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Elektra had little memory of her early childhood. It was like a puzzle with too many missing pieces. Sometimes, she'd think she could remember a glimpse of her mother's eyes in a mirror; other times, she'd hear a distant echo that she swore was her father's voice. But those moments were fleeting, slipping away like whispers in a storm.
She didn’t know what happened to them, her family. Not that it really matters.
Elektra grew up in an orphanage that was a bastion of Catholic cheerfulness, complete with nuns who looked like they’d been chiselled from sternness and fed a diet of unsweetened porridge. And it’s not like she took to religion like a duck to holy water either. Not that it was a terrible place, mind you, just not exactly what you'd call ‘comfortable’; it was just a place to lay her head, where the bed was a bit too hard and the walls a bit too thin for comfort.
There she met a blind boy; he was a year or two older than her, with red-brown hair and burn scars around his eyes.
Matthew Murdock.
They became fast friends, clicking together like a pair of mismatched socks in a dryer. Elektra had always been a troublemaker, even more so when she and Matt started to hang around each other.
They grew to trust one another deeply. Told each other everything, sharing secrets like they were swapping sticky sweets. Matt even told her how he can see things even without his sight. How he could hear, smell, taste things that no one else could.
Needless to say it didn’t take long for them to form a familial bond. Brother and sister. In all but blood, that’s what they were.
They only had each other after all.
When the other children would tease Elektra, Matt would always be one step behind her, ready to give whichever schoolyard bully a bloody nose faster than a nun could say ‘Hail Mary’. When Matt eventually got in trouble with the nuns and was sent to his room right after dinner without dessert, Elektra would come sneaking in around midnight with cookies she had swiped from the kitchen. They would sit on his bed giggling profusely as they ate their spoils, hoping that the nuns wouldn’t catch them.
They were inseparable. It was rare to find one without the other.
But that was years ago. Now all grown up, Elektra wasn’t afraid to say that their relationship was shaky at best. It was a given with how they chose to live their lives. But don’t think for a second that Elektra wasn’t fiercely protective over Matthew.
She likes to check in from time to time, just to see what he is up to. That’s why Elektra now finds herself standing on the roof of the building across from Matt’s apartment. It must have been quite a sight, the large LED billboard polluting the dark night with varying shades of reds, blues, and purples, and then a small, dark figure standing in front of it.
Elektra smiled to herself. She always did have a flair for the dramatics.
———
Little did she know her brother was otherwise occupied.
———
Matt's skin burnt wherever Frank touched him—lips scraping over stubble, blunt nails dragging down his ribs, rough palms pressing bruises into his hips. The sharpness sent a jolt of pleasure-pain down his spine. It was too much and not enough all at once.
The way Frank handled him—like he was cataloguing the span of Matt's ribs, the dip of his waist, the shuddering rise and fall of his chest—made Matt feel both studied and devoured. As if Frank needed to memorise the shape of him beyond sight alone.
It was ridiculous, really. Grown men rutting against each other on a couch like a pair of desperate college kids, and yet Matt was coming apart at the seams. Not that Frank was faring much better—his grip tightened whenever Matt rocked up against him, his exhales turning ragged whenever Matt arched into the contact.
The night had been eerily quiet—no gunshots, no screams—just the restless hum of the city waiting for something to break. When Frank had suggested calling it early, Matt hadn’t argued. Back at his apartment, they'd stripped off gear, changed into loose clothes, and ordered takeout from the 24-hour spot down the street.
The empty containers still sat on the coffee table, abandoned the moment Frank had shoved him back into the cushions. Now they were a mess of tangled limbs and impatient hands, lit only by the flickering neon sign across the street. The garish colours painted Frank's shoulders as Matt pressed against him—chest to chest, thighs slotting together—both of them breathing harder than the lazy makeout session warranted.
Frank's hand slid under Matt's shirt, calloused fingertips tracing old scars and tense muscle. When his thumb brushed a nipple, Matt jerked like he'd been burnt, swallowing a noise. Frank noticed—of course he did—and circled the spot with slow, maddening strokes, just to watch Matt's hips stutter.
Matt was going to combust if they didn’t move faster.
“Off,” he demanded, yanking at Frank’s belt loop.
Frank lifted his head from the bruise he'd been sucking into Matt's throat (no court appearances to worry about) and asked, ”What’s the magic word?”
Asshole.
Matt remains stubbornly silent—he wouldn't give him the satisfact—
Frank tugged his hair just right.
“Please” spilt out of him before he could stop it.
