![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sodomhippedTitle: anatomy of a bullet [or read on ao3]
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV
Pairing: Vash/Wolfwood
Rating: Teen
Warning: None
Tags: Worldbuilding, Ficlets, Non-Chronological, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Kissing, Grief/Mourning
Author’s Note: “anatomy of a bullet” is a series of nonchronological and loosely related stories about Vash and Wolfwood. Each chapter is meant to be read as a separate, complete story.
Summary:
Bite-size stories for Vash and Wolfwood.
a change in the weather
Author’s Note: For the three-sentence fic prompt: “a change in the weather.”
The dust storm picks up while they’re still a good few miles from the next town.
With the motorcycle, there’s not much Wolfwood can do except take their speed down to a crawl and let the sand pelt his face—as Vash, in the sidecar, wraps himself inside his jacket, head disappearing inside to leave Wolfwood alone in dealing with the elements.
Once they get to their destination, Wolfwood will yell at Vash and Vash will laugh, saying something stupid—We made it through, didn’t we?—and when they kiss, Wolfwood will be too rough, the grit of sand scraping both their mouths.
the taste of salt
Author’s Note: For the 100-word drabble prompt: "the taste of salt."
Wolfwood watches as Vash peels leather from his skin. It always sticks, baked to his body by desert heat.
Having trouble? he asks.
Vash makes a face, sticks out his tongue in a flash of pink. It’s an invitation, so Wolfwood insinuates his fingers under the leather’s edge. Vash’s flesh gives just enough to let him in.
Once Vash is bare to the waist, Wolfwood buries his face in his neck, breathing in the scent of a long day. He licks sweat out of the scarred indent on Vash’s shoulder.
Bitter salt bursts over his tongue; he savors the taste.
a vastness that could be measured in molecules
Author’s Note: For the 100-word drabble prompt: “a vastness that could be measured in molecules.”
Wolfwood tries to hold steady behind the meager cover Punisher offers, but the cross keeps sliding back under the relentless pressure of waves of bullets.
“Hope you got a plan, Spikey,” he yells, “or else I’m gonna take care of this my way.”
Vash presses against his back, becoming closer with every inch Wolfwood loses.
“I’m working on it,” Vash says into his ear. “Give me two minutes!”
“You get one,” Wolfwood answers, not thinking about how he’d have fired back without a second thought a few weeks ago, even if it meant a trail of blood in his wake.
losing something important
Author’s Note: For the three-sentence fic prompt: “losing something important.”
In another life, Wolfwood would have still been around to tug at the black strands of Vash’s hair, disapproval implicit in his voice as he said, “Blondie doesn't really fit anymore, does it?”
The roots would have tingled under his touch.
But the thought is useless, indulgent; it doesn’t matter what Wolfwood would have said or how Vash might have responded.
