xkittycrossx

[xkittycrossx]

I kick the door closed behind me, keys dangling from my fingers and paperwork spilling over my arm as I try to wiggle my bag off my left shoulder. The rest of the papers fall to the floor as I let the bag land at my feet and look around my apartment, feeling the somehow pleasantly oppressive silence overtaking the chaos of the day. My back slides down the door until my ass hits the floor and I throw my head back, uncomfortable, but finding a moment’s peace in the first chance I’ve had to sit all day.

The office had been a hive of chaos as every journalist in the building decided to fight over who was going to cover the latest spat of mafia shootings to plague Hell’s Kitchen, with innocent civilians, once again, getting caught in the crossfire. As editor-in-chief, it’s my responsibility to try to keep everyone in line, but I’m mentally drained, I miss my best friends, and I’m lonely. There’s only so much space left to be dealing with other people’s drama.

It’s been 12 hours since I’ve eaten, and I desperately need food in my system. I’ve thrown myself into work for the past three months, and I’ll be the first to admit I’ve neglected myself. Sighing, I peel myself up off the floor and gather my papers and head to the kitchen island. Dumping all the sheets on the counter, some submissions from my journalists to read over, I grab a few to take with me for bathtime reading.

Picking the article up out of curiosity, I take it with me to the bathroom, crouching on the way through the door to start running a bath and adding a hefty amount of lavender epsom salts to try to help with the aching muscles in my legs. There’s a fresh towel over the heater, and I sigh in relief as I spot my dressing gown already hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

Once the bath is ready, I peel off my clothes, silk blouse and tailored skirt tossed carelessly towards the laundry basket. The rumbling in my stomach reminds me to swipe to the food ordering app on my phone and I quickly order some Chinese food while I slip under the bubbles, the warm water feeling like heaven on my skin which is chilled from the New York winter weather. Reaching out over the rim of the bath, I grab the article sitting next to my discarded bra and start reading.

“Could the latest rise in senseless violence in Hell’s Kitchen herald the return of The Punisher?”

I gasp and toss the paper like it’s burned me. My heart is pounding as I settle back to finish the article. The gist of the story is speculation on the return of The Punisher to rid the city of the senseless violence now that Daredevil has gone straight and seems to have retired the red suit. Little do they know Matt is still out there doing his thing, he’s just being more subtle about it. It’s been three months since we all were together in the one room, and three months since he disappeared from me again. I knew I shouldn’t have rejected the offer for coffee, but there was too much happening, too many feelings, and I was still grieving one of my best friend’s. The timing was just never right.

Regardless, I highly doubt that some mafia shootings would be likely to bring him back from wherever he’s currently holed up. I drop the paper to the floor, and submerge myself fully in the water, holding my breath and appreciating the complete silence that being under the surface gives. No traffic noises encroaching on the quiet, just peace. Visions of him flash below my closed eyelids, the almost-kiss in the elevator, the look in his eyes as he left three months ago, his battered and bloody body laying in the hospital, face full of concern. The brutality of his life, constantly at odds with his beauty. Sitting up, head in my hands, it becomes apparent how much I need to rest as emotion swarms my body, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake.

I’m in the process of tightening the tie of my dressing gown around my waist and towelling off my hair when the doorbell goes. The food. My eyes roll back in frustration as I accept my fate, I have no excuse to just avoid eating and go to bed now. The doorbell goes again twice more as I make my way to the door. Jesus Christ, I’m coming.

Pulling back the chain, I slowly open the door expecting a delivery guy, but he’s there leaning in the door frame, hand grasping a bloodied arm. I don’t know whether I’m experiencing nausea, panic, or a thrill as my heart leaps into my throat.

“Frank?” It comes out of my mouth in a disbelieving shaky whisper, and he looks down at me, physical and emotional pain written across his face clear as day. I wave him into the apartment, hooking myself under one heavy arm to keep him upright and steer him towards the sofa.

We don’t exchange words as he slowly removes his tactical vest and shirt, to expose the bloody gunshot wound in his bicep. My stomach flips and acid burns my throat when I see the raw flesh.

“Hey, it’s just a flesh wound. Karen, don’t panic.” he says gruffly, holding my face in his good hand and looking me in the eyes, features softening and giving me some semblance of courage.

Thanks to Matt’s extracurricular activities, I keep a fully stocked military grade first aid kit in the kitchen for all of the patching up I’ve done over the years and I run to grab it, along with a glass of whisky too. He sucks a breath through his teeth as the antiseptic flushes over the wound, and lets out a pained grunt when he sees me reach for the tweezers.

