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loveesiren · 4 months ago

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𝖢𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖬𝗒 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 (𝖯𝗍.2)

Choi Seunghyun x f!reader x Kwon Jiyong | Masterlist

a/n: Here's part two! I feel like this part is slightly boring but I needed to write it to continue lol. I've also just been off the past few days and I'm trying to get back into the right mood so I'm sorry if this sucks. I'll try to have part 3 out ASAP!

synopsis: Y/n struggles escape her guilty conscience of the secret her and Jiyong carry. Meanwhile, Seunghyun is oblivious and head over heels for Y/n.

warnings: Language, angst, mention of sex, some fluff at the end

wc: 2.2k+

The shrill blare of your alarm yanked you from the depths of sleep, your body aching, your mind groggy with exhaustion. Your hand instinctively shot out, fumbling blindly until you slammed the snooze button, plunging the room back into an uneasy silence. A tired groan slipped from your lips as you shifted under the sheets, ready to drift back into oblivion—until you felt it.

A warmth beside you.

Your stomach twisted violently as you rolled over, your pulse spiking when your eyes landed on the figure sprawled out next to you. Jiyong.

His bare torso was partially covered by the sheets, the same sheets that reeked of sweat, sex, and the mistakes of last night. His face was relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. Without the cocky smirk, without the biting words, he almost looked…peaceful. Almost.

But the moment you registered the ache between your legs, the bruises forming on your hips, the ghost of his hands still lingering on your skin, shame crashed over you like a tidal wave.

Last night came rushing back in a flood of memories—Seunghyun’s gentle smile, the way he looked at you with admiration and patience. The way you had laughed, talked, felt like a real person again, not just some dirty little secret. And then Jiyong. His scent. His touch. His words whispered against your lips as he dragged you back into the cycle of ruin.

You squeezed your eyes shut. God, you hated yourself.

With a sharp inhale, you grabbed your phone, your fingers moving on autopilot as you typed out a text to your boss.

Can’t come in today. Migraine.

It was a weak excuse, but you prayed he wouldn’t question it. You never took a day off. Maybe he’d let this one slide.

Your phone buzzed almost immediately.

Fine, but I need the final drafts by midnight tomorrow.

Relief washed over you, but it was short-lived. You set the phone down and turned to face the bigger issue at hand.

“Jiyong, get up,” you snapped, your voice ice-cold as you slammed your foot into his calf.

He groaned in protest, rolling onto his side with a sleepy scowl. “What the fuck, Y/n?”

“Get out.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the morning stillness like a blade.

Jiyong blinked at you, disoriented but quickly catching on. His smirk returned, lazy and infuriating. “Is that really how you treat the guy who made you cum three times last night?” His voice was drenched in amusement, in satisfaction. In ownership.

Your stomach churned, your skin burning with humiliation. You turned away, grabbing your clothes off the floor, yanking them on in a frenzy. Jiyong propped himself up on one elbow, watching you with that infuriating smirk still lingering on his lips.

“You look tense.” he teased, stretching his arms above his head, his toned stomach flexing. “You wanna fuck it out?”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not coming in today. And this—this is over. So get up and get out of my house.”

Jiyong tilted his head, his long, fading orange hair falling into his eyes. The same hair you were responsible for touching up, though the thought of being that close to him again made bile rise in your throat.

“Why aren’t you coming in?” His tone was nonchalant, but there was something else lurking beneath it.

“I need a fucking day off—from you. From everything.” Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it. “I had a nice time with Seunghyun last night. And then you just—you just showed up and ruined it.”

He scoffed. “Ruined it? You were begging me to fuck you, Y/n.”

You flinched. He always knew exactly where to strike.

“That was the last fucking time, Jiyong. I’m serious.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, his gaze flickered to the bedside table, to the black dahlia wilting from neglect. His smirk curled slightly.

“I helped him pick that out, you know.” He gestured lazily toward the flower. “Told him you liked dahlias. He doesn’t know shit about you, Y/n. Not like I do.”

Your breath hitched. “Still don’t know why you did that,” you murmured, your voice laced with suspicion. “Maybe just stay out of our business.”

His eyes darkened. “He’s my best friend. He comes to me for advice.” A cruel chuckle escaped his lips. “I mean, next time I could just tell him how to fuck you right—since I know all about that.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Don’t you dare tell him,” you seethed.

Jiyong raised an eyebrow. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Your chest heaved. “Why do you even care, Jiyong?! You hate me. I hate you. This was all just meaningless fucking sex!”

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Jiyong’s jaw tightened. His nostrils flared, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. For the first time, he had nothing to say.

“I like Seunghyun. I really do,” you continued, your voice shaking. “And I’d like to see him again. But I can’t do that if you’re still lurking around, so just—just fuck off! Find someone else to fuck!”

Something flashed in his eyes, something raw, something dangerous—but then it was gone.

“Fine,” he spat, his smirk returning, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve got plenty of girls. I don’t need you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Never needed you.” You mumbled, though you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

Jiyong let out a bitter laugh, but it was hollow. Without another word, he grabbed his clothes, yanked them on, and stormed toward the door. The slam of it rattled the walls.

The moment he was gone, your legs gave out. You sank to the floor, your hands clutching at your hair, your breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The weight of it all came crashing down, pressing against your chest like a thousand bricks.

It was over.

And yet—you knew it wasn’t. Not completely.

You crawled toward the bathroom, your limbs feeling like lead. The moment you stepped into the shower, you let the scorching water cascade over your skin, washing away the remnants of last night. You sat against the tile, knees pulled to your chest, silent sobs wracking your body.

You had never felt so disgusted with yourself.

Two hours passed before you finally emerged, your body scrubbed raw, but the filth of Jiyong still clung to you like a second skin. You numbly went through your routine, pulling on sweats and a tank top, throwing your sheets into the wash.

Your phone sat untouched on the counter. You braced yourself before picking it up, expecting an onslaught of messages—Jiyong’s wrath, Seunghyun’s confusion, your boss demanding answers.

Instead, there was just one.

Seunghyun: Hey, I heard you weren’t feeling good. Hopefully it’s not from the restaurant. I hope you feel better soon! It’s boring without you here.

Your chest ached. He didn’t know. Not yet.

No, it’s not from the restaurant. Just a headache. I had a great time last night!

You lied.

Not about having a great time with Seunghyun—you had. Those few hours with him had felt like stepping into a life you wanted so desperately to claim as your own. A life that was simple, warm, untouched by the filth of your past mistakes. But the reason you weren’t at work? That was a lie.

You weren’t sick.

You were avoiding the inevitable.

Jiyong knew how to be cruel when he wanted to be. And if he decided to open his mouth, your world would come crumbling down. Your stomach twisted at the thought of it. Everyone would know. Your boss, your coworkers, Seunghyun.

Seunghyun.

You didn’t even want to think about how he would react. The betrayal in his eyes, the disappointment. Would he hate you? Would he turn his back on you? On his best friend?

You pushed the thought away, forcing yourself into work. You needed a distraction, something to pull you away from the anxiety chewing at your insides. Music blared from the speakers, filling the silence as you lost yourself in sketching, your pencil moving in sharp, deliberate strokes.

You had finished Daesung’s outfit first, moving onto Taeyang’s and Seungri’s with ease. Designing for them was simple, almost soothing. You knew their style, their personalities, the energy they brought to the stage. It was second nature to you.

But then came the last two pages of your sketchbook.

Seunghyun and Jiyong.

Your fingers lingered on Seunghyun’s page, your pencil tracing meaningless details—adding unnecessary stitching to his jacket, shading in areas that didn’t need shading, elongating the shape of the silhouette. You knew you were procrastinating, but you couldn’t bring yourself to flip the page just yet.

You liked being on this page. Here, there was no shame, no regret, no mistakes. Just clean lines and the promise of something new.

But eventually, you had to move forward.

The moment you flipped to Jiyong’s page, your stomach clenched.

You stared at the half finished sketch you’d started, your fingers tightening around your pencil. Designing for him was always easy. You knew his style better than anyone, could predict his fashion choices before he even made them. But now, looking at this page, it felt impossible.

How could you design something for a man you wanted so desperately to erase from your memory?

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to sketch. You kept it simple, precise—dark, sleek lines, something effortlessly cool and arrogant, just like him. Just like the man his fans adored. Not the man who whispered filthy things into your ear, not the man who knew exactly how to ruin you, over and over again.

But even as you sketched, his voice echoed in your head.

"He doesn’t know shit about you, Y/n. Not like I do."

Your grip on the pencil tightened. God, you hated him.

And yet, the memory of last night still clung to your skin. The bruises on your hips, the soreness between your legs. You hated how good he made you feel, how easy it was to fall into bed with him, how no matter how hard you tried to move on, he always found a way to pull you back in.

You shook your head, biting down on your lip hard enough to taste copper.

You just had to finish this.

Just as you were adding the final touches, the doorbell rang.

You jolted upright, blinking down at your sketchbook as if just realizing where you were. Pushing it aside, you stood, rubbing the stiffness from your neck before making your way to the door.

You weren’t expecting company.

When you swung the door open, the sight before you made your breath hitch.

Seunghyun.

He stood there, a bag of takeout in one hand and yet another flower in the other. This time, a purple tulip, its petals delicate between his fingers.

“Seunghyun!” you breathed, your voice laced with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I felt bad you weren’t feeling well today, so I thought maybe some ramen would help?” He lifted the bag slightly before extending the flower. “And, uh… I picked this from someone’s garden on the way here.”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it.

"You stole a flower for me?"

He chuckled, his ears turning pink. "Borrowed. I’ll return it if they notice."

Your fingers curled around the stem, bringing the tulip to your nose as you giggled, the gesture so undeniably him. "This is really sweet, Seunghyun."

“If you’d like some company, I’m free.” He paused, suddenly unsure. “But if you’re not up for it, I totally understand.”

You didn’t hesitate. “No, I am!”

His face brightened at your enthusiasm. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “Come in.” You needed the distraction.

Seunghyun followed you inside, his presence filling your small apartment with warmth. As he placed the food on the counter, you searched for a vase, already feeling guilty about the black dahlia wilting in your bedroom.

Then, he spoke again.

“Oh, and this was outside your door.”

You turned just as he pulled a white envelope from his pocket, holding it out to you.

“I promise I didn’t look at it,” he added quickly. “I just picked it up so you wouldn’t miss it. Could be something important.”

Your fingers hesitated before taking it from him. It was blank. No address, no name.

Your stomach twisted.

“Uh, Seunghyun… do me a favor?” You tried to keep your voice steady. “Take all this to the living room? Pick us a movie to watch.”

“Sure!” He grinned, easily distracted. “What kind of movie do you want to watch?”

“Something scary!” you called back, waiting until he was out of sight before your fingers pried open the envelope.

Inside, there was something small, cold.

A key.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Not just any key. Your key.

Your heart pounded as you pulled out the folded note tucked inside.

You didn’t need to open it to know who it was from. The handwriting was unmistakable, messy and familiar, like it had been scribbled in a rush.

With trembling fingers, you unfolded it, your eyes scanning the words.

I won’t tell him.

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cece693 · 2 months ago

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With me hitting a writing block, I thought back to a childhood series I adored—The Hunger Games! This idea is simple, but was easy to write as you are lovers trying to survive the games, but is that really possible? Don't know what else to say, except, that I hope you enjoy!

FIGHT FOR ME

pairing: finnick odair x male reader tags: you and finnick go back, friends to lovers, Annie doesn't exist in my realm, you're a fellow victor from district 10, district 10 specializes in livestock (so killing animals and providing meat to the capital), you are a man who is very calm, which pisses finnick the fuck out

The first time Finnick Odair saw you, he was still raw from the saltwater of his own Games—seventeen years old, paraded through the Capitol on his Victor’s Tour and sick of being beautiful for other people. He’d escaped a banquet by slipping onto a penthouse balcony, chest heaving with too-sweet air, when he noticed someone already leaning on the rail: you, District 10’s victor from three years prior, tuxedo unbuttoned and head tilted toward the constellations as if mapping a route home.

“Careful,” Finnick muttered, meaning the cameras inside.

You didn’t turn. “They’re all busy applauding themselves. We have five safe minutes.”

Something in the weary certainty of your voice cracked Finnick’s practiced charm. You offered him a silver flask—clear water, not liquor—then spoke of tides, ship knots, the glide of moonlight on coral. It was the first conversation since his crowning that hadn’t felt like being filleted. When he finally laughed—really laughed—you smiled and said, “I hoped that sound still existed.”

In the months that followed, your paths crossed whenever the Capitol trotted its trophies out: interviews, charity galas, private auctions none of the sponsors called by their real name. Finnick collected jewelry; you collected secrets—tiny acts of rebellion like pressing a note into his palm (“Meet me on the roof in seven minutes”) or blocking a Capitol lackey from drugging Finnick’s drink with a casual shoulder-bump. He started counting on the solid weight of you at his side, the unspoken code that if one disappeared, the other would go looking.

Affection snuck up on him in increments: the way his breath hitched when you ruffled his sea-damp hair during training sessions for new tributes; how jealousy burned when Capitol aristocrats laid greedy hands on your arm; the warm twist low in his stomach whenever you said his name without the purr everyone else used—just Finnick, bare and simple, like a real boy instead of a legend.

By the time he admitted, alone in his mentor’s quarters, “I love him,” the word felt too small for the tide inside his chest.

