#How To Stop Divorce Proceedings

[spidey-webs]

The real tragedy of the whole “Batman contingency plans” thing escaping containment into the wider cultural zeitgeist is that it’s become completely divorced from the original context of, you know, the Tower of Babel story-line happening after a beloved member of the Justice League did in fact go mad, become all-powerful, and destroy all of reality.

Which is devastating because it loses so much when you take Hal Jordan out of it! In both adaptations and fan discussions!

Despite only being mentioned by name once in the story, Hal haunts the whole narrative in how unspoken he is. The whole theme of the story is the failure to communicate and how it destroys trust, and an essential part of that is how the whole League won't (and can't) talk about Hal.

When Kyle finally tries to bring him up, Wally shoots him down. He is the forbidden topic at the heart of the League's breakdown of trust!

When the contingency plans plot is removed from the context of Hal's fall from grace, isn't proceeded by a JLA founding member doing what was supposed to be unthinkable, Bruce's actions lose their emotional core. It becomes just "Batman is the coolest and smartest and also a huge untrusting asshole" instead of "Bruce was already on the knife-edge of crippling paranoia regarding his powerful allies, and then one of those same allies started slaughtering people and he couldn't do a thing to stop it, confirming all his worst fears and sending him right over the edge"

You take Bruce's feelings of very personal betrayal out of the equation. He's not operating on just hypotheticals, but fears that were heartrendingly justified!

Bruce claims the reason for his plans on some past mind-control incident, but Clark calls Bruce out on it being an excuse.

Maybe that's how it started, but there's a reason the fail-safes aren't against mind-control and possession. The fail-safes are ways to permanently stop your friends should they willingly or unwillingly become a threat.

And they both know it. They've argued about Hal several times before.

Bruce has a lot of unresolved feelings about Hal. He's still hurting.

The contingency plans are not some cold, clinical necessity. They are the product of pain.

I think all readings and tellings of the Tower of Babel should be followed by the JLA/Spectre story.

It provides the necessary emotional conclusion to the unspoken conflict! Because they finally have to talk about it! They heal the broken trust! Bruce admits how much Hal's betrayal hurt him and his faith in heroes, and gets past it! Instead of letting a former and potential future threat be eliminated as his fail-safes say he should, he invites the threat back, even if he can't guarantee it won't happen again, because he chooses to believe in his friend!

The contingency plans are a cool and interesting concept, but again, you can't just...take Hal out of it. You can't make it about some evil alternate versions, or about Clark. By doing that, you lose the most heartbreaking part of the story. Batman isn't in the right or the wrong, but he's not heartless. He's brokenhearted.

[girl-lostconnection]

Small continuation to this. @nightunite @beloveds-embrace I remember your interest in Price’s divorce, so here we go

John Price promises

Thinking thoughts about ex-husband John, who’s never there, who’s married to his work in the best and the worst sense of the phrasing. He misses birthdays and Christmases and Valentines and everything in between.

He promises-promises-promises, kisses the crown of your head, eyes tired and deeply seated in the web of his crow’s feet — dark blue of his irises so unreachable it feels like choking when you try to even try and touch the bottom of it.

Pressure changes, pressure threatens to burst your eardrums, pressure promises to make you sorry for trying to push through it.

John sighs and turns away, shoulders a rough square, tension already lacing through him because yeah, of course, luv, not like he doesn’t know that he’s missing your anniversary.

Yes, he knows. Yes, he gets it, sweetheart, he really does, but didn’t you know who you are marrying?

He is not even angry, exasperation of his tone slicing through your chest and it almost feels like condescension — the way he keeps patting your head and trying to kiss it better, like a spare kiss and a kind word would suffice for everything he didn’t live up to.

Like it can reinstate your trust in him after another cancelled date and another lonely dinner when he swore he’d get a day off and never did.

Honestly, he has no one but himself to blame and all things considered some people would say it’s a miracle you lasted this long with him.

It’s wonder you loved him so much you forgot that you need some love too. A true miracle you always loved him and never looked the other way, god knows he had to fight a lot of potential suitors for your hand before you decided you want him.

Angry, stubborn, moody and controlling him.

You picked him up as an explosive sod in his mid twenties and made him the man he is now, carefully manoeuvring through the triggers of his and making him smile when it all felt like a big load of shite.

Why did you even settle for him?

Why does he now feel like you settled for him — a closed off git who spent his whole life proving that he’s worthy of respect and his rank and responsibility.

And you.

God, it’s been years and he’s still not sure if he really is worthy of you.

John stares down at the divorce papers on his desk and feels something very similar to hurricane unfurling in his chest, rage pounding inside his head, panic icing our all warmth that was there, ring on his finger suddenly so slippery he has to curl his fingers into fist.

Can’t risk losing it. Not when he’s already losing you.

Simon watches him sometimes, John notices, but Ghost never says anything or perhaps, he does, just not to John. Small mercies.

John can’t help but feel a twinge of acidic envy at Simon getting along with his bird so well — his pretty partner picking up the behemoth of 141’s lieutenant.

Simon’s partner who always murmurs something in his ear and Ghost’s eyes crinkle in the corners.

Simon’s partner who seems content with how things are and with how often Simon is absent and Price just doesn’t bloody get it.

Simon works almost as much as he does, Simon is always away, Simon is never home for holidays.

And yet Simon’s partner says “yes” to a proposal and grins like the happiest person in the world whilst standing at the altar.

And yet Simon’s now spouse is bringing him snacks and is kissing his jaw and doesn’t fucking plan to divorce Simon.

Drives John right up the fucking wall, it does.

But there is no way he’s going to ask his lieutenant why his marriage isn’t failing, why his spouse seems to still love him. Why John’s doesn’t.

John drags his feet through the whole proceeding, John watches you with heavy bottomless eyes but stays stubbornly silent because okay, that’s your choice.

You want to get rid of him so badly that even wedding vows aren’t stopping you? Off you go then, he’s not gonna tie your leg to a kitchen table and lock you in the house.

John just scoffs and looks away but still hides your car keys in his fatigues so you don’t leave after another fight.

John murmurs “alright then”, but doesn’t sign the fucking papers because “I’m sorry, love, I lost them” and asks for the seventh copy.

John nods and says he’s letting you go if that’s what you want, but he doesn’t take off his ring and shakes his head when you offer to give him back your engagement one.

Yeah, it was his mom’s but it’s yours now, alright, love? Always yours.

He’s yours.

John is the wickedest man there is because he says one thing thinks another and does the third one.

And never never admits what the fuck is going on, because he can’t, because there has to be something wrong with him if even his lovely spouse is running.

Because John must be sinking if even his better half doesn’t think it’s worth staying and he doesn’t say anything but just stays in the kitchen while you are shuffling around the house.

Drinks the same cup of earl grey for hours on end, twirling spoon in it mindlessly, nervous tremor to his left wrist getting harder when his head gets a little too dark.

You hover in tne doorway, eyes deep with something he isn’t sure how to reach and it would be so easy if you said something like always. If you made the first step so he doesn’t have to.

But you just stand there, awkwardly shifting weight from one leg to another before you finally leave upstairs to get ready for bed.

Feels just like another defeat for John and at this point he is not even sure he knows how to play.

His tea gets cold the longer he sits on a wooden chair, lower back aching in protest but he just stares out of the kitchen window in the darkness of the night.

John says he can do this, John says it’s nothing, John says that he will sign it all.

John promises-promises-promises and still crawls in your bed, wrapping arms around you and breathing in your scent.

John whispers sweet quiet things in your skin, pleads you to reconsider, murmurs that he can’t do it without you.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder and scoops you up in his embrace, covering your whole body with his (come morning, he’ll pretend to be thoroughly asleep when you pull yourself out from underneath him just to be able to leave the bed).

Price still kisses your temple before work, press of his lips to your skin is more of a ritual than a routine, a second nature of his to love your whole being.

Price sits at his desk for a good hour before realising he hasn’t been writing a single fucking thing, he just can’t.

Not when his stomach churns at the thought of you right now packing up your things.

Of you leaving the house and leaving him.

Simon watches him carefully and at this point, it’s bloody annoying, can’t a man at least go through the divorce in peace?

Ghost huffs air out, rolls a fag between his teeth, tilting his head to the side — eyes heavy bottomless nothing, eyes the colour of graveyard soil, eyes-dark-holes that lead to a darker place of Simon’s head.

“Thought you didn’t want to divorce ‘em.”, Simon hums out like it’s a fact, like John hasn’t been missing every important date and important thing for the past few years.

Like John has been a good husband that deserves to have good things and deserves you.

Truth to be told, even before he became captain, John never fucking deserved you.

Could have lived a thousand lives and never earned the right to call himself your husband.

Still did though.

(Doesn’t matter if he deserved it if he really fucking wanted it, right?)

John rubs his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms down until the kaleidoscope of his ganglion cells doesn’t start to dance with flashes of colour.

Fucking hell, what is he even doing here? How did things turn to be so complicated?

“I don’t.”, he doesn’t realise he has said it out loud until he pulls his hands off his face and Ghost is still watching him with the same unnerving intensity.

He will get his lieutenant sunnies on one of these days and will never have to deal with this headache of a gaze.

“Then why do you?”, Simon asks like it’s simple, like it’s a fucking fairytale that Price can fix with a snap of his fingers or a kind word or a kiss of true love.

What’s the point of his true love if he’s not sure you can even feel it?

“How do you do it?”, John asks instead, words tasting like acid in his mouth, scraping his tongue and tender insides of his mouth, bleeding sickening weakness down his throat.

His father would have smacked the taste out of John’s mouth if he heard the way he sounds right now.

But Ghost is not his father, Ghost just watches him silently, the only indicator that he even heard the question is a raised eyebrow of his. This cunt.

“Your spouse.”, John adds grumbling, dragging his feet through the whole conversation because god, he hates having talks. “They seem to be happy. Mine’s aren’t. ‘ts like I’m snuffing out their fire”, admitting it is even worse than thinking.

Admitting it is his personal defeat, his biggest flaw, his grandest fuck-up. Admitting it is a weakness.

Yeah, he deserves this fucking divorce all right. Miracle you put up with his arse for this long.

Ghost watches him with annoying understanding, with something almost akin to amusement, the same way you watch a dog run into clear glass doors repeatedly and then whimper on the porch in confusion.

“When’s the last time you talked?”, the question catches John off guard because it is so…normal? He honestly expected more silence or something more obscure but instead he is just awkward again.

But before John even gets to answer, Simon adds “Actually talked, John. Not snapped at each other like a pair of miserable toads”

Price has half a mind to tell Ghost to go fuck himself and his fucking talks but coincidentally Ghost is the one of them who is not going through the divorce, so John shuts his fucking gob.

“Think when you two actually connected like people. You’ve been together longer than some live in our line of work, sir”, Simon presses a cigarette butt down the ashtray, thin thread of smoke still rising off his desk.

“But when you are together this long you start forgetting that the other party can’t read your bloody mind. Goes for both of you by the way”, he chuckles, crossing arms over his chest, muscles rolling under the dark sweater of his.

“Reckon it’s third time they’ve been wringing you through it, isn’t it? Why’d you think they won’t back down now? What changed, eh?”

Price keeps rolling this pep talk on repeat the whole day, his mind a broken record speaking with the voice of his lieutenant and watching him from inside out with your eyes.

When was the last time you talked to each other?

When was the last time he asked you about the book you were reading? When was the last time you asked him about the op he came back from?

What changed?

John rubs his face, anxious sharp coils crawling up his arms to his heart, tremors getting worse before he has to physically force himself to stop and take a breather.

Not as young as he has been once, can’t just power through it anymore.

John shifts his weight from one leg to another, standing in front of the front door to your house and hates his own arse because what is even going on with him.

Price doesn’t want to think about the possibility of house being empty when he steps inside.

He will burn this bridge when he gets to it.

John gets inside and slowly pulls the heavy boots off, carpet cushioning his steps to the kitchen, warm glow of it welcoming him the same way your arms usually did.

You sit with his cup already filled up, steam rising off of his Earl Grey, something in his chest clawing from inside out in the open.

You don’t say anything but just raise to your feet and get ready to leave. So he can have his evening sit down with a cup until you fall asleep.

So you can hover for a moment longer in the doorway like the ghost of your own marriage before taking your leave and pretending later that you don’t melt into John’s embrace. That you don’t curl into him at night.

Price watches you, eyes heavy and dark, fingers of his right hand twitching involuntarily.

Here it comes. Now or never, John.

“Would you…do you want to have a cuppa with me? I bought these biscuits you seem to fancy, saw them on my way home, I—”, oh for fuck’s sake and now he’s rambling. This is just prime, John, that’s exactly how you were supposed to sound.

He coughs in his fist trying to mask the embarrassment, available hand still gripping the poor baggy of biscuits like it might run if he doesn’t do it.

What does he even think he is doing, offering his spouse fucking biscuits halfway through their divorce? He’s gone mad, that’s for sure.

“You are probably tired though. Must have had a long day with…everything.”, he adds softer, eyes down in his cup. Giving you an out.

Giving himself an out.

No need to have all these awkward conversations with your emotionally inept husband if you get divorced, right?

He’s a fucking coward when it comes to you. Always has been. Maybe that’s part of his “charm” you bought into?

“I can stay for a cup.”, you murmur quietly and plop himself down next to him. No cup in sight, John’s cheeks aching in a way that feels entirely too unnatural but your eyes crinkle and god, you are the prettiest, aren’t you, sweetheart? “Gonna make me one or you plan to stand there and look handsome?”

Teasing snaps him out of it, force of his smile just getting harder and he must be beaming at you like a proper idiot. But you don’t seem to mind too much.

Maybe you still like him after all.

“Just a moment, love”, John says, kiss to your cheek making his heart flutter, warmth spreading in his chest when you ravage through the baggy and bite off half of the biscuit.

Got them right this time, didn’t he? Seems like he’s still good for something.

John spends his whole life proving to himself that he deserves you and never asks whether you think he does or no.

John knows how to make your tea since your third date and knows what kind of biscuits his love fancies since the second one.

John decides he’s going to marry you on the first date you two have.

There is something bittersweet in brewing tea for a spouse he will always love and will always fail.

Because that’s what he does, because he never learned how to talk it out and he isn’t sure a daft old dog like him can learn any new tricks.

Coward’s way out.

No need to watch him claw his chest open and present you the infected wound of his heart if you get divorced, right?

Yeah, he never deserved you. But he always wanted.

John presses a dozen kisses to your face while he moves around the kitchen.

Each one a haste warm thing, more of a breath on your skin then actual touch.

That’s as much as he can muster up of actual tenderness without crumbling at your feet and swallowing his pride.

It all feels like a dead end. Like there is nowhere to go from here, he’s looking straight in the wall and he’s never been one to barrage through the obstacles.

Maybe that’s what was lacking. Maybe that’s why Simon’s spouse still loves him.

“You are thinking awfully hard there”, there is no malice in your voice, only quiet laughter and it spreads through Price’s achy bones like hot bath water, bubbles raising to his thorax.

Prettiest fucking thing you are with laughter like a hundred bells. Absolute darling.

John hums quietly, eyes meeting yours and he has a thousand different blunt questions that wary in degrees of hurt and confusion but you are still here.

Sitting in your kitchen, sipping tea he made for you, wearing his bloody sweater.

His spouse, his love, his partner for life.

“I got really lucky, didn’t I?”, it’s a rhetorical question, but there is choking tenderness the size of Jupiter in John’s mouth and he isn’t sure how to tell you that he’d kiss the soles of your feet every day the same way he kisses your forehead.

That bathes with you felt holier than any baptism, that he was closest to god when he was with you, your fingers combing through his hair like he’s something precious. Like he’s something you love.

John doesn’t know how to express the enormous amount of love he feels when you smile at him, when you yell at him, when you push back and snap your fingers in his face, his cheeky treasure.

John doesn’t think he earned the right to pleadask you to reconsider.

“I got more than most people ever did”, he murmurs softly and laces his fingers through yours, softly squeezing — callouses of his hands rubbing on the skin of yours.

There is a small twitch in the muscle of your jaw, your eyes intense enough to make him sorry if he tries to push harder and reach the bottom of your head.

“What’s that?”, your voice cracks the same way it usually did when you’d catch flu, cough ravaging your throat, rasp weaving itself in your vocal cords.

John looks at you for the first time in a very long time and there is no exasperated condescension in his eyes, crows feet of his eyes melting into a smile so gentle you feel like crying. This bastard.

“You.”, he murmurs, thumb circling the knuckle of yours, eyes soft in a way they haven’t been in forever and this is so unfair, he could ask you anything and you could never say no when he does it like that. “I got you.”, he adds quietly and his smile gets gentler. “Even if I never deserved to, I just want you to know that I always wanted it. Always wanted you. Always will”

John holds you like your are precious fragile thing, his skin warm from holding his cuppa, palm cupping your face when he angles your face up and kisses your brow.

Like it’s a goodbye.

“You deserve to be happy, love. You deserve to feel loved, not just know that you are”, Price says and wipes away a stray tear of yours, his eyes creasing in the corners to hide the redness of them, sharp lashes wet with something he would never admit.

Weakness that bleeds down his throat and chokes him out. Tenderness he never learned because men aren’t about the sappy talk.

John thinks one thing, says another and does the third one so he never mentions that he knows you have the stack of copies of divorce papers in your nightstand and never mentions that he left a signed one on top of them.

You deserve better than silent signature and stubborn husband.

You deserve better than him. But god, if it doesn’t kill him to admit it.

Just one more thing John Price will never talk about.

[songmingisthighs]

Missing Out

group : ateez

pairing : dilf!mingi × reader

genre : smut

wc : 4.1 k

tw : mdni, explicit smut; daddy kink, teasing, dirty talk, age gap (mingi's like mayhaps at least a decade older, but both are still within legal limits), thigh riding, spitting, alcohol consumption (not to the point of being drunk, it's just for vibes and... spitting lmao),

a/n : frfr i hope he doesn't see this fic because God i would not be able to defend myself. tbh i planned on posting this on mingi's bitthday but i got shit happening to me. shit without my consent and I'm just trying to ride the stress like gandalf hopped up on cocaine riding smaug. so ykw i decided to post this on my birthday instead lmao. special thanks to @kitten4sannie for listening to me drop some ideas while i was on a road trip, i did some adjustments but it's still sexually frustrated dilf!mingi this fic is finally out so i hope you and everyone enjoy it <3

a/n/n : i take no responsibilities for any calf cramp that may or may not happen but alyssa, i still blame you for the great leg cramp at ass o'clock

a/n/n/n : my birthday sucks because it felt more like public service than anything but i got ticket to go to singapore again so i'll be reunited with my little brother and little sisters soon✌️ i'm raising money for my mental wellbeing which is so totally code for i'm trying to find a way to make my shituation better by making myself just the slightest bit happier after today's shenanadoodles

buy me coffee ?

After the day Mingi had, the cold drink in his hand felt like the reward he deserved. It was only then that Mingi realized why people always say that the Family Court is rough. Still, of course, it was extra rough for him because his ex-wife, the horned creature incarnate (a goat, not the devil), had dragged his name through the mud just to get the maximum alimony because she was a narcissistic bum with no life skill to fall back to as if Mingi was the one who told her to quit her job as a dental hygienist when they first got married.

During the mediation meetings and court proceedings, she took all of the potshots she could While no one took her seriously, it still pained Mingi because the more she and her lawyer attacked him, calling out all of his insecurities and questioning his character, the more obvious it was that Mingi had wasted 9 years of his life on this loser and he missed out on all of the marital milestones. The main sore spot was having kids. She argued that putting her body through pregnancy was out of the question because there were risks that could cause her body to look weird in the future and it's inhumane how a woman's body had to contort in such a way to accommodate another living being. But when her breast implant popped when she slammed the car door too hard, it was 'a normal occurrence'.

As much as his friend Yunho told him not to, Mingi couldn't help but wallow in the time he absolutely WASTED on the bitch only to be screwed over. The only good thing that came out of the divorce was the fact that he got out of it without having to pay alimony because his ex-wife had become too cocky with her cards. But still, Mingi had to give her the car, the savings account (that wasn't much compared to anything considering she had drained it to accommodate her filler addiction and alcohol dependency), and Tony Son, their personal trainer, the one thing Mingi could credit her because she had been the one who introduced him to the man who was able to sculpt his body to perfection.

"Is this seat taken?"

Mingi snapped his head to the side to see a woman younger than he, dressed in a tight-bodiced red sparkly dress that showed just enough cleavage for it to be classy rather than trashy and the A-line satin skirt stopped just three fingers width atop her knees. Slowly, Mingi nodded and gestured to the seat on his right side wordlessly. It wasn't until the woman flagged down the bartender and ordered her drink did Mingi questioned why she sat next to him when there were other seats in the bar.

