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PREFACE
Loving something didn’t always give you a fluttery feeling within your stomach, a bounce in your step. Sometimes, it gave you incomprehensible uncertainty. A sea of fucking paranoia. Sleepless nights, twisting and turning with only dread for company.
Other times, loving something gave you a gift: the ability to tolerate. To look past faults, instinctively blur over any misgivings, skim past blemishes, ignore shortcomings within the thing it was that you loved. Learn to love the flaws, was what everyone’s Nonna said as they patted the flour away from their kitchen aprons and pushed forward another slice of homemade pie. It’s the only way you’ll stay sane.
And, Frank had to admit that was exactly what he’d done. Had learnt to love Hell’s Kitchen, and all the shitty parts of it. The shitty parts made up majority of it, really. Good times in the Kitchen? Those were rare – caused a man to blink twice when they did occur, because the neighbourhood had promised the opposite. Gunshots indicated that it was time for bed, and people yelling on the streets replaced a rooster as the morning alarm.
Yet, there was a certain appeal to it. A magnetic quality to it. Its imperfections made it easy to love. You’d expect nothing from the Kitchen, and it expected nothing from you. It didn’t give a shit about who you were, what you did, how you felt. If you wanted to be seen, you’d be better off a few hundred miles away – in a suburb with neatly mown lawns, accurately marked post-boxes, gleaming roads, and grinning neighbours who raised mugs of tea in greeting when they saw you passing by.
Fuck that. Being seen was the last thing Frank Castle wanted. Being seen by the likes of CIA, FBI, ATF – all those dingy government agencies that never used more than three letters in their acronyms? No thanks. He’d have to pass on that one.
So, yeah. He had love for this shitty neighbourhood, or some semblance of the feeling anyway. This neighborhood and its increasing crime rates, the bums on its streets, the corrupt cops, immigrants who had hearts bigger than the apartments they lived in, the hot dog guy who always charged extra if you didn’t know English, the diners open twenty-four hours a day.
Especially the diners open twenty-four hours a day. Always the same menu – the word ‘variation’ wasn’t even in their goddamn dictionary – and the never-ending jug of coffee.
Frank raised the mug to his mouth, swallowed down the last few dregs. Baseball hat drawn low, shielding his eyes. He raised his gaze, now looking for the familiar woman with an apron tied around her waist.
“Ma’am.” Frank cleared his throat, voice rough. The smile didn’t reach his eyes as he acknowledged the diner lady.
Nancy, who was well into her fifties by now, made her way back to him. Paused in front of his booth, the same he always sat in, an eyebrow raised.
Frank nodded towards the jug in her hands. “Could I bother you for some of that?”
Nancy tutted, a hand on her waist, concern etched on her features. “You know what you really need, Frankie? Some sleep.”
She stared at him for another few beats, before sighing and filling his cup anyway, piping hot and to the brim. Just how he liked it.
“Yeah.” Frank drew out. No rest for the wicked. A comical thought. “Sounds new. You charge extra for it?” Looked at her from under his lids, a smirk playing on his lips.
“You’re not the only smartass I hafta’ deal with.” She huffed, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “Holler if you need anything else, you know where I am.” She tilted her head to the area behind the counter.
The diner was normally empty around two in the morning, which was when Frank usually frequented it, but that wasn’t the case tonight. Some commotion that involved a bus full of tourists who’d signed up for the wrong tour, and they’d been dropped off at the street over. Needless to say, they were flustered and jetlagged, but there was little that Nancy’s club sandwiches couldn’t fix. Three of them now sat in their own respective booths, and Frank had already decided they weren’t worth his concern.
The flickering, dim yellow lighting gave the diner an artificial glow, and the only sounds audible came from the hushed chattering of the tourists and Stacey – a single mom who worked way too many shifts – mopping the floors.
“Appreciate it.” Frank gave Nancy a nod, before dragging his gaze back to the newspaper that lay in front of him. Eyes skimming over the latest headline.
‘The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen Saves Another Day.’
He scoffed at that, not even pausing to read the article. Flipped to page two, but shit, it was another illustrative drawing of the vigilante, and more details about what crime he happened to bust on that particular day. What, couldn’t a man read a newspaper in peace without having to be reminded of Matthew Murdock and those little red panties of his?
