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ohitslen · 1 year

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Promises

He should know better.

Wolfwood has seen Vash make promises, or hear about the ones he has made in the past. He has also seen the end of each one and how every single time the outcome is less than what was promised.

Vash likes to say embellished words, with a soft and determined voice that lures you into his hopes and dreams, it almost feels like a spell, as if he was calling for you to come closer and believe him. But Wolfwood knows better.

He believes in him, but Vash is much closer to being an idealistic dreamer than a realistic person like he is. He might not be aware of it, but his beautiful promises of a better future give people hope, a hope that is usually embraced with things like disappointment and abandonment.

He doesn’t think that Vash does it with the intent of looking for any of those things. Far from it, he might even do the impossible in order to accomplish said promises, but life is too short and humans are too mortal for his wishes, so in the end, most of Vash’s promises end up being empty or they come to haunt him as a reminder of his failed vows. He admires the man, for his perseverance and idealism, but he also hates the man, for his stubbornness and lies.

Wolfwood knows all of this perfectly to a tee. And yet, he has also found himself being drawn to his world. Because he also dreams of it.

A world in where his always present calls for love and peace exist, a world that is far more kind than what he might deserve, a world in where the kids can be happy and roam around without any worry in their heads, a world in where he can peacefully turn grey with age and his hands can shed the harsh callouses of his life. Who knows, maybe a world in where he and Vash can finally know the peace that was taken away from them, in where they can share the calmness that comes with the passage of time, indulging in every tick of the clock welcoming with open arms whatever comes their way without any fear.

It is a beautiful promise. But Wolfwood is a person that has to keep his feet on the ground, indulging in “what ifs” would only make things harder than what they had to be. He can’t have any ifs if he can’t make it through the now. And by the way he is carrying his present, he is doubtful he will even get to see a shed of that promised world that Vash tries to drag him into. So why mourn something he doesn’t even have, or will ever have for that matter.

He hates the way Vash seems to promise things so easily. His tongue silky and pliant, slipping divine words one after the other, promises way too big for what that barren world can actually fit.

But when Vash talks to him in that holy voice of his, when he hears him say “It’s okay, everything will be alright, I promise” so gently right on his ear, while he holds his face so tenderly making him focus on him and nothing else, he wants to believe him.

He has seen the end of his promises. He knows how impossible they are. But for once, he wants to believe it too. Believe in that loving world that will cradle them both until they fall asleep, listening to the soft sound of the wind laughing while the moons smile upon them.

So he allows himself to indulge in the warmth of his palms, leaning into the comfort of his existence, feeling the soft air of Vash’s breaths against his skin while their foreheads meet in a touch that feels like a hot brand that will melt him.

For an instant, he allows himself to be selfish and believe that maybe, that is how living in that world Vash so desperately fights for would be. Soft and warm, making him feel safe in the hollow of Vash’s hands where the world seems to fit so well. A world where the blue sky is a blanket that covers the love and care that is nestled in it like the one in Vash’s eyes. He wants to see that world.

For now, he will selfishly think that the world that fits in Vash’s hands is right there in where he is holding him, where his blue eyes are drowning in the light of the sunset dripping with love and care while looking at him, that the gentle touch of Vash’s thumb wiping his tears is the same as the kiss of that laughing wind in that distant future, where the smile of his eyes overcomes the smile of the moons.

He should know better. But he loves the thought of that world. And he hopes that Vash will get to see that world, because that gentle sight is more fitting for someone like him than the one of his violent world.

He promises to himself that he will do what it takes for that day to be possible. Even if the end of that promise will be empty for Nicholas, he knows it will be a full one for Vash. So it really isn’t that empty for him after all.

He hates his lies, and he hates how true they sound, but Vash’s embellished words are far sweeter than his bitter thoughts so they feel better on his insides, almost like a balm that cares for the wounds of his throbbing, painful reality.

He should know better.

But aren’t humans weak at the promise of love?