"So, are you alone?" she asked, striking up a conversation with Mingi which honestly caught him by surprise because he had been told that he had a resting bitch face that doubled in intensity when he wasn't in the mood and he was doubling in his bad mood. "Yeah... I am, so..." his words allude to him wanting to be alone, but there was something about the person next to him that intrigued him so much so that his eyes seemed to be glued to her. Just the sight of her drinking her vodka cranberry made Mingi's eyes travel from her face down to her lap, watching the way she moved so gracefully. "So... You don't mind my asking why a man as handsome as you are would be sitting alone with a scowl on his face," she pointed out, forcing Mingi to consciously unfurrow his eyebrows and fake taking a sip of his drink, "I'm not scowling, I'm just tired and pissed off for wasting 9 years on a selfish bitch that deprived me of anything I want in life," he spat venomously, even the slight mention of his ex sent a really unpleasant taste in his mouth. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to help?" She pouted, inching closer to Mingi as somewhat of a signal. Noticing this, Mingi scoffed and shook his head but he still entertained the woman, "Got a time machine to help me undo the past 9 years?" "No, but maybe I can give you what your ex couldn't."

You couldn't help but bite your bottom lip when the look of shock on Mingi's face melted into intrigue. You had been watching him for an hour, sitting all alone, nursing his one drink as he toyed with his ring before chucking it into his breast pocket. Thank God he did because you were not about to approach a potentially spoken-for man. It took you a while to get substantial evidence of his status and it wasn't just because you were distracted by his plump ass in those slacks and the matching suit jacket and slightly unbuttoned black dress shirt didn't help your case.

"Little girl, I think I'm a bit too... Far for your reach," Mingi pointed out, raising an eyebrow at you as he wasn't sure that you knew what you were offering him. Mirroring him, you raised your eyebrow and shifted so that you faced him fully as you raised one leg and cross it over the other, successfully inviting Mingi to get a glimpse of more skin. "You don't know me or what I can do, sir," you smirked challengingly, now openly inviting him to poke you further.

You were delighted when you saw Mingi's jaw clench and throat bob after you called him sir. It was proof to you that Mingi had some sort of inclination of being in control and his little confession about not getting what he wanted from his ex-wife might be a glimpse of the kind of fun you could get from him. So without hesitation, you decided that you were going home with him.

Surprisingly, Mingi responded positively by leaning in to cup your chin and pull you close, just a wispy breath away from having your lips meet and you so desperately wanted to taste his because they just looked so damn juicy and plump. "You don't want to know all the things I've been deprived of... Baby." Your eyes darken and your legs crossed tighter to suppress the sudden arousal washing over your core, excited at the confirmation that Mingi was playing into your games just as you had wanted. All you needed to do was lock this down. So you let your hand lay on his thigh, squeezing it suggestively and enjoying the feeling of his muscle tensing underneath you each time your hand slid closer to his crotch to the point that your nail was scratching the inner side of his thigh just right. Despite being physically affected by you, Mingi still maintained eye-contact, daring you to poke his button just right.

"Yes, I do... Daddy."

In the blink of an eye, Mingi smashed his lips on you and all of the oxygen was knocked out of your lungs in one go. His lips were soft but the way he used them was rough yet calculated. You could taste the smoky whiskey on his tongue as he slipped it inside your mouth. Little did you know, he too, was enjoying the way you tasted. Your lip gloss had a sweetness to it that made him wonder if you're the type to plan things or if it was just a happy coincidence. He also took note of how you allowed him to lead you and the more he asserted himself onto you with every nibble of his lip and every caress of his tongue, showing that you're more on the submissive side and he likes it. A lot. The more you felt pleasure, the more you pleasured him back as evidenced by your hand rubbing against his raging boner.

Mingi smirked at the way you whimpered when he finally pulled away from you to slap a couple bills on the counter before he got off the stool, pulling you along with him. You wobbled slightly but Mingi immediately pulled you flush on his chest and despite having just made out with him, you found the gesture very hot. "Wanna go see if you can keep up with the list of things I missed out on?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Mingi must be some kind of a business owner because no way he would have had a rather impressive office where you found yourself in. Well, on top of him on his couch, grinding your panty-less core against his thigh with your top down, allowing the older man to ogle at your tits as you tried to make yourself cum.

"Is that the best you can do?" Mingi taunted, circling his crystal glass which produced a tinkling sound from the ice in the drink he poured as soon as you reached his home. "Daddy, I want you to touch me," you whined but your hip was still relentlessly moving after making a big deal of how his thighs were so strong and you wanted to sit on them like a throne. So instead of just sitting, Mingi told you to make yourself useful and prep your pussy without his help and he wanted you to do it by riding his thigh. His thick, glorious thigh. "Don't you want to touch me, daddy?" you teased, cupping your boobs and tweaking your own nipples whilst throwing your head back, making a show out of it just to get Mingi to touch you. Sure, Mingi was intrigued, but he knew damn well that he was holding the reigns and he had to hold himself back from jumping at the opportunity to completely ravish you too soon. "I do, baby, but you're being a brat right now and refusing to listen to me. Had I wanted that, I would've stayed with my ex-wife." Your head snapped back up at the mention of his ex-wife and you glared at his smug smirking face, "You have me half naked on your lap and you still mentioned your ex-wife?" you gathered your skirt in your hand, exposing your cunt to Mingi's eyes and slowed your pace to a prolonged drag that left long, dark stain courtesy of your arousal.

Finding your petulance adorable, Mingi chuckled and pulled you in for a searing kiss with one hand cupping your chin and the other slapping you on the ass as if telling you to speed up your movement. "You're an adorable little doll and I'm gonna break you," he muttered against your lips before you could reply to him, Mingi tugged your hair back as he casually took a sip from his drink. The action made you yelp and Mingi swiftly leaned over and spit the drink into your mouth and clamped your jaw shut. "Swallow," he commanded and as you came down from being surprised, you stared into Mingi's eyes. At first, you only stared at him, feigning defiance just for fun and Mingi found that both intriguing and annoying. His grip moved to tightly grasp your jaw and he growled, "Swallow. It." He demanded in a stern voice that made your panties more damp as your cunt clench, leaving you unable to do anything more than whine and swallow the burning liquid. Mingi found you very mesmerizing even on an act as simple as you taking heed of his words. The stray spit and alcohol that trickled from the corners of your lips enhanced the glimmer of your smudged lipstick and lipgloss combo, turning Mingi on with how effortlessly sultry you looked. He was down and he was down bad. He wasn't even sure if he was down because Once the liquid was no longer there, you rolled out your tongue to proudly show your obedience and Mingi let out a shuddered breath seeing you just blindly following his orders like the good puppet you are.

"Fuck, you're gonna be the death of me."

In a flash, Mingi flipped you both around so that you were trapped underneath him with your head strategically on the armrest. The elevation allowed you to watch as Mingi dragged a hand down your body as if you were a work of art. "All this time... I was missing a lot all this time, that bitch took nine years out of me and gave me nothing," Mingi shuddered both in anger and in arousal. The contrasting thoughts between being so angry at his former partner and the excitement of being rewarded by being able to ravish you felt like waves crashing inside him. It was thrilling. It was exciting. It got his adrenaline pumping and God, he felt alive. "Poor baby," you purred all the while slowly popping the buttons of his dress shirt off to reveal the soft skin underneath, "You're so frustrated, It's a good thing I'm here now huh?"

You swung your leg up and used the tip of your toe to tilt Mingi's chin upwards maintaining a somewhat neutral expression but the twinkle in your eyes indicated clear intrigue. "Tell me all the things you want to do. What do you want most?" the question made Mingi roll his eyes back and he grabbed your leg by your ankle. "You nasty slut, you want to have an older cock so bad you're enticing me with empty promises, huh?" He mumbled against the skin of your leg, trailing his lips down from the heel and lower to your calf as his body followed down until he eventually stopped at the mid-section of your inner thigh. You helped him by flipping your skirt up, exposing your cunt wholly to him and slotting the leg you lifted on his shoulder, "Empty promises? I want to give you whatever you want daddy, and in order for me to be able to do that, I need to know what it is."

Thinking that he had nothing to lose anyway, Mingi smirked and decided to test you. "I want a baby," he stated, "I want to put my baby in you," he said oh so casually as if he hadn't had his fingers poking and prodding your cunt like they just belonged there. Truthfully speaking, Mingi was expecting you to push him off and ran away screaming because what kind of a hookup just casually dropped a bomb as big as he did?

But it seemed like Mingi's luck was turning around for the better because you replied by reaching forward to free his cock from his pants, trying as best as you could to suppress the surprise at Mingi's size (but failing as evidenced by the way your eyes bulged slightly and your tongue peeking out to lick your bottom lip in hunger) before you leaned back and opened your legs widely as an invitation for him. "Then do it, fuck me so hard and dumb and deep that I'd have no other choice but to have your baby," you smiled up at him. Mingi could only stare at you in shock initially, not really knowing what you meant until you whined and pulled him closer using the leg that was hooked on his shoulder. "Daddy, don't make me wait too long. Come on, put a baby in me!" you pleaded, cunt throbbing with eagerness to feel Mingi's cock stretching you now that you already caught a glimpse.

The shock melted away from Mingi's face and even as he was guiding his cock to your core, he was still carefully watching your face, not wanting to waste any twitch or shift in your face from feeling him but also he was trying to be careful in case you showed him any indication of regret or if you changed your mind. But the way you whined and rolled your hips so your wet cunt could meet his cock more gave him the green light.

"You dirty slut," Mingi grunted before he shoved his length inside you in one fluid movement. The accumulating arousal from you riding his thigh provided proper lubrication but his sheer size was not something you're used to so your body tensed up at the impact. "F-fuck, daddy, y-you-" "Am I tearing you apart, baby? Are you being split into two on daddy's fat cock?" he asked in faux worry that was just him being condescending towards you. But you don't care, you found it hot even when he talked down to you as if you were nothing but his plaything. "Yes, yes, daddy, I'm being split open on your cock but I love it! I love it so much!" you moaned, hands clawing at his skin, causing red streaks to appear from the pressure of your nails, "Fuck, I want more!"

With that, Mingi pushed your legs up by your thighs, exposing more of your lower half to him. "Be daddy's good girl and hold these open, I wanna see your pussy taking my cock raw," he hissed, eyes zeroing on the way your puffy lips split open to accommodate his size. Carefully, as if assessing a great piece of art, Mingi watched attentively The view almost brought tears to his eyes but he channeled the somewhat endearing moment into fucking you stupid into the mattress.

Each drag of Mingi's cock felt like fire against your inner walls. Although there was a slight discomfort with each movement, the added pleasure of being filled like you had never before made you addicted.

If you thought you were enjoying yourself, Mingi was very close to combusting and he was trying his best to not cum too soon as he didn't wanna be branded as the geezer who came too early. But he couldn't help it, not with the way both his ego and his cock were stroked. It was as if you were made for him and he felt that the moment he entered your sopping cunt. So Mingi shifted his focus to you instead, working to get you to cum first.

"Come on baby, cum for daddy. I need you to cum first so you'd be ripe and open for me to fill you up," Mingi huffed, pressing his pointy nose against the junction of your neck that sent tingles down your spine, "We need to do our best to make sure that you'd be good and pregnant, right?" The weight of his words caused your head to spin as the thought of him filling you full for his own pleasure filled your mind. "Yes, yes daddy, make me cum please," you whined into his ears, your body reacting almost automatically by rolling your hips against his own to match his speed and desire. Mingi growled hungrily and his pace quickened significantly as the impact got harder. You were sure that after this your ass would be different shades of red and blue but you couldn't care less. Especially if Mingi wanted to do more rounds with you, you'd gladly wear the bruises like a badge of honor.

"Fuck, you're so hot like this, you're so hot when you're willing and submissive for me," Mingi grunted, even verging on whining into your ears because you just felt so good to him but he held firm, "Are you close, baby? Are you cumming soon?" Lucky for him, you nodded hurriedly, confirming that you were close. Your brain had been marinating in the dizzying arousal that it was embarrassingly quick for you to nearly reach your climax in a rather short time. However, your response was deemed lacking to Mingi who wanted to hear a verbal response from you. Mingi was quick to slap you hard on your left tit as a punishment, feeling the need to chastise you for simplifying your response.

The words died on Mingi's tongue and his hips sharply halted to a stop when he saw you yelp and shudder before coming completely undone underneath him, writhing pathetically as your nails grazed his skin, leaving red streaks for Mingi to show off for days on end. His eyes darken when he saw tears pooled in your own eyes before dropping, creating the illusion of your eyes sparkling which served a rather complex combination of innocence and sinful. "M-M- Daddy," you whimpered in almost a hushed tone, barely comprehensible but to Mingi the sound was thunderous in Mingi's ears, ringing, because his baby girl needed him. His baby girl wanted him. His baby girl who's willing to give him anything he could ask for was longing for him. So who is he to deny you?

Seeing you in such a vulnerable state seemed to unlock something primal in Mingi because while you were reeling down from your orgasm, Mingi was instead put into some sort of a trance. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, slightly hoping that he could taste your sweetness in the air, and his hips restarted with a pace so hard and quick, for a moment you forgot that Mingi was a human.

The pleasure from your orgasm tripled with the additional friction continuously given by Mingi whose head was flooded with the thought of truly possibly getting you pregnant from this first time. Not that he was planning on only fucking you once, not after he felt how good you made him feel both emotionally and physically. He was planning to pamper you to death and maybe that was the sexually frustrated side in him but he didn't care, he didn't care how crazy he was because you were the one who made him crazy.

The sound of hips snapping together in a rhythm accompanied by your drunk-like moans sounded like a symphony in Mingi's ears. "F-fuck baby, I'm gonna fill you up now," Mingi grunted, his eyes closing and his forehead dropping to your shoulder, "I'm gonna fill you up with my seed to the brim and you're gonna be a good girl and keep it all in so my baby can grow safely inside of you, okay?" He whispered so intimately against your shoulder that both your lips and cunt wept. You wouldn't be surprised if there was a pool underneath you after you were done and you won't hesitate to ask for more. "Cum, daddy. Cum inside me. Fill me up so hard and full like you promised me!" You whined, your hands snaking around his shoulders to hold tight as the overstimulation caused a tingling pain that made your toes curl while Mingi was getting such a high from his ego being fed.

"Fuck, baby girl, this is it, I'm gonna put my baby in you!" Mingi grunted and thrusted, once, twice, thrice, before his hips stuttered and you felt a gush of warmth spilling deep inside your cunt. The physical feeling of being filled up made your eyes roll into your head and the realization of what just happened made you blush as if you weren't whoring for his cock not 10 minutes ago.

As Mingi slowly came down from his high, his mind cleared up and he was able to pepper kisses from your shoulders, up your neck, along your jawline, and then gently all over your face. The contrast of the sweetness of the older man and the nasty act you both just did made you suddenly turn all giggly and shy. "Aww, come on, are you trying to get away from me?" Mingi smirked, trying to chase another kiss from your lips but you kept dodging him, "That's pretty absurd considering I still have my cock inside of you, plugging you full." Your eyes widened at the vulgarity of his chosen words and you couldn't help but smack him on the shoulder but fail to hold back a giggle, "Don't say it like that!" "Like what? Like the way it is?" Mingi teased, pushing himself up to trail a finger on your stomach which made your breath hitch and your muscle to tense, "I need to make sure you really do get pregnant so you can give me my baby just like I wanted," his voice trailed as his fingers drew patterns on your skin almost lovingly and the nonsensical side of you wanted to believe that he was showing his affection to you. You figured that there was only one way to find out.

Without missing a beat, you took his finger that was tracing your skin into your mouth and start licking around as if it was a lollipop, effectively causing Mingi's attention to shift to your face and his cock to twitch inside you. "Who said we're only gonna try this once, daddy? You're gonna fuck me as much as you like until I'm good and pregnant."

The smirk that bloomed on Mingi's face was devilish and almost menacing, showing his genuine intention to get wamhat he wanted.

"I hope you'd never ask. I'm gonna fuck you all night long and you're gonna be a good girl and take it all with no complaint."

As if you'd say no.

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[starlinggirll]

can u tell the story how was the house with the boys before exhusband!art nd reader get divorced? 🥺🥺🥺, i wanna now how they face each other, touch each other, speak to their kids, nd do the gentle parenting, thank uuu luvs

pre-divorce!art . . . (what caused the divorce muehehe)

at the start of the marriage, it was beautiful. he constantly put you first, his time was obviously restricted due to tennis but you were always first!

then you got pregnant, and his attention zeroed on you and the twins even more. he sometimes went as far as missing practices just to make sure you arent alone for too long with two screaming toddlers.

he would be there for tantrums, late night diaper changes. sometimes if the kids were too fussy he would insist on letting them cry it out, "they need to learn when to stop crying," he said, but next thing he knew there was two tiny babies pressed inbetween you both in the bed.

he would be the more strict parent, but that was only because you were more of the "cool parent" for letting the boys get away with mischiefs!

things went good for like . . . 4 years.

during those years he was the best husband/father you could of asked for. in the bed he was amazing, gentle but firm. and regardless of his schedule he always made time for the babies, always going to teacher meetings, games, and bonding with them as much as he could.

but then he started slowly drifting? he put you and the kids more and more on the back burner, putting more attention to his career and less attention to you and the kids.

you didnt blame him, tennis was his whole life before you wormed your way into his heart. but it still hurt watching him pay less mind to the you. he stopped touching you, you both went months without cuddling once you realized you were initiating every single physical touch. but it hurt more with the kids. he stopped going to their games, your heart breaking when they asked, "where's daddy?" or, "he promised he would be here!" watching their tiny frowns broke your heart.

you would be lying if you said you didnt blame yourself for it. you spent nights wondering where it all went wrong. trying to figure out what happened, did he find another girl? did he get bored of you?

you tried to talk to him about it, and all he tells you is a "im just tired, dont worry baby." with a kiss on your forehead. he deflects, hard. you know he doesn't like opening up, but you thought that 10 years of being together meant he would be open with you.

you decided to finally divorce him when he missed the boys birthdays. all of your family and friends went, his friends even went, and him? gone. when he came late at night you crashed out on him, asking him with tears what did you do wrong, begging him be more of a dad and husband.

he did change, for a few weeks. but u still proceeded with the divorce when your mother told you AND your boys deserved better than that. the divorce was . . . complicated. he begged you alot to stay, to not 'break apart' the family. he did try to manipulate you a bit, but in the end he realized that he was hurting you and the boys. that doesn't stop him from trying to get you back.

and you know that eventually, if he keeps putting genuine effort you'll get back together with him. he needs to show you that he REALLY wants u, want the family back. and slowly but surely, it's working. he just prays you'll give a second chance to prove that you and the twins are his whole world.

i took advantage of this ask to give a bit of backstory as to why they got divorced...oops! 😭

[hotchner-edu]

Intertwined | Aaron Hotchner

Synopsis: Following the bullet you took for Aaron, he must pick up the pieces of himself to face the awful realization of what comes next. — part 2 of THIS

Pairing: Father-figure!Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Reader (Platonic)

Warning: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, happy ending, descriptions of blood/feeding tubes, medical inaccuracies—

In spite of how dangerous being an agent in the field was, and how often Jack’s pediatric appointments occurred, Aaron never grew accustomed to the overwhelming stench of sterileness.

It coated every surface of every room, pervading his senses to remind him of the hollowing anxiety that swirled in his chest— the feeling of utter helplessness in the face of impending doom.

His eyes were rimmed red, stinging from exhaustion and unshed tears. He's slumped in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as his eyes stared unblinkingly into the vinyl floor.

Guilt was trapped in his heart, tugging and stabbing as he replayed the conversations he had with you the day prior. He knows he's been unfair with the team as of late because of the divorce proceedings with Haley, but unfair doesn't even begin to describe his treatment toward you.

You were young and careless. He hated how careless you were. It made you susceptible to slip ups, it made your heart too soft, and it made you take that damn bullet for him. And now you were being operated on by every competent staff member in the damn place, echoes of his desperate yells and furious shouts ringing through his head.

He'd lost all composure in front of the hospital staff— in front of his team. But he found it hard to care, every ounce of his energy circling around the memory of blood rapidly gushing from your neck.

Derek had started to chew him out at the scene, but stopped when he saw his horrified face, eyes glued to the paramedics who were urgently trying to resuscitate you.

His jaw shifts, clenching hard as the burning of tears stirs in his eyes once again.

He feels something cold press against the back of his neck, momentarily causing him to close his eyes.

"Pull yourself together." Dave's voice comes out calmly, trying to comfort Aaron to the best of his ability.

"She looked dead." He whispers out, voice quiet but etched with regret.

Dave shakes his head— he can see it in his peripheral, and the older man moves in front of him, squatting down to catch Aaron's eyes. "But she's not."

"How can she not be?" He mutters, shoulders sagging as his mind instantly shoots toward the worst case scenario, imagining himself having to fill out the case reports— having to fill out the papers explaining how you were killed on the field.

Dave's eyebrows raise slowly, speaking softly. "Do you want me to get Reid over here to read off some statistics?" He attempts to joke, glancing over at the rest of the team as they all sat in silence down the hallway.

