#haha oops

Thinking of Jack who rests his hands on Dennis's hips, gently guiding him up and down the length of his cock telling him "You're just such a perfect toy for me, baby. Tell Sir how much you like being used and I'll think about helping you cum."

With little stupid, petty arguments, Robby likes to tell Dennis "You're so cute when you're all upset" and "Don't be shy baby, let's see how hard you get from getting talked down to" and Dennis can't even fucking deny it, and can't hide it when Robby's fucking into him so deeply and harshly it feels like a punishment, even if Dennis won the fucking fight. The way Robby talks down to him just does something to him and Robby knows when he shifts his weight when Dennis is officially distracted.

They like doing little things to get him red and mumbling. Asking him when he last touched himself, if he's been good enough to be played with, Jack likes pictures of whatever panties he's been bullied into wearing that day, Robby likes to grab the waistband of his scrubs and pull just slightly, just enough for a flash of lace and color and Dennis has to take a break somewhere quiet to calm himself down.

They can just snap their fingers and point and he's down on his knees, mouth open, tongue out, ready for whatever they want to give him, cock, fingers, a toy, he's already drooling and chuffing up for it.

"Do you only think about getting fucked?" Jack grunted, cock buried in Dennis's throat, tears running down his cheeks. "You're fucking addicted to it, such a good little slut for me-"

(Trans Dennis that gets random wetness checks at home, gets mocked if he's too wet, gets played with if he's not wet enough) (he can't ever win and that's the whole fucking point)

They like to fuck him on the phone, comparing and competing with his noises. Robby going "Wait, Jack, listen to him for a second" and all Jack can hear is the sound of skin slapping skin and Dennis sobbing for his daddy to be nicer, slow down, please.

Dennis who has already cum twice, whining and crying as he keeps fucking into his fist, touching himself for his Daddy and Sir, who are watching like it's their favorite fucking show in the world. If they're feeling exceptionally mean?

"Eyes on us, Den," Robby chided lightly.

"Not a fucking thought behind those eyes," Jack grinned, gaze predatory. "He'd do whatever we wanted, wouldn't you, baby?"

"Yes, Sir," Dennis whimpered, legs shaking from the build up of another orgasm. "Wanna-fuck-wanna be good for you."

You're not sure how long it's been.

Days ? Weeks ? Hours ?

It's all been one big blend.

Your wrists are sore and scraped open, the ropes digging into your skin and rubbing it raw. Your chin is pressed to your chest as blood pours from your forehead, as if your neck muscles have finally given up on you. Your feet scuff against the blood stained concrete- the proof of the people that came before you, ordinary people like yourself that have been subject to this torture.

Except you aren't any ordinary person.

No.

You're Frank Castle's.

You don't really know when that became your label. His. His girl. The one he would burn the world down for to get her back.

Maybe it was when you would be the only one he could turn to when he needed someone to get a bullet out of his side and stitch him up without raising any red flags. Maybe it was when he realised you were a little used to the violence. Maybe it was when he realised your brother was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen- whose moral code thoroughly pissed Frank off- yet he respected it.

Or maybe it was when he came to you after being "dead" for years- needing help to find someone that had been watching him.

In his defence, Frank never thought he'd love again. Or that you'd love someone as fucking broken as him.

The nurse with the heart of gold, that's what he calls you. But somewhere in between, the lines blurred between you being a safe place to hide and being his safe place.

"Hey." Cold water splashes over your body, and you gasp, head springing up as you cough against the sharpness. Whatever clothes they had the courtesy to let you keep are soaked through. "Wakey wakey, sweetheart." The voice sends shivers soaring down your back. Grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back, Billy Russo brings a blade to your throat, his mangled face a sight to behold. Pain explodes across your scalp, a cry ripping out of you before you can swallow it.

"Now.." He hums, a bead of blood trickling down your neck as he digs the knife against the soft plush skin of your neck, teasing right near your pulsepoint, "Let's try this again, hmm ?" He says, his scars pulling in a disfigured smile. "Where the fuck is Frank ?" He spits. You flinch, your body trembling.

"I told you already." You rasp, your voice thready and whistley. "I don't know who that is." He grabs your jaw hard, fingers digging into bruises that haven’t had time to fade.

“I know you’re lying,” he snaps. “I saw you with him.” Your stomach drops—but you don’t let it show.

“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” You rasp.