He could learn to love Hell’s Kitchen, but learning to love its Devil? Pushing his limits. It was bad enough that he had to bump into him on either rooftops or in dim alleyways. Each chasing the same men, only with different ideas of justice in mind.
Nights that always began in aggressive whispering so to not give away their presence to those they were after; nights that ended in bruises and scrapes because both of them were fucking stubborn and wanted the other to leave first.
PROLOGUE
“Stick to the lawyering, Red.” Frank drawled, adjusting the scope of his M24 before peering into it to inspect his handiwork. Disinterested in his company, which consisted of a well-built man in red spandex, or ‘armor’ as Matt liked to insist.
“There won’t be any clients to defend if you keep killing them all, Frank.” Matt countered, stepping between him and the sniper rifle. Crossed his arms, facing wherever it was that Frank’s voice came from. “Judgement isn’t in your – ”
“Save the Bible verses.” Frank interrupted sharply, patience wearing thin. “Suggest you go run to your little friends over at NYPD and tell ‘em to pick up the dead bodies once I’m done.”
“Don’t think so. There won’t be any dead bodies to pick up, not tonight. I need them all alive.”
Frank raised an eyebrow at that, a silent challenge. “Less people in the slammer, less taxes, less innocents dead. Everyone gets a happy fuckin’ ending, yeah?” Nudged Matt out of the way, knew his target was approaching, and he was hell-bent on getting his hands dirty.
Matt shook his head in disbelief, scoffing. Mask covering most of his features, but his unfocused gaze remained penetrating, even in the dark. “You really believe that, don’t you? You think your way is the only way?”
“Most convenient way.” Frank corrected, forearms resting on the concrete enclosure that surrounded them. Finger on the trigger. Aiming for a headshot, centre skull. Dead before you could blink. No fuss, no mess.
To serve and protect. The public had a fundamental misunderstanding about the role, and the capability of law enforcement. It was mainly the ‘protect’ part that the public put too much faith in. The police didn’t protect, shit, they couldn’t even prevent. They couldn’t be there before the gun was fired, they could only chase the thug who fired it. They could only pick up the pieces, the debris after things went to shit.
Frank had to make sure the crimes were prevented. Wouldn’t – fuck that – couldn’t let anyone else go through what he’d been through. Remembered he’d walked through Hell itself, and woke up some days feeling as if he were still in it. Woke up gasping for breath, mind eradicated of all thoughts, survival instincts deeply ingrained within him as he reached for his gun – only to realize it was just him, alone, in his bed.
Fuck the second chances. Too much room for error. Yeah – he was a killer. In his fucking blood, as Billy used to say. It’s like you were born for it, Frank.
And if that was in his blood, it couldn’t be erased. Too late for that. He could bury bodies, but he couldn’t bury ghosts. The ghosts lingered – lived on the insides of his eyelids. Was all he saw, most of the time.
So, if that couldn’t be erased, then neither could the sick tendencies within the bastards that he sent to the morgue. Those that raped. Murdered. Dealt narcotics to little kids. It was in their blood. No amount of jail time would dilute that. A waste of time. Waste of the system.
“Take the night off, Frank. Go home. Let me handle this.” Matt insisted, remaining resolute, no longer budging an inch. Blocking Frank from his rifle, past negotiation. Hell, if he had to spend all night wrestling Frank Castle off the rooftop, so be it.
Frank closed his eyes briefly, some attempt at composure. Fingers twitching. “You still got time to make it to happy hour, Red. Go join your little buddies. Shit, you might even drink enough to loosen the stick that’s shoved so far up your as – ”
“Really, Frank? Are we doing this again?”
“There is no ‘we’ – you got that? Not really into sucking cops off the way you are.” Frank rasped.
He smirked, then, as if a thought just occurred to him. “Hey, what – what is that, anyway? You got a costume kink, Red?” Stepped away from the rifle himself then, and towards Matt. Closed the distance between them, until their noses were practically touching.
Matt stilled. Focused only on the heat that practically evaporated from Frank’s body, merging into his own. Suddenly too goddamn hot. As if he were burning, despite the crisp midnight breeze.
