liquorcooked

[liquorcooked]

HI LOVELIES! I’m sorry for the inactivity! If you have any requests feel free to drop them in the comments or send them my way :]

I’ve been busy but I should be able to get some stuff churned out soon.

[liquorcooked]

My fav photo lately

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burnt out from writing lolol

[liquorcooked]

Knives is a horrible barista (knives x reader)

trigun knives x reader. (no version of knives in my mind! pick whichever you'd like!)

tags: coffee shop au, barista!knives, slow build. He's kinda rude but your drink is perfect every time, wc; 500 (a short one :D)

You just happened to show up at the same time every weekday -- well almost the same time at 6:50 am -- because it's the only place near your train stop that opens early enough for your schedule is a nondescript little cafe, which feels less like a business and more like a dare.

The drinks are great, the barista's a nightmare. He's the worst barista you've ever met. No smile. No eye contact. Eyes that make you feel like you’ve personally offended him just by existing. Minimal conversation. He never wears a nametag, never smiles, never says more than he has to. He hates everyone, and it's probably mutual. But your order is always perfect, he knows your order and recites it with a bored expression before you even finish speaking.

Perfect every time, always just the right temperature. You don't know how he gets it right without the milk curdling, but you're not about to ask.

The first time he said it aloud -- your drink -- it caught you off guard.

He just handed it to you, he didn't ask for your name hence the blank stare. Didn't clarify anything, just rattled it off like he'd memorized it accidentally and resented that fact deeply.

You almost felt guilty accepting the cup. Almost.

Now it's routine. Kind of. He never smiles at you, but something always passes between you two when your fingers brush against the cardboard sleeve. It was cold, but familiar.

One time you had shown earlier than usual, so you had time to sit by the window. It was one where he could see you from behind the counter. He never really looked directly at you, but you swear you caught him glancing for a second, almost as if he was checking that you were still there.

The rest of the cafe was empty. Short glances that you're not just some figment of a bad dream, or worse, a good one.

You wonder if he prefers it that way, the silence, the stillness. You can sort of see it in his shoulders the way they sit a little lower when he doesn't have to pretend.

He slides your drink to your table without a word. It wasn't... careless, just intentional.

You linger longer than usual, maybe it's the cold, or the way your fingers ache from the wind outside. Maybe it's the fact that he hasn't pulled away yet either.

Glancing up from the drink in your hands, he squints at you. Then, quietly, he nods towards the seat next to you.

"Can I sit," he says, flatly. It didn't really sound like a question.

Barely having the time to nod, he sits there. Two people, a too-hot drink, and the strange hush of a city just waking up. You take a sip, and it's still perfect. It always is.

You stay, and so does he, and somehow it felt more than enough on this quiet morning.

[liquorcooked]

you: so who's the older twin?

vergil: me. whatever could make you think that *points to dante* could ever have been the older twin? quickly.

dante: *eating a strawberry sundae by using his teeth and tongue becuase he couldn't be bothered to find a spoon, smearing it all over his face and looking goofy doing so*

you: ...point taken.

[liquorcooked]

Sorry for the recent inactivity! Some stuff in store are some knives drabbles and a piece maybe for dmc!!

[liquorcooked]

Record Store Saturdays (vash)

Pairing: Vash x Reader. Knives shows up for a bit of it!. No specific version in mind! tags: record/cd store AU, knives is a good older brother maybe, soft its so soft JUST pure fluff, maybe knives isn't as bad as he makes out to be lol

summary: you share Saturday shifts with vash at the local record/cd store, one weekend Knives walks in unannounced

Saturday mornings at Needle Drop are slow and sunlit, littered with old paper and burnt coffee. The bell above the door jingles as you walk in. Behind the counter, Vash is fighting a losing battle with the register and a pile of newly delivered CDs. There’s a Sharpie tucked behind one ear, stickers stuck to his palms, and a paper cup of coffee balanced precariously on a tower of jewel cases. He looks up when he hears the door, and his whole face lights up like you’ve just walked out of a dream and into his day.

He sees you and nearly drops everything. “Hey, hey, you made it!”

You smile, already slipping your jacket off, the smell of dust, plastic, and coffee grounding you in a way you don’t question anymore. “You said you'd alphabetize the jazz section last night.”

