UP IS DOWN AND BLACK IS WHITE

𝚄𝙿 𝙸𝚂 𝙳𝙾𝚆𝙽 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙸𝚂 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴

[archivedispatched]

@𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙿𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝙳 a canon-inspired writing blog for marvel's 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎 / 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚛. 21+. private, small-scale, & plot-based. heavily affiliated with @shelassos ♡

𝙶𝙾𝙾𝙶𝙻𝙴 𝙳𝙾𝙲 / 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙲𝙷𝙴𝙲𝙺𝙴𝚁 / 𝙳𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙶𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴𝚂 / 𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙶

[archivedispatched]

what up, guess who moved blogs again @dispatched

[archivedispatched]

i can't believe frank is going to have two sets of twins with @shelassos 🤐

[archivedispatched]

i just personally think frank castle needs some adderall and maybe lithium and he'd be alright

[notmorbid]

don't fear the reaper.

dialogue prompts from don't fear the reaper by stephen graham jones.

this better be worth it.

it's sort of good to be home.

this world is shit, to not have treated you better.

sorry i was such a handful, back when.

you still believe in all that?

the grass is always greenest right above the septic tank.

tell your pretty wife to call me.

what's the last thing you remember? what were you doing?

a monster you know, or one you don't know?

you really are different, aren't you?

and i thought video was dead.

will things ever be normal between us, do you think?

just what i wanted to be reminded of.

it sucks being the last one left.

what kind of bullshit death dream is this?

you said you'd come back, and you did.

it's not easy, being a terrible person.

it's happening again, isn't it?

names don't matter. it's what they do that matters.

we survivors have to stick together, don't we?

my version of reality isn't the consensually agreed upon one.

being smart's not as easy as everyone makes it out to be.

you're never as alone as you think you are.

did you really do it?

i'm going to have to tell them, aren't i?

do i need protection?

souls are like livers: they regenerate until you poison them enough. then all they can do is kill you.

after a while, you can forget you're pretending.

i think i'm running out of lives here.

i hate you, you know.

people change. they grow up.

apology accepted. i wouldn't have listened to me, either.

i thought if i knew all the rules, nothing would happen to me.

you don't get to pick your genre.

have i always been this annoying?

you really plan for everything, don't you?

i'm not as good as you think.

there aren't any real fighters anymore: just killers and the killed.

good grief, charlie brown, give it a rest already.

who doesn't need coffee and cupcakes?

if the only scars you get are on your skin, count yourself lucky.

once you start running, you don't stop until you are stopped.

watch your 6, your 12, your 10, and 2.

sometimes it is who you think it is.

it was high school. we were all stupid, right?

ask anybody: you can't trust me, i'm a bad bet. the worst bet.

[whumpbox]

f*ck with my muse send a number, get a drabble. caution: blood, torture, lots of violence.

1: dangle my muse over the edge of a building

2: break any bone(s) in my muse’s body

3: slap my muse

4: punch my muse 

5: drug my muse

6: shoot my muse

7: stab my muse

8: pour salt in my muse’s wound(s)

9: strangle my muse

10: step on my muse’s finger(s)

11: wake my muse with bright lights

12: hold my muse’s head under water

13: burn my muse

14: make my muse listen to loud, high-pitched noises

15: spit in my muse’s face

16: beat my muse to a bloody pulp

17: hit my muse with a vehicle

18: throw an object at my muse

19: follow my muse

20: leave my muse out in the cold

21: withhold food from my muse

22: place a cup of water just out of my muse’s reach

23: trip my muse

24: insult my muse

25: scar my muse

26: frighten my muse

27: grab a fistful of my muse’s hair

28: knee my muse in the gut

29: force my muse to stay awake

30: lock my muse in a room

31: watch my muse collapse and do nothing

32: grip my muse’s wrists

33: hit my muse over the head with a blunt object 

34: force my muse to their knees

35: force my muse to their feet

36: bite my muse

37: knock a few of my muse’s teeth loose

38: poke and prod at my muse’s injuries

39: send a disturbing package to my muse

40: poison my muse

[archivedispatched]

@shelassos , cont'd.

typically, it's frank making someone worse by sticking around them. and typically, he doesn't give a shit ---- he's too selfish to give a shit, most of the time, and when he starts to give a shit it's usually too late. not with diana. she doesn't make him better ---- he doesn't think that's possible ---- but much of the time she seems the very same. impossibly bright, and when they do fight ---- which is often, he can't glamorize that fight ---- she's burns so bright she boils over. nothing about her isn't beautiful.

today is one of the good days. it reminds him of being human, which is nice. more nice than he thought it'd be.

