#blashphemy

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You don’t change your sheets. Not right away, at least.

There’s something so sacred about the way your body trembled as you whimpered Joel’s name, finishing and gasping into your pillow with your church dress hiked up to your stomach. Something you can’t 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 what’s imprinted as your brain as impure, felt incredible. Like you’ve been missing out on it for so long–loserish, almost. Twenty-one and never having an orgasm or sex before.

It’s always been in a way to keep your devout innocence, like your father and the church had taught you to. Save it for marriage, don’t touch yourself. You’ll go to hell. 

But there you are, laying in your bed with a small patch soaked into your sheets, evidence of what you’ve done. Finished with a man’s name on your tongue. For once, you don’t feel dirty. You feel refreshed. Replenished, discovered. 

You’d lit a little candle when you came back to your senses after the orgasm. Usually, it was lit for prayer–now, 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 what’s 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. 

Exploring yourself like this for the first time, genuinely exploring yourself, seemed to open up a whole new world. It’s no longer worth it to save it, fuck that. God can go fuck himself if it felt this good to finish, and you’ve never even known.

And Joel. Oh, Joel. He’s now the only thing possibly occupying your mind. Like the Lord doesn’t even exist.

For the next six hours, you don’t leave your room. Don’t 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 would’ve slapped yourself for envisioning just a few years ago. An entirely new spectrum. 

Joel bending you over, fucking you dumb into your mattress. He’s hitting deep inside your cervix, where your fingers can’t reach. His probably could. The cross above your bed would be gone. Joel’d have his head buried between your thighs, sucking relentlessly at your clit like it’s the sweetest treat he’s ever tried. Joel’d pull at your hair while you’re kneeling between his legs like he’s 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. 

It’s overwhelming, actually, but in the best way. Everything seems to unravel in the next few hours and you’re in an absolute frenzy, fixated on the mere thought of Joel while your hand travels back between your thighs every few minutes. 

Like you’re unable to stop. You couldn’t 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.

 He’s got you in a psychosis. A dirty, religious, sexual, sinful psychosis.

You’re tired by nightfall, but not ready to give up. Your mind finally travels back to the thought of church, remembering what Joel told you–he likes to go there, alone, every night around midnight. So maybe, just maybe, you’d show up to see him.

But it’s 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 don’t feel as guilty anymore, but doing that would lack basic decency.  

Instead, you’re 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 wasn’t worn much. Saved for a proper occasion, and tonight felt like the right one. 

The top of the package read ‘burgundy love,’ a corny but accurate representation of the color smeared unfamiliarly on your lips. It’s 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. 

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 couldn’t opt out–plus, it could’ve made use one day. Today’s 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 you’re thinking about Joel again. Girlish, sexy, feminine. Makes you feel just how you want to feel.

You’ve always known you’re pretty–the women in town praised you as a young girl, telling you you’d be a model and whatnot when you grew up. And sure, you feel pretty. But you’ve never felt sexy before, not like this. It’s 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 would’ve done by sixteen. 

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. It’s 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. 

An oversized button down, one roughly resembling Joel’s (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. It’s black and thin, usually only worn when doing deep cleaning or on laundry day. But tonight, it feels ceremonial. Like armor. 

Like sin dressed up for worship.

You know Joel goes to church almost every night around midnight, he’d 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 father’s truck and follow. 

As bad as it is when you’re 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 couldn’t bring yourself to step into a church again today after the events earlier.

Instead, you go. 

To Joel’s. 

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 you’re out the door. Sheets still unwashed, of course.

You get in your dad’s old truck, trying to start it up as quietly as possible in the late hour. Now it’s twelve-thirty, and Joel’s sure to get home soon. 

The drive isn’t 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. 

Joel, at least, is attempting to hang onto his religion. Even if it’s difficult and not very effective, he’s been going to church extra–every 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.

He’s still a man of God, just not as strict as he used to be. Slipping into the same habits and hole you’re falling into, but gripping harder onto the edges. He’s stronger, has more restraint than you. Maybe it’s because of his age, maybe it’s his faith. Or maybe it’s just you who belongs in Hell. 

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. You’ve somehow managed a complete turn, abandoning the girl you were trying to grip to and switching to one who’s addicted to one of the worst sins. 

