#the hands are supposed to be wolfwood

[cozylittleartblog]

400% sure he would love steven universe

[rennyrose]

Need to ramble a bit about Livio in Stampede, have had thoughts tumbling around my head for a bit and need to put em out somewhere-

For a while I think I’ve been on the fence about the character that’s been portrayed for him so far in the anime- ill very readily admit I’m biased, as the manga version of him and Razlo I can easily say have been my favorite characters from any story I’ve experienced thus far and have been for quite a few years now.

As much as I joke or whine about his size in Stampede I think his design is fine on its own, it portrays what his character is supposed to be- a clean cut professional hitman/assassin that’s tied to this universe’s tech. I can also appreciate the concept of him constantly chasing after Wolfwood, I think there’s a lot that can be worked with there- but there’s an issue with the sense of his agency with that, which I’ll get into more.

It’s difficult not to compare Stampede to the manga, I understand that it’s supposed to be ��its own thing”- but in regards to this specific topic I’m going to go into, imo, compared to the manga it’s objectively handled worse. (I also understand that being it’s an anime there is a greater time restraint to work with, and the episodes he was featured in are meant to have Wolfwood as the primary focus- at the end of the day LR are side characters)

The thing that easily gives me the biggest ick is was him attempting to “check out” at the end of ep. 7- actively suicidal and acting on impulse as a result of the rush of memories returning because of horrid acts either he or Razlo committed (this ramble isn’t about how Stampede portrayed Razlo in the brief .5 seconds he was there, given we don’t know for sure how Stargaze will handle him- but given how Liv was treated, I’m preparing myself to be very disappointed ((but open to being pleasantly surprised))

For me personally, one of the things that makes manga Liv so relatable is his passive suicidal nature, especially while being under Chapel in EOM. His general apathy and readiness to claim the status of being a victim can have someone easily argue that he is a bad person, and he doesn’t have much of a stance on whether he lives or dies. We do get hints of empathy from him (like killing the bad guy who was threatening the child from the orphanage and being willing to take the time to tell Wolfwood his story), but overall he believes his only purpose is to serve as sword and shield to the best of his abilities and does not care how others fare as a result, including himself. Quite frankly he more than likely would not be alive, either by his own hand or allowing someone to take his life if it weren’t for Razlo.

Part of this mindset of his remains even after volume ten, again I’ll refer to his quote referring to himself as a tool/weapon- while now having a purpose to live and go on, at no point does Liv himself state or portray a fear of dying. Regardless, his character development from having a victim mindset being turned into a sense of resolve and making choices to do better for himself and those around him is, quite frankly imo, the entire message that Trigun conveys.

Manga Livio is the precipice of the “blank ticket” metaphor- someone who was given the opportunity to start over, and made a choice to do better in spite of the actions he knowingly and readily committed prior.

Stampede Livio is unfortunately not that. From what we’ve seen his entire ability to choose at all was taken from him at some point. We’ve seen that he was a willing volunteer of EOM, and we’ve seen that he was working really hard to be on par with Wolfwood- but at some point it’s strongly implied that he was forced to commit atrocities that he wouldn’t normally have done by his own volition, and that the piece of tech he wears insures that he continues to do as instructed. There is a sort of horror that goes with that which in of itself is extremely interesting, but it doesn’t really flow with the message that Trigun intends to give. What can Livio learn or change from if it wasn’t “him” ever committing heinous acts or if his troubled past doesn’t continue to eat at him? What does he learn, or the main cast learn, if he was successful in committing suicide in a state of panic?

I honestly have no idea what to expect from Stargaze- I’m excited for it (although nervous) and I really hope they expand on the narrative for Liv, even if just a little bit. I can imagine it’ll be hard for the anime to make Liv be the precipice for the blank ticket metaphor again story-wise at this point, so I won’t be surprised if that turns out to be someone else.

[ruporas]

can’t talk about it

[ID: Black and white comic of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun Maximum. The comic starts with the sounds "thud, thud, click". Vash, mid-action of peeling an apple, turns to the sound, noticing who it was that entered, and says, "Oh, Wolfwood, you're back." He resumes back to his apple in the next panel as he speaks, "Where'd you go? You snuck out of bed quickly this morning..." Wolfwood's hand then enters the panel, hovering over Vash's cheek and Vash looks up as Wolfwood asks, "Can I?" Vash responds, "Not going to talk about it?" while using a hand to gently hold Wolfwood's hovering hand and presses a kiss to his inner palm.

Vash then gets up fully, setting down the knife down on the table and the apple onto a plate, He leans into Wolfwood as Wolfwood explains, "Had to meet someone. Nothing interesting to talk about." Vash kisses Wolfwood's left cheek and a hand moves to cup his other cheek while muttering, "You're being vague." Wolfwood says neutrally, "If yer really that curious, keep askin'. We  can talk about that instead of doing this." Vash leans back and responds, "Let's talk after, since... You look so tired."

The panel pans to a close up of Wolfwood's downcast eyes, bags heavy underneath his eyes. He doesn't allow Vash to sit in that moment for long though, then saying, "Yer not helping, Spikey. Being all slow with it... I could fall asleep right now." He moves his hand to start unclasping Vash's coat, starting from his collar. Vash with red cheeks, responds briskly, "Oh, shut up. I'm worried about you. I can't be worried?"

The final shot shows Wolfwood's back to the viewer while Vash's softened expression can be seen as he holds gently onto the side of Wolfwood's face and a hand firm on his waist. Wolfwood responds, "I'm fine, seriously," pausing for a moment before continuing, "Is it okay to still..?" Vash responds, "Yeah, it's okay."

The next image is a shot from later that night after the previous comic. Vash and Wolfwood are now in bed, half naked. Wolfwood's buries his face into Vash's chest, his arms wrapped around him, while Vash is petting at his hair. Vash reminds him, "Hey. You said we'd talk about it." Wolfwood pauses for a moment before piping up, "In the morning? I'm sleepy." Vash says, "Okay..."

The next two pages start from the morning after. Wolfwood is already fully awake, pulling on his outer jacket as he says to Vash, whos' still bundled in his blankets, "Breakfast is on the table. Make sure to eat it. I'm going to grab some things in town and then we're leavin'. Got it?" Vash says, "Mh." Wolfwood responds, "Good. See ya in a bit." The dialogue starts to shift into Vash's inner thoughts now, as he gets up and eats toast, thinking, "Wait. Weren't we supposed to... talk about it?" The next shot then shows him fully up, meeting Wolfwood in town. He carries a half worried expression with him while Wolfwood slides on his glasses for him. A quick panel shows Wolfwood's tired expression from the night before and quickly juxtaposes with Wolfwood in front of him who's smiling gently, the shades covering his eye bags. Wolfwood asks him, "Still not awake yet?" Vash pauses, his thoughts stirring, thinking, "Oh. I guess I was getting ahead of myself... thinking you owe me that kind of honesty." He smiles at Wolfwood and responds, "I'm awake!" His thoughts continue, "Maybe one day, you'd trust me enough to share your burdens."

The final image shows Wolfwood pulling at Vash's cheek and Vash complains, "Owwwww why..." Wolfwood quickly says, "You were thinking something stupid, right? It's all over yer face." Vash mutters, "Nooo, I wasn't..." END ID]

[rush-the-stars]

the beginning and end (and what binds them together)

part i: gone, gone

✦—⋆𓆩✧𓆪⋆—✦

18+ minors dni

pairing: vashwood x gender neutral!reader

wc: 1.4k smh

cw: omegaverse au, beta!vash that can switch sexes, alpha!wolfwood, omega!reader, reader referred to as "kid" and "kit" by wolfwood. mentions of heats/ruts.

a/n: idk. i want to write this idea i wish i had more time to really get into it. but alack, alas...take this drabble introducing the concept. let me know what you think or if you wanna see more..,.or if you just wanna noodle about this au..,i have many thoughts...

✦—⋆𓆩✧𓆪⋆—✦

Heat mounts on the inside of you, growing into a fever pitch—your skin feels too tight, too thick. Your breathing has become sharp and quick—hiccups of air your poor lungs are greedily trying to pull down. You're trying to hide this, keep it from becoming obvious that you're—

You're going into Heat.

Well, to those around you, you're trying to play it off as a Rut.

Because to them, you're an Alpha.

Wolfwood curses as he nears you, "Christ, you're gettin' worse by the minute. When was your last Rut?" He reaches out to touch the burning heat of your forehead and many instincts battle at once—

One, to lean in. To sigh and press yourself closer. Wolfwood, much to your absolute fury, does smell nice to you—it'd be easy to melt into his touch. It'd be easy to give in to his rough voice, his calloused hands. But that's what an Omega would do—and you're no Omega to him.

You growl low as his palm presses to your forehead, bends to feel your cheek. You bare teeth and his lips kick up into an amused smile. "Take it easy," He cajoles, tapping your cheek roughly (perhaps just to get a rise out of you), "I'm just trying to look out for you, kid."

Unfortunately, he's the bigger Alpha—you've already scrapped with him plenty. Gotten pinned and pressed, his weight on top of you, baring fangs. He's established whose in charge and, beyond that, that he's fond of you in some way.

He tries to ruffle your hair and you snap—shoving at him, but he easily overpowers you.

Wolfwood tosses his gaze to Vash now. He's been suspiciously silent. "And how're you, blondie? Getting a little hot under the collar, too?"

Vash swallows hard. His eyes have gone fever bright like a burning jewel, a falling star. He's a Beta, but because of your sudden spike in pheromones, it's possible he'll be entering his own Estrus soon. You're not exactly sure how it works beyond circumstance; Betas will take on whatever sex their body believes is most likely to procreate in the moment. They’re fluid and—

Dangerous for you now, if his body decides—

“Doing okay!” Vash chirps nervously. “Uh—maybe it’ll pass me? Wolfwood, you should keep your distance, too.”

“I’m staying by the kit.” Wolfwood agrees, suddenly throwing his arm around your shoulders and tucking you into his side. You fight the noise that almost escapes, being so surrounded by his scent; warm and spiced, musky and soft around the edges. Ah—

You see why Vash got nervous.

Wolfwood's scent is burnt around the edges, too strong. No doubt because he’s surrounding himself with an Omega’s scent and not—

Well you’re not a kit; not a young Alpha at all.

(Such an infuriating name, anyways. Childish and condescending.)

“Yeah but—“ Vash’s eyes bounce between the two of you, “You’re making their pheromones spike worse by irritating them and that’s,” he searches for the right words, “making it worse for me.”

Wolfwood’s brows lift. He glances at you, wrestled beneath his arm, “Kit’s gotta learn how to be around other Alphas like this, it’s good for a pack—good for others, too. It’s supposed to provide a buffer for you.”

In a pack, when there are no eligible Omegas or Betas, Alphas will endure their Ruts with other Alphas who can handle them—keep them in check. Their scent also dampens the Rutting Alpha’s—sort of keeps it from growing too strong. Wolfwood is, for all intents and purposes, being a good Alpha right now, attempting to shepherd you along while keeping Vash safe.

Vash looks at you now and you can see how nervous he is; you glance away sharply. Wolfwood is warm—too warm—and you’re starting to get a head rush, being this close to him. You’re fighting back a whine in the back of your throat, trying to hold down the ache in your body that is building and building and building.

A cramp rolls through you and your knees almost buckle with it.

“C-can I get water?” You finally pipe up, “I’m dying.” You almost whine. And this is—normal, for an Alpha.

“I’m feeling thirsty, too.” Vash agrees quickly.

Wolfwood huffs, finally dropping his hold on you, “I’ll go find some. Behave while I’m gone.” And as he saunters away, you finally release a hard breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

You need—you need to sit down. You stumble a little for it, for the edge of the bed in this motel at the corner of the world. Vash wipes at his brow. You feel his eyes more than you see them, feel them pressing into your shoulder blades, right in the center of your back.

“Doing okay, Vash?” You can’t help but snap a little, on guard.

He wanders nearer to you.