“Thought it was just a flesh wound?” I questioned sarcastically. He just replies with another grunt and gestures his head for me to continue. So I do.

Carefully, I use the tweezers to gently remove the bullet from his arm, it’s not the worst gunshot wound I’ve had the pleasure of seeing, but it still looks painful. I look up at his face to see if he’s doing okay, but he’s just relaxed, sipping whisky and riding out the pain as if it’s just another day. Although I suppose for him, it is. I use some lidocaine to hopefully numb his skin slightly before stitching the wound closed and he grunts again as I tighten off the last of the stitches and wrap his arm in a bandage. I look up and his eyes are laser focused on the left hand side of my dressing gown which has slipped off my shoulder, revealing an expanse of collarbone and shoulder. He leans in towards me kneeling on the floor.

“Karen, I…” he starts.

“Be right back!” I perkily shout as I take the various first aid paraphernalia to the bin and head back to the bathroom to wash my hands. The mirror reflects back at me, a flushed redhead wearing the quintessential “deer in the headlights” expression that seems to fall across the faces of everyone who crosses paths with the infamous Frank Castle. But this isn’t fear, this is… something else. Shaking it off, I wash the blood from my hands, watching as the pink swirls down the plughole, an eerie touch of beauty in the way that the blood and water and blood mix together. Once my hands are clean, I stoop to splash fresh water over my face to refresh myself, but as I remove the towel from my face, my stomach leaps as I see his eyes meet mine in the mirror. I almost laugh at the scene. In any other scenario, the lone woman in her apartment with the human embodiment of violence and vengeance looming over her would be fuelled with terror, but I find peace in his presence, even when bloodied and bruised.

“Thank you Karen,” he says quietly, sincerity bleeding through his words. “I disappeared, and then show up at your door bringing trouble to you again. But I didn’t want anyone else, I needed you…”

The look on his face is one of vulnerability, his brow creased as if in anguish at exposing his wanting to be around me.

“Frank, you don’t have to thank me. The amount of times you’ve had to rescue me, I’m confident that patching you up pales in comparison.”

“I don’t just mean patching me up. I mean for everything. There hasn’t been anyone in my life since Maria who saw me without judgement and accepted me as I am, even though you have had an abundance of reasons to do so.” he said gruffly. “You don’t just view me as a fucking monster, you understand why I do what I do.”

“You’re not a monster though Frank. I mean, from a moral standpoint your methods aren’t exactly good, but your intention is pure no matter how hardened your heart has become. I may not condone it, but God knows, I understand it.” I turn to face him and rest a hand on his cheek, hyper aware of how close he is and I’m scared to blink incase he disappears again. “Where did you go this whole time?”

“Nowhere, I haven’t left Hell’s Kitchen…” he at least has the self awareness to look ashamed at his lack of contact. “ I’ve been watching over you with all this shit that’s been going down. You seem to have a skill for getting caught up in it, even when you try not to.” he teases.

I feel the prick of tears as I take in what he’s saying, he’s been watching over me. A protector in the shadows. But I’m angry, and shove at his shoulder. “What the fuck? I’ve been sick with worry for you and I’ve missed you. And you’re just what? Stalking me??” My voice is raised, but I’m not shouting. “You just left me here you assho-”.

Before I finish my sentence, I’m shoved against the wall, a rough and bruising kiss sweeping me up in a wave of confusion and lust. Years of push and pull, yearning and frustration, has led me to this point, and it is exactly how I imagined it would be. It’s animalistic in its nature, and I drink it in like I’ve spent a month dehydrating in the desert. His hand runs up over my shoulder and tangles in my still-damp hair, holding me in place while he dominates the kiss, but I don’t fight back, I surrender to it and feel it take over me. I taste the faint remnants of whisky on his tongue and smell the metallic tang of blood in the air, as I’m swept under.

The doorbell chimes again and we jump apart, heart’s pounding, both gasping for air in the suddenly too-small bathroom.

“Don't fucking move an inch, I'll get it,” he orders, as if he's expecting something sinister on the other side and looks mortified when he opens the door and takes an aggressive stance but is face to face with a teenager holding bags of food. “Oh, thanks bud.”

He turns to me and holds out the food, but my heart is still pounding and my stomach feels like a washing machine on a spin cycle from the moment we shared in the bathroom.

