A/N: wow i love frank castle and also i can’t end drabbles to save my mcfucking life. would 10/10 recommend listening to winter by birdy while reading, and also @kurtwxgners@brownvalerie pls enjoy some soft frank castle, from me to you my loves
The winter chill is biting, cutting through the closed windows and the meagre comfort of the shitty heating in Frank’s apartment as you sit up, cuddled up with Max under the thickest blanket you could find, waiting for him to come home. You’re half asleep at this point, curled up against the end of the sofa, the book in your lap sitting open but long forgotten as your mind wanders through the hazy twilight that comes between sleeping and waking. It’s nearing four am, not that you’re really aware of the time. You’re just waiting on Frank. No matter how often he tells you not to, you wait up for him. You just need some kind of proof that he’s alive before you go to sleep at night. It’s the price of loving him, you figure. The tension, the panic, the worry for his safety. Small price to pay for him, though.
Later, though you’re not sure how much later, the door creaks quietly open and then clicks shut again, the sound jarring you from your almost sleep. Frank slips quietly into the apartment, a faint frown of concern crossing his face as he sees you on the couch. He hates that you worry like this over him, hates the stress he causes you, but he’d be a liar if he said it didn’t make him happy to see you waiting for him. Especially after the night he’s just had. He doesn’t want to turn the light on because he doesn’t want you to worry when you see his blood soaked clothes and battered knuckles. It was rougher than usual, though rough is all relative at this point. Every night is rough, but tonight was a bad night. He doesn’t deserve you, but all he wants is to be near you right now, so he deposits his guns on the table as quietly as possible and toes off his boots, padding over to crouch beside where you’re stirring on the couch.
“Sorry I’m so late, beautiful,” he murmurs, gently brushing some loose hair back from your face as you blink drowsily as you stir from your half conscious stupor, giving him a soft smile, barely visible in the dim apartment.
“S’okay baby. You’re back now,” you reply sleepily, reaching for the switch on the lamp beside the couch. Your previously peaceful expression rapidly morphs into one of alarm and concern as you take in Frank’s fresh black eye, split lip and bloodied clothes. “Oh my god, are you-are you hurt? Let me get a better look-”
“Don’t fret, sweetheart, I’m not badly hurt. Just a little bruising.” A blatant trivialisation of his aching ribs and split knuckles, but he’s weathered worse and he doesn’t want to think about his injuries right now. “Just-c’mere. Please.” He moves to sit beside you, pulling you carefully into his lap, enjoying how willingly you shift across the couch to wrap him in your arms. He tucks his head against the crook of your neck, his eyes slipping closed as he breathes you in, revelling in your warmth and softness as your fingers card gently through his short hair. Maybe he’s selfish for wanting this, for being with you despite the danger he knows it puts you in, but he doesn’t care. Not tonight. He just wants hold you, to ignore the dangers and the deadly, terrible tasks he has ahead of him.
“You wanna shower, baby?” you ask quietly, still not moving from your position on his lap. “Wanna go to bed or just sit for a while?” He doesn’t respond, so you just tilt your head slightly to press a kiss to his temple, settling a little closer against him. He loves you for it. For knowing what he needs without him having to say anything. He’s loved you for a while now, but hasn’t had the nerve to say it. Actually saying the words out loud is admitting he has something he can’t bear to lose, but tonight, here with you in his arms, they’re hovering closer to the surface than ever, just out of reach.
“Hey beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, pausing as you let out a low hum in response. “I-I lo-” and just like every other time he’s tried to put his feelings into words before, they stick in his throat. He’s a coward when it comes to things like this, and he’s made his peace with it. Mostly. “I really love holding you, sweetheart,” he finishes, his voice trailing off a little as he presses a slow kiss to the hollow of your pulse, hoping he can tell you, without saying it, just how important to him you are.
Because you are the most important thing there is in his life right now. More than his mission, more than the furious sense of purpose shoving him out into the streets each night, you’re what’s holding him together. Your hand moves from where it’s carding through his hair to cradle his jaw, delicately tilting his face up from where it’s hidden against your neck so you can lean down to kiss him softly. It’s gentle and slow and the tenderness in your touch makes his head spin, because he may be terrible at communicating, but all your feelings are right there on the surface and all it takes is a touch to know you understand him perfectly.
