#vashwood if you really squint

[saphirdevil]

trigun vampire au - girls who says hi >w< credit to @thread-theocracy for painting wolfwood <3

[ohitslen]

OMG the sillies!! ✨✨

Also I’m sorry (not really) Wolfwood, but since you became one of my favorites it was only a matter of time until I did a drawing of you all beaten up 🦅🔥🔥

[khytal]

the gunslinger and the priest

(alt version without glasses:)

[theferricfox]

[[A/N: Hi, hello! I'm alive (figuratively speaking) and I wrote a thing for the first time in a long long while. Writer's block has been eating me alive for a spell, but then I woke up on morning and said, well, if it isn't Whumptober, my dear friend.

So have a Whumptober Trigun piece. Yes, Trigun! I've fallen back in love with it lately and I have no regrets. I grew up with the '98 series on late night Toonami, and it coming back to my life has been a big boost of juicy nostalgia (and psychological damage iykyk).

Content Warnings! Smoking, Drinking, Canon-typical violence, vomiting.]]

IN THE LIGHT OF THE MOONS

He wakes up to the taste of blood on his tongue and pain surging through his chest. He’s been shot; he knows he has, and he jumps up in bed to inspect his bare chest, even as he reaches into the small pouch on the bedside table, fumbling for the small glass vials within. 

But he’s not bleeding, and there’s no metal lodged in his body. His skin is as smooth and flawless as it’s ever been, save for the odd small scar he got as a child. The ones from before don’t go away, even as the blue liquid wipes away any chance of a new one.

He sighs, frustrated and unsettled. From next to him on the bed – why doesn’t this hotel room at least have a couch? – comes a soft snore, frills of blonde hair peeking out from under the sheet. He knows he won’t sleep again for a while, so he reaches onto the table again, this time for his smokes. He’s surprised to find his hand is shaking somewhat as he lights up, and inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs until they start to burn. The plume that he exhales curls and drifts towards the ceiling, vanishing to join the rest of the stuffy air of the room.

When did he even pick up smoking? He can’t remember anymore. He remembers stealing from the adults a few times when he just hit his double-digits, but he knows he didn’t truly start smoking until after. And the last six years since he left the orphanage are largely a blur. They’re filled with a constant need to move and to keep moving, pulled from one job to another. They’re filled with gunfire and blood and little glass ampules. 

When he first started, he drank them like the honey-sweet drinks of his childhood, even for injuries that were far from fatal. Even if the fight was over and he could have just as easily rested in a hospital for a few days, he would choose instead to crack the neck of the little ampule and gulp down the mouthful of liquid. He was told not to – this was a path that led to something like an addiction; a reliance on the serum would cause his body to stop healing as well on its own. He was warned of the potential for an overdose; the serum throwing his body’s chemistry into overdrive until it practically burst at the seams. But for the first few months after they cut him loose, he ignored the warning. 

There’s something innately satisfying about the feeling of the glass cracking under the enamel of his teeth, but that feeling is amplified when the liquid slides down his throat and the power surges through him. The feeling of invincibility that comes from watching the bullets that were once lodged into his skin, his bones, his organs, harmlessly falling to the ground as though they were nothing more than paper… that’s intoxicating. 

He was an orphan once. Unwanted and worthless. And now, he’s survived a total of fifty-eight otherwise fatal gunshot wounds. Compared to the dirty child he was, growing up in the sand and dust, wondering if he’ll ever be good enough to get adopted, he’s a god. The kid he was should look up to him with awe and reverence. Should.

Now, he’s haunted by scars that only he can see. The bullet that pierced and collapsed his left lung. The place where his flesh was rendered to shredded meat by heavy machine gun fire. The 9mm slug that barely grazed his heart and sent his vision spiraling and blood into his mouth. He knows all those marks are there, hidden under his skin. He sees them every time he undresses, little phantoms skittering along his skin like insects; blink and you’d miss them. When Judgement comes, they’ll all light up on his broken body, like the feeble lights of the orphanage beating back the dark for the kids afraid of the noises of the night.

