Idk there's something really sweet to me about fix-it writers. Like, me and you- maybe we couldnt make it this time, but in another universe, a million people saw the pain of our story and are writing us a happy ending, giving us the chance we never had
(Text edit from Pinterest, please claim if you made it—it’s a fave of mine!)
I really disagree with the idea that Karen and Frank could have no future together. That they would have to run away, live in hiding, or that Karen would have to give up her career.
All the components for Frank to have an After are well established in the show. He has a government certified false identity with clean fingerprints. (Even the murders he committed at the bar and at the jail in s2, the sheriff and Madani both agree to keep off his record.) He has some unseemly amount of money from David Lieberman. He has a standing job offer open at the CIA with Madani. Or he could go back to working construction or something else with his hands. He could do security, like Billy, or work with veterans, like Curtis. He could have a life with Karen—-all IF he chooses to end his war. He just needs to grow out his beard and he’s Pete Castiglione in public and Frank Castle in private. The only people I think he’d need to convince not to turn him in are Brett Mahoney and Ellison, and after saving Brett and having saved Karen multiple times, I think both would eventually be open to seeing the good in him.
This would all hinge on Frank retiring from being the Punisher, or perhaps only doing vigilante shit when absolutely necessary (no one’s expecting Matt to retire, right?). But I will always believe Frank deserves peace.
So I will just headcanon all the soft, domestic fluff with Karen and their pit bull rescue dog(s), while she either continues to work at NM&P or (my preference) works as a successful investigative reporter, because writing is so important to me as part of Karen’s character. Frank can tag along as back up when she’s poking around where she shouldn’t or meeting sources who are a bit too sketchy. They don’t have to stop being themselves to be together.
Karen wants there to be an After for Frank. And if he ever chooses one—you know it would be with her. :)
Frank looking at Karen like she is the most precious thing in his world right now, and it terrifies him how close he came to losing her just a short while ago. Karen's looking at him with that overwhelming sadness she talked about. She sees that loneliness, and it breaks her heart. She wants to reach out and let him know he isn't alone, but she doesn't know how to say it, so she pulls him in and rests her forehead against his. Her way of letting him know he isn't alone and that she cares for him. Frank allows himself to feel comfort, however shortly.
Frank looking at Karen like she is the most precious thing in his world right now, and it terrifies him how close he came to losing her just a short while ago. Karen's looking at him with that overwhelming sadness she talked about. She sees that loneliness, and it breaks her heart. She wants to reach out and let him know he isn't alone, but she doesn't know how to say it, so she pulls him in and rests her forehead against his. Her way of letting him know he isn't alone and that she cares for him. Frank allows himself to feel comfort, however shortly.
You work at a flower shop in late 70s London and Hobie's being a menace. Slowburn? Probably will be around 10 parts. Strangers to reluctant acquaintances to friends to something more. Maybe a lil' messy?
Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight.
Hobie didn’t leave that night. He didn’t try to, and you didn’t ask him to. He didn’t leave the night after that either, and you had naturally started to buy groceries for two.
You liked him by your side better than anywhere else. You knew he was safe. His injuries from last time weren’t that bad, and besides a few nasty bruises and broken lip, he was fine. Still, you knew it could’ve been worse. You had taken the time to see even the faintest scars on his skin, each of them with a story you could only imagine would make your insides churn.
His belongings started to crowd your flat. It started with jewelry and random accessories he’d leave on your bedside table or on the bathroom sink. You’d find rings and other spikey, leathery things scattered across the floor. Then, it was the clothes. The jacket, the sweaters and ripped shirts. You didn’t mind the extra mess. His presence lingered like the sweet aftertaste of a whiskey with a touch of honey—warm and addictive.
When his guitar finally made it into your flat, that’s when you knew he was coming back. If not for you, then at least for that.
You started to notice every quirks he had, every stupid little habit, the way he never wore matching socks—he couldn’t care to keep them in pairs—how he still tensed at distant sirens, and how he looked out the window wistfully when he thought you weren’t watching. You also noticed the way he seemed so much calmer there. You thought it was the lavender potpourri Rose taught you how to make. She did tell you lavender had relaxing properties.
