Priest x atheist âŠatheist always having some snide retort about religion and priest desperately trying to convert atheist. Atheist straight up just wants to hate fuck the priest. Priest goes crazy trying to justify their attraction towards atheist by saying itâs God calling for their salvation.
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i want a nice, kind priest to ask me to stay after evening mass. "i know you work harder than anyone else, my lamb" he would say. "ill say a prayer, a special prayer just for you. kneel down in front of me." and i would kneel down in front of him with my hands on my lap and then he would say "bow your head, sweet lamb" and i would as he gently pets my hair. and then he would say a prayer over me, standing above me in his black vestement. he would draw a cross over me when he was finished, saying amen then tilting my chin up. and i would look into his clever, knowing eyes and say amen too. thank you father for making me clean and whole again.
and then hed say "we will try something else now" and i would nod and follow him to his chambers. and hed sit on the edge of his bed and point between his legs, and i would kneel again. and he would pet my face with his warm hands, soothe my hair back, and say "surely you know what comes now?" and i would nod. of course i know what comes now. "you want it?" of course i want it. i want to be clean and whole. i want to serve god, i want to serve you father, i want to be of use.
and he would rock in and out of my mouth slowly and carefully, his fingers tangled in my hair, and he would groan lowly and quietly. "just like that my precious lamb. careful with your teeth. swallow now" and i would because i love him and love god.
he would finish on my tongue and smile down at me proudly when i gather what spilled onto my lips with my tongue and swallow it all, and he would let me pant and lean my head against his knee. maybe he would even let me onto his bed for the night. and he would say "you are my favorite lamb, sweetheart."
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Do you like how I keep my eyes on you during mass? How I treat every word out of your mouth as something that brings me closer to God? How I trust you completely? Surely you wouldn't exploit that, right? Surely you wouldn't give me embarrassing instructions just to watch me follow them to the letter? Because that would be sooooo bad.
god li yu is s such a cute protagonist! imagine you turn into a fish and instead of panicking properly you immediately mourn the loss of your long sexy legs. what an icon. i adore him
- warnings: religious trauma + guilt, kissing, kinda forcing yourself onto joel (?) I wouldnât consider it dubcon or noncon tho!!, mentions of masturbation prior to this chapter, super super descriptive sexual thoughts, arousal in a religious context, blasphemous themes, mentions of the bible, sexual repression, extreme hypersexuality, emotional breakdown, emotional and physical intensity, seduction, emotional vulnerability, grinding if you squint, breakage of consent boundaries, so so much craving and yearning ugh it's awful, joel is a SWEETHEART and i love that man
- summary: showing up at joel's in the middle of the night in an absolute craze--one that he both feeds and puts the fire out of
- word count: 5.8k
on ao3
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You donât change your sheets. Not right away, at least.
Thereâs something so sacred about the way your body trembled as you whimpered Joelâs name, finishing and gasping into your pillow with your church dress hiked up to your stomach. Something you canât bear to wash out yet. It turned a corner in your life, leaving you on your knees again.
But not for God anymore. For something more physical than that.
The feeling of truly touching yourself for the first time, allowing your body to let go and succumb to whatâs imprinted as your brain as impure, felt incredible. Like youâve been missing out on it for so longâloserish, almost. Twenty-one and never having an orgasm or sex before.
Itâs always been in a way to keep your devout innocence, like your father and the church had taught you to. Save it for marriage, donât touch yourself. Youâll go to hell.Â
But there you are, laying in your bed with a small patch soaked into your sheets, evidence of what youâve done. Finished with a manâs name on your tongue. For once, you donât feel dirty. You feel refreshed. Replenished, discovered.Â
Youâd lit a little candle when you came back to your senses after the orgasm. Usually, it was lit for prayerânow, it feels like something entirely different. The room smells of vanilla and smoke, air thick and heated alongside your own feverish need and confusion with whatâs happening to you.
