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@warcarried liked for a tiny starter.
“ The minute you start thinking like a hero , that’s where you go wrong - means you have to play by the rules and the rules ain’t fair if you ask me.” THE SCARS WILL NEVER FULLY HEAL - vanity once upon a time might have wished they would but now they serve a purpose. Billy turns his head ; dark gaze flickering over the horizon for a moment. “Playing by the rules gets you killed.”
@warcarried | starter
‘ WELL , well . . . ‘ he seems to be in a bit o fa jam with his next bounty . course , he’s been chasin’ this lemoyne raider over MILES . then out of the blue this pistol wielding lady managed to cross their path and shoot the damn bastard right off his horse . thankfully , arthur was able to lasso and hog tie the sonuvabitch before he could take off on foot . not that he was bound to get far on foot against his horse with a bullet in his upper thigh . ‘ i’d say we’re at a crossroad here . ‘parrently we’re after th’ same bounty . ‘ now , he can be an easy man to work with . granted , this here soon to be dead man is in his possession , her bullet is lodged in his leg . arthur would say he’s got the higher advantage and he ain’t ‘bout to let this man go easily . ‘ i tell you , wot . . . i still need this here asshole ALIVE . there’s a bigger bounty on his leader , wofford’s , head . ‘ though there is plenty of cryin in agony from their captured raider , arthur ignores the whining to finish propositioning his deal . ‘ but , i’ll cut y’in . . . say thirty percent . ‘
r. cole-alves. –– @warcarried
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! )
“well, ms. cole-alves,” elektra spites. “i’m only doing this as a favour. mr. matthew murdock sends you his regards.” she bites her lips. “and between you and me: death will get you no where. look at me –– not even death could save me from my pain.”
the safehouse is mostly frigid, she's real thankful for layered sweatshirts between the distinct lack of heater and the insufferable climate that is winter in new york. one hand still occupied with drink tray, the other rustles under the hemline of clothing to tug the glock from its tediously concealed place just behind waistband. mag drops into desk, optic jammed into thigh as she racks slide and lets the live round once chambered fall along cement floor. once cleared, she allows it to rest on countertop - once a first line of self-defense, now a paperweight to local paper that she doesn't even bother looking at.
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.
[ STRADDLE ]: sender sits in receivers lap to tease them.
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 .
MASKED , SKULKING IN THE SHADOWS , TRYING TO PIECE HIS LIFE BACK TOGETHER - CAUSING MAYHEM IN THE PROCESS. Her words are sharp enough they could cut glass - his head snaps around to follow the sound of the voice. AN EYEBROW ARCHES BENEATH THE MASK , something akin to hollow laughter ringing from Billy’s lips. “I don’t answer to you.” No , he doesn’t. BILLY RUSSO DOESN’T ANSWER TO ANYONE THESE DAYS & he sure as hell isn’t going to go running away with his tail between his legs. HE COULDN’T GIVE A SHIT WHO WAS BARKING THE ORDERS. Vague memories of Rawlin’s surface, of billy following orders like a good little soldier & he pushes them down , instead , turns to face her properly. THERE’S A CHILL IN THE AIR ; the first signs of winter upon them as the moon hangs high in the almost starless sky. Feels like an omen almost but Bill’s not into all that superstitious shit. HE KNOWS WHY SHE WANTS HIM GONE. SHE HAS A GOOD REASON. Doesn’t mean he has to listen though.
@warcarried sent : sorry i’m late , i got caught up .
RACHEL BEING LATE HAS PAID OFF. She doesn’t need to know that of course - Billy just shrugs his shoulders , holds his tongue. IF SHE’D ARRIVED EARLIER ; HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN IN TROUBLE. A spontaneous visit from Agent Orange wouldn’t have looked good now would it? Billy wants to maintain the illusion , there’s few in this world he fears going up against - he’d made that clear to Rawlin’s , but Rachel might just be one of those few. THE SECOND SHE FINDS OUT HE’S THE REASON FRANK’S REALLY GONE ; he’s going to need to start wearing bullet proof vests. “It’s fine - i had some business to handle.” OF SORTS. “Had a couple of cops visit today.” He balances lies with truth , it’s how Billy Russo adapts and besides , if he gets her focused on the wrong thing - that means she’s not focused on what he’s doing. “Something to do with Frank. Not sure what they’re looking for though. ” He finally rises from his desk , grabbing his coat to pull it on. “What’ did you get caught up in? anything i can help with?”
💋
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.
@warcarried / / send “💋” to kiss my muse out of nowhere.