“Yeah. You’re into that shit, aren’t you?” Frank hummed, a rough hand tilting Matt’s masked face upwards.
“Maybe that’s how I get you to fuck off, huh? Wear a cop costume and promise a blowjob for later?” The corner of Frank's mouth lifted in irony. Voice lowered, the words only between the two of them, too low for even the wind to pick up on – teasing the most delicate of Matt’s senses.
Matt felt the weight of Frank’s gaze on him, those dark eyes landing on his face, and then trailing downwards, lower and then even lower, and back upwards again – almost reluctant, as if Frank had to force himself to drag his gaze back to his masked face, rather than let it linger on his body. He could practically hear the shit-eating grin on Frank’s face, and hell, Matt had to restrain himself from backhanding it off him.
“You're wrong.” Matt murmured, voice equally as low. Leaned even closer. Could almost feel Frank’s stubble against his own jaw.
Distraction was a dirty trick, but two could play this game.
“That right?” Frank challenged, a hand now snaking down to his vest, reaching for his concealed KA-BAR.
Matt already knew what it was that Frank was doing, and found it amusing. Amusing how Frank didn’t realize how easy it was for him to predict his every move, every thought of a move. Every movement that Frank made was already known to him, and there were no secrets behind their intent.
Within a second, Matt had his elbow connected to Frank’s ribs, the area between flesh and bone. An area that was specific, needed accurate targeting. Always guaranteed to wind a man, no matter how prepared for combat he was, no matter how muscular he was, no matter who he was.
And wind it did, because Frank immediately covered his torso, boxer moves. Lunged for Matt before his next breath, but Matt blocked the fists too easily, slipping out of his grasp. Took a punch or two to the jaw, heavy fists, knuckles that impacted bone – but ignored the burn. Kicking now, same area, more velocity.
Didn’t want to injure Frank badly, goddamn it. Just needed him to understand.
Frank dropped to one knee, lowering his head, the impact causing him to struggle in catching his breath.
“More into the firefighter costumes.” Matt corrected, grinning. Grabbed Frank’s bag of gear, hauled the rifle over his shoulder. Began walking away, knew Frank would follow, but he had his plan in place. Would be a cold day in hell if he let Frank fire away freely on his watch.
Frank scoffed at that. Spit blood onto the concrete, hands still clutching his torso. But a smile played on his lips as he watched the masked man disappear into the darkness. Closed his eyes briefly, and told himself he was being generous.
Matt waited near the entrance of the abandoned warehouse whose rooftop they’d been on. Patient. Crouched low, anticipating Frank’s arrival. Honed his senses, and knew the Punisher was approaching, maybe with a slight limp from the tussle they’d had. Had since tossed the gear into the corner somewhere, knew he’d have to bind the stubborn bastard with rope or similar.
The moment he heard the faint click of the door, Matt crossed the distance and placed his boot in a devastating kick between the other man’s shoulder blades, a fair measure of his frustration. Wanted nothing more than to leave Frank in a bloodied pulp, the sudden wave of resentment unlike him – was usually calm, and composed.
Frank grunted, felled by the boot in his back. Went down like a tree, couldn’t react fast enough, no time to answer with punches, dragged across the floor, then was kicked again, and suppressed a groan at the pain that flared up his side.
“Stay down.” Matt hissed. Movements that hadn’t even caused him to break out in a sweat, and yet.
The survival instincts within Frank reacted before he himself could, and his hand fumbled for the Gerber sheathed near his thigh. Slipped it into his palm.
Matt could practically feel the particles within the knife collide into one another – steel and aluminium, an object made with precision. Could almost hear it glint within the darkness that surrounded them. And now, he felt the faintest of pressures against the inside of his thigh. One violent motion, and the other could sever the femoral artery, which was such a messy way to die. He breathed hard, catching every thought of a motion, the length of the steel between his legs causing something indecipherable to shoot up his spine.
Yeah, the fear of dying.
Ridiculous to assume that it was arousal. Arousal? Couldn’t be. No way.
And hell, he was hard. Hungry to get a touch, get anything – felt the danger loom over him, and couldn’t find it within himself to care. Thought of Frank’s lips, which were close – too close in this position. Didn’t dare to move a muscle.
