houndofsevenhells - Tumblr blog

houndofsevenhells · 4 days ago

Text

“Part 4—Ain’t Dead Yet” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)

“Loose Cannons—A Series”

SUMMARY — When you—the sharpshooting cousin of the Dixon brothers—join the Atlanta camp, tensions arise and changes creep in. Daryl begins to step out of Merle’s shadow, and Merle struggles with the possibility of redemption. Shane sees another Dixon as a threat, Rick—as an opportunity. Now, survival isn’t just about the walkers.

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Thank you so much for all your comments! In all honesty I keep trying to make the plot all about feelings and shit… and then these characters just decide to run head first into fire.

WORD COUNT — 4,190

Masterlist

Shane stood at the edge of what was left of the camp, arms crossed over his chest. He watched as the remaining survivors scrambled to pack what little they could salvage. They were on the move again. Even more people had split by now. The Dixons, however, were still here—because of course they were—and Shane took that personally.

Merle leaned against his bike like a lazy panther, barking orders at Daryl while you adjusted the straps on your pack.

“RV’s loaded,” Dale announced to Shane, wiping motor oil from his hands with an already stained handkerchief. “She ain’t pretty, but now she’ll run like a dream.”

The old man shot a wary glance toward Merle, who was currently arguing with Daryl over how many guns they could fit in the saddlebags.

“Goddamn fools,” Shane spat out. That bike was too loud, too reckless—everything about your family was.

He watched as you slung your bow over your shoulder, then swung your leg over the back of Merle’s bike like you’d done it a thousand times before. Hell, you probably had.

“Quit dawdlin’, little brother, or we leave ya behind!” Merle complained, to which Daryl just gave him the finger. Merle grinned and replied with the same.

Daryl’s truck might have seen better days, but he was very particular about his belongings. He wouldn’t be rushed.

“Y’ good?” Merle turned to you. “Damn girl, still knee-high to a grass hopper, ain’t ya?”

“Nuh-huh, I ain’t!” you huffed, but Merle just cackled and revved the engine.

Shane’s head snapped up, his glare burning holes in both of you, but it was Rick who finally sighed and walked over.

“Merle, you keep that throttle quiet till we’re clear,” he warned, though there was no real heat in it. He hesitated, then looked at you. “And you just… try not to piss him off more’n he already is.”

Your gaze cut to Shane, then back to Rick. You leaned back, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “Maybe if he quits spewin’ that crazy talk of his, we might just not have that trouble no more.”

The smirk on Merle’s face was pure devilment. “Aw, ain’t this a damn shame,” he drawled, loud enough for Shane to hear. “All this teamwork, just to wind up tail-’tween-the-legs again.”

Rick shook his head, then picked up his pack, his voice carrying just enough to settle the murmurs of the group:

“We’re moving out! Everyone stick close. Keep your eyes open.”

The convoy lurched forward without further ado, with Dale’s RV in the front—the engine was no longer wheezing like an asthmatic, this time she was riding almost proudly.

The bike’s engine roared as you peeled out, kicking up dust behind you while Merle whooped like a madman in front of you.

His bike surged forward and you let out a surprised laugh, then raised both hands, grinning like the world wasn’t ending. Just for a second, the sheer speed of it made everything feel lighter.

Shane kicked his Jeep into gear and followed the rest. For a moment he watched you and Merle from the rearview mirror, his reflection grim. Finally he deliberately skewed the mirror to point it anywhere else.

Didn’t help. He could still hear that damn family—you—even when the bike vanished around a bend.

For miles and miles, the road stretched ahead and the convoy rumbled on, chasing the dream of safety that would probably never come true.

Merle kept pace with Daryl’s truck, close enough to see him roll his eyes at his brother’s antics. Daryl’s window was down, his arm resting on the doorframe, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the metal.

“Keep showin’ off,” he called over the engine noise, “gonna run outta gas ‘fore noon.”

Merle just grinned wider and revved the engine in response, making the bike lurch forward before easing back. The wind whipped at your clothes, carrying the scent of fumes and heated asphalt.

For all the bullshit back at camp, this moment felt almost normal—like the old days when the three of you would ride through the backroads with no destination in mind.

Now and again, Shane watched Merle’s bike swerve across the road’s center line, kicking up gravel that pinged against his car. At least Shane drove alone and could swear as much as he wanted.

From time to time, Shane’s Jeep rumbled a few yards behind, close enough that you could feel the weight of his glare. But when you looked his way, he was always staring straight ahead.

“Man’s gonna burn a hole through our backs if he keeps that up,” you muttered, half-amused, but kept quiet since Shane was also driving with the windows down.

Merle had no such qualms. “Let ‘im! Man’s got shit taste in entertainment.”

Daryl shot you both a look that said—Knock it off before someone gets shot, but the corner of his mouth still quirked up.

Finally, Rick’s voice crackled through the radio static in the other vehicles:

“Stick close. The farm’s just up ahead—let’s hope it’s still abandoned.”

Soon after, your destination came into view. At first glance, the old farm looked empty and dilapidated. The fence had fallen down in places and the gate hung on the last remaining hinge.

You could see an old farmhouse and a barn somewhere in the distance, along with a rusted water tower. The land around it was vast and empty, the corn crops completely dried down and covered with weeds. But no people. No walkers. For now.

The bike’s engine growled as Merle slowed to a crawl, his boots dragging through the dust to slow down. His eyes swept over the property with a grimace. “Well ain’t this a fuckin’ paradise,” he muttered, squinting at the sagging house in the distance.

Daryl pulled up alongside, his truck idling as he leaned out the window to scan the tree line. “Fence ain’t worth shit,” he said flatly. His fingers drummed against the door, restless. “Barn might hold, though. Seen worse.”

“Yeah, it might hold walkers,” you murmured.

“Most likely. But ain’t no smoke ‘round neither,” Daryl muttered. “Yeah, that don’t mean shit though.”

Shane’s truck rolled up beside you, window down, his glare cutting sideways. “Real smart, blazing ahead like that. Coulda been an ambush.”

Daryl leaned out his window, spitting into the dirt. His eyes flicked back to the farmhouse, scanning the darkened windows. “Place looks picked clean.”

The other cars and vans slowly pulled to a stop behind you, but you were already focused on the property.

“Alright, we do this real careful.” Rick was already out of the car, leaving Lori and Carl inside. “Daryl, Shane, with me up front. Rest of you keep eyes on that barn and the tree line.” His tone left no room for argument, though Merle’s scoff was audible over the idling engines.

Shane racked the slide of his shotgun, the sound deliberate and sharp. “Told ya we shoulda scouted first,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone, but his glare slid sideways to where you stood with your bow half-drawn.

Then, something grabbed your attention and you shielded your eyes from the sun with your palm, looking at that damn house.

“Stop.” You readied your bow, looking through the scope. You didn’t miss how it immediately made Shane roll his eyes. That man didn’t trust you one bit. “That barn door’s movin’.”

“Well hell,” Merle drawled, pulling out his pistol. “Guess we found where the welcome party’s hidin’.”

Rick was already moving forward, his footsteps measured and quiet. “Daryl, take left side. Shane, right. Merle—” He paused, clearly fighting the urge to tell him to stay put. But then his eyes flicked to you and you decided to cut the man some slack. So far, Rick was alright.

“We don’t shoot nobody who ain’t already dead,” you said, but couldn’t honestly tell if that eased any of Rick’s worries.

You didn’t miss the way Shane's shoulders stiffened when you brushed past him. For a moment you thought he at least wouldn’t bother to bicker at a time like this. But no. If Shane Walsh had anything, it was the audacity. And bad timing.

“You so much as twitch wrong, I’ll put you down before you blink.”

You glanced at him, smirking. “Yeah, I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t ya?”

Shane’s jaw clenched. “This ain’t a damn game, woman. You pull some reckless stunt here, people die. That simple.”

“Hell, listen to Sergeant Scowls over here,” Merle scoffed, then advanced with the look of a man who’d walked into situations much more dire than whatever this was.

You looked at Shane, thought hard about your next move, then decided against another sparring. You could see that left him even angrier, but you had no time for analyzing the man’s issues.

You moved to the side, then caught Merle’s gaze and jerked a thumb over your shoulder. Merle grinned and nodded.

“The fuck’s that s’posed to mean?” Shane grimaced.

You took the higher position, keeping your bow half-drawn and your eyes on the shifting barn door.

Daryl had already melted into the overgrown corn stalks to your right, his crossbow ready. To the right, Shane finally got a grip and now moved with that same rigid cop movement you’d seen before.

Then the barn door creaked open just enough to reveal a flash of someone inside. Your fingers tightened on the bowstring and you looked through the scope. Rick moved to the right side of the door, he gave Shane some tactical cop signal and Shane nodded in agreement.

Then, something clanked in that barn and your breath hitched, catching the deliberate way the figure lingered in the shadowed gap. Daryl noticed it too.

“Ain’t a walker!” Daryl shouted, then you dropped down on the ground when a shotgun fired somewhere in your vicinity.

You didn’t hesitate, as soon as you rose up you let that arrow fly. It embedded itself in the barn door, right next to that slight opening.

Someone inside yelped, then Rick’s voice cut through the tension:

“Hold fire! Everybody just hold!”

The shotgun blast still rang in your ears as the dust settled. Shane’s breath came fast through his nose, his shotgun still raised toward the barn where your arrow now protruded from the wood.

“Goddammit,” he growled, not lowering his weapon, “who the hell’s sneaking around in there?!” His eyes flicked to Daryl just long enough to scowl—part disapproval, part begrudging acknowledgment that he’d been right.

“Come on out!” Rick called, voice firm but not hostile. “We’re armed, but we don’t want trouble.” The shadow in the barn shifted again, and a thin voice—young, scared—filtered out:

“Don’t shoot! We ain’t sick!”

A lanky teenage girl stepped haltingly into the light, hands raised, face pale under the grime. Behind her, the dim interior revealed a huddle of figures—two more kids, and an older woman clutching a rusted tire iron like a club. Their clothes hung loose, their eyes wide with the same wary exhaustion you’d seen in every other survivor since the world burned.

Shane’s grip on his shotgun didn’t waver, but his scowl turned into something more complicated. “Christ,” he muttered.

Rick was already holstering his weapon and stepping forward, but you stayed alert. Something about this whole set-up stunk. You looked around and moved closer to Merle, Daryl following.

Merle spat in the dirt, unimpressed. He holstered his pistol with exaggerated slowness, until your hand snatched to his wrist. You shook your head slowly. You didn’t lower your bow—not yet.

“You alone out here?” Rick asked that scrawny girl and she almost replied something—until your eyes darted to her, sharper than broken glass.

The kid didn’t turn to the old woman or the kids. She looked straight to the cornfield.

“Rick, they ain’t alone!” you shouted, swiftly grabbing that teenager in a half-nelson. The girl shrieked, but she didn’t have much strength.

Rick shouted something and so did Shane—but the latter didn’t look too bothered. Probably since he thought this would finally be his excuse to put you down.

The other kids shrieked in panic and the old woman nearly raised that tire iron at you—but Merle’s gun pointed to the girl’s head quickly trumped any other argument.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?!” Rick shouted again, but you looked up to the field, making sure whoever was out there saw who you were holding at gunpoint.

“Someone shot at me,” you snarled. “Ya seein’ any weapons with them bunch?!”

Rick followed your gaze, but not without you noticing that look on his face—the look that meant he just realised how exactly you managed to survive on your own until you reached Atlanta.

Daryl’s gaze was scanning the field, where the cornstalks stirred just a little too deliberately in the windless air.

Then—

“Don’t shoot!”

Four men emerged from the corn.

“Daddy!” The girl was crying, but you didn’t give a shit.

The men moved cautiously, their weapons lowered but not relinquished—a farmer’s rifle, a battered machete, some tools-turned-desperate-defense. That didn’t make you feel any particular pity.

The leader, a haggard man with sun-leathered skin and hollow eyes, took a halting step forward, hands raised. “Ain’t no need for that,” he said, voice cracking. “Just let my girl go.”

Your grip didn’t loosen. You let out a warning sound, like a dog trained not to bite—unless given reason.

