alex

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your father built the town’s church with his own hands, laid the foundation when your mom was pregnant with you. you were raised to wear white on easter, to memorize psalms before you even learned to ride a bike. but god never felt like love, he hung like a weight on your shoulders.

everyone watched you grow up—the preacher’s daughter, the town’s sweetest girl, god’s little lamb—like you were a glass doll kept on the altar. your sunday school teacher, the grocery store clerks, your youth leaders. and joel miller.

joel was one of the few to never get too close, never try to grace you with sweet words and touch because of your father. he kept his distance, nodded politely, and you were always too young. he looked at you without reaching. you remember him fixing the gutters at the church, help your dad lead prayer circles. mr. miller’s voice was tired, but always kind. a good man. a man of the church.

everyone adored you, but you had your own secrets—as did everyone in town. skipping town at 18, leaving the church, you learned to cry without praying first. sleep too much. kissed strangers who didn’t care about your last name.

returning to town a few years later, the house is emptier than you ever remembered. crosses hung above the beds, a thick layer of dust somehow covering every inviolable room. your father is quieter. has too much shame.

and there’s joel. but now, he keeps looking at you like he sees everything you’re trying to hide. there’s something else in his eyes than the rest of the men your dad surrounded himself with after church.

and you? you’re tired of being holy.

- warnings: tons and tons of religious trauma, guilt, blasphemous themes, biggggg age gap (early 20s reader, joel is 56), toxic family, power imbalances, grief, death in family, shame-based sexuality, psychosexuality, smoking, alcohol, southern gothic and small town setting, gaslighting, purity culture and repression, sexual trauma, forbidden romance, slow burn, dark romance, gaslighting, cursing, intimacy in religious setting, no outbreak!!!!, obsession, just so much religious guilt and discovery please don’t read if you’re not comfortable with that! and obviously tons of smut—but i’ll go more into detail with that bit when i post more chapters.

very roughly inspired by preacher’s daughter by ethel cain—just the same vibe! southern gothic, the baptist church, laying by the creek, sunday dresses and crosses above the bed. with joel. it’s perfect.

slow burn, religious trauma, so so much guilt, lust, and total ruin.

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Still wrapped in the afterglow and feeling of his mouth on you, your chest rises and falls under Joel.

The weight of him on top of you is solid and warm, pushing you into the bed in a sheltering way. His chest brushes yours with each breath, hips pushing down and body slotted between your legs the same way his tongue slides into your mouth. 

His stomach is soft where his shirt rides up, pressing warmly against yours. Weirdly domestic. 

There’s heat radiating from every square inch of his body, enveloping you in a protective embrace as if letting you know he’s not letting you go again. Not after tonight, definitely. Not after being the honorary figure to take your innocence. 

Candidly, his mouth feels like a promise. He’s got you. And when your lips disconnect, he hears a soft breath, and sits up between your legs.

Your hands move forward, aching to touch him. The exposed sliver of stomach gets worse when you push the shirt up, attempting to unbutton the rest of it to no avail.

“Butterfingers,” Joel chuckles softly, sitting back on his knees.

He does the work for you, unbuttoning each little piece of hard plastic with ease until his broad torso is fully exposed. And fuck, he’s gorgeous. 

He’s slimmed down the tiniest bit since the last time you’ve seen him, probably due to the obsessive behaviors to distract himself from you. Maybe cut down on the beers. Whichever way, he looks incredible. 

He continues, shrugging off the button-down and getting up to discard his belt and jeans. Comes back in only a pair of black boxers, tented and hugging the unmistakable bulge over his crotch. 

It’s covered, but it's undoubtedly huge. Enough to make you salivate.

The second he’s back between your legs, he’s admiring you in a way you’ve never felt before. Your fingers rest nervously on your own stomach as you feel the unfamiliar weight of a man over you. The real, physical body of a man–hard, tanned, everything. Not God, but Joel. Solid and strong but softened over the years, a few scars littering his body: one on his chest, on his right hip, and the one on his temple you’ve memorized. 

Joel notices the way your hands twitch and quickly wraps them up in one hand, lifting them to his mouth, lips all pink from working relentlessly between your legs a few minutes ago.

“Still good, angel?”

You nod quickly, feeling your heart quicken with the gentleness in which he’s touching you. The way his single hand can collect both of your wrists in one grip, so large compared to you. The way you can feel the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his boxers. The way he looks at you with utmost tenderness like the sweetest thing he’s ever seen–or tasted. 

“Still good,” you answer with a dopey smile, eyes scanning all over his chest. Seeing a man like this for the first time feels adjacent to making sense of an old English passage back at school–unfamiliar, but incredibly rewarding. “Very good.”

He laughs again at your emphasis with the ‘very,’ watching the way your gaze gravitates to his lower stomach. He frees your hands, letting you explore.

Your first stop is the happy trail leading down his stomach. 

His dark, wiry hair is grayer than you’d expected–curly and covering his chest, leading down to that sweet area with the little ‘v’ that, essentially, is giving you an arrow down to his cock. Everything about him is so thick and grown, showing off years of experience. Years of working and carrying. 

“Don’t gotta look at me like that,” Joel notices your fascination, shaking his head with a crooked grin.

“I’ve never seen this before,” you defend yourself, sitting up and smiling like an idiot while you take him in. You don’t mean to stare, he’s just so real looking. 

That earns an amused huff from Joel. He moves to flop down beside you, stretching out and facing you on the bed. 

“Never seen what? A man?” 

You groan dramatically and laugh, stuffing your face into his neck. You only peek out a few moments later, looking up at him with candied eyes. 

“Yes, a man. Shirtless, y’know. Like this.” You gesture toward his lower stomach, the hair disappearing into his waistband that’s reserved a spot in your brain by now. Pointing somewhere private and forbidden that you crave to see. 

Joel raises an eyebrow, watching each flicker of your eyes down south.

“This givin’ you trouble?” He smirks, splaying a large hand over his lower belly. The hair comes out, curls around his fingers, and you almost drool.

Biting back another stupid laugh, you nod, teeth caught on your bottom lip. “Maybe.” 

He reaches for your hand, gently taking it in his and leading it down to his stomach. 

“Come on, baby. You’re allowed to touch, y’know.” 

Obviously, you’re not gonna decline that offer. Your fingers graze the ridges of muscle, the veins leading down to where you want to feel most. He’s so strong even there, so solid. Warm and alive, human enough to be a little ticklish–you can tell when he twitches in place. It makes both of you chuckle.

Knowing that this isn’t really something you’ve seen before or gotten to experience, he lets you explore. Like he’s a fucking map, letting you drag your fingers wherever you please.

And he’s pleased as well. Proud, warm, and entirely yours to traverse. 

“S’totally unfair,” you smile, pressing your face into his shoulder while engrossed in his stomach.

“What’s unfair?”

“How good you look.” it’s the most foolish thing you could’ve said, but it speaks volumes of truth. It is actually unfair that he gets to live and look like this, and you’ve waited until now to get a feel of it.

Joel snorts, giving your arm a gentle shove, rubbing the spot soon after to ensure that it didn’t hurt–even with how soft the push was. He shakes his head in disbelief, but you swear you can see a faint blush on his cheeks.

“Shut up,” he smiles, kissing the top of your head. “S’not that big of a deal.”

“I’m so serious right now.” you pout up at him. “And it is a big deal. You’re so manly. N’ real. Hair and scars and a belly and everything. Big, too.” 

That earns another laugh from him, a real one. Deep in his chest.

“Big?” He repeats in disbelief, bracing himself up with a grunt and flipping you onto your back again, crawling over you. 

“Big,” you confirm, blowing hair out of your face when he climbs over you. With familiarity, your legs spread, and he lays between them. “Like, big and warm. S’a good thing. You can protect me or something, I dunno.”

Joel leans down, his mouth brushing your mouth again to quiet you down, to stop you from making a grown, hardened man blush. 

“Alright, alright.” He smiles and shifts his weight to support himself on one arm, the other moving down. “That’s enough out of you. Quit it with the sweet-talkin’.”

His hand finds the sweet spot between your legs, gently spreading your folds back open to check how wet you are.

And just to his suspicions, you’re entirely soaked again. Dripping. His fingers slide through with ease, collecting slick on them and humming in approval. 

“No. I’m just being appreciative. You could throw me against a–”

Joel takes the two fingers he just slid through you, lifting them and quickly slipping them between your lips. That cuts you off. 

You can taste yourself on his digits, stronger than earlier when he kissed you after eating you out. You let out a muffled squeak, eyes going wide, but your tongue instinctively wraps around them and gives them a gentle suck. 

“Jesus, girl. Talkin’ too much,” he huffs when you start to suck at his fingers, taking them out of your mouth and wiping the mix of saliva and arousal on the sheets underneath you. “You done?”

Clearly, you’re not, because you grab for his wrist and put the two fingers right back into place in the warmth of your mouth. 

“Nope.” you murmur, voice muffled by the two large digits stuffed between your lips, catching your tongue in place. 

Oddly enough, it feels unfamiliarly comfortable for them to sit in your mouth like that. The taste of yourself comes second to the feel of Joel–the roughness of his fingers, the warmth, and the curve of his knuckles. This time, you don’t suck to tease. More to savor the taste and feeling, because it feels good. Yes, it’s filthy. But it’s safe. You feel kept–you feel like Joel’s. 

He snorts when you continue to suckle them, but his thumb brushes your cheek with a gentleness that can’t be ignored. As much as he is loving teasing you right now, he can’t help fall victim to the softness of it all.

“Okay,” he softens and smiles. “C’mon now.” 

He gently directs his fingers from your mouth, letting your tongue detach before slipping them out. He hesitates for a second, but cleans off your saliva in his own mouth.

When Joel lifts his hand, sucking the excessive amount of your spit off of his own fingers, your breath hitches in your chest. It’s like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, as if it’s some instinct for him, and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. 

The way his fingers slip out with a pop and the way his eyes are locked on yours the whole time is enough to make your hips jolt up. And of course, he feels it.

After–very self-indulgently and deliberately–sucking those clean, he smirks and sits up, grabbing the backs of your thighs.

“Don’t get shy now,” he whispers, beginning to kiss a soft trail up your chest. It moves toward the right, his lips grazing the skin near your armpit before continuing up your arm, lifting it as he works. “You’re the one who tasted em’ first. Just had to get my chance.”

“You make it look all sinful, though.” you whine, leaning back and arching up as he presses kisses to the expanse of your skin. 

Joel shakes his head, lifting his head when he decides he’s done with the kisses. Hovering over you, he gently collects both of your wrists in one hand, pushing them behind your head.

The fact that his hands are big enough to hold two wrists as if it’s the easiest thing–oh god. 

“Enough with the whinin’.” Joel advises, lifting your chin with his free hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth.

His lips seem to do the job, because you’re shut up in seconds. Your eyes gloss over again, all hazy and admiring, looking at him like he hangs the moon. 

Once you’re quiet, the air settles a bit more, your breaths synchronising again in soft waves. His hand remains firmly around your wrists, anchoring you to the bed in a protective manner, but his head moves down. Your lips attach, and everything stops.

Again.

You’ve kissed Joel a few times now, but each time, it still catches you off guard all the same.

You’ve gone all these years with only one lousy kiss from a college boy, now into your young adulthood and never having any experience. And Joel Miller has to be the one to take it. He kisses you with such certainty and soft reverence, like you’re the only thing he has left on this earth. Like he’s afraid to break you any further.

No rush to it. No push, not too much fervor. More of a quiet passion, kept in the secrecy of Joel’s little house. The weight of his palm is as steadying as his mouth is, tethering each part of your body into the safety of his bed. 

Joel exhales against your cheek mid-kiss, and you respond with an adjacent sigh into his mouth. 

Sighing because you realize that for once, you’re doing something ‘bad’ and not allowing the loop of your father’s preaching and God’s rules rotate in your head. 

And it feels so, so freeing to not have that following you anymore.

Eventually, though, his pace does pick up. His lips move quicker against yours, his tongue working overtime to explore every bit of your mouth. The grip around your wrists tightens without him noticing, and it’s working you up too fast.

You don’t really know how to handle it. It feels good, but it’s awfully overwhelming. 

