wolvrites

[wolvrites]

Haha yeah you're so cool and mysterious, bro. What if I trace the line of your scars with a care bordering on reverent? Maybe, what if maybe, i can kiss along your body at the direction of your scars too? dude?

[wolvrites]

Just had a bit of an insane thought, smth about perv!Miguel making a spider suit for reader complete with a zipper gusset for “easy access”

[wolvrites]

Wondering if I should make a masterlist

[wolvrites]

Wolfwood never paid any mind to the dreams. Not anymore.

Blood, growing pains, Livio. It was the same, each and every time. Wolfwood isn't sure why his heart always pounds the same wild way once he wakes, beating against his ribs. Is it even his own heart? Did they change that, too?

It's always a different motel, but most of them have the same layout, the same scene, a balcony. Wolfwood tends to smoke a little extra after nightmares, under the two moons that watch him sort of like eyes. Eyes of God? Wolfwood snorts out a plume of smoke at the idea, and he isn't sure which is more ludicrous: the belief that there is something all-seeing, or the fear that there isn't.

Wolfwood's keen ears pick up the rusty scrape of the screen door opening through the murkiness of his thoughts. He doesn't turn, still observing the strange constellations in the sky.

"You'll catch cold, darlin'." His lips form an 'o' as he blows out a ring of smoke.

"So will you." Wolfwood dips his head a little past his shoulders just at the sound of your voice, just barely loud enough to pierce the darkness -- more like wading through it, as one does when standing in a shallow pond. Reaching for someone just beyond them.

In response, he carelessly waves his pack of cigarettes in the air beside his head for you to see. Half empty, already. 'I can make my own fire, just fine.'

As usual, you pay his silent reply no mind as you wrap your arms around his middle, chest flush to his broad back. He's a little cold, but it isn't the night air that's chilling him. With your cheek on his bare skin like this, you can feel his scars naked against you.

He stiffens, huffs out more smoke. A faint thud reaches your ears once he tosses the used stick and reaches for another.

"Come back to bed, 's cold. And you'll have a sore throat if you keep doin' that." Wolfwood chuckles hoarsely at your mothering, how you seem to know him better than himself.

But, no -- he fears even you won't ever know him, not like the man who saw him grow on his shiny, cold slab of metal does. Not like Livio, with his wide-eyed stare in his dreams, how he knows him.

"I'm not some snot-nosed kid." Wolfwood's nostril flares subtly, rough fingers turning the smoldering cigarette over between them. "Don't need you to treat me like one."

"I'm not." You gently push down the lump in your throat that forms at his edgy tone, you know he doesn't mean it. Soothingly, you run your fingers up and down his sides in slow movements.

Wolfwood tenses. "Just- just go-" he doesn't finish, realizing he's already trying to push you off him. Looking over his shoulder at you, he bites the inside of his cheek hard. "-wait for me inside."

"Nico."

"Don't call me that."

Your own brows knit together and you just blink at him. He seems like a little boy all of a sudden.

"Nicholas," you correct yourself quietly with a slight tilt of your head. Seeing the familiar look in your eyes, he turns away. "...sorry."

"Just come inside. Please."

Wolfwood finds it funny how you, of all people on this fucking planet, are able to order around the Punisher himself like that. How you have him at your heels, a dog who acts submissive to the sheep it guards.

Without another word, he obeys and meekly brushes his calloused fingers over your arm in boyish apology, bangs obscuring his expression as he follows you back inside.

Tucked back safely in the rickety motel bed, he's tangled up in you. Wasn't able to fall back asleep, so he settled for laying his head on your warm chest to listen to your heartbeat (with some coaxing from you). A soft hand stroking back his dusty raven hair. Like he's a boy again. “I'm sorry." He keeps mumbling between lazy pecks to your collarbone, eyes closed as if he's shy to be seen receiving such comfort. He isn't quite sure what he's apologizing for. “I know," you murmur back, speaking into his smoke-fragrant hair. "You're okay.” He huffs out a big sigh, heavy and dog-like.

He was a fool to ever think you didn't know him.

[wolvrites]

I'm trying to see something

[wolvrites]

I headcanon that Wolfwood has a lot of scars across his body for like. Obvious reasons but also that said scars are really varied.

Like there’s some that are “normal” scars and others are really deep, jagged, just gnarly looking mainly because of how inhumanly fast he heals. Idk how the human body would handle that realistically but idk I just think it wouldn’t allow “proper” healing on the surface and a lot of his scars would look like that

[wolvrites]

I was about to post abt how Wolfwood is very First Time by Hozier but then I thought abt how he’s SO MANY Hozier songs and now I want to write a blurb series with him and every Hozier song I associate him with bc there’s. Quite a few

[wolvrites]

do you ever become obsessed with a character and you just go "of fucking course its that one" at yourself because you are so incredibly predictable

[wolvrites]

Random thought: TriStamp Wolfwood with a partner who has a tendency to chew on the inside of their cheek or bite their lip excessively, and when he catches them doing that he just sighs, grabs their chin, tells them to “open up”, and shoves a lollipop in

[wolvrites]

Wolfwood blurb | Body descriptors used: stretch marks | mild spoiler warning in tags ?

