oozey mess
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
sheepfilms
shark vs the universe
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Sweet Seals For You, Always
Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
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macklin celebrini has autism
Sade Olutola
gracie abrams
pixel skylines
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Origami Around
RMH
Game of Thrones Daily
The Stonewall Inn
tannertan36
Cosmic Funnies
One Nice Bug Per Day
seen from Italy
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Ukraine
seen from Brazil
seen from Germany
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
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seen from South Korea
@honeybeechestnut
ㅤ 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𝒊 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆…
𝒉𝒊, 𝒉𝒊, 𝒉𝒊. 𝒊'𝒎 𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒏𝒖𝒕!
cinephile﹒unreliable narrator﹒busy bee﹒honey-glazed chestnut﹒java junkie﹒dms & asks open﹒i'm always happy to make new mutuals <3
ᝰ.ᐟ Supernatural﹒Daredevil (Bullseye)﹒The Punisher﹒The Walking Dead﹒Gilmore Girls
! 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ! 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔
ㅤ …𝒊 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 ⸝⸝⸝
to all of my lovely Frankie writers, i will put you in the hat if you keep writing angsty stuff for him 🤨 this hat right here. i’m very serious.
shane walsh who absolutely fuckin' hates it when your out of his sight for too long. like this man starts fuckin' twitching if your gone for more than five minutes.
this is the end of the world dammit, so why is your ass always somewhere he ain't when he needs ya hm?
this man just straight up stalking through the camp, gruntin' and kickin' people out the way because he can't fuckin' find you.
what if you get bit huh? Camp gets overrun because everyone's too damn busy playing house, feedin' chickens and ridin' horses to notice that they ain't fuckin' safe here no more?
he finally finds you, washing up your clothes in the creek, humming some tune and lookin' like a damn dream.
alone? The fuck you doin' alone? Nah. He don't like that. He don't like that one bit.
this absolute fucker will launch you over his shoulder, kicking and screaming while he stalks back to your shared tent, muttering to himself the whole way like a maniac.
"fuckin' dumbass girl huh, fuck you playin' at? Scrubbin' shit in the damn creek alone? Ya ain't no washer woman. Yer my fuckin' woman. Give that shit ta Carol from now on ya hear me? Ain't lettin' you outta my sight again baby. Quit yer whinin' babygirl. Lemme look after ya hm?"
(hes serving cunt in this pic it had to be included)
WHAT A HYPOCRITE "Ya ain't no washer woman" and immediately followed with "Give that shit ta Carol from now on" LMAO IM CRYING
hi!!! ur writing is INSANE!!! love it so much and i seriously wait until you post something😭🩷 i was wondering if you could take a look at the fic i wrote on my profile:)) Any advice is appreciated queen🩷🩷🩷
thank you so much, sweets. assassin!reader is soooo in right now!!! congrats on your first series and i can't wait to read moree 🩷
as for the advice, i don't think i'm qualified enough. sorry, babe.
but fear not, my girl @hellilovedit has a post about writing tips and resources. you should check it out!
HERE
do you think frank is an ass or a boob guy
I love this question and my answer is gonna be so fucking corny but it’s true.
Frank’s falling for you first.
Not your ass or tits. Hear me out. Just wait.
If he decides to open himself up and love again, it’s going to be because of you and for you and your good goddamn heart versus your looks.
Looks (ass, tits, appearance, whatever) it’s all fleeting. We’re only young or perky or wrinkle-free for so long and Frank plays for keeps.
He’s at a point in his life—age and maturity if you will—where he understands love is more than looks. Being with someone is companionship and trust and love and selfless. The looks will fade away as you both do. You’re gonna get old and wrinkly and saggy but you’re gonna have each other and so much fucking love it carries you on when your bodies are too old and frail for sex. You’re it for Frank. Endgame.
SO. To answer your question. Frank is whatever you got, he’s down so fucking bad for.
You got a big ass? Awesome. It’s gonna be groped and praised nonstop. Touched when he walks by, patted right before he pulls back from a hug, and absolutely spanked in the bedroom if you’re into that.
You got nice tits? You’ll never stop hearing about it. He’ll see your boobs for the one millionth time and act like it’s the first and he’s star struck. His hand’s casually (or not so casually) gonna be up your shirt while you cuddle and watch movies.
You got neither or lots of both? He doesn’t care. He loves it ALL. Frank’s a simple man. He appreciates what you got. Big, small, flat, double dough, not even a handful… you’re gonna be worshipped. The kind of pious servitude and reverence that belongs to divinity. Frank’s gonna love all of you.
He appreciates both the same way a death row prisoner appreciates their last meal. Extreme? Yes. So is Frank and opening himself up to be with someone again.
"You’re it for Frank. Endgame." is the only affirmation that i need <3
and when you're feeling insecure about yourself, best believe he'll do everything in his power to show you how wrongggg you are. you're his baby. every part of your body is beautiful, just as your soul.
how is he gonna do it? oh, empty words are just noise. plus, since when is Frank good with words, anyway?
Ugh you guys laying on the front of a yacht in my little bikini and all I can think of is having secret boat sex with frankie 😫
And how he’d pull my little bikini to the side while I ride him
Ughhhh sailor frankieeeee gimme
anyways more on the later
such a cute gif for a cruel woman. she's been teasing us with these fantasies for days!!!
FUUUUCK MEEE
never do — Frank Castle
Summary: you’re competing with a ghost, haunted by all the memories Frank had with her…NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: grief, mentions of loss, just completely heartache and angst (I’m sorry, idk why I do this)
WC: 2.5k
a/n: I feel so disappointed in chapter 5 of the ghosts we keep so here’s this that hopefully makes up for my writing in that chapter! Also, Daisy Jones & the Six reference hehe...the divider is swans because swans only mate once and it's for life...you'll get it..
if you only want what’s best for me,
how come I’m always feeling blue?
i made my wish a hundred times
it keeps almost coming true
i stretch myself a million miles across the desert to the moon
if you’d do anything for me,
how come you never do?
The movie you’d put on had finished hours ago and was now replaced by a black screen. Your phone had been thrown across the room after the tenth message left on delivered.
The array of your and Frank’s favorite snacks was growing staler by the minute. You couldn’t bring yourself to turn off the tv. Or clean up. Or drag your body to bed.
If you were honest, you couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t even feel.
You remember the first date night he’d missed. Your phone empty of any messages of calls to provide some sort of explanation for his absence.
It was complete radio silence from his end, you’d left a series of texts that’d gone unread. When the lock on the front door click and the knob twisted, it was almost 4 am, you were fast asleep.
The floorboards groaned quietly with each step Frank took as he headed towards your shared bedroom. Moonlight filtered through the sheer lacy curtains he remembered installing for you, after you’d complained about the room not getting enough sunlight but still wanting a sense of privacy.
The light illuminated your sleeping body. And your tear streaked face. A frown seemed to take permanent residence on your face even when you weren’t awake. A sharp stabbing pain poked at his heart, jaw clenched knowing he was the cause for your unhappiness.
He’d placed a feather-soft kiss on your temple, wrapping his arms around your mid section, and pulled you in close, molding your body to fit perfectly against his.
He hated himself for thinking it, the thought surrounded by an ugly cloud of darkness and ruin for things good, but he couldn’t help but think to the woman he’d made vows to and how she used to fit lying next to him.
You were woken up with a large bouquet of flowers wrapped in butcher paper, peonies being the main one judging by the large array spread across the assortment. A beaming smile replaced the sad expression on your face as you looked up at him, he’d kissed your forehead and whispered a thousand apologies, all of which you’d taken as you forgave him.
You’d smiled then, so genuine and heartfelt at the action. No, peonies weren’t your favorite but you believed it was the thought that counted.
A couple weeks later, you’d found Frank staring at a picture of his family you had hung in the main area of your apartment. Neither of you spoke for a while, him needing to sit in his grief and you wanting to sit with him in it. When he finally spoke, it was about his wife.
