stay mad - frank castle
pairing : frank castle x f!reader
summary : an argument doesn't stop, not even in the most comprimising positions.
warnings : MDNI, smut, size kink, angst, soft dom!frank, praise kink, p in v, unprotected sex, missionary , cowgirl , little to no comfort, pregnancy, mentions of loss
word count : 8.6 k
a/n: im SO SORRY for being MIA guys...... ANYWAYSSSSSS based on this rq and not proofread ! (also this is considered a prequel to "New Beginnings")
Frank knows he's in trouble the second you slam the cupboard a little harder than necessary.
Not angry enough to break it.
Just angry enough to make a point.
He frowns at the back of your head.
Everything was fine when he came home, you smiled at him, jumped up to kiss him- the usual. But now you're slamming cupboards.
"Woah, baby." He saunters up to you, hands barely reaching your waist before you slap them away.
"Don't fucking touch me right now, Frank." You spit, moving out of his grasp. You don't even look at him. You yank another mug out of the cabinet.
Frank blinks.
The words hit harder than the shove.
He drops his hands immediately, palms lifting in surrender.
"…Okay." You don't answer. You yank another pan out of the cupboard with far more force than necessary. Metal clangs against the countertop. Frank watches you for another second.
"…You wanna tell me what I did?"
"No."
"…Can't fix it if I don't know."
"You can start by leaving me alone."
That… That stings. He studies you carefully. Your shoulders are tight. Your jaw is locked. You're not looking at him. Whatever this is… It's real. He nods once.
"Alright." He backs off. Not because he wants to. Because you asked him to. For all his faults, Frank Castle has never been good at ignoring what you need. Even when it hurts him. He busies himself making coffee instead. The apartment is painfully quiet.
Usually one of you fills the silence.
Today… Nothing.
The kettle whistles. He pours himself a mug. Waits.
You don't come steal the first sip like you always do. You don't even look at him.
"…You eat today?" Silence. He tries again. "…Baby?" The cabinet door slams.
"I said leave me alone." Frank exhales slowly through his nose.
"Alright." Five more minutes pass. He's halfway through his coffee when you mutter something under your breath.
"…Unbelievable."
"What?"
"I wasn't talking to you."
"You definitely were."
"I definitely wasn't."
"You looked right at me."
"I was looking through you."
"…That's kinda mean."
"So was what you did." Frank sets his mug down.
"There it is."
"What?"
"Whatever I did." You whirl around.
"I cannot believe you!"
"I still don't know what I did."
"You seriously don't?"
"No."
"Jesus Christ." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because you're so irritated you're bordering on delirious. "You forgot."
"…Forgot?"
"The appointment, Frank." You say, crossing your arms.
He stares at you.
"…Appointment?"
You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
"You're kidding."
"I'm askin'."
"My fertility appointment." Silence. "The one I reminded you about three times." His brow furrows as he searches his memory. Then—
"…Shit." You throw your hands into the air.
"There it is!"
"I—"
"You forgot."
"I didn't forget— You literally just said 'appointment? I forgot what day it was."
"Frank."
"I did."
"You promised you'd come."
"I know."
"I rearranged it because you said you'd be there."
"I know."
"I sat in that waiting room for forty minutes." Every word makes him wince. "Looking at the damn door every time it opened." His chest caves in.
"Baby…"
"And every single time…" Your voice cracks despite your best effort. "…it wasn't you." Frank drops his head.
"…I'm sorry."
"You didn't even call."
"I couldn't."
"You could've."
"I was pinned down."
"You could've called after."
"I know."
"You didn't."
"I know."
"You forgot."
"I know." You point an accusing finger at him.
"And don't you dare keep saying 'I know.'"
"…Okay."
"'Okay?'"
"…Sorry?"
"'Sorry?'" He rubs both hands over his face.
"I am runnin' outta words here."
"Good."
"You want me to grovel?"
"I want you to have remembered." That one… That one lands. Hard. Because there's nothing clever he can say. Nothing funny. Nothing to argue. He simply forgot. And it hurt you.
"I'm sorry," he says again, quieter this time.
"I know."
"No, I mean it."
"I know."
"I hate that I hurt you."
"I know."
"I would've been there."
"I know."
"If I could redo yesterday—"
"You can't."
"I know." You huff loudly and turn back toward the sink.
"I'm still mad."
"You got every right."
"I know I do." Frank stands there awkwardly for a moment. Watching you aggressively rinse a coffee mug that is already clean.
"…Can I stand over here?"
"I don't care."
"So that's not a no."
"It's barely a yes."
"I'll take barely." He shuffles closer. Carefully. Like approaching a wild animal. You continue scrubbing the mug with enough force to remove the glaze.
"…You're gonna wear a hole through that."
"Mind your business."
"It is my mug."
"It was."
"…Was?"
"I might smash it."
"…Fair." You hear him shifting beside you. Then… Nothing. No talking. No apologizing. Just… Warmth. His shoulder is close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. You ignore it.
Very deliberately.
Another minute passes.
Then you feel it.
The lightest brush of lips…Against your shoulder. You stop scrubbing.
"…Frank."