10 YEARS LATER

District 4—Victor’s Village, Sea-glass Lane

Your visits had become ritual: once every moon-cycle you traded cattle fields for Finnick’s weather-bleached porch, dropping your overnight pack beside the rope hammock and letting the salt wind unknot your shoulders. You told yourself it was friendship. Finnick told himself it was safer that way—love unnamed was love unexposed.

That bright autumn afternoon began like the others: gulls wheeling over the breakers, Mags humming in the kitchen, Finnick showing you how to splice line without fraying the fibers. You were teasing him—“Your knots look jealous of each other, so tight they can’t breathe”—when the Capitol emergency broadcast hijacked every screen in the house. The image of President Snow flickered across the living-room holopane.

Finnick’s laugh died. Your hands stilled, rope half-braided between you.

“As a reminder of the Capitol’s benevolence,” Snow drawled, eyes reptilian, “the Third Quarter Quell will draw its tributes from the existing pool of victors.”

Silence—vast, tidal—before Mags’ china teacup shattered in the next room.

Finnick’s stomach plummeted so violently he tasted copper. Not him. Anybody but him. He lurched to his feet, nearly tripping on the coil of rope, and reached for the remote with hands that suddenly wouldn’t obey. The holopane kept hissing—Snow listing dates, times, protocols—until Finnick found the power switch and cut the feed. The room plunged into hush broken only by surf, by the distant clang of a harbor bell, by Finnick’s pulse roaring in his ears.

You turned, expression almost peaceful. “It was inevitable.” You eased back onto the couch, folding one ankle over the other with that maddening calm he’d never managed to crack. “We always knew the Capitol wouldn’t let us die peacefully in old age.”

Finnick knelt before you, uncaring that his knees hit hardwood. “Stop. Don’t you dare put that resignation mask on. You fought harder than anyone I’ve ever seen—in your Games, in the years after, every time you kept another tribute from breaking.” His throat tightened. “You think none of that matters?”

“Finnick—”

“Stop.” Panic made his voice a brittle thing. “Don’t tell me you’re ready to go back into that place. Don’t tell me you’ll lie down because Snow snapped his fingers.”

Your calm ignited something furious inside him; he felt it flare through every scar the Capitol had ever kissed. “You think your death will satisfy him?” Finnick shook his head, curls whipping. “They’ll drag us both in anyway. They’ll kill us on screen. Don’t make it easy for them.”

“Finnick,” you repeated softly, brushing a strand of sea-tangle hair from his lashes. “I have no illusions. I’m twenty-six. I have been living on borrowed time since I won the games at thirteen. If dying keeps another child out of the Arena—”

“Don’t you dare dress suicide in charity.” Finnick's voice cracked; he forced iron into the next words. “Your life isn’t a bargaining chip. It’s mine, too—do you understand that? I’m in love with you. That means your heartbeat is mine.”

Shock flickered across your face—the confession he’d whispered only to empty walls now alive between you. It trembled there, fragile as a soap bubble, until you lifted a hand and rested your palm to his chest, over the tattoo of knots near his heart. Your thumb stroked once, twice, the way you smoothed rope before pulling it tight.

“Finnick Odair,” you murmured, voice turned rough, “I don’t deserve that kind of devotion.”

“Then fight until you do,” he fired back, desperate. “Fight for every stolen night like this. Fight because I can’t stand if you’re not beside me.”

The holopanel continued to drone outside—people celebrating that their young children wouldn't be reaped, the Capitol anthem swelling—but the two of you stood in a pocket of stillness. Finally you nodded, as if accepting command aboard a doomed vessel.

“Okay” you said. “I'll fight to stay alive, but that doesn't mean I won't protect you out there.”

“You’ll protect me?” Finnick echoed. “You realize how backwards that sounds?”

You arched a brow. “I’ve watched you cart more than one Career across the ground with a spear through your calf, Odair. Someone had better keep you from playing hero.”

For the first time since Snow’s card, a laugh—thin but real—broke from Finnick’s throat. It felt like breathing after surf had pinned him under. “Deal,” he whispered, resting his forehead to yours. “We protect each other. Always.”

You bumped noses, conspiratorial. “Always is a long voyage, sailor.”

“Not when it comes to you.”

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b00kdiary · 4 months ago

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Alright, based on your ACOTAR unpopular opinion about tamlin...I will get on my knees and beg you to write a Tamlinx plus size reader fic where she helps him heal and he is just head over heels in love with her Pretty please with sugar on top 💚

Beauty & the Beast | Tamlin

ACOTAR Tamlin X Plus Sized Reader

When Y/N finds Tamlin dying in the forest, she has no choice but to save him. Even if everything in her wished this male dead. Like two storms colliding, they meet. A broken High Lord, a hopeless healer. It almost sounds like fate.

Warning: PART ONE Mature themes (18+), swearing, fluff, and eventual smut next chapter.

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

"Wake up!" I hissed, "Wake up, you lumbering brute!"

The beast groaned, his lithe body writhing beneath my hands—hands that pressed desperately against the mortal wound at his side, trying to staunch the relentless flow of blood.

His golden fur was matted with red, the blood oozing from the gaping hole beneath his fifth rib. My palms were sticky with it, and the bitter, metallic scent filled the air. If I could smell it, I knew every predator and prey in the forest could too.

I shifted on my knees atop the muddied ground, my wide eyes canvassing the vast forest around me, scrutinizing every leaf and log and skitter of feet. I strained my ears, listening for any noises that would indicate that more of them were coming.

I glared down at the beast before me, that wolf's head lolling on the floor, his lion's body limp with pain, and those bear's claws coated with guts and gore.

"You're going to get us both killed," I cursed him, cursed myself, cursed the Mother and the Cauldron, and every other forgotten God out there for forcing this upon me.

I had found him passed out in this forest passage, a death rattle trembling from his lungs. If that hadn't been bad enough, my heart nearly stopped dead at the sight not fifteen feet ahead— Naga, five of them, ripped to utter ribbons and scattered across the dirt.

They had put up a furious fight if the scratches and claws and teeth marks covering him were any indication. Enough of a fight that one had managed to strike a deadly blow to the male before it died.

He had been dying when I found him, had lost so much blood for a second, I thought he was dead.

And now here I was— desperately trying to save him. Save the High Lord of Spring.

If he could even be considered that anymore.

I grit my teeth, steadying my breath as I let my power surge through me. White, incandescent light blazed from my hands, channeling directly into the wound. It stitched torn flesh, mended tendons, fused bones, and restored the ruined skin.

Only for a second though, before the injury tore open yet again and a fresh bout of blood began leaking through the gaps in my fingers. It was the same cycle I had been enduring for several long minutes now, and I began to fear his body would not take any more of this.

"For the love of the Mother," I pressed my palms down hard enough to hurt, hard enough for his muscled form to jolt. "You need to wake up, you need to change back to your Fae form!"

Panic rose in me like a tidal wave as his breathing grew shallower. This forest had become a death trap; these lands teemed with danger. If Naga roamed here, then so would bogeys, exiles, and Cauldron knows what other horrors.

Here, on this cursed ground, with this wounded, defenceless male, we were prey. We were as vulnerable as rabbits caught in a snare, awaiting death. And it was all because of him, the state he was in, the state of these lands, the monsters that had been tormenting the people and villages.

It was all because of him.

Anger blazed through me, bringing tears to my eyes. In a moment of desperation, I did something cruel, something that made my very soul weep. I plunged a finger into his wound, the flesh and blood squelching as I repeatedly stabbed into him.

On the third brutal stab, his fierce green eyes snapped open, shining like emeralds amidst the darkness.

The High Lord of the Spring Court roared.

The very land trembled with that roar, and I cringed as birds took flight from trees and the forest animals began dashing away — from the horrible power and anger that radiated off this beast.

He flipped, as fast as I could blink, snapping jaws and growling, nearly knocking me straight onto my ass as he did so. But as quick as that anger came, it was replaced by something far worse, far stronger.

The High Lord groaned, his mammoth form staggering back to the ground as pain overwhelmed him.

"What have you done?" He commanded, in a voice that was nothing Fae or human or safe. He tried to drag himself away from me, but somehow, I was the stronger one in this situation, keeping my hands staunching his wound. "What have you done to me?"

"Will you stop fucking moving?" I hissed, trying not to balk as those soulless green eyes latched onto me and he snarled. "I didn't do this to you, but I am the one saving your gods-damn life."

His claws extended at my words, latching onto the ground. He glared at me as if he wished that it had been my flesh instead.

"What are you doing— "

His voice was the epitome of raw, primal danger as his form moved, snatching back from my hands, from the white light that had begun leaking from it. I swore because as soon as my pressure disappeared, a steady tap of near-black blood began to ooze and puddle under him.

I gasped as he staggered onto his bloodied paws, so fathomably large that he eclipsed the forest, eclipsed the sun and sky above. The blood didn't stop leaking, yet that did little to deter the beast as he tried and failed to step away, swaying and groaning as he did so.

"Stop, you need to lay down," I fought the urge to grab him, cringing at the gore and blood painted across my hands, stuck under my fingernails. "You need to turn, I can't heal— "

"Do not touch me," Another monstrous snap of teeth and threatening snarl when I reached a hand to him. "Do not touch me, witch."

"Witch?" I laughed sardonically. "I am a healer you bastard, and I am trying to save your ungrateful ass."

He hunched forward, grimacing in pain, a pain I saw hollow out his green eyes. It took more effort than it should have for his powerful head to lift and those eyes to meet mine.

"Mind your tongue when you speak to me, witch," He warned, sharp, terse words undercut with laboured breath. "Do you know who I am? I demand respect as High Lord— "

"You demand nothing, you are nothing," I erupted, my voice rising with my temper as I pointed at him. My hands were bloodied, almost symbolic really. "Look at yourself, look around you. You are Lord of nothing, you are Lord of no one, and none but me is here to aid you."

He staggered another step, paws shaking from his weight. If he heard my words, if he felt the sting of them, I couldn't tell.

"You need to turn back to your Fae form if you want to live," I continued, my tone still unforgiving. "My magic is useless to you like this, I can't stop the bleeding until you turn."

"And if I do not?" He retorted, words beginning to slur together. Somehow, he didn't look so scary now— he almost looked afraid. "Will your healer heart allow you to leave me here to die, Witch?"

"Turn," I said again, almost pleading now. Because the blood had begun to slow, and I knew that would not bode well for him. "Please, turn."

He blinked, long, dark lashes fluttering and that terrifying yet magnificent beast face stared at me, stared through me. I wondered if he was contemplating death if the darkness in his eyes was him resigning himself in defeat.

"If not for yourself," I said, my words strained. "Then for your people, for this court. Do not – do not abandon them wholly, Tamlin."

Tamlin. It was the first time I had uttered his name and as if the darkness had been pulled like a blanket from his eyes, I saw clarity shine within the green hues.

One second that foreboding, golden beast towered above me, and then the next, light flared, and I had to shield my eyes to endure it. It took me a moment to reorientate myself and when I had, my breath caught at the sight before me.

Tamlin knelt in the mud, with his head hung low, long blonde hair eclipsing his strong, beautiful face. Those broad shoulders hunched in, his body a canvas of muscle, carved and dipped and moulded to perfection.

He looked like a broken king. A bloodied monarch kicked down to the status of a mongrel.

His moon-pale skin seemed to shine under the dim Spring sun, his chest heaving with shallow breaths as he composed himself. The wound was worse in his Fae form, so much worse. I swallowed back the tinge of bile rising in my throat at the distinct sight of bone marrow and tendons peeking out the gaping hole.

"Cauldron, I need to heal that now— " I reached for him, and the infuriating bastard jerked back. I growled. "Do you want to die?"

His chest rose, faster now, his large, calloused hands curling into fists in the mud.

"Because believe me, your death would bear little impact on me, or anyone else." I continue harshly. "In fact, under different circumstances I'd probably be more incensed to watch you bleed out."

"Then let me bleed, Witch," He rumbled.

"If you die, we're all fucked." I spit, crawling angrily through the mud towards him, my dress streaked in dirt and filth beyond saving. "Because you have no heirs and no powerful contenders in your shitty court to supersede you. It's just you. And as useless as you are, at least the breath in your lungs is keeping this territory from completely collapsing."

His head lifted as I stopped before him, and my breath caught at the first real sight I got of his face.

Cauldron, he was beautiful.

Carved with an effortless kind of regality, his face was a canvas born of strong contours and noble lines that screamed power. High cheekbones, a straight, precise nose, and full yet firm lips, curled into a snarl that allowed the smallest glimpse of the sharp, white teeth beneath.

But it was his eyes that stole the air from my lungs.

Vividly green, deep and endless, like the heart of an ancient forest. And like a forest, they were still, fathomless, soulless. They stared through me.

He didn't argue with my condemning words. In truth, he didn't even seem to be affected by them.

But he unfurled his fists in the mud. And it spoke the words he wouldn't say.

Exhaling a deep breath, I shifted closer on my knees, closing the final gap of space between us. My small shaking hands reached towards that gaping bleeding hole, slowly, like one would approach a wounded animal.

Which Tamlin seemed to be. Wounded. Broken. Damaged beyond repair. The High Lord of Spring was a shell of the male he had been.

It was almost sad. Almost.

He sucked in a sharp breath as my palm connected with his torn, ruined flesh, squelching. I steepled my fingers over the open wound, his skin hot and electric against mine.

"This is going to hurt," I warned softly.

"Careful, or I'll think you care, Witch." He drawled, head bowed low again.