He feels the pace of your breathing and heartbeat pick up, your hips shifting under him and the quiet sounds of slight worry slipping from your throat and into his. Your body is betraying how much you want this, but also the embarrassing inexperience you possess. It scares you.

Joel, of course, doesn’t think it’s embarrassing. He’s not here to judge you.

He stops, lifting his head, those softened caramel eyes meeting your glossed-over gaze. 

“Honey,” he begins, brushing a loose strand of hair back. His breath is all over your face, making you too warm. “It ain’t a race. Calm down a bit.”

He finally lets go of your wrists, hands trailing down your arms–fingertips grazing your skin with recognition of your nerves. They meet your hands, gently lacing your fingers into his and offering a tight squeeze.

His voice is a warm reminder that he’s here to take care of you, not hurt you.

“You tell me when you’re ready for more. I’ll lay here as long as you need.” 

You nod, taking a deep breath and squeezing his hands back, bringing yourself back to a normal state. It takes a few seconds, but you calm down enough to speak.

“Sorry.”

“No.” Joel shakes his head, voice now abruptly stern compared to the last time he spoke. “No apologies. You’re not doin’ anything wrong.”

He sits up, taking a deep breath as he gazes over the stretch of your body underneath him–your legs around him, bare skin exposed all for him. Every inch of you. His. He gently holds your waist to move you down a bit, getting you nice and comfortable on his bed.

You should feel a little insecure. It’s your first time doing anything, your first time being bare in front of a man like this. Hell, you normally feel insecure walking around with a full set of clothes on.

But Joel’s gaze doesn’t make you self-conscious. It might be a little heavy, but it’s careful. Admiring you with a passion you’re unfamiliar with. It slows your heartbeat, pulling you into the simplicity of the moment, especially when his hands meet your thighs again.

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. Then one to your cheek. Then a single peck on the lips. 

“You’re quiet now. You ready for more? Done with the compliments?” He smiles, patting your shoulder and leaning back again. He’s settled between your legs, strained against the fabric of your boxers, but somehow still looking like some strange, giant teddy bear.

His gruff exterior is replaced with a stupid grin, one that only you can elicit. 

Your need resurfaces at the sight of him leaned back like that, so thick and muscled. The light hits his chest just right, making his hair glow in an angelic way. His hand remains on your thigh, gently fondling the meat of it while he takes a deep breath in.

“Alright. That means you tell me if you wanna slow down or stop. We’re gonna go slow. Gonna make sure it’s right for you, yeah?” He whispers after seeing you nod.

“I know.” you nod again, hips shifting just a bit–making it obvious to him that you’re not trying to wait any longer.

Joel’s gaze stays focused on you while he shifts back himself, just enough to get his legs out from under him. His hands move slowly, dragging down his body until they meet the waistband of his boxers.

The main thing you’ve been ogling for the past twenty minutes. 

His fingers tangle into the mess of hair leading down to the band for a second before slipping in. The fabric slides down slowly, and your breath hitches with each little hair or vein that gets exposed. 

The movement is gentle despite being vulgar, still so reverent. You’re looking at him like he’s something sacred, with the simple act of undressing himself. And he ensures he's not rushing it–just as promised–letting you watch each stretch of skin with utmost patience.

When they slip free and he gets the fabric off, tossing them on the floor, you can almost feel yourself salivating.

His body is so warm and real, but his cock is a further demonstration of the masculinity you’ve been drooling over all night. His muscles flex with each movement, the length of it bobbing back and forth when he moves closer. It’s all so unpretentious, and he’s much too casual being exposed like this.

But that’s what makes it feel good. The domesticity of it all, the fact that you’re comfortable enough to lay naked next to one another.

Joel’s gaze is on you the entire time, but yours is locked downward. When you finally take a break from ogling his cock, you look back up, giving him a bashful expression–earning a smile, of course.

He moves forward, spreading your thighs open to reveal an even wetter mess of the pussy he ate earlier. But he doesn’t tease, just opens them up and settles down between them with a quiet sigh. 

One more kiss to your cheek, and another chaste one to your lips, before he strokes your hair and leans down. 

“I’m so glad you’re here.” he whispers into your ear. “And I’m glad to be the one doing this with you.”

The way he whispers makes you shiver on the spot, your thighs trying to close around his body that he’s stationed between them. The thought of making you shy like that only entices him to whisper more.

“Gonna go nice and slow. All you gotta do is breathe and be here with me. Got it?”

All you can do is whine, but Joel needs confirmation.

“Got it?” he repeats, the gruff side of him coming out for a moment, because he’s not playing around with the consent. 

“Got it.” you manage out, voice tremoring in anticipation.

He hums, a low rumbling in his chest when he sits up again, grabbing the base of his cock. He lines it up against you, tilting his head while he takes in the sight of his tip pressed against your soaked flesh.

Again, he’s not trying to rush you. Thus, he resorts to slowly dragging the fat head of himself up and down your slit, collecting slick and massaging soft circles against your clit. It has you wailing. Not just whining, but wailing. So fucking desperate for anything after going too long without any much-deserved dick. 

Joel smiles when your crying picks up like a lost puppy, freezing in place and positioning himself back at your entrance. 

“Okay, baby. M’sorry.” he leans down, pressing an apologetic kiss to your lips.

You’re shifting and bucking unhappily, waiting for anything, but he needs just another moment. 

“Slow and steady, remember?” he whispers, getting only an unhappy groan from you. Grumbling, he continues. “I’m serious. This is probably gonna hurt. Don’t even know if I’m gonna fit.”

As if ignoring everything he’s trying to tell you, you whimper again and buck up, trying to push him into you the slightest bit more to relieve anything. 

Joel groans back, pushing your hips down and shaking his head in indignation.

“I said I’m fuckin’ serious, okay? Calm down. I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

The sudden aggravation in his voice alarms you enough to stop moving. You shut your eyes and nod, taking a deep breath and forcing yourself to stop shifting up toward him.

“Thank you,” Joel sighs, rubbing your arm and giving your hand a gentle squeeze. This time, he keeps it locked in his grip, knowing already that you’re gonna need something to hold–even if you don’t think you will.

“You ready?” He checks one more time. And this time, you don’t give him a needy whine. Just a quiet nod, a squeeze back to his hand, and a gaze that tells him you’ve waited your whole life for this.

He grabs his cock again with his free hand, collecting enough of your slick on himself to lubricate in preparation. Once wet enough, he looks at you, slowly pushing in–only about half an inch.

Your hand twitches nervously in his grip, your hips shifting up and eyes shutting to brace yourself. Fuck, you didn’t expect it to be this big–you’re regretting the bit of sass you gave him.

As Joel pushes in further, it all seems to get worse. It fucking hurts. 

“Okay, okay. Shh.” He has to stop when he’s only halfway into you, leaning down to kiss your cheeks and stroke your hair. The way you’re already wailing has his heart breaking. He doesn’t want to hurt you, just wants to give you a good first time.

Your voice catches in your throat as you try to tell him something, but he just kisses you through it, as if some weird method of distracting you. His forehead is against yours, nose brushing against your own, his hips beginning to rock so slowly after giving you a few seconds to adjust.

But no, it doesn’t help. You cry out again, gripping tightly into his hand, so hard that your fingernails leave little crescents on his skin.

“Easy, angel. Shh.” Joel whispers, one hand on your hip and the other laced in yours. “I know it hurts. We’re goin’ real slow, though.”

Both the nerves and the pressure of it all are truly getting to you, forcing uncontrollable sounds from your throat. Mixes of whimpers, cries, and a very distant sound of pleasure make him feel both aroused and bad for you.

He stops for a bit upon seeing a tear slip, frowning and kissing it away.

“Cryin,’ baby?” 

You nod, whimpering and leaning your head forward to bury against his shoulder. He huffs, letting go of your hand to wrap you up in his arms. 

“Let’s stop, then. S’okay.” Joel whispers. You feel bad that you’re making him stop, but the stretch is burning enough to make you not protest it.

Joel slips out slowly, and the relief is immediate. You sigh and let your head fall back against the pillow, shamefully wiping away the fallen tears from taking a lousy four inches of him. The frustration and embarrassment makes your throat burn, your head turning and burrowing into his pillow to hide.

“Uh-uh. No hidin’.” He gently pulls your shoulder back, flipping you back around. He lays down next to you, facing you and pulling the covers over your body in hopes it’ll make you feel less embarrassed. “Don’t gotta do that.”

“I do, though.” You whisper back, sniffling and moving closer under the comforter. His arms wrap around your body, pulling you against his chest until your legs tangle up and your head finds his neck.

It upsets him to hear you so guilty. He’s there in an instant, kissing the top of your head and making it all feel better. 

“No. Nothing to be embarrassed about.” He responds, voice muffled by your hair. “I knew it’d be too big.” 

“I feel stupid.” you nearly cut him off, deepening his frown.

The thought of you feeling stupid for something as silly as not being able to take him on your first time astounds him. 

“You’re not stupid. It’s your first time, baby. Doesn’t always feel good, y’know.” He reassures, stroking your back now until he feels your heartbeat slow to a normal pace again.

You don’t respond, nodding against his skin and sniffling a final time. Joel simply holds you there until you’re good to talk again.

It takes a few minutes, but you come back to life. Despite it hurting, you’re still needy, and you still want him to be the one to take this for you. Joel’s still Joel, and he’s still incredibly handsome and big and warm against you. 

“We can try again.” 

You cut the silence, whispering against his neck.

Joel’s hand pauses on your spine, his eyebrows furrowing down at you when you remove your head from his neck. 

“...You sure?”

“Yeah. Just… give me a bit to adjust.” 

And within seconds, the two of you settle right back in. There you are, for the second time, laid back with your legs spread open, his large body settled between them and the tip of his cock pressed against you. He recites the same rules he’s been saying all night, the words “slow” and “tell me” and “s’okay” all jumbling together in your mind.

You nod each time, distracted by the sight of him pressed into you. 

Joel isn’t in as much of a rush, though. He’s being even slower this time to make it feel better.

He leans down, pressing kisses everywhere yet again. Your knees, your belly, your chest. Every inch of you that trusts him to do so. After ending on your lips, he sits back, holding your hips and notching his tip into your entrance.

“You promise me you’re ready?” He asks, raising his eyebrows in utmost seriousness down at you.

“Promise.” You nod softly, holding your hand out expectantly for him to hold. 

Just as he’s about to attempt and move into you again, you pause. Your hand awkwardly stutters in his, fingers letting go to trail up to your neck.

You’ve spent your life trying to pray the want away, but here you are opening your legs for a man after failing the first time. Somehow, under Joel’s touch, the shame disappears. No more sin, but comfort. 

The little silver cross hanging around your neck has been there for years–even after abandoning the church in college, you never really took it off. It’s part of you. Surely it’s molded into the skin on the back of your neck by now. But right now, it doesn’t feel right. Being with Joel means choosing him, not God. Choosing the moment–choosing yourself.

“You sure?” Joel asks hesitantly as your fingers move up to unclasp the necklace, because he knows how big of a deal that is to you. There probably hasn’t been a day you went without a cross since you were a baby.

And you are sure.

“I’m sure.” You whisper back, getting it unhooked and handing the cold metal chain to him. He nods, setting it on the nightstand before leaning back into you. 

Joel trails a hand up your hair, pushing some back before leaning down. In between gentle kisses, he whispers.

“Good. I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” 

Hearing that he’s proud of you about removing the cross means the world to you, a million times more than him taking your virginity means. He’s proud of you.

Your whole life, everyone around you would probably have screamed if you took it off. And Joel’s here, embracing it. Helping you get rid of it. Digging you into a further hellhole of sin. 

And you love every minute of it.

Something about everything that’s happening is incredibly freeing–the sex, the removal of the necklace, just being with him–and it’s the best feeling you’ve had in a while. You’re taking your life and independence back from God, giving it to Joel.

“Didn’t know I could do it.” You whisper back quietly, a shy smile crossing your face when he gazes down at you.

He huffs in amusement, shaking his head like he’s truly never been prouder. 

“You can. And you did.” He smiles, pressing a fat, wet kiss to your forehead and taking your hand back into his. 