“Doing okay.” Vash repeats, softer this time. He settles gingerly on the edge of the bed, near you but not touching. Such a respectful distance away. And yet—

You catch his scent. Thistle and petrichor. Sunlight, so warm it melts on the tongue. Musky, far muskier than you were anticipating.

You shift—squirm. Another cramp twists in your lower back, your hips flexing with it.

“How are you doing?” He asks, so gentle that it makes your teeth grind.

“Fine.” You snap, waspish, and at least, in character for an Alpha.

Vash sighs though, a slow breath through his nose.

“We need to get you somewhere safe.”

You know but—technically—as an Alpha, you should be safe here. With Wolfwood. Vash is the one who everyone should be worried now.

“Wolfwood will handle it—“ You try and say.

Vash frowns, “Uh—right. And usually, I’d agree except—“ His eyes cut to you like a lightning bolt, searing and bright;

“I’m not going into Heat—I’m going into Rut.”

Your head jerks to him. You feel the world tilt, slide out from underneath you sharply, your stomach dropping with it. If Vash is going into Rut, that means—

Vash gives you wane, sympathetic look.

“That only happens if an Omega in Heat is near.” He says gently, quietly, as if he’s afraid to startle you.

Which means, he's figured you out.

And that also means, you’re about to go into Heat, with an Alpha, and a Beta on the cusp of Rut.

Your cover is blown, dashed all to pieces in an instant. All your hard-fought control and secrecy; all of your planning and carefully crafted existence, gone up in flames with a few, simple words. In this moment, you see your life—this life of yours that you fought for, tooth and nail, this independence you clawed for, you were forced to endure, gone like the wind through your fingers. Like your dreams in the early, soft parts of the morning.

You try to get up, maybe run, but Vash catches your wrist before you can get anywhere.

His touch is searing. For some reason, you always thought he'd be chilled. Maybe because he's a Plant, maybe because of his robotic limb. But he's warm, so warm that it startles you. When you look at him, you realize his face is flushed red, dusted along his cheeks.

"Don't run." He pleads, "It's not safe."

When Wolfwood appears again in the doorway, water in hand, you wrench your wrist from Vash's grasp.

"What's going on?" Wolfwood asks, and before you can shove past him, he snags your bicep. Firmer than Vash, yanking you back to him, "hey—slow down, kid. What happened?"

"I'm—uh, not going into Heat." Vash says sheepishly.

Wolfwood tears his eyes away from you to look at Vash for a moment, before returning to you. "Well—should make it easier, right?"

"No—" You shake your head, pressure behind your eyes building rapidly, suddenly there and aching. All you can think is—it's gone, all gone. Tears well up. You force your brow to furrow, force your anger to be a shield, and force that little glare to mar your features once more;

"Because I'm the one going into Heat."

Wolfwood's face rounds out with surprise. You lurch out of his grasp in a sudden, harsh move.

"Don't follow me!" You say.

And you slip from him like the wind through his fingers, like dreams in the early, soft part of the morning.

He reaches for you again, but you're already gone

[teddybeartoji]

spending a slow morning with wolfwood…

you can smell the coffee, you can hear eggs sizzling on the pan. 

leaning against the doorframe, you let yourself have a moment to take in the sight before you. donning a simple white t-shirt, a pair of plaited boxer shorts and mismatched socks – you think he looks perfect. his hair is a proper mess and it gets only worse when he casually cards his hand through the dark locks; your fingers itch to do the same, to teasingly tug at the roots just to hear him go ‘a-ah!’ before softly pinching your side. 

you can see the yellow strap around his neck and you smile to yourself; the thought of him grabbing the silly little apron you gifted him all on his own, without you having to beg him to put it on, is awfully endearing. 

(though he always wears it with pride, he just really loves it when you cling to his side and stare up at him with your puppy-dog eyes, pleading for him to put the thing on with a small pout on your lips.) 

wolfwood’s humming a quiet tone as he sways from side to side ever so slightly and you can’t wait any longer. tip-toeing across the floor, you make your way to him and wrap your hands around his middle the second he’s in your reach. he doesn’t jump, he doesn’t even flinch. 

he just lets out a content little hum instead. 

immediately, he melts into your touch – his shoulders slump as he grows just a tad smaller in order to get closer to you. the corners of his lips tug upward when he feels your fingers find their way under his shirt, gently ghosting over his sides and his stomach as you press yourself flush to him. 

“good morning, sleepyhead.”a few octaves lower, way raspier than usual – his voice has your heart stuttering. you nuzzle your face into his back while giving him a squeeze and wolfwood rewards you with a chuckle. he knows exactly what expression you’re wearing without even having to look at you and he loves it. 

he’s so warm against you and he smells so fucking good that your brain can’t help but conjure up an image of a human-sized cinnamonroll. you laugh into his shirt and wolfwood’s eyebrows shoot up, curiosity swimming in his mind as he tries to peer at you over his shoulder. “what’s so funny now, hm?”

“oh, nothing, nothing…” 

he reaches behind him to ruffle your hair before turning back to his cooking. he takes a sip of his coffee and hums as if it’s the first time he’s drinking it. you feel the sound; it reverberates through his chest and comes out almost like a purr. you hug him a little tighter and press into him a little further.

and you stay there with him until he’s all done, waddling alongside him while he makes you a cup of coffee like you’re glued to him. he doesn’t complain. 

wolfwood places the food and the mugs on the table and then guides you to your chair and it’s then when he finally lets out a proper laugh. “how are we supposed to eat like this, dummy?” 

“but you’re so soft and so warm, wolfie…”

he forces down a coo at the sound of the silly nickname you’ve given him. with his big hands, he peels you from his back with little to no effort and sits you down behind the table. 

oh… 

still a bit groggy, with a few pillowlines still decorating your cheeks, you stare up at him with a sleepy smile on your face. and if that wasn’t enough to make his heart beat a little faster, the fact that you’re wearing his shirt will most definitely do the trick.

“you little thief…”

“hey, it belonged to just some guy, alright,” the little giggle you give him is almost enough to have his knees buckling from under him. wolfwood is a weaker man than he thought. “i’m sure he won’t mind…” 

way weaker. 

coffee, eggs and something sweet—

he reckons he's found his new favourite morning bite.

[nanqmies]

Wolfwood x ftm reader

cw: ftm reader, thigh fucking, biting, pleasure control (?), teasing, he cums all over your thighs, very short, i think thats all?

wc: 236

a/n: i’m sorry this took so long!! i got stuff going on, and have sosos much to write!! I hope you still like it nonnie ! Please enjoy my work.

based on this request

nsfw under the cut~

adding onto your request.. thinking about how he’d wrap a tight hand around your throat while his cock slides between the plush of your thighs, just barely grazing against your cunt. He’ll push you back against his chest to make you watch how his tip dips between your legs, hearing the hitching of your breaths whenever his shaft gets too close to your sensitive pearl.. forgetting this is supposed to be a *punishment*,, but how could he remember when your warm thighs keep squeezing him in? Dribbles of his pre lightly coating the pudge of your thighs, grunting with each rut of his hips in your ear.. his heavy breaths making shivers crawl up your spine , huffing your sweet scent n nuzzling into the crook of your neck, holding your legs up to squeeze them together; sweat builds on your forehead, you leaning back against his big chest (the perfect pillows btw) aching for him to give in n finally relieve the burning pleasure in your tummy.. but to no avail, his last few thrust are messy between your sticky thighs, biting into your neck when hot cum stains your thighs and tummy.. coating your skin in white dripping ropes, catching his breath n kissing your shoulder blades, nudging his tip over your cum covered slit— “You ready for me..?”

@nanqmies © 2024

do not copy, steal or translate my works

reblogs and feedback appreciated!

put in a request here!

[wolvrites]

Wolfwood blurb | Body descriptors used: stretch marks | mild spoiler warning in tags ?

Wolfwood likes watching you get ready.

Not in a creepy way, of course. But when he’s sprawled out on a rickety hotel bed, the very image of self gratification and sloth with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, his eyes fix on you going about your routine.

Lotion, underthings, little details that complete the picture of you. Even if you can’t find the small luxuries like body oil in town, you make it work. For Wolfwood, you always look good enough to eat, even when you think you don’t.

Sometimes you catch him staring, the sight of him with his button down obscenely low and exposing his full chest making your heart stutter a little. And the bastard always just smirks around his cancer stick with the knowledge he can get you hot and bothered with little effort on his part; not that he doesn’t like trying anyway.

Sometimes, though, he’s just too damn lazy. He supposes it isn’t the heat’s fault because you’re always up at a reasonable time, and he takes that opportunity to admire you.

“Don’t hiss at me for enjoyin’ the view, sweetness,” he drawls whenever you bring up his hopeless desire to stay in bed.

But he can’t help it — somewhere inside his core, he’s terrified this moment, this one will definitely be the last. So he tries to burn the vision of you into his retinas, in the hopes that when the devil finally does catch up with him, his brain will deem the image of you the only one of enough importance to replay behind his eyes while he dies instead of every other cursed thing he’s done or seen.

He hides it behind a smirk, of course.

You’re sat on the edge of the bed, doing something or other to get ready for the day. Wolfwood watches your back, the way your shoulder blades shift underneath the skin. The smoke from his cigarette makes his view hazy, the whiskey makes time feel like it’s moving in slow motion. Before he realizes, he’s crawling towards you like you’re an oasis that he needs to be sure is real.

You hum at the sudden, soft touch of his rough hand on your waist. His grip tightens a minuscule amount as he wriggles closer, on his belly like a wolf.

“Smell so sweet,” he mumbles into your side, nipping lightly at the skin and letting out a huff as if he’s disappointed he can’t *actually* eat you like a dessert.

“Just the lotion,” you murmur back, lips quirking in amusement at the way Wolfwood is languidly burying his nose into your waist. Long eyelashes fanning against his cheeks.

“It’s jus’ you,” he protests, voice muffled into your flesh. He hums when you dip a hand into his inky hair.

“Stay with me.” He kisses a silvery streak that runs across your hip.

You huff. “Can’t. It’s almost 11:00 already, Vash is gonna-“

“Please.”

You pause, feeling his calloused fingers dig just slightly into the meat of your thigh. He’s got his lips lazily pressed into your hip, lying on his side.

You sigh. “Fine.” Though, a twinge of regret for being so compliant under his touch sparks inside you when you feel him smirk against your skin.

“C’mere, darlin’.” As if you weigh nothing, Wolfwood starts pulling you up to the head of the bed.

“Nico-!” You yelp and fall into his arms, he chuckles roughly as the blankets are messily tugged over you both.

Wolfwood never knows when a moment with you will be his last, so he intends to savor each of them.

[bennysblabbering]

Quarantined

Kinktober: "Fuck or Die" || Vash the Stampede x Nicholas D. Wolfwood (Stampede)

contents: trans!Vash, forced proximity, lab/medical equipment, breeding, semi-clothed sex

words: 3.2k

sorry this is a day late oopsies

↓ Fic below the cut ↓

The subtle hum of the laboratory halls permeates the building, the fluorescent lights dotting the tiled ceiling and grey concrete surrounding the desolate corridors in a cold and unfeeling presence. Two quiet pairs of footsteps make their way across the floor, meticulously aware of each tapping noise against the surface; alerting any presence besides theirs would spell a death sentence neither wanted to imagine. Barely above a whisper, one of the voices speaks.

“Why are we here again?”

“Because, needle-noggin, there’s something I need. I can’t get it anywhere else.” Wolfwood’s brows are furrowed, a sneer present on his lips; being at the facility that spent so many years making him miserable made every muscle in his body tense. Every moment spent here was one he spent in constant fight-or-flight mode, though if need be he would always choose the former. 

“Alright, alright, sorry.” Vash holds his palms up in a playful surrender, a nervous chuckle accompanying his apology. Even though he’d never been here before, the vaguely malevolent aura was present throughout, instilling a sense of unease. “You really grew up here?”

“‘Grew up’ is a generous way of putting it,” Wolfwood grumbles, two fingers of the hand unoccupied with carrying the Punisher curling to make a quote motion. As the two round a corner, a large round door is pulled into view, a double-helix symbol above the frame. Bingo.