Appearance: Is 6 feet tall, has dark fur and a white face with grey cheeks. His ears are round and stand up, but can lay down when expressing emotion. he wears dark overalls with one pocket on the front and big shoes. supports white gloves and a white bow on the chest. personality: very sweet, kind, innocent, not that bright, friendly, good natured, sensitive, gullible
2nd werewolf form
appearance: huge, fluffy, paws drag, long thick black claws, white paw pads. 3 toes and an aposable thumb, 3 toes on back legs. looses grey on the cheeks and ears are always back unless listening to something. is roughly 6 feet and 5 inches in this form
I. Ninety-two days out of the mental hospital you told me, “cool it with the cookies”.
See, to supplement the Klonopin I cooked up my own cure.
Three slightly underdone chocolate-chip cookies taken by mouth each night with a glass of cold milk and forehead kisses.
I was trying to bake back you to life: to that good old golden brown.
Remind you what it is to have sweetness inside. Convince you to to be alive. If for nothing else, dessert.
II. The same metal spoon that crushed the pink pills under the press of your numb fingers now scoops out the dough into gooey spheres plopped on the pan.
But the chub was chunking, you said with a chuckle. “Maybe some carrots and dip? I want to start running again.”
That’s the first time I knew you had moved back into the home of your body.
III. Movie night, indie flick, Craigslist couch, lightly salted sweet potato chips (sans chocolate).
I am the Little Dipper and you are the Big.
She’s on the floor now, the lady on the screen; she’s committing suicide. No. She’s attempting it. There’s a difference.
My breath is suddenly sucked into the quick sand -trap of my trachea.
We are both so still and so quiet- there is a stillness and quietness to watching any movie, of course. But this is different.
This is a nauseating nostalgia. They will call the police now. She will stay there for weeks. By the time she gets home, the carpet will have been replaced with eggshells. The cutlery with plastic. The locks on the bathroom door with keys atop the frame.
Just then, your arms tighten around the circumference of my belly and you breathe in the hair twisted down my spine.
That’s how I know you want to be here.
IV. Some days the shadows are sticky. Some days you wake up with cinderblocks stacked sixty stories high on your chest.
Some days I pull your parts out of bed, piece by piece, and assemble them back into a body. Paste the knuckles to the palms, screw the knees to the bend, shingle the shoulders into their scaffolding.
Some days it works and you walk out of the house breathing mechanically.
Some days I can’t find the “ON” switch beneath the bruising shadows. Some days I flip it and nothing. I flick it up and down furiously and you don’t even blink.
V. Some days lick you limp. Some days I kneel by the bed and cry into your toe pads, begging them to curl and carry you into your day.
Sometimes I swear we are playing Hide and Seek because I spend all day searching for you; even through you’re right there.
Some days it’s all I can do to push the straw between your clenched teeth.
Some days your shadow stands upright and drags your carcass behind it.
VI. Some days I play a solo game of Hide In Case You Seek. Stash all the steak knives in my sock drawer; bury the box cutter in the plant’s dirt. Count the pills. One, two, three, four…
How long has it been since I checked that you were still breathing?
How long has it been since I took a breath without measuring its length, it’s intention, its air quality against yours?
VII. Last night I watched you get tattooed; the white plane of your wrist reborn in sharp technicolor.
You did not tell the artist how that very swatch of skin had once been promised to another; another blade that was hungry to spill hues across your skin; but only two: red and then black.
As she scratched meaning into your arm, you began to leak with your own pigment. I watched you bleed to live and not to die.
That time blood on your wrist meant you had chosen life.
VIII. You just told me you’re getting your graduation picture taken this Wednesday. And next fall you’re going to the rainforest to save the sick animals.
Look at you baby, going places.
IX. But for now, you are here. My head is on your shoulder. I see your x on my map. What a treasure. You are here.
I just want to make sure we all know sombra doesn’t wear toe shoes / vibrams. The are thick tights/leggings with reinforced padding on the under side. If they were toe shoes, the shading defining each toe would be much more pronounced and go further into her foot.