Frank was a man who rarely opened up, spoke anything vulnerable. So, when he finally did, you embraced and accepted it—accepted him—in a heartbeat. No judgement passed from you as he spoke of his marriage and his wife.
“Her favorite flowers were peonies.” He said as a look of remembrance glazed over his eyes. A lump had suddenly formed in your throat, you swallowed hard in an attempt to get rid of it. You’d mentioned your favorite flowers to him before. And sure, there were a few occasions when he’d gotten them for you.
But most flowers he’d gifted were peonies. You thought nothing of it, simply touched by the gesture. However, the sudden realization that he was trying to make up for lost time with the woman he lost greyed the moments once so colorful and full of life.
Still, you smiled at him, though it never reached your eyes. “Beautiful flowers fitting for a beautiful woman.”
“Yeah. She is.” The guilt you felt for even comparing the two of you in the first place was no match for the surge of jealous that threatened to consume your entire being.
You were thrown into another instance of Frank’s no-shows.
It was your one-year anniversary. He’d planned the entire date from the restaurant down to the heels that adorned your feet. You were supposed to arrive together but at the last moment, Frank had rushed out the door, planting a brief peck on your lips before yelling over his shoulder that he had to go but he’d meet you there. He didn’t.
Five minutes had gone by. You sat at your reserved table, a booth in a tiny corner of the restaurant, the way Frank liked it. Thirty minutes, the kind waitress had circled back around and asked if you’d like to start with a glass of wine. You ordered a whole bottle, expecting Frank to also indulge in some. An hour passed, the chicken cacciatore sat untouched along with the vodka pasta that had gone cold. The wine, however, was about half-way through before you decided to take the check.
Antonio, the owner, had known Frank long before he brought you here. You never thought anything of it from his look of surprise the first time Frank had taken you there as a first date. But now something had settled and refused to leave and it was being to rot inside of you. Antonio had packaged the food you’d ordered, making a bow out of the handles so the food wouldn’t fall out and told you the meal was on the house and called you a taxi home.
He had been sneaking worried glances at you all night when you were repeated checking your phone every minute and when your head would shoot to the door when the bell hanging above it would chime. Maybe it was then when he decided to take pity on you.
Or maybe it was when he finally locked eyes with you and saw everything you felt like it was written on your face.
But if you weren’t as good at masking your emotions to the point where the kind, old man was able to take notice, then had Frank?
The thought made your head spin. Perhaps it was a mixture of that and the numerous glasses of wine but you were fighting nausea the entire ride home.
—
You didn’t have to check your phone to know that it was late into the night when the front door opened. Frank slowly closed the door, careful to not make any sound, assuming you were asleep. You weren’t.
The thud of his boots slowed to a stop a few feet from you as he took in your curled form on the couch, eyes wide opened. “Shit, sweetheart,” he cursed, his voice gruff and deep, the sound of it used to cause shivers to form on your skin. Now, though, you wanted nothing more than for him to stop talking. To avoid the argument you knew was inevitable. Because despite every missed date, missed dinner, missed hangout with your friends where you always had to make some excuse for his absence to the point where they stopped asking, you loved him. You loved when he was there, and not the ghost of him. “It’s late, why ain’t you asleep yet?”
You loved the bump on his nose, traced every scar littered across his body with kisses. You sat on his lap and patiently wiped the blood he often came home with, pressing your lips onto patched wounds that you’d cleaned up. You stayed up with him each night the nightmares threatened to come alive.
You had anchored him in the present when the past threatened to pull him deeper. It was a shame that when you needed him in times like this, he left you to hopefully wash up on shore one day.
Your voice sounded unrecognizable even to you. Your eyes stayed locked onto the tv screen, refusing to meet his. “You missed date night.” In hindsight, it was something miniscule. Every partner has had to cancel a date with their lover before. Frank had. But he had missed too many.
A sigh left his lips as guilt crept into his bloodstream. “I’m sorry, baby. I-it slipped my mind.” He didn’t search for an excuse. Knew he’d given you too many. Your laugh cut through the air, only intensifying the already tense atmosphere. You knew how this conversation went. Had it time and time again. But this time, you had nothing left to say. It was evident in the way you suddenly rose from your lying position on the couch, and headed to the kitchen. You didn’t need to look back to know he followed you. He said your name. No response came from you. Frank said it again.
You remembered a time when your name left his lips in such a delicate manner, like he wasn’t sure if he even deserved to say it. Now, though, it sounded wrong. Had too much desperation attached to it. “Sweetheart, say somethin’. Anythin’.” The sound of water being poured into the glass cup in your hand was the only sound that followed his plead. The glass clinked as you gently set it on the table, your eyes glued onto the water even after it settled. “What do you want me to say, Frank? I’’ll say it.”
“No, none of that bullshit, say what you mean-“
“I have nothing left to say to you.” You refuted. Frank’s eyes flickered across your face, searching for any emotion, something he could work with. His eyes moved to scan the room as if he’d find the solution to this, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You do, I’ve been horrible. Ain’t treatin’ you the way you deserve.” His words had blown the dying flame in your heart back alive. Your head snapped towards him, finally meeting his eyes. He looked at you with such desperation. You wondered if that was the expression on your face every time you forgave him just to keep him.
Your eyes stung with tears you tried hard to keep back. “I can’t love you fully when you constantly have one foot out the door. This-whatever this is, is not enough.” You couldn’t stop, the word vomit was one that had been stuffed down until this moment. It completely erupted. “I haven’t asked for much, have I, Frank?”
“No, sweetheart-“
“You miss a date. A chance to meet my friends. An event I told you was important. You don’t show. You come home with flowers in your hand and a kicked puppy look on your face and I take you back with open arms. I don’t ask why. Why you don’t bother showing him. Why you don’t explain what happens every time you slip away at night or the injuries you always come back with.” You scoffed as tears finally dripped down your cheeks in never ending streams. “I don’t ask because when you’re here, it feels real. Like the bubble never popped and reality never crept in.”
You laughed again, harshly wiping the tears from your cheeks. “God, I mean, I’m so fucking pathetic, only now realizing how big of a fool I am for not knowing you don’t care-“
He snapped, unable to hold back his words. “I do care. I love you.”
“Then why won’t you open yourself to me fully? Did you-“ You stopped yourself but your self-restraint had already been cut loose. “Did you with Maria?”. You watched as his mouth closed, jaw clenching almost painfully. His hands slightly balled at his side in an attempt to control himself. “Don’t do that.” But that words had already been said.
“Did you?” Your voice tight, as if bracing for physical impact. Frank tone seemingly matched your own, but you knew it was tight from restrained anger. Frustration.
“Don’t use my family against me.”
Arms now crossed against your chest, continuing to build the barrier between you two. “I’m not. But I need to know Frank.” If you didn’t ask now, you’d never have the courage to again. “Am I just someone to keep the bed warm so you can image it’s her lying next to you?”
“Stop.” But you couldn’t. He took a step forward, you took three back. He was standing right in front of you and yet he’d never been farther. Somewhere you couldn’t reach, though you tried. You tried.
Now you were the desperate one. “Just tell me! What, you think I can’t handle the truth?”
“You don’t wanna know the truth.”
Your arms flew up into the air in disbelief. “That’s not for you to decide. You opened up to her, you told me that yourself. You let her in, to see the parts you think are unlovable. Why can’t you do that with me?”
His own fuse had finally blown “She saw me, alright? Is that what you wanna hear?”
A beat passed between you as the argument began to boil. Your voice was contrastingly quiet to the violent fight. “You think I don’t see you?” Frank didn’t respond. “I have loved you for years. You think I haven’t seen every part of you?”
His response was immediate. “I don’t let you.”
