#trying to encapsulate that as anything other than writing juice would be Impossible

[magic-is-something-we-create]

Playlist Title tag!

thank you to @sleepyowlwrites for creating this fun funky game and tagging me in the origin post <3 im about to show my whole unedited ass in these generic titles

rules: make a poll to see which of your playlist titles is the coolest to your followers and tag some friends

ill tag @vacantgodling, @writeblrfantasy, @authoralexharvey, @birlwrites, and @nacricissa <3

as always, absolutely 0 pressure to play, and feel free to treat this as an open tag if you want to join in!

[brittababbles]

Frank castle x reader studying for her MCAT imagine? super cute n fluffy- I love your writing!

Do No Harm – Frank Castle x Reader.

Author’s Note: Thank you for the request, Anon. Though Iwouldn’t honestly think of Frank Castle as anything close to cute and fluffy, Ithink this turned out okay. Thanks to Kaptest.com for providing the practiceMCAT questions. I’m considering taking the LSAT, not the MCAT, so I had no ideawhat was involved (I only got 1 out of the 4 provided questions right… oops). Alsopulled a couple of the more technical quotes from the Grey’s Anatomy (the book,not the show). Frank Castle belongs to Marvel…or Netflix… actually I don’t knowwho he belongs to at the moment but he does not belong to me.

“In anattempt to develop a vaccine for pneumonia, Fred Griffith performed a series ofexperiments in 1928 using mice and two strains of the pneumococcus bacteria: avirulent encapsulated strain and a nonvirulent unencapsulated strain. Theencapsulated strain was called the “smooth strain” because the colonieslooked smooth on a culture plate due to their polysaccharide capsules, whereasthe unencapsulated strain was denoted as the “rough strain” due tothe irregularity of its…”

Somewherein the middle of the paragraph you felt your brain start crying.  

Fouryears of pre-med. This was what it was all leading up to. A test.

Maybeyou should have rethought your plans to be a doctor.

It wasthree weeks to your MCATs. You’d been studying since nine weeks out. You’dtaken every available free test prep, and then invested what little was left ofyour pathetic waitress’s paycheck into all the proper test preps you couldfind. At this point you could probably say you were about as prepared as youcould be.

Thatdidn’t negate your test anxiety.

So youwere re-studying all your notes from the last four years. At least you weretrying to. It was slowly becoming evident that there wasn’t a way to cram fouryears of education into three weeks of time. Doing so was impossible.

A loudthump from the other side of the apartment startled you out of your thoughts.

Youcould honestly say that your mad attempt at studying wasn’t the most impossible thing in your life.

Thetypical clatter associated with Frank’s arrival in your apartment met yourears. You could visualize how he’d leave the larger parts of his portable armoryby the door. How he’d put his smaller guns on the counter. How he’d shrug outof his jacket and leave it over the back of the sofa. You heard a gurgle as thecoffee pot turned on and the muted thuds of a cupboard door opening andclosing. You could imagine the way his nose wrinkled slightly at the scent ofthe dark roast coffee you’d kept in the apartment since he’d started stoppingby. You could hear the heavy footfalls of his boots as he walked down thehallway toward your open bedroom door.

“Studyingagain, beautiful?”

Hisscent filled the room immediately. Gunpowder and black coffee and a little bitof blood. It clashed so magnificently with the softness of the smell of yourlife: flowery fabric softener and pulpless orange juice and crisp, glossytextbook pages.  

Hepaused in the doorway and looked at you with what could only be fondness. Youcouldn’t imagine why. You were in sweats and an ill-fitted henley. Your hairwas twisted up messily in a knot on the top of your head. Your glasses hadmanaged to slide down your nose, which had been buried in the textbooks thatwere scattered across your bed. Sitting cross legged amongst four years ofendless studying and stress, tears and sleepless nights, you couldn’t imaginethat you looked anything close to beautiful.

Youturned and looked at him. In any other context than this, he would probably bea terrifying sight. The skill spray painted across the body armor on his chestwas easily the brightest part of his ensemble. Everything else he was wearingwas black. He was leaning against the door frame, head cocked to one side,eying you speculatively and smiling gently. You felt your shoulders physicallydrop, not realizing they’d been inching toward your ears all night.

“I’mnever going to pass this test,” you sighed.

A deepchuckle emanated from his chest.

“You’rethe smartest person I know,” he said, “Of course you’ll pass it.”

