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Hi hi! I'm liquour (I know what a funny pen name). 20+, istp, any prns, multifandom blog, sfw only!
note;; I am so sorry if it don’t seem like I’ve been liking posts I promise I am this is just not my primary blog 😭
Mainly writing for trigun, bebop and dmc
I try to make everything gn. Do not translate, repost, repurpose, copy, edit, sell my works!!
Masterlist under the cut.
trigun knives x reader. (no version of knives in my mind! pick whichever you'd like!)
tags: coffee shop au, barista!knives, slow build. He's kinda rude but your drink is perfect every time, wc; 500 (a short one :D)
You just happened to show up at the same time every weekday -- well almost the same time at 6:50 am -- because it's the only place near your train stop that opens early enough for your schedule is a nondescript little cafe, which feels less like a business and more like a dare.
The drinks are great, the barista's a nightmare. He's the worst barista you've ever met. No smile. No eye contact. Eyes that make you feel like you’ve personally offended him just by existing. Minimal conversation. He never wears a nametag, never smiles, never says more than he has to. He hates everyone, and it's probably mutual. But your order is always perfect, he knows your order and recites it with a bored expression before you even finish speaking.
Perfect every time, always just the right temperature. You don't know how he gets it right without the milk curdling, but you're not about to ask.
The first time he said it aloud -- your drink -- it caught you off guard.
He just handed it to you, he didn't ask for your name hence the blank stare. Didn't clarify anything, just rattled it off like he'd memorized it accidentally and resented that fact deeply.
You almost felt guilty accepting the cup. Almost.
Now it's routine. Kind of. He never smiles at you, but something always passes between you two when your fingers brush against the cardboard sleeve. It was cold, but familiar.
One time you had shown earlier than usual, so you had time to sit by the window. It was one where he could see you from behind the counter. He never really looked directly at you, but you swear you caught him glancing for a second, almost as if he was checking that you were still there.
The rest of the cafe was empty. Short glances that you're not just some figment of a bad dream, or worse, a good one.
You wonder if he prefers it that way, the silence, the stillness. You can sort of see it in his shoulders the way they sit a little lower when he doesn't have to pretend.
He slides your drink to your table without a word. It wasn't... careless, just intentional.
You linger longer than usual, maybe it's the cold, or the way your fingers ache from the wind outside. Maybe it's the fact that he hasn't pulled away yet either.
Glancing up from the drink in your hands, he squints at you. Then, quietly, he nods towards the seat next to you.
"Can I sit," he says, flatly. It didn't really sound like a question.
Barely having the time to nod, he sits there. Two people, a too-hot drink, and the strange hush of a city just waking up. You take a sip, and it's still perfect. It always is.
You stay, and so does he, and somehow it felt more than enough on this quiet morning.
you: so who's the older twin?
vergil: me. whatever could make you think that *points to dante* could ever have been the older twin? quickly.
dante: *eating a strawberry sundae by using his teeth and tongue becuase he couldn't be bothered to find a spoon, smearing it all over his face and looking goofy doing so*
you: ...point taken.
Pairing: Vash x Reader. Knives shows up for a bit of it!. No specific version in mind! tags: record/cd store AU, knives is a good older brother maybe, soft its so soft JUST pure fluff, maybe knives isn't as bad as he makes out to be lol
summary: you share Saturday shifts with vash at the local record/cd store, one weekend Knives walks in unannounced
Saturday mornings at Needle Drop are slow and sunlit, littered with old paper and burnt coffee. The bell above the door jingles as you walk in. Behind the counter, Vash is fighting a losing battle with the register and a pile of newly delivered CDs. There’s a Sharpie tucked behind one ear, stickers stuck to his palms, and a paper cup of coffee balanced precariously on a tower of jewel cases. He looks up when he hears the door, and his whole face lights up like you’ve just walked out of a dream and into his day.
He sees you and nearly drops everything. “Hey, hey, you made it!”
You smile, already slipping your jacket off, the smell of dust, plastic, and coffee grounding you in a way you don’t question anymore. “You said you'd alphabetize the jazz section last night.”
“I did!” he says, too quickly. Then pauses. “Well… I got as far as Herbie Hancock and then I kinda—uh—got distracted by a documentary on Japanese jazz fusion and then I accidentally fell asleep listening to it.”
You smirk. “So, no.”
Also just a quick post but I have so many drafts in store I’m so happy people are liking the small bits I put out :]
Mostly are trigun/bebop centered as of late since I’ve fallen back into that hell hole and collected my blurbs and snippets over the years. Finally getting around to taking all the bullet points and hcs and turning them into aus and fics,,,,
Tysm for the loveee it’s been quite surprising 🥹🥹
Media: Trigun Maximum Pairing: Wolfwood x reader wc: ~2k (?)
an: MORE of my silly bits of writing. tried to merge em together to make them cohesive but alas this is all I have :] enjoy!. it really isn't a fully fleshed out fic by any means because mostly just scnariors I thought of, but pls let me know what yall think
some tags: hurt/comfort, past-torture, care, the eye of michael is a little shit, I'm going to curb stomp chapel, branding, scars, I LOVE WW
They caught you in the night.
