Someday your hands will be old and wrinkled, the skin spotted and bunching over your knuckles. And a child will watch you make something. It's a simple task, you'll have done it a thousand times before. But to that child, the smooth, confident way your hands move will seem like impossible magic. You have to keep living.

prev these tags have me crying. this is absolutely what it's all about

stop i'm imagining Prince Vash proposing a do-over wedding with Princess Reader once they've confessed their feelings

He suggests it one morning over breakfast. Just out of the blue: “We should get married.”

You stop chewing your food for a moment. Then, gently, you remind him, “We are married.”

Vash shakes his head, scooting his chair closer like he does when he’s earnest about something. “No, I mean like, really married.” He ignores the way you pointedly look at the ring on your finger. “Like, we choose to do it!”

You lean back in your chair and wipe your mouth with the napkin on your lap. “Choose?”

Vash leans over and takes your hand in his. Rubs his finger along your knuckles. Your smile blooms like a rose at the affection. “Choose. No one telling us we have to get married to save the kingdoms, or for political reasons, or anything else. We just…choose each other. And that’s the end of it.” He grins. “Our real wedding!”

The idea has merit. It certainly warms your heart. Humming, you squeeze his fingers and look to the side. “How long have you been thinking of this?”

He licks his lips and says, “Since we saw that marriage in Jeneora Rock.”

Your brows raise. “That was more than a year ago!”

“And I’ve been in love with you since then,” he says. He counts it a triumph the way you look down at your lap and bite your bottom lip. A part of him wishes he were the one doing it.

Clearing your throat, you glance back up. “What kind of wedding would it be? Like the ones in the villages?”

“If that’s what you want!”

You smile and tilt your head. “What do you want?”

Vash leans back in his chair, folding his arms in thought. “Hmm…I like the idea of a field in the spring. All the wildflowers blooming and open air.”

A huff of a laugh. “That would only give us a few weeks to plan it all.” Your lips purse. “Think of the dress, the suit…”

“It doesn’t have to be fancy; we could just wear our underwear if we wanted to!”

“Oh, I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Your nose scrunches, and you laugh at the blush rushing up on your husband’s cheeks. “That’s your whole plan, isn’t it: to get me in bed!”

Vash shakes his head, tips of his ears the same color as the jam he spreads on a biscuit – giving his hands something to do other than fidget. As he goes to take a bite, though, he smiles. “And what if it is?”

You laugh openly, loudly enough to let those who hear know you’re in love. After a moment, you decide to toe at his ankle under the table. Rub your thin slipper up and down his calf. “Then, I look forward to it.”

Vash sputters on his biscuit, and you laugh again.

gentle reminder you can rise up from everything. you can recreate yourself. nothing is permanent. you are not stuck. you have choices. you can think new thoughts. you can learn something new. you can create new habits. all that matters is that you decide today and never look back.

Only the Warmth We Share (wolfwood)

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.

Back to back (wolfwood)

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.

Writers: If you enjoyed writing it, that’s enough. Writing can be an end in itself. It doesn’t have to be “good” by anyone else’s standards. It doesn’t have to be published or validated in any way. Delight in putting words on the page. Delight in falling down pretty rabbit holes that might not “make sense” to others. IT’S OKAY TO WRITE JUST TO WRITE, just to have fun, just to please yourself. This is your permission slip. Go forth and create nonsense. I’m cheering for you. xo

do more whimsical things. put no limits on whimsy.

do more whimsical things. put no limits on whimsy.