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its like. i miss frank, a lot. considering marvel’s understandable choice of slowly shelving frank as a character and the fact that ive developed him so much outside of any particular canon im gonna just. do my own private close-knit thing.  prob gonna remake. maybe; if you’d like to write on the new blog and also continue our months old then you should give this a like because this iteration of frank will be pretty private and low/as i feel like it activity all things considered. 

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nightmove​.

amada is folding laundry when she receives the text. a tell-tale ‘ ping ’ interrupts the reggaeton blaring through her earbuds, prompting her to swap the pair of bike shorts in her hands for the cell phone that had been atop her bedspread. her first reaction is a furrowed brow at the unsaved number — but that gives way to a smile once she registers who decided to reach out.

frank hasn’t been to little caribe in over a week. amada had gotten used to seeing his face, always slightly apologetic, as though he felt he was letting her down every time he appeared bruised and battered. and though she usually refuses to feel guilt over things she can’t control, she must admit she’d been nervous about why he hadn’t yet put her phone number to use. had she scared him away by offering it to him ? was he more invested in the fantasy of the woman drenched in neon that the reality of the girl from the bronx ?

well. no need to worry about that anymore.

she sends her response after a prolonged moment of thought : ‘ give me twenty minutes. ’ perhaps it’s too eager, but then, she’s always had a tendency towards impulsivity. coquettishness might score her points with the patrons at the club. in the real world, she considers it nothing but a waste of time. after sticking the cell phone in the pocket of her sweatpants, she poses in front of her bedroom’s full-length mirror. she wonders whether it would be smartest to change out of her blush-pink tank top and into a casual dress.

frank squints as he watches the typing bubbles in real-time, careful not to tip over the drink tray in his other hand. a smile threatens his mouth and - okay, he hasn’t done anything remotely like this in a long time. he and maria had never texted - he’d only wrote her notes in the few months they actually dated, had burned cassette tapes and then CD’s and DVD’s when he was overseas, like all the other idiots in his unit did. 

immediately, he regrets comparing maria and ama, but the point still stands - he’s not in his twenties anymore and - feels out of his depth, with whatever this is. that also happens to make him feel impossibly old, somehow, in comparison to amada, the constant glow about her that must at least halfway be from the club. it must be. hell, he’s not even much older but he feels it; but maybe she does, too. she’s smart, in a way that only life can make you out to be. 

Take your time

Do you want me to come to you

as soon as he hits send, he realizes he could possibly be interpreted ( just another goddamn reason to add to the list of why he hates texting ) in a way that he’s not trying to be. not now, anyway.

I’ll be here. It’s nice out

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Wayne + holding dogs

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amada had been ill-advised to give him her number, though in his defense, he hasn’t actually used it in the week it’s been stuffed in his wallet, written haphazardly on a straw wrapper. it’d been the cusp of weeks of seeing her at the club, a healthy mix of approaching and keeping a respectful distance. he doesn’t even finish entering her contact information when he starts to text her in the middle of the day. 

convinces himself it’s for the mission - whatever that happens to be, now.  

<Ama. It’s Frank. 

Think I’m in your neck of the woods>

an attachment follows - a very blurry photo of a beat-up hand holding a cup of black bubble tea, still sealed, because he’s not sure what to do with the straw. is it an invitation? yes, considering she’s the one who brought it up once in passing and the shop happens to be down the street from her place.

it’s a very calculated blunder if he may say so himself. / @nightmove

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hmmm a little starter call, i have some drafts but i’m going to try to sort through them and see what i want to keep, what i don’t, etc. like this if you’d like something small! i’m going to make a very valiant effort to try to run this blog and bruce but the key word is try lmao.

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nevermoral​.

he knows the pain is coming, knows frank’s not going to be nice about it either, but that doesn’t stop him from wincing when his nose is set, tears pricking behind his eyes. he sits as still as he can, though, out of spite more than anything, even though his stomach lurches at the sickening crack of cartilage, the blood that trickles down into his mouth. frank’s decidedly gentler when he sets about wrapping billy’s wrist, but his words cut like a serrated fucking knife.