"Not likely," I muttered, and I thought I saw a hint of a sardonic smile.

I didn't dwell on it. I didn't view him as anything other than something I despised.

I clenched my teeth, forcing my breath to steady as I unleashed my power. White, incandescent light poured from my hands, sinking into the gaping wound. Flesh knit together, torn tendons wove back into place, shattered bones fused seamlessly, and raw, ruined skin smoothed as if untouched.

The air hummed with magic, the light pulsing in time with his shallow breaths—until, at last, the wound was nothing more than a ghost of pain left behind.

His chest expanded with a deep, powerful breath and with the exhale, the forestry around us quivered. It was raw power. And yet I had the distinct impression that it was a mere whisper of what he truly possessed in his arsenal.

It was the crumbs of what remained after months of stagnation and stifling.

He groaned, hunching forward, his fist meeting the ground to steady himself. Instinctively, I reached forward, small hands gripping his broad shoulders and using my strength to keep the brute from collapsing and eating dirt.

An electric hum of power burned through my palm where it met his skin, so potent it prickled through my bloodstream and straight to my heart, thumping it loud and hard, again and again.

Ba bum. Ba bum. Ba bum—

He tore his body from mine, a snarl rumbling in his chest. "Unhand me, Witch. I'm fine."

My eyes narrowed into slits, palms curling into fists and retreating to my sides. "Yeah, you seem fine. Perfectly normal to keel over in the dirt."

Emerald eyes shot to mine, narrowed and sharp with anger at my sardonic tone.

"And you're welcome by the way," I spat, tossing my braid over a shoulder and rising to my feet indignantly. "You know, for saving your life."

My dress was ruined, the simple blue cotton stained with mud and blood and Cauldron only knew what else. The fabric stuck wetly to my body, clinging uncomfortably to every swell and dip and roll I had.

His gaze flickered from my face down my body. His snarling expression didn't shift, but there was a distinct flare in his eyes. Like a male seeing something that he couldn't deny, even if he wanted to.

Heat bloomed my cheeks, and I roughly cleared my throat, straightening my spine. "Guess we're done here. Try not to die again, High Lord."

I bowed mockingly, enjoying the grumble of annoyance that revved through his chest. Before straightening, shooting the male one last scathing look and turning on my heel in the forest and walking away.

I cringed at the blood caking my hands, cringed more as I tiptoed over the mutilated bodies of the Naga scattered around. I'd need to find a stream, or some kind of well, if I walked into the next village looking like a mass murderer I'd be chased off with pitchforks.

Perhaps if I—

A pained grunt broke through my inner thoughts and my feet stopped before I commanded them to. I turned back around and then huffed. "Oh, for fuck sake."

The High Lord of Spring was passed out on the floor, face buried in the dirt.

I hesitated and then trudged back towards him, cursing the Mother for my misfortune.

***

When my senses finally returned, two things became clear.

One: Night had fallen, meaning I'd been unconscious for hours.

Two: The loud, foul-mouthed witch who had saved my life was still here.

With more effort than I cared to admit, I turned my head to the side, the movement sending a dull ache rippling through my skull. A rough, lumpy branch pressed against my neck, its bark biting into my skin.

Blinking away the black spots that danced at the edges of my vision, my gaze settled on the witch.

She crouched before a crackling fire, her small, plump hands outstretched toward the flames. Now and then, she plucked a broken branch from the pile beside her and tossed it into the fire, the wood hissing as it caught.

My eyes traced over those hands—clean now, the dried blood and filth scrubbed away. She must have found water. Where there had once been crusted gore, there was only smooth, unblemished skin, her nails polished and pristine, glinting faintly in the firelight.

I recalled how they'd glowed, incandescent and pure, when she'd pressed over my gaping wound and healed me. The heat had been both excruciating yet relieving, the feeling of that fatal hole closing inch by inch felt like a breath of fresh air after an eternity trapped underwater.

She was a healer, though in five hundred years, I'd never encountered a healer like her, or any female like her. Brazen, out-spoken, mouthy beyond what was smart or necessary.

If I didn't owe her a life debt, I'd likely have torn out that viper tongue of hers. Or plucked out those sharp, piercing eyes that glared and narrowed and rolled as if I were a pest she had stumbled across.

Cauldron, the witch had infuriated me enough that I'd almost forgotten I was dying.

My gaze unconsciously swept over her form. Another distracting thing I would begrudgingly admit to. Her body was pure sin. A temptation any hot-blooded male would be unable to deny.

I rake down the spoiled fabric of her dress, the blue cotton stained red from my blood, dried and flaking. It clung to her obscenely, highlighting the swells of her ample figure in a way that would make any God-fearing male send up blessings to the Cauldron and Mother above.

Much to my chagrin, I was staring. Even with a splitting migraine, and a soul-deep ache, I was staring.

"Finally awake, sleeping beauty?" That viper tongue of hers drawled, and my green eyes snapped up from her body to those unforgiving eyes.

My gaze narrowed.

Her eyes rolled in response, and she chucked another log onto the fire, the flames crackling and rising high. Against the backdrop of the dark, silent forest, the amber fire kissed her skin, highlighting the plump curves and the tart persona.

"You're welcome," She muttered drily. "You know, for saving your life. Again."

"I wasn't dying, Witch." My voice rumbled out like a thunderclap.

"No, you just passed out into the dirt, sweating, heartbeat near non-existent and then didn't awake for half a day," Another eye roll, "Sounds perfectly normal to me."

I tried to raise myself onto my elbows. Tried and failed. A growl rumbled in my throat.

"You came back." It wasn't a question. Just a statement. As flat and unfeeling as my soul felt.

"Seemed a waste for me to make such an effort to save your life, only for you to die from exposure," She shrugged. And I had the distinct impression this female truly did not care if I lived or died.

It should have offended me, perhaps hurt me, but instead, I found it begrudgingly admirable. She hated me and had no qualms being up front about it. That kind of honesty was rare.

I vaguely recalled her words earlier.

"Bastard."

"I am trying to save your ungrateful ass."

My lips almost tugged into a faint smile, a flicker of something akin to amusement blazing to life in my chest. It was an emotion I hadn't experienced in such a long time; I had difficulty even placing it.

My eyes sharpened upon her as she began to walk over to me. Instinctively, I curled my fists in the dirt, feeling the pinprick of my claws hidden just beneath the skin. If she felt my hostility, my aggression, she didn't acknowledge it.

My face was steel, immovable, as she knelt by my sprawled figure. Her face was a mirror, I quickly realised—steel, immovable, and cold—as if it was her instinct to resent being near me, too.

She reached for me, a damp scrap of cloth in her palm. I jerked back, and she glowered.

"Stop moving," She bit out, "or I'll pin your overgrown ass down."

Cauldron, she was a demon.

Ignoring my deathly glare, and the flash of sharp canine teeth, she merely placed the damp, cold cloth against my neck. With more tenderness than I'd expected, she began to carefully soothe my overheated skin.

My breath caught at the first touch of coldness, like ice meeting molten fire. But also cause of the brief touch of her skin against mine. Those soft small fingers grazing my throat and collarbones with each precise, gentle stroke of the cloth.

Her face betrayed nothing as she ran the cooling cloth over my skin, water droplets running down the carved muscles along my pectorals and abdomen. Though she clearly held contempt for me, this female soothed and cared for me with a touch that could only be described as God's-send.

It was the first moment of peace I'd felt in.... so long. Too long.

The forest around us eerily silent, except for the distant noises of lurking animals heard in snapping branches or rustling bristles. The moon above glowed— Dimly. Like everything in Spring, it was dim, depleted, as if the energy had been sucked dry from it.

Because of me.

Spring Court was weak, broken, vulnerable. Like me. A mirror image of the barren landscape that was my soul.

The Witch ran the cloth down my sternum, and the tingle rippled like dominos across my spine.

"For a Witch, who obviously disdains my mere existence," I said, more strained than I'd like. "You're helping me an awful lot."

Another drag of that cloth, down my stomach, my abdomen clenching. "Would you rather I let you die?"

"I think you would rather I die," I mutter.

Those eyes roll again. "I already told you; your death would do more bad than good."

"If you die, we're all fucked. Because you have no heirs and no powerful contenders in your shitty court to supersede you. It's just you. And as useless as you are, at least the breath in your lungs is keeping this territory from completely collapsing."

Right. I was the last thread holding this court together. Ironic considering I'd been the one responsible for its downfall to begin with.

"Have we met before, Witch?" I caught her small wrist in my large, calloused hand. Pressed my thumb against her pulse point and felt it race. The only sign that my presence affected that ice-cold exterior.

"No. we haven't." She said, her wrist in my hand still. "Though I doubt you would remember even if we had. Why bother, I'm only a lesser Fae. Common folk."

Her sharp words had my fingers tightening around her wrist, not painfully, but firmly. "So, you hate me without even knowing me?"

"I know enough."

My fingers tightened further. "You know nothing, Witch, I am—"

"I know that before, you ruled this land like one would rule an army: with an iron fist," She gritted out. "I know of the tithe you forced upon your people, even those who could barely feed their kids. The sanctions you placed as punishment when the common folk could not deliver to your heathen demands. The utter lack of mercy you had."

Her palm curled into a fist, her pulse pounding like a war drum under my thumb.

"I know that you are the reason that Spring had crumbled to the ashes," She continued on her unforgiving tirade. "Some blame Feyre Cursebreaker for the ruination of Spring. But me? I blame you."

Something cracked open in my chest at Feyre's name. The old wound leaking blood, so much, I swear I tasted iron on my tongue.

"Listen here, Witch," I snarled, tugging her by the wrist I still held, until her face hovered over mine. "Control your tongue, before I—"

"Before you what? What, you swine?" She breathed, fire in her eyes. "Because from where I stand, not only is your power little more than a spec, but your strength is even less. So do not threaten me."

My claws inched out my knuckles as I glared this viper down. She didn't so much as blink at it.

"It was your stupidity, your arrogance, your entitlement over Feyre that led you to allying with Hybern, led you to 'winning' her back," She continued, "And the ruin she inflicted upon spring, upon Ianthe, upon your sentinels, and army... it was all your doing."

"She betrayed me," I barked. "She betrayed us all."

"Feyre laid the traps," She scoffed, "But it was your selfishness, your pig-headed, easily led insecurity that made you fall straight into them. You betrayed her first, we all know it. So, stop lying to yourself and me."

"You don't know," I breathed, fist closing like a vice around her wrist, talons pressing to the delicate skin, not yet breaking through. I felt like a fire was burning through my heart. "You don't know, Witch."

"Perhaps not, perhaps that truth is one only you, Feyre and the Gods share," Her voice shook, those eyes glossed with anger and tears. "But after? What excuse do you have for abandoning this Court, Tamlin? What excuse is enough to explain what this land has become?"

The pain in her words felt as raw as her reaching into my chest and squeezing my stagnant heart. My eyes clenched, from weakness, from pain, from denial. I wasn't sure.

Her fingers gripped my chin hard, shook my face, forcing me to open my eyes again. "Look at me! Damn you, look at me!"

I did.

Tears welled in her eyes, her plump cheeks burning red and streaked with tears. But still her lip curled at the corner, a flash of white teeth.

"The sun barely shines; the moon hardly rises!" She continued, voice breaking. "The very earth itself is dying, because you have given up. You roam these lands, resigned in your beast form, and each day this court suffers more and more for it."

My talons pierce the delicate skin of her wrist, scarlet blood pooling from the pricks. But she doesn't flinch at it— I imagined her emotional pain overshadowed the physical.

"And the monsters that dwell here," A noise akin to a sob comes from her and I flinch. "Do you even know what is happening in the villages? What atrocities the common folk are enduring?"

A fresh bout of pain speared my chest. I was feeling again. Fuck, I forgot how much it hurt to feel.

"Monsters— Naga, Bogey, Puca— they roam these lands, uncontrolled," Her chest heaves as she says each word, "But it's our own people, the Fae of these lands, who terrorise us so greatly. Pillaging villages, murdering, raping, stealing, burning homes and business, taking children and wives!"

Breathing became a burden. As if the forest around us disappeared, and the pain that had throbbed in my body and mind and soul had been washed away, all I knew, all I felt, was this female. Her sorrow. So strong, I could taste her tears on my tongue.

My fingers loosened around her wrist, talons retreating into my skin.

"I watched my village burn as they came," She cried, "I saw homes and houses ruined, I saw men slaughtered and their heads spiked on lances and paraded. Women raped and violated before their families. Children beaten and chained. Barely a handful of us survived."

Something wet and hot began leaking down my cheeks, saltiness bursting across my tongue. I blinked back the fog over my eyes, wanting, needing, to see her anguished face above mine as she raged and sobbed.

Cauldron, I was crying.

When was the last time I'd cried?

"All these innocent people dead, violated, lives ruined. And do you know what they prayed for? Begged for?" She snarled at me, a gut-wrenching sob tearing from her mouth. "They prayed to the Cauldron for the High Lord to come save them. They prayed you would come, and you didn't!"

My body jerked, and I damn near almost begged her to stop. Please stop talking. Please stop making me feel this. Please stop.

"You didn't come," Her shoulders shook, head bowing forward as she whispered again and again. "You didn't save them."

Please stop.

Her face blurred in my vision, a cloud of endless tears falling. I didn't speak; I didn't make a sound. I had nothing to say— no excuse, no reason, nothing that could ever undo this. Nothing.

