Rahhh This Is So Pretty And Poetic I Want To Eat It!!!

rahhh this is so pretty and poetic I want to eat it!!!

suguru geto is unbelievably captivating.

he catches your eye immediately – standing tall, he's got one hand on the subway pole to keep his balance. his hair is tucked into his hoodie with only a few strands left out to frame his face. you can only see his side profile but it's enough; a sharp, prominent jawline and a beautiful nose, thin eyebrows, a pierced lip and a pair of tired eyes. you feel bad for thinking it but the dark bags under them leave you no other option.

afternoon sun peeks from the windows behind him, successfully making the scene before you seem like a painting. the colors move; the shades of green flashing by as trees wave you goodbye, the different hues of the tired grays, of the big buildings taking up space as the base of the canvas. splashes of black and white and silver and beige are thrown into the mix, too. his slacks, his big headphones, his jewellery, his totebag. but what truly brings it all together, is his deep, dark maroon hoodie; there's a hint of purple in it aswell, and you just think it's one of the best colors you've ever seen. you figure the thought is a bit silly, but you can't get it out of your head.

something so comforting about it, something so warm and welcoming. something a little murky about it. you can't look away.

you forget about everybody else around you. for you, it's just him in this moment. a total stranger. you don't know him and you probably never will; a pang of hurt hits right under your ribs at the thought. you wonder what his name is, you wonder how his voice sounds. how warm his hands are, and what's his favourite color. no, he doesn't seem like the type to have a favourite color. childish. you'd have to ask about a favourite drink or a book perhaps instead. you're fine with that.

you can spot a few rings on his fingers, a silver watch and a bracelet or two peering from under his sleeve. his hands are pretty. they look good. you also think that you can see a tattoo sprouting from under the collar of his hoodie but the dark lines are blending in with the strands of his hair, so you can't be sure. you want to be sure.

your foot taps against the floor or the cart, your body itching to scoot a little closer to him. you want to see his whole face. you need to. fidgeting with your own fingers, you continue observing the man in front of you. he might step out every second now, you can't waste any more time.

his shoulder seem very broad, his posture almost immaculate. handsome – you think he looks very handsome. well put together. his clothes aren't wrinkled, there isn't a single hair or a speck of dust anywhere on them as far as you can see; the only things that betray his true state of being are his eyes.

purple. glued to the window in front of him, he watches... nothing. he seems a little out of it. he's not focused on the trees or the buildings, the people aside him. you think about what kind of music he might be listening to.

the subway doors open and you jolt, head turning around to look at the platform behind the glass. people stand and leave, and a few come in, leaving an open space for you to take on the bench you're currently sitting on. and you do take it.

there he is.

you can see his eyes a little better now. keen and sharp, he reminds you of a wolf. a malnourished one. the corners of his mouth are tilted down and he really does seem tired. but he's still utterly, utterly beautiful. his skin is almost perfect, his hair shiny and his lips a little glossy. but not too glossy though – no, he definitely uses something like shea butter. something that isn't too thick, something that doesn't smell or taste too strongly. it just seems right.

you've never been this captivated by a stranger before. it's weird. the effect this man has on you without ever even sparing you a glance. you think about asking for it. for a glance. for a second of his time. a fraction of it? anything. everything.

how would he greet you? would he be mad? would he think that you're bothering him? would he give you a smile? a scoff? an eyebrow raise? would he let you ask whatever your heart desires? or would he brush you off, never even removing his headphones when you try to speak to him? oh, it hurts. the blatantly fake heartbreak still hurts.

his trainers are clean - they're white with some accents on them. they match his hoodie. you wonder which he bought first. did he buy the other with the intent of wearing the two pieces together? you want to ask him. that's not his favourite color though, right? no, no – he wouldn't have one. this man reads books and watches movies that are mostly only shown at different festivals. you don't mind it.

films. foreign films. he knows names of the directors from the top of his head, he could probably name a few cinematographers, too. fancy. but that's not his main thing, definitely not. there's something missing, something you can't grasp with just your eyes. what is he passionate about? truly passionate. what does he pour his heart into? is that why he's exhausted? is he tired from loving something? is it starting to hurt now? is it overwhelming? does he want a break? does he want to rest? does he want to get away?