"Hm?"
"…What are you doing?"
"Kissin' you."
"I told you not to touch me."
"You did."
"…So?"
"I kissed you." You slowly turn your head. He looks entirely unapologetic.
"I noticed."
"I couldn't help it."
"You absolutely could've."
"Probably." Your glare intensifies.
"I'm still mad."
"I know." Another tiny kiss. Same shoulder. You sigh.
"…You're unbelievable."
"I've heard."
"You think kissing me is gonna fix this?"
"No." Another kiss.
"But it makes me feel a little better."
"Frank."
"Hm?"
"…You're irritating."
"I know." He leans in again. This time your jaw. Barely a peck. You keep talking anyway.
"You embarrassed me."
"Mhm."
"I had to explain why my husband forgot."
"Mhm."
"And then I had to drive home alone." Another kiss. The side of your neck. You close your eyes for exactly half a second before remembering you're angry.
"…Don't." He immediately pulls back.
"Sorry.'" You body tense at the lack of warmth.
"…Why'd you stop?" He blinks.
"…You told me to."
"I know. …Don't stop." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"You sure?"
"No."
"No?"
"I'm still furious."
"I know."
"But…" You refuse to look at him. "…don't stop." He smiles properly now. Soft. Relieved. He steps closer again. This kiss lands on your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. You keep ranting through every single one.
"…You have the organizational skills of a raccoon."
"Mhm."
"You'd lose your own head if it wasn't attached."
"Probably."
"I had to eat hospital vending machine crackers." His body wraps around you from behind, his hands venturing to your waist band.
"Gruesome." He hums.
"You're the worst," you whisper, even as you feel his hands slip under your t-shirt, palms rough and cold and good. His thumbs press along the elastic of your sweatpants, a steady knead that says: Let me make it up to you. It's infuriating. It's tender. It's everything Frank is and you hate him for it.
"My eternal punishment," he says, and bites your earlobe, so gently it's almost nothing, while his hands slip even lower. He likes to go slow, torturously slow, and you make a strangled noise in your throat, wrenching another mug from the drying rack just to have something to do.
"You don't get to touch me," you hiss, but your hips betray you, rolling back into him, seeking out the heat, the pressure, the presence that only Frank can provide. He grins against your neck, the bastard.
"I don't?" His hand is already halfway in, two fingers pressed exactly where you need them, all the more infuriating because he knows your body better than he remembers his own fucking schedule. He moves his fingers in slow, rhythmic circles, and you suck in a breath, still determined to out-stubborn him.
"You're not forgiven," you gasp, shoving the mug back into the rack with a clatter. He curls his fingers and you see stars.
"I know," he says, voice low. "Figured I could at least help you relax." The pads of his fingers are so thick and blunt, callused from years of violence and penance, and you hate how your body is already yielding, already trembling, wanting more. You grip the counter so hard it creaks. You will not moan. You bite your own lip, desperate to stifle the sound, but Frank knows. He always knows. He pumps his fingers, slow, relentless, and then uses his other hand to grab your jaw, tilting your head back so he can lick a stripe up your neck.
"You think you can distract me with sex," you say, and your voice is all gravel and tremor, but you manage to make it sound like an accusation.
"Can I?" Frank asks, curling his fingers again, harder this time. Your knees buckle. He catches you, the bastard, and pins you to the counter. "You tell me." The edge of the counter presses into your belly as he works you, your back arching against him, your anger dissolving into something more raw and primal. He doesn't stop, not even when your thighs shake, not even when you turn your head to bite his shoulder through his t-shirt. He fucks you with his hand like nothing else exists in the world, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters, and you hate him so much for it you could die.
“You’re so self centered. I needed you at that fucking appointment, Frank. You promised me.” You whine. His mouth is right at your ear, his breath thick and sweet.
“I know, baby,” he rumbles, his fingers never slowing. “I shoulda been there. Shoulda held your hand and sat in those shit plastic chairs, waited for you, carried you home.” You want to tell him to go to hell but all that comes out is a high, pleading whine. You hate the way your thighs open for him, how your body melts and reforms against his chest, how you want to fuck yourself on his hand just to spite him. “Always so wet for me, even when you’re pissed.” His thumb finds your clit and you nearly jump out of your skin. He’s not gentle with you, not ever, but this is different: he’s punishing you for being right, and you’re punishing him right back by refusing to give in.
“I hope your hand falls off,” you spit, your voice trembling, your ass grinding hard against his cock—already swelling, already pressing into the small of your back. “I hope you get carpal tunnel, you absolute—” He slides his fingers out, drags them up your stomach, and shoves them into your mouth before you can finish. The taste of yourself is sharp and electric. You bite his knuckles for good measure. He groans, a deep animal sound.
“You got a smart mouth, baby,” he growls. One-handed, he spins you, hauls you right off the goddamn ground, and deposits you on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing. He stands between your knees, palms splayed on either side of your thighs, his chest heaving under the gray t-shirt. His eyes are so dark now they’re almost all pupil. “You want me to say it?” he asks, his gaze never leaving yours. “You want me to beg?” You scowl, arms crossed, legs dangling.