To your surprise, Shane wasn’t playing a good cowboy anymore, not like Rick. His face was a picture of pure disgust and his shotgun remained pointed on the newcomers.

“The hell kinda trap you tryin’ to pull here?!” His glare moved between the barn and the field. “Kids as bait? That your play?”

You tightened your grip on the squirming teenager, Merle pressed the pistol harder against her temple. The girl whimpered, her breath coming in shallow hitches.

“Ya wanna test me, pops?” you shouted at the farmer, voice cold. “Y’all stay where you’re at!”

Daryl’s crossbow stayed level, his stare locked onto the farmer. “We ain’t jokin’,” he snarled. “So if there’s more of yous in that fuckin’ corn there, ya better tell ‘em to come out. Now.”

The farmer flinched. Behind him, his companions shifted uneasily, eyes darting between you and the other armed survivors. That gave you pause. Their body language was all off. Like they made peace with death a long time ago.

The stand-off stretched—until Rick stepped forward.

“Nobody has to die today,” he said, voice calm and measured. “We’re just passing through. Need supplies, a place to rest.”

One of the men grimaced, but then his eyes flickered to you and your cousins. Rick might have been the good sheriff around town, but you three decidedly weren’t.

The farmer’s hands trembled slightly as he swallowed hard, eyes darting between you and Daryl’s crossbow. “Ain’t no more of us,” he rasped, throat dry. “Just the five. We been holed up here three weeks, barely scraping by. Thought y’all was raiders when we heard them engines.”

He looked to the barn, where the old woman still clutched her makeshift weapon, the children behind her peering out with wide, haunted eyes.

Then, lo and behold, Shane Walsh opened his mouth and something sensible came out:

“Bullshit. Nobody lasts three weeks without fortifying this dump.” He spat in the dirt, not lowering his shotgun an inch. “You expect us to believe you just let walkers wander right up to your door every night?”

Rick let out a tortured sigh. “We don’t want your supplies. Just temporary shelter.” His eyes shifted in your direction. “We got women and kids with us too. There’s a good distance between your house and that top o’ the hill there. Nobody needs to get hurt here.”

But you weren’t having it. This whole situation here still stunk somethin’ fierce and you were getting annoyed at these two cops not seeing it.

Well, one of them. This time Shane actually managed not to piss you off.

“Rick,” you said, voice rough. “Ya don’t know the ways o’ life ‘tween folk like us.” Your smile was more predator than human. “But I do. An’ us backwater fucks always got more guns stashed.” You studied the farmer’s face and chuckled when you read everything you wanted to know. “Uh-huh. Ain’t that right, pops? Y’all better tell us who’s hidin’ in them bushes ya keep lookin’ at an’ who’s got all your guns stashed. Right now!”

The farmer’s face drained of what little color it had left. Rick’s patience finally snapped.

He rounded on you, his frustration boiling over. “You want to start a goddamn firefight with children in the crossfire?! That your idea of smart?”

“Shut it.” You weren’t really listening to Rick’s preaching. “I’m savin’ your soft fuckin’ ass.”

Yours were two completely different ideas of survival, this much was plain. But being cold is what kept you alive so far and you weren’t expecting a cop to understand that.

You looked back at the old man, then at the other three in a long and silent stand-off, and it finally hit you.

“Oh, hells!” you hissed. “They ain’t scared of us. Ain’t ya?”

One of the other farmers gave you a once over. Sharper this time. No longer resigned. Slowly, reluctantly he and his companions exchanged looks.

“Radio the camp,” you whispered to Rick. “Just do it. Guns out, no fuckin’ kumbaya. There’s someone else ‘ere threatenin’ them folks.”

“What?” Rick looked at you like you were crazy.

Shane’s grip on his shotgun shifted. “I told y’all it’s a fuckin’ ambush!” he muttered under his breath, the realization sharpening his voice.

His stance widened slightly as he caught onto your train of thought.

Rick started to protest, but Shane cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Wake the fuck up, Rick! It’s a fuckin’ 10-79. These people ain’t jumpy enough. They ain’t negotiating. Someone’s got ‘em by the short hairs.”

So Rick radioed the camp. And Shane was back to looking pissed off again—probably at you, if you had to guess. Because he was forced to agree with you.

“Sh!” you whispered to the girl. “I ain’t gonna lay a finger on ya. Stop squirmin’.”

Merle let out a low grumble, then slowly put his gun down. You let the girl go and she ran to her father in tears. You had no time to examine your feelings about that.

You looked at Rick again, his face a mask of exasperation and confusion.

“Someone’s threatenin’ them,” you said, very quiet. “Ain’t they? Just nod.”

Nobody moved for the longest time. But your eyes never left these four poor bastards. Finally, one of the men nodded, very slowly.

The old woman in the barn doorway took a hesitant step forward, her face a mask of quiet rage.

“They got my grandson,” she said, voice sharp like a whip. “Took him three days ago. Said they’d… they’d start cutting the pieces if we didn’t—” A rustle in the cornstalks cut her off, and she flinched hard.

“Well ain’t this a cozy little hellhole.” Merle’s smile was all teeth, but his eyes stayed on the corn field. “How many they got?”

Rick’s eyes snapped to Merle, surprised at the question.

“Too many,” the farmer admitted hoarsely. He turned to Rick, pleading. “They got a camp down the south ridge. Fifteen, maybe twenty. Armed. Been picking off stragglers, taking what they want.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They’ll be watching us right now.”

Shane exhaled through his nose, his finger resting alongside the shotgun’s trigger guard. “Son of a bitch.”

“Twenty o’ them? Bet they got food,” Merle remarked. “Ammo. Booze. I say we pay ‘em a visit, lighten their load. Call it a tax for pissin’ us off.”

Shane opted to ignore him. “Rick, you got a plan, or we just standing here with our dicks in our hands?”

The old woman hissed at the word choice, but the little kids seemed suddenly delighted at all the profanity.

Rick’s posture went rigid. For a moment he said nothing, then just shook his head, undecided.

A message through the radio came through. So far all clear.

“Now, when ya say ‘down the ridge,’ ya mean it’s really down there, right?” Merle asked the farmer. The man glared at him, then nodded curtly.

“What’re ya thinkin’?” Daryl looked at his brother, the crossbow no longer pointed at anyone in particular, but still slightly raised.

“Well, if they be campin’ downhill then we already know they ain’t smart,” Merle replied. “An’ if they’re looters, they got good shit stashed in one corner.”

Shane gave you three another look of pure disbelief. “Why’s Merle fuckin’ Dixon figurin’ out a strategy here, Rick?”

Merle chuckled dryly, then he turned to Rick. “Ain’t my fault y’all decided to make camp with a buncha wet blankets.”

“We don’t have enough people,” Rick said, voice rough and so goddamn tired.

“Bullshit, Sheriff.” Merle grinned. “It don’t matter with the numbers ‘n’ ya know it. They’re not expectin’ us, it’s still early. Which means they’re prolly drunk, in the middle of a fuck, or takin’ a dump.”

The old woman’s hands snapped to the nearest kid’s ears, but the rest of them definitely cheered up at the dump joke. You rolled your eyes.

Shane exhaled sharply through his nose at Merle’s revelation. “Bullshit. You expect us to believe you actually know how to go about this?”

“Bet he knows more than you,” you scoffed. “Sorry we ain’t got his fuckin’ uniform, we forgot it at home!”

“What fuckin’ uniform, what the hell are ya talkin ‘bout?”

“91E. Welder,” Merle replied, not without some satisfaction, because he could tell it got on Shane’s nerves. “Dishonorable discharge, if ya must know.”

“Yeah, that part don’t surprise me at all,” Shane spat to the side. “It’s still bulshit.”

“Christ almighty!” Daryl cut in. “Point is, they got the numbers, y’all don’t wanna get involved, that’s fine. But we ain’t safe to camp here! So we either leave now or get rid of ‘em looters, but if we leave any later, we’ll be ridin’ in the dark with no street lamps.”

Shane frowned, completely thrown off by the Dixons suddenly having good suggestions.

Meanwhile, Rick’s gaze swept between the farmers’ huddled group and the hill. “Even if we could take them, it’s not our fight. We set up on that hill, keep watch, move on at first light.” His tone left no room for debate, but Merle still let out a mocking grumble.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Real noble,” he drawled. “Alright. ‘T’s been a real pain ‘n the ass, folks. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Y’all really think these folk don’t come creepin’ into camp tonight to slit throats for kicks?” Daryl grunted.

“Christ, Rick, we can’t just—” Shane cut himself off with a sharp exhale, gaze darting between the trembling farmer’s family and his ex-partner. It was clear he wanted to get involved—he just didn’t want to say it.

You noticed by now that, for some reason, Shane didn’t play when it came to kids.

“You really think hightailing it up that hill makes us safe? I’m guessin’ whoever’s threatenin’ these people knows this land. We ain’t exactly got security to spare.”

The old woman stepped forward, her voice cracking. “My grandson, Jonah. He’s just twelve years old. Already has to live in a world like this, but now…”

She looked at Rick while she said it too, and you were almost impressed. The irony of her trying to humanise her grandson to the ex-cops like they were kidnappers wasn’t lost on you.

Merle spat in the dirt, rolling his shoulders like a pit-fighting dog ready to strike. “Twenty against… what, those of us who can actually shoot?” He chuckled. “Hell, I like them odds. ‘Specially if we hit ‘em ‘fore they finish that midday shit ‘n’ grab their stash.”

This time some of the kids giggled and you noticed Merle’s mouth twitch slightly upwards.

“So we leavin’?” Daryl asked Rick impatiently.

Rick still seemed morally conflicted and Daryl groaned. “Goddamn, we’re losin’ daylight!”

“Look,” you finally spoke up, “if these jackasses been pickin’ off folk for three weeks, they know every trail down there ‘tween here an’ our camp. You walk away, you’re invitin’ ‘em to tail us.”

“Hells,” Merle cut in. “That happens, these nice folks here will be all grinnin’ while they show us to them scavengers, won’t ya now?

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. You could still see how disturbed Shane was by this kidnapping. It was right there in his eyes—the hypocrite called you out on playing hero, while he couldn’t wait to jump into the fire for some kid.

“Do you really wanna explain to Lori why we left a raider pack at our doorstep?” Shane asked all of a sudden and you tried your damnedest not to smirk. Manipulative bastard.

Rick froze for a second, then finally exhaled and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Goddammit. Okay.”

Then, very reluctantly—

“You folks got a map?”

#shane walsh fanfiction #shane walsh x reader #dixon reader #daryl dixon #merle dixon #twd daryl #the walking dead fanfiction #twd fanfic

14 notes · View notes

houndofsevenhells · 4 days ago

Note

how do you become so well read?

by reading

40K notes · View notes

houndofsevenhells · 4 days ago

Text

My pleasure 🥰😆😆

“You Steal It, You Feed It” (Frank Castle x fem!Reader)

SUMMARY — Frank decided to retire in an inconspicuous apartment somewhere in Brooklyn. Well, as much as a man like him even could. Normally, he minded his business at all times. Except tonight.

Tonight, he actually was busy. Had business. But no, there you were, crouched on the fire escape at asshat o’clock in the goddamn morning, right in his way—with a duffel bag, bolt cutters, and a look on your face like you were about to commit a felony no matter what.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Please excuse any mistakes. English isn't my first language. Good god, making Frank Castle soft but grumpy is a challenge. I hope I pulled it off. But anyway, I wanted him to have a good time for once. Even if it's against his will.

WORD COUNT — 5,310

Masterlist

Right away, Frank knew you were gonna be a problem.

He clocked you a few months ago, as soon as he moved in. Top floor, lived alone, walked fast. Like someone used to watching her back. Smart.

But then—hoodie always up, headphones always in. Damn fucking stupid.

You weren’t the kind of delusional neighbor who baked cookies. Nah, unfortunately you were a whole lotta worse.

So far Frank had seen you do pilates on the roof at three a.m. (nevermind why he needed the roof at that hour, that was irrelevant).