"you must've smelled it," he says, setting the pitcher before her. it's been a long, long time since he's shared a meal with anyone like this, one that he's spent even a substantial time making, and it's odd. he scoops off some bacon onto a large plate, along with the eggs he's made, and sits beside her at the small kitchen table. their knees brush against the other's.

with a mouthful of eggs, he asks, "you doin' anything today?"

[inflamearc1]

laura palmer of twin peaks, (still) written by dax. plot-driven and 21+ only. ©

[archivedispatched]

@profanemouth

IF THERE WERE SUCH A THING AS A PERSONAL HELL, HIS WOULD BE AN IRISH BAR. of course, it's just the type of shithole that jessica jones frequents: cheap booze, shitty music, questionable looking toilets and even more questionable looking patrons. with no windows to the outside world, it's a vortex of time too; without his watch, he'd be unable to discern if it were day or night. however, it's a neutral environment; taking jones to his place would be laying himself too bare and likewise for jones taking him to wherever it is she operates, too.

so, here they are. believe it or not, he can compromise.

when their bartender sets two glasses of jameson before them, shoving a wad of bills his way before jones can get in on it. the bridge of his nose stings with every inhale he takes, and their old-school bartender spares him a look that lasts a moment too long. he hasn't looked at himself in the mirror, but judging from how much his nose hurts even after he'd haphazardly reset the bone, he must look like shit, with his eyes aching as harsh blackened bruises splotch his eyes and nose. no amount of bandaids or shitty fluorescent lighting could mask how horrible he looks, thanks to jones' heavy hand. worst of all, jones hadn't broken a sweat, hadn't exerted anything at all.

broad shoulders hunched over the bar, he nurses the cloudy glass of jameson in his hand.

❝ glad we could sit down, have a conversation. ❞ he's as good at this as she is; granted, this is one fucking hell of a weird olive branch. he kicks back his drink, jaw tensing as it burns its way down, ❝ - look, i'll cut to the chase, alright ? i got information you need. you got information i need. clearly. ❞

[aliasinvestigate]

she doesn't bother stopping to listen before she wraps her hand around the glass & pulls a searing gulp from it. it's harsh & hot & it washes the sting from her gums all the way to the scorched pit of her stomach. she lets the whiskey rinse around her cheeks, swallows hard. she takes another gulp to empty the glass. it's peat smoke, perfume-caustic. it doesn't need to hit her taste buds ; she just needs to feel it washing down to curb the curl of her toes in her boots & soften the razor edge of her irascibility.

" you look like shit. " she didn't pull the punch that gave him the broad swath that now serves as the bridge of his nose & she doesn't hold back now. " but i've seen you on the news, so i'm guessing that's not gonna bother you. "

she drains the rest of the glass & thunks it heavily onto the table. he's hunched like he doesn't fit here, big-shouldered & violent. jessica slouches over her elbows because it's an effort to pull herself up straight. the liquor's leeching into her posture, easing up all the tightly wound pulleys. if he has information & she has information, then they're speaking the same language.

" so what if i do? " kicks her brow up, chin hiking to get a good look at him. there's the wire snapping at his jaw, the gravel gruff coating the harsh burst of his voice. this table in this place means something. a peace offering? it dawns on her as she raises her hand to the bartender for another round. " ------- you've got beef with those jarheads. "

the flush of her tongue against the rafter of her palate breaks into a reflexive pattern, shaping street names without letting them break past her lips. she clamps it down, shifting in her seat in a way that shows annoyance better than the discomfited knowledge that when it comes to kilgrave, she will never be unbreakable.

" & let me guess ... now that you've seen my right hook & heard about my stellar reputation for teamwork, you want to star in a buddy cop movie together. "

[archivedispatched]

❛ no shit. ❜

HE MUST FEEL WORSE THAN HE LOOKS, IN ANY CASE. all thanks to her. is jessica jones the sort of woman who gets satisfaction from the violence she's committed ? it's no easy task, trying to read her in the abysmal lighting of the bar, her tone over the merry folk music so loud everything else sounds far away, as if he's under water instead of sitting beside her. a comment about how this is only the eleventh time his nose has been broken but who's counting is at the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it back with the rest of his own drink. he tenses his jaw against the taste of it, remembers why he's never liked irish whiskey.