“what does that make you, huh? even with your family, your white picket-fence life, you were only ever good for one thing and you know it, you and me both. and all that talk about honor and decency—it’s all bullshit. glad to see you’re finally catching on.” nothing’s off-limits to them now. it’s a raw and ugly feeling, the same sick stab of nausea he gets when he catches a glimpse of the bad side of his face in the mirror—but it’s honest, too, honest in a way he’s never allowed himself to be.

“—they meant nothing. you’re goddamn right about that.” it’s softer than it should be; his eyes averted, blinking beneath long lashes, the way frank used to think he was beautiful for. billy sniffs around the gauze in his nose, hard and vicious when he looks up again. “and yeah, i’d do anything to hurt you, because you’re mine, and no one else ever meant a goddamn thing.”

when frank’s fingers brush the raised scar on his cheek billy flinches worse than he did when he set his nose. it somehow feels worse than the pain throbbing between his eyes, worse even than frank’s wounded warrior jab, and fuck he hates it, hates the way his breath catches audibly in his chest.

“look at you, frankie.” it’s as nasty as he can muster, all the hurt and helplessness and white-hot rage buzzing inside him spat like poison into the space between their lips. whatever it is that lets frank still hurt him had stopped him from killing billy not once but twice, has them here patching each other up instead of slitting each other’s throats. whatever it is, it’s a double-edged sword, and maybe he can use it to hurt frank, too. “still can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

he considers leaving frank here for the gnuccis to find, just to prove a point, sits watching him for a moment before he reaches out to touch him instead. long fingers brush almost tenderly through frank’s hair, over the cut above his eye.

“nah, i’m not going to kill you.” he threads a needle from the first aid kit, carefully wiping frank’s forehead clean of blood and grime. it could be merciful to kill him, or it could be final proof he’s won. neither’s got shit to do with it.

“—but it looks like we get to die together after all.” underneath all of this, the pain and hurt and hate, the inevitable hollow in his chest, it feels distinctly like coming home. just him and frank against the world, suiting up for battle one last time, like it was always meant to be. billy chuckles mirthlessly, one eyebrow lifting.

“how’s that for irony?”

‘ - you’re an asshole, ’ frank seethes, restless under the too-gentle way bill touches him. he wants to hurt him and considers rebreaking his nose, twisting his wrist until the bone cracks, but he’s satisfied with the way dark bruises have already started to bloom under his eyes. it makes him look more grotesque then he already does, impossibly ugly, but in the reflection from bill’s black eyes frank is equally marred. he swallows thickly at still can’t keep your hands off me, huh ? and hates him even more for that. all the shit he’s forgotten since he got that hole in his head and he remembers them too well, the way bill used to be with him and the way he used to be with bill. maybe they’re closer to their truer selves than they’d ever been before. frank knows that he is; he’d once thought he’d knew bill better than anyone else in the world but that turned out to be fucking bullshit, just like all the notions about brotherhood and honor that the marines ever brainwashed him to believe turned out to be too.

bill’s fingers feel like spiders in his hair and he shivers, even under the heavy weight of the coarse blanket wrapped around him as he stares up at him. 

‘ - yeah. whatever’s out there looking out for me is doing a shit job at it. ’ he exhales, eyes closing despite the sharp pain in his head. he feels a bone-deep kind of exhaustion that will leave him feeling hungover if indeed he even sleeps, which he shouldn’t and won’t do.

knowing he ain’t moving for at least the next two days, frank starts to speak through a coughing fit, ‘ we’ll get back to work tomorrow. just to make it clear: we’re not involving curtis or madani or lieberman. in fact, you go near them, i’ll do worse than fuck up your face, and i mean that shit. you already fucked up their lives enough. it’s just you and me, now. ’ 

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nevermoral​.

when frank touches his mouth billy parts his lips, sucking teasingly on a fingertip before grazing it with sharp teeth and watching intently, hungry for his reaction. frank knows how to get him riled up, sure, can push his buttons like nobody else, but two can play this game—and nobody plays it better than billy. he shifts his weight again, letting his back arch and his eyes flutter closed as frank’s hand slides under his shirt. he’s putting on a show, because he knows how much frank likes watching him, but there’s no denying the white-hot punch of arousal in his gut.