#yeah….mm…mhm yeah #my thoughts were going crazy with this one. because WW crying is something that has me week on the knees #WEAK FFS #also the thought of him becoming bare and emotional at the hands of Vash makes me want to jump around until I pass out #think of it. he is afraid of him in a way. but he trusts him so deeply too it’s such a contrasting and little contradictory thing #more like. denial after denial but yk what I mean. because that’s the whole post #also as a fun fact. while on the making of this thing the line of “it’s okay. everything will be alright. I promise #it’s meant to be said by Vash to WW #but also I did it considering that a)Vash is saying it to himself as well and b)it’s something WW wants to say to Vash as well #they are both incredibly pained men and they know it but don’t adress it. so verbally saying such words to each other issssUUUEHWHAGAH #ah yes. the intimacy of being emotionally vulnerable with the person who you would trust your life to but never openly say shit to eachother #isn’t that such an amazing flavor? I won’t lie to you it’s one of my favorites #trigun #vashwood #vash the stampede #nicholas d wolfwood #trigun stampede #trigun fanart #wolfwood #nicholas trigun #nicholas the punisher #lenssi writes #lenssi draws #trigun 2023 #trigun 98 #because I did a mishmash on WW design bc this is meant to be TriStamp time skip in my mind #his eyes were originally their canon steel blue/grayish tone. but while doing the lighting the brown looked gorgeous #i couldn’t help myself so I left it that way. because there is something so beautiful abt his eyes shining like that in #the afternoon light while he becomes undone under the sunset ya feel me?#OHFUCKIALMOSTFORGOT another little detail. Vash’s right hand doesn’t have a glove and it’s on purpose btw you’re welcome

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totallyexhausted · 1 year

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Posted on Ao3 & FF

A Child of Blessing (Sick Wolfwood)

“Hey, Wolfwood, what’s the D stand for in your name? Nicholas D. Wolfwood?”

The question hit him in a heated fashion as Wolfwood glared towards the sun, running a shaking hand through sweat-soaked hair. He sighed loudly as he pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his jacket, pausing momentarily to flick the lighter several times before the red flame hovered above the old metal. He inhaled, smoke filling his lungs as he continued walking, his feet dragging through the sand as Vash followed.

Wind brushed past him, barely touching his skin as the sun roasted him under dark clothing, piercing his eyes behind tented lenses, and Wolfwood exhaled. Smoke fills his vision for a second as he grips the cigarette between his teeth, his senses dulling as haze envelopes him, calming the headache pounding behind his eyes, the anxiety sitting heavily in his stomach. It was hot. So freaking hot. So nauseatingly hot. And the headache that refused to leave, refused to lessen as they continued their endless journey through the godforsaken wasteland, was pissing the gunman off.

Bandits had tried ambushing them, stopping their car with buried tire jacks and a few pistols. One slashed tire later and threats to kill them, threats to kidnap the ever-so-polite Stampede, and he was reaching for the Punisher. A smirk settled on their faces when they saw the cross, laughter followed before Wolfwood pulled back the belted sheets, and they paled. A swift move, his weapon aimed, the green lights highlighting the metal shaft as he pointed it in the face of the leader, and footsteps scattered. An easy threat, one he didn’t need to follow through as the men took off quickly, running in different directions, and Wolfwood grinned. He’d disarmed his weapon, dropping her to his side… that’s when Vash took off. And for whatever fucking reason, the gunman foolishly followed, chasing after that stupid red coat, the Punisher gripped behind him.

Taking down the six men who tried robbing them in the middle of the desert had been easy. Should have been easy. But now, they were stuck walking through the fucking heat as the sun seared their skin, trying to figure out which direction they’d come. Trying to find their way back to the ugly green Jeep, to Meryl and Roberto, to water. But that’s what Wolfwood got for letting the Humanoid Typhoon drag him through the desert as they chased after some rough-and-tough pipsqueak that even Meryl could knock down with one punch. Freaking pathetic.

The gunman inhales again, letting smoke fill his lungs before coughing out clouds of white. He cleared his throat, swallowing as the rough noise left him dizzy, his head swimming. He clenched down on the paper stick wedged between his lips, blinking as the dark spots slowly began to evade. He needed water. He needed to stop walking. Hell, he needed somewhere to relax, to sleep, to let his ailing body cool off, or cool down, or figure out if he was going to puke or not. He needed something to lessen his headache… but they were God knows where, with no relief, no Jeep, in sight. Besides, it’s not like Wolfwood was about to voice his situation, his condition to someone, let alone Blondie. He wasn’t that pathetic. He wasn’t that weak. He sighs loudly, smoke pushing past his nostrils as Vash repeats the question.