One moment you were with Vash and Wolfwood, setting up camp outside a crumbling town whose name you never caught, and the next you woke in a place that didn’t smell like dust or wind or oil, but antiseptic and metal. Too clean. Too white. It made your skin crawl before you even saw the mask.
You counted hours by the number of times Chapel came in.
He didn’t hide his face. No—he wanted you to see him. Wanted you to know the face of what was about to be done. He said it was for your own good. That you’d understand in time. That he was doing what Nicholas never had the strength to finish. All that Eye of Michael propaganda, scripture twisted and sharpened into blade edges.
You remember the sound of your own blood dripping on the floor before you remember how long you were gone. Hours. Days. Maybe weeks. Time bled in and out the way the wounds on your side did—slow, sticky, without end. Pain had become a rhythm. A prayer. One you chanted in silence while they tried to make you speak.
You never screamed. Not once.
trigun. wolfwood x reader. (loosely based off of trigun maximum)
slow burn, mutual pining, quiet intimacy, soft domesticity, found family, emotional damage but like in a cozy way, nicholas d wolfwood has a big heart :], softly devastating angst, wolfwood is a little shit at the end how could you, mention of death
Summary: It started as a necessity. One bed, just one night, no other choice.
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The first time it happened, it was out of pure necessity.
One dingy room. One equally dingy bed. Vash was passed out in the hallway with a bottle of something unidentifiable and far too strong, and there’d been only one vacancy left in the entire town. Some local festival, too many bodies, too few places to sleep.
You stood in the doorway, towel over your shoulder, stiff from walking all day. Wolfwood leaned against the bedframe, cigarette hanging from his lips like it owed him something.
"Only one bed," you’d said flatly.
He blew smoke at the ceiling. “Guess I ain’t sleeping on the floor again. My spine’s already trying to divorce me.”
You tossed your towel on the chair, peeled off your outer layers, and muttered, “Don’t snore.”
“Don’t stab me in your sleep,” he shot back, grin wide under tired eyes.
my silly little musings, ive had these collected for quite some time already, so just finding them again and pinning them all here for my collection
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The desert cooled fast after sundown, the heat fleeing like a thief. The fire cracked low, spitting occasional sparks into the air. Vash had passed out against a rock, hat over his face, muttering something about pudding in his sleep. You were pretty sure that meant he was fine.
You stood nearby, wrapped in a thick, familiar black coat. A little too long in the sleeves, warm in the way only something lived in could be.
Behind you, Wolfwood sat on the overturned crate, cigarette glowing between his lips. He eyed you sideways.
“You always smoke this much, or just when I’m around?”
He smirked, taking a slow drag. “Only when I’m resisting the urge to kiss you.”
You blinked. “That so?”
“Mmhmm.”
You walked over, dropped beside him with a lazy huff. The coat swamped you, but you didn’t give it back. He eyed you.
“You wanna die of heatstroke?”
“Maybe I like smelling like you.”
That shut him up. He looked away, ears pink. Lit a fresh cigarette just to give his hands something to do.
The silence stretched. Peaceful. Warm, somehow.
You shifted, leaning your back against his. His body was warm and solid behind you, like a living wall keeping the chill at bay. He didn’t move. Just stayed there. Steady.
“Ain’t you got anyone better to sit with?” he asked, voice a low rumble.
You smiled faintly.
“No. You’re warm and loud. You scare off the bugs.”
He let out a soft laugh, more breath than sound.
And you sat like that — back to back under the stars, safe for once, sharing silence like it meant something.
Maybe it did.
Maybe it always had.
HI HIII impulsively just wanted a place to put all my thoughts down. I'm gong to turn to this in a few months/years and realize I hate this blog, but no better place than tumblr amiright.
I have a lot on spikey piled up, I will get around to trigun junk later on when I am not boggled down by this man here..
spike spiegel x reader / cowboy bebop
mentions of blood and injury, discussion of death
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You’re leaning against the counter in the tiny excuse for a kitchen on the Bebop, nursing a mug of something instant and way too hot. Your torso is still wrapped from the mission you got back from hours ago — stitched clean but aching. You hadn’t meant to be awake this late, but the quiet was easier than sleep, and the way your body refused to settle had made the choice for you.
The ship creaks faintly with movement. Pipes groan like they’re exhaling. Somewhere, Ed’s laugh echoes faintly through a wall, like a ghost of noise that doesn’t really belong.
And then you hear him.
Not loud — never loud — but Spike moves like smoke, and you’ve gotten good at catching the scent of him before he enters a room.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
You don’t turn. Just lift the mug to your lips. “Could ask you the same.”