Aaron doesn't react to the joke. "Why did she push me out of the way, Dave?" He asks, searching futilely for an explanation as he stares at his friend.

"The same reason you would have done the same for her if you were in her shoes." Dave states with a sad smile, patting his shoulder before handing him the cold water bottle.

By three in the morning, six hours since you've been in surgery, Aaron can see that most of the team has fallen asleep in their chairs. He's still sat in the same spot, back protesting the odd position he's put himself into as he busied himself with catastrophizing.

He only musters up the energy to sit up when the OR doors open, a visibly disheveled and exhausted surgeon walking toward them. He shoots up from his chair, joints cracking as he hurries toward the woman.

"For Y/N L/N?" She asks gently, gazing at him with an inscrutable expression.

Aaron nods quickly, mouth dry. "Yes. Is she okay?" He asks urgently.

"She pulled through. A few centimeters to the right and her carotid artery would have been severed. She likely won't wake up for a while, and we'll need to put her on a nasogastric tube for a few weeks since swallowing will be difficult." The woman explains.

Aaron's ears ring in relief when he realizes you're alive, but the more he hears, the more his stomach sinks. You were going to be enduring hell for the next few weeks.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." He whispers breathlessly and rubs a hand across his forehead.

"She'll be situated in the ICU. However, you'll have to wait until tomorrow morning to see her." She explains, flashing a glance over his shoulder to look at the rest of the team.

Aaron has to be dragged from the hospital that night, the team urging him to go back to the hotel to clean up and sleep so that he could visit early.

A part of him felt a bit of shame for falling apart, needing his team to reorient him as he seemed to be stuck in a perpetual daze.

He's unable to sleep for more than two hours, waking up in cold sweat with the unmistakable sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears as he sits up. He's sure his mind is tricking him, but he's almost certain he can hear the sound of the bullet piercing through your flesh in the back of his head.

Aaron is driving off to the hospital again before most of the team is even up, rehearsing what to say to you in his head as he is reminded of the cruel words he spat at you in the precinct.

Everything is moving in a blur for him, and by the time he's by your bedside, he isn't even able to remember when he even parked and walked into the hospital.

He pulls up a chair to sit by your side, eyes studying the bruising around your neck that’s peeking out from the bandages wrapped around your stitched-up wound.

The only thing assuring him of your breathing was the rhythmic beeping from the vital monitor that echoed like a backtrack for his jumbled thoughts.

He could swear you weren't breathing.

Maybe the machine was deceiving him? Did the nurses hook everything up right?

Maybe the job was finally getting to him and he was losing his mind.

"Can you hear me?" He croaks out, hand moving to cover your limp one. "Y/N?"

You can see colors warping, dancing and spinning before melting into a soothing darkness. It felt like you were floating, then wading through water, then being lifted into suspension again.

You felt nothing, but you also knew there was something you needed to remember.

Like a sponge soaking up water, bit by bit, you could feel your senses returning. For a split second you could feel every muscle in your body, every sound around you, and then nothing again.

"Y/N?"

The sound was deeper and worn down. Yes, that was your name.

Willing yourself to move, you felt a tingle run down your body.

Your eyes peel open and you're blinded by brightness, stabbing into your nerves and triggering blossoms of dull pain to erupt around your body.

When you're fully awake and cognizant, the memories come pouring in like an irrepressible tsunami. Your neck was pulsing in pain, and it takes you a moment to understand why.

"Y/N? Hey, hey. You're up..."

Your eyes shift over to your side and you're met with the sight of a disheveled Aaron Hotchner who looked like he just survived a combination of natural disasters.

A part of you feels pity for his uncharacteristically unkempt appearance, realizing he was probably at his wits end from worry. Then, you're slapped over the head with the memory of his acerbic words.

You're still deeply wounded from what he said to you, the image and esteem you held him in faltering with every replay of the memory.

"How are you feeling? Are you in a lot of pain? Wait, let me get a nurse." He rushes out breathlessly, turning around to leave the room.

You could tell he cared for you just by how he was conducting himself at that moment, but a nagging voice in your head was convincing you that he was just doing this to alleviate the guilt and pity he felt for himself.

You didn't need him attending to you just to clear his own conscience. It was a bit juvenile, but you wanted him to suffer a bit more.

True to your initial resolve, over the next following days, you stay cold toward Aaron. When the team first got word that you had woken up, you were nearly blinded by the sheer volume of colorful balloons Penelope brought.

And tears. So many tears were shed for you that you were sure they thought you were going to drop dead at any given second.

Everyone was taking turns acting like a mother hen toward you, and Derek even toned down his jibing in exchange for playing his various playlists for you. Spencer took to reading to you everyday, citing that he didn't want you to strain your eyes.

Emily and JJ talked about everything under the sun with you, making promises and plans for the next few months— shopping trips, movie dates, and anything else they could think of.

Well, you weren't able to really talk yet so they mainly chatted with each other while looking to you for nods or headshakes.

Penelope entertained you by pulling up private information on anybody you could name from your past (which was maybe a little illegal, but the things she did for you.)

Rossi indulged you by recounting some anecdotes from his time serving in the Marine Corps.

Aaron was probably your most constant visitor, dropping by everyday and staying for hours. You barely looked at him on most days, but when the team is called back to Quantico after a week, he becomes your only companion after he decides to take a few weeks off to take care of you.

You could see how disheartened he was getting everyday you ignored him, and you cursed yourself for feeling awful about it.

Two weeks have since passed since the rest of your team returned to DC, and Aaron was lucky to get a few words out of you everyday. You're currently watching a rerun of an old sitcom, trying to distract yourself from the awkward tension between you and Aaron.

"The doctor said you're not allowed to fly for a while, but you can be discharged by tomorrow since you're able to eat soft foods now." Aaron speaks softly, leaning forward in his seat before reclining again, a nervous habit of his.

Staying quiet, you gently prod the tube in your nose that was being removed in a few hours.

"Do you feel ready to leave?" He asks kindly, voice patient and soft.

You nod once and you can see him smiling a bit from your peripheral.

"That's great, sweetheart. I'll ask the doctor for all the medication you'll need." He says before hesitating. "I'll drive us back to DC. It'll take three days or so."

Your head snaps to look at him in shock, wincing a bit as the sudden movement causes a sharp pain to cut through your neck and shoulder.

Aaron can see your shock and indignance at the news. "I'm sorry." He whispers. You're not sure if he's apologizing for making you endure his constant presence for three days on the road, or if he's apologizing for everything that happened prior, but you just exhale through your nose and look away.

Being bedridden for most of your stay caused your muscles to be significantly weaker. Your legs were like jelly when you attempted to shuffle off your hospital bed, meaning Aaron had to help you around.

You were sinking further into confliction. A part of you wanted to wholeheartedly accept his help, the appreciation for his fatherly tendencies growing stronger. In the weeks that you've stonewalled him, he stayed by you and was always jumping to attend to your every need.

It was hard to forget the one night you woke up in blinding pain, huffing and hissing silently. Aaron had woken up in a matter of minutes, holding your hand and trying to soothe you back to sleep.

Maybe he did care.

On the first day of your drive back to DC, you're sitting comfortably in the passenger seat, the pain medication you're on making you relaxed and drowsy.

Aaron doesn't try to talk to you until you're two hours into the drive. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it right now, but I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You stay silent, having expected him to bring up the topic sooner or later.

"I was being completely unfair to you. I won't make excuses for what I said and did because I should have been able to keep myself in check, but I failed." He continues, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

"I want you to know, above all else, that I don't think you're incompetent or unskilled— you're a crucial part of the team, and I'm sorry if I made you doubt that." His voice wavers slightly, growing heavy with emotion as he seems to be unleashing everything he's been holding in since you woke up.

Your chest rumbles softly as you speak quietly, voice weak from the lack of speech in the past few weeks. "I always saw you as like a father to me."

The moment those words left your mouth, you almost wanted to take them back as the heartbreak in Aaron's face was clear as day. He swallows hard, clearly becoming even more emotional from your declaration.

It clearly meant a lot to Aaron since he knew how poor your relationship with your father was growing up. So to have your trust, something that's been battered by others and locked away inside of you, it reminded him of the hurt he carried because of his own father. It reminded him that he once was like you, vying for that affection and care when everyone's backs were turned.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, clenching his jaw as his eyes well up.

"Do you really care about me?" You ask, looking ahead at the road.

"Yes. I always have." He answers back, voice almost inaudible as he sounds a it choked up. "Because the same way you view me as a father, I always saw you as my kid. My reckless and soft-hearted kid that I needed to protect."

Tears fall from your eyes at his words. "I don't know if I can forgive you." You whisper candidly.

"I know." He nods and blinks away his tears. "But I just... I hope that the light inside of you never dies. This job... it takes everything from us. It almost took you from us. So we need you to keep that fire inside of you alive."

You feel very small at that moment, wanting nothing more than to shrink away and abandon everything. But despite that pervasive feeling, you can't help but continue clinging onto the hope and safety Aaron provides you with.

"Promise that you care about me?" You ask almost childishly, not wanting to be strong and alone any longer. The medications you were on certainly made you feel less inhibited, your honest feelings pouring out of you.

Aaron's words are almost hushed as he's quick to reassure you. "Yes. I promise, you can cry on me and depend on me. I promise that it's okay to be tired."

"I... I'm so tired." You whisper softly.

"You've endured so much all this time. I'm sorry I couldn't see it before." He says quietly.

Neither of you say anything after that, letting the conversation slip away as some semblance of closure blankets you both.

When the sun begins to set, the sky a canvas filled with an array of oranges and purples, you let yourself relax.

You can't pinpoint when you fell asleep, but when you're conscious again, Aaron is by your side, gently patting your shoulder. "There she is." He says softly when he sees you blinking awake. "It's almost midnight, I thought it'd be better for us to rest up for a few hours. I also need to check on your wound dressings."

Grumbling a bit, you slowly sit up and look through the windshield to see a roadside inn in front of you both. Nodding, you let him help you out of the car and toward the check-in desk.

"Does your neck hurt?" He asks quietly.

"No. Just sore right now." You whisper back tiredly, limbs feeling heavy.

When you're both checked into a room for the night, you waste no time dragging yourself toward one of the beds.

"Don't lay down just yet." Aaron is quick to say, placing your bags down and going to wash his hands.

You reckoned that if he weren't such a great agent, he'd fare well as a nurse from the way he was deftly redressing the bandages on your neck, disinfecting and cleaning like it was second nature to him.

He can sense your questioning gaze and he huffs a bit sheepishly. "I, uh, asked Reid for some pointers on the phone. And searched the internet."

"Let me guess, WebMD?" You smile weakly.

Aaron's face breaks out into a small grin and he chuckles. "Yeah, and ReidMD."

You snort a bit at his joke. "That was awful."

"Jack says I'm getting really good at making dad jokes." Aaron quips back playfully.

"I'll have to teach him that it's not good to lie like that." You muse, hiding a small smile as he narrows his eyes at you in fake offense.

It felt like you were gaining a bit of normalcy back, and you would be lying if you said you didn't miss being able to talk freely like this with Aaron.

"Alright, done." He sighs and hesitantly rests his hand on your uninjured shoulder. "Anything else you'd like me to do?"

You caught onto his true meaning, knowing he was trying to make further amends with you. Considering it for a moment, you shake your head gently and smile tiredly. "No, you're all good."

Aaron lets out a shaky exhale before leaning down to hug you, being mindful to not press on your injuries. "I love you, kiddo."

"I love you, too." You whisper back and pat his back reassuringly.

You would be out of commission for a while and that reality weighed down on you, but Aaron's reassurance and presence provided you with some relief.

You were tired, but for now you could rest.

[lostintransist]

Secrets are for Grownups | Part 8

Part 1 can be found here. AO3

Should I apologize for the below? Probably, but they deserved it.

CW: Allusions to past SA and calling men out on their own bad choices @/bernardsbendystraws for the dividers

Disgust is not a strong enough word for John to articulate his feelings toward his men. He studies them, unsure of how to move forward. They had remained seated as you fled for the kitchen. Simon’s fingers dug into Johnny’s shoulder and Johnny’s into Simon’s thigh.

“How could you?” John does nothing to mask the sorrow in his voice. “How is what you did to her any different than what happened to you, Simon?”

He exploded off the couch, fists clamped tight as his shoulders shook with the energy to fight down a strike.

“That was nothing like what happened to me, John,” Simon growled out, face set in anguish.

Johnny rose from the couch, a hand settling on his husband’s shoulder.

“How is it different then? Because she wasn’t in chains? Coercion traps people much more effectively than restraints. We all know that. We all took those classes about infiltration and interrogation together.” The two steps between them stretched like a ravine. “Did you ever ask her, either of you?”

Simon pales, Adam’s apple bobbing, “She never said no.”

John fired the killing blow, in a quiet, angry voice.

“Did anyone listen when you said no?”

He is moving before either John can blink — hurling open the door and vomiting into the flowers out front.

Johnny stared at John, hurt and betrayal chasing each other through his eyes.

“What if this had happened to one of your sisters?” John watched the words land and explode like the bombs Johnny had been so masterful at creating.

Dry heaving from the front porch drew Johnny away from the entrails of his decision laid out before him like someone had been divining a message from the lost gods. John moved to the front door and watched his men work their way home. Johnny limped and Simon swayed with each step. John shut the door firmly, resting his forehead against it.

He fought back the acid straining to breach his throat. He hadn’t known. He would have done something if he had known. All it would have taken is a quick conversation and two little boys wouldn’t exist, but neither would all this pain that attacked his people or himself.

Janet, his ex-wife, had blindsided him that year. Never once did she speak about being unhappy. None of her friends, her mother, or even her sisters had mentioned that she might be feeling unloved, neglected. John showered her in love and gifts and time whenever not on a job. He had thought them both happy. He had been wrong.

After a short job, John had come home to an empty house and a knock at the door. Within ten minutes of searching through the whole house and finding it empty of any trace of his young wife, he had been served. Sitting at the kitchen table he had read every line of the divorce papers, seething at the slander and the truth sprinkled to have the greatest effect.

She had dragged him through the courts. Her shark of a lawyer took a bite and a pound of flesh, as well as a healthy chunk of his paycheck for alimony. It would have been higher but the judge denied taking half of a war hero’s paycheck. Though that didn’t stop them from taking half of his retirement benefits for twenty years.

Every unclassified evil John had committed to keep the world safe had been thrown in his face. Conversations had in confidence, kinks they had explored together, every trip he had endured to bring Janet joy had needlessly been dragged out and laid before a judge, spoils of war.

John’s lawyer, a shark in his own right, kept John clear of as much as he could but spousal abandonment couldn’t be washed away with his years of dedicated service to the crown. He had been relegated to desk duty per Kate until the divorce proceedings settled down; that had been about the time you left if he remembered right. He hadn’t noticed anything. How could he have fucking missed something like this? Turning he rests his weight against the door, not trusting his legs to hold him at the moment.

His flagellation paused when you and Nyla appeared from around the corner. Both faces are awash with confusion as he answers the questions you undoubtedly have.

“Boys and I had a chat, they will reach out when they would like to schedule to see the boys. It might be a few days though.” John cleared his throat as he looked away from you to the wall of pictures.

“Are they okay?”

John glances at you, astonished you would ask after everything they put you through. Running a hand over his beard he chose what he hoped would not become a lie.

“They will be.”

Your eyes scour his face, tracing every wrinkle as if searching for confirmation of truth. Whatever you find there must satisfy because you nod once.

Nyla, mother instincts alert, narrows her eyes at him.

“What did you say to them?”

“I reminded them that if they stood outside their choices, they would be disgusted with them too,” John straightened, his chest stretching uncomfortably with the depth of his breath. Matching Nyla’s ever-narrowing gaze he continued, “I would give them the day before you talk to them. They are going to need it.”

She nodded once, firm and on par with a general sending his men to war.

“Dearie, why don’t you and John go out for the afternoon? It has been a heavy morning and I think you both could use an escape,” Nyla patted your arm affectionately.

“Oh, I don’t think,” you start to protest but Mama MacTavish is letting none of it slide. She cuts you off with a keen look in her eye.

“None of that now, you mentioned you need to go to the shops for more flour and sugar. Here’s a strong man to do the carryin’ for you since you complained that the workers are always a bit odd about helpin’ you.”

John has no opportunity to offer an opinion on the plan. Before he knows quite how it happened you are backing the van out of the driveway and sharing a look with him. Sharing a laugh you point the car toward town.

“How have you been John? We haven’t really had a chance to talk about you with all my drama going on.” You glance at him when you pull to a stop at a light.

“Not much to report. Still working for the crown but mostly handling paperwork and training now.”

You wince in remembered pain. John’s hatred of paperwork had been quite well known. It hadn’t gotten better.

“Are you dating? I remember you wanting a family. You seem like the type to want a family,” the van rolled forward as you set it in motion.

Snorting, John shook his head.

“Hard to find a woman willing to look past the insanity of my divorce decree and the demands the job had on me. And what makes you say I ‘seem like the type to want a family’?” He fired back.

A warm, embarrassed smile broke across the half of your face he could see.

“You talked about wanting kids with your ex before everything blew up. There was this,” one hand lifts off the steering wheel as you twirl it, looking for a word, “sparkle in your eye when you talked about having children.”

Humming in reply John did recall the few late-night conversations the two of you had fallen into over Chinese food you complained about. Thinking of those dreams still ached. Time to change the subject.

“I remember you not wanting kids. Did having Noah and Jace change that?” John reached forward and adjusted the air settings of the car.

“Yes and no. I told you I wasn’t sure if I wanted kids, not the same thing as not wanting them. I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Even if I could go back in time ten years and give myself all the tools to avoid the pain I might still make the choices I did because the idea of never meeting them or seeing them grow? Devastating. Will I have any more? I don’t know.”

The sentence trails off. John can sense there is more there and he gives a gentle tug to see if you will open up.

“Why don’t you know?”

You take your time to answer, using merging onto the freeway as an excuse to delay a reply.

“Men my age are not ready to be fathers, or they all want their own babies and not to raise someone else’s. You throw on top of that Jace and Noah have different fathers it adds a whole layer of being thought of as easy and more likely to cheat,” you cut him off when you can sense he is going to start to argue. “John I am not blowing smoke out my ass, I am in several groups online of other single moms who run into the same issues I do of men being weird about the fact I already have kids and all the misogynistic bullshit that comes with it.”

“What about older men then?” John challenges.

It’s your turn to snort.

“What? You mean the men who have divorced from their first wives and are looking for a woman to come in and play mom during their parenting weeks? It’s double the work with no real payoff. They are looking for someone to manage their kids while they go golfing on the weekends and make dinners during the week. Looking for a wife instead of live-in help because they aren’t rich enough to hire a nanny and a maid.” You shake your head and roll your eyes ending your rant with a sigh.

“Do you want to get married again then? This sounds enough to put anyone off finding love,” John prods a bit further, happy to keep the conversation off him and his unfulfilled dreams of a family.

Leaving the freeway the grumble of engine slowing fills the space.

“I want love,” you finally start, pointedly keeping your eyes on the cars ahead of you. “I want to know romantic love that settles into the backdrop of my life and keeps me warm at night. If that comes at the sacrifice of my boys, my freedom, my life though? I won’t take that chance. I would have to find someone happy to be a fourth father figure to my boys, who loves them and me fiercely, and makes life better.”

He holds his thoughts in, sensing that you have more to say. It took a few minutes, but John had been right. Settling into a parking spot of the wholesale bakery supply store you reach across the van to pop open the glove box and pull out a fast food napkin. The small space is nearly overflowing with them. Blowing your nose you drop the proof of unshed tears in the small garbage bag John hadn’t noticed.

“If it were possible to find a man who could do all of what I need, I doubt he would want me.” Your voice is small and sad as you say it, confessing to a sin you didn’t want to hold.

No words rise in John’s mind to soothe the ache he hears. He watches though as you pull out some cup holders he hadn’t noticed either. This damn car had so many nooks and crannies he wouldn’t be surprised if you could hide a body underneath the back seats. Lifting a plain band you slide it onto the ring finger of your left hand. Brows going up without his permission John is caught judging when you straighten up.

“The men in there are more likely to leave me alone if I have a ring on,” you say by way of explanation.

“Would be hard to catch a husband if they think you’re married,” John joked, climbing out of the car as you do.

“Not trying to catch any here. All these men do is belittle me for making my ‘silly little cakes’ instead of doing real baking like they do.” Rolling your eyes you stroll with him across the parking lot.

“The hell is real baking then?”

John had seen your work and tasted it. You could bake near anything and it might send him into space with how delicious he found it.

“Hell if I know. Because my ovaries are all tucked up safe in my body instead of dangling waiting to be hit it must mean I will never understand.”

