#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.”

[trexiejan]

Friendly reminder that DC and Dickbabs writers are gaslighting you into thinking Dickbabs are childhood sweethearts that are always in love with each other since day 1.

Dickbabs is the most superficial manufactured by retcons ship.

Babs was deaged for this crap to work.

Here is Original Barbara Gordon working as a congresswoman in the Senate when Dick was just the little kid Robin.

She was much closer to Bruce and Clark's age than Dick's.

Barbara refers to Dick as a "kid" and "little brother.

Dick had a small puppy crush on her but it was seen as a precocious crush. It was controversial when they first kiss (to make Dick shut up) because it involved a grown ass woman kissing a teenager.

Dickbabs was hated the same way modern Brucebabs is hated today.

Even the writer of that book admitted he never intended for them to become a couple.

Babs was more into older guys.

- she was viewed as an equal love interest to Batman

- she went out on a date with Superman

- then got engaged to her coworker Jason Bard.

Dickbabs shippers always try to deny that Babs was deaged and her history was altered for dickbabs in an effort to defend their ship.

They say it's not true because according to them Babs has been deaged long before dickbabs became a couple.

Here's the thing though:

Babs has been deaged twice.

Just because she wasn't deaged to be with Dick in her 1st deaging doesn't change the fact that she was deaged to be the same age as him in her 2nd deaging which happened in dickbabs content.

The 1st time she was deaged was in Crisis on Infinite Earths, it was so Jim could be younger but they only decreased her age slightly because she's still written as older than Dick, here is a panel from Secret Origins #20 that was published in 1986 exactly 1 year after she was first deaged in Crisis on infinite earths (1985) she said Dick is too young for her and that batman is always the one on her mind. So Dickbabs during this time still couldn't work because they still have that age gap and Babs was still into Bruce.

The 2nd time she was deaged is in dickbabs comics and tv shows where she was finally made the same age as Dick so dickbabs can finally work as a romantic pairing.

Instead of being older, she's now written as a part of Dick's generation.

From a congresswoman to a young girl who went to highschool prom with Dick.

Even Tom Taylor had the two first meet when they were young little kids so he can also portray them as childhood sweethearts in his run.

Tom Taylor claims Barbara still has a law degree but isn't it sad how instead of using that degree to find an actual job, she wasted her time following Dick around like a dog in Bludhaven ?

She has no job of her own, no friends of her own, no hobbies of her own outside of Dick.

She's just Dick's clingy lovesick girlfriend who is a total standby for him in his solo books.

Dickbabs shippers who deny this and get mad at people who point this out are the people who don't care about Barbara Gordon as an individual.

They don't care that Barbara lost her PHD degree, lost her own career, lost her own agency, lost her history, lost her self identity for the sake of shipping.

Their only concern is defending dickbabs and making it look better.

Because if they truly like Barbara separately from Dick, all these valid anti-dickbabs criticisms wouldn't bother them.

What's even funnier is that they are the very same people who accuse Starfire of being reduced into Dick's love interest despite the fact that Starfire hasn't been in a relationship with Dick in the comics for 20+ years due to the fact that dickkory's history was ignored and erased in favor of dickbabs. NASTY HYPOCRITES.

At least Starfire wasn't deaged to fit Dick and you can never see Starfire following Dick around like a dog in his solo books 💀

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing a "Curious" Character

Curiosity - the impulse or desire to investigate, observe, or gather information, particularly when the material is novel or interesting.

This drive appears spontaneously in nonhuman animals and in young children, who use sensory exploration and motor manipulation to inspect, bite, handle, taste, or smell practically everything in the immediate environment.

The Five-Dimensional Model of Curiosity

Deprivation sensitivity—recognizing a gap in knowledge the filling of which offers relief. This type of curiosity doesn’t necessarily feel good, but people who experience it work relentlessly to solve problems. This dimension was derived from Berlyne and Loewenstein’s work.

Joyous exploration—being consumed with wonder about the fascinating features of the world. This is a pleasurable state; people in it seem to possess a joie de vivre. This dimension was influenced by Deci’s research.

Social curiosity—talking, listening, and observing others to learn what they are thinking and doing. Human beings are inherently social animals, and the most effective and efficient way to determine whether someone is friend or foe is to gain information. Some may even snoop, eavesdrop, or gossip to do so. This dimension stems from Renner’s research.

Stress tolerance—a willingness to accept and even harness the anxiety associated with novelty. People lacking this ability see information gaps, experience wonder, and are interested in others but are unlikely to step forward and explore. This dimension builds on recent work by Paul Silvia, a psychologist at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro.

Thrill seeking—being willing to take physical, social, and financial risks to acquire varied, complex, and intense experiences. For people with this capacity, the anxiety of confronting novelty is something to be amplified, not reduced. This dimension was inspired by Zuckerman's work.

The researchers conducted surveys across the United States to discover which of the dimensions lead to the best outcomes and generate particular benefits.

For instance, joyous exploration has the strongest link with the experience of intense positive emotions.

Stress tolerance has the strongest link with satisfying the need to feel competent, autonomous, and that one belongs.

Social curiosity has the strongest link with being a kind, generous, modest person.

They also explored attitudes toward and expressions of work-related curiosity.

In a survey of 3,000 workers in China, Germany, and the United States, they found that 84% believe that curiosity catalyzes new ideas, 74% think it inspires unique, valuable talents, and 63% think it helps one get promoted.

In other studies across diverse units and geographies, they have found evidence that 4 of the dimensions—joyous exploration, deprivation sensitivity, stress tolerance, and social curiosity—improve work outcomes.

The latter two seem to be particularly important: Without the ability to tolerate stress, employees are less likely to seek challenges and resources and to voice dissent and are more likely to feel enervated and to disengage.

And socially curious employees are better than others at resolving conflicts with colleagues, more likely to receive social support, and more effective at building connections, trust, and commitment on their teams.

People or groups high in both dimensions are more innovative and creative.

A monolithic view of curiosity is insufficient to understand how that quality drives success and fulfillment in work and life. To discover and leverage talent and to form groups that are greater than the sum of their parts, a more nuanced approach is needed.

Psychologists have compiled a large body of research on the many benefits of curiosity:

It enhances intelligence: In one study, highly curious children aged three to 11 improved their intelligence test scores by 12 points more than their least-curious counterparts did.

It increases perseverance, or grit: Merely describing a day when you felt curious has been shown to boost mental and physical energy by 20% more than recounting a time of profound happiness.

And curiosity propels us toward deeper engagement, superior performance, and more-meaningful goals: Psychology students who felt more curious than others during their first class enjoyed lectures more, got higher final grades, and subsequently enrolled in more courses in the discipline.

Since the 1950s psychologists have offered competing theories about what makes one person more curious than another. Rather than regard curiosity as a single trait, we can now break it down into five distinct dimensions. Instead of asking, “How curious are you?” we can ask, “How are you curious?”

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - Unravel me

Summary - Reeling from her husband's unexpected violence she finds herself caught in a tense confrontation as her saviour, Daemon, vows to take drastic measures for her safety. This threatens to upend their lives and leaves her torn between fear and a new beginning.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Violence (domestic and an altercation), strong language

Word count - 2054

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

A slap to the face was all it took. I held my stinging cheek, my husband opposite me, watching with a look of disbelief as if he wasn't the one who had inflicted the pain. The room felt heavy with the shock of what had just transpired.

The candles flickered, casting ominous shadows on the walls, and the silence was almost suffocating. The fire in the hearth crackled, the only sound in the oppressive silence.

I blinked, my hand still resting on my stinging cheek, my mind raced, struggling to make sense of how a conversation meant to offer support had turned into this brutal reality.

Fear mingled with confusion, and a sinking dread settled in my chest as I tried to reconcile the man I loved with the stranger who had just struck me.

Just moments ago, I had spoken words of reassurance, telling him I believed in his abilities to win in the future. Somehow, those words had been twisted and misunderstood, and now I was reeling from the physical and emotional blow.

"I did not mean it," he blurted out, his voice trembling with urgency. 

He took a step forward, but I retreated, maintaining the distance between us. The metallic taste of blood seeped into my mouth, and I realised the split on my lip was too obvious to conceal.

"Arys, take a step back," I instructed calmly, my voice betraying only a slight tremor despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. His reaction was a mix of surprise and indignation as if my request was an affront to his authority.

He hesitated, his chest heaving as he fought to control his temper. The seconds stretched painfully long before he finally stepped back.

His eyes burned with a volatile mix of regret and frustration. I could see the conflict playing out in his mind, the struggle between pride and remorse.

Then, in a sudden burst of fury, he turned and lashed out at the nearest wall with a force that made the tapestries tremble. I flinched, instinctively raising my hands to shield myself.

The sight of him, normally so composed and distinguished, reduced to this display of raw emotion, sent a chill down my spine. I swallowed hard, a bitter taste of fear mingling with the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

"Darling, please," he whispered, reaching out a hand. "I'm so sorry. It was a mistake."

"I did not mean it," he repeated, his tone desperate as he closed the gap between us once more, grabbing my face between his hands. His touch was rough, his grip too tight.

"Stop it," I pleaded, but he did not release me, his hold becoming more intense.

"Please, just listen," he implored, his eyes searching mine for understanding. I squirmed out of his grasp, my heart pounding, and pushed past him, fleeing through the door before he could react.

His patience frayed. "You're not leaving," he said, his voice strained. He followed after me, grabbing my arm. I felt a surge of panic, pulling away, but his grip was firm.

"You have to understand," he said, trying to steady his voice. "You can't just walk away from this. From us."

I struggled, tears welling up. "Let me go," I cried, but he held on, his frustration evident.

"Just listen to me!" he insisted, shaking me slightly. "We can fix this."

I tried to twist free, my mind racing. "You're hurting me," I said, my voice shaking.

He paused, loosening his grip a bit. "I'm sorry," he murmured, but his eyes still held a flicker of anger and desperation. "You have to understand, I didn't mean it."

I took a deep breath, finding a moment of strength. "I need space," I said firmly. "You need to let me go."

He released me, taking a step back, his expression a mix of sorrow and frustration. "I love you," he said quietly.

