#California divorce lawyer

[westoverlaw22]

The Role of Divorce Lawyers

Going through a divorce is never easy, and when you're facing this challenging life event in California, having a skilled divorce lawyer by your side is crucial. Divorce lawyers in California are legal professionals who specialize in family law within the state, offering expertise and guidance tailored to California's unique divorce laws.

Why Choose a California Divorce Lawyer?

California follows community property laws, which means that assets acquired during the marriage are generally considered community property and subject to equal division. This legal framework can significantly impact the outcome of your divorce. Therefore, it's essential to enlist the services of a qualified California divorce lawyer who understands the intricacies of these laws.

Expertise in California Divorce Laws

One of the key advantages of hiring a divorce lawyer in California is their in-depth knowledge of the state's divorce laws. They are well-versed in the legal requirements and procedures specific to California, ensuring that your case is handled according to the state's regulations.

Personalized Legal Counsel

Every divorce case is unique, with its own set of challenges and complexities. California divorce lawyers recognize this and provide personalized legal counsel tailored to your specific needs. Whether your case involves child custody disputes, spousal support negotiations, or complex property division, they can offer guidance that takes your individual circumstances into account.

Negotiation and Litigation

Divorce often involves negotiation, and divorce lawyers in California are skilled negotiators who can represent your interests during settlement discussions. However, if your case requires litigation, they are prepared to advocate vigorously on your behalf in the courtroom.

Emotional Support

In addition to their legal expertise, California divorce lawyers understand the emotional toll that divorce can take on individuals. They often serve as a source of emotional support during this challenging time, providing guidance and empathy to help you navigate the process successfully.

Conclusion

When facing divorce in California, enlisting the services of a California divorce lawyer is a wise decision. These legal professionals offer the expertise, knowledge of state-specific laws, and personalized support necessary to guide you through the complexities of divorce in the Golden State.

If you're in need of a divorce lawyer who understands California's divorce laws and can provide the legal and emotional support you require, consider reaching out to a qualified professional who specializes in family law within the state. Their expertise can make a significant difference in achieving a fair and equitable resolution to your divorce case.

[gutsby]

Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

��Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

[legalassistance]

The Impact of Divorce on Children's Education

Introduction

Divorce is a life-altering event that affects not only the individuals involved but also their families, especially children. When parents decide to part ways, it can have a significant impact on their children's emotional well-being, social development, and even their academic performance. In this article, we delve into the crucial topic of how divorce can influence children's education, while also providing valuable insights for those seeking a reliable divorce lawyer in San Jose, CA.

Understanding the Emotional Toll

Divorce can be an emotionally turbulent time for everyone involved, but children are particularly vulnerable to its effects. The breakdown of their parents' marriage can lead to feelings of confusion, sadness, and anger, which can manifest in their academic lives. A child's emotional well-being is closely tied to their academic success, as it directly affects their motivation, focus, and ability to cope with stress.

Also Read :- What Are the Five Stages of Divorce?

The Disruption of Stability

One of the primary factors influencing the impact of divorce on children's education is the disruption of stability in their lives. Stable family environments often provide a nurturing space for academic growth, but divorce can upend this sense of security. Frequent changes in living arrangements, schools, and peer groups can result in decreased academic performance and a decline in their overall educational experience.

Academic Decline and Underachievement

Research has shown that children of divorced parents are more likely to experience academic difficulties and underachievement compared to their peers from intact families. The stress and emotional turmoil they face can hinder their ability to concentrate on their studies and participate actively in the learning process. As a result, their grades may suffer, and they may fall behind in class.

Coping Mechanisms and Behavioural Issues

Children often resort to various coping mechanisms to deal with the stress of their parents' divorce. Some may withdraw socially, while others may act out in school or display aggressive behavior. Such behavioral issues can lead to disciplinary problems and even academic probation, affecting their long-term educational prospects.

Nurturing Resilience in Children

Amidst the challenges that divorce poses for children's education, it is essential to focus on nurturing resilience. Resilience is the ability to bounce back from adversity, and it plays a crucial role in how well children navigate through difficult times. Providing a supportive and understanding environment, both at home and in school, can significantly enhance a child's ability to cope and excel academically despite the challenges they face.

The Role of Teachers and Schools

Teachers and schools play a vital role in supporting children of divorce. Creating a compassionate and empathetic atmosphere in the classroom can make a world of difference for these children. Recognizing the signs of distress and offering additional academic support when needed can help them stay on track and achieve their potential.

Seeking Professional Help: The Role of Divorce Lawyers

If you find yourself in the midst of a divorce in San Jose, CA, it is crucial to seek the assistance of a reliable and compassionate divorce lawyer. Divorce proceedings can be complex and emotionally draining, and having a skilled professional on your side can alleviate some of the burdens. When searching for a "divorce lawyer in San Jose ca," AffordableandExpressLegal.com stands out as a reputable and trustworthy choice.

Why Choose AffordableandExpressLegal.com?

At AffordableandExpressLegal.com, we understand the sensitive nature of divorce cases, especially when children are involved. Our team of experienced divorce lawyers in San Jose, CA, is committed to providing comprehensive legal support while prioritizing the well-being of all parties, including the children.

1. Experience and Expertise

Our divorce lawyers have years of experience in handling a wide range of divorce cases, and we possess the expertise necessary to navigate the intricacies of family law. We strive to achieve fair and amicable resolutions, minimizing the emotional toll on all parties involved.

2. Compassion and Understanding

We approach every case with compassion and understanding, recognizing the emotional challenges our clients face during this difficult time. Our lawyers are dedicated to providing a supportive environment where clients can feel heard and supported throughout the legal process.

3. Child-Centric Approach

When children are involved, their well-being is our top priority. Our child-centric approach ensures that their best interests are taken into account in all decisions regarding custody, visitation, and support.

4. Efficient and Affordable Services

We understand that divorce proceedings can be financially taxing, and our goal is to provide affordable and efficient legal services without compromising on quality.

Also Read :- Secrets Revealed: How to Win Your Santa Clara Family Law Case

Conclusion

divorce can impact children's education, but with support, they can thrive academically. If you need a reliable and compassionate divorce attorney in San Jose, CA, visit AffordableandExpressLegal.com. Secure your rights and your children's well-being. Schedule a consultation today for a brighter future. You don't have to face this alone - we're here to help.