“You couldn’t beg if your life depended on it.” He smiles, slow and dangerous.
“Bet you a hundred bucks I could beg better than you could come.”
“Fuck you, Frank.” He tips his head so his mouth grazes yours.
“Yeah, i'm gettin' to that baby.” He peels off your sweatpants, your underwear, tugging them over your hips and down your legs with a gentle patience that only makes you angrier. You want to keep yelling, but he’s already spreading you open, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your chest, his hands so big they bracket your torso. He’s too tall for this, too broad, and the fit is wrong and perfect all at once. He gets on his knees, like a fucking knight or a sinner, and puts his mouth on you. The heat of him, the scratch of his stubble, the obscene, greedy noises he makes—it’s enough to make you dizzy. You try to push him away, but your fingers curl in his hair, dragging him closer instead. He licks you like he’s starving, like you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted, his nose pressed to the soft skin just above your clit. His hands pin your thighs open, wide, wider, until your legs shake and your toes curl and you want to scream at him, for him, about how fucking much you hate him and how much you need him and how much you need to win. But he’s already got you, and you know it. Your whole body bows off the counter, heels digging into the drawers, one hand in his hair the other scrabbling at the slick Formica. He works you with tongue and fingers and goddamn persistence, not giving you a single second to catch your breath, until you break apart and shudder so hard you almost knock a plate off the rack. Even then, he keeps going. You have to push his head away, hard, to get him to stop. He looks up at you, lips wet, a savage kind of pride burning in his eyes.
“Feel a little better?” he asks, smug as hell. You glare at him, panting.
“No. You’re still a fucking moron.” He stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grins.
“Lucky for you, morons got a lot of time for making up.” He hauls you off the counter and into his arms before you can say another word, and you beat your fist against his shoulder, but it doesn’t slow him for a second. He carries you straight to the bedroom, not even pretending to be gentle with the door, and dumps you on the mattress like a sack of flour. You land sprawled, half-naked and still flushed from the last round, but you refuse to look anything but defiant. He peels off his own shirt, then his sweats, slow and deliberate, like he knows you want to look away and refuses to let you. And, Jesus, the man is so fucking big you want to scream. It’s not just his arms or his chest, or the tan lines on his hips or the scars scattered like confetti over every inch of his skin—it’s the cock too, hanging thick and heavy between his thighs, already flushed dark at the tip, almost comically oversized. You want to snark something about it, but all that comes out is a hot, involuntary noise. He hears it. He grins even wider.
“Something on your mind?” He kneels on the edge of the bed, crowding you with his sheer mass.
“I still haven’t forgiven you,” you rasp, and try to slide away, but it’s pointless. He brackets your hips with his hands and yanks you down the mattress, until his cock is pressed right up against your cunt, the heat of it making you dizzy all over again.
“Not askin’ for forgiveness,” he rumbles, voice almost gentle. “Just wanna make you feel good.” You want to say something biting, but he pushes in, slow, and the words die in your throat. You never get used to it; the stretch, the pressure, the way he splits you open inch by inch, like you were built just to take him. He holds your legs open, lets you feel every second as he bottoms out, and the ache is so good you almost forget to be mad.
“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp, wrapping your ankles around his back. He drives in deep, then deeper, folding you almost in half, the weight of him crushing you to the mattress. You’re still mad and you tell him so, every word punctuated by the slap of his hips.
“Asshole,” you snarl. “You’re such a fucking—” He cuts you off with a kiss, open-mouthed and messy.
“Say it,” he demands, “c’mon, tell me.”
“Dick!” you gasp, and he laughs, a genuine huff against your cheek. “Piece of shit—fuck—Frank!” He pounds into you, unforgiving, and you can’t help the way your nails score his back, or the way your words get softer, wetter, more desperate the longer he goes.
“Is that all you got for me?” he grunts, and your teeth chatter as he slams into you again, his huge hand bracketing your throat, just enough to remind you that he could end you, could shatter you, but he never does. He never would. You want to tell him to fuck off, but all that comes out is a broken little moan.
“God, you’re so full of yourself,” you spit, “you—” but he angles his hips, grinding deep in a way that makes your words dissolve into a long, shuddering “oh fuck—” He’s so big you can’t even think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but claw at the sheets and feel yourself open, stretch, throb around him. He’s dragging you right to the edge, inching you closer with every merciless thrust, and you know he won’t stop until you’re wrecked for him, until you can barely remember why you were mad in the first place.
“Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name,” Frank promises, and he bites your jaw, sucking a bruise right into the skin, and you arch under him, desperate, furious, wanting more, always more. Your mind is a white-hot blank, your body all sensation, and you’re so close it’s almost painful. He pistons his hips, the bedframe squealing under the force, his hand sliding down to rub your clit in tight, cruel circles. You can’t hold back now. You wail for him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails carving angry little lines across his back. You want to hurt him, want to make him pay for missing the appointment, but this was always how you punished each other: taking and taking and never letting go. He slows, inches out just enough to make you clench down around the head of his cock, then slams in again, so deep you swear you feel him in your lungs. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the smug bastard, and he’s not going to let you forget it.
