Seeking anyone at this point, just as long as the plot is good enough
Preferably looking for Knives, but again, I’m open to anyone as long as it’s bxb
Length: I’ll usually try to match your length but I can get a decent amount of paragraphs if I have enough to work with! I will not respond to one liners unless it’s necessary in the rp. I do work and I’m usually pretty busy, but I try my best to stay on top of replies!! I would prefer the same for you, but things come up and I can understand. But please try not to disappear for longer than a few weeks 🙏
Time: Cst!
Familiarity: I’ve watched 98 and stampede and I’m working my way through Trimax, but I’ve got enough spoilers and done enough research on Trigun overall to be more than familiar with everything.
I’m open for AUs or canon and will take ideas for plots!!
I’m very desperate for Roleplays 24/7, so this will always be open!! :33
I’m not very active on Tumblr either, so there is a chance I might not respond right away if you do hit me up on here. I’d much rather prefer you dm me on discord @vamponia_
My last cat was owned by my friend's Trekkie uncle who passed very suddenly in a car crash. The family just couldn't take him and asked me to possibly foster him until they could. I almost immediately adopted him.
I would set my computer to play a video for him when I left for work. He got mad if it wasn't star trek. He learned to hit the spacebar to pause and start it.
I am and have always been a Trekkie. One time I was having a shit day bc I was in the middle of MCAS starting to kick my butt and I was just crying on my couch. He hopped onto the table and started star trek for me
Then he just stared at me like "did that work?"
And this was his staring face so yes of course it did
But I'm forever amused that I shared needing the same comfort show, with a cat
It took him some trial and error, but he figured out pawing the keyboard in the area of the spacebar made it stop and start. And also at my mouse, which he had stolen bc I was paying too much attention to the video, in that picture
Me: Or THIS might have happened before. Because obviously this Knives would distort his moral compass to satisfy his needs… Yeah, toxic yaoi (omitted below) whatever, I just need to draw jacketless Legato.
[i set this in the same AU as mixed signals because i love established relationship post-trimax levash hehehe i hope you enjoy!!]
“Come here often?” Vash grins, leaning one elbow on the bar. His cheeks are flushed and a lock of dark hair has escaped the gelled fate of its brethren to flop, handsome and stubborn, over his forehead.
“Not at all.” Legato sets down his empty glass, shifting to mirror Vash’s pose. He’s willing to play along. “I’m just passing through. I was supposed to meet someone here a couple hours ago, but it appears he’s stood me up.”
“That’s terrible! You should come home with me instead. But before that…” Vash flags down the sleepy bartender. “I’ll have, uh—what are you drinking?”
“Water,” Legato says.
“Definitely not what he’s having.” Vash squints at the meager offerings on display, hand cupping his chin. There’s a new scratch on his glove that wasn’t there this morning. Most likely a keepsake of whatever altercation kept him from being on time. “Your cheapest beer, please.”
He barely waits for the glass to slide in front of him before he grabs the handle and takes a solid pull, tongue darting out to lick his lips afterwards. There’s foam at the corner of his mouth. Legato instinctively reaches up and wipes it away with his thumb.
Vash whistles. “And I thought I came on strong. That boyfriend of yours is missing out.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“No?”
Legato smiles, baring far more teeth than is generally appropriate. “No.”
“Then who were you waiting for?”
There’s no simple word that can describe who Vash the Stampede is to him. His sworn enemy, his hunter, his singular tether left in this rotten world.
His dreaming saint.
“No one special,” Legato says, relishing in the brief flash of kicked puppy eyes from Vash before he falls seamlessly back into their game. “Unless you’re a bounty hunter. He’s an infamous outlaw. You may have heard of him.”
Vash returns to his drink. “Nah, I don’t really keep up with that stuff.”
“That surprises me. You seem like trouble.”
“You’ve got me all wrong.” Vash uses the knuckle of his index finger to push up his glasses. There’s blood caked under his nails. “I live a life of love and peace.”
Typical for their yearly trip to a certain orphanage on the outskirts of December, he’s forgone his distinctive red coat in favor of a long-sleeved black button-down and a pair of jeans. He’s still recognizable if one knows what to look for but slouched over the bar, wire frames perched on his long nose, he blends in well. Just another unsuspecting person trying to flirt with the former leader of the Gung-Ho Guns.
“Love and peace,” Legato slowly echoes, sliding his keen gaze over Vash in an attempt to discern how many people have tried to fill his dreaming saint with lead in their brief time apart.