Once, you spray-painted over a swastika in the stairwell and when he walked in on your little Joan Mitchell moment, you just looked him straight in the eye, without saying a word, and continued painting.

Just last week, you carried what he was pretty sure was a dirt-caked shovel through the lobby and the smile on your face suggested you had killed and buried your nemesis out the back.

Probably. He wouldn’t put it past you.

In all these instances, Frank didn’t ask. Frank didn’t care. He could only imagine whatever else you got up to all these times he didn’t run into you.

Except tonight. Tonight, he actually was busy. Had business. But no, there you were, crouched on the fire escape at asshat o’clock in the goddamn morning, right in his way—with a duffel bag, bolt cutters, and a look on your face like you were about to commit a felony no matter what.

He stayed in the shadows on the landing, watching you quietly. Holding a bag of gear much more illegal than whatever the hell you were doing to the window belonging to the neighbor from 3E.

Now, any other day of the week, Frank wouldn’t have any problem with you robbing the bastard blind. He wouldn’t have held the window open while you did it, but he would turn a blind eye.

Except the bastard living in 3E was mean. With the whole catalog of mean bastards he was used to dealing with, Frank felt himself something of an expert on the subject. The worst part, though, was how he treated that dog. Frank hadn’t liked it. But didn’t get involved. Promised himself this time around he would actually lay low.

Being witness to a woman getting her face eaten off by an angry pitbull, though, that was a whole other deal.

Just as he took a step down on the creaky metal stairs, the mutt inside the apartment started whining—which was surprising. Normally, it wouldn’t stop barking, hackles raised like it was about to murder everyone it saw.

But this?

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m not leaving you with the bad man,” he heard you cooing at the dog, then a strong smell of dog treats hit him.

Frank huffed. Unbelievable.

You were here for the damn dog.

He took another step.

“You got a plan for after that window opens?” he asked.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, which… Fair. He was big, rough, and way too close behind you. But then again, you should have been more careful.

You whipped around, the bolt cutters slipping from your grip with a loud clang against the fire escape. Your eyes were on him and even in the dark he could imagine how hard your heart must have been hammering. Yeah, well. There he was.

The dog inside let out a soft, eager whine, paws scratching at the glass. Frank frowned. Okay. That kind of behavior… No type of dog treats would get a hardened, beat up mutt whining like that for a complete stranger.

“You know that dog?” he asked, voice rough with lack of sleep.

“Uh…”

Smooth.

Frank didn’t move. Just tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to dig your own grave.

“Yeah. I mean—yeah, I got a plan,” you said. Way too quickly. “Shush!” That one was at the dog. Then, defensively, “I don’t know that dog.”

Frank exhaled through his nose, slow. Like he was counting to ten in his head. Mostly trying not to laugh. “You’re gonna get bit.”

Yeah, that one got you going. You lifted your chin, all defiant. “I know dogs.”

“Yeah, that one knows you, too.” Frank’s mouth twitched—not a smile, but something close to it. “He knows you’re dinner.”

Inside, the pitbull let out a low, eager whrrf, pressing its muzzle against the glass. Frank’s eyes narrowed, sharp, assessing.

You hesitated and that was the first smart thing from you all night. But then… You wouldn’t budge. He could practically see the gears turning in your head. Probably calculating whether he’d just let you get back to it.

“Okay then. You said your piece.”

Then, just like that, you went back to it.

Christ alive.

The metal lock groaned, but didn’t budge. “Dog has broken ribs. Kicks. Burns. You live here, you see this—” Your voice cracked, just for half a second. “And you do nothing. So the least you can do is don’t get in my way.”

Frank’s jaw tightened. That dark, simmering thing in his chest came back up to the surface—the one that hated men who hurt things smaller than them. But his voice stayed flat.

“So, you're what? Dognapping vigilante now?”

“Yeah. I got a costume and everythin’. Wanna see?” You didn’t back down. Oh no. You got jokes now.

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes he’s dealing with a very stubborn woman.

“Cute.” He stepped forward, boots heavy on the metal. The dog inside perked up, ears twitching at the sound. He could see it now—didn’t look so murderous at all. Like you charmed it or something.

“You got a leash in that bag? Or you plannin’ on carrying a seventy-pound pitbull down six flights in your arms?”

“I do pilates.”

That got him. Almost. His mouth twitched again, just for a second. Then he was back.

“Pilates,” he repeated, deadpan.

Yeah, okay. He knew that. Not that he had seen much.

“Yep. Core strength,” you chirped.

“Core strength.”

“What are you, my voicemail? Yes!”

His jaw tightened. You were absolutely not scared of him. Or that damn pitbull. What the hell was wrong with you?

“So. What kinda nightly escapades you got goin’ for you?” You jerked your chin toward his duffel. The one full of things you absolutely did not need to know about.

Frank’s eyes flickered to it—just once.

Then—

“Move.” He walked up to the window and picked up the bolt cutters, gripped the metal bars of the window with one hand, and—

Snap.

The lock gave way like it was nothing. The dog scrambled back, startled, growling at the strange big man.

“It’s okay, baby!” You pushed past Frank and as soon as the damn mutt saw you, it bolted right out that window. You barely caught it and Frank barely caught you.

When you looked back at him, still holding onto that dog for your dear life, your eyes were so full of fear that for a moment he got worried he hurt you instead of saving you. He stepped away like you were contagious.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly all quiet.

“Yeah.” His grip on your arm loosened, but didn’t let go just yet—like he was making sure you weren’t about to topple over with the dog in your arms. Well, you weren’t actually holding it, just the front part, but still.

The pitbull didn’t care. It licked your face, tail thumping hard against the fire escape. You laughed and closed your mouth, but that didn’t deter it one bit. That scarred thing, with jaws bigger than your head, was completely head over heels for you.

“Gonna name it?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Dogs need names.” Frank’s voice was gruff, but there was something underneath it, something almost... amused. Or maybe just resigned.

You looked down at the dog, then back up at him. “You got a suggestion?”

“No.” Frank’s mouth twitched. “But you gotta get that leash. Dog like him… People will judge.”

“Oh, I know.” You laughed. Then, slowly, you unzipped your criminal duffel to reveal—yep. A leash. A proper harness. A roll of gauze. And, Jesus Christ, more treats.

Frank stared. “You planned this.”

“What are you, a dog lawyer?” You grinned. Again. “Told you I had a plan.”

“Dog lawyer. Jesus.” He shook his head. “Plan’s still stupid.”

“Stupid gets the job done sometimes,” you shot back, fastening the harness around the dog’s broad chest with practiced ease.

Okay. You weren’t lying. You did know dogs.

The pitbull—now your pitbull, apparently—leaned into your touch, tail wagging hard enough to shake that whole fire escape.

Frank watched, arms crossed. “Gonna be a problem when he notices his dog’s gone.” His eyes flickered towards the bathroom window.

You snorted, standing up straight. “Dude’s not gonna do shit. I mean,” you hesitated, then attached the leash to the harness. “He might. But I won’t be here to see it.”

You sighed and then looked at Frank, that same easy smile. “Listen. Thank you. I’d be a splatter of jam way down over there if it weren’t for you.”

Frank just grunted. Not a “thank you guy”, clearly. But he didn’t walk away either, just watched as you adjusted the leash, fingers checking the buckles like you’d done it a hundred times before. But what the hell did he know, maybe you did. Seems he was learning a lot tonight and it was only four a.m.

The dog leaned against your leg, panting, happy. Frank’s gaze dropped to it. “Gonna take it where?”

You shrugged, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Got a… Rough idea.” A pause.

Frank’s jaw flexed. He didn’t say anything. But he reached down—slow, deliberate—and let the dog sniff his knuckles. The pitbull stepped back and you grabbed that leash tighter. But then it gave Frank a tentative sniff anyway.

“Hey, do you know how to drive?” You asked and Frank regretted asking any follow-up questions. Serves him right.

“No,” he lied immediately.

“Really?” You made a face. “You don’t look like the kinda guy who takes the subway.”

His eyes narrowed, sharp. “What, you think I can’t take the subway?”

“Oh. No, I mean… I mean, you can do whatever, I guess.”

Frank sighed, praying for patience. “Where do you wanna go?”

Your face brightened like a switch flipped. But you didn’t say anything either, which was… worrying.

Christ, he was tired. Why did he even leave the house?

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Lemme guess. You’re gonna walk a stolen pitbull with a rapsheet across Brooklyn at four in the goddamn morning.”

Your smile didn’t falter. “It’s only like four boroughs.”

Frank stared.

You didn’t blink. That damn little smirk.

“You got five seconds to tell me this place ain’t in Staten Island,” Frank finally muttered.

“Wouldn't do that to you,” you said, all innocence, like you didn’t get on his nerves on purpose. “It’s in Queens.”

“Uh-huh.”

“God’s honest. If you hate it halfway, I’ll get out and we’ve officially never met.” But then you leaned in. Grinning still. “Frank Castle.”

His head snapped toward you. Eyes angry, an ugly grimace on his face. “Who told you that name?”

But damn it all… You didn’t even flinch.

“I grew up with angry men in my house,” you said casually, scratching the dog behind the ear. “You’re gonna have to try better than that.”

Frank exhaled long through his nose. Didn’t say anything. Calculated real careful.

His voice dropped lower, rougher. “You don’t know what you’re playing at.”

“Relax, I don’t give a shit,” you paused. “If I did, wouldn’t I have ratted you out months ago?”

That… That actually made sense. But he still wouldn’t trust you as far he could throw—

No, scratch that. He could probably bench press you with one hand if he wanted.

“Well, if you have to know,” you sauntered over to him, even though he very much didn’t have to know shit. “You get mail and you let it overflow in the box sometimes. And then, you got a damn feisty mugshot. Or five. And a rapsheet the length of my grandma’s garden hose.”

A heavy pause fell between you.

“The fuck do you want then?” There was a hard set to his mouth, as if swallowing back a whole lotta anger.

“A ride to Queens. Please.”

His eyes narrowed, sharp.

“Truck's down the block.” Then he turned around and started walking.

You hesitated—just for a second—before trotting after him, dog in tow. “My, my, so he doesn’t take the subway.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah.” But you were grinning. Like you’d won something.

You walked up to his car. Frank didn’t look at you. Just muttered, “Get in. And you—” He pointed at the dog. Then he forgot what he wanted to say in the first place. So he just started the car.

Frank felt twenty years older just by putting himself through it all.

He put the car into gear, stubbornly silent. Except:

“Fuckin’ Queens…”

You didn’t say anything, just cooed at the damn dog. The car passed something like ten blocks and you still didn’t say a word. Frank was getting unsettled. He should be relieved, some people couldn’t sit two minutes without yapping. But this was weird.

He glanced at you with that dog from time to time, amazed there still wasn’t any blood. That damn thing could probably take out a man’s jugular in two seconds flat, but right now it was panting and letting you kiss it on the forehead.

Frank studied you—really studied you—and decided he had to update his initial assessments. He remembered the way you didn’t even flinch when he loomed, how relaxed your shoulders were for someone standing within the choking distance of the Punisher. That sharp little edge in your voice, like you didn’t care one bit if you made him snap. Fuck.

You weren’t just some ditsy girl, but if not then what the hell were you?

The silence stretched, heavy. It seemed retirement dulled his instincts.

“You’re not scared.” He didn’t phrase it like a question.

You glanced up, surprised. “Of what? You?”

“Me. The dog. Commitin’ felony theft at four in the morning.”

“I’ve done worse.”

Frank’s eyes cut to you. “Bullshit.”

But see, you didn’t deny. Or elaborate. Usually, people argued when challenged. You just leaned your head against the window, watching the city blur past.

The quiet settled again. Not tense this time, just... different.

Frank exhaled through his nose. “You gonna be a problem?”

“Not if you don’t blab on me.”

Frank didn’t smile. But he still drove you to goddamn Queens.

“Where to now?” he grumbled, looking around the area like this was a war zone and he expected trouble any second.

You gave him a more specific address. It was a quiet street, mostly with old houses and backyards in a varying state of messy.

“There.” You pointed to one such house and Frank just made the turn, then parked the car and killed the engine.