Wrong answer.

His grip tightens, then his fist connects with your cheek so fast your vision whites out. The chair tips, crashes to the ground with you still tied to it. Pain explodes through your ribs when you hit the concrete. You bite back the sound that tries to come out.

Don’t give him that.

Don’t give him anything.

He’s pacing now. Agitated. Spiraling.

“That skull,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face. “That damn skull—he’s supposed to be dead.” You stay still. Silent.

Breathing hurts. Everything hurts.

But you hold onto that silence like it’s the only thing you have left. He stops pacing. Looks at you again.

“Why is he after me?” he demands. “What did I do?” There’s something almost desperate in it. Confused.

Like part of him really doesn’t know.

And for a second—just a second—you almost believe it. Almost feel bad. Then you remember his hands on you. The way he dragged you here. The way he let his brain-dead veteran crew have their way with you, and the imprint of their grubby hands is now seared into your skin. The things he’s already done. The things he will do. And whatever sympathy tries to rise up— dies.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. Another mistake. He kicks the chair. Hard. It slams into the wall, knocking the air out of you completely this time. You gasp, choking, vision swimming.

“Stop lying to me!” he yells. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it.

"I-I'm not. P-Please." You rasp, shaking your head as tears blur your vision. "I'm just a nurse. I work in a children's hospital. My-My big brother is a lawyer-" Billy grabs the back of the chair, dragging it back up so that it's upright. Your body slumps forward, spent and bleeding.

"Oh I know all about your brother. Matthew Murdock, works for Nelson and Murdock, attorney's at law. Yeah, I know all about ya, sugar." The lump in your throat doubles in size, and you shuffle your feet against the restraints bound to your ankles.

"He has nothing to do with this." You manage. Billy chuckles.

"I may have lost my memories but im not a fucking moron. I know your brother represented Frank for his crimes as the Punisher. I know you volunteered at the prison he was in as a nurse."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"I-I saw to a lot of inmates. Most times I couldn't see their faces they were so beat up-"

"Stop fucking lying !" He yells, spinning on you, knife raised and angled towards your chest. "You were there- You were there that day. When Frank took out half my guys after that robbery. I saw you - I saw you in the car with Curtis." Panic claws up your spine. You gulp, shaking your head.

"Who ?" Billy's face tightens, "I swear, you've got the wrong person-"

His knife connects with your thigh so fast it rips the breath out of you. The blade pierces skin, burying itself to the hilt.

You can't help it- You scream.

The scream tears out of you before you can stop it—raw, jagged, echoing off the concrete walls like something feral and broken. Your whole body jerks against the ropes, the chair scraping harshly against the floor as pain explodes through your leg, white-hot and blinding. For a second, you can’t breathe. Can’t think. There’s only the knife. The pressure. The way it burns.

Billy exhales like he’s relieved.

“See?” he mutters, almost to himself. “There she is.”

Your vision swims, black creeping in at the edges, your head lolling forward as your body trembles violently. Blood is already soaking through your clothes, warm and slick against your skin, dripping down onto the floor in slow, steady taps.

Don’t pass out.

Don’t you dare pass out.

You force your head up, choking on your own breath, tears blurring everything into a mess of color and shadow.

“I—don’t—know—him,” you manage, each word dragged out through gritted teeth, voice shaking so badly it barely sounds like you. Billy goes still. Then slowly—slowly—he smiles. Not amused. Not pleased. Something worse.

“Still?” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “After all that?” He grips the handle of the knife— A sound cuts through the room. Distant. Wrong. Billy’s head snaps toward the door. Your heart stutters, weak and uneven in your chest as you try to focus past the pain. Footsteps. Heavy.

Measured.

Getting closer. One of his men shouts—cut off mid-sentence by a gunshot. Then another. Chaos ripples just beyond the walls, boots scrambling, bodies dropping, something unstoppable tearing through them one by one. Billy’s expression shifts. Recognition.

“No…” he breathes. The door explodes inward. Wood splinters, metal shrieks, and suddenly he’s there— Frank. Framed in smoke and violence, rifle raised, eyes already scanning, already landing on you— And everything changes.

Frank swears he feels sick when he sees you. Wearing nothing but your bra and your jeans- which seem to have be ripped right at the seam between your legs, it doesn't take a genius to gather what's happened.