“I did!” he says, too quickly. Then pauses. “Well… I got as far as Herbie Hancock and then I kinda—uh—got distracted by a documentary on Japanese jazz fusion and then I accidentally fell asleep listening to it.”

You smirk. “So, no.”

“No,” he admits, grinning sheepishly. “But you’re here now, and that means the place might actually function today.”

You shake your head, but it’s affectionate. Vash is chaos wrapped in warmth — a sunbeam of a person who never stops moving but always somehow makes time to ask if you’ve eaten, if you’re sleeping okay, if the mix CD he made you actually played in your ancient car.

Because, of course, he’s been making you mix CDs.

One every week, always waiting on the counter when you show up for your weekend shifts. The tracklists are chaotic: dreamy shoegaze ballads smashed against spaghetti western scores, sad folk songs with instrumental covers of video game music, and one that was just 30 minutes of lo-fi beats with cat meows layered in. Every case is decorated with doodles — suns with sunglasses, stick figures, little speech bubbles that say things like “For your ears only!” or “SUPERIOR TASTE IN MUSIC!!! >:)”

You pretend not to treasure them. He pretends not to watch your face every time you press play.

The day unfolds slowly. You settle into the familiar rhythm — you at the bins, fixing the alphabetized chaos he always leaves behind; Vash bouncing between tasks with that restless energy that keeps him in motion even when nothing’s urgent. The occasional customer drifts in, buys a used album, and drifts out again.

Sometimes, when the shop’s empty, he dances down the aisles with a mop like it’s a partner. He’s all limbs and laughter, and you’d call him ridiculous if it didn’t make your chest ache.

Then one Saturday, Knives walks in.

The chime rings and the air shifts.

Vash freezes mid-spin, mop in hand, as if he’s just seen a ghost. You look up from a crate of alphabetized Bowie albums and see a tall man, sharply dressed, black suit, black shirt, platinum-blond hair slicked back like he walked out of a boardroom into a fever dream. He carries himself like someone who doesn’t belong here, who knows it, and chooses not to care.

“Nai,” Vash says, voice cautious but not unkind. He shoots you a glance and mouths "my brother" to you, to which you vigorously nod your head indicating that you knew.

Knives doesn’t respond. Just walks to the back corner, scans the rock section like he’s assessing structural damage, and pulls out Disintegration by The Cure. He examines the tracklist, flips the case once, then carries it to the counter.

You and Vash share a glance.

“Didn’t know you liked that one,” Vash says as he rings it up.

“I don’t,” Knives replies, sliding a card across the counter.

It’s so deadpan you almost laugh. He glances at you then — quick and surgical, like he’s scanning for weak points. You hold the stare. He says nothing. But something flickers in his eyes. Not disdain. Not quite curiosity. As Vash hands him the receipt, Knives finally glances at you. Eyes pale, unreadable. “You organize this place?”

You nod. “Try to.”

He hums. Not quite approval. Not quite judgment. Just... a sound. Like he’s filing something away.

Then he takes his CD, receipt fluttering behind him, and disappears out the door with barely a sound.

The silence he leaves behind is full of static.

Vash exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “He doesn’t usually... show up.”

“Is he okay?” you ask.

Vash just shrugs. “That’s kind of his thing. Showing up when you don’t expect him. Disappearing just the same.”

You don’t press. Vash doesn’t volunteer. But his hands shake a little as he reshelves something that doesn’t belong there.

Later that day, you find something strange tucked behind the counter, next to you bag.

Another CD case. But this one’s different. Not one o f Vash's. No doodles, no smileys. Just clean handwriting.

“This is not subtle. Neither is he. Figure it out." – K.

The playlist is short. Sparse instrumentals, strange transitions. Track six is Pictures of You. Track seven is Digital Love by Daft Punk. The final track is a cover of Let My Love Open the Door. You almost slap yourself in the face hearing the odd mix of songs Knives put together. You find yourself grinning yourself stupid - stifling a laugh, "God, I didn't think it was that obvious, gee thanks Knives."

