#you see this frank??? hope you're enjoying it from hell bitch

[is-it-bussin-hannibal]

okay so,, I don't know if i have it in me to write a whole fic, but i needed to get this slightly dark Paul out of my head

Paul is married off to Feyd the second Feyd is of age (which avoids the attack on Arrakis yadayada as Feyd, alongside Paul, will inherent Arrakis, everybody wins). At first, obviously, the boys don't like each other very much, they're two teenagers, but they're also of noble birth, it's their duty, and Paul is bene gesserit, his whims have no place here. Feyd tends to ignore his husband most of the time, but he sleeps in the same bed, sometimes he'll stay in their rooms while Paul read or draws, somethings he really just stays there, quiet, sometimes he will engage in an activity of his own, they're practically parallel playing, sometimes he'll excise, and Paul will quietly join him. Paul knows he could seduce him, but there's just something about Feyd, how he avoids physical contact, how he'll move an inch away when approached, he's very mistrustful, and Paul respects that. It only infuriated him a "bit" when he found out Lady Fenring seduced his husband, and he knew why. Still, Feyd willingly spends time around him, and he doesn't do that to anyone else, and that means something.

Living in Geidi Prime proves to be a chore, it's harsh and cold and empty. Paul has observing as his form of distraction, right away he understands the power balance here, he understands why things happen the way they do, he sees the Baron for what he is, he also starts to understands Feyd the longer he stays with him. Paul never had anyone his age around, granted, but he also never had anyone match his wits, and he's delighted with how smart Feyd is. From what he learned with the bene gesserit, his husband was a animal, aggressive and not particularly intelligent, like his brother but stronger, he thought his marriage would be just taming a beast, like he was trained to do, dull and uncomfortable. But oh, what a delicious surprise!! Feyd managed to deceive the witches, made this mask of a monster, but of course, no one can get close enough to see through it. Paul does, like a bad dog, Feyd-Rautha bites when threatened. And soon Paul realizes, that everything here is a threat to Feyd, and has been since he can remember, the biggest threat? the Baron. He feels sorry for his husband, but he knows that would not please Feyd, and Feyd made the effort to be around him, because for some reason, he decided to stay with him for life and not just, kill him, and he's happy with that, so he does his best to show Feyd what a family is, because now they're family.

Paul sets for old fashioned childlike friend making instead of bene gesserit seduction. He talks to Feyd, even though Feyd does not respond, tell him things, sometimes random things, sometimes important things about himself, just to make conversation, to guide Feyd. The Na-Baron is very confused at first, but he listens, Paul urges him to speak too, he doesn't really knows what to say, but in time, he starts making comments about things here and there, like he's seen Paul do, which seems to please Paul. They create a routine. He annoys Feyd enough that the older has no option but let him do whatever he wants, and what he wants? to know Feyd, to be his friend. Feyd is not really familiar with the concept, he has his pets of course, but they're just one of the twisted mentat's failed experiments. The girls are beautiful but with the intelligence of a doberman. They were given to him as mock, but his pets suppressed expectations in his hands. Paul doesn't mind them at first, they scare him but it's nothing he can't deal with. He knows Feyd loves them, he usually doesn't show soft emotions, not here, never here, but Paul just knows, he can feel it. So he approaches the girls, he has heard all kinds of horrible things about the Na-Baron's harem of cannibals, but that's just what they are. They were born cannibals, they need human meat, Feyd is a gladiator, he keeps the girls fed, nothing else. For the world it looks sadistic and evil, adding to Feyd-Rautha's lore, from up close, it's really what Feyd can show of compassion. Gretel, Mischa and Niobe, they can't talk, but they're smart, Paul teaches them some sign language. Feyd is more than impressed, the girls usually don't let themselves be approached by strangers, but Paul won them over, especially Niobe, she's the one more taken by his little husband, follows him around and is eager to communicate, even started to sleep by his bed. Feyd asks to learn sign language too, of course, he also wants to communicate better with the girls. Paul can explode with happiness, something else to bond over!!! They're already have fighting, flying and Paul noticed the dedication Feyd has with his looks and decides to match him. It takes hard work, but Feyd starts to relax around Paul. He also understands Paul is his equal, just as intelligent, just as resilient, he can see Paul and Paul can see him. He's still hesitant, like a wild animal who was kept in a cage too long, but he's getting there and that's okay for Paul, he'll teach his husband, feelings are hard and Feyd never learned to deal with them besides bottling them up and attacking first, but now Paul is here, they are friends.

Enough spice in the food has enhanced his perception, he noted, and easily enough, he knows who he is, what he is, not just a Harkonnen by marriage but by blood. He can feel it now, in the back of his conscience, that thing that have always flown through his blood but he could never name it, hedonism. His sheltered, kinda repressed, life in Caladan makes him a little angry, all he has been denied and for what?. The Baron obviously takes a like for him, and he understands why, he also understands why Feyd seems uncomfortable, almost disgusted with it, and he too, feels a little thrown off by it, but he's bene gesserit, he uses it.

No reason to tiptoe aroud it, Paul calls him grandpa, which just makes the Baron happier with him. He stays at the Baron's side, sits with him in his floating device, talks about whatever the Baron wants, let's his thick hands linger, he gains advantages over the fat man. Soon enough, he's included in the important conversations. Even though the old man is a disgusting creature, Paul sees he's also very intelligent, and even learns a thing or two from the Baron. His grandfather is more than happy to dress him up in the most expensive fabrics, parade him around like a trophy, and Paul does the Baron's biding because yes, he's the most disgusting man in the galaxy but boy, he sure knows what he's doing, and he's got to make the most out of his situation. He knows his family would be outraged to see the Duke's son like this, in the Baron's lap, laughing, clinging to him, whispering in his ear a thing or two he noticed about the nobles around them. But Paul is not just the Duke's son, he's bene gesserit, he has the power here, he's a mentat, he's doing this for the advantages, he's Harkonnen, he's doing this because he can, because it's his birthright.

Paul noticed how Feyd would tense up in the Baron's presence, how he hated to be touched by anyone but held very still anytime it was necessary, he noticed Feyd would cover his body head to toe when he had the choice, only socially he would be showing skin, enchanting everyone around him like a good showman, and Paul knew he hated it, he knew he was doing what he was taught to do, to be a good boy and entertain. Maybe after a while he ever got a taste for that, not enough to enjoy having skin showing around the Baron, but enough to do it effortlessly.

After so much time around the Baron, Paul learned he did, in fact, have strong Harkonnen blood running through his veins. He enjoys power, he enjoys lavishness, he is very much a hedonist. The bene gesserit training served him well, but he saw through them now, he would not do their bidding, especially after learning what they did to Feyd, setting a trigger word that would render him paralyzed, "for safety" they said, it makes his blood boil. Taking away Feyd's agency, making him vulnerable, he knows those are Feyd's biggest fears, oh how he would snap those witches necks with his bare hands, maybe he will if they ever get too close to his husband. Let them think he tamed the beast, let them think of him as a beast, that keeps him safe, and Paul learned from Feyd, add fuel to the fire if it's working for you.

His training from his old masters also served him well, but now that his grandfather included him in real talks about the imperium he knows there's no such thing as morally better or whatnot, if anything, his father was not very smart, leading with his heart and training with repression. He loves his family dearly, but the world is so much bigger now, and out of everyone, is the Baron teaching him. His sees now, his mother is a Harkonnen like any other, hungry for power, he cannot see how love would blind such a powerful woman, that's why she defied the sisterhood, why she tried to make him a boy, the one. He wonders how different things would be if she had been raised by her father, maybe she would be like himself now.

Like the Baron, he thought of Feyd as "his", differently from the Baron, he would NEVER hurt him, and that's how he distance himself from that man, he can not stand the thought of Feyd being hurt, and he will do whatever it takes to protect his husband, his friend. He knows Feyd initially was angry at him for this behavior, withdrawing from him, he couldn't understand why Paul would let the Baron touch him, knowing what he knew, knowing what he did to Feyd, how could he be fine with that, was he that much like his grandfather? it was revolting to him. And at first, Feyd thought his husband was stealing his thunder, then, he thought his husband was giving himself for free. It took a while for Feyd to realized that with Paul gliding around the room in his pretty, expensive clothes the Baron chose for him, nobody, especially the Baron, minded him. He could wear the clothes he was comfortable with, no one cared, he didn't need to say a word to anyone, all eyes were on Paul, the sweet, pretty grandson of the Baron Harkonnen. He felt it, Paul was doing this for him, no one was going to touch him, no one was going to be all over him, he wasn't going to be forced to perform, the Baron would not hurt him, not under the little witch boy's spell. Paul was also safe from the people around them, Feyd was a plaything until he started to bite back, but no one would touch the Baron's arm candy, the Baron's only grandson. Feyd is as close to free as he could ever be, thanks to Paul, he almost can't keep it in his chest, the dukling likes him so much he is willingly at the Baron's side, knowing that his family will not be happy with that. No one had ever protected Feyd before, maybe his mother once, but he couldn't really remember. And like that, he trusts Paul, and maybe that's what love feels like. Paul knows what loves is, he was loved from his first breath, and when he sees it in the Na-Baron's eyes, directed at him, he feels complete.

