#wardogsong

[shesboundtobruise]

When your boss gets burnt and puts ANVIL to the torch, you plan to follow him to the next gig, right Lou? I mean, you're probably the getaway driver.

( i c u, @wardogsong )

"If we're being honest here... I'd follow Billy Russo anywhere."

( *cough* @prettytm *cough* )

[silverjetsystm]

“be honest… who's better in the sack, Captain Castle or Lieutenant Russo?”

send me “be honest…” with a question your muse has been dying to ask mine and they’ll answer truthfully. | Accepting

Sergeant Spector's out in the field -- needs to shave -- and isn't fucking stupid. This is someone he knows won't turn them all in.

"Nuh uh. No." Empathetic point of his cigarette. "Do you actually want me dead?" Of the endless roasting he would be subjected to if he really did state a preference.

The cherry is almost to his fingers when he adds, "They're different. Look good together." He grins mischievously. "How could I ever get tired of that."

[prettytm]

He's thinking about that night in Kandahar when they finally called the ghost out on his creeping— all those discreet glances, the longing looks, the nearly naked desire. They'd done worse together in and out of the sandbox. What was one generous little invitation to finally stop hanging around and get in? He's thinking about the noises Spector made when he and Billy both put hands on him, pushing and pulling him between them, keeping him off balance... devouring him whole. "Heh."

Secret thoughts - Accepting - @silverjetsystm & @wardogsong

Really all he has to do is look up, eyes focused in on Frank's face, to know exactly what he's thinking. There's a roll of black eyes, amusement sliding across his own lips. He might not know the ends and outs of what has the older man looking like the cat that got the cream.. But he knows it's nothing PG-13. Probably wasn't even NC-17. Whatever's settled into his mind.. Is dark and wonderfully depraved. He wanted to ask for details.. But he'd want for when thought turned to action. It always did with Castle. "Frankie boy.. Whatever you're thinkin' is gettin' us both shipped straight to hell."

[parvumchao]

THIS. | accepting!

Out here talking about my crimes as if you're not committing them with me.

[survivorofhellskitchen]

@griim @wardogsong

"Can you two stop talking about killing off the world? Please?"

[muutosarchive]

🐯

🍭 @wardogsong . how intimidating am i?

really!? i would have never guessed! well, i hope it hasn't discouraged you from talking to me, or anything.

[griim]

incoming message from @wardogsong; "She's a ten but she keeps adding bodies to the safety cage."

"First off glad you decided to admit you think I'm attractive. Second, I'm not adding any one else, it's Karen who keeps naming names. I added Murdock and my Dog. You added the whiney primadonna and Karen."

[parvamundi]

@wardogsong

"I thought you were dead????"

Wishful thinking? Perhaps.

[gloriousxdarkness]

“This place looks terrible...” // accepting // @wardogsong​ sent — "This place looks like Red decorated."

     If they were to peel back a corner of the dingy wallpaper, Elektra has a strong feeling the other side would look like the lining of a smoker’s lung. The lingering cigarette smell haunting the furniture may be informing that opinion. She doesn’t like to complain, but her eyes are wandering the room and eventually land on Frank with reluctance and discontent — really, we have to sleep here? 

    Gruff as ever, his comment makes her frown deepen a millimeter. “Let’s hope the windows aren’t sealed shut.” Because that might be a deal breaker. “You know,” She goes to check, cracking one. It brings some fresh, but too-warm air into the room. “There are some real hotels in town. Ones that don’t smell like an ashtray.” 

[shesboundtobruise]

"Who?" The rest need not be spoken to understood. It wasn't as though he was asking after some unfamiliar celeb on the tv, or trying to get her to point out a nice blonde they might split at the bar. There's only one reason to ask and she's wearing the evidence of it painted all over her skin in bright red and dull deep blues that border on black. He wants a name— and to know if she's taken care of it herself already or if there is still a job for him to do besides the clean-up.

WHO DID IT? | no longer accepting ( @wardogsong )

She'd been leaning over the sink, catching her breath and tending to her wounds when Frank arrived. Lou mumbles a quick shit under her breath when his visage appears in the mirror behind her. She hadn't had any time to hide any of this and that pissed her off all over again.

"One of Sullivan's goons. I'd made contact with someone close, too close I guess, and the fucking twerp caught wind of it. Got ambushed." Attacked by a man twice her size with a baseball bat and a gun. Lou closes her eyes and only opens them when she wants to stop reliving it.

"Won't be happening again. To me, or anyone. I made sure of that." The bloody evidence resides in the back pocket of jeans that will be burned to ash by morning.

