brokenmemoriesblog

[brokenmemoriesblog]

devil’s advocate || joel miller x f!reader

happy belated birthday to the man himself :3

pairing: daddy dom!joel x f!reader rating: 18+ explicit minors dni  summary: joel misses you while he’s away at work. warnings: [no-outbreak], established relationship, age gap [reader is 20’s, joel is late 50’s], dd/lg dynamics, daddy kink, sending nudes, m!masturbation, possessive language, pet names [little bug, baby angel], mentions of reader wearing a collar, references to: smut, tummy bulge, and creampies, joel’s pov. word count: 2.3k 

a/n: let’s pretend this isn’t my second fic of joel having a wank lmao. anyways! this is another little snippet of life with daddy joel. however, it can be read as a standalone, but if you would like some context of how this all started, i recommend reading intermission first. a gazillion thank you’s to @pedrospatch for beta’ing this for me, for all the reassurance, and not letting me get cold feet and to @dinandwhiskey for yapping about these two with me endlessly from day one, this silly little concept wouldn’t exist without you <33

series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | playlist

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Joel’s in his office looking at blueprints when his phone buzzes against his leg. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, eyes squinting as the bright screen lights up his dim office. His heart pinches in his chest when he sees your name across his screen. 

do you like this one daddy?

Attachment: 1 image

He taps on the notification. His mouth hangs open, throat dry, dumbfounded as he takes in the picture. You, on your knees in the bedroom, wearing a white slip nightgown. The sleeves cut off at your shoulders; there’s a lace trimming along the neckline — too high for his liking — that it almost meets the heart-shaped charm dangling from your collar; angel, it reads; he smiles to himself when he sees it. The lace continues down your front and stops at your middle, where a matching white belt cinches in your waist, accentuating your figure. The silk material cuts at your knees. 

Jesus Christ. There’s a tightness in his stomach, and somewhere else. He knows what you’re doing, knows this is a game you play very well. You know you don’t need his opinion or permission. Everything you wear, everything you do drives him fucking crazy. You drive him crazy. 

Whatever you like, angel, he types out. His thumb hovers over the too small blue arrow when another text with a different photo attached comes through. 

or how about this one?

This time the slinky nightgown is baby pink, lace running across the deep neckline. The material clings to your breasts so well, he can tell your nipples are peaked beneath it. There’s matching lace at the bottom of the skirt, cuts high up your left thigh, and a tiny bow sits atop the slit, identical to the one in between your breasts. 

The stiffness in his jeans starts to throb. You’ve got him wrapped around your pretty little finger, so much you’ve conditioned him to get hard anytime he sees– thinks of you. 

He’s so damn hard. Rock solid, and he can’t wait any longer. He pops open his jeans, and drags the zipper down too quick; it snags on denim. He doesn’t even hesitate to unzip the metal teeth of his fly entirely, he’s too desperate. Joel shucks his cotton boxers down enough to clumsily pull his already leaking cock out. He spits in his hand, groans lowly as he curls it around his heavy length, and starts pumping. 

Joel’s head falls back, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he fucks his fist. He was half-hard all day, All your fault, he thinks. Trotting into the kitchen in one of your pretty little dresses while he cooked up your breakfast, your head bopping along to the record he’d put on as you rounded the kitchen island to take your seat at the table, plate full of eggs and bacon in hand to start your morning. Hips swaying, frilly fabric swishing, barely covering the plump curve of your ass, but just enough to tease him. Something you’re always doing.  

His mind wanders. Imagines what the material you’re wearing in the photo feels like in his hands. You both favor the frilly dresses, tiny and soft against your skin. He’s always careful not to rip the delicate fabric; he likes the sight of fucking you in them more than ripping them into pieces. But he likes the silk ones too; likes running his roughened fingertips along the lace trimming, tracing it over your breasts, following the line down your body until his fingers meet your bare thighs. His hands always dipping beneath the hem, seeking more, as if it’s second nature to him. Fingers finding your sex — always dripping with arousal — then his palms move to the swell of your ass, gripping and digging into your plush flesh, pulling you closer into his chest and both of you moaning in unison. 

He groans, bites his bottom lip to stifle it. He can’t be too loud, not with his crew on the other side of the door. You make him feel like a damn teenager. Making him so hard that he has to jack his cock in the quiet dark of his office, willing himself not to make a sound because he’s too impatient to wait until he returns to you. That’s what you do to him. 

Joel can never get through a full workday without thinking of you. You…simply living and breathing is all that manages to take up his mind. All he ever thinks about is you, consumes his very being. All of this is nothing. Serves as nothing but a distraction for him until he can get back to you. Never not checking every damn clock or a crew members' watch at every turn on every job site, nearly begging for the day....everyday to be over, wants nothing more than to take you into his bed or take you right there on the couch or the kitchen if that’s where you are when he gets home. Wants to spread you out and split you open on his cock, burying himself in until he meets resistance and elicits that soft gasp from your lips, the one that makes him forget about the world for a moment or two. Wants to grab your hand and cup his shape through your tummy and tell you, Feel me right there, baby? Daddy’s always right there, ain’t he? 

He hears your moan echoing in his ears, and the quick tugs of his fist increase almost unconsciously. He used to think the sounds you made were his favorite. Your giggles when he pulls at your ankles to bring you closer. Your whimpers when he teases his cock over your panties (in retaliation for teasing him). Your body writhing beneath the broad weight of him when he finally slips it in; daddy, pouring from your lips as he plays with you.

Now, he reckons it’s more than that.

It’s how you taste on his tongue — warm and sweet when he glides it through your drooling folds. It’s how you feel around him — your little wet cunt sucking him in, made just right for him. Your skin, soft and delicate, waiting to be marked black and blue. Your body putty and pliant, curling and melting into him on the couch or in his bed after a long day. It’s how you trust him completely — without hesitation as he does what he pleases with you. It's how you look at him — gorgeous wide eyes sparkling and a sleepy smile on your face beaming up at him in the soft morning glow when you wake up beside him. It’s the first thing he sees every morning and his heart fucking flutters.

It’s everything. All of it and more. 

His fist tightens around his cock, thumb sweeping over his wide tip — leaking and an angry shade of purple. Angry because his fist isn’t enough; it’ll never be enough–

His phone buzzes as a third photo with a message pops into the text thread, his head snaps down and his eyes meet the photo in a nanosecond.  

is it too short daddy? 

He inhales sharply through his nose as he studies the photo; you’re wearing the same outfit, only now you’re bent at the waist, your hands flat on the mattress, and leaning forward on the balls of your feet — ruffled white socks sitting low on your ankles. The lace hem of your skirt has ridden up just enough to reveal yourself to him. You. On full display — only for him to see — and yet–

Not short enough, he wants to respond. 

He sets his phone down on his denim-clad thigh, thumb tapping on the photo before his fingers pinch outward, zooming in.  

Christ. There they are. Taunting him beneath the thin pink cherry speckled panties that barely cover your holes, just waiting for him — waiting to be filled until you’re sore and leaking and so full of him he has to work his cum back into your spent hole. 

Hole. 

He hasn’t delivered on his promise to fill the other one. Not in the way you’ve been asking. 

Baby angel, we oughta do it right. We oughta go slow. 

He’s been training you for the last little while; he knows he’s too big to take all at once. One day he’ll make good on his promise. Daddy always keeps his promises, don’t he little bug? 

His phone buzzes once more, cutting through his reverie. You sent him a fourth photo with–

miss you daddy :( 

The skirt of your nightgown is bunched around your hips, your thighs spread and fingers skimming beneath the band of your panties, his eyes trail down, following the line of your small fingers, and then he sees it–

The wet stain of your slick on the front of your baby pink panties; your cute little clit, soft and puffy against the sheer material — peeking out — almost like it’s calling out for him.  

Fuck. Poor baby. Daddy’s comin’. Just a little longer. 

Joel’s jaw clenches, and the tension pulls taut in his stomach. He should be there. Needs to be there. Push the head of his cock past your puffy folds — returning home — repenting for being away for so long, for leaving you at all. Warm velvet walls pulsing around him as he thrusts in, in, in. 

Beads of sweat roll off his forehead and into his temples, pencil slipping from behind his ear and clattering on the wooden floor as he lets his head roll back on his neck, hitting the back of the chair, his eyes slip closed. Lets himself think of sinking into you, the warmth of your skin against his, your velvet cunt snug around him — soft and swollen and wet — fluttering around him, squeezing him until he comes.

His hips falter, breath now shaky and weak, muscles in his belly tightening as the coil deep within him threatens to snap. Joel retracts his left hand from his phone and lifts it to cup the weight of his balls, kneading gently at the stretchy flesh. His office chair squeaks as his back arches, canting his hips upwards, rutting into his own fist — desperate — like a fucking puppy.  His left hand squeezes around his balls tighter, right arm tenses as his wrist pumps faster — still not enough. 

He hears you then — all whiny and meek — Daddy. Please. Daddy, fill me up, need it inside please. 

And it’s all he needs. 

“Ohh baby,” he breathes, mouth falling open, filthy groans clawing through the walls of his throat, echoing against the ceiling and the four walls of his office, as the tidal waves crash over him and take him under. 

His head snaps down in time to watch his release, cock pulsing and twitching as thick, hot ropes of cum spurting from his tip coat the distressed wood of his desk, landing within a hair's breadth of the blueprints. Shouldn’t be there. He thinks of painting your insides with him, filling you up with his spend and making you his, over and over and over. 

Fuck, that’s it — Fuck, he groans. 

He’s in a trance, and it’s almost like he’s coming again. His thighs tremble as his thumb glides across his tip, and he imagines the curved head nudging against that special place inside you while your nails scrape across the nape of his neck, marking him as yours. He lets his eyes close slowly, and then he sees you, his eyes dancing across your face, watching as it twists up in pleasure as his thick head prods at his favorite place again and again. Until your eyes water and you’re gushing around him, dripping cunt clutching him until you milk him of everything he has to offer, sanctifying himself with every last drop.

His guttural groans settle into tired sighs, and his wrist slows as he nears the end of his orgasm, but he doesn’t stop, not until he’s certain he’s milked himself completely, just as he would if he were nestled inside you. When the last of his release dribbles down onto his fist, body still shaking and pulsating from his climax, he thinks he’s never come this hard by his own hand. 

His hand comes to a stop, and his breath begins to steady, chest rising and falling as his lungs fill with air. His left hand finds his phone again, props it up while his right still clutches his softening cock, hissing as his fist meets the swollen cockhead — dripping and covered with cum. He snaps a picture, shaky fingers backspace his previous message, and instead types out, Naughty little girl. Look what you made Daddy do. And taps the small arrow without another thought, sending it on its way to you. And he blames it on the blood pumping and surge of energy rushing through him in the wake of his intense orgasm — and you for making him feel alive. 

He doesn’t wait for a response before he sends another message.

It’s perfect, angel. Keep it on till I get home. Got a surprise for you.  

You reply seconds later: 

yes daddy 🩷

He smirks. Attagirl. 

Joel clicks his phone off, runs a hand down the scruff of his beard before leaning over his desk with a grunt, careful as to not sully his shirt with his release. He fumbles around his junk drawer for a small pack of pink heart-themed tissues, dabs at droplets of sweat on his forehead before wiping up his spend on his fist and desk. He tucks his soft cock back beneath his black boxers, and takes a moment to unsnag his fly, zipping up his jeans. His aching knees regain function, and he stands, heavy legs dragging him through his office and stalking towards the door. When his weak fist meets cold steel, he makes a mental note to stop by the store to pick up the butterfly charms he promised you.

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[brokenmemoriesblog]

(Open heart on fire re-write, the one where MC is not MIA.)

Ethan Ramsey strode through the corridors of Edenbrook, his steps brisk and purposeful. It had been just over a year since he’d taken the position of Chief, and while the job was certainly not without its challenges—paperwork, meetings, administrative headaches—there was a quiet satisfaction in it.

The kind of satisfaction that he would never openly admit, of course. After all, this was Ethan Ramsey; complaining was second nature. He had a knack for finding the flaws, the inefficiencies, and the countless ways things could be better. Yet, amidst the grumbling, there was a thrill to the position—a sense of ownership and control over the medicine he had devoted his life to.

But it wasn’t just the job that gave him that feeling. There was something, or rather someone, who had made this past year feel different. His gaze drifted to the diagnostic wing as he walked, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The thing he adored most about his role wasn’t found in policy changes or budget meetings; it was the fact that Elle worked just a few corridors away. Their paths crossed often—sometimes by coincidence, sometimes not. The days were busier, more unpredictable now, but he loved the way his heart skipped whenever he saw her coming down the hallway or caught a glimpse of her in the midst of a case. It was like they were connected by an invisible thread, always pulling them back to each other, no matter how chaotic the hospital became. Even now, as he walked the familiar halls, he felt the pull, an unspoken anticipation humming beneath his cool exterior.

As he rounded a corner, he could see Harper talking animatedly to a group of interns near the elevators, her sharp eyes catching his the second he approached. A brief nod was exchanged between them—a silent acknowledgment that he was, indeed, doing what he did best—keeping things running smoothly, but also always keeping an eye out for her. Because as much as he was Chief, Ethan Ramsey was also still very much a doctor. And part of being a doctor meant knowing where his most important people were. Especially when one of them was Elle.