"Feyre betrayed you, but you betrayed us," She breathed. Her head lifted, and those agonised eyes locked onto mine. A look of condemnation from a thousand souls. "You betrayed us."

A gurgled noise bubbles at the base of my throat, the muscles clenched so tight I could barely get down a breath. My fingers tightened around her wrist almost desperately.

She watched me.

Waited.

My lips parted, mouth opening— speak, you fucking bastard, say something, say anything! Nothing came out, no words, no sounds, nothing.

She scoffed, tearing her wrist from my hold, severing the connection between us, and I felt it like the loss of a limb. I watch her hand swipe across her face, smearing snot and tears angrily.

I reached out my shaking hand as she rose and stalked away.

"Sleep, Tamlin," She said coldly, settling onto a log beside the fire, her back to me. "And pray the monsters don't come out to play tonight."

***

I don't know when I fell asleep. Or how.

Perhaps from exhaustion, or pain, or perhaps my bleeding heart drained any reserve I had left until my body had no choice but to sleep.

But when I awoke, I knew two things yet again.

One: It was morning, and the dying sun shone overhead.

Two: The Witch was gone.

___________________________________________________________

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gallusrostromegalus · 1 year ago

Note

AEIWAM: Wait, if there’s only one “moon”, and Hueco Mundo exists in the same plane of existence as soul society, how is it always night in Hueco Mundo, but day and night pass regularly in soul society?

...Who said there was only ONE moon? :)

Hueco Mundo is on the same PLANE of existence as Soul Society but notably Separate- like how Avatar Kiyoshi separated Kiyoshi island from the main continent, Hueco Mundo was separated from the main matter of Soul Society, but in a scenario that was a lot shittier and and involved a lot more murder and other craptastic behavior.

The "Moon" in Hueco Mundo is a Tulpa as well, and behaves according to how the population of Huceo Mundo believes it should- since most of that population is Hollowfied Animals who rely on the regular lunar cycle for biology, the moon in Hueco Mundo is actually still on it's regular cycle, but it runs backwards- as in, it travels from west to east across the sky, and it's always in the opposite phase of the moon in the living world. When it's a Full Moon in the living world, it's a new moon in Hueco Mundo. When it's a half moon in ht living world, it's also a half moon, but the other half in Hueco Mundo.

Nobody in the universe is quite sure WHY the moon in Hueco Mundo seems to be in an opposite tidal lock with the moon in the Living World, but since the Moon in Soul society has been doing whatever the hell it feels like for at least two thousand years, this probably isn't a bad thing.

The actual reason is that Hueco Mundo's atmosphere is SO heavily charged with Spirit energy that the hollowfied animals can more or less live on air alone. this means a Lizard from Hueco Mundo is packing about a hundred times the spiritual punch as a lizard in Soul Society. The More spiritually powerful animals in Hueco Mundo Memetically counterbalance the handful of Adjuchas and higher-class hollows, but the weaker lizards of Soul Society do not balance out the captain-class individuals in Soul Society. It's in tidal lock with The Actual Moon because that's the one the animals of Hueco Mundo remember. It's backwards, because to lizard logic, the afterlife is an inversion of the living world.

Nobody in or out of the narrative understands Lizard Logic.

There is actually daytime in Hueco Mundo! The Sun and The Sky in the afterlife is ALSO Tulpas and do not need to obey any more physics than anyone generally thinks they do, and the Lizards of Hueco Mudo are VERY SURE it's Hot Time now. The Sun in Soul Society is still behaving normally (approximately), and so is the one in Hueco Mundo- it just looks dark all the time because pretty much all the Sapient Residents of Hueco Mundo believe they have Gone Into That Great Night, and the Fauna of Las Noches cares about the heat more than the light, so The Sun in Hueco Mundo is functionally an Invisible ball of Heat, and the Sky is colored Black for the aesthetic.

TL;DR: There are two moons and an invisible daytime in Hueco Mundo because the lizards think there should be.

#AEIWAM #An Elephant Is Warm And Mushy #Bleach #Bleach fanfic #Hueco Mundo

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qqueenofhades · 9 months ago

Note

The 2025 project seems to reflect that the Republican Party is becoming more and more fascism, but it actually reflects the growing number of extreme nationalists, misogynists, and racists among ordinary Americans. US is a democracy, and politicians rely on votes to stay in power. The fact that the Republicans dare to draft such a project shows that they are confident it will gain significant public support. Politicians aren’t fools; they wouldn’t pursue something that only a small group agrees with while the majority opposes it. The global rightward shift is evident, and though I’m not American, my country is also deteriorating in many ways. Why is this happening? Because the economic base determines the superstructure?and in recent years, the global economy has been in decline?

Mmmm, I'm gonna have to challenge you here.

First of all, it's just flatly not true that there's a "growing number of extreme nationalists, misogynists, and racists among ordinary Americans." That movement has become more vocal and visible in post-2016 America, but there's absolutely no evidence -- and indeed, a lot of evidence to the contrary -- that their numbers are growing instead of shrinking. The Republicans got lucky with Trump's win in 2016 thanks to a combination of decades of anti-Hillary smears, extensive Russian interference/psyops, the anti-democratic Electoral College, and general misplaced complacence that he was never going to win and people didn't need to bother voting for two disliked candidates. They've flatly lost every competitive nationwide election since then -- 2018, 2020, 2022, and very probably 2024. In between, their hand-picked Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade (guaranteeing the right to an abortion in all 50 states) and set off a titanic tidal wave of voter support for abortion rights, even in very dark red states like Kansas and Kentucky (which are not liberal by any stretch of the word). In fact, the Republicans' (flatly false) excuse that they just wanted to "return [abortion rights to the states]" has been unveiled as another lie due to their desperate attempts in this election cycle to ratfuck voter-approved abortion questions off the ballot in Arkansas, Missouri, Florida, and elsewhere. This is a badly losing issue for them, even in deep red states, and they don't want people to vote on it, because they hate democracy. We'll get to that.

Likewise, polls of "culture war" issues like LGBTQ+ rights, abortion rights, immigrants' rights, etc., consistently get much more support among ordinary Americans than not. The ordinary public is becoming more liberal, not less, even in the face of constant aggressive and reactionary attempts to undo the sum total of social and civil rights movements from the 20th century. Republicans' views are getting less popular, not more, and this is also driven by the ongoing demographic change in America. Within a generation or two, whites may be in the statistical minority, and that deeply terrifies people whose entire political and social identity is built on ethnostate white supremacism. The reason Republicans are getting so extreme and antidemocratic now is because the electorate is getting younger and younger, more diverse, more accepting, and less tolerant of their age-old bullshit. As such, there is a very visible window of time outside which the Republicans will not be able to win competitive nationwide elections, even despite all the advantages they're building into the system and have always had. That terrifies them. It is also why they have decided to destroy democracy.

Which leads us into your next assertion that "US is a democracy, and politicians rely on votes to stay in power. The fact that the Republicans dare to draft such a project shows that they are confident it will gain significant public support. Politicians aren’t fools; they wouldn’t pursue something that only a small group agrees with while the majority opposes it." Yes, maybe, in some exceedingly generic logic that doesn't take any account of the actual situation in the US and the fact that the Republicans have made their hatred for democratic free and fair elections very, very clear. This is why Trump pushed the "election fraud" Big Lie in 2020 and sent a mob to attack the Capitol in an attempt to prevent the certification of Biden's win. This is why states controlled by Republicans have frantically enacted as many voter suppression and voter-removal laws as possible and conducted constant purges to get voters (especially the mysteriously missing 1 million Democrats in Florida) off the rolls. This is why they talk approvingly about Trump being "a dictator on day one." This is why they have pursued a decades-long strategy to capture the federal judiciary (by installing extreme right-wing hacks to the bench and then funneling extreme-right legislation into their courts to get a favorable ruling and/or send it to the extreme-right Supreme Court). And on, and on, and on. The Republicans are explicitly aware that their ideas cannot win in a free and fair election, because their ideas are terrible, and as such have been taking massive, ongoing, and coordinated efforts to disenfranchise American voters, expose them to lakes of sordid Russian propaganda/psyops in favor of Trump, double down on the xenophobia and white nationalism to stoke Fear Of The Other, and everything else they possibly can to prevent voters from voting for their opponents. They hate democracy and they are not counting on democratic methods to implement Project 2025. They intend to do it by secretive oligarch methods funded by right-wing billionaire dark money and their Russian friends. That's the whole point.

Indeed, you can see that in the fact that as soon as Project 2025 became widely known and therefore widely hated, the Republicans were thrown into a panicked fluster of disavowing it and insisting that Trump didn't actually know about it (which is a lie, but that's all the day). Because it is electoral kryptonite, they are trying every single method they can to lie to voters long enough to get into power and do it anyway. Authoritarians can often come to power through democratic elections, but once there, they do their utmost to degrade, erode, or otherwise destroy the institutional safeguards that prevent them from keeping power forever. Trump is a literally textbook example of this and he has made his intentions very clear. He flat-out told a group of Republicans at an event earlier this year that "we'll fix it so you won't have to vote again." He already tried a coup and somehow the Republicans nominated him again, because of the deep corruption of the party on every level, but the Republicans are not doing Project 2025 because they think it will organically generate popular support (and they know it doesn't.) It's a blueprint for a tiny group of extreme right-wing theocrats and fascists to get their way regardless of what the broader public says about it, and represents the culmination of decades of far-right power-play strategies related to exploiting economic, racial, social, and cultural grievances. They're doing this now in order to lock in their power before long-term demographic changes make it impossible for them to win another democratic American election. So their solution is to get rid of democratic American elections, the end. This is explicitly a project for permanent minority rule. They know that and that's what's driving their strategic choices here.

As such, essentially saying that the Republicans aren't really fascist, and/or the real problem and/or are just giving an increasingly fascist American population what they want, removes any moral responsibility for their deliberate choices and legitimizes the populist claim to be acting "for the people" instead of a corrupt institutional system. Everyone knows the many, MANY problems with American politics and government; we don't need to go through them again. But even if they were "just giving the people what they want," which as noted above they're not, it still wouldn't make it okay or defensible. To use the obvious example, just because Hitler was popular and democratically elected in 1933 doesn't make what he did right, and the social forces that propelled him to power weren't just a passive "reflection" of The People's Will but were shaped by the larger fascist-curious interwar 1930s. In fact, America also had a burgeoning fascist movement in the 1930s, driven by WWI and Great Depression fallout, but Franklin D. Roosevelt's New Deal explicitly created extensive government mechanisms to support society, provide new jobs and welfare, and other integrative and restorative economic methods. This crucial difference in approaches -- the New Deal vs. the Nazis -- is why America remained democratic despite the challenges and Germany fell into autocratic genocidal fascism.

This is because populism and dissatisfaction with democracy rises when people feel that the government is not listening to them, is not responsive to their needs, is ignoring them, or otherwise not doing what they want. It is driven by multiple factors, primarily but not only economic, and it is stoked by powerful interest groups who have a vested interest in using the fissures to discredit democratic governments and movements. It is also by no means limited to America, as you note at the end. Think of the decades-long campaign by the British media against the EU, driven by British isolationism and exceptionalism and a sense that the petty bureaucrats in Brussels had no right to be telling the almighty British Empire what to do. This created and stoked existing social grievances which were often domestically caused (since as Margaret Thatcher destroying the British social-welfare state in the 1980s) and turned that grievance against an external opponent who was easier to blame. As such, as we know, it led to the country voting for Brexit in 2016 despite what a whopping, overwhelming, incredible own goal that was and continues to be for the UK, especially economically and socially. It was obviously dependent on many contextual factors from British history, politics, and culture, and there were certainly many people who actually thought it was the right thing to do (and not just about racism, which uh, hmmm), but it's very difficult to think that this organically or naturally came about without a direct and extensive popular-pressure campaign designed to do just that.

People often vote against their own interests because they have been convinced that democracy is corrupt or ineffective or "just as bad" as authoritarianism, which allows illiberal populists to rise to power. These populists often use racial, religious, or cultural grievances, especially against perceived "outsiders," to artificially stoke existing prejudice and justify crackdowns and/or consolidations of their own personal power and destruction of institutional systems and safeguards meant to stop them from doing that. That's how we got Erdogan in Turkey, Bolsonaro in Brazil, Orban in Hungary, and Trump in the US. Other authoritarian movements around the world are also driven implicitly or explicitly by the massive autocratic and antidemocratic global influence disinformation machine headed by Putin in Russia. As such, it's not accurate to insist that this just represents a simple passive "rightward shift" among the global population overall. It is happening because it has been designed and manipulated and pressed into happening. It can still be electorally resisted, which is also the most effective strategy for removing authoritarians, but if we fail to vote out Trump once and for all in 2024, it will be MUCH harder and much more deadly.

Overall, to simplistically claim that the Republican party is just giving the increasingly fascist Americans what they want and expect it to derive broad popular support is, as I have demonstrated above, a diametrically backward conception of the problem. The Republicans are deliberately and increasingly fascist because they realize that very soon, if allowed to continue operating in its accustomed fashion, the American democratic system and American public opinion is going to make them obsolete. They're racing the clock to cement permanent super-minority rule, and to change the rules overall, before America's shifting demographic composition and ideological mindset locks them out. That is why they are throwing so much misinformation, fearmongering, lies, Russian propaganda, and everything else that they can think of at this election, to get Trump and loyal Project 2025 footsoldier Vance into the door before the door slams shut for a long time. That is why this election is so fucking existentially important and why it is so crucial to accurately conceptualize and describe the problem, what it is, and how to respond to it. As such, while I otherwise don't do this much anymore because I no longer have the desire to argue with the people who are likewise brainwashed in the opposite direction and insist it's a Pure Leftist Moral Duty not to vote against fascist authoritarianism (as, uh, also happened with the fragmented and infighting German left-wing opposition in 1932 and good thing nothing bad happened next):

The end.

