#fractured foundation

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The true, tactical significance of Project 2025

TODAY (July 14), I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! NEXT SATURDAY (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

Like you, I have heard a lot about Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation's roadmap for the actions that Trump should take if he wins the presidency. Given the Heritage Foundation's centrality to the American authoritarian project, it's about as awful and frightening as you might expect:

https://www.project2025.org/

But (nearly) all the reporting and commentary on Project 2025 badly misses the point. I've only read a single writer who immediately grasped the true significance of Project 2025: The American Prospect's Rick Perlstein, which is unsurprising, given Perlstein's stature as one of the left's most important historians of right wing movements:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-07-10-project-2025-republican-presidencies-tradition/

As Perlstein points out, Project 2025 isn't new. The Heritage Foundation and its allies have prepared documents like this, with many identical policy prescriptions, in the run-up to many presidential elections. Perlstein argues that Warren G Harding's 1921 inaugural address captures much of its spirit, as did the Nixon campaign's 1973 vow to "move the country so far to the right 'you won’t even recognize it.'"

The threats to democracy and its institutions aren't new. The right has been bent on their destruction for more than a century. As Perlstein says, the point of taking note of this isn't to minimize the danger, rather, it's to contextualize it. The American right has, since the founding of the Republic, been bent on creating a system of hereditary aristocrats, who govern without "interference" from democratic institutions, so that their power to extract wealth from First Nations, working people, and the land itself is checked only by rivalries with other aristocrats. The project of the right is grounded in a belief in Providence: that God's favor shines on His best creations and elevates them to wealth and power. Elite status is proof of merit, and merit is "that which leads to elite status."

When a wealthy person founds an intergenerational dynasty of wealth and power, this is merely a hereditary meritocracy: a bloodline infused with God's favor. Sometimes, this belief is dressed up in caliper-wielding pseudoscience, with the "good bloodline" reflecting superior genetics and not the favor of the Almighty. Of course, a true American aristocrat gussies up his "race realism" with mystical nonsense: "God favored me with superior genes." The corollary, of course, is that you are poor because God doesn't favor you, or because your genes are bad, or because God punished you with bad genes.

So we should be alarmed by the right's agenda. We should be alarmed at how much ground it has gained, and how the right has stolen elections and Supreme Court seats to enshrine antimajoritarianism as a seemingly permanent fact of life, giving extremist minorities the power to impose their will on the rest of us, dooming us to a roasting planet, forced births, racist immiseration, and most expensive, worst-performing health industry in the world.

But for all that the right has bombed so many of the roads to a prosperous, humane future, it's a huge mistake to think of the right as a stable, unified force, marching to victory after inevitable victory. The American right is a brittle coalition led by a handful of plutocrats who have convinced a large number of turkeys to vote for Christmas.

The right wing coalition needs to pander to forced-birth extremists, racist extremist, Christian Dominionist extremists (of several types), frothing anti-Communist cranks, vicious homophobes and transphobes, etc, etc. Pandering to all these groups isn't easy: for one thing, they often want opposite things – the post-Roe forced birth policies that followed the Dobbs decision are wildly unpopular among conservatives, with the exception of a clutch of totally unhinged maniacs that the party relies on as part of a much larger coalition. Even more unpopular are policies banning birth control, like the ones laid out in Project 2025. Less popular still: the proposed ban on no-fault divorce. Each of these policies have different constituencies to whom they are very popular, but when you put them together, you get Dan Savage's "Husbands you can't leave, pregnancies you can't prevent or terminate, politicians you can't vote out of office":

https://twitter.com/fakedansavage/status/1805680183065854083

The constituency for "husbands you can't leave, pregnancies you can't prevent or terminate, politicians you can't vote out of office" is very small. Almost no one in the GOP coalition is voting for all of this, they're voting for one or two of these things and holding their noses when it comes to the rest.

Take the "libertarian" wing of the GOP: its members do favor personal liberty…it's just that they favor low taxes for them more than personal liberty for you. The kind of lunatic who'd vote for a dead gopher if it would knock a quarter off his tax bill will happily allow his coalition partners to rape pregnant women with unnecessary transvaginal ultrasounds and force them to carry unwanted fetuses to term if that's the price he has to pay to save a nickel in taxes:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/29/jubilance/#tolerable-racism

And, of course, the religious maniacs who profess a total commitment to Biblical virtue but worship Trump, Gaetz, Limbaugh, Gingrich, Reagan, and the whole panoply of cheating, lying, kid-fiddling, dope-addled refugees from a Jack Chick tract know that these men never gave a shit about Jesus, the Apostles or the Ten Commandments – but they'll vote for 'em because it will get them school prayer, total abortion bans, and unregulated "home schooling" so they can brainwash a generation of Biblical literalists who think the Earth is 5,000 years old and that Jesus was white and super into rich people.

Time and again, the leaders of the conservative movement prove themselves capable of acts of breathtaking cruelty, and undoubtedly many of them are depraved sadists who genuinely enjoy the suffering of their enemies (think of Trump lickspittle Steven Miller's undisguised glee at the thought of parents who would never be reunited with children after being separated at the border). But it's a mistake to think that "the cruelty is the point." The point of the cruelty is to assemble and maintain the coalition. Cruelty is the tactic. Power is the point:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/09/turkeys-voting-for-christmas/#culture-wars

The right has assembled a lot of power. They did so by maintaining unity among people who have irreconcilable ethics and goals. Think of the pro-genocide coalition that includes far-right Jewish ethno-nationalists, antisemitic apocalyptic Christians who believe they are hastening the end-times, and Islamophobes of every description, from War On Terror relics to Hindu nationalists.

This is quite an improbable coalition, and while I deplore its goals, I can't help but be impressed by its cohesion. Can you imagine the kind of behind-the-scenes work it takes to get antisemites who think Jews secretly control the world to lobby with Zionists? Or to get Zionists to work alongside of Holocaust-denying pencilneck Hitler wannabes whose biggest regret is not bringing their armbands to Charlottesville?

Which brings me back to Project 2025 and its true significance. As Perlstein writes, Project 2025 is a mess. Clocking in an 900 pages, large sections of Project 2025 flatly contradict each other, while other sections contain subtle contradictions that you wouldn't notice unless you were schooled in the specialized argot of the far right's jargon and history.

For example, Project 2025 calls for defunding government agencies and repurposing the same agencies to carry out various spectacular atrocities. Both actions are deplorable, but they're also mutually exclusive. Project 2025 demands four different, completely irreconcilable versions of US trade policy. But at least that's better than Project 2025's chapter on monetary policy, which simply lays out every right wing theory of money and then throws up its hands and recommends none of them.

Perlstein says that these conflicts, blank spots and contradictions are the most important parts of Project 2025. They are the fracture lines in the coalition: the conflicting ideas that have enough support that neither side can triumph over the other. These are the conflicts that are so central to the priorities of blocs that are so important to the coalition that they must be included, even though that inclusion constitutes a blinking "LOOK AT ME" sign telling us where the right is ready to split apart.

The right is really good at this. Perlstein points to Nixon's expansion of affirmative action, undertaken to sow division between Black and white workers. We need to get better at it.

So far, we've lavished attention on the clearest and most emphatic proposals in Project 2025 – for understandable reasons. These are the things they say they want to do. It would be reckless to ignore them. But they've been saying things like this for a century. These demands constitute a compelling argument for fighting them as a matter of urgency, with the intention of winning. And to win, we need to split apart their coalition.

Perlstein calls on us to dissect Project 2025, to cleave it at its joints. To do so, he says we need to understand its antecedents, like Nixon's "Malek Manual," a roadmap for destroying the lives of civil servants who failed to show sufficient loyalty to Nixon. For example, the Malek Manual lays out a "Traveling Salesman Technique" whereby a government employee would be given duties "criss-crossing him across the country to towns (hopefully with the worst accommodations possible) of a population of 20,000 or under. Until his wife threatens him with divorce unless he quits, you have him out of town and out of the way":

https://www.google.com/books/edition/Final_Report_on_Violations_and_Abuses_of/0dRLO9vzQF0C?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=%22organization+of+a+political+personnel+office+and+program%22&pg=PA161&printsec=frontcover

It's no coincidence that leftist historians of the right are getting a lot of attention. Trumpism didn't come out of nowhere – Trump is way too stupid and undisciplined to be a cause – he's an effect. In his excellent, bestselling new history of the right in the early 1990s, When the Clock Broke, Josh Ganz shows us the swamp that bred Trump, with such main characters as the fascist eugenicist Sam Francis:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374605445/whentheclockbroke

Ganz joins the likes of the Know Your Enemy podcast, an indispensable history of reactionary movements that does excellent work in tracing the fracture lines in the right coalition:

https://www.patreon.com/posts/when-clock-broke-106803105

Progressives are also an uneasy coalition that is easily splintered. As Naomi Klein argues in her essential Doppelganger, the liberal-left coalition is inherently unstable and contains the seeds of its own destruction:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

Liberals have been the senior partner in that coalition, and their commitment to preserving institutions for their own sake (rather than because of what they can do to advance human thriving) has produced generations of weak and ineffectual responses to the crises of terminal-stage capitalism, like the idea that student-debt cancellation should be means-tested:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/03/utopia-of-rules/#in-triplicate

The last bid for an American aristocracy was repelled by rejecting institutions, not preserving them. When the Supreme Court thwarted the New Deal, FDR announced his intention to pack the court, and then began the process of doing so (which included no-holds-barred attacks on foot-draggers in his own party). Not for nothing, this is more-or-less what Lincoln did when SCOTUS blocked Reconstruction:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/20/judicial-equilibria/#pack-the-court

But the liberals who lead the progressive movement dismiss packing the court as unserious and impractical – notwithstanding the fact that they have no plan for rescuing America from the bribe-taking extremists, the credibly accused rapist, and the three who stole their robes. Ultimately, liberals defend SCOTUS because it is the Supreme Court. I defended SCOTUS, too – while it was still a vestigial organ of the rights revolution, which improved the lives of millions of Americans. Human rights are worth defending, SCOTUS isn't. If SCOTUS gets in the way of human rights, then screw SCOTUS. Sideline it. Pack it. Make it a joke.

Fuck it.

This isn't to argue for left seccession from the progressive coalition. As we just saw in France, splitting at this moment is an invitation to literal fascist takeover:

https://jacobin.com/2024/07/melenchon-macron-france-left-winner

But if there's one thing that the rise of Trumpism has proven, it's that parties are not immune to being wrestled away from their establishment leaderships by radical groups:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/16/that-boy-aint-right/#dinos-rinos-and-dunnos

What's more, there's a much stronger natural coalition that the left can mobilize: workers. Being a worker – that is, paying your bills from wages, instead of profits – isn't an ideology you can change, it's a fact. A Christian nationalist can change their beliefs and then they will no longer be a Christian nationalist. But no matter what a worker believes, they are still a worker – they still have a irreconcilable conflict with people whose money comes from profits, speculation, or rents. There is no objectively fair way to divide the profits a worker's labor generates – your boss will always pay you as little of that surplus as he can. The more wages you take home, the less profit there is for your boss, the fewer dividends there are for his shareholders, and the less there is to pay to rentiers:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

Reviving the role of workers in their unions, and of unions in the Democratic party, is the key to building the in-party power we need to drag the party to real solutions – strong antimonopoly action, urgent climate action, protections for gender, racial and sexual minorities, and decent housing, education and health care.

The alternative to a worker-led Democratic Party is a Democratic Party run by its elites, whose dictates and policies are inescapably illegitimate. As Hamilton Nolan writes, the completely reasonable (and extremely urgent) discussion about Biden's capacity to defeat Trump has been derailed by the Democrats' undemocratic structure. Ultimately, the decision to have an open convention or to double down on a candidate whose campaign has been marred by significant deficits is down to a clutch of party officials who operate without any formal limits or authority:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/the-hole-at-the-heart-of-the-democratic

Jettisoning Biden because George Clooney (or Nancy Pelosi) told us to is never going to feel legitimate to his supporters in the party. But if the movement for an open convention came from grassroots-dominated unions who themselves dominated the party – as was the case, until the Reagan revolution – then there'd be a sense that the party had constituents, and it was acting on its behalf.