You run your thumb along the track list again and let yourself really hear it. You don't know how Knives figured that out, but he did. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all. You blink down at the jewel case, letting out a half-laugh, half-sigh, "what a menace," murmuring to no one in particular.

-----------------

Saturday comes again. You step into Needle Drop like always — jacket off, waving to the fake plant in the corner that Vash insists is "alive with love," and you're halfway to the back when you-

Vash isn't at the counter. Instead, it's Knives? What?

Leaning with arms crossed, dressed in another black suit like he’s allergic to color, expression unreadable and somehow still faintly annoyed.

Your feet pause just past the threshold. “You’re not supposed to be here yet.”

“I’m never supposed to be anywhere,” he replies, flat.

You set your bag down behind the counter, narrowing your eyes. “You came early.”

He tilts his head slightly. “And you came back.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Obviously. Someone has to stop Vash from filing M83 under classical again.”

His mouth lifts slightly, and he doesn’t correct you either. His gaze flicks to your bag, where the CD he gave you is peeking out slightly from the front pocket.

You catch him looking.

“I listened to it,” you say.

He says nothing.

“Twice.”

Still nothing.

“I’m pretty sure I lost brain cells trying to figure out what genre that Digital Love remix counted as.”

His mouth twitches — the barest thing. “I don’t believe in genres. They’re crutches for the unimaginative.”

You scoff. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“And yet here you are.”

You sigh, but it's amused. “Okay, fine. You win.”

“I always do.” He smiles.

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t need help. I just—was waiting.”

“You were stalling. So was he.” He gestures vaguely toward the back of the store. “He’s in the storage room. Probably trying to work up the nerve to ask if you want coffee.”

You blink. “You came early just to intercept me?”

“I came early,” Knives says, tone clipped, “because if I left you two alone again, I’d be forced to hear him make another playlist about unspoken longing. And frankly, I can’t take another cover of ‘Take On Me’ played on harp.”

You snort. Loudly.

He doesn’t laugh, but you dont think you've ever seen him smile like this before. It's soft, not like how you thought of him the first place. That's probably the most you'll ever get though.

“I’m not doing this for you,” he adds.

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m doing it for peace.”

“Uh-huh.”

A beat of silence stretches. Then he tilts his head, just slightly. “But... if you hurt him, I will burn this place down.”

You blink. “I- That was... not subtle.”

“I’m learning,” he says, and turns on his heel like he’s said enough for the year. The bell jingles as he exits, waving you off with an expectant look that says, "I expect both of you to get your shit together".

You’re still standing there when the back door creaks open and Vash pokes his head out, curls slightly messy, one hand holding a coffee cup and the other gripping the edge of the door like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Hey,” he says, blinking. “Did I miss something?”

You glance at the front door, still slightly swinging from where Knives left. Then back at Vash — sweet, nervous, trying.

“Nope,” you say, walking over and gently stealing the coffee from his hand. “But you’re about to miss something if you keep hiding back there.”

"Did he say anything weird?"

"Yeah he definitely did."

"Oh? Sorry... about tha- I've been meaning to ask-"

"When?" You cut him off. You figure that's what he was going to ask anyways. Knives probably tried to give him a pep talk before you showed up.

He looks at you. Really looks. And you smile.

Because now you’ve figured it out. And so has he.

He puts the cup in his hand down and smiles in return, "after our shift? Coffee shop down the road? Just you and me."

[liquorcooked]

Hi hi! I'm liquour (I know what a funny pen name). 20+, istp, any prns, multifandom blog, sfw only!

note;; I am so sorry if it don’t seem like I’ve been liking posts I promise I am this is just not my primary blog 😭

Mainly writing for trigun, bebop, mg and dmc! or anything I end up liking :]

I try to make everything gn. I’m an infrequent poster also. Do not translate, repost, repurpose, copy, edit, sell my works!!

Masterlist under the cut.

Masterlist

Trigun

Record Store Saturdays (Vash x Reader) summary: you work in a record/cd store, sharing Saturday shifts with Vash who makes you ridiculous mixtapes until Knives shows up one day

Etched (Wolfwood x Reader)summary: you get taken by the eom, wolfwood and vash to the rescue. story follows some angst and recovery as they nurse you back to health

Only the Warmth We Share (Wolfwood x Reader)summary: It started as a necessity. One bed, just one night, no other choice.