You looked away, placing a hand on your hip while the other went to your forehead, a stance full of astonishment and disbelief wrapped in frustration bubbling just behind your teeth. “I have done everything I could. I made an excuse for you to my friends every time.” One minute, you were standing in front of him, the next, you were suddenly close up to brace both palms on his chest, shoving him. “I made an excuse for you to my parents when you didn’t show up to the dinner you wanted.” Another push. He barely moved an inch from his position. “I made an excuse for you to myself for every missed thing or when you ran unexplainably late. I accepted every fucking bouquet of flowers that weren’t even my favorite. Every dish you ordered for me, saying you knew I’d like it but they weren’t flavors I’d ever mentioned.” A sob tore from your lips, your entire body rearing back when you felt his hand slightly brush your face. “Every time you cried or woke up screaming Maria’s name or your daughter’s or your son’s. I was there. There has always been space for her. For your kids, here.
“But is there space for me? With you?” The question rested heavy between the two of you.
“What’re y’talking about? I’d do anything for you.”
“Except allow yourself to love me without the guilt of moving on. Of allowing yourself to love again.” His silence all but confirmed your statement. You smiled, anyway, a tight-lipped one that didn’t quite reach your eyes but you smiled.
“I’ve spent all this time being by your side because I love you. Even the parts you think you hide from me. I love you not despite them, but I love them because they’re you.” You walked past him, not seeing his fingers twitch when your shoulders slightly brushed. When you were just out the kitchen, you spoke over your shoulder quietly. Knowing he’d hear you. “If you’re willing to try, knock on my door tomorrow morning. If not, you can leave your key on the coffee table.” Frank remained standing in the kitchen long after he heard the click of the bedroom door closing shut.
The first thing you saw when you left your room the next day was the single key glinting tauntingly at you from the coffee table.
dividers by @/uzmacchiato
To @honeybeechestnut who I hope this one hurts a little less than the previous ones…
"What do you want me to say, i'll say it" omg no stop.
"I made an excuse for you to my parents when you didn’t show up to the dinner you wanted." stop this madness. oh Frankie, you're so cruel to my girl. what is wrong with you?
wait ignore my last ask, that chibi werewolf frankie ain't cute enough for my liking 😭😭😭
to repent, u can have this chibi wip instead:
STOPPPP HES FUCKING ADORABLE AND POCKET SIZED I LOVE HIM 😭😭😭😭😭🩷🩷🩷🩷 I need 20 of him. I need them in my purse. In my pocket. My hand. I need to squeeze until he cusses at me. His lil ears are so cunty. His hair is MY FAVORITE. I’m obsessed with Frank’s fuck ass half-buzzed haircut it makes me SCREAAAAM
YOU'RE TOO KIND TEEHEE. AND you're also in luck bec lemme present to u a more proper look at chibi werewolf frankie n werefox matt couple keychains, bec of his agility n stuff like that :P
Birthday Surprises
Frank Castle x High School Sweetheart!Reader — Glory Days
← prev chapter | series masterlist | next chapter →
Series Summary: Before war and murder and vengeance, Frank existed as… well, Frank. Young, wary of the world, but determined to make an impact. And then…? Then came you. You changed everything. Ah… to be 18 again.
Chapter Summary: Frank has a minor crash out trying to bake you a cupcake for your birthday. His mom comes to the rescue. Just when you think you’ve had the best birthday of your life thanks to Frank, it quickly turns into the worst because of him.
Warnings: angry!frank at the start (he cares a lot), mother-son angst & baking, multi-pov, birthday fluff, implied underaged drinking & drug use (not active, not reader, you’ll see), grumpy!softie!bf Frankie, i do not specifically state it or write it but hand stuff (m & f) happens off page, unresolved angsty end. pic for aesthetic only, reader’s appearance not described. Frank’s 18, reader’s 19.
w/c: ~5700
(dedicated to @veralinasol - hbd friend, much love 🥳🎁)
Louisa Castiglione Castle considers herself a strong woman.
Birthed a nine pound baby without an epidural for her one and only geriatric pregnancy. After thirty-six hours of labor, mind you.
Moved across the globe with no more than a pocketbook full of English, a new husband, and two dimes for a better life, better opportunities.
It cost her name. Castiglione. Discrimination. Language barriers. Loneliness and culture shock. Even… fear.
It left her—even at sixty-three—with full, black curls and rich olive skin showing only a shiver of age from Sicily, to remind her of the home left.
Those things, though, what it cost, Louisa gives credit to her grit, her resilience. It left her with a strict demeanor and a willingness to fight against anything that threatens the life and family she built.
Having lived in two different countries… things rarely surprise her.
…Until she finds her son in the kitchen after midnight on a Friday.
“Francis!” she blurts, hanging onto the doorframe so she doesn’t fall through it. “Francis David, what have you done?”
Globs of batter stick to the cabinetry in confectioner’s abstraction.
A pot on the stove pipes steam, smoldering a low, blackened bubble of only god knows what.
Flour coats the countertops and Frank’s sleep pants in a thick layer.
Grains of sugar look like they’ve been thrown as edible confetti.
Every bowl, pan, and whisk Louisa owns and cherishes lay scattered and smeared in chocolate.
Foil cupcake liners roll from the ledge and onto the floor, one by one in a mockery.
At the middle of it all, hands twisted in his hair, looking every bit of wild as the kitchen… her son.
Frank.
Short, stout, and quick for her age, Louisa bundles her robe tight and scurries to her son. Concern and demand shake her words. “Answer me, Francis! What are you doing!?”
She snaps off the burners and nearly has a stroke when she sees the oven’s set to 500* degrees.
“She, uh—” his voice scratchy, thin. “She likes chocolate.”
“Who!?” Louisa fires back as she dons a potholder, removing the scorched pot from heat as if it’s toxic waste.
Frank throws a cold sidelong glare. Who do you think?
“You suppose burning down my kitchen is going to get her chocolate?”
Louisa’s always been good at damage control, physical and mental.
“Tried,” Frank croaks, throwing a hand at the disaster. Flour on his pants, gooey chocolate plastered to his shirt, a silicon spatula melted in the sink. “Fucked it up.”
His mom bites a groan at the language, her face flush as she zips around to extinguish the fire hazards and salvage her bakeware.
She’s taught him to cook.
Baking’s a different beast.
It takes all of the strength life’s given Louisa Castle to not break as she watches her son stand in helpless shambles over cupcakes in her kitchen at midnight.
Frank’s having some sort of out of body experience while his mom rushes around him, cleaning his mess, muttering colorful Italian curses.
Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Towers in front of the oven, unblinking eyes clouded, shoulders slumped. All six-foot-two looking pathetic instead of intimidating.
The clock on the stove clicks another minute gone.
1:47 A.M.
It’s your birthday. And he doesn’t have a fucking thing for you like he planned.
The shit to buy? Yeah, sure. Easy.
The shit that actually means something? His mom’s scraping his failure into the trash.
Louisa slaps the facet off and—
The silence is resounding.
So fuckin’ final it echoes, grating static in Frank’s eardrums.
He can do a lot of things. Can’t fuckin’ bake one. single. cupcake for you, though. How’s he supposed to provide when he can’t even do this?
T-shirt and sweats stained, hair an unruly nest, Frank’s empty stare locks onto a cupcake foil rolling on the counter. Aggravating little arcs, catching air from the fan just right.
Louisa bundles her arms around herself, standing across the room at the sink, facing the wall of Frank’s back.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re actually doing down here, Francis?” she whispers with a frazzled edge.
“Already did.” Short, mean.
“No, you told me your girlfriend likes chocolate. That doesn’t explain why you broke my whisk and tried to boil my chocolate chips in a dozen eggs.”
He’s exhausted. He’s pissed. He’s having his first quarter life crisis because you matter.
Clipped words leave his mouth in tamed snarls. “She- she didn’t ask f’fuckin’ nothin’ cause that’s the type ‘a person she is,” he says. His hands find the chip on the underside of the counter and clamp on until the skin pricks open. “You wanna know what she asked me for?” Knuckles white, forearms cut in angry muscle. “Huh? You wanna know? This girl— this goddamn girl asked me f’the same shit we do every Saturday night. Asked f’a goddamn movie.”
Louisa looks down. Instead of inspecting the mess on the floor, it’s a spot for realization.
“Asked me f’that ’cause she’s scared t’ ask f’anythin’ else. ‘Cause she’s selfless ‘n fuckin’ scared ‘n she knows what it’s like to pay the goddamn bills.”