The house might’ve been pretty once, but now the paint was peeling and the front lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed for who knows how long. The light was on in one of the rooms upstairs, so he decided this wouldn’t be another break in on your part. Maybe.

“Thank you,” you said, gathering your things. And that damn dog.

Frank didn’t say anything, just nodded and watched you leave. But then—

“Whose house is that?” he asked sharply.

“What?” You paused by the door and he could see it in your face that you didn’t want to answer.

“Ain’t a trick question.”

You weighed your options, he noticed, only to land on the one he didn’t expect:

“Would you like to come in, Frank?”

His fingers flexed against the steering wheel. That wasn’t an answer. That was a dodge. A curved one. He was almost impressed.

The dog whined, unsure and impatient. You spoke to it, again in that soft cooing voice that started to get on his nerves. He didn’t know why.

Frank should’ve said no right away. Should’ve put the truck in reverse and got the hell out of there. But something about the way you didn’t rush him made him hesitate.

“Who lives here?”

“Me.” You shrugged. But he didn’t miss the way you hesitated.

Frank’s eyebrows lifted.

“Sometimes,” you amended.

He should leave. He knew he should leave.

“Five minutes,” he grunted.

He followed you through the squeaky garden gate—rusty. Might’ve been painted white once. Now… It slowly crumbled away like the rest of this place.

You walked up on the porch and he almost expected you to take out a set of lockpicks—but you had the keys. Made him feel marginally better.

The door opened with an even bigger squeak than the gate. Frank noticed you wince, as if you tried to stay quiet for the sake of whoever lived there. He frowned. Did not ask.

“Shoes off,” you told him, quietly. “She doesn’t like shoes in the house.”

“She?”

“My grandmother.”

Frank stopped dead in the doorway, shoulders squaring like he’d just been called to attention. The dog trotted past him, nails clicking on the hardwood, but Frank was bolted to the floor, eyes scanning the dim hallway like he was assessing a combat zone.

A voice called something from deeper inside the house, but he couldn’t make out the words. He noticed the dog’s ears perked up. Then your expression softened in a way Frank hadn’t seen yet.

Frank toed off his boots without a word, lining them neatly by the door. His gaze flickered over the black-and-white photos in the hallway—each one telling a story he wasn’t privy to. The woman in them had a sharpness to her smile, a defiance in her posture. Nothing soft about her. Not even close.

Some showed her with friends, then some at protests. And again, one pictured her smiling in front of that crumbling house, back when it wasn't crumbling, sitting on the porch flanked by two giant German Shepherds.

Frank couldn’t help a smile. A small one.

A voice cut through the quiet from deeper in the house—raspy, but full of life. “That you, darlin’, or do I need to grab the bat?”

You grinned, nudging Frank forward. “It’s me! And I brought a… guest.”

Frank tensed slightly as footsteps approached. Then she rounded the corner—white hair cropped short, wearing a wrinkled flannel and slippers that had seen better decades. But her eyes? Sharp as the day those protest photos were taken.

She took one look at Frank, then at the dog. “Huh. You didn’t tell me he’d be this big.”

Frank opened his mouth—then closed it when you cut in:

“He just looks like that, but he’s a sweetheart. I’ll train him well, don’t worry.”

Frank exhaled. The damn dog.

“Well,” your grandmother scoffed. “You better.”

Then the old woman sized him up like she was deciding whether to throw him out or pour him a drink. Finally, she smirked. “Marine.”

Frank’s spine straightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Yeah, yeah. Call me Dot, everybody does.” She waved a hand. “Well, come on in, if you must. This house’s a piece of work, but the kitchen’s still standing. Coffee?” Then she eyed the pitbull. “And you—better not piss on my rug. I don’t like it, but I’m too lazy to change it. So watch yourself.”

You shot Frank a look—but only half-amused, since you weren’t suicidal. “You wanted to know,” you reminded him.

Yes, he did. Frank exhaled sharply. This was a mistake.

Frank stayed put for a long moment, then gave in with a quiet grunt, trailing after you both. The kitchen smelled like old wood, cigarettes and strong coffee. Dot was already pouring three mugs without asking.

“So,” she said, sliding one toward Frank. “You the reason my granddaughter’s out stealing dogs again?”

Again? Frank’s fingers tightened around the mug. “No, ma’am.”

Dot snorted. “Liar.” Then she took a sip, watching him over the rim. “But fine.”

Frank didn’t know what the hell to say to that.

You, meanwhile, looked way too smug for his liking. But then again… The entire scene was absurd—the Punisher, sitting stiffly at your grandma’s chipped Formica table, while she interrogated him like a teenager who stayed out past curfew.

Dot took another sip, then pointed at Frank with her mug. “You. You seem like good people. Big as you are.”

She lit a cigarette, then looked at Frank’s knuckles very pointedly, like she knew exactly what these hands had done.

She gestured to you. “She is trouble.”

Frank’s mouth twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

Dot narrowed her eyes. “Oh, stop ‘yes ma’am’ me. I know your type. All quiet until you’re not.” She leaned back. “We read the news in this house. And not the conservative bollocks they serve on tv.”

Frank didn’t blink. “Understood.”

“I don’t think you do.”

That glint in her eye… Wary. But there was something else there. Something like respect.

Maybe his eyesight was going.

Frank took another sip.

“You could’ve asked if he wanted sugar,” you said all of a sudden.

“Does he now?” Dot smirked. “Men like him don’t.”

Frank didn’t argue.

The clock in the living room chimed six and Frank politely got to leave. After the strangest coffee of his life, he was somehow feeling both worse and better about the whole thing. It seemed that particular aura ran in the family.

“Hey! Thank you. Again,” you said, still lingering in the doorway.

Frank paused on the porch, then turned back to you, his voice low. “You’re gonna be careful with that dog?”

You grinned. “Promise. He’s not my first dog, Frank. He’ll be taken care of.”

“Not what I asked.” He studied you for a long moment—your stubborn stance, the way you still didn’t flinch under his stare. Then he nodded once. “Alright.”

He walked back to his truck, boots heavy on the cracked sidewalk, telling himself he’d have to avoid this house forever.

“See ya!” you shouted after him and actually waved as if any of this was normal.

Dot’s voice carried from inside, sharp and amused:

“Close the damn door, it’s fucking freezing!”

Your laugh carried after Frank, before the door clicked shut behind you.

He told himself he would stay away. Which was exactly why he pulled up to the house, the truck bed loaded with tools. He got out of the car, steps heavy, telling himself it was just a favor. Just making sure the porch wouldn’t collapse under the old lady’s feet.

He got in through the gate, then stopped. You were sprawled across an ancient, rusted-out patio chair—sunglasses on, tank top riding up to show more than enough skin. Something about it made his hands tighten on the metal toolbox.

The dog lounged at your feet—still scarred, still the same beast. But it looked so much better. It spotted Frank and Frank stopped because he wasn’t about to argue with a seventy-pound pit fight champion. But then its tail started thumping so hard that you noticed and sat up.

“Oh. Hi.”

You smiled at him. What the hell. Like you hadn’t been worried at all. Like he wasn’t the kind of man who haunted people’s nightmares.

Frank stepped closer, boots crunching on the gravel. “House needs work.”

You stretched, catlike. “Yeah, well. Grandma says it’s got ‘character’.”

Frank glanced at the sagging porch. “The character’s rotting.”

The dog approached him then, sniffing at his boots with keen interest. Frank looked down, then scratched it behind its ears.

“He got a name yet?”

You smirked in that way of yours he already knew spelled trouble.

“What?” he grumbled.

“Our last dog was called Rick,” you said. “I kinda find it funny when dogs have human names. Or cats. Cats are even funnier with human names. There’s a red tomcat around here, he’s called Carl. Walks like he owns the entire neighborhood.”

He caught your drift and squinted. “Yeah, ‘Frank’ is taken.”

“Obviously.” You rolled your eyes. “He doesn’t look like a Frank.”

Frank looked at the dog, who was still happily trotting between him and the porch. “What he look like then?”

You squinted at the dog, tapping your chin like this was some grand deliberation. “Well, let’s see… He’s got that rugged charm. A little scuffed up, but loyal. Probably likes long walks and holding grudges…”

Frank shot you a look.

You hummed thoughtfully. “Dunno. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

Christ.

The dog approached him again and Frank leaned down to pet it. “He looks better.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” You grinned, tremendously smug.

But Frank was willing to give you this win. You deserved it.

“That gutter’s comin’ down.” Frank straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

You got serious, for once, then just nodded. “Yeah.”

“What’s this?” Dot’s voice carried from behind the screen door. Then she went out on the porch, cigarette in hand. “Ah.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. “Ma’am.”

Dot looked at you, then at Frank, then at the toolbox.

“I got no money to pay for your work,” she said upfront. “Not the kind I imagine you’re worth.”

“That’s okay, ma’am.”

“No, it is not.” She snuffed the cigarette out in the old orange ashtray with the word “SANREMO” on it in big blue letters.

“Not many men around in the family,” you translated.

“No useful ones,” Dot clarified.

Frank’s grip tightened slightly on the toolbox handle. “Don’t need payment.”

Dot’s eyes—sharp as ever—narrowed. “Everyone needs something.”

Frank met her gaze and stayed quiet. Hadn’t asked himself what he needed in a long time.

Then Dot huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Stubborn one, ain’tcha?” She waved a hand toward the roof. “Fine.”

Frank opened his mouth to argue—

“You like lasagna?” you cut in.

Frank exhaled. “Yeah.”

His eyes flickered to Dot, who just laughed and lit another cigarette.

“Oh, she doesn’t cook,” you explained quickly, already getting up. Then, just like that, you went back inside. Apparently to cook.

For him.

Frank rolled his shoulders, nodded once, and headed for the ladder. The strangest deal he made in a while…

The gutter was worse than he’d thought—rusted through in places, barely hanging on. He set to work. At least this was something to do. At least this was something honest to do.

After an hour or more, the screen door creaked open, and you stepped out with two glasses in hand. You held one out to him. “Here.”

Frank paused, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm before stepping down and taking it. “Thanks.”

He looked at it before drinking, just for a moment, until you noticed and smiled. “Just lemonade. Why would I poison a man who offered to help me? Twice.”

You stood there a moment, sipping your own. “So. You do this often?”

Frank took a tentative sip. “Fix gutters?”

“Well, fix gutters for strange old ladies, among other things.”

“No.”

You smirked. “Don’t get me wrong. We are grateful. Just wish we could repay you, is all. Dot doesn’t like having debt.”

Frank didn’t answer. He handed you a glass with a nod, then went back to work.

The sun warmed the back of his neck, but it was slightly less unbearable now. Frank worked, feeling less and less like a ghost that haunted his own halls. Somewhere below, Dot hummed along to an old record.

In the end, he wasn’t as rusty as he thought. He managed to get that gutter to a very decent shape.

“So, what’s the diagnosis?” Dot asked Frank as soon as he entered the house.

He glanced around the kitchen as he washed his hands. It was cluttered but clean, dishes stacked haphazardly in the drying rack. “Gutter's fixed, ma’am. Porch joists are solid, but the railing’s soft in spots. Needs replacing before someone leans on it wrong.”

Dot took a drag of her cigarette, nodding. “Figured as much.” She blew smoke toward the ceiling fan. “Roof?”

Frank hesitated. “Seen worse.”

Dot snorted. “Not an answer.”

You kept checking the oven and the lasagna inside it, but also shot your grandmother a look. She didn’t give a damn about any looks, though.

Frank exhaled. “South side’s got wear. Won’t leak yet, but it will.”

Dot squinted at him. “You know your way around a house.”

“Had one,” Frank said, voice rough. Then, before the silence got too heavy, he jerked his chin toward the stove. “Smells good.”

You beamed at him and he regretted opening his mouth at all.

“Hope it tastes okay,” you said, then put on oven mitts.

Frank watched as you pulled the lasagna from the oven—golden cheese bubbling, steam rising in a fragrant cloud. Your nose wrinkled as you blew a stray curl from your forehead, the oven light casting a warm glow across your face.

Dot put out her cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Kid’s trouble, but she’s a decent cook. Won’t kill you, at least.”