Back to back (Wolfwood x Reader)summary: share an evening with wolfwood out on camp, also you refuse to give him back his blazer

Cowboy Bebop

Graveyard Orbit (Spike Spiegel x Reader)summary: after a mission, spike finds you in the kitchen and helps fix your wounds

[liquorcooked]

Also just a quick post but I have so many drafts in store I’m so happy people are liking the small bits I put out :]

Mostly are trigun/bebop centered as of late since I’ve fallen back into that hell hole and collected my blurbs and snippets over the years. Finally getting around to taking all the bullet points and hcs and turning them into aus and fics,,,,

Tysm for the loveee it’s been quite surprising 🥹🥹

[liquorcooked]

Etched (wolfwood)

Media: Trigun Maximum Pairing: Wolfwood x reader wc: ~2k (?)

an: MORE of my silly bits of writing. tried to merge em together to make them cohesive but alas this is all I have :] enjoy!. it really isn't a fully fleshed out fic by any means because mostly just scnariors I thought of, but pls let me know what yall think

some tags: hurt/comfort, past-torture, care, the eye of michael is a little shit, I'm going to curb stomp chapel, branding, scars, I LOVE WW

They caught you in the night.

One moment you were with Vash and Wolfwood, setting up camp outside a crumbling town whose name you never caught, and the next you woke in a place that didn’t smell like dust or wind or oil, but antiseptic and metal. Too clean. Too white. It made your skin crawl before you even saw the mask.

You counted hours by the number of times Chapel came in.

He didn’t hide his face. No—he wanted you to see him. Wanted you to know the face of what was about to be done. He said it was for your own good. That you’d understand in time. That he was doing what Nicholas never had the strength to finish. All that Eye of Michael propaganda, scripture twisted and sharpened into blade edges.

You remember the sound of your own blood dripping on the floor before you remember how long you were gone. Hours. Days. Maybe weeks. Time bled in and out the way the wounds on your side did—slow, sticky, without end. Pain had become a rhythm. A prayer. One you chanted in silence while they tried to make you speak.

You never screamed. Not once.

You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t. Screaming was surrender. Screaming was for victims.

So you lay there, breathing shallow, muscles clenched tight, as Chapel carved the edge of a blade along your ribs and murmured doctrine like it was a lullaby. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he didn’t. The silence between words was the worst part—it meant he was thinking.

“You care for him, don’t you?” he asked once, brushing a gloved finger along your jaw. “Nicholas. You love him.”

You turned your head and spat in his face.

He laughed as he wiped it off. “Then let’s make sure he remembers you.”

He brought out the iron brand. Shaped not like a religious cross but like his cross—the Punisher. The one Nicholas D. Wolfwood carried on his back like a burden, like a confession, like a legacy soaked in regret. They’d studied it. Modeled the mark perfectly. You remember the shape of it pressed against your side—the long steel shaft and wide-barred arms that mimicked the weapon you had watched him wield a hundred times.

You didn’t scream when they branded you with the Punisher.

But later, when they were gone, you cried into the table straps. Not from the pain.

But because you knew what it meant.

---------------

When the rescue came, it was gunfire first. You heard Vash’s voice, strained and sharp, cracking with fury you’d never known he could carry. Then came Wolfwood’s—lower, louder, a storm trying to fight back the flood.

You were half-conscious when he kicked down the door. You remember the shape of him in silhouette—the Punisher in his hands, the outline of his coat, the fire in his eyes.

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just dropped the weapon and crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees beside the table, cutting the straps with hands that shook more than they should have.

“I got you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “I got you. Hey. Hey, come on. You gotta open your eyes. Please. Please, don’t do this to me.”

When you slipped into unconsciousness again, it was with the feel of his arms under you, his breath in your hair, and the tremble in his chest where he held you too close.

---------------------

You woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours, wrapped in bandages that stuck to open wounds. Your mouth was dry. Your side burned like it had caught fire and hadn’t quite gone out.

Vash was there.

He sat on a chair near the window, legs pulled up like a kid, arms braced on his knees. When your eyes fluttered open, he didn’t rush you. Just looked at you with red-rimmed eyes and said quietly, “You’re safe.”