For a second— just a second— he can’t breathe. The world narrows down to you. To the blood. To the way your head hangs too heavy, your body barely holding itself upright. Something inside him breaks.Not cracks. Not bends.

Breaks.

Billy moves fast. Too fast. His hand tangles in your hair again, yanking your head back hard as the knife presses flush against your throat, right over your pulse.

“Drop it!” he roars. Frank freezes. It’s instant. Like someone hit a switch. The gun is still in his hands—but it lowers, slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving you. Never leaving the blade pressed to your skin. The room goes silent except for your ragged breathing. Frank throws his free hand up, the gun still trained on Billy.

"Russo..." He rasps, taking a step forward, "Don't do this, brother. Just let her go."

“Back up,” Billy says, backing up a step and dragging you with him, your chair scraping loudly across the concrete. “I said, back up, Castle. Or this blade goes in the pretty girl's throat.” Frank doesn’t respond. His chest is rising too fast. His grip on the gun tightens.

"Frank-" You manage, but Billy's grip tightens in your hair, tearing a pained whimper out of you. You can see how Frank reacts. His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow, his chest heaving behind that fucking skull vest. Frank’s jaw clenches so hard it looks like it might crack.

“Let her go,” he says. Low. Controlled. Terrifying in how quiet it is. Billy huffs a laugh.

“Not a chance.” He tilts his head, pressing the blade just enough to make you flinch. “Here's what we're going to do.

You put the gun down. Kick it over. Then maybe—maybe—I let her walk outta here.”

Your eyes snap to Frank’s.

No.

Don’t.

But he’s already shaking his head slightly, like he’s arguing with himself.

“She ain’t got nothing to do with this,” Frank says. “You want me? You got me. Let her go.” Billy laughs.

“Not how this works.” The knife presses harder. A thin line of blood spills down your throat. Frank sees it. Something inside him cracks.

“…Alright,” he says. The word sounds like it’s being dragged out of him. Slowly—so slowly—it hurts to watch—he lowers the gun. Your chest tightens.

“Frank—” you whisper. He doesn’t look away from you. Not for a second.

"It's gonna be okay, baby. Alright ? You're gonna be okay." The gun hits the ground with a dull clatter. Billy watches closely.

“Kick it.” Frank does. The gun slides across the concrete, stopping just short of Billy’s feet. Billy adjusts his grip on the knife, and it presses closer to your throat. He stops.

Immediately. Hands lifting higher.

"Billy. Please,” he breathes, forcing it down, forcing himself back under control. “You got me. You got my attention. Just—don’t hurt her.” Billy huffs, almost amused.

“Oh, I have your attention,” he says. “That’s the point.” Frank swallows hard, eyes never leaving you.

“You want me?” he says. “I’m right here. Let her go.” Billy laughs—a broken, jagged sound.

“Not how this works.” Frank’s gaze flicks to the knife, then back to your face, tracking every tremor, every shallow breath.

“You don’t wanna do this,” he says again, quieter now. “Ain’t gonna fix anything.” Billy tilts his head.

“Maybe not,” he admits. “But it’ll make me feel a hell of a lot better.” Your fingers twitch weakly against the ropes. Frank sees it. Sees everything.

The way you’re fading.

The way time is running out.

You can see every muscle in Frank's body - taut and ready to bolt towards that gun he just kicked over.

"C'mon, brother." Frank coaxes. "Let's settle this. You and me. Leave her outta this."

"Why ?" Billy spits. "What's a lawyer's sister good for ?"

Frank’s entire body goes still at that. Not because of the insult. Because of the question. Because Billy doesn’t know.And for a split second—just a split second—there’s an opening.

“You don’t know?” Frank says, voice low. Dangerous. His head tilts just slightly, eyes never leaving Billy’s. “That your problem, Russo. You never did know what mattered.” Billy’s jaw tightens, grip shifting just enough on the knife.

“She matters to you,” he snaps. “That’s all I need to know.”

“Yeah,” Frank breathes. No hesitation. No denial. “She does.” Your breath hitches. Billy presses the blade harder, almost testing him, watching—studying every micro reaction.

“Funny,” he mutters. “Didn’t think you had it in you. After your family… after all that…” His voice dips, cruel. “Thought that part of you died with ‘em.” Something dark flickers behind Frank’s eyes.