Joel leans back, spreading your legs one last time before realigning himself. His hand stays locked in yours, squeezing as he notches his tip only half an inch inside. 

“Breathe for me, now.” He instructs carefully, waiting for you to nod and breathe properly before trying to push in again. 

Of course, it hurts. But this time, the burn feels better. Painful, but in a rewarding way–theres a hint of pleasure coming through the waves of pained stretching. 

He stays for a moment longer, only a little past the tip pushed into you. His forehead rests against yours, mouth parting and hot breath grazing your face with each little gasp. His hand squeezes yours again in gentle reassurance when he feels you clench around him.

“Breathe.”

He reminds you every few seconds, voice a hushed rumble right by your ear. He’s right–you’re forgetting to breathe. Forgetting how to breathe, even. 

It doesn’t feel as important when Joel is easing into you, inch by tender inch, whispering praise and squeezing your hand in his as tight as he can. Not when the pain slowly gets replaced by a warmth building underneath it. Obviously, it doesn’t stop hurting entirely, but something is making it feel better.

Maybe it’s the freedom of not having the cross around your neck.

Maybe the feeling of Joel all over you. Nestled inside of you.

Maybe the thought that you’re in someone’s arms for once, being wanted, instead of waiting for a nonexistent being to be the one to save you.

You entirely zone out, eyes shut and hands gripping him so tightly, not even noticing how far he’s notched inside now. He fully bottoms out while you’re practically on another planet in your mind. He stills completely once balls deep, waiting for your breath to catch up with his and your thoughts to come back to the moment. 

“Doin’ good,” Joel pants into your ear, aiming a sloppy kiss to your forehead, but missing and landing it on your eyebrow instead.

Each roll of his hips has a sort of patience to it–he’s not rushing, he’s not taking you, but he’s giving something to you. You’d always thought sex would feel like something is being taken from you. But with Joel, it feels like a present he’s giving you. 

You let his care in, in the form of physicality and emotion. In breath and in your synced, panicked heartbeats.

He stays entirely still, not just for you, but for himself. Rubs his thumb along the back of your hand, lets both of your breath catch up before slowly pumping in and out again.

Your body trembles underneath him with each movement. It’s so overwhelming how he’s just there with you. You’ve gone so long without any connection, waiting for sex, and now Joel Miller is balls deep inside of you in his bedroom when your own father doesn’t even know you returned home yet. And fuck, does it feel right. 

“Feel me, baby?”

He asks, groaning right into your ear and eliciting a genuine whimper in return from you. 

Of course, in perfect unison to the question, you can feel his tip kiss your cervix. You wrap your other hand around his big shoulder, fingernails digging deep into his skin while you start to shake. 

“Yeah.” You barely manage out, gasping and writhing underneath him on the bed helplessly. The way he’s filling you is almost too much. You’re stuffed to the brim and on the verge of going cock-dumb because of it. 

“Good.” A nearly cocky smile spreads on his face, but there’s a quieter sense of happiness to it as well.

Your legs curl up a little tighter, wrapping up around his waist, pushing his cock impossibly deeper. You press your nose into the side of his face, whimpering softly. 

The ache of pain is replaced with a more familiar ache–the one you discovered recently, the one that bubbles up in your stomach and core, all warm and sensitive. You feel extra tired now, body falling limp and powerless under Joel’s muscled frame due to the brink of your orgasm.

He feels the way you flutter and tremble, the way you tighten up around him, and he knows exactly what’s coming. 

“Okay, okay,” Joel whispers when your whimpers pick up much louder. “I know. Just a little more. You’ve got it, don’tcha?” 

“S’too much.”

“I know, shh. I’ve got it, angel. All you gotta do is lay there. Only a little more.”

His voice is soft, but on the inside, he’s feeling feral. Of course, he’s going slow, but there’s nothing more he wants than to plow into you and coat you in his cum. It’s been too long since he’s had good sex, and the slowness of this is killing him.

But he’s still keeping your needs above his. 

Instead, he tries to refocus that desire by burying his face in your neck once your head tips back. He groans, inhales the sweet scent of your hair, and bottoms out a few more times into your tightening cunt. 

The movement makes you cling tighter to him, nails dragging down his shoulderblades and the muscles of his back while you start to entirely shiver. Your breath is completely broken.

“There it is.” He whispers proudly, keeping steady pace and ensuring he hits your cervix just one more time. “You’ve got it. Let go for me.” 

You don’t mean to, but you cry while your orgasm slips out of you. You tip over the edge, trembling in pleasure underneath Joel, but there are a few uncontrollable tears sneaking from the corners of your eyes.

And he holds you through it all, shushing you and gently stroking your hair. His fingers glide through each strand, scratching your scalp and trying to pull you back into a relaxation after the intensity of the moment. He doesn’t chase his own release, but watches you instead. Watches how pretty you look, crying and cumming at the same time. Listens to each of those little hopeless sounds you cry out against his shoulder.

“Good job,” Joel whispers after a minute, nosing at your cheek. “Took it so good.”

All you can do is whimper and shake your head, attempting to hide the tears while rubbing your face against his chest and collarbone.

“M’serious. I’m real proud of you, kid.” He gently releases your hand, moving to tilt your chin up instead. As usual, his gaze is warm enough to soften you up, to remind you to ease up and untense your shoulders. You nod and lean into him, breathing out in relief.

Being with Joel for the first time felt like crossing the threshold to the reveal of your heart. Not just your physical body, but you’re offering him everything that’s deep and unspoken inside of you.

He’s the only one. The only divinity you can possibly believe in. 

this wasnt fully proof read dont hate me soz

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Joel’s hand wraps up in the brown fabric of his own flannel strewn over your body, draped over your shoulders. He yanks the front door open carelessly–aggressive with that, but gentle with you.

His grip on the flannel is firm and anchoring, fastening you to his side like a vice while you stumble inside after him. Not because you’re unsteady, but more because of the inclination your body seems to have to follow him. Your body knows to; it wants to. 

Instinctively, you have a drive for Joel Miller. 

Every part of your soul is devoted to him at this moment. Frankly, at every moment of your life. Deeper than lust, there's a silent force that pulls you to him. Gravity, maybe. Your body and mind lean toward him by default. 

The door slams shut behind you, the dim lighting from the porch and distant moon cutting off and leaving the two of you in the dark. The absence of light should be frightening, but when Joel’s there, it’s comforting. 

Finally, a moment alone. After months of pining from across the country, no method of contact–you’re here. He’s here. In his house, in the dark, his hand on your shoulder, breath on your cheek. Not only did the light cut off, but the whole world did.

All that’s left is the quiet, shared breaths and comfortable moment of silence. Almost silence, at least. He’s panting.

Joel’s trying to hold himself back, but not the same way he had the last time you were at his house in the middle of the night. Sure, the air is thick with desire, but it’s more controlled. What was once a foggy act of desire–as a ‘fuck you’ to God–is now something much more intricate. You don’t just want sex from each other, but you genuinely need each other. Like primal, emotional survival. If you don’t get a taste of that grumpy old man in front of you, you could physically die.

Luckily, he doesn’t only understand that. He welcomes it. Enables you.

If you had to sink your teeth into his shoulder just to feel alive, he’d let you. Without flinching. He’d lean in, offer up more skin to you: anything at all that you could ever possibly need, he’d give you. 

He turns from closing the door back to you, eyes flickering over your face with awe. With the fact that you actually came back this summer, that you’re real and there. You’re in his flannel, in his house, looking at him with the sweetest, most wistful eyes he’s seen in his day. 

His presence is all around you like a second skin. Breath ghosting your cheek, hand still on your shoulder, the other moving up to hold your face with the gentlest intent. 

The faded scent of the flannel comes back. This time, it’s real. It’s not a cologne you spent hours mindlessly searching for in hopes of it matching the distant memory of Joel’s, it’s not the imaginary one you conjured up after sniffing the fabric far too many times. Joel is real. Joel is here. All yours.

“You’re here,” he whispers, looking all over your face as if searching for changes. His voice is quiet, nice and gruff like always. It scrapes the air. And, of course, he’s got a soft spot for you. You get a pass from his typical grumpiness reserved for Sunday mornings. 

His hand moves from your shoulder to your collarbone, curling into the worn fabric there and gripping onto it, holding himself down. Your hands move up to find his chest, rubbing slowly up and down as if checking if he’s really there.

“I am. I came back this summer,” you answer, nodding and giving him equally as careful eyes. Still, full of desire. 

“Sure did,” Joel sighs, both hands moving to cup either side of your face. He can’t see much of it in the dark. He wants to, but he’d rather stay holding you than risk moving for even a second to get a light on. “Didn’t think you’d come back. Y’know, you didn’t the last two summers.”

You can’t see him very well either, but you hear the long exhale through his nose. Relief and something else. 

“Came back for a reason,” you nod, pressing your forehead to his.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Joel can’t resist when he feels your breath catch at the corner of his mouth. He has to lean in, beginning to press soft kisses to your chin and every soft patch of skin that covers your skull. Cherishing you like you’re the only good thing left in Texas.

Your cheekbone, temple, brows. They’re somewhat familiar, but the exact shape of your eyebrows and the scent of your perfume had become distorted in his mind over the months. It’s refreshing to feel the reality of them again. 

“What do you think?”

You grin, returning the favor with a wet kiss to his cheek, shaking your head up at him. You’re giggling and ready to mess around, but he isn’t. Not entirely

Joel gives you a small smile: tight lipped and taught at the corners as if strained. Trying his best. He didn’t plan for this, thinking you weren’t ever gonna come back to this godforsaken town. He isn’t as prepared as you are.

And there you are, smiling and warm and pressed against him. But for that awkward three month period, you weren’t there like that. Your absence carved something out of his soul. He adjusted to the reality that you weren’t coming back, so he wouldn’t consider himself as giggly as you right now. 

“C’mon. Don’t be actin’ like this was gonna happen. Like I knew it would.” He grumbles, still holding your face but letting his thumbs stop in place on your cheeks. 

“What’d you expect?” You instantly cut the giggles, frowning up at him. Your body stills at the same time as his thumbs, the excitement growing in your belly temporarily pausing at the unease Joel just stirred up inside you.

Both of your ribs ache for different reasons. Joel is physically hurting from how badly he missed you, from how he simply didn’t expect this. You are hurting from the fact that he didn’t expect your return. 

He doesn’t answer. His silence is confirmation, which lingers as a small reminder that you were never a guarantee. He mourned your absence, but prioritized protecting himself because there was a greater chance that he’d have to learn to live without you.

“Joel.” 

You frown again, finally reaching for the light switch next to the coat rack. His heavy coat from the last time you visited is hung up now, in retirement for the upcoming summer.

“Hey. It’s fair I thought you were gone for good. You didn’t come back the last two summers.” Joel defends himself softly. It pains him to admit, and that’s why his voice drops even quieter. For a man who’s normally quite an assertive grump, you really dumb him down.

“Okay,” you begin, your hands moving up his chest again, slowly reaching for the top button of his shirt to fiddle with. “Well, I’m here now either way.”

Joel’s chest rises with your touch, a deep sigh moving through his lungs. You can see him now that the light is on, and he looks even more hardened than the last trip. Luckily, he looks good wrinkly.

“And I want you,” you continue in a blatant admission, leaning in and let your breath skim his mouth. The words are heavy and certain, a perfect shift of the mood to forget the hurtful fact that he didn’t expect you. “So, I want you to kiss me like you actually missed me.”

His eyebrows raise, your words eliciting a mix of a heavy breath and curse from his throat. His grip moves south, settling on your waist with a soft squeeze in an attempt to stop the world from spinning.

Then, quietly, he finally responds.

“I did miss you. Every day, baby.”

His voice is thick with restraint, body beginning to betray him with movement–head leaning closer, fingers twitching on your waist, and a not-so-subtle tent forming in his pants. Thank God.

He’s inching closer with some kind of reverence, a more controlled feel than the last night at his house. The kind of control that stems from genuinely knowing what he wants, a complete 180 from the way you once threw yourself at him. This time, no frantic scrambling and begging–but instead, purpose and steadier hands. Carefully chosen words.

“Okay. Prove it.” 

You whisper, eyes flickering up to meet his longing gaze. Nothing to prove. A more vulnerable form of desire.