The boisterous laugh draws eyes as the sliding door opens admitting your grin and John’s mirth. He trails after you as you push a flat cart around, pointing to items for him to load. At one point you are speaking to a tall man with a name badge, looking for a specific item you had been unable to find on the shelves.

A different employee walking by pauses, arms full of baking chocolate, to speak to him.

“I’m so happy she was finally able to bring you with her. The men who come by were starting to believe her husband was made up and bother her.”

She walks away before John can find the lever that allows him to open his mouth and deny the claim. Janet had been young when they married, the age gap almost uncomfortable as he thought of it now. John had vowed never to pursue a woman so much younger than him again. Though as he crept closer by days to forty he wondered if the nine years between you and him might still be too much.

The thought dogged his steps as he loaded your van with the bags and joked with you over lunch, staring at the ring you had forgotten to take off after the shop.

Could he have a chance at the dreams that haunted him since he was a teen? His mum had raised him until his gran took over the job and John shipped himself off to war. He knew from his time in therapy that the desire for a family stemmed from what he saw as the lack of it from early on. That knowledge didn’t stop the gnawing in his gut. Imagining you with his ring on your finger, his hands in your hair, your smile greeting him every morning instead of the coffee rings on his table, it tore at something inside him. It ripped and shredded because as much as he could pretend, he doubted you would want another broken military man in your bed or your heart.

Secrets Masterlist | Masterlist

@love-kha1 @sweetlike-sugarplum @vmaxis @splaterparty0-0 @momowhoo @talia-the-gemini @redkarmakai @aethelwyneleigh27 @asexualbuthorny @sleep101 @callsignbumblebee @lucienofthelakes @sirbonesly @demothers-empty-blog @fightmerahhh @skeletonsucker

[imyourbratzdoll]

𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔

part 6 of 🌧️welcome to hell🌧️

summary - demons lingered in the back of your mind, causing you to think you aren't good enough and it doesn't help that steve is ignoring you.

warning - bad thoughts, self-hate, mentions of cheating, angst, barely eating, emotionally drained, feeling like you aren't good enough.

the gif I use isn't mine, headers by me.

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 7

Warnings and Reminders - Please do not plagiarise, copy, repost/republish, adapt, or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third-party sites. The only platforms I post my work on are: Tumblr and Wattpad. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel etc.) All my works are fiction and may be dark or triggering content: READ ALL WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.

What if you and Steve were meant to part ways, only so that you could find each other again. What if you were destined for each other? But instead of being together now, you both needed to grow separately, and soon the two of you would meet again in the coming years when you were both ready.

You didn’t know who you were anymore. You were no longer the person you were before you met Johnny, and you weren’t exactly who you were when you were with him. You felt stuck and horrible. You hadn’t gotten better after the divorce, not even when Steve entered your life. 

Somehow, you lit up his darkness and he silenced your mind. Around him, you felt as though you could finally breathe. But why couldn’t you relax?

Your eyes fluttered open as you woke from your slumber and you just laid there, staring up at the ceiling. It had been a few weeks since you bumped into Steve and you wondered if you had done something wrong.

Steve helped you with your bags, placing them on your kitchen counter before he turned and looked around your place with a smile, his hands stuffed in his jean pockets. “You have a nice place, it suits you.” God, why could you two stare at each other and feel so connected, but then so awkward when trying to find something to talk about. 

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to help me.” You gesture towards the bags before you begin to unpack them, hoping that the cold products haven't warmed too much. 

Steve waves you off. “I didn’t mind. Like I said, I wanted to help.” It felt so natural as he began to unpack the other bag, like this was your routine. The two of you moved so gracefully, like a puzzle piece fitting perfectly into its spot as you moved around the kitchen, putting things away.

Once you finished, your eyes locked onto Steve’s as he leant against the counter. “W–Would you like something to drink? Or eat?” You watched his eyes flicker down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. 

“Water, please.” Did his voice get deeper? You felt like you could drop at any second with how he looked at you. You moved quickly, hands shaking slightly as you filled up a glass before handing it over to him. Steve grabs it gently from you, his fingers brushing against yours and sparks erupt at the touch, causing a soft gasp to escape you. “Thank you.” 

You watched him drink, how could such a normal thing look so hot and sinful when he did it? His eyes never left yours, but yours left his when he moved the glass away from his mouth. You watched his tongue flick out as he collected the water that glistened against his lips. This felt so wrong, but so right at the same time. 

You blink and clear your throat, quickly moving away from him before you do something you may regret. Steve moves over to the sink, washing the glass for you before putting it away. Your mouth hangs open slightly, not even Johnny did that. You would always have to clean up after him. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stop comparing the two! 

But they look so alike… You can’t help but think. It was strange.

You shake your head from your thoughts as Steve touches your shoulder gently. “Are you okay?” 

You hum. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” You felt like you were suffocating, like this was all a dream. If this was a dream, you didn’t want to wake from it. You let out a shuddering breath as you stare into Steve’s eyes, you could see concern swirling around. “I’m okay. I just got lost in my thoughts.”

Steve nods as if he understands, and the weirdest thing was that every thought seemed to disappear as his hand brushed against your hip. Neither of you could deny the pull, and it scared the hell out of you.

You barely knew Steve, and yet you felt so safe with him. You nearly cried as he pulled away, stepping back, his hand now falling to his side. His phone didn’t go off, but he pulled it out. “I have to go, my friend messaged me.” He gestured to his phone, and you felt your heart sink. Maybe it was inevitable, maybe deep down all men really were the same. Be it in friend, brother, father, or lover form. It was a curse that no woman could seem to break. “It was lovely to see you again, and if you ever need me. I’m right across from you.” He gave a smile so fake that you wanted to believe it to be real. And then he left, leaving you to stand there as your thoughts crashed into you. 

You blink tiredly from the memory. 

Maybe he got scared as well. Maybe he had his own demons, one in the form of an ex. Your chest tightened at the thought of him with someone else, and then you sighed.

He’s not yours, idiot. He never will be, so stop being so pathetic. 

You groan, your thoughts have become meaner lately. You slide out of bed and head over to your closet, scratching your head as you stare at your clothes. Your lip turns as you don’t like anything you see, maybe this would be a good time to have a day to yourself. Well, technically everyday now is to yourself because you left your husband after catching him fucking your best friend.

Your nose scrunches as the image of them fucking pops up into your head. They were your own demons that would possibly forever haunt you. 

You grab some jeans, a plain black shirt and underwear before heading into your bathroom. As you place your things down onto the bathroom counter, your eyes catch your reflection, and it was like death was staring back at you. It seemed the physical toll had slipped from your attention, you had thought you were doing okay aside from the nasty thoughts. Sure, you didn’t eat as often, but it wasn’t because you were starving yourself. You just hadn’t been as hungry, anytime you would go to eat, those two would pop up into your head and your appetite would disappear.

You stripped before slipping under the water. Now you understood why Steve would avoid you like the plague whenever you bumped into him in the hallway. 

You hated this stupid pull that you kept feeling, it was like a constant tugging. It kept trying to pull you in the direction of Steve, like somehow it knew he was close and craved him to be near you. You wished you could grab some scissors and cut the cord that was attaching you to him. Maybe then he could be free of you, free of the burden you seemed to carry. 

You shoved your head underwater, wanting these thoughts to disappear. Maybe taking you along with them. You stand under the shower for a bit longer before slowly getting out and drying yourself off. You don’t dare look in the mirror in fear of what you would see. You hurriedly dress yourself and walk out of the room, grabbing your shoes and bag.

As you exit your apartment, you are met with Steve leaving his. Your eyes widen for a split second before you quickly look down and walk away, not caring that you didn’t lock your door. You didn’t want to burden him with your presence. When you’ve made quite a distance between the two of you, you let out a deep sigh. 

Was this how it was going to be for you? Forever cursed from love and happiness?

You were going to be okay. You had to be.

Steve watched with a saddened look as you walked away. He knew he was being an arse, he didn’t mean to, really. It was just that anytime he was around you, or thinking about you, he would feel this intense feeling wash over him. Steve had felt those feelings the first time he bumped into you and then the second two years later. He was scared, scared that he may end up hurting you. Of course, he didn’t know he was already doing that. 

You walked through the doors of a local second-hand shop, a place you generally enjoyed shopping at. You head straight towards the clothing section, beginning to flick through. 

“Wanda! Did I tell you the news about Steve?” Without meaning to, your ears perk up at the name. You knew it could be a possibility that it was another Steve, but subconsciously you listened in. 

You had heard that voice before, though. You just didn’t know where from…

“No, what about him?” You pick out a few pieces of clothing as you listen in. 

“He finally found someone! He met her once before, but they ran into each other again!” A tug at your heart, even though the person might not be your Steve. “He constantly spoke about her even when he didn’t even know her, now that has doubled. You remember right?” 

The other woman hums. “Oh yeah, isn’t that why everyone teases him?” 

You round the corner, eyes widening a bit when you spot the woman talking. She was the same one from when you had bumped into Steve the first time. Your heart tugs like crazy because you knew this couldn’t be you, they were talking about. Steve had been ignoring you, so why would he talk about you to his friends? 

Natasha looks up as she’s about to reply and you immediately look down, pretending you are looking through the clothes in your arms. You don’t see her nudge the woman next to her, gesturing to you or the fact that they are now approaching until it’s too late.

“Hi. I know you.” You look up surprised. Natasha smiles teasingly. “You’re Steve’s girl!” 

You shake your head, clearing your throat awkwardly. “Uh no… I’m not his girl…” You stumble slightly. “I—I know him! But uh, we aren’t…” You gulp, this was painful.

The women smile. “Okay, you aren’t his girl now. But you will be!” Wanda replied, a giant grin on her face. “Oh, sorry! Hi, I’m Wanda!” 

“Y/n, and I don’t think so. Steve and I aren’t even friends.” You begin to chew on your bottom lip, needing someone to talk to about this, but you didn’t have any friends… You also didn’t know if you could trust having a friend again. You swallow, your throat suddenly feeling dry. 

Natasha’s brows furrow, “Wait, don’t you guys live across from each other?” You nod, “And you don’t talk?” You shake your head.

“Dumbarse” She mutters under her breath, shaking her head. “I’m sorry about Steve. He’s made it sound like you guys were close.” Natasha facepalms. “I am so going to kick his arse when I see him.” 

“You don’t have to, it’s okay.” You try to fake a smile, but it feels like they can see through it. 

Wanda grins. “Why don’t you join us? We can forget about men and just shop!” 

You made it back to your apartment after spending the day with Wanda and Natasha, you hadn’t felt this happy in a while. As you hit the last step, your head lifts and your eyes connect with those beautiful blue ones. You feel your throat dry and your stomach twist. 

“Y/n…” You slowly move forward, berating yourself for allowing your heart to feel something for him. You were already so broken, why did you think anyone could love you. Your gaze flickers to the bouquet of flowers in his hands, noticing how they shake slightly. Maybe he had a date and wasn’t expecting you to show as he was leaving. 

You continue to walk, hoping to slide past him and into the safety of your home. Even though it felt so lonely inside. Steve reaches out, grasping your arm gently, causing you to stop and look at him. Neither of you can ignore the spark that lights from your touch. Unable to ignore the pull anymore, it felt as though time had stilled as you once again locked eyes. 

“I’m sorry… I’ve been an arse.” Steve frowns, all of the negative feelings he’s been feeling have finally come crashing down on him. 

You shake your head, giving another one of your fake smiles. “You don’t have to apologise, Steve. It’s not like we were friends or anything, you don’t need to be nice to me.”

His hold on you tightens slightly, Steve wonders who the hell hurt you to make you think that. He stares deeply into your eyes, hoping that you can see he’s telling the truth. “I do. Because I am sorry. You didn’t deserve me ignoring you, especially if you think it has anything to do with you. I was in the wrong, and I’d like to make it up to you if you allow me.”

Another choice for you to make. One where it could go incredibly well or one you would regret forever. 

You stare at him for a few seconds, trying to find a sliver of a lie. Your gaze moves down, and you look at the flowers. “I got these for you… I didn’t want to apologise empty–handed.” 

And like that, your demons quietened. “I’ve never received flowers before…” His love roared louder than your demons, silencing them. 

You looked back up at him and made your choice. 

The gravitational pull between you had become stronger, finally feeling like it was ready. It seemed the universe and all the galaxies had a talk and said,

“Yeah, It’s time.” 

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[kittenlittle24]

Fortnight part 2

As usual GIFs aren’t not mine, comments, likes and reblogs are appreciated

Part 1

Masterlist

The sound of the front door opening and closing echoed softly through the walls to where he sat on your side of the bed before he heard the footsteps reaching the bedroom.

He looked up to see Wilson in the doorway with a brand-new bottle of bourbon. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, “No lecture on how I screwed up?”

Placing the bottle on House’s bedside table and sitting against the bed frame and crossing his legs on the bed.

“Figured you know that by now. Did she say why she left?”

House picked up the letter and handed it to him silently instead of answering and in response, Wilson picked up the bottle and gave it to House.

Unscrewing the lid he tipped it in a cheers gesture before raising it to his lips and taking a long sip.

After reading the paper Wilson reached for the bottle himself before handing both back.

“What are you going to do?”

Reading it again himself before folding the letter and placing it in his pocket.

He shook the bottle in Wilson’s face and proceeded to drink.

Wilson sighed softly, even though he could admit that the situation was a mess. He knew that his friend never fully recovered from his relationship with the lawyer. He also knew that he did truly love you.

House was a troubled person who wouldn’t allow himself to feel happiness yet he did let his guard down when it came to you.

You were everything that he could wish for, you understood that he was in pain and that made him a harder person and you didn’t expect him to change, you never commented on the Vicodin, instead tried to help as much as possible with rubs, baths, heated water bottles and anything else that you could think of. You loved him, more than that, you accepted him.

Leaving Gregory House was the most difficult and painful decision you ever made. You knew about the history he shared with Stacy, you knew that underneath the anger and betrayal that he felt when she chose to get him that surgery and then left him later on he still loved her and wanted her.

He told you that Cuddy asked him before hiring her and he agreed because he was with you and she was married. You wished he wouldn’t have agreed, so much heartache would’ve been spared.

Since you left and House figured there was nothing he could do considering he had no idea where you left to, as well as has too much pride to try and call you to apologize, he figured he should make the most out of the situation and have fun.

Which of course meant screw with Mark, Stacy’s husband.

It took him some time to exhaust her, but he succeeded, she kissed him when they were stuck in Baltimore together and slept together when they came back.

However, one thing he didn’t account for. That getting back together with Stacy wouldn’t change a single thing. He didn’t feel any better after sleeping with her; in fact, might have made him feel even worse.

He stopped on the way to the hospital to buy himself a cup of coffee. He had just paid and was waiting for his name to be called when he saw your back. He rushed after you as fast as he could, his heart rate rose the closer he got. He grasped your bicep and had to swallow hard when the woman who turned wasn’t you.

“Thought you were someone else.” He stammered quietly in apology.

The woman shrugged and smiled, “I have one of those faces.” She replied before she walked away and left him staring after her.

He entered Stacy’s office, closing the door behind him. She told him she was going to tell Mark and divorce him. He stopped her and asked her not to leave her husband for him. He explained how they’ll be happy at first but it won’t last, that people don’t change, and he hasn’t changed. Turning he left and headed straight to Wilson’s office.

He, per usual, barged open, not caring if his friend was busy or not.

“I need your help getting y/n back.”

Wilson grabbed his coat and stood up with a grin, “Finally.”

Wilson brought the car around the hospital entrance to pick House up, “Any idea where she might be?”

“Unless she moved in order to cut all ties, she’s probably in her apartment.”

Nodding, he pressed the gas and headed to the address his friend gave.

Putting the car in park, they both quietly stared at the building’s entrance.

Taking a deep breath, House grabbed his cane before leaving the vehicle. He walked up the cement steps to the building’s door, his hand levitating over the intercom, not certain if to ring or not.

The choice was made for him when a person came out of the building and held the door open for him. He nodded a thanks before making his way inside.

He raised his hand to knock on the apartment door. A man, your brother he recognized from pictures, greeted him.

Looking very uncomfortable and moving his spot House introduced himself.

He saw you come behind your brother to see who’s at the door but instead of replying and before House had a chance to understand what’s happening, a fist connected with his nose and House staggered backward and fell straight on his ass.

Rushing forward you pushed your brother back and kneeled next to your ex-boyfriend. You cupped his cheeks and turned his face to assess the damage.

“It’s fine,” he whispered and avoided making eye contact as he got up.

You picked up his cane and handed it to him, “Do you want to come in?”

He scratched his stubble before rubbing his neck, “Wilson is waiting for me.”

Cocking her head, “Come inside and ice that.” You told him, leaving no room for argument.

Hesitantly he crossed the doorway behind you. You asked your brother to leave you guys alone which he grudgingly did.

Leading him to the kitchen, he sat down and waited silently while you gathered some ice and wrapped a towel around it. Grabbing a chair and pulling it to sit in front of him, gently you placed the cool cloth against the forming bruise. A muscle twitched in his jaw at the contact with the cold material.

“I’m sorry he did that. There’s no justification.”

Looking anywhere but at you, he took the towel from your hand, “It’s fine.”

Sighing, you sat back in the chair and stared at him.

“I was an idiot.”

Your brows drew together, you crossed your legs and placed your hands on top of your knee, “You didn’t do anything.”

Slamming the drenched by now fabric from the melted ice on the table, “That’s the point. I didn’t stop you from leaving.”

You drew your bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling on it.

“I hated seeing Stacy happy with Mark, but I don’t love her.”

Shaking your head, “Everybody lies, Greg, right?”

Rubbing his hand down his face and nodded once, “The truth is, yes I kissed her. And yes, I slept with her.”

“Why are you telling me this?” You asked quietly, fiddling with a bracelet that he once gave you.

“Because I need you to understand that I don’t want her, I want you, I love you!”

Wrapping your arms around yourself, “That’s not enough, Greg.” You whispered sadly.

Blowing an exasperated breath he stood up and rubbed his forehead.

You stared at your shoes and silence fell in the room.

“Move in.” He muttered as he turned sharply to look at you.

His words made your gaze shoot up to meet his.

“You can’t do this.” He almost begged.

Uncrossing your legs and turning to face him completely, your eyebrows scrunched together, “Can’t do what?”

“You can’t call us quits. I choose us. You. I choose you.”

Rising from your seat, you stepped up to him and adjusted the lapels of his jacket, a small smile played on her lips.

His eyes danced across her face, he slowly reached to tucked a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Gregory House, you are such a pain in my ass.”

Letting out a smile back, he cupped your cheeks and pulled you into a deep kiss.

Pulling back, you giggled, “Isn’t Wilson still waiting for you outside?”

Licking his lips, eyes still closed, he hummed, “He doesn’t matter right now.” He answered before kissing you again.

[katiesharms]

“i need your advice," he says once they're alone.

garcia's eyes go wide. "wow, you look like you swallowed a nail gun saying that. it must be serious."

langdon powers through. "you know how abby and i have been separated for a bit now?" she nods slowly in confirmation, eyeing him like he's a wound about to burst. "well, you see, we were high school sweethearts. we never broke up, and i was a faithful husband to her."

"sure," garcia says. "is this about the divorce proceedings? does she think you cheated on her?

"what? no," he responds, frowning. "of course not. it's not about abby."

she looks at him incredulously. "then what is it about?"

“look i’m trying to tell you,” he glances quickly over his shoulder and then back to garcia, and then repeats the whole thing twice. “if this leaves this room i kill you. abby is the only woman i’ve slept with.”

he can see her biting the inside of her cheek, and still garcia can’t stop herself from laughing.

“how brady bunch of you, langdon. i didn’t realize you were so virtuous.”

“it wasn’t by design,” he sighs. “we started dating at 16 and i married her; it just happened. and now i’m like, basically a virgin.”

she raises an eyebrow. “you have two kids.”

langdon groans. “that’s not the point. i know i’m good at sex with abby. the problem is am i good at sex—”

“with mel?” garcia cuts in with a smirk. langdon shoots her a look.

“mel has nothing to do with this. we’re talking hypothetically.”

“right. and, hypothetically, who are you having sex with?”

he resists the urge to pull his hair out. “i don’t know! anyone! a random woman in a bar, anyone!”

“so, go pick up a random woman in a bar and find out. i’m sure the chin dimple works for some people.”

"i don't want to pick up a random woman," he hisses. "i have a date tonight."

"oh?" she asks, smile sharklike. "do i know her?"

"no," he answers too quickly. garcia's smile doesn't slip. langdon can feel the tips of his ears burning but he holds her gaze steadfastly. "but she's important, okay? and i can't have her thinking i'm bad in bed."

"look, langdon, i sympathize. i do!" she holds her hands up in what is probably meant to be a placating gesture. "i'm just not sure what you want me to do. give you porn recommendations?"

at that langdon does blush. "jesus, no, obviously not. i just need some reassurance. ever heard of it?"

"what, you want me to fuck you and tell you you did a good job?"

he rolls his eyes. "obviously not. do you have, like, any tips or anything?"