He traces one of these phantom scars, once a long gash from an eight-inch blade straight into his gut. He’d scrambled to keep his intestines inside of him, fear and adrenaline racing through him as shit and blood spilled onto the floor. He’d flopped onto his back, eyes wild and hazy, and cracked open the vial so haphazardly that he drank glass alongside the liquid. It burned down his throat, a macabre cascade of flesh rending and healing, but by the time his gut had healed, it didn’t matter. He could shit glass and it wouldn’t matter; not anymore. 

He’d beaten that asshole’s skull in, slamming the arm of the Punisher into his face over and over again as he bellowed some animalistic sound from deep in his chest. It was too messy, in the end. He’d spent days cleaning blood and brain and skull out of the crevices of the Punisher, every new piece he found lodged in the weapon filling him with a sense of disgust. 

Now, as he sits on the bed, his cigarette halfway burned through, he wonders what the man sleeping next to him would think if he knew of all these phantom scars, or the stories of how he got them. For all he knows, Spikey can see them, too. The man has an uncanny way of seeing through people, of knowing them with just a few glances and firm handshake. Still, all the scars on Vash’s body suggest that he can’t read people for shit. They speak of betrayal, countless deceptions for which he has paid the price. And still, he continues to trust. Or maybe, he always knows he’ll be betrayed and continues to trust them anyway, deciding that the alternative is worse.

Wolfwood can’t decide if that makes him incredible or stupid. What kind of heart is crushed and smashed and burned and stabbed and shot that many times and still finds a way to wake up with a smile? He knows most of those smiles are fake, and they’re painful to look at, so painful that he’s debated punching Spikey in his stupid face every time one of those false smiles creeps onto his lips. 

But still, some of those smiles are real… especially when he’s around kids, and those are the times Wolfwood really can’t figure him out. It’s almost unsettling, really, seeing that genuine smile and hearing the tinny laughter from a man so used to faking it that it’s practically his middle name. There’s no doubt that Vash has a thing with kids; they love playing with him, trust him intrinsically, and they seem to know exactly how rough and tumble they can be with him, with not a care for his reputation. Wolfwood can’t help but feel a strange clenching in his chest, watching the so-called Humanoid Typhoon around children. He knows what Vash is or, he thinks he does, and there’s something simultaneously monstrous and beautiful seeing everything that makes him inhuman melt away as soon as some kid tugs on his coat or pelts him with a ball. 

Wolfwood pulls deeply from his cigarette, flooding his lungs with nicotine and smoke and exhales again, his gaze aimed at the ceiling. He exhales, idly poking the cloud of smoke with a finger as it drifts upward, and he scoffs. Who is he to call Vash monstrous? He is a monster in his own right. If he were to visit the orphanage now, he’d have no right to hug the children there, or to play with them. He couldn’t call his old friends by name and rekindle the friendships that made life bearable back then, not with his hands so soaked with blood he’s practically marinating in it. Hell, if Miss Melanie even recognized him, she’d probably beat him to death with a broomstick before he stepped foot in the building.

She would see right through him, he knows it. She would see the blood coating his skin and the scars marking the last six years of his life and she… well, she would never forgive him. Not that he expects forgiveness; he knows exactly what he deserves, has come to terms with it. But to picture Melanie, the only person he’s known as a mother, terrified and appalled by what she would see in him… the thought is almost enough to make him put a bullet in his brain.

Wolfwood crushes the cigarette into the ashtray with a soft grunt and gets out of bed. He’s aware that Vash’s soft snores ceased minutes ago, meaning he’s probably awake and trying to hide it, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to see those sad blue-green eyes tracing over him with concern. He doesn’t want to answer questions or ‘talk about it.’ All he wants is for the silence of the night to smother his thoughts. 

He walks to the bathroom, silent as he can through the creaking of old wooden floorboards, and shuts the door behind him, the latch softly clicking into place. The darkness of the bathroom, with just a small window opposite the shower, facing away from the light of the moons, is stifling and freeing all at once. In here, it’s so dark that he can’t see his phantom scars. If you can’t see them, they aren’t real and they can’t get you, just like he used to tell the kids who thought they heard monsters in the dark. Big brother Nico, always there for the little ones, until he wasn’t. Now, he’s the monster in the dark, reaching into the night to pluck the souls of the living from their bodies.

