🌹 Hey there, I'm T! I'm a simple gal who loves writing and making mood boards for my favorite characters for fun and for ME but like to share occasionally. Language Nerd 🇯🇵🇰🇷🇫🇷 Coffee & Tea Snob 🤎💚
🌹 Characters I Write: Dieter Bravo (The Bubble), Ezra (Prospect), Javi G (TUWOMT)
🌹 Username: Based on the Spiritbox song, "Rule Of Nines".
🌹 Fandoms: Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe (PPCU), Star Wars, Formula 1, Sleep Token
NOTE: Majority of my works are f!reader. Tags provided on the fic pages.
IN PROGRESS
🌿 Suburban Girl AU [NYC!Ezra (Prospect) x Black Suburban f!OFC Aelita "Lita"]
This AU is inspired by the fic, In The Dark by @frannyzooey. Not required reading but is something that crosses my brain often in terms of aesthetics and location (NYC).
🌿 Playlist 🎧 | 🌿 Pinterest Board
🌿 Suburban Getaway (Moodboard & Drabble)
🌿 Honey Spilt Over
🌿 TBA - Meet the Crew (Ezra, Aelita & Cee)
🌿 TBA - Character Alphabet (Ezra x Aelita)
🩷 Sleepover | Y2K Nostalgia One-Shots [Dieter Bravo x f!reader]
Loose-ish fic series getting up to Sleepover type shenanigans with Dieter. "Dieter gets sober" type ish. Fluff. Heavy on F2L Trope.
🩷 Series Masterlist | 🩷 Playlist 🎧
💗💖 WIP Wednesday: Sleepover!Dieter Headcanons A little bit about Dieter in this Sleepover universe.
🦥💗 Do You Want To Have A Sleepover with Me? How the sleepover even came to be. (Sleepover #1)
🧸🇬🇧 TBA - You're The Good I Never Had (Sleepover #2)
COMPLETED
@dieterbravobrainrotclub
🌹 DBBR '25 Secret Santa ("Taste For You") for @whocaresstillthelouvre
🌹 DBBR '24 Secret Santa (Happily Ever Disaster?/"Cabin Fever") for @beefrobeefcal
🌹 Do You Believe In Aliens?
🌹 House Arrest
🌹 Dessert (& More)
OTHER WORKS
🌹 Sour Sweet (Dieter Bravo)
🌹 Fall Walk + Ezraspresso (Coffee House Challenge)
🌹 A Movie For Two (Javi G)
🌹 Vacation with Dieter (+ surprise drabble from @mothandpidgeon)
🌹 V-Day with Javier P
🌹 A Cup Of Love
🌹 Rest Of Our Lives @lightsinthedistancee
🌹 It's your turn for choosing @familyvideostevie
🌹 Helter Skelter @mothandpidgeon
🌹 Charcuterie Board (Strawberries + Marcus Pike)
💚🍀 March Fic Madness '24
🌧️🌹 Fave Fics - April '24
🌼🌹 Fave Fics - May '24
🩷🌹 More Fave Fics
God sometimes I'm writing smut and I'll like, delete a sentence because I'm like, no, I can't write that. It's too indulgent. And then it's like. Girl, what the fuck are you even going to the candy store for if you're just going to buy raisins. Get real.
pairing: husband!Joel Miller × f!reader
summary: The worst part about injuring his hand isn’t the pain. It’s having to take off his wedding ring—and being unable to jerk off properly. Luckily, Joel has a wife who’s more than happy to lend him a hand.
a/n: I’ve had a really rough few weeks, so this is pretty much unedited! A little Joel never hurts when you’re trying to pull yourself out of a slump, I guess ❤️🩹
warnings: smut, established relationship, implied age-gap, husband!joel, male masturbation, shower handjob, praise kink, “good boy” used two times, dirty talk, teasing (kinda), male orgasm, mild injury and pain, mentions of urgent care and painkillers, caretaking, aftercare and a lot of love!
wc: 5634 k
I’d love to know what you thought, so please don’t be shy and leave me a little comment. Hearing from you truly means so much to me .⋆❀°
The shower had been running long enough for you to read the same paragraph three times.
Joel had claimed the heat might help his hand, although the doctor had prescribed ice, elevation and several days without gripping anything. The X-ray had shown no fracture. Joel had treated that information like permission to ignore the rest, trying to open the truck door with his injured hand before you had even left urgent care. By dinner, the bruising had spread in deep violet shadows across his knuckles, and you had needed soap to ease his wedding band over the swelling.
That had bothered him more than the pain.
He had watched you work the ring slowly over his knuckle, his mouth set in a hard line, and when it finally slipped free into your palm, his thumb had rubbed once over the pale indentation it left behind.
“Only for a few days, honey,” you had told him.
“I know, I know.”
But he continued staring at his empty finger until you placed the band on the bedside table beside your own things, safely within view.
You opened his painkillers, replaced his bandage and left him to shower while you climbed into bed with your book. But the water continued to run and you had retained nothing from the page before you.
You closed the book.
“Joel?”
No answer.
You glanced at the clock, set the book aside and crossed the bedroom.
Steam rolled through the bathroom when you opened the door. His discarded bandage lay damp beside the sink, his clothes gathered in a careless heap near the hamper. The mirror had fogged completely, but through the glass of the shower you could make out the broad, blurred shape of him standing beneath the water.
“Joel?” you called again.
No answer came, though beneath the steady rush you heard the faint scrape of skin against tile, followed by a low curse that was unmistakably his.
You undressed and stepped inside quietly, drawing a breath when the hot water struck your shoulder.
Joel stood with his back to you.
He had his head bowed and his right arm braced against the wall from elbow to wrist, protecting the swollen hand from bearing his weight. Even in the softened light, you could see the mottled bruising across his knuckles, his fingers held stiff and slightly apart. His left palm rested lower on the tile. His broad shoulders were drawn tight, every muscle along his back rigid beneath the water as it streamed through the silver beginning to thread the dark curls at the nape of his neck. It followed the shallow groove of his spine, split around the soft fullness above his hips and disappeared between his legs.
For several seconds, you simply watched him.
His left arm moved, but the motion lacked the steady, practiced rhythm you knew, his fist travelling over his cock with an awkwardness that seemed to frustrate him more each time. He adjusted his grip, tried again and shifted his hips forward, chasing a sensation his other hand could not quite give him. His shoulders tightened. A harsher curse slipped from him when his injured fingers flexed instinctively against the tile.
The sight sent heat through you with such sudden force that your breath caught.
Joel touching himself would always affect you—the thick length of him flushed dark in his fist, water shining over the soft curve of his stomach and the wet hair beneath his navel—but it was the vulnerability of the moment that drew you closer. This was the man who noticed when your shoulders hurt before you complained, who left water on your bedside table every night because you always woke thirsty, who could read the smallest change in your breathing beneath his hands and know whether you needed more, less, faster, slower. He had spent years learning every language your body spoke.
Yet he stood alone beneath the water, unable to give himself what he needed, too proud to call for you and too stubborn to stop trying.
You stepped closer without speaking.
He was so absorbed in the effort that he did not hear the shower door close behind you. He did not notice the water shift when your body interrupted its path or the quiet whisper of your bare feet against the tile. It was only when you placed your mouth between his shoulder blades, lips pressing softly to the center of his wet back, that his entire body jolted.