Reference URL :- The Impact of Divorce on Children's Education

[stevewhitworth]

Supporting Domestic Violence Survivors: How a Sacramento Attorney Can Help Rebuild Lives

 Supporting survivors of domestic violence as well as those who have been accused and need a strong legal defense, requires the expertise of a compassionate and skilled domestic violence attorney. In Sacramento, there are endless offers for legal help, but often not from teams with the experience and expertise to ensure you feel empowered through the legal grinder you are about to endure. Understanding some of the key assistance provided by a qualified legal team is key to overcoming this situation, protecting yourself in the future, and minimizing the legal impact of a charge or domestic violence situation. Legal Orders for Protection and Resolution A domestic violence attorney specializes in securing legal orders, such as restraining orders, which provide essential protection for survivors. These attorneys also excel in handling legal matters related to divorce, child custody disputes, child concealment cases, paternity issues, and child support arrangements. When you are mounting a defense against domestic violence charges, you will often be hit with all kinds of protection orders. Some or most of these will be unnecessary and used to paint you in a less-than-favorable light. When left unchecked, this can harm your career, public persona, and ability to see your children. Our team has the experience to help mitigate these protection orders so you can move forward. Empowerment and Future Protection Our goal is to help you with a solid defense, including helping everyone in the legal system hear your voice. A domestic violence situation can result in a “he said, she said” environment way too quickly. With the aid of our expert legal team, you will learn how to document everything and create a clear and concise timeline of all events, including the evidence of witness statements, medical treatment, and proven past behavior. Together, we can build a wall of evidence to lessen the damage these charges will have on your future. Collaboration with Local Resources As a professional team working in Sacramento for years, we have built a solid network with organizations specializing in survivor support. That means we understand how this system works and what to pay close attention to in your legal defense. You want a skilled domestic violence attorney to defend against legal charges arising from the incident. We leverage pretrial investigations, including witness interviews and gathering key evidence to lay a foundation for a fair trial. That offers a balanced outcome that protects your rights at every step in the process. Ready to Make a Change? The legal system can be overwhelming and complex, especially for those without legal expertise. A seasoned domestic violence attorney guides survivors through the legal landscape, minimizing the impact on their personal lives. With their experience and knowledge, these attorneys provide invaluable support, ensuring survivors receive skilled representation and effective navigation of the legal process. In Sacramento, a domestic violence attorney serves as an advocate, offering expertise, protection, and empowerment. Our team at the Law Office of Steve Whitworth is here to help you get the much-needed support and experienced counsel you need so this incident becomes nothing more than a small speedbump on your life’s journey. Give us a call today, and let’s discuss how we can help.

[explorersjournal88]

Understanding Spousal Support: Finding Fair Financial Solutions After Divorce

Divorce brings about significant changes in the financial circumstances of both spouses. When one spouse has been financially dependent on the other during the marriage, spousal support, also known as alimony, can play a crucial role in ensuring a fair and equitable transition post-divorce. In this article, we delve into the complexities of spousal support and explore strategies for finding fair financial solutions after divorce.

Determining the Need for Spousal Support

The determination of spousal support depends on several factors, including the length of the marriage, the standard of living established during the marriage, each spouse's earning capacity, and the contributions made to the household. Courts consider various elements when deciding whether spousal support is necessary and the appropriate amount and duration of the support. Consulting with a knowledgeable spousal support attorney can help you navigate the legal complexities and advocate for your rights.

Types of Spousal Support

Spousal support can take different forms, depending on the specific circumstances of the divorce. Temporary spousal support may be awarded during the divorce process to maintain the financial status quo until a final determination is made. Permanent spousal support, on the other hand, may be awarded when one spouse requires ongoing financial assistance even after the divorce is finalized. Understanding the different types of spousal support can help you plan for your financial future effectively.

Factors Affecting Spousal Support Awards

When determining spousal support, courts consider various factors, such as the length of the marriage, the age and health of each spouse, their earning capacity and education, the division of property, and the needs of any children involved. Additionally, courts take into account the ability of the paying spouse to provide support and the receiving spouse's ability to become self-supporting over time. It is crucial to present a clear and comprehensive case that considers these factors when seeking or defending against spousal support claims.

Modifying Spousal Support Orders

Spousal support orders may be modified under certain circumstances. If there are significant changes in either spouse's financial situation, such as job loss, significant increase or decrease in income, or changes in living arrangements, it may be possible to seek a modification of the spousal support order. Consulting with a spousal support attorney can help you assess whether modification is warranted and navigate the legal process effectively.

Negotiating Spousal Support Agreements

In many cases, couples can negotiate spousal support agreements outside of the courtroom. Negotiating allows for more control and flexibility in determining the terms of spousal support. Collaborative approaches, such as mediation, can be effective in reaching mutually beneficial agreements that consider the unique circumstances of both parties. Working with a skilled spousal support attorney can help you navigate the negotiation process and ensure your rights and interests are protected.

At Reape-Rickett Law Firm, we understand the complexities of spousal support and the importance of finding fair financial solutions after divorce. As experienced spousal support attorneys in Los Angeles, we are dedicated to helping individuals achieve equitable outcomes in spousal support matters. With our expertise in family law and deep understanding of California's spousal support laws, we can provide personalized guidance and advocate for your financial rights. Contact us today for a confidential consultation, and let us support you in finding fair financial solutions after divorce.

[fizzigigsimmer]

That spring, Steve’s mom finally gets tired of getting cheated on and files for divorce. His dad is a dick about it and hires a bunch of lawyers to ensure that she basically leaves with nothing. Worse, he fights her for custody of Steve and taunts her with the fact she’ll never see him again - because why would any teenager want to give up everything, just to rough it out with their train-wreck of a mother? But jokes on him cause the judge basically leaves it up to Steve, and Steve would rather stomp on his own balls than get stuck with that asshole. Even if it means having to leave the big house and his car and starting over in a new place where nobody knows him.

Steve never met his mother’s side of the family in California. All he really knows is that the family disapproved of her marriage. There’s a story about his aunt coming to visit once on his birthday when he was like five, but she got in a fight with mom and she’s never been back. So Steve doesn’t even think about them when he tries to imagine what he and his mom are going to do on their own. He imagines her selling her car and the other gifts dad put in her name over the years to rent a decent apartment somewhere, maybe in Indianapolis or Chicago.

He’s really shocked one night when she announces that she’s been in touch with her family, and she she asks him about how he feels about moving to California to some sleepy little town called Moonwood. She tries to enthuse him about it by going on about how beautiful it is there, right at the edge of the national forest, but Steve’s more concerned with the fact that they’ll be living with people who hate them - and in the sticks too! Its two hours to the nearest mall! How’s he gonna find a job in this place? And what about school?

But Steve looks around at the hotel they’ve been staying in and the paper thin smile she fixes on her face to try and hide her broken heart from him and how fucked everything is, and he just wants her to be okay.

They move to California, and the one bright side is the relatives turn out to be not all that hateful. There’s awkward tension and a shit load of history there for sure, but from the minute they pull up to his grandparents house the door is thrown open and they’re welcomed with open arms. His grandpa seems a little stiff at first, but Steve gets the impression its because he doesn’t know what to do with himself as Steve’s mom and his grandma hug each other and cry. The weirdest part is when they start speaking in a language Steve’s never heard his mother use before.

Later his aunt tells him it’s lythan, but she just laughs when Steve asks if that means they’re from Lithuania. Apparently lythan is a very old language that started in romania and is only spoken today in two places. Here, and some village in romania that an ancestor immigrated from.

None of this is making sense to him but he’s just happy his mother seems happier and that he has help taking care of her, since she’s still pretty broken up about the divorce. She’s always been a passionate woman his mom. The kind of person who believes in soulmates and love at first sight. She’s always told him that when he meets the one for him he’ll know it in an instant and that he should hang on to that person with his whole heart. Which sounded great and all when he was a kid, but honestly just makes him sad now when he looks at how things turned out with her and his dad.

The first week after they get there, Steve cant sleep and catches his mother, his grandmother and his aunt talking in the kitchen late one night. He overhears her say that she knew it was a risk being with his dad, but that she’d have regretted it more if she didn’t follow her heart. Even if she wasn’t the one for Steve’s dad the way he was for her, she’d always be grateful because she has Steve. But she doesn’t want him to grow up feeling like he has to change who he is and like he always has to be the one giving to someone else just to be loved.