❛ my beef, ❜ it's a funny phrase for whatever exists between himself and billy russo, whose box of ashes sits in an undisclosed location. unfortunately, ashes are not all that's left of him; the remnants of anvil and valhalla are as much as bill's legacy as the hole in frank's head.

problem is, killing bill hadn't given him the sense of quiet ( peace ? ) he'd thought it would. it'd felt like nothing. most of the time, killing makes him feel alive, in a really fucked up sort of way; he'd felt nothing, staring down into bill's dead eyes, as black in death as they were in life. will this help ? will this be a final nail in the coffin ? he's not sure. he knows he can't live in a world where anything left of billy russo lives, too, outside of his own self.

❛ my beef is -- personal, ❜ he relents that information through gritted teeth, as he looks down into the dirty empty glass that he holds in his hand. when their bartender comes back, he contemplates how much he doesn't like irish whiskey before he pushes the glass back toward him for a refill. ❛ and, y'know, i think you're about as collaborative as i am, ma'am. ❜

that is to say, not at all.

his nostrils flare, fingers tapping against the side of his glass reflexively once the bartender pushes it his way. ❛ judging from your reaction, it feels personal for you. and, y'know, i'll throw you a bone here and be honest ---- my leads are going to dry out soon. and, you got strong suits i don't have. and - ❜ his fingers brush against the holster at his hip, an absent-minded gesture, ❛ likewise, for me. ❜

yeah, it's definitely a goddamn team-up. god help him. he drinks to that.

[archivedispatched]

as i'm combing through comix, here's a list of potential plots/conflicts inspired by some of them that i'd def to touch upon! i also do have most of these muses on my punisher / npc sideblog if we want to revert back to 2014 rpc aka having actual arcs 🥺 but i would also not be opposed to anyone else wanting to npc them, etc!

ma gnucci - frank basically wiped out all of her bloodline besides her in tps 1x01 and i keep that canon for them. she's the matriach of one of the five families (in the marvel universe), with implied influence over the mayor and nypd. in her appearances, she and frank spend weeks embarking on a cat-and-mouse sort of game, as frank systemically kills everyone she loves and she pulls out all stops to find him, including hiring a hitman to torture him to death. v down to tweak all of this to suit our needs.

nicky cavella - after frank kills all of the kitchen irish, nicky, a cousin to finn o'cooley, travels from boston to new york to take over operations and seek revenge on the punisher (in up is down black is white, he excavates the bodies of frank's family and desecrates them to draw frank out into the open, but - down to tweak this too).

rosalie carbone - another mafia patriarch who maintains control of much of harlem - her origins as a character stems from the punisher. in the comics, he infiltrates her family by going undercover and pretending to be an up and coming enforcer looking to be made, but down to again, tweak that. (i simply love to pair frank against evil milfs, what can i say.)

barracuda - barracuda is a shadowy killer-for-hire and former green beret whose record and full name has been legally redacted. at this point in my frank's canon, frank has taken one of barracuda's eyes and barracuda almost did the same to him, and they've both managed to be the only person unable to kill the other. barracuda is extremely professional and one of the best hired killers in the entire world.

[notmorbid]

manhunt.

dialogue prompts from manhunt by gretchen felker-martin.

can you not crack jokes right now?

you make me feel so delicate.

never be where they can find you.

when was the last time you spoke to another person?

i want to feel safe again. just for a little while.

i would give anything to slap you right now. just once.

other people aren't safe.

i hate myself in ways you can't imagine.

there's a place for you, if you want it.

you see what you want, not what's in front of your nose.

i don't want you to go.

these people won't protect us.

telling yourself what to feel is a brick wrapped up in silk: it looks pretty, but it hurts the same.

finally some good fucking food.

nothing worth doing is easy.

this is a real pinterest board of a place.

you look like some lost character from a donna tartt novel.

i don't know what i did. i keep going over it.

i don't want to remember anything.

i don't want to get up. i want to kiss you.

is this the kind of place where people disappear?

i don't like this. i don't like any of this.

it's not that bad, once you get used to it.

i'm always uncomfortable where there's money.

can you hold me?

you're being so selfish right now.

do you even care how i feel at all?

you have to own your power, believe in it.

i wish i looked like you. i love looking at you.

college is where they teach you to get an npr subscription.

what's going on? i dreamed someone was screaming.

don't tell me you love me. i won't believe you.

we've got to stop meeting like this.

i haven't had a friend in a long time.

you always could've done something. you were just afraid to be uncomfortable.

it's so much easier to drink than it is to think about tomorrow.

it can get rough, but we're a family, too.

i love you. i want to go where you go.

i don't care if you love me, as long as i get to be with you.

how did you disappoint your parents?

thanks for asking me to stay.

everything i've touched since i met you has turned to shit.

i was a bad friend to you.

can you kiss me? please?

i love you so much, you stupid bitch.