You tried to leave your bed to him while he was recovering, but he was never going to let you sleep on the ground. It was too cold, he said your chattering teeth would’ve kept him from sleeping. You didn’t argue for too long, even if his injuries weren’t serious and he was strong, you liked the idea of being able to check on his breathing anytime of the night. He noticed every time, but he pretended to sleep through it.
It felt natural, like he had always been there. The only reminder that he hadn’t was that you tripped over his boots in the small entryway, your muscle memory not yet accustomed to the new obstacles on hte ground.
Warm rays of winter sunlight peeked through your curtains, slowly pulling you out of your dreams. You sat up and looked down to your side, where he rested, sleeping peacefully. Hobie was not a morning person, and you knew not to bother him or wake him up.
You took the time to watch him again, enjoying the newfound ability to just stare at his face uninterrupted. His bruises had almost fully disappeared, completely healed up, and you were happy to see he didn’t bring any new ones home in a while.
He was so dreamy, sleeping like that, his face fully relaxed, his jaw hanging slightly open. You wanted to just grab his cheeks and… you weren’t sure. Maybe make a dozen prints of that pretty face.
Carefully, you made your way out of the sheets, getting something good ready for breakfast. As you were turning on the gas, wanting something warm, you heard groggy groaning coming from the bed. A smile graced your lips as you saw his tired form standing up tall. He dragged his body to you like it was heavy, before putting his hand on the counter beside you, resting his weight a bit too close for comfort, his warmth engulfing you. “Why’d you always have to get out of bed so early?” He complained, almost whining like a child, except the child had a morning voice so deep you questioned how your ears could even pick up that frequency.
“It’s almost 10.” You retorted.
“That’s wot I'm sayin’. So damn early.”
You just laughed softly. He was a bit too at ease, almost leaning on your back. You gulped, you could feel the faint blow of his breath against the shell of your ears.
You had gotten used to having him around, but not this close. Still, you tried to persuade yourself this was just a normal, friendly interaction, that the warm fuzzy feeling in your veins was due to the smell of the apple melting with the oats. His fingers found your arms and it almost made you flinch as you tried to stir the pot.
“Porridge, really?” He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or groan.
“What’s wrong with porridge?” You were ready to scold him.
“Nothin’, t’s just tasteless, mushy an’ gross.”
“You’re tasteless,” you retorted, earning a low chuckle. He leaned a bit more against you, almost putting all of his weight onto your back.
Maybe it was his tiredness, or maybe he just couldn’t resist the comfort of leaning into you.
You were scared he’d fall asleep right there. You turned down the gas, letting the oatmeal simmer, before turning around to face him.
He was even closer than you imagined, and you felt your breath hitch in your throat. Suddenly, his hand settled on your hip. You froze, every nerve lighting up at once. Before you could process it, he gently moved you aside.
“Careful,” he murmured, his tone soft but firm. “Y’were gonna burn yourself.”
A breath you didn’t realize you were holding escaped as you watched him. Even half-asleep, even with his guard down, he was careful with you—always.
He stayed close, though, not quite stepping away. The air between you felt heavier than the steam rising from the pot, and it wasn’t just the heat from the stove making your cheeks burn. You tried to steady your voice, turning back to the stove, muttering something about needing to watch the oats.
“Shit, I almost succeeded in ruinin’ the oats and force you to eat something actually flavorful,” he joked, relieving some of the tension there.
You started to stir the pot again, your hands feeling clammy and shaky, trying to focus on anything but the lingering tickle of his hand on you. Hobie moved to the window, cracking it open to let the cool winter air seep in. The fresh breeze made the room feel lighter, although it did little to alleviate the heat in your cheeks.
When the oats were ready, you poured the mixture into two bowls, sliding one to him.
He shook his head dramatically. “Can’t believe you’re makin’ us eat that.”
“You haven’t even tasted it yet. It tastes like apple pie!” You defended.
“Pre-chewed apple pie,” he corrected with a lopsided smirk.
You rolled your eyes. “If you hate it so much, I’ll just eat yours too.”