Although, that morning, Ethan had woken up to find Elle still in bed, her face flushed and her voice thick with congestion. She’d caught a nasty cold, the kind that left her sniffling and coughing weakly under a pile of blankets. It was clear she wasn’t in any shape to make it to work, but she had insisted he go in anyway. She’d given him that familiar, stubborn look, the one that said she wasn’t to be argued with, even though she was barely able to sit up without a bout of coughing. “You’re Chief now, Ethan,” she’d said, her voice hoarse yet determined. “You have to be there. No arguments.” He’d lingered by her side, reluctant to leave her alone while she was sick, but eventually, after a lot of gentle persuasion on her part, he’d relented. It was typical Elle, putting him and the hospital before herself, and he couldn’t help but admire her even as he worried. So, with a soft kiss to her forehead and a promise to check in between cases, he had pulled on his lab coat and headed out the door, her insistence echoing in his mind as he left.

Ethan pulled out his phone, standing just outside the Diagnostics Team’s workspace. With a quick swipe, he opened a new message to Elle, his fingers moving swiftly across the screen:

How are you feeling? Did you get any rest? I’ll be home as soon as I can. Let me know if you need anything.

He hit send, his mind half-focused on Elle as he slid his phone back into his coat pocket. Without thinking, he turned the corner—and immediately collided with Harper Emery, nearly sending her files spilling to the floor.

“Ethan!” Harper exclaimed, catching herself and laughing a bit. “You’ve really got to watch where you’re going. Distracted, huh? You look like a lost puppy.”

Ethan took a step back, his expression neutral as he steadied her by the elbow. “Sorry, Harper,” he said, his voice a bit clipped. “Just trying to check in on Elle.”

Harper raised an eyebrow, her expression softening. “She’s off today, isn’t she? Is she alright?”

Ethan sighed, a subtle frustration seeping into his posture as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, she’s got some kind of cold,” he said, his voice a mix of concern and exhaustion. “Elle insisted I come in, said it’s nothing serious. But you know how she is—stubborn as hell.”

Harper nodded knowingly. “She never does things halfway, does she?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Ethan admitted, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’d drag herself in if I let her. But I told her to stay home and rest.” He dropped his hand from his face, looking directly at Harper. “It’s just… hard not to worry.”

“Well,” Harper said, her tone shifting to something lighter, “if she’s as tough as you say, she’ll be back before you know it. In the meantime, we need you here, Chief. Diagnostics could use your brain today.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly, the familiar walls of the hospital settling him back into his role. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Harper,” he replied dryly, though there was a glimmer of humor in his eyes.

Before Harper could respond, a deafening explosion rocked the building, rattling the windows and sending a powerful shockwave through the hospital. The ceiling above them cracked, releasing a shower of dust and debris as an ear-splitting roar filled the air. Alarms blared instantly, drowning out any coherent sounds, and the floor seemed to tremble beneath their feet.

In an instinctive, protective motion, Ethan threw his arm around Harper’s shoulders, yanking her down and shielding her with his body as chunks of the ceiling gave way, slamming onto the floor with a thunderous crash just inches from where they stood. Plaster and metal rained down around them, filling the air with a choking cloud of dust. The acrid smell of smoke hit his nostrils almost immediately, thick and suffocating, forcing him to breathe shallowly.

Ethan’s heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline searing through his veins, and he turned quickly, scanning the hall for any signs of immediate danger. “Harper!” he barked, his voice rough with urgency as he pulled her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, eyes wide, her face pale with shock. “No, I’m okay,” she managed to say, but the words were barely audible over the cacophony of alarms.

Through the settling dust, Ethan could see the panic starting to unfold. Staff and patients alike were scrambling, shouts and cries blending into a chaotic symphony of fear. He had no time to think, only to act. “We need to move!” he said, gripping Harper’s arm tighter, guiding her through the rubble-strewn corridor.

They stumbled forward, dodging debris as they fought their way down the smoke-filled hallway. The lights flickered ominously, casting eerie shadows across the chaos that had suddenly enveloped Edenbrook. With every step, the situation seemed to grow more dire—plumes of smoke curling up from the fissures in the walls, the distant sound of shattering glass echoing like a warning.

Ethan’s mind raced, his instincts overriding any sense of personal safety. He knew the protocols, knew what he had to do, but as the floor buckled beneath his feet, he couldn’t help but think of Elle—sick and vulnerable, alone in their apartment while the world seemed to be falling apart around him.

“Stay low!” he shouted to Harper as they pressed on, his gaze shifting towards the exit signs glowing dimly through the haze. His only goal now was to get to the source of the chaos and make sure they could stabilize whatever the hell had just happened before it got any worse.

Ethan’s mind flashed back to the mandatory fire training they’d all gone through—the RACE protocol drilled into them year after year: Rescue, Alarm, Confine, Extinguish. It was all muscle memory now, taking over as his logical mind raced to keep up with the chaos. As Harper sprinted towards the closest fire exit, he felt the weight of his responsibility settle firmly on his shoulders. He had to take charge.

“Nurse!” he called out to a nearby staff member, urgency sharpening his voice. “Clear the hallways and get anyone in immediate danger to a safe place!”

He moved further down the smoke-filled corridor, his steps quick and purposeful, scanning for any sign of immediate danger. As he rounded a corner, he nearly collided with Jackie and Bryce, both of them looking wide-eyed but focused amid the chaos.

“Dr. Varma,” he said, locking eyes with Jackie, his voice calm despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Assess how many patients need assistance with transport. We have to prioritize them.”

Jackie gave a sharp nod, determination replacing the fear on her face.

“On it, Dr. Ramsey,” she replied, turning swiftly to begin her task. She disappeared into the smoke, her footsteps already fading.

Ethan pivoted to face Bryce. “Lahela,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “Inspect all windows and doors. Keep them shut. We can’t risk feeding the fire with any oxygen from outside.”

Bryce didn’t hesitate, giving a quick salute before sprinting towards the nearest corridor, shutting doors as he went.

Jackie’s voice cut through the confusion, her tone edged with worry as she looked back at Ethan. “Do we have any idea what that explosion was?”

Ethan’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as he tried to maintain control over his rising anger. “Could be oxygen tanks,” he said, his eyes flickering over the debris scattered around them. “We won’t know for sure until the fire department gets here,” he added, a hard edge to his voice. He couldn’t hide his frustration, a mix of worry and impatience boiling just beneath the surface. “If they ever get here.”

The uncertainty gnawed at him. As much as he trusted his instincts and the training he’d been through countless times, it was impossible to predict what kind of situation they were dealing with until the experts arrived. For now, all he could do was make sure his team was in control and keep everyone safe.

Ethan shook off the lingering irritation that gnawed at him. This wasn’t the time to lose focus. “Get back to your tasks, and make sure the doors are closed behind you!” he barked at Jackie and Bryce, watching as they moved swiftly back into action.

He circled back to the atrium, eyes scanning the chaotic scene. Nurses were guiding patients to the exits, some wheeling stretchers, others ushering those who could walk on their own. It was a practiced chaos, the kind Ethan thrived in. He quickly assigned more staff to ensure each patient was accounted for and directed towards safety.

Suddenly, a frantic voice rose above the cacophony. Ethan turned sharply, spotting a teenage girl who looked overwhelmed, her eyes wide with terror. “Someone, please help! My brother—I can’t find him!” she cried, her hands shaking.

Ethan was at her side in an instant, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring despite the chaos swirling around them. “Take a deep breath. When was the last time you saw him?”

“Alicia!” A voice called out from behind, cutting off the girl’s frantic reply. Ethan’s gaze whipped around, and he spotted a firefighter emerging through the thick smoke. In his arms, he carried a young boy, coughing and dazed but seemingly unharmed.

Relief washed over the girl—Alicia—as she rushed to her brother’s side. The firefighter, with his perfectly styled brunette hair and a jawline that looked chiseled out of marble, barely had a smudge of ash on him. Ethan’s gratitude mingled with a flash of annoyance, the man looking more like a plastic firefighter Ken doll than someone who had just dragged a child out of a burning building.

Ethan watched as the firefighter handed his helmet to the boy, a wide grin spreading across Cody’s face. “Cody! Thank god you’re okay!” Alicia sobbed, pulling her brother into a tight embrace.

Phoenix, the firefighter who’d carried Cody out, crouched down to ruffle the kid’s hair. “He’s gonna be just fine, don’t worry,” he said warmly. “Cody, why don’t you tell your sister how brave you were?”

Cody beamed, standing a little taller. “Firefighter Phoenix says maybe one day, I can join the squad!” he announced proudly.

With a hearty chuckle, Phoenix placed his oversized helmet on the boy’s head, tilting it until it sat just right. “Looks good to me. What do you think?” he asked, winking at Alicia.

Ethan, arms folded, let out a soft scoff under his breath. Figures the flame jockey would be a softie, he thought. Clearing his throat, he forced himself to be professional. “You did a good thing there,” he acknowledged, nodding to Phoenix. “The poor kid was out of her mind before you got here.”

Phoenix’s warm expression cooled instantly as he turned to Ethan, his eyes narrowing. “Let me guess, you’re the stooge in charge here,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Ethan felt his jaw tighten. “I am… Dr. Ethan Ramsey, Chief of Medicine,” he replied, barely containing the irritation that flared within him. “And you are…?”

“Shea Phoenix,” the firefighter shot back, “Battalion Chief, Engine 57. I need you to get your people on top of evacuation.”

Ethan’s frown deepened, his voice firm. “We are on top of evacuation, Phoenix. There isn’t a smoke alarm going off because a tray of cookies burnt.” He glared at the firefighter, who seemed unfazed. “Hospitals have protocols that best serve our patients—protocols which you should be familiar with—”

Phoenix waved him off, turning away mid-sentence. “Amelia!” he barked over his shoulder. “Make sure the flames are contained at the point of origin.”

Ignoring the frustration boiling in his chest, Ethan forced himself to focus. Phoenix’s arrogance was infuriating, but there were bigger priorities. Phoenix turned back to him, his face all business. “Ramsey, I need to secure electrical power,” he said, voice clipped. “Where’s a map of your systems?”

Ethan paused, caught off guard. “I—I’ll get it,” he said, suppressing a flash of annoyance.

“I also need to know where your generator room is, which areas are supported by emergency power?” Phoenix pressed, his expression unyielding. “Stat.”

Ethan drew in a slow, calming breath, reigning in his temper. “I’m happy to help,” he said through clenched teeth, his thoughts boiling. Help get your pompous ass out of my hair, that is. He handed over the information Phoenix needed, then quickly resumed organizing the evacuation, determined not to let the firefighter’s attitude get in the way of his focus.

After what felt like an eternity, the evacuation was complete. Patients and staff gathered outside the hospital, huddled in groups as the fire department worked to ensure the building’s safety. Ethan stood apart from the others, arms crossed as he watched Phoenix confer with his team, the smoke clearing in the morning light.

Phoenix walked over, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ethan. For a long moment, they said nothing, just staring at the charred windows and smoke-stained walls of Edenbrook. Finally, Ethan broke the silence with a heavy sigh. “I appreciate your help,” he said, his tone measured, “despite the fact that it is literally your job.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“But,” Ethan continued, his voice softening, “everyone is safe thanks to you. I owe you one.”

For a second, the fire chief looked surprised. Then, he nodded, the smirk fading to something more genuine. “Just doing what I’m trained to do, Doc,” he said. “But you and your team kept it together. We were a damn good team today.”

Ethan gave a reluctant nod, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t often he met someone as stubborn and relentless as himself. “Just don’t expect me to say that twice,” he muttered.

Ethan stepped back inside Edenbrook, his sharp gaze sweeping over the first floor. There was some smoke damage—blackened patches here and there on the walls and ceilings—but nothing catastrophic. The firefighters had done an impressive job containing the flames to the second floor. For the first time since the chaos began, he allowed himself to exhale, relief mingling with grudging admiration. Guess the flame jockeys are good for something, he thought.

He felt the unmistakable presence of Phoenix behind him, the firefighter’s broad shadow stretching across the floor. “You look like you’re choking on praise there, Doc,” Phoenix said, a teasing edge in his voice. “It won’t kill you to admit I know what I’m doing.”

Ethan smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re right,” he said, his voice dry, “but it might take a year off my life.”

Phoenix laughed, the sound echoing in the hallway, carrying a hint of camaraderie beneath the banter. “Nothing’s gonna topple that ego of yours, is it, Doc?” he challenged, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Ethan let out a weary sigh, crossing his arms. “You can’t talk,” he shot back. “Yours is as big as mine.”

Phoenix’s grin widened, and for a second, the tension between them eased, the lingering scent of smoke and the distant crackle of radios fading into the background. “Touché,” Phoenix conceded, nodding in acknowledgment. “But let’s just agree it’s our egos that got the job done today.”

“Maybe,” Ethan allowed, his eyes flicking to the scorched stairs leading to the second floor. “Or maybe it’s because, for once, we didn’t get in each other’s way.”

Phoenix chuckled, clapping Ethan on the shoulder with a heavy, calloused hand. “I’ll take that as the closest thing to a compliment I’m gonna get.”

Ethan shook his head, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips. “Don’t push it, Phoenix,” he warned, but there was no heat behind his words. They stood there a moment longer, two men who’d just gone toe-to-toe with disaster, silently acknowledging the uneasy respect that had begun to take root between them.

The entire afternoon had been a blur, a nonstop whirlwind of assessing, stabilizing, and coordinating the aftermath of the explosion. The doctors and firefighters worked together with the kind of synchronicity that only comes from experience, their movements efficient and precise. As the last of the smoke finally dissipated, the sun had long dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow over the hospital grounds. Ethan glanced at the clock, the exhaustion of the day pressing down on his shoulders. Edenbrook and Engine 57 had made a pretty damn good team, he had to admit.

Standing near the paperwork, Ethan read through the reports one last time. “Not one single casualty. I’m impressed,” he murmured to no one in particular.

Phoenix, who had been standing nearby, looked over his shoulder at the paper and grinned. “Careful, Ramsey. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Ethan smirked, shaking his head. “My mistake,” he replied dryly, “it wasn’t meant to be.”