"tips?" she repeats, deadpan. "you want me to give you sex tips?"

langdon makes a worryingly distressed noise and shrugs. he's been dealing with a low-level panic since this morning, when mel leaned over to him on the ride in and told him how much she was looking forward to tonight. "becca's staying over with a friend," she had said, casually, like it didn't cause langdon to almost steer the car into the bike lane.

"look, langdon," garcia says firmly, stepping towards him and placing her hands on his shoulders. "you two know each other very well. you've already built the kind of intimacy that makes sex great. i don't think you have anything to worry about. just, you know, make sure to go down on her."

the last part is said with a particularly salacious wink. langdon gives her a look but doesn't refute her assumptions. it's weirdly reassuring, which is what langdon did want.

before he can respond, garcia's pager goes off. "well, i'm thankfully needed upstairs," she says after checking it. "it's going to be fine langdon."

when she leaves, langdon spends a full minute keeping himself from banging his head against the wall.

-

approximately 8 hours later, he's on his back on mel's bed, panting, some of her hair in his mouth. she's next to him on her stomach, arm slung across his chest.

"so, how was it?" he asks, trying not to sound like a nebbish idiot.

she props herself up, looking over at him. her hair slides off his face and he misses it. "are you asking me for a performance review?"

mel's face is adorably scrunched up. "if, uh, if you want."

"A-," she says without any pause.

"minus??" he asks.

"i mean, it's always good to leave some room for improvement."

he grins at her, matching the smile on her face. vaguely, he realizes he actually has to thank garcia. damn.

[kikiutau]

RYOMEN SUKUNA: How to Get With Your Boss! Sukuna’s POV (Part 1)

CEO!Ryomen Sukuna x Reader Genre: Modern au, Office Romance, 18+, Smut, Fluff Content/TW: cheating, angst, smut, hate sex, rough sex, slight misogyny, degradation, dirty talk, dumbification, humiliation, spanking, manhandling, masturbating, unholy thoughts Word Count: 6.6k

Author’s Note I recommend reading the main story before this one! Divider by @/cafekitsune Series Masterlist

Wednesday, December 25

The clicking of dress shoes echoed sharply through the silent, cold halls of the corporate building walls. There was a weight in the air that followed him—an unspoken pressure, a steady rhythm of authority that seemed to resonate against the marble floors and glass panels lining the spacious lobby. 

Those clicks came to a pause as the man arrived at his supposed destination. With a quick click on the elevator button, he adjusted his cuffs, jaw tight. The silver watch on his wrist caught the sterile overhead light, a brief glint of sharpness before it disappeared under the fabric of his suit.

Sukuna exhaled slowly through his nose.

Endless meetings. Endless paperwork. Not to mention the business dinner that had him considering whether gouging his own eyes out with a steak knife would’ve been more productive. 

The clients were absolutely insufferable. So were their snobbish voices and fake laughter. It grated on his ears like nails on a chalkboard. Unfortunately for him, he only escaped after being subjected to such torture five hours later. Still hearing the whirling of the elevator, Sukuna scowled, repeatedly pushing on the elevator button a few more times as if it would make it go any faster. 

News flash— it didn’t. His scowl deepened as the endless whirlwind of thoughts in his mind proceeded to pull out every damn thing that recently went wrong in his life. 

Silvia cheating. 

The fucking divorce.

Sukuna didn’t mind the cheating itself if he was being honest. However, it irritated him to the world’s end when he thought about how annoying Silvia went about it. It was the way she cheated, yet blamed Sukuna for the way things turned out. 

He recalls her incessant cries of “you don’t love me like he does” and “this wasn’t the marriage I wanted.” It was the way her words always seemed to twist and stab at his core, reminding him of his inability to love and his inability to be loved. 

Surely growing up with an absent father and a mother who preferred the fleeting euphoria of those little white pills over the responsibility of motherhood affected his ability to be a good husband. 

If he was truly being honest with himself, then yes. Deep down, Sukuna harbored guilt for the fractured pieces of himself he couldn’t offer to his wife. She had been looking for something he couldn’t give her—something he hadn’t known how to give in the first place. Sure, Sukuna wasn’t the type to write love poems and make grand gestures but he made sure Silvia was well taken care of financially and sexually. And he stayed loyal throughout the entire marriage, respecting Silvia’s position as his wife. Shouldn’t that mean something at the very least?

But it still wasn’t enough.

Sukuna made his expectations clear from the start of their arranged marriage. He told her he wouldn’t love her. Yet the passionate intimacy and soft caresses the two shared, perhaps stirred the longing found in Silvia’s heart. However, such things did not once warm his heart. When it came down to it, he simply saw marriage as a duty. 

Sukuna paused. Perhaps Silvia is right. Perhaps he is a cold-hearted bastard after all. 

Yet, that was something his ego wouldn’t allow him to admit out loud. 

Just as he was about to let his mind spiral once again, the sudden chime of the elevator stopped him mid-thought. He glanced up to see the doors sliding open. 

Letting out a frustrated sigh, he stepped forward into the empty space, prepared to get back up into his office so he could spend another restless night buried under paperwork and the lingering aftereffects of his own discontent. He had no intention of dealing with anything—or anyone—tonight.

Just when Sukuna was about to resume his previous thoughts, he noticed the lingering scent of freshly washed bed linen. It was faint. But it was present nonetheless. And it was familiar. 

An image of her face flashed through Sukuna’s mind. He catches the frigid expression on his face twitching in amusement through the reflection of the polished steel doors before reverting back to his previous frown. 

Crap. 

He inwardly groaned, brushing his hair back with his fingers. The strands slowly fell right back into place, aided by the hair gel he routinely applied in the morning. 

When was the last time he thought about that little intern he met all those years ago. Well, no longer an intern. 

But, still little. Sukuna smirked inwardly. 

Suddenly, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, the familiar whirr of the mechanism filling the otherwise quiet space. Sukuna's stomach tightened as he swallowed a groan. Just his fucking luck. 

Silvia.

Before she could step inside, he snapped, his voice low and edged with irritation. “What are you doing here?”

The briefest flicker of surprise crossed her face, before it contorted to one of indignation. “You weren’t home, so I thought—”

“Thought what?” Sukuna cut her off, his tone sharper now, more biting.

Silvia stood frozen in place, her eyes round, as she processed his words. She pressed her lips together, her eyes momentarily fixed on Sukuna as the doors closed with a soft chime. Sukuna could feel the heat of her presence as the doors closed behind her, the space now suddenly charged with an uncomfortable energy. His irritation was palpable, but something about it—something about his usual coldness being replaced with sharp frustration—made a small spark of hope flare up in her chest.

He was angry. He was irritated. But he wasn’t indifferent. She could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the tension in his posture. Silvia drew in a breath, her voice steady despite the fluttering of her heart. “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

“I’m not avoiding you,” Sukuna bit back. Before he could continue, Silvia stepped towards the man, filling the space between them. The sound of breathing filled the suffocating space, with both parties staring at one another with no movement to be found. Somehow the silence was loud, a heavy presence that hung in the air, thick with unspoken words.

Silvia’s heart pounded, the sound filling her ears as she could no longer hear the mechanical whirling of the elevator. Feeling a lack of resistance from Sukuna gave her the boost of courage she needed. Under her breath she murmured, “Can we start over?” 

The words hung in the air like fragile glass. 

Not hearing a response, Silvia continued. “If we have a baby-” 

Almost instinctively, Sukuna’s jaw unclenched, his eyes glazed with indifference, his expression contorting to the poker face he’d perfected over the years. He let the silence stretch for a moment longer before his voice, low and cutting, filled the space between them. “A baby?” His tone was sharp, almost cynical, the weight of the suggestion crushing the air between them.

Silvia, sensing his retreat, pushed forward anyway. “Yes,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “A baby could—” She faltered, trying to keep her composure, but the desperation in her eyes was undeniable.

Sukuna’s gaze hardened, his heart hammered in his chest, not from a sense of fear, but from an overwhelming sense of disbelief. With a ding, the elevator jerked slightly as it resumed its descent, adding an unsettling rhythm to the thick silence between them. 

Sukuna’s gaze never wavered from Silvia’s expectant expression. A cold smirk graced his lips as he bent down to her ear, his breath brushing against her skin. He let the silence drag on just long enough for the tension to grow unbearable before he finally spoke, his voice dripping with mockery.

“You want to play house? Go ahead,” he sneered. “But don’t think for a second that I’ll be playing along.” 

Sukuna’s hands appeared on her shoulders, as he shoved her aside. The sharp push was enough to make her stumble back. Hardly caring for her stumble, he strode out the elevator without turning back. 

“YOU ASSHOLE!” 

Sukuna didn’t bother to glance over his shoulder at the enraged woman before responding back with, “If I’m such an asshole, sign the goddamn papers.” 

He didn’t even know where the hell he was headed. This floor was definitely not his office, but no matter. Besides, this whole building was his anyway. Who the hell could stop him from wandering wherever the hell he wanted? 

His pace quickened, but before he could even go anywhere, he felt the impact of heels thrown right at his back. He spun around, eyes narrowing dangerously as he glared at the woman who had thrown the heel.

Silvia stood there, breath coming in quick bursts, her face flushed with fury. Sukuna’s brows furrowed, waiting for her to respond, his patience thin and fraying at the edges. 

Silvia opened her mouth, prepared to argue with him, only for nothing to come out. Her chest heaved as she stared him down, the words caught in her throat like a suffocating weight. Looking at his expression, a wave of panic washed over her. Lips trembling, she muttered, “You know… None of this would happen if you would just…” Her voice cracked, tears building up on the corners of her eyes. 

She looked down at the floor, unable to keep her gaze on her husband. Instinctively, she knew. She knew if she kept staring at his indifferent expression, she couldn’t contain her tears that were threatening to spill. 

If it was any other simple argument between husband and wife, Sukuna would have wordlessly wiped her tears, cradling her in his arms without offering any words of comfort. That was how it used to be—how it should’ve been. But now, as she stood there trembling, he remained motionless.

“Sukuna… You’re so cold-hearted. This wasn’t the marriage I wanted for us.” 

Sukuna watched her, unmoving, his face unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t say a word. Although, that was quickly remedied with his cold jab. “At least I didn’t cheat.” 

Silvia froze, the words slapping her harder than she expected. Her breath hitched, and her eyes widened in shock. Like a released dam, Silvia placed her hand on her chest as if she’d been shot, her voice shaking with utmost hurt and fury. “At least he loves me! With him, I know what love feels like.” She points an accusatory finger at Sukuna. “Unlike you!”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his face twitching with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. “Love you?” He takes a few steps towards the woman. His gaze was cold, cutting through her, as if peeling back every layer of her facade.

Sukuna’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, his words like knives. “He has a wife and two children, Silvia. If he loves you, then why hasn’t he left them for you.”

The tears Silvia was trying to hold back finally trickled down her cheeks, hot and unrelenting. She couldn’t give him an answer, because deep down, she knew her husband’s words were true. His words hit her like a bucket of ice water to the head, sharp and cold, shocking her into a painful clarity she wasn’t prepared for.

Unable to deal from the sting of his truth, she threw whatever was left of her dignity, deciding that the crazed frenzy she felt underneath the hurt and broken pieces of her pride was less painful to deal with than the latter.  

Silvia looked up at her husband in all his glory. Even with his disheveled hair and wrinkled button up top, there was an undeniable magnetism about him. Fuck it. 

She could no longer endure the icy grip tightening around her heart caused by the man in front of her. Yet, in the midst of her turmoil, she found a twisted solace in the warmth of the man she despised.

Standing on her toes, she grabbed the collar of Sukuna’s shirt, pulling him downwards as her lips crashed into his. 

She really fucking lost it. Sukuna judged, yet against his better judgement, he didn’t pull away. However, in retaliation, he bit on the bottom of her lips. In response, she gasped out of surprise. 

Sukuna took that chance to slip his tongue into her wet cavern, prodding, poking, teasing her as if this was his way of paying her back for all the humiliation she bestowed upon him. His eyes flickered with cold amusement as she squirmed against him. After a while, Silvia’s hands that were placed on his shoulders, squeezed the muscle, signaling to the man that it was too much. 

Sukuna feigned ignorance, deepening the seal of their kiss by pushing her down onto one of the desks. Just as her back met the table, papers of they-don’t-give-a-fuck flew into the air, some scaterring onto the nearby floor. 

Sukuna’s handsome face twisted into a sneer as he saw the desperate, wonton expression on Silvia’s face. “Already?” he mocked underneath his breath. His fingers caressed Silvia’s wet trembling lips before he slipped them down to the fabric of her dress. 

Without warning, he ripped the fabric exposing Silvia’s bare chest. 

No bra? 

His gaze immediately met Silvia’s pebbling nipples, seemingly at the mercy of the building’s cold AC. He gave a quick flick with a thumb, causing Silvia to arch her back, begging for just more. 

Sukuna wanted to pull away but was stopped by Silvia’s grabby hands, clumsily working on the leftover buttons on his dress shirt. 

So fucking desperate. Amused, he decided to play into what Silvia wanted. With a loud rip, he easily dealt with the only other piece of garment on her body. The wet and now-torn fabric ended up on the floor. 

“T-those were expensive,” Silvia mumbled. Her husband never responded to her comment. 

Silvia whined, closing her legs together, embarrassed at the sudden exposure which earned herself an eye roll from the tattooed man above her. Wordlessly, Sukuna grabbed her by the knees, pulling her legs back apart. He watched the clear, viscous fluid on her inner thighs stretched thinly before breaking apart. 

A wave of numbness washed over him at the sight. It was as if the initial arousal he had been holding onto vanished in an instant, leaving him in an unsettling void. A hollow emptiness consumed him, his thoughts empty. 

A foot at his crotch snaps him out of his trance. His gaze glanced right back up to Silvia’s face, her eyes widening. “You’re—” 

Before she could finish with her sentence, Sukuna roughly spun her around onto her stomach, forcefully bending her top-half down until she felt her pebbled nipples against the cold, hard desk. 

Sukuna knew what she was about to say. 

His cock was fucking soft. 

Whether it was his present lack of arousal or Silvia’s mere presence, Sukuna wasn’t sure which vexed him the most. Instinctively, he redirected his frustration towards Silvia’s poor asscheeks, toying with them as if they were his stress toy. Seeing the slight recoil, Sukuna let out a forced chuckle at the sight. 

Despite the onslaught of pain, Silvia let out unabashed moans whether it was because of pain or pleasure. She didn’t want to admit it but while performing marital duties (many many times) with her damned husband, he was able to slowly mold her body into one that accepts pleasure and pain as one— two contrasting feelings twisted into a singular pleasurable anomaly. 

Although, never would she admit that Sukuna thoroughly ruined her for any other man. And never will she ever admit, even to her death, that she had to fake her orgasms with Mr. Nakamura. She kept telling herself that sex didn’t really matter. After all, Sukuna in spite of his great aptitude in bed, could never sing the sweet promises of everlasting love and praises. What use were sky-high condominiums, expensive jewelry, and dinners at three-star Michelin restaurants when the man she married stayed indifferent to her confessions of love and sweet caresses even after years of marriage. 

At some point, Sukuna’s spankings became too much for Silvia to handle. Mind a mess, unable to voice her thoughts, the only thing she could do is to wiggle her hips away. Although, it didn’t do much as her relentless husband kept her in place with a hand on her lower waist. 

Seeing signs of disobedience, Sukuna responded with a spank on her bare pussy. 

“Ah!” Silvia cried out. 

The displeasure Sukuna felt from Silvia’s little act of defiance practically added additional fuel to the fiery pits of his temper. His jaw tensed, and a dangerous gleam flickered in his eyes—a warning, sharp and unmistakable. “You know,” he bent down to her ear, “I should really punish you for being such a disobedient little slut, whoring yourself out like that.”

Ouch. 

Too wonton and horny to care about the degrading comments her husband just made, Silvia pushed her buttocks towards the direction of Sukuna’s bulge, just begging— pleading— for more now that Sukuna stopped with his ministrations. 

Not the type to respond well to taunts, he pinched her abused clit. The sensation was so maddening Silvia, against her will, came all over Sukuna’s rough hands. Yet despite cumming, the man refused to give her any reprieve. 

A mocking laugh echoes within the room, low and venomous, like the hiss of a predator toying with its prey. “I can’t believe you’re getting off on this,” he drawled, his voice laced with cruel amusement. Silvia’s fists clenched, her nails digging into the palm of her hand, her breathing ragged.

Feeling the familiar clench of her pussy, Sukuna pulled away. He glanced down at his dirtied hand: hot wet, and slick with evidence of his wife’s arousal. He toys with the wetness, tapping his pointer and thumb together, watching the way the wet strands stretch every time he pulls them apart. Finding a sick, twisted sense of amusement from this, he finally turned towards Silvia, his expression devoid of warmth. “This is supposed to be a punishment. And you still find pleasure in this?” 

He accompanies this statement with a loud, resounding spank. “I must have trained you really well, haven’t I? I hope Mr. Nakamura enjoyed my cum dump while it lasted.” Silvia whimpered in response. 

Another spank. 

Sukuna’s eyes glared at her reddened ass. “Speak.” 

Mind a mess, Silvia could only stutter out a garbled yes. 

Sukuna let out a little hum, circling around Silvia’s poor, abused clit. New tears pebble among the ruins of her mascara, threatening to spill over like all her other tears. A moan escaped her lips as her eyes closed shut at Sukuna’s unrelenting ministration. The tears she was trying her best to hold in, finally dripped down her cheeks. Instantaneously, she cries out an apology. 

Quite frankly, it was quite a pathetic “I’m sorry.” A whisper barely audible, laced with shame, and yet it hung in the air, desperate and broken. She tries to explain but before she can get a word in, Sukuna interrupts. 

“But even your lover wasn’t enough for you, huh? Here you are, desperate running back to me like a cockdrunk slut,” the tattooed man mocked, his words venomous. “This is a little pathetic, even for you.” 

Silvia turned to look at the man, her reddened eyes meeting his unyielding gaze. Her tears, now cascading down her face, seemed insignificant against the weight of his glare. Yet, despite her tears, laid a love-sick smile on her face. 

He should’ve left it there. He should’ve stopped. Yet, his anger burned too fiercely, too intensely, for him to simply walk away. The bitterness in his chest clawed its way to the surface, urging him to speak—to hurt her in the same way she had hurt him.

Sukuna knew what Silvia wanted. To fuck and make up. To pretend. To wrap everything in a thin layer of gloss and act as if things could go back to normal. As if they could just carry on, as if none of this had happened. She wanted to get a baby too; to weave a new illusion where they could live their lives like some picture-perfect family, hiding the rot beneath a pretty facade.

He almost let out a laugh at the thought. 

A baby was the last thing he wanted. Heck, if he spent another second in that apartment with her, he might as well chop his dick off. 

Silvia expectantly gazed at Sukuna, waiting for the le plat principal of this evening, her gaze unwavering. Sukuna’s eyes searched her face, looking for any sign of remorse, any flicker of regret. But he only found a yearnful, frantic, and downright desperate expression. 

To hell with that baby. 

Reaching towards the pocket of his suit jacket, he pulls out his beloved Caran d'Ache Léman fountain pen. This pen had been a gift from one of the first board members and investors of Sukuna’s company. Coincidentally, that board member was none other than Silvia’s father. It was also the same pen he had used to sign their marriage proposal—an artifact that marked the beginning of something that, now, felt like a cruel play of fate. 

No need for preparation, Sukuna was already moving the rounded tip of his pen towards her gaping slit. Silvia flinched at the sensation before whining her husband’s name, unhappy Sukuna did not fuck her himself.  

Leaning down towards her, almost teasingly, the corners of his lips quipped up. “I’m so sorry sweetheart,” he sarcastically replied. “I thought you wanted more. Was I mistaken?” Feeling his wounded pride swell with glee, he continued moving the pen in and out in slow motions. 

“I– This wasn’t what I meant!” she stammered, her comment earning her a harsh spank. 

“Manners,” Sukuna chided. 

Silvia groaned, burying her face into her arms. Picking her head back up for one last ditch effort, she pleaded once more. “Please please plea– FUCK! Pleaseeee, can you fuck me? I- I can’t get off.” 

So. Fucking. Desperate. 

If only Silvia’s socialite friends could see her like this. If only Silvia’s beloved lover could see her like this. 

What a pathetic sight. 

Bitterness— or was it pettiness— consumed Sukuna. “I don’t need to fuck you for you to get off. You sure found other alternatives during our time apart, didn’t you? I’m certain Mr. Nakamura’s cock was smaller than this pen.”

Sukuna made a point to press the pen further into Silvia’s wet cavern, earning him a violent shudder from the woman underneath him. 

With a bitter edge to his voice, Sukuna murmured. “And yet you went back to him, again and again. So…” 

Heart pounding, Silvia shook her head needlessly. She wanted to refute him but with how overstimulated she felt, she could not even muster a single coherent thought. Sukuna continued on with his ministrations, moving the pen further into her in a downwards motion. “I’m pretty sure you can get off to this.” 