“Look at you,” he growls, “—fuckin’ perfect, takin’ every inch. That’s my girl.” He slaps your ass hard enough to make you yelp, and you can’t decide if you hate him or want to keep him in your bed forever.
“Love you like this,” he mutters, “so goddamn tight, so good for me.” You glare up at him, both of you panting, and then he laughs, huge and bright and dangerous, and kisses you like he’s never going to let you go. He keeps fucking you, harder, meaner, using your body like it’s his, and you know it is, it always has been. He shoves your knees up over his shoulders, folding you in half, exposing you, filling you to the point of breaking. The stretch is unbearable. It’s perfect.
“Oh, god- I hate you.” You whine, eyes rolling back. “You left me on that fucking chair on my own. We were- mmph, fuck- we were supposed to be there together, you ass.” His hand finds your cheek, holding you steady as his cock splits you wider than you thought you could go
. "I know, I know, baby," he growls into your mouth, still working you with brute, measured force. "I'm a fuckin' mess, but I'm yours." He kisses you again, tongue hot and possessive, and you taste salt—tears? sweat? rage?—and realize it doesn't matter, you're keening into him, giving back everything he throws at you. He drives into you so hard the headboard rattles. You can barely breathe, but you throw the words in his face anyway, every syllable slurred with pleasure and pain.
"You think—f-fuck—you can just fix this…with your dick?" He smiles, big and wolfish and unrepentant.
"I think you like my dick," he says, rolling his hips, making you feel every obscene inch, every vein and pulse. "Think you fuckin' love it." He’s not wrong. You're so split open around him you can feel yourself flutter, desperate, ungodly stretched, the ache so good it almost makes you cry. But you refuse to give him the satisfaction, so you hold your glare and grind back, matching him thrust for thrust. He lets you, lets you set the pace for half a second, then slams back in to remind you who’s on top.
“You are so self-entitled, Castle.” You whimper, “I needed you and you weren’t there, like fucking always-”
"You done ?” He rasps.
“No, you- fuck- i’m nowhere near done, you fucker.”
“Okay, baby.” He hums, kissing your jaw. He leans over you, his body crowding yours, cock still buried in your cunt so deep you feel like he’s behind your fucking ribcage, and it’s so wrong and so right you could die. He cages your face with his hands, spreads your cheeks open, and moves his hips in small, mean circles.You buck up into him, fighting for leverage, but he just pins you harder, lets you thrash under him and doesn’t slow for a second.
“If you ever make me sit in a waiting room by myself again, I’m leaving your sorry ass.” You try to sound brave, but he’s milking the words out of you, every syllable wrung from a body that’s way too full, way too desperate. He laughs, low and rough, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave teeth marks.
"Never again,” he promises, and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together before pinning it above your head. “You believe me?” You’re going to say no, going to make him work for it, but right then he pulls out almost all the way, just the fat head of his cock stretching you, and slams back in so perfect that you sob. Your walls spasm, clenching down, and you can’t believe how fucking huge he is, how you take him anyway, how you always want more even when you hate him. He sees it all in your eyes, the way you try to hide it, the tears threatening to spill over. He kisses them away, one by one, and you’re so furious you could bite him again but instead you just pull his mouth down to yours, devour him like you’ve needed to for weeks.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and you arch up, hips rolling, chasing the friction. He praises you like it’s a habit, like it’s the only trick he knows, and it works every single time. “Look at you—so tight, so greedy for me, takin’ every inch. You want that? You want more?” You shake your head, but your cunt spasms around him like your body’s begging for everything he’s got. He fucks you a little slower now, letting the drag of his cock set you on fire, making you feel every pulse, every push. You can’t help the noises you make, can’t help the way your thighs tremble, or the way you arch your back so he can get even deeper. He’s got you open, split wide, and you want to scream at him but all that comes out is his name, over and over, like a prayer you never meant to say. He grins down at you, wipes a thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip.
“You’re so goddamn pretty like this,” he says, “when you’re mad, when you’re fucked out, when you’re both.” He slams in harder, and your vision whites out, stars crowding the edges. “Gonna come for me, baby?” He pounds into you, greedy and relentless, pinning your wrists to the bed so you can't even pretend to fight him off. You bare your teeth, arching into his grip.
“I hope you die of blue balls,” you snarl, but it’s all a lie and he knows it. He breathes a laugh right against your mouth, thrusts deeper, almost showing off.
“You think you can put a hex on me?” he grits out.
“I hope your cock falls off.” He snorts, but there’s pride in the way he stretches you, the way he makes you gasp and whimper.
“Not with you around, baby. You fuckin’ love this.”
“I’ve had better,” you say, right before he changes the angle and your vision whites out at the edges. He grins, a wicked curve of his lips, and fucks you harder.
“Liar,” he says. You want to spew more venom, but he presses your knees into your chest again, folding you so tight you can barely breathe. You feel him everywhere, the scraping stretch inside you, the weight of his body, the bruising grip on your wrists. He’s not gentle. He never is when you’re like this. But you need it. You crave the way he pushes you to the edge and holds you there, makes you say things you’d never admit in daylight.