In the early days of their marriage, when Feyd was very skittish around him, and would not touch him, Paul thought of many things, maybe the Na-Baron didn't find him attractive? or maybe he was repulsed by sex altogether, odd, considering what he learned about Geidi Prime and Harkonnen culture. Maybe he was impotent? no, the sisters would've told him that, they wouldn't jeopardize the way for an heir. That wouldn't do, they needed an heir to secure this union and Feyd unwillingness to touch him as unbecoming.

One day, during their training session, Paul was wearing a short blouse that would ride up with every move, he caught the older boy's eyes lingering on his frame, he said nothing, Feyd also said nothing. Then Paul noticed his struggle to move, the Na-Baron's pants had become tight, the duckling smiled to himself, so he was attracted to him after all, and he clearly could get it up, so what was the issue?. One day, Paul used the Voice on Feyd, they were wrestling, he thought it would be funny to get the upper hand like that, and a good way to let Feyd know of his abilities. He was wrong, Feyd moved so fast way from him, it was as if he used the Voice to tell him that and not "down". He looked terrified for a moment before he caught himself, still away from Paul as he got up. Paul felt so bad, he understood why Feyd was terrified, Feyd hated not having control over his own body, more than hate, he feared that. Paul explaind he only wanted Feyd to know he could do it, told him he would NEVER use the Voice on him again, apologized profoundly. Feyd acknowledged his explanation but was very surprised by the apology, he liked it, Paul could tell. He decided to show what a pinky promise was, and made a promise with Feyd. Feyd-Rautha was quite happy with that.

They had become more comfortable with each other over the weeks, they held hands and hug every once in a while. Paul would have vison nightmares sometimes, other times Feyd would have nightmares, after calming down they would just hug until they fell asleep again, Feyd was getting found of hugs. Paul even got a kiss! the only other time they kissed was at their wedding and Feyd did as fast as he could.

One day, while they were laying in bed, just enjoying the other's company, Feyd asked, out of nowhere, if he would use the Voice on someone else. Paul took a while to respond that yes, if he needed, he would, he saw something shine in Feyd's eyes, he couldn't tell-- "you're very powerful" Feyd said, not blinking, looking directly at him, breathing heavily, and oh, that's it, Feyd is not only attracted to him, he's also attracted to power. Paul then decided to show how much he appreciated his husband by giving him power over himself. Feyd, unlike him, was experienced, forced to perform, then acquired a taste for it, for taking back. Paul knew what he was taught as a bene gesserit and what his grandfather had shown him in filmbooks but nothing felt like giving in to Feyd, not having to be the one in control all the time, just letting go, he trusted Feyd, knew he would never hurt him, and Feyd trusted Paul to never force him to do anything. They were a united front now.

[florestmoon]

HCs or short story on how the legion would react to reader being the newest survivor that’s in a rock/metal band😳 maybe they went to check on the survivor camp after hearing rumors of a new arrival and seeing them playing a few recognizable/favorite songs on a guitar (that somehow works) nsfw or sfw

p.s love your work :)!! ☘️

I had Into The Void - Black Sabbath in mind while writing this 😩 I decided to do a drabble on how I think they would go and look for the survivor , hope you enjoy! And thank you so so much!! <33

“Can you move, you're blocking the view with your big ass head.”

“Frank. Really?. ”

“Ow! You stepped on my foot !”

“Shut up Susie “

“Don’t tell her to shut up, you okay suz??”

“Yeah i’m fine-”

“Where are they ?”

Joey sighs as he peers from behind a tree. It didn't do much to hide the 4 teenagers but most of the survivors surrounding the camp fire were busy chatting amongs themselves to notice the four heads sticking out amongst the branches.

“I don’t know. You would think they would stick with the others since they just arrived, right?”

“Most survivors are idiots. So I wouldn't push it past them.” Julie murmurs, beginning to grow bored from the lack of any sight of you. “This blows.”

“So rewind for me again, why the hell did we come all the way here for a new survivor ? We see those all the time.” Frank snaps impatiently, pushing himself from the tree as he turned to group. Joey nearly shrinking under his stare but he kept his gaze steady as he looked back to his leader.

“I told you, they were different.” He states, reminiscing on the trial you both had before, “they looked like they could..be just like us! The clothes and everything. They even had a guitar pick as a necklace.”

“Cool!” Susie gasps. “So they play?”

“ I tried cornering them to ask about it but they punched me in the face.”

He sighs dreamily before continuing, “it was so..cool.”

Frank raised his eyebrow at the look of awe that struck Joey’s face. It was something he was use to being directed at him. He was always the leader and the role model for the bunch. So to see his group be excited at another person, a survivor , he couldn’t beat his own curiosity to see you.

“Woah, that’s hot.” Julie adds. Her own excitement replacing the boredom that was in her eyes moments before. “I’m tired of the entity bringing in these old assholes. We need someone more fun. “

“Problem is.,” Frank finally speaks, “I don’t see them. God knows how long that bitch will put us in a trial with them.”

Susie watches her friends collectively share a chorus of groans before turning towards the survivor camp. She watched for a moment before a soft humming from a far had her turning her head.

“I think you're just being a simp Joey.”

“No i’m not!! ..whats a simp?”

“I don’t know. I heard Danny say it.”

“Hey..shhh.. do you hear that?” She turns to her friends. The bickering came to a stop as they looked at her in confusion. A few moments passed before Julie eyes perked up and she stared off deeper into the woods.

“Yeah..it’s coming from over there.”

the vibrations echoed in the woods as they begin to walk towards the source of the sound. Volume of the music increasing and becoming faster the closer they got.

Frank felt his heart pick up once he recognized the beat.

“Holy shit.” He whispered, brushing past his best friends as he walked out into a clearing a few feet ahead. You sat on top of a log, electric guitar in your hands as your left hand swiftly moved up and down the neck. Pick in between your fingers on your right ,tugging on the strings with ease while you stared at the ground with a concentrated expression.

He didn't even bring himself to question how you were able to play with out any speakers or other props. Leave it to the entity to figure a way out. But he wasn’t complaining. He, along with the rest of the legion watched you play the song with little effort.

You were a natural.

“How come you’re not playing for your survivor friends newbie ??”

You gasped from the sudden voice. The riff coming to a full stop as your head snapped up towards the 4 teens. The guitar was quickly placed behind you as you stood up and narrowed your eyes at them.

“Get away.” You spit, the nervousness obvious with the way you began to glance around as though in hopes to see your fellow survivors close by. You were farther from the camp than you thought. “You can't hurt me outside of trials, they told me the rules.”

“No one said anything about hurting anybody newbie.” Julie smirks, crossing her arms as she leans against a tree nearest you. “Pretty hard to stay away when we hear such good music. You think it's smart to play alone in the woods ?”

Joey and Susie glanced at each other, biting back their own smiles. Leave it to their leaders toput on the intimidating yet smooth act.

“Which goes back to my first question.” Frank steps closer to you, putting his hands on his leather jacket as he looks at you up and down. Your glare hardening. “Why you playing all alone?”

“They prefer that country stuff the blonde plays.” You finally answer. Eyes glancing between them, your stance uncomfortable. Joey scoffs at that.

“They don’t like real music then.”

“Guess not.” You gulp. Your throat felt dry. “Guess they want a more chill atmosphere around the camp.”

“You only do covers?”

You look towards Frank offended. “No, I had my own band. Got my own songs.”

“Cool.” Joey mumbles.

“You could play for us !” Susie found her voice, stepping towards you. “We have a resort we stay in. Y-you can hang there and..um play the guitar.”

“Yeah. Besides it’ll be safer” Julie tilts her head watching you, “any other killer could find you here alone. We can protect you.”

Your posture was beginning to relax a bit. You knew it was idiotic to even think of putting your guard down. These were killers, one being someone you remembered punching in the last trial. They easily could ambush you, break any rules of the sick world you were now stuck in.

But the way the girl with bright pink hair was staring at you, eyes wide and grin showing off her braces had you hesitating from dashing towards the camp. The tattooed male was closest to you, eyes not shy from roaming over your body taking in your appearance. A small impressed smirk pulling on his lips.

The other two were trying to appear more nonchalant, but you could see the glances they kept giving to your guitar. Excitement in their eyes.

It reminded you of your old days with your band and the audience that followed your every move. The high you got from having eyes on you every time you played in a small club in front of a group of people.

Fans.

