Punisher's Hideout Bunker

By the time Frank made it back home with Fisk on his feet, blindfold over his eyes, gagged and dulling his pleas and threats as hesitant legs carried him wherever the hell the Punisher was taking him, Frank had shoved him into the lone chair then bound him in the interrogation room; the blindfold was castoff so the prick could see what crossing the vigilante's radar got him.

Sallow in his own odor of sweat and piss while his person wiggled about, freighted and high on adrenaline as one pale eye scanned the blood-smattered room for escape, Frisk centered on his living nightmare looming tall overhead – the gruff expression shadowed by darkness due to a lone light hanging ominously behind his broad silhouette caused Richard to exude a stifled cry when he received a punch to the battered side of his face, flaring the dizzying pain of his engorged black eye. Blood dribbled from his mouth and was absorbed by the musty sock bound in his cotton-dry mouth, the inside of his cheek was raw from being sliced by his teeth.

Without a word of explanation, the Bronx native exited the room that automatically locked, sure to leave the light off and ignored the muffled screams of his victim; having destroyed the rich boy's tech in the alleyway to prevent being tracked, Frank found Mirco in the epicenter of the warehouse enclosed in a window-paned security hub passed out at his desk with some kind of Japanese porn playing in the background. Before he made his way down the lower level, Frank made his friend a crisp cup of coffee, black, one sugar, no cream, to stir the kid awake then clobbered a metal stairwell to the underground living areas. He went directly in his room, sure of Mirco's ability to sanitize the van of any and all DNA, and peeled his shirt overhead once the tactical gear such as his utility belt and vest was homed in its designated place on an abused mannequin after he laid his weapons out for a thoural cleaning before bed – a practice he did religiously. Instantly, he smelled the jasmine waft from his soiled clothes and was taken back to the gratifying sensations of that damn pretty mouth, hot, soft and wet, wrapped around him wholly. Opening his eyes, unware he closed them to begin with, he felt himself strain against his pants and undid the zipper without a second thought to grasp and rub himself; he saw the plethora of pearl blonde hair as it swept gently across his thighs, her rolling fingers massaging his cradled balls, the contrasting impressions of her nails erotically scratching his hips were imprinted in his mind and succeeded in coiling the cauldron of lust in his flexing stomach. His breathing was labored, groans tapered to a minimum as he pumped the length between his thighs, fondling himself expertly like some honry teenager by envisioning her warm puffs of air and tight throat constricting, molding around his thick mass as she gulped his release.

Frank licked the inside of his mouth, still tasting the jasmine and salt on her honeyed skin, the buttery softness of her pebbled rosebud encircled by his lips, as he stood in the center of his room, hips ravenous to buck into her sweet cunt as his opposing hand that wasn't fiercely whacking himself off clawed at his scalp, exactly how she did. The sticky consistency of his orgasm covered his hand and made a fitting splurch as he creamed against the calloused flesh of his skin – in that instant he deeply regretted not taking the vixen up on her offer to fuck her sun down 'til sun up, to burrow a home inside her. He thumbed the tip of his ultra-sensitive leaky, copious head and as she, again, flashed across his mind, suckling at the excess drips and splaying wet, cumy kisses on his balls as she poked that pink little tongue out to slap her plump lips in delight as she fingered her throbbing clit, looking so damn good with her damp, curling hair framing the heart of her face…what the fuck am I doing? Frank calmed himself with a cool shower where he peeled the butterfly band-aid and commanded his emotions to chill the fuck out; he sealed the wound with liquid band-aid and climbed the stairway to find eggs, bacon and toast Mirco whipped up on his desk with a side of coffee, black, no sugar, one cream.; he craned his head in quest of the kid, assuming he still must've been cleaning out the van in the garage so he let it go and once signed in the private CCTV network Mirco set up for them, he activated the audio bug he planted in Felicia's penthouse.

Silence, aside from purring.