Louisa’s a strong woman.
And a good woman will always ache for babies in need, who’ve gotten less than her own. She blinks to bat away the sting.
Frank turns two steps to face her, his face twisted into a spine-deep contempt. Frenetic eyes land on her, then around her, his massive hands coiled into fists heavier than lead. “Sound familiar t’ you, Ma?” His head tilts, repulsion not aimed at her, but towards the parallel realities you and his mom share. “Selfless ‘n scared ‘n tryna feed a goddamn family? Imagine bein’ eightee— sorry, nineteen—still in school, doin’ that shit. You imagine that, huh?”
Louisa lowers a hand, a slight signal to calm down. It never works. “No. I can’t imagine that. But she’s a strong young woman, I do know that. And I know you’re a strong young man, Francis.”
His seething glare finds the place right between her eyes; a challenge to keep talking. It doesn’t deter her the least bit.
“You’ve got such a big heart, sweetie.” A whisper, the space between them chasmic instead of a few feet. “Sometimes I don’t think you know what to do with all of it. And it scares you, doesn’t it? Not being able to fix it for her. Francis, you’re only a boy too. Stop punishingyourself for that.”
A bad dog’s snarl wrinkles his nose, bares clenched teeth. “‘Member what you said t’ me? Hm?” Shredded heaves shallow in his chest, his nose. “What you told me when we saw that scumbag piece ‘a shit beatin’ that old lady’s head in f’her five dollars?”
The dead-on stare tells Frank she remembers and admits to it.
“Told me t’ be a man ‘bout it, huh? God gave me six feet ‘n two hundred pounds t’ fuckin’ fix shit.”
Fix shit the hard way.
“I fixed it, yeah. I did. ‘Member that too?”
Neither Frank nor Louisa can forget the bloodshed.
A pool seeping on the sidewalk.
A grateful old lady who took Frank’s bloody knuckles, squeezed them tight, and thanked him for doing what no cop would to keep her safe.
Frank trembling as Louisa walked him home. But the shaking wasn’t fear, no… he just didn’t know what to do with the leftover violence.
Hands out to implore him, Louisa speaks so softly it contradicts her usual nature. “You mustlearn the weight of the world is not yours to bear… There will always be problems and bad men in the world. You must focus on what you can control, dear.”
Control. Pft. Frank can control if the man fuckin’ breathes or not. Yeah, he’s got control over that.
“Never met ‘im ‘n I fuckin’ hate ‘im. Think if I ever do? S’gonna take everythin’ in me not t’ kill ‘im dead. World’d be better off without ‘im.”
“And who gives you the right to make that decision?”
“Ain’t it obvious he’s a piece ‘a shit? No goddamn purpose in the world. Jus’ a fuckin’ leechwastin’ oxygen.”
“There’s only one God, Frank. Leave those decisions to Him.”
His ideology’s a losing battle. He knows. So he stuffs the rest behind his teeth, swallows it down. Regurgitates something else, though, something he has to tell someone because the severity’s making him ill.
“I like her, Ma, like her a lot.” Rage subduing merely from the mention of you on his tongue, your face in his thoughts, Frank rakes a hand over his mouth. Speaks from behind it. “Hell, I— Hell, I love her. ‘N I don’t- don’t know what the hell ‘m doin’, y’know? Ain’t got a fuckin’ clue.”
He relents a fraction. Drops his back against the edge of the counter, arms in a loose fold. Solemnity on his face now, quieted by the gravity of such a thing. An elemental force he’s never experienced.
During Frank’s reprieve, it clicks for his mom. She knows what she has to do. Louisa marches through the kitchen, strategic in her operation.
She grabs the one clean bowl. The only whisk left. Measuring cups. Dumps them all on the counter beside Frank.
He blinks, brows coming together. “…The hell’re you doin’?”
Without breaking stride, movements snappy by memory, Louisa turns a knob to preheat the oven. “Helping you figure this out. Come on now.” Two snaps. “Pay attention. Start a pot of coffee. Make it extra strong. Now, Francis, now.”
A soldier in practice, Frank’s all systems go. He pushes off the counter and into action. Using his hands, movement… it eases the burden of those violent thoughts. He rinses the self-inflicted cut on his hand. Makes the coffee.
Ma points. He follows.
Louisa teaches him how to whisk without aggression. And how to properly measure flour by spooning it. And that coffee’s the trick for extra rich chocolate cake (cupcakes included).
Frank makes the batter with step-by-step instruction and narrowed eyes.
Iced it, too. A lopsided swirl his mom said “wasn’t bad”. From her? That’s praise.
By four a.m., the messes get cleaned. It smells like chocolate cake, coffee, buttercream icing, and a tinge of Frank’s sweat. Quiet early morning existence after what started as a disaster.
Frank slumps in a kitchen chair, struggling to keep his eyes open as he nurses his sixth cup of coffee.
Louisa sits opposite of him at the table, watching the sky begin to change as the day inevitably comes.
Between them?
The one cupcake.
“You’re a good boy, Francis…” she says after thirty minutes of silence, like maybe that’s what she’s been thinking the entire time. “Stubborn, but good.”
He scoffs it off. A few months ago he was a watered down version of the Antichrist. Drinks more coffee, but nothing alleviates the weight under his eyes.
“She will love it,” she affirms again, never once looking at him. “And you. You did good.”
He isn’t so sure. His fingers tighten on the ceramic until it squeaks. Too tired to fight.
The chair creaks as Louisa stands. Abandoning her mug, she pads for the door. She stops, though, at Frank. Leans in to press a light kiss in his tangle of curls that match hers. He can’t even bring himself to grumble about it.
“Get another hour of sleep, Francis. Andare, go. Up to bed. Off with you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Louisa snaps again, less demanding this time, as she shuffles from the kitchen.
Again: Ma points. He follows. Usually.
They part ways at the staircase. Frank goes up. She goes right.
“And Francis?”
Mid-stride, two steps between his legs, he pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Don’t let your big heart kill you.”
Frank thinks nothing of it as he drags himself to bed. Slides into the cool sheets, hand automatically finding your Polaroid as he settles onto his stomach, cheek smashed into the pillow.
“Happy birthday, pretty girl,” graveled from lack of sleep, over the moon in its softness. “See you soon, hm?”
Your picture in hand, his eyes fall shut before he can resist.
He sleeps an hour longer, not understanding yet his heart will be the death of him, in time.
Again and again and again.
“This’s dumb ‘n this’s bad,” Frank grumbles, shoving an envelope and a Tupperware across the cab of the truck at you while he looks anywhere but you with red ears.
“W-what?” You sputter a laugh at the abruptness, cheeks still invigorated from laughing the entire drive to the drive-in theater from the arcade.
Parked in your usual spot, the cab of the truck is… cozier than usual. Exaggeratedly so.
Blankets stacked in plush layer the bench seat, pillows stuffed in the corners to make hard plastic comfortable. And in your arms… a fat Grumpy Bear Care Bear (blue and frowning about its existence) Frank won for you at the arcade because you said it looked like him so you wanted it.
You point. He follows. Always.
“Take it.” The container and card push at you again.
The sky blooms like a bruise, navy blues bleeding to black. It hides most of his face, but the flickering reel of film onscreen catches the nervous flit of his eyes.
Arms around the bear, your eyes drift down to the container… and drag back up to his tense expression. Lock-jawed and avoidant.
This—whatever it is—has him riled up and nervous like a bad dog.
Bear sitting in your lap, you take both. The container joins Grumpy on your thighs.
Card first, you hear the memory of your mom say. It’s polite.
Soft rips as your finger inches through the envelope seal. It’s the only sound between you.
Frank sits off to the side, his elbow on the window frame, hand over his mouth as he pretends to watch the movie.
Your knees angle at him as you tug the card free. It’s minimal with no nonsense, but still pretty, tasteful. Printed cursive happy birthday on the front surrounded by watercolor candles. Something he definitely picked out himself.