A smile played on your lips. You could have fun with this. “Sure, you know Metallica?”

[birichardswift]

The Shade's Journal (Starman Omnibus 4)

From the Shade's Journal…

Eddy Gomez had a natural talent for the kind of dancing he performed for me that night. I suppose the closest thing to it would be an "Apache Dance" that you might see in a Parisian revue — you know, where the man wears a beret and a striped vest, the woman is dressed like a mademoiselle of the night, and with grace and agility the pair beat each other up for the amusement of patrons.

Of course, the "Apache Dance" is artifice. No one is really hurt.

In my "Apache Dance," in the washroom of Musso & Frank's on Hollywood Boulevard, things were a little more improvised. Eddy, I suppose, was playing the female role, though he was dressed in a rather spectacular lavender zoot suit instead of a split skirt and fishnet stockings. However, in the dance it's the female who appears to take the beating and Eddy was certainly taking one as he jerked and jived and pirouetted with each punch and kick he received. The "male" of the dance was all that and more, although if you'd asked him to sport a beret and striped shirt while he made his assault, he might as well have hit you as hard as he was pummeling poor Eddy. Sam Mild had a cigarette in his mouth the whole time. The nonchalance of this only added to the scene's surrealism.

Sam blew smoke from the side of his mouth. "Why won't you talk?" he asked for the twentieth time.

"I'm not a squealer," Eddy spat back, along with one of his incisors.

"Since when? Are you not the Eddy Gomez who sold his own mother to the cops for a hundred and fifty bucks?"

I smiled. Mild's joke wasn't that funny, but I thought it the polite thing to do. Then Gomez replied with a cough of blood…

"It was two hundred. And the old bitch had it coming."

...And then I realized Mild wasn't joking at all.

"Hey! What's going on in there?!" It was one of the waiters. He pounded at the locked door. His voice was shrill. "If you guys don't stop whatever it is you're doing, we'll call the cops. We got laws, you know."

"Shut up," Mild yelled in reply, giving Eddy another punch as he did so.

"We got laws!" The waiter was not to be put off. "And we got famous people who want to use the facilities. We got Sidney Greenstreet out here, and he wants in."

"Tell the fat bastard not to eat so much..."

Another punch, this one to the side of Gomez's head.

"...And he might hold out for the little boy's room longer."

A snort could be heard, which I'm guessing was Greenstreet himself, and then a thud as the waiter threw himself against the door. I presume the man was slight, as he made little effect on the door, hinge, lock, or the stream of punches that Eddy Gomez enjoyed.

"That's it, to hell with bad publicity," the waiter screamed out in his high-pitched tone, "I'm calling the cops."

"Damn." Mild kicked Eddy between the legs. "They don't mind the bad publicity but I'm paid to make sure none of it washes up outside Mr. Hughes' cabana." He dragged Gomez toward the door. "Come on, Eddy. Let's take a drive. I love the canyons at night. How about you?"

★★★★★★

We had arrived at Musso & Frank's a quarter of an hour before that. The place was full. It was a popular eatery after all, with its cozy wood-lined booths and its familiar menu of tried and true meals. Sometimes a star would drop by for a sandwich or some soup, so it was also a place where tourists visited in the hope of sighting their big-screen favorite. As we entered, I immediately saw Greenstreet in a corner booth devouring a chicken. Apart from that, it had been the usual mixture of Hollywood Boulevard flotsam.

Mild had walked through the place, pushing aside a waiter who had tried to seat him. We were looking for Eddy Gomez, and Mild fully intended that this would be the final port of call in our evening's hunt for the little fellow.

Our search had begun in a pool hall down near the Santa Monica pier. A large fellow named Gunny had told Mild and myself that a friend of a friend of a friend of his had heard "some news about Hughes" but he wasn't sure what.

From there we drove to Fairfax and a small motel where Gunny's friend of a friend of a friend was enjoying the favors of a middle-aged lady with a quite spectacular amount of hair growth on her upper lip. In fact, had the lady in question not scurried from bed to bathroom sans apparel when Mild kicked the door in on them, I might have questioned her sex more so and assumed her a man with a taste for wigs and rouge. The friend of a friend of a friend was nervous. He didn't want to get anyone in trouble. But when Mild put the fellow's genitals in the drawer of the bedside table and threatened to slam it shut on them, the friend of a friend of a friend all of a sudden didn't care how hard a rain was going to fall on the next fellow as long as his favorite little chap and he stayed together to play together.

And so we again drove through the night. It had begun to rain by now, but the car had good wipers and Mild's handling of slippery L.A. roads was assured. I sat, a passenger content.

The friend of a friend was a drummer in a fairly acceptable dance band. They were playing in a little basement club over on Los Feliz. It was a mixed crowd there. Latinos in their zoot suits. Some servicemen. Some shady white men with sallow complexions and shifty eyes.

The drummer's name was Jerry.

"Hey, man," he said in his coolest half-whisper, "you a friend of Gunny's? Gunny owes me $40."

Mild backhanded him across the cheek. "I don't care if he owes you his life. I want to know who was talking about Howard Hughes."

"I forgot."

Mild sighed. "You know, if I smashed your hands you might heal to play the drums some more. But if I held them down while my buddy drove over them with our car, buddy, you ain't never gonna be hitting the high hat again. So why don't you think a little harder and maybe your memory will come back."

I looked at Jerry's eyes. They spun like plates on the vaudeville stage.

"This man is a drug user," I said.

Mild looked more closely into his face. "Yeah, for sure. Should have noticed." He shook Jerry. "You hopped up? Wouldn't be the first jazzer I met with the habit. Still, it makes getting information out of him easy."

Mild reached into his jacket. For his gun, I thought. Or perhaps a cosh. Instead he produced four crisp twenty-dollar bills.

"Gunny owes you forty? Here's that and that again. You want it? Buys a lot of junk, that much dough. Just give me a name and you can bliss yourself silly, friend."

Jerry stared at the cash. He seemed transfixed. It was as if he were trying to put all these scattered fragments of information together in his head — money...for information....tell him information...I get money...with money I buy dope...with money...for information…

After what seemed like an eternity, Jerry opened his mouth.

"You cats know Eddy Gomez?"

★★★★★★

And so we arrived at Musso & Frank's. We found Eddy making the acquaintance of an egg salad sandwich. Mild stood Eddy up and marched him to the men's room. The questions turn into a beating. Then the waiter's high-pitched threats and his news of Greenstreet's full bladder. Out the back door, as the police arrives in the front. Into the car we had parked...and away.

Our car was parked high up on a deserted stretch of Mulholland. Mild looked out at the lights of the San Fernando Valley.

"You like the canyons?" he asked Eddy.

"I guess. I like to bring girls up here."

"So do I. Isn't that why God created them?"

"Girls?"

"No, canyons."

Sitting in the back, listening to this repartee, I suppressed a smile.

"I don't get you, Eddy," Mild said.

"I'm a simple guy. What's not to get?"

"I beat the hell out of you. Why didn't you tell me what you heard about Hughes? If you'd ask me for money, I'd have given it to you. You could have come out of this ahead."

"I got my reasons."

"You got reasons? You got reasons? I admire your guts, kid. Even if you are a sap."

"So what'cho gonna do to me now?"

"I'm going to kill you."

"Just like that."

"Just like that. I'm going to put a bullet in you and roll you off the road and down the canyonside into the brush. By the time the cops find you, you'll probably have been torn up some by the coyotes. Messy death. Gomez...that's a Mex name, right? You from South of the border?"

"I was born in San Francisco. My father worked in the vineyards."

"You're Catholic with a name like that, though. Gotta be. No open casket burial for you if the dogs chew you up."

Eddy sat in the passenger seat for a short while. He stared at the twinkling lights below him. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

"I love this town. I'd hate to leave it."

Mild rolled his eyes. "Then why not stay? Tell me what you know, Eddy. Believe me. I will kill you and not think twice, but I don't enjoy the taking of lives and I would rather drive you back to some nice corner of town and drop you off. Hell, spill what you know and I'll even kick in a thousand bucks. Call it my apology for the beating you took earlier."

"I'm scared."

"Of what? I'm going to kill you in about a minute if you don't talk. What could you be more scared of than that?"

"My soul."

"Come again?"

"What I heard is that Mr. Hughes is being attacked by characters from a children's book, right?"

"Maybe," Mild replied blowing a perfect ring of smoke.

"Maybe nothing. Am I right?"

"Yeah."

"Word is that the guy behind the attacks is a magician. Word is he knows black magic and stuff. Word is he has an army of soulless helpers who do his bidding."

"Oh, yeah?" Mild sounded skeptical.

"He was a film director," Eddy continued, oblivious to Mild's tone. "Until recently. He used to be a big name, too. Horror movies. Stuff with Lon Chaney. Big name. Then his career went downhill. He quit in '38 or '39, about."