The shame seemingly vanished, changing color. Nothing is pitch black and suffocating anymore, but more of a deep red. Open and wanting.Â
Exploring yourself like this for the first time, genuinely exploring yourself, seemed to open up a whole new world. Itâs no longer worth it to save it, fuck that. God can go fuck himself if it felt this good to finish, and youâve never even known.
And Joel. Oh, Joel. Heâs now the only thing possibly occupying your mind. Like the Lord doesnât even exist.
For the next six hours, you donât leave your room. Donât go downstairs for the lunch your dad offered, not even when you smelt dinner cooking later. Joel is completely inhabiting your thoughts, along with a mess of hypersexual images that you wouldâve slapped yourself for envisioning just a few years ago. An entirely new spectrum.Â
Joel bending you over, fucking you dumb into your mattress. Heâs hitting deep inside your cervix, where your fingers canât reach. His probably could. The cross above your bed would be gone. Joelâd have his head buried between your thighs, sucking relentlessly at your clit like itâs the sweetest treat heâs ever tried. Joelâd pull at your hair while youâre kneeling between his legs like heâs an altar, his cock stuffed deep down your throat until you gag and cry real tears. Utterly sinful, but beautiful. Nothing has ever felt so good compared to this, compared to finally opening the window to sexuality after a quarter of a lifetime.Â
Itâs overwhelming, actually, but in the best way. Everything seems to unravel in the next few hours and youâre in an absolute frenzy, fixated on the mere thought of Joel while your hand travels back between your thighs every few minutes.Â
Like youâre unable to stop. You couldnât finish anymore, but it still felt good. You came to like the feeling of overstimulation, especially the thought of Joel being the one doing so.
 Heâs got you in a psychosis. A dirty, religious, sexual, sinful psychosis.
Youâre tired by nightfall, but not ready to give up. Your mind finally travels back to the thought of church, remembering what Joel told youâhe likes to go there, alone, every night around midnight. So maybe, just maybe, youâd show up to see him.
But itâs a little too far: showing up at church two hours after finishing on your fingers with an image of Joel painted in your mind. Sure, you donât feel as guilty anymore, but doing that would lack basic decency. Â
Instead, youâre at the edge of the bed, a quarter past twelve. There's a little lipstick smudged on your mouth, the one you bought and hoped to use in college. Sadly, it wasnât worn much. Saved for a proper occasion, and tonight felt like the right one.Â
The top of the package read âburgundy love,â a corny but accurate representation of the color smeared unfamiliarly on your lips. Itâs foreign to have makeup of this color on, but you want to feel sexy. Especially after today. A journey of sexual discovery most definitely calls for cheap red lipstick.Â
In like manner, you have a thong you bought last summer with your friends on college break. They insisted on getting matching ones during a trip to the mall, as a gag, and you couldnât opt outâplus, it couldâve made use one day. Todayâs that day.
The fabric is lacy and untouched, resting perfectly on the supple skin of your ass, barely covering much of it at all. It covers your cunt enough, but will surely be soaked through in ten minutes when youâre thinking about Joel again. Girlish, sexy, feminine. Makes you feel just how you want to feel.
Youâve always known youâre prettyâthe women in town praised you as a young girl, telling you youâd be a model and whatnot when you grew up. And sure, you feel pretty. But youâve never felt sexy before, not like this. Itâs truly an awakening for you, an overwhelming punch to the gut to masturbate and put on a thong and partake in all these little things that most girls wouldâve done by sixteen.Â
Your legs are shaven and bare, recovering from scrubbing them so hard the past few days. But still soft, moisturized with your favorite vanilla lotion. Itâs paired with a matching perfume scent, sprayed on all the most important spots: collarbones, behind the ears, wrists, behind the knees, and your ankles. Nice and slutty.Â
An oversized button down, one roughly resembling Joelâs (at least in your sick mind) gets thrown over the little thong and bra set you put on for the first time in your life. Itâs black and thin, usually only worn when doing deep cleaning or on laundry day. But tonight, it feels ceremonial. Like armor.Â
Like sin dressed up for worship.
