#my wife didn’t deserve that

[sunflwr-chyld]

DROLTA DESERVED BETTER. SHE DID NOTHING WRONG…

…except try to kill Annette. That’s the only thing she did that was bad.

[bluntandsaucy]

“i’m not disappointed in you.”

“aren’t you? can you say that truthfully, with an oath?”

dalinar fell silent.

WHAT THE FUCKKK ADOLIN DADDY ISSUES

[inubaki]

Art not done by me. (Its done by the amazing Deya on twitter)

But I thought this was extremely telling for Day 1 of being kicked out; over what Adam had to mentally deal with. All this… for who? These animals mean nothing to Eve compared to Adam. And this is only the beginning to what he just has to get over in this new existence. Get over or die horribly.

A man used to lush greens, of areas of plenty. Now has to learn about weather. About scarcity. What freezing is. What over heating can do to a tired human body. Illness. How large or minor injuries can become infected. What being tired is. Hungry. Learn to be Nordic, to farm with nearly zero knowledge on what can fed or kill you. (Ever heard about Chris McCandless? Basically that but without resources)

Having to skin and eat the beasts you once coveted and loved. Then you have to bring a family into the world and force them to do the same thing or else they die. (What if one grows sick and spreads it to the others?) What if the plants that once could help you in the spring are poisonous by winter? How would they know what an adult body can compared to a child?

If your child dies tough! Get back to work because each day could kill more.

Hunting can take days and lead to exposer or injury. ANYTHING can kill you.

And for what? For who? And why?

Lucifer and Lilith had his magic, became kings and queens!

Adam got stuck in the world that Lilith had been DYING to go too! Not him!

Say what you want about Adam but no one deserves this. And if Adam helped Eve and the kids survive each and every day then that’s more than what should be expected. Who’s a bad father in that? Because he didn’t ask for this. It wasn’t his consequences to suffer but he did.

Cheapen this in Hazbin Hotel. I dare you. Build your excuses that Adam is resentful or a ‘bad dad’. Reality is this. Lucifer, Lilith, Heaven and Eve are all what brought this upon themselves to varying degrees of guilt. But it’s what costed Adam the most.

Eve cheated day two, got him kicked out day three. All while Lilith and Lucifer continues to be lavish in finery.

Keep your affair baby and your hypocrisy of fairness, and choice.

Ya fucking Hazbins.

[linka-from-captain-planet]

maybe Lady Mizora has had her claws in Florrick for some time and that’s why Florrick believed her lies about Wyll

[ax-fire]

tag me in the fix it fics when they start coming thank you

[malkaleh]

I keep trying to write an update and then being embarrassed about it and feeling like I’m trauma dumping on people by updating and I just..I know it’s on me to manage my crap, I know. I am trying (not very well but I’m trying) and it’s just…I don’t know. I don’t even know.

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 58

Chapter; Highlights

Not that there was much Elide could do.

Despite the generous gift of power that ran through the Lochan bloodline, she possessed no magic, no gifts beyond reading people and lying.

Rushed to get bandages, hot water, and whatever salves or herbs the healers calmly requested. None of them shouted. They only raised their voices, magic glowing bright around them, if a soldier was shrieking too loudly for their words to be heard.

The sun was barely over the horizon, judging by the light at the windows set high in the Great Hall, and so many already lay injured. So many. Still they kept coming, and Elide kept moving, her limp becoming a dull, then a sharp ache. A minor pain, compared to what the soldiers endured. Compared to what they faced on the battlements.

She didn't let herself think of her friends.

Didn't let herself think of Lorcan, who had not come to the chamber last night and had not sought them out this morning. As if he didn't want to be near her. As if he'd taken every hateful word she'd spoken to heart.

So Elide aided—and did not stop.

No, that magnificent horse trampled them, fearless and wicked, just as Chaol had predicted. A horse whose name meant butterfly

—stomping all over Valg foot soldiers.

Had his breath not been a rasp in his chest, Chaol might have smiled. Had men not been cut down around him, he might have laughed a bit, too.

But Morath was launching itself at the walls and gates with a furor they had not yet witnessed. Perhaps they knew who had come to Anielle and now hewed them down. Aelin and Rowan fought back-to-back, and Fenrys had plowed his way down the battlements to join Chaol by the second siege tower.

Morath, it seemed, did not think to surrender. Only to inflict destruction, to break into the keep and slaughter as many as they could before meeting their end.

His shield bloodied and dented, his horse a raging demon herself beneath him, Chaol kept swinging his sword. His wife lay within the keep behind him. He would not fail her.

Soon now. They'd win the field soon, and the song in his blood would quiet.

