Disclaimer: No copyright ingringement intended

Author's Notes: This is a Stella/RayK break up story, so you know, there's no fluffy bunnies.

They'd fought that morning. She'd gone to work angry and she'd come home angry. Ray was working evening shifts this month - again this month.

It was her turn to cook this week, Ray was doing the cleaning. But she'd still felt like a fucking housewife coming home to cook dinner for her husband, had felt like her fucking mom. She'd chopped the vegetables sloppily and had overcooked the whole thing.

They were sitting in their small, cramped kitchen eating and not talking. The room had one small window that let in very little light, and the kitchen walls were a grimed brownish grey.

She hated that kitchen, hated how dark it was and how it always smelled of grease and how you couldn't ever get the stove clean.

Hated it even more now because it was full of something dense and oppressive that made them both stare down at their plates and eat the bland tasting food without talking.

None of them really liked this apartment anymore - it was the first place they'd bought together, and it was cheap and dingy, and by now they could easily afford something better.

But they couldn't talk about it because she wanted to move further into to town, find a nice big apartment and get an expensive leather sofa, but he wanted to buy a house with a small garden and second hand furniture.

There wasn't much they could talk about, lately.

She chewed and swallowed, wanting to be done, wanting to go sit at her computer, go get some work done.

She was silently praying that Ray would keep his mouth shut, please just not say anything, because she was tired and she didn't want to fight but she didn't really want to make up either.

Ray had looked tired too, when he finally came home. He'd also looked wary as he stepped into the kitchen, and maybe if he hadn't - maybe if he'd come over to her and put his arms around her and said something - she wouldn't still be angry. Maybe, maybe not.

Ray had been working a lot of evening shifts and it took him trough a lot of bars, made him smell like sweat and smoke and liquor. That's what he said

She suspected - even though he said no - that he'd taken up smoking again. That the late nights wasn't only about work but also going to bars with his new partner Walt, who he got on with so well, who she had to hear about all the time, all the damned time.

She swallowed another bite and started gathering the rest of the ratatouille on her plate up on her fork, one more bite and she was done. But then Ray coughed and put down his fork and she could tell without looking at him, she just knew that he was going to say something and she could almost feel the small hairs on her arm standing up, all of her tensing up, waiting for it.

She held breath and bit her tongue and waited for him to say one of three things: Either he was going to mention moving, or he would say that she worked too much, or talk about children. He'd sounded like a broken record the last couple of days.

But so had she, really: No. No. No.

Lately he just wouldn't let it go. Let anything go.

She felt unable to talk to him because every little thing seemed to be a kick-start. Any small remark evolved like an avalanche - ending up as destructive, hurtful conflicts that neither of them seemed to be in control of.

But there had been rough times before. This was the worst it had ever been, but it had been bad before. Maybe not for such a long time, but.

She didn't want a divorce. She wasn't getting a divorce.

Her dad had left her mom when she was seventeen. Her mother had called her at Ray's parents' place, telling her to come home.

She'd known staright away that something was wrong - really wrong - but her mom wouldn't say what, she just insisted that Stella come home immediately.

She had tried asking her who had died; did dad get fired, what? But Mavis wouldn't say anything except: "Come home, please Stella, just come home."

It had her thinking for the half hour it took Ray to drive her home that her dad must have died. She'd cried in the car and every so often Ray had moved his hand from the stick to stroke her hair, or put a hand on her knee. He'd been awkward and genuinely worried and she had been grateful to have him there.

She'd been so certain that her father had died that she was almost angry to step into the kitchen and see him standing there behind her mother, one hand on her shoulder. Mavis had looked small and lost and defeated.

"What?! What?!" she'd shouted and her dad had looked at her sombrely and said "Stella, your mother and I are getting divorced."

They'd told her that they'd just stopped loving each other. Bullshit. She'd believed it then, but no way did she believe it now.

Because she still loved Ray, loved him as much as she ever had, even if it was different, darker now.

All these new, mean feelings had just been piled on top of that.

She still loved him and she still wanted him, just sometimes she couldn't stand to look at him. Sometimes she felt angry for no obvious reason, sometimes she really resented him.

...Ten minutes into the fight and she couldn't even remember what he had said.

It was hard to remember the cause to the fights by now, because there had been so many near to similar arguments - always starting out with some stupid little thing and always ending up with both of them bringing out the heavy artillery: The kids (she wasn't going to be a housewife, she thought she had made that clear from the beginning), work (why was he always working the late shifts? Why was she always working too much?), the past (you always do that... you said that... you promised me you would...).

He fought like a cop, rough and loud and self-righteous. She fought like a lawyer. She fought to win. She almost always did.

"I love you Stella."

Only from Ray could that sound like an accusation. She laughed harshly.

"Don't give me that crap, Ray. You used to love me. The old, blue-eyed teenage me. This new Stella you're not so sure of."