Reviving the labor movement after 40 years of Reaganomic war on workers may sound like a tall order, but we are living through a labor renaissance, and the long-banked embers of labor radicalism are reigniting. What's more, repelling fascism is what workers' movements do. The business community will always sell you out to the Nazis in exchange for low taxes, cheap labor and loose regulation.

But workers, organized around their class interests, stand strong. Last week, we lost one of labor's brightest flames. Jane McAlevey, a virtuoso labor organizer and trainer of labor organizers, died of cancer at 57:

https://jacobin.com/2024/07/jane-mcalevey-strategy-organizing-obituary

McAlevey fought to win. She was skeptical of platitudes like "speaking truth to power," always demanding an explanation for how the speech would become action. In her classic book A Collective Bargain, she describes how she built worker power:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

McAlevey helped organize a string of successful strikes, including the 2019 LA teachers' strike. Her method was straightforward: all you have to do to win a strike or a union drive is figure out how to convince every single worker in the shop to back the union. That's all.

Of course, it's harder than it sounds. All the problems that plague every coalition – especially the progressive liberal/left coalition – are present on the shop floor. Some workers don't like each other. Some don't see their interests aligned with others. Some are ornery. Some are convinced that victory is impossible.

McAlevey laid out a program for organizing that involved figuring out how to reach every single worker, to converse with them, listen to them, understand them, and win them over. I've never read or heard anyone speak more clearly, practically and inspirationally about coalition building.

Biden was never my candidate. I supported three other candidates ahead of him in 2020. When he got into office and started doing a small number of things I really liked, it didn't make me like him. I knew who he was: the Senator from MBNA, whose long political career was full of bills, votes and speeches that proved that while we might have some common goals, we didn't want the same America or the same world.

My interest in Biden over the past four years has had two areas of focus: how can I get him to do more of the things that will make us all better off, and do less of the things that make the world worse. When I think about the next four years, I'm thinking about the same things. A Trump presidency will contain far more bad things and far fewer good ones.

Many people I like and trust have pointed out that they don't like Biden and think he will be a bad president, but they think Trump will be much worse. To limit Biden's harms, leftists have to take over the Democratic Party and the progressive movement, so that he's hemmed in by his power base. To limit Trump's harms, leftists have to identify the fracture lines in the right coalition and drive deep wedges into them, shattering his power base.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/14/fracture-lines/#disassembly-manual

[superm4ks]

i am the girl who hates change who sent that ask in june when i was like there's no way max holds onto this title. i cannot believe my meowie continues to surpass my expectations because of course he would win this year. there was no other alternative.

Wow ... And like I told u back then bbygirl .. Max is also a girl who hates change. Max hates change SO much he clinched his 4th in an ice cold pig wid Monza type characteristics that lend themselves to every t0p team except the car wid the suspension of a jeep Wrangler and the top speed of me doing the mile in hs still drunk and on 3 hours of sleep and a mcmuffin. Vegas had a lil something for everybody that wasnt based in Milton Keynes. Unholy temperatures for the ((extremely confused)) merc baddies, slow corners + long straights for the ragazzi, moderate graining for the Woking dolls so Lando cud hit the slay button in low fuel ((an unexpected flop gotta say)). AND nothing for rbr. Not the right wing, not the right balance, not the best tires, not the fresh engine. Imagine being faced wid all that and still feeling fairly confident Max wud be crowned the best driver in the world that weekend, because he's Max Verstappen and for as long as theres a chance I know he'll take it. I know that because I know him. All Max had to do was out qualify Lando in a car that never once got anywhere close to papaya times during practice sessions. I swear they fitted him wid a new wheel and shit came off like three times. So obvi Max out qualifies Lando, then come Sunday, Max manages the gap like the rb20 never been better fit for a circuit, he lets the lil ponies go around and off into the distance to create drama of their own and thats all he wrote. 'there was no alternative' . Say that again. No alternative. No choice. The illusion of choice was broken in Brazil. The definition of insanity was reaffirmed in Vegas. They called an ambulance but not for him. 💎

[protoslacker]

Perlstein says that these conflicts, blank spots and contradictions are the most important parts of Project 2025. They are the fracture lines in the coalition: the conflicting ideas that have enough support that neither side can triumph over the other. These are the conflicts that are so central to the priorities of blocs that are so important to the coalition that they must be included, even though that inclusion constitutes a blinking "LOOK AT ME" sign telling us where the right is ready to split apart.

Cory Doctorow at Pluralistic. The true, tactical significance of Project 2025 (14 Jul 2024)

A pertinant essay well worth reading. You may also want to follow Coctorow on here.

[possible-raccoon]

Cringetober day 4: Angel + Demon

This one is a platonic relationship rather than a romantic ship but i still thought it worked with them.

(Silver thought she was too good for the label “Angel” and jumped straight into godhood for the sake of this image)

And day 5: ms paint.

You killed Dr. Fracture!

Congrats..?

[ask-spw-mercenary]

( Continued From Here )

Umbra was finally coming too after being out cold for so long. Just as she began opening her eyes, she saw that she was on her couch, and Tonya was covering her with some blankets. “Whaa da?”

Tonya then notices that Umbra is indeed up. A bit drowsy, but awake. “Welcome back to the world of the living.”

“T-Ta? Can I call you that?”

Tonya didn’t expect the nickname, but she welcomes it. “Umm, yes-” Tonya then soon finds Arden looming over both her and Umbra. “Should I mov-”

“Yes.” Arden says, before Tonya moves out of the way. He then goes in to check on his daughter. “Who did this?! How many bones did they break?! HOW BAD ARE YOUR INJURIES!?”

Umbra just remains quiet for a moment. “I feel like crap, and you can thank this durable shit with some black knight armor for that.” She then notices that Touya isn’t in the area. “Where’s Touya?”

“In my room, passed out once we got you two. I had Thomas patch him up, until we can call an ambulance.” That put Umbra at ease for a little bit. Still, Arden was vastly annoyed at the situation. “So I’m guessing we have a psycho in armor on the loose that did this to you and the walking lighter? Must’ve been a durable little shit, and that armor must’ve been a stand.”

“Why are you so calm about this?”

“Because your old man is thinking right now.”

“Of what?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Arden says with a reassuring grin.

“... Dad no.” Umbra doesn’t know for certain if the armored guy is a creep or one of those enlightenment paladins that got their hands on a stand. Either way, that armor was tough, and if Touya had to run here, it obviously meant he couldn’t break through it. However her dad wasn’t Touya, and she knows that since this is a case where an enemy stand user nearly killed her, Arden might not be gentle with the attacker either way.

Tonya was unaware of that Umbra and her father were thinking, but she could sense the tension in the room. However she soon hears some knocking at the door, and taps on Arden’s shoulder, catching the mercenary’s, and Umbra’s, attention. Then the black knight busted down the door, and looks directly at all three of them. Tonya just remained quiet and in shock.

The knight then without warning, rushes over to Umbra with his blade ready, but before he could reach her and strike a hit, a bubble shaped barrier surrounded him. He then tries slashing and punching the barrier, but it didn’t crack. He was stuck.

“You ain’t getting outta that.” Arden mentions. “My stand ensured that bubble you’re in is so durable, that nothing can break it from the inside.”

“So you made this bubble, clown?” The knight asked. “I see where the witch gets her black magic from.”

“For one: don’t call my daughter a witch, and for two: what the hell do you want Monty Python?”

“I am here to do my brothers, my friends, and the world a service, and destroy a malevolent witch. Is that wron-?” The black knight then notices the bubble got a little bit smaller, and he started to feel more crammed up. That reasoning just pissed Arden off big time. Umbra isn’t a saint, but she’s still his kid, and it better than before.

Umbra notices that her father is pissed, and gets up from the couch to tap her father on the shoulder. “Dad.” Arden then looks at Umbra. “Don’t.”

“But-”

“I know, but let me handle this.” The red haired girl could hear laughing in her heard at this situation, knowing it was probably Destati laughing at her decision. Still, she turns over to the trapped black knight. “You’re one of those Enlightenment kids, aren’t you?”

The black knight is caught off guard by Umbra’s question, but keeps his cool. “So what if I am, witch?”

“Who put you up to this?”

“I put myself up to this.”

“Why? Is it because I oppose your beliefs?”

“I could care less about that.” The room immediately goes silent. “It’s because you reek of malevolence, because you attacked the Father’s father, because of the danger you present to my friends and the world we want to change. It’s one thing not to believe in god, it’s another thing to be a threat.”

Umbra’s eyes widen as she realizes what was going on here. “Do I scare you?”

The knight raises his blade from inside the bubble. “You DON’T scare me. You couldn’t even harm me if you wanted to.”

“I do scare you, not because I am capable of hurting you, but because I could wreck those other armored guys if I wanted to.” Umbra looks down at her own hands, before looking at the black knight. “You’re scared of me hurting them, aren’t you?” The black knight remains silent, which confirms her suspicions. “Listen... I know me and your armored buddies don’t get along, but they’re in a bad situation-”

“Liar...”

“Can you just listen!” Umbra yells, before continuing her train of thought. “I’m gonna let you go?”

“What?”

“What?” Tonya epps out

“WhAAAAAT?!” Arden was utterly shocked at that idea alone, especially since this guy seemed deadset on killing her. 

“I’ll let you go, and I promise you one thing. I won’t hurt you, Adam, or the other armored shitbags, ever.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“I’m honestly too beat up to fight, and I don’t want my dad possibly breaking your bones in that bubble. That and... I honestly lost a lot of my animosity towards you annoying little shits.” Umbra then looks over at Arden, who was completely dumbfounded. “Let him go.” Arden just nods and releases the knight from the bubble.

The knight is actually released by the bubble and is surprised by this. However, before he departs, he takes off his helmet, revealing just a young teenage boy with blue hair, and red eyes. “You better not be lying.” The boy then takes his leave.

After the boy leave, both Umbra and Arden just lie down on the ground, obviously relieved that actually went well. 

Meanwhile, Tonya is just confused as hell by what just happened.

Knight In Black Arc: End

[emmaxdelicate]

THE GREAT WAR | op81 x reader

summary: you and oscar fight about the growing distance between you two

pairings: oscar piastri x fem!girlfriend!reader

warnings: angst, swearing, use of y/n (2 times only), intentional lowercase (lmk if i missed any!)

word count: 1.4k

a/n: i felt so bad writing this idk why😭, i already have a part 2 in my drafts lmao

masterlist

rain came in sheets of water, a downpour. it had been this way for days now: gray skies, unending clouds, heaviness that settled upon your chest like a lead weight.

you stood in the kitchen of yours and Oscar's shared apartment , staring blankly at the half-filled mug of tea on the counter. the liquid had long since gone cold, untouched in the chaos of the evening. you could hear Oscar moving in the living room; his footsteps quick and agitated, not as usual, each step was a subtle reminder of the distance that had grown between you.

the fight had started hours ago, even thought "fight" felt like the wrong term. it wasn't just one argument, not really. it was more of a culmination of days and weeks, months, even, of little fractures, cracks in the foundation of the house you had built together. and now, you weren't so sure if the pieces could be put back together.

you gatered some bravery and walked to the living room. Oscar was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands and his hair slightly disheveled, you stood at the door.

"so what? you think i don't care?" Oscar's voice cut suddenly, sharp and defensive. it wasn't the first time he'd asked the question tonight.

you watched him, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. "that's not what i said."

"it's what you're implying tho," he shot back, his tone cutting. he rarely talked like this with anyone, let alone with you. this wasn't the oscar you spent days cuddling with, the one who whispered reassecurations in your ear each time something was wrong.

you sighed, running a hand through your hair. "i'm not insinuating anything, oscar. i'm telling you how I feel. and how I feel is—forgotten."

his expression shifted, a flicker of guilt crossing his face before it was replaced by frustration. "forgotten? that's ridiculous, y/n. do you have any idea how much i think about you? how much i care about you?"