Author: @dumbass-stilinski Rating: NSFW 18+ Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Reader Words: 4,307 AN: 3rd and final part. Thanks for sticking around and being so encouraging! Ya’ll are the greatest! xoxoxox Special shout out to my hoes, love you guys so much.
Question, how do draw your dragons feet Love your art, it inspires me to draw
Thank youu, it makes me really happy to hear I’m able to inspire someone! (´;ω;｀)♥
There’sthis post I made some time ago that you can try using.
Hmmhmm answering this was way harder than I thought it would be! I’ve been drawing dragon feet for such a long time now that when I do them I just kinda draw them in without too much thinking. Also I’m not that good at analyzing my own processes and my anatomy skills are quite lacking SO I don’t know if I can actually get any helpful advice out of myself but I’ll try my best to shove some examples your way!
Look for reference material depending on what kinda feet you wanna draw; for example here’s some refs i used with my latest dragon drawing
Birds and reptiles offer a really great range of different kinds of feet options! You should also look into all different kinds of animals’ feet to just kinda see what aspects of their anatomy you like and could use in your own work. When drawing the front feet you can also try looking at your own fingers and try to adapt those shapes and joints into your drawing.
Here’s a lil tutorial for hind feet that i tried to put together. It’s really rough but maybe you can get something out of it (´▽｀;)
Start out with a really simple guideline of what you want to do and continue to add some “bones”. Add some meat around your “bones”. I usually start with the toe pad type things because I think it makes it easy to figure out what your foot is gonna look like and it gives a good base to work on. Keep adding structure to your foot until it actually kinda looks like a foot and you should be good to go! I think you can use this kinda method to do all kinds of different feet by just altering the thickness and/or the length of the toes. ALSO don’t feel obligated to draw dragons with 5 toes, I just like to draw them that way! (*・∀-)☆
I hope you maybe got something out of this answer! If you have some more specific things to ask about this whole thing or if something i said made no sense, feel free to throw another ask my way! (•́⌄•́๑)૭✧
Per request HERE, re: One of Nevada’s men hurting Crybaby. Referencing back to THIS tale.
Okay this is actually pretty dark considering what I usually write so that’s a warning, and there’s violence as in Nevada pummels someone to a bloody pulp, but that’s pretty predictable considering the request.
Nevada had been out of town for about a week now, had planned on it being another before he’d get back.
They knew. Caroline knew they knew.
She got dumped out of their dingy car by her apartment, the one they all knew Nevada paid for, late at night after the nice old ladies turned off their hearing aids and the dogs had all been brought in for the night. Delicately, sniffling still, she trotted up the stone steps and slid her key into the door.
They hadn’t even robbed her. Just tore her down.
Once making it through the heavy double doors and hearing the lock click behind her; poor Caroline cried, moreso than her little Crybaby heart had ever done before. Oh, she wept, so broken there was no strength to muster sound. Silently, she slid up the staircase, hands wringing nervously through the material of her cotton kimono. With shaking fingers, she managed to force the key into the knob.
As soon as she was in, she slammed that door shut. The lock; the slip chain; the dead bolt.
For all the people who are either A. thinking about declawing your cat or B. dont see anything wrong with declawing cats, let me tell you my personal experiences with declawing.
I work as a vet tech and see roughly about 3- 5 cats get declawed EVERY week. I cannot even begin to rightly explain how bad these cats suffer after the procedure. Usually when theyre waking up they start flailing their feet (since the feet are bandaged up and theyre in pain) and start hitting their paws on the side of the cage, usually instantly making their bandages a complete bloody mess. Sometimes if the vets didnt completely glue the paw pads together (yes, they dont suture the opening up, they literally glue it) after AMPUTATING the cats ends of their toes, the paw pads will tear open and just bleed, making us have to wrestle down the cats and apply more glue to their already painful feet. The next day we take off the bandages, clean up the cats usually bloody feet and make them look as nice as they did when they came in and send them off with their owners, who are completely unaware of what their cat just went through.
