ALL WE ARE IS MEAT AND BONE.

independent canon-inspired frank castle / the punisher, written by lou (24, he/they, white). est. september 2017.

[transformsa-deactivated20230208]

i now come bearing a fancy google form (click)! i’m tired of talking about my situation, so if you’re curious, there’s more info — and an offer to proofread/edit for tips! — here. payment’s good through paypal or ko-fi. there are three more example bases below the cut, you get a 15% discount if you send me caps, and … i’ll get out of your face now 😌👻

Keep reading

[dispatchedarchived]

nevermoral​:

billy knows good and well schoonover’s nowhere within earshot–not that he gives a shit, really, but he knows the difference between butting up against the line and crossing it. he’s already gained a reputation for himself–not an entirely favorable one, unlike frank, who’s everybody’s favorite–for his looks and his mouth as much as his skill.

it’s with some satisfaction he watches the guys they know trickle out of the bar one by one, leaving them close enough to alone that they can relax. they sure as hell deserve it, after baghdad, even if baghdad was the best time billy’s had in his nineteen years. 

“poor frankie.” billy scrunches up his nose as he takes another drink before reaching out to straighten frank’s collar. he’s right, he’s not drunk, but somehow he’s managed to get himself all rumpled and untucked–not that billy gives a shit, it’s just another excuse to touch him. “is that what you want?”

frank’s not beautiful, not in any traditional sense, but billy thinks he’s fucking perfect. not that he’s shitfaced enough to say it. it’s decidedly reluctant when he drops his hand from frank’s shirt, though he stays close enough to be in his space.

“–you want me to write you a poem, too, dumbass?” 

the casual affection is nice, markedly different from the usual way they touch each other - which generally includes bruising punches, roughhousing, whatever. it earns a remarkably earnest smile that he looks away to hide, face warming at the attention like he’s some kinda goddamn schoolboy all over again.

then he looks back at him, nudges him again, just because he can, and contemplates getting another drink. something in him tells him another tito’s soda could result in hurling all over bill’s shined shoes which isn’t worth whatever potential tonight has.

“why not? feel like you’d be good at it, i know all those girls who throw themselves at your feet must like you for something besides that pretty face of yours.” he knows he’s likely touched on a chord, but what are they if they don’t give each other shit? “then again, i ain’t the kind of girl you’d be into anyway, am i?”

[roslindales]

DIALOGUE PROMPTS FROM THINGS HAVE GOTTEN WORSE SINCE WE LAST SPOKE BY ERIC LAROCCA — feel free to change pronouns / tenses as needed! cw for mentions of graphic violence and cannibalism.

i really can’t thank you enough.

you really did change my life.

i feel more myself when i talk to you.

what have you done today to deserve your eyes?

we don’t covet our hands until we lose a finger.

how does the snake feel in her new skin?

we’re all capable of things. sometimes it hurts.

i feel like a new constellation, scabbed in glittering black.

whatever you’re thinking, i probably want it.

people like to eat other people. i spent so many years forgetting i had teeth, too.

you won’t eat me. no matter how much you enjoy the way i taste.

i never thought i would ever do something as monstrous, as wicked as this.

what else will i do to make you happy?

i don’t think i’m better off without you.

neither of us are monsters.

that’s what makes people do horrible things - they think whatever they’re doing isn’t nearly as bad as what someone else will do

i could never stay away from you.

do you ever worry you’ll hurt me?

i once dreamt about killing you.

i’m bracing myself for the worst.

change always hurts.

i’ll love you no matter what.

i’ll always have a part of you inside of me.

fuck your second thoughts. fuck your honesty.

i think i once did love you. i think i once could have loved you. but not like this.

you’ll never leave me.

i feel like taking a pair of shears and slicing myself open.

i thought of you last night.

this is what you wanted.