I didn't respond. I turned and hurried down the hall, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. 

I didn't know where I was headed, but the need to escape my husband's presence drove me forward. The corridors seemed to close in on me, the ancient stone walls feeling more like a prison than ever before.

My heart was pounding in my chest as I nearly collided with Daemon, who was emerging from a side passage. He steadied me with a firm grip, his eyes widening in concern as he took in my dishevelled appearance and the fresh cut on my lip.

"Gods, what happened?" he asked, his voice a mixture of worry and anger. His gaze lingered on the blood that had smeared across my cheek.

"It's nothing," I said, attempting to brush past him. But Daemon was not one to be easily dismissed. His hand remained on my arm, holding me gently but firmly in place.

"Nothing?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing. "You look like you've been struck. Who did this to you?"

I hesitated, my mind racing. Daemon had always been a fierce protector. Growing up in the castle walls alongside Rhaenyra meant we spent significant amounts of time together. There was no point in hiding it. 

The evidence was clear on my face, and Daemon was too perceptive to be fooled.

"It was my husband," I finally admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. Daemon's jaw clenched at my words, his eyes darkening with anger.

"He did this to you?" Daemon's voice was low and dangerous. "Why?"

I took a deep breath, struggling to find the words. "He was angry. He... he lost the tourney today. It was a blow to his pride."

Daemon's expression hardened. He had always been competitive, always striving to prove himself, but he had never crossed the line in this manner. His eyes met mine, and I could see the storm brewing within them.

"He hit you because he lost a tourney?" Daemon's voice was cold, each word measured and dripping with barely restrained fury. "That cowardly bastard."

"Daemon, please," I pleaded, placing a hand on his chest to calm him. "This is not your fight."

"Like hell it's not," he shot back, his grip tightening on my arm. "No man should raise his hand to a woman, especially not his wife. Especially not you."

I could see the rage simmering beneath the surface, ready to explode. 

Daemon had always been protective of me, and this affront was something he could not ignore. As his anger grew, he reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the cut on my lip. The soft touch was a contrast to the fury in his eyes.

"He did this," Daemon said, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. "He dared to lay a hand on you."

His fingers traced the outline of the wound, his touch tender, almost reverent as if he could erase the hurt with his concern alone. "That worthless cunt is going to regret the day he ever thought to strike you."

Before I could say anything, I heard footsteps echoing down the hall. Arys appeared, his face contorted with anger and frustration. The moment he saw Daemon and me, his eyes narrowed.

"What's going on here?" Arys demanded, his voice laced with hostility.

Daemon's gaze flicked briefly to mine, a storm of emotions swirling in his eyes before he turned his full attention back to Arys. His voice was low and dangerous.

"You," he spat, stepping forward with an intensity that made the air crackle around us. "You think you can lay your hands on her and walk away unscathed?"

Arys's jaw tightened, his stance defensive. "Stay out of this," he warned through gritted teeth. "This is between me and my wife."

"Not anymore," Daemon growled, his voice a rumble of thunder before he lunged at Arys with startling speed.

The two men clashed violently, fists flying and grunts of pain filling the hallway. I screamed, trying to pull them apart, but their fury was too great. 

Daemon landed a solid punch on Arys's jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor. Arys retaliated, grabbing Daemon by the collar and slamming him against the wall.

"Stop it!" I pleaded, my voice raw with fear and desperation, tugging at Daemon's arm in a futile attempt to break them apart. "Both of you, stop!"

Ignoring my cries, Daemon delivered a final decisive kick that sent Arys reeling. As Arys staggered back, blood trickled from Daemon's nose, his knuckles bruised and raw from the altercation. 

The hallway seemed to vibrate with the aftermath of their clash, the tension thick and suffocating.

Breathing heavily, Daemon's eyes blazed with a mix of fury and protectiveness as he looked at me. I grabbed Daemon and pulled him away, my heart racing with fear and adrenaline.

"Come with me," I said urgently, leading him down the hall before Arys could recover. 

We hurried through the dimly lit corridors. My heart was still racing, and I could feel Daemon's anger simmering just beneath the surface.

We reached an empty room, and I quickly shut the door behind us, the heavy wood muffling the chaos outside.

I guided Daemon to a chair, and he sat down heavily, the adrenaline beginning to wear off. I found a clean cloth and dampened it with water, my hands shaking as I approached him.

"Hold still," I murmured, dabbing gently at the cuts and bruises on his face. Daemon winced but didn't pull away, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

"Leave him," he said, his voice rough with anger. "You can't stay with him."

"I can't just leave," I replied, my hands trembling. "It's not that simple."

Daemon grabbed my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. His eyes blazed with a mixture of anger and desperation. "You have to," he insisted. "Do it, or else I will kill him and take you to Dragonstone myself and make you my wife."

I stared at him, shocked by his words. "Daemon, you can't be serious."

It was a suggestion he had made in passing years ago, something I had dismissed with a laugh. But this time, it felt different, charged with a seriousness and urgency that left no room for dismissal.

"I am," he said fiercely. "I won't let him hurt you again. If you won't leave him on your own, I'll make sure you're safe, even if I have to take drastic measures."

"I can't just abandon everything," I whispered. "My life, my family..."

"Your life is worth more than this," Daemon said, his voice softer now but still firm. "You deserve better and I'll be damned if I let that bastard keep hurting you."

I looked into his eyes, seeing the unwavering determination there. Despite the chaos of the situation, I felt a flicker of hope. Daemon would do whatever it took to protect me, even if it meant challenging the very foundations of my world.

"Daemon, it's not that easy," I said, my voice trembling. "If I leave, there will be consequences. Besides, it was only one slap."

Daemon's expression softened slightly, but his resolve did not waver. "It won't stay just one slap. Staying with him isn't an option. You can't live your life in fear. You deserve to be happy, to be loved."

I tried to downplay it, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "It was just a moment of anger. He was upset about losing the tourney. It's not like him."

Daemon's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "And what about next time? When he loses again, or something else sets him off? Do you really think it will stop at one slap?"

I finished cleaning his wounds, my mind racing with the implications of what lay ahead. I wrapped the bandage around his hand, my fingers shaking slightly. As I tied off the bandage, he watched me closely, his gaze unwavering. 

"I mean it," he said quietly. "If you don't leave him, I will come for you. I won't let him have you."

I met his gaze, my heart aching with the weight of his words. "I know," I whispered.

Whether six men or sixty, he was still Daemon Targaryen. I had no reason to doubt his words for even a moment.

He reached out and cupped my chin, his thumb brushing against the cut on my lip once more. His touch was gentle, but his eyes burned with a fierce intensity.

"You know what you have to do," he said, his voice steady but urgent.

"I know," I replied, my voice barely audible.

A/n - National domestic violence hotline (CALL: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233), CHAT: www.thehotline.org/, TEXT: "START" to 88788) 💜

[skyguytoast]

Between the Sheets & Lies - Dilf!Anakin x you

SYNOPSIS: Dilf!Anakin Dilf!Anakin finally meets you for the first time without screens separating.

WORD COUNT: 6.7k 

WARNINGS: +18, infidelity, cheating, age gap (Anakin is in his 40s and the reader is of legal age), daddy kink, spanking, unprotected sex, kinda dirty talk

A/N: Hello everyone, I really appreciate the comments and reblogs! 💖 Seriously, you guys make me the happiest girl in the world! ✨ Sorry for the delay in bringing the second part, I swear I didn't want to keep you waiting, but college is tough and the internships are taking up more energy than I would like. 😵‍💫Anyway, thank you once again! I hope you enjoy reading! 🥰 As always, comments, likes and reblogs mean everything to me and motivate me to keep improving! 💖Kisses and good reading! Dividers by @cafekitsune

There was no turning back.

Anakin had already fallen down the rabbit hole, and he had no desire to crawl his way back out. After that passionate video call—the one that left him breathless, aching, wanting—you consumed him. He had thought that giving in, indulging in those late-night whispers and teasing glances, might quench the fire burning between you.

But it hadn’t.

It was like striking a match and dropping it into a bucket of gunpowder. The explosion of heat had swallowed him whole, curling around his body, leaving him restless, burning for more.

The logical part of his mind knew this was wrong. Cheating, no matter how he justified it, was still cheating. Padmé didn’t deserve this. But damn, resisting you has become impossible. Your easy laughter, your light teasing, the way your body seemed designed to drive him insane—you had stolen his heart before he even realized it was missing. You lived in his head now, imprinted on his thoughts, and he craved you in a way that scared him.

But it was too late for guilt.

Anakin exhaled sharply, shaking off the whirlwind of conflicted emotions. There was no room for second thoughts anymore. He opened the car door and stepped out, handing the key to the valet before walking into the luxurious hotel. He had chosen one on the other side of the city—somewhere far from prying eyes, away from familiar faces.

At the bar, he ordered a whiskey on the rocks, the cool glass grounding him as he folded his arms on the counter, fingers drumming lightly against the wood. The anticipation coiled tight in his stomach, equal parts excitement and anxiety. He lifted the glass to his lips, taking slow sips, but it did little to steady him.

Because soon, you would walk through those doors. And for the first time, there would be no screen between you. No teasing messages. No blurry video calls.

Just you. In front of him. Skin against skin.

And Anakin had never wanted anything more.

"Hello, stranger."

Your voice cut through Anakin’s thoughts, snapping him back to the present. That same playful greeting—the one from your very first message—sent a rush of heat straight to his chest. Gosh. He hadn’t known back then just how much you would unravel him, how deeply you’d sink into his bones.

He practically knocked over his chair in his haste to stand, his movements far less composed than he would have liked. You smiled, amused by his clumsiness. It was ironic—Anakin Skywalker, a retired general, a man who had once commanded legions with unwavering precision, now reduced to a nervous wreck. You made him feel like a foolish, lovesick boy, all fluttering stomach and sweaty palms. The blush creeping up his neck only added to the ridiculousness of it all.

And yet, he didn’t care.