He tooka few steps closer and the smell of blood got stronger. Strong enough for you torealize it wasn’t residual – it was fresh.

Youlooked up into his face. Little black dots speckled his face. Black, yourealized, only because of the dim light of your lamp.

“Youkilled someone tonight, didn’t you?” you asked.

What surprised you more than his respondingnod was the fact that you didn’t feel anything about this. It felt like any ofthe facts you’d been reading all night. “All the tissues and organs of thebody originate from a microscopic structure (the fertilized ovum), which consists of a softjelly-like material enclosed in a membrane and containing a vesicle or smallspherical body inside which are one or more denser spots.” “Frank Castle killed someone tonight.” The twothings were failing to look any different in the light of your bedside lamp asyou gazed up at the Punisher and sighed.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you grumbled, climbing off the bed andtaking his hand, leading him to the kitchen.

For a few minutes, the steady drip of the coffee maker was covered bythe running of water out of the tap as you wet down a dishtowel and wiped theblood off Frank’s face. You had to stand on tiptoe to reach his forehead. Themotions were familiar, but the numbness you were feeling was not.

“You look exhausted,” he commented.

You wiped the last of the blood from behind his left ear and threw thetowel in the sink.

“Yeah,” you muttered.

You paced listlessly to the sofa and collapsed into the cushions,leaning back against the leather jacket that stunk of gunpowder. You closedyour eyes and huffed out a defeated sigh.

A faint sizzling sound from the kitchen told you that Frank had pulledthe coffee pot without turning the machine off while it was still dripping. Hisneed for caffeine would have amused you a better time.

“You want me to quiz you?” he asked, attempting to reestablish thetypical ritual of his visits.

But tonight you were hardly in the mood.

“What’s the point?” you answered, not opening your eyes.

There was what from Frank qualified as a stunned pause, followed byapproaching heavy footfalls. You opened your eyes to see him, standing behindyou and looking down at you. His face was upside down from your perspective.

“What was that?” he asked

“What’s the point!” you growled, suddenly angry.

You hopped to your feet and paced in front of the coffee table. Frankwatched, his expression blank.

“Are you really that worried about the test?” he asked, soundingsurprised.

“No!” you shouted at him.

He frowned at you.

“Yes,” you admitted, “But that’s not what I’m saying.”

Frank’s expression remained skeptical.

“You lost me there, beautiful.”

You threw yourself back onto the sofa, still irrationally irate.

“I mean… let’s assume for a moment that I pass this test. That I getinto a great medical school and a fantastic residency program and everythingI’ve ever wanted happens and at the end of it I’m a doctor. Great. Then what? Iput Band-Aids on the bullet holes in this city?” you scoffed.

“Yes,” Frank said simply.

You turned and gave him a look, unabashedly disgusted with this answer.

“Why? What good will that do?”

Frank heaved a sigh and came around the sofa. He put his mug of coffeedown on the table with a clunk before pulling your hands out of your lap andholding them in his, your palms facing up. You glared at your knees, refusinghis attempt at eye contact.

“Look at me, [your name].” he said.

You broke eye contact with your knees and scowled at him.

“These hands,” he said, gently shaking them up and down for emphasis,“Can do so much more than I could ever do with those.”

He jerked his head toward the artillery by the door. You glanced at it,then returned your gaze to his face, puzzled now.

“If you save one kid from dying a death he doesn’t deserve, then you’vedone more than I could to save this city,” he said.

His expression was sincere, and his voice was warmer than you’d everheard it. Frank had never been what you’d call particularly talkative, andhaving him suddenly express so much interest in your future was honestly a bitstartling.

“You’re brilliant,” he continued, “and you’re smart. And you’reambitious. And you’re kind, [yourname]. This city needs more people like you than it does like me. If it doesn’thave that, it isn’t worth saving.”

You simply stared at him, unable to think of what to say to all this.

“You are gonna take that test.And you are gonna get into a greatmedical school. And you are gonna putBand-Aids on the bullet holes of the world and you’ll save it one Band-Aid at atime, if you have to. You’re better than me, [your name]. You’re better thanany person I’ve ever met. You need todo this.”

You didn’t realize you were crying, but your face felt wet. Frankmanaged a twisted sort of half smile and reached behind you, pulling a tissueout of the pocket of his coat. You raised your eyebrows at him when he offeredit to you.

“Gets a little messy out there sometimes,” he said with a shrug.

You smiled weakly and took the tissue from him.