Wolfwood likes watching you get ready.

Not in a creepy way, of course. But when he’s sprawled out on a rickety hotel bed, the very image of self gratification and sloth with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, his eyes fix on you going about your routine.

Lotion, underthings, little details that complete the picture of you. Even if you can’t find the small luxuries like body oil in town, you make it work. For Wolfwood, you always look good enough to eat, even when you think you don’t.

Sometimes you catch him staring, the sight of him with his button down obscenely low and exposing his full chest making your heart stutter a little. And the bastard always just smirks around his cancer stick with the knowledge he can get you hot and bothered with little effort on his part; not that he doesn’t like trying anyway.

Sometimes, though, he’s just too damn lazy. He supposes it isn’t the heat’s fault because you’re always up at a reasonable time, and he takes that opportunity to admire you.

“Don’t hiss at me for enjoyin’ the view, sweetness,” he drawls whenever you bring up his hopeless desire to stay in bed.

But he can’t help it — somewhere inside his core, he’s terrified this moment, this one will definitely be the last. So he tries to burn the vision of you into his retinas, in the hopes that when the devil finally does catch up with him, his brain will deem the image of you the only one of enough importance to replay behind his eyes while he dies instead of every other cursed thing he’s done or seen.

He hides it behind a smirk, of course.

You’re sat on the edge of the bed, doing something or other to get ready for the day. Wolfwood watches your back, the way your shoulder blades shift underneath the skin. The smoke from his cigarette makes his view hazy, the whiskey makes time feel like it’s moving in slow motion. Before he realizes, he’s crawling towards you like you’re an oasis that he needs to be sure is real.

You hum at the sudden, soft touch of his rough hand on your waist. His grip tightens a minuscule amount as he wriggles closer, on his belly like a wolf.

“Smell so sweet,” he mumbles into your side, nipping lightly at the skin and letting out a huff as if he’s disappointed he can’t *actually* eat you like a dessert.

“Just the lotion,” you murmur back, lips quirking in amusement at the way Wolfwood is languidly burying his nose into your waist. Long eyelashes fanning against his cheeks.

“It’s jus’ you,” he protests, voice muffled into your flesh. He hums when you dip a hand into his inky hair.

“Stay with me.” He kisses a silvery streak that runs across your hip.

You huff. “Can’t. It’s almost 11:00 already, Vash is gonna-“

“Please.”

You pause, feeling his calloused fingers dig just slightly into the meat of your thigh. He’s got his lips lazily pressed into your hip, lying on his side.

You sigh. “Fine.” Though, a twinge of regret for being so compliant under his touch sparks inside you when you feel him smirk against your skin.

“C’mere, darlin’.” As if you weigh nothing, Wolfwood starts pulling you up to the head of the bed.

“Nico-!” You yelp and fall into his arms, he chuckles roughly as the blankets are messily tugged over you both.

Wolfwood never knows when a moment with you will be his last, so he intends to savor each of them.

[wolvrites]

its so freeing when you realize you can literally write whatever you want 

[wolvrites]

So like. Miguel’s morning voice right. I think his voice would be deep and raspy, you can hear him slur his words if you’re lucky enough to wake up just as he does.

But I think he’d also speak mostly in Spanish since he’s too sleepy to properly translate much of anything into English hehe

You giggle, squirming in the soft sheets when Miguel huffs out an irritated groan. He isn’t mad, he never can be for more than a minute if you’re involved.

“What’d you say?” You tease, Miguel just furrows his brows and doesn’t bother opening his eyes. His full lips press into a thin line of childish defiance and you pout.

“‘M serious,” you purr apologetically, honeying your voice and nuzzling closer, “I jus’ didn’t hear what you said — repeat it, baby?”

It takes him a minute to comply begrudgingly. “Pregunté- I asked,” he corrects and you can hardly make out the syllables through the deep rumble of his voice. “¿Por que estas riendo?” You let another snicker escape and he frowns.

“No reason,” you hum, granting him an eskimo kiss. “Use English, Miggy.”

“No quiero.”

“No?” You coo with an amused smile. He shakes his head. He’s warm, practically a huge Ikea teddy bear in your shared bed. “Alright then.”

Miguel hums, satisfied that you aren’t laughing at him anymore. A big hand runs up your back to cup your nape softly. “Estas caliente,” he mumbles into your neck, as if concerned. “¿Estas poniendo enferma?”

You sough lazily, tilting your head to give him room to kiss your shoulder. “Am I?”

“Hmph.” He huffs against your blanket warmed skin. “Te haré sentir mejor.”

“Mhm?”

“Mhm.”

He doesn’t speak any more as he buries his nose into the hot crook of your neck, more nuzzling with his lips than kissing. You let it happen, sighing contentedly as Miguel rolls you partially onto your back, his broad frame shielding you from the barely rising sun.