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cup1dxzs · 1 year

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Darling Little puppet

Wally X Reader

Chapter 2- Noodle soup

It had been late afternoon, the children’s puppet show that had you enthralled with was long gone by now, much to your displeasure. It wasn’t often when you’d find yourself anticipating for the next release of an episode since you’d prefer not to indulge yourself with silly little things such as that, but alas you had fallen victim to such.

For now you’d stick with making yourself a small dinner as your appetite wasn’t demanding for too much food and you didn’t want to end up with a stomach ache. After some thinking on your part you had chosen to make yourself some chick noodle soup, that way when you had leftovers you could have some soup for breakfast tomorrow morning. As you made the concoction you’d call soup your mind slowly wandered back to that children’s show to which you had learned was called ‘Welcome Home’, albeit strange in your opinion because who were they welcoming home? But it could be that they’re welcoming the viewer, in this case was you, home.

Also something else interesting to remember was that you’d learn the darling little puppets name, Wally, thanks to another friend of Wally, she had bright blonde hair with pink felted ‘skin’ and to accompany her was a bright red dress that faded into yellow towards the bottom, including green leggings that you supposed only she could pull off followed by some white dressing shoes, she also had what seemed to be horns on a headband? You weren’t sure what the inspiration was from but it was still such an endearing puppet to look at, her name was Julie, it fit her happy go lucky personality. You had to give credits for the designer of all these puppets since they were just so well made especially for a children’s show.

As much as you wanted to focus on the cutesy parts of the show you couldn’t help yourself but to think about how strange Wally was, as much as he was such a cute little doll- erm- puppet you felt something was definitely wrong when you would spot him just staring right into the camera as his other neighbors would talk amongst each other, his eyes would be two black voids they’d be so blown out that you wouldn’t even be able to see the whites of the eye from where you rested on the couch. Seeing him not break eye contact even to blink sent shivers down your spine, but maybe you were just overthinking it? I mean the thought that some kiddy show had something cryptic hidden inside was laughable in itself, even if it did you were pretty sure that the channel that broadcasted would take it off the air faster then you could snap-

“Shit! That hurts!” You cried out as you saw blood slowly start to trickle down your finger, you’d stupidly cut your finger chopping the carrots, clearly your attention was somewhere other then focusing on cooking the food. Turning off the stove you’d be quickly on your way to look for a bandage, cupping your finger as some blood dripped slipped through and dripping down onto the floor, it made you feel queasy to see all that blood.

Finally gone from the living space and somewhere else roaming the small house a faint click was heard by none, the Tv was on and nothing but static could be seen, or so one could have thought, a faint outline of two inky black voids that could be considered eye stared out into the room, analyzing it.

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I wasn’t expecting the last post I made to be seen by others :,D but I’m so thankful that you guys read it!! Also lemme know if theirs anything I can fix or just anything you wanna let me know!!!

-ChillyKitty

#wally x reader #wally darling #welcome home wally #x reader #hope you enjoy #pls let me know #im so thankful #for everybody

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chelseasdagger · 1 year

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Fall From Grace

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank comes home after a long job and is so thankful to have you with him. But his hands are dirty, unknown to him, and the sight of blood on you makes his mind spiral

Warnings: angst, cursing, blood, gun mention (one time, briefly)

Author’s Note: Ah! First time writing in so long and I’m very worried I’m rusty (not to mention it’s my first published Frank fic). But I hope it’s still enjoyable nonetheless! Feedback is greatly appreciated! Thank you to @chellestrash and @suitsofwo3 for your encouragement! I wouldn’t have done it without you guys :’)

Word Count: 2.9k

It’s been nine days since Frank has been home. Nine days of judging looks from the passerbyers of the town who don’t recognize him. Nine days of finding more leads at the end of a trail of bodies. Nine nights of dreams, all of them of you.

He’s currently alone, surrounded by nothing but the asphalt under his tires. Its sound echoes out as it rubs against the rubber, his foot pressing on the brakes once the streetlight ahead of him turns red. He stares up at the sky, watching the light sway of the wire from the wind as it blows. His eyes are heavy but he fights to keep them open, the few hours of sleep evident from the way his eyes burn at the corners.