The thought makes him retch, and he barely manages to maneuver over to the toilet before he vomits, the taste in his mouth acrid and vile. He heaves, over and over again, his eyes watering, snot dribbling miserably out of his nose, until there’s nothing left but empty gasping and an aching stomach. He grabs toilet paper and wipes at his face, spits into the toilet, and flushes the mess away. He sits against the cold glass of the shower door, panting into his hand, trying to stay quiet.

It doesn’t work. There’s a small, tentative knock on the door.

“Wolfwood?”

Of course Spikey heard him. Damn him.

“What is it?” He tries to smooth over the acidity in his voice, play it cool, like he didn’t just puke his guts out. 

“I um… I gotta go.” There’s that tiny laughter. The one that says, This is the best lie I could come up with.

“Yeah, yeah, hang on.” Wolfwood hauls himself up from the floor and turns on the sink. He washes his mouth out, washes his hands. He wonders distantly if he should have changed that order of actions.

He walks out, casual as he can, the door revealing Vash with his hair down, shirt off to reveal all those horrific scars. Vash laughs, his hand immediately at the back of his head, all shy and quiet cunning.

“Sorry to rush you, I just really gotta go.”

Wolfwood grunts and pushes past him, walking over to the table in the room. There’s still some of the cheap whiskey they brought up earlier in a bottle on the table, thanks be to whatever god might still exist in this godforsaken world. He pours himself a shot and takes it down fast, grimacing from the taste before pouring another, nursing this one a little more. He knows what’s left in this bottle isn’t enough to get him drunk, not with his metabolism. He doesn’t care. He just needs the burn to distract him.

Vash makes a show of taking the loudest piss on the whole planet, running the water for ages afterwards to wash his hands. When he comes out, he’s all nervous giggles and wiggling, unthreatening movements.

“Man, I was sure I was going to wet myself for a moment there!” Vash starts.

“Can it, Spikey.” Wolfwood gulps the rest of the shot and pours another. After a moment’s consideration, he pours one for Vash, too, moving the glass to the other side of the table. An invitation. “I know you’ve been awake for a while now.”

“Yeah?” Vash sits obligingly, taking down the shot with as much hope of it doing anything as Wolfwood has and holds out the glass for another. He sips the second one when it’s poured.

“You’re too damn obvious. That’s your problem.” Wolfwood sips again. 

Silence stretches into the room, neither man moving. The stage has been set for a macabre sort of quick-draw, but it’s one neither of them want to win. 

“Can’t go back to sleep?” Vash asks as casually as he can, as if he hasn’t already guessed what woke Wolfwood up in the first place.

“Nope. You?”

There’s another moment of silence, one that Wolfwood didn’t expect. Finally, he sees Vash raise his left arm in the dim light of the moons that pokes through the curtains.

“My arm hurts. It happens sometimes. Makes it hard to sleep.” Vash rubs the forearm of the prosthesis as though rubbing out a muscle cramp.

“But your arm isn’t there, Spikey. It’s fake. It’s not supposed to hurt.” It’s a question, one that Wolfwood think might have a very uncomfortable answer.

“Yeah.”

Silence seeps into the room again, broken only by the sound of glass on glass and glass on wood as the bottle is drained. They don’t talk about what wakes them up at night.

It’s just not what they do.

[needle-noggins]

Sav's Author Highlight: Lenipez

For the entire week of @trigunfanfic appreciation week, I’m going to highlight my favorite authors and friends whose writing I adore and why. Now it's @madnessmadness's turn >:3

Oh man. I gotta start first with the fic series that low-key changed my life, Becoming Eden.

Rating: mostly M (main series), some T or E (side stories) | Ship: Gen, +/- Mashwood if you squint, previous VashMilly | Genre: Sci Fi, Drama, Very House of Leaves, Psychological.... horror? fuckery? | Trigun Soup (all three characterizations in a blender)

Last summer I started this fic on a whim and had no idea that I was in for the wildest, most interesting fic I'd ever read. I have to chew on every word so slowly, sucking as much meaning as I can out of every metaphor, trying to figure out what the POV character is saying versus what they mean vs what is true. The prose is unlike anything I had ever read before, and the formatting is so unique and interesting. I was sending screenshots of this fic to my irl friends who haven't watched Trigun, that's how intensely this fic had me in a chokehold.