"thinking about me is not the same as being here, oscar," you said, your voice trembling despite your best attempts at keeping it even. "you're always somewhere else, with the team, on the track, doing interviews. and i get it, okay? i really do know how much your career means to you, and that's amazing. but when was the last time you really saw me? when was the last time we had a conversation that didn't revolve around your schedule or your next race?"

oscar winced with your words; his jaw flexed. "that's not fair."

"isn't it?"

the question just hung in the air, heavy and unanswered. oscar slumped slightly into himself, his frustration giving way to something more subdued. "i'm doing my best," he said quietly.

your laugh was bitter, like a knife across the silence. "your best? oscar, your best is killing me." you took a step closer to him.

he recoiled as if you had hit him, his eyes wide with hurt. for a moment, you almost thought he might walk away-that he might turn around and leave the room, leave you standing there with your heart in pieces. but he stayed, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart.

"what do you want me to do?" he asked finally, his voice strained. "tell me, because i don't know anymore. i'm trying to balance everything-my career, my life, you. i'm trying so hard. but it feels like no matter what i do, it's never enough."

"you never call me when you're away, only text me to tell me stupid shit instead of checking up on me. i can't be the only one doing that"

you felt the well of tears in your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. "i don't need you to be perfect, oscar. i just need you to be here. to show me that i matter, that we matter." you sat next to him.

"you do matter," he said, facing you, his voice breaking on the words. "more than anything."

"then why don't I feel it?

the question came out a whisper, but it was enough to shatter whatever fragile truce had existed between you. oscar turned away, raking a hand through his hair as he let out a frustrated sigh.

"i don't know," he admitted, his back to you. "i don't know how to make you feel it. i thought i was doing everything right, but clearly i'm not."

you took a shaking breath, hands trembling at your sides. "it's not about you being right, Oscar-it's about us, about what we're losing."

he turned back to you then, his face open and raw. "i don't want to lose you," he whispered.

"neither do i,"you told him. "then fight for me," you shot back, voice breaking. "because I'm tired of being the only one fighting."

the words hung in the air, a challenge, and for one second you thought oscar might rise to it. but instead, he looked away, his shoulders sagging under everything that was left unsaid.

"i don't know if i can," he finally said, barely in a whisper.

that was your final blow. it was a punch in the gut, knocking the wind from your lungs. you stared at him, heart breaking all over again, feeling for the first time the full weight of what this fight had cost you.

"then what are we doing, oscar?" you asked, voice shaking, a tear falling from your eye. "if you can't fight for this-for us-then what's the point?

he didn't say anything, and the silence that followed was deafening.

you looked away, hands grasping onto the edges of the couch. outside, the rain again picked up, its sound a harsh backdrop to the chaos inside your head.

"i think i need some air," you said finally, your voice barely above your breath.

oscar looked at you, his face contorting with something almost like panic. "y/n, wait-"

but you were already in motion, snatching your coat from the chair beside the door and out into the rain, wich was heavier than you expected. maybe it was the wrong choice, going out there and leaving oscar alone. or maybe the wrong choice was even trying to confront him in the first place. maybe you should've just dropped him. cold drops pelted your skin, soaking through your clothes in seconds, but you didn't care. the storm inside was far worse.

you walked aimlessly, your feet carrying you down the empty street without any real direction. your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, each one louder than the last.

how did you two wnd up like this? how had the love you once shared, the kind of love that felt undestructibl, turn into something so uncertain?

you remembered how oscar used to look at you, as if you were the center of his universe; you remembered your deep talks late at night, stolen kisses, and quiet times that made you believe you could go thru any storm as long as he was by your side.

but now, you thought of the missed calls, lonely nights, and the growing distance between you two. and no matter how much you tried, it was difficult to remove that feeling.

you didn't know how long you had walked around the neighborhood, but by the time you made your way back to the house, the rain had soaked through every layer of clothes. your hair was drenched and plastered to your face, and your fingers were numb from the cold.

oscar had been waiting for you when you walked through the door, watching as you came inside. he was sitting on the couch, still in the same position from before, looking up at you with a mix of relief and concern in his eyes.

"you're soaked," he said, quick to his feet to help you.

"i'm fine," you said dismissively, pushing past him toward the stairs.

"wait," he said, catching your wrist gently. "please, don't just walk away."

you turned to him, red-rimmed and tired, and said, "i don't know what else to do, Oscar."

his grip on your wrist tightened somewhat, his eyes pleading. "stay. talk to me. let's figure this out. please."

"we've been talking all night," you said, "and i still don't know where we stand."

He looked like he wanted to protest, but his hand fell instead to his side, slumping his shoulders in defeat.

"i love you," he whispered. "but i don't know if that's enough anymore."

it felt like someone had stabbed you in the chest, and for that moment, you weren't able to breathe. you looked at him, your heart breaking all over again, before you turned and went upstairs without saying another word.

you closed the door behind you and pressed your back against the wood. the tears came then, silent, without oscar to wipe them away, and you let them fall, your heart heavy with the weight of everything you'd brobably lost.

and for the first time ever, you weren't so sure if you and oscar would make it through.

© 2025 emmaxdelicate

[raynewolferune]

Meta Jazz, the Arkham Intern Therapist Pt1

Update 5/16/2024: Congrats guys, gals, and others! You have planted the seeds and they have grown. Today I wrote another 46 pages on this story (the first section was only 9 pages ya'll). I'm working on splitting it up into smaller sections so I can post it now because tumblr said no to doing it as one piece. I'll be using the tag #Meta Jazz Arkham Intern Therapist if you want to follow it.

Original Note: I'm going to go ahead and apologize for how OOC Bane is in this. It originally was Joker but I couldn't see Jazz tolerating his proximity for more than a single millisecond so Bane it is.

~*~*~

The hardest thing about being a Meta in Gotham was responding appropriately during a Rouge's attack, Jazz mused to herself. Or perhaps that was just the hardest part about being a Meta intern at Arkham while studying psychology at Gotham University. Or maybe it was just her, she considered watching the guards and Dr. Rylie whom she'd been shadowing for the past 2 weeks wide eyed, pale, and shaking as theybstared at Bane behind her. It must just be her, Jazz decided, newbie guard Kyle Jennings was definitely a Meta after all. She should probably give him some tips on hiding his enhanced strength considering how often he broke mugs, door handles, and other delicate items used in daily life.

"Weapons down or I'll snap her skinny little neck." Bane growled out, shaking her slightly for emphasis. She very much doubted that. Liminials were built different than the standard Meta, stronger, faster, better endurance, and senses even if they could mostly appear to be standard humans on the outside.  As such, their bones and muscles were much were much denser than regular humans or even Meta humans. Technically, she could be considered "invulnerable" much like the Kryptonians are.

"Back up! Let him through!" Dr. Rylie  shouted at the guards. "She's my student! Let him through!" His voice was higher pitched than she could recall hearing it before.

Ah. That was panic.

Jazz sighed involuntarily and glanced over her shoulder at Bane. Why the man had grabbed the only person close to his own height nearby was a mystery to her - no, nevermind, he clearly meant to use her as a shield - but it made looking him in the eye more difficult than necessary.

"Mr. Bane, remove your hands from my person, please." Jazz stated calmly, channeling what Danny called her inner mom as she spoke. "I will give you to one to comply."

Bane looked stunned for a moment then laughed.

"Five."

The laughing continued. Jazz could sense a stir of uncertainty through her colleagues as they looked on.

"Four."

"Did you really think that would work?" Bane snorted out, arms tensing more around her.

"Three." She continued, indifferent to his words from her experiences raising her brother. Once the count down starts you mustn't respond to anything the kids do or say until they comply or the count is done.

"What cab you even do if I don't?" Bane asked darkly breathing directly in her ear. She kept her face expressionless despite the urge to express disgust.

"Two."

"Jasmine..."  Kyle whispered halfway across the hall from her looking on with a pained and horrified expression. Gun tilting towards the floor. Sloppy.

"One." She finished and Bane gave a derisive snort.

Then she was moving. Hauling the enormous man up and over her shoulder using the arm that had been wrapped around her neck. Bane hit the cold tile hard enough that the tiles, subfloor, structural supports, and part of the concrete foundation buckled beneath him. His shoulder popped out of joint, his wrist cracked - a hairline fracture by the sound of it -  and his breath was punched out of him from the force of impact. She released his arm as soon as his was embedded in the tiles and moved forward. Kneeling over him, support most of her weight on her left foot resting on the broken ground, her right knees pressed firmly across his throat without supporting any of her weight. The position put more strain on her muscles than she would've liked but at least Bane couldn't risk fighting back without crushing his own neck in the process. He could hardly throw her while flat on his back with a mangled arm.

"Now," Jazz began, looking directly into the behemoth's pained eyes. "Do you know what you've done wrong?" She asked like she would have done with Danny as a child.

"Yes, Ma'am." Bane choked out. Jazz heard movement and murmuring behind her. She didn't turn to look.

"What did you do wrong?" She asked. It was important to make sure children correctly understood why they were in trouble after all. There was a long pause as Bane appeared to cast around for the exact right answer as if he feared getting it wrong. A bad habit Danny still uses as well, Jazz thought to herself.

"I tried to hold you hostage," He choked out in a rush, words tumbling over one another as he tried to get them all out. "I scared you coworkers and it was very disrespectful."

So he'd gone for the grab-bag response. It wasn't wrong per sey but it did indicate a past history of abuse. The type of answer given by someone who expected to be harmed or ignored if they gave the "wrong" answer. Danny tended to use that method also and their parents had always been negligent at best.

"And are you going to do it again?" She asked giving him a Look as she did. Bane's eyes widened and he tried to frantically shake his head as much as possible with the pressure on his neck.

"No, Ma'am." He promised fervently.

"Alright then," Jazz said giving him a warm smile. She gestured vaguely towards the guards without turning to look at them. "Kyle here is going to take you to see the nurse and then back to your room then. I'm sure you'll behave for him?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll behave." Bane said. Jazz stood slowly asking sure not to put any additional pressure on his neck as she did. Kyle came and stood next to her as the giant of a man slowly pulled himself to his feet then led him away with 5 other guards.

Jazz heaved a sigh. Well, time to find out whether or not she could play all that off as normal, non-Meta human behavior.

[flwrkid14]

Love, in All its Impossible Forms

Tim Drake loves with everything he has. He always has. And maybe that’s his fatal flaw—he doesn’t know how to hold back. He throws himself into it the way he throws himself into everything else: completely, recklessly, without a second thought for his own safety.

But love, for Tim, is never simple. It comes in forms that twist and tangle, leaving scars even as it gives him something to hold onto. And if you ask him, he could probably tell you exactly what kinds of love he’s experienced.

There’s love that is doomed.

Steph was chaos, energy, and unrelenting determination wrapped in a bright smile. She was Tim’s equal and his opposite all at once, and when he loved her, he did so fiercely, wholeheartedly. She didn’t just step into his world—she tore through it, unapologetic and unstoppable, showing Tim a version of himself that didn’t have to be so calculated, so controlled.

But their lives were chaos, a whirlwind of masks and missions, and when the dust settled, there was never enough left of them to make it last. Tim loves her in a way that feels like holding sand; no matter how tightly he grips, she keeps slipping through his fingers. And maybe that’s why he held on so hard—because he knew she’d never stay. Steph was never meant to be tamed, and Tim loved her too much to try.

Even when it ends, there’s no anger, no resentment. They don’t blame each other for the way things fall apart. They don’t have to. They always knew, deep down, that no matter how much they wanted to hold on, it was never meant to last. It wasn’t about a lack of love—it was about the world they lived in, the lives they led, and the way they could never quite fit together the way they needed to.

Steph was the love that burned brightly but couldn’t last, no matter how much either of them wanted it to. She was the fire he couldn’t hold onto, the storm he couldn’t contain, and the one who left her mark on him in ways he’d never forget. They were love, doomed from the start.

Then there's love that dooms them.

Kon wasn't just Tim's best friend—he was everything. A partner in every sense of the word. Loving Kon felt like second nature, so easy and so effortless that Tim didn't realize how deeply it ran until it was too late. Until Kon was gone.

When Kon died, it destroyed Tim. Grief didn't come in waves-it came in obsessions.

