#[antigone; eventheodds]

[forgivenpunishment]

@eventheodds (outlaw) || night watch (7) [Closed Starter]

"Woah, woah, I didn't mean to scare you like that," Nick settles down next to her atop the vista overlooking the campsite. He puts a comforting (hopefully) hand on Meryl's back and rubs soothing circles slowly, softly. "Just tell me if I'm overstepping. I know it's a lot right now."

She speaks of two traumatized men who'd gone through the wringer—one of which went through something similar to him, he assumes. How Vash still thinks of others before himself, Wolfwood doesn't know, as for himself...

"Didn't used to be this way, if he was anything like me," Nick starts, keeping his voice hushed so as to not wake the others—as if most of them didn't have heightened senses anyway. "Didn't even care about myself, for a long while. Why would I help anyone else if I've got blood on my hands? Why would I care, if I'm a monster?"

"Blondie and I have something in common, in regards to that. We take all of our grief, all of our pain, all the trauma—and we put it in a little box, lock it up, and throw the key into a sandpit. We don't talk about it." Is it a good idea? No. Has it ever worked out for him? Also no. "Vash—I think any Vash—loves humanity. If he has the chance to help someone and it aligns with his morals, he's on it. I think he just likes seeing people smile. Even if he's screaming deep down, he sees a human smile at him and everything is okay until that box creaks open again."

Nick scratches the side of his neck, not wanting to talk about himself, but knowing he has to, "I really turned off that part of my brain for a while. Used to care about people all the time as a kid, especially my brother, but when I became a weapon I... it didn't come naturally to me anymore. All I could see was the bad in humanity—the bad in myself. Despite all that... Goldie and Short-Stuff—the other Short-Stuff—loved me. I could hardly believe it."

"All this is to say: They could only handle carrying their burdens because of you. Because you love them and you'd do the same for them—not that it matters, because they'd give the world to you for pennies if you asked. You saved them, alright? The least they could do for you is make sure you're safe, and maybe they weren't around this time, but it's probably because they've got their hands full."

His hand grips Meryl's arm opposite of him below her shoulder, and offers a side hug, "We'll take over for them for now. You're safe with us. We'll find a way to save them just like we saved you, promise."

[forgivenpunishment]

"I tried tellin' you that a thousand times before, and you're still here—so clearly I'm not that terrible," Wolfwood sticks his tongue out between his teeth with a smug smile, then nuzzles into the reporter's thigh again without the satisfaction of a kiss. Bowing his head, he raises Meryl's dress with his nose deviously. He looks her straight in the eyes as he licks a stripe up her pantyhose and nips at the inside of her thigh, hungry for more.

He plants kisses higher and higher, spreading her legs wider with his thumbs—as if he plans on eating her out right then and there. Maybe he does; there's a part of him (a very taut part of him) that wants to split her open right there in the view of everyone. He wants to show the world that she is his, and he is hers. Dress pants can hardly hide his desire from her perceptive sapphire eyes. He is practically on full display with a broad outline that lies against the inside of his thigh.

Before he can go further, Wolfwood spots two security guards stomping towards them with flashlights in their hands. He laughs a single, solid time. "Guess we've been found out, Princess. I s'pose I will have to wait til we're back in the room after all. Damn."

Standing back up, he attempts to adjust himself with meager success, letting out a small moan as he palms his arousal through his pants. He snickers, then picks Meryl up into a bridal carry to take her to his bike so they can go back to the room and continue where they left off.

"Alright, hang on and don't be a menace," Wolfwood warns, revving up Angelina. The security guards see that they're leaving and stay where they are, watching. "Man, no fun allowed out here."

Distance and the cool evening air seem to do the trick in cooling her down from what had just happened, yet Meryl still feels that tug of anger pulling at her when she thinks back to the people gathered at the night’s gala event. 

They are the sort of people that would dangle anyone on a piece of string to entertain themselves and if they found out who they really were, she is certain there would have been hell to pay.

If there is one thing she has learned it’s that the rich and mighty hate having their pride knocked down a peg and made to be ridiculed.

Wolfwood, for his part, does his best, to assuage that roiling anger within her by keeping her focus centred on him. It doesn’t take much, especially when he takes her hands and has her cup his face, and it’s so easy to get lost in those eyes of his.

Vash had once said he had the eyes of a good guy and Meryl can definitely agree.

