Emotional Stings

BY : Azora
Category: zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] > Ultimate Avengers
Dragon prints: 3197
Disclaimer: I do not own Ultimate Avengers, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Title: Emotional

Author: Azora

Genre: The
Ultimates, Marvelís Ultimate Avengers

Summary: Janet Pym
muses about last night and makes up with her husband

Rating: NC-17 for
recalled violence and a sexual situation

Warnings: Allusions
to physical abuse, lightweight sex at the end.




Sometimes I hate working with my husband.


Today is one of those times. Iím trying to smile and pretend like everything is all right, and
heís walking around sulking like a child.
Whatís he have to be upset about anyway? No one can see he had a bloody nose last night, but Iíve had to
explain over and over again how I fattened my bottom lip by ďrunning in to a
doorĒ. And I do it, with that sincere
smile on my face, just like everythingokayokay. Everything is fucking far from okay. Itís shit on ice. Weíve
been here once or twice before and it doesnít get any easier.


God, if only he would stop acting like such a baby.


Iíve never told anyoned I d I never will. Our work keeps me busy; the only people I
converse with, besides Hank, are the research assistants here. And I wonít bring this to work anyway. Thatís not where it goes. It needs to stay in our home where it


Unfortunately, people arenít stupid. With Hank moping around like his dog died,
Iím sure someoneís figured out whatís going on. One of the office girls gave me a look today, pity like a sign on
her face.


Itís a vicious cycle, our fights, and Iíll bet I could set a
clock by them. His moods go in a big
circle over about a month. Iím pretty sure
Hankís bipolar. He self-diagnosed
himself as depressed and wrote his own prescription. The Prozac helps with the depression but does nothing for the
mania. So now instead of highs, lows,
and middles, he has middles and extreme highs.
Iíll wake up in the night sometimes to find him sitting in front of his
computer, typing like a demon, bouncing in his chair like an excited three year


The worst part is that he does his best thinking in this
state. His neurotransmitters are
firing so fast he becomes genius.
The epitome of brilliance.
Answers to all his problems come flooding out of his brain so fast he
can barely speak. Itís exciting to
watch. How can I ask him to give up his
intelligence just so our personal life can balance out? It seems too much to ask. Besides, I honestly love the highs. Thatís when he takes care of me. Giddy like a kid, heíll pick me up by my
waist and swing me around, giving me that toothy grin I canít dare deny, and
tell me how much he loves me.


Itís when he comes down from the highs that the problems
begin. Thatís when the little things
start to bother him. Irritable and
short tempered, he almost picks the fights with me.


Donít get me wrong, it doesnít happen every month. Weíre not that bad. We argue, yell, whatever, but he hardly ever
hits me. And he always says heís sorry.


But Iím as guilty as he is.
I have a little bit of a temper.
Okay, a huge temper. I donít
hold back when something pisses me off.
Weíre like fire and fire, Hank and I.
We just keep fueling each other until one of us goes overboard. And itís equally him or me. Iíll bet Iíve hit him just as often as heís
hit me. Does that make it okay? Probably not. But I know how we get and I keep it up anyway. Really, itís my fault. I know he lacks the self-control to
stop. Itís part of his illness. I should learn to keep my mouth shut.


I donít want to feel bad about this. I want everything to be okay. I keep telling myself this is the bottom and
heíll cycle back up soon. Then Iíll
have my Hank back, and everything will be okay.


But I donít know how many more of the bottoms I can stand.


It wasnít always like this.
The depression was always there, but it was small, less harsh. Maybe the excitement and the newness of the
relationship helped him. God, we were
so much fun. Making out at work,
lunchtime romps at home. We couldnít
keep our hands off each other.


I know itís normal for relationships to slow down. Itís a good thing, right? They become more comfortable, like a worn
pair of jeans. And all couples have disagreements.


I donít remember when we crossed the line. More than a year ago. Hell, the lineís two interstate exits back
now. We disagreed about something. It shifted to quarreling, then to
screaming. He slapped me on the cheek.


Iked ked him in the balls.
He blackened my eye.


Then we apologized, we both cried, said it would never
happen again. And it didnít for a long
time. But itís almost like once you
cross the line, itís easier to do it a second time, to let it expand to that,
to lose your self-control.