Mild shook Eddy's collar. "I don't want his life story, just his name."

Eddy swallowed and sighed. "The guy's name is Tod Browning," he said, and shivered a little as he did so.

★★★★★★

"So what do you know about Tod Browning?"

"Less than you, I'm sure."

This was how Sam Mild broke the silence we had enjoyed since dropping off young Eddy Gomez at the corner of Beverly and Fairfax. Mild had been true to his word and had stuffed money in the lad's pocket as he heaved him out of his car.

Eddy had turned to Mild as he stood on the sidewalk dusting himself off. "Thanks for not killing me, you bastard," he said. "But next time try not to hit me so hard, huh?"

"You better hope there isn't a next time, kid. I was feeling good tonight. Tomorrow might find me in a different mood."

"Please don't repeat what I told you about Tod Browning," Eddy said nervously.

"Oh, I'll repeat it," Mild replied. "I've got to tell my superiors. You know that." Eddy looked at Mild with fearful uneasiness. "But they don't have to know who told me," Mild continued. "So relax."

"I'm scared, man."

"Of this Browning cat?"

"Oh, yeah. Man. He's gonna be the death of you if you dig too deeply in whatever he's got going."

"Yeah, well, we all gotta die." He turned to me. "Ain't that right, Shade?"

I smiled and said nothing.

"Watch yourself, kid," Mild said as our car pulled away.

And so we drove. Along Beverly to La Brea and left up Fountain, passing through Fairfax, and then left again on La Cienega back down to Beverly. I realized Mild had driven us in and enormous square and was about to break the silence by remarking upon it, when Mild spoke first just ahead of me.

"So, what do you know about Tod Browning?"

"Less than you, I'm sure," I replied.

"He's a film director," he said. "We know that. I think...didn't he direct a horror film? Maybe. The Wolfman? Or....I dunno."

"No. And neither do I. I find all horror films tiresome and foolish and refrain from seeing them."

"Me, I got no time for films," Mild offered. "I see too much of the dirt that goes into making them. The actors and their boys on the side. The actresses whose stag films I have to locate the negatives for. Or they have the prostitution records I have to bribe free of the law to destroy. Or they've had abortions. Or there's an ex-husband kicking around who needs paying off or killing. And that's just the weak goddamn actors. Bunch of stupid kids with more money than smarts. The big guys...Mayer and Warner and Cohn and Selznick...all of them have dirty secrets too, that me or someone like me has had to sweep under the rug for them."

"The only name I recognize out of those you mention is Mayer," I said. "I hate the man."

"What did he do to you?"

"Nothing. In fact, I've never even met him."

"Then what gives?"

"Through chance and happenstance I met an actor named John Gilbert. We became friends." I coughed slightly as Mild lit one of his cheap cigarettes. "Anyway," I continued, "Gilbert ran afoul of his then boss Louis B. Mayer. Mayer responded to this by driving Gilbert out of the industry. Messing with the man's voice test when the actors were all making the transition from silents to talkies. He drove poor John to an early grave."

"Yeah, I heard that too," Mild muttered. "But don't let it rile you. Stuff like that happens all the time."

"I'm afraid I've already been riled. And one day, Mayer will pay."

Mild placed a hand on my arm. "Look, the one thing I have learned about this town is it's a great leveler. Everybody who is up will one day be down. That's this place. Mayer, as powerful as he is now, will get his one day. Trust me on that."

I sighed a sigh of dissatisfaction and pondered how my revenge on Mayer might one day take shape, when Mild interrupted my thoughts.

"Anyway, I don't see Louis B. Mayer in the car with us, helping us with info on Tod Browning, so I don't want to think about him now. And neither should you, Shade. We've got us a culprit behind this crazy mess, but because we're both ignorant of things movie-like in this land of cinema, we're both of us stymied." He took a drag of his cigarette. "You thirsty?"

"I could take a drink if one was offered to me."

"I know a little after-hours place. Let's go there."

The place in question was actually quite near. A little room with a bar, above a camera store on Cherokee just south of Hollywood Boulevard. Mild parked the car in an alleyway close by and we entered through a side door, taking the creaking wooden staircase upwards to it slowly and with the solemn reverence of two who were entering a temple.

The drinking club itself had been a living quarters at some point, but the owner had seen profit in the lonely who drink when even the moon is telling them they should be home abed. Indeed, one or two men were still there talking about the world to their whiskey sours. The bar itself was cracked marble, old and warred upon, having countless skirmishes with glass and tankard to its credit. Although it was now early the following morning, Larry, the establishment's owner, a fat, happy man with a large disfiguring mole on his cheek, still stood behind the bar awaiting orders.

"What will it be, gentlemen?"

"Vodka gimlet for me. Shade?"

"Sherry," I answered.

"Not in this joint," both Mild and Larry said in unison.

"No?" I asked. "Then what about wine?"

"Got a red somewhere," Larry replied.

"I'm sure in this land of sun-warmed vineyards your red has a humble charm. A glass of that."

Mild and I took our drinks to a side table close to a young man and an older woman. Mild and I sat there in silence for a moment or two, as we sipped our drinks (the red was acceptable), and in that quiet time, I overheard the young man near us making a final negotiation with the woman before the pair of them stepped out for some kind of illicit coupling.

Then Mild called over to Larry. "Hey, Lar! You ever heard of Tod Browning?"

"Yeah. Director. He don't work much now, but didn't he direct Dracula with Lugosi?"

Mild and I looked at each other with relief. In an instant we both knew that Larry was right, and that irritation when a nagging question refuses to be answered had been eased.

"What else do you know about him?"

"You got the sum and total, brother."

"So what do we do now?" I asked.

"We grab some sleep," Mild said. "We got a name. That's a good going for one night. I'll report it to Mr. Hughes and he can use his power to locate Browning. We'll drag him somewhere deserted and I'll introduce Browning to my leather cosh and a couple of yards of rubber hose. He'll talk before long, tell us what's going on and why. We'll have the complete picture. Then we'll drive him out to the desert. Pop him in the head. And you can go back to Opal City the richer for having known me and Mr. Hughes, having actually done very little yourself in terms of solving this mystery."

My face was expressionless.

"Though I must admit to finding your company surprisingly agreeable, on this, a very disagreeable night of hurting folks," Mild said with a smile.

I smiled too.

"You don't enjoy the hurting part of the work?" I asked.

"Never hire someone for that kind of work who enjoys it. They'll go nuts on you when you need them straight. No, the hurting is just part of the job. Nothing more than that." Mild downed his drink. "Come on," he said. "I'm tired. I bet you are too."

I nodded and drained my wine. We left with a wave to Larry, who looked to be beginning to close up shop himself.

It was still night as we left Larry's bar and walked to the alley. The alley was dark. Very dark. Darker than the night and street around it suggested that it should be.

"Come on," Mild said. "The car's-"

Then he stopped. He, like I, could hear a noise. Soft at first, but growing louder. A purring. Purring. Purring. And then there was a smile. A large, toothy, feline smile, shining forth from the black of the alley like a beacon.

Mild whistled through his teeth. "You see that?"

"How could I not?"

Mild took his pistol out and fired two shots into the alley. Both passed through the smiling mouth, but the shattering of glass told us that Mild had managed to hit his car's windscreen further within the blackness. He turned to me. "Your shadow gonna be any use?"

"I doubt it. Not if your bullets aren't." I sent shards of shadows at the smile anyway. No use.

The smile then proceeded to advance from the blackness towards us, getting larger all the while. Presently from the gloom an enormous cat's head became visible. If the size of this was anything to go by, then the beast's body would be immense.

"I think we should split," Mild said.

"I concur," I replied, and we both began sprinting for Hollywood Boulevard.

It was four in the morning or thereabouts, and no one was in sight. Looking over my shoulder I could see the Cheshire Cat (for that was what it was) appear from the alley and begin its chase after us. Its body more resembled a panther's, being lithe and muscular, and indeed it was bigger than any normal animal, being ten feet high at the shoulder.

One bound covered many yards and we were but a few seconds from being pounced upon, when salvation came in the shape of a lonely yellow cab. It's "for hire" sign was down, but that didn't stop Mild, who stood in front of the oncoming car aiming his gun at the driver in order to make him stop. The driver did and we threw ourselves inside the car, as the Cheshire Cat bounded onto the spot upon which we had been standing but seconds before. The driver looked on with dismay.

"What's the matter with you?" Mild screamed. "Drive this heap!"

The driver did. Accelerating as the Cheshire Cat gave chase. Faster and faster the hack sped down the deserted 4:00 A.M. of Hollywood Boulevard. All the while the Cheshire Cat maintained its pursuit. Indeed, it seemed to be getting faster as it bounded after us.

"It's gaining!" Mild screamed. "You call yourself a driver?"