Phoenix chuckled quietly, but his expression softened as he grew more serious. “Well, I don’t know about you, but after today, I’m in desperate need of a drink. You and your team should join us.”

Ethan paused for a moment, the thought of some well-deserved R&R tempting him more than he’d care to admit. After the madness of the day, it wasn’t a bad idea. “I think we’ve earned a Scotch at Donahue’s,” he said with a grin.

“Excellent choice.”

Donahue’s was one of those old-school bars that seemed to capture the essence of a long, hard day’s work. The dim lights cast a golden glow over the aged wooden tables and the mismatched bar stools. The air was thick with chatter, laughter, and the sound of glasses clinking together as the crew from Edenbrook and Engine 57 relived the chaos they’d just survived. The bar smelled faintly of whiskey and wood polish, and the music in the background was a steady hum of classic rock—nothing too loud, just enough to settle into a rhythm as people relaxed.

Ethan and Phoenix found their way to the bar, where Reggie, the bartender, greeted them with a smile that said he’d seen his fair share of trouble over the years.

Ethan leaned against the counter. “Whiskey, did you say?” he asked, his tone more curious than anything.

Phoenix nodded, tapping the bar with his fingers. “Neat.”

Ethan turned to Reggie, ordering their drinks. “A Scotch and a whiskey, please.”

Reggie nodded and made his way down the bar to prepare the drinks. As he returned, Ethan lifted his glass towards Phoenix. “Here’s to being chief,” Ethan said, his voice carrying a tone of both respect and humor. “It’s a tough job…”

Phoenix smirked, clinking his glass against Ethan’s with a quiet clink. “But someone’s gotta do it.”

Ethan chuckled, shaking his head. “Took the words right out of my mouth. Kind of annoying how you keep doing that.”

Phoenix’s eyes swept around the room, scanning the familiar faces and the cozy atmosphere of the bar. “It’s no O’Malley’s,” he remarked, “but it’s pretty nice here.”

Ethan smirked back, the warmth of the Scotch easing some of the tension in his shoulders. “Well, one perk is that it’s usually not filled with firefighters.”

Phoenix shook his head, grinning. “Ha-ha. How do you command such a solid team when you’re such a pain in the ass?”

Ethan took another sip of his drink, considering Phoenix’s question with a thoughtful expression. “Healthy combination of fear and the promise of occasional after-work drinks.”

As the two men exchanged a look of amusement, Ethan’s phone rang, cutting through the banter. He glanced at the screen, his expression changing as he saw the name—Elle. Along with the call, a flood of missed messages popped up, all from her.

“Hold on a sec,” Ethan said, holding up a hand to Phoenix as he stepped away from the bar, his tone more serious. “I’ll be right back.”

Ethan answered the phone, his voice warm and familiar. “Hi gorgeous, you okay?”

On the other end, Elle sounded much better than she had earlier that morning. Her voice was soft, relaxed, and it made Ethan’s heart skip just a little. “Yup, I just wanted to see what you wanted to order for dinner? Have you eaten yet?”

Ethan tried to hide the smile that tugged at his lips as he glanced at Phoenix, who was eyeing him with curiosity. “Don’t worry about me tonight, you order what you like. Put it on my card, okay?”

Elle’s laugh filtered through the phone, and Ethan couldn’t help but feel a little lighter. “Okaay? Why are you being so sweet?”

He grinned to himself, a playful glint in his eyes. “Am I not always sweet?”

“I’d rather not answer that,” Elle teased, a faint smile audible in her tone. “When will you be home?”

Ethan glanced at the clock. 21:04. His thoughts immediately turned to Elle, and the thought of heading home after the chaos of the day felt like a welcome reprieve. “Give me half an hour, I’ll be there.”

“Okay. I love you. See you soon.”

Ethan’s heart warmed at her words, and he allowed himself to indulge in the sentiment for just a moment before responding. “I love you, see you soon.”

As he hung up, he turned to Phoenix, who had a knowing look on his face. Ethan quickly turned away, trying to brush it off, but the slight flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “What?” he muttered, keeping his tone casual as he picked up his drink.

Phoenix says nothing, only smiling for a moment before speaking

“You seem like a best lucky man.”

Ethan paused for a moment, his fingers tightening around his glass as he glanced up at Phoenix. The comment, though lighthearted, hit a little closer to home than he expected. He took a slow sip of his drink, trying to keep his expression neutral.

“Maybe,” Ethan replied, his voice a little softer than usual. “But luck doesn’t always have much to do with it.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Oh?”

Ethan shrugged, setting his glass down. “No, it’s more about timing… and not taking things for granted.” He glanced back at his phone, checking the time again, the weight of the day starting to pull at him. “And knowing what you have when you have it.”

Phoenix studied him for a moment, nodding slowly as if understanding something unspoken. “I guess that makes sense. You seem like a guy who knows what he’s doing.”

Ethan smiled faintly, his thoughts drifting back to Elle. “Sometimes it feels like the hardest part is just holding on to what you’ve got.”

Phoenix gave a half laugh, clearly impressed. “I like your style, Ramsey.”

Ethan gave a quick nod, finishing his drink before standing. “Thanks, Shea. But, duty calls.” He gave the firefighter a nod of acknowledgment, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Well, go get your lady, Doc,” Phoenix said with a grin. “She sounds like a keeper.”

Ethan’s eyes softened. “She is,” he said quietly, before turning to leave the bar and head home.

[brokenmemoriesblog]

Shout Out To My Favs in Fandom ♡

Haven't been so active here for eternity (I'll be back soon) but recently hosted another beautiful by @lovealexhunt @choicesfandomappreciation I wanna give shoutout to my fav ppl here in the Fandom. Thank u 4 spreading happiness, positivity & kindness via ur talent. Appreciate u all

@ezekielbhandarivalleros

@princess-geek

@lovealexhunt

@gaius-augustine-blog

@secretaryunpaid

@brokenmemoriesblog

Special thanks 2 @lovealexhunt 4 always hosting such amazing events, really appreciate u a lot & keep being ur amazing lovely self! ♡

[brokenmemoriesblog]

Listen, you can’t write perfect characters. No one cares about reading about someone who never screws up. Your characters need to make bad decisions, they need to hurt people, and they need to be hurt. They should doubt themselves and do things they regret. That’s where the magic happens, when they’re flawed, messy, and human. People don’t fall in love with characters because they’re flawless; they fall in love because those characters remind them of the chaos inside themselves. So don’t be afraid to put your characters through hell. Only then will their journey mean something.

[brokenmemoriesblog]

Look, writer’s block is not some giant, mysterious monster. It’s you, in your head, holding yourself back because you’re afraid what you’re writing sucks. And here’s the truth, yeah, maybe it does suck. But you know what? That’s okay. Writing something bad is still better than writing nothing at all. You don’t wait for inspiration to strike, you show up, write the garbage draft, and then fix it later. Writing isn’t about perfection, it’s about getting it done. Even if it’s one crappy page at a time.

[brokenmemoriesblog]

STOP DOING THIS IN INJURY FICS!!

Bleeding:

Blood is warm. if blood is cold, you’re really fucking feverish or the person is dead. it’s only sticky after it coagulates.

It smells! like iron, obv, but very metallic. heavy blood loss has a really potent smell, someone will notice.

Unless in a state of shock or fight-flight mode, a character will know they’re bleeding. stop with the ‘i didn’t even feel it’ yeah you did. drowsiness, confusion, pale complexion, nausea, clumsiness, and memory loss are symptoms to include.

blood flow ebbs. sometimes it’s really gushin’, other times it’s a trickle. could be the same wound at different points.

it’s slow. use this to your advantage! more sad writer times hehehe.

Stab wounds:

I have been mildly impaled with rebar on an occasion, so let me explain from experience. being stabbed is bizarre af. your body is soft. you can squish it, feel it jiggle when you move. whatever just stabbed you? not jiggly. it feels stiff and numb after the pain fades. often, stab wounds lead to nerve damage. hands, arms, feet, neck, all have more motor nerve clusters than the torso. fingers may go numb or useless if a tendon is nicked.

also, bleeding takes FOREVER to stop, as mentioned above.

if the wound has an exit wound, like a bullet clean through or a spear through the whole limb, DONT REMOVE THE OBJECT. character will die. leave it, bandage around it. could be a good opportunity for some touchy touchy :)

whump writers - good opportunity for caretaker angst and fluff w/ trying to manhandle whumpee into a good position to access both sites

Concussion:

despite the amnesia and confusion, people ain’t that articulate. even if they’re mumbling about how much they love (person) - if that’s ur trope - or a secret, it’s gonna make no sense. garbled nonsense, no full sentences, just a coupla words here and there.

if the concussion is mild, they’re gonna feel fine. until….bam! out like a light. kinda funny to witness, but also a good time for some caretaking fluff.

Fever:

you die at 110F. no 'oh no his fever is 120F!! ahhh!“ no his fever is 0F because he’s fucking dead. you lose consciousness around 103, sometimes less if it’s a child. brain damage occurs at over 104.

ACTUAL SYMPTOMS:

sluggishness

seizures (severe)

inability to speak clearly

feeling chilly/shivering

nausea

pain

delirium

symptoms increase as fever rises. slow build that secret sickness! feverish people can be irritable, maybe a bit of sass followed by some hurt/comfort. never hurt anybody.

ALSO about fevers - they absolutely can cause hallucinations. Sometimes these alter memory and future memory processing. they're scary shit guys.

fevers are a big deal! bad shit can happen! milk that till its dry (chill out) and get some good hurt/comfort whumpee shit.

keep writing u sadistic nerds xox love you

ALSO I FORGOT LEMME ADD ON:

YOU DIE AT 85F

sorry I forgot. at that point for a sustained period of time you're too cold to survive.

pt 2

[brokenmemoriesblog]

How to pull off descriptions

New authors always describe the scene and place every object on the stage before they press the play button of their novels. And I feel that it happens because we live in a world filled with visual media like comics and films, which heavily influence our prose.

In visual media, it’s really easy to set the scene—you just show where every object is, doesn’t matter if they’re a part of the action about to come or not. But prose is quite different from comics and films. You can’t just set the scene and expect the reader to wait for you to start action of the novel. You just begin the scene with action, making sure your reader is glued to the page.

And now that begs the question—if not at the beginning, where do you describe the scene? Am I saying you should not use descriptions and details at all? Hell naw! I’m just saying the way you’re doing it is wrong—there’s a smarter way to pull off descriptions. And I’m here to teach that to you.

***

#01 - What are descriptions?

Let’s start with the basics—what are descriptions? How do you define descriptions? Or details, for that matter? And what do the words include?

Descriptions refer to… descriptions. It’s that part of your prose where you’re not describing something—the appearance of an object, perhaps. Mostly, we mean scene-descriptions when we use the term, but descriptions are more than just scene-descriptions.

Descriptions include appearances of characters too. Let’s call that character-descriptions.

Both scene-descriptions and character-descriptions are forms of descriptions that we regularly use in our prose. We mostly use them at the beginning of the scene—just out of habit.

Authors, especially the newer ones, feel that they need to describe each and every nook and cranny of the place or character so they can be visualized clearly by their readers, right as the authors themselves visualized them. And they do that at the start of the scene because how can you visualize a scene when you don’t know how the scene looks first.

And that’s why your prose is filled with how the clouds look or what lights are on the room before you even start with the dialogues and action. But the first paragraph doesn’t need to be a simple scene-description—it makes your prose formulaic and predictable. And boring. Let me help you with this.

***

#02 - Get in your narrator’s head

The prose may have many MCs, but a piece of prose only has a single narrator. And these days, that’s mostly one of the characters of your story. Who uses third-person omniscient narrator these days anyway? If that’s you, change your habits.

Anyway, know your narrator. Flesh out their character. And then internalize them—their speech and stuff like that. Internalize your narrator to such an extent that you can write prose from their point-of-view.

Now, I don’t mean to say that only your narrator should be at the center of the scene—far from it. What I mean is you should get into your narrator’s head.

You do not describe a scene from the eyes of the author—you—but from the eyes of the narrator. You see from their eyes, and understand what they’re noticing. And then you write that.

Start your scene with what the narrator is looking at.

For example,

The dark clouds had covered the sky that day. The whole classroom was in shades of gray—quite unusual for someone like Sara who was used to the sun. She felt the gloom the day had brought with it—the gloom that no one else in her class knew of.

She never had happy times under the clouds like that. Rain made her sad. Rain made her yearn for something she couldn’t put into words. What was it that she was living for? Money? Happiness?

As she stared at the sky through the window, she was lost in her own quiet little corner. Both money and happiness—and even everything else—were temporary. All of it would leave her one day, then come back, then leave, then come back, like the waves of an ocean far away from any human civilization in sight.

All of it would come and go—like rain, it’d fall on her, like rain, it’d evaporate without proof.

And suddenly, drops of water began hitting the window.

You know it was a cloudy day, where it could rain anytime soon. You know that for other students, it didn’t really matter, but Sara felt really depressed because of the weather that day. You know Sara was at the corner, dealing with her emotions alone.

It’s far better than this,

The dark clouds covered the sky that day. It could rain anytime soon.

From her seat at the corner of the room, Sara stared at the sky that made everything gray that day. She…

The main reason it doesn’t work is that you describe the scene in the first paragraph, but it’s devoid of any emotions. Of any flavor. It’s like a factual weather report of the day. That’s what you don’t want to do—write descriptions in a factual tone.

If you want to pull off the prior one, get to your narrator’s head. See from their eyes, think from their brain. Understand what they’re experiencing, and then write that experience from their POV.