You didn’t feel safe.

But the words settled into you anyway, like a coin dropped in a dry well.

“How long?” you asked, throat hoarse.

“Three days since we found you. We had to sedate you. Your body…” He hesitated. “You weren’t just hurt. You were worked over. I'm sorry...”

You turned your head away. “He was trying to get to Nick.”

Vash didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft. “He hasn’t left the hallway since we got here, he's been waiting.”

You didn’t reply.

Because part of you didn’t want him to see you like this.

Not broken. Not like this.

You refused to look at your wound the first time Vash changed the bandages. You could feel it—a deep, raised welt on your ribs, in the unmistakable shape of the Punisher. The gauze stuck to it. You bit your tongue to keep from crying out.

Vash’s hands paused when he saw the shape. He didn’t say anything, but his breath hitched. You saw it in his face—recognition. Horror. Pity. You turned your face toward the wall and let your mind go somewhere else while he cleaned the blood away. How cruel. “God, they…” You turned your head away, ashamed even though you knew you shouldn’t be.

Vash didn’t finish the thought. He just swallowed hard, then wrapped you back up with hands that trembled more than he wanted you to notice.

----------------

Wolfwood came in the next night. The room was dim, lit only by a bedside lamp. You were sitting up, supported by a pillow, and staring at nothing.

He looked like shit.

Hollowed out. Jacket wrinkled, eyes bloodshot, stubble unshaved. But when he saw you sitting up, eyes open, something in him cracked. He said your name once, quiet. Almost afraid.

He fell to his knees beside the bed, and reached for your hand. Stopped just short. His breath caught. His eyes went to the gauze on your side.

“I can’t…” His voice broke. “I can’t fix this. I can’t make it right.”

You looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, the grief between you was a living thing. “You saw it,” you said. Your voice didn’t sound like your own.

He nodded.

He looks like you stabbed him.

You think maybe you did.

“They… branded you with... me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, eyes flicking to your side. “My goddamn cross.”

You nodded slowly, throat tight. “Yeah. Figured you’d haunt me either way.”

That earned a broken laugh—painful, like it hurt him to even make sound.

“They wanted me to hate you,” you said, voice raspy. “Said you’d never want me after this.”

He stared at you, silent.

"They said you grew soft. You trusted people too much, that loving me made you weak."

Then: “They’re wrong.”

You looked away. “I’m not the same. I’m not—clean. Not untouched. They took things I can’t—”

“I don’t love you because you’re clean,” he interrupted. “I love you because you’re you. Scars and all.”

You blinked at him.

His hand found yours, tentative at first. Then firm.

“I don’t care how much they cut. You’re still here. You lived. And I—God, I’d trade everything to have gotten there sooner.”

You squeezed his fingers. It was all you could do. He doesn’t speak. But his hand moves — slow — and reaches for yours. You let him take it. His fingers curl around yours like a lifeline.

“I’d burn them all,” he says hoarsely. “I’d burn the world if it meant they’d never touch you again.”

“I know.”

The wind whistles. Somewhere, a door creaks.

“I can’t undo it,” he says. “I can’t take it back.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He flinches. You lift his hand. Press it gently to the bandaged cross on your ribs.

“I’d rather carry you like this… than forget you at all.”

His shoulders shake. Just once.

And then he leans forward, forehead to yours, breath warm and raw, pressing his lips to yours like a vow, gently letting his hand rest below your rib, next to the wound.

It was a part of you. And that meant he loved it too.

-----------

It took time to heal.

The physical wounds came first. The brand scabbed, scarred, then settled into your skin like it had always been there. Raised, red, permanent. You started sleeping through the night again, though you still woke sweating sometimes, chest tight, heart racing.

The psychological wounds took longer.

There were days you couldn’t bear to be touched. Times you curled away from the hand that used to bring you comfort. Times Wolfwood sat beside you in silence and didn’t ask for anything, not even your eyes.

But he never left. He never looked away from your pain, even when you flinched. Even when you pushed. And slowly, quietly, something began to mend.

The first time you let him see the brand without flinching, he didn’t say a word.