When he kisses you, it’s slow, not demanding. His mouth coaxes you in with gentle, practiced strokes of the tongue. One hand cradles the side of your face like something sacred, thumb tracing the bottom of your chin, while the other lands on your spine and strokes up and down.

Each little touch and movement ignites fire in you. This time, not only in your lower body, but in your heart. 

You feel safe in each stroke and breath, each time his nose bumps yours or the scratchy graying stubble of his beard grazes your face. Cherished, even. His hands are steady and he’s so controlled, beautifully contained, which is what differs so greatly from the last time you’d touched each other. 

You already know he wants you, so this time, he’s showing you that he’s glad to have you back. How much it means that his house was your first stop in Texas.

The kiss deepens, Joel’s lips parting just enough to make perfect space for your tongue. Each movement is so deliberate, like he’s savoring you. 

“God, baby.” He pants against your mouth, fingers now gliding through the roots of your hair, gripping onto it. 

You hum and dive back into the kiss with a stupid smile, anchoring yourself in the feel of him. In his flannel, in his arms, against his soft lips. You’re clinging, and it’s all he’s ever wanted. Frankly, he needs it just as badly. 

Joel’s right hand dips down your waist, feeling the curve of it over the fabric of his own shirt–that you looked so beautiful in.

He pushes up the fabric, just barely, to feel your stomach. Warm and soft skin meeting the tips of his fingers like the leather on his bible, skin on skin to prove that this is real. 

The echo of the first time you’d shown yourself to him–sexually–plays through his bedroom all the time. He could’ve taken you that night when you threw yourself at him, feeling oddly rebellious and full of utmost guilt and repression. But he didn’t. He made the choice when you couldn’t, and now he’s getting the reward for his morality. 

“Don’t want to rush this, sweetheart.” He whispers, pulling away finally and letting his fingers curl into fabric, clutching at your shirt and drawing you impossibly close. “Gonna do this right. Swear.” 

“Okay.” You nod softly.

Joel sighs and cradles your face. There’s no pressure in his tone, but reassurance and a softness for you. 

“You sure?” His thumb swipes over your cheek and you tilt your head into his hand, turning it to plant a kiss on the palm.

He’s still giving you the room to choose. As if he hasn’t known you wanted this since you came home months ago for that funeral. Joel cares about you in a way that’s indescribable–he’d do anything to not hurt you, which is why he’s incredibly cautious about the idea of finally touching you.

“Mhm. I’m sure.” You nod again, feeling his chest ease up at your confirmation. “I want this. I want you, Joel.”

He smiles at the feeling of being wanted. It might sound foolish for an old man, but it’s been a while for him too. With his own issues with religion, and the thought of you always in his mind, he hasn’t had time for women.

So, you’re not the only one out of practice. You’re a virgin, and it’s been a couple of years for Joel.

But still, the man is well aware of how to take care of a woman. Not just to get a fuck in, but to cherish her. To ensure she feels loved, which is all he wants for you.

“Alright. C’mon, sweet girl.” He chuckles, shaking his head at the way your fingers curl desperately towards his waistband.

“Up.” He instructs, sliding his hands beneath your thighs to lift you into his arms, holding you against his chest. The simple feeling of being held distracts your mind of what's to come, because it feels that valuable. You nuzzle your head into the soft area of his neck, breathing in the scent you tried so hard to memorize the months you spent away. 

Somehow, all of your issues seem to disappear. No college, no dad there to bother you, and definitely no God. Just Joel. And it’s perfect. He’s perfect.

The two of you make the short walk to his bedroom, which is unbelievably clean. After all, he’d spent all this time obsessively fixing every little thing and cleaning incessantly. 

“Okay,” Joel smiles, setting you down on his bed and laying you back. His hands find your thighs quickly, grazing reverently up the fleshy skin until they reach your hips and hold there. “You’re gonna tell me if anything feels wrong, yeah?”

“Yes, Joel.” You roll your eyes at his never ending need for consent and reassurance. But really, it does feel great that he cares.

Those big hands find his flannel covering your body, working open the top two buttons with ease.

“That means we stop if you need to. We take our time. We’re not rushing.”

“I know, Jesus. I get it.” You giggle, leaning back and opening your legs further for his body to slot between them. 

He slides up on top of you, settling gently over you with one forearm next to your head to brace himself. The fabric is slipping off, just almost exposing your chest,

Joel hums in amusement, leaning down and attaching his lips to the soft skin above your collarbone. He works slowly, almost too slowly, savoring every inch of skin as if it proves he’s capable of softness. Obviously, he is–but he needs to prove it to himself.

The free hand that unbuttoned your shirt moves down, slipping up inside of it and grazing the line of your ribs. Each touch has a wake of warmth that follows, lighting you on fire. 

The feeling of being so loved, wanted, and cherished at the same time is borderline terrifying.

And you love it.

He’s pragmatic enough to not suck any hickies into your skin, knowing well that your father would quite possibly murder either one of you if he saw. So he resorts to softer kisses on the neck, peppering them and letting his hand do the work under your shirt.

It gently graces the line of your lower breasts, eyes flicking up to search the reaction on your face at the touch. When he registers that you’re okay, he continues, allowing one palm to settle on your left breast.

“Oh,” you moan softly.

Fuck, that’s got Joel. He’s imagined the sound of it so many times, his cock buried in his hand, but has never heard it in real time. He’s trying his best to be slow, but if you make noises like that then it just might be difficult.

“All good?” He strains, mouth open and pressed against your neck while he suppresses a moan of his own.

All you can do is nod, lost in the overwhelming feeling of being taken care of. He’s hardly done anything, just lay you down, kiss your neck, and barely touch your boob. But it’s all new to you, and so, so incredible.

A simple pinch of your nipple pulls out an even more explicit sound.

You whimper, and Joel almost cums in his pants right there. The peak of your breast hardens under his fingers, and his breath catches in his throat.

“There it is.” He hardly moans against your neck, giving up on your breast and moving his hand further down.

Joel gets the rest of your flannel off slowly, taking the time to register every inch of skin he’s exposing despite wanting nothing more than to rip it off. Each button he undoes earns a hum of approval, deep in his throat, and all his attention is on your stomach now.

He pulls the fabric open, feeling his cock twitch at the sight. Beautiful.

Your skin is ever so soft, exposed and all for him. Your collarbones and shoulders set back, breasts perking up and nipples hardened. All for him. 

“Baby,” he actually has to look away, sighing and leaning down to rest his head on your chest–tucked away, forehead on your shoulder.

You smile, unsure of whether or not that’s a good reaction.

“What?”

Joel lifts his head, now shamelessly pressed down against you, not bracing himself up. His eyes are the most desperate thing you’ve ever seen, a once dark brown softened up and turned into a gorgeous shade of something adjacent to caramel. 

You’ve wrecked him and you haven’t even lifted a finger.

“Look at you,” he praises softly, lifting back up to press featherlight kisses down the valley of your breasts. His hands start at your waist, pushing in on the curve of it, but slide down to your hips and then your thighs.

It doesn’t take long for him to settle between them. 

His hands push up on the backs of your thighs, having you slowly open those pretty legs up for him while he’s laid down further on the bed. 

Joel exhales hard, as if finally letting out a breath he’s been holding since the moment he spotted you on his porch. His eyes roam your thighs and the perfect area between them that practically has him salivating. Your shorts are light grey, and he can see a tiny wet patch forming through the fabric.

He’s starving, but he’s still soft and reverent with each touch. This is for you, not him.

“Good girl,” he smiles, praising the way your legs spread so readily for him, the way your fingers tangle into his graying curls to coax him closer.

It doesn’t take much. He’s a man starved. His lips trace a lazy path at your inner thighs, stubble grazing the fleshy skin and making you twitch under the open-mouthed kisses. Surely he can suck a little harder down here, since nobody will be seeing it, right?

When he gets close enough, he pauses, palms splayed out on the skin he’d just savored with kisses. The way his breath ghosts over the dampening fabric over your cunt has your own breathing pick up.

“Glad you came home this summer, baby.” Joel begins, smiling as he sees your hand tangle into the sheets to hold on. His lips trail over your clothed skin before he tugs at the waistband of the little grey shorts.

“Hm?” You barely register it, lost in the sight of the man between your legs.

The shorts come off, leaving you in a tiny, soaked-through black thong. It’s the same one you put on last time, the one he never got the chance to see. Well, here it is.

“Been dreamin’ about this.” He answers quietly, also too distracted to talk. The way the fabric is so slicked that it’s sticking to your cunt, the way that it hardly covers anything. He’s gone.

Joel lowers his head, teeth gently sinking down on the lace fabric to tug it down. So, so slow. 

He doesn’t make it far, switching to removing them with a hand. Close enough.

But he’s back up in seconds, hands back on your thighs to keep them as far open as he can in order for him to bury his face against you the way he’s fantasized about. 

His tongue parts you slowly, gently, with practiced care. It’s not frantic, though. As much as he wants to devour you, this is your first time. He needs to make it soft and meaningful. 

He licks a long, eager stripe from your entrance all the way to your clit, gathering an astounding amount of your neediness on his tongue and sucking it down with the kind of greed they only write about in the bible. 

The moans that slip from your mouth are everything he’s ever imagined–soaked in pleasure, in utmost relief. They’re not fake and pornographic, but real sounds that come from being untouched for all these years into your womanhood. Each sound has his blood rushing south, hips twitching, and making him want to keep going for hours on end.

“Joel,” you start chanting, beginning to close your legs around his head. He’s too occupied to spread them again. “Didn’t know I could feel—Oh.” 

With the increased noises, Joel finds himself gripping you tighter to ground himself. His hips move on their own, gently rutting into the bed each time you whimper out his name like a prayer. 

He can’t believe how good you taste. He mouths at you faster now, tongue curling around and sucking at your clit and dragging slow circles around it. It’s just right. He’s finding what you like–what you need.

“Let me hear you.” He groans into your core.

And you do. Let every noise slip, especially when his tongue flicks faster.

“S’perfect,” Joel groans, trying to stop his hips from moving, but he can’t. Luckily, you haven’t noticed.

To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s had a real woman under him. And he’s spent nearly every night for the past three months panting your name while he spills ropes of cum all over his own hand, imagining it’s yours. 

The weird feeling in your stomach that you’ve only recently discovered begins to build, twirling in your gut and making you go dizzy. Your breathing grows more ragged, moans becoming less cohesive. Desperate. Joel knows not to speed up, but to stay consistent in what he’s doing if it’s getting you there that quickly.

When your thighs start to tremble, he also notices.

“C’mon now, girl,” Joel’s gaze flicks up, squinting to try and see your face all twisted up like this while he’s buried between your thighs. “Give it to me. C’mon.”

With the mess he’s making of you, it doesn’t take long.

Your whole body tenses, pleasure crashing over you like endless waves in the ocean, his mouth still attached to you and not giving up until he’s milked every bit of that orgasm out of you that he can. He drinks in every sound like a madman, sucking up everything possible. 

And in that moment, you swear you see God. You thought the same thing once before. 

At the age of eleven, you claimed to see Him in the golden light of the stained glass during a church service. This time, you see Him in Joel. Feel Him in the mouth attached to your aching cunt. If God is out there anywhere, it’s surely here.

When you slowly come down, Joel presses a final soft kiss to your puffy clit, smiling to himself and licking his lips clean, so proud of his work. 

Your thighs are trembling but slowing down, falling back aside now with the absence of his head.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, sitting up to slide his body over yours once more. His tongue slides against yours with a now-familiar ease, letting you taste yourself on him. 

The two of you kiss like you belong to each other. 

You’ve never belonged to anything or anyone besides the church, besides your father’s last name. Thus, the feeling is indescribable–being wanted. Being loved, and belonging to someone. You’re addicted.

Just sudden jerks out of sleep where his hand automatically reaches halfway to his gun, his breath caught in alarm. He’s endlessly alert and anxious, alone, every noise sounding suspiciously like footsteps and every little rustle in the woods like someone’s about to take a shot at him. 

He sleeps in fragments: an hour there, and another thirty minutes on occasion–never in the same place twice. Temporary safehouses, abandoned rooftops and buildings. He misses having a real bed. Especially the part where he’d have someone next to him. 

