blankticket

[blankticket]

You're hurt, he thinks, You need help?, and the thought alone automatically gets Vash's body to move. Those tottered steps are halted by his predecessor, more than savvy by now of his younger counterpart's impulse to heal another Plant. There's a dreadful sense of deja vu for it; this feels too similar to the Stars-corrupted Jeneora Rock, just before it went to hell. But the name called out is unknown, unexpected, brand new.

"'Eriks'?" The other Vash's apparent recognition leaves more questions than answers; as if the hand wasn't enough, the sheer confusion keeps the younger Stampede where he is. The deck of the Humpback during daybreak comes to mind, first. Are we like Livio and Razlo?

They wouldn't be the first system that Vash has come across, not with his experiences in his lifespan so far. The resemblance of demeanor between Eriks and Wolfwood's younger brother appears to be close. But in that case, what exactly happens in the future to prompt this?

Vash isn't stupid. Just in denial. Either way, there isn't enough time to pose any questions or connect the dots. The mirror of a frozen hand on his shoulder jerking in surprise—is more than enough incentive for Stamps' attention to snap toward the widow.

He realizes he has no idea how long it's been since then. He's never asked. How many decades had Vash spent without Wolfwood?

He's not wearing a flashy red coat that twirls when he turns to stand right in front of his predecessor. Wanting to account for lack of presence, he pulls down his neck gaiter and hood. Eriks seems to notice the movement and more, thawing from his own stiffness. There's a shimmer of something in dimmed blue eyes.

"Vash. Vash, hey." It's his turn—hands reach up to hold the other by his shoulders, gently shaking once for his attention. His face, now uncovered, shows his concern plainly. "We can leave. Right now, anytime. I'm fine with that."

★ --;; The equations may be different, their variables scrambled, but the outcome would always be the same, wouldn't it? It's the only conclusion Vash can come to as the fog recedes, much like the curtains of a theater were it not for its still curling and coiling edges, the promise of yet more to be apparated from the sidelines. Because the ghost that shows his face is yet another one he knows, though its slow, vacant movement may not be. He'd spent a good few years being that ghost, regardless of the catalyst.

Lina must have gotten to him already-- if it was her, and not someone else. The shell in front of them looks far less rough; at least, for the most part. Still a husk, he'd given very little input for a not insignificant amount of time. This mirror's hair is shorter, neater. Less unkempt than the figure this Stampede had molded himself into as he'd slowly grown back into himself from the empty consciousness Lina had found him in.

There's no telling just when this apparition comes from, how distant his creation may or may not have been. Judging by the just-concealed look on his face, the stiffness of him, it doesn't seem all that long ago. Julai, Jeneora; there's no difference, in the end. How far had he gone? Shambling through the desert in little more than a haze?

Regardless if the familiarity, Vash still doesn't move from his spot, nigh on rooted there. The younger Stampede himself had said exactly why they'd come here, hadn't he? There's only so much time before he can manage to put two and two together.

Except he's already moving, a hesitant step and then another into the fog, and Vash reaches out to grab his shoulder-- how much good it would actually do remains up in the air.

"Eriks," he calls as he does so, just loud enough to carry through the hazy clearing-- as if expecting any sort of answer other than the silence they'd already been met with. He's not surprised when it's more of the same, the figure's hand frozen where it's stopped. Doesn't know why he'd expected any different; using the other's name hardly seemed to have done much in the past, either, so why would is start now?

But in his bid to try and fail yet again at being any sort of help the movement's gone and dragged his own feet into the swirling fog, almost oddly heavy against his ankles, as if he were treading through a shallow pool. The temperature drops somehow further.

Vash hadn't known who exactly he'd wanted to see; hadn't particularly wanted to see anyone at all, really. They both have enough annals of their past littering their skin, libraries made of scar tissue and grafts-- and his successor in front of him is enough of a living reminder of what's come to pass, anyway, never mind the figure in the clearing.

The future had been both tempting and not; the blessing of knowing what could wait for him here and the ever-lingering anxiety of what may come upon his inevitable return, anxiety that he had already had to reckon with once before and isn't exactly keen on facing a gain here, of all places. The knowledge that he has only so much time sits there too; the both of them had had enough arguments about that remaining time already. More fuel for the fire isn't needed on either end, no matter if he'd accepted it a long time ago.