Just yesterday at work we had a cat come in who got declawed a few months back and was limping on one of his feet. After taking a closer look, we realized it felt like he had a splinter in one of his toes. We put him out and opened up the toe to find, low and behold, that the cats nail started growing back in this poor cats toe, literally making it so that the cats foot got stabbed every time he put pressure on that foot. And if any of you have felt a cats nail, you know how sharp they get.
Declawing makes cats more likely to bite, I’ve experienced it. Declawed cats usually wont let you touch their feet because theyre uncomfortable, even years after, Ive seen it. Declawed cats usually end up with severe arthritis in their feet, Ive seen it. And the reason vets dont tell you all these things is because they make money off of crippling your cat, I have seen how much money we make off of declawing cats. The procedure only takes about an hour, which means we can fit in more declaws in a day, which means easy money.
Im tired of pretending like I dont see this happen to cats every single day I work, and Im tired of putting my morals in the back of my head because Im scared of what would happen if I said something. Its time people start speaking up, if everyone were to stay quiet, nothing would ever get done.
This is really weird. Like really weird and meta, okay. I just needed a break from T&T dialogue and the idea of Betty and Jug as an angel and a demon was there to fill the gap.
There was a break in the clouds that day.
She parted the nimbostratus with the breath of her wings as she crouched on the tips of her toes, pads of her fingers pressed gently by her bare feet. She had to get a closer look below. The act was so forbidden that she felt the air begin to stir around her, warning her softly. She tilted her head inquisitively, emerald eyes widening behind the curtain of gold spun silk that fell over her features; she tucked the obstruction back, ignoring any sign that she shouldn’t be looking.
He was there again. It always rained when he was there. The clouds swelled and blackened above him, aching to cry at his intrusion.
He was darkness, and temptation. The boy with the ebony waves and crystals in his eyes. The boy wearing the serpent.
Her gaze followed him relentlessly as he tripped his way through the market square, tapping against the tin pail to cause a distraction before reaching out with his other hand to swipe the ripest pomegranate from the unsuspecting stall owner’s table. The flesh crumpled beneath his nimble fingers, opening up to him like a blossom to spring.
He took the pick from between his leonine teeth, piercing the seeds slowly, one by one, before sucking them into the cavern of his mouth.
His gait was sure. His presence was unobtrusive, to everyone but her - to her and the earth itself. He turned his face towards the sky, skin drinking in each drop that rippled against its surface. She gasped at his unassuming beauty, jealous of each raindrop that got to touch his unblemished face, run down across the elegant slope of his neck, only to be met with death as they dissolved into nothing at the collar of his shirt.
Her inhale took in wisps of cloud, opening a chasm that could not be undone.
His eyes sprung open as the light hit his closed eyelids, washing them with an orange glow. Jacob’s Ladder shone down from the heavens, in all its biblical splendour, leading a pathway directly to him. His eyes found jewels amidst the sun, latching onto them as the world shifted.
She was falling. Panic turned her blood to ice as the ground disappeared, rushed towards her, all at once. Evicted from above, she tumbled into the place she both longed for and abhorred.
She lay amongst the ashes of her wings, golden waves splayed about her head, taking the place of her pilfered halo. She opened her heavy eyes and looked up into the sky, and the sky blinked.
Those blue eyes, up close for the first time, swam with the depths of a crystalline ocean, hidden creatures lurking in the caves of their pupils. He leant over her, mouth parted in unbridled fascination as he took her in. The bow of her plush lips begged his fingers to touch, his mouth to kiss, like forbidden fruit.
She scrambled to stand, whole body feeling heavy as the pebbled ground cut into the delicate soles of her stumbling feet. They stepped around each other, feinting and parrying, in an unspoken circle of unsure fascination. Her fingertips burned with the desire to touch. A hesitant hand stretched out, forefinger tracing the curve of his jaw.
Searing hot pain crawled its way through her veins, silent scream bursting from her lips as his ink invaded soul clung to hers, flames from below licking at her porcelain skin. Her celestial light faded to nought, spiralling towards the clouds as she reached with unsuccessful fingers, watching it slip away for the final time.
A warmth encircled her waist, his hand grasping at her skin as he breathed in her floral scent. There was no pain anymore, there was no fear.
She looked at his eyes once more, narrowing her own as she searched their depths. There, she saw it, hiding behind the clouds. A light. She clung to it, losing herself to this new life force.