Frank’s mouth twitched despite himself. “High praise.”

You rolled your eyes, setting the dish on a trivet with a thunk. “That’s it. That's the last lasagna you’re getting out of me.”

But you didn’t mean it. At least Frank hoped not—because the lasagna tasted like something he hadn’t let himself miss in years.

Evidently, stepping foot in that house had been a tactical mistake.

He took another slow bite, then set his fork down carefully. He noticed you were watching him and suddenly he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“If it’s bad, you can tell me,” you offered.

“It’s good.”

Dot snorted. “Don’t let it go to her head.”

Frank exhaled, long and slow. Tactical mistake or not, he took another bite. He thought he should’ve left right then. Should’ve thanked you both, walked out, and never looked back.

But then, nobody ordered him to come here either. With the flimsy excuse of home repairs.

And you, you were looking at him like he was welcome here. Frank wasn’t welcome in places, not for a very long time.

But, somehow, the evening bled into night, the kitchen warm with laughter and the last dregs of red wine in Dot’s glass. Frank had lost track of how long it had been since he sat at a table like this. At least two hundred years or so.

“Alright, kids. I’m turnin’ in,” Dot announced, but she paused on her way out, squeezing Frank’s shoulder. Firm. Friendly. “You’re good company, Frank.”

Then she was gone, leaving the two of you in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

You stood, gathering plates. Frank moved to help, then suddenly you were close—too close, the space between you charged with… something. Or maybe he was wrong.

“Listen,” he rumbled, a warning.

You didn’t listen, just rose on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his.

Frank stilled. For a heartbeat, he was just himself—untouchable. Stiff.

Then he broke.

His hands cradled your face, pulling you deeper into the kiss, rough and desperate and alive. The dishes clattered and went forgotten in the sink.

When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his breath was ragged. He didn’t know what to do. What to say.

But then the damn dog whined and tried to wedge itself between you and the way you laughed… It was the best damn sound Frank has heard in forever.

Thank fuck for your dognapping tendencies.

#frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x reader #frank castle fluff #self reblog

412 notes · View notes

houndofsevenhells · 5 days ago

Text

ahh thank you so much! I'm really glad you like him. Getting into Frank's head is really hard for me

“You Steal It, You Feed It” (Frank Castle x fem!Reader)

SUMMARY — Frank decided to retire in an inconspicuous apartment somewhere in Brooklyn. Well, as much as a man like him even could. Normally, he minded his business at all times. Except tonight.

WORD COUNT — 5,310

Masterlist

Right away, Frank knew you were gonna be a problem.

He clocked you a few months ago, as soon as he moved in. Top floor, lived alone, walked fast. Like someone used to watching her back. Smart.

But then—hoodie always up, headphones always in. Damn fucking stupid.

You weren’t the kind of delusional neighbor who baked cookies. Nah, unfortunately you were a whole lotta worse.

So far Frank had seen you do pilates on the roof at three a.m. (nevermind why he needed the roof at that hour, that was irrelevant).

Just last week, you carried what he was pretty sure was a dirt-caked shovel through the lobby and the smile on your face suggested you had killed and buried your nemesis out the back.

Probably. He wouldn’t put it past you.

In all these instances, Frank didn’t ask. Frank didn’t care. He could only imagine whatever else you got up to all these times he didn’t run into you.

He stayed in the shadows on the landing, watching you quietly. Holding a bag of gear much more illegal than whatever the hell you were doing to the window belonging to the neighbor from 3E.

Now, any other day of the week, Frank wouldn’t have any problem with you robbing the bastard blind. He wouldn’t have held the window open while you did it, but he would turn a blind eye.

Being witness to a woman getting her face eaten off by an angry pitbull, though, that was a whole other deal.

But this?

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m not leaving you with the bad man,” he heard you cooing at the dog, then a strong smell of dog treats hit him.

Frank huffed. Unbelievable.

You were here for the damn dog.

He took another step.

“You got a plan for after that window opens?” he asked.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, which… Fair. He was big, rough, and way too close behind you. But then again, you should have been more careful.

“You know that dog?” he asked, voice rough with lack of sleep.

“Uh…”

Smooth.

Frank didn’t move. Just tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to dig your own grave.

“Yeah. I mean—yeah, I got a plan,” you said. Way too quickly. “Shush!” That one was at the dog. Then, defensively, “I don’t know that dog.”

Frank exhaled through his nose, slow. Like he was counting to ten in his head. Mostly trying not to laugh. “You’re gonna get bit.”

Yeah, that one got you going. You lifted your chin, all defiant. “I know dogs.”

“Yeah, that one knows you, too.” Frank’s mouth twitched—not a smile, but something close to it. “He knows you’re dinner.”

Inside, the pitbull let out a low, eager whrrf, pressing its muzzle against the glass. Frank’s eyes narrowed, sharp, assessing.

“Okay then. You said your piece.”

Then, just like that, you went back to it.

Christ alive.

Frank’s jaw tightened. That dark, simmering thing in his chest came back up to the surface—the one that hated men who hurt things smaller than them. But his voice stayed flat.

“So, you're what? Dognapping vigilante now?”

“Yeah. I got a costume and everythin’. Wanna see?” You didn’t back down. Oh no. You got jokes now.

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes he’s dealing with a very stubborn woman.

“You got a leash in that bag? Or you plannin’ on carrying a seventy-pound pitbull down six flights in your arms?”

“I do pilates.”

That got him. Almost. His mouth twitched again, just for a second. Then he was back.

“Pilates,” he repeated, deadpan.

Yeah, okay. He knew that. Not that he had seen much.

“Yep. Core strength,” you chirped.

“Core strength.”

“What are you, my voicemail? Yes!”

His jaw tightened. You were absolutely not scared of him. Or that damn pitbull. What the hell was wrong with you?

“So. What kinda nightly escapades you got goin’ for you?” You jerked your chin toward his duffel. The one full of things you absolutely did not need to know about.

Frank’s eyes flickered to it—just once.

Then—

“Move.” He walked up to the window and picked up the bolt cutters, gripped the metal bars of the window with one hand, and—

Snap.

The lock gave way like it was nothing. The dog scrambled back, startled, growling at the strange big man.

“It’s okay, baby!” You pushed past Frank and as soon as the damn mutt saw you, it bolted right out that window. You barely caught it and Frank barely caught you.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly all quiet.

“Gonna name it?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Dogs need names.” Frank’s voice was gruff, but there was something underneath it, something almost... amused. Or maybe just resigned.

You looked down at the dog, then back up at him. “You got a suggestion?”

“No.” Frank’s mouth twitched. “But you gotta get that leash. Dog like him… People will judge.”

“Oh, I know.” You laughed. Then, slowly, you unzipped your criminal duffel to reveal—yep. A leash. A proper harness. A roll of gauze. And, Jesus Christ, more treats.

Frank stared. “You planned this.”

“What are you, a dog lawyer?” You grinned. Again. “Told you I had a plan.”

“Dog lawyer. Jesus.” He shook his head. “Plan’s still stupid.”

“Stupid gets the job done sometimes,” you shot back, fastening the harness around the dog’s broad chest with practiced ease.

Okay. You weren’t lying. You did know dogs.

The pitbull—now your pitbull, apparently—leaned into your touch, tail wagging hard enough to shake that whole fire escape.

Frank watched, arms crossed. “Gonna be a problem when he notices his dog’s gone.” His eyes flickered towards the bathroom window.

You snorted, standing up straight. “Dude’s not gonna do shit. I mean,” you hesitated, then attached the leash to the harness. “He might. But I won’t be here to see it.”

You sighed and then looked at Frank, that same easy smile. “Listen. Thank you. I’d be a splatter of jam way down over there if it weren’t for you.”

The dog leaned against your leg, panting, happy. Frank’s gaze dropped to it. “Gonna take it where?”

You shrugged, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Got a… Rough idea.” A pause.

“Hey, do you know how to drive?” You asked and Frank regretted asking any follow-up questions. Serves him right.

“No,” he lied immediately.

“Really?” You made a face. “You don’t look like the kinda guy who takes the subway.”

His eyes narrowed, sharp. “What, you think I can’t take the subway?”

“Oh. No, I mean… I mean, you can do whatever, I guess.”

Frank sighed, praying for patience. “Where do you wanna go?”

Your face brightened like a switch flipped. But you didn’t say anything either, which was… worrying.

Christ, he was tired. Why did he even leave the house?

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Lemme guess. You’re gonna walk a stolen pitbull with a rapsheet across Brooklyn at four in the goddamn morning.”

Your smile didn’t falter. “It’s only like four boroughs.”

Frank stared.

You didn’t blink. That damn little smirk.

“You got five seconds to tell me this place ain’t in Staten Island,” Frank finally muttered.

“Wouldn't do that to you,” you said, all innocence, like you didn’t get on his nerves on purpose. “It’s in Queens.”

“Uh-huh.”

“God’s honest. If you hate it halfway, I’ll get out and we’ve officially never met.” But then you leaned in. Grinning still. “Frank Castle.”

His head snapped toward you. Eyes angry, an ugly grimace on his face. “Who told you that name?”

But damn it all… You didn’t even flinch.

“I grew up with angry men in my house,” you said casually, scratching the dog behind the ear. “You’re gonna have to try better than that.”

Frank exhaled long through his nose. Didn’t say anything. Calculated real careful.

His voice dropped lower, rougher. “You don’t know what you’re playing at.”

“Relax, I don’t give a shit,” you paused. “If I did, wouldn’t I have ratted you out months ago?”

That… That actually made sense. But he still wouldn’t trust you as far he could throw—

No, scratch that. He could probably bench press you with one hand if he wanted.

A heavy pause fell between you.

“The fuck do you want then?” There was a hard set to his mouth, as if swallowing back a whole lotta anger.

“A ride to Queens. Please.”

His eyes narrowed, sharp.

“Truck's down the block.” Then he turned around and started walking.

You hesitated—just for a second—before trotting after him, dog in tow. “My, my, so he doesn’t take the subway.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah.” But you were grinning. Like you’d won something.

Frank felt twenty years older just by putting himself through it all.

He put the car into gear, stubbornly silent. Except:

“Fuckin’ Queens…”

You weren’t just some ditsy girl, but if not then what the hell were you?

The silence stretched, heavy. It seemed retirement dulled his instincts.

“You’re not scared.” He didn’t phrase it like a question.

You glanced up, surprised. “Of what? You?”

“Me. The dog. Commitin’ felony theft at four in the morning.”

“I’ve done worse.”

Frank’s eyes cut to you. “Bullshit.”

But see, you didn’t deny. Or elaborate. Usually, people argued when challenged. You just leaned your head against the window, watching the city blur past.

The quiet settled again. Not tense this time, just... different.

Frank exhaled through his nose. “You gonna be a problem?”

“Not if you don’t blab on me.”

Frank didn’t smile. But he still drove you to goddamn Queens.

“Where to now?” he grumbled, looking around the area like this was a war zone and he expected trouble any second.

You gave him a more specific address. It was a quiet street, mostly with old houses and backyards in a varying state of messy.

“There.” You pointed to one such house and Frank just made the turn, then parked the car and killed the engine.

“Thank you,” you said, gathering your things. And that damn dog.

Frank didn’t say anything, just nodded and watched you leave. But then—

“Whose house is that?” he asked sharply.

“What?” You paused by the door and he could see it in your face that you didn’t want to answer.

“Ain’t a trick question.”

You weighed your options, he noticed, only to land on the one he didn’t expect:

“Would you like to come in, Frank?”

His fingers flexed against the steering wheel. That wasn’t an answer. That was a dodge. A curved one. He was almost impressed.

The dog whined, unsure and impatient. You spoke to it, again in that soft cooing voice that started to get on his nerves. He didn’t know why.

Frank should’ve said no right away. Should’ve put the truck in reverse and got the hell out of there. But something about the way you didn’t rush him made him hesitate.

“Who lives here?”

“Me.” You shrugged. But he didn’t miss the way you hesitated.

Frank’s eyebrows lifted.

“Sometimes,” you amended.

