#mattmmurdock

[punishmercy-blog]

He can barely hear Frank over the rough rasp of air as he breathes, grateful for the reprieve, however minor, from the fight. It's not funny, and Matt knows he'll probably be angry later. Soon. He always seems to be when it comes to Frank Castle. Still, he can't help the "You went to a party without me?" that slips from his mouth when he feels Frank's eyes on him, nor the strained smirk of his lips.

God, he wants to put a bullet in Daredevil’s head sometimes, just take aim and click-boom. No more sermons on rooftops, no more missing a shot at some scumbag because an asshole in a crimson onesie took a flying kick at him. But when you get right down to it, Red doesn’t deserve it, and honestly, that pisses Frank off more than the blossoming pain in his ribs and jaw from the latest beating.

“Sorry, Red. They weren’t handin’ out plus ones,” he rasps, chest heaving. His sniper rifle’s out of reach, and he can hear the van down on the street loading up- a couple more minutes and it’ll be another mark missed, because this piece of shit can’t mind his own business. 

Frank wipes blood off of his mouth, curls his lip and damn near snarls.

“You gonna get down there and beat ‘em up, Red? Sooner you get ‘em in prison, sooner they get out, and we can start this shitshow all over again.”

[punishmercy-blog]

@matt-mmurdock (from here)

“Yeah,” Frank breathes, the sound rough and guttural. He’s stopped pacing, his hands in half-fists, his chest heaving like the tide coming in, adrenaline burning through him like salt water. “Yeah, Red, I hear you.”

He snaps like a cracked whip.

The snarl that rips up his throat is barely human when his fist snaps just shy of Daredevil’s face, whole body thrown forward by the force of it. This isn’t the Punisher, precise, patient, brutal. It’s Frank Castle and the storm of unrest in his bones, Frank and the lump in his throat that keeps him from talking but has no problem with the growl, Frank Castle and the inexorable, inevitable rage that keeps him coming at the Devil knowing damn well Red doesn’t want to fight him, won’t kill him. It’ll end the way it always does, with both of them bruised and neither of them satisfied, but fuck, Frank’s used to it.

His body doesn’t move like Red’s. The Devil is all reflex and defense, skirting just out of reach every time Frank tries to get at him, throwing him off-balance over and over again until Frank loses it and roars, fists curling into the front of that stupid fucking costume like he wants to choke the life out of the man inside it-

“When are you gonna quit, Red?!” He barks, teeth bared. His forehead smashes into the Devil’s and leaves Frank hurting more than anything else, staggering back and snarling like something gone sour, something wild and afraid. “You can’t stop me! Not unless you put a bullet through my head, but Hell, you- you can’t even do that, can you? Nah, you’ll preach and preach and play the big hero- when are you gonna do something about me?!”