“Oi, now. I didn’t say that.” He gladly accepted the warm bowl, muttering something about “sacrifices for survival.”
Without a second thought, you both settled back on the bed, bowls in hand. Eating on a table was a social construct anyway. Your knees collided, and the silence was filled with the quiet clicking of spoons. He reluctantly admitted to liking it, but just a little bit, and only because you made it.
After some time, both bowls rested on the bedside table, while you two were lounging, basking in between warm quilts and sheets, a few feet apart from each other. You let out a content sigh, happy to sit there with good company and no responsibility whatsoever.
Hobie stretched his arms and cracked his back. “M’bored.” His eyes scanned across the room, before landing on his dusty guitar. He reached over you for his instrument, and you took the time to look at its worn state, covered in stickers and random stuff, engraving and dirt.
“Does that thing even play?” You jokingly asked, and he was the one glaring at you for once. You felt a cold shiver run down your spine. You were pretty sure he knew you were -mostly- joking, but you made a note to yourself to never piss him off.
He started to play something, fingers idly drumming notes without much cohesion, just looking for a melody to click. You watched him.
You never saw him play before, so it did grab all of your attention. He really looked in his element there. You knew he was in a band or something along those lines, but he didn’t elaborate.
You felt like he was trying to figure something out. You watched as his fingers moved instinctively over the strings, the random notes forming something cohesive—until, like a spark catching flame, it clicked. The music shifted, richer and fuller, wrapping around you like a second skin.
It felt like a rush of creative energy, striking like lightning. You thought the few notes he played before sounded good already, but when he reached what he wanted, it was a whole other level. Chords followed each other seamlessly and you found your mouth hanging open catching flies. He was focused fully — locked in even. His eyebrows tugged together, drawing a tense line on his forehead.
It made shivers run down your spine and your arms covered in goosebumps. For once, you struggled to focus on just him, not when the music filled every corner of the room down to the crevices in your thoracic cage. Every fiber of your being vibrated with the strings under his fingers, and hell he was just jamming on your bed.
Now, you wanted to attend a gig. You thought about it before out of curiosity, but now it was a need. You wanted to see him up on a stage, you wanted to see him in his element, observing him in his natural habitat.
Part of you was a bit scared though, you wondered how poorly you’d fit in there, sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of punks and other cool people you didn’t have much in common with. The idea of not fitting in his circle, of him suddenly realising that maybe you two didn’t have that much in common either, made you uneasy.
His music kept your thoughts from spiraling, and you focused back on his playing. There was some instant you swore actual light came off his guitar.
It was only when he put down his guitar that he noticed you staring at him like that. Sure, he was aware you were watching, he had no issue playing in front of people, and he picked up his guitar with the knowledge you’d be the audience.
But not like that, with eyes wide and shining like a kid. He wasn’t ready for that sight, his mouth dry, almost empty of a teasing comment.
It wasn’t fully enough to render him witless, and he gave you the usual smirk he did before saying something stupid, only it was slightly delayed this time.
“Bloody hell, did I break ya?” He waved his hand in front of your awestruck face, and you had to swallow down the admiration of your expression. You felt like a kid caught staring at their idol.
“I—You did not break me.” You tried to defend weakly, your words coming out hesitant and messy.
“Uh huh. Sure did not. I know I’m that cool, but still—”
“You’re… Alright, I guess.” You deflected with puffed cheeks.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s all?”
You bit down your lips, and almost shyly reached to fidget with the folds of your clothes. With a defeated sigh, the truth bubbled up despite yourself.“Okay, that was... incredible. I mean, I knew you had to be good, but that—” You gestured vaguely, as if words couldn’t fully capture it. “That was something else.” You admitted, your eyes going back up to meet his. He looked like he was hanging to your every word, every ounce of validation you gave him, his guard slipping for just a moment, before his cocky grin snapped back into place like a shield.
“You should come to a gig sometime.” He offered, and a smile crept to your lips.
“Really?” You looked out the window. “M’not sure. Never really went to anything like that.”
“Well there’s a first for everythin’!” He chirped and you giggled at his enthusiasm. No matter what insecurities still stuck to your skin, you couldn’t say no to the genuine excitement in his eyes. “My mates n’ me are playin’ next week.”