He should leave. He knew he should leave.

“Five minutes,” he grunted.

He followed you through the squeaky garden gate—rusty. Might’ve been painted white once. Now… It slowly crumbled away like the rest of this place.

You walked up on the porch and he almost expected you to take out a set of lockpicks—but you had the keys. Made him feel marginally better.

The door opened with an even bigger squeak than the gate. Frank noticed you wince, as if you tried to stay quiet for the sake of whoever lived there. He frowned. Did not ask.

“Shoes off,” you told him, quietly. “She doesn’t like shoes in the house.”

“She?”

“My grandmother.”

A voice called something from deeper inside the house, but he couldn’t make out the words. He noticed the dog’s ears perked up. Then your expression softened in a way Frank hadn’t seen yet.

Frank couldn’t help a smile. A small one.

A voice cut through the quiet from deeper in the house—raspy, but full of life. “That you, darlin’, or do I need to grab the bat?”

You grinned, nudging Frank forward. “It’s me! And I brought a… guest.”

She took one look at Frank, then at the dog. “Huh. You didn’t tell me he’d be this big.”

Frank opened his mouth—then closed it when you cut in:

“He just looks like that, but he’s a sweetheart. I’ll train him well, don’t worry.”

Frank exhaled. The damn dog.

“Well,” your grandmother scoffed. “You better.”

Then the old woman sized him up like she was deciding whether to throw him out or pour him a drink. Finally, she smirked. “Marine.”

Frank’s spine straightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, ma’am.”

You shot Frank a look—but only half-amused, since you weren’t suicidal. “You wanted to know,” you reminded him.

Yes, he did. Frank exhaled sharply. This was a mistake.

“So,” she said, sliding one toward Frank. “You the reason my granddaughter’s out stealing dogs again?”

Again? Frank’s fingers tightened around the mug. “No, ma’am.”

Dot snorted. “Liar.” Then she took a sip, watching him over the rim. “But fine.”

Frank didn’t know what the hell to say to that.

Dot took another sip, then pointed at Frank with her mug. “You. You seem like good people. Big as you are.”

She lit a cigarette, then looked at Frank’s knuckles very pointedly, like she knew exactly what these hands had done.

She gestured to you. “She is trouble.”

Frank’s mouth twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

Frank didn’t blink. “Understood.”

“I don’t think you do.”

That glint in her eye… Wary. But there was something else there. Something like respect.

Maybe his eyesight was going.

Frank took another sip.

“You could’ve asked if he wanted sugar,” you said all of a sudden.

“Does he now?” Dot smirked. “Men like him don’t.”

Frank didn’t argue.

“Hey! Thank you. Again,” you said, still lingering in the doorway.

Frank paused on the porch, then turned back to you, his voice low. “You’re gonna be careful with that dog?”

You grinned. “Promise. He’s not my first dog, Frank. He’ll be taken care of.”

“Not what I asked.” He studied you for a long moment—your stubborn stance, the way you still didn’t flinch under his stare. Then he nodded once. “Alright.”

He walked back to his truck, boots heavy on the cracked sidewalk, telling himself he’d have to avoid this house forever.

“See ya!” you shouted after him and actually waved as if any of this was normal.

Dot’s voice carried from inside, sharp and amused:

“Close the damn door, it’s fucking freezing!”

Your laugh carried after Frank, before the door clicked shut behind you.

“Oh. Hi.”

You smiled at him. What the hell. Like you hadn’t been worried at all. Like he wasn’t the kind of man who haunted people’s nightmares.

Frank stepped closer, boots crunching on the gravel. “House needs work.”

You stretched, catlike. “Yeah, well. Grandma says it’s got ‘character’.”

Frank glanced at the sagging porch. “The character’s rotting.”

The dog approached him then, sniffing at his boots with keen interest. Frank looked down, then scratched it behind its ears.

“He got a name yet?”

You smirked in that way of yours he already knew spelled trouble.

“What?” he grumbled.

He caught your drift and squinted. “Yeah, ‘Frank’ is taken.”

“Obviously.” You rolled your eyes. “He doesn’t look like a Frank.”

Frank looked at the dog, who was still happily trotting between him and the porch. “What he look like then?”

Frank shot you a look.

You hummed thoughtfully. “Dunno. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

Christ.

The dog approached him again and Frank leaned down to pet it. “He looks better.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” You grinned, tremendously smug.

But Frank was willing to give you this win. You deserved it.

“That gutter’s comin’ down.” Frank straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

You got serious, for once, then just nodded. “Yeah.”

“What’s this?” Dot’s voice carried from behind the screen door. Then she went out on the porch, cigarette in hand. “Ah.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. “Ma’am.”

Dot looked at you, then at Frank, then at the toolbox.

“I got no money to pay for your work,” she said upfront. “Not the kind I imagine you’re worth.”

“That’s okay, ma’am.”

“No, it is not.” She snuffed the cigarette out in the old orange ashtray with the word “SANREMO�� on it in big blue letters.

“Not many men around in the family,” you translated.

“No useful ones,” Dot clarified.

Frank’s grip tightened slightly on the toolbox handle. “Don’t need payment.”

Dot’s eyes—sharp as ever—narrowed. “Everyone needs something.”

Frank met her gaze and stayed quiet. Hadn’t asked himself what he needed in a long time.

Then Dot huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Stubborn one, ain’tcha?” She waved a hand toward the roof. “Fine.”

Frank opened his mouth to argue—

“You like lasagna?” you cut in.

Frank exhaled. “Yeah.”

His eyes flickered to Dot, who just laughed and lit another cigarette.

“Oh, she doesn’t cook,” you explained quickly, already getting up. Then, just like that, you went back inside. Apparently to cook.

For him.

Frank rolled his shoulders, nodded once, and headed for the ladder. The strangest deal he made in a while…

The gutter was worse than he’d thought—rusted through in places, barely hanging on. He set to work. At least this was something to do. At least this was something honest to do.

After an hour or more, the screen door creaked open, and you stepped out with two glasses in hand. You held one out to him. “Here.”

Frank paused, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm before stepping down and taking it. “Thanks.”

He looked at it before drinking, just for a moment, until you noticed and smiled. “Just lemonade. Why would I poison a man who offered to help me? Twice.”

You stood there a moment, sipping your own. “So. You do this often?”

Frank took a tentative sip. “Fix gutters?”

“Well, fix gutters for strange old ladies, among other things.”

“No.”

You smirked. “Don’t get me wrong. We are grateful. Just wish we could repay you, is all. Dot doesn’t like having debt.”

Frank didn’t answer. He handed you a glass with a nod, then went back to work.

In the end, he wasn’t as rusty as he thought. He managed to get that gutter to a very decent shape.

“So, what’s the diagnosis?” Dot asked Frank as soon as he entered the house.

Dot took a drag of her cigarette, nodding. “Figured as much.” She blew smoke toward the ceiling fan. “Roof?”

Frank hesitated. “Seen worse.”

Dot snorted. “Not an answer.”

You kept checking the oven and the lasagna inside it, but also shot your grandmother a look. She didn’t give a damn about any looks, though.

Frank exhaled. “South side’s got wear. Won’t leak yet, but it will.”

Dot squinted at him. “You know your way around a house.”

“Had one,” Frank said, voice rough. Then, before the silence got too heavy, he jerked his chin toward the stove. “Smells good.”

You beamed at him and he regretted opening his mouth at all.

“Hope it tastes okay,” you said, then put on oven mitts.

Dot put out her cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Kid’s trouble, but she’s a decent cook. Won’t kill you, at least.”

Frank’s mouth twitched despite himself. “High praise.”

You rolled your eyes, setting the dish on a trivet with a thunk. “That’s it. That's the last lasagna you’re getting out of me.”

But you didn’t mean it. At least Frank hoped not—because the lasagna tasted like something he hadn’t let himself miss in years.

Evidently, stepping foot in that house had been a tactical mistake.

He took another slow bite, then set his fork down carefully. He noticed you were watching him and suddenly he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“If it’s bad, you can tell me,” you offered.

“It’s good.”

Dot snorted. “Don’t let it go to her head.”

Frank exhaled, long and slow. Tactical mistake or not, he took another bite. He thought he should’ve left right then. Should’ve thanked you both, walked out, and never looked back.

But then, nobody ordered him to come here either. With the flimsy excuse of home repairs.

And you, you were looking at him like he was welcome here. Frank wasn’t welcome in places, not for a very long time.

“Alright, kids. I’m turnin’ in,” Dot announced, but she paused on her way out, squeezing Frank’s shoulder. Firm. Friendly. “You’re good company, Frank.”

Then she was gone, leaving the two of you in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

You stood, gathering plates. Frank moved to help, then suddenly you were close—too close, the space between you charged with… something. Or maybe he was wrong.

“Listen,” he rumbled, a warning.

You didn’t listen, just rose on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his.

Frank stilled. For a heartbeat, he was just himself—untouchable. Stiff.

Then he broke.

His hands cradled your face, pulling you deeper into the kiss, rough and desperate and alive. The dishes clattered and went forgotten in the sink.

When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his breath was ragged. He didn’t know what to do. What to say.

But then the damn dog whined and tried to wedge itself between you and the way you laughed… It was the best damn sound Frank has heard in forever.

Thank fuck for your dognapping tendencies.

#frank castle #frank castle x reader

412 notes · View notes

houndofsevenhells · 5 days ago

Note

More of a comment, but I really really enjoy your writing for Shane. I recently started the walking dead and I’m at the end of season 2. I genuinely think you’ve written the most lore accurate, great characterization of shame I’ve read on tumblr to date 🤞😛

Please keep writing for Jon Bernthal’s characters ♥️♥️♥️

Oh my god I AM GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET thank you so much for this message 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Thank you! 💖💖💖 and I definitely won’t stop now haha I am super committed to this Dixon girl series I’m writing.

Unfortunately Bernthal has me by the short hairs again, what can I say. The man is a menace 🥰

#ask

2 notes · View notes

houndofsevenhells · 6 days ago

Text

i think we should stop calling them baby names so people remember they’re not just naming a baby but also a future twenty seven year old with a resume

120K notes · View notes

houndofsevenhells · 6 days ago

Text

“Part 3—Peace Offering” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)

“Loose Cannons—A Series”

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4

AUTHOR’S NOTE — This chapter is actually quite interesting, it sets up the dynamic a little bit (but I'm biased so). For all you Daryl fans, there's lots of Daryl in this one!

WORD COUNT — 4,735

Masterlist

Dawn came, but the camp was still eerily quiet. The usual morning routine was replaced by a tense, exhausted silence and assessing the losses. A few people moved in slow-motion—packing up belongings, whispering in hushed tones. Most were leaving. Others were too numb to do anything but sit and stare.

There was a whole debacle on the subject of burning the dead and burying them, but in the end people decided to do both.

The old man who shot down yesterday’s discussion, that was Dale who Glenn had mentioned back at the auto shop.

At first Dale was overjoyed to see his tools returned—and then he did nearly hug Glenn for that radiator cap. You kept watching them quietly. After Glenn left, you noticed Dale was just.. standing there, by the RV.

He was fiddling with the spare parts but not really doing anything with them. Possibly trying to ground himself in the mundane.

Shane and Rick worked together to arrange the burials, or rather tried to work together, but the more you looked at them, the more you noticed Shane was acting crazier than a rat in a coffee can.

“They’re scared,” Merle said, moving close beside you.

He was gnawing on a strip of jerky, looking way too amused for someone in the middle of the zombie apocalypse.

But then, you figured, Merle had seen the warzone, and before that he had lived through one as a kid. The third time wouldn’t phase him much.

“They’d be stupid not to,” you said, noncommittal.

“Nah.” Merle shook his head. “Ain’t just the dead they’re afraid of. It’s each other now. Look.”

So you looked closer, watched as arguments ensued here and there. Some people parted in anger, some argued with Rick or Shane, taking out their frustrations on the so-called leaders of the pack.

“Yeah. We should start packin’,” you said in the general direction of Merle and Daryl. “Thought there’s safety in numbers, but look at this bunch of assholes. They’re gon’ get us killed.”