You know Joel goes to church almost every night around midnight, heâd told you the other time you saw him. And you may or may not have watched him once. Not on purpose, but you caught his truck driving down the old road while staring at the window, and just had to get in your fatherâs truck and follow.Â
As bad as it is when youâre in a weird state of sexual hysteria, something called to you. Told you to follow, told you to go. But, to keep the smallest bit of decorum, you couldnât bring yourself to step into a church again today after the events earlier.
Instead, you go.Â
To Joelâs.Â
Slipping on a pair of tiny pajama shorts with the button down, you retouched the lipstick and gave your eyelashes an extra curl. Another spritz of perfume, a gargle of mouthwash, and youâre out the door. Sheets still unwashed, of course.
You get in your dadâs old truck, trying to start it up as quietly as possible in the late hour. Now itâs twelve-thirty, and Joelâs sure to get home soon.Â
The drive isnât long, you know where he lives from going there as a child to barbecues. From dropping things off for him with your father as a teenager. From last Friday when you watched him return home from his usual late night church trip.Â
Joel, at least, is attempting to hang onto his religion. Even if itâs difficult and not very effective, heâs been going to church extraâevery night, almost. Praying and trying to reconnect with the Lord after whatever it is that caused such a horrible disconnect with him and the church.
Heâs still a man of God, just not as strict as he used to be. Slipping into the same habits and hole youâre falling into, but gripping harder onto the edges. Heâs stronger, has more restraint than you. Maybe itâs because of his age, maybe itâs his faith. Or maybe itâs just you who belongs in Hell.Â
You, on the other hand, have managed to become a complete mess in six hours. After returning from church and spending just a few hours in your bedroom, you gave up on hanging onto the Lord like Joel is. Slipped away, unregrettably. Youâve somehow managed a complete turn, abandoning the girl you were trying to grip to and switching to one whoâs addicted to one of the worst sins.Â
Within minutes, youâre waiting on the manâs porch. Getting there was kind of a blur. Dark sky and trees and cemeteries that you drove by, giving the night an uncomfortable chill.
Your hands are folded in your lap like a child whoâs done something bad and doesn't want to admit to it, your throat dry from todayâs activities, and the cold air biting at your bare knees. Youâve been practicing, planning. Not exactly praying, youâre not sure what to call it anymore.
When his car door opens, it pulls you out of a trance. Youâd zoned out, didnât even notice his truck pulling up in the gravel driveway, slow and steady. He slowed upon seeing you, not wanting to scare you.
He walks out, and you flinch. His shirt half unbuttoned like heâs already ready for bed, hair mussed and eyes dark. He stops moving and sighs at the sight of you sitting on his porch chairâseemingly innocent, for now, at least. But hiding the worst feeling yet. Also hiding a little thong soaked through and the thought of him fucking you deep in your mind.
He sees the lipstick, the way youâre holding your elbows as if trying to hold yourself together. There's a thin line of resolve drawn across your eyebrows, making you look somewhat confused. He canât really read you this time.Â
âSweetheartâŠâ Joel starts, almost like a soft warning but also a question. âYou alright?â
He moves again, slowly stepping toward the porch and clicking his keys to lock the truck. You hear the sound of it, stealing a glance at the vehicle before looking back at him.
Looking back at his looming figure, the graying chest hair just barely peeking out where his shirt is unbuttoned more than usual. You can hardly see, lit only by the light of the porch in the dark. But he looks handsome as ever, distressed and sexy. Heâs everything to you. Your new God.
Your neck cranes when you look up at him as he approaches, like youâre still kneeling to something holy.
âNo.â You answer honestly. âBut I think I figured it out.â
Heâs skeptical of youâyouâre acting different. Normally, youâre scared, shaking like a leaf whenever you see him ever since that night at the church. Too freakishly casual now, like youâre hiding something.