Within minutes, you’re waiting on the man’s 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 who’s done something bad and doesn't want to admit to it, your throat dry from today’s activities, and the cold air biting at your bare knees. You’ve been practicing, planning. Not exactly praying, you’re not sure what to call it anymore.

When his car door opens, it pulls you out of a trance. You’d zoned out, didn’t 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 he’s already ready for bed, hair mussed and eyes dark. He stops moving and sighs at the sight of you sitting on his porch chair–seemingly 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 you’re 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 can’t really read you this time. 

“Sweetheart…” Joel starts, almost like a soft warning but also a question. “You alright?”

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. He’s everything to you. Your new God.

Your neck cranes when you look up at him as he approaches, like you’re still kneeling to something holy.

“No.” You answer honestly. “But I think I figured it out.”

He’s skeptical of you–you’re acting different. Normally, you’re scared, shaking like a leaf whenever you see him ever since that night at the church. Too freakishly casual now, like you’re hiding something.

Which you are, of course. Hiding the desperate need for him, for his body, that’s threatening to escape you. You can’t scare him off, though. Not at his own house. He’s helped you, after all, so that’s not the goal.

“Yeah? What’s 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 that’s building while the two of you speak.

“God never felt close. Feel like I should give up.”

Joel doesn’t speak, lets you continue. 

“Been 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.”

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 isn’t quite there yet.

“Feel it?” He questions, tilting his head and running a hand through his beard of salt and pepper scruff. Hands look big. Beautiful.

“Yeah. Feel you, Joel. I feel you like I’m supposed to feel Him.”

His brows knit this time, something like pain flickering across his face–or maybe interest. Arousal? Confusion? You can’t tell. Neither can he. But he doesn’t interrupt.

“I don’t know what it is. Not love. But I’m scared it’s something worse.” 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. “Like, devotion. I don’t know.” 

Joel’s jaw tightens like he’s bracing for an impact upon hearing you admit you’re devout to him. It’s bad, you both know–but he doesn’t want to guide you away. He wants to help you. Or fuck you. Whatever it is, he’s gonna be gentle.

You’re trembling, hands held in little weak fists now instead of open palms, no longer ready for a prayer.

Joel still doesn’t 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.

“I lit a candle for you.” You continue, more breathless, ashamed and proud all at once. You feel the confidence coming back the tiniest amount when he doesn’t tell you to leave, doesn’t seem disgusted by the idea. “And I’m wearing the lipstick I bought in college. Never got to wear it. Thought it’d make me seem like a whore.”

“You’re not a whore,” he answers, too quickly. It’s the one thing he wants to remind you: you’re not a sinner, not a whore, not disgusting. Only human. But his expression is unchanging, still somewhat blank and hard to read. Joel’s never been too good with his show of emotions.

“I know. Maybe. But tonight it made me feel worthy.”

He nods, takes a careful step forward. Arms crossed, not too close yet, but standing next to the porch chair you’re sitting in. He hasn’t noticed your heel between your legs, pressing into the ache that he’s worsening by the moment. 

“You’re overwhelmed,” he finally continues, gently this time. Letting something show, at least. “Don’t gotta explain yourself to me.”

“I want to, though.” You whisper, eyes glancing up when he moves closer. Closer, closer, but so slowly. Until he’s 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.

“I need you to hear it.”

At that, he nods. He reaches and gives your head a single stroke, reminding you of how he’d 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. You’re 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.

You’re pacing now, nervous energy unraveling in real time, getting better or worse every few seconds. You’re 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. Who’s somehow become your religion. 

“It’s like I discovered fire–I can’t unfeel it.” You start, breathless and messy while you try and move around the room mindlessly. 

He shushes you, but doesn’t 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.

“You’re–Joel. Joel, you’re like warmth to me. I found it, I need it so bad.” You continue, giving up now. He’s here with you, and you’re already dressed for the occasion. You didn’t wear a thong for nothing, so you practically beg him. Give in. Submit. “Please, I know it’s wrong. I know the Bible says it’s wrong, and you’re gonna tell me it’s wrong. But, please. Joel.” 