[papa-evershed]

[papa-evershed]

[pjharvey-moved-deactivated20250]

liking a male character like hes my girlfriend hes my dad he is literally me i could fix him i could make him worse hes a whore hes my best friend hes my sworn enemy i just want to punch him i want to hold his hand i just want to send him to therapy

[dispatchedarchived]

transforms​:

“place like this —” a 24-hour diner near the cramped, nondescript church they’ve just fled, that is, “— they’re not carding anybody for anything.” she isn’t deflecting, but she doesn’t know what to do other than answer his question ( rhetorical or not; straight-up imagined or not ). pete’s been good company to her on the days they’ve both shown for group, but it’s not like she knows him, and she’s forgotten what it’s like, almost, to be around anyone as quiet as she is.

she holds the battered mug in both hands, rarely drinking, but comforted by the weight and warmth of it. they both take their coffee black, and the waitress — her age, she thinks, give or take a few years — keeps stopping at their table, fretful, their collective depressive energy palpable, even though that’s just how she is. they don’t order food to placate her, but the next time around, bonnie opens her wallet and pulls out several bills. the five, folded neatly into the check, is for their ‘meal’. the twenty’s for the woman, who flushes, but doesn’t argue, which is a blessing. the diner’s fucking dead, and they’ll only both end up embarrassed if they talk about it; compare war stories, as it were. 

the single dollar, she slides across the table: she can joke, too. 

that’s when frank rolls his eyes in a good-natured sort of way, as friendly as he can muster. more than that, he picks up the bill and looks it over like he’s seriously considering it - or like he’s never seen anything like it, one of the two.

he pushes it back toward her, features noticeable softened even under the guise of the beard that’s gotten long enough to make him itch. i wish you could grow out your hair. it’s so nice. so soft. i wish that you could do a lot of things, frank. 

enough melancholy bullshit, though. unfortunately, frank’s not sure what to suggest they do next, still comically crowded over his tiny cup of coffee. 

“i’m surprised there aren’t more people trying to avoid the day like we are, in a place like this,” is said as good-naturedly, which is contradictory to how he means it. his mouth twists - he’s really trying. his trigger finger taps against his mug as he shifts audibly in the cheap booth seat, looking out the window then back at bonnie.

like any good interrogation - jesus, he needs to stop with that shit, but he can’t quite help it - he opens up. he wants bonnie to, too, but pointedly not interrogation-style. 

“ - i ever tell you i had kids? not anymore. but like being a marine i guess - once you’re a parent, that’s who you always are.”

[dispatchedarchived]

nevermoral​:

“what do you want, frank?” the knee in his stomach knocks the wind out of him, making his voice come breathless and hoarse. “you want me to be sorry? i told you i’d take it back. it doesn’t change a thing.” he could almost laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, both of them bruised and scarred and still all wrapped up in each other when things will never be the same again, and he is sorry, at least until he hears scraps under the table, and he shoves frank in the chest, hard, with both hands. 

“you didn’t give a shit if i needed you when you were off getting married, building your perfect little life.” he hadn’t, but frank had left him first, left the ball in his court. if billy doesn’t think about kandahar—frank’s skin and stubble and beaten-dog eyes, stupid kid promises he almost bought all over again—it’s easy enough to believe it.

for all he knows, ma gnucci’s guys are thirty seconds from mowing down the door, guns blazing, about to catch them both with their goddamn pants around their ankles. even with his gut throbbing and his eyes burning, billy knows he should diffuse the situation, or at least try, but everything’s blurring together and racing around his head: rawlins’ smug smile and the smell of his cologne, sand in his mouth and staccato gunfire in his ears, the sounds of shattering glass and carousel music and frank’s voice, as if from far away, you had us, bill—

that sound he wants to stop most of all. he yanks frank’s head back by his hair—long enough now to gather in his fingers—forcing him to meet his eyes.

“yeah, and you still can’t do shit about it, can you? look at yourself.”

the noise that escapes at the hand in his hair borders on pathetic. his scalp burns, everywhere hurts, and that’s enough to switch their positions easily enough. bill holding the reins with frank at his mercy. his spit is warm when it lands on his face and his neck aches from being forced to look up at him like this. 

the hand that tightens in bill’s cropped hair is a last-ditch effort to maintain some of the control of this situation. they must look stupid, comical - busy yanking each other’s hair and spitting in each other’s faces and sharing the same breath instead of doing what matters: planning for whenever gnucci would arrive with the rest of the wolves at the door. 

“i hate you,” is almost a whisper between them. inexplicably, frank thinks about kissing him as much as he does about headbutting him hard enough to make whatever head injury he’s sustained even worse. both would be satisfying enough, but frank does neither. 

“don’t - don’t blame this on me. you did this. we’re here because of you. but this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” there’s a tremble under the low rumble of his words as he breathes out a shaky exhale, hand finding bill’s elbow. “i wish you were there that day. you could’ve put me down yourself. instead, i get to live like a walking wound and-and i have since. but i don’t think you could’ve done it, could you?” 