They like to come outside at twilight. When deep purple washes across burnt orange, twisting together inseparably as day becomes one with night.
They watch the horizon, where the sky meets the earth, and they are content.
Let’s be clear, the Dog Man isn’t a werewolf. But I keep seeing “reports” of this cryptid and since it is wolf related, I’m going to talk about it. The Dog Man seems to be a cryptid like the North American Sasquatch. It’s a creature that is around six or seven foot tall with the “body of a man” a “head of a wolf,” with “surprising blue eyes.” It can carry prey with its forearms and walks digitgrade or on their toe pads. The Dog Man doesn’t change forms and it can’t change people. It mostly seems to frighten people. Some have even claimed that the dog man is slightly telepathic.
A common theory is that the dog man lives underground. The first exposure I had to this cryptid was in the Paranormal Witness episode called “The Pack.” A family in Maine claims that their house was surrounded by large dog or wolf like creatures that terrorized them one night. These dog or wolf like creatures were seven foot tall and stood on hind legs. They left huge tracks in the dirt. Of course, all their evidence has been lost. However, a few days before the dog men came, the family dog had found a large perfectly round hole at the base of a tree that led underground. The family believes that the dog men were telling them to keep away from their den. Other theories include that the dog men live in natural cave systems and travel through old abandoned mines. (If this really was the case, miners might have some disturbing stories, but I’ve never heard of any.)
Like the Sasquatch no one can get a good picture of it or a good description. (Don’t worry about the Sasquatch, according to the Paranormal Intelligence Agency the aliens are coming to collect them, since the aliens left them in the first place.) The Dog Man has its own “expert” in Linda S. Godfrey who wrote the book “The Beast of Bray Road.” A website dedicated to cataloguing Dog Man sightings and its own radio show.
The origins or at least popularity of the Dog Man start in the not too distant past, 1987. Steve Cook was asked by a “morning DJ guy” for a song for April Fool’s Day. He wrote a song called “the Legend” about a Dog Man. Stories vary on whether or not he knew about the local folk lore of the Michigan Dog Man at the time. He says no. Others say yes. But in 1987 the stories about the Dog Man made their way out of small towns and into the public consciousness and people started talking about the sightings.
The original known sighting was by Michigan lumberjacks back in 1887, though there may have been earlier sightings as well, but the Michigan sighting is the most well known. In the Michigan Dog Man story, the dog man shows up every ten years. This is hard to prove since other reported sightings are 1961, 1993, 1994 and so on.
Finding real origin stories for a bunch of folk lore bits and pieces is difficult. These Dog Man creatures are definitely American in origin. Several theories have been put forth. That Dog Man are a group of Native Skin Walkers that long ago got trapped between forms. If you go out into Nature and are peaceful and respect Nature and you run into a Dog Man, the Dog Man may scare you but not harm you. But if you are angry and don’t respect Nature, the Dog Man will attack you.
Others think that the Dog Man are of Aztec origin given some Aztec descendants believe their ancestors came from the North (Wisconsin). The Dog man is the basis for the god Xolotl, the Aztec god of death and the underworld that had a man’s body and a dog’s head.
Whether or not the dog man is actually real or people’s imaginations running after an April Fool’s Day joke isn’t my place to say. Of all the reports given, while people have been scared to death, no one has been seriously harmed. The dog man is an interesting foot note to wolf cryptozoological lore.
When they arrive at their new quarters among the 501st, there are introductions, grins, and half-joking congratulations from the other men on “making it in” to the battalion. Fives asks around once, but can’t spot any two bunks open right on top of one another, so he passes a fleeting smile to Echo before they separate to get some sleep.
Except that as Fives settles flat on his back and closes his eyes, he keeps thinking about Cutup. He hadn’t heard the eel coming. Just the scream, the drawn-out seconds that allowed Fives, looking up, to realize Cutup was going to die and there was nothing he could do to stop that, even though there should have been… the scream lasted for so long.
Augh, poor Cutup. Echo’s unnecessary words always bouncing around in his head, but Fives couldn’t find it in him to be annoyed this time. Poor Cutup. Echo was the only one among them who had even said anything. And now he was the only one left.