For the first time since the divorce Steve is almost mad at her - wants to shout it’s too late mom! - but the feeling passes as quickly as it comes. He’s just sad, for them both. But he hopes things will be okay here and that this can be a new start. It could be worse right? At least he gets a room to himself. Yeah it’s kinda weird that his aunt still lives at home and nobody seems to have a problem with that, or is talking about what his moms plans are like they expect that she’ll just be there forever now. But he figures they’re all just focused on making up for lost time right now.

And his grandma says that people in Moonwood stay close to home anway, and that most of them spend their whole lives there without leaving. It shocks him to learn that she’s never been further outside of town than to the edge of the national forest.

His second worry, about finding a job, gets resolved by his his grandfather - who runs a soda shop on the beach. There’s not much traffic durring the off season, but in summertime the redwoods draw a fair number of tourists. Steve’s kept very busy scooping up ice cream and making root beer floats while he flirts with the gap year girls who come through in groups, to backpack through the forest. He’s just turned eighteen and he’s never had much of a problem picking up girls so he has a few flings. He gets invited to parties on the beach and ends up doing a lot of hiking that summer in his downtime. But then fall rolls around and with fewer and fewer groups of tourists passing through Steve finds himself at loose ends.

School starts up again and he realizes that maybe it was a mistake not to put more of an effort into meeting local kids and making a few connections beforehand. Schiller High is over in the next district, and Moonwood is so far out the kids have to be bussed in. Steve’s a little nervous about starting a new school in his senior year but he tells himself it’s just one year. One year and then he has no idea what to do with himself after that, but at least he won’t be forced to attend school anymore. Still, he begs his mom to let him take their car to school the first day so that he doesn’t have to be the oldest kid on the bus. He’s pretty sure that’s a social constant even out here in the middle of nowhere.

Schiller seems pretty normal at first. It’s about the same size as his school back in Hawkins was. The school receptionist calls in some guy named Tim to show him around his first day and make sure he gets to all his classes. Tim’s alright, but Steve can see the neon nerd sign blinking above his head and plays it cool. He’s not an asshole or anything, he just doesn’t want to close any doors before getting the lay of the land. Steve just wants an easy year and he’s not gonna get that if he’s hanging out with a bully magnet - sorry Tim. Plus, Steve’s not exactly thrilled about the way Tim talks about ‘moonies’ - which is apparently what other people call people from Moonwood, instead of hicks or whatever. Steve doesn’t bother telling Tim that he’s technically a moonie now too.

His aspirations to plant himself firmly in the middle of the student social hierarchy and go unnoticed for the next ten months involve finding a group - or a pack as his grandfather weirdly put it when he assured Steve he’d find his in no time and start to feel more at home once school started. He asks Tim about the school’s athletic teams because being on a team with a bunch of other guys will basically do the work for him. There’s a swim team that Steve is definitely going to try out for. He’s not sure about basketball. He only got started back in Hawkins because his dad thought it was manlier than ‘playing’ in the pool. But he likes it okay, and Tim says the Schiller team has actually won a few regional titles.

Even though it’s his last year Steve figures it can’t hurt his college applications to be on a winning team for once. He probably won’t to start or anything but he thinks he has a good shot of seeing some playing time.

“I would stick with swimming if I were you. There’s no way you’re getting on the team.” Tim laughs. “The head coach is a moonie and he only ever picks guys from Moonwood.”

That doesn’t seem very legal, but that’s not Steve’s problem. He figures Tim is probably exaggerating anyway, just salty that the coach is giving a little extra focus to the guys from the less privileged side of the tracks.

Until Steve actually sees Billy and some of the other guys from the team.

It’s just before lunch when Steve and Tim have stopped by Steve’s locker. A blond kid in a red and white letterman jacket appears at the mouth of the hall, flanked by two other guys. It’s like something out of a movie the way the hallway clears for them and the other students gaze at them with awe filled expressions as if they’re watching a parade of olympians pass through.

“That’s Billy Hargrove. He’s captain of the basketball team.” Tim answers the unspoken question in Steve’s glance. “Don’t get on his bad side. He’s pretty much the top dog around here.”

Steve doesn’t need Tim to tell him Billy runs things around here. The guy is built like the terminator. Like someone who has ascended above mere mortals and wouldn’t be out of place among the gods. He’s built like a man, Steve finally settles on with an prickle of embarrassment hot in his chest. Steve’s a guy and he doesn’t go out of his way to look at other guys a lot, but he appreciates the things about them that are enviable.

Only envy is the furthest thing from Steve’s mind when he first sees Billy. It’s like time slows for Steve. His mouth gets dry, and he thinks to himself that Billy Hargrove is beautiful, and he wonders what that’s like. Steve knows he’s good looking. This isn’t some self depreciation bullshit, it’s just inexplicably different somehow the way he looks at Billy and thinks he finally understands what real beauty is. The way he instantly wants to get closer to him, reach out and touch. Billy has none of the unfinished awkwardness of a teenager. He’s a poster child for physical perfection that Steve is convinced walked off of a poster taped up on somebody’s wall, and has no business walking down the halls of an American high school. Seriously. How is this guy real?

He spares a quick glance for the other two guys with Billy - Dave & Chet - just long enough to confirm that he’s fucked. If these are the kinds of guys they’ve got on the team, Steve has no chance of seeing anything but a bench all year.

Billy and the other two stop at a locker not far from Steve’s on the other side of the hall, but not before Billy’s gaze does a casual sweep around the hall - very much a king surveying his kingdom. Steve fully expects that gaze to pass right over him just as unimpressed as it does everyone else, but to his surprise Billy’s gaze locks with his and sticks.

A little tingle dances up Steve’s spine and he sucks in a breath. He can’t tell what color Billy’s eyes are from this distance - at first he thinks they are something light, like a blue or grey, but then the corner of Billy’s mouth tilts up in a smirk and the light hits them a certain way and they look almost gold as he runs his tongue over some very white fangy teeth. Jesus the guy has some chompers on him.

Steve’s not afraid of a fight but it’s profoundly unsettling to have some dude literally licking his chops at him like he can’t wait to take a bite of the fresh meat. He’s pretty sure he just landed himself on Billy Hargrove’s shit list and he has no idea why. Fuck his life.

But he figures there’s nothing he can do about it but ignore it and hope that Billy decides he’s not worth the trouble. Steve turns to shut his locker, sending the message with his back that he doesn’t care about the dude giving him the crazy eyes and that Billy doesn’t intimidate him. His sweaty palms tell a different story, but that’s for Steve and only Steve to know.

As he leaves, he can feel Billy’s eyes burning into his back like lasers.

So much for going unnoticed for the year.

Now with Part 2

[ambafaerie]

Pyramid Steve is a dream demon who is also a divorce lawyer. He appears to Emma May offering her his business card as part of his plans to manipulate and posses Fiddleford (Hypno!Fiddlesteve) but she declines and that’s when Steve’s interest is peaked.

He is fascinated by this down to earth practical woman, spending time hanging out with her, his plans fall to the wayside.

Emma May was averse at first wondering what this triangle demon is doing at her house and did try to exorcise him at first, but she grows fond of Steve and his silly charm. It helps he steps up to be a father figure for Tate in Fiddleford’s absence.