He halts Vash’s walking by placing the back of his hand against the other’s chest, peering down the hall cautiously. Navy blue eyes scan every inch of the area before them, checking for any movement or sign of any presence besides theirs; a small relieved exhale escapes his lungs as he stands up straight and continues the last stretch of their journey across the hall. Briefly punching in a code, the doors slide open with a whoosh, revealing a small room.

The assassin wastes zero time by immediately entering into the space, setting his colossal weapon at the threshold outside of the doorway before making his way past the bench at the center, directing his focus towards a temperature-controlled locked set of shelves in the back. The blond accompanying him remains in the hall, observing the details of what seems to be some kind of lab. 

“What is all this?” Vash vaguely gestures with a metal hand, despite the other having his back turned as he attempts to punch in another code, clicking his tongue as he’s denied several times. Wolfwood’s head barely turns a little to reply, his focus primarily on the screen in front of him. 

“You don’t wanna know. God dammit, there’s no way they changed it. I could’ve sworn…”

Vash cocks his head slightly with concern, still completely in the dark about what Wolfwood was attempting to acquire and why it was so difficult to do so. He takes a few steps, following the other into the small room. “Do you need hel-”

Slam!

The doors force themselves shut behind him, immediately sealing the two men air-tight in the cramped space. The blond jumps in surprise, initially laughing it off, but the smile fades and a pit forms in his stomach as he realizes the look on the other’s turned face is one of horror.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Wh…what do you mean?”

Wolfwood shifts his body to face the door, not only confused but scared, knowing the dire consequences if anyone were to discover them here. “The doors. They’re not supposed to shut unless it senses a male and a female together.” He pulls the sunglasses off his face, resting them on the top of his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

The bright blue eyes of the other widen as his heart begins to beat a little harder. “What?”

“I came here to retrieve my DNA sample. They can take genes from the DNA of whoever they want and use them in their experiments, sometimes to even make clones or babies if they want to. I didn’t want them doing shit with mine so I came to take it from them.”

“But…what does that have to do with it forcing us in here?” Wolfwood, growing more on edge, runs his tongue over his teeth and crosses his arms, his eyes wandering to avoid looking at the other man as he tries his best to explain the purpose of the room they were shut in.

“So it’s…how the hell do I say this…it’s a fertility lab. They have an archive of DNA in here that they take from, but they also use this room for…”

Tapping his foot and looking away, he sighs. Meanwhile, Vash remains entirely confused with no idea what the other’s train of thought is. His expression remains blank, waiting for Wolfwood to finish putting thoughts into words. 

“...there’s no way to sugarcoat it. They make people fuck in here.”

Both of their eyes nervously glide to the center of the room where a plain waist-high bench stood; no back to lean on, a cushion on top, clearly made for someone to bend over and lay on. There were even two sets of handles- one about halfway in and one at the end, designed for each participant to grip onto for stability. 

And then their eyes meet.

Immediately they both look away, the intensity of eye contact after such a blunt statement overwhelming for the both of them. Wolfwood makes his way over to the door, tapping on it with a knuckle and nodding to it as he speaks.

“These doors…they shut and lock the participants in until they’re done having sex. But, it’s not supposed to do that unless it senses one person who’s capable of making someone pregnant and someone who’s capable of getting pregnant enter together. So I dunno what the hell the sensors are thinking. We’re shit outta luck. Like a dumbass, I left the Punisher outside. And that little pistol you’re swingin’ around isn’t gonna do shit to a door like this. No offense.”

‘...one person who’s capable of making someone pregnant and someone who’s capable of getting pregnant enter together…’

The rest of Wolfwood’s words completely fade out as that sentence registers in Vash’s ears. His heart starts to pound and his hands ball into fists; he knew he was going to have to tell Wolfwood something incredibly personal. He’s not ashamed, of course, but he had no idea how the other would react to hearing that Vash is, in fact, capable of getting pregnant. There was no glitch in the sensor. 

‘…door like this. No offense.’

“Wolfwood.”

“What? You got some kinda idea to sweet-talk the door into opening? Your little pacifist way of doing things isn’t gonna help us outta this one, blondie. We gotta think quick, before either someone notices we’re in here, or we suffocate. And I’m not particularly fond of either of those outcomes.”

Vash’s hand meets the back of his neck, rubbing it idly as his gaze falls to the floor.

“The sensors…they weren’t…wrong.”

The other man’s eyes narrow. “How so?”

“I…well…”

His right hand nervously fidgets with the prosthetic fingers of the left, the volume of his voice lowering meekly and his eyes downtrodden with embarrassment. Please don’t hate me for this. Please don’t let this change the way you see me.

“I…have a vagina.”

Wolfwood blinks. The buzz of the lights above them was almost deafening as the silence filled the space between them. 

“Huh. Well this explains our predicament.”

“It does. I’m…sorry, I wasn’t expecting that to happen. Being trapped in here, I mean. I didn’t think I…my…would be an issue…”

“No, no, I…suppose it was my fault for making assumptions. I would’ve warned ya if I had known.”

They both stand quietly, navy and cyan refusing to meet like repelling magnets. Both of their trains of thought were on the same track. There was no other way out of this. No easy little code to enter, no forcing the entrance open with gunfire, no magic phrase to make the doors undo themselves.

Vash clears his throat, still avoiding directing his gaze towards the other’s face. “Do you think…we’re gonna have to…” His voice trails off, hoping the other man would get the gist. The brunette simply sighs, his own voice softening to a level uncharacteristic of him. 

“This isn’t how I imagined it going.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, nothing.” His troubled face turns and once again finds its way to the middle of the room, swallowing as he feels the adrenaline in his body rising. “There’s only one way outta this.”

Both of the men’s faces flush red as their eyes hesitantly meet, the both of them simultaneously feeling like they were hit by lightning the moment their gazes locked. Wolfwood is wracked by a heavy guilt, reaching out to gently take the other’s hand in his. “I’m sorry. I never should’ve dragged you here with me.”

Vash offers a soft but genuine smile, interlocking his fingers with Wolfwood’s. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind. If it makes you feel better…this…isn’t how I imagined it going either.” 

The matching blush between them only deepens, their eyes meeting one another in a silent acknowledgement. But…that was a conversation for another time. Right now, they need to get the hell out of this place. And the only way out is in.

As if reading one another’s minds, they immediately embrace, letting their lips connect, both faces trembling slightly. For a moment, their entire bodies remain still. They needed a moment to register that they were, in fact, kissing. Ever so slowly, their soft lips start to move against each other, their arms tightening their hold around the other’s body. 

Vash draws his arms back and slouches his shoulders, letting his coat fall as they continue to kiss. As Wolfwood’s ears pick up on the sound of the fabric falling on the floor, a flip switches and the heat in his body begins to rise. This is really happening, isn’t it?

Wolfwood growls, picking the other man up by the waist and pushing him against the wall, forcing Vash’s legs to wrap around his hips. A subtle whine escapes Vash’s throat, weaving his fingers through Wolfwood’s dark locks and pressing his tongue to the other’s lips in provocation. The mouth of the assassin eagerly opens to welcome the wet muscle, caressing it with his own. Neither of them realistically thought they’d ever be in a position like this, making out pressed against a wall- it almost felt, to them, as if they were making up for the lack of “normal” promiscuous teenage experiences they’d both missed out on. 

Their lips part with a soft pop, their heavy-lidded eyes meeting as they both let out a huff. For a lingering moment, they take in the expression of the other, swollen and saliva-coated lips, flushed cheeks, half-lidded gazes, and their hearts simultaneously flutter. Wolfwood slightly shakes his head and clears his throat to regain his composure, becoming more difficult by the second with the blood flow redirecting away from his brain. “Alright…we should…probably skip the foreplay, huh?”

Vash giggles, removing the glasses from his face, mirroring Wolfwood by placing them on the top of his head. “Didn’t realize you planned on giving me the gentleman’s treatment.”

The brunette only chuckles, tightening his hold on the other man as he leans into his ear and speaks in a low and sultry tone.

“If it were up to me, blondie, I’d spend hours on you with my hands and my tongue before you ever got to feel my cock inside you.”

Vash’s face has never been redder. He’s never been told something so vulgar before, and especially not from Wolfwood. Not that he hadn’t thought about it. But now that the other man dirty talking to him was a reality, he can feel his cunt ache, craving for attention. He grabs the other by the back of the neck, pulling him in for another kiss, the intensity increasing tenfold between them as their lips press firmer, harder, and messier.

Wolfwood instinctively grinds his hips, his prominent erection rubbing against the clothed crotch of the other man, groaning at the sensation of warmth already present. He pulls back with a grunt, his hands wasting no time to start undoing his own belt and unzipping his pants. “As much as I’d like to prolong this, we kinda have to do this as quickly as we can. I almost forgot where we were.”

The blond simply nods, his head nudging in the direction of the equipment a few feet from them. “You wanna…use that thing for its intended purpose?” 

The lips on Wolfwood’s face turn up into a wicked grin, his eyes filled with a lustful hunger as he nods. “Oh, dirty boy. I like the way you think.”

Vash makes his way over to the bench, pulling his pants and underwear down to his ankles in one swift motion as he bends over. The blush on his face deepens as he feels the other’s eyes on his exposed pussy. “I hope the view isn’t too bad.”

“T…too bad? Good fucking god, blondie, you’ve got the prettiest damn pussy I’ve ever seen. Shame I can’t devour you right now and make you scream and squirt all over my face.” Wolfwood pulls down on the loosened band of his own pants, freeing his erection and idly stroking a bit just at the sight alone. “Guess I’ll have to settle for pounding you till you’re dizzy.”

Vash hides his face in his hands, completely unable to come up with a coherent response. Every single explicit word that came from the other’s mouth made his cunt wetter, and he craved Wolfwood’s cock with every bone in his body. He whimpers, shaking his hips back and forth a little bit to entice the other into finally bridging the gap between their bodies. “C’mere…I need you…”

The standing man growls hungrily, taking a few steps forward and grabbing a handful of Vash’s ass with one hand and lining his cock up with the man’s hole with the other. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

With one last inhale and a push of the hips, Wolfwood’s cock makes its way into the warm, tight cavern of Vash’s walls. The men simultaneously groan at the pleasant stretch, both of their hips deliberately moving to be even closer to one another. As Wolfwood’s cock reaches the hilt, he leans over and kisses Vash’s exposed neck as he grips onto the handles at each side of the bench.

“I dunno how much I can hold back, pretty boy. You feel so fucking good I just want to rail you already.”

Vash chuckles, reaching his hand back to ruffle through the other’s hair, nuzzling his cheek. “Who said I’m stopping you?”

The words make Wolfwood’s heart skip a beat, his cock twitching in excitement as he growls satisfactorily. He bites down on the soft flesh of the other’s neck, pulling his hips outward before thrusting back in with a force, the sound of the loud slap filling the small space. Vash screws his eyes shut and moans, moving his own hands to their assigned handles, gripping on tight in anticipation of the vigor of the other’s body. 

The man on top grins as he moves his hips, initially starting at a comfortable pace, but quickly picking up speed and harshly shoving his body against the other’s. “Dangerous words to tell me, blondie!”

Vash stays completely silent for a few seconds as he’s fucked hard, completely overwhelmed to the point where noises couldn’t even escape his throat. He gasps as his face contorts in pure pleasure. He’s never experienced anything like this before. 

Quick and hard Wolfwood’s hips move back and forth, every thrust passionate and purposeful. Vash’s pussy was so slick, squeezing him so perfectly and milking his cock for all it was worth; the lewd wet squishing sounds made themselves heard with every push and pull of the standing man’s midsection, the fluids from the other’s cunt generously coating both of their inner thighs. 

Vash mewls and whimpers repeatedly, his knuckles turning white from the tense grip on the handles, holding onto them for dear life as his insides are mercilessly claimed. His eyes, normally so friendly and filled with energy, were rolling inside their sockets, crossing slightly as his jaw hung slack, drool dripping down onto the seat underneath him. 