Frank could've dragged it out, could've made him say it prettier, but the way Matt trembled under him was too good to ruin. “Atta boy, sweetheart,” he murmured before crashing their mouths together again—all teeth and wet heat and Frank's hand finally, finally shoving between them.
The metallic rasp of a zipper barely registered before Matt's senses shrieked—steel cutting air. He wrenched Frank down by the shirt as a knife thunked into the couch behind them, quivering where it stood embedded in the upholstery.
“The fuck was that?” Frank asked as they both sat up, now on high alert.
Matt didn’t answer him.
He didn’t, couldn’t, hear any heartbeat close enough for it to be in Matt’s apartment, only his and Frank’s. Matt grabbed hold of the blade’s handle and tugged it out from where it was embedded in the cushion. Frank remained silent.
Running his fingers over what he now realised was a dagger, he felt a design etched into the handle; it felt familiar to him. An unmistakable pattern, one he'd know anywhere. The only person he knew that used daggers with designs carved into them was—
“I would admit, this was not the state I imagined I would find my brother in.” A disembodied voice floated through the room like smoke. Matt knew this voice. How could he not after hearing it for the last decade? Like mould, it had grown familiar to him, and he would recognise it anywhere.
Unfortunately Frank was still none the wiser to Matt’s familial connections. Before Matt could say anything, in an instant Frank was up; he grabbed the gun that was underneath the couch. He had apparently stashed it there unbeknownst to Matt. Now standing protectively in front of the redhead, Frank was aiming in the direction he assumed the voice had come from; his eyes searched the room but found nothing.
“Frank, wai—” Matt was interrupted by another blade that sliced through the air, knocking the gun out of Frank’s hands.
“Tsk, tsk, there will be none of that now.” The voice chastised.
Both men spun around to see (or rather, in Matt’s case, hear) a shadowy figure standing in the kitchen leaning against one of the counters.
“What are you doing here, Elektra?” Matt asked simultaneously, irritated and seemingly unbothered by her presence.
Elektra only smiled, teeth gleaming in the little light that there was, her eyes shown with the kind of amusement that only comes from catching someone in a compromising position.
“Can I not simply come to visit my dear brother?” She had her arms crossed, a single eyebrow raised in question. “After all, it has been so long.”
“Brother?” Frank choked out.
“I see Matthew has made little effort to mention me.” A glare was thrown in Matt’s direction as she stepped away from the counter and walked past him. “Although it is rude of me for not introducing myself.“
“Elektra Natchios. Matthew’s sister in all but blood.” Now as she stood in more direct light, you could see that she was dressed all in black with a sai blade attached to her thigh. She held out her hand, offering it to Frank.
“Pete,” Frank tentatively took her hand to shake it.
“Pete,” Elektra rolled the name over her tongue, “is that the name you are going by these days, Francis?”
Frank baulked at her, unsettled with how she knew his actual name and how she said it with such ease. Before he could protest, he was interrupted by Elektra.
“Or do you prefer Frank? Frank Castle? The feared Punisher, who apparently knows my brother intimately.”
Frank was uncertain about what to do, so he glanced behind her to where Matt was standing, who was looking positively miffed with his arms crossed over his chest and staring daggers in Elektra’s general direction. Frank had to admit Matt looked adorable like that, like a tiny angry kitten.
“Oh don’t look so surprised. The beard and longer hair don’t fool me.” Elektra said it so casually, which must have rubbed Matt the wrong way, because not a second later, Matt had stomped his way in between Frank and Elektra, now standing protectively in front of Frank, almost as if he were trying to hide him behind his body. Unfortunately, Frank was about half a head taller than Matt, and along with having way more bulk than the other man, he stood out like a sore thumb.
“I’ll ask you again, Elektra,” Matt stated firmly. “Why are you here in my apartment?”
“A social visit, of course. And it does seem my presence is needed here on account of you having a particular sort of company.”
“Particular sort of—Elektra, what are you talking about?”
“Well,” Elektra said, twirling a dagger between her fingers like it was a particularly sharp pen, “it appears you’ve acquired a boyfriend in need of divine terror.”
“Divine terror?” Matt echoed, kneading a knuckle into his forehead.
“The fear of God, Matthew. Basic concepts.” She sighed, as if explaining tax returns to a goldfish.
“The fear of God?” This time it was Matt’s turn to baulk at her. “What do you mean? Do you want to give him the shovel talk?”
“If you insist on being pedestrian, then yes.”