The red light shines down on the windshield and over his face as he sits at the intersection. The black van is the only car on the dark road illuminated by just one lone street lamp. He checks the time on the dashboard of the car, making out the dimly lit numbers of the digital clock. Half past twelve.

Frank sighs to himself and adjusts his hips in his seat. His legs are cramped from driving for hours and he’s trying to imagine how soft the mattress will feel on his aching muscles once he’s home. But the more he thinks about home, he’s left with more questions.

Will you be up? Are you even at the apartment? If you are, do you want him there?

The sudden green glow pulls him from his thoughts and he places both feet on the petals while putting the car into gear. It becomes background noise after a while: the humming of the engine under the hood, the sound of the clutch engaging when he shifts, the tires roaring on the road. The only question on his mind is if the place he calls home will be as empty as the dingy motel room he’s been living in for days.

Right now, he’s not so hopeful.

He gets to the driveway faster than he expected, and he doesn’t have a total recall of the last few minutes. After turning the car off, he stays inside for a few moments longer and he can’t understand why he feels paralyzed. He’s finally here, after over a week of dreaming of it, so why can’t he move? Fidgeting with the keys between his fingers, he thinks of every possible outcome of what’s behind that door. It flashes in his head–an empty apartment, tears in your eyes, a fight that lasts for hours–the visions overlap until it’s muddled and he forces his mind away from it.

Solemnly, Frank swings open the van door and grabs the duffle bag on the passenger seat. It’s heavy as he throws it over his shoulder, grunting when the contents of the bag brush his bruised ribs. He walks with a slight limp, the wound to his ankle disrupting his normal gait. When he gets to the door, he wraps his fingers around the doorknob and pulls in a deep breath. His chest fills with air, and he focuses on that feeling instead of all the other worries clouding his head.

The metal hinges creek quietly as it opens, and he scans the silent living room before stepping inside. The only light comes from the open wooden door, the lamplight pouring in over his shoulder. Everything’s exactly as it was and he’s relieved, yet slightly disappointed. He does one more sweep after turning on the lights, listening carefully to any sound of another person before he hears footsteps from the hall. His hand reaches under his shirt for the pistol in the waistband of his jeans, but the second he sees you turn the corner, his whole body stops.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, he’s not even sure he’s breathing as he sees your figure in the corridor. He was certain he’d be alone, he was preparing himself for it all those hours on the drive home. His eyebrows pull together in confusion, wondering how and why you’re even here. The pounding of his heart in his chest reminds him to breathe, and his lips part as he inhales a shaky breath.

“Frank?” your timid voice calls out in the quiet room. He swallows hard then and blinks quickly, finally processing that you’re standing here in front of him. His eyes flicker all over you, not able to focus on one particular thing, and that’s when he takes in the nightgown draping from your body. The ivory satin flows around your waist and ends at your upper thigh, the white straps thin on your shoulders, and the neckline plunging to expose some of your cleavage. You’re like a true image of innocence—untouched, unharmed and pure. He swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then you smile at him and he realizes that there’s one thing more beautiful.

Your eyes have a light in them that he has never been so thankful to see before. It’s his own beacon of hope—the darkness, the violence, the blood, it’s all behind him now. Your face reassures him of that. It’s the first face he’s seen in so long that wanted to see him, that was genuinely pleased by his presence. And the feeling has his pulse pounding faster.

For the first time in nine days he feels he can let his guard down, and slowly he does. He lets out that breath he’d been holding, and his whole chest deflates with it. His shoulders slump and his face softens, mirroring your kind expression. He sighs as he smiles and it’s been so long since he’s done it that the action feels foreign. It soon grows into a grin as you whisper his name again, an air of disbelief around the syllable.

“S’me, sweetheart,” he mumbles as he nods, “I’m home.” His voice is raspy from having not been used in many hours. The duffle bag hits the floor with a dull thud but it’s drowned out by the sound of your impatient steps across the floor. Frank opens his arms wide, body waiting to welcome you into him, and he sees the way your face scrunches up while you cross the small distance to him.

It looks as though you’re fighting off tears, eyebrows scrunched together and bottom lip caught between your teeth. The sight tugs at his heart but it’s soon swelling in his chest at the feeling of you crashing into him. You’re warm. You’re actually here. You’re accepting him.