“F…fuuuuck meee…”

Wolfwood’s hungry grin only remains on his face, satisfied at the pitiful sight he’s made of the man below him. “Yeah? You like when I plow this pretty boy-pussy?”

The blond only nods, hardly any ability to think coherently left in his mind as he’s completely cockdrunk. A tight, hot tension starts to build in his core, his eager cunt sucking in Wolfwood’s length even harder as his climax approaches. The other man can feel himself getting close as well, his balls clenching and cock throbbing more with every growing second.

“Fuck, blondie, you’re gonna make me cum.”

“I a-am…too…cum with me…”

The blinding hot pleasure simultaneously overtakes both of their bodies, Vash trembling from head to toe as his pussy tenses and releases, the continuous pounding from the other making his mind go completely blank. Wolfwood refuses to let up with his pace, his length mercilessly drilling into the other as his own orgasm overtakes him, spilling endless amounts of sticky hot cum into Vash’s hole, painting his inner walls with his release. The two men ride out the intense euphoric highs, their collective moans deafening in the sound-proofed lab. 

As their breathing slows and climax washes away, a significant clicking sound is heard as the threshold finally parts, the fresh air of the hall rushing into the small room, now made humid from their collective perspiration. As much as the two wanted to lay together and revel in the orgasmic afterglow, they knew they had to hightail it out of there. Wolfwood hesitantly pulls his softening cock out of Vash, both of them saddened at the feeling of the loss. He tucks himself back in, helping the other man to stand up and pull his own clothes back on. “I’ll give ya some real good aftercare once we get the hell out of here and find somewhere safe, alright?” 

“Right.”

Vash retrieves his coat off the floor before they leave the lab, Wolfwood slinging the Punisher over his shoulder as they walk cautiously down the hall, the assassin picking up a brisk pace before he looks behind him and sees a collapsed Vash on the floor, his knees buckled underneath him. The blond looks up at him with round puppy eyes. “I can’t walk very well. You fucked me really hard.”

“Dammit, needle-noggin…” Wolfwood rolls his eyes, walking back to pick the other man up by the waist, slinging him over the other shoulder to carry. “We don’t have time to dilly-dally.”

Vash playfully shrugs. “Should’ve been more gentle then.”

“Didn’t hear any complaints from you, now, did I?”

The blond simply giggles in response. “Nah.” 

Wolfwood playfully huffs as he makes his way down the corridor before stopping in his tracks. “Shit, I still need that DNA sample.”

“...let’s go back and get it another time.”

[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!

[drunkenlionwrites]

Help your writing is too good pls feel free to disregard if I requested one too many times. Vash stumbling upon the reader singing. They have a really good voice, but oh dear, the ironic conundrum of their own stage fright that prevents them from singing in front of anyone else!

hehe it's fine! I loved writing this 💖 Warnings: g/n reader, stage fright, severe anxiety Word count: 814

For Empty Rooms Only

You coughed - just once. Enough to catch their attention.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” you said, pressing a hand to your forehead like someone in a tragic play. “Headache. Throat. Could be serious.”

You clutched your chest and gave the most convincing little cough you could manage.

“I think I’ll just… stay in tonight,” you said, adding a sniffle for good measure.

Wolfwood raised an eyebrow, cigarette in his mouth. “You’ve been fine all day.”

“I think it’s, um… delayed desert flu,” you nodded solemnly. “Super common.”

Vash leaned forward, concern written all over his face. “Are you sure? Do you need anything?”

“No, no,” you waved him off, trying to suppress the guilty grin tugging at your lips. “I just need rest. You two go enjoy yourselves.”

“But-”

“I’ll be fine, Vash. Really.”

Reluctantly, he let himself be ushered out the door.

You waited. Five minutes. Ten. The sound of laughter and boots downstairs meant the bar was in full swing. Loud enough to mask anything. You then sprang into motion - closing the curtains, checking the corridor, pacing a little to shake off the nerves. Then finally, you inhaled, exhaled, and prepared to sing.

Singing in front of someone? Impossible. No matter how often people told you you had a beautiful voice, your throat locked the second anyone was watching. You’d tried once or twice only to realize that your breathing goes unsteady, vision blurs, voice hitches and all you can hear is your heart pounding in your ears.

It wasn’t just nerves. It was something much harder to overcome. So, you didn’t. It wasn’t a problem before you’ve started your venture outside. Previously you just sang for yourself in the sanctuary of your own home, and it was enough. Now, being on the road with a few pairs of eyes and ears constantly in your vicinity, you started to miss just being able to let go and sing to your heart’s desire.

But now? Now you were alone.

You started to sing. A soft tune a bit melancholy, dreamy. Something your mama taught you when you were but a little girl. The kind of song that could be heard being hummed during labor, when doing home chores, or in your case – a lullaby.

Your voice unfurled, steady and sweet. You closed your eyes, the corners of your lips tugging upwards and you felt the sound becoming lighter and brighter with this simple motion. It all felt just right.

You didn’t hear the stairs creak.

You didn’t hear the door open.

“I brought you some tea.”

Your voice died.

Like a flame snuffed out. Gone.

You turned to find Vash standing in the doorway, a tray with little kettle and two chipped mugs in his hands.

He blinked, smile flickering. “Wait…did I just - were you…huh?”

You heard yourself producing a little squeak, thoughts already blurring, heart thrumming in your chest like crazy.

“Why are you here?!” you yelped, backing away like you’d been caught doing something illegal.

“I…I just thought you’d want something warm. You said your throat…” His words faltered when he saw your face. “Hey. Are you okay?”

You backed up until your knees hit the bed and plopped on it, face in your hands.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”, you spoke timidly. Your breathing still not returning to normal.

“I didn’t mean to! I swear - I didn’t even know you were singing until I opened the door and…” He paused, tilting his head. “Wait. Why do you look so distressed anyway?”

“I can’t sing in front of people, Vash.” You stared at the floor, fists clenching in your lap. “I physically can’t. My throat closes up. My voice dies. I feel like I’m about to throw up. My vision blurs. Even when I want to. I just…can’t.”

He set the tea down carefully on a bedside table and crossed the room in quiet steps.

You flinched slightly when the bed dipped beside you.

“I didn’t know,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

You nodded, staring hard at your feet.

“But,” he continued, voice soft, “I think it makes sense now. You were always humming when you thought no one was listening.”

You didn’t answer.

“Although, I wanna tell you something, If you don’t mind” he added, smiling faintly. “What I heard? It was beautiful.”

You turned to look at him, face already scrunching in disbelief. He wasn’t teasing. No wide grin, no sly glimmer in his eyes. Just honest warm smile.

“I’ll never ask you to sing for me,” he promised. “But if you ever want someone to just… sit outside the door and listen, without watching, - I’d be honored.”

Your chest ached in the best way. You didn’t speak. Just nodded.

He handed you the warm mug then. “Though…it didn’t sound like you needed that after all, huh?”

[fruitsoxs]

I don't know how comfortable you are with voyeurism but the thought of Vash secretly watching reader get fucked by Wolfwood is hot.

so- uh- yeah...

PART 2

pairing; vash x (GN AFAB)reader x wolfwood warnings; smut, !NSFW MINORS DNI! , voyeurism, choking, hair pulling, uhhh wolfwood is a bit rough notes; this got out of hand at the end- im so sorry (or you're welcome) spoiler; wolfwood knows the entire time

He shouldn’t be watching this.

Vash’s eyes are wide as he peaks around the corner. His face is a deep shade of red. He really shouldn’t be watching this. He can’t help it though. Each slap of skin brings out the sweetest sound moans from your pretty lips. How are you able to make such angelic noises  while doing such a dirty act? Vash will never know. He feels his body shake as he watches Wolfwood grab your legs and push them back, slamming deeper into you.

The door had been unlocked. 

He was fully prepared to walk into the room and witness Wolfwood passed out like normal. Instead he had walked in on the man holding a person down against the mattress, fucking the life out of them. So into it, they didn’t even notice the door opening as Vash walked inside.His eyes widened at the scene, and he was fully prepared to high tail it out of there until he heard your voice call out in such a sweet way.

“Wolfwood~” You had cried. The man’s name falling from your lips like you had said it many times before. Had you? Vash had been a little too focused on other things to really notice how close the two of you had gotten. His mind elsewhere as the person he loved slowly bonded with the man he considered his best friend.It should hurt him, seeing such a scene, but there is no jealousy in his gut as he watches Wolfwood ram his dick inside of you. 

“O-Oh. Oh. God!” You yell, throwing your head back as Wolfwood picks up his pace. His tan skin is slick with sweat, and he’s got this tiny smirk on his lips. “Is God the one fucking you Angel?” The man asks, slowing down. 

“N-No.” you answer, your voice so weak. “Who is?” “You.”

Wolfwood grunts and grabs your face, forcing your eyes back on him. “Then keep that name out of your mouth, and keep your eyes on me.” he commands. You let out a soft whine and nod. His hands move from your cheeks down to your throat. Vash’s throat goes dry. He really shouldn’t be watching this. It would be so easy to leave. To turn around and exit the room, but he’s stuck. His hands shake slightly at his sides as he feels the warmth travel down to his cock. He’s hard. He’s so hard he has to shove his hand down his pants to shift it around.

Vash bites his lip as he watches your eyes flicker open and closed. Your lips are parted, and he can tell you’re close. So can Wolfwood, as his pace picks up again. His dark eyes narrow as he tightens his hand around your neck. You let out a choked moan and try desperately to warn him, but the man doesn’t let go. Not until you’re cumming around his cock. “Fuck. Good. What a good little Angel you are.” Wolfwood praises you, letting his hand drop so you can breathe better. He doesn’t stop though. Vash is suddenly reminded how much stamina his friend has. The two of you could be at this for awhile

His mind starts to drift and he presses the palm of his hand against his hard on. You left the door unlocked, and are fucking in the room him and wolfwood were supposed to share? And with how intensely Wolfwood is fucking you, it seemslike you weren’t planning on having a random quickie. It’s almost like you two wanted to be caught but- Ah. He shouldn’t think like that. That’s so..gross.

And yet his hand is stroking himself inside of his pants.

You let out a gasp, as Wolfwood pulls out and spins you around, pushing your head into the pillow on the end of the bed. He grabs your hips and lines himself up again before slamming his cock inside of you. You scream out, muffled by the pillow as Wolfwood starts at his unrelenting pace again. He keeps his hands on your hips, digging his fingernails into the soft skin. 

Wolfwood is rough when he fucks you, and you seem to like it. He picks up his hand and slaps it against your plump ass. Vash has to hold himself back from moaning by digging his teeth into his bottom lip. Why is this so…hot? Vash’s pupils dilate and he finds himself wishing he could crawl over and join in. He wants to lift your head up by your hair, and shove his cock into your mouth ans Wolfwood fucks you from behind.

He hisses out as his hand strokes himself faster and faster. The noises you’re making are so pretty- It’s unfair. He wishes he could help in drawing them out of you. He wants to make you scream his name too. If he could, he’d make you say both of their names over and over again. The thought makes his hand jerk a bit, letting out a warm breath as he presses his back to the door. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He’s watching.

Wolfwood slows down, and reaches over to grab a handful of your hair, lifting your head up. “You’re being so loud, angel.” he murmurs. “What if someone hears us? What if someone hears you screaming my name.” He slams against your cunt. “Oh Wolfwood!” you yell as he does it. He smirks and pulls your hair again. “What if Blondie hears us.” he asks and you moan even louder.

Vash’s eyes widen and he pauses his movements for only a second, before his grip becomes tighter and his strokes become faster. Him? Why would you like that?

“That’s right.” wolfwood grunts and slams into you again. “You want him to hear us don’t yah angel? You want that needle-noggin to walk in on us fucking huh?” he asks you. Vash is not sure if he can handle this any longer. Especially with how loudly you seem to mewl at just the thought of him walking in on you. “Hah. yeah. I see the way you look at him. Maybe I should ask him to join us?” Wolfwood lets go of your hair and goes back to digging his nails into your hips. His movements are a bit sporadic. He must be getting close. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? Let Vash and I fuck you like the slut you are?” 