Matt simply stared at her, the way one stares at a flamingo in a library—with equal parts confusion and resignation. Really, he knows he should just give up; when Elektra has set her mind on something, she is going to get it using every trick in the book, which in this case was, as she put it, ‘To put the fear of God,’ into his poor boyfriend. Matt also knew how intimidating and or threatening Elektra could be on any given day, and he would rather not subject Frank to his sister’s wrath.
“Elektra,” Matt looked moments away from walking into traffic, “Frank doesn’t need the fear of God to be put into him.”
“Oh, but he does,” she retorted. Elektra looked like she was deciding whether Frank belonged on a Christmas card or a hit list. “You don’t think I’d let just anyone defile my brother, do you? There are standards. No, I must first assess if he is worthy.”
“Assess?” Frank finally spoke up from behind Matt. “Lady, I don’t know what kind of weird cult initiation this is, but I ain’t interested.”
Elektra turned her attention to Frank, and Frank had to admit she was terrifying. She was only taller than him by a few inches, but she carried herself with an air of dominance that made Frank feel small.
“Oh, but he is interested in my brother,” Elektra purred, taking a few steps towards Frank. Frank, in turn, shifted his stance, squaring his shoulders, but his gaze flicked briefly toward Matt.
Frank cleared his throat, shifting his weight behind Matt. “Look here—“
Elektra moved faster than physics usually allows. One moment she was six feet away; the next she had a dagger pressed flat against his throat before he could finish the sentence. “Ah-ah-ah,” she chided, sounding far too pleased with herself. “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak yet.”
Frank’s molars ground together with an audible click. He didn’t back away, but neither did he look particularly pleased about having a dagger at his throat. Matt, however, lunged forward, his fingers closing around Elektra's wrist, pulling her away, but she easily twisted free.
“Enough,” Matt snarled, as he shifted closer to Frank’s side. “You don't get to waltz in here and threaten him.”
Elektra studied Matt’s face—the tightness around his jaw, the way he straightened to his full height like he was preparing for a fight. She’d seen that look before, back when they were kids and he’d planted himself between her and Sister Monica’s ruler. Some things never changed. With a dramatic groan, she twirled the dagger between her fingers before slipping it back into its sheath. “Always so dramatic, Matthew. I was only testing him.”
Elektra’s grin widened, sharp as the blade she’d just sheathed. She turned on her heel and began a slow, deliberate lap around the perimeter of the living room, her fingers trailing idly along the back of a wooden dining chair.
Frank rubbed his throat, scowling. “Ma’am, most people just shake hands.”
“Oh, Francis, we haven’t even gotten to the handshake part.” She stepped closer, ignoring Matt’s warning growl, and prowled around Frank. “Tell me—what exactly are your intentions with my brother? Because if they involve breaking his heart, I’ll break more than just your kneecaps.”
Matt pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Elektra, for crying out loud—“
Frank studied her for a long moment. He met her gaze without hesitation, which Elektra found either admirable or insulting—she hadn’t decided yet.
Matt wondered how Frank could stay so serious when his sister was being so childish—like she’d rehearsed this whole interrogation in front of a mirror just to mess with him. Elektra had always thrived on dramatics, but this? Circling Frank like he was some kind of stray dog she was deciding whether to adopt or drown? It was ridiculous. And yet, Frank didn’t so much as twitch; he stood there with the same stubborn stillness he brought to everything. ‘Like a perfect little soldier,’ Matt thought with a scoff.
Frank looked her up and down as though assessing a particularly annoying problem. “Ma’am, if I wanted to hurt him, I wouldn’t be here making out with him on his couch like some lovesick teenager.” His voice was rough but controlled, a deliberate contrast to Elektra’s theatricality. “And if I did hurt him?” His lips twitched, something dark flickering across his face. “I wouldn’t need you to come after me. I’d do it myself.”
Amusement curled at the corner of her mouth. “Hmm,“ she mused, tapping a finger against her chin. “Self-punishment. How very Catholic of you.” She flicked her gaze to Matt, whose jaw was clenched so tightly he was practically guaranteeing himself a migraine. “Matthew, you always did have a type—brooding, tragic, and prone to punching walls.”
Matt looked like he was regretting being conscious. “Elektra, I swear to God—”
Elektra paused her pacing near the small dining table, resting her weight on one hip as she let out a delighted hum. “Oh, don’t look so mortified, Matthew. This is fun.” She gestured lazily between Frank and Matt. “Honestly, Matthew? You always find the most emotionally damaged people in New York.”
Frank’s hand found Matt’s wrist, thumb brushing absently over the rapid pulse there.