“Sit.” He orders, and in total contradiction to my usual stubborn personality, I sit and watch him find his way through the cupboards and drawers in my kitchen, dishing me up a plate of sweet and sour chicken and rice.

“You don't expect me to sit here and eat after THAT, do you?” I splutter, gesturing to the bathroom we just emerged from and he shrugs his shoulders.

“You gotta eat, Karen. I don't know how this night is going to go, but regardless you gotta get some food in you.”

I manage about half of my plate before I can't stomach any more and make my way to the dishwasher, gingerly walking on my aching legs.

“Oh no you don't…” he sweeps me right off my feet, bullet wound be damned and tucks me into his chest. “If you're sore, let me take care of you like you took care of me. Where is your bedroom?” I nod down the hall and he adjusts me again to take the strain off his injured arm and slowly heads down the hall. The adrenaline that takes over my body in that moment causes the most blissful high, but an undercurrent of fear simmers in my veins, what if he disappears again. No, I'm going to view this for what it is. A moment of madness. A pot of water boiling over. I close my eyes and lay my head against his bare chest, his heart pounding in my ear.

We reach my bedroom and he gently lays me on the bed, his expression unreadable as he rises up and heads to the en suite. A few minutes later he returns, hands and face cleared of blood, a bottle of body oil in his hand from the edge of my sink. Unspeaking, he walks back over to me and sits at the foot of my bed.

“Frank, what are we doing?” I whisper.

“Karen, for the first time in your life, could you please just be quiet?”

Lifting one foot, he gently strokes from the heel of my foot to the tips of my toes and I sigh, the tickling sensation enough to feel pleasant, and not uncomfortable. He continues up my calf and to my knee, digging his fingers slightly into my calf and working the muscle there. Lifting my leg up higher, he kisses the tip of each toe, once again making his way up toward my knee, peppering light kisses over the surface of my lower leg, stopping to press one last kiss to my knee before switching to the other leg. It feels like bliss. It doesn’t feel sexual,it feels reverent, like he needs to make sure every square inch of my skin receives contact.

The lid of the oil pops open, and he pours a small amount into his hand and works my muscles from my Achille’s tendon up to my thigh, applying just enough pressure to stimulate the muscle without causing discomfort to my already aching legs.

“I’m sorry for leaving Karen. I wanted to keep you safe and being around me makes that impossible. Watching you from a distance meant I could protect you without putting you in harm’s way. Taking out the harm before it has a chance to even reach you. I’m sorry if that caused you any pain.” he admits. “Hurting you is the last thing I wanted to do, physically or otherwise.

“It’s okay, I understand. It doesn’t mean I had to like it, but I understood your reasons. I know you well enough to already have figured out that’s probably where your mind went. But I feel safer with you here. When I’m around you I feel indestructible, like nobody could hurt me. Apart from you, but I know that you would never cause me pain intentionally.” I said, hoping the reassurance wouldn’t spook him into fleeing again.

“This push and pull between us is just so overwhelming, and I feel like I can’t escape it, but I need you to understand something.” he begins, but stops and takes a deep breath, conflict marring his brutal features. “I don’t know how to love someone else, while Maria is still in my heart. I feel like it’s a disrespect to you both, and I don’t know how to deal with that.”

“Frank, the human heart is a beautiful thing. You can simultaneously love several people at the one time. There is enough room to love a family of four, just the same as there is enough room to love a family of ten. I’m honoured to know that you are fighting with that part of yourself, wanting to love us both, but she was your wife. There’s room to love us both without pushing the other from your heart. I don’t know much about her, but I do know that I would never in a million years expect you to set that love aside for me, she’ll always be there whether I’m here or not. And I also know that little Frank Jr. and Lisa are in there too, and I’d be more disappointed knowing you would set your love for the three of them aside just for me. There’s room enough in your heart for all of us, and you don’t need to ‘move on’, I’d never expect you to, and I imagine if the shoe was on the other foot, I would feel the same way too. Never think I feel disrespected that you still have love in your heart for your family. Because they will ALWAYS be your family, and I will always be here to share that love,”

He looks up from where his head is rested on my knee, a single tear running down his cheek, and I sit up to gently wipe it away with my hand, bringing my forehead to meet his.