Tim couldn't let go, so he didn't. He turned to stolen data and secret labs, creating clone after clone in a desperate attempt to fill the void Kon left behind

It wasn't about moving on. It wasn't about closure. It was about holding on to the only person who ever made Tim feel like he could breathe, even when it was killing him to do so.

When Kon returned, whole and alive, it should have been everything Tim had dreamed of. But the shadows of what Tim had done lingered between them. The lengths he went to, the obsession that fueled him—it left cracks in the foundation of what they once were. Kon loved Tim, he always would, but part of him wondered if he'd ever been loved for who he was, or for what Tim couldn't let himself lose.

And Tim, for all his brilliance, couldn't figure out how to bridge the gap he'd created. He oved Kon with everything he had, but love born out of desperation carried its own weight, and he wasn't sure how to lay it down.

So they stayed in the gray space between what they were and what they could have been, bound by love so fierce it hurt, but too fractured to fully mend. They were doomed by their love.

Finally, there’s love that dooms anybody else.

Danny is chaos, but not the kind that breaks Tim—it’s the kind that grounds him. Danny exists between worlds, between life and death, and yet he’s more alive than anyone Tim has ever met. He doesn’t fit neatly into any box, doesn’t follow any rules, and yet there’s something about him that feels inevitable, like gravity or the pull of the tide.

Danny doesn’t ask for Tim’s sacrifices. He doesn’t need to be saved, doesn’t want Tim to burn himself out in the name of love. Instead, Danny challenges Tim to slow down, to stop trying so hard to hold the world together and just be. With Danny, Tim learns how to live in the moment, how to breathe without feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It isn’t an easy love, but it isn’t supposed to be. It’s a love that demands courage, the kind that doesn’t come from donning a cape or taking a hit for someone else. It’s the courage to be vulnerable, to stop hiding behind plans and strategies, and let someone see every cracked, raw piece of himself. Danny is relentless in breaking down Tim’s walls, not to fix him but to show him that he’s worthy of being whole.

Together, they are something untouchable. Their love is an anchor and a storm, a lighthouse and the waves crashing against the shore. It’s a love so big, so consuming, that it leaves no room for anything else.

And that’s where the doom lies.

They are the kind of love that consumes the world around them, leaving it scorched and battered in their wake. Not because they want to hurt anyone, but because their connection is so fierce, so all-encompassing, that nothing else can survive in its shadow. They are the eye of the hurricane, calm and steady, while everything outside is chaos.

It’s the kind of love that makes people ache to touch it, to understand it, even as it destroys them. The kind of love that people will write stories about and linger in though, long after the last page has turned. Love, that will echo through time in whispers and legends. But no one will ever truly understand it, because no one else could ever bear the weight of it.

Danny is the love that makes Tim believe he might deserve to be happy after all. Together, they are the love that dooms anybody else—unapologetic, overwhelming, and utterly unforgettable.

[cranberrydietcoke]

𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 - 𝘭𝘶𝘪𝘨𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦

heavily inspired by this post by @subtlehums

content: 18+, lore accurate luigi, cigarettes, mentions of prescription drugs, guns, L word, established relationship, unprotected p in v, riding, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, kinda emo but fluffy but smutty, he’s so tragically beautiful idk i hope this does him justice

wc: 2.1k

a/n: i am a woman possessed. he is all i think about like its bad. shout out the girlies who found my blog thru tiktok comments lmaooo enjoy

psa: he is innocent until proven guilty! this is a fictional, hypothetical situation in which he did do it.

“𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗶 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁. 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝗱, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗼𝗺, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗻. – 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱.” - tweeted by @ pepmangione, may 1st, 2024.

you missed hawaii. that tiny apartment for just the two of you seemed impossibly big now, as you imagined the sunlight weaving in through the windows, casting shadows of waves onto the kitchen tile. you missed that kitchen, sharing coffee in the mornings before work, baking together. you missed the way the island held you both, lush and warm and predictable. the late nights, the conferences, the schedule – it’s funny how everything always seems so simple in hindsight. he had a way of making it clear he knew best, and you’d stopped arguing years ago. so, when he said to pack a bag for the mainland, you didn’t question it. you trusted him with a kind of faith that went deeper than any earthly explanation could offer.

the frosty breeze whips by you as you step out onto the fire escape of the hostel, headlights and billboards illuminating the city below. you could hear luigi’s furious typing from the chair inside over the sound of honking horns and screeching tires, occasionally pausing to reread it back to himself and flip through the starched pages of the book he’d been in for days. the eraser of the pencil he annotated with was gnawed to damn near nothing. the flick of your lighter shook him from his focus, snapping his head to watch as you wrapped yourself in your fur coat and brought a cigarette to your lips with deep red manicured nails.

“that’s gonna kill you, y’know that right?”

and he was right. not that it made a difference. six months ago, the thought of smoking a cigarette would’ve seemed absurd. now, it almost felt inevitable, like the distance between who you were and who you are had blurred and widened into a festering chasm.

 and yet, here he was – the one steady thing in your life, lounging in the peeling leather of the black desk chair, eyes meeting yours like nothing else mattered. the air inside was thick, saturated with things unsaid. tomorrow would inevitably come, but that seemed irrelevant compared to the man in front of you. you crouched with bent knees, weight balanced on the balls of your feet as you blew out thick spirals of smoke, teetering on the tip toes of your flats with each gust of wind.

“lu,” you strain through quick puffs, tapping a nail to the lit stick, causing ash to fall through the metal bars that held you up and onto the concrete of the new york sidewalk. “please.”  you scoff, lash-lidded gaze lingering over him through the open window, a look that he couldn’t bring himself to argue with. you were the fracture in the foundation of his carefully constructed logic, the one thing he couldn’t solve.

 the first time he saw you at some hazy phi psi social in undergrad, something in him just…stopped. a whirlwind of wild dark hair with an unapologetic laugh that was too loud for the space but too beautiful to be mad at. you spoke with precision, arguing like someone who had points to make, yet there was a strange charm about you, an effortless grace. he had to have you. he assumed that bringing you to maryland for holiday break would be overwhelming, that the sheer volume of his family would cause you to tone yourself down. instead, they welcomed you as one of their own, perhaps because your bold opinions and high standards mirrored theirs. but that was a lifetime ago – before the pandemic, the accident, the surgery. before everything splintered into what it is now.

his puffy, purple-ringed and exhausted eyes follow you as you climb back into the warmth, slamming the window shut and shedding your coat. resting his elbows on his knees, he brought his hands to drag down his face with a deep, weary sigh, letting them fall to his denim-clad thighs with a slap. motioning you over to him with a nod of the head.

brass casings littered the floor, the bed a mess of neon monopoly bills - scattered in the dingy sheets like confetti after some great gatsby party. you’d been holed up in that room for a week now, and his restless energy was palpable. it wasn’t like his stress was something you’d never seen before. in fact, it was normal after all these years. but this. this was a different level. completely enrapturing, not only mental, but physical.

 you slip off your shoes with a soft thud on the floor. your steps are slow, deliberate, as you meander toward him, eyes heavy with sympathy. three sleepless nights had made his face hollow, and he’d refused every pill you’d offered – hydros, oxys, anything to subside the pain. you stand in front of him, positioned between his spread legs. his hands reach to meet your plush hips, each digit pressing firmly into your skin, grounding himself in your presence.

when al pacino said the eyes never lie, he was completely correct. luigi’s were sullen, dark, angry. pleading for help, for recognition. you lift a hand to cradle his cheek, tracing over the stubble that wasn’t there when you left hawaii. wordlessly, you sink to your knees on the warped wood of the hotel floor, looking up into his big brown eyes. your fingers trace a slow path from the curve of his jaw to the firm plane of his chest, before settling your palm on the denim of his thigh, smoothing it up and down his leg. you tilt your head, letting your temple rest gently against his knee.

“i love you, lu,” you spoke in a near whisper against him, gaze fixed on nothing in particular, thoughts somewhere far away. “i just wish shit was different.”

“i know baby, i know,” he answered without hesitation, cooing down at you and bringing a meticulous hand to brush the mess of hair from your face. “we’ll be back home soon, i jus- i have some stuff to take care of, love, you know that.” his voice softened as he looked down at you, coaxing your glassy eyes up to his steady stare. with a subtle touch, he grabbed your chin between his thumb and index fingers, lifting your face to meet his. only inches way, you felt the heat of his breath on your lips, drinking it in.

“i know this isn’t who you fell in love with, n’ i’m sorry. i-i’m a fucking shell,” he rambled, bobbing his head with each word, eyes darting around each feature on your face.

“this world, me, everything, is a fucking lie.” he spat, “just t-touch me so i know that i’m real.”

his eyes were wide and manic, brow furrowing as if every thought, every word, was a battle being played out behind those unblinking, shifty eyes. your mouth hangs open, and every part of you seems to be falling into him, melting in his touch. your eyes are unfocused and glazed over as they follow his, drunk off the very essence of him.

“fuck me so i know that i’m real. i’ve been dying to know if i am.”

heady puffs of breath fell against your face with each word, his eyes drifting down to your glossy pout. he ran his tongue up the curve of your parted lips, a tiny gasp escaping them, your eyes never leaving his. it was perverted almost, urgent and depraved. without thinking, you curl your tongue out, meeting and circling his without your lips even touching, saliva dripping onto the floor below. his hands grasp at the sides of your head, pulling you in closer as his tongue forces its way past yours, lips crashing together in a heated kiss. he stands you both up with a swift movement, each kiss growing deeper, more consuming, as he guides you backward onto the bed.

you can’t help but whimper into his mouth through the soft, wet smack of your lips that fills the room as he lays you on your back, pinned by the wrist in a pool of pink and orange paper money. hot, hungry kisses trailed down your neck and across your chest, his hands firm as he peeled off your white tank top. your fingers roamed over every inch of him – gripping a handful of curls, your palm finding the small of his neck to pull him closer. softly, your hands slid over the hard lines of his shoulder blades, tracing the muscles beneath his skin. for a split second, it felt like undergrad again – fooling around on that tiny twin bed, stealing kisses between whispered laughs and desperately hoping that none of the boys in the chapter house heard you.

“baby, sit back,” you murmur, craning your neck and biting into your lower lip as he licks spirals into the sensitive skin, sending a chill down your spine. with a smirk, he flips over to settle onto the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the cold metal button of his levi’s and squirming out of them. the print of his length pressed through the thin fabric of his boxers as you hook your fingers in the waistband, tugging them to fall around his ankles. you shimmy out of your leggings and black lace panties, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the hardwood.

letting a stringy drop of spit fall from your lips, you work and twist your hands over him, whimpers and pants making his chest fall and rise, head lolling back as you plant tiny kisses on both thighs. turning around with bent knees, hips between his legs and feet flat on the floor, you sink down onto him inch by inch, whining incoherently as it stretches you out.

his hands on your sides, thumbs running down the valley of your spine, molding you like pottery as he guides you up and down. the tips of your fingers balance on the floor as you gently bounce and roll your hips, stuffing yourself over and over again on his cock.

“f-fuck – mine, all fuckin’ mine,” he spoke breathlessly, watching your drooly hole take him in with little plap plap plap’s, the fat of your ass recoiling as his length disappeared into you. his grip tightened on your sides, and you felt his legs getting wobbly under your stabilizing hand. “my girl, my good fucking girl…” he spoke absently, almost to himself, each syllable dripping with lust. appreciation. worship, even.

“god, fuck – please.” you babble, whipping your hair back to steal a glance at him from over your shoulder – all focused and blissed out, slack-jawed as he groped and pawed at the lower contour of your ass, spreading open the sticky mess and watching with wild, amazed eyes at the way you wet him up.