Wolfwood snorts, peering to his left as he readjusts the Punisher on his back again, flipping her from one shoulder to the other. He glares in the blonde’s direction as he flicks ash towards the ground. He didn’t really feel like talking. Hadn’t since this morning. Since he stupidly followed after Vash. His throat felt raw, rough, thick, and forming words through his tired mind, past the pounding behind his eyes, felt like too much effort. He inhaled slowly, “Dokonokuminomonjawaresumakinishiteshizumetarokakora.”

Vash faltered before laughing loudly, “Pft. What?”

Wolfwood continued walking, kicking sand around him as he dragged the Punisher behind him, his fingers shaking slightly. He’s quiet for a while, a grin present on his lips as he lights another cigarette. His senses dulling, the sun becoming less bright, the wind less ringing, and the heat less sharp against him, as nicotine floods his mouth. Everything was starting to become a problem for him. His senses picking up again, picking up on things that he could normally shake, normally ignore, normally dull with cigarettes or alcohol or drugs… but with his body slowly trying to bring him down, it was getting harder to block out the crushing sensations. He clears his throat, “The D stands for Dangerous.”

The desert tilts sideways for a second, and the Punisher slides in Wolfwood’s hand as he sneezes. His vision wavering, the heat pressed tightly beneath his grey shirt as his headache stabs up his neck. The sun was getting to him, or maybe his memories, or maybe his nerve-endings were jacking up again… or maybe he was coming down with something. He didn’t get sick often, the last time blurred through a feverish hell at the orphanage and Livio’s tight grasp; but he still had some aspects of morality, of being human, that got to him, that reminded him he was all too weak sometimes. Vulnerable. Pathetic.

He stumbled slightly, throwing sand out in front of him as his shoe caught the ground. The desert whirling in a nauseating swirl of tans and browns, and Wolfwood bit back a wince. He lifted the Punisher against his other shoulder as he breathed through his nose lowly. He was tired. And his head was killing him; the heat that weighted against his sweaty flesh in disgustingly thick layers wasn’t helping anything either. Not to mention, he’d spent half the night curled in on himself as his stomach threatened to bring up the little food he’d managed to choke down in order to get the other three to stop asking questions, to stop eyeing his direction. He probably could have confided in them, told them he felt like shit… but that wasn’t his style, they weren’t friends, and Wolfwood wasn’t a complainer. Besides, they had enough to deal with as it was. And you can kill some fr…

“You sure you’re alright?” Vash asked, shoving his boots under the dirt, kicking up sand as he sheepishly glanced in Wolfwood’s direction. The gunman grit his teeth as he glared back, “You’ve asked me that five times in the past two hours, and for the last time, Blondie. I’m fine, so-”

“Piss off. Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. I know…”

The gunman smirks, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and throwing it to the ground, smothering it with his shoe. He coughs again, huffing the remaining smoke through dry lips, pulling the Punisher further against his back. If he were being honest, the day hadn’t started out great for him. Not that the night went well either. But at least he’d managed to sleep for a few short hours in the Jeep before the Bandits stupidly tried robbing them. At least the Jeep was nice, not that it was really any cooler than the air that sat against his skin… but it was shaded. He could sit down, stretch out slightly, or at least stretch out enough in the cramped space that felt somewhat comfy, and he could rest his head. At least he could sleep. Sleep off whatever the hell was wrong with him. Sleep off whatever the hell was getting harder and harder to hide.

Nico.

Wolfwood paused, his skin crawling as he jerked his head up. Vash smacked into him, and the gunman staggered for a second. He glanced over the desolate horizon, tightening his grip on the Punisher as stillness met him. He shivered, sweat dripping down his face as he scanned the desert. He felt like he was being watched. Followed. Mocked. Something was out there. Someone. Waiting. Stalking.

The gunman swallowed dryly, clearing his throat as he stifled another cough. His breathing hitched as ringing reached his ears, and he blinked against the sand blowing in his face. His senses were acting up again, coming in in sharp waves before fading back to a dull buzz, back to normal- well, his normal. That happened sometimes. Everything around him heightened in a metallic potency that made his body ache, sear, burn; every fiber of his messed-up being tuned to some kind of screwed frequency until he was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by everything; touch, taste, sound, smell… everything. Overwhelmed by pain that shouldn’t be there, that wasn’t supposed to be there… until he passed out. Until he was swallowed by everything around him.

