#trigun fic

[aldoodles]

😚

[jelly--doughnut]

Vash, who after the events of Maximum lets his hair grow out. Long and black, unkempt by the blistering winds of No Man’s Land. He ties it up as best he can, but at the end of a long day he harbours the look of a seasoned vagabond.

Ironic, given his history.

But now Vash has settled down, in an inconspicuous town in the middle of nowhere. Hiding in plain sight. The soldiers of the Earth Federation still hunt him, wanted posters piling one upon the other across buildings like flies in the sun.

“What an eyesore.” The people say, and Vash couldn’t agree more.

He grows a beard after a close call of being recognized by a Federation soldier, hoping the extra hair might change his face just enough to keep both himself and his family safe. Admittedly, it’s an adjustment for everyone at first, but as the years pass in blissful quiet, the memory of what he used to look like (what he used to be) begins to fade.

Until one day, the man in the posters, sporting that carefree grin that fooled no one who knew him, became nothing more than a stranger.

But his children, always had questions.

“Who’s that?” His daughter sometimes asked, pulling on her father’s sleeve as they passed by the sun bleached papers.

Vash’s answer was always the same. A shrug of his shoulders. A nonchalant “Don’t know.”

Whoever that man was, he was long gone now.

[mystixx-xoxo]

ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʀᴏᴜɴᴅ (ᴠᴀꜱʜ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ᴡᴏʟꜰᴡᴏᴏᴅ)

𖤐 tags/cw: MDNI!!!! trigun ‘98, intense flirting, drinking, suggestive commentary, eventual smut(next part)

𖤐 wc: 2.9k (probably the smallest chapter I’ve ever written, but don’t worry, part two is loaded with lovely smut)

𖤐A/N: I want to clarify that this is based off Trigun ‘98. Obviously, the manga and Stampede differ on Wolfwood’s storyline, so just keep that in mind. ALSO, this is only part oneeeeeee…I normally only post my fics on AO3, so hopefully this transferred okay! Enjoy. ;)

ᴀ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴅɪꜱᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴀ ᴘʀɪᴇꜱᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ʙᴀʀ—ᴡʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ?

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹✮

The whiskey tasted like someone had filtered it through a boot. Though, three glasses in, you'd stopped caring entirely.

Wolfwood sat to your left, cigarette balanced between his lips even indoors, because the man refused to go merely a minute without one. Vash had wedged himself to your right with the strategic urgency he usually reserved for dodging bullets. Elbow on the bartop, chin in his hand, aqua blue eyes watching you with that wide, stupid grin that made your face hurt just by looking at it.

"You're staring," you muttered without turning to him, eyes solely on the bartender as he skillfully mixed your drink.

"Is that a crime?" Vash purred back.

"Knock it off." Wolfwood tapped ash into the tray he had dragged from outside and signaled the other bartender for another round of shots. "You've got a tell, Needle-noggin. Your whole face goes slack like a golden retriever."

"That's—hey!"

"Just an observation." Wolfwood grinned.

A loud, telling sigh from you broke their moment. You took a swig of your drink–extra strong, just as you had specifically requested moments prior–and let the burn settle in your throat. The saloon was half-empty, a shell of what it normally was. It shouldn’t have surprised you in the slightest, as you had dragged both men out on a random weekday for shits and giggles.

Of course it was dead.

Some patrons played poker along the outskirts of the saloon’s den. There was a couple slumped against each other in one of the booths, sweet nothings cascading through the air past the booming jukebox, and finally, the three of you–taking up too much space at the bar because neither one of the men sandwiching you had figured out how to sit a normal distance beside you.

The tension hadn't been discussed. That was the thing. Whatever “this” was, the way Wolfwood's hand found the small of your back when he guided you through the saloon, or how Vash's voice dropped an octave when he leaned in a tad too close…maybe even the way both of them were simply encaptured by you; something exotic. You'd all just been circling each other for weeks like vultures, bumping into the edges of confession, only to pull back.

You were tired of pulling back.

The round of shots that Wolfwood had ordered arrived swiftly, and honestly, you were not complaining. He carefully placed your shot glass ahead of you, sliding Vash’s into his open hand. You each gave a silent nod, clinking the glasses together before throwing your heads back to suffer in union.

Despite your love for a good night out, you still had not mastered a nonchalant face when it came to the warmth that whiskey brought. It trickled and lingered to the point where you had to consciously fight the urge not to gag. Your face scrunched up, hurriedly chasing the liquid with your own alcoholic beverage–unwise–as Wolfwood stacked the empty shot glasses for the bartender to collect. Your stool turned just enough so your knees pressed against Vash's thigh, but you looked at Wolfwood over the rim of your drinkware.

"Let's play a game."

Wolfwood's eyebrow lifted slowly, already suspicious. "What kind of game?"

"The kind where I find out which one of you two is more fun."