“what, baby? want it inside? yeah?” he panted out with squeaky desperation, lower stomach tensing and turning as you gripped and slid over him. “wanna get pregnant, huh, the way you’re takin’ it – fuck!”

his thrusts got sloppy, breath hitching in his throat and translating to desperate whines as he pumped you full. even if he didn’t come back tomorrow, if you never saw him alive again, he was determined to leave you with a little permanent piece of him. bringing a strong, warm palm to the small of your lower back to slow down your pace and push you off of him, he fell back onto the bed with a sigh, rattling the bed frame with the impact. ribbons of thick, opalescent seed seeped from your hole, all fucked open and raw.

laying together, swimming in those hotel sheets, the cold touch of fingerprints tracing numbers and letters into your thighs. truly believing you both had nothing to lose, even though that was far from the truth because you had each other. the shrill sound of wind against windows was stomach-churning compared to the familiar crash of the ocean, and you’ve accepted that you’ll probably never see that apartment again. even if you did, it wouldn’t be the same. but, you trusted him. believed in him, his capability, his intelligence. holding onto that tiny sliver of hope that told you everything would be okay, he would be careful, come home unseen and unscathed. those worries were reserved for the future version of you, one that could carry the weight of tomorrow in the daylight. all of it – the pain, the planning, the uncertainty – was beside the point now. all that mattered was the shelter of his lingering touch, quieting the rest of the world, only if for a few more hours.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Trumpism’s healthcare fracture-lines

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/20/clinical-trial-by-ordeal/#spoiled-his-brand-new-rattle

There was never any question as to whether Trump would implement Project 2025, the 900-page brick of terrifying and unhinged policy prescriptions edited by the Heritage Foundation. He would not implement it, because he could not implement it. No one could. It's impossible.

This isn't a statement about constitutional limits on executive authority or the realpolitik of getting bizarre and stupid policies past judges or through a hair-thin Congressional majority. This is a statement about the incoherence of Project 2025 itself. You probably haven't read it. Few have. Realistically, few people are going to read a 900-page group work of neofeudalist fanfic shit out by the most esoteric Fedsoc weirdos the world has ever seen.

But one person who did read Project 2025 was the leftist historian Rick Perlstein, who was the first person to really dig into what a fucking mess that thing is:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/14/fracture-lines/#disassembly-manual

Perlstein's excellent analysis doesn't claim that Project 2025's authors aren't sincere in their intentions to wreak great harm upon the nation and its people; rather, his point is that Project 2025 is filled with contradictory, mutually exclusive proposals written by people who fundamentally disagree with one another, and who each have enough power within the Trump coalition that all of thier proposals have to be included in a document like this:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-07-10-project-2025-republican-presidencies-tradition/

Project 2025 isn't just a guide to the masturbatory fantasies of the worst people in American politics – far more importantly, it is a detailed map of the fracture lines in the GOP coalition, the places where it is liable to split and shatter. This is an important point if you want to do more about Trumpism than run around feeling miserable and scared. If you want to fight, Project 2025 is a guide to the weak spots where an attack will do the most damage.

Perlstein's insight continues to be borne out as the Trump regime makes ready to take power. In a new story for KFF News, Stephanie Armour and Julie Rovner describe the irreconcilable differences among Trump's picks for the country's top public health authorities:

https://kffhealthnews.org/news/article/trump-rfk-kennedy-health-hhs-fda-cdc-vaccines-covid-weldon/

The brain-worm-infected-elephant in the room is, of course, RFK Jr, who has been announced as Trump's head of Health and Human Services. RFK Jr is a notorious antivaxer, chairman of Children’s Health Defense, a notorious anti-vaccine group. Kennedy's view is shared by Trump's chosen CDC boss, Dave Weldon, a physician who has repeated the dangerous lie that vaccinations cause autism. Mehmet "Dr Oz" Oz, the TV "physician" Trump wants to put in charge of Medicare/Medicaid, calls vaccines "oversold" and advocates for treating covid with hydroxychloroquine, another thoroughly debunked hoax:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/health/2024/12/17/hydroxychloroquine-study-covid-19-retracted-trump/77051671007/

However, other top Trump public health picks emphatically support vaccines. Marty Makary is Trump's choice for FDA commissioner; he's a Johns Hopkins trained surgeon who says vaccines "save lives" (but he peddles the lethal, unscientific hoax that childhood vaccines should be "spread out"). Jay Bhattacharya, the economist/MD whom Trump wants to put in charge of the NIH, supports vaccines (he is also one of the country's leading proponents of the eugenicist idea of accepting the mass death of elderly, sick and disabled people rather than imposing quarantines during epidemics). Then there's Janette Nesheiwat, whom Trump has asked to serve as the nation's surgeon general; she calls vaccines "a gift from God."

Like "Bidenism," Trumpism is a fragile coalition of people who thoroughly and irreconcilably disagree with one another. During the Biden administration, this resulted in self-inflicted injuries like appointing the brilliant trustbuster Lina Khan to run the FTC, but also appointing the pro-monopoly corporate lawyer Jacqueline Scott Corley to a lifetime seat as a federal judge, from which perch she ruled against Khan's no-brainer suit to block the Microsoft-Activision merger:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/judge-rules-for-microsoft-mergers

The Trump coalition is even broader than the Biden coalition. That's how he won the 2024 election. But that also means that Trumpism is more fractious and off-balance, and hence will be easier to disrupt, because it is riven by people in senior positions who hate one another and are actively working for each others' political demise.

The Trump coalition is a coalition of *cranks*. I'm using "crank" here in a technical, non-pejorative sense. I am a crank, after all. A crank is someone who is overwhelmingly passionate about a single issue, whose uncrossable bright lines are not broadly shared. Cranks can be right or they can be wrong, but we're hard to be in coalition with, because we are uncompromisingly passionate about things that other people largely don't even notice, let alone care about. You can be a crank whose single issue is eliminating water fluoridation, even though this is very, very stupid and dangerous:

https://yourlocalepidemiologist.substack.com/p/the-fluoride-debate

Or you can be a crank about digital rights, a subject that, for decades, was viewed as by turns either unserious or as a sneaky way of shilling for Big Tech (thankfully, that's changing):

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/18/greetings-fellow-pirates/#arrrrrrrrrr

Cranks make hard coalition partners. Trump's cranks are cranked up about different things - vaccines, culture war trans panics, eugenics - and are total normies about other things. The eugenicist MD/economist who wants to "let 'er rip" rather than engage in nonpharmaceutical pandemic interventions is gonna be horrified by total abortion bans and antivax. These cranks are on a collision course with one another.

This is on prominent display in these public health appointments, and we're very likely about to get a test of the cohesiveness and capability of the second Trump administration, thanks to bird flu. Now that bird flu has infected humans in multiple US states, there is every chance that we will have to confront a public health emergency in the coming weeks. If that happens, the Trump public health divisions over masking, quarantine and (especially) vaccines (Kennedy called the covid vaccine the "deadliest" ever made, without any evidence) will become the most important issue in the country, under constant and pitiless scrutiny, and criticism.

Trump's public health shambles is by no means unique. The lesson of Project 2025 is that the entire Trump project is one factional squabble away from collapse at all times.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Ruin

Alexia Putellas x Pre-Teen!Reader

Jenni Hermoso x Pre-Teen!Reader

Summary: Your guardians fight for custody

You had dealt with lawyers before.

You had dealt with case workers before.

Nearly your whole life in the system meant you were familiar with both.

Seeing them never got easier as you sit outside the meeting room, hunched over as you stare at the phone battery that's rapidly depleting.

You'd plugged it in to charge last night but it hadn't.

The wire's been faulty for a while now, one of those chargers that you have to move to the right angle to make sure it works.

You suppose it must have moved in the night.

You can just about hear the low murmur of conversations if you strain your ears but you don't.

You don't want to hear what they're saying.

"Drink? Food?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

You turn away from your case worker, angling your body as far away as you can get without falling off your seat.

She'd been responsible for you for eleven years, right back to when you were a baby and your first set of parents had their rights terminated. You thought last year would be the last you would see of her.

"I'm fine," You insist.

"It's okay not to be."

"I know that. It still doesn't change the fact that I'm fine."

You both know you're lying.

She knows you well enough to not bring it up again, merely offering you a few of the hard boiled sweets from the reception desk.

"They won't decide anything without your input, you know."

"They're adults," You say dismissively," That's all they ever do."

"You're twelve now. Your wishes are taken into account."

"Only if it goes to court. Only in front of a judge. If they sign an agreement here and now, they don't have to talk to me about it."

Your caseworker looks like she wants to say something but a bang of a table has her stopping.

Jenni's voice in the meeting room is raised and Alexia's rises to meet it.

The fractures in the relationship were already there by the time you arrived. Small at first but steadily growing bigger and bigger.

You hadn't known it at the time but you know it now.

You had been adopted to salvage their relationship.

It's what a lot of people did. Have a child in the hope that it would bring the relationship together again.

It had worked, for a short while but the cracks hadn't healed. They'd simply been painted over for a little while. All it had taken was a little rock of the foundations, a little change in the norm.

They always came back and soon Alexia and Jenni were arguing where they thought you couldn't hear them and driving separately to practice.

Now, Jenni was moving to Mexico and the tender hooks they were on were failing.

You were hanging on a cliff and they were too busy arguing to notice your grip slipping, ready to plummet into the abyss below.

"You're not taking my daughter from me!"

You stand, unwilling to hear anymore.

"I'm going to the toilet."

It's a single stall, a door lock that you use as soon as you're inside.

You sit on the toilet lid, willing your shaking hands to stop as you clench them into fists. Your fingernails dig into the soft flesh until you're almost certain you've broken skin.

You hate this.

You hate the lawyers and their cool indifference towards you.

You hate your caseworker and her faux sympathy.

You hate Alexia and Jenni for putting you in this situation in the first place. You hate them for thinking a child would salvage an already broken relationship. You hate that they've made you their daughter. You hate that they've tied themselves into you in a way that you can't get away from.

Your phone dies, the music from your earphones cutting out instantly and you sigh, tugging them out of your ears and wrapping them around your phone.

They're an old pair, still wired and plugged in.

Jenni and Alexia have showered you in presents since the moment the adoption went through. You had a pair of Bluetooth ones but you've never used them, not since the presents stopped coming from them together and started coming separately.

They were always one upping each other.

If Alexia bought you Airpods, Jenni bought you a pair of Beats.

If Alexia bought you a Switch, Jenni bought you an XBox.

You blow out all your air noisily, the shuffling at the door alerting you to the fact that your caseworker is outside.

You flush the toilet to keep up appearances, washing your hands and stubbornly not looking in the mirror.

"They should be finishing up," She tells you and you glower.

"For now."

They're not finished up in the slightest and you slump in your seat.

There's no music to distract you from their raised voices, tension and anger building between them.

"And what about her training?! You'd take her away from all that? To what? Gallivant around in Mexico?!"

That's Alexia now, you'd recognise her anger anywhere.

You imagine she's standing now, palms flat on the desk as she gets as close to Jenni as possible. Her lawyer, a straight laced man in a fancy suit and a disinclination to children, probably sits back in his seat, arms spread in a 'how could you tear Alexia away from her child?' pose at the other lawyer.

"Mexico has pools, Alexia! They know how to swim! She can train there!"

That's Jenni.

She's still as angry as earlier, bubbling and boiling inside of her. She's probably standing up too, finger pointing towards Alexia in a brutal jab. Her lawyer pretends he likes kids, pretends to greet you warmly and act like her actually gives a shit about your feelings.

He doesn't and he doesn't even do a good job of pretending.

He's more condescending than anything, talking to you like you're five and don't understand why your guardians are fighting.

"And you'd have her make new friends? Put her in a new swimming club? Her life is here!"

"No, Alexia, your life is here!"

You've never felt more weightless than you were in the pool, just floating around on your back as the water laps at your skin.

You're the fastest swimmer in the region for your age group. Especially in long distance.

Your coaches say you have the stamina.

You think it's because you want to be in the water for as long as possible.

It comes easy to you, mindless, repetitive.

You like to do things you're good at.

The door swings open, slamming against the wall and you sigh.

The yelling has stopped.

Neither Alexia nor Jenni want to make a scene in public.

The meeting room is a free-for-all but outside they can pretend to be civil. Everyone will pretend they didn't hear them at each other's throats a few moments ago.

You stand, plugging in your earphones even though your phone is dead.

You've found that neither of them want to talk to you if you've got your earphones in.

"Say goodbye to your mother, y/n," Alexia says, already strolling over to wait for you by the door.

Your eyes linger on her before they flick to Jenni.

You shove your hands into your pocket and mutter," Bye."