“It did,” he says.And then, quieter—“Till her.”The room shifts.Even Billy feels it. Your vision blurs, your head swimming, but you hear it. You feel it. The weight of it settles somewhere deep in your chest, even through the pain, even through the fear. Frank’s eyes soften—just for you. Your eyes flutter, struggling to stay consious.

“Hey. Hey ! Don't do that, baby. Look at me,” he says gently. You do. Barely. “Stay with me, alright?” he murmurs. “Just a little longer.” Billy scoffs, but there’s something off now—his stance isn’t as steady. His focus split between watching Frank… and understanding something he can’t quite piece together.

“Real touching,” he mutters. “But we’re done talking.” His hand shifts. That’s it. That’s all Frank needs.

"Yeah. We are." It’s not even a full movement—just a twitch. A decision made faster than thought. His body snaps into motion, lunging for the gun.

Billy's eyes snap to the movement. His arm raises. Frank's fingers wrpa around the gun- Billy's arm comes down.

"Frank -!" The knife plunges. White-hot pain explodes through your stomach as Billy drives the blade straight into you, burying it deep before yanking it sideways— A wet, tearing sound. Your scream rips through the room, raw and broken.

“No!” Frank roars. His hand soars up, finger squeezing the trigger. Gunshot. Deafening. Billy’s head snaps back, body dropping instantly, the knife ripping free from your body as he falls. Blood seeps up to your lips, your body slumping forward.

The silence that follows after Billy's lifeless body falls to the ground is deafening. Frank can hear his pulse, roaring like a hailstorm in his ears. His eyes are blurry, the adrenaline buzzing beneath his skin.

A wet cough drags him from the adrenaline high. He tosses his gun to the side, pushing himself off the ground. He ignores the ringing in his ears, or the way his hands are shaking in a way they never had before after a kill.

"No. No, no, no- fuck-" He slides to his knees infront of you, calloused fingers sliding into the knots on your ankles before reaching behind your back and untying your wrist. Your body falls off the chair like gravity has denied it the pleasure of staying upright, and you collapse onto Frank. Frank manoeuvers you so that you're laying across his lap, head tucked near his collarbone. "No. No. No." he repeats, his voice broken. He shakes his head as he presses his hand to your gut, pressing down hard.

A sob of pain escapes from your lips as it melts into a scream, fingers curling weakly into his vest. There's so much blood.

Too much blood.

"Hey, hey-" He rasps, shaking his head as your eyes start to close. He cups your cheek, leaving behind a bloody handprint on your bruised face. "Don't do that. Don't you fuckin' do that, y'a hear me ?" He yells, trying to hide the way his chest is heaving. "You're stayin' with me, baby. You are, alright ?" You manage a weak nod, gurgling on your own blood as you cough.

"F-Frankie-" he shakes his head, splaying his large hand on your gut to try to keep pressure but the cut is too deep, too wide, it's spilling past his fingers.

"Shh, shh. Don't talk. Save your energy, okay ?" Your head lolls slightly against him, breath hitching, uneven—every inhale a fight, every exhale weaker than the last. The copper taste floods your mouth, thick and choking, and when you try to swallow it just spills past your lips anyway.

Frank feels it. Sees it. And something inside him fractures completely.

“Hey—hey, no, no, no—stay with me,” he pleads, voice cracking open in a way that doesn’t belong to the man everyone fears. His thumb drags clumsily across your cheek, smearing blood instead of wiping it away. “C’mon, you’re tougher than this—you hear me? You’re tougher than this.” You try to smile.

God—you try.

But it barely forms, trembling and weak, your fingers twitching against his vest like you’re trying to hold onto him and can’t quite manage it.

“Hurts…” you whisper.

“I know,” he chokes. “I know, baby—I know—" His hands press harder against your stomach, desperate, frantic, trying to hold you together like sheer force could undo what just happened.

“Stay with me,” he repeats, softer now, like if he says it enough it’ll become true. “Stay with me… please.” Your eyes flutter.

Blink.

Struggle to stay open.

And that— that terrifies him more than anything.

“Hey!” His voice sharpens, panic spiking. His hand moves to your face again, tapping lightly, then firmer. “Hey—look at me. Look at me.” Your gaze drags back to him, heavy, unfocused.

There you are.

Still there.

Barely.

“That’s it,” he breathes, relief and terror tangled together. “That’s it… stay right there, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” His forehead presses against yours for just a second—just a second—like he’s grounding himself, like he’s trying to hold onto something real before it slips through his fingers again. Not again.