Which you are, of course. Hiding the desperate need for him, for his body, thatâs threatening to escape you. You canât scare him off, though. Not at his own house. Heâs helped you, after all, so thatâs not the goal.
âYeah? Whatâs that you figured out?
You sit up in the chair when he asks you, pulling your leg up to set it underneath you, sitting on it. Your heel digs between your legs, trying to nonchalantly settle the now familiar wetness and aching thatâs building while the two of you speak.
âGod never felt close. Feel like I should give up.â
Joel doesnât speak, lets you continue.Â
âBeen reading my Bible cover to cover all week, scrubbing myself raw in the shower and starving myself in hopes that it would help. But I still feel it.â
His eyebrow quirks, eyes widening at the suggestion. He steps forward again, stepping his right leg up and propping it on the steps of the porch. Makes your eyes flicker down between his legs for a second, imagining a bulge that isnât quite there yet.
âFeel it?â He questions, tilting his head and running a hand through his beard of salt and pepper scruff. Hands look big. Beautiful.
âYeah. Feel you, Joel. I feel you like Iâm supposed to feel Him.â
His brows knit this time, something like pain flickering across his faceâor maybe interest. Arousal? Confusion? You canât tell. Neither can he. But he doesnât interrupt.
âI donât know what it is. Not love. But Iâm scared itâs something worse.â You feel nervous telling him this, the weird flash of confidence from earlier slowly dissolving under his hard gaze. Your voice quivers for a second, quiets. âLike, devotion. I donât know.âÂ
Joelâs jaw tightens like heâs bracing for an impact upon hearing you admit youâre devout to him. Itâs bad, you both knowâbut he doesnât want to guide you away. He wants to help you. Or fuck you. Whatever it is, heâs gonna be gentle.
Youâre trembling, hands held in little weak fists now instead of open palms, no longer ready for a prayer.
Joel still doesnât speak. Just stares, leg propped up as if begging for you to look. You do. Again and again, flickering between his face and crotch desperately.
âI lit a candle for you.â You continue, more breathless, ashamed and proud all at once. You feel the confidence coming back the tiniest amount when he doesnât tell you to leave, doesnât seem disgusted by the idea. âAnd Iâm wearing the lipstick I bought in college. Never got to wear it. Thought itâd make me seem like a whore.â
âYouâre not a whore,â he answers, too quickly. Itâs the one thing he wants to remind you: youâre not a sinner, not a whore, not disgusting. Only human. But his expression is unchanging, still somewhat blank and hard to read. Joelâs never been too good with his show of emotions.
âI know. Maybe. But tonight it made me feel worthy.â
He nods, takes a careful step forward. Arms crossed, not too close yet, but standing next to the porch chair youâre sitting in. He hasnât noticed your heel between your legs, pressing into the ache that heâs worsening by the moment.Â
âYouâre overwhelmed,â he finally continues, gently this time. Letting something show, at least. âDonât gotta explain yourself to me.â
âI want to, though.â You whisper, eyes glancing up when he moves closer. Closer, closer, but so slowly. Until heâs almost above you, arms uncrossing. One hand holds the back of the chair behind your head, the other on his hip. Almost caging you in on that chair.
âI need you to hear it.â
At that, he nods. He reaches and gives your head a single stroke, reminding you of how heâd held you in the church that night. Stroked your hair the same way, whispered the sweetest reminders to help you out. But it worsens your case. Soaks you. Youâre dripping by now.
Joel steps back, getting his keys from his pocket to open the front door. Score.
He opens it, walking in and turning to wait for you. Keeps his hand on the door, above your height, letting you walk under it so he can close it again in one swift motion. Slow and smooth and cautious. Perfect.