"Bunny." His voice was warm, filled with something dangerously close to adoration. A slow, devastating smile spread across his handsome face, the slight creases at the corners of his eyes only making him more irresistible. Age had been kind to him—too kind, really. Like a fine wine, he had only grown more confident, more devastatingly attractive.

His gaze raked over you, drinking in every inch. "Maybe by the end of tonight, I’ll finally learn your real name?" His voice was smooth, teasing, but his eyes told a different story—dark, wanting, hungry.

And you had given him plenty to admire.

The pink ribbon tying your hair back cascaded like silk down your bare back, the color so soft against your skin it almost looked sinful. Pink was your color—there was no denying that. His eyes trailed lower, taking in the way your delicate sleeveless crop top clung to you just right, accentuating the graceful curves of your body. The fabric hugged your chest, your cleavage framed in a way that was both teasing and effortlessly elegant.

But what really did him in was the skirt.

Short. Ruffled. Hugging your hips like it had been made just for you. Every slight movement sent it fluttering, barely covering what it was meant to hide. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his gaze dropped further. The white stockings that hugged your legs made his pulse spike, the dainty pink bows at the tops pushing him dangerously close to losing his composure.

Anakin exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he let his eyes drag back up to yours.

"You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?"

And damn, you might just succeed.

A mischievous smile curled at the corner of your lips, your eyes glinting with playful challenge. "I imagine you’d like it—my hands around your neck," you teased, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed his face. The way his jaw tensed, the subtle flare of his nostrils—it only fueled your shameless flirting.

Without breaking eye contact, you took the glass of whiskey from his hand, lifting it to your lips. The amber liquid burned smoothly down your throat, leaving a tantalizing sheen on your mouth as you set the glass back down with a soft clink.

Anakin exhaled sharply, his voice dropping into something low and ragged. "Don’t tease me, little girl."

That warning—deep, husky, thick with barely contained restraint—sent a delicious shiver down your spine. You knew exactly what you were doing. And so did he.

Your smile widened, sweet and coy, a perfect contrast to the fire simmering between you. "The conversation is great," you mused, trailing a delicate finger along his forearm, "but maybe you’d like to show me the room you booked?" A pause. A tilt of your head. "I heard it has a hot tub."

Anakin smirked, slow and wolfish, his gaze raking over you like he was already envisioning you in far less than what you were wearing. "Oh, darling," he murmured, his hand sliding possessively against the small of your back, the heat of his palm searing through the fabric. "It’s presumptuous of you to think I’m going to let you out of bed."

His grip tightened slightly as he guided you toward the elevator. And as the doors slid shut behind you, sealing you both inside, your pulse quickened with the undeniable truth—you didn’t want to escape anyway.

As soon as the elevator doors began to close, the last remnants of restraint shattered. Every ounce of decency Anakin had been clinging to dissolved into nothingness. There was no time to think, no moment to question what you were doing—only the raw, undeniable pull between you. It was as if your bodies had been waiting for this, for the inevitable collision that neither of you could resist. Despite this being your first time meeting face to face, you moved together with an intoxicating, almost fated synchronicity.

Then his mouth was on yours—hot, demanding, desperate. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, only the flaming hunger that had been building between you for far too long. His lips pressed firmly against yours, claiming, consuming, devouring. The kiss was a storm, wild and uncontrollable, his breath mingling with yours as he pulled you closer, impossibly close. His hands, large and heated, gripped your waist possessively, as if afraid you’d slip away, as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him.

A soft whimper escaped your lips, swallowed by his kiss, and it only seemed to ignite him further. His fingers dug into your hips as your own hands tangled in his hair, pulling at the soft, sandy strands, eliciting a deep, needy groan from him. His body pressed against yours, pinning you against the cool metal of the elevator wall, the contrast of heat and cold making you shiver.

Time ceased to exist. There was only the dizzying sensation of his lips slanting over yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting, exploring, owning. Every movement, every touch sent sparks dancing beneath your skin, pooling heat low in your stomach.

By the time you both pulled back—just enough to gasp for air—his forehead rested against yours, his breaths ragged, his eyes dark with want. "Fuck," he murmured, his voice rough, his thumb tracing your swollen bottom lip. "I’ve wanted to do that since the moment you said hello."

And by the way your body melted against his, by the way your fingers still trembled in his hair, he knew you had wanted it just as much.

Anakin's heart pounded in his chest as he held you against him, his breathing ragged and uneven. The taste of you was still on his tongue, the sweetness of your lips seared into his mind. He couldn't believe this was happening, that he finally had you in his arms, your body pressed flush against his own. It felt like a dream, a fantasy come to life, but the way you trembled and clung to him was undeniably real.

"I've wanted this for so long," he murmured, his voice a low, heated rasp against your skin. "To have you here, to touch you, to taste you..."

His hands slid down from your hips, gripping your ass possessively, squeezing the firm globes as he pulled your hips snugly against his own, his large hand almost slipping under your tiny pink ruffled skirt. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your stomach through the fabric of his pants. The evidence of his desire was impossible to hide, throbbing and aching for you, for the feel of your bare skin against his own.

"You feel so fucking good," he murmured, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. His fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top to caress the smooth, warm skin of your back. "I want to map out every curve and hollow until I know your body as well as I know my own."

Anakin's hands practically closed on your waist, feeling the heat of your deliciously hot and sinful body. "Tell me what you want, baby," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "Tell daddy what you need."

You whimpered, a mix of desire and excitement embracing your body like a second skin, the older man's words only stirring the fire that was blooming inside you. "I, I want to go to a room, daddy, I need you so fucking much."

Anakin felt an animalistic thrill surge through him at your breathless plea, your needy little whimper sending all his blood rushing south to his aching cock. He had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted you in this moment, never craved the feeling of being buried inside a tight, wet cunt more than he did now.

"Daddy's gonna make your wish come true, baby," Anakin murmured seductively, planting a soft kiss on the top of your head, the affectionate gesture not being enough to disguise the sexual desire that was building inside him.

He grabbed your hand, interlacing your fingers with his own, and quickly led you out of the elevator and down the hallway. He could hear the distant sound of drinks being served and cocktails being prepared at the bar, but it faded into the background, unimportant and insignificant compared to the pounding of his own heart and the catch of his breath in his throat.

"Daddy's going to take such good care of you, sweetheart," he promised darkly, opening the door to his room and pulling you inside. "Gonna make you feel so fucking good."

The hotel room was nothing short of extravagant—spacious and bathed in warm, ambient lighting. A massive bed dominated the center of the room, its silky sheets practically begging to be rumpled. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the starry sky, the long, heavy curtains drawn open as if inviting the universe to witness what was about to unfold. A sleek coffee table sat in front of a chic white sofa, a bucket of ice cradling a bottle of champagne, waiting to be uncorked.

Anakin’s large hand rested against the small of your back, his touch firm yet possessive as he guided you inside. You hesitated for a moment, taking in the opulence around you. This wasn’t just a luxury suite—it was a penthouse. The sheer indulgence of it sent a thrill through you. You knew he was rich—after all, men didn’t sign up for sites like the one where you met unless they had more money than they knew what to do with—but this? This was something else entirely.

Still, the thought barely had time to linger. Because Anakin was right there—his body heat enveloping you, his scent intoxicating, his presence so overwhelming it made your head spin. Every nerve in your body buzzed with awareness, your pulse quickening as his fingertips ghosted along your spine. The wealth, the luxury, the sheer extravagance of it all faded into the background.

All that mattered now was him.

Anakin couldn't keep his hands off you as he led you into the lavish suite, his large palm resting possessively against the small of your back. He could feel the warmth of your skin through the thin fabric of your clothes, the way your body yielded to his touch, molding against his own. It set his blood on fire, the simple act of having you close, of finally touching you after weeks of aching with want.

"Do you like it, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low, approving rumble as he watched you take in the opulent surroundings. "I wanted everything to be perfect for you. For your first time with daddy."

He led you further into the room, his fingers trailing down to the curve of your ass, squeezing the firm globe possessively. He could feel the way it fit in his hand, the way your body was made to be touched, to be claimed by him. He spun you around to face him, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

"You're the only thing that matters to me right now," he said softly, his blue eyes blazing into yours. "The only thing I want to focus on, the only thing I want to devour."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a burning kiss, one that stole your breath and set your world ablaze. His tongue delved into your mouth, tangling with yours, exploring every inch of the sweet cave. He tasted you deeply, thoroughly, as if he wanted to memorize the flavor of you.

"Strip for me," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Slowly. I want to watch you, baby. Want to see every inch of skin as it's revealed to me."

His gaze was intent, hungry, as he took a step back to watch you, his eyes roaming over your curves, waiting for the show he had demanded. His cock was already straining against the confines of his pants, thick and hard and aching for your touch. But he wanted to savor this moment, wanted to watch you bare yourself to him, piece by tantalizing piece.

Your tongue flicked out to wet your lips, a mix of nervous anticipation and electric excitement coursing through your veins. You had imagined this moment countless times, but now that it was real, it felt overwhelming—devastatingly intense, yet utterly intoxicating.

Your gaze flickered to the champagne, the golden liquid shimmering under the soft glow of the room’s lighting. "Can you pour me a drink first?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question carried a teasing edge, but the way your teeth sank into your lower lip betrayed your need for just a little more courage.

The thought of putting on a show for him—just for him—made your pulse race. And fuck, you wanted to savor every second of it.

Anakin's lips curved into a wicked smirk at your request, his eyes glinting with shadowed temptation. He could see the anticipation sparkling in your eyes, the nervous excitement that made your cheeks flush a pretty pink. It thrilled him, the way you were eager to please him, to play along with his games.

"Of course, sweetheart," he purred, his voice a low, indulgent rumble. "Daddy will get you anything you want."

He crossed over to the sleek coffee table, popping the cork on the champagne bottle with a satisfying pop. The golden liquid fizzed and bubbled as he poured it into a flute, the bubbles dancing and swirling, just like the thoughts racing through his mind.

"Here you go, baby," he said, holding the glass out to you. "A little liquid courage, just for you."

His fingers brushed against yours as he handed you the champagne, the brief contact sending a jolt of electricity shooting up your arm. He watched as you brought the glass to your lips, watched the way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way your breasts rose and fell with each breath.