“you can wear what you want.” it’s hard enough to keep frank in his dress blues, let alone a fancy suit. no matter the occasion, and despite billy’s best efforts, he always seemed to end up with his sleeves pushed up, his collar undone, and good fucking luck getting a tie on him. billy loves it though, loves all his rough edges just like frank loves his smart mouth and his cologne in spite of all the shit they give each other.

mr. russo. nobody but frankie could get away with teasing him like this, but something about that makes his stomach flip, same way it did when frank called him beautiful.

“you wouldn’t have to sleep on a cot, for one,” he smirks. a lock of hair falls into his face as his hands roam over the hard muscle of frank’s arms. “no long-ass deployments. you could do what you do best, and it’d just be us calling the shots.” it’s all so close he can practically taste it, and suddenly sharing it with frank doesn’t feel like such a stupid, self-indulgent fantasy. why shouldn’t he have it all?

“not to mention exclusive access.” he indulges frank—and himself—for a moment, letting himself be pulled close by the strong hand on his hip. he knows he’ll be bruised tomorrow, that he’ll wake up smelling like sweat and gun oil and off-brand soap, but billy can’t even bring himself to pretend he cares. he shifts his hips for more friction, lips dragging along the shell of frank’s ear and down his jaw to suck a bruise into his neck above the collar of his shirt.

“—you’d have to follow orders, though.” he sits back on his haunches, grinning, daring frank to touch him. “think you can manage that, castle?”

it’s half from the friction of the way bill moves against him and half from watching him do it that makes frank exhale a shaky breath, arousal pooling hot in the pit of his belly. billy’s scarred skin is so smooth under his fingers and he marvels at how well bill can take care of himself even when they barely have access to running water, how well he’s always kept up with himself. he always smells so good too, and frank wants to tell him that, that he smells so fucking good and to keep on going, but he doesn’t give in that easy. 

he ain’t the best at the dirty talk either, but nonetheless, none of it’s failing to get him all riled up, the thought of sharing this with bill. it ain’t just kid fantasies anymore. 

‘ exclusive access, huh? ’ he wants to grab bill’s ass and grind into him, suddenly desperate for more friction, and he feels like one of pavlov’s dogs or some shit. but he’s better trained than that and knows better, a wolfish sort of grin spreading across his features as he lies back. this is the game frank knows. like with violence and war, frank’s best at letting go, at letting his body do the work for him and not thinking of anything else. unlike with all the other shit he’s knee-deep in right now, frank loves this. he grunts at the feeling of lips on the sensitive skin of his neck, even at the way his shoulder burns in protest at the way he exposes his neck, greedy for the attention.  

then bill’s gone, leaving him cold and tingling. 

‘ well, i think that we both know that i’m better at following orders than you, russo, ’ frank says flippantly just to gauge his reaction, that shit-eating smile only spreading wider. pointedly, he keeps his hands down by his sides, simply gazing up at him. ‘ - yeah. i think just i’ll be just fine. ‘

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nightmove​.

he isn’t buying what she’s selling, she realizes too late. sometimes it happens that way : the man one might expect to want a painted doll actually craves the natural beauty with a shoulder to cry on, and vice versa. she doesn’t falter at the realization, though, confident in her overall track record for intuiting the needs of her clients. if there’s any cause for surprise, it’s the gentleness with which frank changes the course of the conversation. there are people who’d forget their tact the moment they felt insulted. lord knows she’s encountered the type.

❛ alright, frank. sure. ❜

amada’s grin remains, but she switches gears so subtly that the casual onlooker might not notice any change at all. her expression dims from bubbly, alert people-pleaser to sweet, yet honest amorosa from the block ( the latter being more representative of her innermost self ). she clears her throat and places her tray on frank’s table. then, she tucks a dark tendril of hair behind her ear as she cranes down, ready to point out her favorite items on the food menu.