“Something just came over me…I guess it was there from the moment we arrived, knowing they’d ogle at us like that, but I didn’t like it.” She follows in his movements, running her fingers through his dark hair and messing up the coif she had spent earlier in the evening perfecting. She can’t even bring herself to feel bad about how all that time and preparation hardly made a cinch in their plans—but she just knew she had to get them out of there.

What he says next has her sputtering and turning beet red and if it weren’t for the fact that she is seated on a flatbed rock, she would’ve shoved him off of her. She doesn’t, of course, but even with her blushing—and she can feel the heat in her face and knows Wolfwood can see her even in this darkness with the moons and the stars as their witness, and she witnessed his own and found it endearing—and yes, she definitely considers it a turn on—there is a spark of a feeling rising up inside of her that tells her they need to get back to their room at the inn with as much haste as possible.

“You are a terrible man, Nicholas D. Wolfwood,” she says, just shy of a little breathless, but there is no bite to her words, no anger or venom or anything to suggest she is opposed to the idea. Rather, a hint of something wanton, perhaps. 

“”Better make good on your word, Undertaker. We’re paid up for the night and I don’t want to sleep tonight.” 

For good measure, she clenches her fingers in his hair and tugs—not hard enough to hurt, as she would never do anything to hurt him—but there is a pressure he would certainly feel even as she bends down and kisses him, her lips seeking his in a kiss not unlike the passionate one they shared in front of all those people.

“Get us back,” she whispers against his lips, “and take me to bed.”

[forgivenpunishment]

❝ you can’t change your past and you can’t change who you were. you can only decide who you’re going to be. ❞ / dealer’s choice for verse :3

⩥ @eventheodds [outlaw] || twilight princess manga prompts [OPEN]

❝ you can’t change your past and you can’t change who you were. you can only decide who you’re going to be. ❞

He doesn't think he's spoken in weeks. Maybe longer—maybe months, years, it doesn't matter.

Why did they save him? He'd become his worst enemy, he slotted perfectly into the role, carried out his orders diligently—he forgot everything that he'd loved in this life and replaced it with corruption. Corruption that corroded his very ideals of family and love and caretaking...

He would have rather died than become that monster. He wishes—wishes—he died before he could've become the monster. Wolfwood—can he even call himself that?—hates that he wished for death.

But... what now? What can he even... where does he go from here? Who is he?

Old friends visit him like ghosts, whispering words of forgiveness and love that seep like venom into his bloodstream. Vile, vile! It's so vile! They should hate him! They should seethe! He wants them to! He wants them to hate him!

...That is where his brain has been. This... this muddled existence somewhere between death and hell, perhaps it's worse than existing in one or the other. Some spark... some small glimmer... it keeps getting into his eye like an ember and no amount of tears or screaming can keep it at bay. Hope, his mind supplies.

Hope.

Stop—stop it—stopitstopistopitstopstopstopmakeitstoppleaseicanticant—

He's alone in a room most of the time because he just can't stop thrashing. Touch him, he flinches—recoils, even. He may as well hiss.

Don't look at me like that. Don't look at me like I can be fixed. Please. Stop.

I'm not the same. You have to put me down. I'm a rabid animal. I'll only bite. Look. Look. These teeth, these claws, these eyes, I'll hurt you, I'll hurt all of you, I'll kill, just say the word and I will, I'm like a loyal hound I can be your hound but I can't be tamed, I can't, not... please stop looking at me like that...

Time passes. Vash. Meryl. They're both okay.

Damn Vash and his fucking mercy, damn him, damn him!

More writhing. More thrashing—coughing—he thinks he'll sooner cough up a lung than regain his voice. They give him ichor and he does it all again. Writhing. Thrashing. Coughing.

Suffocating.

God, he thinks, Please let this end.

†††

One day, no one visits him. He thinks his heart will give out tonight. Finally.

†††

It doesn't, but he does sleep. It is dreamless sleep. Outside, he thinks he hears whispers of 'giving up' and 'dead'. Dying. If only.

The voices are new. Words. He can hear them.

❝ you can’t change your past and you can’t change who you were. you can only decide who you’re going to be. ❞

Goddamnit. Vash speaks through her too.

Tired gray eyes blink open slowly. They are lifeless and dark, weary with sleep and despair. The warmth in his gaze, the vulnerability in the crinkle of his brows—none of it is there.

Surprisingly, it seems as though they've been able to touch him enough to groom him. His last memories recall long hair and shaggy whiskers—perhaps a beard? But now... he's clean. Freshly baptized in a bath and soap and a razor's edge, he finally sees Meryl. One of the ones that he loved. Wolfwood loved. Not... not who he is now... he can't... he doesn't know who...