"Now, why don't you put that down and start dancing for me?" he coaxed, his voice a low, seductive murmur.

"As you wish," you purred, flashing him a confident smile as you handed him the half-empty champagne glass. With a slow, deliberate motion, you reached for your phone, fingers gliding over the screen until you found the perfect song—I Like You Best by Ella Red. The sultry, hypnotic melody was exactly what you needed.

As the first notes filled the air, you stepped onto the coffee table, your high heels clicking softly against the glass surface. The added height sent a thrill through you, an unspoken declaration that you were in control. You tossed your head back, letting your hair cascade in waves, swaying to the rhythm, your body moving with effortless, sensual grace.

Anakin turned on the couch, eyes dark and locked onto you, utterly captivated. His fingers curled around the champagne flute, forgotten in his grasp, as his gaze followed every slow roll of your hips, every teasing shift of your body. There was something heady about the way he watched you—like a starving man savoring his first meal in ages.

A smirk played on your lips as you let your hands skim down your sides, fingertips trailing over your thighs before slowly dragging back up. You arched your back slightly, accentuating every movement, making sure he felt the way you commanded the space between you.

"Enjoying the view?" you teased, voice dripping with mischief as you met his gaze through heavy lashes.

Anakin exhaled sharply, jaw tight, his grip flexing around the glass. "You have no idea."

You bit your lip, loving the way his voice had dropped, husky and thick with desire. Emboldened, you turned, swaying your hips as you moved to the beat, your hands sliding up your body before tossing your hair over one shoulder.

And when you finally met his eyes again, the fire burning in them told you everything you needed to know—

He was already undone.

Anakin gripped the champagne flute tighter, the delicate crystal creaking under his restrictive hold. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming faster as he watched you dance, watched you move with a sensual grace that stole the very breath from his lungs. The way you arched your back, the teasing slide of your hands over your curves, it was enough to drive a man to madness.

"Fuck, baby, you're even more gorgeous than I imagined," he groaned, his voice a low, awe-struck rumble. "Watching you dance like that, teasing me with this sexy body... It's enough to make a man lose his mind."

He took a long swig of the champagne, the golden liquid burning a trail down his throat. But it was nothing compared to the fire scorching through his veins, the inferno of lust and desire burning hot and wild in his gut. He set the glass down on the table with a sharp clink, his full attention focused solely on you.

"Come here, sweetheart," he commanded, his finger beckoning you closer. "Let me touch you. Need to feel every inch of your skin against mine."

He rose from the couch, his tall frame unfolding with predatory grace. His eyes never left yours as he stalked towards you, his gaze intense and hungry, full of sinful devotion. When he reached you, he didn't hesitate, his large hands coming up to grip your hips, pulling your body flush against his own.

"Ani-" Your voice was cut off by a gasp as his lips claimed your own in a blazing kiss, his tongue delving deep, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. His hands roamed your curves greedily, squeezing and kneading, mapping out every dip and swell, committing the feel of you to memory.

"I need you naked," he breathed against your mouth. "Need to see all of you. Want to touch and taste every inch of this perfect body."

“and you will, love, you just need patience” You teased him, the sensual flirtation rolling off your tongue, as you pushed him back, Anakin slumped down on the couch. “No one ever told you that the best things take time…” you added, tracing his jaw with your finger.

Humming a playful tune, you turned and bent at the waist, displaying the curve of your ass as you slipped the other sock off your foot. You swung your leg up, placing your heel on Anakin's muscular thigh, the spiked stiletto digging in slightly as you traced your toes up his thigh.

Slowly, teasingly, you rolled the sock down your other leg, letting out a soft giggle as you tossed it playfully at Anakin's chest. It landed on his shoulder as you straightened up, one hand trailing down your outer thigh while the other reached for the zipper of your skirt.

You faced Anakin, one hand playing with the zipper tab while the other trailed up your stomach, fingering the hem of your skirt. Licking your full lips, you rolled your hips slowly, teasingly, the skirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of creamy skin and pink lace as you swayed to the sultry melody.

“the cat got your tongue, daddy?” you teased him mischievously, with a hint of fun.

A lustful chuckle rumbled from Anakin's chest at your playful taunt. His hand slid up your other calf, squeezing the soft skin as he tugged you closer, encouraging you to wrap your leg fully around his thigh. He could feel the heat of your skin through the thin lace of your panties, could feel the way your muscles flexed as you shifted your stance.

"No, baby. It's just that I'm too busy admiring the view to say much," he murmured, his voice a low, appreciative growl. "This sexy little tease you're giving me... I could watch you strip for hours."

He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. He started at your knee, trailing his lips slowly upward, his breath hot and heavy against your thigh. He could smell the sweet scent of your arousal, could feel the anticipation building as he approached the lace barrier of your panties.

"You taste deliciously," he groaned against his skin, nuzzling into the sensitive flesh just above where he wanted to be most. "Sweet and soft and fucking perfect."

He nipped lightly at the lace, his teeth grazing the damp fabric, before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hands slid up to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, grinding your core against the thick ridge of his cock. He was hard as steel, straining against his pants, the heat of him scorching you even through the layers of clothing separating you.

"Keep going, sweetheart," he urged, his fingers kneading into the globes of your ass. "Don't stop teasing me now. Daddy wants to see everything his little bunny is capable of"

You smirked deviously as you reached for the hem of your top, your fingertips teasing along the fabric before slowly peeling it upwards. Anakin's eyes darkened with lust as more and more of your taut stomach was revealed, the soft skin smooth and unblemished. His hands slid around to grip your ass, squeezing the firm globes as he pulled you harder against him, grinding his clothed erection against your core.

Humming with delight, you continued your slow striptease, your top swelling higher and higher until it was just below your breasts. Anakin's breath caught in his throat as he caught a tantalizing glimpse of the lacy edge of your bra, his fingers flexing against your skin. You could feel the heat rolling off him in waves, the raw, primal desire emanating from his every pore.

Reaching back, you unclasped your bra with a deft flick of your wrist, letting it fall away to reveal the perfect globes of your breasts. They were even more paradisiacal than Anakin had imagined, the rosy peaks of your nipples already pebbled with neediness. He felt his mouth go dry at the sight, his cock throbbing almost painfully against the confines of his pants.

"Don't stop now, baby," he growled, his voice rough with want. "Let me see all of you. I want to worship every inch of this pretty body."

With a wicked grin, you shimmied out of your top, letting it pool on the floor beside you. You draped your arms over his shoulders, linking your fingers behind his neck as you pressed your naked tits against his chest. The feeling of your bare skin against his own was electric, sending sparks of pleasure zinging through his body.

You could feel the blistering heat of Anakin's gauze as it raked over your newly exposed breasts, his blue eyes clouded with hunger and desire. His hands immediately came up to cup the soft mounds, his fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he squeezed and kneaded. He dipped his head down to capture a rosy peak in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before suckling greedily.

"Ani!" Your gasp of pleasure dissolved into a moan as he lavished attention on your breasts, his fingers and mouth working in tandem to drive you wild with lust. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he worshiped your body with a fervor that set your nerves alight.

"You have such perfect tits, baby," he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with lust. "Can't get enough of them. Could spend hours just playing with these sexy little nipples."

To his emphasize point, he rolled the stiff peaks between his fingers, pinching and tugging lightly, sending jolts of pleasure shooting straight to your core. His other hand slid down to palm your ass, squeezing the rounded globe possessively as he pulled your hips flush against his own.

"Fuck, I want to bend you over my knee and spank this sweet little ass until it's red and aching," he growled, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. "Want to see my handprints all over this perfect body."

The image of him disciplining you, dominating you, feels a fresh gush of moisture to your core. You could feel your panties growing damp, your cunt clenching around nothing, wanting to be filled.

"Then maybe I should take this off too," you purred teasingly, reaching back to play with the bow at the waistband of your skirt. "Daddy wants to see all of me?"

Anakin's eyes flashed with a wicked gleam at your breathless words, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, the skirt stays on for now, sweetheart. But these pretty little panties..."

His large hands slid around to grip the waistband of your underwear, thumbs hooking into the delicate lace. With a swift tug, he yanked them down your legs, letting them drop to your ankles before you stepped out of them, now clad in nothing but the tiny, frilly skirt.

"Mmm, much better," he purred, drinking in the sight of you, his gaze burning a path down your curves. "You look good enough to eat, baby."

He settled you back onto his lap, your bare ass nestled against his muscular thigh. His hand came down to squeeze the soft globe, kneading the supple flesh, feeling it give way beneath his palm.

"But this naughty little butt needs some attention too," he growled, punctuating his words with a sharp smack to your rear. "Making daddy wait so long, teasing me with this sexy body... It earned you a punishment."

He continued to spank your ass, alternating cheeks, building a rhythm. The sting of each slap sent jolts of pleasure shooting through you, your nerves sparking with electricity. You could feel yourself growing wetter with each smack, your cunt clenching and fluttering around nothing.

"You like that, baby?" he murmured, his voice a dark, approving rumble. "Like feeling daddy's hand on this sweet little ass? I think you do. I think my naughty girl is getting off on being spanked."

He punctuated his words with another sharp smack, his fingers digging into the reddening flesh of your ass. His cock throbbed against your thigh, rock hard and straining against his pants, aching to plunge into your dripping heat. But he held back, determined to take his time with you, to make you beg for it.

Anakin continued his relentless assault on your ass, his large hand coming down again and again in a tempting rhythm. Each sharp smack sent shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating through you, your skin starting to flush a deep, rosy pink. He could feel the heat building in his flesh, could see the way it was turning a pretty shade of red under his ministrations.

“Fuck, you have the most perfect butt,” baby, he groaned, squeezing the reddened globe roughly. "Love seeing it pink and tender like this, marked by my hand."

His fingers dug into your soft skin, kneading and kneading, as he continued to rain down smacks to your rear. Your breathing grew heavier, your chest heaving with each sharp sting, your nipples pebbled and aching. The pleasure was like a gift from heaven, the anticipation building to a fever pitch inside you.