There’s an almost wolfish smile playing on Wolfwood’s lips, and Vash can’t stop his heart from beating. Would you like that? Is what he’s saying true? Vash lets out a small whimper, and Wolfwood’s smile grows. “Why don’t you say his name, angel? Call out for him.” Wolfwood commands

And then from your lips comes the softest, most beautiful little “Vash~” Vash finds himself covered in his own cum instantly, his hips jerking up into his hand. At the same time, you scream out as Wolfwood pumps his cum inside of you. Wolfwood holds you down as he thrusts deep within you, moaning out until he’s empty. You ride out your own orgasm, all but collapsing from the intensity.  

Vash is unsure what to do when Wolfwood looks over at him, that smirk still on his lips.

[beelzebby666]

(Happy New Year, have new years kiss HR Vashwood!)

“Nico,” Vash whispers, pressed close enough that Wolfwood can feel his breath against his ear. “Wolfwood, hey, I have a question.”

Wolfwood hums and takes a sip of his sparkling cider. Vash puts his hand on his stomach and leans even closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Wolfwood,” he whispers, “can I have a New Year’s kiss? Please?”

Smile growing, Wolfwood hums again. Acts as though he's really considering his answer while taking another sip of cider.

“I don't know if my husband would like that,” he says finally.

Vash laughs. “I am your husband,” he counters.

Wolfwood tilts his face toward Vash, their cheeks pressing against each other. Vash's is warm, flushed from a few glasses of champagne by now. He presses against Wolfwood's like a friendly cat.

“Oh yeah,” Wolfwood murmurs, “that's right, isn't it?”

Pulling back a little, Vash reaches out to cup his cheek. Wolfwood leans against his palm, eyes closed, as Vash leans in closer.

“So,” he prompts again, “can I have a kiss? Good luck for the new year?”

How they could get luckier, Wolfwood isn't sure. But he likes the sentiment anyway. And Vash is endearingly persistent, bumping his nose against Wolfwood's.

“I suppose,” Wolfwood drawls.

Vash doesn't wait for midnight. He leans in, a whole 50 seconds early, and kisses Wolfwood the second he gets permission. Needy and deep, tasting of champagne and honey mead.

Wolfwood wobbles a little, briefly knocked off balance and back into the chair they're curled up in together. In response, Vash just moves to cradle the back of his neck and try to keep him where he is. Keeps kissing him, briefly gasping for air before surging back in. When he finally pulls away, both them breathless and flushed, it's well past the mark.

“To us,” Vash giggles, still winded, and finishes his glass of champagne in one go.

Wolfwood laughs and gestures with his cider before taking a long sip. “To us.”

Delighted, Vash narrowly avoids knocking his glass off the table when he goes to set it down before swooping in for another kiss.

[imustbenuts]

nuts reading in jp 12 - trimax ch 1 and 2 time HBRBRHBRHBRHBR

last we left off, vash meets wolfwood and i smashed out a bunch of nonsense saying how wolfwood brazenly climbed over one of the walls vash has.

i think more of this happened in trimax ch 1 and 2. there's something going on with the framing here.

being buck naked

so previously in post #10 ive mentioned how meryl and milly stumbling into a half naked vash is him showing them the most open and vulnerable self he has. in trimax ch 1 this happens again

except he isnt half naked this time, hes buck naked and just took some bullets right in front of wolfwood and his ruined salad grub.

theres also this scene where vash talks pretty openly about how he feels about the fifth moon incident. hes scared, and he declares it to wolfwood. buuuut, check out the bubbles ive highlighted here:

i think this might be a problem stemming from DarkHorse's work bc in the JP its actually like this:

❗Vash doesnt say "I chose to retire"❗

Wolfwood says "So ya chose to retire." (more directly: so ya chose to live on the down-low?) the Tell here being the kansai dialect in the bubble.

i dont like nitpicking over translation mistakes. id probably slip up here and there if i did trigun too bc the japanese level in here is higher than what Shounen Jump has. also no hiragana aid in trimax cry

anyway

this then implies wolfwood has sussed out vash pretty well enough for vash to continue spilling more information. i suspect if wolfwood didn't, the conversation miiight have ended right there.

these panels, man. wolfwood is looking with half of his expression covered. meanwhile, vash doesnt meet him and just wants to hide. maaaybe run? idk. interpretations ahoy.

thats a fun dynamic. on another note

that vash in trimax ch 1-2 seems to be using Ore with wolfwood throughout their interaction. i suppose its a continuation of how vash seems to have some trust towards wolfwood, as he did watch him give whats little of his money left towards kids previously.

but if im understanding how nightow is now framing this whole concept correctly, the whole pronoun usage here is to drive home how multi-faceted vash is. that is to say, all of these parts are him, and we as the viewer see it all laid pretty bare.

the characters meanwhile do not, and certainly not wolfwood... yet. though if you wanna interpret the nakedness it might be that the TriGang have seen the rawest part of what drives Vash.

aside, boku is still around. internally when hes reflecting and feeling unsure, Boku is used in this scene:

....hmm 🤔

otherwise hes using Ore and seems pretty resigned to confronting the situation with knives as wolfwood delivers his colt back.

The threat

ok this is fun. so take a look at the last bubble in the JP side. (all EN versions here are from OH)

rubby hands. hey Boku is back. and theres a heart sakldfjasdlf anyway okay so my sloppy/direct translation of all of these would be

I won't give you even a moment to reload. I won't kill you, but I'll entrust you with one request. Soon, I will leave this town. And after! If I find that something happened to my family or this town... I'll have you take all responsibility, okay❤️? "

god this is so good its chilling more of this nightow pls

Whua-?! Protect them from the other thugs. Sweet deal, isn't it?! And hey... Fail, and know that I have every intention to chase you down to the very depths of hell.

HBHRBHBRRBHRBR. so many things going on even in the EN version.

he also says family. i cant find this in the EN version but he does reciprocate the familial feelings Sheryl and Lina has towards him.... ;w; ... hhh.

[heich0e]

begin - nicholas wolfwood/f!reader (trigun) prequel to the poly!au, bounty hunters!au, wild west-ish, tw BLOOD/INJURIES, reader is patching up a bullet wound so warning for all the expected nastiness that entails, tw mentions of attemped assault (not reader and not in detail), mentions of sex work, gratuitous mentions of nico's stubble

BOUND - poly!au masterlist

You live in a nothing town, in the dead middle of nowhere, called The Bend.

It’s called that because a long time ago—long before your days, or your daddy’s days, or even your granddaddy’s days—there used to be a wide, rushing freshwater river snaking through the valley, and right where the town centre now sits is where it used to turn east to the far-away sea. 

But the river’s dried up now, and it took the green grass with it.

The sea is farther than you could ever hope to travel. 

And the B on the sign that marks the border into your dusty little nothing-nowhere town has rusted off and decayed away with the years, which means the only warning that any misguided traveller has to tell them where they’re heading is an ominous old sign, half-rotted, that reads:

Welcome to The  end.

It’s fitting, you think. An omen to give anyone who wanders within spitting distance of the border a final caution that they have one last chance to turn around. A choice to get out while they still can.

It’s a choice you never had.

You were born and raised in The Bend. Your blood runs thick with the dust that coats the decrepit old town. It’s all you’ve ever known, and all you ever will know; your beginning, your middle, and your miserable, inexorable end.

Because that’s the thing about The Bend: few people ever show up here and those who do aren’t stupid enough to stay. And the unfortunate few that are born from the dusty earth and dried up riverbeds, like you? Well, those ones never leave.

There’s some comfort to be taken from that, you suppose; a kind of stability that comes from monotony. From certain inevitability. Every day the same, unchanging. A familiarity to the nothingness of your little town, your little house, your little life.

But then, on a night just like any other, something changes.

One night, you meet him.

Nicholas isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, but he isn’t all that surprised either. 

There’s something kind of undeniably fitting about bleeding out in the middle of fucking nowhere, supported on either side by two of the finest prostitutes The Bend has to offer—and flanked by a handful more as the group guides him through the dark, dusty night.

The Bend isn’t the first hellhole town Nicholas has ever stumbled into. His line of work has brought him to more than his fair share of seedy dumps just like this one. Towns like this are the perfect place for someone to hide from the law after all, because not many people would bother to come looking for you in places that might as well not exist. Most bounty hunters don’t even know about this particular town, and they don’t care to learn, especially since half the maps on the market don’t even bother marking its sorry half-existence down.

But Nicholas isn’t like most bounty hunters.

That’s what brought him to The Bend.

There’s a vicious flash of lightning that suddenly forks through the sky overhead, lighting up the dim, depressing town and the dusty valley beyond it as brightly as the midday sun for just a blink. It’s followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that makes the packed earth under his unsteady feet tremble, and Nicholas knows that means the lightning’s closer than he cares for it to be.

“’s it gonna rain?” he slurs, tearing his eyes away from the sky and looking over to the woman supporting him on his right (or is that his left?)

He wracks his hazy, addled brain as he tries to remember her name. Starts with a V, he’s pretty sure. Victoria? Viola?

She snorts, her ruby rouged lips lifting at one painted corner. “Honey, it’s been almost five months since we’ve seen a drop of rain around here, and even then it was nothin’ to write home about. You just focus on puttin’ one boot in front of the other, and don’t go gettin’ your hopes up.” 

All at once, Nicholas is reminded of the burning pain in his arm; the searing, radiating agony of a bullet nestled deep into flesh. 

Oh. Right.

He got shot.

It’s not the first time he’s suffered a similar wound, nor will it likely be the last if he makes it through the night—God, or whatever all-knowing bastard’s out there, willing. That doesn’t make it any less of a miserable bitch to deal with, though.

How the hell did he get shot, again?

He ponders this question for a moment, reflecting on it through alcohol sodden introspection, and the answer comes back to him in bits and pieces as he keeps aimlessly shuffling along through the night.

The sound of heels clicking overhead at the town saloon—that’s the first thing he remembers. The clacking metronome of Big Annie’s working girls crossing the wooden floorboards of the brothel that operates above the only place in this awful little town to get a half-decent drink.

A drink. 

Yes, it was something bitter and dark—completely nauseating to presently even think about. It burned on the way down, and now it sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach as he walks. The girls had made him down the better part of a bottle after he’d been shot—to help with the pain, they’d said, and he’d been anything but reluctant to heed their advice—and he’d already had fair a few glasses earlier in the evening as he’d occupied his table in the corner of the bar on top of that. Panic had palpably sizzled between the women while they watched the tattered cloth Nicholas held to his arm ink steadily darker with scarlet in the lamplight of the old bar following the shooting—the tension building amongst them like the perspiration beading at his temple. They were bickering about something then.

No, not something.

Someone.

“We gotta take him to see Mama!” 

It was Charity who said that, he recalls—the pretty little thing with full lips and a mane of thick, curly hair that Nicholas had complimented the first time he ever saw her traipsing through the saloon. She can’t be a whole lot older than 20, and her voice is still high and childlike; even more so that particular evening as she stomped her foot petulantly, looking over at him with worry-filled eyes as she made her plea to the other girls watching him bleed out in the musty wooden booth.

“Mama won't want anything to do with this one.”

That was Violetta who’d replied to Charity’s fractious appeal. She’s one of the older girls who works for Big Annie at the brothel. She’s got a sort of seasoned air to her, with a husky rasp in her voice—like the sand that blows through the empty streets in town has roughened it. She’s still undeniably pretty, but she comes across a little tougher than the rest of them. Doing the job she does in a town like this one, Nicholas doesn’t blame her for it.

Violetta’s the one currently supporting his right side, leading him through the night towards the woman who’s supposed to be his saving grace.

Towards Mama.

But who the hell is that?

He’s sure he’s heard the name in passing while he’s been kicking around the town saloon between his work, nursing half-noxious drinks and flirting harmlessly here and there with Big Annie’s working girls—who seem to have taken a liking to lingering around his table between visits from johns. 