“Jesus!”
His head turned sharply. Pain flashed across his face when his injured fingers contracted against the wall, and he forced them open again with a hiss.
“Didn’t hear you, darlin’.”
“I noticed, baby.”
Your lips moved over his back once more, slower this time. Water ran between your mouth and his skin, tasting faintly of soap. Up close, the heat of him felt different from the heat surrounding you, deeper and alive, held taut beneath skin that shivered when you kissed the raised ridge of an old scar near his shoulder.
“What’re you doin’ in here?” he asked.
“Checking on my handsome husband.”
You rested your chin against him and looked down the length of his body. His left hand had gone still, the grip around himself loosening now that he knew you were watching. Embarrassment was not something Joel wore easily; on him, it appeared as a stubborn tilt of his chin and a refusal to look directly at you.
“Looks like I was right to worry.”
“Ain’t anythin’ to worry about.”
“You’ve been in here twenty minutes.”
“Lost track.”
“That so?”
Your palms settled at his waist and moved around him, spreading over the curve of his belly. He had grown softer through the middle over the years, his body shaped by long workdays, evening beers and all the second helpings he accepted after insisting he was full. You loved the weight of him, the solid breadth of his chest, the coarse hair flattened beneath your fingers. You loved the familiar scars and the places age had begun touching him. You loved that you could stand behind him with your eyes closed and know precisely where your hands rested.
“Seems like you’re hurting yourself because you’d rather wrestle with the wrong hand than call your wife,” you murmured.
“Wasn’t hurtin’ myself, sweetheart.”
“No?”
Your nails travelled upward through the hair on his stomach before descending again, leaving pale trails across his flushed skin. Joel’s breath changed when your fingertips passed beneath his navel.
“That hand doesn’t seem to be accomplishing much either.”
His jaw tightened, but his hips shifted subtly into his fist.
You closed the remaining distance between you and pressed your naked body to his back. The instant your breasts touched him, his breath caught. Your mouth found the side of his neck while one hand remained spread over his stomach and the other followed the dark line beneath his navel.
“Couldn’t get it right?” you asked softly.
“Left hand don’t feel like mine.”
There was so much quiet frustration in the admission that your teasing softened.
“You could’ve called me.”
“Didn’t wanna bother you, baby.”
You lifted your head. “Joel Miller, I don’t care if I’m reading, sleeping or halfway through the best dream of my life. Asking me to touch you is never going to bother me.”
“Ain’t exactly somethin’ you should have to—”
“No.” You kissed the back of his shoulder as your hand slipped lower, fingertips barely grazing the coarse hair at the base of his cock. “You take care of me so often that half the time I don’t notice you’re doing it until it’s already done. So let me have my turn.”
The rigid set of his shoulders loosened by a fraction.
His left hand opened around himself, although surrendering even that unsatisfying contact made his hips follow your hovering fingers.
“Need a hand, don’t you, cowboy?” you teased, catching the edge of his ear gently between your teeth.
A strained breath left him, somewhere between a groan and a protest.
“You gonna help or keep makin’ fun of me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” You clicked your tongue. “You do look awfully pretty struggling, baby.”
“Christ, woman.”
“Although…” Your hand settled over his left wrist and guided it away from his cock. He allowed you to place his palm on the tile, but his body remained tense, caught somewhere between wanting what you offered and resisting the act of receiving it. “I suppose I could lend my favorite cowboy a hand. If he asks nicely.”
Joel lowered his forehead to the wall.
Water slipped through the grey in his beard and fell from his jaw. Pride held him silent for another moment. You could almost feel the struggle taking place inside him—the same man who would carry too many grocery bags rather than make a second trip, who would work through a fever and insist he was only tired, who treated being needed as though it were the simplest form of love but had never learned how to need someone without apology.
You spread your palm over his bare ring finger.
The touch made him look down.
His gaze rested on your hand covering his, your wedding band shining through the water while his finger remained pale and empty beneath it. His thumb moved once against the tile, reaching for yours before remembering the awkward angle.
Then his weight shifted back into you.
“Need you,” he admitted quietly.
You waited with your lips resting against his shoulder, though the answer had already travelled through you. Joel asked for so little that sometimes you resented him for it. He would mention that his boots needed replacing only after the soles had begun admitting water, would say he was hungry once you had already placed a plate before him, would carry an ache for days until you noticed the careful way he avoided turning his neck. Even now, naked and hard between your arms, he had tried to make the request smaller than it was. Need you. Two words offered in place of everything his body had already confessed, as though wanting something from you was still harder than enduring without it.
His breath left him slowly. His empty ring finger shifted beneath your palm. When you still did not move, his hips pressed back against you before rolling forward, his cock brushing heavily against the hand you kept just beyond his reach.
“Please,” he said, whatever remained of his pride finally yielding to the need roughening his voice. “Put your hand on my cock. Stroke me. Been tryin’ to come for so goddamn long, and I can’t—I need you to do it for me.”
Joel had trusted you with his home, his daughter, the parts of his past he still struggled to name. He had stood before everyone you loved and placed a ring on your finger with hands that had trembled more than his voice. Yet this small surrender seemed to cost him something too.
You kissed the pale place where his wedding band belonged.
“Good boy.”
Joel went utterly still.
His breathing stopped for one suspended second, his stomach turning rigid beneath your forearm and his left palm pressing flat against the tile. His cock pulsed before you had even closed your fingers around him.
Slowly, he looked back at you.
Steam had gathered in his lashes. His dark eyes found yours over his shoulder, surprise exposed there before he could conceal it, followed by a heat so immediate that your thighs drew together behind him. A flush travelled higher along his throat. He appeared almost offended by the force of his own reaction, as though his body had answered you before his pride could intervene.
“What’d you call me?”
“You heard me, baby.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Say it again.”
A smile touched your lips, but you did not laugh at him. There was something too open in his expression, too uncertain beneath the want.
“Later,” you promised. “Face the wall and lean back against me. Let your wife take care of you, big boy.”
Joel held your gaze for another moment before looking forward again. His forehead settled against the tile as his shoulders gradually loosened beneath your arms. He moved back until the curve of his ass pressed firmly against your lower stomach, giving you more of his weight than before.
You kissed the center of his back and slid your right hand down.
This time, you did not stop.
Your fingers curled around the base of his cock, and Joel’s entire body answered.
His abdomen contracted beneath your forearm. His left palm slipped before flattening against the wall again. A sound left him—low, involuntary, pulled from somewhere beneath the frustration he had carried into the shower—and the thick length of him hardened further in your grip.
You held him without moving at first, letting him feel the fit of your hand around him although your fingers could not quite meet. Heat pulsed beneath the slick skin, his heartbeat fast and heavy against your palm. You adjusted the showerhead until the strongest part of the spray struck his back rather than your joined hands, then tightened your grip. Another broken breath warmed your cheek.
“There,” you murmured. “Better?”
“Fuck, yes—”
“I thought so.” You stroked him slowly from base to tip, watching his stomach pull tight beneath your arm. “Next time you need my hand around your cock, come put it there.”
Joel’s hips followed your fist as it descended. “Knew you’d enjoy this.”
“You knew correctly.”
