#how to reduce generation gap

[hllywdwhre]

Revenge - Tommy Shelby

Summary: Reader takes personal offense over Sabini’s attack on Tommy

Warnings: arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, reader leaves a message written in blood, smut, creampie, light degrading, oral smut (f receiving), overstim, p in v, let me know if I missed any

Notes: I made this text post about protective reader and decided to write it lmfao. I want Tommy with a feral woman. Thank you to @slut4thebroken for proof reading, encouragement, and suggestions💖

MDNI, 18+ only

You weren’t quite sure how it had happened.

Scratch that.

You knew exactly how it had happened.

Your father and Tommy had worked out a deal when Sabini had first started trying to intimidate your father. A bride in exchange for protection and both of them walked away with extra allies when the inevitable war against Sabini broke out. You’d protested the marriage at first, screaming that you were more than just a political pawn for your father to sell when he needed help, but it went through anyway.

You had to admit, it wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened. Sure, Tommy was distant and seemed obsessed with work, but you knew you could’ve ended up in a much worse situation. He treated you with respect, never let you open a door on your own if he was around, always had a protective hand rested in the small of your back, and… the sex was great.

Perhaps the thing you appreciated the most, was that he didn’t expect you to become the housewife you had feared you would be reduced to. You were your father’s only child, meaning when he died, you would become leader of his gang. You were a gangster the same way Tommy was and he seemed to realize that and respect it. You helped out with the daily runnings of the Peaky Blinders and helped with the daily runnings of your father’s gang at the same time. They both recognized your potential and weren’t afraid to use it.

It wasn’t until you were sitting in a family meeting about a year after your marriage that you realized you had grown to feel more than just okay with the marriage.

Tommy was a closed off individual and through the entire year you had been married, you felt like you were just starting to finally get to know the real him. You never pried because he never pried in your life. If you had general questions, neither of you were afraid to ask them, but anything more was left up for the person to tell. You had more questions than answers still, specifically about the matching scars on his cheeks, but you didn’t dare ask. He hadn’t asked about the scar that ran from your right shoulder blade down to your spine, so you didn’t ask about his scars.

It was a common occurrence for Esme, Ada, and Polly to sit with you at one of the desks in the betting shop, whispering things to you during family meetings to fill in any gaps and answer any questions you may have had.

“Alfie has informed me that the Sicilians are being provided aid by Sabini, in the form of cars and housing,” Tommy started, causing Arthur to let out a loud groan of frustration.

Before you could get dragged into hearing any more of it, you turned your head to Esme who was sitting next to you.

“Sabini’s a prick, I know that, but what has he done to us?” You asked quietly, your eyes still flickering back-and-forth between Tommy and the rest of his family as they spoke about what to do next.

Esme began explaining exactly what Sabini had done. How he and five other men came after Tommy in the dark of night, how he’d ripped out a tooth, sliced his cheeks, and beat him to an inch of his life.

The rage that settled inside of you was your first hint that you had grown to genuinely care for Tommy as more than just a friend and (amazing) fuck buddy. Your jaw remained clenched and set for the rest of the meeting, but as soon as the meeting was called to end, you wiped the look from your face and forced a calm expression to take over.

You stood up and walked over to Tommy, forcing a small smile to your lips,

“I’m not really feeling all that well. You go with your brothers for a drink, I’m just going to head back home, okay?” You said, meeting his eyes so he wouldn’t have a reason to not believe you.

Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed together as he tried to look for any sign you were lying. You had been fine that morning and fine two hours prior when you sat down for the meeting, but he had no reason to believe you were lying so he simply nodded, placed a hand on the small of your back to pull you closer to him, and kissed your forehead.

“I won’t be out long. Ask Frances for anything you need, okay, love?”

You nodded and the forced smile turned to a genuine one,

“I will, promise,” you told him before stepping away from him and waving goodbye to the rest of the family.

Yes. You had truly gotten lucky when it came to who you had been forced to marry.

The entire ride back to the Arrow House, you were silent and going over your plan in your head. You knew you’d have to earn Tommy’s trust back after this, but you didn’t particularly care. You were a force of nature on your best day. You were lethal when you were angry.

Once you arrived back, you immediately headed upstairs to yours and Tommy’s shared room. The marriage may have started off with the two of you in separate rooms, “I’m called the devil, but that doesn’t mean I’m some sort of monster. You can sleep in your own room until you’re comfortable sharing a bed,” but it didn’t take more than a couple weeks for you to eventually join him in bed.

Damn those blue eyes, full lips, and that jawline.

You grabbed a small bag and threw the first set of clothes you laid hands on into it, then, much more carefully, a dress. You grabbed everything else you needed and headed to Tommy’s office next.

I’ll be back soon. I’m sorry for lying, but I’ll be back.

You signed the note and left it in the center of his desk where you knew he would see it, held down by his ashtray.

As quickly as you had entered the house, you left it, getting right back into the car with the driver Tommy had employed for you. You told him the name of a hotel in London that you knew was just outside of anyone’s territory.

The drive seemed to pass by too quickly and soon you were saying goodbye to the driver and sending him home for the night. It was barely 7 in the evening when you got up to your room.

“If there is a God, please let me get through this. I’ll make it up to you… somehow,” you said quietly.

The beading on the dress swayed loudly around your body as you pulled the dress on. The pins in your hair seemed to be extra noticeable against your scalp. The straps on your shoes pressed into your skin more than usual. The blade held against your thigh and hidden by your dress seemed to refuse to warm up. Your left hand felt entirely too light with your ring missing.

You knew it was only your mind playing tricks on you. You’d worn this outfit before and it had always turned heads, which is exactly what you wanted.

You needed Sabini to notice you.

You greeted the cab driver politely as you stepped in and ignored the way his eyes seemed to follow you a bit too closely.

The doors of the club were held open for you and you made your way to the bar and took a seat, knowing you were just playing a waiting game now.

You could feel eyes on you. The wife of Thomas Shelby in Sabini’s club, hours away from Birmingham, far out of Peaky Blinders territory or her father’s territory. You stuck out like a sore thumb, even if you would have blended in during any other scenario.

It felt like an eternity passed before you finally saw the man that made your blood boil, but one glance at the clock above the bar told you it hadn’t even been an hour.

“You seem lost. I thought we had made it clear that your kind weren’t welcomed here,” Sabini said once he was in front of you.

A charming smile graced your lips and you looked up at him,

“My kind?” You questioned, playing innocent.

“Yes. Your kind. You’re the wife of Thomas Shelby and I don’t appreciate him ignoring the last warning I gave him and sending you-“

“I wasn’t sent here,” you stopped him, lifting your left hand and pushing a piece of hair that hadn’t fallen back behind your ear, “and I’m not really a Shelby or a Blinder, am I?”

His eyes were drawn to your hand and noticed the lack of a ring you wore and he quirked an eyebrow at you.

“Is that so? I was under the impression the two of you were lovebirds.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your lips and looked away, trying to come off as shy. When you looked back up to him, you hoped the look on his face meant he was intrigued and believing you.

“Perhaps we could talk about it somewhere else… somewhere private?” You asked him, batting your eyelashes as you did so.

Gods help you. The smirk he gave you made your stomach twist and you wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his face, but patience was something you’d adopted a lot of.

“Allow me to show you to my office then,” he said, offering you a hand which you forced yourself to take.

He guided you through the club and towards the back. Some amount of luck seemed to be on your side as his office was behind the stage and provided some cover for any noise you might make. Even more so as you noticed a window just large enough for you to be able to crawl out of.

Once the door was shut behind you, he sat down behind his desk and motioned for you to take a seat in one of the chairs on the opposite side.

“Trouble in paradise, I take it,” Sabini said as he poured you both a drink.

“It was never paradise to begin with,” you replied, thanking him for the drink and taking a sip.

You had grown used to Tommy’s Irish whiskey and the bourbon he gave you wasn’t nearly as smooth going down.

“Was it not? From what I’ve heard, you two have quite the fairytale. Gang leader’s daughter married off to another gang leader, uniting two empires.”

“That’s not the way I see it,” you lied.

“And how do you see it?”

“A desperate father sold off his daughter to a desperate gang leader in an attempt for the both of them to gain more power and disregarded the woman’s wishes,” you replied simply, shrugging your shoulders.

“And so you’ve come to London for what?” Sabini questioned, wanting to hear you say it.

“Because I think we can help each other, Mr. Sabini,” you said, downing the rest of the bourbon and standing up.

His eyes followed your movements, his eyes trailing up your body before resting on your legs again.

“And how do you think we could help each other?” He asked.

You moved to stand in front of him, placing one leg over the side of his and straddled him, placing your arms around his neck.

“They trust me, Mr. Sabini. They don’t suspect me of anything,” you started. The shiver of disgust that rolled up your spine due to his hands trailing up the back of your thighs was one he apparently took as excitement as he gripped slightly at the backs of them, “I can tell you everything and, in return, I get out of my marriage once they’re all gone.”

“They don’t even realize the ticking time bomb they’ve got in their fingertips, do they?” He asked and a chuckle left your lips as a genuine smirk took over.

“They don’t…” you said, trailing your hands down his chest and then up your thigh, trying to make the move appear seductive. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of your knife, “and neither do you, apparently.”

His eyes widened and he realized the trap he had walked into at the same time as you pressed the blade of the knife to his neck.

“I’d say that if you ever threaten my husband or our family again, you’ll regret it, but you won’t be,” you told him, unable to resist pausing for a touch of dramatic effect before adding on, “Never fuck with a Shelby.”

In the next second, you were quickly slicing the knife across his neck and flinching back as his blood coated you.

You knew your next move was morbid, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It had been morbid for him and five other men to attack your husband when he was alone. It was morbid for him to rip out his tooth. It had been morbid for him to slice his cheeks. It was just as morbid for you to quickly and quietly clear off his desk, dip your fingers into his blood, and leave a bloodied message across his desk.

Revenge is a scorned Shelby

As soon as the message was written, you grabbed one of the coats from the coat rack and slipped it on, then crawled out of the window. The coat was long enough to cover all of the bloodied mess that was now your dress.

Sabini is dead.

That seemed to be the only thing you could think of as you were driven back to the Arrow House. It wasn’t the first time you had killed a man and you knew it wouldn’t be last.

But you hadn’t told anyone about this time. You hadn’t told anyone your plan, where you were going, or why you were doing it. You had also just started a war.

You weren’t surprised to see almost every light in the house still on when you arrived, and you made sure to slip the cab driver a little extra for the long drive.

You hadn’t risked staying in London longer than you needed to. You had gone into your hotel room, grabbed your bag, and promptly left, only taking the time to slip your wedding ring back on when you were in the cab.

When you stepped into the house, Tommy was in the hallway. All he saw as you stepped in the door was you, in another man’s coat, your wedding ring still on your finger, but your hair and makeup done much differently than it had been you had left.

You stayed silent as you stared at him with nervousness written on your face.

He put out his cigarette and quirked an eyebrow at you, a silent prompt for you to explain yourself.

Your silent explanation was to undo the tie on the coat and let it fall to the floor, revealing your blood stained dress.

“I need a fucking drink for this one,” Tommy grumbled, motioning for you to follow him. He guided you to his office and poured both of you a drink, handed you your glass, then sat down in his office chair. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Do you want the short version or the long version?” You asked, a smirk on your face as he looked up at where you still stood across the room.

Despite himself, he couldn’t help but chuckle and shrug his shoulders,

“Humor me. Short version first,” he told you.

“About a year ago I got married, and tonight I started a war.”

Tommy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and running a hand over his face, “Long version.”

“About a year ago, I got married. Over the past year my husband has been nothing but a respectful gentleman, making it nearly impossible for me not to fall for him when you combine it with his fucking blue eyes that could bring the devil to his knees,” you started, feeling the hint of a blush creep into your cheeks, which you knew he noticed by the way his eyes flicked to your cheeks and then back to your eyes, “then today we had a meeting with his family where he mentioned Sabini. When I asked, his sister-in-law told me about what Sabini had done to him. About how my husband had been beaten to an inch of his life and brutalized, leaving him permanently scarred, and I knew I had to make the bastard pay.

“So, I lied to my husband and said I didn’t feel well. I went home, packed a bag, left him a note saying I’d be back, and went to London. I rented a hotel room where I changed into a fancy dress and did my hair and makeup, then I wrapped a knife to my thigh and slid my wedding ring into my bag and went to The Eden Club. News of a Shelby woman spread quickly and Sabini showed up to question me within an hour. I lied to Sabini, told him that I didn’t want to be a Shelby and that I had never wanted to be one. He took me back to his office and I sat on his lap and made him think I was about to cheat on my husband when I slit his throat and made sure he knew it was because of what he’d done to my husband. I left a message on his desk, went back to the hotel, grabbed my bag, and then headed back to our house.”

Silence filled the room for a long moment as Tommy stared at you. His eyes were unreadable as he watched you.

“What did the message say?” He suddenly asked.

“Revenge is a scorned Shelby.”

“Nothing about the Peaky Blinders?” He asked curiously, tilting his head slightly.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t Peaky business,” you answered confidently, watching him just as closely as he watched you as he stood from his chair and came to stand in front of you.

“Was it not?” He questioned, taking the untouched glass of whiskey from your hand and setting it on the desk before turning back to stare you down.

“No. It was Shelby business, but not Peaky business.”

“Explain.”

“He didn’t just harm a Peaky Blinder. He harmed a Shelby, my Shelby.” Your gaze was unwavering as you held eye contact with him. You wanted him to know you meant your words. He was yours, and the protective touches on your back when you were in public and the way he intimidated and glared at any man who tried approaching you was all the proof you needed to know that you were his.

“So I’m your Shelby?” He asked as he took a step towards you and continued to do so until you pressed against the office door.

“Yes.”

“And that means you’re mine?” He questioned, his hands now pressed against the wall on either side of your head.

You could feel that you were walking into some sort of trap, but you didn’t have a way out of it right now. All you could do was be honest.

“Yes.”

“Then you should know something about what it means to be mine.”

“What’s that?” You asked, your breathing getting shorter as he lowered his face so it was level with yours.

In a second his hands were on your waist and he had you picked up against the wall with legs instinctively wrapping around his hips.

“My Shelby is to never come home wearing another man’s coat again,” he said, pressing his lips to yours in a rough kiss.

You don’t know what reaction you had expected from him, but being pinned to his office door and him kissing you hadn’t been one you had thought of. Your shock wore off after half a second and you returned the kiss as your arms wrapped around his neck to keep him close.

“You’re not mad?” You asked against his lips.

“At you starting a war?” He questioned, leaning down and beginning to trail kisses hastily down your neck.

“Yes,” you replied, leaning your head back to give him more access.

“Livid,” he said with no hint of joking in his voice.

“This is quite the punishment,” you replied sarcastically. A moan fell from your lips as he nipped at your pulse point.

“Oh, I’m livid,” he said, looking up at you, “but also extremely turned on at the thought of my wife slicing a man’s throat over me and coming home still covered in his blood.”

You weren’t given a chance to respond before he was kissing you again. Your hands came down to his tie, pulling it loose before starting to work at the buttons of his waistcoat.

He didn’t bother setting you down, only turned the two of you around and walked you over to the couch in the office. He laid you down on it and then pulled the waistcoat off before leaning back down between your legs and kissing you again once. His lips started trailing down your neck again while your hands went to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Someone’s impatient tonight,” he teased as nipped at your skin again.

“You’re the one who pinned me to the door after I revealed I killed a man for you,” you replied in the same teasing tone as him. You undid the last button of his shirt and pushed the fabric off his shoulders, his undershirt following a second later.

He reached his hand to the side of your dress and unzipped it, pulling the fabric down your body while his hands grabbed hold of your underwear, stockings, and garters in the same move and pulled them off, leaving you completely naked underneath him.

He stared and looked over your body a moment longer before running his hands up your thighs and giving a gentle tap to your thigh,

“Up,” he said, causing your eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

You did as told though and sat up, leaving him enough room to lay on his back and pull you up to straddle him,

“Was killing a man not enough work?” You teased, not actually minding if he was going to have you ride him. At least it meant you wouldn’t be subjected to him teasing you when all you really wanted was for him to fuck you.

“That’s cute,” he said sarcastically, gripping your thighs and attempting to pull you further up his torso, “that’s not where you’re sitting tonight.”

The man was no stranger at using his mouth to make you see stars, but you’d never ridden his face before. You looked at him, the question obvious on your face.

“Seriously?” You asked even though you knew by his face that he was.

“Seriously. You were enough of a leader to go after Sabini, you’re enough of a leader to sit on my face. Up,” he repeated again while his grip on your thighs tried pulling you forward.

You did as you were told this time, shuffling forward until you were straddling his face. You weren’t given a choice of when to sit as his hands came to your hips and pulled you down, forcing your full weight onto his waiting mouth.

If there was one thing you were grateful for, it was Thomas’ ability to use his tongue and lips in more than just outsmarting his enemies.

His tongue trailed through your lips, his hands keeping your hips in place, while his tongue slowly explored you at first.

It had only taken a couple weeks for you to crack and make the first move on Tommy, joining him in bed one night when you’d decided you could trust him, and you’d been insatiable and addicted to him ever since, though he never complained. He’d spent the first couple times figuring out every move that made you tick and every name that made your cheeks flush and used them to his advantage at every turn.

His tongue was a gift with the way he knew exactly how to use it. He dragged it up and down between your folds, drinking in every bit of your arousal before focusing on your clit, alternating between quick flicks and long drags.

Tommy’s hands on your hips began guiding them, silently instructing you to take control. You didn’t hesitate in going along with what he wanted you to do and began rocking your hips. One of your hands trailed to his hair while your other went to lay on top of one his that gripped your hip. You hadn’t realized the volume of your moans until you felt the vibration of his moan against your clit.

Your hips jerked at the added stimulation and he hummed against you purposefully, his eyes never leaving you as your hips sped up, chasing your own high. Within moments you could feel it approaching and your grip on his hair and hand tightened, moans of his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

“Please, fuck,” you cried, whimpers falling from your lips, “Tommy, Tommy…”

Your high crashed over you a moment later and you felt Tommy’s movements begin to slow down as you rode out your high, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you caught your breath.

You went to move off of him, but his grip on your hips tightened at the same time that his tongue started speeding up again.

Your moans of pleasure turned to whimpers of over stimulation and you squirmed against him, but he didn’t let up. Your hips jerked as you tried moving away from him, but all it did was add to the stimulation.

You could practically feel him smirking underneath you as he continued on, watching as your eyes clenched shut and you relented yourself to letting him torture you so beautifully.

If it wasn’t for the way your body was on edge from not being given any type of break after your first orgasm, you might have felt slightly ashamed at the way he was able to bring you to your second orgasm so quickly.

And then your third.

Tears were freely falling from your face when he finally slowed his movements to a stop and helped you to lay down on your back.

He trailed soft and slow kisses along your thighs and stomach to help bring you back down to earth. When his lips reconnected with yours, you returned the kiss, letting your eyes fall shut at the surprisingly tender moment.

“Next time you want to start a war, at least let me know your plans,” he said, causing you to open your eyes and be met with a smirk dancing across his lips, “and don’t doubt my punishments.”

You could’ve smacked the smirk off his face if it wasn’t for the fact he had turned your entire body into mush.

“Think you can be a good girl and handle one more?” He asked.

Your cheeks flushed at the praise and his hands moved to his belt and pants, pulling them off after you nodded your confirmation.

Once the rest of his clothes had been removed, he gently lifted your legs and positioned himself between them. He was gentle as he pushed inside you, but the smirk on his face from the way your voice cracked when you moaned was obvious.

The stretch was familiar at this point, but it didn’t mean you didn’t need the moment he gave you to adjust. When you nodded your head, he started moving.

Tommy knew your body like he knew his own after your time together. His hips immediately changed position as he started thrusting, making sure to hit the spot inside you that added to the ways your legs shook underneath him.

He leaned down and placed his elbows on either side of your head, capturing your lips in a kiss right as a moan parted through them. One of his hands came back to cradle the back of your head and his fingers tangled into your hair to keep you close to him.

His other hand went to one of your legs and pulled it up so it rested in the crook of his elbow, causing him to hit even deeper inside you.

The action caused you to let out a high pitched moan and you wrapped your arms around him. Your next moan broke the passionate kiss the two of you had shared while your nails raked down his back.

“Who do you belong to?” He asked, beginning to speed up the movements of his hips.

“Y-you,” you moaned out, your back arching underneath him.

“Say my name. Who do you belong to?” He repeated.

“Thomas Shelby,” you answered and dropped your head back.

“Good girl. You’re my fucking wife,” he moaned out. He sat up, using one hand to keep your leg up in the same position while his other hand went to your already over sensitive clit, “all mine. No other man gets to touch you, look at you, or even fucking think of you. It’s my cock that you’re whimpering over right now, and it’s the only cock you’ll ever be whimpering over again.”

“I’m yours, Tommy,” you repeated, your voice breaking as moan after moan fell from your lips.

“Then cum for me. Be a good Shelby wife and make a fucking mess on my cock just like how you made a mess of this war tonight,” he commanded.

You didn’t need any more encouragement from him as your fourth orgasm hit you, causing your back to arch again and your nails to run down his arms.

His moves start to become more sloppy and his pace sped up as he began to chase his own high, the feeling of your cunt squeezing around his cock only driving him closer to the edge.

“Want to feel you Tommy, please,” you moaned underneath him, “please, cum inside me.”

“Fuck,” he swore out. His hips pushing against yours as his high hit him and his arms came down to either side of your head again while he shoved his face into your neck, completely claiming you as his own while his cum filled you.

His hips slowed as he rode out both of your highs and your arms came to wrap around him, placing a gentle kiss on the side of his head you could reach.

Once the two of your breathing had slowed down to a normal pace, he moved to push himself up and your legs around his waist tightened along with your arms.

“Don’t. Not yet,” you said in a quiet voice.

“I’m going to crush you, love.” He placed soft kisses along your shoulders between his words as he tried warning you.

“I’m a grown woman. I’ll tell you if it’s too much,” you replied and began running your nails softly along the shaved part of his head, knowing the motion worked on him every time.

“Stubborn,” he falsely chided, but relented and relaxed back into your hold.

“Little late to the party if you’ve just worked that out.” Your reply causing both of you to chuckle. “Remind me to start more wars if it means you fuck me like that every time.”

His hand came down and gently slapped your thigh in response while a burst of quiet giggles left your lips.

“Stubborn and a brat,” he teased, sitting up again and carefully sliding out of you.

“Too bad you’re stuck with me,” you responded with a smirk.

“I don’t think of it that way,” he said as he stood up and wrapped his arms under your waist and legs before pulling you up into his arms.

“How do you think of it?” You asked him as he carried you across the hall and into your shared room.

“I think I’m lucky enough to be married to a woman who killed for me over a years-old attack even though we’d never even said that we loved each other.” He set you down in the middle of the bed before crawling in next to you and pulling you into his chest.

A bright blush rose to your face as he pointed out that you had never even said you loved each other, even though you had admitted to him earlier that you had fallen for him. You didn’t know how to reply immediately and you turned in his arms to look up at him, his arms staying locked around your waist.

He didn’t seem to expect you to reply though, because he leaned in to you, pressing his lips against yours. The kiss was tender and sweet, as if he was trying to communicate what your actions had meant to him without having the words to say it.