[dispatchedarchived]

profanemouth​:

❛    i  heal  faster  than  most,    ❜    is  the  only  thing  she  has  to  offer  back  at  him,  still  shaking  out  the  windedness  clutching  at  her  lungs.    she  isn’t  daredevil  or  iron  fist  with  their  whiplash  style  of  fighting    &    she  sure  as  hell  doesn’t  have  unbreakable  skin  or  anything  close  to  an  unbreakable  will.    just  a  badly  wounded  conscience    &    just  enough  stupidity  to  still  know  how  to  get  into  all  manner  of  trouble.    

a  sucked-in  breath  catches  her  up  to  speed.  

jessica  wings  her  hands  out,  arms  spindly  even  in  the  flap  of  her  trademark  leather  jacket.    her  cheeks  hollow  out,  her  siphoned  breath  catching  them  between  her  molars.    

❛    in  my  line  of  work,  only  dumbasses  believe  in  coincidences.    ❜    a  darkened  glare  fleets  in  his  direction.    her  camera  is  full  of  evidence  of  the  proof  that  kismet  has  nothing  to  do  with  a  man  who  just  happens  to  come  home  late  from  work  every  night  when  his  coworkers  leave  at  five  on  the  dot  or  that  certain  lapses  in  bank  accounts  have  nothing  to  do  with  poor  math    (    especially  when  they  line  up  with  offshore  finances    ).      ❛    but  objectives  aside,  i’ve  got  my  own  shit  to  do.    unless  yours  has  something  to  do  with  me  not  getting  paid,  we  can  play  a  fleetwood  mac  favorite    &    go  our  own  ways.        ❜

she  thinks  for  a  minute,  letting  the  swelling  fibers  of  muscle  stitch  themselves  back  together  between  each  rib.    ❛    —–  DON’T  tell  me  your  idea  of  a  good  time  tonight  is  getting  this  asshole  out  of  the  picture  entirely.    ❜

“i uh, i figured. guess i’m just surprised you ain’t bulletproof from all the shit i’ve heard.”

yeah, jessica definitely isn’t going to laugh but a smirk threatens his mouth in any case. he counts himself as lucky he hasn’t gotten his ass kicked. not that he goes out of his way to run into hero types, but hell’s kitchen is only so big even when you will it to be. he hadn’t even realized it was her, either - the devil could be anywhere and he’d braced himself for a fight, so much so that his adrenaline’s still spiking his blood, elevating the thrum of his heart. 

not that he can rule out a fight with jones, either. he decides that she’d probably hurt him more, despite how willowy she is. appearances deceive, and all of that. when possible, frank does try not to bring a knife to a gunfight.

“and you don’t strike me as a dumbass,” his lips purse, glancing away from her and back at their mutual objective - the man inside, barely perceptible without his rifle scope. that’s when he looks back at her, squinting. “it ain’t my idea of a good time, no - but i do what needs to be done. you wanna tell me what you’re looking for? ‘cause my answer ain’t exactly embedded in concrete.”

[dispatchedarchived]

@transforms​ did not ask for this and yet i’m delivering  ♡

“y’know, they don’t ask for ID for the military discount.” 

which is a natural progression into - do they ask for IDs for father’s day discounts? he won’t verbalize that thought, though. if anything, he only knows about the military discount because the guys in group have an unofficial map of haunts they frequent. frank ain’t the type to penny pinch - he doesn’t need to.

but the occasion isn’t lost on them. all around them, fathers of all kinds, of all ages, fill the diner’s seats to the brim for brunch. the old man in the booth adjacent wears a cap with a marine insignia, surrounded by what must be his grandkids. frank ducks his head before they catch each other’s gaze. 

he looks back up at bonnie, lips drawn tight. the joke he was going for - joke? idle chatter, maybe? who the hell knows - doesn’t really seem all that funny anymore. not that it was in the first place. 

“ - not that saving the dollar would do me any good.” 

[mythicaldarkofcastle-deactivate]

“I fell safe when you are with me. That’s because you are so brave and strong. It was you who told me not to be scared of the dark. But I was never really scared of the dark. It was what was IN the dark that scared me. Connie’s dad scared me sometimes. He’s got a rotten temper and he smells bad. He’s not nice like you. He shouts at Connie all the time. You never shout at me. He’s not as handsome as you either. I don’t want to get all icky, but you’re probably the best dad ever. I mean, would Connie’s dad go with HER on a picnic in Central Park? I doubt it. You’re kind and you’re funny too. Except when you’re really really tired and then you go quiet which is okay. I guess you’ve got things on your mind. I used to think I would marry you when I grow up. Now I know that was silly. I can’t marry you. You’re way too old for me. But we can always be best friends and when you and mom are too old to work, I’ll look after you.”