"Please, Anakin," you whimpered, grinding your hips subtly against his thigh. "Please, I need... I need more."

"What do you need, sweetheart?" he purred, his hand pausing its brutal assault. "Tell daddy what you need."

"I... I need your cock," you breathed out, unable to hold back any longer. "Please, I'm so empty. I need you inside me, filling me up. I want to feel you throbbing deep in my pussy."

"That's my good girl," he praised, his thumb coming down to rub over your swollen, aching clit.

Anakin's eyes darkened with lust as he watched his ass turn a deep, pretty shade of red from his relentless spanking. He could see the need and desperation building in your eyes, hear it in your breathy pleas. His cock throbbed almost painfully, straining against his pants, the tip already leaking with desire.

"Such a good girl, begging so sweetly for daddy's cock," he praised, his voice a low, approving rumble. "Can't deny you any longer, baby."

He fumbled with his belt, undoing it with clumsy, eager fingers before pushing his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It sprang up, long, hard, and ready. Your eyes widened at the sight, your tongue darting out to wet your suddenly dry lips.

He gripped your hips, his fingers sinking into your reddened flesh as he dragged the broad head of his cock through your dripping folds. Anakin groaned as he felt your slick, swollen folds parting for the broad head of his cock. The heat radiating from your cunt was incredible, your arousal coating his sensitive flesh. He couldn't hold back any longer, the need to be buried inside you overwhelming.

"Fuck, baby, you're so fucking wet," he growled, his voice strained with desire. "So ready for daddy's cock."

Slowly, torturously, he dragged the swollen head of his erection along your slit, coating himself in your slick essence. His fingers dug into the smooth flesh of your ass as he lined himself up with your entrance, the flared tip nudging insistently against your opening.

"Beg for it, sweetheart," he commanded, his breath hot against your ear. "Beg daddy to fuck this pretty little pussy. Let me hear how badly you need it."

''Oh god, yes!" you gasped, your hips rocking instinctively, seeking more of that delicious friction. "Please daddy, please fuck me. I need your cock inside me so badly."

"That's it, baby," he purred, his voice sultry and approving. "Keep begging, let me hear those sweet little moans."

And with that, he emerged forward, the head of his cock spearing into your molten heat. He had to grit his teeth against the wonderful sensation, your silken walls gripping him as if they depended on it to live.

"The feeling of you wrapped around my cock, fuck, it's unbelievable," he groaned, hilting himself inside you with a sharp thrust of his hips. He paused for a moment, savoring the way your fluttering sheath pulsed around him, the way your body adjusted to the sudden intrusion.

Anakin began to move, his hips rolling in a fiery rhythm as he started to fuck into you. Each powerful thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body, the thick length of his cock dragging along your sensitive walls. The wet, obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as he took you, each drive of his hips punching the breath from your lungs.

"Fuck, your pretty pussy feels incredible," he groaned, his voice a dark, lustful rumble. "So fucking tight and wet and perfect. Made to take my cock."

"Yes, oh fuck yes!" you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you clung to him. "Harder, daddy!"

"Greedy little thing, aren't you?" he purred, his hips snapping forward with increasing force. "Can't get enough of daddy's cock. Want it deeper, baby? Want me to fill this hungry cunt to the brim?"

"Yes, yes, please!" you sobbed, your head thrown back, your tits bouncing with each powerful thrust. "Ruin me with your cock. Claim me, make me yours!"

"Mine," he snart, his lips latching onto the side of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. "This sweet little pussy belongs to me. No one else will ever make you feel this good."

His hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in tight, rough circles. The added stimulation sent you hurtling towards the edge, your walls starting to flutter and clench around him.

"I'm... I'm going to...!" Your cries of ecstasy filled the room as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt clamping down on his cock, the pleasure sensation drowning you like a wave.

Anakin groaned, burying himself deep as he followed you over the edge, his hot seed spurting deep inside you, painting your insides with his release. "Fuck yes, take every last drop like a good girl," Anakin commanded, his hips jerking erratically as he rode out the waves of his intense climax. His fingers dug into the plush flesh of your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ground his pelvis against yours, making sure he was as deep inside you as physically possible.

"It's so much... I can feel it so deep!" you cried out, your inner muscles rippling and clenching around his throbbing shaft, greedily milking him for all he was worth. The sensation of his hot, thick seed flooding your core sent you spiraling into a second intense orgasm, your vision whiting out from the sheer force of it.

"That's it, baby. Fuck, I love watching you come undone on my cock," he praised, his voice a low, approving growl. He captured your mouth in a desperate kiss, his tongue delving deep, swallowing your whimpers and whines of pleasure. He devoured you, consumed you, until you were boneless and sated in his arms.

Panting harshly, he finally pulled back, taking a moment to admire the way your chest heaved, the way your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. The pink frilly skirt was bunched up around your waist, your legs splayed wide around his hips, his softening cock still nestled snugly inside your tender, well-fucked pussy.

"You're perfect, baby," he murmured, fingers tracing the curve of your cheek almost reverently. "My perfect little girl. I think I'm going to keep you, sweetheart. I'm going to keep you with me, darling,"

You smiled lazily, a soft, blissful expression settling over your features as the overwhelming sensations Anakin had drawn from your body left you exhausted and utterly satisfied. Your limbs felt heavy, your skin still tingling where his hands had explored. "I'd like that… I want to be your little girl," you mumbled sleepily, your voice barely above a whisper before sleep began to claim you.

Anakin watched you, his gaze warm, almost reverent. A small smile tugged at his lips as he traced a gentle path down the curve of your spine, his fingers lingering over your soft, heated skin. He knew it was wrong—knew that tonight had shattered the last fragile remains of his marriage—but regret never came. How could it, when holding you felt so damn right?

Of course, he understood that Padmé didn’t deserve this. But then again, neither did he deserve the hollow, loveless existence he had been clinging to. What he did deserve—what he needed—was you.

With that certainty settling deep in his chest, Anakin wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you close, his body molding perfectly against yours. His lips brushed your shoulder in a lingering kiss before he shut his eyes, blocking out the rest of the world.

He didn’t even flinch when his phone buzzed from across the room, messages from his wife lighting up the screen—because for the first time in a long time, he was where his heart (and body) wanted to be.

[phoenixyfriend]

I think that one of the things I find most frustrating about the tariffs conversation (and I find a lot of it frustrating) is... well, okay, it's two things, which are related:

ONE: MAGA are stealing leftist talking points

TWO: That's not how protectionist tariffs work. (This is probably the more important one.)

So.

ONE: The rhetoric of 'temporary hardship to reach eventual greater collective stability' is something that the left generally says with a little more sincerity, oftentimes with things like taxes for public infrastructure or welfare.

It also generally means that everyone experiences a touch of hardship, but the wealth is reinvested into the economy to boost the collective good; the sincerity is low with centrists, but higher with the far left.

The hardship is also more likely to not be moving money to the wealthy, something that is very much happening here. There are some massive shortfalls in tax income these past few years, some of which have been going on for decades, like the subsidization of the fossil fuel industry or unusually high investment in the military, but a big one recently has been the 2017 tax cuts that Trump introduced for the wealthy in his first term. They are, from articles I've seen, responsible for trillions in lost revenue per year sine their introduction, and while they expire in 2025, Trump and this Republican Congress have made it clear that they intend to extend those tax cuts as long as they can. The tariffs are to cover that gap in the budget, meaning that everyone is paying more in taxes, on goods that are disproportionately consumed by the lower and middle classes, in order to cover the tax breaks that billionaires got.

Very much stealing from the poor to give to the rich! That's what the tariffs are about!

e.g. yes you're paying a few extra dollars in taxes this year, but it's being invested in developing a free and reduced school lunch program; while you won't see any immediate benefits, and you'll be a little strapped for cash for month or two if you're living paycheck to paycheck, but you'll see a huge load off your mind come September. Could also be a few extra dollars for an infrastructure project, which takes ten years to build... but once it's built, your commute is cut in half because of the new bridge, or the electricity is subsidized by some new wind farms, or the landfill has been assessed and built over to be a safe, clean park. This second example about infrastructure is Biden's Inflation Reduction Act, which fed money into infrastructure work and other major projects across the country; in many cases, state Senators, congresspeople, and governors who had voted or campaigned against the IRA would then take credit for the benefits their constituents saw.

TWO: You can't use protectionist tariffs to revive local industry without investing in it. High tariffs can minimize damage to the economy if the industry hasn't already left.

If the factories are still around, and the employees are still there and knowledgeable, and the resources haven't been left to diminish on their own, then you protect them with tariffs in the immediate aftermath of a shift in the status quo. You prevent the 'theft of business' with the tariffs, and since it all just seems to be business as usual domestically, it's a blip in the radar for consumers. A bit more complicated if the domestic market has also been exporting the product, as markets abroad will shift to the cheaper product you are protecting against, but you now have a bit more time to innovate a reason to keep market share.

If the industry has been allowed to diminish, or never really existed in the first place (we can't grow coffee or bananas or avocado or mangos at an industry scale, we do not have the weather for it), then a sudden implementation of protectionist tariffs will pass costs along to the consumer until the industry is up and running again.

You know how you fix that? Subsidize the industry you're trying to revive.

In 1910, there were 144,607 people employed in clothing factories in the US (1910 census, employment). This doesn't include people working in shoe factories (181,010), tanneries (33,553), dressmakers and seamstresses (449,342; presumably separated from the first statistic by not being in a factory), dyers (14,050), sewers and sewing machine operatives (291,209), shoemakers and cobblers not in factories (69,570), and the hundreds of thousands of people in the textiles alone (I'm not doing the math, but it's over a million). So we're looking at several million people in the garment industry in the US, in 1910.

In 2020, the combined category of Textile, Apparel, and Furnishing employment contained a total of 16,510 people.

You cannot bring an industry like that back to the US without heavily, heavily subsidizing it to

A. Keep the costs down to where the public can still buy clothing without making it so the people suddenly in this industry are paid pennies on the hour.