#wocaobumaquan #ask #politics for ts #history #long post #slight apologies for the poli sci essay but this is important

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ltwilliammowett · 10 months ago

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Tides

Three basic tidal patterns occur along the world's major coastlines. In general, there are two high tides and two low tides every day in most areas. If the two high tides and the two low tides are approximately the same height, this is referred to as a semi-diurnal or semi-daily high tide. If the high and low tides differ in height, this is referred to as a mixed semi-diurnal tide.

Dinurnal (top left). An area has a diurnal tidal cycle if it experiences a high tide and an ebb tide every lunar day. Many areas in the Gulf of Mexico have this type of tide.

Semidiurnal tidal cycle (top right). An area has a semi-diurnal tidal cycle when it experiences two high and low tides of approximately equal magnitude each lunar day. Many areas on the east coast of North America have these tidal cycles.

Mixed semidiurnal tidal cycle (lower centre). An area has a mixed semidiurnal tidal cycle if it experiences two different high and low tides on each lunar day. Many areas on the west coast of North America have these tidal cycles.

#naval history #tides #today #age of sail #age of steam

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guiltyc0nscience · 8 months ago

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⋆˙⟡ this is me trying, chris sturniolo

chris sturniolo x fem!reader

synopsis. chris tried so hard to support you through your drug addiction that had been ongoing for a year, every time he got you out, you fell back into the hole. one day chris had finally had enough and had a talk with you about wether or not you were willing to change for him, but once you say can’t, he leaves your relationship behind for good.

warnings. angst, drug addiction (doesn’t go into any sort of description), crying, breaking up.

authors note. this took like two months to finish and i’m so relived i finished it, but enjoy. also, spread kindness and love, you never know what someone is going through in life. i love each and every single one of you guys.

ever since you turned 18, life took a dark turn that no one saw coming. the thrill of adulthood quickly faded, replaced by an insatiable craving for drugs that clouded your mind and overwhelmed your spirit. chris, your boyfriend, stood by your side, determined to help you break free from the chains of addiction. he offered support, kept you away from parties to avoid drugs being in your possession, and even tried to distract you with adventures, hoping to rekindle the joy you once had in your life.

but each time he thought you were making progress, the grip of the addictive substances would pull you back in. you'd promise him it would be the last time, but the cycle continued, leaving chris feeling helpless and heartbroken. he watched as the vibrant person he once loved slowly faded away, replaced by someone consumed by the highs and lows of addiction.

after countless attempts of trying to reach you, chris had finally reached his breaking point. he stood in front of you, eyes filled with a mix of frustration and sorrow, and said, "i can't do this anymore. i can't keep watching you destroy yourself like this."

those words hung heavy in the air, echoing the painful reality that your relationship was now teetering on the edge of collapse.

you felt the weight of chris' words crash down on you like a tidal wave. the hurt in his voice was unmistakable, and for a brief moment, you felt a flicker of clarity amidst the haze of addiction. you wanted to reach out, to tell him that you were sorry, that you didn't want to lose him, but the fear of vulnerability held you back.

chris turned away, his frustration evident as he paced his room. "i've tried everything, but i can't keep sacrificing my own well-being for you. you need to want this for yourself." his voice was tight, strained from the emotional burden he had been carrying. you could see the pain etched on his face, a painful reminder of how far you had fallen.

in the moment, you realised that your addiction had not only trapped you but also threatened to destroy the most important relationship in your life. you took a deep breath, fighting back tears, and finally whispered, "i don't want to lose you, chris. i just don't know how to stop." the vulnerability in your voice hung in the air, a desperate plea for understanding and a lifeline back to the person you used to be.

chris paused, his back still turned to you, and you could see the tension in his shoulders. slowly, he turned around, his expression softening just a fraction. "you need to take that first step, even if it's the hardest thing you've ever done," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "i can't fight this battle for you, but i'll be here to support you every step of the way if you're ready to try."

you felt a rush of conflicting emotions — fear, hope, and a deep seated anxiety that gnawed at your insides. the thought of facing your addiction head-on felt overwhelming, but the idea of losing chris was even more terrifying. "what if i fail again?" you asked, your voice trembling, "what if i let you down?"

chris took a step closer, his gaze steady and sincere. "you might stumble, but that doesn't mean you've failed. it means you're human. what matters is that you keep trying. i believe in you, even when you don't believe in yourself." his words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a glimmer of hope. maybe, just maybe, this was the moment you could begin to reclaim your life.

you took a deep breath, the weight of chris' words hanging heavily in the air. "i don't know if i can do it," you admitted, the vulnerability of the moment crashing down on you again. "what if i just end up hurting you more?"

chris looked at you with a mixture of concern and frustration. "you're not the only one hurting here. i can't keep watching you spiral down this path. it's tearing me apart." his voice was strained, and you could see the toll this had taken on him. the reality of the situation settled in like a thick fog, suffocating and unyielding.

as silence enveloped the room, you felt a sense of despair creeping in. you wanted to believe that change was possible, but the shadows of doubt loomed larger. "maybe i'm just not meant to get better," you whispered, the hopelessness creeping into your heart. chris' expression faltered, and for a moment, you both stood there, caught in the truthful pain that sometimes, despite the love and support, not every story has a happy ending.

chris ran a hand through his hair, frustration and sadness mixing in his eyes. “you can’t think like that. it’s not true. but i can’t keep doing this if you’re not willing to fight for yourself,” he said, his voice firm yet pained. “i’m here, but i can’t be your crutch forever. you have to want this y/n.”

you felt a sting of his words, each one a reminder of the reality you were trying to escape. “what if i don’t know how to want it?” you replied, your voice cracking. “what if im just too far gone?” the tears began to well up, and you fought to keep them at bay, not wanting to show chris just have vulnerable you felt.

he stepped closer, his expression softening again, but the distance between you felt insurmountable. “i can’t answer that for you. all i can do is stand here and hope you find the strength to take that step. but i can’t keep waiting.” he said, the finality in his tone hitting you like a cold wave. you realised then that this moment might be a turning point, but it could also be the beginning of the end for what you both had fought so hard to hold onto.

you felt a knot tightening in your stomach as his words sank in. “so, what happens if i can’t?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. the uncertainty clawed at you, and the thought of losing chris loomed larger than ever. “is this really it?”

chris sighed, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. “i don’t want it to be, but i can’t keep sacrificing my own well-being. it’s not fair to either of us,” he replied, his tone heavy with regret. “you have to choose, but i can’t make that choice for you.”

the silence that followed was deafening, each second stretching out painfully. you could see the hurt in his eyes, the flicker of hope battling against despair. “i just… i wish things were different,” you admitted, feeling the tears finally spill over. “but i don’t know how to change.”

as you stood there, the reality of the situation settled in, and you realised that sometimes, no matter how much you want to hold onto something, you have to confront the possibility that it might slip away.

you took a step back, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on you. “chris, i don’t think i can do this. i want to, but it feels too big, too overwhelming,” you said, your voice trembling.

chris’ expression shifted, a mix of understanding and disappointed clothing his features. “i get that, but i can’t keep waiting for you to figure it out. i need to take care of myself too,” he replied softly, the hurt evident in his eyes.

as he turned to leave, a part of you felt like it was breaking. “wait, please don’t go,” you called out, desperation creeping into your voice. but he paused for just a moment, looking back at you with a heavy heart. “i have to, for both of us,” he said before walking away, leaving you standing there, feeling more lost than ever.

you felt a surge of panic as you watched him walk away, and without thinking, you rushed after him, your heart pounding in your chest. “chris, please!” you shouted, your voice echoing in the stillness of the night.

when you reached him, you grabbed his arm, turning him to face you. the tears that had been threatening to spill finally broke free at a rapid pace, streaming down your face. “i can’t let you go like this. i’m so scared of losing you,” you cried, the weight of your emotions crashing down around you.

chris’ eyes softened as he took a step closer, but the distance between you felt insurmountable. “i don’t want to hurt you, but i can’t keep holding on when you’re not ready,” he said gently, his own tears now falling. the pain in his voice only made your heart ache more, and you felt completely vulnerable, exposed in your grief, “i need you to understand,” he continued, but the words felt like they were slipping away as you broke down in front of him, feeling utterly lost.

chris stepped closer, pulling you into a warm embrace, his presence a comforting balm against the pain swelling inside you. “i know this is hard,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i care about you so much, and i want to be here for you.”

as you leaned into him, feeling the warmth radiating from his body, you thought maybe there was hope. but then he pulled back slightly, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and resolve. “but i can’t keep doing this. it’s tearing us apart, and i don’t want to hurt you anymore,” he confessed, his voice trembling.

you felt a lump in your throat as you tried to process his words. “chris. please…” you started, but he shook his head gently. “you need to find you own way, and so do i.”

in that moment, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss that felt like a goodbye. it was tender and filled with all the unspoken words between you. when he finally pulled away, there were tears in his eyes, but he forces a small smile. “take care of yourself, y/n.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. then, with one last look, he turned and walked out of your house, leaving you standing there, feeling the weight of forever in his absence.

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incorrect-green-lantern-quotes · 2 months ago

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A Brief Introduction to Planet Oa

Nestled in the very heart of the cosmos, at the center of Sector 0, the planet of Oa serves as both the homeworld of the Green Lantern Corps and a symbol of order for the universe at large.

Oa is one of the oldest planets in existence. Its parent star, Sto-Oa ("Light of Oa" in the Maltusian language) is a red hypergiant that formed shortly after the Big Bang. There are eleven planets in the star system (five terrestrial, three gas giants and four ice giants) most of which serve as farmland and resource mines.

Oa is the fourth closest to the star, and it takes approximately 574 Earth days to complete one revolution around its star. The planet is actually tidally locked in its orbit, meaning that it does not have a natural day-night cycle.

However, the Guardians of the Universe have constructed a massive ring of solar arrays that slowly revolves around the planet. The shadow cast by this megastructure simulates "night" by blocking out Oa's parent star from the hemisphere that it shines upon, while simultaneously refracting Sto-Oa's light to the far side to create an artificial "day."

(Would it have been more practical to simply force Oa to spin in its orbit? The Guardians are certainly powerful enough to induce planetary rotation. When asked why they chose this as a solution instead, they declined to comment.)

The Guardians chose to set the length of Oa's "day" equal to their ancestral home's, exactly twenty-and-a-half Earth hours. There are no seasons or months, as the planet does not have any natural moons and only has an axial tilt of about 3°, so the Oan year's subdivisions are almost entirely arbitrary and exist purely for the purpose of timekeeping.

It takes 672 Oan days for the planet to complete one orbit around Sto-Oa. The Oan year is based off the old Maltusian calendar and consists of eight months, each of which is twelve weeks long. Coincidentally, the Maltusians also had seven days in a week.

(That the Oan/Maltusian week has the same number of days as Earth's does is merely coincidence, not an indication of any shared cultural history.)

Oa was a barren rock before the Guardians came and terraformed it into a lush oasis with four oceans and nine continents that host a variety of biomes, ranging from polar to tropical to downright toxic for most life-forms. It has the most varied environments of any world, again thanks to the Guardians’ technology. They engineered Oa's biosphere in this way because the planet also serves as a safe haven for species from all across the universe.

(The Green Lanterns seek to preserve every inhabited world, or failing that, evacuate the populations to safety. But they do not always succeed.)

This myriad of environments on Oa is what allowed Appa Ali Apsa to create the Mosaic World. Even in the throes of his insanity, he was able to utilize the extant biomes to house the cities he kidnapped. In most cases however, those who are brought to Oa are refugees who only live on the planet temporarily until the Green Lanterns find a new home for them.

Consequently, the only permanent settlement on Oa is the Emerald Citadel, which is located directly at the center of the starside hemisphere. It's a grand city consisting of enormous skyscrapers that are built to varying scales to accommodate the many body shapes and sizes of the Green Lanterns- as well as any diplomats who come to seek an audience with the Corps or the Guardians. The Central Battery of the Green Lantern Corps and the Guardians' Council Chambers are located here.

Oa has been attacked and even destroyed on multiple occasions. The Green Lantern Corps and the Guardians of the Universe have had many powerful enemies over the centuries, such as the Empire of Tears, the Reach, and various other Lantern groups. Some have questioned the wisdom of maintaining a static headquarters in a known location, even with all the power that the Guardians can bring to bear.

But the value of Oa extends beyond the mere strategic. It is not the nature of the Green Lanterns to hide in the shadows. Their light is as symbolic as it is functional. For all that the Guardians have their skeletons in the closet, the Green Lanterns are the defenders of justice and peace for the universe at large. No evil shall escape their sight, and in turn they will not hide themselves from the sight of those they protect.

Of course their homeworld is the shining jewel at the center of the cosmos.