The cigarette stilled between Wolfwood’s teeth, brows now furrowing together at your vague response. Vash, on the other hand, had made an indistinct sound beside you. Not quite a word, but more like his brain stalling out. You turned to him, letting your knee drag higher against his leg, and watched the flush climb his neck in real time.

"Unless you're both not interested," you backtracked, allowing the liquid courage to settle.

Vash’s throat bobbed, his wide eyes dropped to your mouth and snapped back up so fast it was almost pathetic. "I-I never said–what exactly do you mean by fun?”

Wolfwood exhaled smoke toward the ceiling and leaned in, close enough that you could smell tobacco and sandalwood under the bar’s musk. "She means exactly what you think she means, Stampede." His gaze lazily slid to yours, eyes darkening. “Don’t you?"

You cheekily smiled and took another sip of your drink.

"Not sure what you mean,” you drawled, tilting your head like a confused puppy. "Or maybe I do…?"

“Alcohol is strong, but not that strong,” Wolfwood mused. For the likes of you, he meant.

“Well since you’re so confident that you know me so well, why don’t you prove me wrong? What do I mean?” you challenged playfully and Wolfwood grunted.

The priest recovered first from your attempt to lull him into your seductive trap. Always with that smug, infuriating composure that made you want to crack him open just to see what spilled out. He leaned back on his stool, legs spread in that careless way men usually did to maintain dominance and shamelessly dragged his gaze down your body. Taking inventory. Barely rushed, certainly not shy about it. When his chocolate eyes rose back to yours, they were half-lidded and ignited with challenge.

"So what's the audition look like, sweetheart?" His cigarette was reaching its end. It sizzled as he snuffed it out within the ashtray.

You grinned widely. "Both of you,” you propped your chin on your hand, “will tell me what you bring to the table—or the bed, the wall, the floor—I'm not picky." You let your gaze swing between them. "Ten minutes each, impress me."

Vash choked on his drink. Bewildered, his eyes flicked to Wolfwood in an attempt to verify whether or not he was two sheets to the wind or actually hearing this. Wolfwood just rolled his eyes. The priest pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack, rolled it between his fingers without lighting it. Something to do with his hands, you realized, because the rest of him had gone very, very still in the way most apex predators do.

"Well, I’m a man of God," he drawled, cocky enough that you nearly smirked. His mouth curved evilly. "I worship."

You weren’t sure what pissed you off more–the fact that he knew it'd do things to you or the fact that he seemed so pleased. The smug bastard let that visual creep into your mind, savored how it hit and then he kept going.

"I'd start on my knees and I wouldn't come up until you beg me to. And even then…" He twirled the cigarette between his fingers before tucking it behind his ear. You didn’t protest as his free hand traced one knuckle down the inside of your wrist with light, devastatingly slow pressure. "...I'd take my time with the rest of you. Every. Inch." His thumb pressed down onto your pulse point and held as he delivered the final blow. "I don't rush scripture."

Arousal trickled down your spine, the sudden slick heat pooled low in your belly, but you kept your face steady through sheer spite.

"Big talk for a priest," you goaded, though your voice came out weaker than you would have preferred.

"Confession's free." Wolfwood finally let go of your wrist. "But the demonstration'll cost you." He rubbed his thumb rhythmically against the pads of his index and middle fingers, a cocky motion. You weren't about to let him sit there looking so haughty.

You slid off your stool, your thigh leaving Vash’s and the blonde deflated at the loss of physical contact. Wolfwood’s legs parted wider upon instinct—or invitation—and you planted yourself between them, one hand flat on his chest, fingers splayed over the hard plane of muscle under his shirt. You could feel his heartbeat holding a steady rhythm. You wondered if he was working overtime to keep it there.

"So you're telling me," you began, tipping your face close enough that your noses almost brushed, "that a man who carries a cross that weighs more than I do—who swings that thing around like it's featherlight—" Your hand slid down to his stomach and the muscles contracted under your palm. "—has stamina?"

His arrogance wavered. "That what you're asking?"

"I'm asking if those arms can pin a girl down and keep her there."

The brunette’s nostrils flared and all, you'd knocked the air out of him without touching anything vital. His hand came up and caught your hip, not pulling per se, but holding you steady, thumb pressed to the jut of bone through the fabric of your clothes.

"Try me and find out." The restraint Wolfwood held was foreign, but never looked better. You couldn’t wait to break it.

You let your lips brush the shell of his ear. "What if I don't stay still?"

"Then I'll put you back where I want you." His fingers flexed on your hip hard enough that you felt each one like a brand against your burning skin. "As many times as it takes."

Heat once again flooded down your spine and settled between your thighs so fast it made you dizzy. You dawdled, pulling back too fast would have admitted defeat. But god, were you struggling. Fuck, the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his chest was moving a fraction faster than it should've been, you dragged your thumb across his lower lip, watched his eyes flutter half-shut. "Good answer, Punisher."