Stepping away from the table, Elektra glided back toward them with the lazy confidence of a predator who knew neither of them would actually stop her. “Oh, how sweet,” she cooed, her voice dripping with faux sincerity. “Protective and possessive. Matthew, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Matt swatted Frank’s hand away—mostly for show—and levelled a glare in Elektra’s general direction. “Are you done?”
Elektra acknowledged Matt with a brief glance before continuing. “Tell me, Frank Castle.” Elektra closed the final distance to Frank, like a cat deciding whether a mouse was worth the effort. She stopped inches from Frank, staring him straight in the eyes—a challenge: “How many men have you killed?”
He looked her over as though trying to locate the catch. “Enough to know when someone’s tryin’ to rattle me.” His voice was gravelly and steady. “You want a number? Won’t change a damn thing.”
She looked at him as though he’d just said something deeply entertaining. “How interesting,” she commented, stepping back just enough to let the tension simmer. “He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lie. And he’s got that deliciously tragic aura. “ She flicked a glance at Matt. “Did you pick him for the martyrdom or the cheekbones?”
Matt bit the inside of his cheek, refusing to give her the satisfaction. “I’m going to throw you out the window.”
“And I’ll suffocate you in your sleep.” Elektra shot back without missing a beat, her tone light as if she were discussing the weather. Frank snorted—actually snorted—and Matt could hear the smile tugging at his lips. Traitor.
The tension in the room shifted—subtle but unmistakable—like a knife twisting in a wound that had just started to close. Elektra looked genuinely curious for once. “You know,” she mused, tapping a finger against her lips, “I did my research on you, Castle. Marines. Family. The incident.” Something shuttered briefly across Frank’s face; his mouth pulled into a hard line. “And yet, here you are. Alive. Angry. And very handsy with my brother.”
Matt stepped forward, voice low and warning. “Elektra.”
Elektra continued without even glancing his way. “Relax, Matthew. I'm merely observing.” She stopped directly in front of Frank, towering over him, face cold and stern. “Tell me—do you think you deserve him?”
Frank stared at her like she was a particularly stubborn stain. “Deserve him?” He let out a rough laugh, shaking his head. Frank’s expression flattened. “Lady, I don’t deserve shit. But if he’s dumb enough to want me around, that’s his problem.”
Something roguish flashed across her face. “Oh, delightful,” she crooned, clapping her hands together once. “Self-loathing with a side of defiance. Matthew, you have found yourself a real charmer.”
Elektra tilted her head, her sharp gaze cutting through the room's remaining warmth as she stepped even closer to Frank, dropping her voice to a dangerous, mocking whisper. “Tell me then, Francis—do you love my brother?”
The question hung in the air. Matt stiffened instantly; he could feel his face burning. “Elektra, don't—”
“I'm not asking you, Matthew,” she cut him off smoothly, never breaking eye contact with the big man in front of her. “Well, Castle? A simple question.”
Frank didn't rise to the bait, nor did he try to stare her down. Instead, the defensive tension in his shoulders seemed to bleed away, leaving behind a quiet, easy certainty. He spared a brief, grounding glance back at Matt before meeting Elektra’s gaze again. “Yeah,” Frank said, his tone losing its rough, guarded edge as he answered with simple, quiet honesty. “Yeah, I do.”
Elektra’s grin widened, a genuine flash of wicked delight crossing her features as she looked between Frank's deadpan face and Matt's utterly stunned, crimson-flushed silence.
Matt exhaled loudly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly now that Elektra’s murderous energy had shifted into something closer to amusement. “Are you satisfied now?” he muttered, stepping back to collapse onto the couch. “Or do you need to interrogate him about his favourite colour next?”
Elektra waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I was just getting to know your—” She paused, lips curling. “—boyfriend.” The word dripped with exaggerated emphasis, and Matt could practically hear the smugness in her voice.
Frank studied her for a long moment. “Lady, you got a real fucked-up way of vetting people.”
The reaction only seemed to encourage her. “And yet, here you stand. Most men crumble by now.”
Frank’s fingers twitched at his side, a barely restrained reflex—halfway between reaching for a gun that wasn’t there and strangling the smug look off Elektra’s face. Instead, he exhaled slow and measured, letting his hand drop. “Lady, if I crumbled every time someone waved a knife at me, I’d be dust by now.”
Elektra’s laugh was a sharp, delighted thing, like the glint of steel under moonlight. “Oh, good,” she purred. “He’s got a sense of humour too.“ She turned to Matt, who was slumped on the couch like a man who’d just survived a hurricane. “Fine, I don't hate him.”