❛ this is arroz con gandules — ❜ she glances at him, a gleam in her eye. the space between them is small enough that she detects hints of dial soap and aftershave wafting from his clothing. ❛ yellow rice ‘n beans. we serve it with a side of shredded chicken and fried yucca sticks. sounds heavy, but we got tiny portions, and i can always get you a half-order. ❜ she winks as she straightens up, ❛ you know. in case you change your mind about dancing, later. ❜

she glances about the cocktail lounge as she scoops the platter back up. it’s evident the guest dj is a hit tonight, for this floor is practically empty, save for the few taken tables being serviced by other cocktail waitresses. 

she isn’t quite sure what compels her to say what she does next. perhaps a twinge of pity for this polite and battered stranger, or an opportunistic sense that she could make this encounter into something of an early break. either way, she takes a chance on frank, knowing that any trouble she might run into with management will be easily overruled by sixto’s favoritism towards her.

❛ and how about this : if you look as lonely as you do now when i come back, i'ma sit right here and give you some company. sound like a deal ? ❜

amada smells good, like sweet perfume and shampoo and lotion. she looks soft, too, in a way that’s not just the lighting. she’s not like most of the girls at the places he frequents - small diners, hole in the wall mom and pop places - and she knows it, too, somehow in some way. 

‘ mm,’ he says, feels her curly hair brush against his arm as he shifts in his chair, unused to such closeness from anyone not trying to kill him - it takes him off guard, if just for a moment, ‘ - y’know, a man’s gotta eat. that sounds delicious. the whole portion will be good - i ain’t keen on making a douchebag out of myself tonight, but maybe another night. ’

again, he’s grateful she can’t see how his face heats up. dumb. he’s not used to attention like that, either, which she also must know. she’s good at this. a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth and he’s tempted to give her a little shit for it, but he only says, ‘ who says i’m lonely ? ’ with no real bite to it, really, and doesn’t intend to add anything else until he remembers why he’s here in the first place besides to talk to amada, and maybe a little of that, too. he glances up at her face and tries not to be insistent, because he’s also sure she’s used to that shit from assholes, especially ones like him who come to places like this for the first time and don’t know how to act. there’s the mission at hand but nothing was going to happen tonight, anyway.

‘ - hey,  i’ll be here awhile, y’know, if you find yourself bored of all the other patrons here tonight, or if you’re looking to rest your feet, or - whatever. ’

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2.01 | 2.13

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the butterfly garden.

dialogue prompts from the butterfly garden by dot hutchison. * while there shouldn’t be anything triggering here, this book is about survivors of kidnapping and sexual violence, so there’s a lot of talk about trauma.

have you cried at all?

i’m either going to love you or hate you.

the tequila is for studying.

sometimes it was easier to forget, you know?

i’m the teddy bear gathering dust bunnies under the bed, not the one-legged soldier.

i can be brave.

i could kiss you if i were into that sort of thing.

ever wonder if we’re really the good guys?

we do a hell of a lot more good than harm.

i’m alive, which is more than i can say about a lot of people i know.

if you expect to be overlooked or forgotten, you’re always at least a little surprised when someone remembers you.

my secrets are old friends; i would feel like a poor friend if i abandoned them now.

you have absolutely no sense of sympathy.

tell me something from before.

those who want to believe something badly enough generally do.

when you don’t receive justice, you make it.

without justice, we have no order and no hope.

you’re a very direct person, aren’t you?

direct doesn’t mean honest. it could just mean that i’m very direct and straightforward with my lies.

i’ve never been an envious person, never really saw a point to it.

you really believe knowledge brings closure, don’t you?

our choices make us who we are.

not making a choice is a choice. 

neutrality is a concept, not a fact.

right and wrong doesn’t mean there’s an easy choice.

i don’t know how to dance.

does that mean you love me too?

i’m not a fake person; i’m carefully and genuinely handcrafted.

i don’t think i know what that kind of love is.

if you don’t ask, you can keep your head buried in the sand.

we argue sometimes, and we don’t always like each other, but we’re a family, and family looks out for each other.

you don’t learn to be brave. you just have to do what’s right, even if it scares you.

it’s comforting to be with people who know exactly what you’ve gone through.

a trauma doesn’t stop just because you’ve been rescued.