There was nothing your cousins could counter that with. Merle just shrugged, Daryl went back to skinning squirrels.

“Got a better plan?” Daryl looked to you, already knowing you got one. Or at least a semblance of one.

“Not awful long way away from here to Savannah,” you said quietly, then looked up at Merle. “Daddy’s huntin’ lodge.”

Silence fell between the three of you. That wouldn’t be the worst idea. Your father was infamous all around Chatham county. He spent nearly fifty years living on and off the grid in the Okefenokee wilderness.

For years, he’d take the local police force, the wildlife patrols, and any other members of the law on a merry little goose-chase, dodging nearly every single patrol that came his way.

Some couldn’t even reach him, the deeper he went in. Some trails there weren’t accessible if you didn’t know where to look. The wetlands were deadly and the things living there—even deadlier.

But One-Hand Tommy knew these blackwater swamps better than anyone alive. Or dead, for that matter.

“If a gator ain’t got ‘im,” Daryl smiled to himself.

“Or a walker,” Merle shrugged.

You scoffed. “If that gator couldn’t kill ‘im in ‘92, a zombie sure fuckin’ won’t. ‘Sides, there might be less of ‘em there.” You looked at the brothers pointedly. “Animals don’t turn.”

That got Daryl’s attention. “How?”

You frowned, shaking your head. “‘S like it’s only humans that catch it. ‘Cause I seen it. ‘Fore I got to Atlanta, I was hidin’ in this village for a bit. Then some looters came along an’ they had a dog with them, right, a big ‘un, one of them… Police dog-like.”

“German Shepherd,” Daryl said immediately.

“Yeah! That one.” You grinned. “So anyway, I hid from ‘em, ‘cause y’know, people, an’ then two walkers come out of the bushes. The dog jumps!” You snapped your fingers. “Just like that, right for the throat. An’ he was fine an’ all. Nothin’ happened to ‘im.”

The brothers exchanged pointed looks again.

“An’ walkers don’t swim,” Daryl pointed out.

Merle grunted. “Hell, if the swamp in fuckin’ Okefenokee don’t take ‘em, anythin’ else livin’ there will.”

As you discussed this, you stopped paying attention to the rest of the group, especially that heated argument between Rick and Shane. Which is why you didn’t see Rick coming—alone, but with his arms lowered.

But Merle noticed. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“Mornin’, Merle.” Rick sighed, then looked to you as apparently the least insane Dixon. “Got a minute?”

“For you? Naw,” you scoffed. The roof incident still wasn’t fully forgotten.

Rick clenched his jaw, obviously too tired for the verbal sparring.

“Then I’ll cut to the chase. I know you’re ready to walk. All of you. Can’t say I’d blame you.”

None of you spoke. You exchanged careful glances with your cousins, then they both went back to what they were doing before. Only now, they were eyeing Rick like seriously pissed off cats.

“Y’all done told us to leave,” you reminded him. “An’ we will. Ain’t no point sayin’ it again.”

“Technically, it was Shane,” Rick exhaled, wiping the sweat off his forehead and subsequently smudging even more dirt on it. He was panting too, but trying to hide it. Badly.

“Jesus, man, you’ll keel over.” You stood up abruptly, then tossed a pillow on the ground and pointed it to him.

You shared a bit of your water, which made Merle grumble and Rick stare at you in disbelief.

“What?” You sighed. “Oh, I know what ya folk think of us. We ain’t evil just ‘cause we don’t like y’all’s asshat rules.”

“Fair point,” Rick agreed, then gladly drank the water you offered.

“We’ll leave,” Daryl told him, as if to confirm what Rick came over here to say. “Give us rest of today, we leave first light tomorrow.”

Rick shook his head. “I had a talk with Amy. And Andrea, her sister.” He looked up at Merle. “They’re grateful.”

“Yeah, I didn’t do it for them,” Merle grumbled, but you saw something in his eyes that told a different story.

It was an accidental good deed, but even a man like him couldn’t exactly be angry about young Amy being alive and well.

“Far as I’m concerned, whatever happens next, it’s up to you.” Rick looked up again. Drank some more water. “Aside from Amy, Dale fixed his RV. We got the parts from your hideout.”

“They were just layin’ around,” you muttered.

“Still. That’s at least three folk that owe you big thanks an’ you didn’t even ask for anything’ in return.” Rick paused. “And there’s no denyin’ we’d starve without Daryl. We don’t exactly have hunters to spare.”

“Stop kissin’ our ass,” you grunted. “Y’all want somethin’.”

Rick nodded, honest as always. “I’m asking you to stay. Not ‘cause I like the way things went down. I don’t. But this group—these people—they don’t make it without folk like you.”

“Folk like us?” Daryl’s grin was all teeth. “I swear, y’all make my head hurt. What folk’d that be, huh?”

Rick’s jaw worked for a second. “Folk that’ve done this before. Survived in the wild.” He looked at you. “You told us some stories, back in Atlanta—”

“Yeah, ain’t that sweet,” you interrupted Rick. “You said all these real nice things, though. Not Shane. Now, you done told me yesterday he ain’t y’all’s king, but the way I see it, he sorta is.”

That one was a curveball for Rick, you could tell. Shane was his friend, you three—very much weren’t.

“That may be…” Rick finally spoke. “But if you walk out, he’ll take that as a win. I’d rather we decided who we are. As a group.”

“We ain’t a part of your li’l group and ya know it,” Merle snarled.

Rick clenched his teeth again. He wouldn’t beg. But he was running out of options.

“Let your cousin come talk with the rest,” Rick said to Merle. “She’s impartial to this. She can hear it for herself.” His tone was careful, diplomatic—like he was negotiating with wild animals.

“What, ya think we’re gon’ start another fight?” Daryl huffed out a laugh. “Maybe get your boy on a leash, Rick. An’ I don’t mean Carl.”

But then you stood up abruptly.

“Fine. I’ll come with ya. See for myself.”

Rick looked a little surprised, but he got up equally quickly. “Okay. Yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Merle snarled, and he meant that literally. He’d rather people didn’t know he or his kin had any sort of heart. “The fuck you think you’re doin’, girl?”

“Remember Uncle Bill and the shit fuckin’ piece of that farm he like to done killed Uncle Coy for? Same fuckin’ thing, only Shane’s mouthier.”

Daryl let out a laugh. Rick decided to stand there patiently, but his mouth twitched just a tiny bit.

“Ah, for cryin’ out loud!” Merle waved his hand dismissively.

You went down the hill together with Rick, still wary but willing to negotiate. You wouldn’t mind another couple of days to gather supplies before you three headed out.

As you suspected, Shane’s eyes snapped to you the second you stepped into the clearing with Rick. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitch beneath his stubble.

“Ya’ll best not be thinkin’ you’re stayin’!” he shouted, stepping forward. He reeked of sweat and his shirt was clinging to his chest where it had soaked through.

You shrugged, rolling your shoulders like you didn’t give a damn either way. “Just ‘ere to hear what’s bein’ said.”

“Well, nobody asked you.”

“Rick asked me,” you countered. “An’ he was real Southern manners ‘bout it, so it’d be rude to leave ‘im hangin’.” You nodded at Rick. He seemed… relieved.

Shane scoffed, kicking at the dirt. “Ain’t nothin’ to hear. We got rules for a reason. Safety in goddamn numbers means trust, and I don’t trust you.”

You sighed and shook your head. “I swear to God, cowboy, if brains was leather you couldn’t saddle up a junebug.”

That earned you a giggle from Amy, concealed as a sudden cough attack. Obviously, Shane’s blood pressure only heightened.

“Enough.” Rick’s voice was firm, exhausted but unwavering. “We’ve buried enough people today. We don’t need to dig another grave over this.”

Andrea took the opportunity to step in, her arms still crossed but her voice calm. “Look y’all, no reason to quibble. The Dixons helped us yesterday, that is a fact. Me more than most.” She glanced at Amy, who nodded quickly.

“That’s right,” Amy said, her voice steadier than expected. “Even if Merle…” The girl glanced at you, “I’m sorry. Merle is who he is. We’ve seen him at camp, you only just got here. He wasn’t exactly a prince.”

You shrugged and then nodded. That wasn’t news.

“But,” Amy continued, “he saved me. I don’t care why he did it—he was there, he did.”

Shane scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So what? We just forget what they are? What they’ve done?”

“Now wait a damn minute. I ain’t done nothin’ to you,” you said, loud and clear. “Y’ know what, Shane, ya sure got real special way of thankin’ folk who do you a favor.”

Shane’s voice was lower now, dangerous. “You wanna talk about favors? Fine. Let’s talk. Every damn mouth we gotta feed is another bullet we don’t got to protect them. Another watch shift stretched thin. You ain’t earnin’ shit just ‘cause your kin dragged his ass outta his own mess!”

His glare flicked up the hill, obviously to Merle. “Only reason he lived this long is ‘cause he ain’t worth the bullets it’d take to put ‘im down.”

You were this close to another outburst, but then decided it would be pointless. You looked around. It quickly became clear that everyone agreed.

You weren’t that much of an issue to most of them, Daryl definitely wasn’t. It was Merle. And the group tried to figure out how to work around the whole Dixon package.

“Look y’all,” you sighed, “I ain’t tellin’ you my kin’s business here. Merle is… Merle.” You hesitated. It was the most uncomfortable they have seen you yet. “An’ I know the kinda shit he’s spewin’ sometimes.”

“Oh, good.” T-Dog exchanged looks with Rick. “Just as long as we’re all aligned.”

Your cheeks burned hot and the sun had nothing to do with it.

“Yeah. I hear ya. I don’t think like that,” you continued. “Daryl don’t neither. That kinda talk—hate like that—ain’t how we were raised, no matter what folks say. It came after.”

“What did?” T-Dog wanted to know and you didn’t blame him. “‘Cause this, that’s some bullshit! ‘We ain’t all hateful, just sometimes’?!”

You nodded. He was right. “There’s a story, sure... But you should ask Merle.”

“Like hell!”

“Well, it ain’t mine to tell!”

“Then what good is it?!”

Your shoulders slumped. “You’re right. Just… know it ain’t some dumb hillbilly shit, like y’all like to throw ‘round. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Shane let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Hell of a sales pitch, sweetheart. Real reassurin’.”

“You think you’re slick, don’tcha? Playin’ both sides—‘Ohhh, but we ain’t all hateful, tee-hee!’—bullshit. You ain’t foolin’ me for a second.” Shane’s eyes flicked to you, mouth twisting. “That fancy-ass Robin Hood act don’t mean squat out here.”

Glenn, who’d been quiet up until now, stepped forward before Rick could speak, his voice a tiny bit nervous. “Look, I just wanna say… I—I was with Daryl that one time, when we got the guns from the cop car. He could’ve left me there when things went bad. He didn’t.” He shot you a quick glance. “And she’s been straight with us since Atlanta. Covered our asses from the walkers. If she says she’s not like that, I’m willing to give her a chance.”

Shane’s jaw tightened. “That ain’t the point—”

“Then what is?” Rick cut in, the patience in his voice fraying at the edges. “You wanna run ‘em out ‘cause of what they might do? Then Lori’s right—where do we stop? You gonna kick me out next? Maybe Carol, ‘cause her abusive husband was a liability?” He stepped closer to Shane, his voice dropping low. “We don’t got the luxury of pickin’ and choosin’ who we survive with anymore.”

Then, Dale cleared his throat and stepped forward.

You noticed that. “How’s your car, Mister Dale?”

Dale looked at you, a little surprised at the deference. What could you say, Southern manners did die hard. And the old man actually seemed genuinely nice.

Dale nodded at you slowly. “With that new cap, she’ll ride until the wheels fall off. And I hear we got the parts thanks to you.”

You shook your head. “Not me. Your friend there spotted them. But… that don’t matter I guess.”

The friction eased and the air suddenly became breathable again. Shane, though… You saw it in seconds. He took it as an excuse.

“Don’t mean shit,” he snapped. “One decent act don’t erase the fact that Merle’s a loose cannon, so are the rest of them!”