Never again.

“I got you,” he whispers. “I got you… I ain’t losin’ you too.” Your hand shifts weakly, brushing against his wrist. It’s so light he almost misses it. Almost. His breath hitches.

“Frank…” you murmur, voice barely there now.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” he says immediately, too fast, like he’s afraid silence will take you. “Right here. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Your lips part again, like you’re trying to say something more—but it dissolves into a shaky breath, your chest stuttering under the effort as sirens start to fill the air, drawing closer and closer. You cough against the blood rising up your throat, gagging as you reach up to cup his cheek, eyes brimming with tears.

“No, no—don’t—don’t waste it,” he rushes, shaking his head, pressing his hand more firmly against your wound even as his own hands tremble. “You save it. You tell me later, yeah? When you’re patched up. When you’re yellin’ at me for somethin’.” You shake your head.

The sirens are getting louder.

"F-Frank." You rasp, and it comes out wet and gargled, "Y-You have to go. Cops." You manage, wheeezing. The mere idea of leaving you right now makes Frank's heart fall out of his fucking ass. He clutches you tighet, his body rocking on instinct as you whimper in pain, nails digging into his bicept.

"No, no, I'm not-"

"Frank, I can't- You can't go back to prison." You rasp, shaking your head. "A-Amy... needs you." He scoffs, looking down at you.

"Yeah and I need y'a, kay ? So jus' stop talking and stay alive."

"Frank.." You whisper, eyes fluttering closed to let a tear slip by. "Frank, i need you to- I need you to tell Matt-"

"Stop that."

he snaps, sharper than he means to, panic bleeding through every syllable. His hand comes up, cradling your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheek like he can keep you here if he just holds you tight enough. “You’re gonna tell him yourself, you hear me? You’re gonna walk in there and give him hell for lettin’ this happen—” You let out the smallest, broken sound—something between a breath and a laugh—and it shatters him.

The sirens are close now.

Too close.

Red and blue flicker faintly through the broken windows, painting the walls in pulses of light, swallowing you and bouncing off the shadows on Frank's beautifully tormented face.

Time is up.

He knows it. But he doesn’t move. He can’t. Your fingers tighten weakly in his shirt, dragging his attention back to you. Your eyes are barely open now, lashes heavy with tears, lips trembling as you try again.

“Frank…” you whisper.

“I’m here,” he breathes instantly, leaning closer, like he’s trying to catch every word before it disappears. “I’m right here, baby.”

“Y-you have to go…” you manage, voice fading in and out, breath stuttering. “Please…” His head shakes before you even finish.

“No,” he says, firm—desperate. “No, I ain’t leavin’ you. Not like this. Not ever again.” Your hand lifts—barely—and presses against his cheek. It’s weak, shaking, but it’s enough to still him. Your thumb brushes his cheek, smearing blood there.

“You… don’t get to die with me too…” you breathe. That— that breaks him. A sound tears out of his chest, raw and strangled, his forehead dropping against yours again.

“I ain’t dyin’,” he chokes. “And neither are you, you hear me? We’re gettin’ outta this. You and me—we always do.” But his voice is shaking. And you can feel it. The sirens scream louder. Closer. Your grip on him slips slightly. You whine, head tipping back as Frank struggles to keep a good press on your wound, his hands slick with your blood.

"Frankie..."

“No.” His hand tightens on your face, almost frantic now. “No—don’t say it. Don’t you say it.” Your lips tremble.

“I love you.” It’s barely more than air. But he hears it. Of course he does.

Everything in him goes still. For a second, the world stops. The sirens. The blood. The pain. All of it— Gone. Just you. Just that. His breath shudders out of him, forehead pressing harder to yours, like he’s trying to fuse the moment into something permanent.

“…Yeah,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Yeah, I know.” He brushes yur matted hair away from your face, wipes a tear away from your cheek. "You gon' be jus' fine, sweetheart. You jus' hold on. Jus' hold on." He rasps, cradling you tighter against him. But his hand is shaking. And his eyes are burning. He looks ahead, ready to greet whatever cops will come running through the door, subconsciously tightening his grip on you as if preparing for when they inevitably tear you out of his arms. He gulps.

"I love you too,” he adds, quieter—like it’s something fragile. Like it’s something he doesn’t say unless it matters.