“High praise,” Matt grumbled.
“Don’t be so sour, dear brother.” Elektra was clearly enjoying dragging this out for as long as she could. She stood her ground in the centre of the rug. “Besides, you should be grateful—I’ve decided not to kill him.” She tossed one of her daggers casually into the air, catching it by the handle. “Yet.”
“I might even say that I approve.”
Matt sank into the cushions as though trying to disappear into them, dragging his hands down his face. “I don’t need your approval, Elektra.”
Elektra arched a brow, closing the short distance between them to finally perch on the armrest of the couch beside him, idly plucking a stray piece of imaginary lint off the shoulder of his shirt. Oh, but you want it,” she taunted, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Admit it. You’re relieved.”
Matt turned his head slightly, catching Elektra's familiar scent—leather and the faintest hint of jasmine soap. The same scent she'd carried since they were kids stealing cookies from the orphanage kitchen. “Relieved?” He scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “I am this close to drowning you in the kitchen sink.”
Elektra straightened her back, her eyes lit up immediately. “Liar. You'd miss me too much.”
Frank watched the siblings in silence and with tense resignation. Elektra’s fingers flicked Matt’s ear playfully, and Matt swatted her away with a grumble, but the underlying fondness was unmistakable. It was almost domestic, if “domestic” included daggers and death threats.
“Can you just leave?” Matt pleaded, burying his face back into his palms as the sheer weight of her presence continued to take its toll.
Frank let out a slow breath, finally relaxing his guarded posture and sinking onto the opposite end of the couch frame.“You two ever think about therapy?” he muttered.
Elektra flicked a glance at Frank, the corners of her mouth curled upward. “Oh, Francis, therapy is for people who want to stop being dysfunctional.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “We thrive in it.”
“No, you thrive in it; I get dragged along.” Matt muttered, but the tension in his shoulders had eased.
Elektra leaned back, stretching her arms above her head with a satisfied yawn. “Well, this has been enlightening,” she drawled, spinning the word out like a thread. The amusement in her voice was unmistakable. “But I should probably leave you two to your... activities.” She shot Frank a look that would have made Matt's ears burn red if he could see it.
Matt gave a low, exhausted groan as Elektra sauntered toward the window with all the dramatic flair of a Shakespearean villain making their exit. “You could use the door,” he gritted out, already knowing it was pointless.
Elektra paused, one leg already perched on the windowsill, looking unbearably pleased with herself. “Where’s the fun in that?” She flicked a glance at Frank, who was sitting back against the cushions now, watching her warily. “Do try to not break the bed frame.”
Matt made a noise usually associated with dying appliances, which only made Elektra laugh.
Elektra leaned back without another word, letting gravity take her before Matt could even form a protest. She fell out of the window with the same theatrical grace she'd entered with—arms spread, hair fanning out like a black halo against the neon glow of the billboard outside. For a heartbeat, she was suspended in the air, a shadow cut from the night itself, before vanishing into the alley below.
Matt didn't rush to the window. He knew better. Instead, he dropped his forehead into one hand. “She's going to land on her feet,” he muttered. “She always does.”
Frank stared at the empty window frame where Elektra had disappeared, his brows knitting together. “She just—” He gestured vaguely. “She does that often?”
Matt slumped further into the couch cushions. “Only when she wants to make an entrance,” Matt muttered. “Or an exit. Or just to annoy me.” He gazed up at the ceiling as though he were searching for patience there. “She’s been jumping out of windows since she was twelve. Broke Sister Julie-Ann’s flowerpot the first time.”
Frank snorted. “I can see the resemblance.”
Matt glares at him almost as if he were offended, his brow furrowing deeper than Frank’s ever seen it. “Resemblance?” he repeats, voice flat. “You think we—what, share some kind of habit of throwing ourselves out of windows?” He gestures sharply toward the empty frame from which Elektra had vanished. “Because she does it to be dramatic, and I do it—” He cuts himself off before he could say anything self-incriminating.
Frank tilted his head back against the cushion, amusement curling at the edges of his mouth. “You do it ‘cause you’re a dumbass with a death wish,” he finishes for him, tone gruff but fond. “And you do it ‘cause you’re dramatic.”
Matt's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water before settling on an indignant scoff. “I do not—”
“Yeah. Definitely related.”
Matt grabbed the pillow next to him on the couch and threw it. It missed on purpose, thudding harmlessly against the far wall. Shifting closer, Frank leaned across the shared cushions and kissed him quiet before Matt could attempt another throw.