Your thumb swept over the broad head before your fist travelled down again. At the base, you loosened your grip and slipped your free hand beneath him. Joel groaned when your palm cupped his balls, the swollen, heavy weight of them filling your hand while the other continued moving slowly along his cock.
“Oh, baby...” You rolled them gently beneath your fingers, and his hips pressed forward as though even that small touch had reached somewhere deeper than he expected. “No wonder you were getting so frustrated. These are awfully full.”
“Don’t start.”
The words lacked any real warning. They came roughened by the careful twist of your wrist, Joel’s breath catching when you tightened your fist beneath the head. You smiled against his shoulder and gave him another long stroke, refusing the faster pace his body was beginning to seek.
“I’ve already started.” Your lips followed a rivulet of water toward the sensitive place behind his ear. “You should’ve seen yourself, hiding in here with all of this aching for relief.”
“Enjoyin’ yourself?”
“Very much.” You squeezed the weight in your palm once more, tender enough to make his thighs tense. “I’ve got my handsome husband naked in my arms, getting harder every time I tease him. I can feel how badly he needs to come, and he’s making the prettiest noises while I take my time giving him exactly what he asked for.” Your thumb gathered the slickness from the tip and spread it beneath the head. “What’s not to enjoy?”
“Mean woman.”
The complaint dissolved into a groan when your fingers tightened around him. His hips followed your hand instinctively, cock sliding through your wet fist while you maintained the slow rhythm already wearing away his restraint.
“Mm. And you love me.”
“Yeah.” His answer came without hesitation, broken slightly by the next stroke. “More than anythin’.”
The words entered you with the familiar weight of truth. Joel could spend ten uninterrupted minutes complaining about traffic, Tommy or the price of lumber, but anything that mattered was pared down until only its simplest form remained. More than anythin’ was extravagance from a man like him, offered with his forehead resting against the shower wall, his injured hand held carefully before him and his body surrounded by yours.
You kissed him behind the ear and released the heavy weight beneath his cock, bringing your free arm around his middle. Your palm spread over his stomach as you drew him more securely against you.
“Good,” you murmured. “Then be sweet and let me take my time with you.”
You kept the first strokes long and measured, your fist gliding over every thick inch before closing more firmly on the descent. Joel attempted to follow you, but impatience made his hips arrive too early. You adjusted without comment, refusing to hurry; the next time he thrust forward, you slowed near the head and held him snugly in your palm until a strained breath escaped through his teeth.
Water ran over his shoulders and divided around your arms, gathering briefly in the dark hair beneath his navel before disappearing between your joined bodies. The shower could not conceal the low sounds he made whenever your grip changed or the unconscious contraction of his stomach beneath your palm. You understood what he wanted—the shallow movement of his hips asking for more speed, his left hand spreading against the tile to brace for the pressure he preferred—but kept him at that patient rhythm a little longer. By the time you tightened your fist, frustration no longer held his shoulders rigid. He was waiting for you, and his cock pulsed heavily against your palm.
“That’s it,” you whispered, your mouth close to his ear. “You can move with me now.”
Joel released a deep, uneven breath and rolled his hips forward. You met him, your fist descending as he pushed into it and closing more firmly when he reached the base. On his retreat, you stroked upward, letting the swollen head drag through the circle of your fingers before guiding him into the next movement. He followed more carefully this time, the rhythm hesitant only for the first few strokes before pleasure taught him what you wanted.
“There you go, baby.”
“God—feels so damn good.”
You held him close and let the rhythm develop between you. Each thrust grew deeper, Joel’s ass pressing into your lower stomach when he drew back before he drove forward again. Your fist worked over him in time with the motion, no longer making him wait, though you retained enough control to keep his impatience from carrying him too quickly toward the edge.
The change reached his breathing first. Those deep, measured pulls of air began catching halfway into his lungs, his mouth opening against the tile to release the low sounds he had tried to suppress when you entered. Soon he no longer seemed aware of them. His attention had narrowed to your fingers around his cock, your palm against his stomach and the body supporting him from behind.
You kissed the wet slope of his shoulder.
Joel had touched you in darkness and sunlight, slowly and with desperate hunger, had learned your body so thoroughly that sometimes a single adjustment of his hand could make you fall apart. Yet this felt different from simply returning the pleasure he had given you over the years. Tonight, he could not reach back and distract you with your own need. He could not turn, gather you against him and assume the responsibility of taking care of both of you. All he could do was remain inside your embrace and trust that being wanted did not depend upon what he could offer in return.
Your grip tightened. Joel groaned and drove forward with enough force to push the air from your lungs. You widened your stance and continued meeting him as the movement grew rougher, each thrust dragging his cock rapidly through your closed fingers before your hand followed him back to the base. Wet skin moved against wet skin beneath the shower, punctuated by his heavier breathing and a broken curse whenever you changed the angle of your wrist.
You pressed your mouth beneath his ear.
“Take it, baby,” you murmured. “Use my hand exactly how you need.”
Joel stopped trying to follow each movement you gave him and began taking the friction for himself, thrusting through your fist with all the force he had been restraining. You let him, your hand closed and steady around him while your other arm held him against you—until his injured fingers curled instinctively against the tile. The hiss that left him cut through the pleasure. You caught his wrist at once and drew his arm away from the wall without slowing the motion between his legs.
“Give me this one.”
Joel allowed you to fold his arm across his chest. You tucked the bruised hand against his opposite shoulder and covered it with your own, your forearm securing it safely in place.
“Ain’t bad,” he managed.
“Shh.”
You kissed the uninjured edge of his wrist. Your fist continued working steadily over his cock as though caring for one hurting part of him required no sacrifice from the rest.
Joel’s chest rose beneath your arm. His bruised fingers gradually relaxed against his shoulder, and his left hand left the tile to cover yours where it held him. His thumb searched through the water until it found the smooth band around your finger and rested there.
You turned your face and kissed his cheek.
Joel leaned into it for a fleeting second before the next stroke pulled a groan from him. His thumb remained pressed over your wedding band as he settled farther back, giving you more of his weight without looking to see whether you could hold it. You planted your feet, tightened your arm around his chest and did.
He was letting you have all of his need now: his injured hand held safely beneath yours, his balance entrusted to your body, his pleasure naked in every sound he could no longer contain. When your fist moved faster, his hips answered immediately. The rhythm that had belonged to both of you began to unravel as he pushed forward too soon and retreated only far enough to thrust again, each movement shorter and rougher than the last.
You adapted without breaking pace, concentrating the friction where his body responded most strongly. A rough curse left him when you repeated it, his cock almost painfully rigid within your fist, the pulse against your palm heavier and more insistent. His thighs began to tremble as the measured roll of his hips disappeared altogether. He was no longer fucking your hand with any discernible rhythm; he was chasing it, moving on instinct whenever your grip reached the sensitive head.
Your own breathing quickened against his back. Heat gathered low in your stomach as you watched the man who could reduce you to pleading with the smallest movement lose himself in your arms. You pressed your thighs together, but every sound he made travelled directly through you, every desperate thrust sending another pulse of want between your legs. None of it made you want to turn his attention toward you. Tonight, his pleasure was enough.
Your mouth found the place beneath his ear that always made his shoulders rise.
“Look at you,” you whispered, affection wrapped around the teasing words. “You were so determined to handle this yourself, and now you can barely keep those legs steady.”
Joel tried to answer, but your fist tightened and the words collapsed into a hoarse moan. You smiled against his skin.