Youâre pacing now, nervous energy unraveling in real time, getting better or worse every few seconds. Youâre in his house. Alone with him. Wearing sinful lipstick and a stupid slutty thong all for a man almost three times your age. A man of God. Whoâs somehow become your religion.Â
âItâs like I discovered fireâI canât unfeel it.â You start, breathless and messy while you try and move around the room mindlessly.Â
He shushes you, but doesnât say anything, grabbing your shoulder to stop you. Keeps his hand there, grounding you to the best of his ability with that rough gaze but gentle, warm touch. Sure, it helps calm you down, but it also adds timber to the fire burning in your lower stomach. Need.
âYouâreâJoel. Joel, youâre like warmth to me. I found it, I need it so bad.â You continue, giving up now. Heâs here with you, and youâre already dressed for the occasion. You didnât wear a thong for nothing, so you practically beg him. Give in. Submit. âPlease, I know itâs wrong. I know the Bible says itâs wrong, and youâre gonna tell me itâs wrong. But, please. Joel.âÂ
You finally stop, and he freezes in place. Stares, his chest barely rising with his breath like itâd been knocked out of him with your words. Thereâs nothing seductive about it yet, to Joel. Heâs not smirking, he feels more like heâs witnessing and breaking something sacred. Heâs almost scared to see you break down like this after the way youâve been struggling for the past few days.
He saw the way your collarbones have been showing extra in your church dress, face thinning out unnaturally. Saw your legs scrubbed red and raw to cleanse yourself of sin. Now, youâre standing in his living room, begging. Entirely unholy and making a complete 360 of the girl he once knew. Heâs terrified, he feels awful for you.Â
Your whisper is softer now after admitting all that, after seeing the look on his face that demonstrated a sort of fear.
âI didnât come here for anything. I just wanted to tell youââ
You begin, but he cuts you off.Â
âYou sure?â
The question drops like a stone, stopping you in your tracks. Shocks you, almost. His voice is careful, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something specific now. An answer, a reason to stop you before it goes any further.
You know youâre lying. Of course you came here for something. You wore something for Joel, put on lipstick and put perfume on the back of your knees. Lotioned your thighs and showered and shaved just for him. Maybe you donât want to admit it, or maybe you do. Joel makes everything more confusing.
But all you do is nod.Â
Itâs not permission, not yet. Faith, maybe.Â
Neither of you speak for a moment, the silence between you stretching out like a held breath. Your heart is beating against your ribs like it wants out, as if it could crawl up your throat and confess everything your body hasnât yet exposed. You could explode right now, tell Joel what you did today. Tell him you thought about him the whole time, too.
The way heâs watching you is tender, understanding so deeply that it feels like heâs mourning.Â
âYouâre not a bad person, kid,â he says, quiet.
Your throat tightens uncomfortably, keeping in the wild mix of emotions. Just barely.
âBut it feels like I am. Like Iâm trying to make you one.âÂ
That makes him wince again. The thought of you feeling so bad and him being part of the cause breaks his heart. Little does he know, though, that tonight itâs not a grief thingânot more of that religious shit youâve been crying about, but something else for once. You want him so bad that it physically hurts, and thatâs what's breaking you.Â
âNo.â He denies, shaking his head. âYouâre not.â His voice is firm now, just a bit. Heâs trying his best to get you to believe him harder than you want to believe it yourself.
âYouâre scared, youâre lonely. And youâve been carryinâ that for a long time now.âÂ
Heâs partially right. Of course, thatâs true. He knows it and you know it. But heâs focused on the wrong issue right now, being gentle because he thinks youâre upset about church or God again. Thinks you need some help, some comfort. Doesnât know that itâs because youâre so needy it pains you, doesnât know thatâs the reason you even showed up in the first place.
You blink fast, playing into the bit so he doesnât figure you out.Â
âYeah. I donât know what to do.â You whisper.
