wardogsong

[wardogsong]

write smut. not just on sundays but every day, at any time. you're an adult, it's your blog.

write explicit gross kinky furry anatomically incorrect smut. be gross, be cursed.

sex isn't inherently immoral, shameful or sinful. there's nothing wrong or icky or sus about adults writing about adult characters enjoying, experimenting and learning about sex. there's nothing wrong or icky or sus about you having fun with fictional p0rn about adult characters.

and if someone doesn't want to see it for whatever reason, they should use the filtering features to curate their dashboard.

at the end of the day if someone is deranged enough, they'll find a way to write a 50 page google doc about how you're a menace to society because your muse was once a minor, obviously adults are spawned middle aged from the get go and they've never been babies /s. no one with two working braincells will take them seriously.

[wardogsong]

how to explain to mutuals that while yes you can have my discord, and i wanna hang out! my response time is anywhere between 3-7 business days

[wardogsong]

Frank do you think your son would have turned out just like you?

 ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Just Fuck Frank Up ig || always accepting anons

Junior is among the people he thinks of first when he wakes up— he probably ought to be among the last at lights out, but Frank would be lying if he claimed he still prayed the Fatima for Maria and the kids. God and he had spoken plenty. They had an understanding about things. Frank took it to mean he didn't need to keep asking.

He rests easy in the knowledge that Junior is safe somewhere he can never be harmed again. And then he moves through the world seeing him and his sister everywhere. Junior is babies in strollers, an age he missed nearly entirely while deployed. He's among the teens shooting hoops in the park, taller than what was put in his little coffin, foul-mouthed and all elbows. A little bit of a dirty player, like he spent too much time with Russo, picking up his tricks. He sees his baby-face smudged and distorted in shop windows with suits and tuxes in them. Prom-ready. Frank thinks about the Trojans he woulda slipped him behind Maria's back. There woulda been some girl. Pretty. Sparkly-dressed. Lisa in college already.

"Named 'im Frankie for a reason," he blusters, just to buy time— to show that the question doesn't bother him. Bittersweet. He welcomes the chance to talk about his children in a context different than the usual.

Bad idea— so he thought at the time, though he'd been flattered by the suggestion too. What did Maria know about the young punk he'd been? Frank had tried to joke his way around it. They didn't need another him. Hell of a thing to put on a kid. Sal had been all for it. LEGACY, he'd said! And Sal was never wrong. Maybe there was something to it. Bayside to Bed-Stuy, maybe there should always be a Frankie!

"Apple... tree..," Frank gestures, like the kid's just standing not two feet from him. He's not. It's just good old-fashioned Italian story-telling. Always with the hands. Immersive. "He looked like us both— had a softness to him that was all Maria, but when he..." Here he scowls for the kid who no longer can— and then has to laugh! "All me. Cassandra used t'say he looked like an angry lil pitbull." And hadn't he been the original? Mean mugging her suitors in his crisp suit, daring them to give him an excuse to scuff his shoes. GOD— there's no wiping the happy proud father father father smile off of Frank's face about it. "Would'a fuckin' made me gray by now."

Little hellion. Trouble-maker. Always JUNIOR! instead of just... Junior. Raised by wolves that one, even though nothing could be further from the truth. None of the good ever stuck. He lost manners faster than he did teeth. A mouth on him Frank had had to get loud about, make a few threats before it got worse. Behavior wasn't much better. Painting a giant mural of his second favorite Marine— Spector, while hustling Russo out of his wedding fund at McDonald's. SUCH A LITTLE SHIT. Drove Maria up a wall. Made the priests at Sacred Heart question their vows. Kept Lisa doling out whaps and apologies in his name. Frank had told him he was the man of the house while he was away, but he should have given the spot to his daughter so much of the heavy lifting she did. Especially in regards to Junior.

Would he ever have straightened out? Frank didn't rule the possibility out. Just shy of legal and ready to do damage about it... hadn't he gotten his own calling? The one no one knew about. What came before enlistment. A different life entirely. One in which he wouldn't have had kids... just a flock to shepherd. Could that have ever been Junior? If it could come to one, why not the other? Who really knew how those things worked anyway?

Maybe he'd have enlisted. Been the next rung in a multi-generational family kind of a kid. Maria would have bawled about it, probably. Frank would have kept his worries on the inside. Pride on the outside. Told him what he needed to know while Russo barked into his phone at whatever idiot was stupid enough to sign Junior up and put themselves on the Blackbird's shit list.