“No clever answer for me?”
“Hard to—” He broke off, thrusting roughly into your grip. “Hard to fuckin’ think.”
“That’s all right, baby. You don’t need to.”
You increased the pace until the movement became relentless, your slick fist closing around him as quickly as his hips could push forward. Joel’s forehead pressed against the tile, shoulders drawing tight as pleasure gathered beyond his control. His breathing fractured into rough, shallow pulls, each ending in a sound he no longer attempted to swallow.
His left hand abandoned yours and flattened against the wall, fingers splayed wide for purchase. Your wedding ring remained warm beneath the place his thumb had pressed it. He drove into your fist once, twice, then faltered, the next thrust arriving shorter as his cock throbbed heavily in your palm. You felt the approaching release before he spoke—in the sudden rigidity of his stomach, the way his thighs locked as if bracing might delay what your hand was already pulling from him, the helpless twitch that travelled through his cock whenever your grip reached the head.
“Baby—” His voice cracked around the word.
You kissed his jaw. “I know.”
“Close—”
The admission came through clenched teeth, barely louder than the water. You kept your fist moving at the same firm pace, refusing to startle his body with any sudden change.
“How close?”
“Real fuckin’—close.”
Joel attempted another thrust, but the rhythm had abandoned him entirely. His hips jerked into your hand and stopped, leaving you to carry the movement while he trembled within your arms. His weight tipped backward. You accepted all of it, your forearm held securely across his chest and his injured hand protected beneath yours.
“Please,” he rasped. “Don’t slow down—”
“I won’t, baby.”
Your fist travelled over him in fast, complete strokes, drawing the tension tighter with each pass. His cock pulsed violently against your palm, so close now that every movement seemed to pull a broken sound from the deepest part of his chest.
You caught his earlobe gently between your teeth.
“Every drop for me?”
“All yours.” The answer came instantly, stripped of breath and pride. His head dropped as his hips gave one final, desperate drive through your fist. “Every fuckin’ drop.”
A tender satisfaction spread beneath the heat in your chest. You tightened your embrace, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your hand gave him the exact rhythm his body had been seeking from the moment you entered the shower.
“That’s my good boy,” you whispered. “Give it to me.”
The praise undid him.
Joel came with a sound so raw it seemed torn from the center of him.
His entire body locked in your arms. His cock jerked hard in your fist, the first hot pulse spilling over your fingers before the shower could carry it away. His hips punched forward with the next one, wrenching a broken groan from his throat as another thick streak struck the tile beneath him.
You kept your hand moving, drawing every stroke from base to tip while release continued to pulse from him. Each one seized a different part of his body—his stomach clenching beneath your arm, his thighs jumping, his shoulders drawing taut beneath your mouth. You felt the force of it pass through him until there was nothing left with which he could hold himself upright.
His knees buckled.
You caught his full weight before either of you could fall.
Your chest pressed tightly to his back, your arm banded across his ribs and your palm protecting the swollen knuckles tucked against his shoulder. Joel trembled through every aftershock, forehead resting heavily against the wall. His cock gave one final, helpless pulse into your slowing hand.
“Fuck,” he choked. “Baby—”
“Easy. I’ve got you.”
You continued moving until the last throb softened beneath your palm. Only then did you loosen your fingers, careful of the sensitivity that made his hips flinch when your thumb grazed the head. The water washed your hand clean, carrying the evidence of his release toward the drain.
Joel remained folded against the wall, his breathing coming in ragged pulls. You kept him gathered within your arms, lips moving over his shoulder and along the nape of his neck while the final tremors passed through him.
“Take your time, baby,” you murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His left hand covered your forearm where it crossed his chest. His thumb rubbed slowly over your skin, Joel still searching for some way to touch you even while you bore most of his weight.
Eventually, he lifted his head.
“Need to turn around.”
“You steady?”
“With you holdin’ me? Yeah.”
You helped him move carefully, keeping his injured hand against his chest until his back met the wall. The moment he faced you, his left arm came around your waist and pulled you against him.
Joel kissed you before you could speak.
The kiss held none of the frantic hunger that had taken him apart moments earlier. It was slow and open, his lips moving over yours with an exhausted tenderness that left you more exposed than anything he had said. His damp beard scraped gently across your chin as he kissed you again, lingering this time, breathing you in as though the release had stripped him down to the simplest things he knew.
Your hands settled against his chest.
He rested his forehead against yours.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“You never have to thank me for touching you. Your needs are my needs too.”
“Ain’t only that.”
His hand moved slowly up your back, keeping you close.
“Been meanin’ everything else.”
You traced the wet line of his jaw with your thumb. “Joel…”
He watched you, something tired and unguarded in his eyes.
“You’d do the same for me,” you said.
“In a heartbeat.”
“Then quit acting like it only works one way, my love.”
The corner of his mouth lifted before he kissed you again. His hand travelled down your arm until his fingers found yours, and he raised your left hand between you. His thumb passed over your wedding band with quiet concentration.
“Feels strange not havin’ mine on.”
“I know.”
“Kept reachin’ for it all night.”
“I noticed that too.”
You guided his injured hand closer and pressed your lips to the bare place where his ring belonged.
“Still all mine without it.”
His eyes softened. “Always.”
You stayed beneath the water until his breathing settled, holding each other in the humid quiet. When you finally turned off the shower, Joel allowed you to dry him, although he complained when you knelt to run the towel down his legs.
“Can dry my own damn feet, darlin’.”
“With which hand?”
His mouth closed.
“That’s what I thought.”
You wrapped the towel around his waist and guided him into the bedroom with your palm resting at the base of his spine.
The wedding band remained exactly where you had left it.
Joel looked at it while you sat him on the edge of the mattress and knelt between his knees with fresh gauze. You worked carefully around each bruised knuckle, smoothing the bandage without pulling it too tightly. He watched your hands throughout, quiet and heavy-limbed, his left palm resting warmly against the back of your neck.
When you finished, you raised his injured hand and kissed the pale indentation once more.
His gaze moved from his bare finger to the ring on the table.
Then he reached for it with his left hand.
“Joel, you can’t put it back on yet.”
“I know, baby, but I was thinkin’…” He picked up the band and held it toward you. “You still got that chain in your jewelry box? The one you don’t wear?”
Your heart gave a small, painful pull.
“I do.”
You retrieved the thin chain and sat beside him. Joel placed the ring in your palm, trusting you with it as he had trusted you with everything else that night. You threaded the chain through the band before fastening it carefully around his neck.
The ring settled against the damp hair on his chest.
Joel looked down and touched it with two fingers. His thumb passed slowly over the familiar curve before he closed his hand around it, holding it against his sternum. The tension that had lingered in his face since you removed it finally eased; his shoulders dropped, and the breath he released sounded deeper than any he had taken since leaving urgent care.
“Better?” you asked.
“Yeah.” His eyes lifted to yours, tired and unmistakably relieved. He gave the ring another small squeeze but did not release it. “Much better.”
You covered his closed hand with yours. “You really hated having it off.”
Joel glanced down at the pale indentation around his finger. “Kept feelin’ for it.” His thumb rubbed over the empty place as though demonstrating a habit his body had not yet learned to abandon. “Every time I looked at my hand, somethin’ felt wrong. Like I’d left part of myself sittin’ on that table.”