the sun finds your eye from behind his body, forcing you to tear your eyes from him. the cart stops again, the doors open. you try to rub out the slight burn, suddenly a bit frantical that you'll really lose him. you look up and—

he's not there.

he isn't there anymore.

people walk past you, plopping down beside you as you're still trying to find him. turning in your seat, you eye the station. maroon, maroon, maroon, maroon. c'mon, how fast does this man fucking walk?!

but he's just not there.

you think it's unbelievably unfair that it's the sun that made you lose him. isn't she supposed to be full of love? bullshit. with a huff, your shoulders slump and your eyes fall shut while sinking into the bench below you. the cart seems to rumble more now, the seat way more uncomfortable than it was a mere minute ago. you really are disappointed; in yourself and in the world. why didn't you get up? why didn't you speak to him? better to get a no than to drown in the million 'what if' questions in your head. stupid. you're stupid.

"hi."

as you listen to the voice recording of the station names, the very same ones you memorized years ago, you crack open your eyes. your own shoes stare back at you; they're dirtier than his were. you don't think too deeply about the comparison. sun dances on the ground before you, the various shapes entertaining your mind with the shadow play. but you don't stay for long; trailing up, you see the familiar paint and your heart skips a beat. white and maroon. black. maroon. silver.

purple.

excerpt from the first chapter of my slow burn Vashwood romance, Like Real People Do [regularly updating on ao3!]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The problem was that Wolfwood was in love. Hopelessly, stupidly, pathetically in love with Vash the Stampede. It hadn’t started out that way, of course. Did it ever? All he knew was that somewhere between July and whatever godforsaken town they found themselves in now, he had fallen hard.

The blonde had ridiculous ideals, a bottomless stomach, simultaneously the best aim and the worst clumsiness of any man he’d ever met. He was brave and reckless and foolish and brilliant, and he was utterly out of reach. Wolfwood didn’t suppose that Vash had even considered the possibility that he was anything but a traveling companion, a sidekick. Not maliciously, of course. He figured Vash cared for him about as much as he cared about anyone, that being far too much. But Vash cared about him like a puppy, or a very reliable gun. Wolfwood loved Vash like the sun, like an angel. Like a man.

Tonight, Vash opened a nondescript door in a nondescript lodging house and flipped a smile over his shoulder at Wolfwood. “Only one bed, preacher man.”

Wolfwood looked him up and down. “You don’t usually complain, needle.”

Vash laughed and flounced in, sprawling on the bed with a puff of dust. “I’m still not, don’t worry. Dontcha wish you could bring a girl back or somethin’ though? Must get old havin’ to share with me.”

Wolfwood looked intently at his cigarette. “Sure. But I wouldn’t want ya to get lonely. Not my fault you always strike out.”

Vash pouted. “C’mon, they just don’t know what they’re missin’!” He put on an exaggerated baritone voice. “The six million double dollar man, the Humanoid Typhoon, the peace-loving gunman! Ladies can’t help swooning for me!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Wolfwood smirked. “Just lemme know before you kick me out for your conquests, huh?”

Vash nodded earnestly. “Of course! I’m not a jerk.”

“Tell that to the girls next time.”

Vash sat up on the bed, a hand pressed dramatically to his chest. “You wound me, Nicholas.”

Wolfwood rolled his eyes. “C’mon. You definitely won’t have any luck if we don’t head downstairs before closin’ time.” He hefted the Punisher on his shoulder and sucked in another lungful of smoke.

Vash posed in the room’s cracked mirror, making sure his hair was spiked up as high as possible. “Alright, alright. Let’s go!”

Wolfwood claimed a table in the corner and got to work building a cloud of smoke around himself. Vash leaned on the bar, his red coat fanning out as he gave a megawatt smile to the girl behind the counter. “Two beers please, gorgeous!”

Wolfwood shook his head with something like fondness. Vash always came on too strong. He’d likely be picking up the pieces of the blonde’s broken heart later tonight, but he wouldn’t complain. At least he got to hold something of his.

Vash stumbled his way to Wolfwood’s table a few minutes later, waving a hand to disperse the smoke. “I was cultivating an aura over here,” Wolfwood groused.

“How is anyone gonna see us like that?” He slid Wolfwood a beer. “Here, make this last, alright?” Wolfwood stared into the bottom of his glass as Vash leaned his toned forearms on the table. “I think the bartender girl likes me,” he grinned.