At first, he can't open his mouth. It's sealed with coffin nails and untouched like an ancient, forlorn grave. The most he manages is a sigh before it all goes dark again.

He wakes up again, and his mouth is tacky. They must've gotten him to drink water somehow.

He doesn't deserve a chance to speak. He doesn't deserve a trial. Put him to death... lock him in chains... something, something, just stop looking at him like that—

"Why..." he croaks, setting the dusty vocal cords in motion, "Can't. Too much. Sin."

It may have been days since she said those words to him, he's not sure.

"Let go. Let me go. Please."

[forgivenpunishment]

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m right here, okay? I’m not gonna leave you. I’m never gonna leave you.” / outlaw verse

⩥ @eventheodds (outlaw verse) || hurt/comfort [OPEN]

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m right here, okay? I’m not gonna leave you. I’m never gonna leave you.”

"Nngh," Wolfwood groans as he bleeds through his leather duster and his jeans, "Y'should—get out now Finchy—" He grits his teeth and fights for breath. His still-conscious brain paces through everything he did wrong—how they ended up in an ambush like this, why he wasn't paying enough attention...

He lost count of how many bones he broke at least an hour ago, before he was left to bleed out on the floor. His lifelines—the serums—he's not sure they're intact, his whole torso feels wet and he can't tell if it's blood or broken serum vials. He's lucky—is it luck?—that he can feel anything at all besides pain.

"Hell, this hurts," he grunts, his eyelids starting to flutter shut, "Meryl—please leave. Can't lose you. I'll... I'll be okay, just—just run."

Live. He has to live.

He doesn't want to be alone. To die alone.

No, he can't die.

"Love... love you," Wolfwood sighs as he falls unconscious—not dead yet, but his body is in a losing battle against life as each function shuts down one by one.

[forgivenpunishment]

" you don't need to thank me. you'd fix me up if i came to your door with this much trouble, too. " / merylverse

⩥ @eventheodds (7/outlaw) || hour of need

" you don't need to thank me. you'd fix me up if i came to your door with this much trouble, too. "

"Implying I have a door for you to come up to?" Nick slouches in the chair Meryl sat him down in after treating his wounds, "But yeah. I would, obviously."

His chest is wrapped up in bandages and gauze; he has an icepack wrapped to his head. The fall he took did a number to him, but he's not dead yet so he's fine.

"Sorry you had to be the one to handle one of my near-death experiences. It will happen again. Don't tell my fiances."

[forgivenpunishment]

" i am grateful, you know. for everything you've ever done for me... i notice. and i see you. and i've never thanked you properly before, so... thank you. " / outlaw verse

⩥ @eventheodds (outlaw/outlaw) || hour of need

" i am grateful, you know. for everything you've ever done for me… i notice. and i see you. and i've never thanked you properly before, so… thank you. "

"Hey—hey, stop talking like that, you're not dying here, idiot," Wolfwood has Meryl slung over his shoulder as she bleeds on him. It was bound to happen one day; you can't just escape every failed espionage mission without taking a few hits.

Meryl is only human. She's so, so capable. But she is human—not genetically modified, not even trained in combat—and sometimes the world sends you a harsh reminder.

Or rather, it sends Wolfwood a harsh reminder, because he wasn't able to do his job properly. The one thing he sets out to do, and he missteps just once and leads Meryl to think she's about to experience the pearly gates. Fuck.

She better fucking not.

"Save the thanks for when I actually deserve them, yeah? Only reason you're like this right now is because I failed you. Plain and simple. But I'm going to fix you up good as new and we'll get back at it.," Wolfwood's grip tightens around her.

He needs to keep her talking.

"What do you want to do after we patch you up? Food? Bath? Somethin' else?"

[forgivenpunishment]

“i can't let you go.” / outlaw verse

⩥ @eventheodds || please don't go [OPEN]

“i can't let you go.”

The man under the black leather hat tightens his grip on the Punisher at the sound of Meryl's voice. It resonates with him somewhere deep down—somewhere once familiar. He's never seen this woman in his life, has he?

When he tries to focus on it, the vague image of a similar looking woman leaving him bloodied on the cold ground forms. She left him all the way back then and ran away. She's the reason that he lives like this—not that it's entirely bad, but it's not peaceful. Can never be normal.

Words are rarely worth saying, especially to outsiders. He knocks her to the side, throwing her off balance, then puts the barrel of his weapon to her head. She's given a glimpse of his aged face, tired and worn, which is more than most people who meet him are allowed.