Right as your fingers go to open it, Frank interrupts in a strained tone. “Don’t gotta read it now. Leave it f’later, yeah?”
Your thumb between the cover. “…But I wanna read it now.”
“Nah. Do it later.”
“I’m reading it now.”
“Jeez—” Frank huffs, waves off arguing, cuts short the grumble of Jesus Christ it was going to turn into.
You’re hungry for this. So hungry you forgot starvation is a form of acceptance you made friends with long ago.
Careful… so fucking careful… you thumb open the heavy cardstock. Your breath catches when the inside’s packed with his sharp, blocky writing:
Sweetheart,
Ain’t good with words, you know that. But you make me wanna try. Don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, just know I wanna do it right with you. Ain’t ever felt like this before. How you make me feel. Think I’m goin’ crazy sometimes. For you. Don’t even know myself anymore ‘cuz you make me a whole damn person. Make me wanna be a better person, yeah. Better man. You deserve the world. Gonna give it to you, sweetheart. I swear on it & I ain’t a liar.
Love you. Lots. Hope you love me too. Lots.
Your Frankie
You don’t recall curling your hand around your mouth to stifle a sob. Or when the words got blurry from tears in your eyes.
Preventing a breakdown or trying to change the subject, Frank reaches out. Gently pulls the trembling card from your hand. Closes it nice. Sets it on the blanket by your thigh. Taps the lid of the plastic ware twice with one finger.
“Ain’t much,” he says, voice so thin it’s almost gone. “Sorry.”
Little bursts of shaking your head diminish his downplaying. “No,” wobbly but firm, “no, it’s gonna be great, whatever it is—” stopping yourself with a sniffle, you bat your eyes clear.
Okay, open the lid. You can do this. You can do this and accept things without crying.
But you’ve been so alone you forgot how overwhelming accepting love is.
To love and be loved is to be vulnerable. There are no facades. Maybe that’s what gets you the most: the fact of Frank stripping away his gritty demeanor, willingly cracking himself open for you to see. To… accept him, as he’s accepted you. The good, the bad, the ugly. All of him, all of you… together.
Peeling the lid off, the scent of decadent chocolate pours out, fills the truck.
“…Wha…?” blinking down, a stunned laugh flings your mouth into a wide smile. “Frankie…”
You pass Grumpy Bear to Frank, using both hands to cradle the cupcake out from the container. Much like you would a baby animal; the gentlest of hands protecting something delicate, precious.
You scrunch to have it at eye-level, awe shaping your mouth in a circle, brows wiggling up under the magnitude of one singular cupcake.
“Chocolate on chocolate…” you laugh again, marveling over the spongey cake, the plop of icing. “My favorite.”
Mouth clamped shut, Frank gives one uncertain nod. “Pro’lly gonna taste like shit,” he gruffs.
You shake your head again, glowing. “If it does I won’t tell you. I won’t even notice,” you tease. It won’t. You know it won’t. “You… made this?” you ask, your eyes over the icing peaks.
He shrugs a shoulder, throws a hand up. “…Had help.”
He glances over a second long enough to see your brow raised in question.
“Ma,” he mumbles. “Can’t take all the credit. Almost burned the goddamn house down tryin’.”
“You almost burned down your house… for me? For… this?” You hold up the cupcake.
Frank shrugs again. Then nods. “Take a bite so if you gotta throw up it ain’t durin’ the good parts ‘a the movie.”
The laugh stays in your belly this time, a fragment breathed out from your nose. Peeling the foil wrapped down one side, you indulge. You take a full bite, teeth scraping cool icing first. Thick, creamy. And then the cake. Velvety and moist and mashing flawlessly together as you chew, moaning around it. You can taste when something’s made with love. It’s rich, the effort mixed in, the love adding indescribable flavor.
“Oh my god, Frank…” you hum, hand covering the crumbs on your lips from view as your eyes flicker shut. “This is the best cupcake I’ve ever had.”
“Bullshit,” he glances back and forth at you. Won’t let himself stare, certainly won’t let himself believe it. “Blowin’ smoke up m’ass.”
“Nuh-uh, mmm, nhm, no way… Here, try for yourself.” You scoot closer, placing the cupcake in front of his mouth and your other hand beneath to catch crumbles.
Frank hesitates. Eyes cross at the cupcake in front of his nose, then at you for… permission? You can’t tell, he looks almost… skeptically bewildered. Eyes wide but sharp, head jerked back against the headrest.
Encouragement he needs, you dance the cupcake in front of his mouth. “C’mon, seriously. Try it.”
One last look at your smile—goofy and small—Frank surrenders. Takes a bite, his teeth carving out bigger impressions over your tracks.
Knees touching his, you pull the cake close to your chest and study his reaction.
He chews… cautiously.
He eyes you… suspiciously.
He swallows, throat slinking.
You raise your brows, nodding along in a wordless right? right?
“…Shit, that’s good,” he tilts his head, eyes narrowed with fondness on the cupcake.
“So good.”
You share the rest with him. You trade bites, feeding Frank when it’s his turn. He lets you. You wonder if there’s anything he wouldn’t allow. You doubt it.
You dust the crumbs from the corner of his mouth with two fingers.
He licks his thumb and smudges off icing from your chin.
You scrape the wrapper clean with your bottom teeth. Frank doesn’t judge.
When it’s all said and done, the container tucked into the footwell, you find yourselves tangled together.
One long leg kicked up on the seat, Frank reclines against the driver’s side door, pillow propped behind his back.
Grumpy Bear back in your arms, you lay between his legs, your back against his chest and your blanketed legs sprawled down the bench.
The card pokes out the top of your purse. Your eyes keep drifting to the empty container.
Head tipped back against the window, Frank watches the movie. Or looks convincing enough. One of his hands rests at your bicep, thumb smoothing your arm. The other drapes across your collarbone, a dormant possessiveness to it even in rest.
Head forward and movie forgotten, you toy with the bear in your lap, hyperaware of every warm inch of Frank beside you, behind you, around you. The weight of his arm eases your breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest lulls you to contentment.
“…So which one’s supposed to be dumb and which one’s bad?” you ask, quiet as the movie audio trickles in static from the radio.
“Card’s dumb, cupcake’s bad,” he says without hesitation.
“…No, Frank. Not even close. They’re both so… perfect.” Smile so profoundly happy it’s sad, your eyes glimmer as you crane your head back to look at him. “…Is that why you’ve been acting strange all night? You were nervous about giving those to me?”
Frank tuts a breath off his tongue, does a double take with his mouth open, but no excuse comes.
“…I love it,” your murmur, face smooth as you struggle for power over the aching flood of warmth in your chest. “…I’ve… only got one birthday card since my mom died. She… she used to get me one every year, like this.” You gesture to your purse, the envelope. “Write nice things in it and said some words were meant to be on paper so we can keep them.”
“Yeah,” Frank says, pauses. “She was right. Smart lady.” His eyes track down to you finally. Jawline harsh, eyes soft. He lifts the hand from your collarbone, brushes his knuckles against your neck, the underside of your jaw. “Havin’ ‘n alright time?”
You squeeze his hand with your chin, nod. “I’ve never had such a good birthday. This is the best one ever.”
“Pfft.”
“Stop, I’m serious… Thank you.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, taking your chin to tilt your head back, nudge his forehead against yours. “No problem. Like doin’ things f’you, you know that?”
You push your nose against his, grin soft. “Gonna spoil me if you’re not careful.”
“S’the plan.”
“Shut up,” you laugh.
“You’re the one that keeps talkin’ durin’ the movie,” but he’s grinning too.
“As if you care about this movie.”
“Sweetheart, I don’ even know what fuckin’ movie we’re watchin’.”
As soon as you bust out laughing, his dumbass chuckle makes an appearance. All deep in his chest, out through his little teeth. It’s a sound that’s yours, since he only makes it with you. You cherish every one.
The chuckle stops when you shift, his hands coming off you.
You move with careful intention, seating yourself to face him in his lap.