Part of him didn't want it to end, even as his body began to scream to rest.

Yet when the battle was done, what would remain?

Nothing. Elide had made that clear enough.

She loved him, but she hated herself for it.

He hadn't deserved her anyway.

She deserved a life of peace, of happiness.

He didn't know such things. Had thought he'd glimpsed them during the months they'd traveled together, before everything went to hell, but now he knew he was not meant for anything like it.

But this battlefield, this death-song around him ... This, he could do. This, he could savor.

The golden helmets of the khagan's army became clear, their fiery horses unfaltering.

Finer than any host he'd fought beside in a mortal kingdom. In many immortal kingdoms, too.

Obeying the death-song in his blood, Lorcan let his shields drop. He did not wish it to be easy. He wanted to feel each blow, see his enemy's life drain out beneath his sword.

The earth shook beneath thundering hooves, and arrows screamed overhead. Then there was roaring. And then blackness.

[dashiellqvverty]

betty describing archies life as “content” is literally so heartbreaking

[starmvchine]

giggling and kicking my feet whenever Mia attacks me in biohazard :3

[crmsndragonwngss]

via Facebook

[sassyandclassy94]

Today at work:

I was dealing with a customer who gives me the creeps and was trying to remain neutral when I walk past a man studying the cheese cooler

Me: *Is that…? One of tue blueberry brothers? He looks like Luke Slattery but… his hair is blond. Guess not.* Goes on about my task but when I turn back:

Caleb: “HI!”

Me: “Hi…?”🤔 *Do I know you?*

Caleb: “Ohh you don’t recognize me with the blond hair do you? *lifts his hat off his head* It’s me!!”

Me: “OHHH!!! The other blueberry brother— NOOOO!!! You don’t look like Luke Slattery anymore!!!!”😱

Caleb: *grins* “No, I dyed it for a Halloween party this week.”

Me: “OH! Well, okay. But I can’t call you Luke’s lookalike anymore and, where’s your brother??”

Caleb: “He’s out sick with a sinus infection but he’ll hopefully be back tomorrow.”

Me: *😔* “Aww!! Well, I missed him— WAIT. Oh! Oh no, please don’t tell him I said that!!!”

Caleb: *laughs* “You’re good! He should be back.”

Me: “Here, I’ll take you on this side of the register. So! How does your wife feel about your new hair?”

Caleb: “I don’t know, it’s hard to tell. She only said ‘It looks interesting’.”

Me: “Ohhh, Dude… when a woman says something looks interesting, she means she doesn’t like it. Trust me.”

Caleb: “Aww really? Well, I was gonna dye it back after the party anyway.”

Me: “Good choice! Don’t be like my brother in law and say ‘Now that we’re married I can keep my beard’.”

Caleb: *laughs* “My wife doesn’t like facial hair so I keep my face clean for her.”

Me: “As you should! You wanna tell my sister’s husband that?” *says his total and he pays and we say our exit greetings and go about our days*

[mymelodyisme]

Just gonna blabber

[edspeleerscock]

IM SAD WHY DID BRIANNA DO MY WIFE LIKE THAT. CUDDLE HIM YOU SLAG. COMFORT HIM. IDC WHAT HE DID, GIVE. HIM. LOVE.

[tricksterkisses]

I was discussing the incident mentioned later in this piece with my wife yesterday and I saw another post by someone earlier doing something mentioned in here and I'm finally going to say something about it.

There is a serious problem in leftist spaces, especially online, especially on Tumblr, when it comes to language.

The way people are expected to speak just to even enter these spaces is incredibly complex, to the point of being outright hostile to those who haven’t already spent time in them. And it’s not just newcomers; people who have important things to say, people speaking from lived experiences, people who don’t have English as a first language but still deserve to be heard, are constantly talked down to or even pushed out entirely for not using the "right" words.

This gets even worse when you factor in how often new terms are coined in English, and then people are shamed for not immediately knowing or using them.

I saw someone reblog their own post saying something like, "I know for a fact more than half of y’all didn’t understand a fucking word I said here."

And honestly? That stuck with me, because yeah, I’ve felt that before. Not because I don’t value critical thinking! because I absolutely do! I just made a post on that too! but because so many of these posts are written in a way that makes them Functionally Inaccessible to anyone who doesn’t already have the right background knowledge. And at a certain point, if you actually want your words to have an impact, if you actually want to create meaningful change, then you’re going to have to accept some things:

People will not always use perfect language.

2. People will not always know the exact terminology you personally prefer they use when engaging in discourse.

3. Dismissing or attacking people for how they say something, instead of engaging with what they’re saying, is actively harmful.