Or hell... maybe somewhere between Dino and Sal Junior would have picked up the crown that Frank had dropped years ago. King of New York. Might have reunited the families like Frank had failed to do. Taken up with one of Cassandra's daughters. Straightened up for her. Felt the shadow of Sal's wing. Set things right.

Any way he sliced it, Frank kept coming to the same conclusion.

"Yeah."

[wardogsong]

[wardogsong]

What if they kissed (CAUSE WHY NOT IM CURIOUS)

but what if smooch? || @nightmdic || NO LONGER ACCEPTING

Frank pays the lady the same way he does any of the rule-breaking after hours types who patch him and his ilk up. CASH. Cold, hard, and ready to spend to keep her in necessary supplies and hopefully SOME comforts. That's just basic. She patches him up and he leaves a neat stack of collared bills on her desk on his way out.

The rest is... Well, who is really asking? Whose business is it if Frank adds her private place of business to his patrol list? Who cares if he spins her block regularly enough that word may or may not get out? Skull seen in neighborhood. Haunting. Hunting. Prowling behind engine of suped up Mustang. If you see iconic memento mori, you know what it means.

BELONGING is a blade that cuts both ways. If he's one of her regulars, even if just by necessity, then is she not HIS in turn? Conscious might never put it together, but Frank is a man driven by INSTINCT anyway. Ruled by it. Codes and things carved into his bones. Into the dark places within him. The ones that sometimes carry on even when he's checked out. Things that keep the body from doing anything he wouldn't, even if he's not at the wheel. Things like HOME and the ability to identify innocent from guilty— aggressor from victim. Things like being able to put bullet center forehead when it belongs there with surgical precision.

The easy instincts for him to think about. To know and sit with.

The harder ones— the ones that slip and get muddy, are the ones that see him tucking loose strands of her hair behind the pale curve of her ear like he has any right or business. The ones that light and fire wrong signals about continued proximity. Repeated proximity. Things in him that react to her soft hands on his battered body, just doing their job— memo getting lost somewhere along the way. Wasn't like this in the service. Shouldn't be like this now. A path that calls for examination he doesn't have in him. Doesn't want to do— doesn't want to question.

Kissing Marie is very much instinct. It's tied to the look on her face one particularly bad night. He's mostly whole. No pieces ripped off of him YET. Not too many punctures or entry wounds either. Just a once-tan canvas painted in bruises— deep black, heavy with blood. Boot prints. Implement shapes. Hard hits that had left their mark and had him wheezing— breathing funny through it. Frank hates the way his pain seems to become her own, despite the mask of her professionalism and usualness of these things at her clinic door. Instinct takes over piloting. Anything's gotta be better than seeing THAT LOOK on her face.

So he kisses her. Gentle as he knows how to be, careful with rough hands that cup face and tilt it towards him— slow and telegraphed, enough room and time to get smacked about it if he's gonna be. He isn't. Connection is allowed. His lips to hers, dry and a little chapped, the faint sharpness of a penny that's really his blood ghosting his breath. Terrible. And not. SHE is warm and living and soft in all the places where he is hard and scarred and battle-worn. A delight to the senses. A boon he's not worthy of. Something sweet against all his bitter and is it any wonder he loses time with his mouth locked to hers?

[wardogsong]

@prettytm && @silverjetsystm

[wardogsong]

What if they kissed?"

but what if smooch? || @survivorofhellskitchen || NO LONGER ACCEPTING

Somehow it doesn't surprise Frank that SHE is the first one in this clown ass city to get it right. To GET IT at all. People here will read what's written and printed— read opinions, read theories, read chirps and dreddit posts and type their little fingers off under YT conspiracy breakdown videos made for the ones who can't read; they'll read anything but the crime scene. The place where he spelled it all out CLEAR AS DAY.

Frank Castle, dubbed by New York City's media and public THE PUNISHER is a man wronged, who rose to infamy when he did something about it. Namely, when he killed every single last person involved with the unjust murder of his family.

Billy 'The Beaut' Russo is not a dead man.

If that doesn't say everything it needs to about it... What will?

What two former Marine brothers scrap about and leave scars on each other about? Well, that much is no one else's business. Not really. It's details. It's context. It is what it is and what matters is that Bill and Frank know where they stand about it. They've done what they've done, and not done what they haven't and won't. It's personal. Not a secret, just not up for grabs without the right clearance level with either of them. The way it's always been.