Frank can’t find the right words to express his gratitude that you’re still here and that you’re safe. His mind can be a broken, sorrowful place at times and it loves to paint him the darkest scenarios it can and name it the best outcome. His head had told him that the hug goodbye and longing kiss you gave him before he started his journey on the road would be his last time he saw you again. Now, he’s just so thankful it was a part of his colorful, albeit twisted, imagination.

His fingers make purchase on your ribs, squeezing gently and breathing in your scent. He had only been living off of memories of you and picturing your perfume on the cold, thin sheets of the lonely motel room. But the distant echoes of you couldn’t do this justice. Not when you’re hugging him so tight he’s reminded of the bruise to his ribs or when your arms cross around his back and your smaller hands grab as much of him as you can. You make him feel wanted, and it’s better than anything he could’ve conjured up.

“Oh, my god,” you whisper softly. Your shaky voice breaks the silence that had settled over the small room again. You pull away from his chest and look up at him before continuing, “I’ve missed you so much.” Your hands quickly reach up to your eyes, brushing away the tears welling up from the sight of him. Frank sees how you try to dismiss them but he doesn’t want you doing it for his sake.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” his bigger hand cups the back of yours and gently pulls it away. He glances over your face before speaking in a hushed whisper, “Don’t push it away, let it out.”

If there’s one thing he encourages you to do, it’s to feel your emotions fully. He knows first hand how damaging it can be and he’d never want you to go through it. So when he sees you nod gently and blink up at him, when he sees more tears stream down your already wet cheeks, he can’t help but smile.

“Attagirl, just like that,” he reassures you, hand rubbing up and down your back. His opposite hand cups the back of your head and brings you into his chest. He cradles you there and breathes with you while you work through your tears. Little praises fall past his lips as he holds you in the empty living room, the two of you clinging onto each other as if it’s the last time you’ll be together.

It’s only when your shaky sobs die down into quiet sniffles that he pulls back to stare down at you. He gives his best smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he whispers like you’re the only one meant to hear it. The light in your eyes returns at the tender tone of his voice and you grin at him. Frank brushes away the lock of hair that falls in front of your eyes, swiftly tucking it behind your ear.

“And you…” he trails off, taking half a step backwards to take in your nightgown once more, “you look beautiful.” He shakes his head lightly as his eyes work down to the lace hem ending a few inches below your hip. The ornate design makes the whole garment seem more delicate, and he can’t deny how much he loves it.

“Christ, sweetheart, it fits—,” Frank cuts himself off as his eyes go wide. He lets go of your hip, taking another step back as his eyes get even bigger. He turns his palms so they’re facing him and he immediately looks back to your gown.

“What is it, Frank? Are you okay?” you ask, taking a step towards him. His body reacts faster than his mind, and he flinches back away from you as if he’s been burned. You let your outreached hand fall down, scared to overstep and upset him. He doesn’t respond to you, only stares at you with more and more concern taking over his expression until it scars over into terror.

You look down at yourself, bunching the fabric of the skirt to the center of your stomach to attempt to see what has scared him. When you twist so you can see your side, you immediately see what made him withdraw from you. There’s blood on the shiny fabric, the most obscene contrast to the pure color. Frank doesn’t know what to say, his whole body freezing as he takes in the sight. Logically, he knows you’re not actually hurt, but the sight alone has his mind spiraling.

It’s a sick, tangible metaphor of his worst fear—ruining you. His hands shake slightly while he stares at the dried blood on his palms. He doesn’t even know if it’s his own or one of the many men he took down that night. All he’s sure of is the icy shiver running through his chest and the panic strangling his throat. He’s always known, deep down, it would only be a matter of time until there’s danger right at your doorstep. He just never expected it to be him alone that hurts you.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t…” he trails off, his body finally catching up with his mind in time to form words. He brings his hand to his jeans, slowly rubbing down against the denim. It’s a futile attempt to scrub the stains off, but it’s the best he can think of to do. His voice is shaky when he says your name, muttering more and more apologies that tangle together.