“Thanks, Frank,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” he answered tersely.

You both sat in awkward silence for a moment as you wiped the tears fromyour face.

“Have you eaten today?” he finally asked.

You thought for a moment.

“I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”

“You have any food in here?” he asked.

“I think there’s some eggs in the fridge,” you responded.

He stood up at that.

“Go get a book. After we eat, I’ll quiz you. You’re gonna pass that testif I have to threaten the guys giving it.”

You managed a weak laugh and stood, feeling slightly wobbly from yourunexpected crying spell. You turned to head back down the hall as Frank movedto the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

“Hey, [your name],” he called.

You looked back at him over your shoulder.

“You’re gonna be great,” he said, that twisted smile back in place.

You managed a smile in return, then trotted back to your bedroom.

You looked over the mess of books scattered across the bed, wonderingwhich of them would need the most studying at this point. Passing over organicchemistry and physics, you picked up your copy of Grey’s Anatomy. You opened itto the inside of the front cover. Scribbled in the top corner, in your messyhandwriting, was a note you’d written to yourself four years ago.

DO NO HARM

You stared at it for a moment, then snapped the book shut and tucked itunder your arm. With a deep sigh, you headed back out to the living room, wherethe smell of cooking eggs and gunpowder filled the air.

[maxmundan]

And so here it is, at last. It's Thursday night and the date I have been waiting for with lust and anticipation has finally arrived. I told Iris I would pick her up at 8:00 and right now it is 7:55, so I am standing in the parking lot of the 99-Cents Only store, across the street from the duplex that Iris shares with her husband and daughter, trying to build up my courage and kill the last five minutes so I don't show up early.     Iris lives on Orange Street, in what is known as the Mid-Wilshire or Miracle Mile area of Los Angeles. Her place is actually wedged between Wilshire and Fairfax Boulevards, right around the corner from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the La Brea Tar Pits. It's a great part of town and, truth be told, I am nowhere near cool enough to be dating someone in this neighborhood. I live in North Hollywood, which, in geographical terms, is just a short ride over the hill, through Laurel Canyon but, in terms of prestige, might as well be Bangladesh. West Hollywood is Hollywood's swanky sister but North Hollywood is the slow, deformed brother everyone just pretends isn't there. Get a Miracle Miler started on the superiority of the 310 area code to the 818 and you may not hear the end of it.     Iris has asked me to be here, however, so, here I am, watching the last few seconds tick away until it's 8:00 and time for me to arrive. The last thing on earth I would want to do is to show up early. How dorky would that be? She has told me to go to the back door, as her husband is in the front, so I do just that, walking down the long driveway, feeling increasingly awkward and self-conscious as I do so. I stand at her back door, taking one last second to compose myself. What do I do with my hands? I can never figure out what to do with my hands. Well, just knock, you asshole. That's what I should do with my hands. I lift one of them hesitantly, roll it into a limp fist and give three barely audible raps on the wood of the door, right below the window.     Immediately, I hear Iris answer, "Just a second, sweetie. I'll be right there." Wow. She called me sweetie. It's like we're on intimate terms already.     I wait for a minute that feels like an hour, and am just lifting my hand to try again, when Iris throws open the door and declares, "Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"     I could easily say the same thing about her. I feel like one of those Warner Brothers cartoon characters who, when they see a pretty woman, have their eyes shoot out of their head and steam starts streaming from their ears. Iris is wearing a very short, low-cut silver lame dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. She is all legs and breasts and tanned, glistening skin. She is sporting a smile a mile wide and has added a ton of glitter to the make-up on her face, so that every time she turns, she catches the light and sparkles like a diamond. I am certain my mouth is a gaping, wide mask of idiocy, so I try to turn it into a joke by saying, "Ayooooooooooooooooga," just like the cartoon characters would.     "Now, now," Iris says, as she strikes a coquettish pose, "I'm very flattered but please keep it in your pants. At least for the ride to the restaurant, honey."     "I will give it my best shot," I answer, trying not to let my pleasure show at the fact that she is using so many pet names for me. "Sweetie" first and now "honey". What's next? "Lover boy"?     Iris steps out of her doorway, taking me by the arm and says, "Well, shall we? Where did you park?"     "I'm right across the street," I tell her and, as we walk briskly to my car, she slides her hand down the small of my back to give my ass a quick squeeze as she whispers in my ear, "I have been looking forward to this. It's going to be a magical night."     