[archivedispatched]

some frankmaria braindump/headcanons: 

they 100% had sex on their first date, which involved getting $1 pizza then going back to frank’s place (where he was living with his mom in queens lmfao), hooking up, and smoking weed together in his twin-sized bed

shortly after, she taught frank how to roll a joint, lmao

maria pretended not to know how to play guitar to get frank to teach her, and he only found out later that she knew how to play not only guitar, but also the violin, piano, and saxophone. she also was a gifted singer, and to make it worse, knew how to play guitar much better than him.

frank and maria had matching tattoos of forget-me-nots, which is the first thing that they planted together in the garden of their home in queens when maria was pregnant with their son. he got his on his inner arm while hers was on her thigh. when frank returned after being stationed for eighteen months to his family, with frank junior now over a year old, the forget-me-nots were fully grown. 

they made it a point to go to concerts together regularly, even concerts they’d seen before. maria and frank were into all types of music, but they frequented country and metal concerts often, as well as concerts with their kids. they had a book of ticket stubs and photos developed from a shitty disposable camera they exclusively used for shows 

their wedding song was ‘nothing else matters’ by metallica

maria was a songbird in addition to being a natural musician, and loved to dance. she taught dance, enrolled lisa and frank junior in dance lessons, and led when she and frank danced together for the most part. up until they started to grow apart as a result of frank’s unaddressed trauma and constant absence due to the marines, they would dance together often when he was home for it

maria could cook, but frank was the main cook of the house when he was home. frank also was (and is) very neat and particular about cleaning, so he maintained a lot of the cleaning and chores when he was home, before he started to lose energy to even do the basics as the years went on (thanks to depression and trauma) 

maria usually had coffin-shaped acrylics, colored her hair crazy colors (until a few years prior to her death) and wore band t-shirts, north face jackets, and jeans/sweats/yoga pants often. i don’t ascribe to her constantly wearing wrap dresses as in the show, lmao. 

[shelassos]

@castigare said: how do you survive the peace and quiet?

❛ I WAS BORN INTO PEACE. ❜ It's an honest reflection that curls her lips in some strange mixture of a smile and a frown. The stars shine a spotlight down upon where they lay on the ground, and Diana feels a peculiar heat radiating from them, defeating the chill of the night. It's not the same night sky nor the same stars her mother is looking at, she thinks, not for the first time. This sky is tainted with pollution, it's smeared across the dark canvas by human hands. And these stars are delivering a verdict that has found them guilty for crimes that neither of them will ever quite escape. She chokes on her own guilt, a ball with claws that forms in her throat and deters her breath. Her long fingers crawl like spider legs across the inch of grass between them to find his thicker digits. She entwines her fingers with his and squeezes his with a strength that will incite mild pain, but is necessary to remind them both that they're still here. They still have each other.

❛ I resented it. Every moment, I resented it. ❜ She is the woman who denied herself a home in Paradise. Or perhaps it was Paradise that denied her. She rolls onto her side to look at his face, wishing the moon would illuminate him more so she could see his expression. It's not the first time she wishes she could hear his thoughts, and it's also not the first time she's glad she cannot. ❛ I chose war, because the truth is that I thought I could end it. But it doesn't end, does it? It goes on and on and on. ❜ And on and on and on. There is no beginning, no middle, no end. Just a continuous loop of horrors.

But she'll never stop fighting for the Peace and the Quiet. Even if she herself will never again experience those things again. She could end the wars that plague Mankind, but the wars in her mind will go on forever. She thinks that could be okay, though. As long as she has him. As long as she has Frank.