The driver glared over his shoulder at Mild and put all his weight on the gas. The car sped up and away finally, leaving the Cheshire Cat behind. With a final spiteful grin at us, from far in the distance, the Cat vanished as the first lights of dawn arose behind it, far to the East.

"What was that all about?" the driver asked. "What was that thing?"

"A special effect gone crazy," Mild replied. "Movie hijinks, you know?"

"No. I don't know. It looked pretty damn real to me."

"You wanna make some dough? I mean big dough?"

"I guess."

Mild pulled a card and wrote an address down on the back of it. "Here. Come to this address tomorrow. Tell them I sent you. You'll be well paid. You know what for?"

"No."

"You forget all about this. If you don't, I gotta kill you. Understand?"

The driver looked nervous. "Like the gospels, buddy. Me, I'm already developing amnesia."

"Smart," Mild said. "Now take us to our hotel and we'll call it a night? You got it?"

Mild settled back and glanced my way. I could see the anger in his eyes, burning like the dawn we drove away from.

"Man," he said. "When I get my hands on the Browning guy, I am gonna give him such a beating."

★★★★★★

The morning after the night of our escape from the large Cheshire Cat (yes, how delightfully benign the whole affair sounds by the light of day)...the morning after that I slept late. I am a being with little need for sleep, but I do find it such an exquisite pleasure. And I knew Mild was out there "packing a wallop" as he so succinctly put it, trying to uncover the whereabouts and activities of Tod Browning.

I never dream. But after waking with the light that shone as glints through the gaps in my curtains, I tried to go back to sleep and in that semi-slumber state imagined meeting Tod Browning. I didn't know what he looked like, so I imagined him resembling Raymond Massey (for no reason at all). I imagined us fighting (well, in truth it would be my shadow demons who'd be doing the fighting while I stood around making delightfully pithy remarks).

...So, in the haze of dreaming not, Browning brought his monsters to fight mine. Shadow Demons fought March Hare and Mock Turtle while the Queen of Hearts screamed "off with his head"...referring to mine. And then when all else failed, Browning called upon his ultimate agent of fear and death, Dracula. Here I imagined Bela Lugosi, but with a long and elegantly groomed mustache. It looked strangely at odd with the smooth, slick hair he'd given his cinematic interpretation of the character.

And that was how it was as I dozed and slept and dozed and slept, until sometime in the very late morning when a timid knock at my door aroused me.

"Come in," I said, sitting up in bed and stretching.

The door was opened by a maid, a small scared girl. She had the look of a beaten dog whose spirit had long ago been broken.

"I was sent to ask you if you'd like some breakfast?"

"Breakfast. That sounds just the thing." I smile. "Tell me my dear, what in this land of sun and oranges passes for breakfast?"

"Gee, I dunno."

"You were sent here to ask me if I wanted breakfast, yet you have no idea what breakfasts are on the menu?"

"No," she countered. "It was the way you asked. It confused me. I thought you were asking me how food here was different from other parts of America."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that."

"Breakfast can be anything you want, sir. You're a guest of Mr. Hughes, so the kitchen will cook you anything."

"Well, in that case I would like deviled kidneys and scrambled eggs. Toast. And tea with milk. Oh, and perhaps a glass of the fine, sweet juice of oranges that this land is known for."

"You mean orange juice?"

"I mean exactly that."

She moved to leave, then dropped, turning with a questioning expression on her face marked by a slight creasing of her forehead.

"Err...what are deviled kidneys?"

"I take it offal isn't part of the Californian breakfast cuisine," I said. "Yes, you can take the man out of his country, but you can never quite take the desire for that country's food out of the man." I thought for a moment before answering.

"Tell the cook to take, say... two kidneys. Pig's kidneys. Or one large cow's kidney and cut it into bite-size pieces. Fry them with a little pepper and some hot sauce. That's a close approximation of what I have in mind."

The maid looked stunned. "I...I've never heard of it."

"I'm English," I replied. "What can I say? If you really want to be delighted, let me tell you of a singular dish the Northerners in my country created. They call it black pudding."

"Oh, I rather you didn't, sir."

"As you wish. What's your name?"

"Mary."

"You look tired, Mary."

"I was late for work. I've missed my coffee. I have to admit I'm flagging."

"Well, go get my food and we'll discuss your fatigue when you return with it. How does that sound?"

Mary left warily. It was clear few guests before me had ever stopped to ask her name or state of being. I entered the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I then donned a silk kimono I'd acquired during an exploit in Japan, and awaited my food. But then as the moments passed, a thought came to me, and I reached for the telephone.

"Hello. Is this room service?" I asked. "I'd like to add something to my breakfast order, No, not a substitution. An addition to it, that's right. I'd like a big pot of coffee. And cream and sugar. And what goes well with coffee? Strudel? Just the thing. That, too. Oh, and I don't like to eat unattended, so the maid who you sent up earlier, Mary. I'd like her to stay with me while I eat. Yes, that's right, I am a guest of Mr. Hughes."

A while later, Mary returned.

"I ordered you coffee, Mary. We can't have a sleepy maid in the hotel, can we?"

She appeared nervous. "But I should be getting back."

"No. I asked for your company. Sit and take a break."

We sat. She seemed pensive at first, but as the coffee and strudel began to vanish, so did her concerns.

"Where do you live, Mary?"

"Los Feliz."

"So you know the Los Angeles area?"

"As good as anyone."

"Then let's take the time to talk about it. After all, we have the time. I've asked for your company for the whole time I'm eating. And I am a very slow eater."

"All tight," Mary said, shaking off the drab and tired moment by moment. She smiled and suddenly the room was all the brighter for it. "What do you want to know?"

★★★★★★

Mary, the maid, stood before me. She was naked. And not unappealing, for I can only presume it was the hard work she did which had made her body firm and shapely. A fine sight. So quickly gone.

In her place was Marguerite Ludlow. She too was naked, and as comely a sight as I have ever beheld. My breath stumbled from my lungs. My eyes became hubcaps. Marguerite. My Marguerite. She was back.

"How are you, my love?"

She said this with the familiar warm, slow curve of her mouth I knew.

"I'm fine, Marguerite. I'm surprised, but I'm fine."

"Surprised?"

"Well, you are dead, after all. I did kill you...after all."

"Did you? I don't recall."

"Wait a minute," I said. "This is a dream. This has to be a dream." Indeed, Marguerite is dead. "If you stand before me now, you are a wraith, or you are a figment."

"Dreams are their own reality," she replied. "If I am here before you, I am here...in this existence I am alive. Close your eyes and take a breath."

"A breath?"

"Smell me."

"Oh."

I did as I was bid and smelled Marguerite's perfume, lavender and rose, made by the local chemist in a town just outside of Paris where we visited often. That sweet aroma bonded with the warm natural smell of her own skin, and combined it smelled of springtime. Even in the coldest weather, around Marguerite it smelled like spring.

"I miss you," she said.

"And I you," I replied, the first frail tear forming in the corner of my eye.

"I'm sorry I tried to kill you," she said.

"And I'm sorry I succeeded," I said back.

She smiled. "What was, was. What will be, will. You shouldn't hate yourself. Do you remember the opera?"

"Which one?"

"The marriage of Figaro. You were disappointed at the end. You had so looked forward to hearing the 'Figaro chorus,' as you called it." (At which point Marguerite began to sing..."Figaro. Figaro, Figaro, Figaro"...then looked at me with a grin.) "You didn't realize that the music you wanted to hear was from the Barber of Seville."

"Yes," I said awkwardly. "Well. Two operas with characters called Figaro. Who would have guessed."

"The walk back from the opera house was wonderful. The cool night. All those stars. We found a courtyard. It was asleep...everyone in the houses around. I made you forget your disappointment in that courtyard."

I closed my eyes again. The pain of remembering those happier times before I discovered Marguerite was really one of the Ludlow clan bent upon my death...it was almost too much to bear. I who had lived so long. I who had endured so much. Yet, all I had to do was see my lost love again and I was close to destruction, my heart close to breaking. I was beyond forlorn. I took another breath of her sweet, springtime perfume…

...And almost retched upon the ground. Gone was spring in all its lavender freshness. I smelled brimstone and human waste and rotting flesh. I recall India, one summer of sickness when I had visited the Ganges. The banks of it were lined with the corpses of untouchables the Indian caste system forbids others to move. The dead stayed where they had fallen to bake and rot in the afternoon rays. The stench I smelled now was akin to the rancid odor on that day in India once. Only worse.

I opened my eyes and saw the Devil.

"Hello again," he said.

He was as naked as Marguerite had been. The sight was not as pleasing.

"When was it last," he asked. "Iceland?"

"Where's Marguerite?"

"Dead, I imagine," he said in an offhand Devil's fashion. "Yes, quite dead."

"You're telling me she was never here?"

"It's your dreams. You tell me."