That shut him up. Made him grab the edge of the table, but she was used to that - she knew he'd never, never hit her.

She faked calm, but she was rattled; she felt evil and triumphant and scared shitless all at once. She was treading thin ice, here. She wasn't sure where the fuck this was going and if it was someplace you could return from.

They were usually cruel, but not about the truth.

She was still playing to win, though; couldn't shut off the attorney killer instinct, even if she ought to.

"Maybe that's why you're scared to come home? Maybe that's why you're spending more time with your partner than you are with your wife?"

He pushed off the table hard enough for the chair to tumble over. She jumped at the noise and hated herself for it.

She tried to stay still, even as Ray walked backwards away from her and stumbled into the kitchen table and pushed some dirty dishes onto the floor where they shattered.

He looked pale and angry and scared.

"You know who you remind me of lately, Stella? You remind me of your father."

Oh, that was mean. He'd been paying attention to her methods, obviously, because that was nasty, evil, uncalled for.

"Fuck you!"

But she'd lost. No way could she say anything against that.

She'd tried to so hard to be nothing like her mother (frail little Mavis, failed housewife) that sometimes she feared that she'd turned into her father instead: Surgeon General Desmond Cosgrove, a pale, cynical man with no time off and no real love for his wife or daughter.

And she'd told Ray that. She'd told him because she trusted him and loved him and had hoped that he'd tell her no, she was nothing like her father, which he had at the time. He'd hugged her and kissed her tenderly and said: "Stella, you are nothing like your father, you're wonderful, don't worry."

So he didn't really mean it. She knew she had pushed him there, forced him to say it, but it still hurt like hell. Even though she knew he was just aiming low, aiming to hurt.

But fuck, how could she trust him, how could they trust each other if every thing they said when they weren't arguing was just gathering ammunition for the next fight?

The water leaking from her eyes wasn't tears, she wasn't crying, she was just so fucking pissed off. Ray should know that by know. He should know not to try to comfort her; he had learned that lesson the hard way.

She stood up to walk away.

"I'm nothing like my father," she choked "My father was horrible."

His eyes widened and his mouth lost its hard lines. She moved to go, but he caught up with her, put his arms around her. He hadn't learned a thing, after all.

She shook hard and Ray, probably thinking she was crying, tightened his arms around her. Bastard. He still smelled like beer and smoke and old sweat.

She put her arms around him. She waited just long enough for him to relax before she leaned up and clamped her teeth around his left earlobe.

"Ow! Shit! What the hell's wrong with you?!"

She gave him a small, poisonous smile. Served him fucking right, the bastard.

For a moment she wasn't sure if she wanted to kill him or fuck him. And that had to be a bad sign; had to be one twisted marriage when getting horny from fighting had become a god damned conditioned reflex.

But she was thrumming - turned on fierce. The adrenaline felt like a drug, she was so damned wired.

An assessing look told her that Ray was hard in his pants. And that he was embarrassed about it.

Ha.

Two years ago they fought about having children for the first time. She'd poured a bowl soup over his head; he'd kicked a door off its hinges.

It had been her decision to take it to bed, and while they fucked she'd scratched him all the way down his back and bit his shoulder.

At first he had looked like a scared kid on a rollercoaster, but afterwards he'd kissed her breasts and sung Foxy Lady off key which had made her laugh.

From then on they always took it to bed, always resolved it there, because that was the only place they were completely on the same page, the only place they seemed to be speaking the same language.

She shrugged out of his embrace, turned around and walked to the bedroom. Didn't look back, didn't have to, she knew he would follow.

She didn't look at him while she pulled off her expensive cashmere sweater, kicked off her pumps, unzipped and stepped out of her skirt and tore off her pantyhose and silk panties.

Still didn't look at him when behind her he was struggling out of his clothes.

She put one knee on their bed and touched herself, waiting for him to be ready.

When he reached out for her, she moved away. She crawled up the bed and lay down on her back. He crawled up to her on his hands and knees, his cock flushed red and pointing straight at her.

He started kissing and biting her belly, moving downwards to nuzzle her pubic hair with his face, spreading her labia with his fingers.

But even though she was wet and aching for it, she didn't want that, didn't want to make love like this - it reminded her too much of being head over heels in love and bragging to her high school girlfriends because she had a boyfriend who drank and swore and went down on her.

She grabbed his hair and yanked hard - hard enough that he yelped - but she wanted him to understand without having to say it - just fuck me, drop the fancy shit and just fuck me.

She pulled his head up to hers, pulled hard because he was fighting her, moving his lips over her belly and breasts, clutching her hips so hard it hurt.

He resisted her long enough to suck hard on one nipple, making it hurt enough that she actually pulled some dyed blonde hair off his head.

Finally he was right above her. He had tears in his eyes from the pain.

It surprised her to see that he was angry - usually when they fucked he had this feral grin on his face, almost predatory, sexy as hell - but now he looked angry, really angry.