“I fell for you, too,” he finally admitted, “I don’t know when it happened, but I know that I realized it tonight. The panic I felt to see your note and to see you come home covered in blood. The anger I felt over seeing you another man’s jacket. The way I felt when you revealed what you had done and why…” He trailed off, looking down at you and seeming to try and memorize every part of your face, “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours and you’re mine,” you replied, leaning up to kiss him.

“I’m yours and you’re mine.”

[cazort]

Why I'm Enthusiastic About Kamala Harris

I've seen so much negative talk about Trump and we all agree with that, but I want to highlight what I like most about Kamala Harris and why I'm actively enthusiastic and excited about voting for her:

She is pro-abortion rights and pro- comprehensive sex ed

She would appoint good Supreme Court Justices.

She respects people with a diverse range of political views and would include some voices from both progressive and conservative perspectives in her administration.

She is unambiguously pro-LGBTQ rights, including not just on gay rights but also trans rights.

She would represent continuity with the Biden administration, an administration that I think has done a good job on most issues.

On the issue of Palestine/Israel/Gaza (where I am most critical of Biden), I think Harris is a significant improvement over Biden, and also offers the better path of the only two viable candidates, towards ending the genocide. She has spoken out against the civilian deaths and she has snubbed Netanyahu which is a huge plus in my book.

She has shown a willingness to change her views, such as how she moved from being opposed to decriminalizing sex work in 2008, to being supportive of it in 2019, and being initially skeptical of marijuana legalization in 2010, but coming to support it in 2015. I like a candidate who can change their views, but more importantly, she is changing in a direction I like.

She would be good on the economy; she opposes tariffs, and would continue the Biden administration policies which have led to economic prosperity.

She has a solid and fairly diverse track record of experience, working as attorney general for the largest state, then senator for that state, then VP.

She has worked to combat over-incarceration and cruel treatment of people in prison, doing things like reducing mandatory minimum sentences and working to reduce recidivism, opposing solitary confinement, ending private prisons, and ending cash bail. She has also pledged to use the president's clemency powers to release a lot of people who have been imprisoned unjustly or given unfairly harsh sentences.

She has a concrete plan to enact immigration reform that would adequately fund the processing of asylum applications and fix the backlog of immigrants at the border. And the plan has broad bipartisan support.

On top of this she also has already done some things to address the root causes of migration in Latin America, particularly people fleeing Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador

She is pro-net-neutrality.

She supports universal healthcare, but also has concrete recommendations for how to improve the current status quo.

She is pro-science, including on issues like climate change, COVID, vaccinations, and health and nutrition. Her mom was a scientist!

She is pro-Ukraine, wanting to keep Russia out of Ukraine and ensure Ukraine wins their war of defense and maintains their independence.

She is across-the-board better on women's issues, not just reproductive rights but also sexual violence and domestic violence, workplace equality and the pay gap, and women's issues in Latin America (which is related to the immigration pressure I mentioned above.)

She generally takes stances on foreign policy I agree with, being skeptical of leaders (Putin, Orban, Netanyahu) I want us to be skeptical of, and working with and looking up to the ones I want us to work with and look up to (Olaf Scholz, Emmanuel Macron). She already has a working relationship with many of these leaders too, and has a reputation of being both personable and tough, just what I'd want.

She's smart, well-educated, and surrounded with smart, well-educated, and wise people. Her campaign is stable and well-run, and I trust her to put together a team of competent advisors and run this country competently, probably even more so than Biden has done, and Biden has done a pretty decent job, exceeding my expectations even.

Harris also has an impressive list of endorsements. I can't possibly be comprehensive here, but it includes people as diverse as the most progressive Democrat Lawmakers (Bernie Sanders and AOC), some of the most conservative former GOP legislators (Jeff Flake, Liz Cheney), and over 100 former GOP staffers including a disturbing number of insiders from the Trump administration. This is telling! You don't see this sort of whistleblowing and defection from within the Biden administration.

The fact that Harris has racked up endorsements from people spanning the whole political spectrum from solid-right to solid-left and everything in between, impresses me. This is the sign of someone who is going to be good at getting people to work together, someone who will listen to a wide range of viewpoints and develop better policy and take better courses of action as a result. It's what I always want in a president.

In some elections I have been frustrated that I'm voting for a "lesser of two evils" but this time around I actually feel actively enthusiastic about Harris. I am excited to vote tomorrow and excited to finally be done with this election, and I am cautiously optimistic that it is going to turn out really well.

I encourage everyone to vote and make sure to make sure everyone close to you is also voting!

[lotus-tower]

The Swiss Cheese Model of Covid Prevention

An edited version of the swiss cheese model tailored towards the measures that you as an individual can take to minimize your risk of infection. Public health is ultimately what its name implies, public, but that doesn't mean you're powerless.

Covid prevention is not all-or-nothing. Think of it as risk reduction, rather than a binary.

Let's go through these step by step.

VACCINES

The current vaccines are meant primarily to reduce chances of severe illness, hospitalization, and death. They will reduce your chance of infection a bit--but not nearly as much as you might think. You should still get your boosters regularly, because avoiding severe illness is of course worth doing.

If you haven't gotten the updated monovalent vaccine yet, go get it. It is not a booster. Think of it as a new vaccine. It's targeted towards the XBB lineages, which are now the most common variants. Your last boosters were likely of the bivalent type, aimed at both the original Covid strain from 2020 and Omicron. The new vaccine is monovalent, meaning it targets one family in particular.

Some studies suggest that the Novavax vaccine, which is a more traditional protein-based vaccine, is more effective and safer than mRNA vaccines, and offers better protection against future variants. Of course, the data we have so far isn't 100% conclusive (the last paper I linked is a preprint). Make of these findings what you will, just something to keep in mind. The new Novavax vaccine's availability is still limited, especially outside of the US.

MASKS

Masking is one of the most effective ways to protect yourself. While it is true that masking and reducing Covid transmission protects those around you, the idea that masks can't protect the wearer is outdated information from the early days of the pandemic when medical authorities refused to acknowledge that Covid is airborne.

The key to protecting yourself is to wear a well-fitting respirator. You want to minimize any gaps where air might leak out. If your glasses get fogged up, that's a sign that air is leaking.

Headbands will always have a tighter fit than earloop masks (and therefore provide better protection). However, you can use earloop extenders to improve the fit of earloop masks. You can find these online. Your comfort in wearing a mask is important, but there are options for compromise.

The above graphic doesn't include elastomeric respirators. While some (like the Flo Mask) are expensive, they can be much more affordable than buying disposables--look for P100 respirators at your local hardware store, but make sure it fits your face well.

For more general information, see this FAQ. For mask recommendations (NA-centric, sorry!), see my list here or Mask Nerd's YouTube channel.

For situations where you need to hydrate but don't want to take your mask off, consider the SIP valve.

Not even N95s are foolproof (N95 means it filters at least 95% of particles--with the other 5% potentially reaching you). Most people will likely not have a perfect fit. There will be situations where you'll have to take your mask off. The key is risk reduction, and that's why the Swiss cheese model is crucial.

If you can't afford high-quality masks, look for a local mask bloc or other organization that gives out free masks. Project N95 has unfortunately shut down. In Canada, there's donatemask.ca.

AVOID CROWDED INDOOR SPACES

This is rather self-explanatory. Indoor transmission is much, much, much more likely than outdoor transmission. If it's possible to move an activity outdoors instead, consider doing so.

If possible, try going to places like stores or the post office during less busy hours.

Viral particles can stay in the air for a considerable amount of time even after the person who expelled them has left. Do not take off your mask just because no one is currently present, if you know that it was previously crowded.

A CO2 monitor is a decent proxy for how many viral particles may have accumulated in the air around you. The gold standard is the Aranet4, but it's expensive, so here are some more affordable alternatives.

VENTILATION AND AIR FILTERS

Ventilation is effective for the same reason that outdoors is safer than indoors. If it's warm enough, keep windows open whenever possible. If it's cold, even cracking them open occasionally is better than nothing. Try to open windows or doors on different sides of a room to maximize airflow.

HEPA air filters can significantly reduce viral transmission indoors. Make sure to find one suitable for the room size, and replace the filters regularly. You want to look for devices with HEPA-13 filters.

You can use websites like these to calculate how long it takes for a device to change all the air in a room. Remember what I said about viral particles being able to hang around even after people have left? If an air purifier provides 2 air changes per hour, that means that after 30 minutes, any potential viral particles should be gone.

If you can't afford a commercial air filter, here's a useful DIY filter you can make with relatively simple materials. The filtration capacity is great--but due to being built with duct tape, replacing filters will be a challenge.

If you have to hold meetings or meet with people at work, having a smaller filter on the desk between you will also reduce chances of infection.

As a bonus, HEPA filters will also filter out other things like dust and allergens!

REDUCE LENGTH OF EXPOSURE IF EXPOSURE IS UNAVOIDABLE

Viral load refers to the amount of virus in a person's blood. If you've been exposed to someone with Covid, how much you've been exposed matters.

You might escape infection if the viral load you've been exposed to is very small. Or, even if you get infected, there will be less virus in you overall, leading to milder illness--and crucially, a lower chance of the virus penetrating deep into your body, creating reservoirs in your organs and wreaking long-term havoc.

A low viral load is also less contagious.

This is the same reason that wearing your mask most of the time, but having to take it off for eating, is still much better than not wearing your mask at all.

RECHARGEABLE PORTABLE AIR FILTERS

You might attract some odd looks. But if you're at high risk or just want to be as protected as possible, small portable air filters can help. Try to find models small enough to take with you on public transportation, to school, or while traveling.

These devices will be far too small to clean the air in the whole room. The goal is to have it filter air in your immediate vicinity. Be sure to angle the device so that the air is blowing in your face.

Unfortunately, rechargeable devices are much rarer and harder to find than normal air filters, and many are also expensive.

The best option at the moment, apart from DIY (which is possible, but you need to know what you're doing), seems to be the SmartAir QT3. The size and shape are a bit clunky, but it fits in a backpack. Its battery life isn't long, but it can be supplemented with a power bank.

NASAL SPRAYS

There's some research that suggests that some nasal sprays may be effective in reducing risk of infection by interfering with viruses' ability to bind to your cells.

These sprays are generally affordable, easy to find, and safe. The key ingredient is carrageenan, which is extracted from seaweed. So there are no potential risks or side effects.

Be sure to follow the instructions on the packaging carefully. Here's a video on how to properly use nasal sprays if you've never used them before.

Covixyl is another type of nasal spray that uses a different key ingredient, ethyl lauroyl arginate HCI. It also aims to disrupt viruses' ability to bind to cell walls. Unfortunately, I think it's difficult to obtain outside of the US.

CONCLUSION

None of the methods listed here are foolproof on their own. But by layering them, you can drastically reduce your chances of infection.

The most important layers, by far, are masking and air quality. But you should also stay conscientious when engaging with those layers. Don't let yourself become complacent with rules of thumb, and allow yourself to assess risk and make thought out decisions when situations arise where you might have to take off your mask or enter a high-risk indoor area, such as a hospital.

Remember that the goal is risk reduction. It's impossible to live risk-free, because we live among countless other people. But you can use knowledge and tools to keep yourself as safe as possible.

[fablepaint]

Something about the present moment makes me think trans-mascs like myself have a big role to play in bridging the gap. Our trans-femme friends have done much to present femininity as a positive force. They've inspiring many cis women and men to view what's femme in more positive terms.

But us on the other side of the spectrum, I think we can do the same with masculinity. We've had to grapple with the negative, embracing the positive, and arguing against being anti-femme as a form of masc-identification.

We're typically a pretty quiet bunch, yet we are trusted by our cis male friends to be people who they can talk with about more sensitive topics without having their gender called into question (one of the major ways toxicity takes hold).

We have the opportunity to be role models not just for the trans-boys just cracking their eggs, but cis-boys too hoping to find some way of being an adult man that isn't just reducing them to their reproductive capacity (see all the ways boys are pressured to make their identities entirely sex-based).

What was helpful for us, in framing our masculine identity? How do we pass that on to the younger generation? How do we share that with our colleagues too?

[fanfictilltheend]

❤️‍🔥Violent Heart Part 1: ♪All I've ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you ♫ (or the VERY DARK Stepdad!Mechanic!Covict!Joel x Afab!you one)❤️‍🔥

A/n: It's here!!!!!! 18+ Only. This took me 7 freaking months so you mofos better like, reblog, and comment. This is both my most and least personal fic I've ever written and it is dark and relies heavily on plot (no smut until part 2 but i swear it's worth the backstory!!!!) READ ALL OF THE TAGS DO NOT COME FOR ME UNLESS YOU DID THIS FR FR. This ones for my dark joel fangirlies(guys and NBies) and the daddy issues fam ily ❤️‍🔥 (also not me naming my fic in part after hallelujah by leonard cohen but there is a reason!!!!!!!!!!)

Summary: The story starts with Part 1 where afab!Y/N is a child and Joel is her new stepdad and this story explores their relationship. Themes of abusive family, domestic violence, child abuse, daddy issues, physical violence, murder, stepcest (kinda b/c he is divorced from her mom technically but she grew up with him as her stepdad), infidelity, age gap, and more are explored throughout the fic. PLEASE READ SPECIFIC TAGS (part 2 tags will be added with the release of part 2). Part 2 picks up with Y/N at age 20 and how her relationship with Joel has changed and gets steamier. NOTHING SEXUAL OCCURS BETWEEN Y/N and JOEL until Y/N is 20!!!!!!! Also check out this playlist of music that's in the fic!!!!

Tags (PLEASE READ): Afab!you, stepdad!joel, mechanic!joel, convict!joel, no apocalypse au, Mentions of sex (little detail), mentions of male masturbation, infidelity, domestic abuse/violence, sibling abuse/violence (no one ever talks about sibling abuse but it’s very real), physical child abuse, neglect, allusions to past domestic violence, cursing, brief mention of pedophilia and kidnapping (David), allusions to committing future pedophilia (David), threats, cancer mention, Sarah death discussion, Tommy death mention, murder, prison, mentions of god and religion, fights, general violence, alcohol consumption, using music lyrics to move the plot, daddy issues, use of y/n

Word Count: ~15k

PART 2 (coming soon)

Ao3 Link

Violent Heart Masterlist

Full Masterlist of all my work

Joel Miller is not a good man, that he knows like the backs of his calloused hands. 

He knows loss too, feels it burrowed in the hollow cavity of his chest. Sees it in the face of every little girl he meets. 

The memories sting. 

He knows pain, deep in the depths of his character, down to the fundamentals of what makes him something that resembles a human being. The belts, the bigger hands, the harsh words, and then the grief. The recent Bring back my babygirl! The ancient ¡Basta, Papí, por favor, no Tommy, no Mamá! ¡Por favor no esta noche! The indignity of begging, always reduced to begging to a cruel man, an indifferent doctor, a cruel universe. 

He knows hard work, how to work with his hands. He knows the grit and grease of labor. Sees the cogs turning in the engines he fixes, relates to them. Feels like he knows them intimately because he is one too, chugging along day after endless day. But no one dares fix Joel Miller.

Until…

Her name is Erica and she’d like her front bumper replaced, please. She has long eyelashes and a soothing voice. And she has money too, at least more than he, who is almost broke from the cost of Sarah’s medical bills. She comes with baggage, Joel can tell from looking into her eyes, but then again so does he. And he hasn’t been laid in god knows how long. 

She takes him on a date and he lets her. She reveals she has two kids, but Joel doesn’t care. They fuck at her place while the kids are at school and she wants it soft, like her hands, and that’s how Joel gives it to her. 

A week later, Joel has moved in, which is good because his rent was due and he couldn’t pay it. He still hasn’t met the children.

***

It’s Joel’s day off and he’s sitting on the couch in his new home. His back hurts, but that’s nothing new. He’s got an excellent view of their nice, big backyard with a wooden fence. The kind of home he would have liked to have given Sarah. He sighs. Technically, nothing is wrong.

Then he sees it. It takes him a second to realize what is going on. It’s a whirlwind. He sees the back gate open and two tumbling forms fall over the threshold onto the manicured grass. One form is bigger, a boy of about twelve or thirteen beating the shit out of a much smaller form, fists flying. The other form is a little girl, no more than eight, defending herself like her life depends on it. Perhaps it does with the way he’s going at her. 

This must be the son, Aiden, and the daughter, Y/N. 

He’s a good boy, really, but he has anger issues sometimes. He’s been through a lot. That’s what Erica said, but Joel does not see a good boy. He sees a bully. A disproportionately violent one at that. Nothing that tiny girl could have possibly done could warrant the brutality he sees before him. 

Anger is something else Joel knows intimately, and that is what he greets when he runs outside to end the fray.

“Stop that!” he roars, pulling Aiden off of Y/N.

“Who the fuck are you!?” the boy screams, fury and hatred radiating off of his entire being. 

He continues thrashing and punching at nothing as Joel restrains him.

“I’m gonna kill her!” he screams, his eyes bulging.

“What the hell happened?” Joel growls, still holding onto the livid boy–verging on young man. 

“She ripped up my paper!” he bellows. “For no fucking reason! I worked hard on it!”

“It was a lie,” she says with so much conviction Joel almost flinches.

He looks down at the little girl, her nose bleeding, her right eye turning purple. She has tears streaked down her face, but she is not crying. Her shirt is ripped. The first thing he thinks of when he sees her is Sarah. Of course it’s Sarah, how could he not think of her? But this little girl is different, has a different look in her eye. This look is much harder and feels like she’s lived a thousand lifetimes. He thanks god Sarah never looked that way, but somehow he wants to hear about everything this little girl has experienced. Something twangs in Joel’s chest that he has not felt in what feels like an eternity. 

“It was not a lie, you stupid bitch whore!” Aiden shouts angrily, still fighting back against Joel’s unrelenting grip. “Take that back!”  

“No, you take it back! Dad is not a hero. You could’ve picked anyone to write about and you choose him? After everything he’s done?” she screams herself.

The sound of her voice is powerful but desperate. Joel feels himself needing to know more and bury himself deep inside her experiences.

“SHUT UP!” Aiden yells, finally ceasing his movements. 

A tear falls from his cheek. 

“If I let you go, will you stop whooping your sister?” Joel snaps firmly.

“Get away from me, you stupid cuck!” Aiden curses, turning his energy to Joel. “Who the hell are you to me? Fuck you! I’m out of here!”

He wriggles out of Joel’s grasp and Joel lets him go and Aiden storms back out the rear gate, slamming it behind him.

“You alright?” he asks Y/N.

Joel crawls over on his knees, still upright, closer to her. 

“Had worse,” she shrugs, running a hand through her messed-up hair. 

She wipes the tears and blood from her cheeks.

Joel shudders to imagine what she means.

“He always like that?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “So you Mom’s new boyfriend?”

“Something like that,” he nods back. ”’M Joel. Joel Miller.”

“I’m Y/N,” she says a bit mournfully. “Here,” she continues suddenly, reaching out a small hand to his cheek. She wipes blood (hers) gently off his stubbly face. “Didn’t mean to get ya dirty.”

Joel is nothing short of touched. He wasn’t even aware he could still have such a feeling. His cheeks go rosy pink. His heart pulses. He stares at her delicate hands and notices a long, thin scar on her left middle finger. 

“‘S no trouble, sweetheart,” he hears himself reassuring her. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Could even mend your shirt if ya want. Know how to sew and all.”

He reaches out a large hand, but she flinches at the sudden movement. A dull ache wells up in Joel’s chest. 

“Not gonna hurt you, honey. Swear it.” 

He wants with every fiber of his being for her to believe him, for it to be true. 

She takes his hand.

***

That evening Erica is still not home, working late Joel supposes. It is nine o’clock when Aiden slinks back into the house.

Joel stops him from making his way up the stairs. He is more than familiar with the art of creeping.

“Think you oughta apologize to your sister,” he says as gently as possible. Maybe he can impart some manners onto this unruly child now that he’s calmed down some. “You beat her real bad. You’re much bigger than her.”

“I’d do it again,” Aiden hisses, his eyes cold. “It makes me feel better.”

And then, to Joel, the answer is simple. What do you do with a bully who won’t repent? Fight him back. Show him who’s boss, who’s bigger.

He grabs Aiden by the arm in a flash of anger and drags him up the stairs. The boy screams and flails, but that doesn’t deter Joel. He brings him to the room he assumes is his, the walls covered in sports posters and memorabilia.

“Take off your shirt,” he growls, a familiar fury pounding inside his chest.

When Aiden protests, Joel does it for him, ripping the kid’s shirt nearly in half. Rage floods through Joel’s veins and he can’t exactly place why, but the feeling is very real and bouldering through him at an alarming speed. He knows this feeling, feels strangely at home there.

He undoes his belt and brings the leather end down on Aiden’s back, not the buckle like his father used to do. Joel does have some decency buried deep in his chest. And then he loses himself to the unyielding anger.

“You get ten,” he snarls. “Don’t you lay a hand on your sister again. Is that understood? Now you answer to me.”

No response except for a scream.

“I��said , do you understand?” Joel roars, bringing down the belt.

Rage consumes him like a drug. He barely registers what he’s doing. The belt goes down again and again. And somehow, through the screaming and the pain, and the intoxicating feeling of being completely in control for once, Joel’s line of vision wanders to the bedroom door. In all the excitement, it was left ajar and out in the hallway, sitting on her knees is Y/N. Joel immediately expects fear, despair, revulsion. When Tommy would watch him take a beating his face would betray the most acute sense of hopelessness and terror and the waterworks would begin. But Y/N just stares at him unflinchingly, at what he’s doing. She doesn’t cry, she simply sees. Too much for a child, and yet, she watches. She does not intervene, doesn’t even try to. And for the tiniest moment, her and Joel’s eyes connect, and he feels a sense of calm, of comprehension, of recognition in that uncannily knowing gaze. Her irises sparkle and Joel feels…something that he cannot entirely articulate. Seen? Accepted? Understood? Joel knows logically what he is doing is an ugly, vile thing — he has never claimed to be a good man. Practical maybe, but never good. And yet, Y/N sees it — sees him — and she doesn’t look away. She cocks her head slightly, and images of Tommy grimacing in revulsion and fear as Joel mercilessly beat up their childhood neighborhood bullies to the point of unconsciousness pop into his mind, of the haunting look in his brother’s eyes. Even Sarah could not stomach his violent heart when she witnessed him beat up some pervert with a camera that had looked at her funny at the mall. Even though it was for her — to keep her safe. She had stared at him in disgust and pity. She had not seen him then at all.

But now, looking at Y/N, for the briefest moment, Joel can swear he sees something resembling a smile flicker over her serious face. And though it goes as quickly as it comes, he feels the familiar sensation gnawing at the bottom of his stomach: primal and untameable, soft and vulnerable, but fierce and loud at the same time. He feels an inexorable, inescapable sense of care and devotion to this child. But most of all, because she sees him, truly sees him, and does not turn away in disgust, Joel Miller feels the gut-wrenching, unquenchable sensation of love deep in his chest. For the first time since Sarah died on that hospital bed, weak and unwell from the chemo he could not afford, he feels alive . 