And more than that, if you genuinely want people to understand and engage with the things you’re talking about, especially people who don’t speak English as a first language, especially people without access to higher education, especially people who don’t even know where to begin when it comes to self-education (because yes, that is a skill that has to be taught) then you are going to have to be the one to adjust sometimes. You are going to have to let people say things imperfectly. You are going to have to take a step back and engage with the message rather than just the words being used to express it.

One of the experiences that made me realize that I, as a non-native English speaker, was not welcome in Tumblr leftist spaces was when I spoke about real-life oppression I had experienced. I left one word out of my post, a word which honestly, was not even important when talking about an incident that had Happened To Me, not theory, not hypotheticals or any what-ifs of oppression, a story, a story about something that happened to me.

And because of that, people sat in a Discord server, picking apart my words, accusing me of awful things, and then came into my askbox throwing jargon and buzzwords I’d never even heard before, then got mad at me for being frustrated that this was happening.

Think about that. People who are directly impacted by oppression are being pushed out of spaces meant to discuss it because the way they speak doesn’t conform to certain expectations. That is not justice. That is not solidarity. That is not progress.

There is a fundamental disconnect here between theory and praxis. Ironically so many of you do not know what praxis is, because most of you engage with a lot of theory, and not a lot of praxis, you use the word praxis a lot, but, ironically, you have no idea what it means.

{to put my money where my mouth is, it means Doing Something, in the simplest possible terms}

In theory, leftist spaces should be accessible. They should be places where people can speak openly about their experiences, learn from each other, and work toward meaningful change. But in practice? There’s a gatekeeping of language so intense that many people, particularly those who are marginalized in ways beyond just their political beliefs, are outright excluded.

And this is something I need people to sit with: The assumption that the "right" language is easy to learn, or that anyone who doesn’t use it is being willfully ignorant, is an inherently privileged stance. Knowing where to find information, how to process it, and how to integrate new terminology into your vocabulary is a skill that is largely tied to education. Having the time to engage with leftist literature and theory, to stay up-to-date on every new term that gets introduced, is also a privilege. And the fact that so many people refuse to acknowledge this, that they expect perfect articulation from everyone, regardless of background, and punish those who don’t measure up, is a huge problem.

Worse still, the same people who act as gatekeepers of this language often fail to communicate their ideas in a way that is accessible at all.

This doesn’t mean that complex ideas should never be discussed. It doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t strive for accuracy in their language. But it does mean that if your goal is to educate, if your goal is to spread awareness, if your goal is to help people understand and join the movement, if your goal is to engage with fellow oppressed people, then you have a responsibility to meet people where they are. You have a responsibility to make your language understandable.

Because if people can’t even process what you’re saying, then what’s the fucking point?

And before anyone says, "Well, people should put in the effort to learn!" Let me make something very clear: They do.

People who are new to leftist spaces, or who are coming in from different linguistic and cultural backgrounds, are often trying their best to engage. They are listening, they are learning, they are processing. But if the response to every mistake, every slightly off phrasing, every unfamiliarity with a new term, is immediate hostility,

or even if it's just 'hey I see you're sharing a personal moment, but can you change your language to make me, personally, more comfortable with you discussing your oppression?' then you’re not teaching.

You’re just making sure only the people who already think and speak exactly like you get to stay in the room.

Your language, your terminology, your theory? none of it means anything if you can’t make it accessible to the people who actually need it. And it means nothing if you use it to Exclude rather than Include.

[pedgito]

𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 | Harry Castillo x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | Five years of being his assistant and five years of failed attempts at finding love with your help, but maybe the obvious answer has been there the entire time. Alternatively, you fucked your boss? Uh-oh.

author's note | harry...randy...who knows. i'll change it if needed but given the name tag, this is what i'm sticking with for now. skip the lecture about not writing until the movie is out, this isn't hurting anyone so don't bother me about it, xo. the horny demons always win. i listened to this song i repeat while i wrote, felt fitting.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, power imbalance (boss/assistant), work wife/work husband type beat, mentions of failed dating, being superficial, mentions of sugar daddy things, expensive gifts, reader is a godly assistant with a will stronger than mine, he smokes, they drink, sex while inebriated, he's down so bad, also oral!, tense morning after, open-ended

word count — 4.5k

You knew him better than anyone.

From his breakfast order down to his specific choice of underwear, like you weren’t making the weekly purchases and filling up his rarely used fridge in the apartment that was way out your price range, arranging his schedule down to the minute, booking his flights, packing his bag.

Really, Harry should just marry you.

…it was more of a joke, but you’ve teased him about it once or twice.

He called you his work wife anyways, but in reality, you were just his assistant.