#for such an important planet in GL mythos there's surprisingly little information about Oa in canon #aside from Oa's location and the name of its star this is almost entirely my headcanons #like Sto-Oa being a red sun or Oa having a bunch of environments to host refugees #I have no idea if the planetary mechanics here are viable I took one astronomy class in college and retained nothing from it #ironic considering the theme of this blog #headcanon #oa #green lantern #green lantern corps #dc comics #scifi #worldbuilding

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mitfloya · 1 year ago

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬: 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥

pairings. Rafayel x gn!reader

wc. 6.8K

synopsis. He believes that by isolating you, he can protect you from the outside world and ensure your happiness together. In his twisted mind, this is his way of creating a perfect and eternal bond, you’re his muse, his statue of beauty, his own aphrodite.

warnings. The following content contains elements of obsessive behavior, yandere thoughts, stalking, possessive behavior, and may include poorly written narratives. Reader is referred to as 'you'. Proceed with caution, as this writing may be unsettling or uncomfortable for some individuals.

a/n. Hiyaaa! Thank you so much for the people that have helped me make my post manage to slip through the timeline! I kid you not I had to break my spine with this issues I kept running into (the ori yandere Zayne post is gone, I’m sorry for the inconvenience), if any of you have any suggestions on how to make my post made it into the tags please tell them on the comments section. Get ready and have some snacks and hope you enjoy reading another hc I made

♡ Please reblog and comment on this post are much, much appreciated ♡

A manchild…? you love this guy? Me being a slander and simp at the same time

To put it simply, Rafayel is always the damsel in distress and YOU are his knight shining armor. He needs your attention and protection 24/7, you don’t want him to end up dead, do you? The whole universe will miss him.

First of all, he loves you. Second of all, he hates you.

You’re like a goldfish, how could you not remember the vows you both made when you were just a little kid?! The mere fact that you failed to recognize his face shattered his heart into pieces, for you hold immense significance in his life.

The weight of your indifference crashed upon him like a tidal wave, leaving his emotions in ruins. It was like a tornado tearing through his soul, causing a gut-wrenching ache that seemed to consume him from within.

It creates a twisted cycle of emotions that he struggles to contain. He yearns for the love you once shared, yet despises you for not remembering the bond you had.

Perhaps he regrets not taking action in the past to ensure he could always locate you, to have left a distinctive mark upon you as a means of tracking your whereabouts.

You should’ve recognized him at first glance. Where have you been? He thought he lost you, he doesn’t even want to wish upon your death but you make it harder for him not to.

You’ve grown so much and so many changes but you’re still the same person he met at the beach, and it makes him feels so many emotions at once, it’s the first time he has managed to put a rein over his emotions, he could’ve coax you to come to his studio and locked you up, if you were to recognize him.

His heart longed to show much he misses you yet his mind tells him to seek revenge. It’s like his body and soul is splitting. Do you know how much damage you are causing him?

You must understand, my dear, that he is determined not to repeat past mistakes. It is time for him to take drastic measures, to make a promise that will bind you to him forever. He sees you as his ultimate protector, his unwavering shield. From this moment forward, you will never leave his sight again.

In his eyes, you have always belonged to each other, from the very beginning. Your destinies intertwined, your fates entangled. He craves the security of knowing that you are by his side, guarding his every step, his every breath. No longer will he allow even the smallest sliver of distance to separate you.

From the beginning you are his as much as he is yours.

His artistic talent is both his greatest strength and his greatest weapon. Through his art, he immortalizes his love and hatred for you, capturing the complexities of his emotions with every stroke of the brush. His creations serve as a constant reminder of his twisted desires.

Initially consumed by hatred, he concealed his love, allowing it to resurface gradually, in subtle and tender ways.

It’s the slowest burn you could ever imagine. Painstakingly slow.

As Rafayel's hatred gradually diminished, he began to express his feelings more openly, albeit subtly, leaving significant hints about the depth of his emotions towards you. Similar to a small forest fire that grows steadily, each progression was deliberate and methodical until it consumed the entire forest, an uncontrollable blaze that can’t be extuingish.

Say goodbye to freedom and welcome to his world, now that you’re his. He will be the center of your universe.

Clinginess is an inherent trait of Rafayel's nature. He craves your presence and attention, unable to bear the thought of being separated from you even for a moment. He will go to great lengths to ensure that you never leave his side.

You've grown accustomed to his playful nature and constant need for attention, but be prepared for an amplified version, as his demands intensify. Good luck dealing with your man ♡

He is a man of pride, he immortalizes you through his art, proudly showcasing pieces dedicated to you at his exhibitions. While abstract in form, this exclusivity serves to intrigue others, leaving them pondering what makes you so special in his eyes.

Unknown to you hidden away within his personal stash, there is a gallery dedicated solely to you. Every piece of artwork revolves around your existence, capturing his obsession with meticulous detail. The walls are adorned with portraits, each stroke of the brush reflecting his twisted love for you.

But at the very least, he showers you with lots of love and affection, no more holding back.

In relationships, he presents himself as a calm and romantic partner, radiating an aura of serenity akin to the sea. He enjoys spending quality time with you, whether it be casual outings or simply sharing space in silence. With him, you will never feel alone.

But do not be deceived by the calm waters, for they possess the ability to draw you into the depths of darkness, leaving you submerged and unable to resurface. His obsession remains unpredictable, much like the ever-changing tides of the sea.

Oh, how you've stumbled into his clutches the moment you made that fateful vow. There is no turning back, my dear. You have fallen into the siren's trap, lured by his haunting charm. You are now forever entwined in his grasp, unable to break free. You should have thought twice before crossing paths with him if you weren't planning to stay.

He has two preferred methods of dealing with nuisances. He may choose to be smug and show off his superiority, rubbing his success in their faces. He revels in flaunting his success and talents, using them as a means to intimidate and belittle those who dare to steal you away.

However, if they persist, he is unafraid to resort to physical means, utilizing violence to eliminate them from your life. He goes to extreme lengths, even shedding blood and concealing the evidence of his actions, all in the name of safeguarding your well-being and maintaining his possessive hold over you.

His possessiveness knows no bounds, his desire to claim you as his own overpowering any sense of reason. He will go to great lengths to ensure that no one else can possess you, viewing you as his ultimate masterpiece.

When faced with difficulty or resistance from you, Rafayel won't hesitate to take drastic measures. He is willing to use any means necessary, including drugs, to put you to sleep and kidnap you. He will isolate you in his studio, ensuring that you will be together forever.

His studio, the place where he creates his art, becomes both a sanctuary and prison for you. Within its walls, he controls every aspect of your existence, dictating your every move and stifling your individuality. It is a place where his obsession can flourish unchecked.

You will forever remain under his possession, as he claims you and binds you eternally.

#love and deep space #love and deepspace #love and deepspace headcanons #yandere hcs #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel #qi yu #yandere rafayel #yandere rafayel x reader #yandere rafayel x you #yandere rafayel x yn #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel x y/n #dividers by cafekitsune

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lila-lou · 6 months ago

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✨His second exception - Pt. 28/?✨

Summary: The moment Ben found out you were pregnant was probably the happiest moment of his life. However, happiness proved fleeting. Now, he is faced with the aftermath of his shattered dreams. Of what is left of you, and what is left of him.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language, fluff, ANGST, Maybe some triggers (death chances etc.)

Word Count: 7667

A/N: This is the sequel to “His only exeption” - and Part 28 of "His second exception".

English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙

Another week crawled by, and the days felt like an endless cycle of exhaustion, pain, and fleeting moments of solace when Ben was by your side. The injections had become unbearable. Each dose of V had increased incrementally, pushing your body to its limits. Now, the second the serum hit your veins, it overwhelmed you so completely that you passed out, your body unable to cope with the intensity.

Today was no exception.

You’d barely managed to register Dr. Collins’ voice as she explained the procedure for the hundredth time. Ben had stayed close, his hand gripping yours tightly, his jaw locked as he watched the needle sink into your arm. The sharp sting of the injection was the last thing you felt before the familiar heat seared through your body, pulling you under like a tidal wave.

You awoke hours later, your body drenched in sweat, your muscles trembling from the aftereffects. The pain lingered like a dull ache in your bones, a constant reminder of the toll this was taking. Your head throbbed as you blinked, the dim light of Dr. Collins’ office coming into focus.

“Hey”, Ben’s voice broke through the haze, low and rough but filled with worry. He was seated right next to you, his hand resting on your thigh. His face looked more tired than you’d ever seen it, dark circles shadowing his eyes. “You’re awake”.

You tried to speak, but your throat felt dry and raw. Instead, you managed a faint nod, your fingers twitching slightly against the blanket draped over you.

Dr. Collins appeared in your peripheral vision, her expression neutral but her tone clinical. “You passed out for three and a half hours this time”, she said, glancing at the chart in her hands. “Your body is still metabolizing the dose, but your vitals are stable for now”.

Ben exhaled sharply, his head tilting back as he muttered under his breath, “Stable. Sure, great”.

You reached out weakly, your hand finding his. “Ben”, you croaked, your voice barely audible.

He leaned forward instantly, his eyes softening as he wrapped his hand around yours. “I’m here”, he said gruffly. “You scared the shit out of me… again, but I’m here”.

You managed a faint smile, though it felt like it took all the energy you had left. “How… long can we keep this up?”, you whispered, your voice shaky.

Dr. Collins hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she spoke. “We’re nearing the limits of what your body can handle”, she admitted. “But the baby’s growth is stabilizing slightly. If we can make it another two weeks, you’ll both be in a much safer place”.

Ben’s grip on your hand tightened, his knuckles white as he turned his gaze back to you. “Two more weeks”, he said, his voice a low rumble. “You just have to hold on, doll. Two more weeks, and this’ll all be worth it”.

You closed your eyes, the weight of his words sinking in. Two weeks felt like an eternity, but with the way Ben was looking at you, the fierce determination in his eyes, you knew you couldn’t give up now. Not when you’d come this far. Not when he was counting on you.

“Okay”, you whispered, the word barely audible, but it was enough. Enough to reassure him. Enough to keep going.

When Ben carried you into the house that evening, you were visibly weaker than usual. Your body ached in ways that were becoming all too familiar, but the sight of the baby’s room as he passed by stirred something in you—a determination you hadn’t felt in days. You placed a shaky hand on his chest and looked up at him, your voice soft but firm.

“Ben… take me to the baby’s room”, you whispered, your eyes glinting with a quiet resolve.

Ben groaned, his jaw tightening. “You need to be in bed”, he grumbled, his grip tightening protectively around you. “You can barely move. What the hell do you think you’re gonna do in there?”.

“Please”, you said, your tone more insistent now. “Just let me sit in the rocking chair. I want to get the last stuff ready. I promise I won’t overdo it. I just need to… I need to feel like I’m doing something”.

He stared at you for a long moment, his lips pressing into a thin line as he considered arguing further. But the determination in your eyes was something he couldn’t ignore. With a heavy sigh, he carried you to the baby’s room and gently set you down in the rocking chair.

“There”, he said, his voice laced with frustration but also a hint of fondness. “Now what?”.

You gave him a small, tired smile, gesturing to the nearby boxes and items that still needed organizing. “Well, the blankets need to go in that drawer”, you said, pointing, “and the diapers should go in the cabinet by the changing table. Oh, and that mobile needs to be hung up—”.

Ben raised a hand, cutting you off with an exaggerated groan. “Alright, alright, boss”, he muttered, rolling his eyes but already moving to start on the tasks. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”.

You chuckled softly, leaning back in the chair as you watched him work. He was gruff as ever, muttering under his breath as he carefully folded blankets and stacked diapers, but there was a tenderness to his movements that made your chest ache in the best way.

“You’re doing great", you said, your voice full of warmth as he fumbled with the mobile.

Ben glanced back at you, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t patronize me”, he grumbled, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint smirk.

“I’m serious”, you said, your hand resting on your belly. “You’re going to be the best dad, Ben”.

He paused for a moment, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “Yeah, well”, he muttered, turning back to his task, “she’s gonna have one stubborn-ass mom too”.

"Hopefully”, you whispered quietly, almost to yourself. But the weight of your words hit the air like a stone, and Ben froze where he stood, his hands pausing mid-motion as he hung the mobile.

He turned to face you, his eyes narrowing, a storm brewing in his expression. “Stop fucking talking like that”, he snapped, his voice sharp and cutting, though the fear behind his words was unmistakable. He crossed the room in a few long strides, crouching down in front of you so he could look you directly in the eye.

You didn’t flinch, but your chest tightened as you saw the raw emotion etched across his face. “Ben—”, you started, but he cut you off, his hands gripping the armrests of the rocking chair to steady himself.

“No”, he growled, his voice low and trembling with anger. “I’m serious. I don’t want to hear that kind of shit coming out of your mouth. Not now. Not ever”.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight as the tears welled up again. “I’m just being realistic”, you said softly, your voice cracking. The weight of the day’s conversation with Dr. Collins loomed heavy between you and Ben, like a storm cloud that refused to pass.

Earlier, the doctor had laid it out plainly: while the V medication had stabilized your condition for now, the next weeks were critical. If your body didn’t adapt more to the medication—and quickly—the strain of carrying a supe baby could prove too much. She hadn’t minced words. The risks were terrifyingly high.

And right now, instead of adapting, your body seemed to be doing the opposite—struggling more and more each day.

“You heard what she said”, you whispered, looking at Ben with tear-filled eyes. “There’s a huge chance I might not make it through giving birth if my body doesn’t start adapting. And it’s not. It’s getting worse, Ben”.

Ben’s face twisted, his jaw clenching so tightly you could hear the faint grind of his teeth. His hand tightened on the armrest, his knuckles white. “No”, he said sharply, his voice like steel. “I don’t give a fuck what the odds are. You’re going to make it”.