Everything is covered in moss, rain leaking through cracks and soaking into his jacket, pooling by his thick boots. He doesn’t care much, though.

He’s a smart guy. A good hunter. When he moves, it’s silent and calculated–each move is normally from a vantage point, though. Seattle is a fucking maze of concrete and glass and vines and rot that invade the city. And the damned Washington Liberation Front patrol it like they own it. They’re well-armed and well-fed, something Tommy can’t afford or handle all by himself out here. 

So, he watches from above. Behind the scope of his gun, he watches. Never hesitating.

He takes them clean out, one by one. One shot, one body. Quick, clean, never caught by the others. Another shot.

It’s not for trophies, but simple revenge–he gets closer, mind searching aimlessly for the names reported by Dina on the day that his brother died. 

The list burned into his soul like a brand on the hyde of Jackson’s cattle, giving him the motivation to keep cleaning the WLF off in hopes to find one girl in particular. He moves silently and quickly, gone before they can catch sight of the figure taking them out one by one. 

But, every time he thinks he’s found a trail, it went cold. Every time he gets close enough, they slip away in time and it becomes harder–he feels like he’s being hunted in return. Being played. Has to ration his ammo so, so meticulously. Three bullets for his rifle, two for emergency. Every shot counted with Tommy. 

The same goes for his food: little pieces of jerky that he ripped up and chewed while his eye remained in his scope. Ate in silence, slept with a shiv clutched in his hand and his rifle right next to him.

All the while, the ghost of his brother followed him. Not in body, but in the quiet of the city.

Tommy sees Joel in the corner of his vision, egging him on to find Abby and end it. He hears his grumbled laugh in the rustling leaves, his flannels in the cold air when it rains. Seattle is a rainy place. It worsens it.

Sure, it kept him motivated in his killings. But moreover, it kept him angry. Not just the fact that he’s gone, but how it happened. The mere sight of a golf club drives him off the wall nowadays, and he rages in silence.

When he does take a shot, it’s quiet, but it’s not exactly clean. He’s taking them out, destroying them. Knees, throats, headshots. Watched their blood boom and splatter across concrete from over a hundred yards away, but it still didn’t feel like enough. Not enough for the taking of Joel.

Not even close. 

There are days his hands still shake, days he punches walls if he misses a shot, or if he catches the scent of something in the air that reminds him a little too much of his older brother. The guilt swallows him whole, bringing him into a mindless pit of rage and vindictiveness. 

It’s not resentment that he has for the WLF–it’s genuine loathing.

So, when three familiar figures show up, he’s acting a bit different. 

Ellie and Dina allowed you to tag along to Seattle with them, trusting you enough with your knowledge of weaponry and hunting. Thanks to Tommy for teaching you, of course.

The three of you have been doing surprisingly well, beginning your arrival with a stay downtown: searching synagogues and courthouses and banks before landing yourselves in a hotel. There were dead bodies–not many infected–but of soldiers and humans.

Tommy’s doing. 

Naturally, there are instances that put your group in grave danger, but you make it out decently. An elementary school, news station, tunnels, a theater. Clickers and runners and more bodies, a horse that had once been Tommy’s as well, and lots of Ellie’s guitar playing.

On the third day, Dina isn’t feeling too hot. Finding Tommy would be the best decision right now, in equal importance to finding Abby. In a mix of luck and the opposite, your group clashes with him in the Seattle Waterfront Aquarium. 

In a frenzy where Ellie had managed to successfully kill both Mel and Owen, leaving her with a panic attack due to the now-dead woman’s unknown pregnancy, he shows up behind her and prompts you all to leave. Always a pragmatic thinker.

The reckless first three days, thankfully, did leave you back in the hands of your Tommy. The same tanned, flirtatious man you once knew now ruined by the guilt of his brother’s passing and having to strip himself of sleep and life in order to kill civilians over and over in a ruthless rampage of revenge. 

His eyes, once a soft brown, seem darker, flicking over you in silence. When Ellie and Dina were around, his mouth opened like he might say more, but he doesn’t. Couldn’t. 

The air stretches thickly between the two of you as if waiting for something, but the energy is off. Your sweet, caring man now tortured with a lack of sleep and too much violence, even for him. That says a lot, considering his days as a combat veteran in the Gulf War and the strenuous times spent hunting infected ever since the outbreak. 

He’s always been the strongest man you know, ever since the two of you met in Jackson a few years back. Goes on every patrol without a word of complaint, gets over serious injuries like they’re simply papercuts, can take out six clickers in a row without the blink of an eye or a breath harsher than the last. 

Hell, he’s handled bloaters by himself before.

But something about him seems different–not only in the sense that he’s tired and sick of killing, but he’s truly hurting. 

You know Joel’s death got to him. Badly. He and his brother were so close growing up, stuck together for years at the start of the outbreak. Tommy was there for him when Sarah passed, when he lost hearing in one ear from a missed shot to his own head. They hunted in Boston together, took the lives of so many. A strong bond.

So you have a basic understanding of his drive for revenge. You certainly didn’t know it could reach this extent, though.

The theater door clicks shut, the sound echoing longer than it should’ve when Ellie and Dina head out for a bit on a supply run. That was their excuse, at least–it was probably because they could feel the tension and the way Tommy was about to unravel.

For a long second, you just stand there and watch him from across the room.

It’s the first time the two of you are alone since he left, and as much as you missed him, you’re a little scared. You feel bad, obviously, but you’re terrified for him. He’s seemingly going insane right now, looking incredibly tired. A big gash on his hand from accidentally grabbing his knife too quickly, hair plastered to his neck, jacket soaked and rain-damaged. 

His back is to you, crouched beside a bench while he unstraps his gear and sets his guns down for once. 

“Tommy…” you take a breath, stepping closer and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. He’s literally radiating fury in the form of heat, seething profusely with each breath.

He doesn’t answer yet, just stands. Slowly. Too slowly. It doesn’t feel like your Tommy.

He turns around, and it feels like it hits you in the chest this time. His face is hollowed out, wrenched with exhaustion. His eyes are bruised and sunken in, his jaw clenched so tightly that you can see the veins of muscles tick. Not just grief, like you would’ve expected out of a normally soft-spoken man. 

It’s fury. Bare and red seething rage curled under his skin, eating him from the inside out. 

“Can’t do this shit anymore,” he begins, voice rough and gravelly. He hasn’t spoken in a few days now, and he’s severely dehydrated. “I can’t—fuckin’ can’t.”

You step forward carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, unknowing if it’s docile or not. 

“Tommy.” 

Your fingers slide from his shoulder to his arm, working down gently until reaching his hand. It’s the same hand you always hold, the same soft and big fingers that have graced and worshipped every part of your body back in Jackson. Just now, hardened by a week in the wilderness without access to much clean water or resources other than his need for carnage.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. That look on his face. And I swear to God—” he cuts you off, swivelling around to grab the back of a chair and slam it into the ground. The wood splinters under his grip, two of the legs breaking off entirely as the piece of furniture hits the surface. 

“Could fuckin’ kill every one of ‘em with my bare hands.” He resumes, turning back around after the crash of the chair. His chest heaves. “Still wouldn’t be enough.”

You’ve never seen him so angry. You didn’t know he had the capacity to be so angry. Back home, he’s all sweet and southern–a townsman, good with the animals and kids. Never yells. Jokes and flirts his way out of situations.

Now, his eyes are dark and bloodshot. Genuinely wildlike. 

“Tommy,” you repeat, trying to calm him down. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in a while, so you want it to be nice–but his mind is racing. “C’mon, hon’. Calm down a bit. We can sit. Take a break.”

“No.” He scoffs, breath picking up quickly as his chest rises up and down. Deep, dense heaves that he can’t control. 

“I’m losin’ my mind out here, baby,” he rasps, shaking his head and beginning to pace around the room, trying to keep from looking at you while his pants start to feel just a little bit tighter. “I’ve been out here alone, killin’ and hunting and shit. None of it’s fuckin’ changing anything.”

He steps forward now. Fast and desperate. He smells differently than usual, that usual clean cedar adjacent scent replaced by an unwashed musk and the acrid scent of gunpowder lingering on the fabric of his jacket. He’s a little gross and smells faintly of the mildew that comes alongside heavy rain, but he’s still your Tommy. Your poor, tortured, grieving, angry Tommy. 

“You get it?” He asks, grabbing your face. Rough and needing as ever. “I’m gonna explode and I can’t—-I don’t know where to put it. Don’t know where the fuck to put it.”

You nod. No, you don’t really understand. But you’ll always do anything for him.

“I know,” you respond, voice hardly above that of a whisper.

Tommy only stares at you like he doesn’t fully believe you, like he needs you to prove it. 

“Don’t need any talkin’,” his forehead presses hard against yours, breathing coming out in pants now with your face this close against his own–his breath isn’t the freshest, either. Jerky and days without brushing. He gets a pass, though. 

His hands slip down to your hips, holding onto you for dear life. He’s always been one for constant consent, but now his eyes are asking all that he needs. After all, he did just say he doesn’t need you talking. 

“Please. Tell me you want this. Just need something that ain’t anger right now.” He gasps when you nod and rut against his hips in return, taking that as a pathetic excuse for consent. 

“Tell me I can have you right now before I lose it and don’t ask.” 

You don’t speak. Just pull him in. And he completely breaks in that moment after one of the worst weeks of his life. 

The threat of not asking gets your heart racing, showing how badly the trip has really treated him. The Tommy you know wouldn’t even be able to conjure up that thought, but he’s filled with such unfathomable rage and frustration that he physically needs a place to dump it. Luckily, your pussy is up for offer.

Your back hits the wall with a hard thud, the cracking plaster of the theater catching your shirt and tugging it up to expose your stomach as his body presses flush into yours. His breath is hot against your neck, raising the baby hairs on the back of it and eliciting a flush all the way up to your cheeks.

“Fuck,” he hisses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You don’t get what you’re fuckin’ doing to me right now. What you are to me.”

His hands are everywhere in seconds, rough and dirty palms ghosting up your sides and moving the shirt further. He fully untucks it from your belt, shamelessly forcing his hands up the fabric and snaking around to reach the familiar clasp of your bra. 

He’s done it a million times, but somehow manages to get it off faster than any previous attempt. The fabric hits the ground while his mouth trails up to your ear, front teeth nibbling at the dangling bit of your sensitive earlobe. 

There’s no foreplay like usual. No finesse. Just want and frustration. 

Raw, filthy, desperate need. 

He bites down, hard, right after moving his set of teeth to the base of your throat. Your gasp makes him almost snarl, grinning and breathing out the filthiest noises onto the skin he’d nearly ripped through with the force of his jaw. 

“That’s it.” He mutters, voice meaner now. He tries again, sinking his teeth into the area above your collarbone, leaving a sticky patch of saliva where he’d also left his mark. “Like it when I’m mean. Fuckin’ slut getting off to me bein’ angry about my brother.” 

He’s never talked to you like this before. Never even been close to something that resembles an attitude with you. But here you are, growing wetter at the sound of his mumbling and yelling after a rough week. 

“Tommy–” your hand curls into the bottom hem of the damp flannel under his coat, fingers barely grazing the hot skin on his lower belly that lies under. 

“Nuh-uh.” He growls, forcing your legs apart with his knee and shoving his thigh between yours. It locks you in place, his hands grinding you down on the thick, meaty stretch of thigh enough to make you whimper. “Think I’m gonna be soft on you? After what they did to Joel?”

His voice cracks again. His head dips with a grunt, forehead pressing hard into your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist to keep himself from falling apart. His chest is heaving, and he’s gripping onto you like you’re physically keeping him alive and intact right now. 

“Could be out there killin’ someone. Finding the bitch who did it to my brother.” Tommy laughs, one hand moving from your waist to your jaw, tilting that pretty head back to look up at him. 

He kisses you, absolutely devours you in one go–like you’re air after he’s been drowning. A lifeline. His tongue is hot, teeth clashing carelessly into yours. His hands yank at your clothes until the shirt you’re wearing joins your bra on the ground and your belt is half unbuckled. Doesn’t pay any mind to seams or buttons like usual.