B. Train this new generation of people in an industry that barely exists anymore.

C. Build the infrastructure to support the industry, from cotton gins to sewing factories.

You can't bring back an industry that was in the millions in 1910 when there are less than 20,000 people doing it now, in a population that has more than tripled (92mill in 1910, 331mill in 2020).

I just. You have to feed those tariffs into rebuilding the industry. You can't feed them into tax breaks for the wealthy if your stated goal is to rebuild industry. I know that feeding money to his rich friends is the goal for Trump, but I'm so incredibly frustrated that people don't seem to get the basic functions of protectionist tariff application.

Almost forgot to advertize myself since this was just me venting about current events, inspired by a LegalEagle video, but:

Prompt me on ko-fi! I’m trying to move out of my parents’ house.

[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?

[sscardinal7]

Live stream happened, and we got some designs revealed! As well as a couple of information, but not anything major.

Miss conductor, not much of a surprise (but miss girl looks gorgeous as always)

And Node, who is sort of the main antagonist.

I made a prediction before, and April 21 hit,.. so I believe it is well due for an update by now.

While we did not receive nearly as much information as we were anticipating, a design still reveals much on the character itself when going through the lens of a general analysis. In this context, their abilities and name aid significantly in the status and essential depths of their character.

With what I can gather in my research, nodes play an important role in networking because they are the building blocks of a network, precisely the gateway for connection, direction, sending, creating, receiving, and storing data. It requires only software to connect to the network, and it can be run by completely anyone. Applying this knowledge with concept arts of the game and overall worldbuilding of the series itself—everything becomes a lot clearer.

So now, how can we apply this to Node?

Node's name is simple in itself, and it connects to their design as well. They are quite literally made up of nodes. One in their head and the other in their limbs. Their body is translucent.

Network nodes are categorical. Thanks to DJ, we got a helpful hint that incredibly reduced their types to a digestible and simpler layout.

Their name starts with i.

There are countless forms and types of nodes, the hint condensed it down to 2 answers, both starting with the letter “i”

Intermediate nodes

These include devices like routers and switches that help direct data to the correct destination while also receiving it. They don't originate or terminate data but instead pass it along to where it needs to go.

IoT nodes

loT (Internet of Things) Nodes serve as devices that establish connectivity to the Internet via a gateway, effectively enabling the integration of the physical world into the vast realm of the Internet. Within an loT ecosystem, these nodes function as crucial components for bridging the gap between the physical and virtual worlds. Taking charge of managing the entire loT system.

We had seen this ability before vía King's icons' staff, in which it only sucked in Minecraft mobs due to the strong force being their obligatory origin, overriding the game itself due to the overlapping icons.

In regards to King, he used this ability for the very destruction of the game itself, down to the code, reducing it to nothing but.. nothing for the sake of vengeance. Or at least what would have occurred if he did succeed.

way to go CG! Give credit where it's due

Despite this being marked with the intention of erasion and minimization, I think it's safe to group this as receiving and storing data. The two icons combined created a horrifically dramatized version of the force with storing and receiving, which created an incredibly overpowered demolishing force.

In Chosen, we had seen this ability before as well, as the constellations are seen right as he creates the gateway from the Outernet, which sounds awfully familiar. This is what you would refer to as an "extension to the digital world"

I think I can be able to safely group this to direction and creation.

From how I see it, it seems as though it's quite diverse in a fictional worldbuilding sense within characters.

And obviously, it won't be the last time we would see it. It seems as though we would be exploring this quite a lot.

In their cameo, Node is in an assumed line-up with all the major series antagonists.

But if you’re asking me, it seems as though our iconic antagonists appear to be rather victims of Node. Menacingly behind them, their abilities floating not far behind as they're stuck in a swampy substance. But that's just me.

Node's entire antagonistic ordeal is beyond my grasp, but I'm assuming their abilities and attacks surrounds the embodiment of network topology, which would mold and diverse into the connections of nodes. They possibly intend to screw up with the gateways that are responsible for the receiving, directing, and sending of data between various devices through communication links that are defined as network—with the basic visuals of concept art we were given.

(The gateway, ethernet tunnels, the train cough cough)

Node's goal and story behind that destruction remains anonymous, as the writing is still in early development. Regardless, food for thought.

[lanawinterscigarettes]

so... needy bottom dennis x younger male reader?

Bottoms Up || Dennis Reynolds x male! reader

Summary: Dennis gets fucked by a younger guy at the bar

Warnings/contains: smut/nsfw content, brief smoking/drinking by the reader (just because I wanted to add it), age gap (obviously it's legal), Dennis is a bit of a simp because I couldn't resist, swearing, anal fingering (Dennis receiving), penetrative anal sex (bottom Dennis/top reader), slight dom/sub dynamics (dom reader/sub Dennis), spit as lube, unprotected sex (obviously wrap it before you tap it y'know), light praise kink, brief mentions of drugs/drug usage

Beginning notes: god I love this LET THAT OLD MAN GET BENT OVER AND FUCKED!!!

Paddy's Pub was quiet that morning. The rest of The Gang was off doing their own thing, which meant Dennis had to open alone. Whatever. Like he wasn't already used to doing all the hard work and getting none of the glory in return.

That morning, however, was different, because when he went to unlock the front doors there was already somebody waiting outside. You were sitting on the curb with your back facing to him, smoking a cigarette as if you owned the property, or at the very least the land that the bar was sitting on.

Dennis rolled his eyes. Of course, yet another person loitering. Just because Paddy's was a dump didn't mean the local drug addicts and homeless crowd got to use the front of it as their own personal spot to crash. They still had to bring in customers, after all.

"Hey, you can't be hanging around here," he began in an irritated tone, his words quickly dying in his throat when he saw you get up and turn around. God, you were a hell of a lot more attractive from the front than you were the back. And well kept, too. Definitely not a drug addict or a homeless person, though you were still pretty hot if you were.

"Sorry. I was just waiting for you guys to open," you replied with a warm smile, one that had his knees buckling.

Dennis wasn't usually the type to go after younger guys. Younger girls, most definitely, but that was mostly because of how much easier they were to manipulate.

In general, he tried to keep his hook-ups with other guys on the down low so he wouldn't have to listen to Mac whine about it (it was so obvious just how jealous he was), but there was something about you that made him want to throw all caution to the wind.

"Uh, y- yeah, no problem. Come right on in," he stammered out while moving out of the entryway, holding the door open for you so you could go inside with him.

"Thanks."

He didn't miss the way your eyes, which were so magnetic, flickered over him as you passed and seemed to linger on his body, especially his hips. His tongue was heavy and his mouth was dry as he shut the door behind you, any of that typical "Five-Star Man" charm of his gone as his brain was reduced to mush.

"Drink?" He asked, his voice hoarse and just barely audible. He had to get a grip, and soon, before he did something drastic, like beg you to kiss him. God, why did he want you to kiss him so much?

You responded with a simple shrug of the shoulders. "Sure."

Your one word answers weren't helping very much, either. They showed just how calm, cool, and collected you were, none of which he was feeling right now.

He tried not to let his hands shake as he picked up a bottle, acutely aware of the way your eyes were following him as he poured you a drink, filling up the glass about halfway. Any more than that, and he was afraid he might spill it.

"Here you go."

Dennis watched as you took a long drag of your cigarette, blowing the smoke in your mouth off to the side before picking up the glass and downing the drink in a few quick gulps. He swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling as those he might need a drink himself.

The way your throat bobbed with the action of drinking, the way your lips pursed around the cigarette while you inhaled deeply and then expertly dispersed the smoke when you exhaled, the way one hand delicately held your cigarette perched between two fingers while the other hand had a firm grip on the now empty glass- oh, God, he felt as though he was going to faint.

"Another round?" He offered weakly as you set the glass back down, tapping the excess cinders from your cigarette into a nearby ashtray while he spoke.

"Actually, I was thinking about maybe having something a little bit stronger."

He could only watch in awe as you stubbed out the cigarette and reached over the counter, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and yanking him close enough to capture his lips in a deliciously spontaneous kiss that had him gripping the side of the countertop for dear life. You tasted like alcohol and smoke and a secret third thing, something that he could only describe as being uniquely you.

"God, you're so hot," he felt you mumble against his lips, your words causing him to let out a needy little moan that had you smirking with glee. "You know, I happen to have a thing for older guys," you continued before deepening the kiss, your tongue brushing along the inside of his mouth like an artist with a paintbrush. Dear God, did he so desperately want to be your canvas.

"Oh, yeah?" was all he could manage to get out in reply, already too drunk to focus- drunk off the feeling of you.

The lighthearted laugh you let out made him feel a certain type of warmth that he wasn't used to feeling, the kind that not even an entire bottle of vodka could cause.

"You're too cute."

A soft whine of protest escaped him when you let go of the front of his shirt and pulled away, quickly followed by a sudden strike of panic. Were you leaving so soon? Oh, God, please, don't go, please don't leave yet-

Dennis was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice you walking behind the counter where he was, only brought back to reality by the feeling of your arms wrapping around his midsection as your chest pressed flushed against his back.

"Shh, just relax," he heard you murmur next to his ear, your warm breath on the side of his face causing goosebumps to appear and a shiver to go down his spine. "I'm not leaving just yet."

He instantly let out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to relax and melt back in to your touch as your lips traveled from his jaw down to his neck, stopping momentarily so you could leave a hickey right where everyone could see. So much for trying to be discreet about his hook-up with guys.

"Are you okay with bottoming?" You questioned while moving your hands down to the front of his pants, already starting to undo his belt.

Whimpering with need, he desperately shook his head yes, to which you simply let out a soft tsk at.

"I need verbal consent before I continue."

Part of him wanted to scream at you for taking so damn long, but that part was overruled by a softer side of him that didn't come out as often, a side that would do anything to please you.

"Yes. Yes, I'm okay with it," he breathed out while still clutching onto the countertop of the bar for support. He was certain he'd have fallen over by now if he wasn't leaning so heavily against you, not that you seemed to mind.

You hummed in acknowledgement at his words while simultaneously undoing his pants and tugging them down to his knees. "Lean forward on the countertop and bend over," you commanded, something he immediately obeyed with question.