She's still looking at Alexia too, eyes narrowed in anger before they softens a fraction as she turns to you.

Her hand rests on your shoulder, thumb rubbing ever so slightly.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? You've got that competition."

"Yeah, I do."

"I'll be cheering."

You manage a weak smile.

Alexia and Jenni will be on opposite ends of the room, pretending that the other doesn't exist.

"I love you," Jenni says and you sigh.

"Yeah."

Alexia is waiting by the door, impatiently, foot tapping. When you join her, she starts off again, down the stairs and to the car parked up front.

"Not sitting in the front with me?" She tries to tease as you slip into the seat behind her but you're in no mood," I'll let you choose the music."

You hold up your dead phone, earphones in and her small smile turns into a frown.

"Well, if you're sure..."

"I'm sure."

"So..." Alexia drums her fingers on the steering wheel," That competition tomorrow...You excited?"

You stare out the window. "I guess."

You're in no mood to talk, clearly, so Alexia settles on looking back at you through the rear view mirror periodically.

"Don't worry," She tells you," This will all get sorted out soon."

You wish it hadn't happened in the first place.

You with you had never met them.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Something Better

Summary: You overhear Spencer and Diana talking about JJ's confession, it hits too hard with the issues you and Spencer have been experiencing.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, hurt

Warnings/Includes: crying, insecurities, fighting, leaving

Word count: 2.5k

a/n: sorry!!!! i am notttt having a good time in my relationship (he doesn’t know we’re in a relationship)

main masterlist part two

The complexity of your relationship with Spencer had deepened significantly, ever since the enigmatic and dangerous Cat Adams had entered the picture. Understanding the nature of Spencer's job, you had been kept well-informed about his interactions with Cat, ensuring that you were on the same page with him throughout this unsettling chapter. You and Spencer had been together for four years, a relationship that was marked not only by affection but also by the trials that had weathered your joint experiences, including Spencer's traumatic stint in prison. Amidst the turmoil, recent events had only added to the strain: Spencer had once again found himself a hostage, and in those fraught moments, JJ had confessed her love for him.

This unexpected confession stirred a troubling mix of emotions within you. Despite your deep-seated trust and the solid foundation you had built together, insecurities bubbled to the surface. The knowledge of Spencer's initial crush on JJ during his early days at the BAU added layers of doubt and fear. You couldn't help but wonder about the what-ifs—whether Spencer harbored any regrets about the path he had chosen with you instead. 

—

As you held the tray with steaming mugs of tea, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into your palms, your intention was simple: to bring a small comfort to the room where Spencer and his mother, Diana, were deep in conversation. But the words that drifted through the slightly ajar door halted you in your tracks, the comforting heat from the cups suddenly replaced by a cold grip of fear tightening around your heart.

“You think that’s what I’ve been doing? Closing myself off to possibilities because I’m waiting for JJ?” Spencer's voice carried a mix of confusion and introspection, a tone you recognized all too well.

“I hope not,” Diana’s response was gentle, yet it carried an undeniable weight of concern.

The gravity of the conversation, the raw honesty of the words spoken, pierced through the veil of assurances and understandings that had surrounded your relationship with Spencer. The mention of JJ, with the concept of ‘possibilities’ he might be closing off, struck a vulnerable chord. It echoed the very insecurities that had been gnawing at you—fears of being a placeholder, of not being the ultimate choice but rather the safe harbor in the storm of his complex life.

The impact of this realization was instantaneous and visceral. The ceramic mugs slipped from your numb fingers, shattering on the floor as a symbolic fracture mirrored in your composure. A sob escaped your lips—a sound of pain so raw it seemed to carry the weight of every doubt and every shadow of fear that had gathered in the corners of your relationship.

“What was that?” Diana’s voice was sharp with alarm, slicing through the tense air as the sound of the breaking mugs echoed down the hall.

Unable to face them, to see the concern or confusion on Spencer’s face, you turned and fled down the hallway. The coolness of the walls was a stark contrast to the pain burning inside you as each step took you further from the room, from the conversation, from the man you loved yet suddenly felt miles away from. Your mind raced, caught in a whirlwind of emotion and a desperate need for solitude, a space to breathe and to grasp the full meaning of what you had just overheard.

“I’ll go check it out, Mom,” Spencer said, patting his moms hands.

Spencer's heart thudded with increasing urgency as he navigated the hallway, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene of shattered mugs and spilled tea, a silent testament to a sudden departure fueled by distress. "Y/N?" he called out again, his voice tinged with confusion and concern. The lack of response only heightened his worry, each unanswered call amplifying the fear that something was profoundly wrong.

As he passed by a window, his gaze inadvertently swept over the driveway, catching the sight of you getting into your car. The pieces clicked together in his mind, albeit without understanding the why behind your actions. His concern morphed into sheer panic, propelling him into a jog as he made his way swiftly towards the front door, his mind racing with possible reasons for your abrupt exit.

Reaching the door, he flung it open and stepped out into the cool air, his breath visible in the quiet of the afternoon. "Y/N, wait!" he shouted, hoping to catch your attention before you could drive away. His voice carried a desperate edge, a plea woven through the urgency.

Spencer's mind was a whirlwind of worry and bewilderment. He had no clue what had triggered your sudden need to escape, no understanding of the emotional turmoil that had driven you to such a rapid departure. As he jogged towards the car, his only thought was to stop you, to understand, to fix whatever had gone wrong, unaware of the conversation you had overheard and the doubts it had reignited within you.

He reached the car just as you were about to start the engine, his expression full of fear, confusion, and concern. His hands gestured slightly, asking for a moment of your time, his eyes pleading for you to stay, to talk, to explain what had caused this rift to suddenly appear between you.

As the window descended, revealing your tear-streaked face and the distress clearly written across your features, Spencer’s heart sank even further. The sight of you so visibly upset was enough to tighten the already squeezing panic in his chest.

“What happened?” he asked again, his voice rough from the sprint and the growing dread. He leaned closer, his eyes searching yours for an answer, for anything that could explain the sudden shift in the day.

“I don’t want to hold you back from anything,” you managed to say between sniffles, the words muffled slightly by your emotional state. Your voice was thick with pain, each word laden with the weight of your fears.

“What?” Spencer’s confusion deepened, his brows knitting together as he tried to decipher the meaning behind your words. His face fell, a mix of worry and incomprehension as he struggled to connect the dots. He reached out tentatively, resting his hand against the car door, needing some physical connection to bridge the gap that the conversation had opened between you.

“You’re not holding me back, Y/N. Please, tell me what’s going on,” Spencer urged, his tone softening, trying to provide a calm amid the storm of emotions swirling around you both. His eyes held yours, filled with concern and a plea for clarity, as he tried to understand the source of your sudden decision to leave.

As you struggled with the words, each one a reflection of the turmoil within, Spencer's expression shifted from confusion to a dawning realization of the depth of your concerns.

"Why haven't you proposed, Spencer?" The question came out choked, a manifestation of the culmination of doubts and fears that had been gathering, fueled by recent events and lingering insecurities.

"Y/N...what? What is happening?" Spencer's voice was tinged with a blend of confusion and fear, grappling with the sudden confrontation of an issue he hadn't realized was so pressing in your mind.

You shook your head slowly, signaling the seriousness of your need for an answer. "Just answer me," you said quietly, a firm resolve underlying your soft tone. 

"I don't... I don't know," Spencer admitted, his voice faltering. His uncertainty was palpable, reflecting his own confusion about the future and his feelings about where your relationship stood, especially in light of his recent traumas and challenges.

"That's not good enough for me," you stated, the pain in your voice evident as you began to roll up the window, a physical manifestation of the emotional barrier you felt compelled to erect in the face of his indecision.

Spencer's heart raced as he saw the window closing, a barrier rising not just between him and the outside air, but between him and you. He placed his hand against the glass, a silent plea for you to stop and listen.

"Please, Y/N, wait," Spencer's voice cracked, his usual composure unraveled by the intensity of the moment. "I love you. I'm just... I've been dealing with a lot, and I didn't realize you felt this way. Can we just talk about this? Please?" His words rushed out in a torrent of emotion, a mix of apology and confusion, desperately trying to bridge the growing gap with his earnestness and vulnerability.

The tension in the air thickened as you left the window half-cracked, Spencer stood rooted to the spot, his heart heavy with the burden of your words.

"I know you’re going through a lot...I understand, I’ve been here with you through it all," you said, your voice steadier now, each word deliberate. Taking a deep breath, you lifted your gaze to meet Spencer's, the pain in your eyes a clear reflection of the turmoil within. "Are you waiting for something better?"

The question hit Spencer like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily breathless, his mind reeling. "Something better? You’re the best there is, Y/N," he managed to say, his voice laden with sincerity and a touch of desperation, wanting nothing more than to dispel your doubts.

That response, however, triggered a shift from sadness to anger. "Then why did you tell your mom you’re waiting for JJ?" you yelled, the volume of your voice a stark contrast to the quiet despair of moments before.

Spencer's face paled, the accusation and the misunderstanding cutting deep. "No, Y/N, that’s not what I meant," he stammered, his mind racing to correct the misunderstanding. "It was taken out of context. I was talking about not closing myself off to healing, to moving forward with my life, which means with you. JJ's confession threw me off, yes, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. I love you, and I'm not waiting for anyone else."

He stepped closer to the car, his expression earnest, almost pleading. "I haven't proposed because I've been scared—scared of not being enough for you with all my baggage. But I know that's no excuse. You deserve certainty, and I've been unfair. I'm sorry for making you feel this way."

Spencer’s eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of understanding or forgiveness, hoping his words could bridge the gap that had opened up between you, driven by fears and miscommunications.

Your glare didn't waver as Spencer began to unravel the layers of the conversation you had misinterpreted, each word weighed with a heavy mix of regret and urgency to clarify the misunderstanding. He shifted uncomfortably under your intense gaze, knowing how crucial this moment was to salvage the trust and future of your relationship.

“Bullshit,” you had said, the sharpness in your voice slicing through the air.

“What?” Spencer’s confusion was evident, a mixture of desperation and hurt flashing across his features.

“That’s bullshit, Spencer. Tell me the truth,” you pressed, your voice firm, demanding honesty over comforting lies.

Spencer took a deep, steadying breath, recognizing the necessity of complete transparency. “Fine. My mom…she wants grandkids, she wanted to know why we hadn’t given her any. I told her the truth, I’m scared to bring children into this world.” His admission came out in a rush, a confession of his deepest fears about fatherhood and the future.

You continued to glare, silently urging him to continue, to explain every nuance of the conversation that had driven you to such a state of distress.

“She asked if I thought JJ made a mistake having kids. I didn’t know what to say. She thought I was being quiet because I was upset about JJ being with Will, which I am not—definitely not. And that’s what you must have heard,” Spencer explained, his voice earnest, pleading with you to understand the context and his true feelings.

The air between you seemed charged with his words, each sentence he spoke unraveling the knot of misunderstanding that had tightened around your heart. His explanation painted a different picture, one not of longing for another but of fear and apprehension about a future he felt unequipped to navigate.

Your expression softened slightly, the initial rush of anger ebbing as the truth of his words began to resonate. The misunderstanding had morphed your fear into anger, but with his honest explanation, the foundations of trust began to show signs of mending.

Spencer watched you carefully, gauging your reaction, hoping that his honesty and the vulnerability he displayed would be enough to start healing the rift that had formed. His eyes conveyed a silent plea for forgiveness, his posture open and unguarded as he stood before you, laid bare by his confessions.

“Okay,” you had said simply, leaving Spencer clinging to that word as if it were a lifeline in the turbulent sea of your relationship.

“Okay? Is that—is that all? Are we okay?” His voice was tinged with uncertainty, searching for more reassurance, more solidity than the ambiguous affirmation offered.

“I don’t know,” you replied, the honesty in your voice reflecting the turmoil within. 

“Y/N...please, I love you so much,” Spencer implored, his words thick with emotion, his eyes begging you to see the depth of his sincerity.

“I love you too, but saying it and showing it are two different things,” you sighed, the weariness in your voice painting a vivid picture of your emotional state. “You’re my world, Spencer. I just want to feel like I’m yours too. Can I go please?”