He did trust you with his life, though.

More importantly, his love life.

“Kim flaked,” he tells you over coffee, perched at his kitchen island as you typed away on your laptop, looking up briefly with eyes that begged for him to explain, he does and makes a show about, mimicking a more feminine voice as he relays the message she gave him, “same song and dance—you’re great and fun but I can’t do anything serious right now,”

“Were you nice?” you ask curiously.

Harry rolls his eyes at that, like it was a stupid question to ask. But, eventually he nods.

“Did you ask questions?” you continue, fingers folding over the screen of your laptop to close it.

“Plenty, she works in finance, loves the color blue, wants to travel,” he could go on and on, throwing his hands up in defeat before they slump to his side, “maybe I should try out a real matchmaker—not that you’re bad at it—”

“You think I’m bad at it,” you smile knowingly, “don’t you?”

“No,” you’re unconvinced, “besides—you’re my assistant, I never meant for that type of responsibility to fall on you, you know?”

“I’m doing both of us a favor,” you remind him, “I think…it just takes time.”

And fortunately, all you had was time.

It felt pointless for Harry to spend a chunk of cash to have someone pair him up with the supposed love of his life, though you knew that money wasn’t a problem, you felt a weird responsibility to protect him, unsure how quickly someone would take advantage of his kindness.

“There’s a gala,” you tell him offhandedly, “next week. I already cleared your schedule for it. I think…maybe you should just peruse this time.”

“Peruse?” he chuckles, eyes creasing in amusement, his crow’s feet deepening with the emotion, “You’re a control freak, you sure about that?”

“That’s just mean,” you retort, “you’re paying me anyways—if you didn’t like it you’d fire me.”

He knew you were right, sipping quietly at his coffee in response.

He was frustrating, predictable, and painfully superficial. 

Every date was an exercise in appearances—perfectly tailored suits, dinner at the most exclusive places, charm turned up to eleven. And yet, none of it ever stuck. He was overcompensating and you weren’t sure why.

He was a good guy, down to his core, and in the five years you had worked with him there was never a moment you thought he didn’t deserve love, he was perfect. Too perfect.

That was the problem.

“You know, you’re like prime age to be a sugar daddy,” you tease him, knowing how he felt about the topic, “there’s plenty of apps that I can—”

“You’re relentless,” he grumbles, “if you ever did that, I’m firing you on the spot.”

“You wouldn’t,” it was a gentle challenge, smirk flashing across your face as he returned it with fondness, “without me you would crash and burn, Mr. Castillo.”

And he knows it.

–

The gala is a bust.

So, as a bandaid to his wounded ego, you order takeout and keep him company in his big, lavish apartment—it wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last.

You knew what the issue was, but there was a sinking feeling in your stomach that told you he wouldn’t receive the information well.

It was after every failed date, every expensive dinner.

They saw him at the surface, the charming man with an easy, warm smile.

You saw the man who kicked his shoes off and stripped himself of his suit jacket the second he walked through the door, who couldn’t resist a late-night binge of his newest streaming obsession, someone who insisted on stirring his coffee counterclockwise because it made it taste better, a man would text you pictures of squirrels in the park that he would feed on his way home.

It wasn’t that you were pining over him. You just knew him better than anyone.

“Why are you so dead set on marriage?” you ask him over dinner, turned toward him on the couch as he reaches for the remote to pause the show on screen.

He’s had this conversation before, but he’s never asked you any questions on the matter.

“What’s your opinion on it?” he’s avoiding, clearly, but you’ll bite.

“I don’t date, I’m not interested, signing a piece of paper isn’t going to signify my feelings toward someone if it came down to that,” you admit, “I’m not cynical, marriage is fine, but this stuff takes time,”

“Well, I’m not getting any younger,” Harry gripes, arms reaching over the back of the couch as he mirrors your position.

“Oh, please,” you scoff, “you’re forty-nine.”

“Almost fifty,” he corrects, “I’m ancient.”

“O-kay,” you sigh, “do you want honesty?”

“I’d hope you were being honest with me all the time.”

“No,” you laugh softly, “like…brutal fucking honesty?”

He’s silent, but attentive. 

“You keep choosing women who treat you like they’re next getaway vacation and you fall for it every time,” his forehead creases at the words, looking hurt by your words, “I see your bank payments every month, the activity—”

“It’s not like money is an issue,” he defends, causing you to sigh dramatically and fall back against the arm of the couch in faux distress.

“This is impossible,” you groan, staring up at the ceiling before you feel his hand circle around your wrist, tugging gently,

“Okay, I’m listening,” Harry says softly, pulling you upright, “I’m sorry—I am.”