Sara didn’t care what everyone was wearing—they were all probably in their school uniforms, obviously, so I didn’t describe that. Sara didn’t focus on how big the classroom was, or how filled, or what everybody was doing. Sara was just looking at the clouds and the clouds alone, hearing everybody just living their normal days, so I mentioned just those things.

As the author, you need to understand that only you, the author are the know-it-all about the scene, not your narrator. And that you’re different from your narrator.

Write as a narrator, not as an author.

***

#03 - Filler Words

This brings me to filler words. Now, hearing my advice, you might start writing something like this,

Sarah noticed the dark clouds through the window. She saw that they’d saturated the place gray.

Fillers words like “see”, “notice”, “stare”, “hear” should be ignored. But many authors who begin writing from the POV of the characters start using these verbs to describe what the character is experiencing.

But remember, the character is not cognizant of the fact that they’re seeing a dark cloud, just that it’s a dark cloud. You don’t need these filler words—straight up describe what the character is seeing, instead of describing that the character is seeing.

Just write,

There were dark clouds on the other end of the window, which saturated the place gray.

Sarah is still seeing the clouds, yeah. But we’re looking from her eyes, and her eyes ain’t noticing that she’s noticing the clouds.

It’s kinda confusing, but it’s an important mistake to avoid. Filler words can really make your writing sound more amateurish than before and take away the experience of the reader, because the reader wants to see through the narrator’s eyes, not that the narrator is seeing.

***

#04 - Characters

Character-descriptions are a lot harder to pull off than scene-descriptions. Because it’s really confusing to know when to describe them, their clothing, their appearances, and what to tell and what not to.

For characters, you can give a full description of their looks. Keep it concise and clear, so that your readers can get a pretty good idea of the character with so few words that they don’t notice you’ve stopped action for a while.

Or can show your narrator scanning the character, and what they noticed about them.

Both these two tricks only work when a character is shown first time to the readers. After that, you don’t really talk about their clothing or face anymore.

Until there’s something out of the ordinary about your character.

What do I mean by that? See, you’ve described the face and clothes of the character, and the next time they appear, the reader is gonna imagine the character in a similar set of clothes, with the same face and appearance that they had the first time. Therefore, any time other than the first, you don’t go into detail about the character again. But, if something about your character is out of ordinary—there are bruises on their face, scars, or a change in the way they dress—describe it to the reader. That’s because your narrator may notice these little changes.

***

#05 - Clothing

Clothing is a special case. Some new authors describe the clothes of the characters when they’re describing the character every time the reader sees them. So, I wanna help you with this.

Clothing can be a way to show something about your character—a character with a well-ironed business suit is gonna be different from a character with tight jeans and baggy t-shirt. Therefore, only use clothing to tell something unique about the character.

Refrain from describing the clothing of characters that dress like most others. Like, in a school, it’s obvious that all characters are wearing school uniforms. Also, a normal teenage boy may wear t-shirts and denim jeans. If your character is this, no need to describe their clothing—anything the reader would be imagining is fine.

Refrain from describing the clothing of one-dimensional side-characters—there’s a high chance you’ve not really created them well enough that they have clothing that differs from the expectations of the readers. We all know what waiters wear, or what a college guy who was just passing by in the scene would be wearing.

You may describe the clothing of the important character in the story, but only in the first appearance. After that, describe their clothes only if the clothes seem really, really different from the first time. And stop describing their clothes if you’ve set your character well enough in the story that your readers know what to expect from them in normal circumstances—then, describe clothes only when they’re really, really different from their usual forms of clothing.

***

#06 - Conclusion

I think there was so much I had to say in this article, but I didn’t do a good job. However, I said all that I wanted to say. I hope you guys liked the article and it helps you in one way or the other.

And please subscribe if you want more articles like this straight in your inbox!

[brokenmemoriesblog]

How to show emotions

Part VI

How to show insecurity

not holding/breaking eye contact

fidgeting

crossing their arms

trying to cover up their body

making themself seem smaller

playing with their hands

hiding their hands in their pockets

holding their head down

blushing

clearing their throat

biting their nails

biting their lips

nervous laughter

stuttering

How to show being offended

stiffening up

hard line around the lips

frozen stare

narrowing of the eyes

turning their head to the side

quickening heartbeat

turning red

making themself bigger, ready to fight

How to show compassion

gentle and soft smile

relaxed facial features

softening of their eyes

openly showing how they feel

leaning towards the other one

nodding along, not directly interjecting, but encouraging

deep breaths inbetween

gentle touches to comfort

How to show being pleased

big smile/grinning

laying head slightly to the side

moving one shoulder up

pursing their lips while smiling

very open body language

leaning back

Part I + Part II + Part III + Part IV + Part V

If you like my blog and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee or become a member! And check out my Instagram! 🥰

[brokenmemoriesblog]

It might sound dumb...but can someone tell me how you all put this..

------>┗═━ ˚̩̥̩.·:·.•❆•.·:·.˚̩̥̩ ━═┛ <-------

into your writing.... I'm still learning don't judge me 😂 😔

[brokenmemoriesblog]

'All she wanted was a life for herself... she's nineteen she wanted to be more than a mom, a wife.. we've all taken that from her... and I keep taking that from her... Play stupid games and win stupid prizes... I've hurt her countless times and seeing her lying in this hospital bed proves that...

I'm a shitty husband, father, and friend... Hell, I wanted to give up my own sons if she had died during her delivery... I don't deserve her... she deserves better than me..'. I say to Dimitri and he just looks at me and I look at Dani as she lays there in the hospital bed.

______

Here's a snippet of a year-long story I've been working on with a friend of mine off our discord. might upload it all to Tumblr and AO3.I'll probably also edit it from time to time... but for now enjoy!

[brokenmemoriesblog]

hold on to this lullaby

chapter 4 • series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: An injured Joel and Ellie stumble into your home in the middle of the night. Against your better judgement, you decide to help them.

word count: ~2k

tags/warnings: post outbreak, slow burn, found family, age gap (sorry not sorry), able-bodied reader, angst, reader has a sad sad backstory and ptsd, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut, nightmares, implied death of a character, the angst is once again angsting, reader's thoughts have suicidal undertones sometimes

a/n: girlie is once again going through it. i know that we're moving at a very slow pace but the chemistry is growing, slowly but steadily :)

shoutout to @toomanytookas who left the most thoughtful analysis on the last chapter, and noticed how the doors being open or closed works as a metaphor for the state of their relationship. looking back, that is very true, but truth be told, it wasn't a conscious writing choice on my part lol. i love it so much though and am now using it very purposefully, so thank you for bringing that to my attention and just for being so incredibly kind <3

follow @janaispunknotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics 🤍

You’re running through the woods, running, running. Searching for something, someone, that you know you won’t find. 

Keep them safe. Promise me. We’ll be there soon. 

No one’s safe. No one’s coming. No one’s there. Your hands are wet, dripping with red, leaving a trail behind you. You trip, falling down to your knees, hands sinking into the earth. There’s nowhere to go, nothing to find. 

Still, you have to keep running. Running running running, searching searching searching. Keep them safe. Promise me. 

You’re used to it. 

Eyes flying open to suffocating, disorienting darkness, gasping for breath in the stale air of your room, the blanket much too heavy on your body. The images that your subconscious conjured up, still playing behind your eyelids. Your heart racing, your mind struggling to find its way back to reality. Lying alone in the darkness, only gradually able to discern your dream from your real life, the horrors blending into one another too intricately, too smilar to be separated. 

You’re still gasping, tears burning hot in your eyes and leaving wet tracks on your face. But it’s not dark, this time. And you’re not alone. The blurry shape of Joel slowly comes into focus, illuminated by the soft glow from the lamp on your nightstand. The weight of his hand is still resting on your shoulder, anchoring you to the present, and you realize that he must have shaken you awake. That you must have been loud.

You’ve wondered before, if you’re making noises, if the sobs that wrack through your body in your dreams follow you into reality. There’s never been a way to find out, before, but now it seems like they do, loud enough to travel through the closed door and wake Joel up. 

Heat blooms on your face, fueled by shame and guilt, both for disturbing his sleep and for your behavior earlier.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice stumbling over the words, thick with sleep and more tears. 

“Hey, no,” he replies softly, soothingly, his voice a deep rumble, his touch still firm on your shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

You shrug, too exhausted to argue. His other arm twitches at his side, reaching towards you before he stops himself, sitting back on his haunches, groaning quietly at the movement. 

“You wanna–” he clears his throat, shifting slightly, “you wanna talk about it? Or is there anything else I can do?” 

You quickly shake your head, eyes trained on your hands that are clasped in your lap. He waits for another beat, before he hums, his knees creaking as he stands back up. 

You miss the feeling of his hand on you as soon as it disappears, but you can’t possibly bring yourself to ask for that, so you swallow against the lump in your throat, watching his retreating silhouette in your doorway.

“Joel?” Your hushed voice travels through the dimly lit room. He halts at once, turning back around to face you, the lines on his face somehow softer than you know them. “Could you— keep the door open? Just a little?” 

You’re awake for a long time after he leaves, at first listening to the fall of his quiet footsteps retreating to the other room, the faint rustle of his sheets as he gets back into bed, Ellie’s hushed voice and his responding grumble, but you can’t make out the words. When it’s quiet again, you retreat into the swirling mess inside your head. Unable to turn the light off, unable to close your eyes, terrified of the darkness and the images it might bring back.

You’ve tried not to think about it too hard, afraid of jinxing yourself, but you’ve noticed that you’ve slept better since Ellie and Joel have arrived. It’s like their presence, the change they’ve brought to your life, is enough to keep your mind occupied, like a safety blanket has been draped over you, keeping the worst of it away from you. But yesterday’s events must have ripped holes into it, must have brought the past and its pain to the forefront again. 

You drift back off eventually, nothingness engulfing your tired mind and pulling you into a dreamless sleep that you’re thankful for. 

You’re roused by the sounds from outside the door, the movements of someone being up filtering through the gap that Joel left open last night. It takes a while until you get your bearings, until the memories all come back to you. The familiar fear, the panic. The unfamiliar presence of someone beside you, of a touch on your shoulder.

Following the sounds, you find Joel in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, something that you usually do. You watch him for a second, taking in his messy morning hair, the specks of gray, the furrow of concentration in his brow as he’s stirring oatmeal. The steaming cup in his other hand, almost dwarfed by his large fingers, that you know must contain coffee. 

His eyes widen for a second when he notices you leaning against the doorframe, scrutinizing your face, gauging the state you’re in. You try a tentative smile, taking a step towards him, nodding towards the pot on the stove. 

“Thought breakfast was my job.” You’re pleased with how normal your voice sounds, nothing like the mess from last night. 

Joel shrugs, the expression on his face just a smidge too innocent, too casual. 

“You’re doing more than enough for us. Thought I’d let you sleep in.” 

You don’t have it in you to start a discussion about it, and you wouldn’t know how to explain this to him anyway. How you don’t want him to do things for you, don’t want to know what it’s like to have someone else care for. Don’t want to feel how nice it is, even in such small doses. How you’re overly conscious of the fact that it will get taken away again before you know it, that you’d do well not to get used to it. How you’re not sure if you’ll be able to survive having something nice ripped away from you yet again. 

So you smile, mutter a thank you, Joel, and when he suggests that you take a shower, that he’ll be finished by the time you’re ready, you agree. Suddenly, you’re aware of the night’s sweat that has dried on your skin, clinging to you and making you feel sticky. Suddenly, you’re desperate to wash it off your skin, to leave the last night behind you and not look back.

With the stream of warm water raining down on you, the stiffness in your neck eases a bit and your breath’s coming more freely again, pieces of the tension that’s been coursing through you since last night slowly melting away. Still, you keep shivering, no matter how much you’re trying to open your body up to the warmth surrounding you, to let it drive out the coldness that’s emanating from your chest. 

Move on, your own voice echoes in your head. Keep living. The promise you’ve made to yourself, that you’re trying to keep, even though some days, you’re not sure why. 

Your arms are wrapped tightly around yourself when you enter the living area again. You’ve pulled on one of your warmest sweaters, one that you’ve knitted yourself, over the course of several long, lonely days, with nothing else to keep your hands and mind occupied. Still, you feel cold. 

Ellie is up now, sitting on the couch, a bowl of oatmeal all but forgotten in her lap and her nose buried in one of the comics you gave her, the artwork on the cover all too familiar to you. She jumps when she sees you, hastily stuffing the book in between her thigh and the cushion beside her, a guilty expression in her eyes as she looks at you. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles before you can say anything, her hands clasped in her lap. It breaks your heart to see her like this, to know that she heard you last night too. How much your behavior must have scared her. That she probably feels responsible, even though your mind was already in a bad state long before you’ve even met her. 

It does hurt, seeing those drawings of galactic adventures that you’ve seen a million times before, with another pair of eyes glued to the pages. Another child excitedly recounting the stories to you over and over, until you basically knew them by heart and listened to them time and time again anyway, because his happiness made you happy. 

The pain of it weighs heavy on you, but not as heavy as the urge to protect her from being hurt, to wipe that guilt off her face. 

“The pages are gonna crumple like that,” you say, softly, hoping to convey with your eyes what you don’t have the words for. 

She slowly pulls it back out, shooting you careful glances. “Are you sure?” She sounds so young right now, so unsure of herself, and yet she’s trying to look out for you, trying not to hurt you, when she really shouldn’t have to. 

You’re nodding, convincing the both of you, that it’s fine, that you’re fine. 

“Yeah,” you smile. “That one’s good, enjoy it.”

You duck into the kitchen, mumbling about urgently needing a cup of coffee. You’re certain that Joel has heard your conversation, and that he sees how glassy your eyes are, but he doesn’t comment on it, just quietly hands you a cup, his fingertips faintly grazing yours.