In the interest of helping to save his life, Frank gives Karen some of that clearance now. Walks her through it. The same crime scene she once walked him through, when he was still aching in the head from bullet shot into it— prepping for trial after her double-dealing boss got him caught and strung him up then wanted to play hero about it. Russo claims he wasn't even in the country the day of the carousel. Frank's confirmed it to the best of his ability. His brother is a planner. Long-sighted Blackbird. Frank can imagine only too well how Billy meant for it to go down instead of what he actually got.

It'd have been so much CLEANER if Bill had been there.

What they get instead is a mess. DHS to CIA and beyond. So many entities entangled that it's no wonder the one thing the government agrees on is burning Russo and burying him with everything pinned to his name. Same reason they'd given Frank wiped prints, a new identity, and enough money to fuck off somewhere with no extradition and drink himself to convenient and quiet death.

They didn't know to batten hatches for one dogged and determined Karen Page.

Frank can't help himself, even knowing the trouble it'll bring down upon her head. She's a big girl— tough girl. Built to take it and then some. Flip it over and turn it back on them, have government quaking for daring to ask her to shut up or look the other way. He'll be there in the wings when it goes down. Eating popcorn. Laughing. Watching her six with rifle butted into shoulder. He's ready, so he makes her be too. Gives her what she needs. Names and dates and details. Dead men's confessions for what little good they'll do her. She's always been the type to take crumbs and turn them into feast.

When she's locked and loaded and ready to go? He walks her to door only to stop her at threshold, one hand fisted into pretty tan coat of hers. Her curious look up at him is answered in loving and encouraging kiss and punctuated with a little shove to send her back out on her way.

"Go get 'em, Tiger."

[wardogsong]

Turtle Request || Pretty Urgent

So you guys might have read my update post about my brother, his diagnosis, and his subsequent abandonment by his wife. He never asks for help, always tries to do things on his own but this time...it's bad. And he needs help. With the help of family, he's put up a go-fund-me, and while I know we're all in dire straights, I'm hoping y'all can either see it in your heart to help, or boost the signal for me so he can have a chance to fight all this stuff happening to him. Anything helps and know I am grateful to you all, and so is he.

[wardogsong]

That's it, kill me with those eyes... Frank's thinking it and most likely wearing it all over his smug Italian face to boot. What? He's always liked 'em pretty and mean, and with a good right hook if he wants a cherry on top. Elektra's something else. One of those fuck-off fancy desserts with gold leaf on it for Wall Street douchebags. Her right hook is likely to be a knife somewhere interesting, and Frank just keeps on pushing, prodding, pulling— like he can't get enough.

"Yeah? You wanna see me go, sweetheart?" Let it never be said Frank Castle wasn't a gentleman to killer dames he was flirting with. She sends him reeling right back to boot, cocky and young and god's gift to the corp. He's been appreciating her long enough, he can most definitely repay the favor. Might be and old dog, but he still remembers his tricks. They see him getting up from his spot on the floor, cracking his neck, stretching his arms over his head like he's working out some kinks and it just happens to be coincidence the way it makes his black tee ride up and give her a peek at some skin. There are tactical reasons he wears his gear nearly as tight as she does, they just happen to double for convenient when he feels like showing off a little. Hike the pants, jostle the goods a bit, pick up his empty coffee mug and make her dream come true.

He walks a short way away for a refill, well secure in the fact that the view from the back is every bit as good as the one from the front.

Not Even A Meme // accepting //@wardogsong sent — "Love at first sight's for teenagers. Go on... walk by again."

He gets a look. Maybe for dropping the L word, maybe for telling her what to do, or maybe just because she isn't expecting him to flirt with her right now.

"Well, if the last dozen times haven't sealed it for you," she replies in an uncaring voice. Elektra doesn't expect his undying affection, of course, nor does she feel pressure to give hers. It's good like that. So she thinks he's playing around. She inclines her head briefly, a little bite of warmth hidden in an otherwise mean tone. "I prefer to watch you leave, anyway."

[wardogsong]

cmere furry im going to snip u

"I'll breed who I want, when I want."

[wardogsong]

🌺 send this to ten muns you think are wonderful 🌺

// no, u.

[wardogsong]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦?

daemon form quiz follow up : what particular type is your form?