You were changing your bandages in the mirror, fingers clumsy on the wrap. The cloth slipped and the scar was exposed—angry and red, shaped unmistakably like the Punisher.

Wolfwood stepped into the doorway. Froze.

You didn’t cover it. You just turned your head and met his gaze.

“It still hurts,” you admitted. “But not as much.”

He crossed the room and cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“They tried to turn you into a message,” he said, voice low, “but all I see when I look at you is the person I couldn’t live without.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t want to be marked by this.”

“You’re not,” he whispered. “You’re marked by me. And I’ll carry that too.”

[liquorcooked]

Only the Warmth We Share (wolfwood)

trigun. wolfwood x reader. (loosely based off of trigun maximum)

slow burn, mutual pining, quiet intimacy, soft domesticity, found family, emotional damage but like in a cozy way, nicholas d wolfwood has a big heart :], softly devastating angst, wolfwood is a little shit at the end how could you, mention of death

Summary: It started as a necessity. One bed, just one night, no other choice.

———————————————————————————

The first time it happened, it was out of pure necessity.

One dingy room. One equally dingy bed. Vash was passed out in the hallway with a bottle of something unidentifiable and far too strong, and there’d been only one vacancy left in the entire town. Some local festival, too many bodies, too few places to sleep.

You stood in the doorway, towel over your shoulder, stiff from walking all day. Wolfwood leaned against the bedframe, cigarette hanging from his lips like it owed him something.

"Only one bed," you’d said flatly.

He blew smoke at the ceiling. “Guess I ain’t sleeping on the floor again. My spine’s already trying to divorce me.”

You tossed your towel on the chair, peeled off your outer layers, and muttered, “Don’t snore.”

“Don’t stab me in your sleep,” he shot back, grin wide under tired eyes.

The mattress was thin. The blankets thinner. You both turned your backs to each other and tried not to overthink it. No touching. Just shared space. Shared silence.

Until morning. You woke up with his arm slung over your waist. Warm. Heavy. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

…

It kept happening.

The next town, the same excuse: Only one room left. Busy season. Wedding in town. No vacancy. Always something.

After the third night like that, neither of you pretended to be annoyed anymore. It just was. You’d land the next town, check into the same room, and wordlessly go about your routines. Bedtime became a quiet ritual.

Brush teeth. Lock the door. Lights off. Slide into bed. Back to back.

Except it wasn’t always back to back anymore.

By week four, he stopped pretending to sleep on the edge.

You caught him once, in the low glow of lamplight—turning over, slow and quiet, shifting closer to your side. His hand brushed yours under the blanket. He didn’t take it away.

You didn’t either.

One night, after a particularly ugly fight with some goons—blood on your boots, guilt under your fingernails—you crawled into bed first. Wolfwood came in late. Smelled like gunpowder and desert wind. He didn’t speak.

He just slid in beside you. His body was warm. Solid. Real.

You turned toward him. Didn’t say anything.

He didn’t either.

The next time it rained, the room was colder than usual. You pressed closer without thinking. His arm came around you without hesitation.

You stayed like that. Not quite lovers. Not quite strangers. Something soft in between.

…

And then came the night you remembered.

The room was small. Dusty. Wooden beams creaking with every shift of the wind. The walls smelled like whiskey and mold. Somewhere in town, someone was playing an off-key tune on a harmonica.

You lay in bed, facing the wall.

He moved closer, again.

His chest against your back. His breath slow. You could feel the heat of him, steady and careful.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“If this is all we ever get… it’s enough.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Instead, your hand slid beneath the blanket, found his.

Calloused. Warm. Strong.

You didn’t hold it. Just touched.

Just stayed.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of cigarette smoke and the sound of him humming something under his breath. He handed you a cup of instant coffee without a word.

You drank it like it meant something.

Maybe it did.

----------------------

The town was too quiet that night.

Too still.

Even Vash didn’t crack jokes. He'd turned in early, muttering something about praying — and when Vash gets solemn, you know something's coming.

Wolfwood lingered in the doorway for a while, smoking, eyes tracking something far off in the desert. You watched him from the bed, curled up under a threadbare blanket. The room was warm, but your skin felt cold.

He looked tired. More than tired.