“You’re such a big fuckin’ show-off,” you spit, and he laughs again, but there’s strain in it. He’s close. You can feel the stutter in his hips, the way his breath comes ragged.
“All for you, sweetheart.” He lets go of your wrists, grabs your jaw instead. Forces you to look at him as he grinds you down into the mattress. “No one else gets me like this.” You hate the way your body shudders at those words. You hate the way your cunt clamps down, greedy and desperate. Your hands find his shoulders, digging in, nails dragging red tracks down his back. He fucks you through it, unrelenting, and you want to break him apart but you're the one unraveling.
“Gonna come for me?” He asks it low, like a secret. “Gonna let me feel you?”
“Fuck you,” you say, but your hips are already bucking, your whole body going taut under his. He slows, just enough to drag it out, to keep you from your release.
“Say it,” he growls again, rutting into you with a force that’s nearly punishing, and the world contracts to the thick, obscene stretch inside you and the taste of his sweat on your tongue. Your body’s trembling, every muscle taut, and you’re barely holding it together even as you snarl at him, even as you spit venom between your teeth. He wants to break you down. You want to make him bleed for it. You bare your teeth.
“You wish,” you hiss, but your cunt pulses so hard around him it almost hurts. He pumps in, slow and heavy, all the way to the hilt, then holds, grinding his hips in tight circles.
“Look at you,” he breathes, voice gone. “You’re so fuckin’ close.” You glare at him, blinking away the tears that threaten, and fight the urge to sob. You won’t give him the satisfaction, but you can’t stop your body from getting there, from bucking up, from chasing after the pleasure with every ruined, raw nerve. You shove at Frank’s chest, mostly for show. He doesn’t budge; the man’s a boulder, and you’re a wet sock. He fucks you through the aftershocks, relentless as a tide, and you want to slap him but instead drag your nails down his back until he flinches. Frank’s face is pure wolf now—cheekbones sharp, hair stuck to his forehead, a wildness in his gaze that you’ve missed.
“Go ahead,” he pants, “let it out. Scream if you gotta.” You bare your teeth.
“I’d scream if you could do anything right for once.”
“You keep sayin’ you want me to stop,” he pants, “but you keep clenching up like you’re tryin’ to milk me dry.”
“Somebody’s gotta do it.” Your thighs start to ache, but you’re not tapping out, not ever. “You’re useless at everything else.” You mean to sound brutal, but your voice thins out and you hate yourself for it.
“You could always get yourself a smarter husband,” he says, grinning. You push at his chest, harder this time, and out of pure surprise, Frank falls backwards. You climb onto him, and sink down in one fluid motion. You straddle him with a glare that could kill. The stretch is instant and obscene and so, so good, your knees slamming the mattress on either side of his hips. You brace both hands on his chest and rock forward, and the first bounce nearly knocks the air from your lungs—he’s so fucking deep it’s like he’s built to destroy you. Frank’s hands fly to your thighs, squeezing hard enough to bruise, but you bat them off, digging your own fingers into his ribs so he knows who’s in charge.
“This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” you spit. You’re breathless and shaking, every nerve ending on fire, but you’re not about to let him see you weak. “You’re gonna pay for this for weeks, you know.” Frank just grins and tilts his head, all wolf and hunger, and you hate him for not even pretending to defend himself. He’s not talking now—too busy watching you, soaking up every move, every glare, every flex of your cunt around his cock. You ride him hard, mean, like you’re working out every grudge you’ve ever nursed. Every time you slam your hips down, he throbs deeper, and you swear you can feel him in your fucking spine. You want him to break, to beg, to lose that smug look, but he just lies there, arms behind his head, letting you ruin yourself on him. You lean forward, get right in his face.
“You’re not even sorry, are you?” He looks up at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, and a little smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth.
“Not if this is what I get for fucking up,” he says, all gravel and dare. You want to slap him, wipe that smile off, but your hands are too busy clutching his shoulders as you bounce, as you fuck yourself silly on his cock. The stretch burns. The pressure is perfect. Your thighs start to shake, but you ride it out, never slowing, never letting up, determined to win even if it kills you. You claw at his chest, leave angry red trails just to make sure he remembers this later. He’s watching you. Always watching you. Sweat beads on his brow, his knuckles white where they grip the sheets, but he won’t move, won’t touch you unless you let him. That’s the game, and you know it. You grind down, circle your hips, try to wring him out. You’re so close, the fire in your belly wound so tight you could scream. But you’re not giving in first.
“You’re so full of yourself,” you pant, grinding harder. “You think you can just fuck things better?” He doesn’t answer, but his eyes are molten, and you know he’s close too, know he loves it when you take control, when you use him for your own pleasure. You bite his bottom lip, suck it into your mouth, punish him with teeth and tongue. He groans, deep and broken, and you feel him twitch inside you, thick and hot and perfect. “Go to hell,” you choke, but arch your back, pushing onto his cock even though you’re barely holding together. Frank’s hand flies to your jaw, wrenching your head so you’re forced to look at him. You half expect him to snarl, to spit something back, but instead he grins, lazy and mean, like he’s got all day and all the patience in the world. His big palm fits your face so perfectly you hate him even more. You jerk your chin away, try to glare, but he just holds you tighter, thumb paint-streaking your cheek.