“You want it to work so bad,” you tell him, “I see it—every time you approach someone you put on that smile and it works, but you’re giving so much and yeah, maybe some of them like that, but I’m sure a few would just enjoy a nice dinner here, or something simple. I think you forget to realize that someone can just be interested in you, for you, not for what you are or have,”

It’s profound, the way his face softens at your words, his touch still lingering around your wrist.

You’ve never even considered or entertained the idea that you might find Harry attractive or even attainable—for one, you had signed a contract that agreed to a professional work relationship, as a benefit for both of you, not that he ever had any intention to begin with.

You’ve been with him for so long, it feels, a fresh and young mind to help keep him active and busy, constantly refreshing ideas and helping him not feel like he was stuck, and you were damn good at taking care of him when he’s often tended to neglect himself.

The only thing you know is that he’s never looked at you like that.

Like you could see straight through him, all his flaws on display.

But, that was because you knew all of them.

You knew everything about him, even the worse bits.

His bad habits, his self-inflicting ones, everything that he refused to bring to the surface.

Harry’s fingers still lingered around your wrist, the weight of your words sinking in. 

But then, just like he always did, he broke the tension with a huff of laughter and frowns as he brushed you off.

“You just think I’m a sucker, don’t you?”

You shook your head with a faint smile, returning your arm to your lap.

“No—I think you like to see the good in people. So much good that you’re willing to ignore red flags.”

“Jeez,” he chuckled, clutching his stomach like you had physically wounded him, “that hurt.”

You shrugged and reached for the remote to resume the picture on screen, “You’ll survive.”

–

It was your day off—Sunday, the one day.

“Have you seen my cufflinks laying around?” he asked over the video call, “Shit—my tie, too. I can’t find it anywhere. I thought you said you laid it out for me.”

“No, I said I had it hung up and for you to lay it out before you showered,” you correct him, laying tiredly on your couch as you watched him search around frantically, hair damp and his bare shoulders on display, only catching the briefest glimpses of the towel around his waist as he turned the camera around, “Waitwait—go back!”

“There’s no fucking way you saw it,” Harry argues, “I’ve been looking for the last ten minutes—”

“In the pocket of your suit, the tie is there,” you tell him, “and given that you probably tossed the suit on the bed like you always do, the cufflinks are probably somewhere hiding under the blanket,”

He tosses you against the mattress, your screen succumbing to darkness as you wait, some shifting of the sheets before you hear him make a sound before he appears again, cufflinks pinched between his fingers and a look of defeat on his face.

“What would you do without me?” you ask with a cocky grin, finger hovering over the end call button as he shakes his head.

“What was this for again?” Harry asks curiously, laying you down upright as you caught a glimpse of his bare chest as he shrugged the crisp, white button down over his shoulders.

“It’s a charity auction, your favorite,” you chirp, “and you’re flying solo, so—don’t do anything stupid or…crass,”

“If I paid you double a day of work would you go?” Harry asks after a long pause, glancing down at the screen, “Triple?”

“Triple?!” you gawk, “see—you’re insane, this is what I’m talking about,”

He chuckles despite your response, “You’re good at keeping the sharks away,”

There were particular hawking businessmen who made it their mission to hunt Harry down at events and keep him occupied, eager to do business, whatever it may be—you were the unspoken master of redirection, as much as he refused to admit it.

“Can we grab dinner on the way?” 

“Burgers?” Harry asks, perking up slightly.

It was a constant go-to for you and him.

You nod through the screen, “Don’t even bother with the tie either, I’ll do it.”

–

“I can’t believe you roped me into this on my day off,” you whisper at his side, earning a half-smirk from him.

The charity auction was as lavish as you’d expected.

Crystal chandeliers, gold accents, and far too much champagne and hors d'oeuvres. 

Harry’s hand found the small of your back the moment you arrived, steering you through a sea of designer gowns and tuxedos, feeling uncomfortable in the tight dress and stilettos that you only wore on rare occasions, biting at your heels.

“You’ll survive,” he grins, grabbing you both a glass of champagne and pressing it into your waiting fingers, “I’m gonna…peruse, alright?”

“Don’t say it—that just makes you sound like a creep,” your face scrunches up in disgust as you sip at the alcohol, “just go—go, I’ll…handle everything else.”

The evening passed in a blur of small talk and polite smiles, but somewhere between the endless speeches and bidding wars, you found yourself on the balcony, the cool night air a welcome relief in the stuffy ballroom.

You smell him before you see him, the thick and rich scent of his cologne so familiar you swear you could find him on that alone, turning over your shoulder to see him closing the door quietly, cigarette pack tucked in his palm as he approached with a neutral expression.