He steps closer, and you donât move. His hand comes up, slow, so slow, brushing a hair back from your face. The same way he touched you in church, but somehow softerâalmost reverent. His big fingers trace your temple and jaw, the curve of your eyebrows.Â
And you feel it in every inch of your starving body. Especially between your legs again. Youâre absolutely pounding, the same way you were on the way back from church earlier this afternoon.
Your thighs squeeze together, but Joel is too focused on your eyes to notice, trying to be a hero and read you. A hero isnât what you need right now. You need a body. Touch and taste.
A few moments pass where he stares at you. The clock on his mantle next to the little carvings of birds he made ticks, so slowly that it gives the allusion that time is slowing now. All you can do is feel Joel. Feel his warm hand on the side of your face, feel his breath ghost against your skin like a spirit.Â
Youâre expecting him to continue, to tell you the same lines heâs been reusing each time he sees you. Youâre not dirty, youâre only human. But this time, you donât want to believe that. Maybe you want to be dirty, rebel against the Lord after the torture the church has put on you these past few years.Â
After a day of obsessively touching yourself to the thought of Joel, he seemed unrealistic. Unreachable. Sexually, at least. Heâs here physically, wanting to help you. But youâd never imagine any fantasies would come true.Â
As if a prayer was answered, by some strange supernatural form of luck, Joel leans in.
He fucking kisses you.
Itâs not of lust or need on his part. Itâs soft, just barely there, like heâs afraid to scare you away. Quiet and intentional, his lips warm and slow against yours. Makes you feel like youâre alright for once even if something is breaking open inside of you. In his mind, youâre going through more guilt right nowâyouâre upset and scared and needing comfort.
But to you, itâs the most sensual thing youâve ever felt. To be fair, youâve never experienced something so intimate. A lousy kiss with a college boy you didnât learn the name of until three days later, three days after he drunkenly left your room and left you with nothing. But this is sexy. So incredibly intimate, making the ache worseâa million suns burning in you.
Joel is solid in front of you, though. The fragile moment juxtaposes your first kiss, making you forget about it entirely. Surely it wouldnât even register in your brain anymore. Heâs cradling the sides of your face, trying to make you feel good, but youâre going insane.
He tastes incredible, a little soured by the taste of cigarettes and maybe some beer from earlier that day. But you donât mind. Heâs perfect in your eyes, in your mouth. In the feeling between your legs, in the heat crawling up your neck and in your lower belly where a fire is increasing past comfort.Â
You let his kiss and touch settle over your skin and sink into your bones, finally allowing touch for the first time in your life. Both grace and sin in human form. Sexy but soft.Â
Joel pulls away before it deepens, not allowing himself to get carried away because he knows itâs not what you need right now. To him, itâs not somewhere either of you are ready to visit.
But when he looks at you again, his forehead rests against yours and his thick thumb brushes against the corner of your mouth like heâs blessing you.Â
âWeâre gonna figure this out.â He murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. Heâs gentle, too gentle. Fatherly with it, almost. The way he treats you so softly and kisses your forehead, itâs like heâs only trying to save you. You may have appreciated that a few days ago, but itâs not what you need anymore. Not enough. Not nearly.Â
The absence of his lips against yours almost hurts. Youâre craving him so badly, and now youâre cold again. Starving. Thereâs only a breath of air where seconds ago there was fire and weight.
Itâs not just romance and comfort, but need. A low, deep ache curling in your belly in replacement of hunger. Him. So, so painful. You crave him, crave the weight of him pressed into you. The scratch of his beard on your neck. You want his voice in your ear, breath on your neck again, telling you that you look so beautiful in the lipstick and pretty little red thong you wore just for him.Â
But itâs just the little kiss. He doesnât want more, and you need more. Your fingers are twitching at your sides like they donât know what to do with themselvesâsearching for something to cling to, to hold and feel. Joel. Your body is screaming.Â
You move before you think.