Nicholas wasn’t even supposed to be staying in The Bend long, only for a day or two to follow up on a bounty lead he’d caught wind of three towns over—but the lead went cold, and a few days turned into almost a week. Nevertheless, while his stay may have been extended, he just he never thought to ask any more questions about this mysterious matriarch all the working girls seemed to know so well and speak so highly of. But now, as those very same girls are dragging his half-conscious ass to the other side of town in search of this Mama, he wishes that maybe he’d dug a little deeper.

“Mama’s gonna get you all fixed up, handsome,” little Charity appears on Violetta’s other side, her eyes wide enough as she stares at him that they reflect the next flash of lightning as it rips through the dark of night. She looks worried, in spite of her words—even in his present state of drunkenness and blood loss fuelled delirium, he can tell that much. 

They all do. Even the toughest, Violetta—though she seems reluctant to let on as she stands stoically at his side and shoulders his flagging, stumbling weight. 

Charity nods, but it’s a gesture that seems more to reassure herself than anyone else. “Mama always takes care of us; she’ll have you good as new by morning.” 

Ah, so this woman must be a doctor of sorts—or as close to it as a shithole little town like this can offer.

It’s Nicholas’ turn to nod, a bobble of his cotton-filled head the only recognition he can muster to her words, as he just keeps staggering on under their guidance. He’s lucky that The Bend even has some kind of doctor to look after him, even if it’s just some old lady who looks after the saloon girls.

The unlikely group soon arrives at the doorstep of a little house at the edge of town—as slummy and dilapidated as all the rest of them—and Queenie, the girl who’d moments before been supporting Nicholas’s injured left side, raps sharply on the door.

“She’s not gonna answer,” Violetta mutters dourly under her breath, still at Nicholas’ right side.

“She will,” Charity counters with her arms crossed over her chest, punctuating the assertion with an indignant little huff for good measure. “Mama always answers when we come knockin’.”

But Nicholas worries for a moment—a long moment as the door stays firmly shut—that Violetta might just have a point. It’s the middle of the night after all, and this ‘Mama’ could very well be sleeping like any other reasonable person would be at this hour. 

Queenie knocks on the wooden door for a second time, this time with an open palm. This series of raps is a little louder. A little more insistent.

“Mama? It’s us! Open up!” she calls, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at Nicholas—who’s got his entire weight slumped over onto poor Violetta, now.

Nicholas is bleeding out on the front porch, and part of him still almost feels bad for waking up some poor, unsuspecting old—

The door flies open.

“What the hell do you want?”

Oh.

Nicholas knows that his eyes travel up your frame in a way that can only be considered wholly impolite. But he’s not really in his right mind, after all—or at least that’s what he tells himself as he justifies his immodest stare. He starts at the uneven cuffs of your paper-thin trousers, before climbing up, up, up your body to the tight white undershirt your wear—appreciating the way it clings to the curve of your waist and sits snug around your chest, and he particularly admires the pretty little edge of lace that frills around the neckline at your breasts. Finally, his gaze makes it to your face, and you look irritated to say the absolute least on the matter.

He’s not all that sure what he was expecting to find on the other side of the chipped paint of this shabby front door, but he can say with a steady hand to his foolhardy heart that it certainly wasn’t you.

For a moment, Nicholas is convinced they’ve got the wrong house—as improbable as that might be in a town as small as this one. At the very least, he waits for someone else to come to the door—a mother, or grandmother even—because surely you can’t be the one that these women have been calling—

“Mama! You gotta help us,” Queenie exclaims. She’s luckily perceptive enough to stick out her foot once she sees you fully process just what’s waiting for you outside, keeping the door jammed open with her heeled boot as you rush to slam it shut.

“I haven’t gotta do anything,” you counter sharply from around the edge of the door, your face pinching in a blatantly vexed expression at the way the woman is keeping it ajar.

Your eyes flicker over to Nicholas through the gap between the door and its frame, surveying him with a look of disdain that might just have been enough to offend him if he were a little more himself.

“Mama, he got shot!” Charity suddenly bursts into what can only be described as a spectacular display of tears—blubbering noisily between each word as she elbows her way through the group towards your door. She reaches across the threshold and desperately clutches at the front of your shirt with both hands as she pleads to you. “P-please let us in, y-you’re the only one who can h-he-help him.”

“Bertie, what in God’s merciful name is wrong with you?” you sigh aggrievedly, roughly batting her hands away from their grip on your clothes. In the next breath, you wrench open the front door to your home, stepping back to allow your unexpected visitors the space to cross through the doorway. “And cut the waterworks or you’re gonna wake up half The Bend and get us all shot.”

As the girls help Nicholas inside and across the gnarled, warped floorboards of your little house, you slip wordlessly away into another room out of sight. When you return moments later, you’ve pulled on a creased button-down over that pretty little undershirt of yours. 

Nicholas can’t help but notice that you’re dressed practically like a man, especially in comparison to the painted faces and petticoats of the other women in the room. But it strangely suits you, for reasons he can’t quite place.

“He got shot fightin’ some bozo tryin’ to rough up Ada on her way home,” Violetta explains when you look to her with an expression that demands context. She’s the most level-headed of the five woman gathered in your tiny home, so no one can blame you for turning to her first. 

Nicholas feels dizzy, the modest lamp-lit room around him reeling like a child’s toy spinning top gaining speed. 

Did he do that?

He remembers hearing something out back in the alley that runs behind the saloon and the inn when he went out to take a piss late into to the evening, well after it had dropped dark. He was already sufficiently drunk by that point, but there was no mistaking the sound of a woman putting up a fight the moment that he heard it. He followed the racket and found the pair quickly—on instinct more than anything—grabbing the drunken man by the scruff of the neck and hauling him off the poor girl he was trying to force himself on. In the ensuing scuffle, the man pulled a gun that Nicholas wasn’t expecting. With his senses drink-dulled, he didn’t react quickly enough to miss the shot entirely and caught it in his arm—but he’s lucky the guy had such terrible aim to begin with, or the night could have turned out a whole lot worse.

But who’s this Ada? He thought the girl he’d helped’s name was Priscilla—having met her a few times in the saloon. She was always quieter than the rest of them, a little more reserved. She didn’t say much to anyone from what Nicholas had witnessed in his time spent in The Bend. But Ada’s not the first name he’s heard since showing up at your door that’s unfamiliar to him.

“You've got a lot of nerve dragging some no-good, half-cocked brute to my door like this in the middle of the damn night, Sarah Jane,” you hiss through your teeth, your eyes flickering from Violetta over to Nicholas once more.

Violetta snorts, but offers no argument.

“Please, Mama,” Priscilla (or is it Ada? Nicholas can’t keep track anymore) says quietly, though her tone is unmistakably earnest. It’s the first time she’s said anything since the girls came stumbling through your door with the injured man propped between them. First time he remembers her saying anything at all—at least other than when he heard her screaming and chased off the scum that was hassling her.

Your attention suddenly turns to where Priscilla stands just off near the corner of the little room, with Theodosia (another one of Big Annie’s working girls) at her side with a comforting arm looped around her waist. It’s not hard to see the way the woman trembles as she holds her shawl around her shoulders. She’s got a bad scrape across her cheek, and her lip is split—evidence of the ordeal she’d gone through earlier in the evening. Her skin still looks clammy and sallow from the shock. 

Your expression softens as you contemplate her.

“C’mere, Adaline,” you beckon to her, reaching out a hand. “Step into the light and let me take a look at you.”

She approaches you without any reservation, and you carefully inspect her wounds after taking her face gently in your hands. A long, resigned sigh slips from your lips once a moment has passed, having turned her face this way and that to fully scrutinize her condition. You look around at the women gathered in your home, and the man slumping between them, then your head hangs in defeat. Your hand lifts to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Bertie, go grab my bag from my room. Georgie, fetch some clean water from the basin in the kitchen.”

Charity and Theodosia move briskly once you’ve issued the order—like they don’t want to give you the opportunity to change your mind.

Nicholas finds it a little funny how easily these women yield to you, though most seem to be your seniors—you’re just a scrappy young thing, only a few years into your adulthood if he had to guess. As he watches you, he sees that you carry yourself with a  certain quality that’s beyond your years—every action and word steeped with a sort of weary assuredness that you haven’t even lived long enough to properly earn. 

He watches you move with the grace of a woman, and listens to you speak with the authority of a man—and It could be the blood loss talking, but Nicholas thinks you might just be the most interesting thing he’s stumbled upon in this god-forsaken little town.

“You’re a doctor?”

You freeze, your head snapping in his direction when you finally hear him speak.

Your lip curls and you bare your teeth to him, and Nicholas is suddenly reminded of those city cats that wander the back alleys in Julai, hissing with their hackles raised when you happen across their path.

“Do I look like a doctor to you?” you sneer at him derisively.

For some unplaceable reason, Nicholas almost wants to laugh—the sensation bubbling up in his stomach in the wake of your harsh words.

(Though, that might just be the liquor.)

“Her daddy was a doctor,” Queenie whispers to him quietly as she and Violetta help Nicholas up onto the wooden table at the centre of the room at your instruction, leaning him back until he’s laid flat across it with a grunt. “Only one The Bend’s seen in the last 80 years."

“Prudence, you better shut your damn mouth if you want me to do anything about this mess,” you snap without looking up, busy rifling through the ancient leather medicine bag that Charity just dragged in from the other room.

You tend to Priscilla first, fixing her up with a compress on her cheek and a salve for the cut on her lip. She’s not the most desperate case in the room, but no one tries to turn your attention to the man on the table until you’re good and ready to do so of your own accord—a unanimous, though entirely unspoken, pact of silence lest your precarious agreement to help be withdrawn. Once you’re satisfied that the woman’s been sufficiently looked after, leaving her once more in the dutiful care of Theodosia, you finally turn to Nicholas.

The lamplight is fairly dim, even though you’ve moved it closer to the table to help illuminate your work—and there’s very little oil in the grimy reservoir of the glass lamp to keep it burning.

You approach him slowly.

“You a lefty?” you ask him, plunking yourself down in the wooden chair nearest to his injured left arm.

“Luckily not,” he slurs, his head lolling over to look at you as you sit beside him at the table.

“Luckily?” You huff, and Nicholas thinks that maybe it’s as close to a laugh as someone as mirthless as you ever gets. “You must not’ve heard: luck left The Bend years ago, and it’s not coming back.”

Nicholas really does find himself laughing then in the face of your plain, bur distinctly dour expression—and he immediately winces as a sharp pain shoots through him from the strain of trying to hold it back.

Your eyes survey the sopping, blood-soaked handkerchief he’s holding to his injury, then you lean over towards the medicine bag and begin digging through it again. He watches as you pull out an inhumanely large needle and some thread.

“Clear out, ladies,” you remark flatly to the group of onlookers without glancing up from the contents of the bag before you. “None of you are gonna wanna see this.”

The girls delay momentarily even after you bark out the order, as though worried that once they leave the room your willingness to help may exit with them.

You lift your face in their direction, some gauze and a corked flask of an indistinguishable transparent liquid in hand. Your lips pull down noticeably at the corners when you see the way the women are hesitating. “Go on, then. I’m making this exception for you once, and never again. Get Ada back home safe, and then the rest of you oughta do the same.”

Still, no one seems keen to heed your words.

You and Violetta share a pointed look, and it’s clear your patience—hardly-there to begin with—has worn dangerously thin.

“Alright, whores—clear out!” the older woman says, turning on her heel and corralling Queenie, Charity, Priscilla, and Theodosia towards the door with her arms outstretched. “Unless one of y’all are keen to be the next one who needs stitchin'!”

It takes a moment to get everyone moving—Charity in particular putting up more of a fight than the rest of them—but eventually Violetta succeeds in ushering them out. She casts one final glance back from the doorway, and Nicholas catches the exchange of almost imperceptible nods of thanks between you.

It’s unbearably quiet once they’re gone.