“Goddamn, you’re beautiful ,” he rasps, eyes locked on yours. “Even fuckin’ better when you’re riding me like this.” The praise makes you flinch, makes your whole chest clench up and burn. You want to call him a liar, but your hips are already pistoning, your thighs already shaking with the effort of giving yourself over to the pleasure, the friction, the need to win. His cock hits something inside you and you yelp, slam a fist against his chest. He just takes it, lets you punch him again, and again, like he’s drinking it up. You slow, just enough to torture yourself, rolling your hips in a tight, mean circle. He throbs inside you, every inch carved into your skin, your memory, your fucking future. You want to outlast him; you want to watch him snap. He’s letting you think you’re in charge, but you know he’s just waiting for the right moment, the moment when he’ll flip you over and pound you into the mattress until you can’t even say your own name.
“Frank, you absolute bastard,” you pant, digging fingers into his jaw, hard. “You think this gets you off the hook? You think you’re forgiven just cause you—fuck—just cause you’re good at this?” He nods, solemn, as if he’s on trial, but his hands drift to your waist, then your ass, kneading like you’re bread dough and he’s starving. You hate how it makes you want to whimper.
“Not forgiven,” he says, voice like a dare. “Just want to see you fall apart.” He holds you still, impaled and trembling, then lifts his hips to meet you, a deep, bruising grind that makes your whole spine light up. You try to fight it, try to stay composed, but your pussy is already spasming, already desperate, and you can feel your own slick running down your thighs. You clench down, hard, determined to milk him dry before he gets what he wants. But he’s so fucking big and so fucking deep you can barely hold it together; you start to shake, thighs quivering, hands clawing at his chest for leverage. He gasps, the sound raw and ragged, and his eyes go nearly black. You grit your teeth, refusing to blink. The bastard isn’t going to get the satisfaction of seeing you break, not even as your hips lose their rhythm and start to stutter. You can feel it building—hot, mean, and sharp, like a storm caught in your chest. You rock forward, brace both palms on his shoulders, and grind down, determined to ride him until you wring every last ounce of regret out of him. Frank’s grip tightens on your hips. You can feel the marks already forming, pressure blooming under his fingertips. He meets your glare with one of his own, chin up, like he’s daring you to finish what you started. His thighs flex under you, pushing up to meet every savage roll of your cunt around him, and when you slap his chest, just for the hell of it, he bares his teeth.
“You could say thank you,” he rasps, out of breath and out of excuses. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nails carving semicircles into his pecs.
“Thank you for what, Castle? For forgetting? For making me look like an idiot in front of an entire waiting room?” He thrusts up, hard enough to rattle your bones, and you almost lose it—have to steady yourself with both hands splayed over his heart. “
Thank you for this,” he growls, voice thick, “for letting me make it up to you, even when you wanna cut my fuckin’ head off.” You hate him. You hate the way your body pulls toward him anyway, greedy for every inch, every word, every apology he’ll never say out loud. You bounce harder, the wet slap of skin enough to drown out the snarl in your throat.
“You’re full of shit,” you hiss, but it comes out as a gasp, a plea. Your vision blurs, heat crawling up your spine. “You are such a dick.” He grins, sweat shining on his forehead, and lets go of your hips just long enough to run a thumb along your lower lip, smear the spit and sweat already gathering there. He holds it there, thumb resting right on your mouth, until you bite at it, hard. He doesn’t even flinch. He just laughs, soft and broken.
“That’s my girl,” he says, gentle as a funeral. You want to scream at him, want to smash a plate over his skull, but your thighs are shaking and all you can do is keep moving, keep riding, keep yourself from sobbing into the hollow at his neck. Pleasure builds, builds, builds until your vision goes white at the edges. You try to pace yourself, try to keep the upper hand, but he’s so fucking thick and so fucking deep you can’t stop, can’t breathe, can’t think straight. The room narrows to the place where your bodies join, to the pulse of his cock inside you, to the way your own cunt clenches and flutters, desperate for something you refuse to name. Frank is close. You can hear it in his breath, in the way his hands shake when he finally lets them rest on your ass, kneading you like he owns you.You squeeze his ribs with your knees, harder than you need to, riding him like you could grind the guilt straight out of his bones. His cock feels like it’s battering your fucking cervix and you want to tell him to go softer but you’d rather eat a bullet than let him know he’s hitting the perfect angle. Your hands find themselves tangled in his hair, then his throat, then fists to his chest as he works you in counterpoint—like he’s taking turns with you, giving you all the power just to see how fast you’ll lose control. He’s got that look again, the one that says you’re his favorite thing in the world and also the only thing that could possibly kill him. You want to spit in his face and make him beg for it, but all you can manage is a strangled groan. The muscles in your thighs burn. Sweat beads at your temples. The pleasure comes in shocks, sharp and mean, and you want to chase it until you’re both dust.
You’re meaner than you thought you could be, slapping his chest, pinching his nipples till he hisses, choking him just for effect. He lets you, lets you do anything, and it makes you crazier, hungrier, like if you just ruin him enough you might actually feel better about how much you hate him for missing that appointment.
