#nicholas d. wolfood x reader

[liquorcooked]

Etched (wolfwood)

Media: Trigun Maximum Pairing: Wolfwood x reader wc: ~2k (?)

an: MORE of my silly bits of writing. tried to merge em together to make them cohesive but alas this is all I have :] enjoy!. it really isn't a fully fleshed out fic by any means because mostly just scnariors I thought of, but pls let me know what yall think

some tags: hurt/comfort, past-torture, care, the eye of michael is a little shit, I'm going to curb stomp chapel, branding, scars, I LOVE WW

They caught you in the night.

One moment you were with Vash and Wolfwood, setting up camp outside a crumbling town whose name you never caught, and the next you woke in a place that didn’t smell like dust or wind or oil, but antiseptic and metal. Too clean. Too white. It made your skin crawl before you even saw the mask.

You counted hours by the number of times Chapel came in.

He didn’t hide his face. No—he wanted you to see him. Wanted you to know the face of what was about to be done. He said it was for your own good. That you’d understand in time. That he was doing what Nicholas never had the strength to finish. All that Eye of Michael propaganda, scripture twisted and sharpened into blade edges.

You remember the sound of your own blood dripping on the floor before you remember how long you were gone. Hours. Days. Maybe weeks. Time bled in and out the way the wounds on your side did—slow, sticky, without end. Pain had become a rhythm. A prayer. One you chanted in silence while they tried to make you speak.

You never screamed. Not once.

You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t. Screaming was surrender. Screaming was for victims.

So you lay there, breathing shallow, muscles clenched tight, as Chapel carved the edge of a blade along your ribs and murmured doctrine like it was a lullaby. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he didn’t. The silence between words was the worst part—it meant he was thinking.

“You care for him, don’t you?” he asked once, brushing a gloved finger along your jaw. “Nicholas. You love him.”

You turned your head and spat in his face.

He laughed as he wiped it off. “Then let’s make sure he remembers you.”

He brought out the iron brand. Shaped not like a religious cross but like his cross—the Punisher. The one Nicholas D. Wolfwood carried on his back like a burden, like a confession, like a legacy soaked in regret. They’d studied it. Modeled the mark perfectly. You remember the shape of it pressed against your side—the long steel shaft and wide-barred arms that mimicked the weapon you had watched him wield a hundred times.

You didn’t scream when they branded you with the Punisher.

But later, when they were gone, you cried into the table straps. Not from the pain.

But because you knew what it meant.

---------------

When the rescue came, it was gunfire first. You heard Vash’s voice, strained and sharp, cracking with fury you’d never known he could carry. Then came Wolfwood’s—lower, louder, a storm trying to fight back the flood.

You were half-conscious when he kicked down the door. You remember the shape of him in silhouette—the Punisher in his hands, the outline of his coat, the fire in his eyes.

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just dropped the weapon and crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees beside the table, cutting the straps with hands that shook more than they should have.

“I got you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “I got you. Hey. Hey, come on. You gotta open your eyes. Please. Please, don’t do this to me.”

When you slipped into unconsciousness again, it was with the feel of his arms under you, his breath in your hair, and the tremble in his chest where he held you too close.

---------------------

You woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours, wrapped in bandages that stuck to open wounds. Your mouth was dry. Your side burned like it had caught fire and hadn’t quite gone out.

Vash was there.

He sat on a chair near the window, legs pulled up like a kid, arms braced on his knees. When your eyes fluttered open, he didn’t rush you. Just looked at you with red-rimmed eyes and said quietly, “You’re safe.”

You didn’t feel safe.

But the words settled into you anyway, like a coin dropped in a dry well.

“How long?” you asked, throat hoarse.

“Three days since we found you. We had to sedate you. Your body…” He hesitated. “You weren’t just hurt. You were worked over. I'm sorry...”

You turned your head away. “He was trying to get to Nick.”

Vash didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft. “He hasn’t left the hallway since we got here, he's been waiting.”

You didn’t reply.

Because part of you didn’t want him to see you like this.

Not broken. Not like this.