Allowing himself to be so exposed and vulnerable like this wasn't anything that Dennis was used to, but somehow he trusted you enough to properly take care of him despite having only just met.

He did his best to stay still when he felt your hands trailing over his body, moving from his thighs up to his waist and back down again before finally stopping at his hips. His cock was already painfully hard between his legs, and he only had you to blame for it, as no one else had ever made him feel this incredibly turned on by doing so little to make it happen.

"Do you have a problem with spit?"

The question admittedly caught him a bit off guard, though everything you seemed to do had that affect on him. "Wh- I'm sorry?"

"Well, I don't have any lube on me. I forgot to grab some on my way out this morning," you casually explained while your hands moved to spread his ass cheeks apart so you could take a peek at his tight, pink hole, the action causing his breath to caught in his throat.

"Uh, no, I don't have a problem with it." He was barely able to keep himself from tripping over his words as he leaned further against the counter, his hands now clutching onto it so tightly his knuckles were starting to turn white.

"Hm. Well, alright then."

Before he could react, he felt you spit right on his hole, something that had his back arching as a shocked gasp was pulled from his lips. "F- Fuck," he swore quietly under his breath when your fingers moved to carefully push inside him, using your spit as a makeshift lube.

Sure, he was used to taking part in plenty of depraved and disgusting sexual acts, but they were always geared towards someone else. Never before had he been on the receiving end of something so filthy, and he was loving every goddamn second of it.

"Jesus, you're tight," he heard you comment while you slowly but surely worked him open, your fingers alternating between making curling and scissoring motions inside his hole.

Dennis couldn't help the way he started to squirm around underneath you in anticipation, aching to be filled with something much larger than just your two fingers. No, he needed your cock inside him, and he needed it now. He couldn't bear to wait any longer.

He didn't have to worry about doing any begging however (yet, anyway) because you clearly shared the same sentiment that he did judging from the way you pulled your fingers out of him a moment or so later with the intent of fucking him until he couldn't walk.

"Goddamn it," you muttered while checking the pockets of both your jacket and your jeans in hopes of stumbling across a spare condom with no such luck. "I don't have any condoms on me, sorry about that."

"It doesn't matter," he hastily blurted out, not wanting to risk having you leave over something as small and silly as not having a spare condom on you. "I don't care. You don't need it, I promise."

He really hoped that was going to work and that you weren't too particular about wearing a condom when you had sex. Luckily there was an entire box full in the back office in case you insisted on it, but much to his surprise (and delight) you caved in pretty quickly.

"Well, damn, if you say so, then who am I to argue?"

Your words made his heart soar with pride for some strange reason. Maybe it was the fact that he had your instant approval, or maybe it was just the thought of you being inside of him with all raw and no rubber skin to skin contact.

His body tensed up when he heard your pants start to unzip, his heart hammering wildly in his chest like a caged bird that was trying to break free. Oh God, this was it, you were finally going to be inside him after having to wait for so long.

"Try to relax, okay? And let me know if it hurts," came your firm yet gentle order as you lined your cock up with his hole before carefully starting to push in.

You'd barely gotten the tip of it past the rim when he started to whimper, instinctively clenching around nothing as he impatiently waited for you to bottom out.

"You're taking too long," he mumbled in a whiny voice as he shifted his hips, trying to push back against you so he could take you in faster. "I need it, I need you, now." He paused for a moment before adding, "Please."

Dennis felt himself start to panic when you began to pull out, but that panic was quickly overridden by pleasure when you slammed back in all the way, something that caused his back to arch as he let out a guttural cry.

"Oh, God, yes," he whimpered while slumping down against the counter, his fingers tightening their grip on the edge as you fucked him hard and fast. Your hands grabbed onto his hips, holding him still and in place as your own hips snapped forward at a pace that was as relentless as it was intoxicating.

"You take me so well, did you know that?" He vaguely heard your words of praise over the rush of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart in his chest. "You're so good for me, it's like you were made to be bent over and fucked."

He swore he almost came right then and there. Your praise, which was as fervent as it was crude, made him feel lightheaded and giddy, like he was on the best kind of drug possible. Getting fucked by you was even better than crack, and that was saying something.

As great as that felt, though, it all felt a thousand times better the moment your hand reached around his torso so you could wrap your fingers around his cock, which was rock hard and leaking precum down onto the sticky bar floor.

"I want you to cum first, okay?" Your soothing voice murmured right next to his ear, so close and yet so far away. "I want you to cum all over my hand like the desperate little thing that you are, and then after that I'm going to fill you up with my seed until you're full enough to burst."

Dennis just mewled in response, his body shaking with pleasure as you began to quickly jerk him off, pumping his erection with the firm yet gentle grip of your fist. He didn't even have the strength to thrust into your hand, already too far gone off the drunken feeling of having you inside of him.

"Come on, baby, cum for me. Cum for me like a good boy."

That was all it took to push him over the edge. Ropes of his hot and sticky seed spurted from the tip of his cock, covering the floor with the milky colored substance. By that point he could barely stand, leaning fully on the counter in front of him as you continued to use his hole for your own pleasure. He felt both desensitized and hyper aware at once, barely audible pleas slipping from his lips.

"Cum inside me... Please..."

He was so pathetic it was adorable, not to mention a massive turn on. There was a sense of smugness you felt at being able to reduce an older man like him to this kind of mess, fucked silly and limp like a ragdoll as he tried to cling onto his last bit of sanity, something that would surely go away the moment you came inside him.

Letting out a low groan of pleasure, you gave one final thrust as you orgasmed, your own seed spilling deep inside his ass as you came. The only acknowledgement you got from the man underneath you was a pitiful whine, his eyes having fluttered shut sometime between when you both finished as the side of his face was pressed against the bartop.

"Aw, just look at you," he heard your soft cooing as you reached out to run your fingers through his hair, affectionately brushing the dark curls back from his forehead before leaning down to give him a kiss there. "So pretty."

He shuddered at the sensation of your warm lips against his skin, which glistened in the light from the sheen of sweat he'd worked up. It was obvious just how exhausted he was after that. There was no way he was going to be able to walk properly for the next couple of days, and he had you to thank for it.

"Now, I want you to stay here like a good boy for me-" you began as you carefully pulled out, him groaning softly as you did so "-while I go grab a rag to clean you up with. Okay?"

"Y- Yeah," he breathed out in a barely audible voice. He was far too tired to protest, not that he ever would when it came to you. At that point he was just happy you weren't going to be leaving right after. The fact that you were offering to clean him up was just a bonus.

Once you'd successfully cleaned (most) of the cum from off him and got him redressed, you helped lead him over to a booth where the two of you took a seat across from each other, leaving him there for just a moment while you went to grab two bottles of beer for you both. You sat upright across from him as you popped the tops off while he was practically slumped over, barely able to even sit up properly.

Your demeanor remained as casual as ever, while he meanwhile was still trying desperately to catch his fucking breath, because holy shit he did not expect you to leave him that exhausted after just one session, and how were you just sitting over there like nothing happened when he felt as though he was about to pass out?

"You're awfully quiet," you commented as you watched him, the faintest hint of a smirk toying with your lips. "I take it you must not get topped pretty often, then?"

At that, he let out a short laugh, his hands tightly gripping onto his beer bottle as he kept his gaze focused on the tabletop. "Not often, no."

There were so many things he wanted to say to you, several different questions and confessions that had his mind racing, but instead he chose to stay quiet. Something told him you already knew how he felt judging from the mischievous glint in your eye.

Clearing his throat, he lifted up his bottle in your direction, mumbling a half-hearted "cheers" before bringing it to his lips.

"Bottoms up," you playfully added with a suggestive undertone, snickering at the way your words almost caused him to choke on his beer.

You were definitely a keeper for sure. Mac (and the rest of The Gang) would just have to deal with you hanging around. After all, that's what they got for making him open the bar by himself that morning.

End notes: bottom Dennis might be one of my favorite things to write ever and I think it's pretty obvious judging from how long this is lmao

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[hillbillyoracle]

I've been researching and experimenting around rehabilitating my relationship with technology for a few years now. What I've realized is there's a big gap between what the research shows and what gets bumped by algorithms like YouTube - which is probably not an accident given the aims of the algorithm.

Here are my biggest takeaways so far:

- Dumbphones, lockboxes, switching to physical media, most everything you see online about coping with tech overwhelm - these plus a very long drying out period are best in cases of genuine tech addiction. Otherwise it's overconsuming to solve and overconsumption problem. Our attempts to rehabilitate our relationships with tech are being hijacked and comodified which keeps us dissatisfied/on the hamster wheel.

- Not all screen time is created equal - research shows this. Some impacts people positively, some neutrally, some negatively. Targeting screen time as a metric tends to make people feel happier in the short term by minimizing the negative category but this often leads to a level of untenable friction toward the positive and neutral types in the long term that tends to lead to a relapse and "binging" the negative. Shame leads to a repeat of the cycle.

- Social media is consistently shown as one of the most negative impacts on psychological wellbeing. Your biggest bang for your buck will be in either leaving, modifying, or heavily structuring your use of social media.

- If you can't leave social media, taking it off of your phone and using a plug in to block the feed + ads on desktop can help. Still want to see what your friends and family are posting? Create a folder for bookmarks of direct links to their profile/main pages or use an RSS reader like Feedly. Curate it carefully; avoid outrage regardless of whether you share it's leanings.

- There are other targets that I personally think would make people happier with their tech usage overall: eliminating/minimizing subscriptions, avoiding ads, prioritizing privacy, and using human curation. While they each have benefits on their face, the shifts in usage they encourage are ones that people generally report more satisfaction with.

- Eliminating/minimizing subscriptions means more money each month but it also usually means cutting out things like streaming. The big non-financial con of streaming is that it can lead to overwhelm and perfectionism - thereby decreasing satisfaction. The upside of cutting it out is that it pushes people toward renting, owning, or ripping media they love which requires intentionality and curation.

- If really you want free streaming, check out whether your library has Kanopy, Hoopla, or Freegal. You can still get some of the benefits by embracing the reduced selection they offer. They also likely still have CDs and DVDs you can rip for your personal collection.