[silverjetsystm]

“be honest… y'r the one who put the sand in Russo's gel pot, aren't ya?”

send me “be honest…” with a question your muse has been dying to ask mine and they’ll answer truthfully. | Accepting

He heard the sound of discovery of sand in pricy smelling product at high volume barreling between thin walls and close quarters.

Apple Fun Dip's turned worried lips and tongue green. "No? That what everyone's saying?" He's many things but he isn't a prankster. He doesn't have an alibi. The lost time keeps adding up.

[prettytm]

@wardogsong, @silverjetsystm

"So is this a.. I pull your pigtail and he pulls mine kinda arrangement?" A pause, grin curling his mouth. "Or.. A naked tag team match?"

[felinoir-a]

𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈   𝚂𝙾   𝙾𝙵𝚃𝙴𝙽,   𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽   𝙲𝙰𝚃𝚂   𝙳𝙸𝙳𝙽'𝚃   𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙾𝙽   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁   𝙵𝙴𝙴𝚃.   They   pressed   their   luck   a   little   too   hard   by   jumping   from   precarious   heights,   from   slinking   into   places   they   had   no   business   being,   from   taunting   rabid   beasts   from   perches   that   were   thought   to   be   safe.   Felicia   knew   that   she   was   no   exception,   that   there   was   only   so   close   she   could   dance   to   the   sun   before   she   eventually   got   singed.   That   it   was   not   a   matter   of   if   her   luck   would   run   out,   but   rather   a   matter   of   degree   and   severity.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊   𝐆𝐎𝐃   𝐅𝐎𝐑   𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊   𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄.

Or,   at   least   the   little   bolt   holes   he   had   strewn   throughout   the   city.   They   may   be   located   in   questionable   areas,   in   buildings   that   should   be   condemned,   but   there   was   always   a   well   stocked   medical   kit.   Not   that   it   was   particularly   easy   to   dress   a   laceration   that   clearly   would   be   requiring   stitches   with   one   hand   with   only   a   couple   of   hotel   bottles   of   cheap   whiskey   available   as   a   pain   reliever.   The   thief   had   grumbled   under   her   breath,   shooting   back   the   liquid   courage   before   attempting   to   clean   herself   up.  

Then   shuffling,   the   squeaking   of   hinges.  

❝      .   .   .   That   you,   Francis?      ❞  

pspspspsps @wardogsong

[survivorofhellskitchen]

[xiasgone]

@wardogsong​   asked  :  "Cassie... baby, c'mon. I thought your dad said he was gonna talk to you?"

If Frank’s words were successful in one thing it was halting Cassandra from sloppily flinging more articles of her husband’s clothing into the suitcase presently set in the middle of their bed. Yes, boxers were still in Cassandra’s left hand - even as her hands went to her hips - but as fury overwhelmed her, infiltrated her senses, she didn’t give mind to it.

“My dad said he was gonna TALK t’me?!”

The concept filled Cassandra with disgust. The sort that couldn’t been portrayed with the curve of her upper lip or an eyeroll. No, this was loud disgust where her eyes narrowed and her voice elevated. It was perfect for nosy children like Louis or Frank Jr. to press their ears against the wall and eavesdrop to the third (or was it the fourth? The fifth?) round of Castiglione drama occurring this week.

“What, what’s that suppose ta mean?” She steps closer to Frank, the perfect image of past women. Eve Scozzari. Louisa Castiglione. Small and fired up, she represented both of them in the midst of a taller, nerve-wracking husband. “Huh? What’s he gonna do?” Cassandra wondered sometimes how Frank would have been if he wasn’t her father’s devoted dog. Hell, Cassandra wondered how Frankie would be if he had a normal grandpa. Would he still be selling hot cheetos, jawbreakers and soda on the playground? Making cardboard guns?

“Know what?” She lifts a finger, “I am SICKA him the same way I’m sicka you!”

[jigscw]

they’re in the back of the truck now ,  exfil over .  mission complete .  battle over .  and although the adrenaline is still pumping ,  it’s starting to wear off around them .  soreness settles into every muscle ,  every fiber ,  his shoulder aches from where he practically had to drag frank out of the line of fire .  frank’s trigger finger twitches .  billy’s shoulder rolls .  they’re all out of breath ,  exhausted ,  starving ,  probably wondering how the fuck they just survived that .   ❝ that’s seven ,  you know . ❞  he turns to look at frank .  his voice isn’t breathless ,  doesn’t waver .  sometimes he thinks it might be easier for him to compartmentalize this shit than it is for the others .  sometimes he wonders if he should worry what that means .   ❝ times i’ve saved your ass .  we get to ten and i’m gonna have to start thinkin’ you’re going soft . ❞          /          @wardogsong​   +   liked for a thing !