You refused to look at your wound the first time Vash changed the bandages. You could feel it—a deep, raised welt on your ribs, in the unmistakable shape of the Punisher. The gauze stuck to it. You bit your tongue to keep from crying out.

Vash’s hands paused when he saw the shape. He didn’t say anything, but his breath hitched. You saw it in his face—recognition. Horror. Pity. You turned your face toward the wall and let your mind go somewhere else while he cleaned the blood away. How cruel. “God, they…” You turned your head away, ashamed even though you knew you shouldn’t be.

Vash didn’t finish the thought. He just swallowed hard, then wrapped you back up with hands that trembled more than he wanted you to notice.

----------------

Wolfwood came in the next night. The room was dim, lit only by a bedside lamp. You were sitting up, supported by a pillow, and staring at nothing.

He looked like shit.

Hollowed out. Jacket wrinkled, eyes bloodshot, stubble unshaved. But when he saw you sitting up, eyes open, something in him cracked. He said your name once, quiet. Almost afraid.

He fell to his knees beside the bed, and reached for your hand. Stopped just short. His breath caught. His eyes went to the gauze on your side.

“I can’t…” His voice broke. “I can’t fix this. I can’t make it right.”

You looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, the grief between you was a living thing. “You saw it,” you said. Your voice didn’t sound like your own.

He nodded.

He looks like you stabbed him.

You think maybe you did.

“They… branded you with... me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, eyes flicking to your side. “My goddamn cross.”

You nodded slowly, throat tight. “Yeah. Figured you’d haunt me either way.”

That earned a broken laugh—painful, like it hurt him to even make sound.

“They wanted me to hate you,” you said, voice raspy. “Said you’d never want me after this.”

He stared at you, silent.

"They said you grew soft. You trusted people too much, that loving me made you weak."

Then: “They’re wrong.”

You looked away. “I’m not the same. I’m not—clean. Not untouched. They took things I can’t—”

“I don’t love you because you’re clean,” he interrupted. “I love you because you’re you. Scars and all.”

You blinked at him.

His hand found yours, tentative at first. Then firm.

“I don’t care how much they cut. You’re still here. You lived. And I—God, I’d trade everything to have gotten there sooner.”

You squeezed his fingers. It was all you could do. He doesn’t speak. But his hand moves — slow — and reaches for yours. You let him take it. His fingers curl around yours like a lifeline.

“I’d burn them all,” he says hoarsely. “I’d burn the world if it meant they’d never touch you again.”

“I know.”

The wind whistles. Somewhere, a door creaks.

“I can’t undo it,” he says. “I can’t take it back.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He flinches. You lift his hand. Press it gently to the bandaged cross on your ribs.

“I’d rather carry you like this… than forget you at all.”

His shoulders shake. Just once.

And then he leans forward, forehead to yours, breath warm and raw, pressing his lips to yours like a vow, gently letting his hand rest below your rib, next to the wound.

It was a part of you. And that meant he loved it too.

-----------

It took time to heal.

The physical wounds came first. The brand scabbed, scarred, then settled into your skin like it had always been there. Raised, red, permanent. You started sleeping through the night again, though you still woke sweating sometimes, chest tight, heart racing.

The psychological wounds took longer.

There were days you couldn’t bear to be touched. Times you curled away from the hand that used to bring you comfort. Times Wolfwood sat beside you in silence and didn’t ask for anything, not even your eyes.

But he never left. He never looked away from your pain, even when you flinched. Even when you pushed. And slowly, quietly, something began to mend.

The first time you let him see the brand without flinching, he didn’t say a word.

You were changing your bandages in the mirror, fingers clumsy on the wrap. The cloth slipped and the scar was exposed—angry and red, shaped unmistakably like the Punisher.

Wolfwood stepped into the doorway. Froze.

You didn’t cover it. You just turned your head and met his gaze.

“It still hurts,” you admitted. “But not as much.”

He crossed the room and cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“They tried to turn you into a message,” he said, voice low, “but all I see when I look at you is the person I couldn’t live without.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t want to be marked by this.”

“You’re not,” he whispered. “You’re marked by me. And I’ll carry that too.”