"Hmmff." He grumped, polishing his plate of protein and the lone carb; he sipped the steaming coffee, his thoughts raining back to Felicia, she swallowed and she liked – no loved it. Never been with a woman who remotely tolerated it. He pondered her sexual prowess nonchalantly, the eleven o'clock creases between his brows prominent, and sighed at the soldier eager to salute him – salute her. Fuck. Shoulda put up more resistance. Now she's going to be a distraction. Motherfucker. There were three things Frank loved most about life, of which were: guns, sex, and Metallica – in that order. He listened, adamant to hear the femininity of her salacious voice but earned nothing. For a couple beats he started at the faded ink on the inside of his forearm, he considered hauling ass to her place to exhaust the frustrations haunting him, curious to see what she looked like naked, bathing under the stars in that rose garden she mentioned as he fucked her inexorably hard and lusciously slow, but compartmentalized the flames she licked and spurred on upon hearing footsteps in the real world beyond his fantasies. The iron-grasp he had on his thigh waned at the sight of Mirco hauling two black garbage bags each bigger than his stick-frame full of soiled evidence as he bypassed Frank toward the incinerator room, greeting the skull-bearer with a lazy wave as he took the bags one at a time to suit his stature. Upon hearing no activity whatsoever in the penthouse, he blackened his monitor and headed for the lower level to decompress the day by snapping apart his weaponry piece by piece then reconstructing them in rapid timing – this took several hours and became thoughtless overtime.

Once everything was put away and the warehouse was silent, he stood outside the interrogation room, listening to the piece of shit Fisk snivel as he continued to sob despite his hollow voice, leaving the Fisk heir to sweat the night out. The Punisher's alter ego trekked downstairs to his room and once again removed his t-shirt, leaving himself in sweatpants he also discarded so that only boxers were present as he Googled Felicia Hardy on the 1st gen Stark-phone Micro managed to hack, securing it on a private, untraceable network of service, and almost damn-near came at the sight of her centerfold in Playboy. Not ashamed, but definitely chastising himself in the back of his mind for torturing himself, he ignored the surface attraction he held for Felicia by relishing her surprisingly wholesome interviews with Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, Good Morning America, refreshed himself with her acting gigs in various movie roles as a stripper on the run with her bouncer boyfriend, Keanu Reeves, the classic hot girl next door in one of her earlier roles, a widowed single mother alongside Tom Hiddleston whom she had faux sex with, a murdered beauty queen on some forensic cop show, and even did an uncanny performance as Marilyn Monroe which won an Oscar; he also researched her contribution for the A.S.P.C.A regarding cat adoption and was impressed by her relief effort to save cat lives, enthralled by the length and drive of her determination she dedicated herself by opening the doors of Cool Cat Feline Shelter on the East and West Coasts to raise awareness. She's been busy, he noted. Before he could forget, he emblazoned her in his phone as "FH".

Lying there listening to the mechanics of the ceiling fan as it spun just like every other night with the glow of his phone casting the blade's shadows while they rotated, he couldn't shake this absurd emotion he had concerning the rich cat broad, and that both unnerved the fugitive and drew his curiosity, tempting to strengthen this obscene attraction threading them together. He reflected, knowing the last time he was this emotionally invested in a woman was when his eighteen year old self stayed the night at Maria's parent's house where she told him they were pregnant; he was due to ship off to boot camp in the fall seeing as they just graduated high school weeks prior. Then the noise of a sleazy news report consumed his thoughts as he glowered at the sight of the paparazzi hounding her in chic-street wear as she strode hand-in-hand with her "beloved" Richard; he swooped in to kiss her for the cameras but missed, nailing her cheek of which he knew was purposeful. Strangely, it made him feel better that she clearly held disinterest in the bastard and kept walking with – Frank squinted at the sight, she walks her cats? How the fuck could Frank Castle, the motherfucking Punisher, have it bad for Felicia Fucking Hardy?

AUTHOR'S NOTE:A short 1, ik. Been having a bad case of writer's block but I decided 2 upload this pre-written chapter I've been sitting on & have forgotten until hours ago - SORRY! :( I no excuse really, only laziness tbh & admittedly, my depression has been prodding at me here & there but enough 'bout me - thank u 4 stopping by & please, CC during R&R is greatly appreciated & uplifting :) Face Claims will be posted below. Have a great day.


Ebon Moss-Bachrach - David "Micro" Lieberman