Fives let out a restless breath and rolled off the top bunk, landing softly on his toes and padding between the rows of sleeping shelves to find Echo. He stopped only a few bunks away from where he started, realizing with a pang that there was no way he could pick Echo out from so many other sleeping clones in the half-light, unless he happened to be the only other one with a regulation haircut and no tattoos or scars. Fives knew for a fact that wasn’t true.
For a moment he stood there, at a loss, feeling a little foolish, a little bit alone despite the dozens of sleeping and murmuring brothers around him. But then his eyes were drawn to the hunched figure a few rows away, a little slumped, one hand resting palm-up on his knees. Something inside caught the light. A medal.
“You can’t sleep either?” Fives murmured as he came closer and saw the dark handprint on the armor–still not cleaned–stacked at the end of the bunk.
Echo looked up, his eyes wide enough that the whites startled Fives.
For a long moment Echo didn’t move. Then, a soft, sudden exhale, and his hand closed around the medal.
Fives sat down beside him. “Still think we didn’t deserve this?”
“I don’t know, Fives, I…” Echo’s voice was soft. “I know we did the right thing, blowing up that base, but….”
Fives waited, looking between Echo’s weakly clenched fist and his downturned face.
“I was nearly useless in protecting anyone,” Echo finally muttered. “Even if we succeeded in warning the Republic… none of the blasts I fired saved Cutup, or Droidbait, or Sarge….”
“But it was your plan that helped us destroy the base.”
“It was the Captain’s plan. I just….”
“Knew exactly how to carry it out,” Fives insisted.
Echo was silent for a long time, and Fives hoped that meant that Echo was thinking his words over and realizing they were true.
But then Echo said, in a deceptively matter-of-fact voice. “Hevy’s the one who did it all. He should be here, not me.”
“Echo,” Fives complained.
“You two always got along better.” Echo was talking quickly now, his tone the nervous recital he always defaulted to. “You have similar personalities and focuses in battle, you’re the first to respond to danger, you don’t hesitate and rely on reciting facts so that other troopers will act instead, you–”
Fives put his hand firmly on Echo’s fist, feeling how the fingers curled around the medal, and Echo stopped.
“I’d probably be dead now if it wasn’t for you,” Fives murmured. “We all treated you and Droidbait like the useless members of the squad. But you’re the only one of us who came up with a plan in a real battle.”
Echo opened his mouth but it took a few seconds for him to say, “And Hevy.”
“And Hevy,” Fives agreed, and sighed heavily. “Echo, we’re the only ones left. You deserve that medal even more than I do, and I’ve got your back. I promise.”
Slowly, the gesture unfamiliar, Fives squeezed Echo’s clenched fist, and it loosened enough that Fives could curl his fingers around Echo’s palm. The medal was there between them.
“You and Hevy are the real heroes of the Rishi battle,” said Fives. “There’s a reason you’re here right now. The reason is that you’re a good soldier.”
Echo didn’t pull his hand away, but his face was angled down as he heaved a quiet sigh. “Hevy was a good soldier too.”
Fives nodded, but then remembered a thought he’d had earlier. “Hey. You know what I heard in the freshers?”
“Even rookies in the Five Oh First can do custom paint jobs in battalion colors. We’ll keep him with us. He can be part of our armor.”
Echo didn’t say anything to that for a moment. Then he turned his hand fully palm upward and opened his fingers to see Fives pressing the medal into his palm.
“He can be part of our armor,” he echoed softly, and squeezed Fives’ hand in turn, the grip strong enough to hurt his fingers against the medal.
Disclaimer: This is just a work of fiction, nothing is true. I don’t mean to disrespect or offend anybody. I’m not making any money out of this. Please don’t sue me.
WARNING!! THIS IS PROBABLY THE SMUTTIEST NASTIEST DIRTIEST FIC I HAVE EVER WRITTEN. It started as a prompt for a dom!Sergio fic with a daddy kink. Since It’s already so naughty I just decided to go big and not go home.
NSFW stands for Not Safe For Work. This fic is to be read in your own time, with a wall behind you. It’s really not for public reading.