Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Horns, cars and the heartbeats of a thousand all around him. It was a warm night in New York City. Maybe it was the light breeze drifting through the alleys, or the faint scent of fresh bread rising from a corner bakery, but his patrol had come to a quiet end.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen crouched on the very edge of a building's ledge, waiting, completely still. Tonight's biggest threat had been a drunk, lonely old man named Earl harassing two women on their way home. An easy fix.

The sun was setting, supposedly painting the sky in vibrant strokes of orange and red—or at least, that’s what he had been told. Without his watch, he could only guess the time by the cooling temperature of the concrete beneath his boots.

"Need a hand with all that brooding?"

The scent of heavy gun oil, old leather, and black coffee hit Matt’s senses a second before the heavy, deliberate footsteps stopped behind him.

"Is that an offer to push me off the roof?" A faint, sharp smile tugged at the corner of Matt’s mouth, breaking the scowl that had now almost become a habit.

"Don't get too romantic, Red," the ex-Marine huffed.

Matt stood up slowly, stepping back from the ledge. He had spent half the night pretending he hadn't locked onto that steady, rhythmic heartbeat from three miles away. Now, Frank was just an arm's reach from him.

Stepping confidently into Frank’s space, Matt raised a gloved hand. He brushed his fingers through Frank’s short, coarse hair, letting them trail deliberately down the rough line of his jaw, over his cheekbones. He couldn't see the picture, but he didn't need to. He memorized every jagged imperfection, every old scar and fresh scratch that made Frank Castle perfect to him.

"How many did you kill tonight, Frank?" Matt asked, his voice a low, commanding murmur.

Frank exhaled, leaning infinitesimally into Matt’s touch. "None." A beat. "Only for you."

"How sweet," Matt murmured, a low, breathy laugh escaping him as he shook his head. He let his hand drop from Frank's face to press flat against the heavy Kevlar vest, his radar instantly picking up the metallic tang of fresh, drying blood.

He had learned to accept it. He couldn't change Elektra, he couldn't change the Punisher, and he certainly couldn't change himself. If one day the Devil had to take his rightful place in Hell, then so be it.

It was their unspoken, fragile treaty. Frank reined in his endless war, holding back his crosshairs and reserving his bullets only for the absolute worst—the untouchable monsters who slipped through the cracks of Matt's legal system. Matt looked the other way, accepting his own hypocrisy and the blood on Frank's hands, but the other felt like oxygen.

And Frank had changed. He wasn't a blind war machine anymore. He anchored his sanity to the blind lawyer, giving Matt an obedience and a devotion that bordered on religious. A monk should be envious. His psyche thanked him. What they had was small, fragile. Utterly terrifying. But Matt didn't know if he had ever felt so violently alive.

"Matt…" Frank’s gravelly voice broke the silence. Beneath Matt’s fingertips, the Marine’s pulse spiked against the column of his neck. Feeling his warmth.

"Yeah," Matt whispered. Let himself be damned. Never in his life had he imagined wanting someone so fiercely, willing to let the fire between them burn them both to ashes.

Matt didn't wait for another word. He closed the distance, capturing Frank’s bruised lips in a slow sweet kiss. Clashing with the sharp edges of their personas. At first, it was just a whisper of a touch, a gentle exploration that sent a jolt of electricity straight down his spine. But the moment Frank’s calloused hands moved to grip Matt’s waist, desperate to melt against him, Matt's control snapped.

He pushed forward, walking Frank backward until the Marine's broad back hit the brick wall of the stairwell with a heavy thud. Frank let him without fighting back, letting out a low, helpless groan at the impact, submitting instantly to the pressure. That tiny, rough sound of surrender from the most lethal man in New York was better than any drug. Matt angled his head, deepening the kiss, claiming the space, the night, and the man entirely for himself.

***

Hi. My name is Peter Parker.