His heart sank with those words, a stark reminder of the disconnect that had formed between your perceptions of the relationship. “Go? Go where? You’re leaving?” The panic was evident in his voice, his mind racing through scenarios of loss and loneliness.

“I need to be alone right now. Can you catch a cab?” you asked, your tone resolute yet gentle, not wanting to hurt him but needing the space to sort through your swirling thoughts.

“Are you breaking up with me?” The question was out before he could stop it, a fear-driven reflex.

“No,” was your simple, firm reply, a small comfort amid the storm.

Spencer nodded, accepting your need even as it pained him. “I can get a cab. I love you, darling. So, so, so much.” His words were a whispered caress, an affirmation of everything he felt, everything he hoped for despite the current heartache.

“I love you too,” you responded, a whisper of reciprocation that served as a temporary balm to his aching heart.

With that, you drove off, leaving Spencer watching the space where you had been, his mind heavy with love and fear. He pulled out his phone to arrange a ride, his heart clenching in his chest.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[frownyalfred]

Arkham Prince AU (ignore if you wish, i just needed to get the exchange out of my head after reading the threads in your blog) :

------------------------

Harvey sighed and wished for the thousand time he was able to smoke in the room they allowed him to see Bruce as his legal council. His firm laughed at him, for taking on the pointless case of defending the undefendable, but they didn't know Bruce like he did. How he was before, what drove him to this.

"So you sent this man, to the infirmary. Unprovoked? Jesus H. Christ, Bruce."

The man in question remained standing, staring of the double glass windows, bars obstructing the view in more ways than one. If it wasn't for the chains tying his legs to the concrete and the ARKHAM on the back of his uniform, he would have passed as a unconcerned, everyday man.

"We can't even claim self defense," Harvey continued. "You-"

"He has cancer."

Harvey blinked at the non-sequitur, "What?"

Finally, the orphaned Wayne turned and faced him, face blank, unconcerned about how much more this action would add to his sentencing. Unconcerned except for the steel eyes seething yet holding back so much hurt.

Harvey remembered once again, with a small pang, why he had gotten a crush on Bruce in their college days.

"Nygma. He has cancer. The only way to get medical care in Arkham is by ending up in the hospital wing." Bruce moved with all the weight of the world on his shoulders and sat in the bolted chair across from his lawyer, and life long friend.

Somewhere in Arkham, an alarm rang to let staff know a super had arrived at the facility.

Harvey leaned back in his chair, "So you-"

"Sent him there to get treatment as he recovers from multiple rib fractures, humerus break, and left talus dislocated break. Rendering him non-weight baring. So he had to stay there."

His lawyer let his head hang in exasperation.

Outside the hall, a god like man was buzzed into the hall, two locked doors away from Bruce Wayne. The staff member behind a desk, glass, and bars, informed him he was with a visitor already.

Superman brow furrowed in frustration but he nodded politely and took a seat to wait. Deceptively human behavior. The staff didnt trust it.

"Bruce. There has to be a better way to have helped him. "

"Changing the prison infrastructure from inside my cell is not something I could do. /That/, sending him there directly to be treated, was what I /could/ do."

Bruce could see Harvey revving up to once again bring up the tired old argument, 'Why did you do it? Why kill those people?' 'Why not wait until they were taken in by the law?'

But they both knew there was no way the people guilty would have gone and stayed in prison.

"Don't," Bruce interrupted before the other could start, "You know why I had to do it."

Harvey blinked, and gathered the papers on the table, fitting them in a folder. Pointless papers, except for the monthly 'permission slip' Bruce signed for the charity funds to continue to go to the Martha Wayne Foundation.

"I know. And it gets me so angry, still. For you."

Bruce gave a small genuine smile, though his eyes remained the same - angry, sad.

"Thanks, Harv."

Outside in the waiting area, the super narrowed his eyes, witnessing the exchange, a curious yet odd feeling filling stomach at the scene beyond concrete and wall insulation.

Who was this man, to his- to the League's informant?

(Hope you have a good day! Thank you for indulging us by answering our asks! 👋)

Oh my god Harvey! Yeah, the inversion of Bruce visiting Harvey and Harvey visiting Bruce instead….Harvey never giving up on his friend, convinced Bruce didn’t mean it. I’m sobbing, of course he’d try to help, to look past it, to see the kind and caring man he once knew underneath. Maybe Bruce is protecting him in a way — Arkham has a gravity to it, it pulls in who it wants. And Harvey has always been a target in Gotham.

[erindrinkstea]

Fractured Foundations

Poly! Dark! 141 x GN! Reader

TW: Dark Themes, Spicy Themes, Possesive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Angst, Violence, Blood and Death

Description, Part 1, Part 2

Main Masterlist | CoD Masterlist

Note: First Chapter Rewrite!

The Task Force 141.

Everyone in the Military respected and looked up to the special task force.

They were perfectly disciplined soldiers working in perfect sync— extremely loyal with an unbreakable bond like no other.

Once, you used to look to them as well. You adored them and idolized them. That all changed the moment you had entered their circle— you had been faced with the cold hard truth. You were an outsider.

Your arrival to them disturbed their perfect balance. Unlike the rest of the team, Price did not choose you. He didn't want you and nor did the others.

You could not blame them, your first impression made a nasty mark on the team. It was one thing for the 141 to not like you but it was another for them to hate you.

Months before you joined the 141, you were a proud member of a different team. A team that happened to have been assigned accidentally to the same mission as the 141. In the confusion, mistaking Soap for the enemy— you took the shot. The shot that almost costed the Scot his life as it pierced straight through his jugular.

It was only after your Captain had knocked the rifle out of your hands did you realize what you gunned down wasn't the enemy but a fellow soldier. You were fortunate that your combat medic was able to patch him up or the 141 would have had your head.

They would have quite have your head. You thank whatever God is out there that your combat medic saved the scotsman's life and pleaded for yours to be spared.

The guilt of what happened clung to you like a shadow and stained your hands with red.

You thought you would never cross paths with the 141 again after the incident, ruining your impression with the task force. Years later, things changed after one mission gone wrong with your team.

Your Captain and fellow Lieutenant died. It wasn't a surprise that your team disbanded soon after, the rest taking it as a sign to finally retire.

You were the last remaining member of your team that still persisted to continue in your duty. You went to Laswell for reassignment and you were shocked once she announced you'd be going to the 141.

She spoke to you of how your potential can be properly utilized under the right team and she believes that the 141 would need an asset like you.

Need, not want.  She should have told you that. She should have warned you.

The team did not see you as an asset, they saw you as a liability. A person that infiltrated their circle and is a walking reminder of what transpired years ago.

Captain John "Price". He's the team's steady leader, always maintaining a polite facade. You noticed that his signature handshakes and shoulder pats— a small yet important gesture of his trust— were absent when it came to you. He liked to keep his contact with you in the minimum. It hurt you seeing how he acts like touching you hurt him.

Sargeant John "Soap" Mactavish. He and his easy charm and chatty mouth. He was neutral around you, always quiet and keeping the conversation quick and straight to the point. You felt shame whenever he would trace the scar on his neck, never letting you forget what happened.

Sargent Kyle "Gaz" Garrick. He was known for showing affection to his team in subtle ways, never afraid to show his loyalty through actions. They did say actions speak louder than words and when he often actively avoided you— it stings. He may be subtle with his love for the team but his dislike to you was clear as day. His posture often becoming stiff when you were both in the same room.

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley. He wasn't just rude or cold like the others, he was terrifying. His tones always sharp, always scrutinizing your every move, and the weight of his glare made you feel like suffocating. Whatever respect he afforded his teammates, he withheld from you with deliberate intent. 

You had tried to make amends.

For two years without relenting— you took up the responsibility of the reports, organizing the armory, and cooking meals after missions knowing that Gaz would be too exhausted.

But nothing you did seem to matter.

Today was just another reminder.

"Apologies, Lieutenant." You held back tears, feeling like a kid under the heat of Ghost's scolding. The mission went a bit sideways after an enemy managed to take you hostage— almost using you for escaping if not for Soap's clean shot.

The bullet slightly grazed you cheek as it landed a finishing blow in the enemy's head. "This better not happen again, Lieutenant." Ghost stormed off without another word, leaving you feeling embarrassed and ashamed.

It was unfair. You knew that they hold great resentment against you but still— "This isn't fair." You mumble, close to tears.

Why did you have to apologize? Soap never did when he made a mistake— everyone laughed it off. You got taken off guard and it wasn't your fault yet they still blamed you.

The team was supposed to stick together and they left you behind, never bothered to check if you were still following. Probably never noticed until you got taken hostage.

They never even felt scared for your life— you saw how Ghost looked at you when the enemy held you in gunpoint. He was ready to drop you for the mission. He had decided then and there that your life was not worth it. You saw how ready he was, never faltering his hold on his gun.

You snap out of your thoughts.

"Hey, sweet girl." You blinked away tears before it could escape as the German Shepherd entered the room. She immediately circled your feet and tilted her head curiously, sensing that you were upset. "I'm okay." You assured, kneeling down to rub her head.

After a while, you retreated back to your room. You slumped onto your bed and looked at the picture frame by your test. A photo of you and your former team. You missed them.

You missed being in a team that actually accepted you. A team where you actually belonged.

You drowned in your thoughts for a couple minutes before mumbling, "I don't wanna do this anymore." You don't want to retire but you didn't want to stay in the 141 any longer. It was torture.

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

You left your room, heading to the kitchen to get something to bite, food was always a welcome comfort. It was better than sulking.

You passed Gaz on the way but didn't bother with even acknowledging his presence. The Sargeant paused mid-step, glancing at you as you continued to pass him.

For once, he didn't become stiff but felt uncomfortable nonetheless. You looked... blank. A look that he had seen from tortured vitims that seem to have given up. It didn't well with him that you looked that way.

In the end, he didn't think much of it and brushed it off as exhaustion after the mission. But you were never the type to ignore a person even when tired and when you just passed him—

It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

[peachiejeongin]

hello you magnificent human being.

I see your requests are open and I’m always ready to send my ideas to capable writers haha

so: Seungmin + angsty angst + redemption + happy ending (bc I’m a weak and unstable bitch)

reader is pregnant, at the beginning maybe she knows, maybe not. Seungmin is having some existencial crisis (maybe he feels like he’s not living he’s youth as he should), gets distant, neglecting his relationship. he cheats on reader (maybe not, and it only looks like it), reader finds out, confronts him, he says some really mean words about her, the relationship, the baby. maybe (I know, tons of maybes, I have ideas but also want to give you freedom to write whatever you want! hahaha) he implies he doesn’t want the baby or mentions something about an abortion?

however the reader reacts, what he does after, the redemption and else is up to u.

I hope you like the idea as much as I do. happy writing🧚🏼‍♀️

Fractured Foundations | Seungmin

Synopsis: When secrets flow and hearts break during an argument, you are left wondering why you entered into this relationship.

Pairing: bf!Seungmin x fem!reader

Genre: Angst. So. Much. Angst. (But a fluffy ending!)

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of drinking, implied cheating (he does not), arguing, mentions of Seungmin not wanting the baby, break-up This is a pretty triggering fiction, so if you need to skip this one, please feel free to!

Notice: No, I did not sob my eyes out while I was writing this; what are you referring to?! Nevertheless, my darling! Your suggestion is out of this world, and it broke my heart just reading it! The only thing I did not include was the idea of abortion just due to some past experiences of mine and because the topic is insanely controversial; however, I hope you enjoy the story all the same ! As I stated in the warnings, this fiction is one that is more on the triggering side, so please feel free to skip out on reading if you need to :)

The apartment felt cold, even with the heater on full blast. You sat curled up on the couch, a half-forgotten mug of hot chocolate cooling in your hands; your eyes were fixated on the little plastic stick on the coffee table. The two faint lines stared back at you, blurring slightly through your tears.

You should have been happy; this is what you have been dreaming of for so long - to start a family and have a minature you running around the house. Yet, all you could feel was an ache deep in your heart - one that had been festering for weeks.