Becoming Eden is always reminding me that I can write weirder, I can write sillier, I can do whatever I want. It's a masterclass in sci fi weirdness, diving into different character POVs, unreliable narration, and using unusual formatting to help tell the story. It's a visual experience as much as it is a verbal one. Even with a huge cast of characters getting POVs, there is such an interesting difference in each one of them, and they all feel so unique and rich. And the imagery and metaphors! Damn!! This series has in turn inspired some of my own writing, particularly a one shot I wrote about Rem and plants.

Also, Waterloo is my new on repeat anthem. It calms me down, okay?

I also highly highly recommend Leni's other works, particularly their other interesting poetry if you like what BE has to offer, a Pacific Rim AU, their Millyknives if you're into that, and their fairy AU. ALSO! Their smut! Their smut is so delicious that I actually want to highlight some of it on its own.

First Rodeo - Mashwood, E. 11K of Meryl weaponizing her rope tying skills into the longest slow burn oh my god. Makes me insane just thinking about it. Everyone is pitiful in this and the tension is insane. This is one of my favorite smut fics of all time, and I read a lot of smut.

Jar of Marbles series - Vashmeryl, Vashwood. E. Weird alien xenobiology. I can never look at an ultrasound the same way. I love the implications in this fic, both funny and not. Wolfwood's weak little "Oh yeah?" makes me die laughing.

White Lie - Vashmeryl, E. But in the fun stupid way that is catnip to me.

Hog Tied - Stryfewood, E. You want stupid bickering Stryfewood? You got it!!

ANYWAY. I'm not sure how else to describe Leni's writing style other than that it's vivid, wonderfully metaphorical, and has a stream-of-consciousness flow that is so interesting and sucks you right in. It's really just something you're going to have to experience on your own. It's inspired some of my own writing too, and it's a really fun style. Leni's biggest advice is that fic is always for fun, and you can just tell how much fun they have writing their fic. And I want to sit down and dissect every little bit of Becoming Eden. I want a bound copy. I want a full college course and a dissertation on the themes. Makes me crazy in the best way, and to really just add the icing on the cake, Leni is a wonderful, kind human through and through.

[vashuknivesu]

VashWood (I wrote the one I posted previously two hours ago and then got this idea and wrote this fifteen minutes ago?? Idk why I’m on a VashWood warpath?? I hope you like it tho)

Warnings: Uhh scar mentions. A lot. That’s it. Smoking? Wolfwood things.

~*~

“-And that one was from a Bounty Hunter. I really nearly got got that time.”

Wolfwood huffs out a column of smoke, watching with low and heavy eyelids as Vash maps out the scars on his naked abdomen. He can’t remember how they got onto the conversation exactly. A joke, he thinks vaguely, about putting a cap in the blonde’s ass if he carried on being annoying that turned into a rather funny story on how he very nearly actually got a cap in the ass once.

Not a single scar was an accident. From small, barely visible things that could pass as birth marks to the large, horrifying and knotted tragedies that took up vast amounts of his skin. They all had a story.

Wolfwood can remember a time in the early stages of their romantic relationship when Vash was self conscious of the network of mutilated flesh his body adorned. Shying away if the Undertaker looked too closely, ever so subtly hunching his shoulders forward whenever he was shirtless as if to shrink in on himself. He was a little bit proud to say that the Typhoon didn’t really hide from him anymore. Evident in the confidence he had in drawing attention to each and every twisted little scar on his form, hesitant only in explaining how it got there if the origin was a touchy subject.

“Anyway,” the blonde chirps, clearly having had enough of the skeletons in his closet for a day, “do you have any scars?”

The question catches Wolfwood off guard a little bit. And he doesn’t realise the ash on the end of his cigarette is getting a bit too large until it falls, landing right between his naked collar bones, and he hisses at the little sting. Vash laughs as the other man shoots up into a sitting position, swiping the ash off of himself, and stumping the half-smoked cig into the ashtray on the floor beside the bed. He grumbles, laying back down with a grunt and thinking for a moment.

“I got one.”

“Just one?”

“Yea’. When I was a kid.”

Wolfwood holds his arm up skyward, and Vash scoots in, until his cheek is resting on the inky-haired man’s shoulder, peering up at the arm as Wolfwood brings his other hand in to point at a spot in the centre of his forearm.