“You okay?” you ask, leaning against the railing of the balcony.

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and then plucking a single cigarette from the box, “Honestly? I’m just tired of it.”

“The auctions? Charity?” you inquire, a small smile tugging at your face.

“All of it.” He looked at you, his gaze lingering as he lit the tobacco, “The events, the dates, searching for—I don’t even fucking know at this point,”

“The offer stands…” you say jokingly, though he knows exactly where this is heading.

“If I wanted a sugar baby I’d find one.”

Your eyes roam over his figure as he puffs at the cigarette, pulling a deep laugh from his chest before you’re pushing him away playfully.

“Let’s go,” he tells you with a deep sigh, stubbing out the end of the cigarette and tucking it away for later, tossing his arm over your shoulder as he readied to guide you through the crowd, always protective in spaces like this, another thing that was special to him.

–

The ride home is quiet, like it always is, both of you sitting in the backseat with the partition up, watching as he looked through his phone with a scowl, occasional typing and sending a message.

Eventually, he looks at you.

“Thank you,” He says with a soft tone, “I know this isn’t your favorite thing to do.”

You tilted your head into the headrest and smiled, crossing one thigh over the other as you worked at your heels to remove them, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad—the free alcohol is always a plus.”

He chuckled at that, silently helping you remove your shoes with a soft squeeze to your foot.

That was normal—but, it forces you to pause.

His natural instinct to help, to touch, to comfort you.

Your brow furrows at the gesture before you shake it away, blaming it on the buzz of alcohol in your system, watching as he continues the gesture with the other foot.

“Having you there makes it bearable, is all,” he explains, looking up at you briefly as he undid the tie around your ankle, “you…calm me, I guess.”

You swallowed. Hard.

The warmth of his words lingering in your chest, in his touch against your ankle, “You’d do the same for me.”

And he would—if you ever needed anything, anything, Harry was there.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, “without question.”

The sincerity caught you off guard. 

You turned to study him, the familiar slope of his nose, the line of his jaw. There was something about the way he looked tonight—tired, maybe, but softer. 

And he keeps looking at you, checking.

The car moved smoothly through the dimly lit streets, the city blurring past in streaks of gold and blues and reds. The hum of the engine was steady, the faint sound of music barely audible from the front, through the glass, the back lit up dimly by the trim of lights on the roof and door.

Harry leaned back, one hand moved against the seat, his other hand dragging slowly over his thigh—restless. 

Instinctually, without thinking, you reached for his hand.

It wasn’t purposeful. Just a simple act of absentmindedness.

You’ve done it a hundred times before. 

Tugged at his sleeves to fix his cufflinks, brushed lint from his lapel or pants, adjusted the collar of his shirts. Constantly fixed his hair, touching him wasn’t new.

His skin was warm. Not hot, not cold.

You felt the slight twitch of his hand, like he was debating whether to move. Instead, his fingers shifted, just a fraction, enough that the edge of his thumbnail brushed over the inside of your wrist.

The contact was thoughtless, nothing.

But, in the same moment, it felt like everything.

The way his eyes watched the movement, roamed your body like they had before but with a different implication, his eyes half-lidded and relaxed, wondering how much alcohol he had consumed himself—this wasn’t friendly.

And it definitely wasn’t professional.

Harry’s gaze was on you now, your face, as you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his hand.

Then his thumb moved. 

Up. 

Barely. 

A soft drag along your pulse.

It was half a decade of avoidance, defeat in his heart and mind, and fear in your own.

Broken, by the car rolling to a stop outside of Harry’s apartment building.

“We’re here, Mr. Castillo,” the voice of the driver came from the front, a nod of acknowledgement as his hand slipped from yours.

“Oh, hold on,” you were scooting aside to let him out, readied for the next stop as he cocks his head toward the building, “I’ve got something for you—I’ll drive you home, don’t worry,”

“Harry,” you stress, looking down at his hand that waves you toward him, extending out for you to grab, insistently as his fingers wiggle in wait.

Turns out, he wasn’t totally lying.

That something was accompanied by a seven thousand dollar bottle of Leroz Aux Brulees—you knew that because you had purchased it during his trip to France, the supposed city of love.

“I’m going to murder you,” you tell him as he places the bottle on the counter and keeps the closed case of mystery at his side, “hide your body, flee country—I hate surprises, you know that.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he grins, popping the cork on the bottle and pouring two hefty glasses, eyeing the deep red as it glugged into the glass.