Punisher MAX #75 Father’s Day, Peter Milligan, Goran Parlov

Happy Father’s Day!

Wish Frank had more happy father’s day.

[valtsv]

oh to be pinned against a wall by my arch nemesis who i am secretly pining for and smirk insolently up at them while fantasizing about kissing them and being kissed back as they lean forward until our noses are almost touching to whisper threats which are meant to intimidate me but only turn me on more in my ear

[thepunishergifs]

“I think that might be the hardest part, the silence. The silence when the gunfire ends.”

[dispatchedarchived]

nevermoral​:

@dispatched​ / you have never not been beautiful

“—you’re a trip, you know that?” billy tells himself it’s the booze bringing a flush to his cheeks and his nose and the tops of his ears—he’s three martinis in, because that’s what the officers are all drinking, at least the ones who aren’t drinking scotch—

he shoves frank in the chest with his free hand and almost sloshes vodka all over them both. it’s playful, not even hard enough to knock him off balance, half to make him stop talking and half just as an excuse to put his hands on him. frankie’s solid muscle under all his dress blues, compact and immovable in a way that billy isn’t. he’s not sure why he’s thinking about that now. must be the goddamn martinis.

he’ll take shit from frank castle he’d never take from anyone else—pretty’s always made his blood boil, and he’s heard it enough for a fucking lifetime—but frank’s not even giving him shit, not right now. now his eyes are full of an alarming sincerity, one that even cuts through the haze of liquor.

“don’t let schoonover catch you talking like that, castle.” billy takes another drink, his smile sharp and private and his eyes heavy beneath long lashes. “he might think his protege can’t hold his liquor.”

“he knows i can hold my liquor just fine.”

now, if schoonover caught them both talking like this to each other, it’d be a different story. luckily, the ornery asshole had managed to worm his way out of the party hours ago. the two of them definitely are not abiding by dress code but neither is anyone else. most of the celebration of life attendees have left, anyway, including most of the guys they know. 

after all, it ain’t their fault there’s an open bar, and that they haven’t had anything decent to drink in the months they’d spent deployed in baghdad. 

“i ain’t even drunk,” to emphasize that point, he takes a sip of his bourbon. it’s the good type of bourbon, the kind that goes down smooth despite the burn of alcohol, and it’s sweet with honey. kentucky bourbon. he licks some of it off his lips when he sets his glass back on the bar and shoves bill, again, with his shoulder. his face burns against the prickling of the cuts on his cheek that still haven’t healed from baghdad, but he’s not warm from injury or even the booze. “not yet, anyway. y’know what? i take it back. i never hear you calling me beautiful, you prick.”

[dispatchedarchived]

perfectdeaths​:

“i have a look on my face, do i? —god, you weren’t kidding about the food. are these MREs?” elektra pulls out one of the plastic packages from the cupboard once she’s abandoned the barren fridge, staring at it with disdain. southwest style beef and black beans—she’s lived off worse, certainly, but eating shelf-stable crap that could survive a nuclear bomb is something she’s never felt nostalgic for in the slightest. “well, apparently i’m taking you grocery shopping tomorrow. i’ll domesticate you yet, francis, just you wait.”

she sighs and puts the MRE back into the cupboard with half a dozen more like it, hopping up to sit on the counter opposite frank.

“let’s see here. i’m following a trail left by my dead adoptive father to try and hunt down the man who actually raised me—who, for the record, also wants me dead—and you’re wondering if i have something on my mind? really.” she crosses one leg across her lap, watches frank fumble with the coffee maker. “—but honestly? i want to know why you’re still helping me. you’re being incredibly trusting for someone who doesn’t have a stake in this beyond putting down the bad guys.”

“—not that i’ve know most men to have particularly complex motivations for doing what i tell them, but if you were in this for sex, you’d have shown your hand by now.”

“yes.”

that’s the answer to both questions - yes, elektra, you do have a look on your face and yes, he does actually eat those, believe it or not. in fact, he’d gone out of his way to choose his favorite ones and that’d been an indulgence in itself to make such a choice when he was stuck with whatever he got in the marines.

but that’s neither here nor there. 