Vash squints. It’s… green. Like an old bruise.

“That’s a scar?”

“Mhm.”

“What is it?”

Wolfwood inhales, squinting at the spot himself for all of a few seconds before exhaling again.

“At the Orphanage. There was this kid I hated. Constantly made the other kids feel like shit cuz’ apparently he was only there ‘temporarily,’ n’ his Mom and Dad were gonna come back for him. Total lies. Just wan’ed to feel better than everyone else.”

Vash nods, soaking in every word, his big blue eyes shifting their focus from his partner’s arm to his tawny face. The square of scruffy jaw, the hook in his nose. His eyes soften fondly.

“Anyway, I got sick of it. Told him to shut up, n’ that his parents wan’ed about as much to do with him as the rest of us. And…”

The Typhoon blinks.

“And…?”

“… And he stabbed me in the arm with a pencil.”

Vash the Stampede was a good man, despite what others may think of him. Or what he may think of himself. He was open minded, understanding and endlessly kind. He’d never judge anyone for their origins, and would always lend a listening ear if someone needed it. So when a little sound forces its way out of his lungs, he clamps a hand over his mouth. But it does nothing to slow down the sudden onslaught of laughter that uses his entire stomach.

The Undertaker snarls, shoving a hand in Vash’s face and barking at him to stop his laughing. And Vash tries. He really does, but it doesn’t work. He laughs and laughs until his midriff is aching and Wolfwood is on top of him, hands braced either side of his head, straddling his hips and threatening violence.

“I-I’m sorry!” Vash giggles, wiping his eyes, “I just… A pencil.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean, if you’re so inclined.”

Wolfwood scoffs, rolling his eyes and climbing off of his companion, stomping around to grab his cigarettes.

“I can’t believe that’s the only scar you have.”

“What can I say,” he grumbles, “everythin’ that came after the experiments healed like it never happened.”

“Right…”

Wolfwood turns to look at the man still lying prone in the bed, but his expression is now one of guilt, remorse. His eyebrows are drawn together, looking at nothing in particular as he thinks.

“Oi, Spikes,” Wolfwood calls out, “don’t go gettin’ soft on me now. You were just laughing at me a second ago.”

“Yeah, well that was until I remembered your tragic backstory,” Vash sulks, looking sullen and a bit upset with himself. Wolfwood can tell he’s worried that he may have insulted him with his laughter and rolls his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed with his new cigarette and lighter in hand, and leans down to catch his lips in a sudden kiss that catches the blonde off guard.

“It’s fine,” Wolfwood breathes against the softness of Vash’s mouth, “I don’t mind you bein’ a bit mean.”

“Well I mind,” Vash pouts in retort, “makes me feel bad.”

“You need thicker skin.”

“Coming from the guy with a pencil scar.”

“I thought you felt bad.”

“I’m over it.”

Wolfwood huffs a laugh.

[pancake-breakfast]

I'm really not doing so great at keeping up with my fic writing/posting this month. It's been a bit of a crazy week. But I did complete this second one! It also spent most of the week completed and just sitting in my drafts folder....

Title: Dressed for the Job

Word Count: 3,560

Summary: Meryl insists Vash borrow Wolfwood's suit and join her and Milly for a job, leaving Wolfwood in a bit of a pinch when he wakes up and finds his clothes gone.

Characters: Vash, Wolfwood, Meryl, Milly

Tags: Vashwood, MerylMilly if you squint, fluff, awkward flirting, canon compliant, canon universe, accidental almost streaking, meryl being bossy, daily life, no beta

I wrote this one using a prompt from @deludedfantasy, who requested I write something with a Vashwood clothing swap! This one's very fluff, as it's just the four of them doing the stuff the four of them do while traveling around. It feels more '98/manga to me than Stampede, but maybe that's just because Milly hasn't shown up proper yet in Stampede.

Anyway, thanks, deludedfantasy, for the suggestion! I had a lot of fun writing this one. I hope everyone enjoys it!