There is an unspoken mutual attraction she refuses to acknowledge because reality check she is still married but that doesn’t stop Steve from pining for her and dangerously flirty conversations between the two.

So fast forward a lot of canon things happening that culminates in the McGuckets divorce. Emma May phones Steve one day and it goes like this:

Emma May: Steve… it’s Em

Pyramid Steve: I was just thinking about you (genuine)

Emma May: Really?

Pyramid Steve: Yes

(This dialogue is taken from Rivals scene with Freddie and Lizzie rewritten to fit Emma May and Steve)

What follows is the next stage of their relationship where they officially start living together but they don’t confess their feelings until a few years later where they finally confess and make their relationship official. They currently live in Palo Alto, California, content and happily married (Steve forged some documents and bended a few rules to make a marriage between a human and demon legally recognized). with Tate sending post cards every month from Gravity Falls and coming home for the holidays.

[nausicaamusiclover20]

Hello))) this is partially inspired by the anon’s request, who was watching soap operas with her grandma - I’m the same 😂

So maybe reader comes from family with money, not like millionaires, but her dad is one of Californias top divorce lawyers so he definitely makes good cash. Of course her parents are not fans of James, up to the point where they cut her off because she refused to break up with him. But she takes it well, works as waitress at diner as she’s happy being with James. However, after Metallica’s first tour in 83, he confessed that he cheated with girls on the road - exactly what her father warned her about. So she kinda doesn’t have any option but to go back to her family. However, her father does forgive her and takes her back.

A few years later in 90s, when Lars is divorcing Debbie (his first wife), guess who’s Debbie’s attorney? She wins the case so at some point she comes to the studio so Lars can sign the papers for Debbie to get her part of money; and James is pissed and calls her cynical and cold hearted but she tells him it’s his fault and how she gave everything away to be with him and he went out to sleep with groupies? He feels guilty cause she’s right - he couldn’t keep it in his pants and a few days later calls the law firm she’s working at as he wants to reconcile and cheating was the worst thing he had done???

I thought I’d be brief but ended up with too much details I’m sorry if it’s weird 🥹🥹🥹

I don't know if it's what you were looking for, but I hope you like it 💕

Rewrite the past

I never thought I’d find myself back here, in my father’s office, staring at the walls lined with framed degrees, each one a testament to his relentless ambition. From the outside, my family looked perfect—money, influence, respect. My father was one of California’s top divorce lawyers, the kind of man who made sure everyone knew how hard he’d worked to give us the life we had. I never wanted for anything, but the privilege came at a cost.

When I met James, he was the one thing in my life that felt real, unpolished. He was wild, raw, unapologetically himself, and in a world of well-manicured facades, he was a breath of fresh air. I knew my parents wouldn’t understand, but I didn’t care. They wanted me with someone safe, someone respectable. But I wanted him.

It wasn’t long before the clashes started. My parents despised him—the loud music, the chaos, the risk. They tried everything to pull me away, and when I refused, when I told them that James was who I wanted, they finally drew a hard line.

“If you stay with him, you’re on your own,” my father had said, his tone cold, final. “You’re turning your back on everything we’ve given you.”

The words stung, but I chose James anyway. I took a job at a diner, working double shifts to pay rent on a cramped apartment, doing whatever it took to make things work. It wasn’t glamorous, but I was happy—at least, I thought I was.

Then Metallica went on their first tour. I didn’t hear much from James while he was on the road, and I tried to brush off the nagging worries in my mind. But when he finally came back, he looked different. There was a distance between us, something broken in his gaze. I’d barely gotten a chance to hold him before he pulled away and admitted the truth.

“I cheated,” he said, the words falling out like stones. “There were… girls on the road. I don’t even remember half of them.”

My heart felt like it was being ripped out of my chest. All the warnings my father had given me, every condescending “I told you so” I’d ignored—it was all crashing down around me. I’d fought so hard to keep this, to prove to myself, to everyone, that we were real, that we could make it work.

And yet, here he was, proving all of them right.

I didn’t have anything left to hold on to, no safety net. The betrayal was too much, and, broken-hearted, I had no choice but to turn back to the only people who’d ever protected me. My father welcomed me back without hesitation, perhaps knowing he’d won in the end. But even as they opened their doors to me, it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like defeat.

---

The relief I expected didn’t come when I returned to my family. There was only a dull ache, the feeling of failure simmering beneath the surface. The world I’d tried so hard to escape had pulled me back in, and all the independence I’d fought for felt like it had slipped through my fingers.

My father didn’t say “I told you so”—at least not outright. But there was that look in his eyes every time he glanced my way, like he was almost smug about me finally realizing he’d been right all along. My mother, too, seemed relieved, constantly reminding me that I was better off without “someone like him.” They were careful not to bring it up too much, as if to spare me, but every comment felt like a small needle, poking at my decision to love James.

In their eyes, I’d come to my senses. In mine, I’d lost something I couldn’t get back.

As the years passed, I moved forward. I’d put everything into my career in law, following my father’s footsteps, using my pain as fuel to rise through the ranks of his firm. It was hard, grueling, but the satisfaction I got from the victories, the courtroom battles, made it worth it. Winning cases felt like a balm to all the broken pieces I couldn’t quite stitch together. And every time I signed a high-stakes case or handled a tricky negotiation, I could feel my father’s pride. It was almost enough.

But there was still a part of me that wondered what might have been—if he’d been someone who could keep his promises. If we’d managed to build the life I’d imagined with him. Every now and then, I’d hear Metallica on the radio or see an old photo of us tucked away in the back of a drawer, and I’d feel the sting of what we’d lost.

Then came the day when the past decided to walk right back into my life.

It was late, the office winding down for the evening, when my assistant walked in with a stack of documents and a carefully neutral expression.

“Debbie Lars Ulrich's case,” she said, placing the papers on my desk. “The divorce settlement. Lars needs to sign his part.”

I froze for a moment, processing what this meant. Debbie was one of my clients, yes, but the reality of who her soon-to-be ex-husband was—and what that meant—washed over me slowly, sinking in. If Lars was here to sign, James would be nearby. Of course, he would. They were practically family.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and agreed to bring the papers to the studio the following day.

---

When I arrived at the studio, I knew I had to keep myself together. This wasn’t about me; this was business. I walked in, the familiar smell of stale beer and smoke hanging heavy in the air. The studio felt like a time capsule, reminding me of those early days, back when I’d believed in forever.

And then I saw him.

James stood there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze cutting through me the moment I entered. The years had changed him—sharpened the lines on his face, deepened the shadows under his eyes. But there was a hardness in his expression, a guardedness I hadn’t seen before.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “So, you’re the one representing Debbie now?”

“Yes,” I replied, my voice steady, professional. “I’m here because Lars needs to sign these.”

He scoffed, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. “That’s all this is, huh? Just a job to you?”

I could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface, but I forced myself to stay calm. “Yes, James. This is my job. I’m here for Debbie. What did you expect?”

He shook his head, his gaze narrowing. “I expected you to have some heart left. But I guess you’ve gotten really good at this—cold, calculating.”

My fingers tightened around the documents in my hand, the years of hurt and resentment rushing back. He didn’t get to act like this, not after everything.

“Cold?” I repeated, letting out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich coming from you. I gave up everything for you, James—my family, my life. I was willing to fight for us. And what did you do? You threw it away for a few cheap thrills on the road.”