So when another figure starts to take shape not all that far off from the first, Vash's initial reaction is to bolt. To quickly retreat those few steps back into the tree line, coward that he is. And he does jerk back, so close to doing so, but the combination of odd fear in his nerves and hand on the younger Stampede's shoulder end up being just as much of an anchor for him as they had been for the other, rooting him to the spot. Anything else he could have possibly wanted to say gets lodged in Vash's throat, frozen in place just as he is.

Dirt and blood sit caked on skin and coat, easily visible even from this distance. Even looking at him leaves the phantom feeling of grit beneath his exposed fingernails, the heaviness of the circles beneath his eyes, the ache in his arms. The agony in his chest, like ribs puncturing lung and heart. His one, singular saving grace comes in the fact that the new figure is facing away from them, down at moist earth so different from the harsh one they once had, shovel held loosely at his side.

#amoirsetpacis 15

[blankticket]

Vash makes a garbled noise when he's bonked and used as a backstop, stuck right where he's standing. Yet something in the Isle air is revitalizing enough for Stamps to call the priest's seriously jokey bluff.

"Hang on a sec', if you're bigger, wouldn't you be the more worthwhile meal…?" Ah, all that joking about the Stampede being skin and bones is backfiring now!

"Anyway, Wolfwood… You want me to keep an eye out for a particular kinda birdie, or something? There's so many sorts t'look at."

That little stunt has Wolfwood considering, for the briefest moment, pushing Vash over the edge of this floating island and carrying on like nothing happened. He gives him a nasty glare in response, but keeps himself from chewing him out right then and there if only so he won't scare the wildlife away.

"I ain't gotta worry about gettin' snatched up. You, on the other hand." He plants his hand on Vash's head and shoves it down, holding him there. His other hand brings his own binoculars up to his face.

A pair of cranes with plumage more suited for some sort of tropical bird are perched at the top of a small waterfall that tumbles over the edge of one of the tinier islands; one snatches up a colorful fish and gulps it down in one go.

"Maybe I could use ya to bait the scarier ones out." He's joking, but he sounds as serious as a heart attack.

#punisheye 16

[blankticket]

Wolfwood's unintended echo chills Vash to the bone, his ears ringing with the undertaker's sweet sincerity. Once the cross-bearer loses line of sight, leaving Vash all alone on the couch, he claps his hands over his mouth to stop from screaming again. What an awful punchline to a cosmic joke.

Vash runs out of breath before he runs out of anguish to bear. He's left panting against his lost-tech hand, biting down on a finger in attempt to ground himself with physical pain. Eventually his Wolfwood calls out from the kitchen, loudly and clearly at that, but the Stampede isn't yet able to process any of the words.

The sound of his voice at least helps. Mind desperately wanting to flee from a stolen, doomed memory, Vash focuses on steadying his breathing, listening for more sounds from the kitchen. He decides not to call out in response. Besides wanting to hear the undertaker again regardless of tone, there's enough selfish desire felt to make Nicholas return to him. So be it if it pisses the guy off.

And how could he just up and leave him right now for a cake, anyway?! After touching him and being touched by him, after a double-edged exchange of hushed confessions, Wolfwood thinks he can just up and leave for an errand like it's nothing to him?!

The audacity makes Vash move aside the plushies and turn around in his seat—now becoming an agitated lump of comforter glaring daggers at the kitchen's direction.

"Come back already," he mutters under his breath. If Wolfwood would reappear, he'd get hit with the full-force of a teary, pleading look from Vash the Stampede. Surely then he'd see how awful he's being, leaving a guy on his lonesome like this.

Man, the booze was bad, but he didn't think it was that bad. He sounds calm, but even just the ghost of his touch can feel the trembling. More than obvious that something else was up - more than (probably) lying about being cold, and (probably) more than shitty alcohol (from the glass he definitely didn't take and instead went and did that which definitely made Nicholas feel some sort of way).

But it'd be too embarrassing to think about the possible third reason why, at least for now. Feels like a moment passed them and he's not sure how to go about getting it back, so he instead he takes the index finger on the glass and holds it out, tapping Vash on the bottom of his chin.

"Hey now, smile," his own wry smile crosses his face as he grabs the offending bottle from the table. "It suits ya when ya do." With that, he gets up, taking both glasses and the bottle (Bride? Gonna avoid this shit from now on) into the kitchen to dispose of them, moving over to poke at the cake.

Trying to keep the paling Stampede from his mind, he shouts, "Strawberry or cherry?" with no additional context - but even though the taste of chocolate's faded he still has a cake to finish, and those preserves weren't gonna layer themselves. If it's before Saint Valentine's Day, it's...Fine, right?