Silence.

Pure, bone-chilling silence.

No more gurgling.

No more held back whimpers of pain.

Frank cranes his neck to look down at you, only to find - to his greatest horror- that you stopped breathing. Your lips parted, your body fully limp, your eyes shut.

"No. No, no, no ! Fuck ! No !" he manhandles you around, pulling you up against his chest, arms wrapping around your lower back. He can feel your blood seeping into his shirt. "Baby- Baby, please. C'mon, don't do this to me, Murdock ! Come on !" He shakes you—just enough to jolt, not enough to hurt—hands fumbling, slipping, trying to find something, anything. “C’mon—c’mon, hey—” his voice breaks completely now, panic ripping straight through him as his hand flies to your neck, searching for a pulse.

Nothing.

“No—no, no, no—” it comes out faster, louder, like if he says it enough it’ll change. His fingers press harder, moving, checking again, again— “Don’t do this—don’t you do this—” Nothing. The world tilts. Frank sucks in a sharp, ragged breath, his hands trembling as they move—automatic now, instinct buried deep kicking in. He lowers you just enough, one arm still cradling you as the other presses against your chest.

“Alright—okay—okay—” he mutters, like he’s talking to himself, like he’s holding himself together by a thread. “You’re okay—you’re okay, I got you—” He tilts your head back, rough but careful, clearing your airway the way you taught him—God, you taught him this—his hands clumsy because they won’t stop shaking.

“C’mon…” he whispers. He breathes for you.

Once.

Twice.

His chest heaves as he pulls back, hand pressing down hard against your sternum. He counts under his breath, voice cracking, compressions uneven at first before he forces them steady., gulping back gags as he feels your ribs crack beneath the heel of his palm. “C’mon—c’mon—don’t do this—” The sirens are right outside now.

Voices shouting.

Boots hitting pavement.

He doesn’t hear any of it.

His hands press harder, desperate, like he can force your heart to remember how to beat. “You don’t get to go like this—y’hear me? Not like this, not you too —” His voice breaks on the last word. He leans down again, breath shaking as he presses his mouth to yours, forcing air into your lungs. “Breathe,” he pleads against your lips. “Please—just—breathe—”

Nothing. He pulls back, eyes wild, searching your face for anything—any sign—

There’s nothing.

“No—no, you’re okay—” he insists, like he’s arguing with reality itself, pushing your hair back from your face. Fuck, your lips are turning blue. “You’re okay, I got you—I got you—” His hands move faster now, compressions harder, more frantic. “Stay with me!” he shouts, voice cracking open. “Stay with me, goddamnit!” Your body moves with the force of it.

But that’s all.

No breath.

No response.

Nothing. And it hits him. Not all at once. But enough. Enough to make his hands falter for half a second. Enough to let the fear really sink its claws in. “Hey…” his voice drops, trembling, softer now—like he’s talking to you, not fighting you. “Hey… c’mon… you’re okay… you’re okay…” But his hands don’t stop. They can’t. Because stopping means— “No,” he whispers, shaking his head hard, tears finally breaking free, cutting clean lines through the blood on his face. “No, I ain’t losin’ you—I ain’t— Show me your pretty eyes, baby. C'mon- wake up and fucking yell at me !” The door bursts open behind him.

“Police! Don’t move!" He doesn’t even turn. Doesn’t flinch.

“Frank Castle , step away from—”

“No!” Frank snaps, feral, shielding you instinctively, one arm wrapping around you while the other still hovers over your chest like he doesn’t know whether to keep going or hold you together. “She needs help—she needs—”

“EMTs are on their way—sir, you need to—”

“Do something!” he roars, voice cracking into something unrecognizable. “She’s not—she’s not breathing—do something!” Footsteps rush closer. Voices overlap. Hands reach— And he jerks back, tightening his grip on you. "No, you have to- You have to save her ! Get your fucking hands off of me !"

"Frank !" The voice cuts through the fog. Dinah Madani rushes in, stumbling a little as she notices Billy's body- before landing on Frank.

"M-Madani, Madani, you gotta help her. You gotta- You gotta call Curt, call anyone, please-" She drops to her knees in front of him, hands hovering for half a second—taking it in.

The blood.

Your skin.

The way you’re not moving.

Her face hardens instantly.