Colorless eyes glare dully down the barrel of the cross. Frown lines frame his chapped lips, salt and pepper whiskers form a rough beard.

"Are you some kinda idiot?" he grumbles; his voice rasps like sandpaper from disuse. The gun presses into her cheek—cold steel befitting a killer.

[forgivenpunishment]

acceptance - muse a kisses muse b’s forehead and lingers / outlaw, meryl is muse a :>

⩥ @eventheodds (outlaw) || gentleness [OPEN]

acceptance - muse a kisses muse b’s forehead and lingers

He and Meryl have only been sleeping together—both literally and idiomatically—for a couple weeks now. They're not officially dating—he doesn't think—so he's not sure that there's love there or not, and it's confusing. Wolfwood's mind is a whirlwind of emotion and anxiety and tension; being in love has never been something he could afford. Even as he yearned for the reporter, he never made a move. She could do better. Anyone could. Vash too.

And yet, here they are again. Meryl's arm wrapped over his bare chest, legs clinging to his side, blanket only just covering enough to not be cold. He has to pretend to be asleep—if she finds out that he hasn't been sleeping well (or at all) she won't let him hear the end of it.

She stirs—it's still night, so he figures she must need something or has to use the bathroom. Meryl releases him with a yawn and a big stretch with several cracks. He can feel her staring at him, analyzing him, maybe even admiring him. Her hand caresses his chest, running her fingers through the dark curls of hair there; the hand then rubs up his neck to cup his jaw, her thumb rubs his jowl.

Luckily, Wolfwood is trained to act asleep properly—it's nearly impossible for anyone to be able to tell if he's acting or not. Meryl pulls her hands away, but he feels her kneel forward to lean over him. Internally he panics—maybe she's looking for another round? Maybe she knows?

She kisses his forehead.

Her lips remain pressed to his skin for what feels like hours before, eventually, she gets up and he hears the bathroom door click shut. Opening his eyes, Wolfwood places a hand to where she was kissing, shocked. That... was a lot more than he'd expect from someone who's not romantically involved with him.

As night passes, he spends the night restless—only, for a different reason this time.

[forgivenpunishment]

[ CLOSE ]  our muses have sex in lotus position,  clinging to each other desperately.  / outlaw verse, post julai?

⩥ @eventheodds (outlaw) || spicy time [OPEN]

[ CLOSE ] our muses have sex in lotus position, clinging to each other desperately.

Wolfwood finally releases a breath he'd been holding after Meryl releases his lips, deciding instead to set teeth to neck as she grinds against taut flesh. He's stiff with desire—pleasure is right there on top of him, legs wrapped around him as they sit on the bed, a tangle of limbs and sweat. Nicholas can still taste her on his lips—she's well-worked open and ready, all he needs to do is make his move.

His fingers dig into her back as he freezes wide-eyed like a blushing bride then shivers—the undertaker releases another hot breath into Meryl's sleek hair, then sets his hips to work, rutting against her in turn. They're wet with each other and the perfect level of slickness for easy insertion; insertion which Meryl begins getting impatient for, as she backs away from Wolfwood's neck to give him an annoyed, hooded look.

"Sorry, I'm—Yeah," he stutters, then sighs, reaching under them to line himself up and link them together, "Meryl—I—oh—" Stunned with the contact and the pressure surrounding him, Nicholas finally takes Meryl's chin in his fingers and brings his lips to hers. Their noses press against each other while lips smack with heated passion.

Cool facade now shattered, Wolfwood finally starts to move, rolling his lady on his lap—slowly, slowly.

Eyes meet eyes, brow meets brow; he pants, releasing her lips, he whispers, "You comfortable, Finch?"

[forgivenpunishment]

[BITE]: while kissing, sender bites receiver's lips. / outlaw!woo

⩥ @eventheodds || slightly spicy [OPEN]

[BITE]: while kissing, sender bites receiver's lips.

He really should keep his hands to himself. He should, but he doesn't, and it doesn't help that Meryl's not doing anything to stop him before he gets carried away. With one arm propped against the wall above the petite pistol and another pinning her arm, Wolfwood arches down for a tender—too tender—kiss.

It's warm, it's hot, it's emotional, it's—it's—

The undertaker breathes into her with a groan as she wraps her arms around his waist, pulling his body closer—closer. The first time they'd gotten intimate was—

...well, it was with Vash, and he's not here right now. He's not here, which is a shame, but Meryl still wants him as he is. Even when they were together like this last, it was more delicate, more cautious—wary of Wolfwood's experience level, more like.