[sword-dad-fukuzawa]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let's spread the self-love 💞

tagged by: @erstwhilesparrow, thanks!!

all of the following fics are rated E for explicit nasty trigun sex, among other things.

one last run

my magnum opus; my postcanon vk thesis. this is the kind of fic you read when you're having a shit day and you want to feel even shittier before the final act catharsis makes all of it worth it. it's a story about the dirty shame of loving someone who doesn't deserve it; it's about grief; it's about wanting to end it all and the two different roads you could take from that. but more than all the ugly fighting and crying it's about the life that blooms out from between those things.

one of its first readers told me that despite being a major character death fic, it made them feel better by the end, and despite the premise being a final devastating road trip, it's really about the love and laughter that happens in spite of all that. dunno if i'll ever reach this kind of writing again. regardless, give it a read if any of this appeals to you.

leave the shells for the crows

wrote this over the course of several months. this is what you get after you watch trigun stampede's finale, devilman crybaby, and madk back to back: noncon subverted and erotic gore turned to the max. do you like wound fucking? suicidal impulses but sexy? knife play? it's here, it's queer, it's incestuous and by god, it commits to the bit. read this for the weirdest wank session of your life. knives gets to top, but at what cost?

apostate baptisms

wrote this one for a friend. a single snapshot of obscene tenderness (hair washing; bathing) subverted by obscene violence (your little brother shot bullet holes through your thighs and now you're goading him into throttling you in the bathroom). probably my best characterization of vash the stampede out of everything i've ever written. it's sexy, it's heartwrenching, and there's love in spite of it all. maybe there's a way forward. maybe, maybe, maybe. momcon if you squint but there's plenty of twincest to go around.

sparrowsong

a bit of a departure from the other four fics here: a mostly canon-compliant companion piece to trigun stampede with a romeryl focus. one reviewer summarized it as "old man fights his lust and loses." it's 12k of fierce eyed, pretty girl, no-nonsense idealist meryl stryfe trying to get into her senpai's pants. your typical age gap romance with the soft missionary sex to back it up. the ending takes the coward's way out without an ounce of shame, but i like to think it still hits like a truck.

abel with the rock upraised

plantwood feelings, written for an exchange. you ever had a thing for your boss and his brother, who happens to be your target? no? good, because it's not like wolfwood is dealing with it well. neither is vash, who has loved knives for longer than anyone on this planet has been alive this is mostly a vashwood fic with a lot of yearning for millions knives (evil, irredeemable) haunting the story. i might as well spoil it--this is a story where vash kills his twin and wolfwood gets to watch. no one is happy, everyone is miserable, and the only reprieve is death. but hey! at least wolfwood gives great head!

tagging: anyone who sees this and wants to do it! self promo your shit, guys! i support you!!

[shingansoul]

That's How It Is (Trigun fic)

Sumary:

2023 Vashwood Week day 3, prompt: Scars

"I don't want to do this anymore."

This line has been rattling around in my brain for like 3 months so when I saw this for day 3's prompt i jumped on the chance.

@vashwoodweek

To read on AO3, follow the link below. To read here, continue past the read more!

“I don’t want to do this anymore…”

His voice had barely been above a whisper, but the only other sounds out here in the desert night was the wind around them whipping up loose sand out beyond the rocky outcropping they had made camp at for the night and the fire crackling beside them a small distance away at their little camp’s center. And yet, it felt like it had to be said quietly, a confession like any other sin meant only for the priest and God to hear.

Wolfwood paused from his actions, having been digging through Vash’s bag to dredge out some kind of canned food they had picked up at the previous town to heat over their meager fire. He waited, to make sure he didn't miss anything else from his companion but he was met with silence and a growing sense of unease in the air, his hackles would have raised if his body was truer to his name. He slowly turned to look over at the blonde, sitting on the ground not even a yard away with his legs pulled up to his chest and his face buried up to his nose in his crossed arms atop his knees. Today hadn’t been a bad one honestly, nobody had come to claim Vash’s bounty, nor in the town they had left that morning were they recognized. They were in a walking stretch, Angelina III giving out the week prior but it wasn't horrible or unfamiliar territory. They had not sustained any major losses or reminders at all that day, it had been nice almost frankly.