Feeling the slight nudge of the pen towards her g-spot, Silvia unwillingly slips into pure bliss. Blood rushed to her head as she was brought to pure ecstasy. Sukuna sounded out her moans, purely focusing on her pussy fluttering witlessly around his fountain pen. Consumed by momentary pettiness, he slipped his pen out of her, refusing to fuck her through her orgasm. 

Silvia went limp after the shockwaves of her orgasm had subsided. Using the strength that’s left in her arms, she shakily turned around towards her husband. There, he stood with the same indifferent expression she despised. She reached out to him, hoping to continue— this time with his cock. However, much to her dismay, he stopped her. Before she could even say anything, he placed the christened pen into her hands. 

In her hands, the cold, polished surface of the pen felt heavier than she anticipated, its weight a silent reminder of everything that had led them here. The hairs on Silvia’s neck stood on end, the cold atmosphere around her biting at her skin. She wasn’t sure which was colder—Sukuna’s presence or the air conditioning blasting through the room. A sense of dread washed over her. No… It couldn’t be over. Her mouth gaped open, but no sounds came out as she shook her head, desperate to deny the reality setting in.

The silence grew oppressive. She needed him to say something—anything. But Sukuna stood there, his gaze unyielding, as if her plea meant nothing. Sukuna was the first to break the silence, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “My lawyer will come to your residency tomorrow. Make sure to sign the divorce papers by then” he stated. 

Silvia swallowed hard, the lump in her throat rising higher. Her hands clenched around the pen, the coldness of it now feeling like an accusation. Almost robotically, Sukuna made his way towards the elevators, his footsteps becoming more distinct with every step. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, but Sukuna didn’t even pause to look back. He stepped inside without a word, and as the doors slid shut, he was gone—leaving Silvia in the silence that felt so deafening, it swallowed her whole.

Somehow, the ascent of the elevator was slow, almost deliberate. His mind screamed at his poor decision making before he shut it down with a simple: It is what it is. No use dwelling on his poor decision making. 

One would think that his days of reckless frolicking ended when he graduated college and that the wild, impulsive behavior would have faded with maturity. But here he was, tangled in a mess of his own making, still chasing the same hollow thrills, guided by his good-for-nothing cock.

As he walked into his office, the cold, sterile environment did little to comfort him. He sank into the leather chair behind his desk, choosing to stare at the ceiling for a minute or two before going on to put on the extra dress shirt he has stored in his office. Silvia seemed to have broken two buttons during their frenzied one-sided amorous congress. 

Deciding to put off his original plan of going back to work— he doubted he could focus, not when his mind was still tangled with everything that had just transpired. He might as well head back to the apartment he rented out (the one he slept at whenever he would end up bickering with his wife in the middle of the night). 

Sorry. Ex-wife.

At the lobby, Sukuna was greeted with the back of a certain employee he was quite familiar with. It’s been a while, he ponders, wondering what the girl has been up to since their last interaction. 

“Y/n.” 

His low voice cut through the air. He watched her shoulders stiffen slightly before she slowly turned around, her expression unreadable at first. Her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, Sukuna the subtle mix of caution and something else. Curiosity? Fear? It was hard to pinpoint. 

Her lips parted as if to speak, but she hesitated for just a fraction of a second, clearly trying to find the right words, or perhaps gathering her composure. She ended up smiling at him, although he noticed the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Hello, Mr. Ryomen. Heading home?” She greeted politely. Her voice was steady, almost as if she had mastered the art of keeping her composure in the face of authority like his.

Oh. That’s new.

Since when did he become Mr. Ryomen? A tinge of disappointment crept up under his chest. 

Oh. That’s strange.

The image of a younger y/n flashed through his mind—her in a loose-fitting dress shirt and skirt, an annoyed pout painted on her face as she muttered under her breath, “Nincompoop.” Sukuna’s lips twitched at the memory. 

Sukuna nodded in acknowledgment. “It’s late. I’m surprised you’re still here. I didn’t see you by your desk.” 

Y/n’s smile faltered slightly before reverting back to its polite, controlled expression. She shifted her weight, a subtle sign of discomfort that Sukuna caught in the corner of his eye. “I was occupied in the printer room.”

Sukuna hummed in response, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. A flicker of something stirred inside him—awkwardness, maybe? He cringed inwardly, a strange realization washing over him. It wasn’t just the situation that felt off; it was the shift in the air between them. The teasing, the banter they once shared, didn’t seem appropriate anymore. Like an old shoe that didn’t fit anymore.

Although, he didn’t linger on such feelings any longer than he already did. With practiced ease, he replicated y/n’s composed smile with his own, his expression returning to its usual controlled mask. 

The silence between them stretched just long enough for him to feel the weight of the moment. "It’s late,” he said, breaking the silence. “Let me give you a ride home.” 

Sukuna watched in sick pleasure as y/n’s smile dropped, scrambling to find an excuse. He could see the hesitation flicker in her eyes, the subtle panic rising within her as she fumbled for a response. A part of him reveled in it. A twisted satisfaction. He could almost taste her hesitation in the air. It was a familiar sight. The slight panic in her features, the way her eyes fidgeted from left to right as if seeking a reason to escape this situation... it was— he tries his utmost hardest to keep his smirk at bay— almost too easy. And, as much as he hated to admit it, a part of him enjoyed it more than he should.

“Oh no, it’s okay. Thank you so much for the offer though. I actually live nearby so I’ll be–” 

Before she could finish, the growl of thunder rolled through the night, a low rumble that echoed like a warning. Sukuna raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a teasing smile. He could already tell where this was going.

“You’re going to walk home in this weather?” he asked, his voice dripping with amusement.

Y/n let out a defeated sigh. “I suppose not,” she nervously chuckled. 

Sukuna’s gaze softened for a brief moment, though his lips remained slightly curled in a knowing smile. “Right. I figured as much.” 

Perhaps this is the only time when he hopes for traffic. 

Sukuna found himself unusually quiet, his gaze fixed on the girl sitting beside him. She sat to his right, her hands tightly clenching the seat belt as she looked out the passenger window. Surely he could sense her discomfort, but that only made the moment all the more entertaining for him. 

What an asshole, he chastised himself inwardly. But then again, if not an asshole, then who would I be? 

Sukuna let out a breath, his grip tightening slightly on the steering wheel. He stared at y/n once again. 

You’re not going to start talking to me again? Sukuna wanted to ask. Guess silence is your thing now, huh? He wanted to tease. 

He waited and waited. Yet, there was no response. The silence stretched, thickening between them like a tangible wall. It wasn't awkward—at least, not for him.

Ah, fuck it. 

“It seems a lot of people are trying to head back to their families for Christmas.” Sukuna finally broke the silence, his tone flat at best. 

Y/n slightly flinched at his sudden comment before humming in response. Unfortunately for Sukuna, it ended there. No comment. No follow-up question. No elaboration. Nothing. 

For a brief moment, he entertained his previous thought about being an asshole. Perhaps then y/n would at least take a glance at him. Fuck, he felt more pathetic sitting here than he did fucking his goddamn wife— to-be ex-wife. 

Sukuna huffed, his gaze flicking over to her. Instead of teasing her further, he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms, burning holes into the back of her head. 

Meeting her gaze in the reflection of the passenger side window, he smirked, unable to completely suppress the satisfaction that bloomed in his chest at seeing her, even in the reflection, trying to avoid meeting his eyes.

You think you’re the only one who can play this game, huh?

He could feel her stiffening just slightly, like she sensed his eyes on her, even if she didn’t dare acknowledge it directly. He couldn’t resist a little push.

“Who would have thought I’d be spending Christmas with my favorite employee?” he drawled, emphasizing the favorite.  

A look of surprise washed over y/n’s face, but it was fleeting. It was replaced by a teasing smile gracing her lips. “Who would have thought I’d be spending Christmas with my favorite boss?” she quipped back.

Sukuna’s lips twitched in amusement, before erupting into a laugh.“I’m your only boss, princess.”

Y/n shrugged. “Still stands.” 

Sukuna took the subtle jab as a minor loss in their exchange, but oddly enough, it was a loss he doesn’t seem to mind losing. He then seamlessly moved onto the next topic, his eyes glinting with mischief as he decided to pry a little deeper, using the opportunity to poke into her private life. 

It was completely inappropriate as a boss. He knows. But then again, he is a certified asshole, and when have normal conventions stopped him before?

Sukuna leaned slightly forward, his smirk never wavering as he regarded y/n. “You got any plans for Christmas? You must be looking forward to spending time with your family and friends.” 

“Ah, well. They’re all overseas. So, I probably won’t be seeing them this year. The plane tickets are horrendously expensive this time of year.”

Oh? Perfect segway. 

“At least you have that boyfriend of yours from the sales department,” Sukuna said, his words deliberately casual, though there was a challenge in his tone as he remains relentless in his probing. 

Y/n’s eyes widened, staring at the man in disbelief. “Pardon?” A flush of red painted her cheeks as she shook her head, her words tripping over themselves in a sudden rush. “I-uh. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Sukuna’s smirk deepened, more amused than ever. Oh, so that’s it. He could see the slight pink hue of her cheeks, the unease in her posture, and the way she quickly dismissed the notion.

A part of him wanted to keep pushing, to pry deeper. Sukuna felt a familiar spark of mischief flare up, his mind already mapping out ways to continue the interrogation. But as he considered it, a thought stopped him, if only for a moment. Maybe... Maybe not today.

But then again, there’s no harm in teasing her a little right? 

Sukuna flashed Y/n his signature smirk, leaning back casually in his seat, his eyes glinting with the same amusement that had been there all night. “Good to know,” he drawled, his tone a little lighter than before but still holding that edge of playful mockery.

An annoyed pout graced her lips. “Mr. Ryomen!” 

Now that’s a familiar sight. 

Sukuna leaned back into the seat, letting out a deep laugh that echoed in the quiet confines of the car. Alright, it seems he had his fill of teasing. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop teasing you,” he resigns. Sukuna, almost entranced, watched as y/n subtly bit her lip, clearly trying to maintain her composure. 

Instantaneously, his cock has taken the reins of his brain as he wonders about pressing his lips against hers, his mouth nibbling her bottom lip, his tongue entwining against her. He imagines her mouth wrapped around his cock, her eyes looking up at him as he moves strands of her hair away from her face. 

He takes a sharp inhale, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Without thinking, he reaches one of his hands towards y/n’s face, gently tucking that one stray strand behind her ear. The moment his fingers make contact with her skin, a strange, unexpected tension fills the air.

Sukuna looks away for the sake of his throbbing length, unable to look at the expression on her face lest he ends up ejaculating in his pants. Thankfully, the traffic in front starts to clear up, giving Sukuna an excuse to focus on driving instead. 

If Sukuna had to be honest, the rest of the car ride was a blur. After he dropped y/n off, he sped towards his rented apartment— almost on the verge of getting a speeding ticket on his way back. 

Fumbling with his keys, he rushed into his apartment, not even bothering to take off his shoes. The door slammed behind him, and he immediately dropped his keys onto the floor. He practically threw himself into the shower, with clothes still on, water ice cold. 

Fucking hell.

Not even the cold shower raining down on him could calm the searing fever inside of him.

He fumbled with his belt, taking out his twitching cock. Flushed, throbbing, and fucking needy. Absolutely begging for stimulation. And right now, it was the fucking bane of his existence. 

One of his hands fisted the wall in front of him as the other rigorously pumped his length, forgoing the usual teasing and edging he might indulge in from time to time. Sukuna exhaled sharply at the sensation, feeling so close to release. 

Y/n.

Y/n.

Y/n.

Y/n. 

What does she sound like? Is she a moaner? Screamer? Or does she bite those tantalizing lips of hers, muffling her moans. His imagination runs wild, visualizing y/n in a multitude of positions. Doggy style. Cowboy. Missionary. Prone bone. Full nelson.

Fuck. Now wouldn’t that be a sight to behold? 

Up until his very last moments before releasing, he recalls her voice—

“Mr. Ryomen.”

Just like that he came with a hoarse groan, milky remnants releasing from the slit of his bulbous head, dripping down his veiny hands, pooling right down the drain. 

His release was like a dam bursting, releasing the flood of feelings he had locked away years ago when he got married. Tinnitus rang in his ears and within that euphoric high, his disorientated self could almost hear y/n’s voice, light and carefree, as if he could feel her presence right next to his. 

In his hazy post-nut clarity, he chastises himself for the thousandth time. He doesn’t hate how easily she invades his thoughts. However, what he hates—despises— is the little bits and pieces of composure he keeps losing to her. He wanted her to be his so badly he could almost subject himself to abstinence if it meant getting to taste her. Feel her. Lick her. Just once. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus, trying to ground himself. Focusing on the pitter-patters of the shower head to the sounds of his heavy breathing, he looked down at his cock— still hard.

It hurts. But it hurts so good. 

Sukuna let out a defeated groan, his forehead resting against his bathroom titles. The coolness of the ceramic offered little relief against the burning frustration that gnawed at him. 

Shit. He was truly fucked. 

a/n: there will be multiple parts//parts will be separated by the different days (i.e. this fic being dec 25th, with pt 2 being dec 26th, and etc)! I’m planning on creating a taglist for those interested. If you are, feel free to comment or dm me :)

also feel free to send me thirsts or comment (im begging) my inbox is looking a little empty 👉🏻👈🏻

[bambi-kinos]

From Yulia-k ask. I'm adding a follow up question. I agree with your respond. Why is Paul basically saying that JOHN found Yoko, and JOHN was madly in love with Yoko and he, Paul had to make way for her, and John-Paul couldn't continue as it was. It just sounds like something is missing in his own choice in this, like the India theory, or that Paul rejected John. It more sounds to me in every shape and form that Paul lost John because he found Yoko. "Then came the lawyers" etc. From Paul's pov. Why was Paul finding Linda a bigger problem to Paul? Paul must have known how John was gonna react to that after all his jealousy from the past.

I actually have an earlier meta regarding this that you would find interesting! I'll also insert it into my queue.

To add on to what we said a few years ago, I think Paul gave up on the relationship and couldn't think of a way to save it, while still trying to cling to it. The description of the "I want a divorce" meeting has Paul flinging out options to John about what The Beatles could do next, so stuff like another tour, doing another movie (presumably a proper one and not another documentary.) Paul knew that it was done and over but he couldn't bring himself to make that break. In a way he forced John to end it because he didn't want to do it himself. Hence why Paul made the point a few times that John initiated the divorce first and Paul simply announced it to the media.

I don't think meeting Linda was necessarily a problem per se. It seems more like Paul sees her as a natural consequence of John deciding to go off with Yoko. It's important to remember that Yoko had been stalking John and following him, sending him used tampons, running into his car to sit between him and Cynthia, spamming him with phone calls to the point that John had to change Kenwood's landline number at least once, etc. She was a known problem and had a long history of harassment and stalking. Paul has more insight into her and John and I think he understood to a degree that her persistence was what John found attractive.

John decided to start going off with her in an official way and "accidentally" let Cynthia find him and Yoko eating breakfast together while Yoko wore Cynthia's bathrobe. Then John started divorce proceedings and Cynthia remarked in her book "John" that Paul was the only person in the media machine that had the balls to drive over to her house and comfort her. George, Ringo, Mal, George Martin everyone, was too scared of John to go see her and say "John is being a big piece of shit, I'm sorry." Meanwhile Paul took her a rose, bluntly told her that John was acting completely fucking nuts, and that he wished her well. He even made her a joking offer of marriage though I do wonder what would have happened if Cynthia had taken it. Julian would have grown up with a responsible male figure in his life at least.

So that happened either before or in the aftermath of the New York City trip, I can't remember the timeline properly. But all of that tension was floating in the background when John and Paul went to New York to promote Apple and that's when Paul invited Linda into his limo with him and John and in John's words "next thing I know she's married to him."

So to me it looks like Linda was Paul's solution to a specific problem: John using Yoko as a tool in his ongoing war on Paul and against the lotus eating machine that is The Beatles media conglomerate. John was addicted to heroin, starving himself because his eating disorder had totally distorted his body image, and then he latched on to Yoko because she encouraged his deluded fantasies about being a guru or a messiah hence the pharmacological delusion that was "Two Virgins" and the fantasy about being reborn as a 20th century Adam and Eve.

Paul knew that John was unstable and he simply stopped trusting him. He did not see a viable future with John due to John's drug abuse, years of inconsistent behavior, and then Brian dying the awful way he did. It was all going down the drain and Paul was freaking the hell out, hence he went on a spree of asking his girlfriends if they would marry him. They all said no except for Linda. John's jealousy simply stopped being a factor for Paul. John is jealous? So what? He's been jealous before, it didn't stop him from bullying Paul over LSD, it didn't stop him from running off to Barcelona, it didn't stop him from dating his stalker and bringing her to their recording sessions, it didn't stop him from abandoning his son. And then add on to that the fact that Paul's biological clock was going off: he wanted children of his own and with Brian dead there was no longer a visible path forward for two bisexual men to have a family together. Not in 1968. And Paul wasn't growing a set of ovaries and a uterus anytime soon so he couldn't make his own.

Whatever dreams Paul had of him and John going off on their own as Lennon-McCartney, whatever that looked like, burned to ashes. Paul woke up from their shared dream of a future together and he found a stable woman with a clear head who wasn't impressed by his Beatle status and was adventurous enough to marry a guy she had known for less than a year.

For Paul, who values stability and wanted to make a good home for his future children, the choice was clear. There was no path forward for him and John, not anymore, and John seemed completely uninterested anyway. Paul's insistence that John left him first is extremely important, not just because of the details of the divorce meeting, but because in 1968 Paul was coming to grips with the reality of the situation. That John did not love him anymore and didn't want to be with him anymore and instead wanted to humiliate him and degrade him instead out of some sort of hidden injury that we can only guess at.

As far as Paul was concerned John abandoned him first and didn't try to work it out. John actively cut himself out of their picture. Paul wanted children and didn't want someone with John's stability problems in their lives. He met Linda, took a deep breath, and jumped.

[writingoddess1125]

I just finished reading your one piece work about how many kids they have lol , and reader seemed AWFULLY happy about how many of them there is , can you do one where reader is a long time wife/partner of them and is not very thrilled, I just need angst in my life😭💀

Ohhh I love some angst!!

It's Done

Asshole Mihawk x FemReader

Angst + Saddness

Support me in Ko-Fi ....haha I'm Poor-

It was rare for you to summon him- As his wife he was used to you being one to not speak with him much. In the past you'd been a chatterbox much to his annoyance, but greatful you had quieted down over the coming years. However when the Transponder Snail on his desk informed him that you'd requested him he was surprised if not mildly intrigued.

Marching down the hallway to you as you saw you, dressed like you were preparing to go outside and eating a fine charcuterie board and sipping on one of his best bottles of wine- much to his ire.

You look up from your glass of wine. Seeing Mihawk step into the room with a bottle of his own drink of choice- Silence filling the room as he looked you over.

"You wished for me wife?" He questioned with his usual stoic manner.

"Another letter- This time a women from East Blue, it's a girl" You say blandly, Tossing the letter on the table as you set down your glass. He didn't seem amused by this, only giving a annoyed sigh and stepping forward prepared to grab the letter however you slammed a manilla envelope on top of the letter before he grabbed it. Yellow eyes looked at you annoyed-

"What is this?-"

He grumbled, you waving off his question for him to just open it. Grabbing the manilla envelope he proceeded to open it, His eyes widening at the stack of papers inside and seeing in bold letters what was written on top. Divorce Decree-

"(Y/N) What is the meaning of this" He hissed and tossed the envelope back down on the table, You pouring yourself another glass of wine.

"Divorce papers, I've already taken the liberty of filling my name on it already" He picked them up again to look for himself- seeing you had indeed signed all the papers already.

You stayed calmly, his face swirling with emotions as he held the papers with a tightened grasp. Clearly anger bubbling below the surface.

"This seems like a extreme reaction to a small issue" He stated calmly, You raising a brow at his statement as you sipped your drink and ate some more of the charcuterie board you'd laid out for yourself.

"Is it?" You question, eating some more till Mihawk reached over and slid the board away from you to stop eating as he stared hard at you- your hands quick to grab your wine glass too before he took that.

"This is a one time thing, it was a drunken-"

"87" You said calmly, drinking down your final glass of wine. He looked at you in question.

"Pardon?-"

"This is your 87th child with a stranger. 48 boys, 39 girls- 25 in the East Blue, 21 in the west, 30 in the North and 11 throughout the Grandline" You recited calmly, his face going to one of shock at hearing your words so blandly spoken or that you knew to the agree of unfaithful he was.

"So what was that about this being the final one?" You ask, standing from your chair to knock the crumbs off your outfit.

"It is natural in wanting to spend time with someone who can provide-" He stated as he watched you prepare to leave.