“You think you’re so fucking clever,” you snarl, the words shaking, “but I know what you’re doing. You’re not gonna guilt-fuck your way out of this one, Castle. I want you to remember how you fucked up every time you look at my face.” His hands slide up your back, try to be gentle, but you bite at his fingers so he’ll stop. You brace on his shoulder, roll your hips slow and mean, keeping your glare locked to his. He grins, a flash of teeth and tongue, and you hate how handsome he is, hate how much you want to make him say your name with the same reverence you hear in his voice when he’s holding you after a nightmare. You slam down again, and again, and the pain is almost as good as the pleasure. Your legs start to shake. You feel the orgasm coming, low and tight, and you don’t want to give it to him but you can’t help it, can’t stop your own body from doing exactly what he wants. He sees it in your face, the way your jaw clenches, and he sits up, wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. His hips piston upwards.
His arms are a steel band around your ribs, trapping you, holding you together as his hips piston upwards. The new angle is devastating. He's impossibly deeper, the thick head of his cock battering against that spot that makes your vision blur. Your angry rhythm shatters, dissolving into helpless, jerky motions as he takes over completely.
"That's it," he grits out against your ear, his voice a wrecked, triumphant rasp. "There she is. My fuckin' girl." The praise is a lit match to gasoline. You hate it. You crave it. Your body betrays you, clenching down around him like a fist. "Come on. Give it to me. Wanna feel you soak my fuckin' cock, mama." You try to hold on, to bite it back, to deny him the satisfaction. But his hand slides down your spine, over the curve of your ass, and his thumb presses hard against your asshole. The pressure is unexpected, electric. It's the final straw. Your orgasm rips through you, violent and absolute. It's not a wave; it's a detonation. Your back arches into a painful bow, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your cunt clamps down on him, rhythmic, unforgiving pulses. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking apart in his arms. The world dissolves into white-hot static and the overwhelming, possessive feeling of him flooding you, his own release a hot, deep pulse that seems to go on forever.
For a long moment, you're both motionless, tangled together, the only sounds in the room are your ragged gasps for air. The anger is gone, burned away, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion and the lingering ache of a fight well-fought. Frank's grip on you loosens, just enough to be gentle. He shifts, carefully maneuvering you both to collapse onto the pile of blankets in the back, his weight a familiar, grounding blanket over you. He doesn't pull out right away. He stays inside you, softening slowly, as if reluctant to break the connection. His face is buried in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin. You can feel the frantic beat of his heart against your back, a frantic drum that's slowly, surely, finding a steadier rhythm. You're a mess. Sweat and tears and God knows what else are drying on your skin. The carpet has left angry red imprints on your knees. Your thighs tremble with aftershocks. And you feel... empty. The rage that was fueling you has evaporated, leaving a hollow space in its chest. Frank shifts again, this time slipping out of you with a wet sound that makes you flinch. The loss is immediate, a sudden cold emptiness. He must feel you tense, because he presses a soft, apologetic kiss to your shoulder.
But instead of rolling towards him... You slide off him and curl up into a ball, turning yourself away from him.
The silence that follows is heavier than any argument. Frank lies down beside you, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cold wall you’re facing. The air in the room is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something else, something acrid and sad. He can feel the distance you’ve put between you, not just in inches, but in a whole damn universe. He’s coming down from the high, the adrenaline and endorphins bleeding out of him, leaving behind a raw, gaping hole where the rage used to be. And in that hole, the guilt rushes in, cold and sharp. He kisses your shoulder over and over, and you can feel him grinning against your skin. He shifts behind you, the sheets rustling.
"You hurt anywhere ?" You don't move. You don't answer. You just keep your eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the pattern of the wallpaper you can't even see. He tries again, his voice a little clearer this time. "Baby." He pokes at your side playfully. "What did i fuck you into silence ?" You shake your head, a small, sharp movement against the pillow.
"Don't." You manage.
"Baby ?" He pushes himself up on one elbow, looming over you, a shadow in the dim light of the bedroom. "Hey, look at me," he says, and it's not a command, not really. It's a plea. You refuse.
"Just leave it, Frank."
"I can't," he says, his voice cracking. "I can't leave it like this." He reaches out, his fingers hovering over your shoulder, afraid to touch, afraid you'll flinch away again. "Did i hurt you ? Are you sore ?"
The dam breaks. A sob tears from your throat, raw and ragged. It's not the angry, crying-from-fury kind of sob from before. This is something deeper, a gut-wrenching sound of pure, unadulterated hurt. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, but it's useless. The tears just keep coming, pouring out of you, years of wanting and hoping and fearing all coalescing into this one moment. Frank stares at you, and the last vestiges of his post-fight, post-sex haze evaporate instantly. The high is gone. The smugness is gone. All that's left is a man who has just realized the true depth of the wound he's inflicted. He looks utterly shattered. He thought he was in trouble before. He had no idea.
"Jesus," he breathes, the sound barely audible. "Oh, Jesus, baby." He moves, carefully, deliberately, closing the small distance between you. You shudder away from him, shaking your head.
