ｄｅｖｉｌ'ｓ ｇｉｆｔ

only at this time, when @smaugiiisms​ and I hide out in our rooms, does she fucking play some loud af memes.

 She takes a seat beside him, not really caring if she was  overstepping boundaries or not.

“Well now that you mention it..yeah.”

He rolls his eyes, his eyes falling to look at his tattoo’d hands, merely stuck in painful memories. The devil’s gift, a curse that haunted him. The corner of his lip twitched upward, eyes looking over at Harley, his hands dug into his pockets.

@lostcxntrol

  “What’s wrong, Sparky?  Did someone tease you about being a hot head again?”

All he shows is a very dull look, eyebrows furrowing. Not even a smile or laugh about it, despite the intentions behind the question.

❝ Perhaps, perhaps… not. ❞ 

Chato shuffled, comfortably seatinghimself back into the seat. Legs moveup, heel propping against the frontedge & his arms hugged his knees.

you know what hurts but also makes me happy?

The guy was Hispanic. Not that it mattered that much to Frank. In all of his years patrolling these streets and dealing with bad guys, he had learned that crime could come in any size, shape, or color. The perp could be black, white, Italian, Chinese, you name it. It really didn’t matter. Crime didn’t know such a thing as discrimination or a color barrier. If a guy beat his wife, robbed a liquor store, sold drugs to kids, or did any other shit, he was still a criminal and criminals were pests that Frank had to eliminate from the face of the earth.

He walked next to the guy and looked him over again. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he had probably judged a book by its cover. His palms were clean and there was nothing about his body language that told the taller, bulkier man that he was hiding anything. I’m worse than the police, he thought. If I had killed this poor bastard, I wouldn’t be The Punisher.I’d be a fucking son of a bitch criminal.

“Frank Castle,” he said in a voice that was much friendly than the one he had previously used. “I’m sorry about my language earlier. Most of the guys prowling the streets at this time of the night are up to no good.” He cocked his head towards the nearest bar. “I got some sorrows to forget, too. You wanna get a drink with me over at O’Flaherty’s?”

To say the least, Chato had a feeling that he would be stopped on his way; it wasn’t normal for a guy, covered head-to-toe in tattoos galore to NOT be stopped. Chato almost considered it a routine.

Slowly, his hands fell down, laying once more in his pockets. Live another day, even if Chato felt like he didn’t deserve to. He shown no fuss or crime, but plenty of troubles. His crimes, he could never forget or let down. He deserved the worst of punishments & he knew it too.

An eyebrow rose at the much friendlier attitude the man showed, one hand removed & offered a handshake to the man.

❝ Nice to meet you, Castle. I ain’t sweatin’    over that, don’t worry, amigo. Honest,    I get it a lot. ❞

Brown eyes glance in the direction that the man gestured to, Chato giving a brief nod--even if it was cheap.

@lostcxntrol

Frank had eaten dinner alone at Il Vesuvio tonight. A rare, expensive treat for his birthday. Another year had passed him by, another year without his wife or his kids, another year when he killed bad guys by filling their bodies with bullets. Every year, he did the same shit over and over and over again. Every year was the same. Nothing in his life ever seemed to change except the cocksuckers that he was drop kicking, burning, throwing out of moving vehicle, or bashing with a baseball bat. Those people were like cockroaches and whores. They were always around.

He walked down the street with his hands in his pockets, his eyes and ears open. Mischief always lurked at night. The day was when people went about their regular business. The kids went to school, the parents went to work, the bums started begging, the construction workers were busy remodeling the apartments, and the supermarket checkout stands were endlessly beeping. Night was a different story – a time for blood, justice, and punishment was the way Frank saw it. It was when people paid for their sins with their blood.

He stopped on a street corner, pulled out a cigar, and lit it. As he was putting away his lighter, he noticed a guy with tattooed face and a white wife beater on the other side of the street. Something about him rubbed Frank the wrong way. He crossed the street and tailed him, while he smoked all the way. “Who are you?” Frank asked. “And what the fuck do you think you’re doing on this street at four o’clock in the morning?”

Tattoo’d hands dug into the pockets of his varsity-style jacket, brown eyes glazing over spots. Another day where Chato relied on alcohol to help get rid of awful memories, if only for a brief moment. He was not the same Diablo as people knew him before his surrender & that incident that broke him. Once, he was willing to cause fights, murder, arson, steal... Now, his fists stayed down. He refused to raise them without a purpose; every time he did, he remembered. He remembered the accident where he killed his wife and kids. He remembered the last things they did together & last things they said to each other. No one deserved to die. It was his fault. He should not have lost control.

Chato easily heard the voice from behind him, him stopping in his tracks, letting the other man go on ahead. His hands reached out from his pockets, raising to show he was peaceful. At least, for the moment.

“Yeah, life usually seems that way.” Harley chuckled and laid down her card before leaning on the table again. “So when you’re not locked up what do ya do for fun? I’m sure ya don’t just go around playin’ Uno with everybody.” 

Lips pursed & a hand went to grab a card from the deck, putting it down. Chato leans in his seat, comfortably, his eyes glancing from the cards, upward.

“Oooh Uno’s fun!” Harley sat at the table and dumped the colorful cards on the table with a shoulder shrug. “Today’s more of a sane day. Well what about when you were growin’ up? Or your favorite color and borin’ stuff like that?” She grinned and dealt out the cards between them.

Tattoo’d hands took his share of the cards, laying down a corresponding card when they were settled more  into the game. There’s a brief laugh under his breath. Boring stuff was right. Too boring or dull to discuss.