Like a man counting his final steps and knowing the ground will give way soon.

“You coming to bed, or just planning my funeral out there?” you asked.

He snorted, low and sharp. Took one last drag, then flicked the cigarette out into the dark. Closed the door behind him. When he climbed into bed, he didn’t say anything. Just laid there, staring at the ceiling, body tense like a wire ready to snap.

You rolled onto your side.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“Miracles happen,” he muttered, eyes still fixed upward.

You nudged him with your foot. “Too quiet.”

He turned his head slowly, looking at you in the dim lamplight. Eyes dark. Tired. Sad in a way he didn’t have the energy to hide tonight.

"Promise me something," he said, voice quieter than you'd ever heard it.

"That depends."

“If I don’t come back tomorrow—”

You reached out, pressed your fingers to his mouth. Not hard. Just enough.

“Don’t.”

“You know we don’t get to pick our endings,” he said, voice muffled under your hand.

“You don’t get to write yours like this,” you replied.

His eyes closed. And he let out a soft breath — like he was exhaling everything he hadn’t said since the day you met.

When he opened his eyes again, they looked different. Raw.

“If this is all we ever get,” he said, barely above a whisper, “it’s enough.”

You blinked.

That same line. The one he said years ago, when he still wore that grin and pretended the darkness wasn’t closing in.

It sounded different now.

Less like a joke.

More like goodbye.

You swallowed.

"You're not dying on me, Wolfwood."

“I’m not planning to.”

“You are.” Your voice cracked. “You fucking are.”

He reached for you then. Not for a kiss. Not for anything greedy.

Just your hand.

And you let him have it.

You turned toward him and buried your face in his chest, fists clenched in his shirt. He held you like something sacred. You breathed in the smoke on his skin, the sweat and gun oil and something so him it hurt.

He didn’t say I love you.

He didn’t need to.

The way he touched your hair, the way his thumb brushed your wrist like a final prayer — it said everything.

[liquorcooked]

Back to back (wolfwood)

my silly little musings, ive had these collected for quite some time already, so just finding them again and pinning them all here for my collection

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The desert cooled fast after sundown, the heat fleeing like a thief. The fire cracked low, spitting occasional sparks into the air. Vash had passed out against a rock, hat over his face, muttering something about pudding in his sleep. You were pretty sure that meant he was fine.

You stood nearby, wrapped in a thick, familiar black coat. A little too long in the sleeves, warm in the way only something lived in could be.

Behind you, Wolfwood sat on the overturned crate, cigarette glowing between his lips. He eyed you sideways.

“You always smoke this much, or just when I’m around?”

He smirked, taking a slow drag. “Only when I’m resisting the urge to kiss you.”

You blinked. “That so?”

“Mmhmm.”

You walked over, dropped beside him with a lazy huff. The coat swamped you, but you didn’t give it back. He eyed you.

“You wanna die of heatstroke?”

“Maybe I like smelling like you.”

That shut him up. He looked away, ears pink. Lit a fresh cigarette just to give his hands something to do.

The silence stretched. Peaceful. Warm, somehow.

You shifted, leaning your back against his. His body was warm and solid behind you, like a living wall keeping the chill at bay. He didn’t move. Just stayed there. Steady.

“Ain’t you got anyone better to sit with?” he asked, voice a low rumble.

You smiled faintly.

“No. You’re warm and loud. You scare off the bugs.”

He let out a soft laugh, more breath than sound.

And you sat like that — back to back under the stars, safe for once, sharing silence like it meant something.

Maybe it did.

Maybe it always had.

[liquorcooked]

Graveyard Orbit (spike spiegel)

HI HIII impulsively just wanted a place to put all my thoughts down. I'm gong to turn to this in a few months/years and realize I hate this blog, but no better place than tumblr amiright.

I have a lot on spikey piled up, I will get around to trigun junk later on when I am not boggled down by this man here..

spike spiegel x reader / cowboy bebop

mentions of blood and injury, discussion of death

------------------------------︶ིྀᩧ

You’re leaning against the counter in the tiny excuse for a kitchen on the Bebop, nursing a mug of something instant and way too hot. Your torso is still wrapped from the mission you got back from hours ago — stitched clean but aching. You hadn’t meant to be awake this late, but the quiet was easier than sleep, and the way your body refused to settle had made the choice for you.