Yet with how small Vash looked curled up beside him, Wolfwood felt at a loss for proper words. He looked fucking miserable, to be honest. Not quite sad just… everything about him looked and felt run down. Part of Wolfwood thought it was about damn time he let himself feel as ragged as watching how he lived felt, but in this moment actually seeing it unguarded for once felt…off, wrong. Wolfwood plastered on a good naturedly smirk and offered a weak chuckle, trying to glaze over the moment, afraid something delicate would break if he didn't tread lightly here.

“Hey now, my cooking isn't so bad and we’ll be in a town again in no more than a couple days if we keep up a good pace.” 

He tried to keep his tone flippant and light, like he was distracted not as if his attention and body weren't both wired up now keeping attention to any actions or words the other had. In response, Vash merely shook his head, his arms hiding a grimace on his lips as he grit his teeth. Wolfwood waited a few beats before returning to root through the bag, looking to get his original target to at least give off the impression he wasn't stalling and really was casually setting up dinner. He squinted to read the label on the can once he’d drudged it out from the bag, tilting his head a bit to better catch the fire light. 

“Now let’s see…oh now this is a score, you found tortilla soup back there? See, that’s pretty nice right?” He was talking out his ass, he knew it was obvious. But talking felt better than the silence, it put a distance between what he didn’t know how to address and moving through the evening to tomorrow. Hell, maybe they just wouldn't talk about it, wouldn't that be easy and nice? Wolfwood was a coward, he knew that. When it came to things he couldn't use his hands or the punisher for he was at a loss, too carved sharp from the life he’d lived so long having lost most of the real gentleness he had in exchange for a pretty good cover act he usually reserved for women and children to get information and the odd favor.

He set up their little hanging cooking put on its sticks above the fire and dumped the can of soup into it. Stoking the fire a little, he moved to sit not quite next to Vash, but maybe a foot to his right and kept his eyes on their dinner instead for lack of better focus. Now with both his task and his companion, he was caught in a place of quietly waiting. And so he did. It could have been moments or minutes, but Vash had taken the quiet as some kind of invitation and had simply let himself slump to the side up against Wolfwood's shoulder and upper arm. His legs were still drawn in but he turned his foot to be planted so the priest didn't take his entire weight, but it was still more than he was expecting and he reflexively gave out an “oof!”.

Vash kept his gaze downwards, but his position no longer supporting his arms he made to hug himself, his face more visible as proximity didn't allow him to truly hide behind his high collar. Wolfwood, unable to avoid him now, finally looked over at his charge proper for the first time since his small voiced confession. He was quick to notice normally pale lips now looked red and rough, like they’d been bitten through or gnawed on. Wolfwood sighed, scooching closer to Vash so their hips grazed each other, making the lean for the blonde a bit less dramatic and uncomfortable. Vash let himself be adjusted, resettling higher up on Wolfwood's shoulder proper pressing his cheek against the other man, his hair now tickling at Wolfwood's neck but not enough for him to do anything about it.

“Nick?”

“Hm?”

A pause.

“What do you do when…when it hurts for so long that you just stop feeling it anymore?”

Wolfwood’s brows furrowed at the question, unsure how to approach. “Are your scars acting up again?”

Vash hummed noncommittally, “Kind of.” He sounded unsure of his own answer, and Wolfwood could feel him working his jaw back and forth against his shoulder.

“Needle Noggin?”

“I think… I realized how much it hurt, and how long I've been hurting and…,” he paused, taking a deep breath as he turned his head to press his temple into the harder edge of his shoulder. “God, Nicholas, I'm so old and it never stops. It’s just the same thing every day and I keep moving forward but it doesn't matter, does it? I’ve walked every step of this entire planet at least once and yet I still keep walking, the only other constant is-...Does he hurt like this? Do you humans hurt like this? Is it like dying stars for you all, more painful but much faster until you just die?”

Wolfwood felt utterly gutted, like he’d been cut open and everything he had was spilling out instead of one of the most earnest admissions he had ever gotten from his companion. His voice had sounded so damn tired, not in a way anyone like Wolfwood could understand he didn't think. No, he was reminded how much the man beside him wasn't a man but a being, a creature much older than anyone else on this planet aside from the one who completed his matching set. And oh how this creature had suffered, open arms and warm smile rejected endlessly and punished. Had it always been like that, had there been no time truly that humans had returned Vash’s love? No, Wolfwood supposed not, human nature wouldn't change just because of a new planet just like that, no maybe because they were it was like a return to the primal selfishness that humanity had within them. To act otherwise was an active choice, and who would do so in favor of survival even at the cost of others?