His face paled, and I could see the flicker of guilt, raw and undeniable, as he struggled to hold my gaze.

“I was young,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “I was stupid. I didn’t know what I was risking until it was too late.”

I shook my head, the familiar ache resurfacing as I stared at him. “Do you even realize what you cost me? I had to rebuild my entire life from scratch, and I did it without you. I’m not here to rehash the past or play whatever game you think this is. I’m here because this is what I do. This is who I am now.”

For a moment, he just stared at me, as if seeing me for the first time. His shoulders slumped, the bravado fading as he looked down at the floor, defeated. “I didn’t deserve you. I don’t think I ever did.”

“Maybe you didn’t,” I replied, softer now, feeling the weight of every hurt, every broken promise. “But I loved you, James. And I would’ve done anything to make it work. You’re the one who threw it away.”

He nodded, looking at me with that same, aching regret, and for a moment, the years seemed to fall away. We were just two people, tangled up in the remains of a love we couldn’t save.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words barely a whisper. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but… I’m sorry.”

I took a deep breath, willing myself to let go of the last fragments of pain, to move on from what we’d lost.

“Goodbye, James,” I said, my voice steady, final.

There are things in life you can’t take back, no matter how desperately you wish you could. Years had passed since we met, but yesterday as I met him again and today I heard his voice cracking over the phone as he spoke the words he’d likely rehearsed a hundred times.

I had been wrapping up the final details on a case, buried in papers and the quiet hum of my small studio in downtown LA. It was my sanctuary—a space I’d built for myself in the years since our breakup. The walls were lined with case files, books, and certificates that whispered of the life I’d carved out alone. The last person I expected to invade this space was James Hetfield.

The phone rang, its sudden chime breaking through the silence. I glanced down, and I answered.

“Hello?” I said, my voice uncertain, testing the waters. I could feel the flutter of my heart in my chest, a mix of excitement and dread.

“Y/N,” he breathed, and the sound of my name on his lips was both familiar and foreign. It sent a rush of emotions through me—nostalgia for the love we once shared, mixed with the sharp pain of betrayal. Memories of our time together flooded my mind, each one a reminder of the happiness we had, intertwined with the heartbreak of his infidelity. I had spent years trying to forget him, yet here he was, a ghost from my past, stirring feelings I thought I had buried deep.

“What do you want, James?” I kept my tone guarded, bracing for whatever might come next, but inside, I was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, longing, and an unshakeable sadness.

“I know it’s late,” he started, his voice softer than I remembered. “But… Can we talk?”

For a moment, I hesitated. Memories crashed over me like a wave—the days spent dreaming of a future together, the betrayal that shattered it all after his first tour. I’d given up everything for him, only for him to throw it all away.

“What is it you want to talk about?” I asked, my curiosity battling with the pain that lingered. “It’s been years.”

He paused, and when he spoke again, I could hear the weight of regret. “I just… I’m sorry. For everything.”

His words hung in the air, thick with remorse, and old wounds reopened like fresh scars. “James, you did exactly what my father warned me you would. I left my family, gave up everything just to be with you. And you threw it away for girls you don’t even remember.”

“I know,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “It haunts me every day. Cheating was the worst thing I’ve ever done, and I don’t expect you to forgive me… but I needed you to know how sorry I am.”

I ran a hand over the edge of my desk, grounding myself. This was my life now—a life I’d built without him, in this studio that felt as much a part of me as my own skin. I had carved out success and peace, and this chapter of my past had no place in it.

“I’ve moved on, James,” I said finally, my voice low and steady. “This is my life now, and I don’t need the past interrupting it.”

Silence filled the line, but I could almost feel the regret radiating from him, his guilt settling over him like a heavy shadow. He had made his choices, and I had made mine.

But then I thought about the years that had passed, the void where he used to be. I couldn’t deny the flicker of hope igniting inside me. “Maybe... maybe we could talk,” I heard myself say, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

“Really?” His voice was tentative, almost disbelieving.

“Yeah, but only if you’re serious about changing. I won’t go through that again,” I warned, my heart racing with uncertainty.

“I am. I swear,” he replied, urgency creeping into his tone. “I know I messed up. I just want a chance to prove it to you.”

As we spoke, I felt the walls I’d built around my heart begin to crack, revealing the soft, vulnerable parts I had long kept hidden. The thought of giving him a second chance filled me with both excitement and dread. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps we could find our way back to each other, even if it was a long and winding road.

“Okay, let’s see where this goes,” I said, my voice steadying.

“Thank you,” he breathed, relief flooding his words. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Just remember, James,” I warned, feeling the weight of my decision. “You’ll need to earn it.”

“I will,” he promised, his voice resolute. “I won’t let you down this time.”

As I hung up, the silence of the studio wrapped around me, familiar and comforting, but now tinged with a cautious hope. I had found my peace, but maybe—just maybe—I could open the door to something new. The ache in my heart remained, but now it held the promise of healing and the possibility of love rediscovered.

[haggishlyhagging]

It would take Diane Joyce nearly ten years of battles to become the first female skilled crafts worker ever in Santa Clara County history. It would take another seven years of court litigation, pursued all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, before she could actually start work. And then, the real fight would begin.

For blue-collar women, there was no honeymoon period on the job; the backlash began the first day they reported to work—and only intensified as the Reagan economy put more than a million blue-collar men out of work, reduced wages, and spread mounting fear. While the white-collar world seemed capable of absorbing countless lawyers and bankers in the 80s, the trades and crafts had no room for expansion. "Women are far more economically threatening in blue-collar work, because there are a finite number of jobs from which to choose," Mary Ellen Boyd, executive director of Non-Traditional Employment for Women, observes. "An MBA can do anything. But a plumber is only a plumber." While women never represented more than a few percentage points of the blue-collar work force, in this powder-keg situation it only took a few female faces to trigger a violent explosion.

Diane Joyce arrived in California in 1970, a thirty-three-year-old widow with four children, born and raised in Chicago. Her father was a tool-and-die maker, her mother a returned-goods clerk at a Walgreen's warehouse. At eighteen, she married Donald Joyce, a tool-and-die maker's apprentice at her father's plant. Fifteen years later, after working knee-deep in PCBs for years, he died suddenly of a rare form of liver cancer.

After her husband's death, Joyce taught herself to drive, packed her children in a 1966 Chrysler station wagon and headed west to San Jose, California, where a lone relative lived. Joyce was an experienced bookkeeper and she soon found work as a clerk in the county Office of Education, at $506 a month. A year later, she heard that the county's transportation department had a senior account clerk job vacant that paid $50 more a month. She applied in March 1972.

"You know, we wanted a man," the interviewer told her as soon as she walked through the door. But the account clerk jobs had all taken a pay cut recently, and sixteen women and no men had applied for the job. So he sent her on to the second interview. "This guy was a little politer," Joyce recalls. "First, he said, 'Nice day, isn't it?' before he tells me, 'You know, we wanted a man.' I wanted to say, 'Yeah, and where's my man? I am the man in my house.' But I'm sitting there with four kids to feed and all I can see is dollar signs, so I kept my mouth shut."

She got the job. Three months later, Joyce saw a posting for a "road maintenance man." An eighth-grade education and one year's work experience was all that was required, and the pay was $723 a month. Her current job required a high-school education, bookkeeping skills, and four years' experience— and paid $150 less a month. "I saw that flier and I said, ‘Oh wow, I can do that.’ Everyone in the office laughed. They thought it was a riot. . . . I let it drop."