"Well then its natural that I want a divorce, it's not MY fault that you can't go a few days without fucking some stranger or that you seem to like to like to get every person you meet pregnant" You hissed, Mihawk glaring at you.

"And It is not my fault you are barren- So dont blame me that I spread my legacy elsewhere" He shot back, His words like that final knife to your heart as you stood in the doorway. Mihawk regretted those words the moment they left him, sighing as he rubbed his temple his lips feeling like fire for saying such a thing.

"That.. isnt what I ment I apo-"

"Dont- You're right it's not your fault... just how it's not my fault you're a cheater bastard. We are done Mihawk. My stuff has already been packed and sent away, I will he out of here by tonight" You stated calmly and leaving your library one last time-

"(Y/N)! This is utterly childish and ridiculous" He angrily yelled as he followed you down the hallway. You just grabbing the last suitcase you had set by your former bedroom door.

He grabbed your wrist suddently to stop you from stepping further but you spun around and smacked him hard. The wedding ring still on your hand slicing him across the cheek, as he quickly released your wrist to touch the bloody cut.

You slid off the ring, ignoring the tinge of his blood in it and slammed it into his free hand.

"You will never touch me again-" You all but hiss, disgust dripping from your lips like a venom that shot through his vains.

"(Y/N) it is ignorant to give up an entire relationship for a character flaw- I've been a good husband in other regards" You couldn't help but snort a laugh at this-

"You a good husband? Please tell me, when is my birthday? When was the last time we had sex? Last time you kissed me, Hell last time you even uttered the words I love you? Oh here's a good one when did we get married?" You ask him, He opened his mouth but he couldn't think of an answer to any of those- You smiled sarcastically.

"I thought so... By the way, Our wedding anniversary is today"

His heart sank.. was it really?... he relooked at the divorce papers to see the date of Marriage and he felt a burn of guilt in his chest at the sight- indeed it was today.. 20 years to the day.

He opened his lips to try and conjoure up words to wipe away his actions but he couldnt.. instead looking to your eyes and that's when it hit him- He was no better then a stranger to you seeing the indifference in your gaze at him- Not angry, not sad but just.. indifferent like he was just another person to you.

Sensing that he now understood the true gravity of this all you nod, Grabbing your coat from the rack and slipping it on and set down your copy of the keys to the manor on the side table.

"...You have a wonderful rest of your life Mr. Dracule" You say sternly before walking out of the manor, the Warlord only standing there in a state of shock as his world suddently got so much darker.

[hedgehogsaretheultimatelifeform]

Happy Anniversary!

Toxic!Russell Adler x Toxic!F!Reader

Ah, what's married life without a little toxicity? (Pretty good, allegedly.)

It's your twentieth wedding anniversary, and Adler seems to have forgotten all about it. However, you are the perfect match to his toxic nature, and are going to make sure that he makes up for it... and then some.

'"Divorce" and "therapy" are for normal people' - reader, probably

God, you should leave him. You should. You will, this time. You will. You won’t pick up the phone, call back the attorney’s office and cancel your appointment do discuss beginning divorce proceedings against your husband. You won’t, not this time. 

He knows that you’ve made it. Yet another appointment, with yet another attorney. You’d made sure of it, by leaving a scattered mess of business cards out on the hallway table - a fallen snow of lawyers, specialising in family affairs. Which specific one you’d ended up going to, didn’t matter. What did, is that Russell Adler knew, beyond any doubt, that you’d gone to one.

When he gets in from work (late, past dinner late… again), he sees them immediately. He doesn’t say anything to you, sat on the stairs at the end of the hall. He simply brushes them off the table, spreading them out across the floor, before walking over them as he heads for the coat rack. He changes his jacket and his shoes, still neither of you saying anything, even as you refuse to move so he can sit, which would make putting his shoes on easier.

He manages despite your cruelty, and turns to leave again, pausing at the door. Russell makes sure that you see him light up a cigarette, while he’s still inside, in your hallway. He ignores how you respond, by opening the bottle of whiskey in your hand, and tossing the lid-cork thing at his retreating back. It bounces off the hallway floor, but still stops short of the front door, now once again closed, with you left alone behind it.

You stand, finish walking down the stairs and start to drink. 

Him and his stupid fucking job. Him, and his stupid fucking devotion, body and rotten soul, to an equally rotten government. He’d sooner ball up and make love to an American flag, than he would to you.

At this point in your marriage, after twenty fucking years, there was nothing good, nothing healthy, left between the two of you. If there ever had been. Everyone you knew said you should leave - for both of your sakes. By staying, all you were doing was burning each other up, tearing out pieces of each other’s flesh, pound for pound, and if you didn’t stop now, you’d both end up dead.

The first time you’d talked about leaving him, no one had got it. They’d said, oh well, he doesn’t hit you, he doesn’t cheat on you, he gives you a lot of money, (emphasis on ‘a lot’, meaning, not as much as ours give us), you don’t have to work, you get your own house to lie about in all day; and you always complain about how he’s never around, surely that’s a good thing if you hate him so much?

That had been the only time you’d actually been serious about divorcing him. You’d ignored everyone’s cautioning about it, what it would do to your reputation, socially, how you had no real cause, that legally, you had to be able to prove fault on his side; and gone to see an attorney anyway. Then, some pimple faced, fresh out of school upstart told you exactly how much goddamn money it would cost to do that, so you’d reconsidered your options, and stayed. Over the years, the people around you saw you changing, and realised they probably shouldn’t have stopped you leaving. Most thought that they probably should have helped you then, and even though they hadn’t, they could help you now – you were in California, you could go for no fault divorce, if you wanted.

Those three words were the kicker. Because now, you didn’t. Talking divorce was an empty threat; simply your way of communicating that you needed something from him. 

It’s not like he was any better than you. He would (sometimes literally) throw money at you, then smile and pat your head, like you were a fucking dog, and the wad of notes had fixed everything. Like all your marriage boiled down to was a series of threats and exchanges, trade between two independent, completely self-interested parties that just happened to be inescapably, legally bound to each other. 

You say all that, but it sure felt good to spend it, though. And, he was a free man too. If he didn’t want to stay, he didn’t have to.

After a last swig or two, you abandon the whiskey (typically his drink) and go in search of your own, something a deal more civilised in your own opinion. It just so happened that when you abandon the whiskey, the bottle is lying on its side over the sink, all pouring out. A complete accident, you swear. 

A good, cheap beer is more your thing. Not a dirt-cheap beer, like the stuff college students pool together their last dollars for; but something that, when drunk cold, tastes decent enough by your standards, and cheap by Russell’s. Which is really the whole point. You don’t care about what you drink, just that you get drunk, and when (if) he gets home, he has to taste some ‘cheap shit’ on his wife’s lips and not complain about it. God, what about this do other people not get? How can they not get that this is what works for you, what makes you feel alive? 

You wander from room to room as you drink, upstairs, downstairs, back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room to the lounge, to your office, then upstairs again, roaming between the bedrooms, second sitting room, and shaking the handle of the door to his office - locked, like always. You leave the empty cans on the floor where you finish drinking them, only taking breaks to stare at the nearest clock as you will for time to start passing by faster. Just for you, you know? As a treat?

You get restless when you’re angry. All this energy, and you don’t know what to do with it. 

You want to break something. 

You head down into your basement, one last can of beer in hand. You open it, then leave it on the stairs as you drag out one of your most prized possessions: a cardboard box full of already damaged chinaware, that had no purpose beyond being thrown away. In fact, that’s how you’d gotten it, by persuading your neighbour to give it to you, rather than throwing it out, with some pretty story about how you made art out of broken things, (the five dollars hadn’t hurt either), allowing you to stow the unassuming box down here in the cool concrete box underneath your floors.

It was the perfect place, to take already broken shit and break it further, by hurling the chipped ceramic against the walls, and losing yourself in the body shaking laughter as you watch it shatter. After a while, you get tired of it, and sit back on the stairs, taking delight in your last, forgotten beer, sipping it slowly as you contemplate whether or not you should go walk bare foot through the mess, make him find you when he gets home, make him take you to hospital and put his lying to good use, for once, that he’s a loving, caring husband who’s clumsy wife dropped a cup and trod on the broken pieces in a panic. 

You lean against the wooden panelled wall, face hurting with the smile of how much you’d enjoy seeing him squirm under a doctor’s inquisition, only to hear the rumble of a car pulling into your drive way. 

One last swig of beer and you’re done. You toss the can across the room, wincing as it dings like a bell against the wall, then clatters unceremoniously down among the rest of the mess. You go up the stairs, two at a time, and emerge into the kitchen at the same time the front door closes.

“What time do you call this?” You pick up the now nearly empty bottle of whiskey, and turn it upright on the counter.

“Good time.” He calls back, his shoes thudding as he takes them off and drops them on the hallway floor, rather than putting them away. 

“Do you really?” You try to round the corner into the hallway, only to bump into him as he tried to do the inverse. You both stand there for a minute, then you give him way, both of ending up in the kitchen, leaning on either side of the table. 

“Yeah.” He takes the bottle of whiskey and swigs meagrely at what’s left, mouth stretched in a tight line. 

“On today of all days?”

“What day?” He glances at the calendar. “Valentine’s was last week. You making up another anniversary on me?”

“Not making it up.” You point to the picture above the calendar - the only decent photo to come out of your wedding, with the date embossed along the bottom of the frame.

“Oh.” He sips again. “We’ve been married long enough that only the big one’s matter, right?”

“It is a big one.” You bite back a smile, feeling like you just burst his balloon, loopholed his own logic.

He sighs and reached into his jacket, taking out a wad of cash. The clip scraps against the wooden table as he shoves it at you. “There.”

You scoop up the wad, shaking it back at him. “You can’t give me money like it’s going to fix this.”

“But it will, though.” He finishes the bottle of whiskey. “Go buy new clothes, a car, a goddamn house. Whatever will shut you up.”

You advance on him around the table, pulling the money out of the clip, tossing the metal pin back at him. It thuds softly against his jacket, before clattering down on the tiles between his feet. “You think I’m that easy to buy?”

You say, but you’re leafing through the notes, counting the hundreds quickly to a thousand, two, and you’ve barely made a dent in it when he sets the bottle down and advances right back at you, shoulders back, arms wide. “You’d stay for a lot less than that. This is generosity.”

He called you cheap. CHEAP! You should hit him for that. Instead, you furl the notes into a roll in your hand, and leap into his arms. He kisses you, then recoils from the flavour of your mouth, so you can chase him, and be the one to make husband and wife kiss. 

He lets that be as it may, before he’s the one to cage you against the wall; then you’re the one who threatens to ruin his beloved jacket if he doesn’t take you up to bed. He’s the one to oblige, half leading, half guiding you upstairs and into your marital nook, then you’re the one who shoves his jacket off his shoulders, tossing it onto the floor rather than hanging it up nicely. 

He’s the one to pull you down on the bed, you’re the one to rip the collar of his shirt, he’s the first to swear; you pull those fucking sunglasses off this face and toss them somewhere behind you, kissing him again, making him let you see his eyes. He responds by flicking his hand under your waistband, sliding down and cupping his hand over your cunt, grinning as he leans down to your ear, telling you that at least your body still recognises that he’s your husband. You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair, then pull, so hard he has to crane his head back, hissing through his teeth as you spit on his scar, eyes glazing as you watch your saliva drip off his chin, and not at all because his fingers are circling your clit; before he sits up, tugging your pyjama shorts down, until you lift your leg, lock it around his arm and tell him, “you first.”

He obliges, continuing your effort of destroying his perfectly good shirt, the loud tear down the front hiding the muttered comment that the replacement is going to come out of your allowance. His jeans and briefs follow, and you’re treated to the view that only you and all his fellow soldiers are treated to – a reminder that no matter what airs he puts on, Russell Adler is a man made of flesh and blood, as flawed and fucked up, if not more so, as the rest of us. Definitely a man too, the way he hides his soft cock from you beneath the bunched sheets, nodding for you to get your shirt off too, after you release his arm. 

You oblige, since he did so nicely, and he hides his groan when he sees your tits. He’s lucky to see them even once more, as he dips a finger inside your cunt, meeting your eyes as you silently mock him that, really? You think that does it?

He feeds two fingers into you, neglecting your clit as ever, other fingers scraping against your pubes, keeping any choice comments about it to himself – if he’s even got the brain space to think about it, as you see the bulge rising beneath the sheets bundled at his crotch, the prospect of real intercourse actually, finally, making you excited. 

Your cunt tightens around Adler’s fingers when his knuckles graze over your clit, before he ruins it by moving you, tilting your hips up over his knees, prodding his cock at your hole, staring you down like he’s daring you to tell him to wear a condom. 

You don’t care for that now, just for him to hurry up and fuck you - the exhaustion is suddenly catching you, and you would really just like to cum before you go to sleep. Even if you have to get up and go into the bathroom to finish the job yourself.

Though, you might not have to – for once. There’s a boiling heat inside you, coiling out from where his cock is sunk into your cunt. It has a chokehold on your lungs, making your breath stutter, the half formed words you try to make are falling apart on your tongue, your eyes glazing over as he multitasks, working both your clit and cunt at the same time (honestly, revolutionary for him, it almost makes you want to ask him who he’s been practicing on), as you cry out, his dick settling deep inside you, a smile playing on his lips when you kiss him. 

Your fingers feel the upturned corners of his lips, and you dig your nails into them as he leans over you, still determinedly thumbing at your clit even as his arm gets sandwiched between your bodies, rutting against each other. He grunts into your mouth, and it’s your turn to recoil. God, cigarettes make a man taste awful. You can’t even push through it now, not with how tight your body’s strung. He’s winding you up, like always, but with his cock, waiting for you to snap –

And you do. In your own bed, for once. He cums too, when, you’re not sure, and where, you don’t care, as long as it’s not on the sheets. It’s not like it’s staying inside you, not after you’ve peed and cleaned yourself up, lingering in the bathroom even after you’ve changed into new pyjamas, fixed your hair and brushed your teeth; before dragging yourself back to your bedroom, choosing to ignore the not so faint smell of smoke, and how Russell is closing the barely open window, as you retrieve your money, folding the stack of notes over and tucking it away into the drawer on your night stand. 

You get into bed, back turned to him as he gets in behind you. He faces you at first, leaning over the pillows to murmur, “happy anniversary,��� before rolling over and turning off the light.

“Yourself.” You respond in the darkness, taking a deep breath as you close your eyes, marvelling at how that was the most civilised conversation you’ve had in years. 

You sleep in the next day. After staggering down the stairs at a time that resembles lunchtime more than breakfast time, the phone rings. 

“Hello? This is Morrison and Hamble…”

“Ah, yes.” You interrupt the secretary on the other end. “I’m so sorry, I should have called sooner. I need to cancel my appointment.”

“Oh.” She sounded surprised, but caught herself. “That is not a problem, Mrs Adler. I do just have to inform you, that due to the late nature of this request, you will still be charged for Mr. Hamble’s time…”

“Not a problem, at all. I completely understand.” You sigh, shifting the receiver to your other ear, reaching into your dressing gown pocket. “Please offer my deepest apologies to him. My husband and I sat down and worked things out.”

“Just to confirm, you won’t dispute this charge, ma’am?”

“I will not.” You pulled out the roll of ten thousand dollars he’d given you. “I realise now, that I can’t put a price on my marriage.”

“Ah… that’s good.” She sighs on the other end of the line. “If that’s all then, Mrs Adler, I’ll let you get back to your day.”

“Yes, thank you. Again, I am sorry for not calling earlier.”

“Not a problem, Ma’am. Have a nice day.”

Click.

Normally, you’d be writing a complaint in to the firm, about the lack of friendliness in their customer facing staff. Today, however, you had ten thousand dollars in your pocket, and a window in front of you that looked straight out straight onto to your deck. Sorely old, in need of replacing. Improving, might be a better term. A covered deck, maybe a linen tent, or a pergola covered in clematis. Whatever you wanted, really. Those were his words, exactly. Or, mostly. In spirit.

And, you wanted a goddamn deck.

Make a great story to tell, when you’re hosting this summer; that it’s the deck that saved your marriage. 

You trample down the hallway, trying to remember where you left the phone book, suddenly reaching out for the wall when you stepped on something sharp. 

One of the business cards from yesterday. You sigh, and stop to pick them all up, straightening the bent corners before tucking them away in a mostly even bundle, ready and waiting for when you would need them again. In a month, three, six. Whenever you get bored of your new deck. 

[nexility-sims]

𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗧𝗪𝗢 (𝟭/?)   |   NAKAWE & CANARIS, USPANA, 1992

Renzo returned her calls belatedly. He was not someone who checked the answering machine; the indifferent prerecorded message a missed caller would hear was sincere, including his offhand claim that he only had such a device because it was "cool." Or, it had been.  [continued below ↓]

🅝🅞🅣🅔🅢 - 1) to be explicit, the whole premise of this is "how does the au diverge from canon," so ... this is how. [some series of Spoilers] happened, and this is the aftermath. thrilling, huh. 2) gotta listen to "kashmir" by LZ to get the Full Effect™ & 3) i phoned in much of this bc i got tired of tinkering and just wanted to share it already !!!!! so. wish i had more to say, but it's 3:30am and, well, Inquiring Minds can and do inquire. thanks for following me on these many meandering and highly unnecessary side quests ♥️

𝟭𝟵𝟵𝟰 🅐🅤 ‣ gameplay \ prev \ next

He started to encounter them more often in the mid-eighties, although his first exposure was much earlier. Mrs. Portnoy had owned one. He took no notice of it on the occasions she invited him inside for iced tea while she pulled crisp bills from her purse only to give him her most beat up nickels and dimes. It was on an illicit visit, after she ran to her car with rollers still intact to run some emergency errand, that he learned what it was. Loudly, a man’s gruff voice boomed into the living room as he examined the china cabinet. He sprung away so fast that he crashed into the cabinet’s open door, rattling the whole thing and its fragile contents. His heart raced and his cheeks burned as he faced the room. Instead, he caught the end of the message: her long-absent husband had an update about their divorce proceedings. Renzo’s whole body deflated as he relaxed. For his trouble, he saw it only fit to walk off with something. Mrs. Portnoy’s porcelain trinkets were useless, so he nicked more of her Valium instead. She kept her pills loose in a candy bowl like his mother did, after all. 

Years later, he spent more time in offices or with people who would have such a novelty in their home. Its possibilities became evident to him by happenstance when he called a woman at the number she had printed on a cocktail napkin and tucked into his jeans. A message played after it rang for some time. Her voice was light and clear as she said, “Why don’t you fuck off and die?” His brow knit hard for a few beats, then she concluded, “Joking! That’s to cull the salesmen and losers. Leave a message if you aren’t one.” His message was a burst of laughter. When he met her at a Chateau Marmont function earlier that week, she was a prim redheaded event coordinator. He might have expected that gag from the other number on his list. Later that same night, he met a shaggy-haired makeup artist after she had shouted to compliment his eyelashes over the din of whatever group was playing the Troubadour at the time. Of course, when he moved on to that number, still faintly visible on his forearm just below the snake curled there, her message was brief. Delphie stuck to the basics, so he hung up without saying a word and decided to try Diane again.

Missed calls from Leonor piled up then eventually stopped, and she only left one message for him. He heard that one in real time as if it were a haunting from the ether, not a mechanical recording tethered to the corporeal world. Of course, that was likely how she meant it. Without greeting, she began, ‘I need to talk to you. I know you’re there, so can’t you just listen for a few minutes? What’s wrong with you anyway? Don’t you get tired of being... If I could shake you or just—Ugh!’  Whatever anger she began with evaporated with a loud sigh. Resignation dampened her second attempt as she mused, ‘I don’t understand you. Are you a real person, Renzo? I’m going to wake up in a few days and really not know if I dreamed you up. That’s how I feel. If I was going to torture myself, that’s what I would do. I only want to wrap my arms around you, but there’s nothing to hold. How many of us are there, huh?’ Silence. He turned his head as if she, the ghost from nowhere, would be there to see. Then, her voice rose again to conclude, ‘Call me later, okay? I’m still high right now, but I’ll be sad later and so will you.’ 

The media presence outside his address ramped up in an abrupt way in the midst of these frequent then ceased calls. He was always incensed when they crowded and hounded, but those days were remarkable. His routine had not changed. To the extent that it had, the change was a shrinking. His world got smaller. Most of it was his own doing; before the attention finally drove him out of Nakawe, he isolated himself at home. The clamor on the street managed to penetrate the foliage and force its way inside the guesthouse. When he cranked up the volume of whatever recorded racket was already shaking the walls from within, some of the vultures became emboldened enough to skulk around in the yard. What did they make of the place? he wondered at one point. Every curtain was drawn. Even in the dead of night, no lights came on. Noise poured out all the while—music looped on end, the same tracks over and over again, guitar riffs and echoing vocals to answer the chorus of cameraman taunts angling to lure him out in a photogenic rage.