It’s beneath him to insert his threads into every lowlife who tries their hand at taking down the Humanoid Typhoon, but he can’t help the twinge of ire that naturally accompanies the thought of some Earth Federation nobody stepping in on his territory. He imagines how their muscles would strain, bones snapping as weak flesh yields to his will. It’s not worth the migraine that comes with extended use of his abilities these days. Or the way Vash will look at him afterwards—hollow, angry, with Knives’ last actions hanging sore and unspoken between them.
But there’s no harm in fantasizing about it.
A slow song seeps from a crackling radio, the lyrics crooning and indecipherable. It sounds familiar but Legato can’t place it. He may have heard a live instrumental version at some point.
“They’re playing oldies.” There’s a melancholic tinge to Vash’s voice. He sets his drink down and holds a hand out towards Legato. “Shall we?”
“Presumptuous. I never said I would go home with you.”
“And I’m not taking you home yet, stranger. I’m asking you to dance.”
Legato’s brow furrows. He’s not necessarily opposed; he just has to weigh the pros and cons. This has been a relatively good day pain-wise but he’s also spent most of it without exertion, and they’re back on the road tomorrow. Vash doesn’t drive. If Legato’s body decides to punish him for this, he won’t be able to pass out in the backseat.
He shouldn’t have left his wheelchair in their room. But it was a short walk and smalltown bars like this don’t tend towards accessibility in his experience.
At Legato’s clear hesitation, Vash adds, “If you want. We don’t have to.”
And it’s this easy out, more than anything else, that makes Legato take Vash’s hand. The fingers that wrap around his are firm and warm. He can keep himself upright with his threads if needed, but he doesn’t think Vash will allow him to fall.
Vash guides him towards the middle of the room, stopping before they actually reach it. There’s a low murmur of conversation but nobody is paying them any attention. Neither is anyone else dancing. With the lights dim, lamps casting a warm glow in scant patches, it gives the false impression of intimacy. As if they’re alone.
Legato wishes they were.
He releases Vash’s hand in favor of a more secure hold at the waist. Vash scrunches his nose, one blue-green eye briefly winking shut. Legato’s hold must be too tight, or maybe he’s supposed to put his hands somewhere else. He doesn’t know. He’s never done this before.
“You’re a good looking guy,” Vash says, adjusting Legato’s grip so it’s higher up. Closer to his ribs than his hips. “Surprised no one’s asked you to dance. You were kinda awkward about accepting, though. Don’t tell me I’m your first?”
Legato doesn’t put himself in situations where strangers might have an excuse to touch him. If he enters a saloon after nightfall, it’s to eat. Not to mingle with desperate sweaty humans eager to rut against their intoxicated companions. But Vash is aware of this already.
“The average person has better self-preservation instincts than you do.” Legato throws a glance at the lethargic few who have yet to turn in for the night, scattered at the bar and slumped over dark sticky tables. “And I was asked. Twice. I turned them down.”
“Third time’s the charm.” Vash slips his arms around Legato’s neck in a casual, languid way that’s too relaxed to not be purposefully so. “Lucky me.”
The music keeps cutting in and out, devolving into static for a few seconds at a time before the melody returns. It doesn’t matter. Vash sways more to a rhythm in his head than anything floating through the air, and Legato moves with him. It’s not so much dancing as it is rocking together; a soporific back and forth.
Legato doesn’t hate it. There are worse ways to spend the looming anniversary of—
“Hey,” Vash whispers, pressing his forehead against Legato’s. “Sorry I was late.”
They’re too close for Vash’s face to be more than a blur, but Legato keeps his eyes open anyway. When he catches the slight movement of dark eyelashes he says, “I ate without you.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“What kept you?”
“Oh, you know me.” Vash plays with the soft hair at Legato’s nape. “Lost track of time.”
His fingers ghost over the metal brace that peeks past the high collar of Legato’s shirt. A faint prickle of unease unfurls from the point of contact and spreads over Legato’s scalp. Like blood dropped in water. It makes him want to roll his shoulders and twitch his head away, but he stays still and waits. His gut reaction never lingers and it’s soon overtaken by something that is nearly pleasurable.
It’s grounding.
Legato focuses on Vash’s touch, eyes falling closed. He has become distantly aware of a buzzing pressure beneath his skin. Warning of an impending break. Of too much kept inside, forced down.
Sometimes he can recognize the building tension for what it is and other times it bursts from him with a ferocity that is beyond his control. It’s worse this time of year; with the past so close, when he is left alone for long stretches while Vash runs off to grieve in ways that are between himself and God.
It’s different for Legato. His God and the man he grieves are one and the same.
Legato’s foot catches on an uneven floorboard. It was bound to happen. Sensation is inconsistent beneath his chest, and the slight stumble doesn’t register until he has already lurched against his dance partner, nearly taking them both down. Vash staggers with him, less steady than expected.