“But I’m here with you, yeah? So you gotta make it good. Give me something, baby.”

He says between kisses, slightly guilting you into helping him out. It’s not that you don’t want to, but the delivery is so strangely unlike Tommy. Fuck it, though. You’re admittedly a slut for him–you take any chance to get on your knees.

Each movement is loud and chaotic as he pushes you to your knees, already grabbing your head of hair in one hand and twisting it up into a makeshift ponytail–or a grip, in his case. 

The man’s belt is off in seconds, discarded to the ground before you can even acknowledge what’s going on. The waistband of his jeans drops, hitting the floor quietly. Before you know it, his hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back while his thumb finds your lips to part them. 

His tip comes in contact with your lips, smearing the sticky residue of precum on the pink surface of them. It’s been too long since he’s felt them on him.

“Fuck, you’re takin’ it. C’mon now, open up.”

You obediently open, parting both of your lips to allow room for his puffy, sensitive head to slip in. At the simple feeling of your wet, warm mouth, he groans. Head falls back, hips stuttering pathetically. To come back to the feeling of a familiar, welcoming mouth on his cock after the worst week of his life was the best feeling. 

Normally, Tommy would allow you to do the work on your own. Meaning you would hold his hips, go at your own pace, take as long as you’d like with the tip versus the shaft.

Tonight, though? Oh no. He’s not waiting. The hand gripping your hair tightens mercilessly, yanking your head toward his body, his thick cock sinking deep into your throat without warning. 

“Mmphm—” you try your best to mumble to tell him to slow down, but he’s already thrusting. In, out. Using your mouth like some useless ten dollar pocket pussy. Saliva is dripping from the corners of your fucked-out mouth, groans escaping from the depths of your throat each time he hit it.

“Fuck, take it. Lemme use ya,’ honey.” Tommy groans, yanking your head again until he’s balls deep between your lips, your nose buried in his graying bush of pubic hair. 

He’s too distracted by the overwhelming feeling of having this after a tortuous week, getting a break for his own pleasure. From his girl. His perfect girl who’d do anything for him. 

So, he doesn’t quite pick up on the rustling beneath him. 

While you’re taking his dick as far back into your throat as possible without gagging, you’re getting wet. As you do. He’s right–you are a slut for him. He’d already undone your belt, so it wasn’t that much work to get the rest off. 

You managed to shimmy your pants off, leaving you in a pair of dangerously wet black panties. The pooling in them soon transferred onto leather while your aching pussy came in contact with Tommy’s boots. Grinding softly at first, just to relieve the tingling. 

In a mere thirty seconds, it became more than gentle grinding. Oops. You’re losing focus on the cock in your mouth because of the feeling of his hard, dirty boot against your sensitive cunt. Even through the fabric, it was fucking orgasmic. You haven’t seen him in a whole week. You’re clearly needy, is that so bad?

“Baby,” Tommy whines petulantly when your usually skilled mouth starts to lose its practiced technique, giving your face a soft slap.

His eyes finally open, drifting down to take in the sight of him between your lips. One of his favorites. Instead, his eyes draw downward further to the desperate movement of your hips.

He raises an eyebrow and snorts, gripping your jaw again and fucking your face harder. Forceful, now. It does hurt a bit, the muscles of your jaw aching as much as your poor pussy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he begins, shaking his head scornfully. “What’chu doin,’ huh?”

You whine and feel a few pathetic tears slip when he uses your throat more.

Tommy doesn’t stop at the tears, but does manage to get his hips to still when you gag much harder this time. Sure, he’s angry right now, but he’s not evil. He knows your limits.

“M’kay. I know, I know. Fine.”

Pulling his cock out of your mouth slowly, he groans at the sight of the long string of saliva that connects the two. Sticky and stringy, stretching out a few inches before falling back and dribbling down your chin. His hand reaches out, rubbing a bit of it off and cleaning his thumb in his own mouth.

“Y’can’t take it? Gaggin’ already?”

He belittles you, bringing his hand back down to the right side of your face. He rubs it, gentle for a quick second, before drawing his palm back and meeting the cheek with a slap. Not the hardest, but enough to leave a mark. Just a little bit of his frustration escaping.

“M’sorry.” You begin, but Tommy’s shaking his head in disappointment.

“Usually better than this. Usually waitin’ your turn all good and proper, not gettin’ yourself off on my boot like that.”

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. You didn’t think he noticed the grinding on his shoe. Somehow. 

Tommy tuts, shaking his head and rubbing the reddening patch on your cheek he’d just hit. It burns so good, a hot feeling rising in the stinging skin the same way it was rising in your stomach while you got yourself off on his foot like a slut.

“Can’t wait, huh? Just had to? That it?” He grumbles, thumb dipping down between your lips and parting them yet again. There’s still a drop of precum on the corner, some saliva dribbling down. He likes the look of you, all spent and messy like this. 

“Guess so.” You answer quietly, mouth opening for him when he spreads the two lips.

Without saying anything else, Tommy takes a moment to collect some saliva in the warmth of his mouth. He swishes it around, lips puckering up before opening as he spits right into your now-opened jaw. 

It catches you off guard. But you take it, feeling guilty you couldn’t even finish off the head earlier out of your own neediness distracting you. You remain on those knees like a good girl, staring up at him patiently with the gob of his saliva pooling in your mouth, his thumb on your chin. 

He raises his eyebrows, just testing you like a fucking asshole right now. Waits too long, a good ten seconds, before nodding.

Obediently, you swallow it, eyes shutting as you savor the taste of his spit after too long.

“M’kay, up, baby.” Tommy nods in approval again, hands slipping under your armpits in order to hoist you up. 

He’s always been able to manhandle you so easily, and you love it. The fact that he can pick you up, toss you around, make you his, without you being able to do anything about it. Yum. He’s so muscled and just large, especially his hands. Vascular, thick, hardened from work like all of him is.

You’re in his arms for a few seconds before he finds a little chest to sit down on, grunting while he sits back and sets you down on his lap. Your legs come around his hips, straddling him, your body resting on top of his.

“Might as well give ya’ what’chu want. Clearly not doin’ me good being apart from you.” 

His hand comes down your back, feeling the soft plunge of the dimples on the small of it. He rubs your soft skin, slipping up under the shirt he’d previously pulled up, before his hand moves lower. It comes in contact with your ass, the little black panties not giving your skin much protection.

A loud slap sound snaps in the air, louder than the one to your face earlier. It draws a whimper out of you, making you bury your little head in his sweaty neck.

Tommy chortles, rubbing the spot and tapping it a few times.

“Fuckin’ mess. Whimperin’ and shit.” 

Another slap, and then he eases up. Your whimpers make him feel bad about it–the sounds of actual pain. But, on the down low, they’re making his cock stand up more.

You’re shifting around, trying to get it to hit perfectly against your clit through the fabric. No luck, though, as his hands come to still your waist.

“Uh-uh. M’doing this tonight. Sit still for me.”

Tommy advises, raising his eyebrows while he gives your right hip another tap of reassurance. You can hardly sit still, even with his hands keeping you in place. Pathetic. Today, there’s no gentleness like the Tommy you know. Just fervor and need. Absolutely raw and heightened by his anger.

He lifts your thighs, turning you around, so you’re in his lap and facing forward. Your back is turned to him, hair tousled from his grip in it earlier, shirt pulled up and bra discarded. Oops. 

“Gonna sit and take it for me. Lemme’ use you, hon’.”

His voice is rough in your ear, hand snaking around your waist to the front of your body. It works up your shirt more, moving upward to grip your breasts tightly. His other hand carelessly scoops beneath your thighs, pulling the fabric of your panties to the side.

No, he’s not taking them off. Not enough care for that. Just gonna do what he knows he needs.

Your pussy is exposed to the warm air of the abandoned theater, pressed down on the skin of his hair thighs. His hand spreads your legs, finding your folds and humming at the feeling of how wet you are.

“Goddamn. Soaked.” He snorts, tapping at your clit pitilessly. It’s tortuously teasing, making you gasp and writh. “All cause I’m angry, huh, baby? Likin’ that?”

You nod and lean your head back, not even listening. Already cock dumb, and he hasn’t put it in yet.

“Fuckin’ slut. C’mon, now. Up for me.” Tommy lifts you so he can slip his cock under you, pressing it between your slick folds. “Fuck.”

The two of you both moan, hips moving in practiced unison to rub together for utmost pleasure without penetration. You usually both withstand teasing for a bit, so you’re expecting more of the pussy job, but he’s not wasting time.

Tommy sinks in, sliding his thick shaft right into you without any issues. So soaked, so excited that you’re all opened up and pulsing for it.

“Ah, baby. Wet as shit tonight.” 

His hands both find your hips, watching your ass jiggle each time he thrusts up between your legs. He’s pressing you down on him, minimizing the amount of space possible between your two sweaty bodies.

“Tommy.” You whine out, leaning your head back and trying to fall back into his body for comfort. 

“Uh-uh. Lean forward, honey.” He growls, pushing you forward and tightening his grip on your hips to ensure you stay like that–it’s the deepest angle, after all. 

In seconds, you’re fucked out. You have no clue what he’s saying, but you pick up on the occasional mumble while he slams in and out of you.

“Take it all. Every fuckin’ inch, baby.”

“M’not okay. Only thing holding me together is you.”

“Fuckin’ hell–look at you. Look.”

“Should’ve been me they took. Not Joel.”

“Gon’ kill that motherfucker.”

It's an almost sad range of pure neediness to grief for his brother, the rage shining through yet again while his brain unravels. His thrusts get more reckless, the grip on your hips bruising with each. 

And soon, he was close.

You feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his fingers dig in tighter as if you’d disappear.

“Fuck–” he rasps, voice torn. “Fuck, baby. Can’t…can’t hold it.”

The anger dissipates as need numbs his mind, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His sweat-slick skin rubs and burns against yours.

Tommy is panting entirely, shaking now. His rhythm falters, picks up harder and rougher, all until your breath catches in sync with his and your knees nearly give out.

“Too good. Oh.” He growls into your ear, speeding up impossibly and closing any distance left between your crotches until he’s bottomed out, hardly moving.

His teeth graze your neck, eliciting a moan from your throat. And that’s it.

Tommy snaps, a pained and guttural sound ripping from his own throat. He slams into you a final time, hips jerking in brutal strokes. You feel his entire body tense, but the hot pulse of his cum spilling inside you calms the two of you down.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t want to. He can’t.

He can bury himself there for days and stay right where he is if he could. He could live in your sweet little spent pussy if it meant he wouldn’t have to go back out and find those fuckers who murdered his brother. 

But no, Joel takes his mind again. This time, it’s less of rage, more of sadness. Guilt for going too rough out of anger.

His hands are fisted in your hair, jaw clenched like he’s trying to fight something. They both loosen up and he shakes his head, slowly pulling out and wrapping an arm around you. 

“Shit.” He whispers, panting into your ear. “I’m sorry, baby. But fuck, I needed that.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck, returning for a bit to the Tommy that you know. 

“S’okay. I get it, you’re mad. Understandable.” You respond, turning in his lap and tucking your head in his neck. You’re straddling him now, kissing the soft skin wherever you can reach and stroking his hair. 

He stays like that, rage finally quieted by your presence, his arms wrapped around you. 

For now, at least.

You’re trying to be good, but your eyelids keep drooping, lashes touching your cheeks with each hefty blink that lasts a bit too long. Joel notices.

“Go on, baby.” He whispers, shifting closer and speaking right up into your ear for only you to hear. “You can rest. I got you. Nothin’ important for your ears, anyway.”

You let out a soft hum and a nod of defeat, succumbing to the exhaustion that normally comes around 2 pm on a Sunday.

His big palm finds your back, slowly rubbing up and down, thumbs tracing circles into every knot he can find between your shoulder blades. Every so often, he’ll switch to carding his fingers through your hair, lulling you into a mindless sleep.

The world dulls on you, leaving you only with Joel’s touch. And you don’t notice Tommy’s gaze on you from the front of the room.

He’s up at the podium, trying to work out with the townspeople the week’s current patrol schedule. He catches sight of your drooping head—and Joel’s obvious enabling—sighing.