You finally stop, and he freezes in place. Stares, his chest barely rising with his breath like it’d been knocked out of him with your words. There’s nothing seductive about it yet, to Joel. He’s not smirking, he feels more like he’s witnessing and breaking something sacred. He’s almost scared to see you break down like this after the way you’ve 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, you’re standing in his living room, begging. Entirely unholy and making a complete 360 of the girl he once knew. He’s terrified, he feels awful for you. 

Your whisper is softer now after admitting all that, after seeing the look on his face that demonstrated a sort of fear.

“I didn’t come here for anything. I just wanted to tell you–”

You begin, but he cuts you off. 

“You sure?”

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 you’re 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 don’t want to admit it, or maybe you do. Joel makes everything more confusing.

But all you do is nod. 

It’s not permission, not yet. Faith, maybe. 

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 hasn’t 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 he’s watching you is tender, understanding so deeply that it feels like he’s mourning. 

“You’re not a bad person, kid,” he says, quiet.

Your throat tightens uncomfortably, keeping in the wild mix of emotions. Just barely.

“But it feels like I am. Like I’m trying to make you one.” 

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 it’s not a grief thing–not more of that religious shit you’ve been crying about, but something else for once. You want him so bad that it physically hurts, and that’s what's breaking you. 

“No.” He denies, shaking his head. “You’re not.” His voice is firm now, just a bit. He’s trying his best to get you to believe him harder than you want to believe it yourself.

“You’re scared, you’re lonely. And you’ve been carryin’ that for a long time now.” 

He’s partially right. Of course, that’s true. He knows it and you know it. But he’s focused on the wrong issue right now, being gentle because he thinks you’re upset about church or God again. Thinks you need some help, some comfort. Doesn’t know that it’s because you’re so needy it pains you, doesn’t know that’s the reason you even showed up in the first place.

You blink fast, playing into the bit so he doesn’t figure you out. 

“Yeah. I don’t know what to do.” You whisper.

He steps closer, and you don’t 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 softer–almost reverent. His big fingers trace your temple and jaw, the curve of your eyebrows. 

And you feel it in every inch of your starving body. Especially between your legs again. You’re 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 isn’t 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. 

You’re expecting him to continue, to tell you the same lines he’s been reusing each time he sees you. You’re not dirty, you’re only human. But this time, you don’t 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. 

After a day of obsessively touching yourself to the thought of Joel, he seemed unrealistic. Unreachable. Sexually, at least. He’s here physically, wanting to help you. But you’d never imagine any fantasies would come true. 

As if a prayer was answered, by some strange supernatural form of luck, Joel leans in.

He fucking kisses you.

It’s not of lust or need on his part. It’s soft, just barely there, like he’s afraid to scare you away. Quiet and intentional, his lips warm and slow against yours. Makes you feel like you’re alright for once even if something is breaking open inside of you. In his mind, you’re going through more guilt right now–you’re upset and scared and needing comfort.

But to you, it’s the most sensual thing you’ve ever felt. To be fair, you’ve never experienced something so intimate. A lousy kiss with a college boy you didn’t 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 worse–a 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 wouldn’t even register in your brain anymore. He’s cradling the sides of your face, trying to make you feel good, but you’re going insane.

He tastes incredible, a little soured by the taste of cigarettes and maybe some beer from earlier that day. But you don’t mind. He’s 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. 

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. 

Joel pulls away before it deepens, not allowing himself to get carried away because he knows it’s not what you need right now. To him, it’s 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 he’s blessing you. 

“We’re gonna figure this out.” He murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. He’s gentle, too gentle. Fatherly with it, almost. The way he treats you so softly and kisses your forehead, it’s like he’s only trying to save you. You may have appreciated that a few days ago, but it’s not what you need anymore. Not enough. Not nearly. 

The absence of his lips against yours almost hurts. You’re craving him so badly, and now you’re cold again. Starving. There’s only a breath of air where seconds ago there was fire and weight.

It’s 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. 

But it’s just the little kiss. He doesn’t want more, and you need more. Your fingers are twitching at your sides like they don’t know what to do with themselves–searching for something to cling to, to hold and feel. Joel. Your body is screaming. 

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 can’t seem to get out of your head. You want to undo the buttons, strip him, take him. 