(Though at this he does twist his mouth into a knot as the sting of the liquor fills his senses. He feels a question forming, but there's no end to it right now, just a trailing sense of discomfort.)

#cw: self harm / jic #punishercross 13 #event: cupid shuffle.

[blankticket]

Vash startles awake to full alertness. His throat feels dry.

"Oh!" he squawks, glancing at Aurelius' face. Guilt strikes at the Stampede's gut right away, a hand shyly coming up to cover part of his sheepish expression. "Um, sorry about that. I didn't mean t'fall asleep, I don't think. That's so rude of me…"

Conscious as he is now, the Plant's head still feels like it's spinning from a rush of jumbled thoughts and blurry memories. Still, he'd rather prioritize getting Aurelius to be happy again, and to hold himself accountable for any trouble he's seemed to have incurred upon the other angel (regardless if he remembers it).

「✧」 Twenty minutes pass.

By the end of it Aurelius is questioning his own goodwill with one ear feeling partially deaf from the spontaneous snoring that had kicked up after the nap. Staring irritably at his watch, the angel counts down the precious seconds until his brainwashing ability lifts.

5...4...3...

"Open your eyes, Stamps."

"It's time to wake up."

He's going to be quite cross if you don't.

#hollowfaith 1

[blankticket]

til death do us part

#out of character. #vash. #wolfwood. #our hearts are in danger.

[blankticket]

In the meanwhile, Vash has done enough silent screaming into the gifted comforter to get most of the nervousness out of his system. The not-too-distant sounds of metal clanging helps to recenter the deadeye, leaving him to wonder if Wolfwood's oven experiment had really turned out that poorly. The thought of it makes him finally giggle, then, muffled into the thick fabric.

He yelps in surprise with Wolfwood's crash-landing, fluffy head popping out from his comfy shell. Then the undertaker's own toast is taken as a one-liner—downed, before the pacifist could so much as protest—and, seemingly, poisoning him straight into a coughing fit.

"Y-you good?" Vash finds himself half-heartedly mumbling, only to helplessly snicker at the undertaker's quick succession of endearingly clumsy behavior. He almost wants to stick his tongue out at the other and snark back when he's literally pressured to drink next, but there's a bad feeling he gets in his gut that quiets the impulse. Instead, he simply gives Wolfwood a playfully wry look—overreacting much, Wolfwood?—moves his mouth to the lip of the shot glass to acquiesce. While the undertaker's still holding the rest of it for him, Vash uses his own thumb to tip the bottom of the shot up. He swallows.

It burns going down just as bad the second time.

He doesn't cough unlike his companion, but he trembles and that'd almost be worse if it weren't for the armor of the deep-red duvet around him. Head blanking out, Vash reaches forward to lift the plushies off of the bottle, pulling them close to his own chest as he blankly stares at the cross-printed label.

"Yeah," he faintly hears himself say, tone amazingly calm. His body sinks back against the couch in fear as though the Bride is about to kill them all. He has half a mind to move first, throw it against the wall and let the glass shatter everywhere.

"Yeah. My mistake. You're right, Wolfwood. We should—Let's just pour the rest of this shit down the sink, already."

"Yeah, shit, hold on-" He definitely notices the change in atmosphere, having been startled out of the dreamlike state they were in. The alarm's for the oven, right. Shit. He'd completely forgot he was baking, and he makes his way around the Stampede, who seems to be busy wrapping himself in a cocoon of his own.

Making his way into the kitchen, he quiets the blaring alarm and opens the door to the oven. A few swears later as he grabs the hot pan without thinking, mind otherwise occupied, the cake is turned over on the cooling rack and the pan is tossed into the sink with a series of clangs as it settles and the undertaker wags his hand while he waits for his body to do its thing.

Exhaling before he goes back, likely finding the Stampede in the same position, he hops over the back of the couch they'd been camped out on to land back in his spot - or at least adjacent to it, as it was currently occupied. "Sorry 'bout that, was bakin' ya somethin'." Reaching forward, he grabs his glass - "To many more cake alarms in the future," - and downs it-

Which causes him to break into a series of loud coughs, the barking of which also echoes off the walls, his own voice replacing the hollow space the loud bells had left behind.

"Holy shit- literally, holy shit. What the fuck brand is this? Tastes like piss. Hey, needle-noggin'," he rustles said needle-noggin, mussing up his hair further. Not the same level of intimacy as before, only a ghost of it, but he feels almost compelled to do so. His hand hovers there.