The quiet confession tightened your throat. It was only a circle of gold, small enough to disappear inside his broad palm, but Joel had worn it through years of work, sleep, arguments, dinners and mornings when neither of you had anything more important to say than asking who had finished the coffee. He had grown so accustomed to carrying the visible proof of your life together that its absence had left his hand feeling unfamiliar to him.
You curled your fingers around his, pressing the ring gently against his chest. “It was never going anywhere.”
“Know that.” His gaze returned to yours. “Still didn’t like bein’ without it.”
You leaned forward and kissed the crease between his brows, lingering until it softened beneath your mouth.
“Come here,” you murmured, drawing back the covers. “Let me hold you, my love.”
He lay down without argument, his injured hand elevated safely on the pillow. When you settled beside him, Joel rested his head against your chest and curved his left arm around your waist. The ring lay cool between his skin and yours, warming slowly where your bodies met.
His thumb found your wedding band once more.
“Mine safe, sweetheart?” he asked, already half asleep.
You covered the ring resting over his heart.
“Right here, baby.”
Joel released one final, tired breath against your skin. His entire body softened into the mattress, giving you its full and familiar weight.
This time, when you held him, he did not try to hold you up in return.
honey screw you for writing porn and making it so beautiful?????????????????? oh my god this is GOLDEN i swear
This was the man who noticed when your shoulders hurt before you complained, who left water on your bedside table every night because you always woke thirsty, who could read the smallest change in your breathing beneath his hands and know whether you needed more, less, faster, slower. He had spent years learning every language your body spoke.
dude............. they way you write joel................... your characterization of him is so fucking perfect i just want to DIEEEEEE
Pride held him silent for another moment. You could almost feel the struggle taking place inside him—the same man who would carry too many grocery bags rather than make a second trip, who would work through a fever and insist he was only tired, who treated being needed as though it were the simplest form of love but had never learned how to need someone without apology.
seriously im going to fucking COMBUST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! not even talkin g about the good boy situation............................ i cannot survive him asking to hear it again............................................
the wedding ring thing also fucking killed me!!!!!!!!!!!!! him being so upset about it!!!!!!!!!!!! i love this man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! he loves his wife!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! husband material so badddddddddddd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
honey seriously thank you SO much for giving us this gift i'm so in love and i miss my man so bad 😫😫😫 joel pls come home 😫😫😫😫
Summary: Struggling to pay the bills, Joel finds a rather unique way to make ends meet.
Warnings: minors dni, smut, adult cam star! joel, masturbation, dirty talk, very descriptive male anatomy, male genitalia pronouns, usage of daddy but it's only mentioned once
Word count: 3.1k
A/N: It's been a while! I've had this one sitting in my drafts for such a long time and edited it so many times I've lost count (and I still don't quite like it). Life has been hectic, but things have finally slowed down so now I'm finally able to post it. Enjoy ♡
Divider by @kodaswrld
Ten minutes until showtime.
It was a Friday night and his trailer was quiet aside from the hum of his refrigerator and the distant whine of a truck down the highway. Joel sat on the edge of his bed, mattress springs groaning under his weight.
He rubbed his calloused palm over his stubble. Construction dirt was ingrained in his skin, under his nails. He'd taken a quick shower after work, but after so many years, it simply became a part of him, present no matter what he tried.
He shoved his laptop across the bed, the screen flickering to life. It illuminated his room— mostly unidentifiable clutter, such as a coffee mug and a pack of cigarettes that he swore he'd quit five times now. He never had.
The sight of the adult cam website greeted him. It was familiar by now, but the knot in his stomach it gave him never really went away.
Joel had started this a year ago. He'd been so desperate for cash at the time. Bills kept piling up week after week, while his construction work paid him less and less. He had to make ends meet, and fast.
He'd taken on normal jobs at first. A handyman, a janitor, a security guard. But he had to quit each job not long after starting them due to the incompatibility with his construction work schedule, and the fact they paid like shit.
Joel had been out of options. But one day, as he was reading a news article about how much the adult cam industry paid, he knew he had to give it at least a try.
He'd hated it at first. Something about having a bunch of strangers watch you jerk off made his skin crawl. He swore he'd never do it again, until he saw how much just half an hour had made him. And ever since, JM went live twice per week.
"Alright," Joel— or in this case, JM— muttered to himself. "Let's get this shit over with."
He adjusted his webcam, making sure it was low. Always showing just his chest and below. No face, that was his rule. The last thing he needed were people he knew in real life stumbling across him jerking it.
The angle framed the worn khaki flannel shirt he'd thrown on, unbuttoned just enough to show the patch of grey hair on his chest. He leaned back against a bunch of pillows, making himself comfortable. He wasn't young anymore and neither was his back.
The chat was empty for now. Truth to be told, he never quite read the chat besides donations. The more he read the things overly horny people threw at him, the less he wanted to keep doing this.
11:00 PM.
Joel hit the 'Go Live' button. The tiny red dot blinked, and a rush of adrenaline spiked his veins, cold and sharp.
The viewer count was zero for now. He took a breath, letting it out slow. He nervously scratched the fabric of his jeans, waiting for the first notification to roll in.
"Evenin' folks."
The viewer count jumped. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. Within a minute the room was packed, at least to Joel's standards. The chat rolled at such a fast pace the text became a blur of grey text and colorful usernames.
Joel leaned forward a little, making sure his face stayed out of frame.
It was easy money, he kept telling himself despite the way his heart hammered against his ribs. The numbers don't lie.
"Alright, alright," he rumbled, the microphone picking up his deep voice. "Settle down. Y'all are especially restless tonight."
He glanced at the donation section. A few were already dropping in; five, tens, twenties. A generous fifty from someone with the username SilverFox. That one alone would cover the electricity bill for the week.
Joel shifted, the denim of his jeans brushing the sheets beneath him. He took a quick look at the requests scrolling past.
Take off the shirt.
Show us your muscles.
Talk to us, daddy.
He let out a grunt, the sound low in his throat. His hand reached for the top button of his flannel shirt. His fingers felt rough, the skin dry as they fumbled with the tiny plastic disc.
"Patience," he said, voice dropping as he slipped into the persona they craved. He didn't rush, he never did. He made them wait. "We've got plenty of time."
He popped the first button. Then the second. The fabric parted slowly, revealing a sliver of his tanned, hairy chest and the white tank top he always wore underneath.
Joel leaned back, pushing his chest out. The camera captured the definition and width of his shoulders perfectly.
"See somethin' you like?" he asked, watching as the chat exploded in response. "Y'gotta speak up if you want somethin' more."
He let his hand linger on the third button, waiting for the next wave of donations to hit before he gave them what they all wanted.
The chime of incoming tips rang out like a damn slot machine payout. He didn't rush, as he knew the value of anticipation and the way the chat seemed to like it more if he took his sweet time.
He worked the rest of the buttons, letting the fabric fall open.
His flannel slid down his arm and landed on a heap on the floor next to him. The exposure made his skin cooler. The white cotton of his tank top clung to the damp heat of his skin, reading the scrolling text without really taking in the words.
More.
Take it off.
Joel hooked his fingers into the hem of the tank top. It was a tighter fit than his flannel was, hugging his broad shoulders and the slight softness of his middle. He pulled it upward, the friction dragging against his hair as he peeled it over his head.