“You know, if you wanted company you could have just asked,” you tell him, “I get it, you’re lonely,”

He knows you’re only teasing but it stings nonetheless, both of you taking a long and heavy sip as his fingers swirl over the velvet casing before he’s pushing it over quickly, tapping it with his fingers, “Open it,” he encourages, eyeing you over the rim.

You place your glass down and pry it open slowly, carefully, like you were deconstructing a bomb, but as the piece inside comes into view you find yourself at a loss for words or thoughts.

Your eyes are wide, staring up at him with parted lips that tingled from the lingering alcohol, knowing you should have cut yourself off at one glass of champagne and refused to come inside, that you should have just went home and enjoyed what little bit of the day you had left to yourself.

Now, you were looking back at a necklace so delicate you were afraid to stare at it too long, embedded with a cluster of diamonds and nearly two years of your rent if you were doing the math correctly in your mind.

Always about the numbers, Harry constantly teased.

“I saw how you looked at it the other day,” he admits, “and I owe you a hell of a lot more, but it…I’m trying to say thank you for…being you,”

“I’m not taking that,” you refuse with a laugh of disbelief, sliding back over to him gently, downing the rest of your wine in one go to forget how fast your heart was beating in your chest.

“You are,” Harry insists, “consider it a bonus—Christmas is in a couple months, too.”

“You know…this is exactly that kind of stuff a sugar da—”

Harry makes a noise, shaking his head.

You bite your lip in thought, ignoring his subtle annoyance at your comment.

It was fucking beautiful, really.

You sigh, using one finger to turn the case back toward you, examining it closely.

Quietly, Harry presses his glass into the counter and rounds the edge toward you, his chest at your shoulder as he reaches for the jewelry, working carefully at the clasp before he’s motioning for you to relax your shoulders.

It wasn’t the stillness of the moment, but his touch, again.

He’s methodical in the way he touches you, dragging his hand around your neck as he fits the necklace into place, his fingertips pressing against the column of your throat in a way that tickles slightly, shifting uncomfortably until you hear the faint click and he breathes behind you, hands resting at your shoulders.

You’re not sure why he hasn’t moved, but you find yourself turning to speak.

“I’m just going to call an uber,” you tell him, “probably shouldn’t drive since we’ve both been drinking,”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but it sounds hollow, his eyes not following you as you move.

You hop from the chair and bend down to grab your shoes, but his hand is curling around your bicep and pulling you up and he’s staring again, the charge of his touch sending a jolt through your body as freeze,

“Come here,” he beckons, too natural.

And you listen.

He’s soft, every part of him. Skin, clothes, hair, lips.

He’s kissing you gently, like you might break, but you can tell he wants more.

Needs more.

“Are you going to regret this tomorrow?” you find yourself asking as he parts from you, licking at his lips as you both take a breath, letting the moment settle.

He shakes his head, “Are you?”

“Maybe,” you answer honestly, “maybe…not—fuck, I don’t know,”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he promises, but you knew that was a lie.

Still, you nod in understanding.

–

He’s so tender with his touch, slipping you out of the dress in the dim light of his room.

Even softer as he guides you to your back and spreads himself on his belly between your legs, fingers interlocked with his at your hips as he buries his nose between your folds, his tongue splitting your cunt open in a sharp gasp that has you throwing your head back. His lips traced a slow, deliberate path down your body, igniting sparks along every inch of your skin. 

He kissed along the curve of your thighs, teasing, tasting, until the tension was unbearable and with each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, it pulled you deeper into a haze of heady desire. 

This was reckless, dangerous, but neither of you found the moment to pause and think.

You wonder if things had been building to this for a while—if it was always supposed to happen this way or if he was acting off of greed; lust and companionship, even if just for a night.

You know you can ask him to stop at any point and he would, but even as his tongue brings you to your first orgasm of the night and he’s guiding you to your stomach, reaching blindly into his bedside table for a foil wrapping the crinkles loudly in the silence, you want this.

It was embarrassing how badly you wanted this.

He fucks you slow, too. 

It was torturous, his chest flat against your back as he palms his cock and feeds it into you.

You don’t talk, neither does he.

But, his low moans and stuttering breaths speak for him.

If you could see him, you’d know how furrowed his brow would be, a hand sliding over the curve of your ass until he can reach your thigh, beckoning for you to raise it without speaking.

You oblige, the angle of his thrusts changing on a dime.

“I can’t believe you’re real sometimes,” he admits like he’s confessing a sin.

“Please,” you plead—please stop talking, please keep going, please fuck me.

You couldn’t decide.

You feel him nod where his forehead is pressed between your shoulder blades as his fist curls into the sheet beside your head.

“Another, gimme another,” he pleads, the fingers on his other hand curling under your neck to life your chin, not expecting to meet his eyes as he leans over you.