The ship creaks faintly with movement. Pipes groan like they’re exhaling. Somewhere, Ed’s laugh echoes faintly through a wall, like a ghost of noise that doesn’t really belong.

And then you hear him.

Not loud — never loud — but Spike moves like smoke, and you’ve gotten good at catching the scent of him before he enters a room.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

You don’t turn. Just lift the mug to your lips. “Could ask you the same.”

He walks past you, barefoot, his shirt half-buttoned and loose. He smells like tobacco and metal and whatever vague thing you’ve started associating with safety.

You don’t like that. But it’s true.

Spike opens a cabinet and stares inside like it might surprise him. “We have exactly three things in here. Powdered soup, noodles, and… something I’m not willing to classify.”

“Jet’s mystery meat can’t be trusted.”

“No shit.”

He ends up making soup, if it can be called that. It smells vaguely edible. You keep leaning against the counter while he works, eyes on the scuffed floor. The silence between you isn’t awkward — it never is. Just full. Weighted.

“Let me see it,” he says suddenly, nodding toward your bandages.

You hesitate, then roll up your shirt.

He steps closer. His hands hover, then land — featherlight — as he unwraps the gauze with slow precision. You watch his face while he works. Focused. Brow slightly furrowed like he gives a damn but doesn’t know how to say it without ruining it.

“You stitched it yourself?” he asks, voice quieter now.

“Didn’t have time to wait.”

He snorts, almost fond. “Of course you didn’t.”

You let him clean the edges of the wound, re-wrap it cleaner than you had. His fingers brush your skin every so often, and it sends lightning down your spine in ways that make you angry with yourself. You’ve taken bullets to the chest and stayed colder than this.

He finishes the wrap and steps back, but not far. His eyes flick up to meet yours.

“You should’ve called for backup,” he says. It’s not angry. It’s not even judgmental. It’s just quiet. Like the thought of losing you slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

You set the mug down. The ceramic clinks against the metal counter.

“You would’ve gotten yourself killed trying to play hero.”

“I’m already dying, remember?” he says, lips twitching into that near-smile. The one that means don’t look too close. The one that hides way more than it reveals.

You don’t laugh. Just look at him. Really look at him. “You’re not as dead as you pretend to be.”

He exhales. Looks down. Then meets your gaze again, something stripped bare in the look. And he says, voice low and razor-sharp with meaning: “Neither are you.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. But neither of you moves. The soup on the stove starts to boil. You both ignore it. Spike shifts slightly, gaze dropping to your lips for a half-second before flicking away — and it’s not subtle, not even close. You let the air hang between you like a question neither of you’s brave enough to ask.

Then you move first — not much. Just a step closer. Just enough for him to feel the shift. He looks at you like you’re a fire he’s willing to burn in.

And you — God help you — let him press his lips on yours, gentle and soft with a hint of desperation. He's worried about you.

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours. Barely there. Barely touching. Like the idea of closeness is more dangerous than any bullet either of you has ever taken.

“Don’t make a habit of not coming back,” he murmurs, breath warming your skin.

You close your eyes.

“Don’t make a habit of caring.”

He laughs. Quiet. Sad.

“Too late.”

You stay like that for a moment that feels like a lifetime.

Then the soup boils over and reality slams back in. He pulls away. You go back to your mug. The silence returns, but it’s different now. Looser around the edges. Like something cracked open — just a little.

He frantically settles the soup into bowls, wiping down the hot bubbles off the counter and wordlessly hands you utensils to go with it. Back on the couch, it's quiet, but a nice kind of quiet as you lean into his touch.

[liquorcooked]

spike spiegel hcs!

you both definitely have nighmares that neither of you speak about. you would just sit in silence, neither sleeping, neither speaking, just existing in the same space.

you've probably threatened to leave the bebop after a fight. He said "fine". then showed up at your ship, leaning against it like a stray dog. "Fine" didn't mean anything to him.

One night after everything probably went to hell and the stars feel too quiet, you end up sitting next to each other "I don't believe in happy endings," you say. "I don't believe in endings," he replies. Neither of you move away.