#warcarried

@warcarried liked for a tiny starter.

continued from here.

      ❛    you  either  think  pretty  highly  of  yourself  or  pretty  lowly  of  me.    ❜      if  there’s  a  frigidness  to  her  tone,    make  no  mistake,    it  was  meant  to  be  there.

matt  always  picks  at  the  places  where  she rips  off the  scabs  with  his   ‘  holier  than  thou  ’   bullshit,   all  while  frank  tries  to  clumsily  bandage  them  with  an  emotional  spectrum  that  is  usually  as  busted  up  as  his  face.  one  reassures  her  that  she’s  alive,  the  other  is  relentless  with  the  concept  that  she’s  not     -      so  what  does  that  make  elektra  in  the  scheme  of  things ??   empathy  doesn’t  seem  to  be  that  signature  shade  of  red,  and  she’s  nowhere  near  as  tactless  as  matt  or  as  protective  as  frank.          though  it  seems  it  makes  her no  less  annoying.

the  place  where  kevlar  stopped  bullet  blooms  in  shades  of  purple  and  red,  muscles  under  skin  tensed  with  a  looming  and  undeniable  frustration.  somehow,  it  feels  like  they  all  just  latch  onto  her     /     she’s  quite  literally  done  with   the  exchange   and,  in  all  regards  to  the  idea  of  finished,  done  with  dragging  her  feet  as  well.  death  sits  on  the  forefront  of  her  mind  with  long,  sticky  fingers       -       an  the  intervene  made  by  one  assassin  just  prolongs  something  so  wildly  inevitable.  

she  wonders  if  it  was  matt’s  persistent  nagging  and  inflated  idea  that  perhaps  he  can  save  her  soul,       or  if  it  was  frank  castle’s  inability  to  let  her  jump  on  that  metaphorical  grenade.

      ❛    i  wasn’t  scared.    ❜      she  will  have  no  accusations  made  here     /     she  can’t  remember  the  last  time  she  was  truly  scared,  anyway.      ❛    and  you  messed  up  his  clean  shot.    ❜      

for some reason, to the assassin, the words stung more than it’s supposed to. ‘you seem to think highly of yourself.’ oh, if only you’d know, rachel –– elektra never thinks highly of herself. underneath all the arrogance and indifference encapsulated by her steel black eyes lies nothing but a scared little girl. a girl who has been abandoned by all the people she cared about. stick, orestez, even matthew in the past. it’s as if when given a choice, they’d choose to leave because ... who’d even have the time to deal with this mess of a girl? she’s not worth the effort. she’s not worth saving. just ask hugo. ask matthew. the former died when elektra could’ve saved him. the latter has to deal with the aftermath of her presence in his life, and needless to say, his life is ruined because of her.

so ... is she brave? no. she’s not. she’s scared, but she doesn’t let people see that because people use your vulnerability against you –– and elektra has no intention of being vulnerable. vulnerability is a weakness and in her line of work, being weak is not an option. so a heartless assassin she shall become, that way, you’re untouchable.

however, she hates that somehow a part of her still wants to be a hero. how a part of her still wants to live up to what matthew said about her, how she has goodness in her. ( but she’s not good! she’s nothing but a monster! )

free, mostly, rachel crosses dimly lit space to lean over frank's shoulder a touch - coffee, still miraculously warm, setting before him. " you're welcome. " she doesn't wait for a thank you, mouth perked into a mischievous kind of smile, lips softened and wet with chapstick and her own drink. " i had a little time to kill after ... paying our dear, red-suited friend a visit. "

Frank tracks her path through their safehouse towards him with a lot less paranoia than it probably seems; quietly grateful for a reality he couldn't have dreamed into existence in a hundred years of straight sleeping. Just the noise of her— the sounds of companionship, is enough to warm the cold hard places at the center of him, let alone the affection she visits on him and her offerings of his preferred love language; coffee black as his gear and hot enough to burn. She is a kinder Hell than he deserves, but what does he know of the Devil's machinations? If and when the sweetness of the rug is pulled out from under him, he will still have his memories of this reprieve.

