out here you'll start a murder investigation."

"I ain't killin' yer." He throws you a sideways glance as you blink in disbelief. "Not yet at least."

"You just said-"

"What does it matter what I said?" He scoffs. "Like you're one to talk, Y/N."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You can feel the heat growing in your ears as you scowl.

"What do you think it means?" he snaps. Flicking the reins, he takes a steadying breath. "Why were you running with the O'Driscolls?"

"Why are you running with Dutch Van der Linde?"

"Tha's different!"

"Why?"

"Because I've spent my life runnin' with him an' the same can't be said for you if Colm doesn't know he's running with a woman yet." He scoffs. "He ain't ever taken kindly to surprises."

"You talk like you know him."

"I did for a while." He shoots you a look. "Way back when. How long you been runnin' with them? Since you don't know the history and you ain't been found out yet, I reckon five, six months?"

"Seven," you hiss. His brooding has relented enough to exude smugness and it's grating on you that he is still damn attractive.

"You gonna tell me why? Coz I ain't askin' a third time."

"Why does anyone become an outlaw? I needed money. It was only gonna be temporary but my cousin got shot up in that Blackwater massacre so I had to stay."

"Your cousin?"

"Yeah, Heidi. Your ol' Dutch should know her well."