His hair was a mess now, sticking up in tufts. Not that he cared or bothered to smooth it down— these people couldn't see his face anyway.
There was definition in his chest. His pecs, the ridge of his sternum. But it was all buried under a layer of lived-in softness. His stomach wasn't flat like it had once been. It rounded out slightly over the waistband of his jeans, proof of the cheap beer he liked to drink after a long day at work. Even so, beneath the softness were cords of muscle that came from hauling lumber and concrete since he was a teenager.
A thick dusting of salt-and-pepper hair covered his chest, narrowing into a thinner line that eventually disappeared into his jeans.
Joel leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. He flexed his muscles, watching as the comments flood in. Praise for his dad bod, the hair, the bulk. He never would've thought his aging body would attract any kind of attention on this website, but he had been wrong. It was paying off.
"Y'all likin' the view?" he asked, voice low. He ran his hand through the hair on his chest, scratching his nails against his skin. "Been a long day. Still got some dust on me from work."
Glancing at the donation goal, he saw it was inching closer and closer to the mark for the 'main event' to begin.
"Who wants to see what's under this denim?" he growled, fingers dropping to his belt buckle. The metal clinked loudly in the otherwise silent room. "Y'know the drill."
The banner flashed across the top of the screen seconds later, a bright gold: goal reached. The cheerful chime that accompanied the banner felt absurdly out of place.
Joel let out a huff of air through his nose. "There we go," he murmured. "Knew you folks would come through."
He shifted his weight, bringing his hands to his waist. The belt was a heavy, worn thing, a thick leather that had definitely seen better days, cracked and chipped in places.
He worked the buckle with ease, the metal clack loud in the room. He didn't pull it out of the loops, instead just letting the ends hang loose, the tension around his midsection vanishing.
Next came the button. It was tight— these jeans were his oldest work pair and he hadn't bothered to buy new ones in a while. It still fit and it wasn't torn, so he saw no reason to replace them.
He popped the snap, the relief immediate. Soon after that the zipper followed, teeth parting slowly with a low rasp.
Joel spread his thighs wider to fill the camera angle. The denim fell open, revealing the front of his boxers— grey cotton, definitely way too thin. The outline of him was clear, a heavy, resting weight that pressed against the fabric.
He didn't take his jeans off, though. Not yet. He liked the tease, the way the denim would frame his hips. So instead he brought his right hand to his crotch, cupping the entire bulge in his palm. It was warm, heavy. Promising.
"Well, look at that," he grunted, voice dropping even lower. He squeezed, digging his fingers into the flesh, feeling the blood start to pool, the familiar heavy throb of waking up. "That's what yer payin' for, ain't it?"
He kneaded the fabric, thumb brushing over the head still trapped inside the cotton. He felt the twitch, the way his hips jerked involuntarily against the friction. He tried not to focus on the chat too much, finding it easier to get aroused that way.
Joel rubbed his hand up and down the length, the knot of arousal tighter in his gut. The cotton dragged over the sensitive skin, coaxing him to full hardness to fill the space.
"Gettin' there," he muttered, half to the audience, half to himself. He squeezed the base, groaning softly as the pressure built. "Just gotta warm him up."
He lifted his hips, the effort making his breath hitch audibly. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, dragging the grey cotton down over the curve of his ass.
He didn't take these off either; simply pushed the bundle of denim and cotton down until they bunched around his upper thighs.
Gravity did the rest.
His cock sprang free, slapping heavily against his lower abdomen with a fleshy sound. He was impressive, not pretty in the usual sense but rather long and thick, the shaft a flushed red color that stood out against the tan of his stomach.
He was manly. His foreskin a puckered hood that still half-concealed his tip, glistening where a bead of fluid was gathering, shaft slightly curved upwards and with a dense patch of salt-and-pepper hair curled at the base of it all, thick and unkept. His balls hung low, heavy and full, settling onto the denim bunched beneath him.
Joel looked down at it, a low rumble vibrating in his chest.
"There he is," he muttered, voice thick. He wrapped his right hand around the shaft, fingers barely meeting around the girth despite his large hands. He squeezed, hard enough to make the head flare and push fully out of the foreskin, shiny crown emerging red and angry.
"Big enough for y'all?"
He gave himself a slow stroke, pulling the skin down to the root and letting it slide back up slowly, friction wet and audible.
"He's hungry tonight."
He shifted his legs wider, planting his feet on the mattress. He angled his hips up to give the camera a better angle of what he was working with between his legs. The chat was a blur of praise and desire, but he tried not to pay too much attention.
"Alright," he grunted, spitting into his right palm to slick up his length. "Let's get to work."
The rhythm he set initially was heavy, a friction that nearly bordered on too tight. Joel never went for light, teasing touches; instead gripping the shaft like it he was holding a jackhammer, palm calloused against the slickness of his skin.
"Shit," he grunted, the sound tearing from his throat as his fist hit the base. His hips lifted up, a thrust that drove his cock upward through the tight circle of his fingers.
He settled back down only to drive up again, meeting his own strokes halfway. The wet slap of skin and his breathing were the only sounds in the room.
The head emerged from his foreskin, redder and angrier each time with each stroke up, leaking a stream of pre-come that slicked his grip.
"Look at 'im," he growled. "Look how damn hard he is for ya."
His left hand drifted lower, away from his shaft and instead towards the heavy sack beneath. He cupped the weight of his balls, rolling them between his thick fingers, tugging them down away from his body. His breath hitched at the sensation, a sharp intake of air that whistled through his teeth.
"Fuck," he hissed, accent thickening. "Tha'ss it."
The pace increased, just a fraction. Joel could feel the heat coiling in his spine. The chat was scrolling too fast to read, but the money kept pouring in, and it motivated him to keep going.
"Yeah, y'want this, don'tcha?" he rasped to no one in particular, voice dropping to a whisper. He squeezed the base hard, cutting off blood flow slightly, making the head swell purple.
"Wanna make this big ol' cock spill for ya."
He leaned his head back against the pillows, exposing the thick cords of his neck to the camera, face just out of frame. "Gon' make a mess soon," he muttered, slurring. "Gon' cover everythin'."
The sound of his fist jerking off his cock was loud and obscene, filling the small room. His breathing had turned into a ragged noise, chest heaving as he worked himself up and down the rigid shaft. He fucked up into his own hand, driving his hips up off the bed with every downward plunge of his wrist.
"Jesus," Joel gritted out, head falling back. "He's so fuckin' wet."
Pre-come leaked from him in a steady stream, pouring over the swollen tip and slicking his palm until his hand was just a blur of motion. It was dripping down his knuckles, matting the hair at the base.
"Look at that," he growled. He stopped for a fraction of a second to pull the foreskin all the way back, exposing the glossy, now purple head to the camera.
"Look at 'im. Swollen as a damn tick."
He wrapped his hand back around it, squeezing tight, forcing another drop of pre-come from the slit.
"Yeah, y'want this," Joel spat. He was sweating now, beads of it rolling down his temples and tracking through the hair on his chest. "Y'wanna see me empty these?" His left hand squeezed his balls.
He picked up the pace, the wet slap of his sack against his thighs audible even over the sound of him fisting his cock. He was utterly hard now, the curve of his stiff cock rigid. At his age it took him longer to get like this, but when he got there, it was worth it.