"No, I suppose not. I suppose she remains as dead as when I left her. Why are you here?"

"You're my son. Of sorts. I fear for you."

"I am no one's son," I sneered back.

"Nevertheless I fear for you. I fear for you this day."

"Why?"

"People come to crossroads. Life is a series of them."

"Like the day you decided to defy your father?"

"Hmm," the Devil said, pausing to think for a moment. "I suppose that was one of those times." He looked off for a moment. "I've never been able to decide if that was one of my better choices...or one of my worst."

"It's my dream. You tell me."

"Touché. I fear for you, Shade," he said, rapidly changing the subject as if the topic of his fall from grace made him uncomfortable. "I fear this adventure you're on. A word...of advice. Beware the demon."

"The demon? Which demon?"

"That is for you to discover. My warning is the beginning and end. You must give the menace a name other than that."

"Is there nothing else you can tell me?" I asked, twitching a little as I said this, like a little boy caught doing something bad.

"Yes, I have to say..." A pause. "...We're here," the Devil said.

"We're here?"

"Yes," he said. "Look around you..."

I looked and in doing so opened my eyes. I had indeed been asleep the whole time. Now, upon waking, I saw sand and palm trees.

Mary was in the driver's seat of a small, gray Ford roadster (which actually was black, but had so many layers of dirt as to disguise this fact). She turned to me, sitting next to her as her passenger as I was.

"Look around," she said with a smile.

"Where are we?"

"Why, don't you remember?" she asked. "I had the afternoon off. I told you I was going to the beach. You asked if you could come with me. And here we are."

"Oh," I said. "Oh yes. Now I recall."

I smiled back at her and got out of the car, breathing fresh sea air that quickly cleared the lingering smell of brimstone.

"It's a beautiful afternoon," Mary said.

"Yes. Yes, it is," I replied, looking out.

The Pacific was before me. Blue and calm. I closed my eyes, said a final farewell to Marguerite who lingered still on my mind, and then stepped towards the water.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[fireblaze5555]

Another quick Kastle short while I am quarantining.

------

Frank found himself beat to hell and tied to a chair, his most recent war had some unseen players that broadsided him. It was unusual for him to be caught unawares but shit happens and here he sat. His face was throbbing and he was pretty sure he had at least one busted rib but he wasn't overly concerned yet. So far, the man who claimed to be the head of this mess had just talked. Endlessly. About his 'empire' and how stupid 'the Punisher' was to have interfered.

Frank hadn't said a word since he woke up, which by his estimation was several hours ago, mostly just looking unimpressed and annoyed, sizing up the room for when he made his move. He was brought out of his contemplation when they set a laptop in front of him on a small table, the screen black. He raised an eyebrow at the man before saying, "First time I've had a complementary movie, very considerate of ya." His voice was rough with disuse and he punctuated it by spitting some blood from his mouth.

The man, Marcetti, that's what he'd said his name was, gave a low chuckle before having a henchman turn the screen on. It only took Frank a second to recognize what he was looking at and suddenly all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.

Karen's apartment. He knew from the angle that the camera had to be in the bookshelf and he wracked his brain, trying to think of when they could have had a chance to plant a camera in her place. Or how they knew she was connected to him, he had been so careful with his Karen Page related indulgence.

Frank didn't say anything but the look he turned on the mob boss had the man taking an involuntary step back. Marcetti recovered quickly though, arrogance lacing his tone, "Are you surprised? Didn't think we would know that the Punisher has a soft spot for tall blonde legal assistants?"

An irrational part of Frank's brain wanted to correct him, she's a P.I., freelance investagative reporter and so much fucking more you piece of shit, but he knew that would only confirm to the man that he had struck a chord. So he ignored him, facing back to the screen and fast tracking his plan to get out of here so he could clear her apartment before she got back. He desperately hoped that she had made plans with Nelson or even Murdock and wouldn't be returning to her apartment any time soon.

His heart sank in his chest when he saw her come into view, carrying a clothes basket. Everything slowed down in that moment and details stood out in striking clarity as fear gripped him. She was wearing that tank top he liked, the one made of soft material that showed off the perfect shape of her breasts. It was shorter in the front so when she stood he could just see her belly button and a strip of taut pale skin on her abdomen. It was loose and flowy, granting him easy access to aforementioned breasts. She had on yoga pants, her favorite pair, and her hair was braided as it often was when she was cleaning the apartment. Karen settled on to the couch to start sorting laundry, he saw her haphazardly throwing her socks together before she came upon a pair of his. His heart ached as he saw her roll them the way he did on the occasion he was there to help with domestic tasks.

Frank's world sped back into focus as Marcetti clicked his tongue appreciatively, "My, my, you do have good taste Mr. Castle. She is lovely. I'm glad I ordered them to bring her here, I think she will be great fun to keep around once you are dead." Frank's whole body jerked towards the man involuntarily. The mob boss flinched trying to hide it by motioning for a lackey to land a few punches to Frank's snarling face. His eyes returned to Marchetti after every blow, unyielding.

"You put your hands on her and I will make sure you die as slowly and painfully as possible." His voice was low and full of promise.

"You aren't really in any position for threats. So just sit back and enjoy." His smile made Frank want to make the man swallow his own teeth. He was about to tell him as much when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Karen tense up and turn to the direction of her front door. A second later she was on her feet with the coffee table between her and two men.

Frank's breathing was labored as he watched them slowly approach her. Dread, panic and guilt churned in his chest, he was going to have to watch someone else he loved die, once again not being able to do a goddamn thing about it. When the first blow landed on her face he let out a bellowing yell that had everyone in the room step back. Frank pulled on his restraints, fighting to get his emotions under control. He had to get out of here, now, he may still be able to get there in time.

He froze though, when he saw Karen lash out with a vicious kick to the side of one of the mens' knees, collapsing it sideways. The other grabbed her by the hair but she instantly dropped to the ground causing him to lurch forward which brought him in range for her to snap her head back into his nose. As he clutched at his bloodied face, Karen stood quickly, swaying slightly, Frank was sure that the blow to the back of her head was disorienting. In a matter of seconds she had her .380 in her hand steadily staring the man down.

Pride swelled in Frank's chest, his panic ebbing only slightly, as he watched her beautiful mouth giving the man hell. Her hands were steady and her form was perfect. If he wasn't so terrified for her safety, Frank would be incredibly turned on. He knew she was telling her assailant to get on the ground, she would shoot if she had to but she would avoid it if she could. When the man lunged for her, she squeezed the trigger, two to the chest. The man who's knee had been collapsed managed to get to his feet, taking a swipe at her while she was distracted. It was his last mistake because she turned and put two bullets in him as well.

Frank heard the men cursing around him and he gave a small laugh, despite himself. People were always underestimating his girl. On the screen, he saw Karen process for a moment, his heart giving a lurch when he saw her cover her mouth and let out a sob. But then she was moving, grabbing her bag and a jacket and heading in the direction of the door, no doubt headed to the safe house, just as they planned for situations like this.

He forced his face into a smug mask, turning from the screen to meet the eyes of his captor. The man was seething, still staring at the screen where two of his men lay dead. When Marcetti did turn his eyes back to Frank he snapped his fingers at two men to his right, they instantly stepped forward, "Go find that bitch. Do what you have to, just get her here, alive." He waved them off sharply before kicking the small table and laptop out of the way to stand in front of Frank. It was just him and two other men in the room with Frank now.

Frank shook his head slowly, a corner of his mouth tipping up smugly, "You probably should have done more research on her. I mean, it's really never good to underestimate a woman, especially not one with such good aim." He forced his voice to stay even in the hopes it would further rile Marcetti. He was half sick with worry, at the very best Karen was going to be frantic when she couldn't get a hold of him, at worst she could be attacked again. So he needed his captor to make a mistake soon.

Thankfully it only took another minute. Marcetti stepped right in front of him bending to speak right into Frank's face. Perfect. Before he could get a word out Frank headbutted him as hard as he could in the face. Frank had taken a lot of blows to the head so he only saw stars for a split second, recovering much faster than his victim. Taking a page out of Karen's book he lashed out with a powerful kick to the man's knee, collapsing it backwards. There was a flurry of movement at that point, the two remaining men hurrying to pull their boss back out of reach. It was enough time to allow him to finish slipping the zip ties around his wrist completely off.

When one of the lackeys pulled back to punch him, Frank was ready, quickly breaking his arm and taking the firearm at his waist. The man was dead before he hit the ground, the second guard had barely gotten his hand to his waist before he was also felled by a headshot. Frank rolled his shoulders, ignoring the twinge in his side, checking the magazine in the stolen gun. Four bullets left.

Marcetti had started to crawl away but Frank kicked him over onto his back, promptly putting a bullet in the remaining good knee. He let him scream for a second before Frank put another in his right shoulder and another in his left shoulder. Stepping over the prone man, Frank leaned down, grabbing him roughly by the jaw, forcing him to stop screaming.