Wolfwood snorted. “Ya mean she didn’t slap you yet?”

“Heyyy they don’t all do that!” Vash whined.

“Whatever you say, blondie. Ya gonna kick me out of the room then? Give a man time to find other arrangements, would ya?

“Nah, it’s not like that. Not yet, anyway. Besides, I don’t wanna get locked down too fast. The night is young!”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself.” Wolfwood pretended not to notice Vash’s failed attempts to wink at the bartender, who was conspicuously avoiding any glimpses toward their table. Eventually the gunman tired himself out and slumped on the tabletop, defeated.

“Maybe I read the situation wrong somehow, Wolfwood. Ya think that’s possible?”

He blew a slow stream of smoke to the ceiling. “It’s not impossible.”

“Awww man! She probably thinks I’m ridiculous.”

Wolfwood stared at Vash long enough that the blonde started to blush. His voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Who cares what she thinks.”

“Hah, yeah. I guess so.” Wolfwood couldn’t take his eyes off the soft pink that dusted Vash’s cheeks, the way it crept down his neck and reached the tips of his ears. It made him dizzy, reckless.

“No really, who cares what she thinks? Anyone would be lucky to be with you, Vash.” The words were out before he could swallow them, and Wolfwood briefly considered drowning himself in his beer.

“Gee thanks, Wolfwood. Guess it’ll be another cozy night for us, then. At least till someone realizes my worth.” Sarcasm lingered on the last word, like he didn’t quite believe it.

The cigarette suddenly felt like it was burning Wolfwood’s lips. He stubbed it out hard on the table, willing the awkwardness to dispel with the smoke. “Well. I’m gonna call it early. Good luck down here.” The priest was up and gone before Vash could protest.

As soon as he disappeared upstairs, Vash slumped down his seat. Why did he always do this? That would’ve been such a good opening, he thought miserably. When was Wolfwood going to realize?

The familiar doubt that haunted Vash reared its head. Wolfwood was never going to realize, because he would never think of him like that. Could never want him like that . Vash wasn’t even human, just a battered, alien thing.

He picked up Wolfwood’s discarded cigarette in shaking fingers and pressed the end to his lips. The paper was cold and damp with Wolfwood’s spit, but the core was still warm. Vash sucked it softly, the acrid burn in the back of his throat like a penance.

UHHHHM

hi<3 tysm for 250 followers, that's wild!! i'm so happy that others are enjoying the output of my horniness for appreciation of our fav 2d men

~a little about me!~ • somehow new to tumblr in the year of our lord 2024 though i've been tumblr-adjacent for much longer • 25, married, work a 9-5 by day & write by night • current hyperfixations include Spike Spiegel Cowboy Bebop, Nanami and Higuruma JJK, and Nicholas D. Wolfwood Trigun (basically exhausted men in suits)

• outside of fandom I love to play video games, make music, crochet, take photos, and explore new places!

• was briefly an archaeologist and am still v much into academia as a hobby

• happy to chat and make new friends!! feel free to dm 💫

Vash with a wide, dopey grin as he walks backwards up the stairs to his room, waving to everyone left in the bar, a garish tie knotted over his forehead

Vash who lets the mask slip as soon as he gets to the dark hallway, his strained smile falling away as he loosens the tie and tucks it into his pocket

Vash who closes his eyes, leaning his head against the door as he unlocks it, stumbling in to kick off his boots and slump on the bed with an arm over his face

Vash who flinches when someone knocks on the door, shoving himself back upright and pasting on another glassy-eyed look of sleepy drunkenness before he opens it

Wolfwood who stands outside with a paper bag of doughnuts, holding it up to Vash with a shy, crooked smile

“Happy birthday, needle-noggin. You didn’t think I’d forget, did ya?”

Wolfwood with a heart that skips a beat when he notices Vash turning pink, sees a genuine smile break across his face like a sunrise

Wolfwood who sings in a scratchy voice, smoke from his perpetual cigarette mingling with that of the single candle he managed to find for Vash

Wolfwood who makes a wish even though he doesn’t believe in them, who silently promises never to leave Vash alone as he watches the blonde man scrunch his eyes shut and blow out the candle

He doesn’t know that Vash is wishing the very same thing.

some of the brightest minds of our generation post on tumblr during work hours