***

Things fall into a tentative routine. Every morning, Joel wakes up in bed beside Erica. They fuck the night before more often than not, but always in that same slow way that doesn’t do much for Joel. It’s enough to get off, sure, she isn’t an unattractive woman, but he’s mostly there for the meal ticket and roof over his head. He goes to work at the auto-body repair shop, Erica goes to her job at her law firm. The kids ride the bus to school. He gets home in the evenings before Erica and spends time coexisting with the children. Usually, he kicks back on the sofa, rubbing his sore back, and watches television, minding his own business. Aiden mostly avoids him, doing god knows what in his room. He bullies his sister cruelly and Joel punishes him when he sees fit. Erica knows what he does to Aiden and either doesn’t care or approves. He never lays a hand on Y/N though. She warms up to him slowly, cautiously. Most evenings she sits on the far end of the couch and Joel on the other, but as she gets used to him and sees that he’s not a threat, at least to her, she scoots closer. 

The children’s father is no longer in their lives from what Joel can tell, which is perfectly fine with him. When Joel’s heart does not feel full of lead, he plays the guitar. Y/N sits and watches him. She is a quiet child, but unrelentingly brave. When Joel lets the TV blare, he rarely cares to pay much attention these days, she stays and watches with him, no matter what is on and never complains or asks to change the channel. Blockbuster zombie apocalypse movie? She watches. News special on America’s most dangerous serial killers? She watches. Documentary on venomous snakes? She watches. Should Joel be letting her watch this crap? Who the fuck knows? He isn’t her father. And plus, he won’t admit this to anyone, hardly even himself, but he likes having some company. It makes everything feel…less. And he likes that she doesn’t try to make him speak. Sometimes there are no words and he thinks Y/N understands this. Unlike Erica who yaps every second of the day. But Joel stays polite and plays along. He has to.

But he will not lie, Aiden gets on his very last nerve. There is something that Joel cannot quite place that makes him feel like he has known this boy his whole life even though they are as familiar as perfect strangers. All siblings fight and rough-house. That is normal. Hell, he and Tommy used to fight rough and tumble all the time. But the way Aiden bullies Y/N is something else entirely. And most times, it is unprovoked. And he is so much bigger than she is, growing bigger by the day. 

Joel’s beatings have not stopped Aiden’s anger and sadistic attitudes, but they do make sure that he takes some kind of physical consequence for his crimes. It makes Joel feel better and he thinks it makes Y/N feel better too. And some days he gets so fucking mad at Aiden that he thinks not even god could stop his wrath even if the boy turned into Mother Theresa herself! Okay, maybe that’s extreme, but another part of Joel thinks maybe it’s not. The truth is, though he is loathe to admit it, some days, he is not in control of his anger. Some days he punches so hard, his knuckles bleed and he has to stop for a second to come back to himself. Others he goes so roughly on Aiden that he causes the kid to become bloody and he feels ashamed of what he’s done. But there are other days, very dark days, where he wishes he could do it over and over again. He convinces himself he’s doing it for Y/N and not some other sinister ulterior motive he does not care to dwell on…

One night, a few months into Joel’s new living arrangements, he walks through the upstairs hallway to his and Erica’s bedroom, passing the closed door to the bathroom that the kids share. He has done this what feels like a thousand times before and doesn’t think anything of it until he stops and realizes he hears Y/N singing. 

♪“ Someday, my pain / Someday, my pain will mark / You…”♫ she sings softly.

He can barely hear it over the crash of the water from her shower, but her voice is beautiful. It pulls at Joel’s shrunken heart, deep inside his long-dead chest. Her voice has an eerie quality to it too, almost haunting. He’s not sure of what song it is, but he finds himself wanting to know. Eventually, she stops, and Joel goes to bed, but her voice echoes in his mind for hours as he lies awake in the dark.

The next day, Joel is sitting on the couch when the kids get home from school. Y/N joins him on the other side of the sofa as usual. They watch reruns of some unfunny family sitcom.

“Heard you singing last night,” he finally grunts unceremoniously.

Y/N goes very still.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll be quieter next time.”

Joel looks over at her. He realizes she looks terrified.

“Ain’t no problem with it,” he tries to explain, confused. “Thought you sounded nice is all.”

“You tryna trick me?” she stammers, tears collecting in her shimmering eyes.

“What? Trick you? What you crying for, honey? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Joel is genuinely flabbergasted. 

Tears trickle down her cheeks. What has he done this time? he wonders. But he is concerned more than anything. Hell, he hasn’t seen her cry like this since the day they met. Not even last week when Aiden slammed her head into the metal oven in the kitchen (luckily it was off or Joel would have really killed him that time).  

She sniffles, looking conflicted, then collects herself as best she can manage.

“M-my dad didn’t like when I would sing. ‘Specially if he was in a depo…I forget the word…deponition? Deposition? When he was on the phone for work, I mean. If I was being too loud. Or too shrill. He didn’t like that one bit. He’d get mad…” she trails off. 

“The way Aiden gets mad?” Joel asks very slowly, not truly wanting to know the answer.

“Yeah,” she nods after a while. “Except he’s a lot bigger. And stronger. He…he broke my arm once. But it was on accident I think. He got me ice cream after.”

Anger, red and hot, pulses through Joel’s veins. What hadn’t this child endured at the hands of angry men? 

“What did your mother do?” he bites out, almost unnaturally calm from trying to control himself.

“Well, most of the time he’d kinda like hit her around, I guess? But the time he broke my arm was the time she made him leave for good and they got a divorce and all. Aiden says it’s my fault he won’t come around anymore. He was so mad. He loves Dad so much. I don’t understand it though because even though Dad likes him a lot more than me, Dad would still be so mean to him sometimes. Mom says I don’t even know all of it...Promise I won’t bother you with singing though, okay?”

“Sweetheart,” Joel says as softly as his blinding rage will permit. Somehow, when he’s with Y/N, he finds he can control himself better. “I’ll never get mad at you for singing. Or being too loud. Or anything. Never gonna put my hands on you. I’m sorry if what I do to Aiden scares you or made you think that I would ever do such a thing to you.”

“It doesn’t scare me,” she shakes her head. “When you get rough with Aiden, you do it because he did really bad, to protect me. It’s like with you there’s rules that make sense. Aiden chooses to be mean and violent so you choose it back to him. With my dad, it was different. It was like I could breathe wrong and I’d get in trouble. Get in trouble for things I couldn’t control or help. Sometimes I did bad, I know I did, but I also know there were other times where I wasn’t hurting anyone and he’d still hurt me so badly. My dad never got mad at Aiden for hurting me though. He thought it was funny, I think. Sometimes he’d kinda like sick him on me. Kinda how you could a dog.”

Joel doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know the right words. He figures he can only show her with his actions who he is and she will just have to learn to trust him. If her father ever enters the house though, he will wring his neck. That’s for certain. Thank God he doesn’t come around for his sake, Joel’s, and the family’s.

“I was just thinking,” Joel finally says. “If ya want, I could learn how to play that song you were singing on my guitar and maybe you could sing it for me sometime?”

“M-maybe we could sing it together?” Y/N asks tentatively, her eyes wide. “Singing in front of other people is kinda scary.”

“I haven’t sung in a while,” Joel sighs. “Might be rusty.” 

“That’s okay,” she grins hopefully. 

Joel wants to take a photo of that rare sight and keep it close for as long as he lives, torn in his pocket or snug in his wallet, he doesn’t care. 

“Joel?” she asks a little cautiously, breaking him from his thoughts. “Can I ask you something?”

“‘Course, kiddo,” he says as gently as he knows how.

“Who’s Sarah?”

His heart stops. His blood runs cold. 

“What? How did you–”

“You were talking. In your sleep yesterday,” she says, shrinking away a little and Joel feels sorry for scaring her again. “When we were watching Dexter . Well, you fell asleep right before. You were snoring and all, but you were also talking and mumbling that name. You sounded sad and scared.”

Joel should definitely not have allowed her to watch that! But that is hardly the point right now. 

His heart squeezes so tight it burns. What was there to say about Sarah – the entire reason his life had had any purpose? His perfect babygirl? The light of his life? 

He could lie. So easily too and Y/N would never know. He could say nothing at all. Hasn’t even told Erica about her yet. Hardly ever speaks to anyone about her these days.

And yet…

“She was my daughter,” he hears himself say softly. “She…got sick. Died of leukemia a while back. She was twelve.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wallet he was just thinking about. Inside is a tiny school photo of Sarah – the last one she ever took. It’s faded a little, but she’s still smiling so big she could block out the sun. He shows it to Y/N.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” she says and she really does look sorry. 

Not the way his co-workers and customers say it – almost as a reflex – to fill the void in the conversation. Her eyes are shimmering.  

“Nothin’ to do about it now,” he shrugs, running his thumb over the photo paper, softened with age. “But she was so damn special. My whole world.”

He has learned to repress the tears, not to show weakness, that is not hard. Not anymore. But the anger that broils up inside him – the injustice of it all – how he was unable to help her. Unable to save her. He feels almost like a child again, powerless in an unforgiving, unrelenting world. He wants to fight back!

He is so angry he begins to shake and his hands clench into fists. 

He wants to flip over the fucking coffee table – fling it across the room! He wants to punch in the glass of the flickering TV screen until his fist is broken! He wants to–He wants–

He just wants his babygirl back…

A sob, small and foreign rises in his throat, but he pushes it down. 

He thinks Y/N knows though. Can see the vulnerability in his eyes.

She reaches out a small hand and touches his fist, pushes it down gently into the soft fabric of the couch so he’ll stop shaking. It doesn’t entirely work, but he thinks he appreciates the effort.

“I don’t know if this is the right thing to say,” she begins a bit skittishly, still not entirely trusting the hulking, raging man above her. “But I think I would have liked to have been her friend.”

And for the first time since Sarah died, Joel sobs . 

Y/N pops up from the couch and Joel’s heart cries out louder in his chest for her to come back, don’t leave me too as he tries to suck the tears back in. It doesn’t work though and liquid gushes down his cheeks. He doesn’t think he can take the rejection, the loss of her. But thankfully, she returns just as quickly as she went with a handful of tissues stuffed into her small fist. 

“Here, Joel,” she offers. “Here. Don’t cry.”

Joel does cry though. He’s ashamed he’s broken down in front of this literal child, and he doesn’t let out much noise, but he doesn’t take the tissues either. He can’t. 

She’s so sweet though, or maybe it’s because she is truly afraid of him now, of his wrath, he’ll never really know, but she frowns and reaches out a little hand, the one with the scar on the middle finger, and tries to wipe up the tears.

The paper of the tissue tickles his cheeks.

“Shouldn’t havta…” he tries.

“Didn’t mean to make you…” she answers.

A pause.

“You didn’t, honey. That was all me,” he assures her finally.

She lets out a sigh of relief and soaks up the last of the salt water from his face, brushes the tissue gently against his nose. It tickles, causes him to snort. He smirks a little.

She smiles back shyly, she can’t help it, he can tell. 

“You know,” he says thoughtfully after a few moments of silence, sighing deeply. “I reckon she would’ve wanted to be your friend too…”

***

A few months roll by. Things are virtually the same except Y/N seems more comfortable around him now. Maybe it’s because she saw his weakness up close and personal, his Achilles heel —— knows how to coax it out of him now if she has to. Or maybe it’s because she truly trusts him. Whatever the case, she sits closer to him on the couch now, still giving him a respectful foot of distance though of course. 

Once in a blue moon, she sings for him and he tries to keep up with the lilting sound of her high voice. She says she likes his low, deep voice just fine, it’s just she still gets nervous singing in front of other people so it’s still a rare occasion. His favorite is when she sings solo and he gets to strum along for her and really listen. Sometimes her voice cracks in a very specific way that some might find to be a flaw, but Joel would never. 

Aiden makes fun of them and calls them the ‘Von Trapp Family Singers.’ Are they a family? Joel wonders.

One day after work, Joel goes to the library to find some sheet music for a song Y/N likes. She treasures the photo-copied paper like a gift as Joel deciphers the notes he can actually read for her. She color-codes each one carefully in magic marker so she can remember the differences between them. 

The next day, Aiden burns it up with a lighter he has acquired from God knows where. Joel confiscates it – the last thing he needs is this particular child setting fires – and It doesn’t end well for Aiden. He limps for damn near a week. But some days, when Aiden is calm, he joins Y/N and Joel in front of the TV if a sports game is on. He doesn’t sit on the couch though, just the floor. He doesn’t say much to them but does get invested in the good and bad plays of each game, gets sore if his team is losing. On one particularly good day, when the Rangers hit a grand slam, and Joel was actually paying attention, he and Aiden actually high-five.  

Things are going…well? Is that the right word? It is a foreign concept for Joel. For Christmas, he gets Y/N guitar, Aiden a book on boxing so maybe he will redirect his anger into somewhere productive, and Erica a spa-day kit for 20% off that he saw at CVS (he never claimed to know what women want). Aiden is neutral, surprised, he thinks, that Joel even got him a present. Erica is actually appreciative and returns the favor with some new socks and underwear. 

“A practical gift for a practical man,” she says, kissing him on the forehead. 

Joel supposes he appreciates the gesture. 

Y/N, though, is thrilled.

“Thank you, Joel! Got you something too,” she says excitedly, bouncing up and down in her red and white pajamas.

“That’s not necessary,” Joel chides, leaning over to pick up the wrapping paper that was strewn across the living room floor. 

But secretly he is curious. He didn’t think she even had any money of her own…

Aiden opens the cover of the boxing book with disinterest, eyeing the new guitar distastefully. 

Y/N jumps up, leaves the room, and returns with a small plastic baggie in her hands. Inside are little, different bits of colored plastic clumsily and haphazardly cut into tiny, sharp-looking, badge-shaped pieces. One he recognizes is from the top of a yogurt container he put into the recycling the other day, another one from the top of a Gatorade bottle. 

“Here ya go!” 

She shoves the plastic bag into his large hands enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” Joel responds, still unsure what he was given.

It reminds him of when Sarah was young and would come home with some sort of abstract macaroni painting from kindergarten and he would nod and smile knowingly when she explained that of course it was Two dinosaurs getting married, Dad. Duh!

“You could try one on my new guitar,” she offers, a little disappointed when he doesn’t have more of a reaction. “You said you lost most of yours…”

Joel immediately feels guilty and then it clicks. She tried to make him guitar picks! His heart clenches with emotion he can not quite identify. 

He pulls a little orange one out of the bag and accidentally nicks the edge of his finger. Because of the way it was cut, no doubt with uncoordinated child’s hands and a pair of scissors, the edges are much too sharp to serve as an actual guitar pick without damaging guitar strings or apparently Joel’s finger. Dumb kid. But he’s beyond honored anyone would take the time to do such a thoughtful thing for him. 

He hisses softly and sucks the blood off his finger.

“Oops,” she says, horrified. “Shoot. Sorry, I–”

“‘S no trouble,” he interjects dismissively. “Love ‘em. Was my fault anyway. I’mma be honest with you though, sweetheart; don’t think the guitar strings can handle these babies.”

“Oh,” she says softly, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “Oh, yeah, okay...”

She deflates, looking down at the carpet.

Joel selfishly lets her be sad for a beat before swooping back in to be the one to save the day.

“But here’s what I’ll do…”

She looks back up at him with an intoxicating kind of hope in her eyes.

He takes his wallet out of his back pocket and slips the orange pick into the photo slot next to the picture of Sarah. He returns the wallet back into his pants. 

Y/N positively beams. Brighter than the sun, even, Joel thinks.

Aiden yawns purposefully loudly and rolls his eyes. Erica looks touched and maybe even a little proud of her choice in men. But Joel didn’t do it for them. The only reaction in the world he cares about is hers.

Y/N is still grinning, bouncing on the balls of her feet again. But then she does something new: she leans in and hugs him, wrapping her little arms around his waist, burying her face in his flannel shirt, pressing against his tummy.

The world stops for Joel. 

At first, he just hangs there limply, awkwardly. Literally forgets what one is supposed to do in such a situation, but then instinct kicks in and he wraps his arms around her too and squeezes ever so slightly. It’s a more cautious hug than Sarah would have given him – she would have squeezed him half to death – but Y/N is still holding him. Someone small and warm is holding onto him for the first time in what feels like an eternity. And just like that his past is rhyming with his present and it is the most beautiful sound Joel Miller has ever heard. 

Joel Miller is not a good man, no, but maybe, just maybe, he thinks he could be one for Y/N. 

***

Joel tries to be good. He does. His first order of business is stop beating on Aiden – especially in front of Y/N. No amount of violence towards the kid seems to do any good anyway – he still hurts her. And Joel is sick of bandaging her up and wiping the blood from her cheeks; something has to change. Not that he wouldn’t do it a thousand times if he had to. He’d do anything for the girl, that he is sure of. And the truth is, Aiden is close to getting big enough to really fight back. And Joel knows if Aiden really lays a hand on him, he’s not sure he will be able to control himself enough to not inflict permanent damage. And he doesn’t want that. Truly.

So at first, Joel thinks about having Erica send him away to a wilderness camp for troubled children or some such program he sees mentioned on reruns of Dr. Phil. She has the money to do it too. But she won’t send him away. She refuses, loves him too much. Protecting Y/N seems as far down on her list of priorities as ever. She is useless at disciplining him, always has been, so it is up to Joel to find another solution. So the next thing he tries is to set the boy up in boxing classes. This is risky since it might just teach him new ways to hurt Y/N, but at least it will be a place to direct his anger.

It works for a while, to his and Y/N’s immense relief, but that leaves Joel nowhere to take out his anger. He tries to ignore it at first and shove it down, but it starts to come out in little ways. At work, he barks at a customer who locks his keys in the car he’s trying to fix. At home, he shouts at Erica for missing Y/N’s school play. The rage leaks out of him, pours off his entire being. He tries jerking off more to increasingly violent porno magazines to calm himself down since Erica is sure not satisfying him. It doesn’t do enough though, not really. Finally, he tries boxing at the local gym himself, but it is not enough either. Boxing has rules. The first sorry sucker he gets in the ring with, he beats to the point of unconsciousness. Two men have to pull him off to get him to stop. They kick him out immediately.

So Joel tries going to the bar after work with the guys from the shop and drinking a little to take the edge off. That actually helps somewhat. He’s careful about it, never comes home drunk, never drinks in front of Erica or the kids. But what helps the most are the bar fights. He’s careful about that too. Only fights the assholes, which there are many of. Switches up the bars he goes to. But some motherfucker slaps a girl's ass without permission? Joel’s on him in seconds, watching like a predator from the shadows. Some dude throws a drink in the bartender’s face? Joel clobbers him half to death. And sometimes? People in the bar applaud him, even cheer him on. It’s probably because they’re intoxicated, but that’s how he justifies it to himself like he’s some kind of goddamn vigilante. Deep down he knows he is something much, much uglier. But at least he’s not doing it to Aiden, a child. And more importantly, at least it is away from Y/N.

***

One day, Y/N falls sick. It starts out as what seems like a cold with a nasty cough. Kids are little germ factories, Joel knows that. He tells himself it is nothing to worry about – that all kids get sick sometimes. The first few days she lies on the couch like a zombie, coughing incessantly into her elbow and sleeping a lot. She snores ever so slightly which he finds charming. Joel stays home from work with her because Erica has to be in court and they watch lots of nature documentaries and daytime talk shows. 

Then the coughing gets worse and Joel’s brain stops functioning properly and he has trouble explaining why. He feels more on edge, more agitated. Erica takes Y/N to the doctor and comes back with a diagnosis: walking pneumonia. Nothing too serious, lots of kids get it. She is prescribed antibiotics and is supposed to drink lots of fluids and wait it out. But when Erica tells Joel the news of what the doctor told her he is holding a glass of water and it shatters in his large hand, cutting the skin of his middle finger.

“Fuck!” he yells. 

And he cannot articulate precisely why, but he feels good that there is a justified reason to yell. 

Erica wipes his hand and cleans the glass up.

“Gotta go to court again today, honey,” she says like everything is fine and normal. “Can you look after her today? Call in sick? She’s in bed. Going through it.”

Joel nods and she is gone like this whole thing is nothing. Like her precious, living breathing child is not suffering in the room above his head.

He climbs the stairs and enters Y/N’s room. He doesn’t often spend much time there. The walls are painted pink and differently shaped dolls and stuffed animals line the white vanity across from her canopied bed. He does not think he has ever seen Y/N play with any of those specific toys, come to think of it, or express any interest in the color pink (no doubt Erica’s secret passion for interior design rearing its ugly head). He vows silently, one day, to paint the walls any color she wants. 

But there she is, sprawled out in her bed coughing a nasty cough. Something shifts inside Joel at the sound. She looks unwell and weak and so small. 

“Hey, honey,” he says softly, almost robotically. 

Something is not right. He sits on the edge of her bed, feels her burning forehead. He takes her temperature gently with the thermometer that goes in her ear. He feels that weird sensation like he’s been here before even though he has hardly ever entered her bedroom. One hundred and four degrees Fahrenheit it reads when it beeps. Joel swallows a lump in his throat that he didn’t realize was there.  

She coughs pathetically. She looks out of it, her eyes far away. Joel’s heart throbs painfully.

Y/N is mumbling something incoherent now. Joel leans a little closer so he can decipher the words.

He makes out something like: No, Dad. Don’t. Stop, please. Please, not tonight. 

Joel stops breathing. 

She must be delirious from the fever. 

And then she’s crying. Quietly, but crying all the less. And this time, unlike every time he has seen her tears before, she sobs. Actually makes noise, her chest wracked with it. 

Then she coughs so hard she starts to wheeze and it hits Joel so ferociously he practically loses his grip on reality.

When Sarah was sick she had leukemia, a blood cancer. And cancer requires treatment. Expensive treatment. But of course, Joel hadn’t cared. He would have sold every item he owned to save his child, would have traveled to the ends of the earth if he had to, done literally any and everything in his power to protect her. So he paid for most of her chemotherapy with high hopes. Desperate hopes, but high ones. It had been her best shot at getting better according to the doctors. And the thing about chemo is, the side effects can literally be deadly. Joel is not a man of science, but the doctor explained that those drugs kill the bad cells that make up the cancer, but also the good ones. It fucks with your immune system, weakens you. Makes you lose your hair, vomit, and or be so weak you can barely walk. All that happened to Sarah. Joel felt like a traitor taking her to those treatments. Logically, he knew they were necessary, but he always felt like he was the one doing those awful things to her. It eviscerated him, left him raw and empty, and helpless like a child.

But in the end, it was the pneumonia that killed her. Her body couldn’t fight it off. She’d died in a hospital bed, Joel at her side, holding her hand, unable to do a single damned thing except scream .

Y/N coughs again, simultaneously pulling him from his thoughts and throwing him back into them. His heart is pounding in his chest to Do something! But there is nothing to be done, nothing he can do! Why can’t he ever seem to protect her?

She looks up just then, notices him for the first time since he entered the room, still crying feebly.

“He hurt me,” she whispers up at him, her eyes glazed over and glistening with tears. She reaches out for a handful of his dark blue work shirt and pulls it tightly to her. “He hurt me. And I couldn’t–I c-couldn’t…”

And then he is holding her, not quite sure how, but he is holding her trembling body to his chest and he will not let her go. Not for the world, not for anyone. He will not lose this child. He wraps his arms around her, holds tight. He will keep her safe, no matter the cost. 

“It’s okay, babygirl,” he whispers. “I got you.”