It’s a subdued kind of day. Both Ellie and Joel are trying hard to act casual around you, but you feel the lingering glances, notice the looks exchanged behind your back, the cloud of worry that’s surrounding both of them. It makes you nervous, weirdly conscious of your every movement. And you’re still cold.

You end up watching another cheap action movie that evening, Ellie curled up on the armchair while you and Joel are occupying the couch. Your chin is resting on your knees, arms wrapped around your legs, eyes fixed on the small TV. But your mind is wandering, barely taking in the scenes playing out on the screen.

Your thoughts keep going back to how Joel touched you last night, how his hand had rested on your shoulder. How good it had felt, how you have the inexplicable need to feel it happening again. How warm his hand had been. You wonder if his touch might be able to finally stop you from feeling like you’re slowly freezing from the inside.

Another involuntary shiver runs through you. Joel’s gaze slides from the screen to you beside him. He doesn’t ask if you’re cold, being familiar enough with you by now to know that you’d deny it. Even as another wave of coldness passes through you, causing your shoulders to tremble slightly.

His brow is creased with worry as he wordlessly leans over to you, spreading the blanket that had been folded over the armrest that he’s leaning against over your shoulders. Your lips tip up in a grateful smile, the long lost feeling of someone caring for you engulfing you in more warmth than the blanket could ever provide. You allow yourself to get lost in it, just for a little while. 

The blanket faintly smells like him, you realize as you pull it tighter around yourself and up to your chin, inhaling deeply. A different kind of warmth is creeping up your cheeks and you turn your face towards the TV once more, oblivious to the way Joel keeps watching you from the corner of his eye. 

When you go to bed later that evening, you leave your bedroom door ajar once again.

thank you for reading <3 comments, reblogs and asks are love and make my day every single time!

[brokenmemoriesblog]

Roll Call 2

a Roommates one-shot

Pairing: pornstar!joel x f!reader

Summary: Joel convinces you to watch one of the videos he's starred in and you like it more than you expected.

Warnings: reader and Joel watching porn, smut (18+ MDNI - I don't know what came over me but it's surprisingly soft), language, dirty talk, infidelity, unprotected piv sex, creampie, alcohol consumption

WC: 2.9K

A/N: this was inspired by these asks and is not considered canon, it's just for fun

"It really ain't as bad as you think," Joel teased, watching with glassy eyes as you tossed back a shot with a wince. You swiped the back of your hand across your mouth and shook your head.

"It's porn, Joel. It's pretty black and white."

"See, that's where you're wrong. You must be watchin' some low budget shit if that's your impression," he said over his shoulder as he lead you back to your table through the crowd of people hovering around the bar.

"What're you saying? Your porn is better somehow?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm sayin'," he said with a grin before sliding into the booth. You plopped down across from him and greedily took a sip from your water. "My stuff's produced by people who actually give a shit about quality and storylines."

"Uh huh," you said with a giggle. The two of you were waiting for Tommy to get off work but the bar was busier than expected that particular evening and you had been stuck for almost two hours with nothing to do but drink and kill time.

"You don't believe me? Lemme show you," he said, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. Your eyes widened and you began to sober up.

"N-no, Joel, I believe you."

"C'mon, it's no big deal. We've slept together, for fuckssake, it ain't nothin' you haven't already seen," he said, eyes pinned to his phone as he scrolled on some website that had a suspicious amount of ads and pop ups. His eyes lit up when he found what he was looking for and fished his AirPods out of his other pocket, handing you one and shoving the other in his ear. You held it in your fingers, your mind reeling. You've never seen Joel's porn before, but Maria had, and she told you it was hot at the time but you'd never felt the urge to look it up for yourself.

Joel finally picked up on your hesitation and paused. "If you really don't wanna, it's fine."

You chewed your lower lip as you thought about it. You couldn't deny you were curious and you didn't have to watch the entire thing if it made you uncomfortable, so you took a deep breath and popped the earbud in. "Play it."

He grinned and glanced around. "Come over on this side, don't want anyone walkin' by to see."

You rolled your eyes, finding it laughable that he would even give a shit, but did as he asked and settled in next to him.

"Roll Call 2? Will I be lost if I didn't see Roll Call 1?"

Joel snorted and shook his head. "Shut the hell up."

He pressed play and you watched as the black screen faded to a classroom where Joel sat hunched over behind a desk looking busy as he scribbled on some papers. He wore thick rimmed glasses and a white button down shirt with a navy blue tie. You laughed and poked him in the shoulder.

"Maybe you're right. This is the most professional I've ever seen you dress."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered.

A door squeaked open and he looked up to find a young looking brunette enter the room with a stack of books pressed against her chest.

"Excuse me, Mr. Ryder, do you have a minute?"

"Ryder?!" you cackled, "are you fucking serious?"

Joel grinned but kept his eyes on the phone. "Yeah, alright, that was less than subtle, but the rest is good, keep watchin'."

"Tiffany? What can I help you with?"

You hid your grin behind your fist and kept watching.

"Can I talk to you about this test? I-I really can't fail this class or else I won't graduate."

"Tiffany" set her books down on the corner of his desk and pulled out a paper, putting it down in front of Joel and leaning over. Her own button down shirt only had three buttons fastened, at best, so when she bent forward, her tits practically spilled out of her shirt.

"Mhm, I noticed your grades have been slippin'. Maybe you could do some extra credit to help boost your grade?"

"Really? You'd let me do that?"

Joel's hand gently brushed up against the back of her thigh, his gaze dropping to take in her plaid mini skirt.

"'Course I would, s'long as you do somethin' for me."

"Joel, this is so corny," you said as you were about to pull out the earbud. He stopped you and scooted closer.

"It ain't 'bout bein' corny or not, it's 'bout the production and the set and how the actors are treated. When you have good people 'round you, it comes through on the screen and the performance is better."

You sighed and continued to watch as his hand snuck up the back of her skirt. Tiffany gasped and pressed her hips into the desk then looked down at Joel, who was gazing up at her like she was the only woman in the world.

"I don't know, Mr. Ryder..."

"Why not, darlin'?"

"W-what if someone finds out?"

"No one'll know," he assured her before taking her hand and placing it over his lap. She moaned softly and bit her lip before sinking to her knees and undoing his belt. He groaned and leaned back in his chair, watching her with a pleased smirk.

"Yeah, that's it," he whispered when she took him in her mouth. Suddenly you remembered you were in the middle of a bar watching porn with your ex and you yanked the earbud out.

"Okay, I think I get the idea."

Joel chuckled. "Fine, I don't wanna make you uncomfortable," he said, setting his phone down so he could take a sip from his glass, but the video still played. You couldn't hear the audio anymore but you saw his head tip back and his eyes squeeze shut in pleasure. You wondered what kind of noises he was making, knowing he was the type to be more vocal during sex, an attribute you always appreciated. You tried to look away, focusing your attention on the people around you, but your eyes kept finding his phone. On the screen, Joel pulled Tiffany up by the shoulders and pushed her up against his desk. He slotted himself between her legs and pushed up her skirt before plunging his tongue into her mouth and rubbing slow circles over her clit.

"See somethin' you like?" Joel teased when he caught you looking. You pursed your lips before rolling your eyes and shoving the earbud back in just in time to hear him groan deeply into her mouth when he began to sink his cock inside her. You had to admit, it was nice when the video didn't cut to a godawful closeup of her pussy but instead took advantage of her wide spread legs and chose to capture both their reactions. You swallowed, throat suddenly dry, as you continued to watch the video. Much like Joel in real life, he was attentive and caring, subtly making sure Tiffany was comfortable. He didn't jackhammer her, he didn't remain awkwardly silent, but instead he rolled his hips leisurely while lavishing her with praise until he tugged on her shirt and wrapped his hand around one of her breasts, biting at her nipple. She moaned and grabbed his hair, whispering how big he was and how good it felt and fuck me harder, Mr. Ryder, I can take it.

He pulled out and flipped her around, pushing her hips into the desk before sliding back inside, her pussy and thighs glistening from her arousal.

"Goddamn, you're so tight. Oh, good girl, look at you. Takin' my cock like a champ. Fuck, y'feel so good."

He was slamming his hips into her faster now, so much so that the desk was beginning to move. Tiffany's fingers clutched around the edge of the wood, knuckles white, mouth agape and eyes rolled to the back of her head.

"How much of this is fake?" you asked breathlessly, unable to look away. He shrugged, no longer watching the phone, but instead his eyes were glued to your face. Your lips were parted and your breath was coming a little faster now.

"What'dya mean?"

"Like, is she faking it?" you asked.

"No," he chuckled, casually draping his arm behind you. On the screen, Joel gently pressed a palm against her spine so she laid flat on the desk, then he reached down to pick up one of her legs to open her hips even wider. The noises she was making were so loud at that point, you didn't need to keep the earbud in anymore, so once again you took it out. He could tell how aroused you were, even though you initially tried to hide it. You squirmed in your seat and you rubbed the back of your neck before taking a deep breath. Your eyes met his and he saw you swallow thickly, your gaze flickering from his eyes to his lips over and over again.

"Joel?"

Your voice was low, suggestive, as you leaned into him a little more. The heat between you was growing thick. It was probably made worse by the alcohol coursing through your veins but he didn't care, and neither did you. He nodded and tore his eyes away.

"C'mon," he said.

He grabbed your arm and shoved his phone back in his pocket before leading you through the crowd, his cock straining against his zipper, knowing full well how that night was going to end.

"Where are we going?" you asked when he bypassed the bathrooms in favor of a third closed door.

"Basement. Where they keep the booze."

He swung open the door and flicked on the light before pulling you in after him and ushered you quickly down the stairs. He swiveled his head back and forth until he spotted a corner of the basement that had a small amount of privacy hidden behind boxes of liquor, then turned around and cupped your jaw before crashing his mouth against yours with a deep groan.

"We gotta be fast," you murmured before breaking away and tugging your jeans down.

"Yeah," was all he said, his heart thumping wildly in his chest when you pulled your jeans all the way off and started on your underwear. "Jesus Christ," he added when he realized you weren't messing around. Fast meant fast.

You tested the weight of what looked like a repurposed workbench before hopping up and grabbing the collar of his shirt, yanking him forward just as he undid his belt. You helped him unzip his jeans and slid your hand past his waistband, wrapping your fingers around his cock as you nipped greedily at his throat.

"Fuck, baby, you liked that, huh?" he murmured, grabbing onto your hips, letting you pull his cock out and line him up against your opening without his assistance. He hissed when the tip of his cock prodded at your folds, feeling just how wet you were from watching that video.

You didn't answer. You just spread your legs wider and scooted closer to the edge of the table. Your heels dug into the backs of his thighs, urging him forward. A whimper fell from your lips when he slowly eased inside you, then tipped your head back with a gasp when he pushed all the way in.

"God, that feels good," you moaned, your arms draping lazily around his neck, forehead resting against his chest.

Slowly, he pulled his cock out, leaving just the swollen tip before pausing and pushing back in. You both watched in a daze as he slid in and out, emerging slicker than before with each thrust. Calloused hands ran up and down your thighs. Slowly, leisurely, adoringly.

"Faster," you mumbled, eyes fluttering closed, forehead still pressed against his broad chest.

"I don't like goin' fast with you," he whispered, then wrapped his arms around your waist, tugging you even closer as he continued slowly feeding you his cock.

You moaned and dug your nails into his neck when he hit a spot just right, making your thighs shake and your breath stutter.

"L-like the video," you managed to stammer out. You pulled your head away from his chest and hazily looked up at him. "Don't you wanna make this table move like the desk?" you asked him with a teasing smile, but he didn't give you one back. He shook his head and rubbed the pad of his thumb over your lower lip.

"No," he said softly, still fucking you agonizingly slow. His eyes were warm and sweet as he stared down at you, scanning your face. His fingers slid through your hair, cupping the back of your head as he continued to look at you, watching the little flickers of pleasure cross your features every time he hit that one spot he knew made you come undone. "Don't wanna fuck you like them. Wanna take my time 'n really feel you." He rolled his hips, pushing inside you extra deep and you melted against him, giving up and letting him take you the way he needed.

The hand that was lost in your hair tilted your head so he could kiss you. His tongue, slow and lazy, slipped into your mouth, licking and savoring the taste of tequila and the cigarette you bummed from him an hour earlier.

Eventually, you lost yourself in the moment, raking your fingers through his hair and kissing him back just as deeply. You knew it was too intimate, you knew it was dangerous to be like this with him, but it was too late. Who were you kidding? It's been too late for a while now.

You finally had to break the kiss, your lungs burning for air the same way your thighs were burning around his waist. Tipping your head to the side, you slumped against his shoulder, gasping and panting while he continued to torturously fuck you slow in the dirty basement of your favorite bar.

The setting hardly matched the mood, but it didn't seem to matter.

"You gotta know, I don't fuck anyone else like this."

You squeezed your eyes shut.

His fingers dug into your ribs, the others into your scalp, pressing you against him as if you were one.

"Yeah?" Your voice was breathy and high pitched.

"Only you." He pressed his mouth against your hair, his cock splitting you open in the softest way possible. "Just you."

"Joel," you whined, one hand dropping to grab the thin material of his tshirt, fingers getting twisted as you tugged and pulled at him. You said his name again, a whisper that time. Being so close, you could feel his heart beating loud and fast in his chest. It felt like it matched your own.

"Yeah, say my name," he muttered, hips moving a little faster now. "You gonna come f'me, baby?"

You couldn't respond. You were too close and everything was too intense. Instead, you nodded and squeezed your eyes shut tighter, fighting back the two tears that sprung up out of nowhere.