Seungmin had not been the same lately, and you could sense it. He was not the boy who used to hold your hand under the table at crowded restaurants or sneak kisses when he thought nobody was looking. He was not the man who used to talk about the future like he could not wait to spend every moment of it with you. He was not the man who shared your dream of settling down and beginning a family of your own.

These days, he came home late, smelling like a mix of winter air, cigarettes, alcohol, and someone else's perfume. He did not touch you like he used to, and he did not look at you with the love he had once felt if he even made the effort to glance your way at all.

You tightened your grip on the mug, the ceramic bearing into your palms. The words you had practiced in your head over and over felt heavy in your throat.

How do you tell somebody you love that you are carrying their child when you are not even for certain that they still want you?

The sound of the door unlocking snapped you out of your consuming thoughts. You wiped at your face quickly as Seungmin stepped inside, his shoulders stiff and his expression unreadable.

"You're home," you commented softly, forcing a smile.

"Yep," he muttered, kicking off his shoes without looking at you. He walked past the couch, heading straight for the bedroom.

"Seungmin?" Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated how desperate it sounded. "Can we talk?"

"I'm tired," he stated as he stalled in the doorway, his back still turned to you. "Can it wait 'til tomorrow?"

"I don't think it can." You swallowed the lump in your throat, your fingers trembling against the cooling mug.

He turned then, his face annoyed and his eyes carrying a sharp, distant stare.

"What is it?"

The words were right there, ready to spill out. Yet, as you looked at him - the man you used to know better than he knew himself - you doubled down.

"I..." you hesitated, suddenly unsure. "I just want to make sure you're okay. You've been pretty distant lately."

Seungmin sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm fine," he replied. "Just stressed."

"About what?" you pressed gently.

"Work. Life. Everything and anything." He glanced at you then, his tone hardening. "And I certainly don't need you breathing down my neck right now, so just drop this."

Your stomach twisted, a painful knot forming in your chest. You wanted to cry, to scream, to break down and tell him everything. Instead, you nodded, your barely audible voice mumbling an, "Okay."

Seungmin disappeared into the bedroom, leaving you alone in silence.

For the first time, you had felt like you were truly alone.

---

The days that followed felt like they were unfolding in slow motion, each one darker than the last. Seungmin stayed locked in his own world, a stranger in the home you had built together. His absence lingered, even when he was physically present, silence replacing the laughter you once shared.

You told yourself to wait for the right moment to bring it up, to tell him about the baby, but the fear of his reaction gnawed at your gut. Every time you opened your mouth, his distant gaze or clipped tone shut you down.

The breaking point came one Friday night.

Seungmin had been out late again, the smell of whiskey clinging to him as he stumbled through the door. You were sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of untouched food in front of you.

"Seungmin," you called, your voice shaking slightly. "We need to talk. it can't wait any longer."

"Not this again," he groaned, leaning against the wall as he kicked off his shoes.

"I'm serious," you stood up as your hands trembled. "I can't keep doing this. You're never here, and when you are, it feels like you aren't. What's going on with you?"

"What's going on with me?" he repeated, his tone slurring out of frustration. "You're the one who's always picking fights here recently."

"Picking fights?" Your voice rose, anger bubbling over your previously meek demeanor. "I'm trying to save this relationship, Seungmin! You won't talk to me! You won't let me in!"

"Maybe because I don't want to, y/n!" he snapped, cutting you off.

The words hit you like a harsh slap; you stared at him, your heart pounding so hard you felt it in your ears.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm suffocating, okay?" He clenched his jaw, rubbing his temples aggresively. "This life we have? It's not what I wanted."

"Not what you wanted?" Tears blurred your vision as you took a shaky step backwards, nearly stumbling in the process. Seugmin exhaled sharply, pacing the small space of the kitchen.

"I'm 24, for fucks sake. I should be out living my life, not tied down to some boring routine."

"You feel tied down?" you echoed, your voice breaking. "Is that all I am to you? Some weight holding you back?"

"I don't know!" he shouted, his emotioned boiling over. "I don't know what I want anymore, but I do know that I can't keep pretending that everything is fine when it clearly isn't!"

The room fell silent, save for the sound of your muffled, shaky sobs. Slowly, you reached into your jacket pocket, pulling out the small ultrasound photo you had been carrying around for days.

"Maybe this will help you figure it out," you responded, your voice quiet, trembling even as you placed it on the counter in front of him.

Seungmin frowned, his eyes narrowing as he glanced down at the photo. When realization dawned, his expression twisted into something you could not quite discern - shock, confusion, maybe even rage.

"You're...you're pregnant?"

"Yes!" you replied, tears cascading down your face. "I found out a couple weeks ago, and I just went to the doctor to confirm it. I didn't tell you sooner because I knew, I knew this was how you were going to react."

Seungmin shook his head, a stressed hand clamped onto his forehead.

"This can't be happening."

"What do you mean?" you demanded, your voice rising several octaves. "This is happening, Seungmin. We're going to be parents, and you don't get to act like it's some inconvenience!"

"Inconvenience?" he repeated, his voice hard. "Do you know what this means? We're not ready for this! I'm not ready for this. I don't even know if I want-"

"Don't you dare," you cut him off, your voice growling with anger. "Don't you dare say something you can't take back."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to keep it."

The words hung in the air like a knife between you: sharp and unforgiving. Your breath hitched, your hands shaking as you stepped back from him.

"You're unbelievable," you whispered, pain prominent in your tone. "You know what? I'm done. You can figure out what you want without me here, because I'll be damned if I raise our child in an environment where I am treated like this."

Without waiting for a response, you grabbed your coat off of the rack in the living room, slamming the door behind you as you walked out.

---

You did not know where you were going, but anything felt better than the asphyxiating walls of that apartment. Your hands gripped the steering wheel as you drove aimlessly, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. The world outside blurred into a kaleidoscope of color. You could not stop thinking about what Seungmin had said.

"Maybe you should've thought about that before deciding to keep it."

The statement echoed over and over, each repetition cutting deeper than the last. You pulled into an empty parking lot and parked the car, burying your face in your hands as sobs washed over your body.

How had it come to this? The man you loved, the man you thought you would spend forever with, had looked you in the eyes and shattered every hope you had held onto.

After a few moments, the tears slowed, leaving you hollow and exhausted. You reached for your phone, scrolling through your contacts until you landed on a familiar name.

"Hello?" a groggy voice answered after the second ring.

"Changbin," you sobbed. "I need somewhere to stay."

---

The apartment was eerily quiet without you. Seungmin stood in the middle of the living room, holding the ultrasound photo you had left behind.

He felt horrible.

The anger and frustration that had fueled his words had disappeared, replaced by a sickening pit in his stomach. He had not meant to say half of the things that he did, but in the moment, it all came tumbling out.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" he muttered under his breath, sinking into the couch. He could not stop playing the look on your face - the way your shoulders had slumped, the tears in your eyes and anger in your voice as you left.

For the first time in weeks, he let himself confront the feelings he had been burying. The truth was, he was terrified. Terrified of losing his freedom, of not being good enough for you, and now of fatherhood. Instead of talking to you about it, however, he had lashed out, pushing you away when he needed you the most.

Seungmin stared at the ultrasound again, his thumb brushing over the tiny image.

'That's my baby.'

The thought sent a wave of emotion crashing over him, of fear yes, but also a deep unfamiliar sense of awe.

Yet, he was convinced he had already ruined everything.

---

Changbin greeted you at the front door in sweatpants and a hoodie, his face full of concern.

"What happened?" he questioned, his voice filled with concern but also tiredness. You shook your head, not able to speak without choking up. He ushered you inside, grabbing a nearby blanket and wrapping it around your shoulders.

"Take your time," he told you softly, sitting beside you.

The story spilled out in fragments - your fears about the pregnancy, Seungmin's distance, the fight, everything. By the time you had finished, Changbin looked angrier than you had ever seen him.

"That idiot," he mumbled under his breath. "I swear, I'm going to knock some sense into him."

"Don't," you replied quickly, your voice hoarse. "It's over, Changbin. I'm not going back." Changbin frowned but did not argue; instead, he pulled you into a comforing hug.

"You don't have to decide on anything right now. Just focus on taking care of yourself, okay?"

---

The next morning, Seungmin woke up to an empty apartment and a gut-wrenching sense of dread. He had tried calling you, but your phone went straight to voicemail. Panic set in when he realized he had no idea where you had gone.

It was not until later that day that he worked up the nerve to text Changbin.

'Is she with you?'

'She's safe. But don't plan on coming here. She needs space.

Seungmin sank down onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. You were safe, and that was all that mattered for now, but he knew that he could not leave things like they were.

The empty apartment was becoming unbearable; Seungmin missed the warmth of your embrace at night, the sleepy sounds you yawned in the morning, everything. Nothing felt right without you there.

His first attempt to fix things was impulsive; he showed up to Changbin's house unannounced, despearate to see you.

Changbin opened the door, his expression a mixture of disappointment and stifled frustration.

"She doesn't want to see you."

"I know I messed up," Seungmin responded. "I just need to explain-"

"You don't get to explain," Changbin cut him off. "Not yet, at least. You can't just apologize and expect her to forget everything that happened."

Seungmin faltered, shame washing over him.

"Then what do I do?"

Changbin sighed, his tone softening slightly.

"Figure out why you acted the way you did. Fix yourself, then fix the relationship."

---

Seungmin took Changbin's words to heart. For the first time in weeks, he had sought out therapy.

Sitting in the therapist's office, he struggled to put his thoughts into words.

"I feel trapped," he had finally admitted. "Like my life is moving faster than I can keep up with, and I took it out on my girlfriend." The therapist nodded, encouraging him to continue. "I think I'm scared. Scared of failing her, of failing the baby, of being stuck in a life I don't know if I'm ready for."

"That's understandable," the therapist gently assured. "But you need to know that running from your fears doesn't make them go away; it just hurts the ones you care about."

Seungmin left the session feeling lighter, though the weight of his actions was still pressing down on him.

He knew he could not fix things overnight, but he wanted to show you how serious he was about changing.

He started small, dropping off groceries at Changbin's house, knowing that you would not accept them from him directly. He began attending prenatal classes on his own, learning everything he could about what you were going through.

One day, he left a note for you with a small gift; it was a baby onesie that read, "I already have the best mom."

---

Weeks passed before you agreed to see him. You met at a park, the winter air crisp and cool. Seungmin looked nervous, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he approached.

"I'm not here to ask you to forgive me," he began, his voice steady but soft. "I just want you to know how sorry I am."

You crossed your arms, giving him a wary, "Go on."

He took a deep breath, his gaze meeting yours.

"I was selfish, and I let my fear and insecurities control me, and I hurt you in ways I can't even begin to make up for. You didn't deserve that."

"You're right," you replied quietly. "I don't." Seungmin nodded, swallowing hard.

"I can't change what I said, but I'm working on being better, for you, for our baby, and for myself. I understand if you never want to be with me again, but I'll always be here for our child. No matter what."

His sincerity caught you off guard. For the first time in weeks, you saw a glimpse of the man you had initially fell in love with.

---

The months that followed were not easy. You let Seungmin attend the doctor's appointments with you, but you kept your defenses up. Seungmin did not push; he showed up for every appointment, every class, and every moment you allowed him to be apart of. He listened more than he spoke, letting his actions do the talking.

One night, after a particularly long day, he found you sitting in the nursery, staring at the crib. You were far along at this point, about six or seven months; the realization of having this baby was finally beginning to set in.

"Everything okay?" Seungmin asked gently, leaning against the doorframe.

"It's just...a lot," you hesitated before nodding. Seungmin walked over, standing behind you and resting his head on your shoulder and wrapping his arms gently around your belly.

"I know, but you're not alone in this. Not anymore."

---

A few months later, you found yourself laying in the delivery room, clutching Seungmin's hand as your baby lay in the hospital's makeshift cradle just in the corner of the room. Seungmin's cheeks were stained with tears, his love evident within his expression as he walked over to the baby.

"I didn't think it was possible to feel so much love," he whispered, his voice breaking. You smiled through your exhaustion, watching as he gently cradled the baby for the first time.

In that moment, you knew he had changed.

And as he leaned down you press a gentle kiss to your forehead, you felt it too - the hope of a new beginning.