***

Joel and Erica get married that spring. They agree on a private ceremony in front of a judge with only Y/N and Aiden in attendance. When Aiden hears the news, he throws a fit, He breaks dishes and punches a hole in the TV set which sets Joel’s teeth on edge. But Y/N is overjoyed. In the end, he and Joel adorn what Joel considers monkey suits and Erica wears a beautiful white dress that accentuates her figure. Y/N wears a frilly pink dress and carries a basket of pink roses. Joel never thought he’d be a married man and yet here he is. He imagines Sarah in attendance too and his heart aches. This is his life now. 

He refuses to wear a ring.

***

Time passes. Long stretches of time where things feel–dare he think it–normal.

 Aiden doesn’t beat Y/N, but begins to get into fights at school. Joel saves his violence for the bar scene which he begins frequenting more often. 

Erica starts working later, gets promoted in her job. Fucks Joel less and less, not that he cares very much. 

Joel goes to back-to-school nights and family cookouts. He teaches Y/N to play the guitar and how to fix car motors. In both these activities, she is no natural, but she tries her best and listens well. She smiles more than he’s ever seen. He drives her to sleepovers and Aiden to boxing practice. He paints her bedroom walls orange.

Things feel stable.

Two Christmases pass.

And then things take a downturn.

***

One evening, Joel returns home from work later than usual. When he arrives home in his truck, he notices an expensive sports car in the driveway. Erica has affluent friends, sure, but he’s never seen this particular car before. Something about that doesn’t sit right with him.

He opens the front door with a creak and Erica intercepts him before he can make it to the dining room table for dinner. She presses a hand to his forearm bulking with muscle.

“Don’t freak out,” she whispers urgently. 

Joel stops and hears the sounds of people eating dinner and a man’s raspy voice speaking.

“Freak out about what?”

He makes his way past her to the dining room. He sees a man he does not immediately recognize sitting at the head of the table, Y/N is flanking one side of the table next to him and Aiden the other. He is conventionally handsome and wearing an expensive pinstripe suit. When he looks up, he smirks at Joel. Joel thinks he looks kind of like Aiden if you were to squint. And then he understands who he is.

“The fuck are you doing in my house?” he growls, lunging forward.

“ Your house?” the man smirks again, unflinching. 

He looks Joel over, examining his mechanic’s uniform, the grease stain on Joel’s cheek. 

Erica grabs Joel. She pulls him back out into the hallway.

“Tell him he’s not welcome here,” Joel snarls, trying to get a look at the man over Erica’s shoulder. 

She pushes him backward gently. Instantly, he is worried for Y/N, for all intents and purposes alone in there with the man who abused her and this entire goddamn family for that matter. He catches a glance at her and she looks terrified . Aiden, conversely, Joel sees, looks like he just won the lottery, staring up at his dad in adoration. Joel doesn’t think he has ever seen him look so happy.

“This is important to them,” Erica snaps quietly. “That’s their father. He has a right–”

“Get him out of here or I’ll kill him,” Joel says deadly quietly. “He what? Doesn’t show up for over three years and you think that–”

“I know that he has a right to speak to them. I am their mother and they need a sense of closure. Aiden needs this. So you will sit down at that table and have an amicable dinner or so help me God, Joel.”

Erica never speaks to him like this. He is shocked.

“Fine,” he snarls after a while, his chest heaving. 

He can hardly think straight while Y/N is in there alone with that excuse for a man. Better he be close to protect her instead of thrown out of the house.

He walks back in with Erica, who sits next to Y/N, leaving Joel nowhere to go but next to Aiden.

“I’m Derek,” the children’s father says, leaning over the food Erica has prepared to shake Joel’s hand. 

Joel doesn’t take it.

“And you must be Joe? The new husband.”

“Joel,” he replies shortly.

He looks over at Y/N who is trying to be brave, he can tell, but deep in her eyes, looks petrified.

They eat dinner in tense silence until Derek breaks it and begins bragging about his golf club record, the latest client he’s been representing, his new girlfriend, Sylvia.

“See, she’s helping me become a better man,” Derek insists with a forkful of steak. “I know I haven’t always been…the greatest of fathers or partners, but she really convinced me coming here would be a good thing. That it would be healing. You guys will meet someday, I’m sure.”

Joel leans forward toward Derek, reeling at the idea that this man could possibly be back in the picture of his family’s life, but Erica reaches under the table and squeezes his knee in a death grip and Joel holds himself back.

Aiden hangs on his father’s every word. Erica looks somewhat intrigued after she lets go of her husband’s leg. Y/N screams silently at Joel, who tries his best to communicate without words that he will keep her safe.

“And I know I’ve missed quite a bit,” Derek continues. “Which is why I brought these. Sylvia’s idea, really.”

He reaches down toward his feet and pulls out a fancy golden gift bag and takes out two presents. He hands one to Aiden and the other one to Y/N. Aiden rips his open excitedly. Inside is a hunting knife with a red handle. 

Great, Joel thinks.

Y/N doesn’t move though, stopped like a deer in the headlights.

“Open it, girl,” Derek sneers.

She looks over at Joel. 

“Go on, baby,” he says softly, heat pumping through his blood.

She unwraps the pink wrapping paper and finds a Barbie doll in a clear plastic box. Joel has never seen her play with dolls at all come to think of it. 

“Isn’t that thoughtful?” Erica smiles cautiously.

“Thanks, Dad,” Aiden says enthusiastically. “Can’t wait to show the guys at ROTC.”

“Good for you, son,” Derek grins. “Serving our country is the highest of honors.”

Joel suddenly tries not to think about Tommy blasted to bits halfway across the world in Afghanistan, his body in such bad condition all that he got left of his baby brother was a finger and two bent dog tags.  

Aiden beams.

“Well,” Derek barks, eyeing Y/N distastefully. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he taunts. 

Joel sees where Aiden gets it from. This arrogant, bullying behavior. He shifts in his seat, ready to strike if necessary.

“Thanks,” she says very quietly. 

Derek grins in a kind of satisfaction that makes Joel want to go over there and punch his daylights out. He almost does too until Erica kicks his shin beneath the table and he controls himself. 

Y/N frowns. She looks over at Joel, then back at her father. Something ripples across her face, but it goes so quickly Joel cannot assign any meaning to it. But she looks ever so less scared somehow, more angry almost, but not quite.

And then after about ten minutes of somewhat peaceful eating and Derek making Aiden and Erica laugh with stupid anecdotes from his court cases while Joel and Y/N exchange looks, it happens.

Y/N’s hand reaches forward and knocks against her glass of coke. It goes flying over in Derek’s direction and drenches him in the sticky liquid, staining his suit.

“Sorry, Dad!” she squeaks immediately. “Oh my god, I–”

“You little slut!” he roars in response, almost like a reflex, backhanding Y/N across the face with lightning speed and accuracy. “Do you know how much this fucking suit cost!?”

The force of the blow is so strong it knocks Y/N from her chair onto the ground.

Before a coherent thought can even go through Joel’s head he is on the other man, slamming him up against the wall behind him by the throat.

“Joel, don’t you dare!” Erica yells, but it is too late.

Joel sees red and can’t exactly recall what he does next, but it goes something like this:

He squeezes around Derek’s throat and bangs his head backward against the wall a few times. The other man tries to get a punch in, but Joel ducks and kicks him in the balls. Derek crumples to the ground and Joel gives his chest another hard kick. He whines pathetically. 

Aiden gets up then, but Erica uses all of her strength to pull him back before he can get involved in the mix. He resists, shouts something that Joel cannot make out, but Erica manages to keep him from the two men with a great amount of effort and struggle. 

Derek is on the floor now and Joel is straddling him, landing punch after ruthless punch down onto his head. His nose begins to bleed, but Joel keeps punching. 

“HOW DARE YOU?” he roars down at the trembling, gushing man on the floor.

There is so much blood splurting all over his face, dripping down onto his expensive stained suit, and the floor that Derek almost stops looking like Derek. Joel sees Aiden’s face in his features. And then there is so much blood that it could be anyone’s face screaming back at him for mercy. It could be those creepy, asshole men at the bar. It could be the much bigger kid who always used to beat up Tommy every day in the schoolyard. It could be that damned head doctor who let his babygirl die. It could even be his no-good, bastard, alcoholic papá . 

He turns his head ever so slightly while still delivering punches. Erica has Aiden in a bear hug. She is screaming for Joel to stop. Aiden is bellowing something that sounds like, You bastard, I’ll kill you! Get off of him! I’ll kill you! And then Joel sees Y/N still on the floor from where she was knocked. Her face is still turned in the same direction it was slapped into, but she is not crying or screaming. Her eyes are dancing.

They connect with Joel’s. 

He knows he is supposed to be a good man for her, but she doesn’t seem to mind his deviant behavior. He stops then, though, because otherwise he thinks he will kill the man and he doesn’t want Y/N to experience that. He steals a glance at her again and she looks ever so slightly disappointed, but her wide-eyed expression tells Joel that Christmas has come early this year. She sends him a look of gratitude and Joel thinks that maybe he did act like a good man for her after all in the case of this vile, pathetic person who is supposed to be her father. 

 Finally, Joel stands up. He walks over and reaches out a bloody hand to Y/N and pulls her gently from the ground. Even after she’s standing upright she doesn’t let go of him.

Derek gets up after a while, wiping his sleeve over his face to try to tame the excess blood. Joel thinks that maybe he broke the man’s nose. He feels not a shred of remorse. The other man spits on the ground at Joel’s feet and leaves without saying goodbye to his ex-wife or children, slamming the front door behind him.  

Erica is not pleased with Joel’s behavior. Aiden is shouting and screaming. He breaks a plate by throwing it onto the floor with a loud crash. Joel leans over and grabs the knife his father gave him and sticks it in his front pocket so Aiden doesn’t feel tempted to use it. Y/N’s small hand is still in his. 

When Aiden is coherent enough to listen to instructions and all screamed out, Erica sends the children upstairs to bed. 

Joel tries to walk Y/N up to bed to tuck her in, but Erica stops him.

“ Not you,” she growls at Joel. 

She is livid in a way Joel has never seen before. For a moment, he seriously wonders if this is the end of their relationship. 

The kids scamper upstairs and Erica yells at Joel for ages. 

At a certain point, he stops listening. He doesn’t try to argue back. Doesn’t care to. He is actually calm now, though his chest is still heaving from the exertion, more calm than he’s been in ages. He knows that she will never understand why he had to do what he did to Derek. She lives in another reality where his violence is not acceptable if she has to bear witness to it. She doesn’t care about Y/N the way she is supposed to. Never has. Doesn’t know or see her. Not the way Joel does. Has too big a soft spot for Aiden. Tolerated Joel’s violence toward him though like a coward. Maybe deep down she knew he needed some kind of discipline? But when Joel lays a hand on her scumbag of an ex-husband that’s what’s too far? When he hurt her own daughter? When Joel himself was responsible for hurting her own precious son? Where was her outrage then? 

But he voices none of this. Pushes it down. He cannot lose her. Not this house, not the kids, not the financial security. Never Y/N. 

Erica banishes him to the couch for the first time in their relationship. Joel doesn’t mind. 

Hours later, late into the night, he hears soft footsteps walking down the stairs. He rolls over on the sofa to see who is approaching. He wonders if it is Erica there to apologize because he knows her well enough to know by now that she will forgive him eventually. She will forgive anything it seems. But it is not Erica at all.

“Joel?” a little voice asks quietly. “You up?”

“Yeah, baby,” he replies. “You okay? I’m so sorry he pulled that shit on you.”

Y/N shrugs. 

“Sorry I…I didn’t stop it before it happened,” he admits like a secret. 

She shrugs again.

“‘M sorry she made you sleep on the couch and all,” she replies.

“‘S no trouble. I don’t mind.”

“But it’s my fault you got in trouble in the first place.”

“Y/N, you ain’t done nothing wrong,” Joel tells her seriously. 

It’s hard to see her in the dark, but he thinks she’s grimacing guiltily. 

“I just wanted to say…” she begins hesitantly. “Thanks for like sticking up for me and all that. You…you’re the only one who does.”

Joel hides a smile from his babygirl. Something inside him likes being that person for her, he cannot lie to himself. Likes being the one she can count on. 

“You were like some MMA fighter,” she continues. “But then all the blood was like in The Shining .”

One day, not long ago, Joel had fallen asleep on the couch when The Shining came on and Y/N had watched the entire thing out of her own free will. That movie had frightened the shit out of him as a kid!

“I’m sorry if I scared you, sweetheart.”  

“You didn’t,” Y/N replies matter-of-factly.  “I wasn’t scared of what you did for a second…I know that’s messed up, but I kinda wanted you to…” 

She trails off.

Joel understands. 

“I kinda, please don’t get mad, but I sorta knocked the cup over on purpose,” she admits.

Joel’s eyebrows go way up on his forehead in surprise.

“It’s just,” she babbles quickly in self-defense. “Mom and Aiden were like giggling and hanging onto every dumb thing he said and it scared me. I thought they might let him keep coming around and start liking him again. And I also knew he hadn’t changed too. I could tell on account of how he was looking at me in that same mean way he always did. And I also knew you’d save me like you always do and you had this angry look in your eyes. I knew what you would do. I could feel it in my gut…”

“You little shit!” Joel smirks. 

He has to give her credit where credit was due – that was incredibly shrewd. Dangerous, but oh so clever. She played everyone in that room like a fiddle. Joel is honestly kind of proud.

“You mad?” she asks tentatively, biting her bottom lip.

“Nah,” Joel grins. “At you? Never. You shouldn’t have had to let him hurt you to get him away from you, but you protected yourself and that’s the most important thing. If I had to do it over, I would.”

Y/N smiles. 

She’s a fucked up little girl, but Joel is a fucked up man, and they both live in a fucked up world.

“Got your back,” he grunts. “Remember that. Now scurry along back to bed and get some rest.”

“G’night, Joel.”

*** 

Time passes. 

Erica forgives Joel of course and Derek never comes around again. 

Y/N and Aiden grow bigger. 

They go on camping trips and Joel teaches Y/N and Aiden how to fish. Never thought he would see the day where Aiden was willingly listening to his instructions, but the day comes anyway. Of course, the boy’s favorite part is cutting up the bloody fish guts like Joel’s used to be as a child. Y/N likes the part where you wait for the fish to bite. She sits next to Joel on the grassy river bank, the sun shining down on the lazy lake they are camping by, and smiles softly to herself.

Another two Christmases pass.

All the while, Joel is visiting the bar more and not necessarily to drink. His violent streak is getting worse somehow. He thinks, though he’s no goddamn shrink, that it might have something to do with the fact that he and Erica are not having any sex. Their relationship is still amicable and she is still sweet to him, and he tries his best to be to her too, but in the bedroom is mostly crickets. Joel jerks off, of course he does, but his fist is no substitute for a warm body. 

Joel causes such a scene at the bar he frequents the most, that the cops have to be called. He ditches the place before he can get arrested, but he’s getting worried about his behavior. Something must change.

So then come the women. They practically throw themselves at him. Never has he thought he was that attractive until women literally offer themselves up to him on a silver platter after saving them from some drunken creep. Joel had always declined until now. But Joel is only a man. He fucks them rough and dirty (with their permission of course – Joel is not a good man, and a lot of things, but he isn’t a fucking rapist) in the bathroom stalls, in the alleyways. In the moment it feels good and helps him let off some steam, but after he feels guilty. And it doesn’t satisfy him much more than with Erica if he really thinks about it. One thing that Erica has over these women who let him act out his violent self is the look of devotion in her eyes. That’s always the thing that gets Joel to cum in the end when he does get to fuck her.

 He would leave her, she isn’t that special to him if he’s honest, but she offers him a twofold sense of stability he has never known in his life. The first fold is the financial stability that has evaded him all of his days. The second is the feeling of family . Something so mundane and normal. And despite her flaws, she treats him so well – better than Sarah’s mother ever did. And most importantly, he doesn’t think he could leave Y/N. Not now. Not when she looks at him like he is the universe. Not even Aiden whom Joel has (begrudgingly) begun to see the traces of himself in. 

***

This particular muggy, summer day begins normally. Joel goes to work, fixes a Chevy Impala’s fluid tank. And then he walks in with an old, beat-up Honda Accord. 

His name is David, and Joel has heard of him through murmurings and bar stories and whispers at community barbeques. He’s a notorious neighborhood legend, whose house kids cross the street to avoid. He is the boogeyman at the end of the cul-de-sac. 

The story is, though through the many versions Joel has heard some of the details get muddled, that he kidnapped and raped a twelve-year-old girl (that part all versions agree on). Some say he was supposed to have ten years in prison, others say twenty, but whatever the number he got out in one for “good behavior.” In jail, he supposedly devoted his life to God and became a preacher.

Joel doesn’t want to help him, but his boss hisses at him that money is money and he’s going to serve the man whether Joel likes it or not. 

There’s something wrong with the exhaust pipe, so Joel bends down and takes a look at it. He opens the trunk and sees a box of Bibles next to a plastic bag of zip ties. His blood runs cold.

“The fuck is this shit doing in your car?” he growls, referring to the zip ties.

“The Bible is the word of God, Mr. Miller,” David replies, eyeing Joel’s nametag. “Would you like one? I’m always trying to spread The Good Word.” 

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” he spits, looking over to make sure his boss is not watching. 

“If you must know, though it’s none of your business, those zip ties are for my garden to help hold up my plants. They are remarkably useful,” David smiles sickeningly politely. 

And that’s when Joel loses it just a little.

He picks up the ties and pockets them.

“Listen here, you pedophile piece of shit,” he snarls. “If I hear about you stepping one goddamned pinky-toe out of line–”

“Hey, Joel!” A little voice calls.

The breath is knocked from Joel’s lungs.

Y/N bounds up to them holding a brown paper bag out of nowhere. 

“You forgot your lunch! Mom dropped me off so you could have it. It’s tuna though. I hate hate tuna. But you’ll eat anything so I hope it’s good for you at least,” she babbles.

“Baby,” Joel says very quietly, his heart thrumming in his ribcage. “Right now’s not a great time. Why don’t you go on home and I’ll catch up with you later?”

Then she notices David. By the fact that she doesn’t immediately leave, Joel determines she has no clue who he is.

“Hello, young lady,” David smiles, eyeing Joel knowingly. “I’m Pastor David.”

“Uh, hi,” she says.

Joel thinks he might actually kill him.

“Would you like something to take home with you?” he asks.

Y/N blinks in confusion as Joel steps in front of her.

“She’ll be going now, won’t you Y/N?” Joel suggests dangerously.

“Here,” David says before she can respond.

He hands her a black-covered bible.

Y/N takes it, looks at the cover, and laughs. Joel and David both look down at her in surprise.

“No offense, ‘Pastor David,”’ she smirks. “But I don’t believe in that shit. Here, you can have it back,” she offers.

He takes back the book somewhat defeatedly. And Joel grins internally.

“Bye, Joel,” she tells him, still smirking. 

She side-hugs him quickly and returns to Erica’s car. 

“How dare you even look at her–” Joel booms at the sad, pathetic excuse for a man once she is out of earshot. 

His hands are clenched into fists and they are shaking. Every part of him is on fire. 

“I think I’ll be going now,” David interjects lightly. “I can see my business isn’t welcome here. You have a beautiful daughter, Mr. Miller. Quite a mouth on her. Shame if something were to happen to her…Oh, the things someone like me could make her believe…”

Joel reaches back his fist to punch, to pummel, to kill, but suddenly, another hand grabs his and holds it in place. Joel’s boss has materialized behind him and is holding him back. Good thing too. It’s probably the only thing that saves Joel’s career and David’s life. 

David winks and drives away as the boss begins to reprimand Joel who is still shaking and fuming.

All he knows is this: If anyone touches his babygirl he will not hesitate to put them six feet under, no matter the cost to himself. He will not hesitate to get blood on his calloused hands. He will not hesitate to kill. And this time? His baby will not sustain a single scratch . He will not wait for her to get hurt before he acts. 

***

Joel wants nothing more than to go home and spend time with his babygirl and wife and even his step-son if he will allow, but there is blood popping and oozing and broiling and churning under his skin like billowing, bubbling lava. If he doesn’t do something about it soon he will explode worse than a volcanic eruption so he heads to the seediest bar he can think of. He makes his way inside and sits right up at the bar, already occupied by a few people. He orders a drink (his usual: whiskey on the rocks) and waits for the impending opportunity for violence he is sure is lying in wait.

He cannot believe the shit that came out of ‘Pastor-fucking-David’s’ sick, perverted mouth and that he almost lost his job over it. He lets that thought charge him up into a rage, his fists clenched so tightly they are beginning to ache in the joints. He cannot believe that disgusting little fucker had the audacity to say that horrible scummy bullshit in his presence when he would do anything to protect that innocent child. He takes a drink of his whiskey and knocks it back in one gulp. He would do anything , ‘Lord’ only knows. He snickers to himself sinisterly. 

And while he’s on the topic, fuck God! When had He ever done a single damn good thing for Joel his entire miserable life except maybe to give him Sarah and then take her away like she was nothing and not the entire light of the universe wrapped into a small, vulnerable person? Joel doesn’t know much about the bible, truth be told, but he remembers a few things from his Sunday school days. He remembers that people are created in the image of God and the stories he remembers most are from the Old Testament which heavily featured a God of absolute rage. Maybe that is the way he is god-like, built of anger and revenge and wrath and the sick, pathetic hunger for power that lurks inside most people. 

But he also remembers Jesus being meek and mild. Joel never understood that desire until he had Sarah and then Y/N in his care. If Joel could snap his fingers and make himself some fundamentally kind and caring man he would, but he can’t. Joel Miller is not a good man. He tried to be for Y/N, he truly did, but look at everything he’s done in the time he’s known her: he used Erica to get financial stability and roof over his head, he’s cheated on her numerous times, he beat Aiden, a child, and everyday the weight of that guilt grows greater as he begins to truly understand how wrong that was, and he beat his babygirl’s pathetic excuse for a father (but still her father) in front of her. He also beat people in bar fights and that time at the gym. And the thing is: is he even a little bit sorry about any of it – except for maybe what he did to Aiden? No, not even a little. And he’d do all of it again if it could mean getting to spend time with his babygirl, Y/N, again. His babygirl who FUCKING DAVID tried to threaten!

And the problem is: who knows what that fucker is capable of? The police and the judicial system let him out after one year which can only be described as a colossal moral failure and a massive miscarriage of justice. It wouldn’t take much for David to really figure out where they lived and grab Y/N and throw her in his trunk like he did that poor other little girl. Maybe that’s paranoid, but Joel knows better than most that when a man wants to do a dark thing he will find a way to do it. Joel does not want to live his life constantly looking over his shoulder as some horrendous pedophile lives freely. 

And then he turns his head to look down at the rest of the fairly busy bar and he sees him . None other than David himself, drinking a beer. Joel cannot believe his luck. It is like all of the light in heaven has aligned to give him such a gift. A part of him is screaming to not engage because Joel is sure he could kill him for what he said about Y/N. But the rest of him is already standing up and grabbing David by the shoulder and–

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the fuck out of here now ,” he snarls. “Almost lost my job because of you, you sick fuck. You’re lucky I give you a warning and don’t wring your neck on the fucking spot.”  

David turns around, Joel’s fingers digging into his shoulder.