“Thank you, Karen.” he murmurs, before taking my mouth in a kiss so gentle that it betrays everything I have ever seen from the actions of the man in front of me. Slowly, he rises up and lays me back down and grabs my leg again, rubbing oil up into my thighs, pushing up my gown to the tops of my thighs, keeping me covered in between my legs. His hands reach the apex of my thighs, but he goes no further, but I feel his hesitation.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready to this with me,” I say gently, my heart squeezing at the thought of him struggling internally.

“Let me tell you something, Karen. I have never been more ready for anything in my life. You’re perfect. I’m just so terrified that you’re going to get hurt.” he reassures, sitting back to pour more oil into his hands, gesturing for me to remove my dressing gown. I slowly undo the tie at my front, allowing the fabric to part around me. I managed to throw some underwear on between getting out the bath and rushing to the door, but my breasts lay bare, my pale skin almost glowing in the ambient lighting of my bedroom. I hear him suck in a breath and look down to see him looking at me as if it’s the first time and he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. I throw the bundle of fabric onto the floor and he skips over my underwear, straight to my stomach. Oil pools in my bellybutton as he works his way up my body, gently stroking up my sides and leaving a delicate tickle in his wake, all I can hear are the sounds of our breathing and all I can see is the mystified look in his eyes. He skips over my breasts, instead stroking over my shoulders and running the oil down my arms, massaging and caressing so gently as he goes, the warm oil leaving me glistening under his gaze.

He looks me in the eye with a questioning gaze and I give him a slight nod and he stoops his head and takes one small breast into his mouth, gently flicking his tongue over my erect nipple, the warmth of his mouth heating my skin and sending a fire that I feel race all the way from my crotch, into my stomach, and I clench around nothing. He switches to my other breast, offering the same worship to it, while an oiled hand reaches up to cup the previous. Slowly and methodically, he scoops and massages one breast while laving his tongue over the other, and the sensation is almost too much to bear.

“I need you,” I whisper, mortified by my forwardness, but he continues on undeterred, smiling crookedly up at me as he switches his oiled hand over to the other breast.

“All in good time, you need to adopt some of the patience and discipline I learned over the years.” he chastises, amusement still on his face. I’ve never seen him so at ease, almost playful in his ministrations.

My pulse kicks up a notch as he backs up and heads further south, muscles in his shoulders rippling as he crawls backward. Too soon, he’s in between my legs, looking up at me looking for a sign that he can continue. I raise my hips in response, allowing him to lower my underwear, before peeling it over my legs and throwing them across the room. He descends upon my clit like a man starved, each flick of his tongue sending sparks across my field of vision. His oiled hands hold my legs open as he expertly switches between licks and sucks, winding my body tighter and tighter, my lower stomach twisting and turning, ready for the waves to crash. I clench around nothing, hearing his groan as he dips his tongue inside me, like the taste is enough to sate him for the rest of his life. He lets out a groan when I release a whine I’ve been trying to hold in, realising how close I am. He then inserts two fingers, curling them toward the front and focuses again on my clit, gentle sucks and flutters of his tongue combined with the movement of his fingers sends me hurtling towards my climax like a speeding train. My whole body starts to tingle all the way to my toes, and the waves in my stomach crash, every nerve ending alight as the orgasm takes over. I see why the expression “petite mort” is so frequently applied to the female orgasm, because I truly feel like I might die at the onslaught of sensation that takes over me, vision blackening, sound blurring. Once it’s fully passed, only then does he remove his face from between my legs, but his fingers remain inside.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Frank groans, voice husky, face glistening from my release.

He makes his way up to me and takes my mouth in another vicious kiss, continuing to work his fingers relentlessly inside me, moaning into my mouth, and I feel his hard length against my stomach, the gentle motion of his hips making it seem like he’s trying to chase any sensation possible. I can feel myself rapidly heading toward another orgasm, the taste and smell of myself on his face only adding to the overwhelm. He breaks the kiss as the orgasm hits, and watches me in awe as the climax rolls through me.

“Take your pants off. Now.” I order him, coming back down from the high, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Pretty ballsy of you to speak to a guy like me that way.” he replies.

“Yeah well, I’m not scared of you. I know your nature, I know what’s inside you, and I want it anyway. So get them off.”

