Trigun Short Writing Prompts
collection of short one-shot works based on a classic prompt meme, written by my wonderful trigun server. our goal was to include a variety of underutilized characters in our works, exploring POVs that we otherwise had not had a chance to explore.
(Open, Unmoderated)
Recent works
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Summary
Constellations were easier to agree upon than the names of the moons and suns that danced across the sky. (Vash still likes his idea. If there can be the Big Dipper and Little Dipper, there can be a Big Soleil and Little Soleil, dammit!)
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empathetic indeed by haenotic
Fandoms: Trigun (Anime & Manga 1995-2008), Trigun Stampede (Anime 2023)
07 Sep 2024
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Summary
Vash throws a hurt scowl over his shoulder. “My blood doesn’t stink.”
“Like hell it doesn’t. It’s nasty.” Wolfwood’s free hand, the one not playing with Vash’s un-fun internal anatomy, comes around to smack Vash in the nose. He’s also got Vash’s blood on that one, though significantly less of it. “Take a whiff, Spikey. Or Stinky. Understand the things I’m doin’ for you right now.”
(Detritus and rotten leaf litter are smells that Wolfwood’s probably never come into contact with, so it makes sense that he’s reacting so poorly to them; the human tang of iron being replaced by garlicky phosphorus doesn’t help the case for Vash’s blood not smelling bad. Vash likes garlic, though. Most people like garlic, actually. It’s a very popular flavor. And vampire legends on No Man’s Land hate peppers instead of garlic, so it’s not like Wolfwood could pull the Dracula card on Vash and say that a different immortal being feared by the general public would be on his side of the argument.)
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“—I missed the resurrection because of you,” was the first thing Elendira said to her, when Dominique opened her eyes and blinked at the IV in her arm. The faint hum permeating the entire space signaled that they were aboard the Crimsonnail’s personal airship.
“I’m sorry, Madame Mary Magdalene,” Dominique croaked. Her eye trembled. She and Elendira weren’t close; why was she here? She was supposed to escape. She was supposed to be dead.
Elendira scoffed, shook her head, and left the room. Disappointed.
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“Millicent Puddin’ Thompson,” Nicholas D. Wolfwood says in his most plaintive voice.
Milly, both honed in on his current plight like a worm vulture to a sweet carcass and also blissfully unaware of anything and everything that doesn’t have to do with the knitting in her hands, interrupts him to reply, “That’s not my name, silly.”
“Camille-y, Emilie, Emilia,” Nicholas tries, flinging an arm over his eyes as Milly giggles, “Mildred, Amelia. Maximilian von Tomas, I have a life-or-death request t’make of ya.”
“Do you need more tea, mister priest?” Milly, light of his life and the bane of his existence all wrapped up in one beautiful six-foot package of a stun-gun shell brunette, stretches from her comfy side-lean against the arm of the couch in order to ruffle his hair.
Series
- Part 3 of Post-Canon Polygun
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Summary
Knives is struck with a thought pertaining to his sister, and he wonders if through enough study and experimentation, he could provide more for her than just justice.