#mattmmurdock

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.

“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-