// this tracks. everyone knows Frank's got that dog in him. the coyote is just his canon buddy, loot. short for lieutenant. if it's dog-shaped? Frank will kidnap it and call it his own.

tagged by frank's future wife: @gloriousxdarkness tagging his black book: @brooklynislandgirl || @silverjetsystm || @prettytm || @ironmaidan || @halfsovl || @mcssholes || @parvumchao || @muutos || @avemaria || @nightmdic || @rejectory

[wardogsong]

// slightly more signs of life on the sideblog mumu @echoestm also this is a belated hello to a handful of horror/other people I've recently followed who may or may not have been wondering what the fuck a punisher blog wanted with them. hiii, don't mind frank, i'm probably following on behalf of my villains/horror people/etc.

[wardogsong]

@heroeslogic

Frank had thousand yard stared his way through at least two and a half of old lady De Fontaine's pitches and enticements like she was a hard up recruiter trying to get him to go back to boot all over again as if he wouldn't rather raw dog a self administered root canal with not even an ibuprofen to his name than shake her hand. In the end, it wasn't either the paycheck or the guarantee of more work to come that made him gear up. It was the mission. It's always the mission.

Whether or not he still operates in the interest of national security is irrelevant. What matters is that now that he's been made aware of planned heist, he can't just kick back and let some criminal strike team storm CIA black site fort and loot the joint. It'd only end up on his radar anyway, when they started dealing whatever they made off with, or put it to use trying to be the next big shots running the streets. There was no need to wait for that— to give them a headstart. Taking them out all at once in secure location free of living collateral damage. It didn't get better than that.

He cases the place's perimeter early but he makes his skull-vested entrance fashionably late, using the in-fighting for cover— or trying to. Bullet just ends up ricocheting off of Temu Cap there, making him have to pivot out of it's return trajectory. FUCK IT, into the melee he goes. Wide spray, they can all get a piece of the action, or better yet break up the cluster into continued self-destruction so he can mop up whoever is left.

First on his radar by virtue of being the closest is petite blonde with something familiar about her face, tickling bullet-riddled brain into trying to place her. Attempted recognition runs in the background of his skull, hands busy trading automatic piece for trust KA-BAR to carve her down with.

"Ain't this usually not your scene?"

[wardogsong]

we've already done it in my head

[wardogsong]

Becky Cloonan - Punisher

[wardogsong]

"What if they kissed?"

but what if smooch? || @prettytm || no longer accepting

One by one the do-good brigade turned jury pool filters in to go a verbal round with him. Of course they do. He's in chains now and fuckin' magical ones at that. Half of them wouldn't be so quick to try it if he wasn't. What some of them are doing here at all is beyond him. Frank mostly tunes them out. Gnats. Buzzing around. Making noise, being a nuisance, but with no real power to DO anything to him. Logan must be in one hell of an era— getting the claws out, itching for a reason NOT to put him down? Coward. It's either the right call to make or it isn't and he shouldn't need coddling from a perp either way about it. Castle sends him packing easy.

He figures they're gonna chuck him in the Hole and he's fine with that. Not a single one of them or their big money associates have put together a prison that can hold him yet— and Stark had tried his damnedest. He'd just appreciate it if they were faster about it. Cut out the speeches, the attempt to understand what he is and just let him knock out on a cot. Doing their work for them in grand scale is thankless shit and given the credit they're most likely about to take for safe streets AROUND THE GLOBE provided by him, they at least owe him a fucking nap and the peace and quiet that go with it.

Ah, but that's the problem with the cape crowd, Frank thinks when the walls start shaking and the air gets that burning plastic smell to it that means C-4. They're probably convened somewhere trying to go high as opposed to his low. Friends in shiny places. He keeps most of his in dark and dangerous ones. Natalia would know, if she wasn't playing otherwise at the moment. It used to be her springing him out, more often than she probably wants Cap knowing about.

Somehow, he's not surprised it's Russo instead. The cycle continues. If anyone's going to put him down, it's going to be that guy— or so he keeps claiming. Still means he shows up when someone, anyone, looks like they might beat him to the privilege. Frank'll take it. He'd rather take a bullet from Jigsaw than give any of the shitheads currently holding him the unearned satisfaction. Russo would at least cut him free and make it a fair contest instead of jumping him with four friends and all of 'em enhanced.

"Man am I glad you didn't bite it in Slovenia." Frank says by way of greeting, ripping out of green-glowing chains and catching the vest tossed his way. "Might just kiss that ugly mug about it."

Why not? Give the evac ride a thrill. Shirt and vest on first, in lieu of bootbands, but yeah.. after that, he grabs a hold and plants one on scarred lips before falling into step.

"On you, Russo."