But today, it wasnít the lip that was getting to me. It was the words. Sometimes I think Hank and I have perfected the art of verbal
degradation. Itís like a game to see
how shitty you can make each other feel.


Repulsive. Hank said
I was repulsive. The word burns red in
my mind. Do I really disgust my own
husband? Or is this just another barb
to make me hurt as bad as he does?


I put my elbows on my desk and cover my face with my hands,
just for an instant, mentally telling myself not to cry. Not now.
Not at work. I run my hands
through my hair and jump out of my seat.
I can feel his eyes on me as I walk away. I barely make it to the bathroom before the tears start. Hank, what are we doing?


I sigh. I try to
sniffle quietly and wipe away the tears.
Glance in the mirror. Just fine,
minus the fat lip. Iím one of those
lucky women that can cry and still look like a million bucks.


I open the door a crack.
ďWhat do you want?Ē I whisper, looking down the hall for eavesdroppers.


He pushes the door open gently and steps in the little
room. Puppy dog eyes. Is he ready to make up already?


Heís sucking on a Lifesaver, clicking it against his
teeth. I know the Prozac dries out his
mouth, but Christ, I hate that clicking noise.
I must have frowned without meaning to, because he spits the candy out
in to the trashcan.


ďJanÖĒ he begins.


I put a hand up.
ďJust stop. We canít keep doing
this. You canít do this. Itís just not right.Ē


ďYou hit me too, Jan.Ē
Not mad. Just stating the fact.


ďSo?Ē Thanks for
reminding me. I consciously push the
anger down. ďThat doesnít make it
right. ďNormal people donít do this,
Hank. Weíve got to stop. Promise me
youíll try to stop.Ē


He nods. ďI

He is so agreeable now.
ďThatís what we said last time.
What makes this time any different.Ē


He sighs, running his hands through his hair. ďWhat do you want from me, Jan, a signed letter? I said I promise.Ē His voice is rising, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck
prickle. I donít want him to get upset


ďI just want to mean it this time,Ē I say quietly, eyes on
my feet.


He steps closer, hands reaching out for my waist, and I let


I canít look him in the eyes. ďIím sorry.Ē


ďIím sorry, too.Ē He
pulls me in a little, hands through my hair, kissing my forehead, my
cheeks. ďIím so sorry, Jan. Iím so sorry.Ē


Strong hands slide down my arms, so gentle, down to my
hips. Oh, so thatís what this is
about. Make up sex in the
bathroom? No way, huh uh. This is too messed up.


But then I look up into his eyes, and Iím lost. Bluish green pools, bright with unwept
tears, reflecting his twisted insides, his pain, his anguish at this mess. His real apology is right here in these
gorgeous eyes, the ones I fell in love with.
So I let him pull me up as he bends down and kisses me.


Warm lips, full of passion, it hurts and feels so good and I
canít help it, Iím crying and Iím kissing him like I canít stop, devouring his
lips with my own, tasting minty candy and the salt from my tears in our
mouths. Or maybe his tears. Is he crying too?


ďShow me,Ē I say against his lips. ďShow me Iím not repulsive.Ē


My neck is starting to hurt a little, straining to kiss him,
up on my tiptoes. I donít know if he
knows, but he picks me up and sits me down on the sink. He moves his lips down to my neck, his
shadow-beard grazing my skin, making me shiver, to that little hollow spot
right between my throat and my shoulder, that one little spot he thinks of as
his own. I moan a little. I canít help it. He knows how to get to me, how to make every touch send
electricity right to my brain.


I wrap my legs around him and pull him against me, hard in
his jeans, and I grind against him. He
groans and shoves me back against the mirror.
Hard. I hope no one heard that. He locks eyes with me and the shame is gone,
their color darker, swimming green. All
passion. All fire. Hands run through my hair as he kisses me
again, so hard, so hard.


This has to be quick.
I want it to be quick. I kick
off my sandals as he unzips my jeans, pulling my panties off with them. He unzips his own pants and drops them. He grabs me around the waist and pushes
himself inside me.