He rises to his feet next to the bed and I sit up to swing my legs over the edge as he slowly removes his belt. Reaching for the top button of his cargos, I shove his hands out of the way and start to undo them myself, torturing myself with the slow pace. I’ve waited this long, what’s a few minutes more? I push his pants to his knees and he kicks them off to the floor and stands in front of me, bloody and bruised in his black trunks, and he’s never looked more imposing and beautiful. A stark contrast to the calm serenity of my bedroom. I look him over from head to toe, appreciating the hard build of him, broad and solid, and see the way his hands fist at his sides, seemingly uncomfortable at the scrutiny. Leaning forwards, I flip the waistband of his underwear and slowly begin lowering them, a soft patch of dark hair leading down to… Wow, His hard length springs free from his underwear and hits back at his stomach, and my eyes shoot up to meet his, some of my earlier boldness giving way to apprehension.

“You’ll be fine, I won’t hurt you,” he assures, taking my face in his and bending to bring a soft kiss to my lips. He pushes me back on to the bed and lays me flat, crawling up my body, and I become aware that he’s shaking.

“Frank, are you okay? You’re shivering, are you in pain? What do you need?” I panic.

“Karen, I’m nervous, okay?” he flushes. “I have wanted this for so long, and I just don’t want to fuck this up, the way I’ve fucked up everything else so far.”

“We don’t have to do this, you know? We can wait.” I offer, trying to make my words sound far less infantilising than they do.

He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and I hear a muttered “fuck it” as he lunges at me. Our faces meet and he begins to kiss me in earnest while he props himself up with one arm, taking his length in the other, rubbing the head against my already swollen clit, stroking himself. Slowly, but surely, he presses into me and the sting catches my breath. I feel myself stretch around him, and I start to breathe easier as I hear him whisper in my ear.

“You’re doing great, just breathe, we’ll do this together.”

Fully inside me, he begins to rock his hips, the slight curve in his cock allowing the tip to brush somewhere godly inside me. He takes it slow, but each thrust hits deep, and his eyes roll back in his head as I squeeze around him.

“‘Atta girl, Karen,” he huskily mutters in my ear. I go to kiss him, but he rises up on both arms, and I brace myself for what’s to follow. The thrusts build at a punishing pace, and my whole body is alight with sensation, he holds both my knees up toward my chest and thrusts into me hard, over and over, sweat running down his brow, catching a fleck of blood in it’s wake, dripping onto me. It should put me off, but it doesn’t. It only reinforces thee violent beauty that is Frank Castle.

I gesture for him to come closer and he releases both knees, allowing them to fall to the side, my hips slightly angled, and he presses his whole body against me, hands cupping my face, my nipples brushing his rough chest. He slows his pace, but the change of angle deepens the strokes, kissing me like he’s been dehydrated and my mouth is an oasis. Our sweat and his blood pools between us and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, stroking over his scars as he strokes deeper and deeper into me. I let out a guttural moan when I shift my hips slightly and he grinds into me, my clit grinding against his pelvis.

“That’s it Karen, focus on how you feel and what you feel, you deserve this. We’ve waited so long for this.” he pants, our noses touching, forehead to forehead.

“I love you Frank,” I manage to get out just as the most life altering orgasm racks my whole body, and he moans loudly as he quickens the pace slightly, chasing his own release. His body goes rigid as he spills into me, wave after wave of pleasure consuming us both. Our connection is incomparable to anything I’ve ever felt in my life. His whole body relaxes on mine, the solid weight of him grounding me and bringing me comfort.

He rises up to move off of me and he sucks in a pained breath.

“Oh shit, your arm!” I gasp. But he waves me off, checking under the bandage to make sure the stitches held.

“I’ll be right back,” he says before walking to the en suite.

I lay there, unmoving, feeling the gravity of what we’d just done. I told him I loved him and he didn’t respond. I feel tears welling in my eyes, and try to focus on anything else until he gets back into the room. I hear the shower turning on and quickly distract myself by picking up the clothes strewn across the room. As I lift his cargos, his wallet falls out onto the carpet, and falls open. I let out a gasp as a photo of Maria and the kids look up at me from the inner pocket of the wallet and feel a slight pinch of shame, until I see on the opposite side a photo of me. He must have cut it from the newspaper, and the tears start to spill over. My heart full at the fact that he found me worthy enough to have me in such close proximity with the family he lost. I slump to my ass on the floor and cry. I cry for his loss, I cry for his growth, I cry for us both, stuck in this push and pull, never to reach the happy ending we both deserve. I startle as I hear a floorboard creak, drop his wallet, and look up to see him standing there wrapped in a towel, dripping from the shower, the beginning of a sunrise peeking through the window casting him in the most beautiful of lights.

“I love you too Karen.”