But later that same year, every county worker got a 2 to 5 percent raise except for the 70 female account clerks. "Oh now, what do you girls need a raise for?" the director of personnel told Joyce and some other women who went before the board of supervisors to object. "All you'd do is spend the money on trips to Europe." Joyce was shocked. "Every account clerk I knew was supporting a family through death or divorce. I'd never seen Mexico, let alone Europe." Joyce decided to apply for the next better-paying "male" job that opened. In the meantime, she became active in the union; a skillful writer and one of the best-educated representatives there, Joyce wound up composing the safety language in the master contract and negotiating what became the most powerful county agreement protecting seniority rights.

In 1974, a road dispatcher retired, and both Joyce and a man named Paul Johnson, a former oil-fields roustabout, applied for the post. The supervisors told Joyce she needed to work on the road crew first and handed back her application. Johnson didn't have any road crew experience either, but his application was accepted. In the end, the job went to another man.

Joyce set out to get road crew experience. As she was filling out her application for the next road crew job that opened, in 1975, her supervisor walked in, asked what she was doing, and turned red. "You're taking a man's job away!" he shouted. Joyce sat silently for a minute, thinking. Then she said, "No, I'm not. Because a man can sit right here where I'm sitting."

In the evenings, she took courses in road maintenance and truck and light equipment operation. She came in third out of 87 applicants on the job test; there were ten openings on the road crew, and she got one of them.

For the next four years, Joyce carried tar pots on her shoulder, pulled trash from the median strip, and maneuvered trucks up the mountains to clear mud slides. "Working outdoors was great," she says. "You know, women pay fifty dollars a month to join a health club, and here I was getting paid to get in shape." The road men didn't exactly welcome her arrival. When they trained her to drive the bobtail trucks, she says, they kept changing instructions; one gave her driving tips that nearly blew up the engine. Her supervisor wouldn't issue her a pair of coveralls; she had to file a formal grievance to get them. In the yard, the men kept the ladies' room locked, and on the road they wouldn't stop to let her use the bathroom. "You wanted a man's job, you learn to pee like a man," her supervisor told her.

Obscene graffiti about Joyce appeared on the sides of trucks. Men threw darts at union notices she posted on the bulletin board. One day, the stockroom storekeeper, Tony Laramie, who says later he liked to call her "the piglet," called a general meeting in the depot's Ready Room. "I hate the day you came here," Laramie started screaming at Joyce as the other men looked on, many nodding. "We don't want you here. You don't belong here. Why don't you go the hell away?"

Joyce's experience was typical of the forthright and often violent backlash within the blue-collar work force, an assault undisguised by decorous homages to women's "difference." At a construction site in New York, for example, where only a few female hard-hats had found work, the men took a woman's work boots and hacked them into bits. Another woman was injured by a male co-worker; he hit her on the head with a two-by-four. In Santa Clara County, where Joyce worked, the county's equal opportunity office files were stuffed with reports of ostracism, hazing, sexual harassment, threats, verbal and physical abuse. "It's pervasive in some of the shops," says John Longabaugh, the county's equal employment officer at the time. "They mess up their tools, leave pornography on their desks. Safety equipment is made difficult to get, or unavailable." A maintenance worker greeted the first woman in his department with these words: "I know someone who would break your arm or leg for a price." Another new woman was ordered to clean a transit bus by her supervisor—only to find when she climbed aboard that the men had left a little gift for her: feces smeared across the seats.

In 1980, another dispatcher job opened up. Joyce and Johnson both applied. They both got similarly high scores on the written exam. Joyce now had four years' experience on the road crew; Paul Johnson only had a year and a half. The three interviewers, one of whom later referred to Joyce in court as "rabble-rousing" and "not a lady," gave the job to Johnson. Joyce decided to complain to the county athrmative action office.

The decision fell to James Graebner, the new director of the transportation department, an engineer who believed that it was about time the county hired its first woman for its 238 skilled-crafts jobs. Graebner confronted the roads director, Ron Shields. "What's wrong with the woman?" Graebner asked. “I hate her," Shields said, according to other people in the room. "I just said I thought Johnson was more qualified," is how Shields remembers it. "She didn't have the proficiency with heavy equipment." Neither, of course, did Johnson. Not that it was relevant anyway: dispatch is an office job that doesn't require lifting anything heavier than a microphone.

Graebner told Shields he was being overruled; Joyce had the job. Later that day, Joyce recalls, her supervisor called her into the conference room. "Well, you got the job," he told her. "But you're not qualified." Johnson, meanwhile, sat by the phone, dialing up the chain of command. "I felt like tearing something up," he recalls later. He demanded a meeting with the affirmative action office. "The affirmative action man walks in," Johnson says, "and he's this big black guy. He can't tell me anything. He brings in this minority who can barely speak English . . . I told them, 'You haven't heard the last of me.'" Within days, he had hired a lawyer and set his reverse discrimination suit in motion, contending that the county had given the job to a "less qualified" woman.

In 1987, the Supreme Court ruled against Johnson. The decision was hailed by women's and civil rights groups. But victory in Washington was not the same as triumph in the transportation yard. For Joyce and the road men, the backlash was just warming up. "Something like this is going to hurt me one day," Gerald Pourroy, a foreman in Joyce's office, says of the court's ruling, his voice low and bitter. He stares at the concrete wall above his desk. "I look down the tracks and I see the train coming toward me."

The day after the Supreme Court decision, a woman in the county office sent Joyce a congratulatory bouquet, two dozen carnations. Joyce arranged the flowers in a vase on her desk. The next day they were gone. She found them finally, crushed in a garbage bin. A road foreman told her, "I drop-kicked them across the yard."

-Susan Faludi, Backlash: the Undeclared War Against American Women

[westoverlaw22]

Claremont Divorce Lawyer For Ladies Free Consultation

So it is going to be essential to ask about every lawyer’s years of expertise, legal coaching, and strategy to your unique authorized case. Family law matters can be troublesome on all parties involved california divorce lawyer. Cordell & Cordell will work with you to supply skilled service to you and your family during this tough time. We are committed to providing you the most effective service possible.

Hiring a divorce lawyer to symbolize you possibly can allow you to perceive what to expect from the legal process, in addition to the method to navigate it to your greatest benefit. Yanna Sukhodrev is a companion at Morgan Tidalgo Sukhodrev & Azzolino LLP and a Certified Family Law Specialist. She often handles difficult custody disputes, and has expertise litigating worldwide move california divorce lawyers away cases. Determine whether the lawyer has proven experience in obtaining correct enterprise valuations, should a business or professional apply be subject to property division when the wedding ends. You should ask about their workload, as you'll desire a devoted attorney who has adequate time to supply your case private consideration and dedication.

Mediation can make a divorce case more civil and productive. During mediation, the mediator will put each get together in a separate room after initial introductions are made. Then, the mediator will communicate independently with each get together divorce lawyers in california to make it easier for the couple to achieve an agreement. Mediation can prevent altercations and animosity that usually occur in face-to-face meetings, making for a extra productive dialog.

When your divorce is finalized you'll be restored as a single particular person in the state. Just like marriage data, divorce records are public. However, you possibly can seek a protecting order to shield sure non-public particulars. Celebrities andhigh-net worthindividuals in Los Angeles often divorce attorney seek a protective order to guard sensitive personal info. If you are involved with private details becoming public data, call our workplace to debate your choices.