Hatred. Couldn’t make sense of his own emotions. Lust and danger – those two were clear enough. Anger, too, but he’d given as good as he’d gotten, and that seemed alright to his sense of justice.
Too goddamn hard to think.
Frank froze, his own knife positioned at Matt’s groin. His cock. Hand brushing the heat. Swallowed roughly. What the fuck? Didn’t blink. On his knees, now, twisted position. Stupid position. Found it even more fucking stupid how his eyes were drawn to the bulge he faced. Could smell the lust, the resentment, the adrenaline.
“Would be a shame to kill you like this, huh?” He drew out, looking up to meet Matt’s unfocused gaze.
“Would it? I’m glad you think so.” Matt chuckled bitterly, entire body on edge. He inched closer involuntarily, the other man’s hand brushing his groin. All senses intensified; impossibly intense with that knife.
Frank put less pressure on the knife, teasing now. The air having changed to a quality less full of fury, of quick action. Less intent to wound. Still there, but the lethality was potential. No longer certain. No imminent danger to cut Matt when he twitched. Moved even closer, still on his knees. Told himself it was because he was too winded to stand, but shit, what good were bullshit excuses?
Frank licked his lips. “Yeah.” Voice raspy, throat dry. Knife blade now ghosting up the groin, lay against Matt’s bulge. Millimetres of movement that brought his hand closer to the hardness he was curious about. To touch. To see.
Taste?
Shit, shit, shit.
He still didn’t move, eyes glued to Matt’s groin. Inhaling sharply, scent of something so goddamned male that it dissolved his restraint. Made him lose his own battle.
Frank cleared his throat. “Take ‘em off.”
Matt stilled. What? How did it take a turn to this? Straightened, the blade down there making his entire body tense. Could turn the knife back against Frank, but knew that Frank was highly trained in what it was that he did – would have the knife embedded within him before he could even blink. Rapid blood loss, especially if it was the artery that the blade was currently near. Dead before he could say his name.
And, yet. Despite that, he was aroused, more than anything else. In disbelief. This is what’s broken, Matt thought. My common sense.
Finally, he obliged, every movement precise. Unzipping his body armor, pulling his utility pants and all other layers downwards. Bare skin. Felt Frank’s weighted gaze on him, those dark eyes of his with their own magnetic quality to them – and somehow found it impossible to be self-conscious. Nothing close to that.
“Christ.” Frank murmured. Didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, nor what he wanted to do. Just followed the freedom that his blade gave him. Moved it until it lingered near the hollow between the muscled thighs and balls. The threat lay heavy between them.
No clue what to do except for parting his lips, moving his head no more than a fraction. Mindful of the knife. Looked up then, heavy-lidded with desire, almost as if asking for permission. Felt Matt’s fingers tangle in his hair, and knew he had his answer. Took the cock within his mouth, lips closing around this impossible heat and hardness.
Matt nearly lost his footing. The tingle of the blade there went up to a place deep within his guts, his balls. Wasn’t sure who or what was in control. Definitely wasn’t the knife, or his cock, or he himself, and yet the Punisher took him between his lips. Could imagine the sight; the deliberation, the hesitancy – knew Frank had never done this before – and it was an imagery to kneel to. Felt the lust pulsate through his veins.
Onslaught of sensations, unknown, unlike any of the women Frank had ever been with. A motherfucking revelation. Breathing exercises he’d learnt back when he was a Marine – they came to him now, easily, without effort. Didn’t take much for him to hold his breath, and he found that he had to, because it was impossible to breathe in this position. With Matt fucking Murdock’s cock in his mouth.
A comical thought.
Matt couldn’t supress the groan at the heat that enveloped him, muscles tensed. Screw the knife. He wanted to move, but that was impossible. Felt himself shudder, rocked by that touch. “Just… don’t kill me now.” He managed.
Kill? Fuck that. Frank wasn’t thinking about killing, couldn’t. Wasn’t thinking of anything at all. Blade still pressing against flesh. Unsure, unskilled, took Matt further in, already knew he had no gag reflex from the times he’d spent swimming during deployments – the saltwater causing him to choke and burning through his oesophagus until it left his throat raw. Like it was, now.