During our email correspondence, Iris let me know that her favorite date destination is the beach so, naturally, we are on the PCH now, headed to Gladstone's in the Malibu area. Gladstone's is kind of a tourist trap with overpriced and undercooked fish and lobster, not to mention the inevitable bread bowls filled with clam chowder. It is right on the beach, however, and I have brought a blanket that we can take down to the sand after we eat. At this moment in time, the quality of the food pales in importance to the quality of her company and I really hope Iris feels the same.     I had been really worried that we wouldn't be able to find things to talk about in the car but the conversation is flowing smooth and easy. We are both actors who have done a lot of work in the theater, so we have that in common. She tells me about a gay and lesbian theater she does work for, obviously very proud of herself for what she sees as the cutting edge, avant garde work they are doing. From her description it sounds more than a little pedestrian to me but I keep this opinion to myself. No need to turn her off at this point by playing the snob. For my part, I regale her with stories of a terrible version of Macbeth I've recently been a part of. It was reset in a modern corporate world, with all the characters in suits and ties. Why do directors always feel the need to take Shakespeare plays and put them in some alien environment, like a speakeasy in the '20s or outer space? Don't they trust the timeless human emotions expressed in the plays? Or is it that, since they know they can't compete with the likes of the Royal Shakespeare Company as far as quality goes, they resort to the easy gimmick to make their production standout? Anyway, Iris is enjoying my story, laughing and smiling and leaning over frequently to touch me on the knee or on the chest. Each contact from her fingers sends electric sparks coursing through my body and I am beginning to worry that one of her sexy touches might cause me to lurch the wheel and drive headfirst into oncoming traffic.     I am just managing to hold it together, when Iris leans towards me and, with a teasing smile, asks, "Do you see it?"     "Uh...what...exactly?" I answer, trying to sound confident but having no idea what she is talking about.     She looks at me like I've just asked what chocolate is and she tells me, with just the barest hint of condescension, "Well, my aura, of course, silly. Don't tell me you can't see it?"     "Oh...uh...of course I can," I stutter, spinning wildly inside my head. What have I gotten myself into? She wasn't one of those, was she? Those crazy hippy-dippy aura people? Those wheat grass juice and crystal weirdos who are always preaching peace and spiritual awakening and free love but in reality are total control freaks who are completely impossible to deal with? And what if she was? I was so close to getting laid at this point that I could taste it. Would I be willing to give that up because I've discovered that the intended woman is a nut job?     Don't answer that. We both know the answer.     "Everybody can see it," Iris says, like she is talking to a child, "Everybody says they can see it. It's purple. Everybody tells me my aura is purple. And purple is the best color, you know? It represents intelligence and artistic genius and that just resonates with me so much. I really think of myself as an artistic genius."     I try to close my gaping mouth but I physically can't, and I certainly can't think of anything to say in response. Who says shit like that? Who looks another person and in the face and calls themselves an artistic genius? And how is the other person supposed to answer? "Oh yes, I've known you for all of five minutes but from your "aura" and your little one-paragraph encapsulation of your work with some teeny, insignificant gay and lesbian theater, that you are undoubtedly an exploding, if unrecognized, human channel for the eternal muse."     Instead I say nothing. I just stare at her, with my mouth open, trying to come up with something that doesn't sound like either an insult or a desperate lie. I just can't, though. I got nothing. An unforgivably uncomfortable amount of time passes, without anyone saying anything. Then more time passes still. Several times I try to force something out of my mouth just to break the tension but nothing comes out, except for a little embarrassing spittle.     Finally, Iris breaks the silence, by saying, with a desperation in her voice that I had not heard before, "Don't tell me you don't see it. The purple. Don't you see the purple?"     I turn to her and try to smile as charmingly as I possibly can, although I am certain it looks like a grimace, as I answer, "Oh, I see it, Iris. Of course I see it."     At that moment, a lifetime of unbearable tension seems to drain from her body, as she slumps back into the car seat and closes her eyes. "He sees it," she says, at a volume almost at a level below human hearing.     Shit. What have I done? Is that it? Has this one little slip up fucked up my chances of getting some pussy sometime this century? I've got to do something to get things back on track. I grab her by the shoulder, pulling her up a little bit, so that her face rolls towards mine, as I tell her, with all the exuberance I can muster, "Yes, I see it. Anyone can see it. I see the purple, Iris. I see the purple."

Max Mundan, Chapter 8 of my novel, Surviving Iris

© Max Mundan 2017

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