Wolfwood reached around Vash and twisted until he could get both his arms securely around the blonde. With his grip sure, he tugged until he had pulled him over into his lap and, once sitting there with long legs awkwardly tucking up to trap Wolfwood's arm around his charge, he pressed Vash against his chest. 

“Wolfwood?”

“Hush. Just sit here.”

He did not. “Ever since we started traveling together, I imagined it would be you who finally killed me.”

“Needle Noggin,” he warned.

“Would you? Kill me?”

“Vash!”

“Please? When everything is said and done, would you do that for me?”

Wolfwood screwed his eyes tightly shut, hugging the man in his arms probably far too tight for any comfort but he was never told to stop. “NO! I WON’T! I DON’T WANT TO!”

Vash smiled, a hollow gesture that made Wolfwood feel nauseous.

“Is that how it is…”

“It is! That is how it fuckin’ is, because we’re gonna live through the end of this and then im dragging your ass to December with me even if its kicking and screaming. And when we’re there, you’re not leaving anywhere without me to make sure you don't get your stupid ass killed just like it has been! This is how it is now!” His voice was grit through teeth in a harsh snarl, he could feel his lips peeled back and something guttural threatening to tear through his throat. He exhaled heavily through his nose, trying to keep it at bay before pressing onwards.

“You’re gonna love those kids, and they’re gonna climb all over you and beat you up until you cry. Miss Melanie is going to constantly scold you and you’re gonna duck your head and give her that stupid smile every time and then you’re gonna help us take care of all of the little brats we end up with and when it's over every day we-we’ll…we’ll just….we’ll do it again the next day, and the day after that.”

Wolfwood was losing steam; he had never believed he’d get far enough really do all that, he never believed either of them would survive this stupid mission, but he couldn't listen to this being who radiated hope and love for humanity just…beg him so softly to be killed just so he could finally rest. He wouldn't take any part in a mercy killing, he was the punisher and that was the killing he would do. And Vash….Vash had been punished for living more than enough. And so he firmly painted this picture of a future he didn't ever think could be real, willing one of them to believe in it as he spoke and not caring much which of them it was. He told him about the kids he could recall being there when he left, all the stupid chore they’d both be sent to do every day, how shit the beds were in the room they’d inevitably share to keep as much space for the kids available, he told him what December was like, he just kept talking until he ran out of things he could put into words. 

He resisted the urge to pant, feeling out of breath from his nonstop rambling about a life he had never hoped for before this very moment. As he sat there, clinging and breathing and just feeling, he idly thought how the soup he’d put on the fire was certainly burned. They’d still eat it anyways, of course. Lost in his scattered thoughts, he almost missed the oh so small voice in his lap, but he was quick to whip around to look down at blonde spikes and imagine what startling blue eyes looked like.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He felt a nod against his chest.

“That’s how it is now…” It felt less like a response for Wolfwood so much as feeling words in his mouth, but whether giving in as a defeat or genuine belief and acceptance, Wolfwood didn't care. He would cling to it as fiercely as he clung to their owner in his arms right now. 

Yes, Wolfwood was a coward.

He was painfully human.

And oh how selfish he was.

To cling to the very person he was to lead into death, to refuse him release even in the inevitability of both their horrible painful miserable ends. Playing roles in a story neither wanted to tell, they had no real choices before them did they? But even still, Wolfwood wouldn't let Vash just give up and leave him. He didn't allow it in Augusta, and he wouldn't now either, and to say it was for simply his orders and contract and not the memory of surprisingly soft hair against his skin and a too light body in his grip? 

Well that would make Wolfwood a liar too wouldn't it?

[dragoncantus]

One Reason - Drabble

Vashwood (is that what its called?) is absolutely taking over my brain, especially after today’s episode. I’m really enjoying what the new anime is doing.

I couldn’t get the brainworms out of my head so I wrote a little thing. It’s a little you have to squint for it, but

One Reason Vash/Wolfwood

In the aftermath of another wave of destruction Wolfwood wonders what would finally make Vash cross that line.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45170314