Wolfwood exhaled raggedly, caught between a huff and a laugh.

You retracted from him, picked up your drink for some more liquid courage, before you turned to a very flustered Vash the Stampede.

He was about as crimson as the coat he wore, absolutely, catastrophically ruined from the collar up. His mouth was open and, for once, nothing was sputtering out of it. Vash’s hands dug into the edge of the bar so hard you could see the effort in his knuckles. Both hands, flesh and prosthetic alike, the mechanical fingers denting the wood.

For a second, you almost felt bad for straying your attention away from him so selfishly. For allowing Wolfwood to savor your closeness…until you remembered the end game here.

You reset. "Your turn, gunslinger."

"I—I don’t think–uh–I can m-match that level of allure,” Vash stammered. “You have to admit that Wolfwood was pretty smooth!”

"Mm, I guess,” you sighed. Wolfwood bristled slightly at your meek response. With just two steps, you were in front of Vash. You walked your fingers along Vash’s bouncing leg, slow and feather-light, and they traveled up the line of the buttons along his coat. "You gonna let him win that easy?"

"That's—that's not—I don't—"

"Breathe, Vash."

And he did just that. Came out shaky, and the flush crept higher, staining his cheekbones and the slope of his nose. Your fingers continued their ascension until your hand could rest on his shoulder, thumb tracing the curve where his neck met it, and his whole body listed toward you like a plant craving sunlight. So helpless, so natural.

"You know what I think?" you whispered wolfishly, as if you were sharing a juicy secret. "I think you're filthy underneath all that blushing. I think you've thought about this. About me…and you didn't blush then."

Vash’s breathing hitched.

"Am I wrong?" Your brows furrowed in mock confusion.

Responses came quickly for Vash…usually. His gaze briefly flicked to your mouth, his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip and that was answer enough.

You pressed further. "I've seen your aim, Vash. I've watched your hands–mm–those hands." You glanced down at his sleek mechanical fingers still clenched around the bar's edge. You reached down, peeled them free, one-by-one and brought his hand up between you. You turned it over, traced the articulated joints, the cool metal where craftsmanship met elegance. "You've got the steadiest hands on this planet. Sixty billion double dollars' worth of precision, mind you." You lifted his fingers to your mouth and pressed your lips to the knuckle, holding there as you kept eye contact. "Tell me what you'd do with them."

Another pathetic sound punched out of him, not even close to a coherent word. From behind you, Wolfwood muttered something profane under his breath, seemingly invested despite the focus solely being on Vash. You were doing wonders for the Humanoid Typhoon—and apparently, for Wolfwood too. You watched it happen in real time, Vash's normal hand came up to cup your jawline, his thumb swept across your cheekbone slowly as his gaze drilled deep within your own.

"I'm not as good with my words," Vash admitted softly. "But I know what it sounds like when someone's about to fall apart. And, well… I'm real patient when it matters."

Oh.

Shivers traveled throughout your body as cool metal met your flesh and tugged you closer. Half an inch or maybe less, but enough that his mouth was right there, breath warm against your lips, and his voice dropped into something you'd never heard from him before—famished in a way that made your pussy throb.

"I'd learn from you," he continued tenderly, letting his words wash over you in waves of euphoria. "Every sound. Every move...and I wouldn't stop until I knew each of your pleasures all by heart. I'm a quick study and I don't get tired."

The desperate desire to reinvigorate yourself with alcohol was growing.

The urge to abandon this foolish debate and crash your lips onto his was strong—but your urge for something far more enticing was stronger. Reluctantly, you gently rose your index finger to gently press against his lips. You could only hope he didn’t notice the way you bit back a moan at the gentle kiss he pressed back onto them.

"Well then…" you mustered, huskily and pitiful. You hadn’t even gotten to the part where your voice had a reason to be. You slipped away from Vash, finding your perch back onto your bar stool.

Maintaining eye contact with Vash, you carefully hooked your boot around the rung of Wolfwood's stool and pulled him closer. The wooden stool scraped against the floor and his knee knocked into you. Wolfwood allowed you to reel him in.

"Buy me a drink,” was all you said. “The good stuff this time. Not whatever's pickling our insides."

Wolfwood’s mouth twitched upwards at your request, reaching for the cigarette behind his ear before flagging the bartender nonetheless. "Top shelf. Whatever you've got that won't kill her."

"Thanks.” you murmured, desperately trying to cling onto your shredded pride. Beside you, Vash had never stopped staring. Of course not. His hand was on his thigh, fingers curled too tight and white knuckling.

Your head tilted. "Jealous?"

"No." Too fast.

You beckoned for him, index finger curling. When Vash leaned forward, you whispered, “Liar.”