When you came, you pulled harshly on his hair and gasped, warmth flooding your limbs as your orgasm washed over you. He was murmuring something but you couldn't hear him over the ringing in your ears and then finally, your muscles relaxed and you sighed.

"Fuck, Joel."

"I know," he grunted through clenched teeth. "Shit, you're gonna make me come. Feels too good, I can't... oh, god."

He made a move to pull out but your legs tensed around him once more, keeping him still. His hips slowed.

"What're you-"

"I want you to come inside me," you mumbled drowsily from his chest. You felt more than heard the low growl he gave you in response.

"Baby-"

Tugging him by the back of the neck, you pulled him down into a searing kiss, shutting him up. He cupped your jaw with one hand while the other remained wrapped around your waist, still holding you against him. It only took him a few more seconds before he spilled inside you, his moans getting lost against your lips.

Long after you had both recovered, your mouths were still latched together, tongues slowly dancing, neither of you wanting the moment to end, but it was you who finally pulled away.

"We should go before we get caught."

He hummed and pressed his forehead against yours.

"So what if we get caught?"

You practically stopped breathing at the double meaning behind his words, your brain unable to formulate a response. He must have sensed it because he continued.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"Jail?" you finally offered, leaning back and giving him a smirk, purposely ignoring the real meaning behind his question. What would happen if someone found out about your affair?

He gave you a small smile and sighed. "You make a good point." He pulled out with a hiss, his gaze darkening for a moment when he saw your pussy leaking with him. "Christ," he whispered before backing away and fixing his clothes while you did the same.

"You ready?" he asked once you got your clothes back on and looked relatively presentable.

"Yeah," you replied, but took a step and stumbled. Joel quickly reached out to steady you, his thumbs rubbing affectionately over your arms as he did.

"Don't worry, I got you."

You looked up at him and smiled. "I know."

[brokenmemoriesblog]

heaven is a place on earth ; joel miller

02; stopping and stalling

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au (pre-outbreak, altered ages), Joel Miller x fem!nanny!reader. dedicated to the anon who suggested this trope.

↬   prologue  part one series masterlist main masterlist

↬     "after only a few weeks, your mind spits at you - only a few weeks, and you already fucked this up."

↬     warnings; tagged 18+ for eventual smut and mature themes. MDNI. age gap (reader is 22, joel is 35), fiscal anxieties, shitty ex, brief mention of marijuana use, some Tommy x reader, brief allusions to masturbation, fantasies, brief hand kink, brief scent kink (???lol), brief praise kink (use of term girl), car talk tbh im sorry... also light angst/anxiety i guess, fluff. reader is described as smaller than joel.

↬     heyyyyy guys! thanks for being patient, i had some writer's block but im finally back! i hope you like the next part of this series, lmk what u think/if theres anything you'd like to read w this trope. also im sorry i cant help that there is flirting with tommy too,,, i need them both expeditiously lol. xoxo love u all

series mixtape, song three; In Too Deep, Sum 41. 2000.

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"shit."

thighs burning, your shoes squish against the soaked pavement as you carry yourself as fast as possible down the sidewalk. "shit, shit, shit."

the rain that pours from the sky is unforgiving; your hair slides in a stringy mess against your neck as you try to calm your heartbeat, blurrily watching as the house grows larger in your wavering vision.

bottom lip quivering, you ignore the cold shiver that comes up your spine; why today? why, why today?

you're afraid to check your cellphone; hell, you haven't even thought to check it until now! shit. Joel's probably pissed.

you let out a pathetic groan, heart hammering as you ignore the time on your wristwatch: 8:21am. twenty-one minutes late.

fuck, you think. fuck fuck fuck.

you could have texted Joel - in fact, any rational person would have probably had that immediate thought after their car sputtered to a stop on the side of the road, smoke slinking from the side of their hood as the rain splattered aggressively on the windshield.

you should have texted him, let him know you'd be late - but then, you'd gone into your damn glovebox to check your AAA number and been reminded unpleasantly of what you've been working hard to forget; your ex's full name boasted across the registration for the car had sent you into a near frenzy. everything that's built up - the near-eviction, the breakup, the move, the rain, your car. all of it hit you at once.

there's no way you can afford to pay for a fixed engine (and shit, you don't even know if the engine is the problem) without insurance, and your dickhole ex has still not signed any of the paperwork for you to take the title of the car back. so. shit.

for over twenty minutes you've been trudging through the rain - you're soaked to the bone, fighting back tears, and already wondering if you'll be able to take back your full-time job at the library. 

after only a few weeks, your mind spits at you as you turn the corner up the driveway, only a few weeks and you already fucked this up. 

you have to shut your eyes harshly as the front door opens; whoever's on the other side must have been watching out the window for any sign of you - and here you are, washing up on the Miller's driveway like a batch of late season seaweed; a wet puppy, shaking and trying not to have a full breakdown, your eyes clenched shut. 

Joel's voice finds your ears as you finally make it onto the porch - a respite from the downpour, there's just a slight breeze that blows mists of rainwater over your cold form.

you feel like an idiot. you cannot afford to lose this job. you're a fool. 

Joel says your name in concern; a far cry from the anger you'd expected. "y'okay? what happened?”

you take a shaky breath, meeting his eyes - they're warm, honeyed in the darkened skies of the morning and it makes you feel so much worse. he must've slept in, too - odd, considering it's a Wednesday - he's wearing pajama flannels, a gray shirt, and his hair is fluffed out - curling up at the ends, the tips still damp from a shower. Tommy's work boots are gone from the front - he must've gone to work, Joel staying back to wait on your tardiness. fuck.

"I'm so sorry, Joel-" your throat closes up, blinking back the emotion that wavers in your voice. you feel stupid. "I'm so sorry I'm late-" you shake your head, praying to every god up above or below to make your lip stop wobbling so pathetically. 

but Joel doesn't hesitate to step aside, brows drawn low, "come in, you're soakin' wet." 

you bite your lip as you shuffle inside, barely registering the hovering palm on the small of your back as you awkwardly stand on their doormat, focusing your eyes blearily on the darkness of the house. 

the overcast storm throws the usually warm, sunny house into a bout of cool blues and grays - the drawings on the wall, the guitar in the corner reflecting the rolling clouds from the window panes. you suck a breath through your lungs and ignore the way it draws short - either you're very close to crying, or you really need to stop smoking so much weed. probably both. 

"did you walk all the way here?" Joel asks, brows furrowed in that kind look of concern, eyes flickering to the storm outside and back to you. "where's your car?" 

this brings a fresh bout of tears to your eyes and you look up towards the high vaulted ceiling of their foyer, shaking your head. 

"my car broke down, just off Park Street, and I can't-" you sigh, biting back the sting of tears, "I can't take it in, and it was pouring rain and I didn't want to ruin your day-" you are forced to take a sharp inhale, letting out stuttered breaths. you shake your head, hands rising to wipe what's surely the streaks of mascara that have gathered under your eyes, your clothes still sticking to you and hair dripping solemn pools onto Joel's hardwood. "I'm just so sorry that I'm late. I swear, it'll never happen again." 

something in his face becomes very soft - maybe it's the lighting, that casts a slight shadow from his nose, or the way his brows gather together in an upwards tick, but he shakes his head at it makes your heart pang. 

"didn't you see my text, darlin'?" he says softly, "we called off working today. 's too stormy to do construction." 

the name drips from his lips so casually you barely register it fully. your cheeks heat; you're not sure if it's more from his use of the term or from the slow realization washing you in a wave of embarrassment. darlin' - you're not unused to people using words like that, hell, you grew up here - but it's different coming from his mouth.

you ingore that thought; your hands shake slightly as you move to pull out your phone - your purse is soaked too, three shades darker than it usually is. the buttons on your cellphone are damp and your heart pangs when you wonder if it'll be ruined from water damage - but there it is, a text from Joel about forty minutes ago: 

Rain is coming down pretty hard today. You don't need to come over—Sarah and I can manage. Take the day off and relax, you deserve it.

Thanks. Joel

your throat closes tight: "oh," you squeak, biting your lip as the screen becomes blurry; relief floods through you just as embarrassment does - a fun cocktail in your veins that makes you smile weakly. "didn't-" you clear your throat, "didn't see that." 

only a split moment of silence in which the house withstands the assault of rain on its roof; Joel hums, "here, let me get you a towel.”

he disappears down the hall and you take the moment to breathe deep; letting the warmth of the house seep into you, your hands tremble with the emotional strain of humiliation that is coursing through you. what a fool. your heart beats hard in your throat, but there is a large relief when you understand that Joel does not seem keen on firing you for being 20 minutes late to the job he told you not to come in for. you curse yourself for not checking your text messages before leaving your apartment this morning.

Joel returns quickly, towel in hand; you take it and can only bring yourself to whisper your thanks into the empty foyer. 

“don’t worry about it." he says, shrugging one shoulder, "y'said your car's on Park Street- that's over a mile away, why didn’t you call me?”

you strain the water from your hair with the towel, clutching the scent of the warm fabric to you; it's not pink like the one's in Sarah's bathroom, and with a heat on your cheeks, you register it must be one of Joel's. shrugging, you shake your head. “I didn’t want to bother you - or, I guess I was just...distracted. my car… is sort of complicated.”

Joel’s brow furrows, “complicated?”

you hesitate - you don't want to come off to your current 'employer' as untrustworthy or reckless, but it's Joel - he's kind, understanding, if not a bit aloof at times; but you trust him. you swallow with a bitter chuckle, “the car’s title is still in my ex’s name. I can’t bring it to a shop without him, and I don’t know how to even check under the hood myself-”

your hand flies to your face to furiously wipe away the tears of humiliation that fall; great. just what you needed - to cry in front of him like a baby. 

“hey," a hand, warm and heavy, falls to your shoulder; your wet eyes trail to his figure, where he soothes over your shivering arm. you miss its presence as he pulls back away, "if you want, I’ll take a look at it when the rain stops.”

you shake your head, "I couldn't ask you to do that." 

"you're not askin' me, I'm offerin'." he insists; you meet his eyes to find generosity swirling in that honeyed brown; you smile up at him with a watery gaze, unsure how to thank him.

"you can stay here 'till then, or I can give you a ride back to your place in a bit when Tommy gets back. he had t'run to the job site to get our tools." 

you look up at him, craning your neck as you search his expression for any hint of irritation or anger - none. you flush as you wipe under your eyes again, “thank you, Joel. I'm sorry, again, for this..." you look down, gesturing vaguely to yourself,  "...mess." 

he holds your gaze for a moment, as the rain pours against the slats of the house and the panes of the windows, and shakes his head slightly. your stomach rolls over as you stand, still shaking with the nerves and cold, not breaking contact: something about his utter calm in the middle of your hurricane-mind has your face hot. 

Joel opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, a light on the stairwell flips on, and footsteps slide down the stairs, as if Sarah has taken to sliding down the carpet on the balls of her feet. you used to do something similar as a kid.

“dad?” Sarah mumbles, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she appears on the stairs; Joel takes a quick step back from you, the distance sudden and coaxing another rush of surprise to confusion over your cheeks - had he really been standing that close? you have no time to analyze the action before he's speaking to her. 

 “morning, sweetpea." he says, clearing his throat. Sarah's eyes meet yours and they widen slightly, padding over to you and saying your name softly, "are you okay?" she asks as she takes your hand gently. such a sweet girl.

you force a smile, weakened from the moment you'd just had, from the morning you've had; her eyes are so full of that same concern her father carries, though, and it warms your heart. you nod, “I’m alright, Sarah. just a little wet from the rain." you shift on the balls of your feet as your gaze flickers to Joel - he nods, looking back to his daughter, "well, how about we get you some breakfast?” he suggests. inadvertently you become aware of your own rumbling stomach, having come back to life after the realization that you aren't losing your job today. 

Sarah nods, her sleepy face breaking into a smile, “pancakes?”

Joel grins; it's as if the tension eases from the room as he nods back at her, “pancakes it is. 'm right behind you, sweetpea.”

Sarah traipses to the kitchen; you stay back awkwardly, watching as she disappears - Joel turns back to you, lifting a brow. "I can take a look at your car after the rain stops later this afternoon, or if y'want, I can take you home when Tommy's back?" he says, eyeing the keyhooks that remain empty by the front door; you shift on your feet, itching to flee, but itching to stay and embrace the warmth you've come to enjoy in this house. he continues with a small smirk, "-if you stay, I can't offer much besides some mediocre pancakes and some even more mediocre coffee." 

despite your humiliation and exhaustion, you can't help the short laugh at Joel's valiant attempt to lighten your mood; unfortunately his charm is undeniable, and you're reminded of what Michelle said to you those days ago: 

Joel is a nice man. just- don't get into trouble. 

you curb your smile, lifting a brow when you hear Sarah's voice call from the kitchen, yelling your name and dragging out the vowels. "-come help me with breakfast!"

you glance back to Joel, "if you really don't mind, then I'd like to stay," you say smally with a smile. "if I went home, I'd just lay around and mope. plus," you nod your chin towards the kitchen, "seems like you've been demoted from sous chef." you tease, finding a bit of yourself returning in the comfort of the sweet girl you nanny and her father. 

he grins back at you, shaking his head, "I don't doubt you'd make a better sous than me, darlin'-" he takes in your still soaking shirt, "but you should take a shower, I'm worried you'll catch a cold in those clothes."