"Shiiit— did I sleep clear to-to Christmas, or somethin'?" What a gift! He'd have paid to see it go down but even hearing about it second-hand tickles Frank pink; even as it makes him check the sight of her knuckles and the heel of her hands for splitting or swelling. Hitting Murdock was like taking a swing at a leather-wearing wall. There was satisfaction to be found in the act but not without natural consequence. Coffee is slurped appreciatively, then a beat taken before, "Think y'got him off your dick?" The question is crassly asked yet genuine in it's concern. Clinton's personal Devil thought of himself as some kind of do-gooder. He liked to be on his missionary outreach shit, trying to save souls— trying to change minds and walk back made choices. He could be a real pest, a problem to their work. Last they'd crossed paths Frank had tried to run interference between him and her, though he couldn't put into words the exact why of it— feelings that just didn't translate into the verbal all that well. It had to do with respect and Daredevil's lack of it— his lack of even knowing how to show it, and when to apply it. Always thinking himself the exception, that man. Her grief had been fresh then; fresher than now at least, and the last thing she deserved was his rote monotany in her ear, trying to guilt her.

It's different now. SHE'S different now, having survived the worst that could be thrown at her and yet still finding her feet. He's proud to call her his partner— hell, his better in some ways. So much so that he loops right back around to wishing he could have seen the showdown he missed while catching up on sleep.

Maybe next time.

Hopefully.

frank after dark || no longer accepting

What can he say? Frank had known he was in trouble deep just from the gleam in her eyes— let alone the way Rach had made a little pre-show out of putting her hair up. It's not much more than a messy bun, tendrils of red falling out of it here and there, some of it never having made it into the elastic's bite and hanging loose around her face; but that's not the point, the point is he KNOWS what it means. It's less seduction and more a primal warning— like watching her put on armor or check her chamber. IT MEANS. . . that she means to handle business. He's just the man lucky enough to be this woman's prey du jour, amen.

If he were a praying man still he'd be sending one up even as she straddles him, yet he might as well be a statue still as he goes beneath her. Still and STIFF and waiting for either pleasure or pain— whatever she deigns to give him even if it is just a belated lesson in payback and powerlessness; the only woman on the planet whom he'd take it from.

Frank goes flat when beautifully manicured hands push him back, the bed beneath them becomes an altar to her workings— his body the vessel upon which she casts the magic of her rocking hips, teasing him with the heated core of herself grinding over him as if to ready him for the act— as if he weren't ready already. She means to have him trembling with want of her, not just eager but DESPERATE. In turn he makes himself steel to it all in order to draw it out all the more; all the better to watch from beneath her the heavy sway of her breasts against the tee that is ever-present, the fine sheen of sweat that makes her hair go dark at her temples and forehead and stick there. She's a masterpiece in motion, a sight he could watch for hours— a dream he'll revisit again and again when he can not have the pleasure of the reality and on those nights it isn't a two minute loop he means to revisit and replay for the furious stroking of his own hand. Not when all he has to do is let it build and carry right here and now— the teasing meant for him becoming the start of her own pleasure, the hard thick ridge of him against the slick drag of her cunt riling her up as much as she does him until he can't help the near-bruising grip of his hands on her flexing thighs.

"Don't stop— keep goin', just like that..," like he's no better than some silicone grinder, ribbed for her personal pleasure and nothing else. He wants to feel her shudder and come against him, soaking him with the gush of the climax he urges her towards with his hands moving on to the swell of her ass, pulling her all the more firmly into the motions of her riding. One hand's grip becomes a light slap against those clenching cheeks, his own hips joining the rhythm, bucking upwards into her every roll, keeping her tempo right where she sets it until she's riding the peak of that crashing wave that breaks over them both.

@warcarried​ sent :  i told you i didn’t want you around here .

@warcarried​ sent :  sorry i’m late ,  i got caught up .

can't help but to let lion's hunger bleed into what should be soft - but soft isn't exactly their style, is it? neither, of them. her nails raking through short hair, as lips move against hers. creeping up from his neck. expression relaxed, as he leans into her. chasing her lips, with a much more eager pace than he's used to. than he expected, when he first starting fantasizing about her, like that... long fingers curling around her waist - shoved unceremoniously into the waistband of her jeans. other hand, cupping her face. caressing her, as he leans in to match her height. comfortably, whilst strands of hair weave through calloused digits. simultaneously pulling her into him, more firmly. more used to holding a gun, than holding a woman.

this whole thing tasted like blood, & like a bad idea - but not for one second, did it feel anything but right. here, & now. they need each other. they must. or why else would she have been put in his path? after that shit with amy, he wondered what would be next for him. a typical, day to day. wanting to make punishing his day job. & that's what he did. now, he had someone who seemed to understand him. out of nowhere, he'd turned around & she was grabbing his face. lips fitting like two fucked up puzzle pieces. ones that may not have fit together before, but find a home in one another now that their wood has been bent & warped. her hands beneath his jacket, on his body... goddamn, he might just beg if she decided to stop. to walk away. & he prayed to any god that might be listening, that she'd stay. that she'd decide that he wasn't just a bad idea, after all.