Chapter Text
Rooftops of Hell’s Kitchen – 2:37 A.M.
Frank Castle had the bastard in his crosshairs. Just one squeeze. One breath and he was done. Easy.
The guy was pacing near the window, guarded but not smart. Big mistake. Frank had been tracking him for days. Arms dealer, child trafficker, the kind of scum you don’t just arrest. You erase.
He exhaled.
And then all hell broke loose.
Glass shattered as a red blur came crashing through the window like a goddamn circus act. Murdock. Of-fucking-course.
Frank’s scope jerked upward as the room erupted into chaos—Matt already knee-deep in guards, baton swinging, ducking and weaving. And worst of all? He planted himself right in front of the target. Deliberately.
Frank gritted his teeth and spoke aloud, knowing full well Matt could hear every word.
"Red. I know you can hear me. Step outta the way… or I shoot through you."
Down below, Matt barely paused mid-swing. He turned his head slightly—just enough to let Frank know he heard him. And then—smug bastard—he stepped closer to the target, still fighting, blocking every line of fire Frank could take.
A muscle jumped in Frank’s jaw.
"Goddammit."
Another guard went down, but Frank was stuck. He couldn’t risk the shot without hitting Matt. And no matter how much he told himself to pull the trigger anyway… he didn’t.
Why? Why the hell did he care if Red took a bullet?
Frank exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling in his chest. He watched Matt fight—precise, focused, maddeningly heroic. And then, it hit him. A different kind of bullet. It wasn't the kind of measure he was willing to take usually. But needs must. And he had never shied away from unorthodox methods. As long as they worked.
He began again. Voice low, smooth and lethal.
"Y’know, Red… it's really somethin', watchin’ you move like that. All that righteous fury… tight grip on that baton… bet your hands are just as rough when you're not punchin’."
Matt froze for half a second. Frank smirked.
"Bet you get real quiet when someone’s got their hand around your throat. Or maybe not. Maybe you’re the type who moans."
Matt stumbled. Just a flicker. But Frank saw it.
"Took you for a saint, but now I’m thinkin’—underneath all that guilt and leather—you’re just beggin’ for someone to ruin you. Proper."
Matt’s head whipped around—face flushed, jaw clenched so hard Frank could see it even from the scope. He didn’t say a word—couldn’t. But the tension in his spine, the fire in his expression? Oh yeah. He heard every damn word.
And Frank? He was enjoying this way too much.
Frank leaned forward against the scope, settling in like he had all the time in the world.
Matt still hadn’t moved. Still had that poor bastard half-shielded with his own body like a damn saint in red armor.
Frank started again, tone quieter now, almost conversational.
"Y’know, Red… if you just took one step to the left, I could end this nice and clean. No blood on your pretty hands. And then maybe—just maybe—I’d drop down there and… thank you…properly."
His fingers tightened around the trigger. Not from tension. Certainly not from want. He told himself that last part twice before he stopped believing it. His jeans were uncomfortably tight but if he ignored it, it didn't exist.
Below, Matt’s shoulders twitched. He didn’t turn, but his grip on the baton shifted, tighter now.
Frank grinned, voice lowering further, velvet-coated grit.
"I’d press you up against that wall. Right there—left of the window, where the shadows are deep and the concrete’s cool. You’d be warm though. So fuckin’ warm under that suit. Bet you run hot, don’t you?"
Matt didn’t respond. But his breath hitched—barely visible but he had his scope right on him and Frank caught it.
"You’d play stubborn. Just like you’re doin’ now. Stand tall, all righteous. Still tryin’ to tell yourself you’re not curious. But I’d have you gaspin’, Red. Grippin’ my jacket, tryin’ not to beg."
Frank paused, savoring the moment.
"Wouldn’t need to say a word. I’d have you figured out in seconds. Where to touch. Where to bite. Where to make you lose every last bit of that pious little control."
He let the words linger like smoke.
Matt hadn’t moved an inch, but he was rigid. Tension in every line of his body, chest rising fast now. Still fighting the last few guards, but more vicious now—less focused, more reactive. His voice turned almost cruelly, viciously mocking.
"You’re hard right now, aren’t you?"
Frank chuckled, low and satisfied.
"I’d take my time with you, Red. Drag you to the floor. Mouth on your throat, hands all over. I’d make sure you feel everything. You’d hate how much you love it."
Matt snapped a guard’s wrist a little too hard. His head dipped slightly, as if ashamed of himself, but still didn’t move from his post.
Frank leaned back against the brick, rifle resting idle on the ledge, and sighed like a man watching a storm build.
"Just one step, Matty. Let me take the shot. Let me finish this. Then I’ll come down. And I’ll ruin you so good you’ll be prayin’ for forgiveness ‘til Sunday."
And still… nothing. Stubborn bastard.
Matt threw a final punch that dropped the last guard. Breathing hard. Still shielding the target, but now he was visibly seething. He turned just enough to face the rooftop in Frank’s general direction—and raised his middle finger high and proud.
Then, with theatrical spite, he cold-cocked the target, slung the guy over his shoulder, and stalked off into the hallway—leaving a trail of broken glass and fury in his wake.
Frank chuckled under his breath, lowering the rifle.
"You’ll think about that later, Red. Bet you’ll hate how much you liked it."
And damn if he wasn’t already thinking about what else he could say next time.