- Avoiding ads and prioritizing privacy go hand in hand. This usually means using an ad blocker and shifting away from Apple and Google and Meta where possible - deleting apps, switching services, blocking feeds, switching browsers. I can't deGoogle completely at the moment but when I shifted in the ways I was able, I started scoring my time online more positively and I took more breaks/spent less time on it.

- Seek out human curation: library newsletters, listen to local radio, ask your friends and family, check out round ups and newsletters from your favorite creators, share your own. Human curation is less likely to be driven by business interests and while there's no algorithm free media rec these days, they're not being given to trap you on a platform.

- Focusing on a quantitative metric (like screen time) is the gateway to consumerism. Stop looking for a cure and start discovering your personal philosophy. Talking about the algorithmic alienation from our actual feelings and desires is too much for this post but simply put there is no "pure" experience you're missing out on by using a screen. Notice how you're feeling, respond with kindness, and let the rest go. Shame is a weapon in the hands of corporations.

Hope this is helpful for someone out there.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Derek Thompson at The Atlantic:

For decades, America’s young voters have been deeply—and famously—progressive. In 2008, a youthquake sent Barack Obama to the White House. In 2016, voters ages 18 to 29 broke for Hillary Clinton by 18 points. In 2020, they voted for Joe Biden by 24 points. In 2024, Donald Trump closed most of the gap, losing voters under 30 by a 51–47 margin. In one recent CBS poll, Americans under 30 weren’t just evenly split between the parties. They were even more pro-Trump than Boomers over 65. Precisely polling teens and 20-somethings is a fraught business; some surveys suggest that Trump’s advantage among young people might already be fading. But young people’s apparent lurch right is not an American-only trend.

[...]

There is another potential driver of the global right turn: the pandemic.

Pandemics might not initially seem to cash out in any particular political direction. After all, in the spring of 2020, one possible implication of the pandemic seemed to be that it would unite people behind a vision of collective sacrifice—or, at least, collective appreciation for health professionals, or for the effect of vaccines to reduce severe illness among adults. But political science suggests that pandemics are more likely to reduce rather than build trust in scientific authorities. One cross-country analysis published by the Systemic Risk Center at the London School of Economics found that people who experience epidemics between the ages of 18 and 25 have less confidence in their scientific and political leadership. This loss of trust persists for years, even decades, in part because political ideology tends to solidify in a person’s 20s.

The paper certainly matches the survey evidence of young Americans. Young people who cast their first ballot in 2024 were “more jaded than ever about the state of American leadership,” according to the Harvard Political Review. A 2024 analysis of Americans under 30 found the “lowest levels of confidence in most public institutions since the survey began.” In the past decade alone, young Americans’ trust in the president has declined by 60 percent, while their trust in the Supreme Court, Wall Street, and Congress has declined by more than 30 percent.

[...]

These changes may not be durable. But many people’s political preferences solidify when they’re in their teens and 20s; so do other tastes and behaviors, such as musical preferences and even spending habits.

[...]

New ideologies are messy to describe and messier still to name. But in a few years, what we’ve grown accustomed to calling Generation Z may reveal itself to contain a subgroup: Generation C, COVID-affected and, for now, strikingly conservative. For this micro-generation of young people in the United States and throughout the West, social media has served as a crucible where several trends have fused together: declining trust in political and scientific authorities, anger about the excesses of feminism and social justice, and a preference for rightward politics.

The Atlantic had a story on why a portion of Gen Z went rightwards, and COVID played a large role in that.

[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?

Tags (LMK if you wanna be tagged!): @toxicanonymity @motelprincess444 @epicrainbowsheep @anama-cara @sheepdogchick3

@denileisariver @lochnymph @mewantpeepaw @fandomdaydreamer @r3dheadedwitch

PLEASE COMMENT LIKE REBLOG IM BEGGING IM PLEADING IM CRYING

PART 2

Violent Heart Masterlist

Full Masterlist of all my work

[cripplecharacters]

Hi there!! I have an oc with a unilateral complete cleft lip & palate and I wanted to know if there’s anything I haven’t considered that I should think about or if there’s anything I got wrong / that should be changed! The oc in question was created for a medieval fantasy game’s setting but one with with easily accessible healing magic, so I’m saying they went through a relatively modern timeline of surgeries with the help of healing magic - cleft lip and palate repair, bone grafts, etc. I’ve made the decision not to have them have any revisions or rhinoplasty, in part because I don’t think the magical healing would be able to achieve the precise effects of modern plastic surgery and without modern surgical knowledge it wouldn’t be perfect, so their lip has clear scarring & a little gap where their lips meet & their nose is uneven. The character in question is the charming bard/spy archetype. I wanted them to be a fat disabled queer who’s pretty as hell and knows it. I’m not grappling with disfiguremisia in their story and they have a very healthy relationship with their appearance. They’re also not the only oc I have with a facial difference, of the other two ocs I made for their game (who they’re allied with) both have battle scars and one has albinism & nystagmus, and their mentor is heavily scarred and is missing an eye & some fingers. I might also give them a childhood friend with a cleft lip as well. Basically they do have community, which I know is something this blog mentions a lot.

I also wanted to consider how their cleft would impact them beyond just the visible difference. They have a slightly hypernasal voice, difficulty with super crunchy/overly spicy foods, hearing loss leading them to use an enchanted hearing aid (I’m HoH myself, I’m basically writing it as identical to a modern hearing aid but powered by magic), reduced movement in their upper lip from the scarring, and some breathing difficulties due to their nasal airway being a little squished down (so I had them play string instruments rather than woodwind or brass for this reason). Is there anything else I should consider with regards to the impacts of their cleft lip/palate that I haven’t, or anything that needs fixing? Tysm in advance for your time and thoughts !! ❤️

2/2 AH. Cleft lip bard anon - I forgot to add that the character in question is also missing a tooth around her cleft and has some crookedness / crowdedness going on, I didn’t forget the oral/dental component (I missed that lmao, I have a high arched palate with teeth fuckiness so I give most of my ocs imperfect teeth so I just didn’t think of it until now)

Hey!

I think you have a well researched character going on. A lot of the results/complications they have do sound like something a person with an imperfect repair surgery would have!

Other things you could do are honestly optional, since you're already doing a lot to make it clear that it's not an aesthetic choice. One thing that could be important for a bard character is difficulty with whistling (I never met anyone with a cleft lip that could, which is very much anecdotal) and the nasality of their singing, though there's actual research claiming that for people with cleft lips, the hypernasal tone actually decreases while singing (as opposed to regular speech). So it could be a neat detail to add.

Since your story doesn't deal with disfiguremisia, I don't really have any general advice for facial differences. But it's obviously great that there's more than just one character :)

TLDR: this sounds like a well researched character, and you clearly took their job into account while doing said research. Unless you're trying to write a story about having a cleft lip/palate, you're probably good already.

Followers with cleft lip/and or palate are welcome to add on :)

mod Sasza

[fernpetals]

Dollhouse

An extension of THIS ask

More of Yandere Donaka Mark and his doll-kink

Also, @johnwickb1tsch your latest chapter did something to me. The result is this... Warning: Implications of prolonged captivity, conditioning? (not sure), dollification, objectification, implied age gap, close monitoring, lack of control and choice for the reader, implied non-con, dub-con, Donaka is a bad, bad man

Credit to the GIF owner.

Unedited Piece

Thinking about the Dollification-Kink drabble. Somehow Donaka Mark comes out as the most terrifying and…intriguing. Imagine him preparing a full room with details about you and your life with frightening precision. 

The stuffed toy you loved so much but is lost, given away or spoiled somehow? The room has a stuffed toy that looks exactly like that one. 

If you are into hair bands and skincare, there is a collection of silk scrunchies matching each dress and tops filling the closet. If you are more of a tomboy, he will make particular efforts by switching things into more feminine tastes. You are his doll, he will bend you into the perfect version of yourself that he can already envision. He will start by forcing you to keep longer hair and making you wear soft, feminine dresses. And if you are already more feminine, you have no idea how much it pleases him.

The furniture pieces are significant as well—soft, soothing tones–pastel to muted long with a refreshing accent. It is all detailed, including the furniture and the walls—everything is selected with care. The bed is perhaps a little more chilling—it is from your childhood home. Maybe a piece of furniture that has been with your family for generations? Custom woodwork, heavy, gorgeous and screaming ‘vintage’. If it is four-postered, it is easier for him, or he has some ‘improvements’ made, making it perfect for handcuffs. 

When it comes to Donaka, it is hard not to talk about his corruption kink. He is the type to corrupt you, step by step and he is very thorough about him. Imagine him instructing you to touch yourself while he watches. No angle adjustment is needed; no matter where you look or turn, you are facing a lens hidden in plain sight. So, don't skip it and try to lie he will know. I can also see him taking pleasure in exploring different sex toys with you, some of which you did not even know existed, but now you do. Better corporate, the handcuffs are there for a reason. He will have you reduced to a snivelling and mewling mess with tears and your essence leaking. Aren't you a pathetic little doll? trying to fight him? It's funny, really.

Your meals are closely monitored, if you are really craving something, it has to come from either a place he selects or the chef in his kitchen. Your health cannot be compromised---you also have strict meal timings, and a specially prepared diet when you are menstruating.

Even the length of your hair is decided by him, mostly, he prefers you in long hair.

It is a whole world in itself, and once you enter it, it is like his live dollhouse—especially with the number of cameras and bugs. No corner is safe from his eyes.

Imagine him filling a section with selected make-up, somehow for every attire, there is a shade of lipstick, eyeshadow, blush and nail paint that go perfectly with it. Every morning, you are expected to don a dress with a matching pair of undergarments, nail paint and lipstick.

And every night, he takes the pleasure of taking the pretty little dress off, as if he has not been watching you all day when he is not working.

If you are good enough, he might gift you a sweet, little puppy to keep you company.

And when he finally feels that you are improving, and reaching your true potential, he might ease it all a little bit. Wouldn’t you like a nice trip to the boutique and spin for him in all the dresses he’s going to buy you?

****

And thank you @gea-chan96 for the Moodboard