In an act of utter desperation, your hands reach for his shoulders, gripping him and tugging him impossibly closer like a lifeline. You press your mouth against his in another kiss: this one messier and harder, no longer delicate. Outrageously frantic. Your breath hitches, your smaller stretch of chest flush against his big one, fingers finding the soft of his neck. Finding everything you can. The buttons on his old shirt, the little patch of hair on his stomach that leads to things you canât seem to get out of your head. You want to undo the buttons, strip him, take him.Â
To show him youâre not the little girl he once knew. Youâre a woman, in lipstick and perfume and everything, and youâre done pretending you believe. You want him, heâs all that you believe in.
Joel stills.Â
His hands catch your elbows gently, face moving quickly away to stop the desperate excuse of a kiss you pressed to his lips. His grip is firmer, pulling your hands away from his warm skin that you want to take a bite of. To lick and worship and savor.
âHeyâhey.â He whispers, shaking his head. âUh-uh. Slow down.â
But you canât. You cannot stop.
Your thighs clench together, the low pulse between your legs somehow quickening more. The ache that began in the church closet today and never went away buzzes in your fingertips when they meet his stomach again, trying to push up his shirt while your lips drag back to his.Â
You press your hips forward into him without realizing, lips leaving his in mere seconds to drag across his jaw animalistically. Across his throat, groaning ferally against his Adamâs apple like a dog in heat.Â
âPlease.â You practically whimper, almost crying out to him. Like a plea to the Lord. Him, now. âJoelâI justâplease.â Â
âShhh,â his hands envelop your wrists, pulling at your arms to anchor them in place and stop them from dragging into uncharted territory.Â
When you ignore him and keep gnawing at his skin and kissing everywhere you can get, he toughens upâfirm, harder than youâve ever seen him.
âHey.â He growls, yanking at your wrists to finally capture your attention. And he gets it this time.Â
You look up, eyes once hazy with lust and now a little worried. You thought he wanted itâhe kissed you, after all. How could he be stopping you now?
âLook at me. Enough.â
You donât want to. You donât want to look, donât want to stop, donât want to listen to what heâs saying. The notion of having Joelâa physical body, something arousingâinstead of God, was supposed to be freeing. There were no longer rules, no more restrictions about what or what not you could do, what you could touch.
The only thing you want to do is burn everything to the ground until only heâs left with you. His touch. This.Â
He says it again, tightening the grip on your wrists.Â
âLook at me.â
This time, you do.
His face is flushed, jaw clenched tightâyouâve never seen him like this. Heâs always quieter, keeps to himself, doesnât let much emotion show. But he looks full of it now, full of something you canât quite understandânot rejection, not disgust. But a similar ache to yours. Like it kills him to have to pull away like this, but he forces himself to.
âYouâre not in the right place right now,â he starts again, trying his best to stay gentle, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles while anchoring your wrists in place. âThis ainât gonna fix you, kid. Not like this.âÂ
The gentle approach doesnât work. Tonight, youâre something that needs to be chained up. Tamed and stopped. An animal, after just discovering how good it feels to be dirty.Â
You try again, leaning forward with a desperate gasp and attempting to land your lips on his. Not even just the skin of them, but like youâre trying to get in his mouth. You want to be physically inside of him, heâs your God now. You want to sink your teeth into his tanned skin and melt into him.Â
Your hips press again, and thatâs his breaking point. He shakes his head for the millionth time, grabbing your waist with one hand and your hands with the other. The waist to stop you from moving closer, the hands to stop you from reaching down and touching himâpartially in an attempt to stop you from discovering the fact that heâs hardening in his pants, as much as he hates to.Â
âNo.â He nearly shouts, but holds himself back. He can forcefully stop you, but heâd never actually yell.Â
His hand on your waist pushes you, making you stagger backward until your knees hit his old leather couch. Creased and indented from many years spent lounging with a beer, his belt undone and tummy hanging out in comfort.