He swallows as he meets your stare, face skewed so much he’s unreadable. A line in his brows, dark eyes working a gentle assessment over you.
“Whatchu doin’, huh?” he whispers, shifting to give your knees more room on either sides of his hips.
Kissing him’s your answer.
Hands planted on his chest, you lean down. Your lips find his with all the time in the world and every bit of gratitude you have. Soft lips, firm latches—your thanks best expressed physically.
Frank bands an arm around your waist, sculpts the side of your face with his other hand. Tension bleeds from his body, melting under you.
That’s the power you have over Frank. You leash the beast. Give him a safe space to be more than angry.
As the kiss blisters to teeth and tongue and want, Frank yanks back.
“Don’t,” he grunts, body jolting as if lashed. “Don’t gotta do this. Ain’t why ‘m doin’ this f’you, alright? You know that? Ain’t expectin’ anything like that outta this. You don’t owe me shit, alright? You tell me you know that?”
Breathless, lips swollen and hot, you peer back to meet his wild, darkening stare. “I know,” you whisper. “I know.”
The movie goes forgotten.
Neither of you catch the title.
In the passenger seat, you sit ramrod straight and electric with leftover thrill.
As he drives you home one handed, Frank glances at you from the corner of his eye every other second, wearing an infuriatingly dopey little smile.
Your leg bounces.
The street lights cycle through the truck.
Endorphins exploding inside of you, you almost blurt you love him again. You don’t, you keep your shit straight.
Wind whistles through Frank’s cracked window.
You feel… changed. And charged. And empowered. For the better, having given an untouched piece of yourself to the first person you‘ve loved and trusted.
It wasn’t all the way, no. You’re not ready for that, he isn’t either, but it’s a start. Small start at a pace you’re both comfortable with. It’s trust and loyalty and the specific vulnerability that ties directly to loving someone.
And you can hardly sit with the exhilaration of it.
Brakes squeak as Frank rolls the truck to a stop outside of your apartment.
Six stories of neglected brick, threads of ivy consume the building like it knows demolition is better suited. You stare at it through the passenger window. One light flickers beside the main door, begging to die out. The other’s long deceased. A tomcat—lean and mean with a clipped tail—prowls through tall, weedy grass littered with trash to hunt the bountiful vermin.
Frank leans forward to stare too, a brow quirked as he bites his tongue.
“Home sweet home,” you mutter, but it lacks your usual disdain. You can’t find hatred so close to the surface after tonight.
Best birthday ever with the best boyfriend ever. You intend to keep him as long as he wants to stay.
“Sure your old man ain’t gonna shit hemorrhage me bringin’ you home so late?”
“Hm?” A distracted hum, your eyes tearing away from the dregs of the complex. “No, it’s fine. He won’t know.”
“You’re sure.”
“Positive.”
“Swear.”
“Okay.”
You turn, offering your pinky. His’s already there, thick and rough and you shiver at the thought.
Your fingers bind together in a promise.
Tension doesn’t leave Frank, but the promise appeases him, his shoulders falling as he lets out a breath.
“Lemme walk you up, huh?”
“Can’t,” you murmur, your smile an apology. “That would have him shit hemorrhaging if he was awake.”
Frank sighs, easing your joint fingers to his chest. “Alright. Call you after I get home?”
“Yeah,” a soft smile in place, scooting in closer for a final goodbye. “Call me when you get home.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Frank guides you by the hand to fall into him.
You do, effortlessly.
Your cheek on his shoulder, your arms around his neck. Eyes scrunched shut, you squeeze tight.
“Thank you so much, Frankie,” you whisper, your arms bunched until they quake.
“Hey, yeah,” he rumbles, big hands warm splayed across your back. “Anytime, pumpkin, hear me? Anytime.” And he seals it with a kiss to your head. “Ain’t no trouble.”
Unraveling from the hug, you don’t get to go far.
Hands on your back, Frank grunts, head canted to stay in your face. “Forgettin’ sumthin’?”
“Nooo,” you lean in, rubbing your nose over his. “You didn’t give me a chance. Patience goes a long way, Francis.”
The grumbling starts, so you staunch it.
You kiss him again, your lips curled into a smile so wide he gets your teeth.
“Ain’t what I was talkin’ ‘bout,” he mumbles against your mouth, an impish little smirk twitching.
“No?” you ask, teeth clicking his while you kiss and talk.
“Nah.”
“Then what?”
“S’pposed t’ say you love me, hm?”
Head falling back, your laughter fills the truck.
“Again— didn’t give me a chance. I was getting to it.”
Playfully impatient, he waves a hand to have you get to it.
“I love you,” you emphasize each of the three words. Slow, heavy rolls off your tongue as your forehead presses into his.
“Yeah, s’what I was waitin’ for,” he stamps a kiss to your chin, tip of your nose. It feels like praise. “Love you too, pretty girl, really do.”
“Lots?”
“Lots.”
Goodbye kisses feel different, you’re realizing when you kiss him one last time.
It’s a slower fit of mouths, a softer lock; memorizing the sensation and taste of someone before the seconds are gone and you’re without.
And the seconds are up.
With painstaking reluctance, you two separate in a soft click of lips.
Your eyes settle on his face to commit him like this to memory. Soft and sweet for you, leading and generous without ever having been asked. You palm his cheek, the stubble rough. He leans into you without apology; an intrinsic force compelling him to your touch.
You feel it too. See it, in the intensity of his stare, as though you’re an anomaly he’s yet to figure out and needs a lifetime to explore. The… invisible thread in the air made of something durable. Whatever it is—this energy, this force—wires you together in ways that… fit. Withstand. Complementary. Two halves coming to a whole when you’re with each other. Better together.
“Call me?” you ask, fingers curling down his cheek.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, turning his head to catch your fingers in a fleeting kiss before they drop. “Call you real soon, sweetheart. Happy birthday, pretty girl.”
Halfway out the door, purse over your shoulder, you look back at him. “…Thank you, Frank. For everything. I’m happy the world gave me you.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking away like it’s too much to bear. “Me too.”
You fly up the stairs and through the front door like a bat out of hell.
The must of your dad’s territory downstairs can’t tarnish your excitement any.
Stiff precaution, heart hammering, you whirl the front door closed and— stop before it hits the frame. Gently, so gently not even the hinges care to betray you, you twist the knob and slot the door closed. A quiet latch of the locks.
Not a single conscious sound. Just the muffled reruns of The Price Is Right coming from the living room. You listen… and listen… eyes on the ceiling to focus for the one sound you need…
The snores. It comes in a piggish inhale from the living room recliner. Gut-deep, liquor-induced snores.
Dad’s asleep. Good.
You breathe a sigh of relief, liquifying against the front door until you slide your way to the floor.
You’re alive and giddy in ways you’ve never felt before—no one’s ever made you feel this way.
A new step taken, an exploration of touch that left you galvanized yet limp and blissful and entirely enamored by Frank Castle.
Heat stays on your cheeks. The butterflies… oh, how wild they squirm in your stomach. The elation, it’s almost violent. Dizzied with giddy ecstasy, thrumming with excitement, you slap a hand over your mouth to giggle into it and fall over onto the floor.
But under your temple… that’s not the floor.
You blink, sit upright, and your heart does a flip.
Another envelope. With your name on it.
It’s card sized, but thick. You turn it over in your hands, testing the weight, the intention. Is it really from…?
Your eyes drift to the living room. All you can see is the back of the chair, the spilt bottle of Jim Beam, and your dad’s arm dangling off the side where he sits.
“…You remembered?” you whisper to the idea of him, throat closing. “Maybe this really is the best birthday ever…”
On a mindless track, you take yourself to your room. You read and reread your name etched onto the front.
You haven’t seen Dad’s writing in… God, years? Maybe this is what it looks like now. Short, angry and all caps.
Opening a card from your dad requires… privacy. How’re you supposed to react after a lifetime of inattention from him? Now you’re getting acknowledgment on the anniversary of the day you made him a father?