“You okay?” A faint sheen of sweat glistens at Vash’s brow. He’s sporting a woeful half-smile that chases sincerity, never quite catching it. A frequent expression for him to fall back on. But Legato senses something different beneath it.
His eyes go wide with intensity. “How injured are you?”
“It’s nothing,” Vash is quick to assure. “I’m fine. You’re the one who tripped.”
Legato’s grip has slipped back down to Vash’s waist and he squeezes. Hard. “Stampede.”
“Shhh—ow, ow, ow. Ease up for a sec.”
Legato has never eased up on anything in his entire life. Let alone at the behest of his sworn enemy. He untucks Vash’s shirt and sticks his hand beneath.
“Whoa, hey.” Vash’s stomach jumps. He laughs a little, high and breathy. “Someone’s eager.”
There’s a clamminess to his skin but Legato can’t find any open wounds between the myriad scars he is already exceedingly familiar with. He itches to slip his threads into Vash so he can find out what exactly is wrong and stitch the fool up himself if he has to, backlash be damned. “Where were you hit?”
“Doesn’t matter. Everything’s popped out already, we’re good,” Vash says. “It’s just tender. I’m basically all healed up.” His head drops to rest on Legato’s shoulder. “It’ll take more than a couple of bullets to kill me.”
“You were hit twice?”
Vash makes a noncommittal noise. “Something like that.”
The corners of Legato’s lips curve up. It’s a taut, unpleasant smile. “I’m impressed that your dodging skills have atrophied to such an extent.”
“Yeah,” Vash agrees, lying with all the ease in the world. “Guess I’m out of practice.” He lifts his head and locks eyes with Legato. It’s not a searching look, or one that tries to hide the feelings beneath. This unnamable thing between them has been going on for too long for such pretenses to mean anything. “C’mon, one more dance. Then you can drag me back to the room and have your wicked way with me. Or chew me out for being reckless. Whichever. I’m flexible.”
Legato isn’t in the mood. He knows Vash isn’t either, not really.
What’s going to happen tonight is that Vash will take a quick shower and collapse into bed, and he’ll curl around Legato, chest to back, long limbs tangling together like stubborn roots. And when he sleeps it will be fitful, which is fine because Legato expects his own rest will be much the same. Faint light from the moons will trickle through the tiny dust-clouded window, and Vash’s lips will find their way to the back of Legato’s neck where metal and skin meet. Legato will twist around in his scalding embrace to clash their mouths together, open and wet and desperate, and then morning will come. And they will be on their way.
They’ll drive to the orphanage, and Vash will become someone else in front of the children, and Legato will make himself scarce in the small guest room he always stays in. There’s a mismatched deck of cards on the bedside table, the edges rounded and fuzzy with wear. He will play solitaire on the bed, his back propped up by two thin pillows, until the position becomes unbearable and he transfers back into his wheelchair for better support or slinks down to lie flat on the floor. Razlo might poke his head in, more excited than suspicious after all these years. Or it could be Livio, subdued and oddly kind, checking in despite lingering wariness.
It won’t be Vash.
Legato will not see him again until they leave. Because as Legato has an apple tree, Vash has a grave. There is a body in it. Decayed by now. There is no body for Legato. He must content himself with a living reminder of his angel, and he will confront it when they return home.
He will stand beneath the ample branches, bracing himself against the sturdy trunk. He’ll reach up until there is an apple resting on his palm, curl his fingers around the fruit, and hold it. He will not pull until the stem snaps. He will not sink his teeth into blushing skin, gouging out uneven chunks of pale flesh as juice drips down his chin. He could. Easily. But he won’t.
It’s not hesitance that will still his hand. He does not believe himself unworthy. Legato was, and will always be, Knives’ most loyal and devoted servant. His best knife, his sharpest blade. If Legato doesn’t deserve the honor of consuming fruit borne by his master’s tree, then no one does.
But he is only human. He yearns to do what humans do best. Take and consume and take and consume and take.
If he starts, he won’t stop.
“Legato?”
“All right.” Legato slides his hands around Vash’s waist, locking his fingers together at Vash’s lower back. “One more dance.”
Vash continues to stroke his hair. It’s strange. Legato keeps thinking he’ll stop soon, or he’ll do something else. But Vash hasn’t grabbed a rough fistful and yanked. And he isn’t slowly rubbing a blue lock between forefinger and thumb, playing at sensuality. He’s…normal about it. Like Legato is an ailing dog he found outside a saloon and he’s petting it, without expectation, for lack of something better to do.
It doesn’t feel terrible.
art based on a scene i very much enjoyed in @corduroyserpent's fic rotten work :] highly recommend it to EVERYONE