I was bitten by a radioactive spider, and for a while now, I've been the one and only Spider-Man. You probably know the rest: I’ve fought flying guys in vulture suits, I've been to space, I stole Captain America’s shield, and I generally try to keep a B+ average in chemistry while saving old ladies and stopping muggings.

I’ve faced off against genocidal aliens with a magic glove. I’ve looked death right in the eye.

Usually, I handle stress pretty well. I have a mantra: with great power comes great responsibility. I’m a professional.

But nothing... and I mean absolutely nothing on my Avenger resume prepared me for the pure, blind, and paralyzing terror I am experiencing at this exact moment.

"I RUINED IT! I RUINED EVERYTHING, PETE!"

Ned Leeds' scream violently yanked Peter back to reality, forcing him to peel his gloves off the bedroom ceiling he was desperately clinging to.

He dropped onto his mattress with a soft thud. Over at the desk, Ned was sprawled awkwardly across the chair, frantically trying to cover both computer monitors with his entire body. He was illuminated only by the sinister, unforgiving glow bleeding from the edges of the screens, shaking so hard Peter genuinely thought he was about to have a heart attack.

"Tell me you weren't streaming, Ned," Peter begged, scrambling off the bed and rushing over to him. "Please, tell me it was just a video for your hard drive."

Ned looked up at him with glazed eyes, his arms still spread wide over the monitors. He looked like a man who had just been handed his own death certificate. An old look for a seventeen-year-old.

"Pete..." he whispered, shifting just enough to reveal the main screen. "Not only was it live. I just used the 100x optical zoom on the Stark-drone camera." A sigh. "You can see... you can see tongue, Pete."

Peter stared at the screen. The video was paused, but the numbers in the bottom right corner of the streaming software were rolling at an unnatural speed:

#PunisherLovesDaredevil

Trending Worldwide. 3.4 Million views.

His Spider-Sense wasn't buzzing for imminent danger. It was playing a funeral march.

"What do we do, Pete?!" his best friend wailed, sounding remarkably like a panicked seal.

"Let's just calm down and breathe, yeah—" Peter wanted it to sound confident, but his vocal cords cracked embarrassingly. Panic taking him too. "—Maybe I can talk to Frank. I'll explain the situation, tell him it was a huge, huge misunderstanding and that we'll fix everything." He paused, clutching his suit. All of a sudden it felt too tight. "I'm sure he will understand."

"You don't understand! It's viral! I don't know how many millions will see it in the next few hours!" Hands wavered in front of his face, dramatically.

"Then we need to talk to Frank first, before he sees the video!" Peter shot back, voice hitting an unnatural pitch.

"Who's Frank?" Then a deadpan voice asked from the bedroom doorway.

MJ.

Peter jumped, nearly webbing his own closet door by reflex. "Oh, hey! Good to see you here—"

MJ ignored his greeting, her eyes narrowing as she leaned against the doorframe. "Why is Ned trying to cover the computer screens with his entire body?"

"Ah, it's just a secret project for... yeah, the next science fair—"

"What kind of trouble did you guys get into this time?" she interrupted, her voice flatter than a pancake.

"Nothing, really just—" Peter didn't end the sentence.

"IaccidentallycaughtDaredevilandthePunishermakingouthardcoreinbroaddaylightandnowI'mgoingtobecomewormfood—" Ned blurted out in a single, frantic breath, turning crimson from the sheer lack of oxygen in his lungs.

MJ blinked. Just once.

"So," she said slowly, "you just accidentally posted the love life of New York's most wanted mass murderer?"

"Yes! Look, I was only doing a livestream where Peter would appear at the end, swinging by—"

"Ned, breathe," Peter pleaded.

"I just turned seventeen! I don't want to die!"

MJ sighed, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. "Okay. Scrap the homework. I'm in. What's the plan?"

Ned and Peter exchanged a terrified, completely blank look. Eyes blinking rapidly. Idiots.

MJ raised a single, judgmental eyebrow. "I mean, you guys surely came up with a plan, right?”