You stared at him, your emotions bubbling over. “Ben, you can’t just decide that—”.

“Yes, I can!”, he barked, his voice rising, though there was a tremble in it now, betraying his fear. “You think I’m just gonna sit here and let that happen? No fucking way”.

His hands moved from the armrests to your face, cupping it gently as his thumbs brushed away your tears. “You’re not leaving me”, he said firmly, his green eyes boring into yours, fierce and unwavering. “I don’t care what it takes, or what we have to do. We’ll figure it out. But you’re not leaving me, and you’re sure as hell not leaving her”.

You let out a choked sob, gripping his wrists tightly as you leaned into his touch. “Ben, I’m scared”, you admitted, your voice breaking. “I want to believe that, but every day feels harder. What if—”.

“No”, he interrupted, his voice softer now, though no less resolute. “No ‘what if’. I don’t want to hear it. You’re going to fight, just like you always do”.

Your tears falling freely now as he pulled you into his arms. His hold was strong, protective, as if he thought he could shield you from everything with just his embrace.

“You’re not going anywhere”, he murmured against your hair, his voice low and thick with emotion. “Not on my watch”.

Over the next few days, Ben couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in his gut. You were exhausted, drained from the relentless injections and the toll your body was enduring, but in the rare hours when you weren’t asleep or recovering, you were laser-focused. Too focused.

You walked him through the baby’s room, showing him where you’d organized everything. “The diapers are here, wipes over there”, you said softly, gesturing to the neatly arranged cabinets. “And if you run out, there are extra boxes in the hall closet”.

Ben stood there, arms crossed, his brow furrowed deeply. “I’ll remember”, he said gruffly, though he hated the edge of finality in your voice, the way it felt like you were handing over the reins of a life you weren’t sure you’d be part of.

It didn’t stop there. The next day, you sat on the couch with him, the laptop balanced on your lap. “I bookmarked a bunch of tutorials”, you explained, your tone calm but tinged with a quiet urgency. “Feeding, diaper changes, how to swaddle, how to bathe her… just in case—”.

Ben slammed his hand down on the armrest, cutting you off. “Stop”, he snapped, his voice sharp and filled with anger he couldn’t fully contain. “You don’t need to show me this shit. You’re going to fucking be here to do it yourself”.

You flinched slightly at his tone, but instead of backing down, you met his glare head-on. “I’m trying to make sure you’re ready, Ben”, you said, your voice trembling but firm. “Because we don’t know what’s going to happen, and I need to know you’ll be okay. That she’ll be okay”.

Ben’s jaw tightened, his green eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and fear. “I don’t need a fucking tutorial”, he growled. “I need you to stop acting like you’re already gone”.

The tension in the room was palpable as the doorbell echoed through the house. You sighed, pushing the laptop aside and glancing toward Ben, who was still radiating frustration. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath before standing up to answer the door.

When he opened it, your parents stepped in, their cheerful expressions quickly fading as they took in the somber atmosphere. Your mom glanced at you, her brow furrowing with concern, while your dad’s gaze shifted to Ben, reading the tension in his rigid posture.

“What’s going on?”, your mom asked cautiously, her eyes darting between the two of you.

Ben didn’t answer right away. He stood there for a moment, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe as if he were trying to ground himself. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, muttering, “I need a break”, before turning and heading toward the kitchen.

Your parents exchanged a worried glance before your mom moved closer to you, sitting down beside you on the couch. “What’s wrong?”, she asked softly, her hand resting lightly on your arm. “You two seem… off”.

You shook your head quickly, forcing a small smile onto your face. “It’s nothing”, you lied, your voice shaky. “Just… a long day”.

Your dad wasn’t buying it. He crossed his arms, his expression growing more serious. “Come on”, he said, his tone firm but gentle. “Something’s going on. You’ve been distant the last few times we’ve talked. And now he’s walking away like that?”.

You swallowed hard, avoiding their gazes as you tried to think of a way to deflect the conversation. The last thing you wanted was to tell them about the survival odds. But your mom wasn’t letting it go.

“Sweetheart”, she said, her voice trembling slightly, “if something’s wrong, you need to tell us. Please”.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Your throat felt tight, your chest constricted with the weight of everything you were carrying. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it—not when their worried faces were looking at you so intently.

From the kitchen, the faint sound of a cabinet closing signaled that Ben was still nearby. You glanced toward the doorway, half-hoping he’d come back in and steer the conversation away, but he stayed out of sight.

Finally, you shook your head again, forcing another strained smile. “I’m fine”, you whispered. “We’re fine”.

Your mom didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push further—for now. She simply wrapped an arm around your shoulder, holding you close.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Ben leaned against the counter, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He stared down at it, his jaw tight as he tried to collect himself. He hated this—hated feeling so powerless, hated seeing you so determined to plan for a future without you in it. His chest heaved with every breath, the tension in his body palpable. He barely registered the sound of footsteps behind him until your dad spoke, his voice low but filled with restrained anger.

“You know”, your dad started, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe, “she’s pregnant. In a lot of pain. While carrying your baby”. He let the words hang in the air for a moment, his tone sharpening as he continued. “Leaving her out there and saying something about ‘needing a break’? That’s a shit move, Ben”.

Ben’s jaw tightened, his grip on the counter white-knuckled as your dad’s words hit home. But your dad wasn’t finished.

“You put a ring on her finger, didn’t you?”, he said, stepping closer now, his voice growing more forceful. “There’s no such thing as a damn break! You don’t walk away when things get hard. You step up”.

For a moment, Ben didn’t move. Then, without warning, he inhaled sharply, his breath catching as the tension in his body exploded outward. His chest began to glow faintly—a phenomenon that hadn’t happened in months. It was faint, but unmistakable, a flickering reminder of the storm building inside him.

In a sudden motion, Ben grabbed his glass of whiskey and hurled it against the wall. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the kitchen, cutting through the heavy silence. The glowing in his chest intensified for a brief moment before he visibly forced himself to calm down, taking a ragged breath as he pressed his palms flat against the counter.

“She’s already given up”, Ben muttered finally, his voice hoarse, almost broken.

Your dad frowned, his expression shifting from anger to confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”, he asked, stepping closer.

Ben’s shoulders sagged, and he turned to face your dad, his green eyes dark with frustration and fear. “She’s planning for a future she thinks she’s not gonna be in”, he said, his voice low but filled with raw emotion. “Every time she talks about the baby, it’s about what I need to do, what I need to know. Like she’s already decided she’s not gonna make it”.

Your dad stared at him, stunned into silence for a moment. Then he shook his head slowly, his voice softening. “She’s scared, Ben. That’s not the same as giving up”.

Ben let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “She didn’t tell you, did she?”, he hissed, his voice low and angry, though the anger wasn’t directed at your dad. He looked at the shattered glass on the floor as if it held all the answers he couldn’t give.

“Told us what?”, your dad pressed, his tone sharp now, stepping closer.

But Ben didn’t answer, his jaw clenching tightly as he turned away. His chest still glowed faintly, the tension in his body barely contained. Whatever was boiling inside him, he wasn’t ready to let it out.

Your dad frowned, studying Ben for a moment before making a decision. Without another word, he turned and walked back into the living room where you were sitting with your mom. The worry on both your parents’ faces deepened as they exchanged a glance.

“What’s going on?”, your mom asked, her voice cautious but concerned as she looked between you and your dad.

Your dad’s jaw tightened, and he knelt beside you, his tone softening as he asked, “Honey, what’s Ben talking about? He’s in the kitchen losing it, saying you haven’t told us something. What is it?”.

You froze, your eyes widening slightly. You glanced toward the kitchen, where you could hear Ben pacing, the faint sound of his boots against the tile. You swallowed hard, your hands instinctively moving to your belly.

“It’s… it’s nothing”, you said quickly, though your voice wavered. “He’s just upset. It’s been a hard week”.

Your dad didn’t look convinced. “Don’t give me that”, he said firmly. “If there’s something we need to know—something serious—you tell us. Right now”.

Your mom reached for your hand, her grip gentle but steady. “Sweetheart, please. We can see something’s wrong”.

The weight of their worry combined with your own exhaustion was too much. Your shoulders sagged, and you let out a shaky breath as tears welled in your eyes. “It’s just…”, you started, your voice trembling. “The doctors… they said… there’s a chance I might not make it through the delivery”.

The words hung heavy in the air, and you could feel the sharp intake of breath from both your parents. Your mom’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears, while your dad’s expression darkened with a mix of fear and anger.

“What?”, he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, tears streaming down your face. “My body… it’s not adapting to the V medication like they hoped. The strain of the baby… it’s too much. They’re doing everything they can, but… there’s no guarantee”.

Your mom was already holding you tightly, her tears falling freely as she whispered, “Oh, my baby…”.

Your dad stood up abruptly, his fists clenching at his sides. “And you didn’t tell us? Either of you?”, he demanded, his voice trembling with emotion.

Before you could respond, Ben appeared in the doorway, his expression a mix of guilt and defensiveness. “Because she didn’t want you to worry”, he said, his voice gruff. “But now you know. So congratulations”.

Your dad turned on him, his voice rising. “You knew about this, and you let her sit here planning for her death instead of fighting for her to believe she’s going to live? What the hell is wrong with you?”.

Ben’s eyes flashed with anger, his chest glowing faintly again as he stepped forward. “You think I’m not fighting for her every fucking day?”, he snapped. “You don’t know what it’s like, watching her go through this and not being able to fucking fix it!”.

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of the situation crashing down on everyone. Your mom pulled you closer, her tears soaking into your shoulder as your dad stared down Ben, neither man willing to back down.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice soft but firm. “Stop”, you said, looking between them. “I can’t… I can’t handle this right now”.

Both men looked at you, their expressions softening slightly as the anger in the room ebbed. Ben sighed heavily, running a hand down his face, while your dad knelt back beside you.

“We’re here for you”, your dad said, his voice steady now. “Whatever happens, we’re not going anywhere. None of us”.

Ben stood there, his shoulders tense and his fists clenched at his sides as he stared at your dad. He didn’t need any sort of enhanced ability to read your parents’ thoughts; their expressions said it all. The flicker of blame in your dad’s eyes, the heartbreak on your mom’s face as she held you—Ben knew exactly what they were thinking.

If she’d fallen for a normal guy, she wouldn’t be going through this. She wouldn’t be suffering like this. This is his fault.

And the thing was, for Ben, they weren’t wrong.

His chest felt tight, the guilt clawing its way up his throat as he looked at you, fragile and exhausted in your mom’s arms. This was his fault. His child growing inside you, his DNA causing your body to break down, his life—the one you’d chosen to share—dragging you into this impossible situation. If you’d fallen for anyone else, someone normal, you wouldn’t be facing the possibility of not surviving childbirth.

Ben’s jaw clenched as he forced himself to speak, his voice rough and strained. “You think I don’t know?”, he said, his green eyes locking onto your dad’s. “You think I don’t get it? That if it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t be going through this?”.

Your dad opened his mouth to respond, but Ben didn’t let him. “I know it’s my fucking fault”, Ben said, his voice rising slightly, the frustration and guilt spilling out. “I know I’m the reason she’s in this mess. But don’t think for a second that I’m not doing everything I fucking can to fix it”.

Your mom glanced up at Ben, her face softening slightly, though her expression was still etched with worry. “Ben, no one is blaming you—”.

“Yes, you are”. Ben snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. “And you´re right. I don’t care if you say it out loud or not—I know what you’re thinking. If it wasn’t for me, she’d be fine. She’d be safe”.

“Ben, stop”, you said softly, your voice thick with exhaustion. “This isn’t your fault. None of this is”.

“How can you say that?”, he muttered, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m the reason this is happening. I’m the one who put you in this position”.

“You didn’t force me to fall in love with you”, you said quietly, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes. “You didn’t force me to choose this life, Ben. I did. And I’d choose it again, even knowing how hard it is. Because I love you”.

The room fell silent, the weight of your words settling over everyone. Ben stared at you, his jaw tight as he fought to keep his emotions in check. Finally, he let out a shaky breath, his hand tightening around yours.

“I just don’t want to lose you”, he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I can’t”.

As the evening settled, the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the bedside lamp. Ben sat behind you in bed, his strong arms wrapped protectively around you, cradling you in his lap. You leaned back against his chest, your head resting against his shoulder as your hands brushed softly over your growing belly. The baby moved faintly beneath your touch, and you spoke to her in a soothing, gentle voice, telling her little stories, your voice filled with a love that never wavered despite your exhaustion.

Ben stayed silent, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not with the turmoil churning inside him. He tightened his arms around you slightly, as if holding you closer could somehow anchor him, could somehow keep you tethered to him and away from the reality that loomed over both of you.

He tried to keep his emotions in check, tried to focus on the steady rhythm of your voice as you spoke to the baby. But his mind wouldn’t stop racing. How could he raise his daughter alone, without you? How could he navigate a world without the one person who made it all bearable, who made him better?

His chest tightened, the memories of the past few weeks crashing into him like waves. Just a short time ago, you’d both been so happy, so full of excitement and hope. The life you were building together had felt untouchable, like nothing could break the two of you. And now… now everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Without saying a word, Ben reached down and took your hand in his. His thumb brushed over the delicate band of the ring he had placed on your finger in Brazil. The memory of that moment—how beautiful and sure you’d looked, how his world had felt complete—hit him hard. He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Ben’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, his thumb still tracing slow circles over the ring as he finally found the courage to speak. His voice was low and rough, almost a whisper, as he broke the heavy silence between you. “Promise me”, he said, his words trembling under the weight of emotion he rarely showed. “Promise me you’ll fight”.