“Don’t you let her fall asleep.” He mouths to his brother, seemingly exasperated by the sight.

Joel gives him a subtle shrug, definitely not one of guilt, and focuses back on you. He presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“She’s tired.” He mouths back to his younger brother, grinning like it’s obvious. It is, though. To him, the meeting holds much less value than your beauty sleep.

You’re out cold by the time Joel gets called off, leaving to handle something outside. Normally, you’d stir at the absence of his hand on your back and head, but you’re too sleepy to notice him leave.

He didn’t want to wake you, pressing another little kiss to the crown of your head and tucking your arms under your head as a makeshift pillow.

The meeting ends and you’re still slumped over, drooling, blanket beginning to slip from your lap. Your lips are parted, soft hair framing all around your face messily. Adorable.

Once everyone is cleared out, Tommy steps down, beelining straight for your seat.

He kneels beside your chair, brushing some loose hairs back and smiling to himself. Oh, you’re so beloved by the two. He whispers your name, gently shaking your shoulder.

“Time to wake up, sweetheart.” He coos, voice honey-warm and so sweet, watching your eyes slowly come back to life as they open and blink down at him.

“There you are, angel. Went out real hard durin’ the meeting, huh?”

Before you can respond, he gets on one knee, pulling your body to him until you’re straddled over his thigh. From there, he scoops you up into his chest, grabbing the backs of your thighs to wrap them around his waist while your head falls to his neck lazily.

His grin makes it evident he doesn’t mind this one bit. You loop your arms up around his neck, attaching yourself. And he carries you the whole way home, pressing kisses to your forehead and cheeks each time you stir in his grip.

“Joel’s gonna owe me for this one.”

on ao3

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Joel inevitably climbed into the bed sometime around four in the morning. You didn’t hear him, but your body seemed to know.

He was having trouble sleeping in the chair anyway, with you looking so spent and fragile in his large bed. There was nothing more that he wanted than to protect you and wrap you up in his arms, keep you safe from whatever was haunting you tonight.

Luckily for him, slumber has also been troublesome for you ever since you’d returned home. Each night in your childhood bed, with that damn cross hung above you, it felt like a spirit rather than a saint. God wasn’t there anymore, and the remnants of Him in that cross have been plaguing your sleeping body.

You didn’t wake up once throughout the night, actually got some decent sleep in a bed other than your own. But your body stirred, and that was enough for Joel to give in and come scoop you up. He took the single quiet whine and little tousle of the sheets as discomfort, using it as an excuse to join you–a more guilt-free reason than the one that originally resonated with him. 

He’s warm behind you: one arm slung around your waist, fingers curled loosely into the t-shirt he’d generously given you before you fell asleep. The tips grazed your stomach, holding you like something more sacred than he’s ever known. 

And you wake up like that–held so delicately against his warm, large body that it makes your chest ache. Your breath catches when you realize how he’s pressed against you, right against your back with the fabric of his flannel soft on the back of your bare thighs.

His forehead is resting–just barely–on your shoulder, breath grazing your skin. It was probably what kept your body sleeping so soundly all night.

It’s quiet in the morning. Sun slipping through his thin curtains in long streaks, painting the room with a morning glow. The birds outside are louder than anything going on in the house, urging you awake slowly.

You shift, just a little, and Joel hums softly. He hasn't woken up yet. The man sleeps like a bear. Rightfully so, at least. He’s heavy and warm and always so tired and overworked. Comforting.

But eventually, his arm around you tightens for just a second as a reflex, pulling you nice and close before loosening up again. Not quite awake yet, but definitely not fully asleep. Awake enough to register the pretty thing sleeping in his bed with him–a spot that’s been deserted for a few years now, left only to be occupied by his discarded clothes at night or the occasional half-drunk beer bottle. 

“Mornin,’” he murmurs, voice cracking with sleep. He sounds even better this early and vulnerable, all husky and nasally as his vocal cords rehydrate. 

“Hey,” you whisper back, unsure of how much exactly to say. You’ve never woken up with a boy before, let alone a man this many years your senior. 

But it feels good. It’s overwhelmingly gentle and calm to wake up in Joel’s arms, so different from the usual feeling of waking up in either your college dorm or your father’s house. Your dorm is always loud, given the thinness of the building’s walls, and your home just seems scary to you when it’s painted by the blinding morning light. 

It’s more peaceful in his bedroom than it was last night: a battlefield of emotions where you’d pushed yourself onto Joel, leading to him trying to sleep all stiff-backed in his armchair and you too scared to let yourself be perceived in full. 

Now, he’s all soft breath and warmth. No more discomfort and confusion, just relaxation as you both let go of what’s been gripping you so hauntingly. 

“Slept okay?” He asks, letting his lips graze your shoulder. Just a bit, to test the waters and see if you’re okay with the touch this early in the morning.

You seem fine with it. Just fine. You nod against the pillow, staring straight ahead at his wall and blinking sleepily. His hand is so warm on your stomach, legs tangled up in yours in the sweetest mess of limbs. You don’t want to ruin that, but you have to at some point. 

It’s quiet for a bit after that. Joel takes the silence as comfort. You take it as tension.

His fingers stroke your forearm up and down, feeling the little raise of hairs when the air conditioning comes on stronger. They explore your skin as if truly getting to know you now, because he feels like this sad little excuse of a ‘sleepover’ is a step forward for you two.

“I’m—” you begin, then swallow, cutting off his thoughts about the development between one another. You feel his body still slightly, the stroking on your arm halting to a stop and his breath just hardly changing patterns. “I’m going back tomorrow. To school.”

Fuck. He’d totally forgotten about that. You’ve only been home for a week and he’s been so consumed with the mere thought of you that he’s forgotten about the whole reason you’re even here–your uncle's death. His selfish self hasn’t even mentioned your uncle since the day of your return. The day of his funeral. 

You’re a college student, presumably stressed over the whirlpool of exams and whatever else you’re dealing with. And he’s probably making it worse with the way he’s been confusing you about religion and sexuality. He feels awful. 

There’s a pause. Not long, but enough for the silence to say everything he needs to say.

Joel sighs through his nose, gently, nodding just once. You feel it when his chin brushes the top of your shoulder, his nose drifting subtly to your head to catch a bit of the seraphic scent of your hair upon just waking up. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Figured.” 

His voice is calm, hiding the disappointment. Joel being Joel–strong and quiet. Always hiding something. Something in the way his arm slowly drops from your waist brings a hollow feeling to your chest, like he’s not there any longer. 

You flip and turn to face him, blinking when more light from the window hits you. He’s already watching you, his face unreadable. But his eyes are soft and sad–that once recognizable darker shade of chocolate melting into a milkier one, one that resembles something of a puppy. 

You’ve never seen Joel Miller sad before. Joel Miller doesn’t get sad. Not to put it into toxic terms, but he’s the most masculine walking thing you’ve ever seen, not one who’d melt at the sound of you leaving. He’s always been so hardened, never daring to show an expression other than utter stoicism–maybe a small, tight-lipped smile–but never sad. You must really be fucking him up.

His hand comes off your waist entirely now that you’ve turned, moving up to tuck a small, messy strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Gotta do what you gotta do, baby.” 

His words are gentle, trying their hardest not to cause any further harm, but your throat is tightening. You nod. He pulls back a bit.

Your eyes follow Joel when he sits up, leaning his large frame back and propping it up with one hand. His shirt somehow got unbuttoned last night, leaving him in the softest looking undone flannel, hanging off his shoulders and exposing his belly. He runs a hand through his own hair, looking down at you like you’ll give him something to hold onto here. Anything. 

Following his actions, you sit up as well, the sheets falling off your shoulders. When he sees that you’re still wearing the old t-shirt he’d slipped on you last night, it makes him pause. Something new flickers in those brown eyes, but he swallows it down like always.

“Joel.” 

You plead quietly, and he doesn’t say anything. He told you to go and do what you need to, but you obviously don’t want to, and he doesn’t want you to either. 

Standing but stopping at the doorway, Joel picks up another flannel by his dresser. The brown one. He wore it just yesterday, which meant it’ll smell the most like him. He hopes.

“I want that shirt back,” he starts, pointing at the t-shirt as he turns back to the bed and walks over. The mattress dips where his knee sinks in as he climbs onto it gently, sighing heavily with the action. 

That makes your heart hurt. You want to keep it, keep a little bit of him with you for the next few months. As if reading your mind, he places the brown fabric next to your hand on the sheets.

“Take this one instead. Smells more like me. ‘N you can actually wear it. Thought you’d like it more.”

You look up at him, wide-eyed and blinking just a little too fast.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Somethin’ for when you get cold out there. In New York, or wherever you’re headed back to. Forgot. I think it’s cold there, though.”

That elicits a small, stupid chuckle from you. Kind of hopeless, if you think about it, but it’s lighter in the moment. 

“So close. Connecticut.” You smile, picking the flannel up, shamelessly balling it up and bringing it to your nose to consume that perfect scent of Joel. “Thanks, though.”

He stops to lean closer, to get down near you again. His hands plant on either side of the pillows under your head, pushing you to lay down again. 

A soft pair of lips presses to your forehead, the same way they did a million times last night when he was trying to get you to calm down. But this time, the kiss really sunk into your skin and stayed there. Warm and slow, just like Joel is. 

Then he pulls away, eyes flicking to yours a final time before diverting his attention to the buttons of his flannel that he needs to redo. Probably shouldn’t have his stomach hanging out like this–he’s been a little heavy on the beers recently–and it’s showing. 

“No problem,” he starts, climbing off the bed with a soft groan. “I’ll make coffee. You take your time.” 

His knee cracks with the movement and he stumbles for half a second before grounding himself and starting off to the kitchen, abandoning you in his bedroom. 

The door clicks shut, and suddenly, the walls feel too tall. You’re overwhelmed with the feeling of having to leave, just after you managed to land a spot next to him in his bed. Horrible timing. Now, it’s gonna be another three months before you can come back here and have another good night of sleep for once.

The rest of the morning with Joel was cut short at the sound of your father calling you, obviously nagging you about being out for the night without telling him. It’s justifiable, but not what you want to hear right now.

You make up a bullshit excuse about seeing a family member, and to your luck, he believed you. Now, your worries are more about college.

The return to school didn’t feel the same.

The fluorescent lights of your dorm building are too harsh–you’re craving the soft morning glow of Joel’s bedroom instead. Everything is too loud. The dining hall food is somehow worse than it once was, the classrooms buzz uncomfortably with the cramming for exams. It used to not bother you, faded into the background, but somehow now it heightens every migraine. 

You’re even more stressed. Everything is functioning too quickly on campus and nothing seems familiar anymore.

Joel ruined you for it. Or maybe he made you aware of the hollowness that was always there deep down, worsening it. 

Back for another three months, finishing the semester before summer, he took over your mind. You can’t focus on exams. Forget about your work at this point, it’s a lost cause. You didn’t even bring your Bible, either. Too much weight to carry. 

Three months in a too-small dorm bed when all you want is Joel’s sheets. Joel’s touch. Joel’s breath. His strong hands on your cheeks and lips on your forehead. Three months of too-fast conversations when all you want is his gentle, grounding words that reassure you you’re not a disgrace to your father’s name. 

You and your roommate have faded over the past few weeks because of her new boyfriend and your personal struggles, and your suitemate leaves her makeup everywhere. The guy across the hall plays the same fucking playlist every time he showers and you’re sick of hearing it.

For the first time ever, you want to go back home. The first two years of college you went somewhere else, stayed with friends for summer break. Out of fear of returning to your old town, facing your father, facing the church. But now, with Joel–the only thing keeping you motivated through the last three months–you can’t wait to return. And that’s saying a lot for a girl who doesn’t even believe anymore and will be forced into church services every sunday.

You fold Joel’s flannel the same way every morning: tuck it under your pillow like some relic. It’s gotten bad. You take it everywhere with you in your backpack–your friends ask. They think it’s maybe a little bit weird. 

But to you, it’s just Joel. His memory, the weight of him, and the faded smell. It keeps you going, and that’s enough.

It might be gross, but you haven’t washed it, either. His scent is gone but some part of you still believes it’s there, and you can’t bring yourself to throw it in with the rest of your laundry. Like it’ll disintegrate and take him with it. 