So he doesn't mind her expressing what she wants and how she wants it.

The snapping of lips quickly—naturally—progresses into the heat of a bite. Wolfwood lets out a surprised 'mmph,' not expecting it in the slightest. Had he wanted to do so? Absolutely. However, carefully trained restraint suggested otherwise—and he usually listens to that part of the brain. Right now though, he's being influenced to listen to the brain in his pants—damn those two and their keys to his many, many locks.

Unpinning her arm, he raises the hand to his head and doffs his leather hat, placing it right on his lady's head instead. "Jeez," he scoffs, pulling away from her lips, "Won't even let a man get halfway through the door before whiskin' him away, huh? At least let me take off my hat for ya, Finch."

With his hat properly situated, he tilts the brim and continues the kiss that they've started—that they've been holding back.

[forgivenpunishment]

[ DANCE ] : our muses dance together in close quarters.

⩥ @eventheodds || sexual tension [OPEN]

[ DANCE ] : our muses dance together in close quarters.

Meryl's stilettos have a few dangerous effects.

For one, they're a literal danger—to her, and everyone else. You could use those fuckers as weapons, they're so sharp, which Wolfwood supposes is a good thing. However, the risk of slamming into waitstaff and patrons rises with each inch of heel.

Second, they're...

Well, they're hot as hell. Very dangerous. Sometimes the undertaker forgets about attraction and sex and whatever altogether, focusing solely on his job at the time—and things she does or wears (like those) unfortunately remind him of his sexuality. It's a weak feeling, a good feeling, a dreadful feeling... no matter how he puts it, whatever the feeling is definitely makes him uncomfortable in the waist. A pit in his stomach, a fluttering, fleeting feeling, or worse.

Third, and most importantly at the current moment, is that they raise her body just so and place her ass at... a difficult location on Wolfwood's body when she's against him. He swears she's doing this on purpose; she can't dance dance in stilettos, so she has to settle with close-quarters 'dancing,' his hands on her hips, no gap between their waists, and these dress pants don't hide much...

He can hardly look her in the eyes, he's blushing so much—he distracts himself with any other thought at all to push away the tempting thoughts that drive a physical reaction. It works, kind of. She's been saying things to him and he can hardly hear her over the sound of the music and chatter. They're in a quiet corner, away from the main crowd, so at least he's out of sight—

Then, with a smirk, she turns around and—Oh.

With a groan, he can't control the way his body reacts to the way she subtly grinds against him, the display of want that comes with the heat below his belt. Wolfwood bites his lip; his fingers loosen with embarrassment, but do not release.

"Is this... really necessary, Shortstack," he grumbles, a sigh escapes his lips, "Or are you just messin' with me?"

[forgivenpunishment]

“i really don't want you to leave just yet…”

⩥ @eventheodds || stay? [OPEN]

“i really don't want you to leave just yet…”

"Hm? You need somethin' else?" Wolfwood responds earnestly as he prepares to leave Meryl's side for the night. They've got planning and resting to do, but maybe she needs extra protection? He already has his fingers wrapped clutching the bindings of the Punisher—ready to head over to the overpriced hotel he'd surely be spending the night in. Again.

Still, he managed to scrape enough together to buy Meryl a bottle of champagne—she seemed to like the stuff when they went to the gala, even if they were putting on a performance. Surely she has someone she can drink it with.

"S'not like I'm gonna be far. Won't be leavin' till tomorrow afternoon, and even then I won't be gone more than a couple days or so. But if you need somethin' speak up, little lady."

[forgivenpunishment]

“You know, you keep fretting over everyone else, but you won’t even take a second to relax yourself.”

⩥ @eventheodds || exhaustion prompts

“You know, you keep fretting over everyone else, but you won’t even take a second to relax yourself.”

There are some nights that Wolfwood spends hopelessly awake, never actually making it to bed. Both Vash and Meryl have tried on multiple occasions to drag him there against his will, but at this point its happened so many times that the most he'll get now is a gentle scolding. Sometimes Vash sits down with him for awhile and watches him work. His kids make it downstairs when they can't find him, but quickly backstep to leave him be once they see him plucking at string. They can't bring themselves to stop him, because a part of both of their consciousnesses says he's right.

Wolfwood occasionally goes to town on his own. People tend to stare at him when he coughs, but if he's outside he just flashes a cigarette from a half-empty box and they understand. They don't understand, but they think they do, and that's what matters. His visits to town on these days aren't runs for food or supplies or tools—no, they're for information. News.