“EMTs are here,” she says quickly, firm, trying to anchor him. “They’re gonna take care of her—”

“No, no, they’re too fuckin' slow—” Frank cuts her off, shaking his head violently, clutching you tighter like they’re about to rip you away from him. “She’s not breathing, Madani—she’s not—she’s not—”

“I know,” she says, sharper now, grabbing his wrist. “I know. But you need to let them do their job.”

“I am doin' somethin' !” he snaps, voice breaking as his hand presses back to your chest like he can’t stop, like stopping means losing you for real. “I got her—She's safe - I got her back —she just needs—”

“Frank!” she barks, louder this time, forcing his attention to her. His eyes snap to hers—wild, bloodshot, completely unraveling. “Look at me.” He doesn’t want to.

You’re right there. Slipping. Your face has gone pale and Frank's only comfort is that you're still bleeding, the blood gushing past his hands.

If you were dead, you wouldn't bleed.

Right ?

Frank closes his eyes, trying to shake the image of Marie, of Frankie, of Lisa- hitting the floor, eyes wide, staring at him, faces splattered with blood.

His family.

He looks down at you. Your eyes are closed.

Somehow that's worse. With Maria and the kids he lived with that guilt. That look of confusion and pain and betrayal that hovered behind his children's dead eyes. That drove him forward. Made him angry. Made him want revenge. Made him remember- it was his fault. But your eyes are closed.

You look peaceful.

You look dead.

And the sick, twisted part of him wishes your eyes were open. Maybe it would help him believe that you're still alive. Or maybe that way he could imprint the look of confusion, pain and betrayal from your eyes, burn it into his mind, and turn it into yet another of one of his waking nightmares. Anything would be better than this. Anything would be better than having you look like you were ready to go.

Because he isn't ready to let you go.

He shakes his head.

"No. No, no." He rasps, pressing his lips to your forehead, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

"Frank." Dinah snaps. Frank looks away at first. But something in her tone—commanding, steady—cuts through just enough.

“…What?” he breathes.

“You want her to live?” she asks. His face crumples.

“Don’t—don’t say that like—” his voice fractures, shaking his head. “She is gonna live—she—”

“Then let them help her,” Madani says, quieter now, but no less firm. “Because you can’t do this alone.” That lands. Hard. His gaze flicks back to you. To your lips.

Still blue.

To your chest— Still not moving.

His breath stutters.

“…okay,” he whispers, like it’s killing him. "Okay, fuck, okay."

Madani nods once, quick, and signals the EMTs. They move in fast. Professional. Hands on you.

“Sir, we need you to step back.” Frank doesn’t move.

“Frank,” Madani says again, softer now, her hand still on his wrist. “Let go.” His fingers tighten instead. Just for a second. One last, desperate second. "Let her go. Let go.” Frank does. The second his arms slacken—just the smallest release, like something inside him finally gives— hands grab him.

Hard.

“Frank Castle, you are under arrest.”

“Hey—hey!” Madani snaps immediately, twisting toward them. “What the hell are you doing? Let him go!” But Mahoney doesn’t hesitate.

Click. Metal bites into Frank’s wrists. His head barely turns. Doesn’t register it right away. Because his eyes are still on you. Getting loaded on the stretcher. Still watching the EMTs move over your body like they can bargain with death through sheer effort.

“No—no, no—” Frank mutters under his breath, barely aware of the cuffs, barely aware of anything except you being pulled farther away. “You have to- You have to take her to Presbytarian, that's where she works, they'll know what to do- You need to- Please, you need to call her brother- Just ler me go with her- get these fucking cuffs off of me- I want to go with her !”

“Frank!” Madani steps between him and the gurney for half a second, trying to block his view, trying to anchor him. “Frank, listen to me!” He doesn’t hear her. Or maybe he does and just can’t process it. Because the stretcher starts moving. Away.

“Hey!” Frank jerks forward instinctively, metal cutting into his wrists as Mahoney yanks him back. “Hey—! Don't let her die- Please-!”

“Stop resisting,” Mahoney says sharply, tightening the cuffs.

“I’m not resisting!” Frank roars, voice cracking straight down the middle. “She’s—she’s over there—she needs—she needs—” His words fall apart. Because you’re disappearing. Down the hall. Lights flashing over your still face.