He could see them from the bedroom windows, but he spent most of his time laid out on the opposite side of the bed. With his back to them and his mind elsewhere, some forty-eight hours passed before he emerged and came to appreciate the storm that had developed around him. Even then, there wasn’t any anger. He wouldn’t go outside and shout at them. He wouldn’t hurl anything from the upstairs windows—no crashing punctuation on a shouted threat to, ‘Get the hell out of here!’ Instead, he changed the record, made black coffee to accompany a stale pastry, and stretched out on the couch. The conversation pit kept him from view even as a few took advantage of the portal wall that separated the living room from the backyard. 

With what lucidity he had, he decided to leave town. The actual getaway would be the hardest part. Where would he go? Canaris felt right. He dreamed of collapsing on the beach and giving himself over to the waves there—all of them, the all-encompassing rushes of euphoria and the enveloping saltwater with its foam and grit. It proved easier said than done. He did force his way out to a waiting car without hitting anyone, and he did wake up in Canaris sometime later, but his attempt to get lost in the surf ended with a terrible, desperate gasping fit. There was nothing soothing about drowning. It was so dissatisfying that he locked himself in a pitch black hotel bathroom until the sensations faded from memory. When he decided to try again, their unwanted recollection prompted him to wander the streets of Canaris’s urban sister city instead. 

He eventually passed a record store casting neon light onto the street and, noticing the throng of young people loitering outside, thought of Leonor with unexpected clarity. It was barely a week since their last conversation, but he remembered her like a figure from a past life. 

Inside the nearby phone booth, he struggled to dial her number. It wasn’t his memory that failed him so much as the way his fingers refused to land where he meant. Finally, he bested his own clumsy impatience only to grow even more exasperated when the hard won ringing gave way to her best professional tone. Her prerecorded message was basic and straightforward, but he knew better these days than to judge it as somehow representative of anything at all. He had barely uttered a quiet greeting when the phone clicked again and her usual voice piped up, breathless, ‘Oh, finally!’ 

His stomach dropped into his boots, and he leaned, heavy and weary, against the glass pane of the telephone booth. With his cheek against its cool surface, his eyelids fluttering with exhaustion. ‘I got in some trouble,’ she told him. He swallowed hard but said nothing. ‘Nothing permanent. Never mind. I just … Are you home? Can I come by?’ 

While she put forth those tentative questions, he was lowering himself to the ground with all the care of a glass-boned geriatric and fumbling around his pockets for a cigarette. The pack was empty when he grasped it. Worse than bad news, that was a bad sign. Leonor listened to the muffled sounds of movement, silent and waiting, until he gave up and set to flickering his lighter on and off instead. ‘I’m not home,’  he said. ‘I’m not going back home.’ 

‘Today?’

‘Period.’

More silence. He watched the flame grow and whisper away with each motion of his thumb. As she spoke, he kept his gaze trained on it. 

‘You’re leaving? Is that it?’

There was nothing accusatory in her tone. If anything, she sounded to be on the verge of tears. That telltale sound pricked at something in him. She was waiting for a response. With a huff, he put away the lighter so as to press more of his exposed skin against the cool glass. To any passerby, it must have appeared strange, like some unseen force had shoved him into the booth and refused to let up. His expression remained placid. Even as he responded, knowing how she would receive it, his face was neutral, slack even. 

‘I was going to tell you—drop by your place, maybe.’ Was that true? He didn’t know. It had crossed his mind, at least, so it wasn’t a lie. ‘I’m leaving Canaris in two days. Going straight to the airport..’ 

Her soft “Oh,” may as well have been a hiccup. 

There was nothing left to say. He might have, in a better state, apologized for the surprise or proffered his rationale as a sign of goodwill. Tacking the other way, he knew she would have appreciated a subtle redirect to other things—why she was calling, whether she was okay, if she wanted to hop on a jet to Canaris for the night. Instead, the silence went on, although it distinctly didn’t drag. They were in a limbo of sorts where time didn’t exist. He had been floating for days. With just the subdued sound of her voice, it was as if she had simply waded out to join him. Indeed, he couldn’t imagine what she was doing on her end of the line—the specifics, whether she was in her bed or, maybe, had carried the phone out to her balcony. As long as he didn’t hear the beginnings of a caustic meltdown, they stayed temple to temple, watching black clouds drift along a black sky.

He shifted himself, making noise to signal he was listening. She did the same. 

‘Will you …’ There was more noise, more movement—“I’m still here, don’t go!” the clattering and faint rustling said—and then another heavy sigh. She spat out her next question as if afraid it would lodge in her throat. Her tone was nakedly forthright or urgent or both as she asked, ‘Will you let me come with you?’

Now, troubled waters imperiled their floating. What could he say to that? His instinct was to bark, “No!” with all the impetuous exuberance of a child being forced to share. Instead, or because of that, he laughed. It was the same response in effect. If his reaction bothered her, she didn’t launch into a tirade or lash out. Any tears failed to amplify. She didn’t protest or interrupt to clarify and press her case. She didn’t say anything at all, but she also didn’t hang up. That must have become conspicuous, for his laughter dried up as soon as he acknowledged that she was just sitting there, silent except for her soft breaths, waiting for him to take her seriously. Quietened, he took his time readjusting and wrestling with the unwieldy cord of the telephone. His body was heavy, his skin felt clammy and tacky like cling film, and a familiar throbbing in his head surfaced as the fit of laughter left dull, unwelcome sobriety in its wake.  

‘What are you talking about?’ he moaned. ‘Don’t you know what I’m saying?’ 

She couldn’t, he feared. If she did, wouldn’t she be on the edge of hysteria, if not plunging headfirst into it? She couldn’t handle being unable to get him on the line for a few days, so how would she fare if he was gone—hours and flights away, starting over beyond reach, awash in new people and new experiences, engulfed by another world unopened to her? She wouldn’t allow it. Or, there would be kicking and screaming. He might leave, but it would be with scabs due to scar. Still, this is what he was promising. “Leaving” was not about any destination; there was no afterward or subsequence to elaborate, to plan, to suggest as a hazy someday rendezvous. It was the final goodbye by another name or, at best, the preamble to it. 

“Do it with your eyes wide open,” she had once asked while they lay together in the backyard he no longer considered his, if he ever had. The tenderness touched him. Even in the moment, he was struck by her maturity and her girlishness. They were inextricable contradictions. Like the horizon was noteworthy as a meeting place, so, too, were the moments when her age meant something to him. It was brave of her to feel herself in the palm of his hand—to feel such intimate fear of being dropped or crushed or tossed out like a pesky houseguest—and to nonetheless face the necessity that it be named. ‘See? I can say it,’ she had seemed to announce, triumphant in a spiritless way. Only, she didn’t say it. It was, then and now, all euphemistic. It was a bridge built by planks of mutual understanding, beset by rotting spots where fear took hold, swaying and creaking. It was impossible to cross unless your eyes were squeezed tight. 

He realized as she did ultimately resort to explaining herself that she knew all too well what he was saying. In the time apart, when he left her dangling with no notice, she must have exhausted the possibilities in her own mind. It wasn’t a far-fetched or unlikely scenario. He could very plausibly have ignored her because he was busy executing his big escape from Uspana with single-minded focus. If he left the pills alone and reached for the powders, it was the kind of leap he could make with bewildering ease. That he was lost at sea within himself or rotting away unseen were options, too, but it wasn’t like her to sprout such concerns. Recent events might have been too fresh. Renzo was a fool in her mind, but he wasn’t stupid. Better yet, she was too peripheral in those scenarios; they weren’t tragedies she could enter and possess. So, she knew how he had landed in the country. Was it such a stretch to conclude his time there was always destined to be brief—just long enough to be a reprieve and just short enough to stay sweet? It wasn’t sweet anymore. She was there when it soured. She saw it with her own eyes and had tasted herself how terrible it could get. Something soured for him on the spot, and he could recall through the haze of past panic how that moment, the way he had looked through her as though she ceased to exist, had alarmed her most of all. 

They shared a peculiar strain of self-absorption, but it was a commonality that had made them compatible. She wouldn’t credit herself with souring anything, although she could acknowledge that she wasn’t sweet enough to avoid being a burden in her own way. That was what he told her most recently, in other words on another telephone call, when he insisted he couldn't take care of her. He wouldn’t. Wants and needs alike, they were hers to manage. He didn’t need her apologies or her concern, her affection or her support. What he needed was space—lots of it, urgently, firm and definite. ‘Dig a fucking hole and put me in it,’ he had begged. She should have known from that choice of metaphor, but there it was—if she buried him, the story became one of mourning and waiting cast as widowhood. That wasn’t the end. It paused until he rose from the dead, for her sake and by her demand. 

To him, that demand of his own was an act of preservation, but she must have heard only rejection. They had this conversation before his world shrunk. It was, in retrospect, a sign of care that he had called her to tell her these things before he took his big plunge into absence. She didn’t bristle at the idea that she must take care of herself. What made her cry was the insistence that she couldn’t join him on this nosedive into a new low. There would be no mourning, no widowhood, no curling around each other like roots under the weight of suffocating dirt. The phone had clicked abruptly on her end, but he only felt grateful that she spared him the live audio of her heart breaking. In truth, it hadn’t felt like a moment of finality to him. It could have been an improvised interlude from the start, but she had no patience to spare when asked for it. 

Renzo’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t interrupt her stream of quick, low murmuring until he had repositioned himself yet again, wedged in an awkward corner where his cheek and forehead touched the glass with the receiver tucked in against his neck. When he spoke, it was to admit, ‘I missed all of that, Nora. Say it again.’

That was fine, he figured. It would give her a moment to edit herself—to take back what she regretted conceding, emphasize what she truly meant, polish the parts that she hoped would be persuasive. He wanted to listen to her, to really understand, even if he felt the laughter bubbling up inside. It was hard to picture what she could say that would make it less absurd. He was trying to give her a purposeful if unceremonious goodbye, and she was turning it down as though it was negotiable. Yet, that was her whole point, he came to accept, slowly but then all at once, as his mind caught up with her words. 

‘I can’t be here anymore,’ she was saying. ‘What’s left for me? Maybe there was something—before, at first—but all I could do was ruin it. Born on a bad day.’ Here, she paused to chuckle. Renzo wanted to smile, not at the invocation of stars and fate so much as her small, wry acknowledgment that he would find it silly. Hers were silly convictions, but it was endearing in its unexpectedness. She was sensible, except for when she wasn’t. She was logical, blunt, inclined to pragmatism, except for when she wasn’t. She wasn’t foolish, except for when she was. 

‘It’s terrible,’ she continued. ‘I feel terrible. I only feel good when I’m with you, and now … I don’t even want to feel good. I just don’t want to feel alone. I can’t. Don’t you feel the same way?

That was tricky. He let his head loll, pressing against the receiver. 

‘I want to be alone,’ he retorted.

‘No … You don’t. Be honest. Don’t you want me there?’ 

He shook his head but could hear himself losing the argument. ‘It’s not good for us, Nora,’ he was saying. The whining lilt of it bothered him. He groaned, ‘Of course I fucking want you here, but we don’t get what we want. It’s not time for make-believe, okay? It’s not the time.’

She snapped, fast and adamant, ‘I know! I mean it, Renzo. Let me come with you. Can’t I start over, too? Am I allowed? I want to do it with you. If you don’t want me, fine, but don’t try to make this decision for me. Just say yes, or … .’ 

He waited, but she wouldn’t continue. ‘Or what?’

‘Say “yes” or just admit that you don’t love me like I love you.’ 

There it was. He sighed, grumbling, ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’ 

Now, she laughed. ‘That’s why it’s beautiful. We don’t have to. Yes or no, that’s all. Don’t think. Just tell me what to do.’ 

He pulled away from the glass altogether and dropped his head down between his knees. The coolness wasn’t soothing anymore, and he wanted to pretend, with the darkness and pressure on his head, that he was somewhere else. He wasn’t in a phone booth in Canaris, sitting on the grimy floor while passersby peered at him and wondered why he looked familiar. He wasn’t in the back room of The Den either. That was where he would otherwise be, laid out on the couch, rubbing chalky fingers cast in red light down his cheeks, across his lips, all along the rust flavored crevices of his gums as the noise of partying filtered, muted, through the walls. He couldn’t be alone like that anymore. He wasn’t at Leonor’s place either. There, he would be on her couch in front of massive windows big enough to capture the horizon but set far enough away to deprive her neighbors of any special views. Where he was in that moment was on an airplane, bound for New York, with a freshly lit cigarette in his hand. His other hand wasn’t free, though, because instead of grasping hard at a fistful of his own flat, unwashed hair, it was pinned to the armrest, intertwined with hers. 

At this fantasy, he wanted to scream. It would have been a primal, cracking, unsustainable kind of shouting—spewing up frustration but ultimately toothless. He let himself mutter a low, ‘Goddammit,’ instead, which he knew she would be straining to hear. Now, she had done it. She had him in a hold where the upper hand was hers. Was it in the crook of her slender arm? Better yet, was it where her strong, heated thighs replaced the half-hearted squeeze of his own cold hands against his head? She wouldn’t smell like hairspray and spandex and baby powder. She would smell like herself—warm spices and sex, something sweet like vanilla but earthier, rich and enveloping, pure unadulterated comfort. He could imagine the look on her face, too, while she waited for him to relax into capitulation. 

And, raising his head, he did. ‘If it’s what you want, but I’m not missing that fucking flight.’ 

Leonor laughed—perhaps with relief, perhaps at the empty threat, perhaps because she hadn’t truly expected to get her way. They fell quiet after that. For their own reflective reasons, they remained that way without issue until, finally, the public telephone began to demand additional coins he didn’t have to feed it.

TRANSCRIPT:

(LEONOR V.O.) I need to talk to you. I know you’re there, so can’t you just listen for a few minutes? What’s wrong with you anyway? Don’t you ever get tired of being so … If I could shake you or just—Ugh! [Leonor huffs]

(LEONOR V.O.)I don’t understand you. Are you a real person, Renzo? I’m going to wake up in a few days and really not know if I dreamed you up.

(LEONOR V.O.)That’s how I feel. If I was going to torture myself, that’s what I would do. I only want to wrap my arms around you, but there’s nothing to hold. How many of us are there, huh?

(LEONOR V.O.)Call me back, okay? I’m still high right now, but I’ll be sad later and so will you.

LEONOR | —I got in some trouble. Nothing permanent. Never mind. I just … Are you home? Can I come by?

RENZO | I’m not home. I’m not going back home. LEONOR | Today? RENZO | Period.

LEONOR | … You’re leaving? Is that it?

RENZO | I was going to tell you—drop by your place. I’m leaving Canaris in two days. Going straight to the airport.

LEONOR | Oh.

LEONOR | Will you … Will you let me come with you?

RENZO | What are you talking about? Do you know what I’m saying? [Leonor talking indistinctly]

RENZO | I missed all of that, Nora. Say it again. LEONOR | I can’t be here anymore. What’s left for me? Maybe there was something—before, at first—but all I could do was ruin it. Born on a bad day. [Chuckles]

LEONOR | It’s terrible, actually. I feel terrible. I only feel good when I’m with you, and now … I don’t even want to feel good. I just don’t want to feel alone. I can’t.

LEONOR | Don’t you feel the same way? RENZO | I want to be alone. LEONOR | No … You don’t. Be honest. Don’t you want me there? RENZO | It’s not good for us, Nora.

RENZO | Of course I fucking want you here, but we don’t get what we want. It’s not time for make-believe, okay? It’s not the time. LEONOR | I know! I mean it, Renzo. Let me come with you. Can’t I start over, too? Am I allowed? I want to do it with you. If you don’t want me, fine, but don’t try to make this decision for me. Just say yes, or … RENZO | Or what?

LEONOR | Say “yes” or admit that you don't love me like I love you. RENZO | I don't want to talk about that. LEONOR | That's why it's so beautiful. We don't have to. Yes or no, that's all. Don't think. Just tell me what to do.

RENZO | Goddammit.

RENZO | If it’s what you want, but I’m not missing that fucking flight.

[glossymint]

Do you all ever think about how weird it is that they started talking after Noel separated/started divorce proceedings? Like full stop that's fucking weird!

Liam was the ex Noel told Sara not to worry about.

[telomeke]

4 MINUTES EPISODE 5 – FLASHBACKS, WATCHALONGS AND AN OMINOUS CULTURAL TOUCHPOINT

They're doing a great job with this show and I'm now a newly-minted fan of Director Ning Bhanbhassa Dhubthien, whose confident hand has been assuredly steering the proceedings in 4 Minutes. 🤩

Ep.5 has irrefutably confirmed that the 4 Minutes of the title really is a reference to the four-minute limbo after the heart stops beating (4 Minutes Sultrier Version Ep.5 timestamp 42:20).

So the layers are now being slowly peeled back and more was revealed to us, shedding flashes of light on the convoluted storyline. All is still not clear yet, but some ideas are starting to take shape.

OK, this is mostly guesswork but anyway–

It's quite firmly implanted in my mind now that we're seeing a lot of Great's four minutes of brain activity post cardiac arrest. But what's been percolating in my mind since the last episode is that that we might also be seeing Tyme's four-minute post-death flashback, especially since we also saw him getting shot in the opening sequence of Episode 1.

And so those scenes and sequences shown from Tyme's point of view may also be him re-living his own past experiences (concurrently with Great's?) even as his own heart has stopped.

This thought was triggered by Ep.4's revelation that people who find themselves in the Four-Minute Zone get to enter some sort of common waiting room, and they get to meet others in there too:

And the vibes I got watching this scene reminded me so much of Great and Tyme's conversation at their lakeside glamping in the trailer, which we got to see fully in Episode 5:

I don't think this is Great and Tyme on a romantic date in the real world. Serene, other-worldly and seemingly divorced from reality – this locale has them talking about how beautiful it all is, and Great even says "I wanna stay here forever" before admitting "But we probably can't."

It really looks like this is Great and Tyme finding each other in the four-minute post-death netherworld, with the art gallery meeting room switched up for a more romantic getaway instead (that Great got to choose). And with the clock ticking ominously down to 11:04...

There's also this little snippet from the trailer:

Tyme is locked out of a room, and he calls out for Great even as his surroundings are all sepia-toned and soft-focused.

I think this is 4 Minutes showing us that Tyme's four minutes will be up before Great's are, and Tyme will swept back to the real world – or away to another world – while Great is left behind. (Or maybe it's the other way around?)

Ominously, we are not shown Great's rapture and release from four-minute limbo – as much as I want a Happily Ever After for the two newest pretty boys who have won my heart, 4 Minutes is making no such promises. So I suppose we should prepare ourselves for the possibility that while Great (or Tyme) may well be waking up from a four-minute hiatus and returning to the world of the living at 11:04 – it's not a guarantee that the other will rejoin him there when his own four minutes tick down. 😬💔😭

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Anyway, I've refrained from commenting on the numeral 4 as a symbol of death, because this is more a thing in Chinese culture rather than Thai (and up until Ep.5 Thai-Chinese references were at most only faintly present in 4 Minutes).

Well that certainly changed, at 4 Minutes Sultrier Version Ep.5 timestamp 34:50:

The temple where Ep.1 accident victim Khun Manee goes to hire a hitman is unmistakably Chinese. The mafia don she engages with also speaks in Teochew Chinese (I think) at timestamp 36:25.

And so when her siam si/เซียมซี fortune stick shows up with the numeral 4, the link with death is all but confirmed (the word for death in many Chinese dialects like Hokkien, Teochew, Cantonese and Hakka sounds similar to the word for the numeral 4, although there are tonal differences). No surprises then, that the Chinese don tells Manee "Someone's probably going to die."

This had a Thai parallel in Ep.1, when the clock in Khun Manee's hospital room showed us it was thirteen minutes past 1 o'clock in the afternoon:

As portentous as this might appear to occidental minds, it's not just the Western superstition surrounding the number 13 that's threading darker undertones into the fabric of this scene.

In Thai culture (where belief in the supernatural abounds), the numeral 13 is also sometimes considered ill-omened because it looks rather like the Thai word for ghost – ผี – flipped onto its side, adding to the general sense of foreboding in Ep.1.

And for me, this was not meant to foreshadow all the deaths taking place in subsequent scenes and episodes, although it isn't inappropriate as a device.

We have been seeing ghosts in this series – Great, Lukwa, possibly Tyme, and whoever else who found themselves caught in the spectral dimension that exists between life and death in the universe of 4 Minutes.

‌And this may be just my fevered 4 Minutes obsessed brain overthinking things again, but in this light – the paired thirteen (13:13) is likely a reference to the ghostly half-lives of our protagonist couple Great and Tyme, getting to share a precious (final?) four minutes together in that twilight zone between the world of the living and the great beyond.

But it seems more than likely that they will be yanked apart when their four minutes are up. 😧 So will that separation be forever? I wait on tenterhooks to see.

P.S. Links to my own fan theory as to what it all might possibly mean:

And some more supporting information, embedded in the show:

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