In reality, the hearing we had at present for spousal and youngster assist is already a step in the proper direction. I would advocate him to anybody going via this difficult course of. When you go to Google or Yelp and seek for a “divorce lawyer near me” you want to understand that not all attorneys in Cerritos are certified to take your case. Look for constructive reviews and shopper testimonials that show Divorce lawyers the native divorce lawyer has efficiently handled instances similar to yours. Award-winning divorce attorneys could have wonderful shopper evaluations and will be pleased to share their authorized expertise with you during a session. Our divorce attorneys strongly encourage you to contact an experienced, qualified lawyer — ideally, one who focuses exclusively on household law.

Our providers are personally tailored to fulfill our clients’ needs and individual circumstances. If you might be on the lookout for a tough divorce attorney, rent John. I even have been very happy with John Bledsoe in dealing with my very complicated

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Anna North at Vox:

Before the 1960s, it was really hard to get divorced in America. Typically, the only way to do it was to convince a judge that your spouse had committed some form of wrongdoing, like adultery, abandonment, or “cruelty” (that is, abuse). This could be difficult: “Even if you could prove you had been hit, that didn’t necessarily mean it rose to the level of cruelty that justified a divorce,” said Marcia Zug, a family law professor at the University of South Carolina.

Then came a revolution: In 1969, then-Gov. Ronald Reagan of California (who was himself divorced) signed the nation’s first no-fault divorce law, allowing people to end their marriages without proving they’d been wronged. The move was a recognition that “people were going to get out of marriages,” Zug said, and gave them a way to do that without resorting to subterfuge. Similar laws soon swept the country, and rates of domestic violence and spousal murder began to drop as people — especially women — gained more freedom to leave dangerous situations.  Today, however, a counter-revolution is brewing: Conservative commentators and lawmakers are calling for an end to no-fault divorce, arguing that it has harmed men and even destroyed the fabric of society. Oklahoma state Sen. Dusty Deevers, for example, introduced a bill in January to ban his state’s version of no-fault divorce. The Texas Republican Party added a call to end the practice to its 2022 platform (the plank is preserved in the 2024 version). Federal lawmakers like Sen. J.D. Vance (R-OH) and House Speaker Mike Johnson, as well as former Housing and Urban Development Secretary Ben Carson, have spoken out in favor of tightening divorce laws. 

If this sounds outlandish or like easily dismissed political posturing — surely Republicans don’t want to turn back the clock on marital law more than 50 years — it’s worth looking back at, say, how rhetorical attacks on abortion, birth control, and IVF have become reality. And that will cause huge problems, especially for anyone experiencing abuse. “Any barrier to divorce is a really big challenge for survivors,” said Marium Durrani, vice president of policy at the National Domestic Violence Hotline. “What it really ends up doing is prolonging their forced entanglement with an abusive partner.” [...]

Republicans in multiple states are eyeing divorce restrictions

Pushback against no-fault divorce dates back decades. In the 1990s and early 2000s, three states passed covenant marriage laws, allowing couples to opt into signing a contract allowing divorce only under circumstances like abuse or abandonment. Some backers of the laws intended them to send a larger anti-divorce message, the Maryland Daily Record reported in 2001. Speaker Johnson, then a lawyer in Louisiana, was an early adopter of covenant marriage, entering one with his wife Kelly in 1999. 

More recently, high-profile conservative commentators have taken up the anti-divorce cause. Last year, the popular right-wing podcaster Steven Crowder announced his own unwilling split. “My then-wife decided that she didn’t want to be married anymore,” he complained, “and in the state of Texas, that is completely permitted.”

That could change. As Tessa Stuart noted in Rolling Stone, the Texas Republican party controls both chambers of the state legislature and the governor’s office, and could likely make its platform — the one calling on the state legislature to “rescind unilateral no-fault divorce laws” — a reality if it chose. The Louisiana and Nebraska Republican parties have also considered or adopted similar language.  

[...]

Ending no-fault divorce would have major consequences

Opponents of no-fault divorce argue that it is hurting families and American culture. Making divorce too easy causes “social upheaval, unfettered dishonesty, lawlessness, violence towards women, war on men, and expendability of children,” Deevers wrote last year in the American Reformer, a Christian publication. “To devalue marriage is to devalue the family is to undermine the foundation of a thriving society.” It’s worth noting that though the no-fault laws initially led to spikes in divorce, rates then began to drop, and reached a 50-year low in 2019, CNN reports. But today, an end to no-fault divorce would cause enormous financial, logistical, and emotional strain for people who are trying to end their marriages, experts say. Proving fault requires a trial, something many divorcing couples today avoid, said Kristen Marinaccio, a New Jersey-based family law attorney. A divorce trial is time-consuming and costly, putting the partner with less money at an immediate disadvantage. It can also be “really, really traumatizing” to have to take the stand against an ex-partner, Marinaccio said. There’s also no guarantee that judges will always decide cases fairly. In the days of fault-based divorce, courts were often unwilling to intervene in marriages even in cases of abuse, Zug said.  No-fault divorce can be easier on children, who don’t have to experience their parents facing each other in a trial, experts say. Research suggests that allowing such divorces increased women’s power in marriages and even reduced women’s suicide rates. A return to the old ways would turn back the clock on this progress, scholars say.

The Christian Right’s war on no-fault divorce is closely linked to their wars on IVF, abortion, birth control, and LGBTQ+ rights, as seek to roll back the clock to an era when straight white Christian men ruled the roost without pushback.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

But there was an anon - I don't remember where I saw the comment - that speculated Meghan is going to hang in there until they've been married 10 years because of the joint property/asset laws that kick in at the 10th anniversary. That sounds pretty plausible to me, but with two major caveats:

What difference does the joint assets make? all Harry's asset was his mother's inheritance that he put in the mansion, she'll get it anyway with the custody, Spotify was hers, Spare was his and Netflix mixed

So first, I goofed. I didn't do the due diligence to look into the 10-year-rule. I thought it was about joint property but it's not. The 10-year-rule is actually about alimony and financial support. I think the thread there that my brain latched on to is how community property can be used as a bargaining chip in deciding alimony.

Also, I am not a lawyer. This is all stuff I've read about. If any lawyers want to chime in here, feel free!

So in a community property state, which California is, both spouses own everything earned, acquired, gained, lost, debted during a marriage equally. It doesn't matter whose name is on the paperwork. If it was acquired during the marriage, it belongs to both spouses. So the house, Spotify, Netflix, Clevr, Roop, speaking engagements, cars, any debt accrued, etc. They share that equally and when they divorce, it's going to be split in half. (And I suspect they'll fight over which half of the deals and how much money is half in the divorce.)

Now, also in a community property state like California, there's no prescribed length of marriage to earn half of everything earned and acquired in the marriage. The only instance in which assets are not divided 50/50 in a community property state like California is when there's a prenuptial (or a postnuptial) agreement in place outlining how the assets would be divided in case of a separation or divorce.

It's my understanding that the BRF doesn't do prenups like that so it's probably a safe assumption that Harry and Meghan don't have a prenup and they're going to be splitting all of the assets/properties/finances acquired after May 19, 2018 equally.