"Come on, taste it," he laughs, picking up Vash's glass and nudging the side of his face. "I think ya got scammed. Lucky those little guys're cute, huh?"

#punishercross 13 #event: cupid shuffle.

[blankticket]

The impulse to laugh bubbles up in Vash's chest when he hears those words, with Wolfwood reminiscing through a tightened throat—as though the Stampede would never touch him again? As though at that very moment he doesn't want to say "Screw the liquor, can I get back to touching you, please"?

Then the undertaker startles in place, but not quite, and it's still just enough for that need of intimacy to overtake Vash. His free hand moves before he can think, grabbing at Nicholas' shirt as pure reaction to the idea of him leaving now and not finishing what he started. As if he'd allow him to get away with it.

The blaring sound of the bell comes second. Vash's senses are too overwhelmed—with that smitten hysteria locked in his chest, the pulse in his ears, the sound of Wolfwood daring to be vulnerable so close to him—to recognize the alarm. Oh, his breathing's uneven. Eyes follow the other's to the direction of the kitchen.

"—Startled me," he explains in a breathless lie, letting go. Vash needs to clear his throat before he continues, voice adequately stable enough to be heard over the alarm: "Here, let me. My turn to keep your seat warm, huh?"

He's moving, then, to deftly steal Wolfwood's glass out of his hand, relocating the drinkware and plushies back onto the table. Then he tucks his limbs back onto his seat, freeing up the path around the furniture for Wolfwood to move past him. Vash takes the opportunity to pull a good portion of the duvet over his face, hiding it.

"You..." He trails off, not wanting to cut off the Stampede's barreling forward with compliments, what he thinks, and he hates the fact that his chest is squeezing and his throat feels tight. The moth, trapped, transformed yet again can only sit there and stare, his own glass held tightly in his hand, his own arm in the ghost of an embrace, not in contact but still hovering around the blonde and, no, he thinks, hold is right.

Should be right. But it wasn't just he who'd held Vash, the other way around was right, too. Vaguely, he notices that the other man he looking at him more pointedly, but really he can only focus on the blonde's arm and the plushes held by them. Sitting close together, warm, safe. Arms wrapped around each other and cocooned in the Plant's arm as well, sitting in between them.

He's broken out of his reverie when he hears his name (and it's so rarely that he hears his name, but he's decided he likes the sound of the syllables in the Stampede's mouth, how his lips and tongue and teeth work together to form the sound of it, 'Nicholas', so he doesn't correct him), and looks back up to meet bright blue eyes. It's like looking directly at the sun - something, someone that could burn him out completely. From his very core. That tight feeling replaced by licking flames as he holds up his glass.

"I still feel it, ya know. Yer hand, secure, practiced like you were pullin' a trigger. An' I think I'll remember what that song feels like for the rest of my life-" He swallows, looking back at his own drink, and when he opens his mouth to speak further, the hint of chocolate on the back of his tongue spurring him forward, even so far as to have him lean forward again, as though to speak some prayer, low and sacred, to Vash the Stampede-

He almost jumps at the sound, sudden, unbidden, interrupting him as he's brought back to his senses, a loud church bell, ringing loudly -echoing through the kitchen, loud enough to echo through half the ship.

#punishercross 13 #event: cupid shuffle.

[blankticket]

The nudge and quiet encouragement go a long way. With his mouth dry and his nerves shaken, the younger Vash can't exactly find a way to express that with anything beyond a single nod and a step forward.

Fate forms. In direct and immediate response to the Stampede's approach, the fog retreats. Like a photographer shedding their dark cloth, the mists pull back to reveal a figure in the glen, as though he had been waiting there all along. Startled, Vash gasps.

Where he expects to see himself with a hairstyle to match his predecessor, some translucent caricature of himself as a prank from the Stars, or perhaps nothing at all…

Someone else stands there.

There's a man who stands at the same height as him, clothes as nondescript as Vash's current get-up; a white dress shirt, straight-cut jeans that go over boots. He looks as flesh and blood as the other Stampedes, but there is an implicit and absolute truth that a ghost stands before them. Even though Vash knows better than to think it, he looks at the man and thinks anyway: he could be anyone.

Already facing the new arrivals, the nobody's head is tilted forward slightly, almost as if in pre-emptive head-bow. Still, he says nothing to greet them, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast in what might be a trance. His blond hair is like a curtain, obscuring part of his face. The left sleeve of his shirt hangs loose, empty.

"Who is that?" Vash accidentally wonders aloud, bewildered and completely off-guard. "Why isn't—What's…?