“Proverbs 24:1 and 2,” he quotes calmly. “‘Do not envy wicked men or desire their company; for their hearts devise violence, and their lips declare trouble.’”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means perhaps I will be leaving. I don’t care to spend my time with wicked men such as yourself. And I have many preparations to make for what is to come. How is your daughter doing since we last met?”

Joel’s heart runs cold. 

“Get my baby’s name out of your goddamned mouth .” 

“Hope we run into each other soon,” David grins as he gets off the barstool and dislodges himself from Joel’s grip. “There is a lot I could teach her.”

He turns to leave. Disgusting coward, Joel thinks. He could let the man go. But then what? Live in fear of him? Let his precious Y/N live in fear of him? Joel is tired of living in fear, of resigning to a cruel man in a cruel world, and he will never do that or let Y/N do that ever again. 

And then David leans in so close that Joel can smell the alcohol on his breath and the sweat on his skin.

“Can’t stop thinking about her pretty little hands around my–”

Joel doesn’t let him finish. In that moment he knows what will transpire. He picked this seedy-ass bar for a reason: so that no one will bother to stop him.

He lands the first punch with ease, doesn’t even feel the pain till minutes later. The force of the blow to David’s head is so strong he slams down into the ground. It is so violent that David’s eyelid starts to bleed and the skin around the impact spot becomes puffy and dark. 

David shouts for help, but no one in this place gives a fuck and even if they did everybody knows who he is and what he did so they don’t give a shit two times over. 

Joel continues the assault. Punch after punch reigns down on the other man as blood begins to coat his features. David tries to get a punch or two into Joel’s stomach, but Joel straddles each of his biceps and holds him down so he can continue hitting. The longer Joel hits, the better he feels. This time is different. This time he does not see the features of every man he’s ever hated in the face of his victim. This time he sees only David’s disgusting smirk in his mind’s eye. This time he only thinks about how he is saving Y/N from a lifetime of fear and cruelty. This time Joel will not let his adversary get a strike in first. This time he will be the one to stop the fate of impending devastation that lies in the palms of David’s shaking and broken hands. This time he can save her . 

When Joel is done with his hands, he is panting heavily. He moves on to his feet, kicking the man’s gut sadistically, his trembling hands, his face. Crunch , goes David’s skull. And then he is not moving or breathing.

Joel stops.

A lick of fear trails against the inside of his stomach, but the rage, always the rage warms his stomach like a rush of flames.

So he keeps going. He bends back down and squeezes the man’s throat just to make sure. It’s good he did too because David’s bloodshot, viens-having-burst eyes snap open and David makes a pathetic little squealing noise and Joel squeezes harder, rougher, with more conviction.

In the end, it takes longer than he thought it would. 

Joel only stops when he hears sirens blaring in the distance. He looks up for the first time since the assault started and sees all of the patrons staring at him in revulsion and fear. The bartender actually has the phone in her hand. Joel guesses she was the one to finally call the cops. He guesses he was so sadistic and violent that even this shitty place had seen enough. He thinks to run, briefly, but where would he run to? Everything he has ever wanted in life is now going to be closed off to him. But he saved Y/N and that makes everything worth it. It has to have been worth it.

Joel puts two scarred, calloused fingers to David’s pulse point, as blood (his and David’s) drips down from his knuckle onto the wooden floor and feels nothing.

When the cops handcuff him and take him away, he doesn’t resist. He comes quietly. He cannot ever really be a good man for Y/N, he understands that now, but at least now she and he may know some peace of mind after what he’s done.

***

The time leading up to the trial is a blur. 

Erica pays for an excellent lawyer, but divorces him on the spot. It seems there are some things even she will not forgive, and apparently murder is one of them. She allows the children to see him one last time in cold, sterile police interrogation room. A court-appointed child advocate social worker must be present. They allow him to have his handcuffs taken off for the first time since he was arrested. The kids are told he accidentally killed someone in a bar fight and for legal reasons he leans into the “accidental” part. 

Aiden comes in first. He knew who David was and tells Joel he did the right thing. Joel is surprised. He reaches out a limp hand, dirt caked under his fingernails, and shakes Joel’s for the first time since they’ve known each other and they part ways on good terms.

“You’re not my dad,” Aiden tells him quietly. “But you always put up a good fight to be there.”

And he leaves.

Joel is more touched than he wants to believe.

Y/N’s visit is much more difficult.

“How could you!?” she screams, standing by the door the second she sees him as he sits at the interrogation table, his chair turned toward her. 

At first Joel thinks she means how could he killl another human being. Y/N didn’t seem to know who David was after all. But that’s not what she is mad about.

“How could you leave me!?” she shouts, tears in her eyes. “You’re going to be taken away from me! Mom is leaving you because of this and that means you aren’t like my dad anymore. You’re going to forget all about me and never get to see me again because you killed some dumb man who tried to give me a bible?”

“He was not a good man,” is all Joel can say. 

He can’t be the one to tell her more, hasn’t told anyone how David had threatened her. Not even his lawyer. He doesn’t want to scare her, doesn’t want to admit to anyone he let those words even get to leave that shit stain’s mouth. 

“I don’t care!” she shouts again. “I want you!”

And then she bursts into tears and runs into his chest and Joel holds her against his orange jumpsuit and starts to feel tears trickling down his own cheeks.

“Never gonna forget about you,” he nearly scolds her into hair. “How could you ever think that, baby? You’re my babygirl. I’ll get out one day and come right back to you, understand?”

“But Mom–”

“You’ll be grown by the time I get out and won’t have to worry about what she says. But I’ll tell you this: you might feel different about me by the time your grown up and however you feel I want you to know I’ll respect that. But I ain’t gonna forget about you. Not ever.” 

“Your time is up,” the court-appointed social worker states. 

“No!” Y/N shouts, burying herself deeper into Joel’s embrace. “NO! I’m not leaving! I won’t leave you!”

Joel hugs her back tightly, crying into the top of her head as she sobs softly into his chest. 

In the end, the social worker has to pull her away as she screams.

“I love you, Y/N!” he calls to her as the social worker drags her from him. “Never gonna forget you, babygirl. Remember that.”

All Joel can hear back is a broken wail.

***

Erica attends the trial; the kids are forbidden. Joel’s defense claims it was a drunken accident and goes for manslaughter. Because he killed a known child molester he has no trouble while he waits in jail. He is even considered a hero by some. No one tries to fuck with him and that’s how Joel would prefer it since if he gets into too many fights it will just add to his sentence and he must get out and get back to his babygirl if she’ll still have him. His lawyer tells him not to mention the threats that David made toward Y/N because it will look like more of a reason that Joel would have had to intentionally kill him as opposed to accidentally like the manslaughter plea would have the court believe. Joel listens. He does exactly what he’s told because this lawyer is good and he needs to get out someday for christ sake.

In the end, he gets ten years and his lawyer tells him he could get eight for good behavior.

Eight years, if Joel can manage it.

They take him away to prison in handcuffs. Erica sobs. It is the last time he sees her.

***

Joel always wondered if his temper would land him in prison. Now that he’s here things go surpringly well. He gets a reputation for being the murderer of a child molestor and people respect him, listen to him when he bothers to speak. He keeps things in order and people start to refer to him as the “pod boss.” He also reads a lot in his cell, tries to help people with their cases and appeals if he can. And if someone steps out of line, Joel is more than happy to put them in their place so long as he can avoid attention from the guards, who he actually mostly gets along with to their faces, but behind their backs beats people to a pulp. No one ever dares to snitch on him and he is considered on the right track to get out for good behavior early. 

Time passes — painfully long stretches of time.

He has a lot of time to think, to read. He reads every book in the prison library over the time he is incarcerated. He reads parenting books, self-help books, books on trauma, books on abuse, books on anger management, books on meditation, books on spirituality (nothing sticks in that regard though, he is still furious like God, but less so these days). Somehow his anger has started to simmer down a notch.   

But he worries his babygirl will forget about him, or worse grow to hate him. He’s not sure he’ll survive that.    

Luckily, or he might have withered away and died, somehow Y/N convinces Erica to let her write him a letter once a month and have one call with him on Christmas. 

Christmases quickly become his favorite day of the year. 

Y/N writes him religiously. She talks about how angry she is at him, how she misses him, how she finally fixed the motor on Joel’s old pickup truck, how some boy gave her a love letter on Valentine’s Day, how she thinks of him every day.

Joel never tells her what David said about her, lets her believe he is just some violent, drunken idiot. He writes back how much he misses her, how he read a new book this week, how prison food is shit, how he’d probably greet that boy with a shotgun if he thinks he’s getting anywhere with his babygirl, how his whole heart beats for her.

She’s allowed to send him one photo a year, her most current school photo, and Joel hangs them on the wall of his cell so he can see her beaming at him at his highest and lowest moments along with the tiny picture of Sarah he managed to save from his wallet. 

Aiden even sends him a card each Father’s Day. It never has anything written in it except for whatever stupid pun or text the card came with, but Joel reads between the lines with that one. Each one seems to whisper to him louder and louder, I love you and I forgive you. Joel writes him back, “Thanks, kiddo. -Joel” He hope that conveys the thousands of sorrys he wants to scream from the rooftops and say straight to the boy’s face. He will someday when he gets out. He makes himself promise. He hears from Y/N when Aiden joins the marines. 

When Joel gets to actually hear Y/N’s voice on the old prison phone it’s like the most beautiful sound he has ever heard except for maybe Sarah’s voice. She babbles away about her life and what’s she’s up to and he hangs on every word like gospel. He barely gets a word in, but prefers it that way. Wishes he could hear her singing. Once, when she’s sixteen, and sounds so woefully grown up it hurts Joel’s entire heart, she hums a little absentmindedly and he can’t get the sweet sound out of his head. Her love for him never seems to waver and that is a blessing that Joel will never forget, the only thing he would thank this cruel God for. And of course, his love for her never wavers either. She is the only beacon of light for him in this dark and mundane existence. She is his everything.

***

When Y/N is eighteen and no longer under her mother’s control, she comes to visit him in person. This is the first time they have seen each other in six years. Despite their loving correspondence, Joel is nervous to see her for the first time since her childhood. He worries about how awkward it might be.

When he sees her walking into the dinky little family meeting room, his entire mode of existence changes.

She looks so beautiful, so grown-up. Sure she had always been a cute little kid, Joel always thought that, but now she is a woman. Tears come to Joel’s eyes. When her eyes connect with his, he feels so seen .

He tries to get a word out, but before he can she is running to him, into his arms and Joel has never felt something so perfect in his entire life. He knows he has never felt a love like this before. Not even with Sarah…something about this is different somehow? Joel is not too in touch with his feelings, but he’s trying to be more attentive to them these days with nothing left to do but read about such topics as “emotional regulation” and “mindfulness.” He’ll come back to this thought later though…

Y/N begins to babble into his ear, something about missing him and not wanting it to be awkward, but this is the furthest from awkward Joel has ever felt.

Joel has never been a man of many words so all he can think to say is,

“Missed you, babygirl.”

She grins at that, brighter than all the suns of all the planets in the universe (Joel has been reading about those too) and he laughs for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

She laughs too, wipes tears from her eyes, and says,

“Missed you too, Joel. More than you know.”

Joel thinks that can’t possibly be true for that is all he has known for the last six years and possibly his entire life: missing her.

She comes once a month, drives an hour just to see him, and she tells him about college and later her very own shitty apartment. Her mother has thrown herself into her work and Aiden is serving his second tour. She makes good grades and has a stable boyfriend that treats her well, she swears. Joel couldn’t be happier for her, except the boyfriend business does make him want to crush that little fucker’s head in for some reason.

***

The last time Y/N comes to visit before his release (eight years to the day for good behavior) (she is 20 damn years old already!) something feels different to Joel. When he hugs her to greet her, he’s suddenly very aware of her body, the curves of it, her softness. Her hair smells so good, he doesn’t want to let go of her and then to his intense dismay and shock he feels himself getting a little excited down south. Immediately, he lets go of her, feeling like a pervert, praying she didn’t and doesn’t notice. He doesn’t see any obvious signs from her and the two sit down (Joel rather quickly) at the flimsy, nailed-down table and they talk of Joel’s impending release. All the while, Joel is trying to stay calm. He convinces himself it was just an accident and that he hadn’t been around any women in what felt like an eternity and that’s what  led him to get worked up. But when Y/N leaves to go home he feels a kind of dull longing in the bottom of his gut. A different kind of longing then what he had felt for a younger Y/N. Joel tells himself not to repress for the first goddamn time in his life and let himself feel. And he does. He feels butterflies and yearning and need, a great big need inside himself. And then he knows what else he feels: the gut-wrenching, unquenchable sensation of love and beneath that, primal, base, and self-loathing: desire . 

In his solo cell (that he has acquired because he is the pod boss and respected) he jerks off to those thoughts, touches himself to those feelings. When he cums unusually hard, he feels an overwhelming amount of shame. Of this, Joel knows, he will never ever tell another soul. Joel also knows he will not hurt his babygirl any more than he already has, intentionally or not, not ever. But then again, being a good, upstanding man has never really quite been in his arsenal, has it?

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PLEASE COMMENT LIKE REBLOG IM BEGGING IM PLEADING IM CRYING

PART 2

Violent Heart Masterlist

Full Masterlist of all my work

[cavillscurls]

Divine Dynasty | Joel Miller Mafia AU (THE PREQUEL)

**PLEASE NOTE: This installment was written and released after Chapter Two. It can be read at any point in the series.**

Pairing: Mafia!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel graciously hosts your twenty-first birthday party at his estate. You are both finally forced to acknowledge the feelings you have been harboring for one another.

Warnings/tags: MDNI. This takes place 4 years prior to the main storyline. Foul language. Alcohol consumption. Age gap (reader is currently 21, Joel is currently 36). Dual POV. Joel wrestling with the idea of his attraction to reader. Sexual tension. Suggestive scenarios. Flirting !!! Mutual pining. General Mafia themes. No descriptions of race or body type; reader wears a bikini bathing suit. Moodboard for aesthetics only.

Word Count: 5.4k

CHAPTER ONE. | CHAPTER TWO. | SERIES MASTERLIST.

❝Babe, there’s something wretched about this.

Something so precious about this.

Where to begin?

Babe, there’s something broken about this,

but I might be hoping about this.

Oh, what a sin. ❞

— Hozier, From Eden

“Joel, I swear, if you ask me about the goddamn cake one more time, I’m gonna sock ya right in the jaw.” 

Joel Miller was not a patient man. 

He tried to be, albeit, not very well. In a life where one was used to getting what they wanted whenever they wanted, feeling out of control was not a skill he had mastered. And fuck, did he feel out of his element. 

He didn’t realize when he offered to host your birthday party in his home that it would be such a massive undertaking. The truth was, it was only so because of his own doing. He was making it much harder on himself than needed, but how could he not? It was you. Ever since your mother passed, he had seen much more of you. Always at your fathers side. A watchful eye never passing judgment on the life they lived, only admiration and curiosity. Joel couldn’t shake the incessant need to seek another moment alone with you. 

Moments altogether were few and far between. Normally reduced to watchful eyes across the room while you beamed pridefully beside your father at dinners or laughed at whatever ridiculous joke Tommy was telling the group. In truth, he had hardly spoken to you directly since you were but a child, the thought alone making his stomach clench in disgust for how quickly pure thoughts of joyous youth became an unbridled attraction. 

Joel hadn’t thought much about the feelings he discovered he was harboring about you. It was purposeful. Dimming them to a dull throb in his subconscious was easier than facing the gravity of what they meant. He could admire from afar. He would admire a little closer tonight—but it was a special occasion. 

Instead, he channeled all of that energy into creating the perfect evening. He had hired chefs working in his kitchen since four o’clock. The decor for the grand foyer and living space were designed and chosen meticulously, mostly gold accents to accompany that of the chandeliers. And of course, the cake, which he and Tommy spent a good thirty-five minutes arguing about, settling on a chocolate mousse that could satisfy any crowd. 

Guests began arriving about an hour before Joel knew he could expect you. This was good. This meant he had ample time for people to get drunk enough to not notice how insane he was going over just about everything: did he choose the right food? The right music? Could he have possibly forgotten someone vital to invite? 

He was in the midst of checking over the hors d'oeuvres for what felt like the fourth time when he felt the startling clap of a hand on his shoulder. Joel cocked his head over to see Tommy shuffle in beside him, his arm draped over his shoulders. 

“Doin’ alright, big brother?” Tommy asked, but Joel had already turned his attention back to the table in front of him. He reached out to carefully adjust some of the dishes that were placed crooked. 

Tommy watched him fiddle for another moment before he gave Joel’s shoulder another squeeze, this time, a bit more firm. 

“Joel,” Tommy said slowly, to which his brother responded with a grunt, finally finding his eyes. Tommy was looking at him sympathetically, a quaint smile on his lips. Meanwhile, Joel was certain he already looked like a wreck. Sweat dampened his brow, his heart pounding against his chest. “Everything’s gonna go just fine,” Tommy consoled. 

“Everythin’ has to go perfect.” 

“It will.” It was no secret that Joel was a perfectionist, but this was beyond his usual absurdity. Normally, the younger Miller brother would not pass up the opportunity to tease, but he knew better. This was important to Joel, which made it important to the entirety of the clan. 

Tommy released his brother with a final pat between the shoulders. “I’m gonna make sure they’ve got enough hands at the front. Call me if you need anythin’, yeah?” Joel’s insufficient grumble would have to suffice as a response. 

If you need anything. What did he need? To get his head on straight, for one. A drink, for two. An open bar may have been one of his best ideas of the evening thus far. He hiked his way over to the makeshift station, doing his very best to avoid the eye-line of his men and arriving guests alike.  

“Whiskey neat,” he mumbled to the bartender, wrapping his fingers around the glass when it was handed to him and taking it back in one, hearty swig. The burn was familiar, comforting in the way it slid down his throat. Numerous evenings much like this one were spent locked up in his parlor, the weight of an empire on his shoulders, while he nursed the entire bottle through the night. It calmed the nerves and steadied him. A habit that he, perhaps, needed to be mindful of, but was nonetheless grateful for in a moment of irritating self-doubt. 

Joel Miller had never been a man to question himself, his actions, his intentions. 

Not until you. 

“Surprise!” 

When Meg, your oldest and longest friend, told you to get dressed up for the evening, you had an astute inkling that it may have had something to do with your birthday. You were rather indifferent to the occasion, content to spend the evening with a handful of friends inside watching films and eating snacks most years. But you would never pass up a party. 

Especially not when it was being hosted by none other than Joel Miller. 

You had decided to get ready with Meg at her apartment, giving in to the soft nudge your father conveniently pestered you with to get out of the house. This was the first clue of the evening's plans. You spent the next few hours with homemade margaritas in hand, dancing around her living room to music much too loud while you dolled yourselves up; a routine you were all too familiar with, as many high school nights with Meg were spent doing similar antics. The dress of choice was a deep crimson, with thin straps holding up the square neckline, hugging your curves in all the right places; it reached the floor, but saved room for the generous slit up your right leg. 

When the car arrived for you both, it took all of three turns before you knew exactly where it would be taking you. You had this particular route mapped out, and it wouldn’t have taken much on Joel’s part to organize your arrival with Meg. The idea alone that he sought out the guidance of your closest friend for a special day made your chest tighten in delight. 

Your friends didn’t know the line of work Joel ran, but they had their educated suspicions. They were smart enough not to question; they got to bask in the glory of what his field of work provided, and to that, they were content. Meg would dance her way around the conversation a bit less inconspicuously than the others, but she never pushed. Her friendship with you went beyond any perks of your father's profession. 

It wasn’t long before you were standing at the double doors of Joel’s foyer, being bathed in the love of friends and family alike. Your father was one of the first to approach you, pulling you into a hug and wishing you a happy birthday. You thanked him with glassy eyes, overwhelmed by the affection of those who greeted you. It was a warm, fuzzy feeling. Only heightening when you finally looked across the room to see a certain brown-eyed beauty sauntering over your direction as the path around you began to clear. 

Oh, he looked good. 

Gelled curls and a firmly pressed black suit, you already felt like mush upon his gaze. His lips were curled into a quaint little smirk, and his dazzling eyes seemed to glisten a little under the chandelier lights. A proper host, dashing and bold. And yet, when he approached you, it was easy to feel like the only two in the room. 

Joel stopped a few feet short of you, and you tilted your neck back to take in his glorious tanned features. You tried to bite back the grin that spread across your cheeks, but it was impossible. Not while he was looking at you like that. Not while you knew this entire spectacle had been his doing for you. You had hardly even noticed the two champagne flutes he held until he lifted one up to eye level. 

“Believe I’m allowed to give this to ya now,” he remarked, and you chuckled breathily. 

He handed you one of the flutes, tipping his own in your direction for a gentle clink. You both took a sip of the bubbly sweetness and then, he was placing his free hand delicately at the small of your back to properly greet you, taking a step forward so he could lean his lips down to your ear. Your body ignited, growing taut at his touch. 

“You look incredible,” he murmured, words only the two of you were allowed to indulge in. His proximity made sure of that. It also gave you a heavy whiff of him, the heady scent of his expensive cologne mixed with his natural pheromones had your head spinning. 

You let your eyes close momentarily, basking in the moment that was bound to be fleeting. “Thank you,” you whispered in response, and with a soft chuckle and careful peck of his lips to your temple, he released you. 

You looked up to him again, this time, pure admiration displayed behind your eyes. “This is incredible,” you told him, nodding your head towards the decorated foyer in front of you. “Thank you for arranging all of it, I—”

He held his free hand up, halting you. “Ain’t no need to thank me, darlin’. Besides,” he said, tilting his head to eye you over your shoulder. “I had a little help.” 

You turned your head to see Meg standing behind you still, glittering smile and all. She shrugged, swiping a piece of hair back from her shoulder in subtle boasting. 

“Oh, it was nothing.” She couldn’t even pretend to hide her pride, but you didn’t mind. Eternally grateful to have someone who would go through such trouble to appease you for one night. 

It wasn’t long before Meg was blabbering about how many things and people there were to see; old friends from high school, the few from childhood, new ones from university. Family you hadn’t seen for years. A photo booth she insisted be used by you and her first. Before you knew it, she was grabbing at your hands, tugging you away from the crowd that greeted you, away from Joel. You turned your head over your shoulder to shoot him an apologetic glance at her eagerness, hoping to convey how desperately you wished to continue talking to him. You could talk to him all evening long if obligation didn’t lie elsewhere. 

He softly shook his head at you, mouthing a have fun, and you convinced yourself his focused eyes were promising you they would find you later. 

The rest of the occasion was just as grand as you expected it to be at the hands of Joel. 

A delicious array of food that kept your belly filled pleasantly, nonetheless allowing room for the decadent dessert that came shortly after. You held your cheeks, inflamed with appreciation and embarrassment when the horde of your friends and family sang happy birthday to you. It was one of the few moments you were able to spot Joel’s eyes throughout the evening, as he dutifully held up the cake with Tommy whilst you blew out the candles. You couldn’t help but laugh when you saw him beaming at you, overcome with a delight you were not sure you had ever experienced as intensely. 

The steady flow of champagne and cocktails kept your veins buzzing and your head free from worries. More of your school friends from the years had filed in throughout the evening; Steven, a particularly charming fellow that Meg had her eyes on for years, made an appearance. He brought along one of your old flings, Noah, who had remained a good friend despite your attraction to each other never blooming into more. You wondered how long it would take and how drunk Meg needed to be before she made her move on one or the other. 