❛So, I think we survive the peace and quiet the same way we survive the war and chaos. ❜ She smiles, and there's tragedy in that smile. There always will be, perhaps. ❛ We survive it together. ❜

[archivedispatched]

HAS THERE EVER BEEN A MOMENT WHEN FRANK CASTLE HAS BEEN AT PEACE ? at any sort of ease, unless given a direct order to be so ? it seems as if his most serene moments of his life have been the most restless; he's dangerous if he's still for too long. and it's only when he's at his most violent that he finds peace, albeit a twisted, distorted version of the feeling, or what he imagines the feeling must be. even now, he's twitching his fingers, leg shaking, unable to sit still. even diana, a bastion of peace, has been unable to find it. like all wars, the war he's created is one without end, and it's because he wants it that way; war is a beast and his own beast has no collar and no leash, no bounds to stop it.

like with all things in life, too, he sinks his claws into the ones he loves and drags them down with him. it seems impossible with diana, and he should feel guilt about it, for dragging her down by being in her presence like this. but he doesn't. there's a satisfaction, that someone as despicable as he could touch someone who is, by all means, as close to incorruptible as can exist in a world like this. does he make her worse ? does he care ? it's maybe in this way that they're kindred, of sorts; their jagged edges have no business fitting and maybe they don't, but he's never been one to believe in fate, anyway.

his head cocks, and he smiles at her in return. with one hand entwined with hers, the other reaches up to push dark hair behind her ear, knuckles brushing over her cheekbone.

❝ y'know, i've never wanted it to end, ❞ is honest, thumb tracing over diana's lower lip, ❝ war. killing - do you keep count ? of how many people you've killed ? ❞

[vol-d-oiseaux]

“In one sense I was my war; my war was I; without it I should do nothing and be nothing.”

— Vera Brittain, Testament of Youth (via antigonick)

[archivedispatched]

i imagined the tyger. like the caged tigers at the bronx zoo, but something more. something that could not be held. that would be bigger, badder, than anyone or anything that walked the planet. that would look you in your eye and know your terror. that would not know mercy, or remorse, nor even the concept of stopping: not having been constructed with those qualities in mind. a force made flesh. a face not made by god.

INDEPENDENT PUNISHER WRITING BLOG, WRITTEN BY LOU (HE/HIM, 25). ©

[archivedispatched]

@profanemouth

IF THERE WERE SUCH A THING AS A PERSONAL HELL, HIS WOULD BE AN IRISH BAR. of course, it's just the type of shithole that jessica jones frequents: cheap booze, shitty music, questionable looking toilets and even more questionable looking patrons. with no windows to the outside world, it's a vortex of time too; without his watch, he'd be unable to discern if it were day or night. however, it's a neutral environment; taking jones to his place would be laying himself too bare and likewise for jones taking him to wherever it is she operates, too.

so, here they are. believe it or not, he can compromise.

when their bartender sets two glasses of jameson before them, shoving a wad of bills his way before jones can get in on it. the bridge of his nose stings with every inhale he takes, and their old-school bartender spares him a look that lasts a moment too long. he hasn't looked at himself in the mirror, but judging from how much his nose hurts even after he'd haphazardly reset the bone, he must look like shit, with his eyes aching as harsh blackened bruises splotch his eyes and nose. no amount of bandaids or shitty fluorescent lighting could mask how horrible he looks, thanks to jones' heavy hand. worst of all, jones hadn't broken a sweat, hadn't exerted anything at all.

broad shoulders hunched over the bar, he nurses the cloudy glass of jameson in his hand.

❝ glad we could sit down, have a conversation. ❞ he's as good at this as she is; granted, this is one fucking hell of a weird olive branch. he kicks back his drink, jaw tensing as it burns its way down, ❝ - look, i'll cut to the chase, alright ? i got information you need. you got information i need. clearly. ❞

[archivedispatched]

❝ YOU'RE BLEEDING. ❞

it's an obvious statement. sharon must feel the warmth of blood that trickles down from her crop of hair to the back of her shoulder, especially as the adrenaline from their earlier encounter wanes. frank feels it in his own body, the way an electric sort of pain's replaced the topical anesthetic used to mask the pain of sutures from where he'd been stabbed in his side. he always felt most alive at that sort of pain, in a fucked up sort of way; now, with the knife out of him and the guy who'd done it dead, he feels hollow, like the space inside of him where the blade had once been. tired. carved out.

frank reaches for the metal first aid kit, which clangs loudly on the shitty cement table by their side as it opens. it's the first time he's tended to her injuries; if he's honest, he's operated under the assumption that sharon carter's indomitable and that bullets probably ricochet from her skin.

❝ — ain't gonna be able to reach that yourself, ❞ he explains, partly as if it should be self-explanatory, but simultaneously in a patient sort of way. turning his back to anyone feels jarring, against his own nature; while he's done it for her, he doesn't expect her to lay belly-up for him by doing the same.

@thirtean