“as long as you ain’t taking me to a goddamn whole foods, it’s fair game.” bad joke, he knows that, and it does very much fall flat. once the coffee machine’s hard at work loudly brewing a pot that will likely taste like battery acid, frank gets busy with his comically small pair of tweezers. the glass slivers are a bitch to get out, but he has the decency to do it over the sink and that means he has something to do with his hands besides fumble with them. he’s never liked being still.

that also means his back is to elektra once she starts talking, but as always, quiet as he is he is very much listening. 

“you think i’ve got some kind of ulterior motive,” is not a question, and it’s not exactly accusatory. it does make sense. the connection between sexual favors in exchange for help hadn’t exactly hit him until this very moment, though, and he feels dumb for not considering that’s what she might think of him. his ears heat up at the insinuation, too, which thankfully she can’t goddamn see. 

turning back toward her, he reaches for the kit beside her to start properly cleaning his hands, which means looking at her and getting in her space, if just for a moment. 

“you’re beautiful and all, but no, i don’t want to fuck you - i’m not doing this to fuck you, or whatever - no offense,” is almost funny, but the implication makes his mouth twist humorlessly. “i respect you, as an equal and all. we want the same thing. that’s rare for me and i don’t mean that shit lightly. is that hard for you to believe?” 

the question isn’t sardonic because he is genuinely curious, though he has a feeling he might dread the answer he gets.

[dispatchedarchived]

profanemouth​:

@dispatched​ said: ❝ you gave me a goddamn heart attack. ❞

UNCHARTED 

❛    BOO!    ❜    jessica’s  snide,  deadpan  delivery  covers  up  the  wince  of  an  arm  strapped  across  her  throbbing  ribcage.  effort  hedges  the  way  her  spine  unfurls.  her  teeth  bare  in  a  grimacing  wince  that  somehow  still  manages  to  holster  enough  irritation  to  spike  daggers  from  her  gaze.    her  lungs  are  empty,  still  struggling  to  haul  in  a  breath  around  the  shock  of  slamming  impact  against  her  flank.  

it  takes  a  lot  to  knock  her  down,  a  lot  MORE  to  convince  her  to  partner  up  with  someone  else.    but  if  the  past  two  years  have  taught  her  anything,  it’s  that  hell’s  kitchen    &    new  york  is  swimming  with  wannabe  heroes    —  vigilantes    —    &    everything  in  between.    

she’s  just  trying  to  make  a  goddamn  living.  

❛    good  to  see  you,  too,    ❜    she  bites  out  like  an  accusation.    the  cut  of  his  jaw  is  familiar  in  the  silver-spill  of  moonlight    &    polluted  city  light  –  she  recognizes  the  square  taper  of  a  haircut,  plus  or  minus  an  ugly  set  of  mottled  bruises.  around  them  the  chattering  buzz  of  a  city’s  busy  underbelly  still  lights.    the  asshole  perp  she’s  after  is  still  somewhere  just  ahead  of  them.    jessica  staggers  a  step  forward,  working  the  jarring  slam  of  the  hit  out  of  her  stride.    ❛    —-    don’t  bet  you’re  out  here  just  to  shoot  the  shit.    ❜    

her  harrowed  glare  hitches  a  quarter-inch  closer  to  narrow.    ❛    are  we  after  the  same  guy?  or  is  this  just    happy    coincidence?      ❜

of course, frank knows who she is; in the time kilgrave took an entire hospital hostage he’d had nothing to do besides listen to and watch the news, helpless with a fresh hole in his head. it’s different, seeing her in-person. it’d been a knee-jerk reaction, all muscle memory, to attack as soon as she jumped up there beside him. 

frank castle doesn’t possess an ounce of goddamn hero’s worship, but he does have respect, at least. god help him. 

“ - you don’t strike me as the type to believe in coincidences. ‘cause i know i don’t. but, i doubt we’ve got the same objective in mind.” something threatens the corners of his mouth as he gives her a once over.

a little more hesitant, because jones is a super -  he’d thought she’d be decidedly less fallible and he’s also emphatically not the type who helps people like she is, but he can’t quite help it, considering he’s responsible for it. he tucks his gun away. “ - you alright? if it makes you feel better, i only hit you hard enough to wind you.”

[mythicaldarkofcastle-deactivate]

“Back in Vietnam,I would dream of this house. Of being here with my family. Of being home.

But now that I’m here, each night I find myself dreaming that I Was back over there.”

PunisherMax #13

by Jason Aaron, Steve Dillon, Matt Hollingsworth, Cory Petit