Around eleven, guests were beginning to make their exits at a leisurely pace. You were nowhere near tired nor ready to say goodbye to what felt like the perfect evening, but you could not overstay your welcome. Besides, nothing could diminish the sheer glee you felt in fact that Joel Miller had planned all of this just for you. 

You were in the midst of embracing your father in farewell, promising him you would call as soon as you and Meg made it safely back to her apartment for the night when you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning away from the doorway, you saw none other than Meg herself standing behind you, a smirk on her face and rocking giddy from heel to toe. 

“Party’s not over yet, birthday girl,” she started, your confusion only sending her grin wider. “Two words: Night. Swimming.” 

You frowned. “But I didn’t bring a bathing su—”

You didn’t notice the bag hanging off her fingertips until she brought it around from behind her back, dangling it in front of your face, proudly. You gave her a knowing look, and she beamed back at you because of course she came prepared. Preparedness meant you had no room to protest her plans, but even if she hadn’t come ready, you wouldn’t have complained. 

Any opportunity to stay even a moment longer in Joel Miller’s home as an opportunity you would take. 

“Cannonball!” 

Tommy was the culprit of the barbaric screech and mighty splash of water that attacked everybody in the pool. He, amongst other younger members of the clan, as well as Meg, Steven, and Noah had joined the after-party in Joel’s spacious backyard paradise. Warm, twinkling lights you had never noticed before were strung up over the pool. You wondered if he set them out just for the occasion, a thought that made your chest warm with more than just the soothing touch of the heated water. 

And yet, the gracious host himself did not partake. No, he sat idly by. Still fully clothed in his evening apparel. Watching. 

You, on the other hand, could not decide whether or not you were thankful for or mortified at the choice of swimwear Meg brought you. Of course, it was your raunchiest bikini; a two-piece black set with triangles that just barely cupped each breast, and bottoms that, no matter much you tugged at them to cover more, revealed a generous amount of your ass. 

You did your best not to draw too much attention to yourself, as if that was even possible on a day like this. At the very least, you tried your hardest not to keep casting eyes back at Joel who still sat at one of the lounge chairs. He would check his phone every few moments, a party still no distraction from the work he was still responsible for. But when he wasn’t occupied, you would catch his eyes on you; following your descent into the warm water, keeping a watch on the way you moved, maybe even how close the other men got to you. 

The latter very well could’ve been a false fantasy, but it was one you didn’t mind indulging. Not one bit. 

At one point, Tommy set up a net at the far end of the pool, rousing everyone into a game of volleyball. You were lucky the estate had no nearby neighbors, as the shouts of triumph and groans of defeat echoed loudly through the night sky. You ended up on the winning team, much to Tommy’s efforts. 

The approaching midnight did little to cease shenanigans, and after the third game, it was decided that more drinks would be necessary before another round could commence. Tommy chanted in excitement over some bourbon he had in the reserve, to which both Steven and Noah showed interest in, eagerly grabbing their towels and following him inside. 

You were the last to leave the pool, taking your time in drying yourself when you reached for your towel that was conveniently placed on the lounge chair adjacent to Joel’s. He had made no effort to move, still lost in his phone. 

This is your chance, you thought. The most unobtrusive opportunity tonight thus far to get yourself a moment alone with him. You scrunched at your wet hair painfully slow, hoping the crowd would disappear without so much as a glance in your direction. 

“You coming?!” Meg called from the sliding door. 

Fuck. 

“Uh, yeah! I’m just gonna dry off a little more. I’ll catch up,” you assured her with a tight lip smile. She returned it with an arch of her brow but pressed no further before slipping inside. 

With the majority of the chatter migrated back to the house, a calming silence fell over the backyard. You could hear the crickets in their dusk song, a soft rustle of wind through the leaves on the trees, skin prickling with goosebumps at the realization that it was colder outside the warmth of the pool. When you were certain the back door would not reopen, you turned your attention back to the occupied lounge chair. 

Joel’s eyes were already on you. 

“Too cool to join us?” you teased, tilting your head at him as you continued to run the towel through your hair. 

His lips curled into a smirk. “Someone’s gotta be sober ‘nough to keep an eye on y’all,” he mused, carefully tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket. When he looked at you now, it was as though it was the first time he was really seeing what you were wearing. Or not wearing. He was shameless, letting his gaze run over the entirety of your figure once, twice, mapping out damp skin and committing it to memory. 

You, on the other hand, were speechless. A gawking statue frozen in a perpetual daze, unmoving to the only spectator who had ever made you feel like a piece of art worth looking at. Joel had that ability. To cast away your insecurities with his suave words and tender eyes, never giving any indication that his intentions with you were anything but sincere, whatever they may be. It was no wonder he consumed your very being; night and day, an endless cycle of senseless yearning you attempted, and failed, to tame. 

You realized, then, that your time was limited. Girlish fantasies and chronic overthinking of his every move would have to wait.  You braced yourself with a deep breath, wrapping the towel around your torso and rolling back your shoulders in an attempt to release some of the budding tension before carefully stepping towards the chair beside him, and plopping down on the edge. It was now or never. 

“Well, it’s certainly not me you have to worry about,” you feigned innocence, batting your eyelashes rather dramatically. Teasing him. “I’ve never had a drop of alcohol before tonight.” 

Joel threw his head back, laughing. The kind that spread his lips so wide, his dimple showed, filling your stomach with heat.  “No, ‘course not,” he agreed, turning his body to mirror you, knees nearly touching across the short distance between chairs. “Too much of a good girl to do such a thing, right?” 

The way he said it, low in his chest, his chin tilted down and peering up through devilish eyes, you couldn’t even allow yourself to entertain the idea that he was just being nice. Being Joel. That had always meant something entirely different when it came to you, anyway, hadn’t it? All rational was thrown to the wind, and for a moment, as foolish as it may have been, you let yourself indulge in the idea that perhaps he was interested in you beyond being the daughter of one of his men. 

“Right,” you breathed, internally scolding yourself for how winded you already sounded. 

He was studying you again. In a way that made you hyper aware of your body, the droplets of water rolling over your skin the only saving grace from the way it burned under his gaze. Joel pursed his lips, and then: 

“Come here,” he beckoned, lifting a hand to curl his fingers gesturally in the air. Your brows furrowed in momentary confusion. How much closer did he want you to get? 

Realizing how stupid your own question was, you wordlessly stood, holding the towel taut around you as you stepped into the space between his thighs. He craned his neck back to look at you, the twinkle that sparked in his eyes simultaneously frightening and exhilarating. 

“Sit,” he commanded softly, patting his thigh and seeming to pay no mind to the way your body was already dripping water onto his slacks. 

Your brows lifted and your lips parted a bit in surprise. He must have been losing it. You must have been losing it. “But…I’m all wet,” you said, your eyes peering sheepishly down at him. 

He tilted his chin up at you, a casual smirk ghosting his lips. “I gotta closet full of suits, darlin’. I ain’t gonna miss this one.” 

You wondered if he heard the way your breath caught in your throat. 

You were a damn fool to even consider denying his request. Joel Miller asking you to sit on his lap? He may as well have plucked the very fantasies from your brain with his own fingertips. If only you could tell the nagging voice in the back of your head reminding you of who he was, where you were, to shut up for five minutes. What better day of the year was there for selfish indulgences, anyway? 

And fuck, were you eager to be selfish for him. 

You didn’t allow yourself to dawdle any longer. Wordlessly, you lowered yourself onto one of his thighs, muscles rigid. He eyed you the entire time, the intensity of them drawing you in like a moth to a flame. His legs were sturdy below you, but his hands remained dutifully to himself. 

“Got somethin’ for ya,” he spoke, his voice somehow sounding richer this close. He was reaching into his back pocket then, pulling out what was revealed before you as a black, velvet box. 

You sucked in a breath. “Joel…” You peered down at the rectangle in his hands, feeling as though your chest may explode. The entire evening had been grand, the idea of any more endowments seeming almost undeserved. “You really didn’t have to get me—”

“Hush, now. Ain’t no way you thought I wasn’t gettin’ you a gift,” he interrupted, shaking his head at you. “Been waitin’ all night to give it to you,” he admitted, the soft glimmer that casted over his eyes when he said it making your heart flutter. “Go on, open it,” he urged you softly.

You stared at the box for a moment before finally reaching out to hold it between your fingers, paying no mind to the way the towel slipped from below your arms. It bunched up around your lap, and you swore you felt Joel’s body tense below you. With trembling fingers, you carefully took off the top. 

“Oh my god,” you gasped, eyes grown wide. Splayed within the box was a dainty station necklace; what it lacked in gaudiness it made up for in sparkle, a sequence of gems, alternating between diamonds and your birthstone. Even in the lowlight, they twinkled. Confirming their legitimacy.  

You were overcome by incessant emotion; the idea of him spending time meticulously hand-picking a gift for you, one that you would wear with pride, an eager display of the way his charm had consumed you, dowsed you in a sick sense of pride. Not to mention how expensive it must have been, and yet, he deemed you worthy. The thought alone made you shiver. 

You tilted your head over your shoulder, eyeing up at him wistfully through your lashes. He was so close, and he smelled so good. Peering carefully down at you, you saw his eyes flicker to your lips. 

“Put it on for me?” you asked softly. You watched the muscle in his jaw twitch before he nodded once. Hesitation was no longer a foe. You gave into instinct, turning your body until you were perched forward on his lap, his chest flushed against your back. 

Joel reached around you, carefully lifting the necklace from the plush fabric it sat atop. You snaked a hand up, gathering your hair to the back of your head as he brought the gift closer to your neck. You couldn’t help but let your eyes flutter shut. 

You were consumed by him. The sturdiness, the safety of his body around you. Warm breath fanning cool skin, while yours came bated. You imagined what a predicament you must have looked like, then; Joel, fully clothed, your scantily clad body rested back against him. Perhaps you should have been ashamed, but all you could picture was what it would be like, feel like, to be just like this in a much less savory scenario. What it may feel like to have his hands mold your body to their touch, the way his lips would bleed whispers into your skin. 

His knuckles brushed the tip of your spine while he secured the clasp. Sat perfectly above your collarbones, you couldn’t help but let your hair fall to reach the same hand forward, tracing gentle fingers over the stones. 

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “Thank you.” 

You weren’t sure he heard you at first, but then, you felt it. Feather-light, you assumed your mind was playing tricks on you. But there was no denying the rough sensation of his stubble as it tickled your neck, the plush of his lips just barely grazing your skin right below the precious gift. You stiffened, body set alight at the smooth pass of his warm breath over your wet skin. There was no doubt he could see the goosebumps that rapidly began to litter your arms and legs, and you held your breath in fear of whatever would come out in response to having him so close. 

“M’glad you like it,” he muttered, right into the crook of your neck, and you couldn’t stop yourself from clenching your thighs together. The delicious baritone vibrating straight through to your core. 

“I love it,” you emphasized, not trusting your voice to speak any more above a whisper. Even then, it came out mangled, strained. On the precipice of losing control. 

Up until then, he had been rather restrained. But the hands he had honorably kept to himself had crept up slowly, knuckles brushing over the sides of your thighs. Even with the barrier of the towel, your skin felt like fire under his touch. 

You could’ve stayed like that forever, huddled up in his lap, his very own branding around your neck, waiting patiently for whatever move he made next. But you were feeling bold, a bit tipsy, and intoxicated by the idea of him. Carefully, you maneuvered yourself atop of him again, turning halfway back around until you were able to look at him properly. 

His eyes were on you, taking you in much closer than ever before. It made you gasp, the intensity of his gaze, though you couldn’t seem to falter from it. Tentative hands had crept up your thighs, settling delicately on either hip. Your hands ached to reach out and touch him in return, but your brain left you frozen. Casted under the spell of proximity, his scent alone, like hearty wood and a hint of mint, dampened your senses. 

He said your name once. Quiet. A warning, or an inquisition, perhaps. Then, his eyes flickered down to your lips again, this time, lingering there. You could feel his breath against your face; one motion, and you could taste him. Satiate a hunger deeply rooted inside of you for years past and years to come. But he was already moving, lifting a hand and dragging two fingers over the apple of your cheek, tucking away strands of damp hair behind your ear. 

Your breath had picked up, so loud you were sure he could hear it. See the way your chest heaved up and down. You thought you noticed his hitch, too. Shoulders taut and inviting below his button-up. The hand that pushed away your hair lingered at the nape of your neck, between your hairline and his precious gift, holding you loosely in place. 

He watched the way you took your bottom lip between your teeth nervously before dampening his own with his tongue. You followed the way it dragged across the appealing surface in awe, craving nothing more than to taste the very same spot. 

When he said your name a second time, your thighs clenched harder than before. It was deep, almost a groan of sheer desperation and dwindling restraint. His grip on the back of your neck tightened ever so slightly, and you didn’t even have the capacity to question the integrity of what was about to happen because it was happening. 

Unwilling to let the opportunity slip away, you reached a shaky hand forward and pressed it to his chest. This time, you were certain his muscles twitched, because you could feel them. Bouncing below your touch, as if your pliancy was a pleasant surprise. Maybe it was to him, but for you, it was the easiest decision in the world. 

You held your breath, the invisible magnet between the two of you pulling you both forward until the tip of his nose brushed yours. You heard him inhale, the anticipation and hesitancy in both of your movements nearly too much to bear. A culmination of every desire you had ever experienced reduced to one moment. 

The faintest brush was his lips, ghosting over yours, never quite leaning in. Testing the waters. Perhaps he expected you to retreat, dismiss him in a fit of rage. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. The truth lay in the way you grabbed a fist full of his shirt between your fingers, your eyes perpetually following the movement of his mouth. His own hand tightened at the base of your skull, wrapping his fingers through your hair. A low sort of groan resonated in the back of his throat, and you heard the metaphorical thread of his restraint snap. He was pulling you to him, snaking his free arm around your waist to flush you forward, slanting his mouth towards yours with another delicate, mind-numbing brush of his lips, just about to capture yours and — 

The sound of voices re-emerging through the back door ceased your fantasy before it even had a chance to begin. 

You were off of Joel’s lap in seconds, scurrying to your feet and he back to his respective spot in the lounge chair. You stood petrified as Meg and the others filed into the backyard, unable to look at Joel while you shakily wrapped your towel back around you. You could hear him, though. Breath as labored and uneven as yours, dark eyes probably blown in the same sort of fear. You fiddled with your hair, trying to look inconspicuous as if you hadn’t just been perched on the lap of your father's boss, a man much older than you, who happened to be the head of the fucking mafia. 

You should have felt more shame for the way that reality drenched you in arousal. It coated every inch of your skin; insatiable and growing, only fueled by the weakness in his self-control that you prayed would continue to break. The gift around your neck was an anchor, bounding you to him more than ever before. The feel of his lips, however brief, a beacon of his shared desire, the certainty you felt in it now destined to drive you mad. 

Perhaps you would be the one to give in, to lose all sense of control. 

You wouldn’t speak about that fleeting moment. At least, not for years to come. But it was only a matter of time.

Because fuck, you wanted him. 

So desperately, you weren’t sure you would be able to stop yourself from wanting him until you had him. 

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chapter song:

bonus gif:

i know it’s not joel, but fits this version of him too well not to include.

[devilmademewriteit]

Joel Miller & Javier Peña Headcanons (Drabbles?) Part 3!

another smutty edition<3

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, oral [both receiving], fem penetration, masturbation) so 18+ only content; afab fem reader; mentions of hair pulling; bratty!reader; violence (slapping, choking, threats); mentions of pornography; description of a panic attack; step-cest; pet names (baby, angel, sweetheart, darlin, hermosa, cariño) dubcon/non-con (age gap, power dynamics, coercion, just a bunch o’ shady shit in general imsosorry)

No use of y/n.

Hello! In honour of 2K followers (woot woot!!!) here is yet another work of absolute FILTH. These just get more and more insane idk what to do w myself. Your requests r gonna send me straight to hell. Anyways, I love u all so much. Don’t forget to join the taglist, you can find the other drabbles on my masterlist, & part 3 of Salvatore coming soon!

-em<3

—

Javi loves when you take charge—God, it just makes him laugh. He watches you, faithful that you’re in control while you ride him, fingers coiling weakly around his neck. “Gonna come for me, Peña?” He lets your imagination run wild until he grows impatient, sitting up to crush you between his arms, fucking up into you at his signature brutal pace. “Where’s all that tough talk now, hermosa?” He sounds so soft, so gentle compared to the thrust of his hips—snapping to bruise against the supple skin of your thighs. You never know how he manages to last so long, only that by the time his hot seed is leaking down between your legs, you’re barely conscious, barely human, and squirming away from those fingers—that cock—stealing non-stop orgasms from your core. He’s only satisfied once you’re reduced to his personal little plaything.

“Where you goin’, baby? I’m not fuckin’ done with you.”

Stepdad!Joel catching you and your boyfriend messing around in your bedroom; “Get out,” he growls, holding the door open as the young man scurries out, averting Miller’s violent gaze with his own downcast, darting eyes, hurriedly tucking himself back into his pants. Shame spreads like the wings of a Monarch across your heating cheeks. “Joel—I—” but he’s already too close, shaking his head in disappointment as he unhooks the buckle of his belt. “Didn’ think you were like that, baby…” and he’s pinning your shoulders down, covering your mouth with his calloused hand, muffling your protests to keep your little lesson private. “Pay attention, angel. F’you’re gonna act like a slut, you’re gonna get used like one, too.” Joel is huge, he stretches you far, far wider than your boyfriend ever could. When he bottoms out between your tight, silken walls, you can’t help your cry of surprise, of pain—of reluctant ecstasy. “Sshh, baby—don’t scream, don’t scream.”

“M’doin’ you a favour, see? Think you don’t fuckin’ deserve this?”

It had been ages since you’d last seen him. He’d gotten himself disciplinary leave—some shady business with an anti-Escobar group of vigilantes. But he’s back now (as your boss, no less) and so is that stupid-old-crush. And God, does he ever look good, sulking around in those navy fitted suits. Your heart had lurched when he’d recognized you—“Nice seeing a familiar face around here, ‘specially a pretty one like yours”—but working late tonight, finally on your way out the door, he commands it to a full stop when a worn-down, stressed-out Javier Peña calls you back into his office. “I-I don’t have a ride home, sir—I can’t miss the last bus,” as he dips down to brush kisses to the side of your throat, as his hands caress the valley of your waist, as he lifts you onto his desk, carelessly scattering confidential affidavits, narco-profiles, ball-point pens. “Oh, but you won’t last long, cariño—I promise,” and you believe him, because his thumb on that delicate, throbbing bud already beckons, pulls, drags you towards oblivion. Sooner or later, he would’ve had you like this—spread open on lacquered oak; thighs trembling in the cradle of his grip; fingers, helpless, tugging at his collar as his own curl inside you. You’re learning a new language: Javier’s native tongue.

“Not gonna say ‘no’ to your boss, now, are you, sweetheart?”

Slapping brat-tamer!Joel across the face after he spends hours teasing your dripping cunt; feeling him ripple with lust-soaked aggression when he finally pulls his damp cock from its drag-and-circle strokes against your clit. “Joel—fuck me, already,” and he claps the back of his hand across your cheekbone, yanks you down the mattress, settles himself to tower, cock in hand, right above your face. He wrenches your lips apart, slaps his length against your awaiting tongue—“Watch your mouth”—eyes alight with caution, irritation, warning. So, you respond, “Fuck you.” A big ol’ fist yanks you up by your hair—you know you’re being punished when he stuffs your filthy mouth oh-so-full with his length. “Yeah, fuck you too.” Every pained choke, the pressure of your hands pushing against the merciless, quick snaps of his thighs—it’s Joel Miller’s favourite kind of apology. He’s nonchalant, deceptively casual when he says it: “Nah, you don’t needa breathe—”

“—You’re gonna stop bein’ such a brat, or you’re gonna gag on an old man’s cock ‘til it fuckin’ kills y’a… whichever comes first, angel.”

On those rare nights he found himself alone, Javi liked to jack off, a glass of whiskey in his free hand. Sometimes with porn, most often without. When he did use the tapes, however, his go-to featured a dark haired man brutally fucking a girl into the dented pillows of a worn-in couch—God, she looked just like you. The real ‘you’ that was tough, incorruptible, a bit high-strung, and completely self-denying becomes a needy, cock-drunk mess at 6:12. Split wide open, taking it so rough, she whines, “You’re g’na m-make me come all—all over your c-cock.” If Javi doesn’t finish right then, he always does around the eleven minute mark, when her cheeks puff up around his fat tip, glassy eyes coming alive with that familiar, feminine devotion to male pleasure. When a forceful hand drags her lips down a long length of cock, that’s when Javi doesn’t stand a chance; he hangs off her every muffled, desperate word (and Christ, does her voice ever sound like yours): “Use me—please—use me, use me, use me.” In his twisted, sex-addled mind, he’s answering you, warm spend dripping onto thick, coiled fingers:

“I want to—fuck, wanna use every square inch of you, baby.”

The Jackson commune required all adults to take shifts patrolling the community; you’d been paired up with a far older, far more experienced, and far more… volatile partner. He rarely made conversation, but he got on with your dad, so it seemed like a good pairing, one that might teach you a thing or two—a rational decision. It wasn’t. Very quickly, you’d noticed his near tangible stares of hunger, the way his fingers clenched into white-knuckle-fists every time the weather warmed and your clothing got shorter—tighter. Soon, you’d made up your mind: you needed Joel. “Stop fuckin’ teasin’” he’d growled under the blood-orange glow of the southern sunset, grasping your flattened palm and moving it from its suggestive position on his chest, “M’not givin’ it to you.” Creeping in close, running your thumb across the sparse, silver-flecked hairs peppering his rigid jaw: “But I’ll be so good, Miller—I’ll listen, I can beg for it, too—please, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“S’exactly the problem, darlin’. Jus’ one touch n’ I’d have you doin the dirtiest things for me… Fuck, wouldn’t be able to look your old man in the eye for months.”

Bonus Fluff:

Thank God they’d managed to stop the outbreak. It had felt like the end, at first, with the government-mandated lockdowns, people hoarding toilet paper and Lysol, going stir-crazy behind closed doors. And thank God for your neighbour, Joel Miller, who’d become something like your rock throughout those terrifying weeks. He’d never been close with your emotionally distant parents (really, who was?) but you were friends with his daughter, so he’d always treated you like one of his own. Until one Friday night, when you’d fallen asleep watching TV with Sarah and woken up to the thrum of your heart pounding against your ribs, beige walls closing in tight, the beginnings of a panic attack cresting throughout your shaking body. “S’okay, s’okay,” and he’d been there, cradling you in those blue-collar arms, cooing wispy, gentle comforts into the crook of your neck. The memory was mostly haze—but you kept the ghostly caresses of his finger tips smoothing the tense muscles beneath your skin, the near-kisses he’d brushed to your forehead, throat, and cheeks, and especially his look of restraint as he’d replaced your restrictive clothes with his own oversized tee. The next morning, you’d come to in his bed, nose nestled into the crumpled folds of his black t-shirt. Heat blossomed across your cheeks as the sunrise brought realization’s dawn upon you. “You jus’ wouldn’ calm down—” Joel’s concern had overwhelmed his tone as his thumb traced the apex of your cheekbone.