He wants to help you, not feed into those desires. Not that he cares about you not believing anymore, but this isnât the way to go about it.Â
âSweetheart, youâre still your fatherâs daughter,â he huffs, stepping in front of you once youâve fallen into a sitting position on his couch. âDonât know what the fuck you think youâre doin,â forcing yourself onto me like that. Ainât the way to go about this.â
You try your best to listen, but your mind is consumed by the way he pushed you back onto the couch. Even in a moment where heâs trying to keep you in line, save you from going too far, youâre being disgusting. Canât stop looking at him. At his vascular hands, at his angry face, at his stomach where his shirt is coming untucked, and definitely at his crotch where he might be twitching under the layers of fabric.Â
Still, you manage to calm down. Heâs never gotten angry with you like this, so it gives you a tiny moment of clarity. You gulp and nod mindlessly, finally giving up on the idea of getting into his pants tonight.Â
So much for the thong.
He sighs, at least a little glad to see the fire in your eyes die down. And when your gaze flickers up from his body and finally lands on his face, he can recognize you again.Â
âLook. Iâm not gonna pretend to get it. I understand youâre goinâ through something, with God and shit, but this is too far. Just because you donât believe anymore doesnât mean you should be throwinâ yourself away like this.â
His words come to you in a more vivid understanding once youâve managed to calm your filthy mind down, and it starts to hurt a bit. The realization dawns on you of what youâre doing, forcing yourself onto a manâon a Sunday, of all days.Â
Tears sting your eyes in seconds. Not exactly shame, but frustration. It all feels like an unbearable fullness, you donât know what to do. Not with your body, not with your heart, not with Joel. Donât know what you want.
âI need you, though. Please.â You try one last time, except this time itâs quieterâunbelieving. You rub your nose when it leaks a little alongside the tears, sniffling and shifting in your seat.
Joel sighs. He looks so tortured, stressed. It makes you feel a little bad.
He sits down on the couch, leaning back and letting out a quiet noise with the crack of his knees. Old and manly. Hands reaching down to rest on his thighs.Â
âGotta slow down. Ainât you, angel. Not what you need.âÂ
His hand moves from his own thigh to yours, just resting on your knee like a grounding presence. Settling you. And after all you just tried to do, heâs still patient with you. Like he actually believes in you and wants to help.Â
Your savior. Your God. Your Joel.
A few quiet moments pass where you stare at each other, a few lonely tears dropping from your eyes, weighing down your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged. The wetness and ache between your legs is going away.Â
And now, part of you wants to wait and believe him.
â...I need you.âÂ
The same words leave your mouth again, but in a different meaning this time. Instead of desperation and sexuality, itâs a softer yearning. You donât just need him physically, youâre realizing you do need him to help you.
He nods in understanding, squeezing your thigh. His free hand snakes up behind you, wrapping around you to grip your shoulder. He brings his lips to your head, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of it, feeling your soft hair on his skin. Brushing against his cheek, making him want to rest his head there for eternity.Â
âAnd Iâm here. Iâm not goinâ anywhere, but Iâm not gonna take anything from you when youâre like this. Youâre not steady.âÂ
What he says makes sense. You need to learn to control yourself, to deal with the urges and act slowly. What you did today wasnât only desperation but a subconscious âfuck youâ to Godâan extreme, blasphemous rebellion. It wasnât the right move.Â
You want to pull him close, but not to have you. Just to hold.Â
Except you listen to him, not acting on everything you want. You go at his pace, let him hold you, because to you, he knows all. He makes it better. Heâs ready to shield you from the world and guide you, even shield you from yourself.
âIâve got you. Promise. Youâre not alone in this, not tonight.âÂ
And somehow, for the first time since you returned home, you believe something. You believe Joel.Â
HIII thank yall sm for all the support recently! i've been loving writing this fic so so so much i adore where the plot is going and DON'T WORRY there'll be some real smut soon (dual-sided, don't fret) comment or go in my asks if you're wanting anything specific to happen or be included and i'll try my best to feed yalls delusions! thank u love u mwah mwah mwah