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HAVE I RUN TOO FAR TO GET HOME? / SEASON 2 WRITE-UP. cw for mentions of pedophilia, human trafficking, and graphic violence.

as i mentioned in my divergences for the punisher season 1, frank did not give up being the punisher post-dd s2. instead, he gives it up after the events of the punisher season 1 and starts living the alias of pete castiglione. while working at a construction site in the bronx, where he’s stayed since the ending of season 1, frank meets donny chavez. though frank has kept his head low and has effectively isolated himself from everyone in his life (including curtis, david, and madani) for their own safety, he can’t help himself when a group of men from the site try to kill donny after robbing a mafia-affiliated (gnucci) poker game. frank brutally murders them all and kills all of ma gnucci’s sons thereafter, in what he excuses is to protect donny. realizing he can’t stay in new york city without possibly ruining his pardon, frank leaves to drive upstate to the canadian border.

upon arriving in buffalo, frank rents a motel room for a few nights after travelling non-stop for nearly a day, having taken detours through pittsburgh and cleveland to lay low and attempt to enjoy the travel he’s been encouraged to partake in. on his first night, frank attends the bar next to the hotel because he was drawn in by the live music show from his motel room. it’s there that he happens upon a young girl clearly uncomfortable with an older man who acts invasive and generally menacing toward her. it’d be easy to ignore if he didn’t run into her again later that night with the same man, who was clearly staying with her. finally, the next evening, when he watches the girl try to escape into the women’s room while the man follows behind her, frank steps in to confront him. he has no idea that there are several other people in the same group that night, apparently with the man and the young girl, and a chaotic fight ensues in which frank and the girl narrow escape, but not before his enemies and some bystanders are killed and the patrons of the bar terrified. out of fear, she tells him her name is rachel and she’s eighteen, but once she realizes he’s not law enforcement she tells him her name is actually amy bendix and she’s sixteen. frank discovers she was one of many girls all over the country and that she stole footage that would implicate the philanthropist and CEO of dynaco, a wall street financial firm, harry ebbing in the crimes as well as the son of a new york senator, david schultz, from the man trafficking her. she also reveals that she was in touch with a social worker in new york city and planned to expose the information to her. the man she was staying with was trying to leave the trafficking ring and kidnapped her to bring with him, and she planned on stealing the flash drive to escape on her own after her friend died in the process of trying to expose the footage to said social worker.

while on the run with amy, the two finally stop at a motel in albany, where frank seeks to divulge more information from amy and tells her his real identity. while amy sleeps and frank watches over her to figure out their next move, police cruisers approach the room and demand to come inside. before frank can think to answer, they shoot up the hotel room in a spray of bullets, barely giving frank time to cover amy to protect her. the two of them play dead on the floor when the officers enter the room, which is when frank surprises the officers by shooting them with a gun hidden under the bed while amy hides in a nearby closet. they leave the scene of the crime. from there, several new york state police unions as well as the commissioner of the nypd denounce the punisher as a cop-killer and start a state-wide manhunt. he is also accused of kidnapping amy bendix.

the two consider crossing the border while frank thinks to call dinah, who is the SAC of the new york homeland field office. at first, she refuses his call, but locates the two of them from frank’s cell signal and flies to them via helicopter once she sees the reports about the manhunt for the punisher on television. she takes them back to new york to stay with her to work with frank and amy once she realizes the value of the information amy possesses. while dinah urges frank to stay put for his and amy’s own safety, he leaves her apartment to find more information. after spending a day looking for intel on traffickers in the area, frank finally comes back to ask amy for the social worker’s name from amy after getting nowhere. she reveals her name is jen cooke, a social worker and lecturer. frank sits in on one of her lecturers and follows her into her office, where he gives her the flash drive. after some reluctance, and driven by her own frustration at the inaction of the nypd and corruption clearly from a level above her pay grade. she has also been threatened multiple times, including via snuff footage sent to her that included amy’s murdered friend. frank tells her that once he finds whatever kids that may be captive, he’ll bring them to her, and pursues the names she gives him - first, he starts with a russian diplomat who’s staying in a hotel nearby. frank kidnaps him with amy’s help and from there, they get the address of a house in brooklyn where the girls are kept. frank sends amy back to dinah’s place and goes on his own.