“Frank, look at me!” Madani grabs his face for a second, forcing his attention down, but it doesn’t stick. “You need to breathe—”

"I am fuckin' breathing, Madani !" He snaps back. "She-She was fine ! She was awake, alert- She was fucking talkin' to me, Dinah ! She was fine till you guys showed up!"

"Frank, you were doing infield rescue breaths. Compressions. You kept her alive- and they're going to make sure she stays that way." Dinah reassures as Mahoney drags Frank to his cop car.

"Madani, you gotta- you gotta call her brother, you gotta call Matt-"

"I will, okay, just as soon as I can prove that you weren't behind this and we can get you outta those cuffs-" Frank shakes his head.

Not good enough.

Not fuckin' good enough.

"No, no, you gotta call him now."

"Frank-" Her voice breaks on his name.

“Now,” he says again—low, deadly calm in a way that’s almost worse than the shouting. “Call him now.” Madani hesitates. Just for a second. That’s all it takes. Frank twists hard against the cuffs, shoulders jerking forward like he can physically force his way out of the moment, out of the distance growing between him and the hallway you disappeared down.

“Frank—stop—” Mahoney snaps, tightening his grip. But Frank isn’t looking at him. He’s looking past him. Like if he just angles his body right, he’ll see the stretcher again. Like you’re still there if he refuses to blink.

“Matt Murdock’s gonna wanna know,” Frank says, voice cracking at the edges now, fraying fast. “He’s gonna wanna—he’s gonna—” His breath stutters. Because his brain catches up to his mouth.

He’s gonna want to know she’s dead.

The thought lands like a bullet. Frank flinches so hard it looks like pain.

“…She was talkin’ to me,” he says again, quieter. Like if he repeats it enough, it becomes proof. “She was—she said—she said she loved me.” Madani doesn’t answer that. She can’t. Frank swallows hard, throat working like it hurts to exist inside his own body. Then his face tightens—something breaking loose behind his eyes. Silence. The weight of that realization doesn’t crash. It sinks. Slow. Heavy. Irreversible. Frank finally looks down at his hands again, as if noticing the cuffs for the first time. Metal. Cold. Real. He exhales shakily through his nose.

“…I wasn’t fast enough,” he says. Not a question. Not even guilt yet. Just fact. Madani’s expression softens, stepping in closer like she’s trying to pull him back from wherever his mind is going.

“Frank, listen to me—this isn’t on you—” But he shakes his head. Slow. Final.

“I felt her stop,” he whispers. And that’s when it hits him properly. His knees almost buckle. He catches himself before he falls—but only just. Because for Frank Castle, there are a lot of kinds of pain. But the one wrecking through his body right now ?

He never thought he'd feel it again.

But it comes anyway.

Quiet at first.

Then all at once.

His jaw tightens so hard it aches, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together with his teeth.

“No…” he whispers again, but it doesn’t have anger in it anymore. Just disbelief. “No, no—”

Madani watches him carefully now, her grip loosening slightly on his arm like she’s afraid he’ll snap in a different direction entirely.

Frank doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t look at Mahoney. Doesn’t look at anything except the empty stretch of hallway where you disappeared. And it feels like it keeps going.

Endless.

Like if he just walks far enough, he’ll catch up to you.

“…I told her,” he says again, voice hollow. “I told her I got her.” His throat works. Hard. Like the words are stuck there, cutting on the way out.

“I said it,” he repeats, quieter now, almost confused. Like he’s trying to fix it by saying it differently. Faster. Slower. More clearly. Nothing changes. The cuffs dig into his wrists when he shifts again, but he doesn’t even react to the pain. Because it’s not the worst thing hurting him.

“I said it,” he breathes again, shaking his head once, sharp. Like that should be enough to undo everything. “I said it, I said it—” His voice breaks.

"Said what, Frank ?" Dinah rasps.

"That I love her." Dinah's face falls.

"Frank-" And then he stops trying to be anything but honest.

“I didn’t say it back fast enough, Madani.” His head dips slightly, like the weight of it finally pins him down. Frank is shoved into the cop car, his breating laboured. he replays the moment in his head.

You, whispering, using your last fucking breath after he had told you not to, just to tell him you love him.

For the last time.

No, for what you thought would be the last time.

Or maybe for the last time.

And he just held you. he told you to hold on.

And he waited.

He waited for so long before he actually said it back.

The realisation crashes into him like a bullet to the chest. Frank licks his lips and looks up at Madani before whispering,