“Jus’ couldn’t stand to see you so… upset, sweetheart. Holdin’ you’s the only thing that seemed to do you any good.”

It took months of dating before Javi had been willing to surrender any personal information, any vulnerable thoughts to you. Christ, just learning his father’s name had felt like cracking the Da Vinci code. Instead of talking, whenever he got sad, angry, or upset, he soothed himself by stripping you down, shoving you onto all fours or holding your mouth open between his thumb and index—either one worked just as well. Somewhere down the line, you’d learnt that splitting you open left him more inclined to open up, himself. “Why is it always rough when you’re… unhappy?” It’s a timid question, posed with your cheek laid against his shoulder. First, he asks if you really want to hear the answer. Then, he responds with his eyes closed, shy strokes up and down the length of your spine. “Guess I like the control—feel so fuckin’ out of it when shit gets to me.” You go silent, startled by his honesty. “Does it bother you?” and he sounds nervous, concerned. “No,” you say passionately, ardently. “I like knowing I can help.” Smooth and quick, Javi cups your cheeks, pulling you up to straddle him and laying a fierce kiss at the altar of your swollen lips.

“You single-handedly brought me back to life, baby. Got no fuckin’ clue how much you do for me, every damn day.”

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @sallymilkweed @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @ayehomo

(The rest of the tags will be in a reblog—I don’t want this post to crash b/c of the amount of tags lol).

[lazyjellyfish300]

Helloooo! Happy Flufftober! Can I please request Shiu Kong with Cabin and either Falling asleep together or sharing a bed (whichever isnt taken already/whichever youd have more fun writing?). Can it also be slight age gap, like reader is in mid to late 20's while shiu is mid to early 30's (again whichever number youre more comfortable with I just have literally no idea how old Kong is) Thank you so much and I hope you have a wonderful flufftober!

A/N: OFC U CAN! goddddddddddfdfdddd I love that man!!!!!! 😭😭😭 Yeah tbh I'm not sure how old he is either, I think I hc him around 35-38???? Idk but thank you for requesting my love!! 🥰 Hope you enjoy and happy Flufftober to you too! 🍂🎃

My Fall Masterlist 🍂

Words: 548 ish

CW: X FEM!READER, AGE GAP(READER IS 27 SHIU IS LIKE 35-38) MINORS DNI, MILD SUGGESTIVE, FLUFF

"Happy Birthday, darling..." Shiu whispers as his thumbs slip gently underneath both sides of your oversized shirt. One of his old tees you quickly usurped as your own in the short time you'd been married. "And you said you weren't sleepy..." 

"I'm not sleepy, I'm just resting my eyes..." You whisper, weight of your eyelids no match against the soothing world of comfort you found yourself entangled in with your beloved Shiu. 

"That's exactly what a sleepy person would say.." He teases. 

Your body was pressed against his underneath the ample quilts of the charming cabin you rented for an entire week in Alaska right in the blooming center of fall. 

The fire was reduced to a low cackle at the foot of your king sized bed with the wide shadow of your rotund basset hound, Stella, taking up the entire view. Buzzing snores like a mini generator as she settled temporarily for the warmth of the cabin's fire as opposed to her usual occupation in Shiu's study underneath the calm lights of his aquarium. 

"Did you feed Stella, tonight, sweetheart?" 

"Course I did.." Shiu answers. He side eyes the caramel ripple blob of brown and white asleep on the rug. "She loved the steak." 

"Honey, she's supposed to be on a diet." 

"Relax, dollface. I made sure it wasn't seasoned." He coos as his hands become more daring underneath your clothes with a soft groan. "She deserves to indulge on vacation just like us." 

"Mm...and to think you almost told me no when we adopted her." 

Shiu laughs. "Baby, that's not fair. Saying no was never gonna be an option anyway..." 

"Mmm..I suppose you're right." You sigh as you allow yourself to fight off the grip of sleep just a little longer. "I'm really glad we got the dog friendly cabin, love." 

"I agree, sweetheart." Shiu brushes his lips over the corner of your mouth. "Wouldn't be a vacation if we didn't bring the queen herself." 

"Mmm...I love you..." 

"And I love you, dollface..." His heart swells like the tides. "Did you have a good birthday?" 

"I had a wonderful birthday, darling. Three more years to 30..."

"Haha, enjoy while it lasts, sweetheart.." Shiu's thumb moves in lulling circles over your cheek. "But don't get hung up on the numbers, doll. Being in your thirties is pretty neat, if I do say so myself." 

"Yeah?" 

"Mhmm..my thirties have been especially good to me, darling. Brought a beautiful thing like you to an old man like me..."  He fiddles sweetly with strands of hair around your face. 

"Mm, do I sense you fishing for compliments, darling?" 

"How'd you guess?" He whispers huskily. "So  wrong for a man to want praise from his angel of a wife?" 

"Mmm...flattery will get you everywhere, darling. You silver fox."  

"Haha, well that's a new one." Shiu wiggles his eyebrows as he props himself on his elbow. 

"I'm so lucky."

"Ah, I'm the lucky one. Why don't you get some sleep, dollface? I'll hold ya..."

And so you did in his arms, heartbeats and steady breaths in hushed rhythm as the evening melted into cuddle induced dreams before the hand that was tracing a little love letter into the small of your back slowly came to a stop.

[thegoldensanctuary]

I am back.

It’s been a while—almost a year, in fact—since my last update, and I’m excited to reconnect with all of you. This past year has been a demanding one, full of both personal and professional challenges that needed my full attention. However, I’ve also dedicated much of this time to deep, meticulous research for future projects, digging into historical records, academic publications, and original documents to ensure that the new sets I bring to you are more accurate and intricate than ever before.

For those who may be new here, my focus has always been on recreating historical spaces that have changed significantly over time. My goal is not just to reconstruct, but to truly capture the essence of these spaces, complete with the details that give them life. Yet, as I’ve delved deeper into these archives, I’ve come to a realisation: many details I include might go unnoticed, not because they lack significance, but because of how challenging it is to access or even be aware of the sources I draw from.

Take, for example, the king’s bedchamber. The most comprehensive study—Meyer’s 1989 publication—is virtually impossible to find outside select academic libraries. And even when studies are available, they often gloss over the smallest but crucial details. Descriptions of furnishings, for instance, might be reduced to a simple inventory line, like “a set of crimson velvet with two armchairs, twelve stools, and one fire screen.” In reality, however, the original documents hold a wealth of specifics, dimensions, patterns, and descriptions that are almost always left out because they would make publications too dense for a general readership.

So, I’ve decided to bridge this gap myself. My upcoming series will document and examine these rooms in exhaustive detail, focusing not only on the architecture but also on every piece of furniture and ornamentation. These new posts will break down every element, piece by piece, to bring the full picture to light and ensure that my recreations are accompanied by a narrative that truly does them justice.

My first series, which I’m thrilled to share with you soon, will cover the history of the grand bedchamber from the 1680s until today. This in-depth look will span 13 parts, over 30,000 words, and include more than 350 footnotes, most of which cite previously unpublished archival materials. It’s my hope that these detailed breakdowns will not only help you see the care and attention in each model but also make these lost details accessible, allowing everyone to appreciate the full beauty of these historical spaces as they were meant to be.

Thank you for your patience, and I look forward to taking you on this journey with me.

[tanadrin]

So when's the historical cutoff of a "right to return" in your estimation? Because you're clearly not out here claiming that the Palestinians are a fake people with no entitlement to a state.

Palestinian identity is no more or less fake than any other national or ethnic identity, but all such identities are indeed kinda fake.

Genocide and ethnic cleansing are wrong because they involve actual material harm to actual human beings. It's wrong to murder and dehumanize people! It's wrong to expel them from the places they live and the land they rely on to make a living. To the extent that such injustices can be corrected years later, they should be.

After the first Roman-Jewish war, the Romans razed Jerusalem and built a new city on the site, in which Jews were forbidden to live. This was wrong; but the Roman state lost control of Jerusalem in the 7th century, and its last successors finally ceased to exist around five hundred years ago. The state that succeeded it in that region also hasn't existed in centuries, and it's not possible to make specific property claims for restitution in a city that no longer exists (most of the existing old city of Jerusalem is, I believe, medieval in origin). Therefore, outside of a general principle like "borders are stupid, and people should be able to live, work, and buy land wherever they want," this is a historic injustice it is, unfortunately, not possible to correct.

The Nakba happened in 1948, people displaced in the Nakba are still alive, that property still exists, and even where people displaced in the Nakba have died, their heirs are quite easy to identify. A lot of that property is still controlled by the Israeli state. That would be a historic injustice it is comparatively easy to correct.

Nobody is "entitled to a state." States can be instrumentally useful sometimes. But the idea every nation should have a state, which corresponds to a historic national territory, and exercises exclusive jurisdiction, whose primary goal is the protection of that nation and whose interests coincide with it 100% is both a lie about how states work (states are generally run by political elites, and their interests do not correspond one to one to the interests of their people; democracy as a tool can help reduce that gap, but it's not perfect), and simply impossible. There is no tract of inhabited land on this Earth not claimed by multiple nations. Why would there be? Nations are simply imagined communities. The idea of a national territory is part of that imagination. You could sift every inch of soil in France down to the bedrock and you will find no inherent Frenchness therein. Ditto every other nation on this planet.

Nationalism is a mental illness that in its advanced stages makes it impossible to see human beings and human suffering for what they are. It is the anticolonialism of fools. It is a useful lie for state elites, since it helps provide legitimacy for their governments. Sometimes it's useful to talk about people in aggregate as a shorthand, but we shouldn't make the mistake of taking that abstraction for a first-order reality. States do not have moral rights and are not moral patients. People have moral rights.

[moyokeansimblr]

Patreon requests for @angelbeam19 🥳🥳 Sorry that it took so long. Also I don't know why two of my models have their eyes closed but they kept doing it so I gave up. Gorilla Gorilla Gorilla Cutout Shoulder Turtleneck, Plazasims Tharsi Outfit, Sixif Jolina Dress (in Elfdor colors), and Sclub Megan.

Obligatory mentions of issues, details and download below cut 'cause I ramble ⬇️

Plazasims Tharsi Outfit is AM only, comes in original 24 colors swatch included. It does not have morphs because they looked weird. I used the LOD 1 so polycount is aproximately 13k. It's sort of on the LBB bodyshape like you asked. It does have smooth hands anyway.

Gorilla Gorilla Gorilla Cutout Shoulder Turtleneck is AM only, comes in original 25 colors swatch included. Also does not have morphs because they also didn't look good. Also somewhat on LBB bodyshape, it's not super obvious. There's a fair bit of clipping and a couple random lumps and bumps that have wrong bones. I start going a bit cross-eyed with things this high poly (it's the LOD 1 and is still approximately 17k) because I can't tell which little tiny dot is which at that point 😅 I tried so hard.

Sifix Jolina Dress is AF only, comes in the 8 Elfdor colors you chose swatch included. Does have morphs! On e-neilan's bodyshape. Is... a little wonky. 😔 Because I used the LOD 1 for the other two clothes I did here as well not realizing I probably didn't actually need to and I didn't notice the holes and gaps until the end. Bones are a little strange... some of the roses warp when the sim moves her arms because of where they are. I was unsuccessful in fixing that. The off-the-shoulder thing in general gave me some trouble but I personally will use this so I hope it's okay. Polycount is approximately 9k.

Sclub 020923 Megan hair is AF and TF, comes in 15 pooklet/io/digi colors swatch included. Binned and elders go gray. Polycount is approximately 22k. This was my first time reducing polycount and I'll be honest I think I reduced it too much. There are a couple blips. But I was just so proud of myself for figuring out how to reduce that I didn't realize. HUGE thanks to @paluding for first pointing out I was missing half the mesh 😅 and then helping with the bones (also doing the teen mesh) ❤️ Anyway I've got 2 alpha hairs under my belt now so that's cool.

🌟 Plazasims Tharsi Outfit, Gorilla Gorilla Gorilla Cutout Shoulder Turtleneck, Sifix Jolina Dress, and Sclub 020923 Megan download on Patreon (FREE)

But please consider becoming a patron if you want to show me support or make requests! ❤️🙏 Any support is extremely appreciated and really helps me out!

And please don't hesitate to point out any problems or anything I missed. I'll do my best!

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

No mention of covid or long covid, but lots of mention of "cost to taxpayers" and "learning losses." I wonder what *specific* actions should be taken besides forcing sick people to stay in the classroom? Hmmst...

By Poppy Wood

Concerns that absence crisis provoked by the pandemic continues to disrupt learning

About 14,000 teachers in England called in sick every day last year, analysis has found.

Department for Education (DfE) data show that about 2.5 million school days were lost in 2022-23 as more than 326,000 teachers missed class owing to sickness.

Each teacher who took sick leave reported an average of eight days off work last year. It equates to almost 13,700 teachers calling in sick on any given day during the 190-day school year.

About 66.2 per cent of England’s teaching workforce were off school because of illness last year, according to the DfE’s school workforce statistics.

It marks a slight decrease on the 67.5 per cent of teachers who called in sick in 2021-22, but is still far above the pre-pandemic rate of 54.1 per cent.

The figures will raise concerns that an absence crisis provoked by the pandemic continues to disrupt learning, with the number of pupils missing school also significantly higher post-Covid.

In total, 7.8 million school days have been lost to sickness since in-person teaching resumed following the pandemic, according to analysis of DfE data by the TaxPayers’ Alliance.

Compared with the 2018-19 academic year – the year before the pandemic – an extra 461,500 teaching days were lost last year because of staff illness.

Joanna Marchong, investigations campaign manager of the TaxPayers’ Alliance, said: “Taxpayers will be shocked by the sheer number of sick days taken by teaching staff.

“Alongside their generous holiday entitlements, hundreds of thousands of teachers are frequently absent, leaving classrooms in disarray and forcing taxpayers to bear the significant costs of finding covers.

“Schools must tackle this issue if they want to deliver a consistent quality of education that is value for money for taxpayers.”

‘Deteriorating mental health’ While the Government does not collect statistics centrally on the reasons for teacher absence, experts have pointed to increased stress and deteriorating mental health.

In some secondary schools, as many as 166 teachers took sick leave at some point during the 2022-23 academic year, compounding financial pressures on already stretched school budgets.

Most teachers in England receive full sick pay for 25 working days off work in their first year in the profession, rising to 100 working days in their fourth and successive years of teaching.

The Telegraph revealed last week that teacher absences are forcing schools to spend billions on supply staff each year as headteachers scramble to plug gaps in the workforce.

In 2022-23, schools gave £1.2 billion of taxpayers’ cash towards expensive teacher supply agencies to fill vacancies and cover long-term sickness. It is almost double the £738 million spent on supply teachers in the year before the pandemic.

Labour has promised to allow teachers to complete more tasks from home in an attempt to make the profession more attractive. The Government is also exploring how to use artificial intelligence to reduce staff workloads, after almost one in 10 teachers quit the profession last year.

It is hoped the measures will help tackle the recruitment and retention crisis and stem the tide of staff calling in sick each day.

Daniel Kebede, the general secretary of the National Education Union (NEU), called on the Government to improve teacher pay to prevent a growing exodus from the sector.

“We need to see a concerted effort by the Government to retain teachers in the profession. This will need changes to accountability so we have a collaborative and supportive system,” he said.

“This will also require action on closing the pay gap between teachers and other graduate professions, reducing workload and more flexible working in education”.

Mr Kebede blamed the rise in the teacher absence rate since the pandemic on “excessive teacher workload driven by a high-stakes assessment and accountability system”.

He warned this would continue to “leave many teachers burnt out, leading to stress, sickness and people leaving the profession” without urgent government action.

Labour has come under fire for bowing to pressure from education unions on above-inflation public sector pay deals and demands.

Last month, the NEU voted to accept the Government’s pay offer of a 5.5 per cent uplift for most teachers this year, but warned that it will push for a bigger hike next year.

It suggests the UK’s largest teaching union will continue to wield the threat of further strike action as it seeks long-term funding to address the retention crisis.

‘Severely absent’ pupils Bridget Phillipson, the Education Secretary, has warned of a “dire” inheritance from the previous government as she faces calls for further funding from across the sector.

Schools are also struggling with dwindling pupil attendance levels since the pandemic, with Ms Phillipson warning recently that it was quickly becoming an “absence epidemic”.

More than one in 50 pupils in England are now missing at least half the school year, official figures show.

The proportion of children classed as “severely absent” – meaning they failed to show up for 50 per cent or more of classes – rose to 2.1 per cent in the autumn and spring terms of 2023-24.

It means that about 158,000 pupils were severely absent from school during those teaching periods, according to DfE data.

The DfE was approached for comment.

[slyandthefamilybook]

...And here we come upon a problem as basic as the nature of knowledge itself: all of our prodigious cognitive and computational abilities are inadequate to a full comprehension of our complex world. As humans, we remain heavily dependent on certain tools of perception and conception that our cultural and biological heritages have taught us are useful. These tools–such as language, causal logic, religion, mathematics–are indeed powerful, but they are powerful precisely because they reduce complexity to intelligibility by projecting our mental concepts onto the world. One consequence of this is that our recognition of significance is always what some philosophers call "theory laden," meaning that it is shaped by what our theoretical framework and cognitive tools encourage us to recognize as meaningful. Anti-Judaism, as I have argued throughout this book, is precisely this: a powerful theoretical framework for making sense of the world.

...

After all, no matter how overrepresented the Jews may have been among the European "bourgeoisie," they remained a tiny minority of that class. How could that tiny minority convincingly come to represent for so many the evolving evils of the capitalist world order? More broadly, how could untold millions of Europeans (and not only Germans) come to believe–or act as if they believed–the claims of the Nazis (and not only the Nazis) that Jews and their conspiracies so threatened the security of the world that they needed to be excluded, expelled, or exterminated? According to Horkheimer and Adorno, the liquidation of the Jews of Europe was not grounded in "reality." It took place in the vast gap between and explanatory framework ("anti-Semitism") that made satisfying sense of the world to a significant portion of its citizens, and the complexity of the world itself.

They set out to explore that gap in a philosophical history of modern thought they drafted in 1944 and later published as Dialectics of Enlightenment. Their final chapter, "Elements of Anti-Semitism: Limits of Enlightenment," suggested that what gave anti-Semitic ideas their power was not so much their relation to reality, but rather their exemption from reality checks–that is, from the critical testing to which so many other concepts were subjected. "What is pathological about anti-Semitism is not projective behavior as such, but the absence of reflection in it." In their terms, the problem is a heightened resistance to reflection about the gap between our ideas about Jews, Judaism, or Jewishness, and the complexity of the world. From their point of view, anti-Semitism provides adherents with a cognitive comfort: the fantasy that the gap between our understanding of the cosmos and its fearful complexity does not exist.

...

...[A]cross several thousand years, myriad lands, and many different spheres of human activity, people have used ideas about Jews and Judaism to fashion the tools with which they construct the reality of their world. The goal of my project, like Horkeheimer and Adorno's, is to encourage reflection about our "projective behavior," that is, about the ways in which our deployment of concepts into and onto the world might generate "pathological" fantasies of Judaism. And my choice of method owes something to Auerbach's conviction that the study of a given moment, problem, or even a single word in the distant past can teach us something about a much longer history, extending even to our own.

Selected excerpts from Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition (2013 Nirenberg, David)

[ranticore]

cave time

In a scraped out hollow in the dead heart of the Ama Plains, water trickled from a grey-green spring and pooled in the back of what was once a great cavern. It slanted underground shallowly and without much conviction, eventually ending in a rockfall that blocked the way. It was barely underground, only a thin crust of earth covering the back portion of the cavern, the scratch in the land that had once been so much bigger.

Water didn't usually run down here. The spring was dry most of the year. In winter it would overflow through the tiny gap between rocks at the entrance of the cavern and tumble down against the scree, and against the side of the creature lying there.

It counted years by the stop-start of water on its back. Wet, dry, wet, dry. The days passed too quickly to notice.

The creature had been lying in that shallow excuse for a burrow for so long that it had become part of the scenery. Several hundred generations of rabbits had made their nests around it, until the foxes caught on and massacred them. Decomposing fungus and insects had been the creature's companions now. Sometimes the insects found their way into its own body through the gaping wounds which would never heal and it had to lie there, paralysed as ever, while worms gnawed at it. They never seemed to stick around; they didn't like the taste.

It had no heart, not anymore. The wound across its chest afforded a glimpse at an empty cavity. Sometimes mice explored it. The rats were harder to ignore. Arms splayed out unmoving forever, it had no ability to push away the pests. Its head was attached by threads of flesh, thin enough to be translucent, and below the neck its severed spinal cord lay useless and dead in its back, cutting it off from the luxury of movement.

In all its centuries of lying there, it had never managed to sleep. It lay, eyes open, the star-shaped pupils hazy and clouded, dust and dirt crunching against its cheek, its ear, caking its eyelashes. It couldn't breathe to clear the dirt from its nose. The only thing it could do, the only thing it was capable of doing, was hanging onto that thread of life, whether it wanted to or not.

A shadow passed over the cave floor.

The creature had to remember how to hear and see, its thoughts sluggish, long reduced to nothing but a stream of sensory intake with no inner commentary, no opinions, no emotions. It heard the sound of approaching footsteps, heavy thuds very unlike the scampering rabbits and foxes, or even the occasional antelope that wandered in and out before the creature could notice.

A sound of surprise, then a throaty rumble of curiosity. The creature felt the approaching footsteps falter. Then there was a lunge of movement, and a sudden thud against its side, and it was enough to turn it over so that it had more to see than the ground and the rocks at the back of the cavern for the first time in a thousand years.

The harpy had snatched a rat out of the creature's lower decapitation wound, apparently not having noticed that the body attached to the wound was alive. Fresh blood stained the flowing cream feathers and there was a crunch of small, fragile bones. 

He was hurt. That blood didn't come from the rat; there was a gash across the harpy's face, scraped across the top of his massive, hatchet-like beak. He could barely see past the blood flowing into his eyes, and it seemed that he had run into the cave to escape an attacker. Slowly, the harpy sat down on his heels, a graceful slump against the creature's body, and caught his breath as he tore into the rat. He sat there long enough for the decapitated wyrm to become familiar with his features, the spray of orange-brown spots on his pale feathers, the curious absence of wings, only a pair of strong, upright legs tipped with sturdy and dagger-like claws, designed for running. 

His head turned sharply, his winglets rising on either side of his head in a kingly mantle. Another shadow had fallen across him, one with spiky edges and long, sharp mandibles. One of the crawling beasts of the earth had pursued the harpy here. His blood glimmered on the oil-spill black of its hide, on the tips of its mandibles. 

The creature in the cave was slowly and inexorably aware of its hunger. The harpy did as any good king would and sprang at the crawler, a bone-shattering collision of claws and mandibles. Deep in its undying haze, the creature had no ability to follow the fight; they were moving too fast, and by the time it managed to drag its focus together enough to make sense of the blur of motion at the mouth of the cave, the crawling beast was in two halves and its toxic ichor was spilling into the thin stream of water. The harpy studiously began to kick dust over it, to bury the body in the interim before fire could burn away the pollutants.

With a heavy breath, the harpy stood still again, his head hanging, and in that moment he finally appeared to notice that the creature at the back of the cave, the pitiful and rotting thing, was staring back at him. His feathers raised along their tracts and he shook more blood out of his eyes, his stance becoming aggressive once more. 