"I—Are you okay?" the Stampede tries next, after shaking his head to clear it, thinking that this man must simply be someone who's very, very lost. "Can you hear me?"

The fog that had sloughed off of this stranger, Vash realizes, is still settling at the ground, shifting as it had before; maybe the substance is simply denser than air and life. His attention snaps toward how the opposing man's remaining hand rises just then, lifting up to his waist.

His wrist makes his hand curl up as though to point, index finger unfurling like some stereotypical vengeful ghost act—then that finger presses down on something unseen in the air. Nothing particularly happens as a result.

★ --;; While the other's pace carries with it all the notes of determination he'd been so adamant about carrying, slightly quicker and with more purpose, Vash's own stride is considerably less so. Though his arms do eventually fall from their protective layer around his chest, his hands simply stuff themselves back into his coat pockets, long legs carrying him forward just a bit behind the other, much more ambling by comparison. The knowledge of inevitability feels like a yolk, weighing down his shoulders and slowing his steps.

There is some part of him that hopes he's wrong. Hope in the possibility for good is what had gotten him this far, after all; one of those irreplaceable things that had kept him going for this long-- but if anything that also leaves him more aware than most just what kind of hurt can live at the end of that road. Even if he keeps traversing it again and again, the feeling of rocks sitting in his stomach tell him there's likely only one outcome for its current direction.

And even as he follows the younger Stampede, Vash isn't entirely sure who he wants to see. If he even wants to see anyone at all. Maybe the only reason he's found himself here is to help. Though his track record hasn't been exactly the best, maybe the reason his feet had carried him into this forest in the first place was to be there when he'd be needed. Hopefully it's not the universe playing one more cruel joke on the both of them, one he'll only serve to make worse with his presence.

The feeling only gets worse as his successor's words drift behind him, into the elder's ears. He hopes he's wrong. That his gut is lying to him.

He should say something. That he'll always have a brother, even if he's not there. That the singular force of his existence can never simply cease to be, not as long as the other twin still lived. He knows he should say something-- but he doesn't. A coward, again. Too scared to say the wrong thing, to send the delicate balance so easily tumbling over.

The footsteps in front of his own barely get registered as having stopped until Vash himself is stopping next to the younger Stampede, shoulder just behind the other's. The hairs at the base of his neck stand of their own volition-- more than usual-- and the steady puffs of air out of his nose become more prominent in the somehow cooler air, the molecules themselves tense and waiting.

He should take the first step. Should be the one to model; but he isn't, again, instead gently nudging the other's shoulder with his own. "Go on," he says, just as quiet as before. This time it's not entirely born out of skepticism-- the air feels almost oppressive, feeling as though it were standing so eerily still despite still swirling movements lying in wait, no doubt to finally take shape.

"I'll be right behind you."

#amoirsetpacis 15

[blankticket]

"Huh. Are they?" Just for the sake of it, Vash tosses the offered pair straight up into the air, spins in place himself, and catches the binoculars by the straps—barely keeping it from smashing against the ground. Then he pulls the 'nocs back into his hands properly.

Unbothered by any complaint Wolfwood might make for that, the rascal tilts his head up and peers through the glass, finger adjusting the zoom.

"Whoa." A low whistle. "Jeez, glad we're far away, Wolfwood. Wild how those birds are way more huge than they look. We'd get snatched up in a heartbeat!"

Despite the high altitude, the air lacks any sort of biting chill and the sky is nothing but cloudless blue around them. There is a breeze, sweet and warm, that washes over them and makes the grass and flowers sway. Birds ride on it; he still can't believe that they could be found this high up.

But that's why they're here, right? To see them.

The moment he stepped off that airship and onto the first floating island, he noticed immediately how reinvigorated he felt, like he'd just been given back everything they took away from him when he arrived here. Apparently that is the case, but that's not really important now. As comfortable as it makes him.

There had been a few options for birdwatching sites. The Mistwood creeped him out a bit, though, and he had been concerned about accidentally inviting the ire of the pixies anywhere in Cotes. Plus, he'd never been up here before.

"Here." Wolfwood unzips his bag and pulls out a second pair of binoculars, handing it over to the blond dork that he invited to come along with him. It didn't take much convincing. "Don't lose those. They're expensive."

@blankticket

#punisheye 16 #:3!!

[blankticket]

zznzxxznzrzzxzzzzzzz

oh no he forgot his headphones at home

#lol. lmao. #joke post. #out of character.