meanwhile, dinah looks into ebbing and schultz on her own and ends up, much to her dismay, faced with similar roadblocks as with the kandahar investigation. she is approached by brett mahoney who immediately suspects her as having something to do with frank castle. the two of them work begrudgingly together as brett is the only man in his unit who remotely is interested in the truth surrounding the punisher manhunt.that is when brett and dinah are approached by jen cooke while at the precinct together, who tells them frank told her to see mahoney for protection and about how she’d told frank about the house’s location. dinah realizes what frank’s done and brings jen back to her place along with brett, only to find only amy there. dinah convinces brett not to call for back-up about the house, who is only convinced due to the nature of the footage dinah finally has a chance to watch herself along with brett for the first time. it’s brett who immediately recognizes schultz and ebbing, and it is dinah who recognizes william rawlins.

meanwhile, frank prepares for a total ambush on the house in brooklyn, and has sent amy to go back to dinah’s place. he manages to kill the men inside and keeps one alive for information. it’s there that he finds a group of young girls and boys, varying in age but mostly teenagers, and escorts them outside, where dinah and brett are waiting. frank insists they leave without him and they do, to bring them back to dinah’s place where jen is also hiding. after frank tortures information about the video and the other traffickers out of the man he keeps alive, he sets him on fire to burn to death. as he drives away, a mercenary hired by ebbing known only as barracuda shoots at his tires and sends frank crashing into a ditch, where he barely manages to pull himself out. after a brutal fight, barracuda beats frank to a pulp, and frank only manages to get away but gouging out barracuda’s eye with a knife. completely worn down, frank calls curtis before passing out in the middle of the road and wakes up on dinah’s couch, with curtis, dinah, amy surrounding him.

frank tells dinah about the corruption and complicity from within the nypd and the location of schultz’ wife’s office, where she runs her operations out of. dinah informs him about rawlins and ebbing. dinah instantly recognizes barracuda’s name, as he is a widely known mercenary in the intelligence community wanted for multiple atrocities, which is only an added complication to their issue. however, dinah and brett have both managed to arrange for a warrant to be issued for ebbing’s arrest. after recuperating in dinah’s place briefly, frank leaves to pursue schultz’ wife and curtis takes amy to safety with him.

after frank plows through schultz’ wife’s office, he tortures her to death. as predicted, barracuda is there in the wake of the carnage, where he and frank fight again. meanwhile, the nypd arrest ebbing and schultz, and the two of them are kept in holding cells amid a media frenzy. frank gets the upper hand on barracuda until barracuda slams his face against a desk corner, effectively also gouging out of one frank’s eyes. he stabs frank in the stomach two times until frank shoots him. as the cops arrive, barracuda escapes, leaving frank to be taken into police custody at the hospital. it’s there that david lieberman arrives, impersonating foggy nelson, revealing that the entire time the punisher manhunt has occurred that he’s kept a distance, but could no longer ignore it when the news of his arrest circulated on the local news. the two manage to arrange a power outage and for frank’s escape with dinah’s help, and it’s together that they get the news that ebbing was found murdered in his holding cell before further information could be had and schultz is nowhere to be found.

completely frustrated, the three of them contemplate their next move. that’s when they decide to expose the footage as well as the footage of kandahar to all to finally incriminate rawlins and uncover the conspiracies that have linked the three of them since the beginning. david releases both onto the deep web. while the public comes to terms with the footage, dinah, who has now become as public of an icon as frank, steps down from her role as SAC of the new york homeland office and becomes acting SAC of the new york FBI field office, where she also is able to be closer to billy russo, whose public shaming and scapegoating has now become such public knowledge that there is a movement for him to receive clemency. brett declines to arrest frank, who has become an internationally known icon and whose name is partially cleared, and steps down from the NYPD. with curtis’ help, frank sends amy to diving school in florida, leaving he and david to work together once more to track down schultz in canada, where frank kills him and returns to new york. now, he has fully accepted and embraced his role as the punisher and is left to reconsider what exactly his role should be as a very wide variety of people start to idolize him as a hero figure.

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unworthys​.

the duct tape comment does get a baffled smile out of him as he dutifully plasters overs the cut over frank’s eyebrow with an R2-D2 band-aid, if not a laugh.