Fire, like liquid fire as he thrusts against me. Passion incarnate. His face is buried in my neck again and I can smell him, like
shampoo and soap, so Hank. I press my
lips against his earlobe and draw it into my mouth, eliciting a little moan
against my neck. I squeeze my eyes
shut, my arms tight around his neck.
ďHarder, Hank,Ē I squeak out.


He obliges, and I canít concentrate on anythbut but the
feeling. ďYes, yes. Just like that.Ē Rhythm. This was always
good. Things get shitty, but we always
have this. Always this.


ďHank,Ē I moan. I
press my lips against his ear, knowing what he needs to hear. ďYouíre so bigÖgod, youíre so big.Ē


He comes with a thrust deep inside me, throbbing, and my own
orgasm hits me like a shock, pleasure exploding in my head, little noises I
canít control in Hankís ear, convulsing against him. Tensed, then relaxed, he unburies his face from my neck and pulls
his fingers off my ass. Probably left
bruises. I donít care. So good, so good. Wonderful. Three words:
best sex ever.


His sandy hair is sticking to his forehead, shimmering with
a sheen of sweat. The passion is gone
from his face. Both good and bad,
gone. Just plain old Hank. I brush the hair back from his forehead and
give him a little smile. Awkward. Always an ard mrd moment when the fire is
gone. Sometimes it seems all we have is
the fire.


I climb down from the sink, a little unsteady on my feet,
and pull my jeans back on. I donít know
what to say. I donít think he does
either, because heís very intent on washing his hands and his face. I wish I could do that. My make-up is seriously screwed up now but I
canít just wipe it all off. Iíll fix it
at my desk.


I glance in the mirror.
Yep, screwed up. Mascara rings
around my eyes. Plus both of my lips are swollen now. Well, at least they match.


We leave the bathroom together, silent, Hankís hand at the
small of my back. I lean towards him,
head against his side, where it fits like a key. Right here. This is where
I belong.


I move away from him when we get to my desk and he gives me
a playful swat on the ass, his face shining with his trademark Hank Pym
grin. Irresistible. I smirk back. So much nicer when weíre flirting.


ďWatch it, Pym.Ē


He gives me a little salute. ďYes, Mrs. Pym.Ē


And just like that, everythingís better. I shove all my doubts and insecurities to
the back of my mind. Forget. Just forget. Better that you forget.


But remember to try harder next time. Next time Iíll control my temper. Next time I wonít let it get out of control.




This is not what I expected to come out when I began this
story. I just felt like writing a
little perspective on the current Pym situation but it somehow turned into
this. I donít usually write sexual
situations into stories. I feel that
what goes on in the bedroom can be alluded to nicely without having to go
there. But I was compelled. It shows another side to their dysfunction,
and I think it adds to the story. I
just apologize for its graphicness.


As for the graphicness, Hank and Jan seem to be very
passionate peopleÖ about work, life, everything. It isnít hard to imagine theyíre passionate in the bedroom
too. As for the situation, lots of
couples need that intimacy after a big blow-up fight to make themselves feel
loved again.


I am in no way trying to glorify their relationship. Itís obvious they love each other, but their
marriage is dysfunctional, good sex and all.
Itís very possible to love someone but have a bad relationship. But lots of people tend to try and forget
about whatís occurred and move onÖ especially when their significant other is
the only thing they have in their life.
Hank and Jan probably donít have many friends. Situations like this need to be addressed or the relationship
needs to end, love or no love.
Otherwise things boil until something like the situation in #6 occurs.


The bipolar thing:
I did not make this up. There
are theories about the correlation between mental illness and genius. Think of Van Gogh and John Nash from A
Beautiful Mind
(which I havenít seen yet).
It just seems to fit Hank to a ďTĒ.
Remember him in issue two, going on about all the ideas in his
head? Prozac wonít completely help
someone with manic depression (bipolar disorder) as it is only an
anti-depressant. Hank would need to be
on a mood stabilizing drug to feel completely normal, but it would probably
wipe out most of his creative ability.
Messed up, isnít it? Would you
give up genius to have emotional stability in your life? Itís a difficult choice, which is why many
bipolars end up being substance abusers, self medicating themselves to even out
the highs and lows.

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