Your eyes widened. “Shoudn’t you be… training with them or something?”
“Wot fo’? Ya just saw how talented I am.” He joked and you scoffed in disbelief. “C'mon, I know ya wanna see it live.” He teased, nudging your shoulder playfully.
You bit down a shy smile, unsure about it. Sure, you did, but it made you anxious too. “Mh… is there going to be lots of people?”
“Plenty. T's club down Upper Street, maybe a ten minutes walk from yer little flower shop. Looks a bit posh but don’t let it fool ya.”
You nodded, trying to remember even if you weren’t sure yet. “Mh. We’ll see…”
“Nah, don’t pull any we’ll see on me. You’re coming, period. Wanna see you there.” His enthusiasm was contagious, and you let out a defeated smile.
“Fine, alright. I’ll be there.” you agreed, your voice quiet but resolute. For a second, Hobie just stared at you, and then his grin grew wide and mischievous, his eyes lighting up like you’d just handed him the winning lottery ticket.
There is a separate doc called chapter cemetery because of how many time I had to rewrite those
katara is one of those impossibly cool people who “has a guy” for everything. like run into any sort of problem and she’s just like “hang on i gotchu. just contact this number and they’ll know what to do.” but half the time that guy is just sokka
There’s a lot of evidence to say the reverse is true, that Meryl harbors romantic feelings towards Vash, but I see a lot of debate regarding Vash’s feelings towards Meryl. I’ve combed through the series in both subbed and dubbed versions to support my theory that, yes, he has romantic feelings towards our dear insurance agent by series’ end. Now, I’m not saying he’s going to drop to one knee and propose, or anything, but there are signs that it’s there.
I’m not delving into the manga, here, just the anime, so bear with me. Also, this is going to spoil everything and be really extensive (anyone who’s read one of my Sherlolly reviews knows this to be true). So, you’ve been warned.
There’s a lot of evidence to say the reverse is true, that Meryl harbors romantic feelings towards Vash, but I see a lot of debate regarding Vash’s feelings towards Meryl. I’ve combed through the series in both subbed and dubbed versions to support my theory that, yes, he has romantic feelings towards our dear insurance agent by series’ end. Now, I’m not saying he’s going to drop to one knee and propose, or anything, but there are signs that it’s there.
I’m not delving into the manga, here, just the anime, so bear with me. Also, this is going to spoil everything and be really extensive (anyone who’s read one of my Sherlolly reviews knows this to be true). So, you’ve been warned.
The compassion that Tokyo Revengers has for its characters makes me feel insane. It understands that these kids turn to delinquency because they have been failed by the people in their life and society at large. Recently, I saw someone asking the question why Takemichi can’t call the cops (outside of it not being in character) on Mikey at this point, and I can’t help but ask: why would he? Beyond the cultural sentiment between gangs that they handle they’re own problems, the cops have never been helpful. The instance we see characters go to jail are many, and it never actually helps any of the characters become less violent or turn from criminal life apart from Kazutora, who changed because of Baji’s words and Mikey’s forgiveness.
For example, the Haitani brothers and most of the rest of the s62 generation have been through the carceral system multiple times, and if possible, it made them worse. Many of the gangs that Toman faces were in were formed in prison. It’s only shown as a place where the kids fight to establish pecking orders. This is central to a lot of conflict in TR, it surrounds the ways that trauma, left neglected leads to dissatisfaction and violence. Anything to feel control.
Mikey wouldn’t suddenly lose his dark impulses in jail, and the criminal underworld’s obsession with him wouldn’t go away. He’d probably end up in an equally violent system that would further his impulses. TR feels to me like a love letter to disaffected youth who don’t know where to go once they grow up and the consequences get harsher. Not everyone has the tools to escape the cycles of violence and delinquency they found comfort in their youth. Mikey couldn’t by himself, that’s why he cut everyone off in the Bonten Arc. It’s why the manga didn’t end on that arc. It’s not a happy ending for Takemichi and his friends if Mikey doesn’t also escape the cycle of violence that keeps following him.
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