The creature's eyes, livid scarlet, fixed on the harpy. It mouthed a string of breathless spell-words and let its tongue touch the spot of the king's blood on the ground in front of its face. A layer of dust cracked on it and trickled down the back of its throat. 

The harpy blinked. A glazed look came over him. He bent down and caught the tail of the half-buried crawler in his internal beak and began to drag it, slowly, towards the wyrm. There was an unwillingness to it, his scaly legs shaking and his tiny stubby wings twitching, and the wyrm heard a faint snort and a whistling voice from him as he spoke something unintelligible in his own language, but which the wyrm knew to be an affirmation. Yes, I will, the harpy had said, because the wyrm commanded it. 

The crawler landed with a thud beside the wyrm's face. It stank of its acrid poisons and the otherworldly clinging odour of the beyond, a smell from another age. The king harpy lowered himself again to sit beside the wyrm, and this time he tore a manageable mouthful of the inedible flesh out of the crawler's tail and slowly, carefully, passed it to the wyrm's lips. 

It was awkward, manoeuvring around the massive heavy beak, but the king was clearly accustomed to it. He was neat and quick, his eyes half-lidded and vacant as he butchered the carcass.

From the first foul-tasting mouthful, strength and focus returned to the wyrm. It blinked, spilling more dust, and added another line to the spell. The tense, shuddering quality to the harpy's movement eased and he seemed happier, maybe. It didn't matter. The food was all that mattered. 

After it was all eaten, the king brought the second half of the carcass and did the same with it, positioning himself lengthways alongside the wyrm so that his own strong body helped to prop it up, keep it in a good pose to accept the food. The crawler had a taste like metal and stone, inorganic and bitter. It wasn't something anybody should have been eating but there was no other flesh that would satisfy the wyrm's hunger, nothing else it could digest. It burned on the way down and every bite was repulsive. But it was food. It was sustenance, more than the wyrm had gotten in so long. 

When it was all gone, the harpy rose to his feet again and wandered out of the cave. His work was done. The wyrm closed its eyes and, finally, succumbed to sleep. 

The wyrm had a name once. Like many wizards of the time it had had a title, too, something pressed upon it by its local lord, who would hire it to cast spells to entertain his guests. It had been 'Elin the Glorious', but its peers would later only ever know it as the Beast of Revelation, who brought about the end of the world. 

Elin had indeed been glorious. A perfect body crafted by its spells. It was beautiful, a marvel, and even though the spells were nowhere near as world-changing as the spells of its master Onozar the Transcendent, that didn't matter. It would attend the yearly summits at Onozar's tower, attached to the royal palace in the since-ruined city of Amphora and sit quiet and attentive at Onozar's elbow, posing just right to allow the other wizards to see its beautiful form. 

It hardly remembered that form now. That was a thing of the past, just like the long nights copying down spell transcripts for Onozar, packing them away in their transport tubes and handing them to the servants to deliver to Amphora. Onozar had been onto something special, some new magical marvel, and wanted it ready before the next summit. He'd dragged in all of his graduated apprentices, promising partial credit for the revolutionary spell. 

"What is it, Elin?" The lord had come to the tower, stepping around the port-hole in its brass frame, through which an endless dimension of reflections and colour spooled out. 

"Something of Onozar's," Elin had said, loyally. "He's trying to create the biggest port-hole yet, so I may be busy for a while with these duties." It was always a thrill to talk down to a lord, or at least to consider itself on an equal footing with one. Nicer than being thrown in the dungeons for pickpocketing had been, or trying to break into the wizard's tower. 

"Of course," the lord said. "If you need any more assistants, I can spare them. Just say the word." He was always very amenable. The presence of a wizard in his small township had elevated his position to one of national importance, and Elin could make any demands it wished. 

It recalled that last glimpse of its perfect body as it dressed for the summit at Amphora in a gauzy white robe, its long golden hair flowing loosely down to its elbows. 

As its mind pieced itself back together, Revelation struggled to hold that image. Then came the electric jolt of nerves rushing to bridge the gap at the base of its skull, and lightning struck; its arms twitching at first, limp in the throat of the cave, hands closing spasmodically until its scarlet claws raked new wounds through its palms. Its ribs billowed out, dragging in air, churning the dust and dirt and accumulated debris in its lungs into a spatter of disgusting black mucous that it coughed out onto the ground by the remains of the crawler. 

It was still weak. It would be for a while yet, unless it got more food. It could crawl - grip the ground with its hands as if it were clinging to the side of a ship in a storm, and slowly, slowly, drag itself out of the furrow in the ground that had grown up around it. But it collapsed too soon, face down again, because it had no legs. Only the ragged wound below its long, sinuous waist. 

Rebirth felt closer to death than the years of purgatory. With sensation swelling into it again, all it felt was the accumulation of pain that its previous state had made easy to ignore. Dragging itself forward one pace was an expression of hope - something painful to hold, something that cut its palms as much as its hooked claws. There could be something other than this cave, for Revelation. 

The flowing stream formed puddles around it, filling the depression in the ground it left behind. It lowered its head on its healing neck and gulped up the water, coughing it back up just as quickly to wash out the dust. When its own vomit ran clear again it could drink properly. 

Something fell against its side; the limp and bleeding corpse of another dead crawling beast. This one had been crushed, its head cracked like an egg by a blow strong enough to bend the solid mandibles. The harpy watched carefully, glancing at the trail of mud and blood and other fluids that Revelation had dragged in its wake. He saw Revelation's claws tighten into the muddy rakemarks on the ground and stepped closer, using a scaly foot to nudge away Revelation's grasping hands. Instead of letting the wyrm flail and drag itself in the mud, or even pull the body of the crawler to its mouth, the harpy again began to methodically tear up the corpse. 

As he did so he spoke, the warbling metallic tones of a bird piping up from deep in his chest. He could form words with his mouth full and his tongue occupied, speaking clearly through the oozing black flesh. If only Revelation understood the words. If only Revelation understood anything. 

Again the meat was disgusting and foul, each mouthful so deeply unpleasant, but there was nothing else that would ever satisfy its hunger, nothing that would give it strength. It went down faster this time. The harpy seized the discarded mandibles in his mouth, grimacing as much as he could with his avian face, and hopped upright again. He left the cave but was back almost instantly, to Revelation's perspective, with another crawler. 

At first life occupied only brief flashes, only when the harpy was around, only when Revelation was being so patiently fed. When the harpy was gone, Revelation slipped into a resting state, sleeping or staring, not really doing anything at all. Then its harpy saviour would return and life would begin again. The harpy would speak in low soothing whistles. Sometimes he brought things other than food - once, an elaborate woven blanket, which he slung over Revelation's shoulders. Another time he brought a small round stone, nestled in the pocket of the leather carry-bag he wore on his leg. The stone glimmered with speckles of mica, oddly green. It was placed beside Revelation's head, then the harpy seemed to think again and moved the stone to Revelation's front, instead, which seemed to please him better. 

Slowly, the brief flashes of life widened. Minutes began to form buffers on either side of each mealtime, slowly accumulating until Revelation was awake outside of the Harpy's visits, still unable to move much but more capable of looking out and understanding what it saw, instead of letting the visuals of the cave flow through it without leaving a mark. 

The mouth of the cave was a wide, white gash. It was only about fifty feet away, but the distance might as well have been miles. Revelation raised itself on its strengthening arms and tried to stare out. Pain jolted in a ring around its neck and across its chest; they had healed slowly but still afforded little structural stability. It lowered itself into the furrow it had dragged itself into and pulled the blanket around itself again. The constant flow of water and sucking mud had started to provide a new sensation, one which had been so thoroughly eclipsed until recently that it had barely noticed; cold. It was a luxury to notice the cold, to feel discomfort at all. 

A shape appeared again in that white gash of sky; the king, back again with another twitching black crawler. After Revelation had eaten, the harpy sat beside it again, his sharp internal beak combing through the tangled mess of Revelation's hair, and he spoke again. 

[postitforward]

Mental Health Spotlight: Jasmine Marie, Founder of black girls breathing®

Jasmine Marie is a speaker, breathwork practitioner, and the founder of black girls breathing®. Her work is innovating the wellness, healthcare, and research industry by making mental health services accessible to Black women while filling in the gaps of data and research available on this underserved and underrepresented demographic. Marie plans to impact one million Black women and girls with her work by 2025. She is a serial founder with a past life in global haircare brand marketing and an alum of NYU Stern. The impact and range of her work to date is expansive—ranging from underserved minority communities to stressed-out college students and executives. She’s brought her expertise to elite colleges such as Harvard Business School, Columbia University, and Cornell University, and her client list includes corporations such as Estée Lauder Companies, Under Armour, Capital One, Ford Motor Company, Facebook, and Twitter. Marie has been featured in Oprah Magazine, Good Morning America, VOGUE, Forbes, Harper’s Baazar, Marie Claire, Glamour, Nylon Mag, Wall Street Journal, and Black Enterprise, to name a few.

What is black girls breathing®? And why was it created? black girls breathing® is a safe space for Black women to manage their mental and emotional health and heal trauma in their bodies with breathwork and community.

I created black girls breathing® after finishing my breathwork training and seeing so few facilitators that looked like me yet knowing how much chronic stress and trauma (generational, societal, etc.) and decided to create it. I used my background in business to help me develop a model where we could provide this work accessibly.

Do you have any secret hobbies, skills, or interests?

I don’t think I have any secret hobbies but for a while, I would always feel embarrassed whenever anyone asked that question, as a lot of my hobbies can maybe seem boring to others lol. But I love to read. Reading is one of my favorite hobbies. I love having quiet time…any activity that allows me to feel refreshed, sit with my own thoughts and enjoy my solitude. I think because I deal with so many people’s energy that in my spare time, I just like to spend time with self. I love to cook though…it’s a very meditative activity for me that allows me to unwind from my day.

How did you get started in this work? And why is it important to you?

As mentioned above, after my breathwork training, I realized there were so few Black breathworkers. But before that, I found breathwork while being stressed out after graduating from business school at NYU and working in beauty in NYC. My nervous system was so fried I began having physical symptoms…rashes and an inability to sleep. The doctor would see me and always say, “This is stress. How can you reduce your stress?” Fast forward to me finding my first breathwork class and falling in love with the way it allowed me to just feel more space in my mind and body.

WOW — ONE MILLION Black women and girls breathing by 2025 what an ambitious goal! What impact do you see this having?

It is an ambitious goal, but in 2020, we fundraised $55k to make our work accessible for one year. After the year was done, it was so clear that we couldn’t stop there. So many Black women needed this work, and we would hear that over and over again. So I decided if I was going to do this work, I was only interested in creating real impact and a goal that would signify that. Imagining 1 Million Black women using breathwork as a tool to regulate their nervous systems, heal from compounded trauma and reduce the effect that chronic stress has in our community (health challenges linked to chronic stress: heart disease, high blood pressure, breast cancer, ovarian cancer, fertility issues, and the list goes on) will not only affect them but our community as a whole. Ending the passing down of generational trauma and normalizing healing.

What would you suggest to people who feel like they cannot find the time to breathe or practice mindfulness?

I would first affirm that it’s okay they feel that way. Western society has done a great job of making us feel that anything outside of productivity is not only a waste of time but the least important thing we should make space for. Making time for yourself for any mindful activity can be eased into and it can start with being more aware of the present moment and practicing that action on a daily. Maybe you create a routine where every morning for 3 minutes right when you get up, you take a moment to be still, notice your breathing pattern and focus on each and every inhale and exhale.

Why is Black representation important in this industry?

The wellness industry isn’t unlike other industries where Black representation is lacking. I think it’s important to see other Black women caring for themselves because, historically, we’ve been taught to do the opposite for oh so long.

Where do you find joy?

I find joy with my family and my loved ones, in intimate moments with friends, in good food and conversation, and in being able to create something and see it grow, shift, and evolve.

Want to learn more about black girls @blackgirlsbreathing?

Check out their website!

Breathe with us on March 27th @12pm EDT during their Mindful Monday Breathwork for Anxiety session on Tumblr Live

Ask black girls breathing all the questions on your mind for IssueTime on Navigating Anxiety in an increasingly digital, lonely world

Take the pledge with black girls breathing®

[evidence-based-activism]

Is male circumcision as harmful as female circumcision? I have had multiple discussions about this, but someone said that certain types of FGM are equally or less invasive than MGM

Hi! No, no it is not.

Male circumcision

So, the big question about male circumcisions is if it's ethical or not. A while ago, I would have said, no definitely not, since it's a violation of bodily autonomy. However, someone has since pointed out to me that we do a lot of things to infants (and children) that are technically violations of bodily autonomy.

We consider this morally acceptable because we are providing some intervention that they (the children) are not capable of either requesting or refusing on the basis of it's benefits outweighing the harms. The best example of this, in my opinion, is vaccines. We give children a lot of vaccines because we know that they have (and do) substantially lower the chance of the child getting sick and/or dying from a preventable disease. In this case, the minor violation of bodily autonomy (vaccination of a child) is permitted because waiting until they are able to give their consent would introduce a substantially larger risk of harm.

How does this relate to male circumcision? Given this framework, we could accept male circumcision if (1) there are benefits to the procedure, (2) the benefits outweigh any risk of harm, (3) waiting until the child is able to consent to the procedure is not feasible (i.e., some significant portion of the benefits would be lost).

There is some mixed evidence for these three claims. Evidence in favor includes:

There are a number of reviews [1-3] by the same team that provide support for all three points. In particular this review [3] directly reviews the evidence of "arguments opposing male circumcision", debunking each one in detail. However, the fact that they are all by the same team is less encouraging. The evidence here is substantial, but there's a potential for bias.

That being said, the American Academy of Pediatric [4] also concludes that the "health benefits of newborn male circumcision outweigh the risks".

This Cochrane Review (essentially the highest quality evidence) [5] found male circumcision substantially reduces acquisition risk of HIV by heterosexual men and that incidence of adverse events is very low.

And this review and meta-analysis [6] found the same reduction for HPV.

Evidence against:

This review [7] suggests the benefits of male circumcision may not apply in North American countries

This article [8] claims the same for developed countries in general

This commentary [9] claims the same, suggesting that "from the perspective of the individual boy, there is no medical justification for performing a circumcision prior to an age that he can ... choose to give or withhold informed consent himself"

That being said these papers have also been challenged by advocates for male circumcision [10] and even opponents [9, 11] recognize that the rates of complications are very low, and the rates of serious complications even lower. In addition to that, complication rate was greater for older children [11], which provides support for the third point I highlighted above (i.e., waiting until they are older may introduce more harms than benefits).

And all of that being said, if the procedure is done, it should absolutely be done with some form of pain relief. Thankfully, it appears that the vast majority are performed in this fashion [11].

In the end, there is strong evidence supporting male circumcision for infants in developing countries. There are research gaps concerning if these benefits apply to developed countries (i.e., little work has examined this population specifically), which indicates a need for such research. That being said, with the extremely low complication rate and moderate evidence of benefits, there also isn't a strong argument against the procedure.

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Female Genital Mutilation

Comparing this to female genital mutilation (FGM) will highlight just how egregious such equivalencies are.

First, a brief detour into biology. Men and women have various embryological precursors that develop into either male or female sex organs. These are called biological homologues, and they are roughly (although not perfectly) comparable. For example, an embryo has the gonad which, during sex differentiation, develops into the ovary in women and the testicle in men [12].

This framework allows us to make some rough comparisons between male circumcision and FGM. For example, it's likely that the "less invasive" form of FGM you were referred to is type 1A [13]. In this type, only the clitoral hood is removed. Both the clitoral hood and the foreskin develop from the prepuce, as they are homologous structures. Notably, even here, male circumcision and FGM type 1A would still only be homologous if (1) FGM type 1A has a similarly low risk profile as male circumcision and (2) male circumcision actually provides no benefits to the infant.

For the first point, we have little to no data on the complication rate of type 1A FGM, specifically because it is essentially never performed in isolation [14]. This is – almost entirely – a theoretical form of FGM. Despite this, even if it were more common it doesn't necessarily follow that the procedures would have a similar adverse effect profile. In fact, one of the most common arguments against male circumcision involves the numerous nerve endings in the glans (head of the) penis, generally in reference to how the foreskin "protects" the penis head or "preserves sensitization" (neither of which are proven assertions). But while the glans penis and glans clitoris have a similar number of nerve endings in absolute terms, the clitoral head is much smaller and therefore much more densely innervated [15]. As a result, it would be much more likely for the removal of the clitoral hood to result in irritation than the removal of the foreskin.

And for the second point, I've discussed the mixed literature on the topic in developed countries. However, most FGM is performed in developing countries (although certainly not exclusively so) [14], and in this context there is strong evidence of a health benefit to male circumcision and absolutely no health benefit to FGM.

To complete the comparisons between FGM and male circumcision in terms of homologous structures [12, 13]:

Type 1B involves the removal of the clitoris with the prepuce (clitoridectomy). This, anatomically speaking, would be similar to removal of (minimally) the penis head.*

Type 2 involves partial or total removal of the clitoris and the labia minora, with or without excision of the labia majora. This would be roughly comparable to the removal of the penis head, mutilation/cutting/removal of penile raphe (underside of the penis) with or without mutilation/cutting/removal of the scrotum.*

Type 3 is infibulation, or the narrowing of the vaginal orifice with creation of a covering seal by cutting and apposition the labia minora and/or the labia majora, with or without excision of the clitoris. There is no direct comparison for men, as they do not have a vaginal orifice or any similar structure.

Type 4 is all other mutilation/anything that cannot be categorized as above.

*Note: these comparisons aren't perfect due to differences in how the homologous structures are arranged. For example, removal of the penis head would also impact the urethra, whereas removal of the clitoris would not. That being said, these comparisons are far more accurate than between FGM types 1B - 4 and male circumcision.

To further drive home the differences, FGM results in substantial, severe health complications (unlike male circumcision) and has absolutely no known health benefits (possibly unlike male circumcision). These articles [16-21] go into great detail on this; the complications range from: infection, incontinence, infertility, severe and sometimes chronic pain, pregnancy complications, PTSD and post-traumatic symptoms, other psychiatric disorders, greater risk of STDs, and death.

There is no evidence of any benefits.

---

Conclusion

Hopefully, it's clear that male circumcision and female genital mutilation are in no way comparable.

The opponents of male circumcision often suggest that any violation of the bodily autonomy of infants is morally wrong, but this fails to consider the nuanced situation inherent to infant-hood and early childhood. They are physically and mentally unable of consenting to or refusing any medical procedure, which is why we have a – generally recognized – moral caveat to this principle that allows caregivers to act in the best interests of the child, particularly when waiting for the child to grow older before allowing any intervention would increase the risk of harm. (Childhood vaccinations and, really, any other medical procedure done on children, are other examples of this.)

It's possible that future research may indicate that male circumcision is not associated with benefits in developed countries. (This would remove male circumcision from the category of procedures described above.) Even then, however, it would not be comparable to FGM due to the vastly different complication rates.

I hope this helps you!

References under the cut:

Morris, B. J., & Krieger, J. N. (2013). Does male circumcision affect sexual function, sensitivity, or satisfaction?—a systematic review. The journal of sexual medicine, 10(11), 2644-2657.

Morris, B. J., Kennedy, S. E., Wodak, A. D., Mindel, A., Golovsky, D., Schrieber, L., ... & Ziegler, J. B. (2017). Early infant male circumcision: systematic review, risk-benefit analysis, and progress in policy. World journal of clinical pediatrics, 6(1), 89.

Morris, B. J., Moreton, S., & Krieger, J. N. (2019). Critical evaluation of arguments opposing male circumcision: A systematic review. Journal of Evidence‐based Medicine, 12(4), 263-290.

Task Force on Circumcision, Blank, S., Brady, M., Buerk, E., Carlo, W., Diekema, D., ... & Wegner, S. (2012). Male circumcision. Pediatrics, 130(3), e756-e785.

Siegfried, N., Muller, M., Deeks, J. J., & Volmink, J. (2009). Male circumcision for prevention of heterosexual acquisition of HIV in men. Cochrane database of systematic reviews, (2).

Shapiro, S. B., Laurie, C., El-Zein, M., & Franco, E. L. (2023). Association between male circumcision and human papillomavirus infection in males and females: a systematic review, meta-analysis, and meta-regression. Clinical Microbiology and Infection, 29(8), 968-978.

Bossio, J. A., Pukall, C. F., & Steele, S. (2014). A review of the current state of the male circumcision literature. The Journal of Sexual Medicine, 11(12), 2847-2864.

Frisch, M., & Earp, B. D. (2018). Circumcision of male infants and children as a public health measure in developed countries: a critical assessment of recent evidence. Global public health, 13(5), 626-641.

Deacon, M., & Muir, G. (2023). What is the medical evidence on non-therapeutic child circumcision?. International journal of impotence research, 35(3), 256-263.

Moreton, S., Cox, G., Sheldon, M., Bailis, S. A., Klausner, J. D., & Morris, B. J. (2023). Comments by opponents on the British Medical Association’s guidance on non-therapeutic male circumcision of children seem one-sided and may undermine public health. World Journal of Clinical Pediatrics, 12(5), 244.

Shabanzadeh, D. M., Clausen, S., Maigaard, K., & Fode, M. (2021). Male circumcision complications–a systematic review, meta-analysis and meta-regression. Urology, 152, 25-34.

26: The Reproductive System . (n.d.). In Anatomy and Physiology (Boundless) . LibreTexts. https://med.libretexts.org/Bookshelves/Anatomy_and_Physiology/Anatomy_and_Physiology_(Boundless)/26%3A_The_Reproductive_System

Abdulcadir, J., Catania, L., Hindin, M. J., Say, L., Petignat, P., & Abdulcadir, O. (2016). Female genital mutilation: a visual reference and learning tool for health care professionals. Obstetrics & Gynecology, 128(5), 958-963.

WHO, U. O. (2008). Eliminating female genital mutilation: An interagency statement. World Health Organization.

Shih, C., Cold, C. J., & Yang, C. C. (2013). Cutaneous corpuscular receptors of the human glans clitoris: descriptive characteristics and comparison with the glans penis. The Journal of Sexual Medicine, 10(7), 1783-1789.

Utz-Billing, I., & Kentenich, H. (2008). Female genital mutilation: an injury, physical and mental harm. Journal of Psychosomatic Obstetrics & Gynecology, 29(4), 225-229.

Klein, E., Helzner, E., Shayowitz, M., Kohlhoff, S., & Smith-Norowitz, T. A. (2018). Female genital mutilation: health consequences and complications—a short literature review. Obstetrics and gynecology international, 2018(1), 7365715.

Iavazzo, C., Sardi, T. A., & Gkegkes, I. D. (2013). Female genital mutilation and infections: a systematic review of the clinical evidence. Archives of gynecology and obstetrics, 287, 1137-1149.

Berg, R. C., & Underland, V. (2018). Immediate Health Consequences of Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting (FGM/C).

Sarayloo, K., Roudsari, R. L., & Elhadi, A. (2019). Health consequences of the female genital mutilation: a systematic review. Galen medical journal, 8, e1336.

Reisel, D., & Creighton, S. M. (2015). Long term health consequences of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM). Maturitas, 80(1), 48-51.