The expression on his face so raw it makes you flutter around him, his lips parting in a deep, guttural groan, “I know you can,” he nods hurriedly.

And damn, does the praise work.

Your whimper breaks him, breathing out shakily as you locked eyes when he comes, slow and forceful thrusts until you’re nothing but an exhausted pile of tangled limbs.

“Greedy girl,” he comments through the haze, a weak giggle bubbling from your chest.

He pulls out slowly, a low grunt as he does so.

You’re not sure when you fall asleep, but you wake to a startling amount of weight over your stomach, an arm splayed possessively, the faint outline of a ring as you drag your hand over the limb.

It’s only as your eyes pry open that reality hits you, stumbling out of bed quickly.

No…nononono, where the fuck were your clothes? Jesus.

You stumble around half awake, searching for the silk dress on the floor, feeling accomplished when you find it and hastily redressing yourself as Harry stirs in bed, encouraging you to hurry, to slip out before he can say anything.

Your shoes are already on and you’re reaching for the doorknob when the voice comes, the weight of the necklace that still remained on your neck, two empty glasses of wine on the counter, a night of hasty choices and urgency laid out like a crime scene as his voice rings out from behind you, pleading.

“Don’t—don’t go,” Harry begs, “You don’t have to go,”

So much of this was wrong—it complicated everything.

Your life, your job, your relationship with him.

He can see you slipping, fingers inching toward the knob as he approaches you in a hurry, barefoot and shirtless, the kind of scene you shouldn’t be comforted with, like this was all normal to the both of you.

You’ve seen him like this a thousand times, but not when he’s looking at you so vulnerable, heart tore open and stapled to his chest, beating against your own as his hands splayed out over your cheeks.

“I don’t regret it,” he assures you again, “so please—stay, okay?”

“What changed?” you ask, voice trembling, “Five years, Harry. Five.”

“I’ve been running in circles this entire time,” he admits, “you know it—I know it.”

You had been there the entire time, learning every part of him without judgement, cataloging his flaws and skills, learning how he ticked and what motivated him. You had never quite settled on the ideal person to fit in his life as his partner, it surely wasn’t you.

It couldn’t be you.

“Please, don’t go,” Harry echoed once more.

The sick, cruel joke of it all was that this was your job. 

You had nowhere to go. If it was any other morning, you would just be arriving, leaving his breakfast in the kitchen and starting your day.

You nod solemnly, “Of course, Mr. Castillo.”

It was painstaking, forcing the mask back on.

But, you couldn’t deal with this now.

Or ever, even.

Harry looks at you with a confused sadness, thumbs rubbing at your cheekbones before his hands fall to his side.

You’d figure this out, you always did.

[tojisteddy]

John Price who definitely sees your job as a cute little hobby to occupy your time when he’s away.

He loves hearing you go on and on when you really enjoy it while he’s away. Not so much when he’s home and it’s stressing you out and it’s taking away from his ability to fuck you because of how exhausted you are. So, he does the thing that only makes sense.

He’s calling your office and threatening them by using his job title to get you fired.

A wicked, wicked, wicked man. But he needed you comfortable, you deserved happiness. Not to be stressed out from a job you didn’t need in the first place.

Worst part about it?

He loved to fuck you so you could feel better after being fired. You’d come home, tears pricking your eyes after you slammed the front door shut. And there John would be right there, rushing towards you with the at most concern on his face, asking what’s wrong. He knew what was wrong.

“This is the 4rth time John! I-“ your breath hitched, tears rolling down your adorable cheeks. Poor baby.

“I must be fuckin awful! Everyone- everyone hates me!”

“No, no sweetheart!” He’d coo, cupping your face and kissing your tears away. “Yer good at what ya do, they jus’ hate havin such a hard workin woman ‘round.”

You’re rubbing your face and hiccuping, “Y-you think I’m good John?”

“Of course lovie, you’d be wrong tuh think otherwise.”

You’d sniff, looking up at John with those big brown puppy eyes. “Show me.”

His sweet girl needed him, and after his Oscar winning performance he’d give her the best show she could ever ask for. He’s eating you out right in the foyer, then bending you over on the hardwood floor and slamming you fat veiny, dick into you tight walls like there was no tomorrow.

“Aaaatta girl. Always take me so well.”

“Worked so hard honey, Daddy’s gotta show you how good ya are, hm?”

“Gonna cum? Show me how pretty you can make my cock lovie. Always so. Fuckin. Pretty.”

Captain Price loved his little wife. He’d give you anything if you asked for it.

Except let you keep a job.

Anything but that.

a/n: The only version of toxic Price I can handle 😭