[blankticket]

The thought to cry out for help never crosses his bliss-addled mind. Why in the world would he do that? It isn't as though Vash is in any danger. Even if he was in trouble, why get anyone else involved? He knows better. No one else was responsible for this besides himself.

Yet, faintly, Vash hears it anyway; buried and unfamiliar thoughts of desperate self-preservation: it IS happening again you have to stop this before you hurt everyone again, what if you can't wake up from it this time?

But the panic feels flat. They're little printed words on a piece of paper more than any real galvanizing alarm. For a disoriented split-second, Vash wonders if these words are from his predecessor, perhaps finally finding a way to telepathically communicate to him the way that his brother had mentioned.

"…Ah." The extension of further contact melts away any remaining coherent thought of his own. The Plant's markings glow brightly in anticipation for the next instruction—then they fade away entirely once it's issued. His eyes slip closed. His body goes limp.

「✧」 Pragmatically, Aurelius waits for Vash to quiet down completely before he proceeds, squeezing his hand one more time to gauge the Plant's reaction.

It seemed he'd taken to it fine.

Calming someone like this—so that they still retained their sense of self while going under—naturally required a bit more finesse. The consciousness was allowed to linger, even if it was rendered inert. Sometimes Aurelius wondered why Klaus could read thoughts while he couldn't, but perhaps this kind of mind control was his equivalent exchange.

"Whether or not you deserve attention is my choice."

"I don't spend time on worthless things. Or would you have me question my own judgment?"

Despite the hint of censure, his tone remains mild. After all, upsetting his patient was never an objective. Once he's sure that Vash is truly under, the angel uses his other hand to lean the Plant's head against his shoulder—again increasing their point of contact.

"We have about 20 minutes left," Aurelius observes. "Let's not waste it on any more self-doubt." He raises his hand to Vash's eye height, confirming that the other can see him, before issuing the final command with a snap of his fingers.

"Now, sleep."

#hollowfaith 1 #good luck aurelius! vash snores loud as fuck

[blankticket]

🎵 // Maxime Denuc & Cindy Castillo - SOLARIUM

(this one's focused entirely on trigun maximum vashwood, canon and isolan; stampede vashwood talk to follow later)

Transcript:

roo's asked a two-parter question, but i wanted to answer this one, first: to 🗣📣 tell [my] thoughts about both vw dynamics.

hi, roo! love ya :3 ♥

i have too much to talk about on this, so much that i'm making the stampede vashwood talk its own post later, but please know that i'm more than happy to dive into specifics beyond what i cover here. ask me again here or on discord, i'll talk even more.

i'll start with trigun maximum vashwood, out of courtesy for you, the asker, being the mun behind trigun maximum vash.

…o, trigun maximum vashwood. o to crawl into an occupied grave and think, 'for eternity, for eternity, for eternity'. he'd think the same thing at the [wedding] aisle, right? i'm already there, so i'll start at the end.

months ago, zacharie told me that he thought himself as 'a little delusional' for believing trigun maximum vashwood as canonically romantic. and i said, 'delusional?'

[i] said that i feel, fearlessly, that they are very much canon, bc the subtleties are not subtleties to me; the subtext isnt really subtext.

the church and wedding imagery, their developed dynamic being so Like That, the word choice in their final [(emphasis implying association of 'wedding'):] exchanges, the Bride, the lone vash-shaped-and-shaded songbird on the grave, and—for hells sake, even the gag blow-up sex doll that nightow draws wolfwood carrying around having vash's mole is beyond flagrant. it's canon.

who cares if they don't have a two-page spread of them kissing or making out?

anyway, i'm confident in how i've interpreted what nightow has put out in this work. i don't really care if anyone thinks i'm deluded for that. i get the feeling that nightow has had to arrange this story—their story*—in this way so that it could get published at all; it's not uncommon for authors, even at that time, to depict or write things like gay love in a certain way so that they can be seen at all. they're for people like us who will see ourselves in it nonetheless, and clearly, it's worked.

now, i mention all of that context because it absolutely serves as the ground[s] to establish their dynamic in isola radiale, given their canon points. i think you and zacharie having trigun maximum vashwood kiss and have sex, thread one day one, was a funny and beautiful and fitting decision. i'd said that the excitement of the other guy being right there in front of them, breathing and living, overrides the idea of articulate talk for later. to have loving and passionate physical confirmation that the other is There, is alive, is exactly what they'd both want to be doing, especially since the decades-long fact of 'wolfwood is dead' is no longer true. (yay!)