Frank let all of the pent up rage show on his face for the first time since he saw Karen disappear from the camera feed. His voice was deadly quiet when he started to speak, "You're lucky, that she got away," he shook the man's face as his weeping got louder, "Shut up. Like I was saying, you're lucky she got away because now I don't have time to make this as painful as I wanted. You really shouldn't have messed with my girl, asshole."

Frank stood to his full height, giving Marcetti a second to start begging before putting the last bullet in his head. The beast in Frank wanted to make him suffer. He could have spent hours dragging out the man's death for bringing Karen into it but he had to make sure she was okay. She was his priority now.

Grabbing the gun off of the second man he shot he held it at the ready as he moved through the building. Thankfully it was abandoned and he only had one more person to shoot before he was clear of the building and striding as quickly as he could towards a main road. He wasn't sure where he was so the likelihood of him being anywhere near where he left his van was slim to none.

Luckily his captors had not stolen the money in his pocket so he was able to hail a cab to get him within a couple of blocks of the designated safehouse. Thank God for NYC cabbies, there wasn't a word or even a backwards glance as Frank climbed in, beat to shit and covered mostly in his own blood.

He was planning as he stepped out of the cab, where to go next if he didn't find Karen in the safehouse? Maybe she would have gone to Murdock's place. If she hadn't, maybe Murdock could help him locate her faster. His busted rib was giving him hell for the pace he was setting but he needed to know she was safe.

It seemed like an eternity but Frank finally came to a halt in front of a rusted door at the back of an apparent abandoned warehouse. He had been watching his surroundings and didn't have a tail so he punched in the code to the door, sliding in quickly. Out of precaution he had a gun ready in his hand before calling out, "Karen? It's me."

For a moment he didn't hear anything and his heart began to sink in his chest. Then he heard the subtle click of a safety being clicked into place and she was rounding the corner that served as a makeshift kitchen. He was lightheaded with the relief that flooded him, she was here, she was safe.

Before he could process more she was right in front of him, her slender hands on either side of his jaw as she looked him up and down, "Frank what happened? Are you okay?" Her hands were roaming over him, searching for injury, "I tried calling you a dozen times and you didn't pick up, I didn't know where you were. These men...they.." She let out a hiccoughing sob that had him instantly pulling her to his chest, murmuring comforting words into her hair. She recovered quickly though, wiping the tears away harshly and pulling him towards the first aid kit.

"Are you okay, you're not hurt anywhere are you?" This time he was the one running hands over her, voice rough, eyes resting on the bruise that was blossoming on her cheek.

"No, no I'm fine." She rested her hand over his on her cheek before steering him to sit down. Frank closed his eyes as she ran a cool cloth over his face, wiping away the blood. Her voice was quiet as she worked. "How did you know I was here?"

His eyes opened quickly, rage and panic suddenly burning hotly through him again, remembering watching the men attack her, remembering his own helplessness to stop it. Without thinking Frank brought his hands up to cradle her face, to reassure himself that she was here, that he wouldn't wake up to find she had been taken from him too.

As if she could sense his rising panic, which she probably could, he could never hide anything from her, Karen wrapped her hands around his wrists and gave them a reassuring squeeze. She pressed a soft kiss into his palm before she continued to slowly wipe the blood from his face. She knew he would answer when he was ready.

Frank grounded himself by watching her eyes as she worked. Every once in a while her clear blue gaze would meet his and he would see them crinkle reassuringly at the edges before she focused on her task again.

Finally, when he felt most of the remaining adrenaline drain out of him, he spoke slowly, his voice full of gravel, "This last mission, I almost had them all wiped out but I missed something and they blindsided me. I woke up and they had me tied to a chair, giving me the usual bad guy speech, ya know?" She gave an amused huff but he saw the worry creep into her visage as she cleaned out a gash she found in his scalp.

"They pulled out a computer that had a live feed to a camera into your living room."

Karen froze, meeting his eyes quickly, "You saw them attack me." It wasn't a question, she was always one step ahead of him it seemed.

Frank gave a slow nod, feeling sick as he remembered watching the men advance on her. How she almost died because of him. Again. He attempted to shutter his expression, he needed to create distance between them, he had to push her away. He knew that this would happen and yet he kept selfishly pushing himself into her life. He was going to get her killed. He-

He let out a growling curse as Karen abruptly and none too gently pressed gauze covered in alcohol to the cut in his scalp. His gaze returned to hers sharply and she was waiting for it because her expression was defiant.

"I already know everything you are thinking Frank and we've been through all of it before. You're not pushing me away, I'm not going anywhere and so help me God if you even THINK about telling me 'I'm not safe' or 'I'm not good for you Karen' I will beat you within an inch of your life. Do you understand me Castle? Yes, people came after me. Yes, they did it to get to you. But they didn't get me, I got them."

Her voice was strong but he felt the small tremor in her fingers as she began applying the butterfly sutures to his head. Gently, he grabbed her hand, pulling it down to press a lingering kiss to her knuckles before he replied, "I know you can handle yourself, I've seen you do it more than once and I was damn proud of what you did today. But Karen," he leaned down to catch her eye again when she looked away, "You shouldn't have to. You're good. I'm tainting your life, forcing you to make decisions you shouldn't have to make."

She stared at him for a moment before slowly shaking her head, like she thought he was incredibly dense, before she stepped in to stand between his knees. Her hands came to rest on either side of his strong jaw as she tilted his head up to look at her. Slowly she lowered her head and gave him a soft lingering kiss, one that made his chest swell and his arms ache to wrap around her. A kiss that made him realize just how foolish it was of him to think he could walk away now, after she was so deeply a part of him.

After another slow press of her lips, this time to his forehead she spoke softly but with all the authority of the goddess she was, her words full of steel, "I would make that decision over and over again if it meant I got to keep you in my life. We're a unit now Frank. We deal with things together. I don't always agree with the wars you wage but I will always be there once you are done fighting them. I'm not going anywhere. I'll tell you as many times as you need to hear it."

Frank stared up at her, both wanting to take her to the bed in the back and show her with his hands and mouth how much he worships her and wanting to shake her until she sees sense and runs in the opposite direction as him. Though the latter would tear him to pieces.

He settled for a happy medium, once he was patched up, he had Micro set up focused surveillance on this safehouse and then called in a favor to have the two bodies removed from Karen's apartment as discreetly as possible before settling them both into bed and tucking her securely against his chest. She was out almost instantly, her fingers securely wrapped around his as she slept.

Frank was a monster, he killed people, deserving people, but it was killing nonetheless. He constantly made Karen worry and he most certainly didn't deserve her love. But as he watched her sleeping in his arms, her blatant trust and care for him evident in the way she gripped his hand, he realized he was also a man. A man that needed Karen Page as much as the Punisher needed his war. He pressed a kiss to the back of her head, drifting off as well. Maybe one day he will be strong enough to push Karen Page out of his life for her own protection...but he doubted it.

[jackieboywynand]

Uhhh, some fic ig

Clutching onto his worn crossbow, Jack cautiously edged towards an apartment. He heard a hauntingly familiar tune coming from within, beckoning him to enter. He held his breath as he slowly slid the door open. Upon entering, he immediately knew who had lived here. He was met with a small circular stage with a microphone on it, posters were placed up in pride around the entrance. The name on all of these posters struck a nervous chord from deep inside. Cohen. God, he thought he had escaped that lunatic. He hesitantly moved into the building and cursed his luck as his radio crackled, coming to life.

"I hear your wings flapping in my home..." Jack felt himself tense up. "Flip flap, flip flap, flip flap.", came the obnoxious voice. "Come into the light, little moth, come in..." He had hoped he had heard the last of Cohen back in Fort Frolic but that wasn't the case.

He began moving further into the house and flinched when he heard a loud, maniacal laugh coming from a woman somewhere within the apartment. He peered around the stage and poster to see a pair dancing. He assumed the female was the culprit for the laughter that set him on edge. They were dancing under a light which acted as a spotlight, shining upon them amongst the dimly light room. He tightened the grip on his crossbow as he drew nearer to the pair, careful not to trip over any of the piles of unfinished musical pieces and staves strewn about on the floor. He heard the male humming. It was nothing like the tune they were dancing to but it didn't stop them.