The lock clicks shut behind you. Blindly reaching, you fumble on your bedside lamp and fold yourself on the mattress. The phone rattles as you drag it onto the bed with you. Frank’s gotta hear about this, gotta be the first person you tell.
Okay. Okay.
First thing’s first, you grab the card from Frank. Opening it with convulsing hands, you smooth the spine so his words lay up and stare right at you. Right now? His support’s exactly what you need, even if just in his note.
“You’re the best,” you say to his handwriting, biting your bottom lip to rein in your smile. “Thanks for being my best friend, Frankie.”
You’ll tell him that too once he calls. He promised he would, so he will.
Taking in a steeling breath, you brace at the sealed lining of the envelope.
“Okay… Here goes nothing…”
Little tears. Uncoordinated fingers. The glue must know you’re in a hurry because it’s uncooperative.
“Jeez,” you laugh under your breath. “Must be something good in here.”
Anything will be good, close to perfect, even. Right?
With a final, decisive rip, you accidentally shred the envelope in half.
“Ope! Oh!”
Pictures fall out. Dozens of them.
Blurry Polaroids unfamiliar to you.
“…what?” another laugh pushes from your chest, but this one… it’s different. It’s a struggle to understand, your brows pinching down, your heart plummeting to your stomach.
These aren’t your photos.
“…What the hell?”
They’re Frank’s.
The cupcake curdles in your belly. The warmth of the night evaporates. Nausea churns and ties sickening knots in your gut.
“Wh- what is this…?”
Breath stutters from your nose, short, frightened trembles.
Pictures spun out over your legs, Frank’s card, fear drains you of color as you lean in closer.
Closer, and you see a different reality.
Closer, and you see Frank.
Frank with a rolled dollar in his nose and a line of white powder at the end.
Frank with two forty ounce beers duct-taped to his hands, looking so glazed and gone he’s a fucking ghost.
Frank lounging on someone’s couch, another classmate—Vanessa, from the cheerleading squad—curled comfortably into his side as she grins and reaches for the joint in his mouth.
And then other girls you don’t know.
One with her arms around his neck.
Another sitting on his shoulders as they both raise red solo cups.
And another, Frank shirtless and on his knees as he slugs a beer bong held by three girls in crop tops and captivated smiles.
Frank, stone cold serious and entirely wasted in a cutoff as he flexes one arm, and totes a pretty girl—you think you’ve seen her with Billy Russo before—on the other like it’s her personal perch. And the smile she wears…? She knows it, too.
There’s no card. Only rotten evidence of a man you don’t know. Your Frank. Maybe who he really is when you’re not looking.
Tears bite your eyes again tonight, but the reason’s putrid.
Insides soured, your heart shriveled and combusted, the pain… god, it fucking oozes through you like disease. Sludgy and black, stopping up your arteries and windpipe. It chokes you, the stifling anguish of putting your full trust in someone and finding out you don’t know them at all.
By your foot, to the side of the photos… you see it. A torn piece of paper with ratty corners and that same angry, striking writing from the envelope:
YOU REALLY THINK YOU KNOW HIM? THINK AGAIN.
The phone rings.
It’s Frank keeping his promise.
And you puke all over the fucking floor.
The phone rings again.
You never answer.
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divider creds: pxrce-lain & cloudsuee / pics from Pinterest
NO!!!!! nonononono fuck ass billy russo i'm gonna skin him alive. what have you done to my babies???? no i'm raging rn, need to punch someone.
soooooo bby Frankie has heard of ur newest milestone @hellilovedit n as a surprise, he tried to make a batch of double chocolate cupcakes with raspberry frosting just for u!!! but unfortunately, he only managed to salvage one n he's vry upset abt it, so be nice to him!!!
(he crafted the wrapper himself, isn't he a sweetheart 🖤🤍)
Hey girl. Please please please continue writing Shane Walsh x reader smut fics. Even better if u make the father’s day one and the archer into a series. I really loved it and I want to read more. Shane walsh fics are so scarce omg 😭
hi friendddd thank you so much <333 this literally made my day and it's only noon here hehe. i will write more for our problematic husband. trust!!!
since you're looking for more Frank & Shane fics, i wanna shout out to some wonderful people:
@hellilovedit (the Frankie queen herself) has this list of amazing Frank Castle writers. you can check it out here.
i wanna add @tomhardysluvr888 and @wintrynightz too <3
and these are my recs for Shane Walsh writers: @gradysbaby @houndofsevenhells @baby-walsh
Imagine frank has one of his arms in a cast and you're sitting in his lap and drawing on the cast and he holds you to him with his other arm
THAT’S SO CUTE???????!!!!!!!
Omg. Here’s my lil blurbie!!!
“Draw a dick on it ‘n you’re done,” the threat rumbles from Frank without conviction, his eyes far too squinty and far too set on the tv to mean he’s actually watching it.
You scoff at the idea, readjust in his lap. Your side leaned against his chest, ass comfortably perched on his thighs, legs bent at the knee to balance his casted arm as you wield a pastel sharpie. “I’d never draw a dick on your cast, Frankie. I’m not a monster.”
…the thought definitely crossed your mind.
You are, however, enjoying yourself to a criminal degree. It does border cruel, how you decorate and beautify the dingy white gauze over his broken wrist.
Frank’s a lot of bark when it comes to you. He says don’t draw a dick, but cradles you in his good arm. Keeps you snug against him, sharing body heat bleeding between two cotton shirts. Your weight contents him. Soothes him. The pain’s nothing. Seriously. You’re mending the noise inside his head, the itch under his skin.
Bumpy Sharpie preserves evidence of your tic-tac-toe games on his forearm. He let you win a few times before saying “lemme show you sumthin’”, and teaches you the cheat code to winning every time.
By the time you’re happy with the mural on his arm, he’s asleep.
Head tipped back against the cushion, adams apple jutting sharp, snores rumble from his chest. Little involuntary twitches get his fingers now and then, stuck out of the cast.
You drew to your heart’s content on the cast. Hearts. Smiles. Swirls. Flowers. Butterflies. A horrific attempt at a pitbull that came out looking like an angry dragon.
And then you covered it with a fine layered roll of black self-adhering tape. The rubbery, nonstick kind. You wound it around until the cast was swathed in black, evidence masked.
The white sharpie settles between your finger and thumb. You ready it with artistic precision and get to work.
When Frank wakes in the middle of the night and you’re the one asleep on him, he sees it.
The cast. Your artwork. His memento mori.
The Punisher’s Skull.
Helloooo I just wanted to say I love how you write for Dex. It's soft and light-hearted. Hope this doesn't come off as rude but I was wondering if you still write for him? just that you haven't posted about him in a while,,,
hi friend !!!!! thank you for being here <33 it means a LOTTT to me 🩷
and yes, i still write for Dex. wanna know a secret? most (all) of my Dex pieces are fluff bc i don’t know how to write darker themes & fight scenes. Yet, i hope.
i actually had a few angsty ideas, drafted them, but i’m afraid my writing isn’t good enough to do them justice. sooooo, we’re sticking with what we’re doing okay at the moment. ur girl is still learning 😎
i’m cooking up sth for Dex and i’m gonna stop right here bc i will not stop talking. don’t wanna jinx it 🤪🤪🤪
my friend just started The Punisher after BND, and she's spamming me with "what the fuck" and "poor Frankie" i wanna cry
i told her to start with Daredevil first but she was like "nope i want Frankie" lmao
my friend just started The Punisher after BND, and she's spamming me with "what the fuck" and "poor Frankie" i wanna cry
Issues With Undisclosed AI in Fandoms
The lack of AI transparency is creating… friction. For human writers and readers. As a human writer, I feel it, I see it. That’s why I’m here, writing this post.
As an AI writer, maybe you’re already aware AI isn’t accepted well in fandoms and you’re using it anyway. Maybe you’re completely unaware, thinking you’ve found a great tool.
Let me explain how and why your transparency is important.
I say “you” to no one in particular. Just any AI writer reading this because I’m asking you from the bottom of my heart for your transparency.
