#castlevowed

@castlevowed asked ❝ you’re running from yourself. again. ❞

Frank didn't say a thing. Maria knew him inside and out. Hell, he half expected she knew his thoughts before he could even get them out, but times like this—he wished she couldn't read him so easily. There's no barrier between them. She knows his breaths, his touch. The way he struggles to keep his mind here with her when he's not on another tour.

He's been getting more fidgety, more distant from her. He can't settle down and just enjoy his time off. His hands need to be doing something, he needs to be doing something.

"It's too quiet." He says, not knowing if she gets it. Hell, he's tried telling her, but he knows he can't explain it well. What's the difference being home and being there? He likes to think she understands as close as she can. "I keep waking up and thinking I'm back with my unit. I'm there, but I'm not there. I don't know how to explain it, sweetheart, I'm trying to find the words..."

Date:??? Location: Sewers???

Frank stirred the moment he felt Maria move behind him. Eyes snapping open, and squinting, trying to adjust to the darkness. The back of his head radiates with pain, he can feel his arms and hands bound by ropes. "Hey," he calls out to the darkness, his voice hoarse from yelling earlier. He remembers roaring, charging a man and taking him down.

"Hey! Whatever this is, leave her out of this!" Frank yells and tries to twist around to look at Maria. "Sweetheart, you good? They didn't hurt you, right?" He's asking, but there's a dangerous edge to it. If Maria is even hurt a little bit, he's taking it out on whoever grabbed them. He's snapping sinew and grinding bones to dust.

@castlevowed asked: ' i can't imagine losing someone you love like that. losing everything that you know. '

Frank's quiet, and still like a fucking statue as his trigger finger tapped along his thigh. "Yeah." His words short, he didn't like talking much about the deaths that happened while he was gone. He wasn't superstitious like the rest of his men, but hell, he ain't trying to invite anything either.

red/green flags | accepting. | @castlevowed

green flag 001.

impeccable attention to detail.

when his eyes are on you, he notices everything and stores it in memory—tone, expression, inflection, facial features, clothing (he could make a good guestimate on your size), habits. all of it matters to him. not because he’s nosy, not even because he’s trying to charm you—but because information, for billy, has always been the one currency that never devalues.

first off, the way he presents himself, you’d never guess the socioeconomic terrain that raised him. the poverty. the disjointed education. the casual and systemic violences that taught him how to weaponize silence before he could even spell resilience.

his gender was pivotal in the architecture of his masks. masculinity wasn’t just performance—it was armor. a containment unit for everything unspeakable. each persona he wore was a survival mechanism, but none of them were casual generalities. no, the mechanisms weren’t borrowed archetypes. they were engineered responses—tailored to the room, the audience, the threat level.

and when he lets his guard down? when that gaze isn’t assessing for danger but registering your comfort, your rhythm, your smallest tells—he becomes the kind of man who will remember how you take your tea (as evidenced with his therapist sometime in season two), the exact scent you wore last spring, the pattern your fingers tap when you’re anxious.

billy can make you feel profoundly seen. people underestimate how much he’s watching. how much he’s already mapped out.