The only prayer you say before bed anymore is the strong inhalation of his brown flannel before tucking it under your head and dozing off. Every night. You can’t sleep without it. 

Classes are harder this time around when you’re not focused, too. Your professors keep circling your essays and emailing you about slipping grades. You feel like your mind is stretched so taut, pulled between classes and readings and formulas and Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.

Your brain can’t hold anything. It’s stuck in Texas, dying to go back. You can’t function without feeling his breath on your forehead and the familiar ache between your thighs when you remember how he kissed you.

You try to be normal–even going far enough to attend a party. 

It’s the first warm(ish) weekend in April, and your roommate is forcing you out for once so you stop moping around with Joel’s stupid flannel in your palm. The air smells like cheap tequila and blood orange white claw surgues: a new favorite of yours. Drinking has also become a common occurrence. Your dad would be terribly disappointed. 

You wear something tight. An outfit you couldn’t wear back in Texas—more disappointment points. But you slap on the same lipstick and thong you happened to wear that night at Joel’s house. 

That wasn’t a mistake. But you make another.

His name is Drew. A junior. Poli-sci major. Pretty eyes and freckles. Funny. Tells you that you’re interesting and talks about economic policy. You let him kiss you. 

The kiss is good, actually. Great. Not as high as Joel’s in your mind, but he’s obviously on another level. You consider Joel Miller your religion, for God’s sake, no boy could beat that stake. It’s pretty impressive on that scale, though. 

It’s the kind of kiss that most girls would think is incredible, that the older you would think is otherworldly, actually. But that’s from before you knew what it felt like to genuinely crave someone. Crave someone so bad that you could physically sink your teeth into him if he let you.

Drew’s hands are respectful, his voice is kind, and his manners are kinder. A lot nicer than Joel, in a sense. Still below him, though. 

When his hand moves down after a good makeout, reaching for the waistband of your skirt, your whole body stiffens. He notices, he pauses.

You just shake your head, barely, leaning it back and shutting your eyes.

“No?” he asks.

“No.” You confirm quietly, shaking it again. Firm.

He’s not angry at all, which should’ve been a sign that he’s a good guy. He’s your age, he’s nice, he’s handsome. You should be going for a sweet, educated college boy. But no. He’s not who you want. He’s not who you practically pray to.

He just says “okay,” backing away and giving you a soft, dopey smile. You thank him. You don’t really know why, but it comes out.

You leave early from the party and walk home alone, just a little bit tipsy. He, of course, insisted on walking you, but you denied. You get to your dorm, almost cry, and sit on the floor with your back to the door for a while. 

Joel’s flannel is on your bed for the first half as you try to convince yourself to go for the age appropriate and mentally stable boy–but you grab the flannel. Like it might give you a little something to hold onto. You sleep in it that night. And the next night. And the next.

Finals week arrives, and the damage of not showing up to classes is done. The flannel is next to you in bed while you scroll through the results–concerningly low compared to last year’s. 

And for someone who normally is obsessed with a perfect GPA, you don’t even care. Just wanna go home to Texas and forget about everything. You want to refresh the scent of Joel on his fabric that you’ve been sleeping with, wearing, touching yourself to, and worshipping.

You want to know if he feels the same way. If he dreams about you, if his hand drifts down to his thick cock when he thinks about that Sunday night in his bedroom, if he smells your vanilla perfume deep in the fabric of his own couch and bed and clothes. 

Little do you know, the leave has him even worse.

He always seems so put together–quiet, keeps to himself, fixes everything and has such a pragmatic way about him. But he’s really been filling the time with hammers and sawdust and whatever takes his mind away from the thought of you. 

By mid-march, he’s in a craze. Repainted the railings of his porch, replaced a tiny tile in the kitchen that didn’t even need it, power-washed every bit of the exterior of his property as if washing away you. The ghost of your body in his bed.

There’s nothing left to fix or clean, but he continues scanning the perimeter of his house every evening for something to occupy himself with. Something that doesn’t involve the church, preferably, something to keep him rooted at home. Leaving the house, especially on Sunday’s, means seeing your father and Bibles and everything he’s trying to avoid. Not a good move. 

The silence sits on his shoulders the same way sweat does from the Texan humidity. It’s heavy and relentless.

He’s never not thinking about you; the same way you’re obsessed with him. No, he has no article of clothing of yours like you have with his flannel, but he tries his best with other things to jog the memory when he needs it.

The girl in his bed. The preacher’s daughter. In his t-shirt, curled up and small and whispering that she needs him.

Whispering his name like a fucking plea, like it means something holy. Like name from the Bible. He can’t get the sound of your pretty voice from his ears, can’t forget the sight of you sleeping next to him. Lip catching between your teeth when your mouth isn’t parted, fist curled up and tugging at his sheets.

You’re holding onto him, even in his dreams.

Joel can’t not think of you. Especially your mouth, your little body…

He caught a few glances while you were sleeping. Your hardened nipples through his white t-shirt, the bottom of your asscheeks coming out of those tiny shorts. He’s trying the hardest to not think about your mouth. His body betrays him. 

He’s jerked off nearly every night since you left. Like a teenager.

It’s shameful, but at some point he stops pretending he can successfully pray it away. You’re there to stay, imprinted in his brain like sharpie print, so his Bible stays shut in his nightstand. A folded relic that failed to offer him comfort over the course of three months. 

Instead of praying it out, he remembers. Embraces. Your lips kissed raw that one night. His thumbs against your temple and cheeks every chance he got. Breath against breath, the look of you just existing in his house–on his couch, porch, and bed. Fuck. When he got you coffee that morning and you sat in his kitchen in those tiny shorts, looking like some perfect angel. 

It wasn’t just wanting to keep you safe. It’s not just comfort, not anymore. He wants you. Badly. Understands what you were feeling the night you basically attacked him out of utter desperation for something.

Joel lies awake and thinks of how your pretty pink lips would feel on his neck, what it’d feel like to be able to finish inside you instead of his stupid hand every night. Some night, he wakes up drenched in sweat, your name lost in his mouth and sheets tangled into a mess. 

Other nights, the house is too quiet. He can’t call you. Can’t see you. The walls groan around him and he craves to hear footsteps down the hallway for once, to feel a physical body next to him in bed.

It’s the middle of May when his breaking point is reached. 

He managed to find the smallest crack on a back step, it didn’t even need patching. Most people would never have seen it. But he takes any chance he can get.

His hands are covered in dust when he returns to the front of his house, headed to the garage to return the trowel and tools. And then he sees it.

There’s a figure on his porch swing that he knows all too well. The same way of sitting when he got home from church one night to find you sitting with your heel pressed between your legs. Brown boots. His fucking flannel that matches them perfectly. Painted lips. 

It takes him a moment to register the sight, freezing in place across the yard. Maybe it’s too dark, he’s seeing things?

But no. You’re real. You’re there, all for him. And the two of you have gone through the exact same things the past three months. You’re both so disgustingly obsessed that it’s consuming your lives–ruining them, actually. Neither of you can sleep without touching yourselves to the thought of one another, and God is a lost cause at this point. It’s over.

Joel’s heart stutters so hard that he grips the railing when he approaches. It actually stutters. He feels like more of a teenager than he did the past three months when stroking himself to the imagined scent of you. 

You look up when you hear him round the corner, and you don’t smile. It’s not much, you don’t say anything.

But to Joel–oh, God. Your eyes. They say everything–worn down and tired but shining brighter than ever at the sight of him. Full of a heavy ache that he shares with you, that’s been weighing both of you down in concerningly similar ways for months now. Since the day you went back to school.

You don’t look like a preacher’s daughter anymore. Physically, you hadn’t changed. It was only three months.

But the feeling of you is more like a storm he’s been waiting to come, that is ready to sweep him away. He hopes it’s a tornado that fucking swallows him whole.

Joel drops the trowel and little tub of concrete filler without a sound, walking up the steps as fast as he possibly could. For the first time in months, he breathes. Really breathes–breathes you in, captures the heavenly  scent of your vanilla perfume he’s been trying to recreate in his head each time his hand travels south to his cock. 

And it’s just like his brain has remastered. 

You don’t say anything when he steps onto the porch. Don’t move, you just stare.

The cicadas are already out for the upcoming summer, shrieking and disturbing the air, unraveling everything further. The sun is long gone behind the line of trees, and it’s all too warm. The kind of night in the South that feels so thick and suspended that it overwhelms you. 

The flannel you’re wearing–Joel’s–feels too big and warm now. Or maybe it’s the way you’re curled into it, wrapped up as if bracing yourself for him.

Joel’s heart hasn’t slowed since the moment he saw your silhouette on the porch. If anything, it’s racing more. You look different. Opened. Like the girl who he saw literally falling apart months ago in church is long gone and what’s left behind of her is more dangerous. More wanting, just like he is.

You don’t know what you expect when he comes up on the porch, and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing either. But the second he closes the space between the two of you, hardly even three steps, his hands come to cup your face like he did that one week three months ago. 

His big, rough hands. How you’ve missed them. They’re the only thing you can ever think about.

The sound that you make at the soft contact isn’t even human. It’s deeper, like you’ve been holding in that breath since January.

You barely have time for another breath before he kisses you. Hard.

There’s no hesitation in it, no breathless pausing, just pure contact. Raw, intimate. Immediate. Your mouths collide, coming together like magnets, a mix of starvation and desperation taking over, like you’ve finally chosen to feed your scourged stomachs and fix that horrible starvation.

Joel’s hands are trembling as he anchors your face between them, and you can feel it when his thumbs move down to your jaw. He presses too hard at first but eases up, afraid to bruise you, and also afraid you could disappear again.

God, you kiss him back with equal fervor. This time it isn’t you forcing yourself onto him out of a weird religious psychotic episode where the only thing you could possibly think about is sex. This time, you’ve had three months to think–to finally discover things about sexuality you never knew before. Now that you’ve let yourself go from religion, you’re more understanding about it. You know what things are, how things work. Know how to kiss. Even know how to say no, if needed. 

Thank you, Drew. 

You kiss him like you’ve wanted it your whole life, like it’s the only thing keeping you alive and in one piece. 

His fingers curl into your hair at the nape of your neck, twirling with the little baby strands while your mouth parts against his. He slips his tongue in, with practiced technique, but also with weight. With need, and with pressure. 

His mind is static, and so is yours. Synced up with utmost want. You’re useless. Everything Joel swore he’d try and protect you from is right here–in the way his hips rut forward, the way his tongue is sucking on yours like a madman, the way you let out sweet little muffled sounds when his hands travel down to your hips and pull you against him.

He’s not afraid to let you have him this time, and you’re not afraid of letting a man touch you. No, not when the man is Joel Miller.

“Finally.”

You gasp and break the kiss, but he pulls you right back in. He’s obsessed and so, so starved that he can’t handle your mouth being away from him for another minute. He’s kissing you like you’re not just a girl anymore, but someone who left and came back new, like he doesn’t care who your father is or which pew you normally sit in. Kissing you like you’ve genuinely been haunting him. 

Joel’s breath stutters when your hands slide up to his chest, over his shirt, bunching up the fabric as if wanting to rip it open and climb inside there with him. He swears quietly into your mouth, dragging his lips to your jaw and the edge of your collarbone.

Neither of you say anything, but it tells each other everything. You went through the same thing. A never ending cycle of obsession, masturbation, and yearning for the three months apart. 

He missed you. He needs you, couldn’t stop thinking about you like this. Like you’re his.

He pulls back for a real breath this time, just one. His eyes flick over your face as if really making sure it’s you there with him. Really alive and really the girl he’s been dreaming of. 

And he kisses you harder again. So much harder. After letting it compute in his brain that you’re here and he can do what he wants with you, he can’t not grab you and destroy your mouth. No porch light, no audience, just you two in the dark of Texas, pressed so closely together that it hurts.

“Inside, baby. Now.” He huffs into your mouth, grabbing at the brown flannel that your body is swimming in and dragging you to the door. 

“Please.” 

Joel isn’t protecting you from your own sexuality this time. He’s embracing it alongside you, giving in after the last tortuous months. He can’t handle being away from you for another fleeting moment and not having his way with you.