The shudder ran through him immediately and the muffled groan that followed lit something hot and reckless behind your sternum. You straightened up, took the drink Wolfwood had slid across the bar without looking, and knocked back half of it. Much better, smoother. Warm alllllllllll the way down.

“See, here’s the thing.” You swiveled your stool around, your back against the bar's edge, elbows propped behind you to position yourself properly between them. The posture was a power move, throat bared, body open, daring them to look. They certainly looked. "I've been watching you two trip over yourselves for weeks. Wolfwood gets handsy when he thinks Vash isn't paying attention, Vash gets brave when he thinks Wolfwood's asleep." You swirled your glass with disinterest. "I'm not interested in taking turns pretending the other one isn't in the room."

Wolfwood pulled the freshly lit cigarette from his mouth, a puff of smoke swirling the air. His tongue dragged across his lower lip, considering your words slowly before scrutinizing you with a squint of his eyes. "So what are you interested in?"

"I want to see what happens when you both stop pretending."

You kept your eyes straight ahead, you could only imagine what their faces looked like at that moment. You knew that if you looked, you’d be bent over the bar top with little to no dignity left. You leaned your head towards Wolfwood.

"Also, one more question for the holy man."

Wolfwood’s jaw set. "Shoot."

"Those prayers you mumble before a fight. You know, the ones under your breath, the ones you think nobody hears." You took another sip of your drink before setting it behind you and reaching your arm out, hand gently caressing stubble. Make him wait for it like a dog. “Would you whisper my name like that?"

Nicholas D. Wolfwood had nothing to say to that.

"And you, Mr. Quick Study." You lazily drifted your gaze to Vash, reaching out to cup his chin with your free hand. You ran your thumb along his lower lip and watched him blur between haze and lust. "If I asked you to take me apart—no holding back—would you put me back together afterwards? You think you'd be able to fix me?”

"Yes," he breathed immediately with raw, shaking certainty. "Every time."

You chuckled and both of them leaned closer at the exact same time.

"Here's my counteroffer," you teased. “You both were so convincing, I absolutely can not fathom choosing one over the other… Thus, you both will prove your devotion…and if either of you hold back—" You slid off your stool, split the difference between them, close enough to feel the heat radiating between your bodies as you stretched for what was to come. "—I'll find someone in this bar who will not."

Both men shared a painful expression at the mere thought.

"There's a room upstairs, yeah?” Wolfwood directed at Vash, barely masking the urgency any longer.

Vash's fingers flexed against the bar top. "Yeah, a few to be exact…you…thinking…?”

Eagerly, you took each of them by the hand and lured them away from the bar.

They followed with little to no complaint.

That was a first.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹✮

[honeyroastednuts]

sheet for Nuclear Angel !!!!!! aka my Trigun Band Alternate Universe

(name of the fic inspired by @ atanerrum on twt's fanart)

[deludedfantasy]

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Trigun (Anime & Manga 1995-2008) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Vash the Stampede/Nicholas D. Wolfwood Characters: Vash the Stampede (Trigun), Milly Thompson, Meryl Stryfe, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Original Characters Additional Tags: Post-Canon, post trimax, Resurrection, Nicholas D. Wolfwood Lives, Amnesia, Amnesiac Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slice of Life Summary:

Haven isn’t a place where you’d expect miracles to happen, so when Vash arrives with Meryl and Milly, he’s expecting a quiet few days to relax while the girls research their next story. He’s not prepared to find Nicholas D. Wolfwood, the man he mourned and buried two years ago, moving and breathing and very much alive. And also missing all of his memories.

To Nico, Haven is home. He might not remember his past or the kind of person he was before he stumbled into Haven’s welcoming arms, but he’s happy. Sometimes, he’s not sure he wants to know any of that seeing as his first memory is digging himself out of the grave. But when Vash the Stampede comes to town, he raises all kinds of questions about who Nico really is and he’s determined to get answers. Even if the idiot keeps trying to dodge him.

A story about finding home, rediscovering love, and finally using your blank ticket to the future.

Surprise, I’m back! Have a new Ordinary Days chapter :)

[what-immortal-hand-or-eye]

[anastasiadalia]

Trigun fic!

In honor of me finishing Trigun maximum have 1.2k words of wonderful canon compliant post couch angst!

READ HERE

[the-conspiracy-board]

The Gungho Dive!

When I posted my @fanartfrenzy bingo card yesterday, you may have noticed there were two squares marked off! This is the piece that I made for the ‘create art of a specific setting/place in a fic’ prompt, and I had to take an opportunity to make a traditional piece!

This is another piece based on chapter 18 of ‘You, Me, and the Space In-Between’ by CyberSearcher and SparrowSaverem on AO3. Check out the fic, it’s very good and i’m eating it up! Don’t forget to leave comments and kudos if you enjoy it! Find it here:

https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/152940943#work_endnotes