Joel leads you upstairs, into the master bathroom.

you school yourself, keeping your eyes on his large frame, not daring to look around at his bedroom and all the different pieces of Joel you've yet to discover. you're used to Sarah's room, with pinks and blues and purples and action figures and textbooks - not this adult bedroom, with t-shirts and framed photos and a heavy scent of amber and cedarwood. 

he hands you a stack of clean clothes - a flannel and what seems to be a pair of sweatpants; you smile gratefully, ignoring the heat on your cheeks and in your chest; a feeling nestles in your heart, stuck halfway between humiliation and some kind of intimacy, neither of which feel right in this moment. 

you shake it off as he tells you to take your time, disappearing back down the hallway with a mutter about ensuring nobody set the kitchen on fire yet. 

you close and lock the bathroom door behind you, leaning against it for a moment to catch your breath.

the last hour has been a whirlwind: losing your car, almost losing your job, the humiliation of walking in the rain, showing up to work when you had the day off - all of it catches up to you. 

but instead of crying again, you let out a short huff, shaking your head. you'll be okay - smiling watery to yourself in the mirror, you puff your cheeks and blow the air out slowly. Joel won't fire you. you'll get help with the car. deeeep breath. 

the bathroom is small and intimate and you find it heats up very quickly as you run the shower; within forty seconds the mirror begins to fog and you're wrapped in a cocoon of warmth that eases the chill that's seeped into your bones. you peel off your wet clothes with still-shaking hands, slipping under the heat of the stream quickly. 

you stand, staring at the wall, for several minutes before snapping out of it; a thick scent has begun to leak its way into the steam of the shower, and you eye the culprit - an opened, unscrewed bottle of some kind of men's body wash. you blink with heated cheeks as you're suddenly assaulted with visions of Joel in this very shower; the thought sends your heart racing and you swallow thickly, not able to resist the temptation to lather it over your own body.  

the smell is that same amber scent, citrusy and male - you don't mind it as you let the suds slide off your skin, trying not to think about him. Joel. his kindness, his concern, his hands- you shake your head, trying to dispel the thoughts; it's not right, you tell yourself.

just- don't get into trouble. 

it isn't right to think of him this way, especially when he's just being kind - especially when he's so much older, especially when you're the nanny for his daughter. 

but your hands linger on your skin, the scent of Joel's soap mingling with the steam, creating an intoxicating mix that makes your head spin; the soft weight of his hand soothing your shoulder, how it'd feel if he dragged those hands down - a pang of guilt and you quickly push the thought away, snapping back to the present. 

you slam off the showerhead, shaking your mind of your polluting thoughts. 

the towel Joel gave you earlier dries you off quickly, and you wipe away a small section of the mirror to see your reflection - you pull the clothes on he'd given you, cuffing the length of the pants, buttoning the warm flannel over yourself with a small smile. 

you don't let yourself wallow any longer; the smell of breakfast wafts up through the vents and into Joel's bedroom as you exit, a swirl of steam curling around you as you towel-dry your hair, recalling the comb that lives in Sarah's bathroom drawer. 

the warmth of the shower does wonders.

you pad down the stairs, only feeling vaguely odd wearing borrowed clothes, smiling as your stomach rolls in hunger - you feel much more composed. 

when you make it down, the dining table is set: four placemats, four plates, cups with orange juice, and three mugs of coffee. you raise a brow, "did I miss the fun?" you ask gently. 

Joel and Sarah are bustling around the kitchen, putting the final touch on breakfast - pancakes, fruit, the works. 

"-fun just arrived, actually." a voice from the hall makes your stomach flip, heat traveling up your neck. Tommy must've gotten home while you were showering. 

you roll your eyes good-naturedly as Tommy comes around the corner from the garage, nodding at you in greeting. "you look nice and cozy." he observes, eyes roving over your figure drowning in Joel's clothes. your lips press together, ignoring the fluttering in your stomach at his observation of your clothing. there is no implication - you're the nanny, it's all innocent, but the look he's giving you is not. as if he knows how Joel makes your heart thud and your mind fuzzy. 

"car broke down." you say quickly, sitting where Sarah directs you. Tommy hums, a look that could be read as skeptical, teasing, flickering across his face. Joel flips a final pancake in the pan, pacing over to slide it onto your plate gently. when he leans over you, he's close enough to ask quietly, "you feel better?"

it's soft, kind, as if he's cautious not to air out your previous breakdown to the others in the room. you're grateful. 

"yes. thank you." you say back, smiling genuinely at the man, eyes roving over the moustache which sits on his upper lip, the beard that's grown in and rises to meet his air-dried curls. he returns to work on another culinary project as Sarah places the fruit on the table and drags Tommy to sit down.

there's a bag that Joel is pouring a mixture into; some kind of meat inside, and you hum. Joel really is a very handsome man. "marinade?" you ask.

he looks over at you, nodding, "yeah, s'for the cookout this weekend." he sets the bowl down, sealing the bag. "you coming?" 

you smile tightly, nodding - any excuse to get outside, to see Joel, Sarah, Tommy, even Michelle and Dan. "should be," you say, anxiously looking over to where your car keys now hang next to Joel's near the front door - he must've hung them up for you while you were upstairs. Joel hums, "good." 

Sarah beams at you when everybody takes a seat. "dad said you get to stay with us until the rain stops." she says, poorly concealing her excitement with a grin. you smile back, nodding as you sip on the coffee poured for you. "yes, ma'am." you respond, stretching your legs out a bit under the table.  

"lucky us," Tommy says through a bite of pancake. you huff at his harmless flirting; you just miss the subtle glare Joel shoots his brother. oblivious, Sarah hums. "I hope it never stops raining!" 

it eventually does stop raining. 

it's a little before dinner; the air is fresh and damp, the grass that peculiar shade of green against the backdrop of those high thunderclouds that retreat after their previous downpour. with only a light breeze, the air is charged with some kind of electricity as you breathe in the the scent of petrichor it carries with it. 

"right," the voice says next to you.

Joel's arms are propped against your shitty car, his brows furrowed in focus. the engine still glistens with raindrops, and there's a small line of moisture that caught on the fabric of Joel's shirt from where he'd popped the hood of your car. 

"first things first. let's check the battery connections - sometimes they can get loose or corroded." he mutters, directing you with a long, thick finger over to your car battery; you nod, trying your best to pay attention. 

a finger traces along the seam of a smaller edge of the battery terminal, scarcely avoiding touching it. "see this white, powdery stuff?" he's looking at you; it takes you only a split second as you realize he's waiting for you to answer. you nod quickly, "y-yeah." 

he nods, "that’s corrosion. luckily it's not too bad here, but it can cause issues."

you hum, taking a mental note as you bite your lip - thankful that he's taking the time to actually explain what goes on in the inside of your car, seeing as you're next to hopeless.

he gestures again. "d'you know what this is?" he asks, and it's as if god has given you a freebie from your turmoil this morning; you nod, grinning slightly. "it's where you fill the brake fluid." you say in affirmation. "I have some extra in the trunk." you supplement, glad you're not a total idiot when it comes to the car. 

he nods, "been takin' care of that. good girl," he gestures to the side, "these here are spark plugs - good to keep an eye on, because they can get dirty or worn out and cause the car to have trouble starting. these also look alright, though."

you're barely listening, though; your ears are buzzing heartbeat thumping as you school the flush over your cheeks at such a casual praise - something he'd probably not even think twice of, because you're his daughter's babysitter, god damn it, but you can't help the stirring deep within you. 

good girl. jesus.

you press your lips together and force yourself to relax, to calm the fluttering in your stomach the heat in your lower abdomen. eventually, Joel reaches the fuel pump - "here we go. I think this might be the culprit." he turns to you, squinting against the late afternoon sun, "if the fuel pump isn't working properly, it can prevent the engine from getting the fuel it needs to run." 

he gestures for you to look and leans back a bit; leaning over to peer into the belly of your car, at all its metal guts and ominous sputterings, you suddenly catch a scent - a mix of your handlotion you'd applied on the ride over with Joel's soap from his shower stuck to your skin and wafting in the air, a pleasant smell.

your stomach flutters as you try to follow Joel's explanation, "'kay...how can you tell it's the fuel pump that's the problem?" you ask him, turning to squint up at him. 

"there's-" another gentle breeze, then, and Joel pauses; you stare back at him, unsure what's caught his attention, but then it's over quicker than it started. blinking at you, he clears his throat and nods, pointing to the part, "there’s a few ways, but mainly if your car cranked out while drivin', or if it starts an' then stalls, it's often a sign of a fuel pump problem." he taps it with two fingers, "this one looks pretty worn out."

you bite your lip, cursing your ignorance and the stupidity of your ex for insisting on taking care of the car jut to completely ignore it and take it for an oil change only every few blue moons. 

"can it be fixed?" you can't hide the anxiety in your voice. 

"course." Joel nods, closing the hood; you don't flinch at the sound, too worried by the engine. "'m not quite good enough to do it myself, but i've got a buddy down in town that can do it for ya for cheap." he smiles gently, "should only be a few hundred." 

your throat dries, stomach dropping. "c-couple hundred?" you hiss, pressing your lips together. "okay."

okay.

okay: you can take a few more shifts at the library, double up your days; that's fine, that's fine. you'll have to fix your car before your cellphone, but you'll be fine without texting for a while. maybe you could sell your portable CD player or some clothes for some cash. okay, shit. 

shit. 

you laugh mirthlessly, "I... I don't have that kind of money right now." you say awkwardly, "but at least I live close to the bus stop." you add, wondering how much a bus pass is. certainly less than that. 

"-listen, i'd be happy to help you out with it," Joel says, and your hackles raise in embarrassment, "-no, Joel, I can't ask that of you. you've already done so much." you say, looking down at yourself, still clad in his flannel and pants. 

he shrugs, as if it's no big deal. "could pay you advance. let me help you." 

you swallow thickly, biting your lip. "I feel bad, Joel. I already put you out." 

"hey," he says, turning to look at you - he leans slightly on the hood of your car, gaze burning into the side of your face. you flush, but meet his eyes. "don't worry about it. I can pay you ahead for your work to cover for it. all you've put me out on is a few pancakes, a cup of coffee, and my patience with my brother."

the mention of Tommy makes you flush with embarrassment, floundering, "oh. Joel, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" 

he shakes his head, with a grin - he was teasing you. "Tommy's always been a flirt. I trust you can handle your own." he adds, "but you let me know if he's too much, yeah?"

something about his tone makes you even more flustered, though, and you grin, shrugging. "yeah. you'll be the first to know." you say, wondering how many people he's had to say that to in his life. 

he says nothing to this, but you clear your throat, looking at him, "um...thank you for your help. this morning, with the car- all of it." you say, smiling awkwardly, "i've had a hard time adjusting to a lot of recent...life changes and..." you feel like you're oversharing, so you stop short, "just. you've all been very kind to me." you finish. "i'm so thankful for this job." 

Joel watches you, gaze flickering between your eyes for a few moments before he nods, "'course, darlin'. life can throw some curveballs, huh?" he nudges your shoulder and as you sway back you can't help the soft smile that grows, hiding it as you look away. darlin'.  

"you're doing great, though. Sarah and I, we're glad to have you." he affirms. you smile into the metal of your car hood.

"let’s get your car started now, yeah?" he asks. 

you're sat in the driver's seat.

Joel leans through the window to hold down the switch on your steering wheel as you turn the keys, the small Tamagotchi on your keychain knocking against your wrist as he instructs you to pump the gas pedal. 

after a few tries the engine sputters to life; you let out a stuttered sigh of relief, smiling and letting out one small clap. 

Joel smiles, "there she is," he taps the dash above your steering wheel with the flat of his large palm, leaning slightly. as he turns to lean out the window, his eyes meet yours - face to face, he's much closer than either of you anticipated.

you're struck with the proximity; for a moment, his face is inches from yours. 

and then the moment stretches out, your heart skipping a beat - you can see the few freckles that have grown over the bridge of his strong nose, the way his breath leaves his lips, the smile lines and faint dimple, his eyelashes lit from the sun behind you. 

Joel clears his throat, stepping back from the window with a tap to the roof of your car. you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"alright, you’re all set. just drive carefully, okay? let the engine run for a few minutes when you get home."

you nod, voice softer than you hoped it'd be, "I will. thanks again, Joel."

he nods in that way he always does, the same nod that you always see in Sarah. "be safe. see you tomorrow."

Joel leans against his truck as you peel away, off the side of the road and joining the sparse few cars on the road, the remaining rainwater slicking against tires in the distance. you swear you see him wave before he slips up into the cab of the truck, figure growing smaller in your rearview with each passing moment. 

you let the car run when you return to your apartment, biting your lip dumbly and staring down at your ruined phone, at the warped message that sits on your screen.

 

Call me if you need a ride in the morning- Sarah and I can pick you up. 

Have a good night. Joel

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[brokenmemoriesblog]

I Do Care

Main Masterlist

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader- one-shot AU, no outbreak. Within the same universe of Marriage Dynamics, but can be read by itself.

Summary | Joel and you have a special arrangement, one where he dominates you and gives you everything you could ever desire and more. But what happens when you realize that he does care, and that you never stopped caring?

Warnings | 18+, Minors DNI, Heavy Smut. Language, dom/sub dynamics, age gap (but none specified), smut, possessive Joel, domineering Joel, husband and wife dynamics, daddy reference, brief reference of fertility struggles and marriage separation, angst, but they work it out. Enjoy 🙂

Word Count: 1.4K 

A/N: This one came from a dark, personal place. I promise it works out.

It’s a cycle. You argue, fuck, rinse, and then repeat.  You promise not to do it again each time, and yet here you are. Your body is on the ground as, once again, Joel is fucking you hard on the living room floor. Your heels and underwear are thrown somewhere over the back of the couch as he pounds into you, growling, “You’re fucking mine.” 

And you are his, completely and utterly his.  He owns you in every possible way, and you love it.  You love that he uses your body to make you cum, to remind you of who you belong to. “Daddy’s little girl” is what he calls you, what he says as he changes positions, angling his cock deeper into you, hitting that soft spot that makes you see stars right up inside of you.