[it] brings to my mind now of this interview quote from kristen stewart, regarding the most recent film she stars in and its own lesbian sexual narrative:

“We’re all in our heads, it’s all fantasy. That doesn’t mean it’s a lie, but we need to believe the stories we hear about ourselves in order to then reckon with a body, put it out in the world, and allow it to be touched in the way [that] you’ve decided feels good.”

i'm not sure how you and zacharie feel about writing maximum vashwood the way that you do(, i can only speak as the mun of trigun stampede vash), but from that thread on, i've only ever felt assured and grateful that you two are the ones responsible for writing this dynamic together.

you're both outstanding in your execution of their exchanges and what they get up to together, whether it's them being lovey-dovey lovebirds, having unserious and serious disputes alike, continuing to challenge the other guy to improve himself, the list goes on.

i sure hope nothing bad happens to them in june. i sure hope no one crashes their wedding. i sure hope vash isn't left alone at the aisle again.

that'd be awful!!

#cw: nsfw (no... noises or anything. just verbal discussion lol) #out of character. #answered asks. #amoirsetpacis #no pop filter no problem.

[blankticket]

🎵 // Anton Riehl - A Slow Mindkill: Mindkiller [Instrumental] + Meditation to Prevent the Mindkill

Transcript:

i blinked, and a week went by.

someone's asked me to talk 📣 About writing Vash as deceptive, even to those he loves. first off, thank you very much for sending this question in. i appreciate it.

and, honestly, [sfx: ba dmm tss] it's not even that vash is particularly good at lying, he's just awful at telling the truth. and maybe it's more telling about me or what kind of living situation i'm in, but i don't think that the bulk of vash's guilt lies [sfx: ba dmm tss] in lying. (okay, sorry, i'll try and ease up on that [the puns]). or that it feels easy, feels natural, to write his expressions of deception.

honesty is something i personally value the highest in all of my relationships. but things weren't always like that. i used to lie a lot when i was younger, because i thought i could keep myself safe [by doing so]. and that survival tactic is very much depicted in vash, in trigun stampede; even his outrageously-high bounty is out of deliberate misconception. he, himself, is a myth.

vash seems to try and balance his inclination to be mendacious with endless acquiescence; that is, he gives himself a pass to be dishonest if he can pave his words with good intentions. [and] his powers as a Plant are not something he wants the general public to know about, or imagine he's capable of; these both are, i feel, lessons he's learned from Rem: she kept the truth of [tesla] from the twins to save them from the pain of humanity's evil, and [from] their loss of innocence. and her lessons with naï seemed to be focused on ensuring that he would never be discovered as a Plant. thus, being dishonest is justifiable.

it also feeds right back into the whole 'ego' thing. it's a perceived right of his to lie, since he knows what's best for others, or that it's his call to make (that the truth will hurt them more than remaining ignorant). sometimes, the lies only enhance the fears of what's real.

#out of character. #answered asks. #vash.

[blankticket]

News to this guy!

"Whoawhoawhoa, happy birthday, Marcille!" She seemed very happy about it already! "Fun day planned ahead, huh? Excited for ya!"

✲ "I don't know if you knew this, but you're in the presence of a birthday girl!"

#elfcast

[blankticket]

Vash lifts his glass a little, just high enough for the single other party-goer to see without that arm losing his grasp on the plushies. Meanwhile: his right hand presses down against cushion between them, allowing him to lean, neck craning toward him slightly.

"I'll raise mine for Nicholas D. Wolfwood," the flame says to the moth. How sweet it was for Wolfwood to humor him on this: another excuse to mercilessly heap on gratitude and dear recognition. Trap sprung, his expression's now nothing short of adoration. The desperado keeps his volume mellow and low, wanting every word to soak with sentiment.

"Kind-eyed undertaker. Razra's favorite." A chuckle. "Keeps me warm, and fed, and happy. He's more compassionate than he thinks. Mess around with him a lot, but he's been a good sport about it, to his credit.

"I like his company, I'll celebrate that too. The way he looks at me, and the way that he holds… Oh." The fingers of the hand against the seat have curled into a loose fist, Vash pausing to regard it. "Held me, when no-one else could. And—and all the touch that's followed, well, I…"

The Typhoon makes no effort to obscure the movement of his attention as he recalls those memories; Vash looks at the cross-bearer's knuckles, his glass, his throat. He thinks he knows the meaning behind their exchange of touch—the hair, the waist.