God, he's so clueless.
He really thought sex would fix it.
"I hate you so much, Frank Castle." You whisper into the darkness. Frank's body tenses.
"No.. No, baby- Don't say that, mama." You shake your head.
"But it's true. Never in our whole six years of marriage have I ever hated you like this."
"Sweetheart.." You turn to face him.
"You don't know what it felt like when they called my name." His shoulders slump. "You don't know what it felt like when they asked where my husband was." Every sentence is quieter than the last."I had to smile. I had to pretend it didn't matter." Your voice cracks completely.
Frank lowers his head into his hands.
"I'm so sorry."
"I didn't want to hear 'I'm sorry.' I wanted you beside me." He nods.
"I know."
"So when you came home..." You wipe angrily at your face. "...I kept waiting for you to remember." Silence. "I thought maybe you'd left flowers in the truck. Or hidden a card somewhere. Or that dinner was going to be some surprise because you wanted to make up for being late." A humorless laugh escapes you "But you asked me if I'd had a good day. You completely forgot." Frank flinches like he's been struck.
"...Jesus."
"I looked at you. I waited. I even gave you another chance." His breathing becomes uneven. "And you still didn't remember." He finally looks up at you, eyes shining.
"I failed you, mama." he says softly. The words hang in the room. You stare at him for a long time. Then, just as quietly, you answer.
"You did." The words hang in the air between you, a final, brutal judgment.Frank doesn't argue. He doesn't try to defend himself. He just sits there, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed, the picture of a man utterly defeated. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You've won the argument, but it feels like you've both lost. After a long moment, he shifts, moving with a slow, deliberate heaviness. He doesn't try to touch you again. He doesn't try to pull you into his arms. He just slides off the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He stands there for a second, a massive silhouette in the gloom, before turning and walking out of the bedroom. You listen, your breath held tight in your chest. You hear his footsteps padding down the hall. You hear the faint creak of the bathroom door opening. You expect the sound of the shower, the familiar rush of water that would signal him washing the day, and the fight, away. But there's nothing. Just silence.
A minute later, he comes back. He's not holding a towel or his clothes. In his hands are two things: a glass of water and the bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet. He approaches the bed slowly, like he's navigating a minefield, and sets the glass and the pills down on the nightstand on your side of the bed. The one you're facing.
"Here," he says, his voice rough and quiet. "For your head. And… everything else." He doesn't wait for a response. He just turns and walks to the other side of the bed, pulling back the covers with a quiet rustle. He gets in, moving carefully so as not to jostle the mattress too much, and lies down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't try to get close. He leaves a careful foot of empty space between you, a no-man's-land of cooling sheets and unspoken apologies. You lie there, curled in on yourself, the dampness of your tears cooling on your cheeks. You can feel the phantom ache between your legs, a lingering echo of his rough apology. You hate him. You love him. You want him to hold you. You want him to disappear. The contradictions are tearing you apart. You can hear his breathing, slow and even in the dark. He's not asleep. You know the sound of his sleep, and this isn't it. This is the sound of a man waiting, a man giving you space, a man who knows he has no right to ask for anything more.
After a few minutes of silence, Frank speaks.
"What did he say ?" He asks. You frown.
"Who ?"
"The doctor. When you-" He clears his throat. "When you went to the appointment."
Your heart aches.
He's asking because he wants to know how badly he's failed you.
If the news was bad...
He'll spend the rest of his life wondering if he stole the moment you needed him most.
If the news was good...
He'll spend the rest of his life wondering why you had to hear it alone.
You stare at the back of his head.
He still isn't looking at you.
Like he doesn't deserve to.
"...You really wanna know?" His answer comes immediately.
"I wanna know everything I missed." His voice is so quiet it barely reaches you. "I wanna know what they said. What they asked. What you said. What you were feelin'." He swallows. "I wanna know all of it." You close your eyes. Fear crawls up your spine and into your throat. You never spoke about this before. You know how traumatized he is when it comes to families.
To losing them.
"I'm not sure you'll like it."
"I already don't."
"Frank..." Your fingers tighten around the blanket. "You won't look at me the same." He nods anyway.
" I don't care. I'd rather hear it from you." Silence settles again. Finally, you let out a slow breath.
"I'm eight weeks pregnant."
"You're.. what ?"
The words I'm eight weeks pregnant seem to echo around the room, refusing to settle. He stares at you. Then your stomach. Then back to your face. His lips part. Close. Open again.
His breathing suddenly goes shallow.
Fast. Almost panicked.
He shakes his head once, like he's trying to wake himself up.
His eyes dart back to your stomach.
The image crashes into him with brutal force.
Maria.
Lisa.
Frank Jr.
Tiny hands.
A pink backpack.
A toy soldier.
Those fucking carousel ponies.
Blood.
Gunshots.
The smell of cordite. The silence afterward.
His vision blurs so suddenly he has to squeeze his eyes shut.
"I'm pregnant, Frankie."
He doesn't say anything after that. He just settles himself down beside you and stares at your back, his chest heaving.
He wasn't there.
He wasn't fucking there.
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