You move swiftly but silently, and set to work without a single word exchanged between you and the man stretched across your table. Without hesitating, you drag a thin blade in two strokes up the front of Nicholas’s bloodstained shirt—one cut along the torso and then another up the sleeve—and then pull off whatever’s in your way. You don’t so much as bat an eye as the tanned skin of his chest and abdomen is suddenly bared; there’s no distinguishable emotion or thought on your face that Nicholas can make out, but he’s also fairly distracted as he bites back the groans of pain that threaten to slip out each time you jostle his injured arm too roughly. 

Next, you begin cleaning the surface of the wound—as best you can given that it’s still unstitched—in preparation to fish out and remove the bullet still stuck inside. That little flask from earlier has some sort of antiseptic in it, which Nicholas discerns by the acrid smell and unbearable burning that rips through him as you let it trickle over the open gouge in his skin. He cries out as it happens, and the sound even takes him by surprise—guttural and completely instinctive.

“Don’t be a baby,” you sniff, dabbing away at the blood and antiseptic around his wound with some clean gauze.

“Sorry,” Nicholas mumbles through his panting breaths, pressing his opposite hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep himself quiet.

Your eyes flicker up to his briefly in the wake of his apology, and your gazes meet. You’re the first to look away after the momentary hold.

Next, you tip the flask into your hands, coating your palms in the stinging, astringent antiseptic. The lamplight catches in the little droplets as you shake them from your fingertips.

“My daddy told me once that doctors have to tell lies to keep their patients calm,” you say quietly, your lips pursing forward as you wrap one cool hand underneath his bicep. “Said that it’s just part of the job.”

You suck in a little breath, meeting his gaze briefly once more.

He can’t help but think your eyes look pretty when the light reflects in them like this. 

“But I’m no doctor—and this is gonna hurt like fresh hell.”

Outside your rickety little house on the edge of this forgotten, nowhere town, another peal of thunder roars.

You don’t often patch up bullet holes.

In fact, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve tried.

But you’re not a professional, and you’ve never claimed to be; you’re just a doctor’s daughter who used to follow her father on his rounds through town, helping out whenever and wherever it was needed. Unavoidably, you learned some things along the way—like treatments, and time-honoured remedies, and how to sew a stitch so it won’t pucker when it scars—but you’re about as far as anyone could be from trained. You’ve got no education beyond your reading, writing, and basic arithmetic—what little education the school house in town could offer you until you just stopped going altogether—and your experience is limited only to the care you offer to Big Annie’s girls: whether it’s cleaning up the messes left by their particularly nasty customers or treating them as best you can when they fall ill. 

You don’t bother telling any of this to the man bleeding all over your table, though. You doubt it would do him much good.

Daddy used to deal with gunshot wounds all the time. They’re about a dime a dozen in a town like The Bend, after all, where tempers are high and spirits are low—not to mention where the men outnumber the women by about ten-to-one. 

And if there’s one thing you know about men, it’s that they all love slinging guns but less than half of them ought to be allowed to—because it always leads to injuries like this. It’s rarely ever women who walk around town getting themselves shot.

But in spite of all that, and your lack of experience, you watched your father go through the motions frequently enough that the movements come to you now like second nature: disinfect, remove, keep pressure, suture, bandage. You know the order of things, and you find your mind clear and your hands steady as you set to work—starting by cleaning him up as best you can to prepare to extract the bullet. 

You can see the very butt of it in peeking out from inside his ugly wound; a pesky little thing, slick with blood that catches in the light when his arm twitches towards the lamp. It’s not nestled too deep in there, thankfully, and he’ll probably be fine if he lets it heal properly—but it’ll still hurt like a bitch to pull out. 

But that’s his problem, not yours.

Unfortunately, you don’t have a pair of tweezers you trust to pluck the bullet out—at least not a pair that isn’t rusty—so your god-given tools will have to be what you use for the undertaking. You disinfect your hands as best you can before you begin.

“Would you stop squirming?” you mutter under your breath as the man on your table flinches the first time your fingers graze his open wound.

“Sorry,” he mumbles back, and your eyes flicker up to his face again briefly. 

This man keeps apologizing to you. 

It’s unsettling.

His dark eyes are heavy lidded, but you can still sense them tracing along the lines of your face as you work. There’s visible sweat beading at his temple as he lies flat on his back atop the wooden table in the centre of your home, and his bare chest rises and falls with heavy, laboured breaths that shake every so often on the exhale—the lamplight at your side catches in the perspiration glistening there too, near the little smattering of hair that sits at the highest point of his sternum.

This guy—this stranger who’s bleeding all over the table you eat your meals on—really pisses you off.

He’s got an awful lot of nerve to show up here in the middle of the night, looking for your help after he went and got himself shot. A small part of you knows that’s not entirely fair to think, because he got shot helping Adaline and it was the girls who’d brought him to you in the first place, but you still can’t help but be resentful. 

You feel yourself frown.

Your fingertips dip inside the wet heat of his wound for the first time, and he lets out a gasping, wretched groan from deep in the centre of his chest—so loud it almost makes you flinch.

“Don’t pass out,” you warn him flatly, pinning his injured arm more firmly to the table and prodding further in as you try to get a grip on the evasive little bullet with the very tips of your fingers. “You’re dead weight if you’re unconscious, and I’ll drag you outta this house in parts if I have to.”

“Noted,” the dark-haired man says through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as he attempts to stomach the pain.

You don’t have anything to offer him to dull the sensation—though you’re not sure you’d waste something so precious on him even if you did. After a while, and a bit more poking and prodding, he seems to acclimatize to the agony anyway. 

Or at the very least he gets better at masking it.

“I’m Nicholas, by the way,” he grits out after a while of you unsuccessfully trying to remove the bullet—frequently having to pause and wipe away the blood that’s continued to seep from the wound, slicking you down to your wrist. It stains the cuff of your shirtsleeve now, and you regret ever pulling it on to begin with, because you know it will be a nightmare to pound out in the wash.

“Didn’t ask.”

“I know,”—miraculously, he manages to laugh a bit, even as you’ve got two fingers digging around inside his arm—“just thought I’d tell ya anyway.”

You don’t bother replying, your eyes honed in solely on the task at bloody hand.

“‘M grateful for your help, y’know. Even if it’s just an exception,” the man—Nicholas—slurs next, his head tipping to the side on your kitchen table. You can tell that he’s talking, if nothing else, to distract himself. A lonely bead of sweat drips down his throat as he looks at you. “It’s awfully nice of ya to take pity on a no-good brute like me, Mama.”

You feel a crick of irritation tighten in your jaw then, as he parrots your earlier words back to you. Your fingers, still poking around to retrieve the bullet in his shoulder, twitch—and you aren’t sure the gesture is entirely involuntary. The man on the table before you yelps, flinching away from the pain, and you lean closer with your eyes still fixed on the wound piercing his skin.

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss through the dull scrape of your teeth grinding tightly together.

Nicholas lifts his right hand to his mouth, curled into a fist, and his pearly teeth bite down hard into the flesh at the base of his thumb as he pants through the pain. You finally, mercifully, manage to get a grip on that damned bullet, plucking it out and tossing it into the waiting dish atop the table with a delicate, terribly anticlimactic clink. You swiftly press a pad of clean gauze to the wound to staunch the bleeding while you reach for the stitching needle you left set off to the side.

“Hold this,” you order him, and the man lets his hand slip from the bite of his jaw to do as he’s told while you rifle through the bag at your feet. You can see the marks his teeth left in his skin as he takes the gauze from your hand into his own and begins to apply pressure.

You stand and wash your hands off as best you can in the basin of water Georgie brought in for you earlier, poised at the end of the table. The liquid tints pink as you first dip them in, and then slowly it turns an even darker, uglier colour as you properly scrub his blood from your skin. You shake as much of the water off your hands as you can, and then use the front of your shirt to sop up the rest—faintly rust-tinged handprints left in the cotton.

You take your seat once more, and Nicholas watches you through mostly-closed eyes as you set about sterilizing the needle.

“How come I can’t call you that?” 

You light a candle using the lamp at your side. Then you swish the needle around in antiseptic before running it through the flickering flame until it sparks—careful not to let it lick too close to your fingertips. Your eyes slide over to Nicholas as you pluck it from the fire.

With his face tilted towards you, another little drop of sweat has tracked down his cheek towards his prominent nose, and it glistens against his flushing skin in the warm light of your oil lamp. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, too—from what you don’t doubt is the combination of pain and whatever booze he’s been guzzling to numb it—and lips part on a shuddering exhalation as you survey his face.

“Call me what?” you mutter, averting your eyes and turning again to search through your medicine bag for a clean roll of bandage.

“Ma—” A sudden, harsh glare cuts him off before he even has the chance to say it. He smiles a little, the expression half-delirious, and you can’t help but think that if he weren’t so weakened from the pain that wracks him, he might have even managed another laugh.

You kiss your teeth quietly. “Only the girls call me that.”

The man bleeding out in the middle of your table clearly knows your tone of voice means not to push it, because he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his head until he’s staring up at your dingy ceiling once more, though you can tell from the faraway look in his eyes he’s not seeing much at all. 

“The girls,” Nicholas remarks quietly, speaking more to himself than anything. “You don’t call ‘em by their names.”

That’s right: he’d only know the girls by their working names. You’re surprised he even caught that.

“The hell I don’t,” you mutter, turning back to face him in your seat once more with your last roll of bandage clutched tightly in your hand. You set it down atop the table as you set your supplies up just how you like them. “I call them by the names their mothers gave them.”

Nicholas hums thoughtfully. “Sarah Jane, that’s Violetta?”

You grunt out an affirmative, threading the freshly cleaned needle with nimble, dextrous accuracy. 

“And Charity, her real name’s Bertie?”

“Bertha May,” you correct him, snipping away the excess thread with a little pair of mostly-dull scissors—careful not to take more than you’ll need, but still giving yourself sufficient supply to work with.

“Priscilla’s name’s Adaline,” Nicholas continues, his eyes still tracing the cracks in your ceiling. “And what about Theodosia and Queenie?” 

“Georgina and Prudence,” you supply flatly as you secure a tight knot in the end of the stitching thread.

Nicholas sighs before slurring, “’s a lot to keep track of.”

You snort. “Wait until you find out Big Annie’s real name.”

He looks over at you with wider eyes than you’ve seen on him since he came staggering through your door. He catches the expression on your face and his own softens, clearly sensing that you’d said it only in jest. 

Annie’s just short for Annabelle, after all. Madam’s rarely need to take up new personas—why would they need to be someone they’re not if they aren’t the ones doing the dirty work?

Nicholas watches as you tug on the stitching thread one last time to test its strength—eying the glinting needle warily. You set the threaded implement carefully off to the side once you’re confident it’s ready.

“So you learned all this stuff from your daddy, huh?” he asks you next.

You swallow over the unpleasant lump you suddenly feel in the back of your throat and reach up, nudging his hand away from where he’s holding the gauze to his wound. He’s become a real chatterbox now, and part of you wonders why you’re even tolerating it.

You clean the area with antiseptic again—and Nicholas is just as dramatic as he was the first time as a low moan of pain tears through him. For a moment you worry he really might be on the brink of passing out, the whites of his eyes taking over as they begin to roll back, so you know you need to keep him focused.

“He used to take me with him on his rounds,” you mumble a reply to his earlier question. 

Nicholas’s eyes open a bit wider when he hears your voice, a little more focused now than they had been.

“My daddy, I mean,” your tone is dismissive and flippant, but it seems to be an effective distraction. “I just picked things up here and there while I watched him work.”

“You’re a natural.”

You snort mirthlessly in the wake of his reply. “Don’t know about all that.”

“You just pulled a bullet outta my arm with your bare hands, that’s gotta count for something.” Nicholas hisses as you press the antiseptic-soaked gauze to his wound one last time, then he sucks in a sharp breath. “And the girls trust you a lot, so you must be good at it.”

“Somebody’s gotta take care of them.” 

Lord knows no one else around here does.

You set the scarlet saturated gauze aside in the dish with the discarded bullet, then pick up your needle.