He grabs up every newspaper that he can, jots down jobs off of the local job board, scribbles gossip into his journal...

Single-minded. He does this mechanically, like he's not even controlling his own body, then he comes home. Once he's home he greets everyone like normal, takes a night to rest, but then the work begins.

Articles, notes, pictures, and red thread wrapped around pins—all signifying... something. Or nothing. He can't tell yet. The Eye's not dead, he tells himself, they are simply hiding. Murders, kidnappings, bounties—somehow he connects the unrelated, finding ties between people, places, and things. All of this he keeps on a worn wooden dining table in the basement, under a solemn lightbulb.

I have to keep them safe.

He's hunched over his table when Meryl finds him, a palm on either side of his mess and a pair of glasses halfway down the curve of his nose. Wolfwood scratches the nape of his neck, then the back of his head, making an absolute mess of his thoma nest of hair. It's a little greasy, making the ends spike up in places and in ways you'd only see on a stressed academic. When he looks up to react to Meryl's presence, his eyes are red with exhaustion.

He's been up... 24 hours now? 48? Er, maybe 36...?

"Can't," Wolfwood responds briskly, forgoing nicknames for now, "If the Eye comes back, I need to know before it's too late. Won't let them hurt you or Vash or the kids."

So far, for the two years that they've all been here, Wolfwood's efforts have been fruitless. It hasn't stopped him from putting in the work a few days each month.

[forgivenpunishment]

blood, sender cleans blood off of receiver.

⩥ @eventheodds (outlaw) || actions

blood, sender cleans blood off of receiver.

"It wasn't that bad, Mer," Wolfwood attempts to comfort Meryl from the warm water of the tub as she scrubs at his face, "Just because I had to use a vial doesn't mean I woulda died otherwise..."

(That's probably a lie, he definitely was facing death down in that moment.)

She rubs at the scruff growing in on his jaw, cleaning flecks of dried blood stuck to the whiskers. They'd gotten most of the blood off of his limbs before he'd gotten in the tub, but the water's still dyed a sickeningly pink hue.

Missions go wrong all the time. He accepted that risk when he'd agreed to do this for Meryl. So what if he was caught this time? It wouldn't happen again.

"Stop guilting yourself for shit. You're starting to sound like Needle-noggin. I signed up for this, risks and all."

[forgivenpunishment]

grab, sender grabs receiver's wrist to stop them from leaving

⩥ @eventheodds (outlaw/7) || actions [OPEN]

grab, sender grabs receiver's wrist to stop them from leaving

When the cube had refused to send them all back to the new Meryl's world, Nick couldn't help but feel as though they'd disappointed her. Failed her, even. He wasn't avoiding her intentionally, but he always kept conversation relatively brief when speaking with her. This too is a disservice, because Nick knows that she needs someone more than ever right now, and he's hardly present.

What's worse is that Nick has set up a separate home base after a particularly venomous spat with Knives. He refuses to talk about it with them, because he doesn't think Knives is a bad guy and this is probably just a misunderstanding, but it's best he separates himself from the farm entirely until he figures his shit out. He's not far.

It seems that the Outlaw is back from wherever she's been, so Nick decided to spend some time with her doing miscellaneous tasks around the house. It's getting late—it's about sunset—so he excuses himself to pick up the Punisher from the garage and be on his way.

He flicks on his sunglasses and opens the porch door, but it doesn't shut when he walks away from it. Behind him, Outlaw leaves the house and reaches for his arm before he can make his way off of the porch.

Stopping where he stands, Wolfwood turns to her quizzically.

"What's up, Shortie?"

[forgivenpunishment]

feel like making a home here? / good end

⩥ @eventheodds (outlaw) || crit role prompts [OPEN]

feel like making a home here?

Wolfwood finishes a bout of coughing before lighting a cigarette and leaning back on the stairs he's sitting on. He barely puts it to his lips before Meryl approaches him with the suns behind her, outlining her in a corona of sunset behind his tinted glasses.

He's still recovering. Even playing with children for ten minutes exhausts him as his body heals from whatever ailment the Eye afflicted him with.

Vash is behind her, still running around with squealing kids before they retreat for dinner at their homes with their families. He seems to have one on his shoulders that is thoroughly enjoying being tall.

"What gave you that idea?" he asks with a snide smile creasing the corners of his mouth, "You tired of wanderin'?"

Chuckling behind his cigarette, he averts his eyes from her analytic gaze. So what if he was dreaming of settling down? Can't a man wish for the impossible?