You mentioned Montecito Mansion being paid for with Harry's Diana inheritance. That makes Montecito Mansion commingled property - meaning it is both community and separate. So probably what would happen in that case is if there's a divorce and the divorce requires them to sell the house (which could happen), then the court would first award Harry a lump sum from the sale proceeds equivalent to the amount of Diana's inheritance that he paid, and if there's any money left, it's split equally between him and Meghan.

That's the community property side of it. Now for the alimony piece where the 10 years is important.

California has a 10-year rule for alimony:

For marriages lasting 10 years or less, alimony is usually awarded for half of the mariage.

For marriages lasting more than 10 years, alimony can be awarded on a permanent basis, with indefinite jurisdiction for modification (or termination).

So if the Sussexes divorce next month with after six years of marriage, alimony can be awarded up to, and no more than, 3 years. If the Sussexes divorce in 2029 after 11 years of marriage, there's no expiration date on the alimony. For example, a court could award it for 11 years or in perpetuity or for 8 years.

How much alimony someone is awarded is based on their financial need and stability. If Meghan wants alimony from Harry (aka Charles), it's possible she could agree to less of the community property to better her chances.

Will it happen? I don't think so. I don't think they're going to get alimony unless their situation changes very drastically. The only reason Sarah and Diana got alimony in their divorces was because they were dependent on their husbands/the BRF. (They took alimony in lump sum payments as part of divorce settlements versus recurring payments.) That's not Meghan's situation because a) she's in a community property state so she gets half of everything automatically and b) she has the ability to provide for herself in a way that Sarah and Diana could not.

And by "situation changes very drastically" I mean like the Sussexes lose all of their money and Charles takes them back as fulltime working royals. In that case, Meghan has become dependent on the BRF again so she would most likely get alimony.

What's more likely to happen is child support. Child support in California is assigned based on standard of living the children are used to. So if Meghan can prove that the children have a standard of living that's $2 million per month (mortgage, private school, nannies, drivers, chefs, gourmet food), she could very well end up getting $2 million a month in child support from Harry. Will that happen? Probably not, and that's her own fault because of all the PR she's done about her net worth and earning power. But it could happen.

But the TL;DR of it is that I goofed. 10 years is about alimony, not joint assets. California is a community property state so they split everything 50/50 unless they have a contract (usually a prenup), which I doubt.

And that's also why Meghan must tread carefully when it comes to Roop. She could very well end up owing Harry if it's successful and she leaves him. Not only could she owe Harry alimony or child support (if he/his lawyers can prove he's the main caretaker for the children since Meghan's working all the time - as her own PR has sometimes suggested), she could also end up being forced to give him the company entirely or having to buy out his ownership.

(Which is also something that could happen to the house. Because it's community property and belongs to both of them and probably has both of their names on the deed, someone is probably going to be buying the other one out of the house to keep it for themselves unless they put it up for sale together.)

Remember, I am not a lawyer. Everything I learned about California divorces came from Google and Celebrity Divorces.

[palomajena]

I love how california is kind of female-coded and texas is kind of male-coded in the sense that they're like a married couple in the process of getting divorced because they have too much resentment towards each other, california is a democrat while texas is a republican and is more religious than his wife and they're both mexican-american but california is 1st generation and speaks spanish and zapotec whereas texas is 4th generation and a no sabo kid, they are both very popular and well-known in their community (aka the united states of america) but can often be polarizing to some🥺 california is a lawyer and texas is a construction worker, he feels very ashamed of the fact that she makes more money than him, however she is very charitable and puts a lot of her money towards bettering the community (aka taxes) which he doesn't like

[feralsteddie]

to hold on

modern!AU, no Upside Down, set in 2017, pre-steddie

        There were a lot of things Steve Harrington had been expecting out of life.

        He’d been expecting to be forced to join his father’s firm. He’d been expecting to marry a daughter of his father’s business partners that his mother approved of. He’d been expecting to acquire roughly six little Harringtons that his parents could show pictures of in the office like they’d ever been capable of a parental emotion in their lives.

        Granted, roughly none of those happened, except sort of maybe the last one what with his accidental babysitting gig, but… that was what he’d been expecting.

        What he hadn’t, under any possible conception of his life that he could’ve, in a thousand years, thought up in his rattled little head, was ending up with custody of the younger stepsister of the guy who’d tried to turn his brain into a slushy his senior year.

        He couldn’t figure out how it happened. One second he was serving ice cream. Trying not to think of an entire stack of college rejection letters, hitting on anyone with a pulse, and trying with all his might to ignore the snark from the asshole lesbian he’d been sacked with for every shift. The next, he had an armful of crying toddler and all he could think was “Same, kid.”

        It wasn’t like he was exactly shocked that his dad had knocked up some random woman, there were only so many times you could toss one out before accidentally nailing the bullseye, but the odds of her moving into the same nowhere town? Fucking astronomical.

        He probably would’ve never even known about it too, was the thing. Could’ve gone his whole life in ignorant bliss if Billy Hargrove hadn’t aggravated assaulted the wrong guy at the wrong time with a baggy of coke in his pocket and got cracked for two level four felonies. If Susan Hargrove hadn’t been desperate to keep him from the 4 to 24 sentence and tried to blackmail the one lawyer she could. If Steve’s mother had trusted any man a day in her fucking life and didn’t go through his mail and messages with all the intensity of corporate lawyer used to finding every single point of weakness and pointing out how to exploit it.

        But they all did, and the fallout of Cynthia Harrington and Neil Hargrove both discovering little Max Mayfield’s true paternity left two divorces, four people skipping town, and Steve in possession of a whole baby who clearly just wanted her mother.

        He could sort of relate. He’d been missing his mom since he was old enough to feasibly microwave himself dinner. He didn’t know how to tell Max that it’d become a sort of numb spot one day, that the abandonment would become background noise, a pain easy to ignore as long as they didn’t poke at it. He didn’t know how to do a lot of things with Max.

        He didn’t even know why he’d been the one with a kid dropped in his lap. He knew she had a grandmother and an uncle back in California, both adults with maybe more money and more experience. He knew his father had the money to hire out a nanny or something to watch her at his new loft in Chicago. Or, fuck, maybe the mother she’d been with for the entirety of her life could’ve taken her with her to wherever she fucked off to.

He was eighteen for fucks sake. He was making slightly more than minimum wage to wear some cheaply made slutty sailor outfit and scoop ice cream to every snot-nosed brat in the county and the mall rats who popped over after haunting the Hot Topic right off the food court. His free time was taken up by watching his ex-girlfriend’s little brother and all his playmates because he was freshly a loser with zero friends. He barely managed to keep himself alive and that was only through the power of having a near decade of practice.

And he was expected to actually raise a baby? A fucking toddler?

It probably could’ve been, like, the smallest, tiniest bit better if he’d been given any notice at all. A phone call, a text maybe. Hell, he would’ve settled for an email or messenger pigeon. Pretty much anything other than him walking in the door to the house he was trying to move out of, still covered in bubblegum ice cream and hair somehow greasy despite the lack of actual grease and the sub-zero temperature of Scoops Ahoy, to his mom gone and his dad tossing the tiny, screaming red head towards him like he could make it stop.

Steve had been left with the deed of the house he’d hated his whole life, a promise for money to be deposited into his account for childcare and utilities, and any dream he had of leaving shitty little Hawkins, Indiana in the dust crushed under his dad’s Berluti’s.

“Fuck.”