To show him you’re not the little girl he once knew. You’re a woman, in lipstick and perfume and everything, and you’re done pretending you believe. You want him, he’s all that you believe in.

Joel stills. 

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.

“Hey–hey.” He whispers, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. Slow down.”

But you can’t. 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. 

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 Adam’s apple like a dog in heat. 

“Please.” You practically whimper, almost crying out to him. Like a plea to the Lord. Him, now. “Joel–I just–please.”  

“Shhh,” his hands envelop your wrists, pulling at your arms to anchor them in place and stop them from dragging into uncharted territory. 

When you ignore him and keep gnawing at his skin and kissing everywhere you can get, he toughens up–firm, harder than you’ve ever seen him.

“Hey.” He growls, yanking at your wrists to finally capture your attention. And he gets it this time. 

You look up, eyes once hazy with lust and now a little worried. You thought he wanted it–he kissed you, after all. How could he be stopping you now?

“Look at me. Enough.”

You don’t want to. You don’t want to look, don’t want to stop, don’t want to listen to what he’s saying. The notion of having Joel–a physical body, something arousing–instead 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 he’s left with you. His touch. This. 

He says it again, tightening the grip on your wrists. 

“Look at me.”

This time, you do.

His face is flushed, jaw clenched tight–you’ve never seen him like this. He’s always quieter, keeps to himself, doesn’t let much emotion show. But he looks full of it now, full of something you can’t quite understand–not 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.

“You’re not in the right place right now,” he starts again, trying his best to stay gentle, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles while anchoring your wrists in place. “This ain’t gonna fix you, kid. Not like this.” 

The gentle approach doesn’t work. Tonight, you’re something that needs to be chained up. Tamed and stopped. An animal, after just discovering how good it feels to be dirty. 

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 you’re trying to get in his mouth. You want to be physically inside of him, he’s your God now. You want to sink your teeth into his tanned skin and melt into him. 

Your hips press again, and that’s 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 him–partially in an attempt to stop you from discovering the fact that he’s hardening in his pants, as much as he hates to. 

“No.” He nearly shouts, but holds himself back. He can forcefully stop you, but he’d never actually yell. 

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 isn’t the way to go about it. 

“Sweetheart, you’re still your father’s daughter,” he huffs, stepping in front of you once you’ve fallen into a sitting position on his couch. “Don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doin,’ forcing yourself onto me like that. Ain’t the way to go about this.”

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 he’s trying to keep you in line, save you from going too far, you’re being disgusting. Can’t 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. 

Still, you manage to calm down. He’s 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. 

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. 

“Look. I’m not gonna pretend to get it. I understand you’re goin’ through something, with God and shit, but this is too far. Just because you don’t believe anymore doesn’t mean you should be throwin’ yourself away like this.”

His words come to you in a more vivid understanding once you’ve managed to calm your filthy mind down, and it starts to hurt a bit. The realization dawns on you of what you’re doing, forcing yourself onto a man–on a Sunday, of all days. 

Tears sting your eyes in seconds. Not exactly shame, but frustration. It all feels like an unbearable fullness, you don’t know what to do. Not with your body, not with your heart, not with Joel. Don’t know what you want.

“I need you, though. Please.” You try one last time, except this time it’s quieter–unbelieving. 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. 

“Gotta slow down. Ain’t you, angel. Not what you need.” 

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, he’s still patient with you. Like he actually believes in you and wants to help. 

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. 

And now, part of you wants to wait and believe him.

“...I need you.” 

The same words leave your mouth again, but in a different meaning this time. Instead of desperation and sexuality, it’s a softer yearning. You don’t just need him physically, you’re 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. 

“And I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere, but I’m not gonna take anything from you when you’re like this. You’re not steady.” 

What he says makes sense. You need to learn to control yourself, to deal with the urges and act slowly. What you did today wasn’t only desperation but a subconscious ‘fuck you’ to God–an extreme, blasphemous rebellion. It wasn’t the right move. 

You want to pull him close, but not to have you. Just to hold. 

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. He’s ready to shield you from the world and guide you, even shield you from yourself.

“I’ve got you. Promise. You’re not alone in this, not tonight.” 

And somehow, for the first time since you returned home, you believe something. You believe Joel. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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