“it’s a wonder you’re alive. now stop moving and let me see that.” frank’s pliant enough with bone-deep exhaustion that despite the fact that he’s a marine-turned-killing machine with forty pounds of muscle on him, gabriel doesn’t have too hard a time maneuvering him back onto the pew and taking away the towel. his side doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, but he doesn’t trust it to stay that way at this rate. “hold still another minute. i can’t do much, but i can at least get that dressed.”

already he knows that cleaning away the blood soaking through frank’s shirt is more than he can do with a plain towel, so as anxiety-inducing as it is to leave him out of sight again, he does it—comes back with a bowl of warm water (and a bottle from the pantry for later) and gets to work. he pushes up the t-shirt just enough to expose the wound completely and wipes away what he can of the drying blood streaked across the firm, pale muscle of frank’s stomach.

it feels a step more—not perverse, but more of an overstep than all the rest, but he does it as dispassionately as he’s able—imagines himself irene of rome, tending to the bloodied body of saint sebastian.

he knows his cleaning and dressing is far from adequate, but it’s a few steps above duct tape, and as long as frank actually stays still, it should hold through the night.

“—ortiz,” he finishes belatedly. his name’s on the website; frank could look him up at any point as it is. “gabriel ortiz. —and i doubt i’m going to be sleeping tonight whether i’m here or not, so i may as well keep an eye on you.”

he sits back, takes off his last bloody pair of gloves and hands frank the bottle of water.

“here. you’re probably dehydrated by now.”

frank stills his body completely on command without comment. the air is cool when it hits his damp skin and the warm water stings when gabriel starts cleaning, causing frank to shudder only minutely. otherwise, he grits his teeth and has to look away, the sight of gabriel so close to such a vulnerable area laid bare apparently unbearable. he’s never been the modest type and yet, this shit feels on the edge of too much. maybe it’s in the same way predators hate vulnerability, the way cats hate being touched on the stomach. that’s believable enough. 

he lets out an exhale when gabriel’s finally away from him, fingers loosening their vice grip on the edge of the old wood pews. he only adjusts to let the back of the pew support his weight, exhaling as his head lolls against it. uncomfortable, but he could still fall asleep sitting up like this. his eyes remain open, watching as gabriel cleans his hands and imagines him in the midst of whatever rituals it is priests partake in. shame he ain’t catholic. 

‘ - thanks, father, ’ he says belatedly, reaching for the bottle of water. he chugs half of it in one sip, water spilling over his chin. that’s when he sets it aside, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he glances back at him. ‘ i appreciate your - watchful eye, or whatever. you uh, you got a better bedside manner than any nurse or doctor i know. ’ 

that’s when frank smiles, finally, restrained as it is. 

‘ you live here? in the church, i mean, ’  just a touch blundering, he adds, like it explains everything, ‘ see, i’m jewish, so - ’ 

[dispatched-a]

nightmove​.

amada cocks her head, amused by the initial formality of his tone. it’s totally at odds with his disheveled appearance, the wrinkles in his once-starched button down being the least of it. the bruising and swelling on his face would fit better on a fighter out of the romero family’s matches. in fact, she almost has him pegged for a boxer on a break before his introduction contradicts her.

her brows raise slightly at the realization that he is a soldier, newly returned from war. discounting the few distant cousins who joined the coast guard or the reserves, respect for the nation’s troops was never a high priority in amada’s household. sixto’s philosophy on the matter is cut and dry : only suckers would stick their necks out for a government that couldn’t give less of a shit about them. she hasn’t had the chance to discuss the topic with her father, but she imagines that from behind the bars of his penitentiary cell, he would agree.

adverse to frank’s vocation as she might be, it isn’t part of her job description to challenge him. on the contrary, she is here to be a soothing presence, flattering him into a higher bill by the night’s end. she loosens her posture to give him the idea that she isn’t going anywhere. instead of holding her platter high, she clutches it’s sides and rests it’s edge against the front of her ribcage. ❛ a military man — i should’ve known. no one else here would have the good manners to call me ma'am. ❜

her smile softens, and she chuckles as though there is some joke only they are in on. ❛ well, frank, welcome home. you shouldn’t let this place intimidate you. we’re here to impress you, not the other way around. ❜ were it not for the stories she’s heard of returned soldiers jumping at the faintest touch, she might reach down and playful poke his shoulder. ❛ you know, there are prob'bly plenty of girls downstairs who would thank you for your service with a dance. ❜

she’s laying it on thick, she knows. but her tone is as welcoming as an old friend’s, and she always keeps in mind that a couple will stay longer to order drinks than a single man.