Breathed sharply, pushed down, tried to suck while moving. Motions languid, taking his sweet time with it, wondered silently if this was the torture method he should’ve adopted way back when, judging by Matt’s reaction.
Matt’s hand formed a fist, and he wanted to grab a handful of Frank’s hair and pull him closer. Force him to take more. But there were enough inches of steel between his thighs to convince him that patience was a virtue. Heat, wet heat. A tongue against the sensitive gland on the underside. No hand to speed him along. No goddamn leverage. Head spinning. The fact that it was the same man who’d punched him in the face, tied him to a rooftop with chains, left him wounded – and how he’d done the same, over and over.
He tried to remain still, hips hardly moving. Not enough friction, not enough control. Would be a struggle to come, the danger lingered too close by. Didn’t matter how much he wanted to, feeling those lips around his cock, that stubbled face so close, so goddamn close. Frank Castle, vulnerable. A man who was always intense, never did anything with half a heart, didn’t matter if it was fighting, shooting, hating, and even more so when lusting.
It drove him insane, caused him to spiral away from his sanity. Every motion always just a fraction away from being enough. The pressure was torture. That blade of Frank’s still against his skin, that sinful mouth wrapped around his cock. No release, no control, everything to lose.
Frank felt the frustration grow within him, needing more. Not knowing what or how, never bothering with the why. Not a man to give up, not now, not ever, not way back.
“Please.” Matt exhaled, eyes closed.
Frank’s thoughts stopped. That. Please. The begging. He dropped the knife. Ignored it. Fuck that. Heard it clatter to the floor somewhere. Didn’t know jackshit about sucking dick, but remembered friction. Forced his head down, and more of Matt’s cock into his throat. Pushed himself relentlessly.
Matt’s legs almost buckled, and he groaned. More friction, getting closer, and hell, felt the tightness of Frank’s throat, realized what happened, but just couldn’t stop now. Quicker than Frank even realized or could act upon it, he grabbed a handful of his short hair, and forced his cock down that constricting throat.
Frank accepted the violent intrusion, almost smirking at Matt’s desperation. Practically impossible to breathe, but fuck that, he could just about manage. Didn’t care about breathing, not now. Fingers digging into Matt’s thighs.
Matt felt his muscles spasm, tight and hot and quick, felt the rough hands on his thighs, no more knife, and even if there was a knife – he could no longer bring himself to care. Head, mind, everything empty as he thrust into the other’s throat, already knew he didn’t have to be gentle with Frank – not like he had to be with everyone else he’d ever slept with. Handed himself over entirely.
Frank fell into a rhythm, fluid, body becoming one, wasn’t his anymore, was the other’s. Mind falling into a place where everything was calm, serene, and quiet, like under the surface of an ocean. Wanted to reach behind, and knew he couldn’t shift his weight that much, instead moved into the body, completely taking what was offered, given, no better knowledge, no humiliation. Did it for the power, the thought of Matt losing himself completely.
For Matt, nothing was swift, not negligent this time. Unlike the biting, the quick and angry encounters. Anger, too, but of the physical type, discarding the mental resentment. Thrusts in sync, riding the new-found rhythm, hard and relentless. Cock, hand, bodies, all one, all rushing towards release, until the sensation of heat and warmth became overwhelming. Last few thrusts erratic, even harder, desperate for release. Fingers gripping and tugging the strands of Frank’s hair, the buzzed sides underneath his palm. Voiced a warning.
When Frank pulled away, and replaced his mouth with a calloused hand, Matt crashed over the edge. Came with a groan, lowering his head, his thick spurts coating Frank’s hand. The moment of absolute pain, pleasure, and perfect tension, before the crashing of release. Neck tense, whole body taut. Struggled to catch his breath.
Frank wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand, stifling a smug grin. Standing up, now. Towering to his full height, facing Matt.
He leaned in closer, his lips now trailing Matt’s stubble. Wiping away Matt’s come off himself by dragging the wet hand down Matt’s torso, marking him with the evidence of what had just happened. The touch causing Matt to shiver involuntary.
“Gotta say, I'm surprised." Frank smirked against his jaw. Mouth now near his ear, dangerously close. "Didn’t even need a cop costume for that, huh, Red?"