He's thinking back on some of the other times he's held him and been held by him—on making the undertaker feel his own song from Vash's throat earlier, those pressed fingers wonderfully calloused—on the sunny day that Wolfwood had chosen to move in with him—on the near-contact of their lips just moments before.

Most of our time knowing each other has been spent together, spent here. And how did it make him feel?

"Nicholas…?" Vash smiles at him, raises the glass a little higher. "Thank you, for… Ah. For being here with me.

"Here's to our tomorrows."

Nicholas snorts at the display and starts to clap at the twirl and the pulling the cork out with his teeth. He almost wants to shout for an encore, but bites it back since he wouldn't want it to seem like sarcasm when he was actually just happy to see the Stampede so energetic. If it was a display, then it was a damn good one, given Vash rarely imbibed in the first place and he seemed to be having a good time.

He takes his own glass, holding it out so Vash can pour, before sliding closer. Which, obviously, was only because he's supposed to be letting the liquor breathe next to the plushies, of course. Letting his arm drape behind the Stampede again, he holds up his glass.

There's an easy smile on his face after the display, the request for a toast, "Ya know I ain't the best with words," he adds with half-hearted laugh, making sure the glass is close to the not-so-steathily clutched plushes.

Because, well, yeah, they've gotta let the liquor breathe near the scented toys, right?

(Let's go with that.)

"You go first. I'll follow with somethin' snappy an' meaningful, cross my heart." His jokingly remarking that he's bad at this being a pretty damn poorly construed cover for the fact that he's not entirely sure what the tone should be. Whether he should say what he wants to say, what was building in his gut, whatever remained of whatever that nearly was...

"Go on then, what're ya toastin'?"

#punishercross 13 #event: cupid shuffle.

[blankticket]

Huh, so Raven was someone who'd been around for a while. Even then, it was completely understandable to be overwhelmed by the idea of picking up new hobbies in a new world. They seemed capable and open-minded enough, though; from his own experience, Vash knew that Golden had been something of an endless supply of people and activity. Hopefully it wouldn't overwhelm them!

"Oh, I love keepin' penpals! Sure, sign me up for that." After contact info is exchanged between the two, Vash is still beaming with joy, delighted to have made a new friend.

"Message me whenever, Raven. Even if it's just to send me a picture of a funny-shaped crack on the sidewalk or something. Never really sure how long we have to do all this explorin', so we might as well give it our all, right?"

"Yeah I think that's my next step. At least until something big happens."

Given how strange the city was that seemed pretty likely. Maybe not anything too catastrophic but it felt as if no matter where they went someone or something was going awfully wrong.

"And they gave me an apartment out in the Golden Ward? Think that's what it was called. I guess there might've been some people there before I arrived but now its just...empty." Unless they just had an apartment all to themselves now. Would've been a strange welcoming gift but not the worst one ever.

"Still if your busy you don't need to come on by. Hell I'd probably be more likely to send you a message if I actually find something to keep me busy."

#felt. that's so real... #echoesofcoral 1

[blankticket]

"Whoa, easy there." Vash reaches out to readjust the man's grip on his coat, maneuvering Blake's arm across his shoulders to support him.

It also gives him a chance to check for any signs of physical trauma on the stranger's body, now standing close beside him. His appearance seems similar to others he'd met, back on the desert planet he belonged to.

Over there, Vash the Stampede's an outlaw gunslinger of his own right—but here, right now, he's less a deadeye sighting targets and more a healer assessing triage. It's easy to infer when someone's on the run from something, especially with the panic of needing to warn others away. He's been there more often than not.

"Steady on; catch your breath, now, nothing like that's come this way. It's alright." His brows are furrowed together in worry, but he keeps his tone as calm as he can for the sake of the other. Vash remembers today's eclipse happening not too long before Blake's appearance now. "...You a new arrival, friend? Things work a li'l different, here."

@blankticket

He should not be here, he told himself. He should be back inside that coffin, sealed up so the world wouldn't see him. To keep that shadow at bay. As if someone's sick joke cause him to be awake; do they not know the consequences?innocent people would die.

Being awake only a minute after his 100 years slumber, blake had to adjust his leg once more to be able to walk. He's stumbling fast, but he's too anxious and shocked to even think straight.

That is how he ended up grabbing onto a stranger's coat, to retain himself and acquiring an information.

"Please, sir." The male shivered, almost out of breath, "Have--have you seen a dark shadow pass here?? Please, sir. I need to know. People might be in trouble."

Not knowing there was nothing like that here, the creature from back home didn't followed.

#deadmcnwalks 1 #thanks for making this starter for me!