"I see you're still testing your wings, little moth." The unwanted voice sounded through the radio again. "Stay and enjoy the dance, if you wish..." Jack contemplated the offer. It was an almost surreal scene. He had only endured chaos and nightmares since being in this city and this peaceful scene was eerie and out of place. "But don't dare RATTLE. THEIR. RHYTHM." Cohen's voice grew louder, angrier and far more punctuated with each word that came through the radio. Jack chewed on his bloodied, lower lip. He heard the couple muttering to each other and whistling. It was hard for him to try and listen to their mumbling as the music grew ever louder. It was almost unbearable and it made it difficult to think. It was becoming deafening and Jack could feel himself growing agitated. His eyes kept going between the couple and the phonograph that was causing all this racket. He frowned. His eye twitched. It was too loud. Unwanted. A cacophony. He growled. The all too annoying whistling of the man was interrupted by the whistle of a bolt, before being followed by the noise of the bolt making itself home in the man's head and hurtling him towards the wall where it pinned him. An ear splitting scream erupts from the woman's lips as she had her partner ripped away from her. Angry, vicious words were spat out from her lips as she hurled a ball of flames towards Jack. She was quickly put down by another carefully aimed bolt to the head.

"WHEN WILL YOU EVER LEARN TO TAKE INSTRUCTION?", he heard Cohen shout over the radio. He was surprised that he could also faintly hear the voice from within the apartment. "I'M COMING DOWN THERE, LITTLE MOTH... COMING DOWN TO TEACH YOU. TO. DANCE." The radio cut after that and Jack could hear a door open. Next thing he knows, he's got fire balls hurtling towards him and a very angry Sander Cohen in the room with him. He heard the telltale sign of Houdini as Cohen blinked out of view to reposition himself to try and get the jump on Jack. He frowned and listened out for the sound that will tell him that Cohen has reappeared. The music is grating now. He shoots a bolt into the phonograph, effectively causing it to explode. This angers Cohen further as he reappears and immediately attacks Jack with his flames.

"I'M SANDER FUCKING COHEN."

Just like that, the pair begin their own dance. It's a dance of fire and malice as the two aim to kill. Jack, teeth gritted and brows knitted, fires a bolt that catches Cohen's arm. The man glares at Jack. He is fuming. He hurls as many fire balls as he can muster at Jack before disappearing again.

Jack prepared himself for the next volley of fireballs. He readied himself and listened out for the telltale sound of Cohen coming to attack. He spun on his heels as he heard Cohen re-emerge behind him. A painful hiss left him as a fireball singed his body. He immediately fired back at Cohen, enraged. Jack swapped over to steel tip bolts and began during at the manic man in front of him. He caught his shoulder and felt a smug satisfaction as Cohen stumbled back from the impact and pain. Their battle continued like this for what felt like ages for Jack. He was getting low on ammunition. He looked up at Cohen and noticed the bolts, glistening with crimson, decorating Cohen like a hedgehog. How the hell this son of a bitch was still alive? He didn't know. He lunged forward and yanked out one of his bolts from Cohen, watching the blood pour out of the wound as he did. He quickly reloaded the bolt into his crossbow and fired it back at Cohen.

Jack was getting annoyed. Frustrated. He was using up far too much ammunition that he was saving to murder the bastard that had used him. Chewed him up and spat him out. Jack wasn't anyone's plaything. Frank. Fucking. Fontaine. Jack tossed his crossbow to the side and immediately felt a chilling cool spread through his left hand. He didn't need to see the blades of ice sticking out of him before he began assaulting Cohen. He didn't stop until Cohen was just as frozen as Jack had been when hunting down Cohen's disciples and doing his dirty work. He watched as Cohen slowed down and froze up. He approached the man, wrench in hand. He raised his weapon and slammed it down across Cohen's head. He listened to the sick sound of the ice crunching and the head being moulded into a new shape. He kept hammering down on the artist. He let his rage take over him. Cohen. Fontaine. Ryan. Fucking Rapture. It pissed him off. It angered him and when Cohen thawed and collapsed to the floor, he didn't care that he fell down with him. Nor did he notice that he had changed his wrench for his bare fists. Only did he realise when his fists grew numb, caked in blood, and when Cohen's face was no longer recognisable. His sweater was now a brownish-red and his face and hair had flecks of blood covering them. There was a buzzing in his ears. He looked down at the body beneath him and just stared. He had lost himself again. He sighed. Mentally gave himself a slap on the wrist. He picked himself up from off Cohen and went back to gather up his weapons that he had haphazardly thrown about the room during his fit of rage. He began go leave but not before he noticed the door to Cohen's room was wide open. His curiosity was piqued.

Jack saw a pink glow bathing the room and leaking out into the rest of the apartment. He entered the room, clenching his wrench. Upon first glance, he was met with a long staircase and so he began to ascend. As he reached the top of the staircase, Jack noticed more of the plastered "sculptures" that had been littered throughout Fort Frolic. He paled at remembering the moving, attacking statues. He closed his eyes and exhaled when he saw two giant plastered rabbit masks at the foot of a king-sized bed in front of him. Cohen was really into rabbit symbolism for someone that "wanted to take the ears off". What a nutter. Jack shook his head. As he observed the room further, he noticed large framed posters and bottles of alcohol strewn about the room. He thought to himself that Cohen truly was married and obsessed with his work. Jack turned around and saw a doorway leading into another room. He walked through, wrench at the ready.

Through a thin veil of steam, Jack saw numerous sinks lining up against a wall on the left, a glass divider in the middle of the room, and a porcelain bath which was on elevated ground. Jack noticed something whilst walking past the bath. He stopped and turned to inspect it. To his horror, it was yet another sculpture. He gave it a hesitant whack with his wrench; sighing when some blood splattered but the sculpture remained still. He slowly inched backwards, still anxious about the sculpture despite his confirmation on it being a corpse.

When Jack next turned around after exiting the bathroom, he came face-to-face with a Power To The People machine and thanked his lucky stars. His anxiety began to melt away. He always enjoyed working on his weapons. They were his babies and they deserved the best. He really wished there was an option to upgrade his wrench; his first and favourite child. He grabbed his trusty crossbow and selected the option to give it increased damage. He leant over the work station and got to work, applying the new piece. His tongue stuck out a little as he concentrated on perfecting his crossbow. He wondered whether he should even attempt to make his wrench rocket propelled for when he murdered the son of a bitch that dragged him into all of this. He scowled at the name written up in the machine in front of him, feeling repulsed. The bastard was everywhere. There was no escape. It was driving Jack beyond mad. He tried his hardest to busy himself in his work to prove himself a distraction.

Jack took a step back to admire his hard work. He was happy with this newest addition! He turned from the machine with a grin on his face, placing the crossbow back where he had placed a holder for the weapon. He began to head towards the door when his radio crackled and came to life as a voice came through. One he really didn't want to hear.

"Hate to see you this way, kid." The Bronx accent filled him with dread. "Hell, I was there when you were born." His expression soured. "You ever have a dog you gotta put down?" Jack scowled. Was he seriously being compared to a dog? "Breaks your heart." The radio cut off as Jack's week h went hurtling across the room, shattering a sculpture upon impact. How DARE Fontaine talk about heartbreak?! What the he'll did he know about having a broken heart?! Jack glared down at the floor as his vision began to blur. He tried to blink away his tears but they still began to roll down his face. He clenched his fists. The hot tears mixed with the dried blood on his gaunt cheeks. He let out a shudder and collapsed to the floor. Fontaine had no right! Jack still felt his anger through his sobs. He wasn't born! He was created! A scientific experiment that was sold off. Fontaine bought him for top fucking dollar just as a means to thwart the plans of Jack's biological 'father'. It was petty. Ryan was an unwilling donor who didn't know- hell, he probably didn't even want a child. Jack was a genetically modified freak and heir to the damn throne of this hellhole. Jack hated the purpose of his existence. He hated snapping that puppy's neck. Of course he knew what it was like to put down a dog. He bet Fontaine knew he had to involuntarily put down that sweet, innocent puppy. The sick fuck. Jack's face was soaked with fat tears that had turned a slight, pale crimson from the blood dried onto his face. His sobs were loud and echoed within the suite. Jack choked. How dare Fontaine have the sheer nerve and audacity to call Jack a kid? After everything they had gone through? It made Jack sick, right down to his very core.

He gazed around the room. Nothing really mattered to him anymore in his solemn state. Through his tears he saw the bottles of alcohol that were laying about the room. He wanted to forget his worries and troubles. He made a pathetic attempt to crawl over to the bottles. He picked one up and opened it, shaking. His body was still racking from tears. He desperately chugged the liquid before grabbing the next bottle. He grabbed another bottle and began pouring it down his throat. He chugged and he chugged. He didn't care. Nothing mattered. He didn't matter. His only function now was to down as many bottles as possible and hopefully, he would soon die. Pass out, at least. He didn't know how much he had drunk when he found himself nursing a bottle and spilling confessions to the sculptures in the room. He confided in them and told them all his problems and secrets. He kept necking bottles as he did. He found himself accompanied by piles of empty bottles. His vision was blurred. His head was fuzzy. He was stumbling over his words. Slurring. Everything was buzzing. The room spun. His mind blanked. He was soon met with unconsciousness.