About fucking time, she thought furiously, forcing his head down to kiss her. She moved her tongue into his mouth and they kissed for a long time.

She kissed him until he didn't taste like bad food and beer and tobacco, until she didn't have to think about how her husband stayed out late in dingy bars to avoid her.

She was tongue-fucking him like no good girl would, and part of her - the little, analyzing attorney part - was shocked at herself, shocked at her need to control him, how she almost wished that she could penetrate him.

The other part of her - as soon as she'd thought it - realized that she could, that she already had done so before, when they'd been playing for hours and he was relaxed and felt safe and would let her.

She let go of his head and wiped the loose strands of hair off on their slippery satin sheets. Then she put her hands on his ass.

He moaned into her mouth and then raised his head, looked away and swallowed hard and pushed his dick roughly against her clit in away that got her distracted from her goal, made her forget to be angry for a little while, made her moan and move her hands from his ass to guide his dick inside her.

God, nothing could beat that. No court victory or case breakthrough could beat the feeling of a cock inside her.

He moved slowly, grinding upwards, his whole body straining.

She looked up at his face above her, he was flushed and sweating, eyes closed, his teeth clenched.

Then she leaned her head back and arched her back, and let her thighs fall wide open, letting herself be fucked.

Ray (maybe thinking that that was it, this was her giving up, handing it over,) ushered her up on her elbows and tilted her hips and started fucking her in earnest.

She just clamped her thighs around him, forcing his dick harder, deeper inside her. Still didn't feel nearly deep enough.

She opened her eyes again and was startled to see him looking down at her. He didn't smile or speak, just looked at her with a blank, serious expression.

Then he leaned down to kiss her.

She welcomed his tongue. She welcomed a reason not to look him in the eyes, meeting him half ways, straining her neck to reach him and to keep her mouth on his while he pushed her further up the bed, fucking her hard, fucking pounding her.

In the end none of them had air to kiss and they were just sort of clamping on to each other, panting into each other's mouths.

Her neck was protesting and her back was sore and her cunt felt fucking abused, but she didn't mind that she'd be feeling it tomorrow, she wanted it to hurt a little, because this was not making love - or even making up - this was...

...This was ending it, killing it.

She gasped and let go of his mouth. Her elbows slid away from under her. She had to look away for a second, had to look to the side, at her own hand lying beside her face moving back and forth in her line of vision with each of Ray's thrusts, like a surreal Andy Warhol movie.

And then her vision blurred and then Ray, still inside her, was gathering her up in his arms, whispering "God, Stella, did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

She wiped the tears away and forced herself to look up into his worried face and for a moment she could feel all the tenderness and love she still felt for him, even though she realized that it couldn't - wouldn't - work out, no matter what they did.

She reached out for him - felt his whole body relax and his dick jerk inside her with relief - and kissed him tenderly.

She hugged him, ran her hands across all of him that she could reach, moved her hips in slow circles, rubbing his dick and rubbing herself against him.

This was what he wanted. This was always what Ray really wanted. He wanted to love her and for her to love him.

He was very much in love with the husband-and-wife dream, even if she was fairly certain he wasn't really in love with her anymore.

But he was getting into this for real now, gasping and moaning and whispering incoherently into her hair.

She moved her hands down his back, let them rest for a moment on his ass to feel him clench and unclench as he fucked her slowly and carefully.

And then, not because she wanted to control him or hurt him, but because she knew he really liked it, she moved her fingers in between his cheeks to skim over his asshole.

He shivered and moaned and lost his rhythm for a moment, but she didn't.

She moved herself on his dick in the same rhythm as she was slowly working the tip of one finger inside of him. Carefully, because even though her finger was slick with his sweat and her own juice it was an awkward angle, and she didn't want to hurt him.

When her finger was as far inside as she could reach, surrounded by smooth, hot skin, Ray sighed and shivered and started moving again.

She closed her eyes and kissed his neck and moved her finger in and out, twisting it a little pulling out. A few moments later he shook and cried out and came inside of her.

He half collapsed on top of her. His head fell down over her shoulder and he was gasping for breath. She could feel his dick spurting and spurting inside, and then he started going soft.

But none of them moved for a long time.

Finally he pulled out, raised himself up on his elbows and frowned down at her, looking regretful, almost embarrassed. "Stella, you didn't... I didn't..."

She shook her head and then, to her own horror, she started crying again.

She was freaking him out. She could see how he was beginning to panic, always so sure that he'd done something wrong - and why did that make her feel so damn sad all of a sudden?

"It's ok, Ray, don't worry... It doesn't matter."

"Stel? Stella, what the hell's wrong?"

She pushed him away and pushed off the bed, trying to find her clothes and turning her back to Ray lying stunned and naked and fucking, fucking frail-looking on the bed.

She found her panties and put them on, and then she turned around to face him.

"Ray, I'm sorry. I love you... I think I want a divorce."