To those that use undisclosed AI and understand your viewers want human-made content, I need to say: It’s a disservice to your fandom by not being honest. You know you’re using it, and you know many fandom goers don’t agree with it. You’re being dishonest right to the fandom/community you’ve built. Your readers trust you. Why wouldn’t they? You’ve given them no reason to. Please be honest with them. They’re trusting you. So they need to trust you’ll be honest, too.
You’re generating these fics. People believe you’re putting in the work. You’re not… AI is. It’s a huge injustice to human writers and your viewers. It’s hurting your community and fandom. The creators, the viewers.
Everyone is impacted by undisclosed AI usage to a remarkably unfair degree, so you need to be tagging it as such so people can choose what they want to consume.
You owe it to readers to have a choice.
People aren’t stupid. Don’t underestimate your readers and human writers. People can, will, and do detect AI content. However—
Falsely accusing someone of using AI does extreme damage, too. Do not witch hunt. More on that in a bit.
“You sound jealous!” I’m tired. I really am. There seems to be an astounding amount of AI content being flushed into my fandoms and it’s really heart breaking, exhausting, and defeating.
“I use AI because I’m not good at writing!” Okay. But who cares??? Do you think “good” writers walk out of the womb doing it? Fuck no. We learn. We experiment. We have to grow. I personally invest in hours of my time per week learning about writing. I never stop learning it because I fucking love to write. No machine can replicate the intensity of human emotion.
Human Writers have:
Time constraints. Writing takes time. I’m not talking WPM. WPM and creative writing are not the same. Please see my other mini rant on time here. (Definitely not as nicely thought out as this post, was in my feels, ope).
Limited creative output. We finish a fic and it’s emotionally and mentally taxing. It’s hard to jump back in or go to the next. We are not creative 24/7. We are people. We are tired. We have families. We have jobs. Pets. Errands. Chores. Obligations. We need a fucking break once and awhile.
Note on 1 and 2: hence why we can’t/usually don’t post multiple fics in the same week or back to back. There’s only so much time and brain power we have to write x amount of words per day, per week, because we exist as people. That being said, it is possibly to write a ton and post at once. Note: it’s not common practice but it IS done and DOES NOT mean someone is AI.
A unique voice. This one is HUGE for me. The best part about writing is hearing the author! Read different work. You’ll hear and see the differences in tonality, genres, characterization. This is what makes us all so fucking unique. This writer is taking their perspective of life and molding it into their story. How insane is that? That’s where the true beauty comes in. It’s what makes us so painstakingly human.
The Damage Undisclosed AI Fics Do To Human Writers:
Undisclosed AI content is killing motivation. To a terrible degree. There is no competing with a machine posing as human. It makes the rest of us look bad and feel bad for being human and having limitations. Speaking from experience.
Undisclosed AI content is dishonest about the truths of being a writer. Being a writer is hard and devastating and beautiful and exhilarating. It’s every emotion in the book. It’s near-tears as we get up and walk away from our WIP because the brain isn’t braining and the words aren’t wording. It’s the celebration when we finally finish that 10,000 piece and we can breathe again! It’s hitting 50, 100, 150+ notes and squealing because we worked so fucking hard and it’s amazing to see how many other people love it, too.
AI creates unrealistic expectations for us. Fic length, posting frequency, writer’s block/bad writing days. AI has no bad writing days. I don’t even care to say “must be nice” because as terrible as bad writing days are, it’s my body and brain telling me to do something different. Go outside, go for a walk, touch grass, call my family, hug my dogs. It reminds me to go be a person and come back when I’m rested.
We do this shit for free, for the love of the game. We work hard to give you thoughtful, emotionally-provoking, creative, fun stories to escape to. We aren’t here for clout. We’re here because we love two things so fucking much: writing/storytelling and our fandom characters. Of course recognition and support and notes are amazing, but that’s never why we started. It’s not why we’re here.
The Damage It Does to Fandom Viewers/Readers:
Unrealistic expectations (completion time, fic length, unique voice, different writing styles). This can create frustration/conflict between readers and writers.
False sense of trust - then putting readers on edge because they’ll be skittish to trust other fic writers on if they use AI or not. Once bitten twice shy, as the saying goes.
Misinterpretation of the writing process and learning curves of a writer. This creates a lot of confusion when people see undisclosed AI content, and then expect the same output from human writers. We are not the same. We cannot go go go go. And we are far, far from perfect.
Instant gratification - possible conflict/ill feelings towards human writers based on undisclosed AI content (again: fic length, time, point 1 and 3). “Why isn’t this writer writing more? Faster? I won’t read work by this writer because they aren’t fast enough or posting enough”.
Miscellaneous:
AI stole the EM dash from real writers. AI is fed human made content to then replicate. Bruhhhh I fucking LOVE the em dash. The “—“. Many of us do! Don’t dare go after someone for that. AI took that from US, not the other way around.
Don’t attack someone for “sounding like AI”…. What does that even mean to you? What do you even mean by that? Have you even worked with a chatbot to understand how AI writing actually sounds? The verbiage of it? You can train a bot in different ways. Either way, you can’t prove it. It’s up to the writer to be transparent. Don’t torch someone for that. Block, disengage, move on. Tell someone (a moot, a friend, whatever) in private if you need to, but do not publicly execute the writer.
Don’t put people’s work in AI checkers. You’re feeding the system. They’re largely inaccurate so it doesn’t work anyway.
Not AI related, but in general:
Readers: Like, reblog and comment on works you love! Writers loveeee to hear from you. Keep it kind, constructive, and respectful. Interaction is how your fave fics and writers get more eyes on the stories you love!
Writers: engage with your readers! Especially those that leave you comments. They loveeee to hear from you, too! If they’re taking time to read and comment on your work, the least we can do as writers is say thank you and interact.
Writers: interact with your fellow writers!! Even if you’re shy. Even if you don’t read much fanfic yourself. Part of engaging is part of making the fandom a community.
Back to my point:
If anything, I think those that are honest about their AI usage should be thanked. Okay? Hear me out. Like I said: they don’t have to be. No one is forcing them. It’s their own moral code and decision to be transparent. So if they choose to be honest, be transparent, and have that respect for their fandom? That’s awesome. Thank you. You’re giving people a choice. You’re upholding the respect and integrity of human writers. Again, don’t go after AI writers when they’re honest. Let them exist as they will. They made a brave decision by being honest, don’t torch them, just leave them alone and/or block.
Even if I don’t agree with AI usage, I can still respect your honesty and wish you the best. People will still read AI content. Some people love it. Find your audience, your crowd.
Be transparent so we can all have a more trusting, productive fandom community.
My goal with this was to be respectful and kind and well thought out. I hope it came across as such. I normally keep my mouth shut, but I felt the need to explain beyond “fuck AI”. AI is integrated in our lives now, it’s being pushed in every aspect of life, but we should still get a choice in what we consume.
This is why transparency is so important.
The choice is with you, now, AI writer.
Will you be transparent for your fandom and fellow writers?
That’s all I’m gonna say. It felt good to get it out to show the struggles of a human writer when faced with undisclosed AI. If you disclose to your readers you use AI? Thank you. If you don’t? I really hope you’ll take this post into consideration and make some positive changes moving forward for the fandom! This isn’t geared at anyone, just in general. An accumulation of my personal thoughts over time. Thank you for listening!
AI creates unrealistic expectations for us.
yes, thank you! those expectations are put on writers' shoulders by not only readers but writers themselves.
as a newbie, i can't count how many times i've beaten myself up bc my brain moves at a snail pace. the scenes play out in my head, as clear as the day but damn, putting them on paper is a different story. many times, i end up shoving them all away. (that's on me tho. i'm working on not comparing myself to others)
of course there are writers who can churn out fics after fics in a short period of time, but i doubt anyone can keep it up forever. ppl still have work, school, family, etc. to take care of.
this is on me (again). whenever i use words/sentences that are too "common," there will be someone whispering in my ear saying "what if ppl think it's ai" fuck it, i love my bullshit bc it's my bullshit, not some robot bullshit <3
witch hunting is bad. people deserve transparency!