You turned your head slightly, trying to see his face, but he was staring down at your hands, avoiding your gaze. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and he let out a shaky breath. “For me”, he continued, his voice cracking ever so slightly, “for her. Please”.

The word hung in the air, and it hit you harder than you expected. It was so unlike Ben to plead, to lay himself bare like this. He was always the strong one, the unshakable force that held everything together. Seeing him like this, vulnerable and desperate, made your heart ache.

You reached up with your free hand, cupping his cheek and gently turning his face toward you. His green eyes met yours, and you could see the fear there—the fear he’d been trying to bury, to mask with his usual bravado. “Ben”, you whispered, your voice soft but firm. “I’m not giving up. I’m fighting. I swear to you, I am”.

His jaw tightened, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as if drawing strength from you. “You say that”, he muttered, his voice quieter now, “but you’re so tired. And I—I don’t know how much more you can take”.

You shook your head, your hand sliding from his cheek to rest on his chest, right over his heart. “I can take more”, you said, your voice steady despite the tears brimming in your eyes. “Because I have to. For you. For her. I’m not leaving you, Ben”.

“Then stop showing me all this stuff”, he muttered, his frustration and fear bubbling to the surface. “I don’t need to know how to bathe her without drowning her, or how to swaddle her like she’s some little burrito, because you’ll be at my side”.

You blinked at him, your breath catching at the raw vulnerability in his words. He wasn’t just asking you to fight—he was demanding it, refusing to let himself believe in any other outcome. “Ben—”, you started, but he interrupted, his green eyes blazing.

“I’m serious”, he said, his voice rough but resolute. “I can’t stand hearing you talk like I have to do this alone. Like I have to figure it all out without you. I don’t need to know all that shit because you’ll be there. You promised”.

You nodded, your throat tightening as tears welled up in your eyes again. “I did”, you whispered, your voice trembling. “And I’ll keep that promise. I just—”. You paused, looking away for a moment before meeting his intense gaze again. “I just want to make sure everything is perfect for her. Just in case…”.

“No”, Ben said firmly, shaking his head as his hand cupped your face, forcing you to hold his gaze. “No just in case. We’re not doing that. We’re doing this together, and you’re going to be there to make it perfect yourself. Got it?”.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you nodded again, this time with more conviction. “Got it”, you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Ben leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek to wipe away the tear. “Good”, he muttered, his voice softening as he tried to steady himself. “Because I need you, doll. More than I can even say”.

You exhaled shakily, your hand resting over his on your cheek. “I need you too, Ben”.

For a long moment, the two of you stayed like that, clinging to each other as if the world outside the room didn’t exist.

By the time the due date was just four weeks away, the days had fallen into a rhythm of quiet intimacy. Ben stayed by your side almost constantly, rubbing oil on your belly, massaging your aching feet, and sitting beside you on the couch while the two of you watched movies. Most nights ended with you falling asleep on him, his strong arms cradling you as though he could shield you from the world. Those small moments of normalcy became everything—your shared anchor in the midst of the storm.

So, when you asked him for an hour or two alone that morning, Ben had been reluctant but agreed, albeit begrudgingly. Now, as he stood in the kitchen, staring at the half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand, he felt utterly out of place. For weeks, he’d been glued to your side, hyper-focused on keeping you safe and ensuring you didn’t lift a finger. Now, without you nearby, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

With a heavy sigh, Ben downed the rest of the drink and pushed the glass aside. Determined to stay busy, he wandered over to the dryer, pulling out the last few pieces of tiny baby clothes. He frowned as he tried to fold them neatly, muttering under his breath as the impossibly small socks refused to stay paired. Eventually, he gave up, leaving a messy pile on the counter.

Unable to ignore the pull in his chest any longer, he grabbed the clothes and headed toward the baby’s room. He hadn’t meant to disturb you, but the idea of you being alone for too long didn’t sit right with him. He figured he could pop in, drop off the clothes, and maybe just… check on you.

When he reached the doorway, he froze.

You were sitting in the rocking chair, your belly prominent and your face etched with concentration as you leaned over a small stack of papers. Your hand moved slowly, deliberately, across the page, and it took him a moment to realize what you were doing.

Letters.

His heart dropped as the realization hit him like a freight train. These weren’t just notes or lists; they were goodbye letters. One was addressed to your parents, another with “To My Baby” written in soft, shaky handwriting, and one more, sitting beside you, with his name written at the top.

“Y/N", Ben muttered, stepping into the room, his voice thick with disbelief and barely restrained anger. “What the fuck are you doing?”.

You startled, looking up at him with wide eyes, your hand freezing mid-sentence. “Ben”, you said softly, your voice wavering. “I thought I asked for some time—”.

“What the hell is this?”, he interrupted, gesturing toward the letters as he walked closer. His green eyes were blazing, his chest rising and falling with barely contained emotion. “You’re writing fucking goodbye letters? Is that what this is?”.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as you set the pen down. “It’s just in case”, you said quietly, your voice trembling. “I just… I needed to—”.

“No”, Ben growled, cutting you off as he dropped the clothes onto the dresser and moved closer to you. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to sit here and write shit like this, like you’re planning to leave”.

You looked away, unable to meet his piercing gaze. “Ben”, you whispered, your voice breaking. “You know what the odds are. I need to make sure—”.

“No!”, he snapped, crouching down in front of you, his hands gripping the armrests of the rocking chair. His voice cracked with emotion, the raw edge of his fear cutting through the air. “I don’t give a shit about the odds! You promised me you’d fight. You promised me you wouldn’t fucking give up”.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you finally looked at him, your heart breaking at the pain in his eyes. “I’m not giving up!", you said, your voice trembling. “I just… I need to be prepared, Ben. For her. For you”.

“I don’t need your damn letter”, he hissed, his voice thick as his hands moved to cup your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You think some piece of paper is gonna replace you? You think I’m gonna read your words and feel better when you’re not fucking here?”.

“Ben—”.

“No”, he said firmly, his voice dropping to a whisper as his thumbs brushed your tears away. “You’re not writing letters. You’re not leaving. You’re staying right here with me, with her.

"Please Ben… Just… keep them somewhere safe".

But Ben wasn’t having it. He shook his head, his jaw tight as he pushed the letters back toward you. “No”, he said firmly, his voice low and trembling with emotion. “I’m not keeping them. I’m not hiding them. These letters don’t fucking exist because you’re not going anywhere”.

“Ben—”, you started, but he cut you off, his hands gripping yours tightly as though he could hold you in place by sheer will.

“No. Listen to me”, he said, his voice breaking as his forehead dropped to rest against yours. “I can’t do this without you. I won’t do this without you. So you don’t get to prepare for some worst-case scenario like it’s inevitable. You hear me? You’re going to be here. You’re going to see her take her first steps. You’re going to watch her grow up. You’re going to be right here with us, every single day”.

Tears streamed down your face, but his resolve didn’t waver. His hands came up to cup your face again, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “You’re staying”, he repeated, his voice soft but unyielding. “You’re staying because I need you. She needs you. And I’ll be fucking damned if I let you go without a fight”.

The raw emotion in his voice shattered something inside you, and you collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest. His arms came around you, strong and steady, holding you as though his grip alone could anchor you to this world.

“Please, Ben”, you whispered against his chest, your voice breaking as you clutched the fabric of his shirt. “Please just take them. I need you to keep them”.

He stiffened, his arms tightening around you for a moment before pulling back to look at you. His jaw clenching as he shook his head. “No”, he said firmly, his voice rough but steady. “I’m not taking them. I’m not even going to pretend like this is an option”.

“Ben”, you pleaded, your hands trembling as you reached for his. “I need to know they’re somewhere safe. I need to know that if something happens—”.

“Nothing is going to happen”, he interrupted, his voice rising just enough to cut through the air. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as if trying to ground himself. “You’re not leaving me. You’re not leaving her. I won’t even entertain the fucking idea”.

Tears poured down your cheeks as you grabbed the letters from the table, pressing them against his chest with trembling hands. “Ben, please”, you begged, your voice breaking into a sob. “I’m not trying to give up. I’m not planning to leave. But if the worst happens, I need you to have these. I need to know you’ll tell her how much I love her”.

For a long moment, he said nothing, his breath shallow and uneven as he looked at you, torn between his fear and his love for you.

Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”, he whispered. “You’re asking me to fucking accept the possibility of losing you. You’re asking me to prepare for something I can’t even think about without fucking falling apart”.

Your heart shattered at the anguish in his voice, and you nodded, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “I know”, you whispered. “I know I’m asking for too much, but Ben, I don’t want to leave you unprepared. I don’t want you to have nothing if—if I don’t—”.

“Stop”, he cut you off, his voice breaking as he dropped his forehead against yours again.

“Please, if you love me, just take them. Don’t read them. Just keep them somewhere safe. Promise me, Ben”, you said, your voice trembling as you pressed your hands harder against his chest, forcing him to feel the letters.

He let out a shaky breath, his face crumpling as he closed his eyes. For a long, agonizing moment, he didn’t move, and you thought he might refuse again. But then, slowly, he reached up and took the letters from your hands. His fingers trembled as he held them, his green eyes opening to meet yours, raw and vulnerable.

“I’ll take them”, he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But only because it’s what you need. Not because I think I’ll ever have to read them. Because I won’t. You’re going to be here. You hear me? You’re going to be here”.

“I hear you”, you whispered, your voice breaking as you collapsed against him again, your arms wrapping around his neck. “Thank you, Ben. Thank you”.

He held you tightly, the letters clutched in one hand as his other wrapped around you, grounding you both in the shared fear and love that bound you together.

The evening was quiet, save for the low hum of the TV in the background. You were curled up in Ben’s lap on the couch, his arms wrapped protectively around you as he absently stroked your back. Outside, the world was preparing for Christmas, but inside your home, the festive spirit was dim. The half-hearted string of lights Ben had thrown over the window frame hung crookedly, blinking in mismatched intervals. You’d joked about it looking like a crime scene earlier, and Ben had tried to laugh, but you knew he hated that he couldn’t make things perfect for you.

Your stomach growled softly, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much all day. The latest round of treatments had left you feeling weaker than ever, each injection draining a little more of the fight from your body. You sighed and began to shift in Ben’s arms, pushing yourself up.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?”, Ben asked, his tone laced with concern as his hands immediately went to steady you.

“I’m getting some snacks”, you mumbled, your voice shaky but determined as you tried to push his hands away. “I need to eat something”.

Ben’s brows furrowed, and he shook his head, already moving to stand. “No, you’re not. Sit your ass back down. I’ll get it for you”.

But you shook your head, your hands gripping the armrest as you slowly stood up. The world tilted slightly, but you steadied yourself, breathing through the wave of dizziness. “No”, you said firmly, even though your voice was barely above a whisper. “I can do it. I need to do it”.

Ben stood as well, his arms hovering around you like a safety net as he watched you take a shaky step toward the kitchen. “Sweetheart, come on”, he said, his voice softer now but still tinged with worry. “You don’t have to prove anything. Let me take care of you”.

You stopped, your back to him as you gripped the edge of the couch for support. “It’s not about proving anything to you”, you murmured, your voice tight with emotion. “It’s about proving it to myself. I need to know I can still… do something. Anything”.

Ben was silent for a moment, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your back. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Alright”, he said reluctantly. “But I’m staying right here. You fall, I’m catching you”.

You nodded, not trusting your voice as you took another step, then another. Each movement felt like a monumental effort, your legs trembling beneath you as you made your way toward the kitchen. When you finally reached the counter, you leaned against it, your hands shaking as you opened a cabinet and grabbed a box of crackers.

Ben hovered in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight as he watched you struggle. “You’ve got it, baby”, he said softly, his voice steady even though you could see the tension in his shoulders. “Take your time”.

You managed to grab the crackers and a jar of peanut butter, setting them on the counter before reaching for a plate. By the time you turned around, your knees were buckling, and Ben was there in an instant, his hands steadying you as he guided you back toward the couch.

“Alright, that’s enough hero shit for one night”, he said, his tone soft but firm as he helped you sit down. “You did good, but now you’re done”.

"Oh… Now I forgot the jam”, you muttered, half to yourself, half to Ben as you glanced toward the kitchen.

Ben immediately shot you a look, his brows furrowing. “Don’t even think about it”, he said, his tone a mix of exasperation and concern. “I’ll get it”.

But you were already trying to stand, determined once again to prove you could handle something, even if it was just fetching jam. “Ben, I’ve got it”, you said stubbornly, waving him off as you pushed yourself up.

“Damn it”, he growled under his breath, moving to your side as if he could physically stop you. “Why do you have to be so—”.

“Because I can do this!”, you interrupted, glaring at him as you took a careful step forward. “I’m still fighting, Ben. Let me do it”.

He threw up his hands, his jaw clenching in frustration. “Fine. Three steps. That’s all you’re getting before I step in”.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. One step. Two steps. Then, just as you took the third, a sudden rush of warmth spread down your thighs, and you froze in the middle of the living room.

Your breath hitched, your hands instinctively going to your belly as you looked down at the growing puddle on the floor. For a moment, your mind went blank, and then it hit you all at once.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think. 🥰

Part 29

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