But now, right now, his anxiety was forcing his mind on high alert. His fingers itching against the grasp of the Punisher. Her usually cool metal, now sweaty, slick, and warm, offering little to no comfort against tired fingers. And paranoia eating away at him, settling deep in his stomach, threatening to pull him under, threatening to…

“Wolfwood? Everything okay?”

“Shut it.”

“What? What’s wr-”

Another chill, and Wolfwood paused again, “I said stop talking, Tongari!”

Something was definitely off. Wrong. Watching them. Wolfwood gripped the Punisher tighter, his fingers curling around the small slot he used as a handle as he narrowed his eyes, searching the endless sea of dirt. He glanced towards the blonde and realized Vash seemed to feel it too; his stance stilled, his eyes scanning the horizon, his fingers hovering over his long colt holstered at his side.

The world tilted, his stomach churning, and Wolfwood swallowed against the gag forcing its way up his throat. He pressed a hand against his stomach, hunching slightly as he kept his eyes focused on the sandy hell in front of him. His head spun, his vision blurring, and he wondered momentarily if he was going to pass out. He felt weak. Sick. Hot. Exhausted. Hell, from the looks Vash and the others kept stealing his way the whole damn morning, he probably looked it too.

The ground shifted, sand running over his feet, and the gunman glanced down, confusion masking his features as he blinked sluggishly. Dirt covered his shoes, draining behind him, the ground shaking, and both gunmen turned slowly. Vash cursed loudly as Wolfwood sucked in a sharp breath as they caught sight of a giant worm breaking through the surface several hundred yards out.

Sand bled past them, pulled towards the worm as the center of gravity changed violently. Vash peered towards Wolfwood, their eyes meeting, before they both took off; Vash screaming as he glanced behind them, running wildly like he was some type of anime character; like he wasn’t the big bad Humanoid Typhoon, the Walking Disaster, the Stampede. A roar echoed over them, the ground shaking as the worm dived for the ground again, disappearing beneath hot sand. Wolfwood cursed, tripping, the Punisher falling from his hands, smacking against the sand as Vash continued running.

The gunman groaned, lifting his head as sand fell in his eyes, scraping a hand across the dirt as he watched Vash running chaotically. He smirked, chuckling slightly as the blonde stumbled before turning back towards him. His eyes met Wolfwood’s as the sand around them was drained towards the worm moving under the surface, and the gunman sat up slowly. He sneezed several times as sand flew up his nose; his stomach clenching, his head pounding, the sun beating against his skin dryly, and the ground moved again as Wolfwood grit his teeth.

“Fuck this! Whoever tries to eat me, will have hell to pay!” Wolfwood yelled, scrambling to his feet as his hand blindly reached for the weapon lying at his side. He faltered for a second, brushing sand from his jacket, shaking it from his black hair before exhaling, gripping the Punisher tightly in his hand before spinning her on his back, across his shoulders, swinging her around. He winced as metal sliced through his fingers as he shoved them against the trigger. The Punisher hissed, her green lights humming across the bridge, warming against his skin as she started up.

Wolfwood grunted, resting her against his shoulder as his eyes scanned the blank desert, waiting, watching for the tiny puffs of sand to kick up in the distance. He smirked, his eyes narrowing as the worm resurfaced over the stupid dusty horizon; his fingers pressing against the trigger, blood seeping down his hand, bleeding against the cuff of his sleeve as he takes aim.

Nico.

A chill runs down his spine, and Wolfwood gasped as he caught movement out the corner of his eye. He whipped the Punisher to his right quickly, his fingers shaking, his balance wavering as he almost drops her, and the gunman jerks his head back down, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. The world sways, and Wolfwood gags. The ground shifts, sand rushing past him, making it difficult to walk, to stand as everything suddenly drains towards a center of gravity behind him. Something flew past the sun, the shadow cast across dirt, blocking out the light, shielding the ungodly heat from his body. Wolfwood glanced up briefly, glaring as the sun filtered through a darker lens before his stomach lurched.

The Punisher slips from his grasp as he doubles over, pressing a hand against his mouth as he takes a few shallow breaths. He shuts his eyes as the sand moves, clasping a hand against his knee as he lurches again, swallowing several times. He felt like shit. His head was killing him. His body, dizzy, uncomfortable, too warm. But there was no way he was puking in front of Blondie. No way he was puking right now...

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