“I’m so sor—fuck, I’m sorry,” Frank continues, the crack in his voice audible as he whispers. The stiff material of his pants begin to give his hand a prickly, numbing feeling. He doesn’t even register it, too lost in the need to erase any evidence of the harm done to you, although he can’t stop looking at the mess he’s made.

“Frank it’s okay, I’m alright. See, I’m all good—,” you try to reason with him in a soft voice, but he recoils when you take a step towards him. He’s shaking his head and his lips are moving but there’s no sound leaving his mouth.

“I…I-I’m, I…” he keeps trying to start the sentence but his mind can’t string the words together. The sight of him breaking down like this is foreign to you; Frank is usually strong and confident in his actions. It takes something worse to shake him to this level. The only time you can recall is the one time he lost someone he was trying to protect. It was the longest night of your life, watching him spiral and blame himself when he eventually did find the words to speak. He acted similar to how he is now: the stuttering, the shaky inhales, avoiding your gaze. But you caught his eyes when he first saw the scarlet stains, and he looks even more petrified tonight.

You move towards him again and reach up to place your hands on either side of his face. “I’m right here,” you whisper, glancing from one of his eyes to the other. “I’m okay, look at me, Frank.” You try your hardest to keep your voice even and gather his attention. His fingers curl around your forearms as he shuts his eyes tightly. He begins to shake his head again, refusing to look at you.

“No, no, no, I can’t,” he repeats again and again. The image of him becomes blurry again in your view, each repetition of his words splitting your heart further. You continue to hold him through your silent sobs, desperately begging him to trust that you’re okay. His grip on you only tightens but he still doesn’t look. Instead, he keeps muttering apologies and trying desperately to rid his mind of the image of you bloodied by his hands.

It isn’t until the sharp smell of iron is cutting through the bathroom of the apartment that he begins to calm down. The scent is familiar, dare he admit, welcoming. It cuts through the cloud of despair in his head, and it’s silent with the exception of small sniffles coming from you. You’re wearing his shirt and sweatpants now as you hunch over and focus on his hands. He’s sitting on the lid of the toilet while you’re across from him on the floor, a first aid kit on your right and a wet rag on your knee.

You turn his hands over carefully, inspecting the calloused palms for any sign of injury. Dragging the already soiled rag down his fingers, you watch the stains leave his hands, revealing perfectly intact skin. You sit up and fix the posture of your spine as you bring the back of your hand up to your face, pushing your hair away from your forehead.

“Looks like you’re all good,” you start, gently dropping one hand before moving for the next. “No cuts, just some bruising on your knuckles.” He only nods in understanding.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“What?” he asks, blinking once. You repeat the question and he stares at you, questioning whether to tell the truth. He doesn’t want to burden you with more wounds, but he knows you’ll find out anyway. He swallows hard and nods again, listing off the ones that are currently aching. Your fingers find their way to the hem of his shirt and begin to pull up before he’s finished speaking, and his own fingers wrap around your smaller wrists to stop you.

“You don’t… have to do this,” his eyes flicker all around your face. “I know it’s a lot, a-and after tonight,” he sighs as he looks down at your hands.

“Hey,” you begin, raising a hand up to lift his chin gently. “It’s nothing I don’t want to do. You mean as much to me as I do to you, you know that, right?” you ask, tilting your head down and looking up into his eyes. He thinks it over for a second before giving a weak nod.

“And you know how incredibly important you are?” Frank scoffs at this question, but you push further and he agrees, begrudgingly. Your hands go to each of his knees, using them to lean forward and press your lips to his. He kisses you back instantly, his hand reaching to cup your cheek and pull you closer. You pull back and let out a quiet, “Good,” before wrapping your hand around the back of his neck and kissing him deeper. It’s slow but meaningful, the two of you needing to be together in this way. He’s still incredibly gentle with you, but you know that side effect will fade soon.

He’s the one to break the kiss this time as he pulls away for a small breath of air. You snake your hands under his shirt and start tugging up again with a grin. He gives you a questioning look but you continue stripping it off until it’s on the floor beside you. You lean forward to press a quick peck to his lips, your breath hot on him as you whisper, “Besides, you’re not getting rid of me that easily, Castle.”

#frank castle #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #chelsea writes #thank you to chelle for posting this I love you SO much #im so thankful

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