You make neat, even sutures through his skin, and you take your time to do it right. You’ve always been good at this kind of thing, even when you were young. You were born with a keen eye for detailed work like this, and your daddy used to get you to finish up the smaller wounds he was called to treat that needed finer stitching—said your little hands were just better at it than his own big, life-roughened ones. He always used to tell you that you got your steady hands from him, but your nimble fingers from your mother.

Not that you’d know anything about that.

Nicholas has stopped flinching now, a little more relaxed than he’d previously been, and you can’t help but look up at him every so often as you work—wondering if that steady, even rise and fall of his chest means that he’s finally knocked out. Especially since he’s suddenly gone so quiet. 

But each time you check, you find his eyes are still open—though only just barely—and are peering up towards the ceiling. Sometimes you catch him glancing at you too.

Once the wound has been fully closed in a tidy little line of stitches, you wrap the roll of bandages around it with some gauze tucked underneath, just in case.

“You’re all done,” you say quietly, slumping back in your chair once you’re finally finished.

All at once, you feel exhausted—the adrenaline you didn’t even know had been rushing through you disappearing in a blink. It reminds you of how the wind dies in the valley in the wake of a bad storm, like it took the breeze with it. You’re all too conscious of the fact that it’s the middle of the night now, and that you ought to long be asleep.

“Thank you,” Nicholas says as he pushes himself up onto the elbow of his uninjured arm, though he still winces at the movement. You don’t make any attempt to help him.

His shirt is in pieces, and he discards it since it’s of so little use to him now, shaking his right arm to free it from the only sleeve that remains in tact on the garment. You watch as he pushes himself fully upright, throwing his long legs over the side of the table to stand. When he does, he dips slightly—like the sudden movement makes him woozy, and his knees are weak—and his right hand shoots out to balance himself on the edge of the tabletop on instinct. You suppose it’s not unexpected given the amount of blood he lost.

You watch his toned, tanned back as he stretches himself out as much as his injury will allow; observing how his skin pulls taught over the defined musculature that surrounds his spine. He’s littered with scars—a map of wounds that weren’t stitched as neatly as the new one on his upper arm—and part of you can’t help but wonder how he got them all. Can’t help but wonder what stories those marks tell, written in a language you don’t know how to read.

You look away, feeling an inexplicable heat flood rapidly to your cheeks.

You stand and quickly slip off your own overshirt—just some old button-up left behind from your father, though you have no memories of him ever wearing it. You clutch it in your fist and stick it out for him to take.

He eyes it in surprise for a moment before accepting it.

“Those blood stains are yours, anyway. You might as well have it,” you say, eyeing the red mark at the cuff on the right-hand sleeve as the garment passes from your hold into his, “in any case it’s in better shape than the one you came here with.” 

It saves having to clean it, too. So it’s all the same to you.

“I’ll pay you,” he slurs, still unsteady on his feet as he begins rifling awkwardly through his pockets with his only useable hand. He almost tips right over in his haste, but you quickly slip beside him and steady his frame.

“Yeah, you will,” you agree, holding tight to his right arm to keep him standing. “Worry about it tomorrow.”

Nicholas’ bare skin radiates warmth with only your thin, lace-trimmed undershirt left separating you as you stand pressed into his side. He peers down at you curiously, blinking slowly like he’s being called to sleep. From this close, with him standing properly upright for the first time, you realize just how big this man is—tall, with a broad chest and defined muscles, and stubble dusted along his sharp jawline that you hadn’t noticed before. You take a sudden step away to put much needed distance between the two of you, these realizations making something stir in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel squeamish. 

“Do you know your way back to the inn?” you ask him, your arms crossing over your front.

Nicholas bobs his head in a completely unconvincing nod. It’s not like the town is big enough to get lost in in the first place—and he very well might know his way if it were daylight, or he weren’t half delirious—but sending him out into The Bend in his current state would be as much of a death sentence as it would have been to turn him away when he first showed up at your door. 

You sigh in resignation.

“Just sleep on the floor here for tonight. I’ll check your stitches again tomorrow morning before you leave.”

The man looks taken aback, but he nods quickly—as though he doesn’t want to give you time to rescind the unexpected offer.

You fish around in the depths of your father’s old medicine bag, eventually pulling out a bottle of murky liquid as Nicholas gets settled with an old cushion and a threadbare quilt near the unlit hearth of the fireplace. You use the edge of your nail to uncork it, take a quick whiff to make sure it’s the right one, and then tread towards the man on the other side of the room.

He peers up at you from his makeshift bed on the floor, resting with his knees apart and his long legs sprawled out in front of him. You pass the little glass bottle to him, your fingers brushing as it passes from your grip into his. “Drink this, it helps to fight off infection.”

He eyes it warily. The outside of the bottle is suspiciously grimy, and the putrid colour of the liquid inside is no less reassuring. “What is it?”

“Hog Fennel.”

He grimaces, peeking into the opening of the bottle with one eye closed. “Sounds foul.”

You snort. “It is."

Nicholas doesn’t draw it out any longer, tipping the vial back an draining it all in one shot. He winces once he swallows it down, his pink tongue peeking out a little as he pants through the taste—which you’re sure is bitter and disgusting.

“How was it?” you ask him wryly.

“I’ve had worse, honestly,” he says, shooting you a little grin you can’t believe he’s able to manage not only in the wake of such a disgusting concoction but considering what he’s been through that night.

You blink, your brow furrowing, and then eventually nod dismissively before turning and shuffling off towards the other side of the room where the door to your bedroom is found.

“Thank you.” 

Nicholas speaks again as you’re just shy of crossing the threshold into your room, you consider pausing in your shock but then think better of it.

“You already said that,” you reply, your tone annoyed, and shut the door behind you.

You open it again a second later to poke your head back out towards him.

“I’ve got a gun in here, by the way, and I won’t miss. Just in case you were thinking of trying anything funny.”

Across the room, Nicholas is already laying down on his pitiful excuse of a resting place, looking strangely content.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smile, though his eyes stay closed.

Part of you is annoyed at how comfortable he seems. How easily he talks to you. How normal his presence feels in your home.

Another part of you—one that’s deeper, locked away and hidden out of sight in a place where you think you’ve lost they key—isn’t.

You slip back into your room and close the door behind you with a soft click. 

And in the silent stillness of your little bedroom with your shoulder blades pressed back into your bedroom door, you realize that the thunder outside has stopped but you can hear the softest, faintest pitter patter of raindrops through cracked glass of your window.

Rain came back to The Bend.

Maybe luck would follow.

[trigun-manga-overhaul]

I've always been meaning to ask- It's generally known that Wolfwood has a Kansai dialect in the original Japanese, which you've chosen to localize in English, but what I'm curious about is: does Livio have any sort of dialect or accent in Japanese as well? It seems the way he speaks in your translation has a some of the same quirks as Wolfwood, so that really got me curious.

Hey there and thanks for the ask!

Yes, it is 100% clear in the Japanese text that Wolfwood speaks with a Kansai accent. I remember reading in an interview long ago that Nightow imagined this accent to be southern or very cowboy in English, but I do not have it on hand so I can't back it up. Either way, we decided to go with the southern twang for Wolfwood, to ensure that his distinct speech prevails.

Now, Livio is a very interesting one with his language, as it goes through a metamorphosis during the time he has in the manga. It changes a lot, and that goes hand in hand with his character arc.

The first very obvious change that happens to Livio's speech, is his move from very polite, controlled and submissive speech as we meet him. Obviously this reflects his position as a pawn to the Eye of Michael. The key factors in this are the lack of dialect and his usage of "私, Watashi" to refer to himself.

This changes as he becomes Razlo.

Razlo's speech is pretty distinct. No, he does not have a thick Kansai dialect like Wolfwood, but he does pronounce words in certain ways. His speech is the kind that Japanese people would describe as vulgar; low class, gang-like. Razlo is a punk in every sense of the word when it comes to how he talks, both in the pronouns used towards other character, always the most hostile ones you can pick, and always speaks in a disrespectful manner towards anyone who isn't Chapel. This is also where we see "俺, Ore" used towards himself, a pronoun considered rude, or very masculine, if not used casually with your close friends.

When Livio is finally freed from Chapel and the Eye of Michael, he transforms more into his true self. He begins to use "俺, Ore" towards himself, his speech becomes more casual, occasionally playful, but also with some force. This is where it gets interesting.

Livio's speech pattern is reminiscent of the Japanese masculine stereotype of the Kyushu Danji, the macho man, or as would be perceived in the West, a core picture of toxic masculinity. However, since this is Nightow we're talking about, the idea is turned on its head.

Livio, despite being portrayed as a big, muscly, tough guy in almost every way he can be, is instead called Crybaby Livio. His emotions are on the outside, he's gentle, loving, and polite towards women. He even tries to imitate Meryl's very proper speech when he meets her, wanting to be respectful. He is everything that a Kyushu Danji isn't, yet speaks a lot like such a person when it comes to the patterns of his speech.

On the topic of this trope; Wolfwood tries his hardest to be a person like that, a Kyushu Danji, and it causes him mostly suffering. Wolfwood is indeed a victim of toxic masculinity himself, which makes it very interesting how this behavior is portrayed in the series. One suffers because of it, another turns the whole trope on its head and gives us the opposite.

Just more of those tiny Nightow things that I personally very much appreciate, especially for its time.

The short answer:

Livio does not exactly have the same written dialect in the manga like Wolfwood, however his speech is supposed to be crude, and "low class", something the Japanese often connect with the Kansai dialect. So, we decided on the team to give Livio a similar dialect to Wolfwood.

[goldenteaset]

(After many edits and sitting on this for months...)

I think the shortest answer I can give to the whole "Legato's abuse has defined him too much to even consider what he'd be like otherwise in an AU" is:

Fair enough, but I feel we're supposed to try. I feel to assume Legato or anyone is wholly defined by what happened in their past only dehumanizes them further, and they shouldn't be denied that opportunity to grow and move on, even if that growth is painful. As a fictional character, where he's bound only by our imaginations, why should Legato lose out on this chance?

The nature of fandom, especially "transformative" fandom, is just that: taking what canon gave us and recontextualizing it, doing new things with it, having fun. Legato as a character is ripe for this. Rather than having him be static, it's just more fun to imagine what he'd be like if saved by someone else, if he didn't need saving at all, if he had parents who loved him, while still keeping the core of his character intact.

And for the record, these are the things I personally consider core to Legato's character:

Resilient and stubborn, able to defy death itself if it means he can achieve his goals.

A strong sense of justice/vengeance.

An intense hatred for bullies, or the sadistic preying on the weak.

Relating to that, a dark sense of humor.

('98 specific?) Loyalty to his comrades.

(Also '98 specific, might become prominent in Stampede) A philosophical streak.

If these sound a lot like some traits Wolfwood has, that's because they are, and Wolfwood also has a history of child abuse and murder and changed his ways upon meeting Vash. (So did Razlo, for that matter.)

On that note, I think it's worth specifying that "the ticket to the future is always blank" isn't something the narrative forces Vash to let go of, it's the pacifism and pretending he isn't a Plant. Even that guy who kidnapped Lina during Vash's Ericks era, who seemed so unlikeable, became a member of the community going by that one panel in Maximum. The future being open means that Vash's "tickets" can also be refused, and taken up again at one's will. Change is always possible in Trigun.

And re: "why do we see Legato's legitimately terrible past on the page, then?", I feel the answer is as simple as "Nightow wanted to show that Legato is human, and that his choices come from a painfully human place". He isn't a Plant, and he's not a slavering mindless beast despite his efforts to appear so, he's Legato Bluesummers and there were a hundred coincidences and choices that led him to fighting Vash on the Ark that we can mess with.

(Or atop that canyon in '98. I chose '98!Legato for Ligature for a reason, namely because compared to Trimax!Legato he has those positive traits + a blatant sense of guilt. Thus, it makes more sense for Vash's influence to rub off on him a little when he's young.)

That there are so many ways to interpret Legato, especially ones you don't agree with, is a sign that he's an incredibly well-written character. I just feel that his blank ticket is in our hands and it'd be a shame not to cash it in for him from time to time, you know?