"Gon' make it hurt," he rasped, hips bucking erratically. He roughly tugged on his balls with his left hand, pulling them away from his body to delay his release, groaning at the jolt of both pleasure and pain it earned him.
"Gonna milk every last drop outta him."
Joel grunted, a deep sound that bordered on animalistic. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment— not that the audience could tell— as he got lost in the friction of his own fist.
"Talk to me," he demanded, babbling more than that he actually meant it. "Tell daddy how bad you need it."
The coil in his gut snapped tight, pulled to a breaking point.
"Yeah, fuck—!"
Joel's hips jackknifed off the bed, abs crunching hard as the first wave of his release hit him. It was an explosion, his hand moving as if on autopilot, jerking his shaft hard and fast, dragging the pleasure out of him by force.
"God damn—"
The first shot was a heavy, pearly white rope that arced through the air, landing with a wet splat on his upper chest, right in the center of his salt-and-pepper hair. He couldn't stop. His hand kept squeezing, demanding more of himself.
"Fuck! Take it, fuckin' take it..."
Another spurt followed, this time painting a line onto the soft curve of his belly, pooling in his navel. It felt hot against his cooling skin.
Joel grunted again, a deep sound that vibrated through his body, his head thrown so far back that his muscles strained.
"Yeah... Fuck yeah..."
The intensity evened out, cock pulsing in his grip, spilling a messy flood that dribbled over his calloused knuckles, dripping down his shaft and eventually matting the pubic hair at the base.
His strokes slowed, fist milking the last few drops out, breathing ragged. He looked down at himself through lidded eyes, sweat dripping down his temple to mix with the mess he'd made at his collarbone.
"Look at that," he breathed. His voice was wrecked, barely even above a whisper. He slowly released his grip, hand falling away to rest on his thigh, strings of come stretching between his fingers before snapping. "Fuckin' drowned me."
Joel sat there for just a moment, staring down at the screen through half-lidded eyes the audience could not see. The post-nut clarity hit him like a wave, as it did each and every time he did this. The adrenaline faded fast, leaving him with just the sticky, cool reality.
The mess on his stomach was cooling rapidly, turning tacky and uncomfortable. Joel stared at the chat, a waterfall of praise, heart emojis and a whole bunch of words in caps-lock. It meant very little to him beyond the numbers that would appear in his bank account soon.
He couldn't help but laugh at himself internally. Fifty-six years old and jackin' it on the internet.
A pang of vulnerability shot through him that made Joel want to pull the plug and call it a night. But he hid it, wanting these people to return next time.
He tilted his chin down, allowing just his stubble and a forced smirk onto the screen.
"Alright, that's all she wrote, folks," he drawled, voice slowly regaining its strength, though slightly more tired. "Y'all drained me tonight."
His eyes glanced at the top donation. "Appreciate y'all, as always."
Joel leaned back, stretching his arms wide one last time, showing off the sticky mess one last time.
"JM signing off. Go do somethin' productive with yerselves."
The red light died, screen going black. The silence of his trailer rushed in again accompanied by the hum of his refrigerator.
how it works: pick a favourite passage from your work for each category below. it can be a line or a few paragraphs.
Thank you for the tag @quinnnfabrgay 🩷 I realize that I've written A LOT more than I give myself credit for. I had no idea that I would even be that person but here I am!
Most Romantic (Or Sweetest):
Can I mention a Suburban Girl AU WIP because I think what I have in the think tank is the most romantic (and tbh vulnerable) I've gotten? I admit its in 'scribble that down before you forget format' but I think it's something that I wrote that it very much what I hope to have in this life but the closest I've gotten is penning it down...
Aelita: “(...) After all this time, being respected doesn't cut it. I want to be loved. Cared for? You never treated me like an afterthought.(...) You saw me.”
Ezra: “The feeling is mutual, Starlight. My time spent with you has never felt aimless. Respected or loved…perhaps depending on the company you keep, these two are in constant pirouette. You can't have one without the other, I surmise. I respect you enough to tell you how much I care for you even if it costs. You deserve to hear how loved you are as much as everyone else.”
Your Angst-iest Writing:
This would have to be my Fall Coffee House Challenge, Fall Walk + Ezraspresso.
Laying in your bed, wrapped in your comforter cocoon, thoughts of the last few hours of your shift from hell swirling in your mind. Your phone vibrates and lights up in front of you, breaking the spiral.
Ez: I just got off of work and saw your messages. Care to take a walk with me? No pressure if you want some solitude but if I'm honest, I don't want you to be alone. Call me if you're interested in taking up my offer. Talk soon 💚
Ezra was the type that no matter what you were going through - good, bad, worse…he was the one you'd call. Today was a bit different. You sent messages to him about what was plaguing you but didn't want to call. Sometimes you feel burdensome. Guilty even.
Honorable mention: My Sleepover!Dieter Headcanons (this Dieter is still in my precious WIPs)
Your Most Humorous:
2024 Secret Santa! I had a blast making the artwork but the dialogue of my little "trailer" was my favorite. I enjoy writing silly one liners and I think that's how a lot of works start off.
“And you let me? Well, I want out. I'm not working with the Hollywood drama queen. I thought I would be working with some no-name type…not her.”
Pot called kettle.
“Drama queen? What sleazy tabloid did he drag that up from?" Your eyes widen, mouth agape in shock. "I'm not doing this. I refuse to be disrespected by someone who looks like they just rolled out from the nearest trash bin.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, take in a deep inhale, and exhale. “Look, I'm flattered that they chose me but…I don't see this working out.”
Honorable mention: House Arrest
Your Sexiest:
Honey Spilt Over, hands down. This my first time writing for Ezra and I've been chasing that high ever since. I'm obsessed with him and this AU I have in the works so I find myself going back this work to remind me that I can write hot things. I remember finishing it going..."Did I do okay?" I still don't really know but I do know I had fun 😂
Enraptured by your siren song, he dives in deep. He parts your seas with his nimble fingers, expertly drawing out your sweet, pearlescent nectar. He spreads it around with his thumb in circles on your clit.
“Look at how these petals bloom just for me…this feels like more of a present for me than you.” His tongue dances around and directly on your bud making you gently rock your hips into his mouth, desperate for more pressure. Your breath hitched as he continued to feast, intoxicated. The threads begin to unravel as you grab the back of his neck, threading your hands through his unruly tresses.
Honorable mention: I still "blame" the creation Dessert (& More) to the @dieterbravobrainrotclub because it wouldn't have been completed and posted it otherwise.
Ezra tries to make you a special treat for your birthday in secret, but you catch him before he can unveil his sweet surprise. 1,629 words, no warnings, just fluff 🤗
author's note: this is part of a series that in my mind i call "blurbos" — ideas that i had legitimately years ago and for whatever reason was too shy to finish and/or post them at the time, but now i'm forcing myself to as an act of dismantling my perfectionistic tendencies! if you have wips that have been sitting in your drafts for far too long but you can't bring yourself to let go of them, this is your sign and me encouraging you to do the same!! <3 there has been so much art, writing, and other media that i've come to adore yet the artists claim that it's "not their best work" or they'll "probably delete it later" — but i would be devastated if they did! if any of these blurbos or my other writing bring you joy or good feelings, then my job has been accomplished :) happy reading!