Andrea let out a deliberate, exasperated sigh. “Alright, y’all. I’m gonna go eat before Shane burns the whole place down out of spite. C’mon, Amy.”

“Listen here, sweetheart—” Shane pointed his finger at you now, but you weren’t having it. You swatted it away, done with accommodating his ego.

“A’ight,” you said, loudly. “So what’s it gonna be, big man? I punch you, you punch me, then we good?”

His eyes burned with that volatile heat, the kind that made lesser men flinch. But not you. That made him mad.

He put the shovel down, slowly. “Nah, I ain’t squarin’ up with a girl.”

“Got three brothers an’ twelve cousins, I ain’t above punchin’ a dude.”

He laughed, his voice low and rough. “Babygirl, you don’t know me.”

“Sure I do. Met lotsa cops like you.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. Nobody said a word. You could practically feel the collectively held breath of the group—Lori’s sharp exhale behind you, Rick’s muttered “Jesus”, Glenn’s careful retreat.

“Shane…” Rick tried to say something, but Shane wasn’t listening to anyone at this point.

“Go right ahead, sweetheart. Take your best shot,” he said, suddenly much quieter.

Rick moved in then, his own cop instincts finally kicking in as he physically restrained his snarling friend. “Okay, that’s enough, you two.” His voice cut through the tension like a blade. “We’re not doing this. Not now.”

Shane’s jaw worked, his eyes burning with unspent rage as he glared at you over Rick’s shoulder. “She doesn’t get to—”

“Shane, that is enough.” Rick’s tone left no room for argument.

But you were done. Your patience was drained. Frankly, you didn’t give two shits if these people would starve without Daryl or not.

“We ain’t gotta stay,” you said. “I only came down ‘ere for my cousins. Ain’t gon’ babysit grown-ass men when we could all die any minute.”

You turned around to walk up the hill. You had a lot to think about and none of the answers were convenient.

Ultimately, this also wasn’t your call. But you’ve survived this far on your own and weren’t about to get yourself killed over some cop’s manly pride.

As you walked up to your tent, you saw Merle and Daryl were already packing—dismantling their little corner, gathering supplies, checking gear. Merle was full of smug satisfaction, but Daryl… He actually wasn’t saying a word.

“We’re leavin’ then?” you asked them.

“Hell yeah, we are!” Merle spat on the ground. “We could hear Walsh whinin’ all the way up here. Let ‘em rot in their little soap opera. We don’t need ‘em!”

“I guess not.” You shrugged. “Alright. Lemme grab my shit.”

“But they need us,” Daryl said then and that gave both you and Merle one hell of a pause.

“You serious?” you asked.

“Rick knows it. What, y’think he came all this way ‘cause he loves us so damn much?” Daryl shrugged, “Rest of ‘em don’t neither. They don’t say it much, but… You know.”

“Then why?”

“They eat ‘cause of me. They sleep ‘cause they feel safer when someone who’s actually a good shot ‘s on watch.”

“Don’t mean they respect you, little brother,” Merle scoffed. “You’re a damn bloodhound to them.”

“I like it here. Don’t mean I trust ‘em all. But it’s… I dunno. It’s the first time I ain’t just followin’. An’ some of them are nicer than Walsh. Like Carol. Or Dale, he’s alright.”

You looked at Daryl, then Merle, and all three of you stood there for a moment, silent, each thinking hard about what had been said.

You saw that now. Here, Daryl wasn’t really his brother’s keeper. He was something much more.

“Feels different,” Daryl muttered. “Don’t gotta be Merle’s kid brother here. Don’t gotta be anyone’s.”

He looked away, jaw clenched. The woods around you seemed quieter now. You all knew what he meant.

Merle lit a cigarette, trying not to show he was somewhat hurt.

“What they told me you’re sayin’ these days, Merle… You weren’t always like this,” you said, softer than usual.

“Shut up.”

“No.”

You saw it in his eyes—he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Yeah, well,” Merle grumbled eventually, taking a long puff. “World’s changed. In case you haven’t noticed.”

“An’ you’re still talkin’ shit Uncle Earl beat into you.”

“You shut your mouth, girl!” he snarled. “‘Fore I shut it for ya!”

“Lord above, you just shut it! I already got one angry man yappin’ at me today. That shit is vile, Merle, it ain’t true, an’ it can’t keep happenin’ no more. Like you said, the world’s ended.” You looked at the brothers again. “Clearly, Daryl’s the smartest of us here.”

Daryl smiled, just a fraction. “Yeah, we all gotta change ‘cause the old world ain’t comin’ back.”

You nodded and looked at Merle again. He looked like he was chewing on rocks. “We stand still, the pack don’t survive.”

Silence fell for a long while. Nobody looked at one another. Then you raised your hand, just to a shoulder level. Closed your first. Extended three fingers.

Your secret greeting. Three fingers—Merle, Daryl, and you.

That resolved the tension just slightly, even Merle cracked a smile. A brief one. Seems the packing was postponed. For now.

You had no idea what to do now, but apparently someone did:

“Headin’ out,” Daryl informed you both and handed you your bow.

That was his way of asking you to go hunting with him. You grabbed your arrows and you were off.

You fell into step behind Daryl, feeling better as soon as you were surrounded by the foliage and not people. This was good. This was familiar. Every rustle of leaves, every twig snapped underfoot was a language you understood.

Daryl didn’t even glance back, just grunted:

“So. Ya done makin’ friends at camp?”

You smirked. “Never started.”

Daryl clicked his tongue. His version of disapproval. “You shouldn’t provoke Shane so much. He ain’t exactly the type to piss off.”

You paused, then made a face. “Yeah, I noticed. What’s his problem?”

“Don’t rightly know. Me ‘n’ Merle joined before Rick came back. Shane got weird after that there. But I’ve seen his mean streak ‘fore that an’ it ain’t pretty.”

“Ain’t they cop friends?”

“Yeah. Partners, so we was told,” Daryl sighed, “Rick came back from the dead, is what people were sayin’. Lori, that’s his wife, she was told he done died back home months ago when the outbreak hit. Two or three days ago, he just comes back.”

“Goddamn…”

“Hm. Shane started actin’ all crazy the next day.”

“Why?”

Daryl sighed and shook his head. “More I look at ‘em, the more I think they’re all a-fightin’ ‘bout something only three o’ them know what that there’s about.”

“Who?”

“Shane, Rick an’ Lori.”

Daryl moved ahead, his crossbow held low but ready. He didn’t need to look back to know you were there; your steps synced with his like they had when you were kids tracking rabbits through the backwoods.

“So what’re we doin’?” you asked him, quietly.

“We gotta give ‘em peace offerin’. Take away Shane’s vote.”

Damn. He really was the smartest of the bunch. Only more proof you three should stay together.

A crow cawed overhead. Daryl paused, tilting his head toward the sound. You froze beside him.

“Deer trail,” he said, nodding to the faint imprints in the soil. “Fresh.”

You crouched, running your fingers over the edge of a hoofprint. The edges hadn’t crumbled yet and they were deep. “Big one.”

Daryl’s mouth twitched. “Bet I nail it first.”

“Oh, you’re on.”

It took a couple hours of careful work, but that buck never stood a chance.

Daryl’s bolt took it through the lung; your arrow pinned its hind leg to the ground before it could bolt. It went down thrashing, but you ended it quick—one clean slit across the throat.

Daryl put his own knife away, eyeing your handiwork. He grunted in approval, which was high praise coming from him. The weight of the kill settled between you, comfortable.

He slung the buck’s hind legs over his shoulders, you held the front.

“Still remember your trick with the nail traps?” he asked.

“Yeah… Why?”

“Just thinkin’.”

“Walkers?”

“Hm.”

You exhaled. “Maybe. But we’d have to get some serious tools to build that.”

Daryl snorted, adjusting the weight of the buck. “Maybe. Bullshit.”

“What?”

“You love showin’ off.”

“Or maybe I just like shootin’ walkers myself.”

He thought about it. But then shook his head. “Nah.”

The banter was easy, familiar—like no time had passed at all. For a moment, the world outside these woods didn’t exist. No walkers, no camp.

“So you got tools?”

“Daryl has. An’ he likes us a li’l now.”

Then the wind shifted. You both slowed down. The forest fell quiet. No birds. No nothing. There was no need to wonder what it was. You gently put the buck down on the grass.

The bow was in your hands, arrow drawn taut. Not even a second later, that thing lurched out of the brush, milky eyes immediately fixing on you and Daryl. Its jaw dislocated with a wet squelch.

Daryl’s head tilted, just a fraction. You sent the arrow flying, hitting the zombie straight on the chest. It stumbled, then just kept on walking.

“Oooh,” Daryl let out a dry chuckle, absolutely loving the headshot fail. “You must be tired, huh?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, already readying another.

The sun was low by the time you and Daryl made it back to camp, the buck slung between you, its weight making your shoulders ache. But the ache was worth it. The scent of blood and fresh meat clung to you, sharp and metallic.

Eyes turned your way the second you stepped into the clearing with that buck. A few widened—some in surprise, others in cautious appreciation. You saw now what Daryl had meant. You didn’t give two shits about these people, personally, but you cared a lot about Daryl. You’d tolerate it for him.

Shane stood near the campfire, arms crossed over his chest. He had that look again—the one like he’d already made peace with hell.

Daryl didn’t even glance his way. Just let the buck’s hind legs drop with a thud at the makeshift station by the trees.

“Dinner,” he grunted, to none in particular.

It was quiet for a while. But nothing quite like hunger to bring people to your cause.

“Damn,” Glenn breathed, already moving closer to inspect the kill. “That’s—that’s a lot of meat.”

Dale let out a low whistle. “Sure is.” He looked at you, then at Daryl. Maybe not kindly, but not in a hostile manner either.

Rick stepped forward. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something like relief. “Appreciate it.”

You shrugged, rolling your shoulders to ease the stiffness. “Figured we’d pull our weight.” You paused, then looked at Rick again, pointedly. He knew what you meant.

“Thank you, Daryl,” he said, and not through gritted teeth either.

“Yeah, a’ight, ain’t a big deal,” Daryl grumbled. “Y’all’re a real twitchy bunch, d’ you know that?”

Rick cleared his throat. “Uh… so, how much jerky can we make from—?”

“Enough for most everyone. S’pose vegetarians can drink tea instead, I dunno.”

Nobody spoke. And just like that, the tension snapped. Things could relax—for now.

“Good hunt?” The question came from Lori, of all people. She stood near the RV, Carl peeking out from behind her.

Daryl just nodded.

You hesitated, but then remembered what Daryl told you. What she went through, not even three days ago.

You managed to smile like an actual person. “Woulda been better if this one didn’t steal my shot.”

Daryl scoffed. “Your shot? Arrow barely grazed it.”

“Bullshit, it pinned the damn thing!”

“Yeah, you wanna talk how it took you two strikes to fell that walker?”

You just laughed. “Fine.”

Dale chose that moment to cough loudly, hefting a pot.

“I’ll get the fire goin’ for the stew,” he announced, too cheery.

“Let me help you.” Carol joined him.

Then Daryl got to carving and you assisted. The smell was… potent.

“Ugh, I hate that part,” you muttered.

“Here.” Daryl took out his bandana, then tied it around your head like a mask.

All it took was a second, then you immediately made finger guns:

“Nobody move, this is a robbery!”

Daryl let out a surprised laugh—sharp, like it caught him off guard.

Then—

“Alright, hands where I can see ‘em,” Rick deadpanned, the quirk of his mouth the closest thing to a smile he’d done in weeks.

Then he clapped a hand on Daryl’s shoulder—just for a second—before heading back to Lori and Carl.

You refrained from any cop jabs. The man could actually be funny. That was a good sign.

You went back to carving and noticed Daryl giving you that look. That unguarded, softer look. For a moment it was like no time had passed from the moment you were twelve and climbing trees at your father’s lodge.

Yeah. Okay. You’d do it for the pack. You’d do it for him.

#daryl dixon #shane walsh x reader #shane walsh fanfiction #jon bernthal fanfiction #twd fanfiction #the walking dead fanfiction #merle dixon #Rick Grimes #dixon reader

26 notes · View notes