‘ - yeah. ’  

frank’s head cocks as he watches her. it’s usually customary everywhere he goes - it’s why he usually hates talking about it, the marines, or being a vet at all. most places usually peg him for one right away but he hates that thank you for your service shit. always has. he regrets telling amada about it, suddenly, surprised with himself because normally he doesn’t give a shit what anyone anywhere has to say. he remembers then that he doesn’t remember the last time he’s actually opened his mouth to talk civilly with anyone, and maybe that’s all this is. 

his eyes warm a little as his head shakes, pulling his glass of scotch to his lips. it goes down so smooth that his eyes almost water, so unlike the swill he usually sticks to. 

‘ thank you, m - amada, ’ frank says, ‘ - i think i’m good up here. guess i ain’t too much of a people person and - hey, y’know, you’re impressing me enough tonight. ’ 

he glances up at her once more with a crooked sort of smile, keeping her gaze. flattery’s never quite gotten him anywhere, with his big nose and ears and rough edges, and he doesn’t quite intend for it to this time. he’s got a role to play and so does amada who holds onto the heavy-looking tray like she’s standing at attention. 

‘ - if  you recommend me something on the menu, i’ll get it, ’ he offers,  instead of whatever contrived question that comes to mind about sixto cisnero and the management of this place. last thing he needs is for anyone here to close up thinking he’s a cop, which seems worse than knowing the actual truth, now that he considers that possibility. he also considers the fact that he can’t quite seem to read amada yet either, and hopes for the best. ‘ either menu. why not. ’ 

[dispatched-a]

i know frank castle is a bad person but consider this: the serotonin rush from watching him brutally murdering pedophiles... like this human trafficker from the slavers,,,

[dispatched-a]

nightmove​.

@dispatched 

❛ hey, baby. ❜

amada approaches the cocktail lounge table nearest the back wall with a thousand-watt smile plastered onto her face. it had taken years of practice to make such an expression look natural, rather than like a grotesque manipulation of her naturally subdued features. she balances a platter holding one neat scotch on her left palm. her other hand rests on her waist, creating a walk most men find quite appetizing. 

❛ yennifer just finished her shift. i'ma be taking care of you from here on out, okay ? ❜

she makes quick and elegant work out of replacing her patron’s empty glass with a full one. all the while, she makes sure their gazes remain locked together, hers sparkling and his … less so. come to think of it, it’s odd that a man should escape upstairs alone at this time of night. usually, they arrive at the cocktail lounge with a woman from the dance floor on their arms, or at least a gaggle of other men to rowdily laugh with. she wonders whether his solitude is the result of too few drinks.

❛ my name’s amada. ❜ she explains with a wink, ❛ that means beloved. what’s yours ? ❜

the discomfort he feels somewhere like little caribe doesn’t quite dissipate with the way amada smiles down at him, but it manages to help, somewhat. frank couldn’t fit in somewhere less than he does here, even stuffed in a suit with his tie loosened like he belongs. all of that is a ruse, if his black and blue face and broken nose don’t say enough. 

‘ thank you, ma’am, ’ frank says gruffly, offering a subdued smile of his own. her hair seems to glitter in the glowing light from above, and he wonders if she did that herself or if that’s just all in his head. his face warms up and he’s grateful amada can’t quite see the worst of it in the neon light at the word beloved.

while the staff seem so busy with the ebb and flow of the massive club, she seems to hone in on him and him alone. that part is for sure all in his fucking head, but it simultaneously doesn’t make him anxious about being caught. and, with all of the names in his head, frank offers over the increasing volume of reggaeton from an excited dj below, ‘ - frank. first time here,’ he admits, like it isn’t obvious, and keeps talking as filler but also to be less suspicious than he must already appear to be, ‘ - i - don’t usually go out like this, y’know. wasn’t too long ago i got discharged, so - wanted to give this place a try. it’s fancier than the shitholes i’m used to. ’