You know to stay silent; he told you to when this all began.  “Keep your mouth shut today, ok, little girl? And if you do, Daddy’ll reward you.”

And you try, oh, you try so hard to stay silent, but the noise slips through your mouth.  The small whimper and the plead of “please.”  As soon as he hears it, he drags you upwards, spins you around, and slams back into you, holding you tight against his body, chest to back, as he fucks up hard into you.

“Then say it,” he growls, fucking you faster and harder, “Say it.”

You shake your head violently, not wanting to give in, to give him the thing he so desperately wants, the admission of who you belong to.

It wasn’t always like this, this possession, this style of intimacy.  It’s just something that came about over the years with your husband. You found yourself seeking it, needing this harsh reality the two of you share because this is the only time everything makes sense anymore.  Nothing else in your life makes sense, and that’s okay because you always have this.

The way he caresses your curves over your body. The way his mouth spills filth into your ears, encouraging you to just “let go and feel him.” You're addicted to it.  To his mouth, to the bite of his words, to the bite of his teeth as he clamps down hard onto your shoulder, surely to give you a bruise by morning. All because you didn’t follow his orders.  But you’re not telling him what he wants to hear, what he needs to hear now, in this moment.

“I said, fucking say it,” he growls, getting so close to the edge but not quite tipping over.  He needs your words, your obedience, your submission.

“No,” you growl right back, slamming down hard on his cock and squeezing him inside of you so ungodly tight.

“Fuck” he seethes, grabbing your hands and slamming them down on the ground, laying on top of you fucking you like a wild animal.  And that’s what this is: animal instincts.  You’re ovulating, and he knows it.  He’s tried to put a baby in you for damn near 15 years, and each time is like the next; it never fully takes.  So he’s stopped trying, and you’ve stopped trying, and somehow, you both drifted apart along the way.  But right here, you’re together, and the world feels right.

“Fucking say it,” he growls again, two seconds away from ending this and walking out again.  But he doesn’t because he knows.  He knows you’re hurting and that you feel alone. But damn it, he feels alone too.  But he’d never admit that because that’s not what you two do.  You two argue, fight, make up, fuck, and then repeat.  He'd walk out and never look back if he had any sense left in his brain.  He’s wanted to, you’ve wanted to, but you both don’t. You know he’d never leave you entirely, and neither would you.  So here you are again, rutting into each other, trying to find balance in this God's forsaken world. This is about a man trying to prove to his woman that he’s still here, that he still finds her attractive, that he’ll fuck her time and time again because he loves her.  But he can’t say those words anymore; never mind, you both know you need to hear them again.

And then you’re at the edge of something beautiful, something amazing, but your body won’t tip over.  You know this: you need Joel’s hand and his command to let yourself feel something.  And you fight it, not wanting to open your mouth, but you know it’s useless.  So you open your mouth and say the one thing you’ve held back for 15 years, the thing that he doesn’t know. “I’m broken, and I’m so fucking sorry.”

And then it’s like someone hits the pause button on the movie, and everything suddenly stops. You lie on the floor, gently sobbing, finally letting the floodgates open from a life of holding it all back.  Your husband can’t believe what you just said, what you just verbalized.  That wasn’t part of this deal, of this scene, and you both knew it.  But right now, he can’t be your dominant; he needs to be your husband.  But he doesn’t know who that man is anymore, for he’s been gone in his head for a very long time.

Joel slowly eases himself out of you, gently placing a hand on your back, saying, “Maybe we shouldn’t do this any-”

“RED!” you shout, telling him that you’re done, that you don’t want to play in this scene anymore, and that you’re not okay.

Joel closes his eyes at this realization that you’re not okay and that he needs to step up and be the man for you.  He sees you pleading to make it alright as he opens his eyes. But that’s the thing; he doesn’t know how to do it anymore.  So he takes a steadying breath and says, “I’m sorry, but I’m broken too, baby.”  

You go to take a step away and let Joel leave because that’s what you two have done for a while now.  He doesn’t live here anymore, hasn’t for almost a year, and you’ve been broken ever since.  Hell, you were broken even before that.  What you two are doing is just physical, nothing more and nothing less, and it kills you.  Whenever you two fuck, Joel makes you tell him that you are his and that you belong to him.  And you do, but not the way that you hoped.

You know Joel doesn’t want to comfort you when he doesn't reach for you.  You just say “leave” as you walk into the bathroom and allow the tears to come.  When you hear the downstairs door shut, that’s when the sob escapes your mouth as you scream into your hand.  You just want your fucking life back, and you can’t figure out what you did.

After you finish your hot shower, you re-enter the room and find Joel sitting on the bed, head in his hands, as you hear gentle sobs escaping his mouth.  You think this is what happens when a marriage gets derailed, wondering why you both are hurting and can’t fix it.  But then you see it; the ring is back on his finger, something he hasn’t worn for over a year, and you hear the silent plea come from his lips, “Baby, please make love to me.”

And you do; you make love to the man who’s been your husband and the person of your dreams for as long as you can remember.  You know that you only get this thing occasionally, and each time you do, you cherish it because, come morning, you know what reality will be. Joel will be gone.  So you don’t think, you just feel and do, which is the one thing you’ve wanted for a long time.  To just feel alive again because all you feel inside is dead.

When you wake in the morning, you know Joel is gone before you even open your eyes.  He doesn’t stay, and you know this.  But somehow, you thought that things could be different from last night.  But they can’t, you know this. So when you open your eyes and see Joel’s wedding band on his side of the bed with a note attached, you feel your heart sit within your throat.

“If you’re serious about wanting to do this again, then you need to fucking talk to me. I know you won’t say it, so I will.  I love you, and I do fucking care.”

End One-Shot

[brokenmemoriesblog]

put your sweet lips on my lips | joel miller

Summary | He won't ever kiss you, those are the rules, but you fall in love with him anyway.

Pairing | Boston QZ!Joel x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.3K

Warnings | This is basically porn without plot (do we expect anything less from me these days?) A sprinkling of angst, a stupid no kissing rule, fingering, unprotected PiV sex, rough sex, biting during sex, mentions of breath play, Joel is kinda mean but also kinda soft, neck kisses, no use of y/n.

Authors Note | This was written for @janaispunk's 1.5K kisses celebration! I got Joel Miller with neck kisses and I immediately went, make it smutty and painful, so this is the result. The biggest congratulations to Jana for such an incredible milestone - you're such a shining star on this little corner of the internet and I'm so glad to know you! I hope you like my little way of celebrating you! Thank you for letting me be part of your celebration! I think this may be one of my favourite things I’ve written in a while so I hope you all agree and enjoy it!

Main Masterlist

“That’s it baby, just like that.”

His lips are right there, right against the shell of your ear, hot breath painting small drops of dew where it meets your hot skin. He’s got two fingers buried in your sopping cunt, the squelch of movement the only thing that fills the air if it’s not your moans or his grunts as he presses the thick bulge of his jeans against your ass.

It would be so easy. So easy, you think, to turn your head to the side and catch him by surprise. Let your mouth brush against his, hope that it sparked something between you, hope that it made him push his mouth harder to your own, that he’d let you taste his tongue for the first time since this all started.

He was clear from the start though, that first night, with his cock buried deep inside your pussy, throbbing inside you as he split you open, when you’d put your hand around the back of his neck and tried to drag him to your mouth. His eyes had darkened and his hand had flown to the bottom of your neck, gripping tight enough to warn, tight enough to thrill, to make your wet cunt even wetter as he growled at you.

“I don’t do that shit.”

And that was it. Acceptance between the two of you that this was just sex. Just fucking when you needed it, taking your frustrations out on each other. Nothing to blur the lines, to make you think it was anything more. Plump lips always taunting you when they spoke to you, or when he sunk his teeth into them when you took his entire length into your mouth and down your throat. Always right there and always just out of reach.

God knows how much you want to know what his mouth is like on the one part of your body they’ve never touched. He’s had that mouth latched around your clit as you shake for him, sucked your nippled into that warm cavern, left marks on your skin with his teeth, but never once let you feel them on your own.

You turn your head to him a little, his fingers curling inside you enough to make your pussy clench around them, his mouth right there. You know you could do it, but you’re scared of the consequence. Scared that he’d take everything else away from you, like a parent taking away an ice-cream from a screaming child. You’d be just as petulant if he did, because there’s something comforting about him, hard and closed as he is, but in this place, he is the only thing that doesn’t make you want to throw yourself out of a window.

“Come on baby,” He urges, snaking his other hand down your body so he’s teasing your aching clit now too, “Give it t’me and I’ll give you what you want.”

He rolls his finger across your swollen bud, circling and circling as the feeling in your stomach goes tighter and tighter until it snaps, all of a sudden. Cunt clenching around his fingers as your body shakes, head thrown back onto his shoulder as you come, gushing around his fingers. That’s when you feel it, the familiar warmth of his mouth, soft as he presses a kiss to your shoulder, and then up the side of your neck. He pulls his fingers from your cunt, drags them up your body as his mouth opens against the skin of your neck, tongue warm and wet as it licks at your skin, warm and wet like his fingers that have wiped the evidence of your want for him over your lower stomach.

Joel presses you forward, front of your body pressed to the back of the couch, eyes on the peeling, colourless wallpaper in front of you. He uses one of his knees to spread your legs wider, and though it might be obscene, you move in a way to show off, to bare your aching, drooling pussy to him and the empty room. You can hear him fumble with his belt and then the sound of him pulling his zipper down.

He gives no warning, he never does, just lines the blunt head of his cock to your fluttering hole and pushes in, knocking the air out of your lungs as he folds his body over yours, head of his cock pressed so deep you have no idea where he ends and you start.

His mouth is back on your neck, kissing sloppy to the skin, and it’s like he knows, like he could read your mind about what you want. When he sinks his teeth in and sucks, it’s like he’s saying he’s sorry. He’s sorry he can’t be the man you want him to be, that he can’t ever love you. And silently, as you hold his head there, fingers tangled in his hair, you say it’s okay, that you forgive him, as long as he never stops this.

As long as he never stops the perfect roll of his hips, skin slapping against skin as his cock sets a bruising pace. As long as he never stops the bruising grip on your hip, keeping you in place. As long as he never stops letting you feel his mouth on every inch of your body, it’s okay.

Joel is close, you can feel it in the way he’s faltering, so you think fuck it, what is there to lose.

“Please, Joel.”

It comes out like a whine, your head tipped back on his shoulder again, now he’s pulled you up, pressed you to his body. His hips go harder, like that’s what he thinks you want, so you card your fingers through his curls, damp with sweat, and you beg again, head tilted to the side, mouth right in his eyeline.

“Please Joel,” It’s pathetic really, “I’ll be good, I promise, just once.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Joel, I-”

“I said,” He begins, punctuating it with a particularly hard shove of his cock into your cunt, “No.”

He pushes your body forwards, takes the warmth of his body from yours in punishment for what you’d asked for. Both hands grip at your hips now, his grunts loud as he uses you, thrusts his throbbing cock in and out of you until the very last second, when he pulls himself from your tight heat and fists his cock. You can feel your cunt fluttering around nothing, so close to the edge again, and so far.

Joel comes with a growl, warm spatters of cum painting the round of your ass and the low of your back, his other hand holding you in places as he empties himself entirely across your skin. You expect this to go how it always does, with him pulling away, dressing himself and muttering some excuse to leave, but instead, you feel him come back to you, his front pressed to your back, surely making a mess of the front of his shirt as he does it.

His lips are by your ear, his breath fast and low, but then his lips press to the skin behind your ear, soft and gentle.

“I’m sorry.” He says, barely audible, even this close to your ear.

And then you feel it, the warmth of his lips against the bite mark on your neck. It’s the most gentle you think he’s ever been with you as his mouth pulls back a whisper, pressing against softly to the injured skin. Always there, and never your lips, but as he does it again, you think maybe it’s worse? Because just like it would be there if he kissed your lips, there’s a bubbling feeling in your stomach, and then you realise, it’s not the kiss the makes you fall in love, no matter where it’s placed, it’s the gentle that does it in the end.

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[brokenmemoriesblog]

Morning voice || Joel Miller x reader

Summary: Joel whispering filth in your ear with his raspy morning voice while he fucks you. (drabble)

CW: pet names (baby girl), praise kink, one use of daddy, unprotected p in v.

"Come on baby girl, take it." His voice is raspy and rough as it always is when he has just woken up. It always sends shivers down your body when he whispers filth in your ear with that voice.

You like those mornings, where he has nowhere to be, no patrols, and he just relentlessly takes what he wants from you.

You're still sore from how hard he fucked you last night, but you relax around Joel's body, your core always making room for his thick member.

"That's it. That's my good girl." He praises, his nose tracing soft shapes against the skin of your neck. You arch against him, making him sink deeper. "Fuck." He pratically growls, his big hands holding you down as he fucks you hard and slow, pining you against the old mattress that's making so much fucking noise.

He hits that deep spot inside of you, and your eyes roll in the back of your head as your moans join the symphony of the bed creaking and your skin slapping together. You whisper his name and he swallows the sound with his hungry lips, tongues playing together greedily.

"You're makin' it so fuckin' hard for me, darlin' d'you know that? M'so close." His deep voice sends shocks through your core.

"Let go baby, we can always go again. Until I'm satisfied."

"So fuckin' greedy for daddy's cock, are ya?"

His voice alone sends you to the edge, and you spasm around him as he paints your insides. Joel's body is heavy on yours as he pants and comes down his high. You run your fingers through the curls on the back of his neck, before rolling over him, reversing your positions.

"You know I love your cock."