Every year Ezra makes a fuss about your birthday. For him, it’s indescribably satisfying to know the exact date and time when the clock - attuned specifically to your body - ticks its last second away, completing another lovely cycle around the stars. It’s hard for him to believe that there was a time when you were living in the same universe as him, going about your daily routine as if it were nothing spectacular, and he didn’t know of your wondrous existence. Yet, in the same vein, your life is his favorite mystery that he’s not sure if he ever wants to figure out, or if he’s meant to at all. He wonders what you were like before him, what you’ll be like after him; he knows you’ll out-survive him, you’re much too clever and precocious.
Ezra doesn’t have such a privilege of celebrating a birthday. Being born in the unfavorable atmosphere his mother had been chained to for work was a miracle in itself; officially documenting such an accomplishment was an afterthought. On January 1st of every year, he just sort of mentally scrawls a tally mark next to the others; ones defined only by blackened violence, ones that still screamed red with torture, ones that were so muddied they blurred into the next and became one big smudge that his nervous system tries its best to repress in order to protect his heart from collapse.
But then you came along. Now, all Ezra wants to do is record, catalogue, remember. Every tiny moment, every colossal feat, it’s all worth it to him if it has your signature.
So this year, Ezra stealthily unfurled his arm from around your head and reached over your body to tick the switch on the alarm clock to the ‘off’ position before your usual rising time. He wanted to have everything ready before you woke up, wanting to show you a culmination of his love since he met you years ago. Today, on the exemplary day when the universe gave your lovely soul a physical body that he has the blessing to communicate and share a relationship with, you won’t lift a finger.
Ezra leaned down, pressed a kiss to your forehead before billowing the sheets up, silently escaping their cover, and watching them settle back down over the dip of your waist, the rise of your hip. He smiled to himself as he caught one last gaze at you from the doorway before he disappeared around the corner into the small kitchen quarters.
He still curses himself that he didn’t save enough from his last job to rent a better pod for this cycle; a new casino back on the Pug and the bets he kept on fights in its back alley nearly emptied his wallet — thank god you stashed something extra in the safe at home. You deserved better than one bunk with no sound system, a bathroom you had to share with his sticky, disorganized tubes of pastes and gels with various uses (for wounds he incurred on other jobs and didn’t dare tell you the details of), a kitchen no bigger than a small closet. But the glorious part with you is that there will always be a next time. Ezra has made good on chances to redeem himself for stupid mistakes that he had skirted accountability for for years all because you became a constant in his life to set him back on course when he veered too far off in one direction or another.
Infinitely resourceful, Ezra will find a way to celebrate you no matter what he has to work with. If he dove to the bottom of Lau’s oceans and braided the seaweed into a crown, adorning it with shells and vibrant pink and purple wildflowers that sprouted along the driftwood that littered the grey beach, then he could make do with the first kitchen you’ve had access to in over a year no matter its size.
A little while later, you stir at the smell of something delicious wafting down the hallway. Small particles dance in the air, creamy white against the dark blue metal sheets that comprise the interior of your pod. You look down to the other side of the bed — Ezra’s gone. Your question is answered before you can even ask it by a small metallic clank in the kitchen, followed by a gruff, “Damnit.” You creep quietly to get a peek into the other room with a smirk on your face.
There, you see Ezra. Tongue tucked into the corner of his lips, he meticulously uses the edge of a jagged knife to drop a small pile of thick chocolate frosting onto a buttery yellow cake and carefully spread it. His disapproving utterance from before can be explained by the glob of icing dropped on the counter. Ezra leans in close to get a better look at his sculpture with his poor eyes, but he plants his elbow right in the accident on the counter and nearly slips face-first into the cake.
You put your hand over your mouth in an effort to hide your giggle, but it’s unsuccessful as Ezra’s gaze shoots up at you. He positions his burly arms like a cage around the cake, “No, no, no. You’re still supposed to be sleepin’.”
“I can’t sleep in a cold bed,” you tease, earning a soft sigh from your partner that deflates his broad shoulders. He straightens up, glancing between his confection and the object of his affection. A crooked smile lifts his cheeks, “Happy birthday, stardust.”
Something beats louder in your heart than butterflies, maybe doves. Your cheeks warm as they always do when Ezra displays his love for you so transparently. He might have a reputation of being suave, but he was a tough nut to crack the first few months you knew him. It never gets old when the man you found in the middle of a brawl all those years ago, covered in scars whose stories you still don’t know the full breadth of, is the same one who hugs you close at night and hums sweet stories to until you fall asleep.
You step up to his side and he kneels before you, draping his arms around your waist and looking up at you like you created all the best parts of the universe. You knight him with kisses to his forehead and both cheeks. A kiss on his lips is in order, but upon closer inspection, you notice a swirl of fudge frosting nestled amongst his scruff of the same chocolate hue — make that mocha, as you swipe it off of his prickly skin and pop your fingertip into your mouth.
Raising an eyebrow and dusting off a patch of flour from his temple, you tease, “If you love me so much, you should know that my favorite is vanilla.”
The chocolate fiend’s cheeks fill with embarrassed blood as the infinitely eloquent man stammers under your interrogation, “W-well you see, I know that about you, stardust. The moment you told me I wrote it down and filed it away in my brain, in the corner I keep just for factoids about you. But at the market, they had this cocoa powder all the way from Spiria — you know that the only thing they’re good for is their weapons manufacturin’ and their powderizing plants — and I just had to get it. I scooped up a bit of that coffee you like, too, they just had an open sack and I…” Ezra trails off, realizing that he’s admitting his crime to you. He soldiers on, with a white lie soldering his truth, “I threw an extra token at the cashier. He had this little kit on sale at the front, cake mix and a pan, and I wasn’t sure if it’d fit in our oven but I figured I’d come home to try it before I gave up givin’ you something special for your big day, and—”
Your lips, soft and understanding, cut your rambling partner short of his explanation. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
And suddenly, the fugitive has shy eyes. He mumbles, low and sweet, “Anything for my center of the universe.”
Ezra sticks one of those candles that are poured into a squiggly shape into the center of the cake and the frosting makes a soft squishing sound at the intrusion. His brow furrows when you take it back out, moving it to one edge of the cake. “I want you to have a wish of your own, too,” you explain. Taking another bright blue candle from the pack, you place it on the opposite side of the cake and Ezra sits parallel to you so your breaths don’t get caught in a crossfire while making your wishes.
Ezra strikes a match and lights them both. You close your eyes, conjuring up your biggest, best wish, and Ezra watches the way the small flames dance across your cheeks and the delicate flickers of your eyelids as you think hard. He only closes his eyes after he rests his hand atop yours on the table.
His raspy, gentle voice breaks the silence in the room. “Ready?”
You nod. Together, you direct a steady stream of air to your respective candles. When you open your eyes, all that’s left of their flames are two thin lines of smoke.
While Ezra steadies the knife between both hands and pushes it down gently, cutting a crescent from the cake, he asks, “What’d you wish for?"
You chuckle, “Nice try. If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
You can never be too sure which dreams or nightmares will come true in this corner of the universe, but with surprises like Ezra? It’s worth sticking around for.
shipping a consensual, safe & sane pairing all the while i'm shaking my head in disapproval so the audience knows i still love wildly toxic abusive fictional dynamics
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