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brighttears · 5 months

Text

Worship

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description, no use of y/n

Summary: Joel and you met on the road, and he fell for you hard. You’ve turned him into a romantic, and it all really comes out when you stumble onto an abandoned church and you look so good up at the podium that he has to do something about it.

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: religious talk, hinted unspecified age gapJoel daydreams about marrying you, sex in a church, smut (minors dni!), unprotected PiV, creampie, super mushy romantic dirty talk, pet names (baby, angel, darling, sweet girl, lovely girl, my dove, my girl, sweetheart)

A/n: i'm back writing, kinda, for a minute!! I’ve had this unfinished for weeks and weeks and weeks but here it is!! Inspired by hozier cause yeah. Btw there’s a twilight quote ok. Made Joel some kind of fucking poet I love making him be head over heels. Anyways I also have a request coming soon and a multi-parter cowboy au that I’m gonna finish all the parts of (actually this time) before releasing it!! Hope y’all enjoy I’ve been missing this blog <<<333

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He couldn’t have ever seen you coming, and he never could have predicted what you’d do to him. He fell fast, and he fell hard. When he felt it coming on, like a cold, one you know is gonna be long and nasty, he told himself he wouldn't. He couldn’t. But he had no choice. He was powerless over you; like a wave crashing down on him, you came. And how quickly did he drown, and how easily he gave in.

You had ruined a part of him, that part that he uses so often—to not give in. You destroyed it in him, you the only person that could. So he gave up, falling to his knees before you. For you. Only for you.

This is something he would have talked to Tommy about, but he’s still miles and miles away from him, so he was all alone in it, completely lost, and it was up to him to make his own rules, to try to wrap his head around it. And god, did he twirl, dizzy in the thoughts, considerations, indignation and desire and complete powerlessness.

You’re sweet. Calloused, but in a way he’d never seen. You smile. You give. You touch gently. You offer with no means to an end, no expectations. You bury your dead and count your bullets, but god how sharp your eyes are over your scope. How easy you wield a knife, and god how good you look with blood on you, and how indescribably good does it feel to clean it off of you.

You do something to him, something he doesn't understand. All he knows is that when you move, he moves; like a magnet to you.

No doubt he would do anything for you. Kill, live, fight, lie down, he’d give you everything, every ounce of his being. If you asked him to cut himself in half with that scared voice of yours, he would. But you never do.

Joel is not a holy man. He’s the farthest thing from pure, he knows it, there's no doubt in his mind that he’s going to hell. He struggled with you, feeling like soot to your cleanliness, like he could ruin you with a touch. But, you asked him to hold you, to soil you, to come to you, so he did.

He had no defense against it.

Joel is an animal. He wouldn’t say that you tethered or leashed or trapped him—you let him inside. For the first time in 20 years, he was in a home. You tamed him without trying. He obeyed without you asking.

The long grass shifts whispers against your shins as you walk through it, eyes set on the weak wooden church. Small and simple, peeling white paint leaving it almost bare, steeple tall and topped with a thin cross.

There’s no real reason to be here, just that you wanted to check it out. Always so curious, so adventurous. He could very well be annoyed by it, but he loves it about you, so he follows, hand on the gun on his hip as you walk. His eyes should be scanning the area, which he is trying his best to do, but he keeps coming back to his view from behind you. The swish of your dress, the way it flows in the breeze, revealing your thighs, is hypnotizing.

Dresses are rare attire these days—impractical, really, but they’re your signature. That was one of the peculiar hooks that got him when you met. Femininity like that is uncommon these days, and shows some sort of openness, some kind of vulnerability. He’s not exactly sure why he loves it as much as he does, or why you insist on them, but we stopped asking about it pretty quick, because he adores it.

The ancient wood steps up to the church creak loudly under your feet, tightening Joel’s hand on his gun. You pause in front of the doors, waiting, but it’s silent, granting a bit of relaxation in his shoulders. The door cracks just as loud, revealing an almost crude wooden interior of the church. It’s very small, with only a few rows of pews leading up to the raised sanctuary, the altar centered with a simple engraved cross.

Joel stays in the doorway as you walk up the aisle, looking around. He’s stuck there, watching you. That pretty little dress, in his head, transforms into something white, your shoulders bare, trailed by a long, royal tail, a tiara veiled atop your head, petals at your feet. The church stays small and wooden. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is you. It’s all he can see.

Your voice breaks through his daydream, “This is a quaint little place.” You dance your fingers on the pews as you pass them, stepping right up to the podium. You grasp the sides, leaning forward to him with a wide grin. “I like it.”

“Mmm. Me too.” Actually, he doesn’t think much about the church at all, other than the fact that it might be a safe place to spend the night. Or the day, because you look damn good up there at the podium, smile all up on display for him. Something about being in here with you… fits, but not just because he wants to marry you, and this is the perfect place to daydream himself into oblivion about it in.

You tilt your head, raising your brows, recognizing the half absent look on his face. “Is that really what you think about it?”

“Makes me think about… worship.” He decides to say, glancing at you. And that’s when he realizes it—it makes me think of you. This is where you belong, a place of worship, and me, here, on my knees for it. You’re no god, but you’re close enough for me. My divine. My unexplainable seraph, in the midst of this world that could very well be hell.

“Oh, yeah?” You say, looking like you have no idea, no idea that he worships you.

He nods his head to the chancel, “You look real good up there.”

“Do I?” You chuckle innocently.

“Yeah, you do.”

He approaches slowly, and you watch him, smile fading into a curious look as he does . “You belong in somewhere like this.” Joel stands behind you, slinking his arms around to rest his hands on your stomach.

“What do you mean?” You say quietly, and he feels the small breath leaving you. How he loves them, and to hold your body as they rise and fall and come out of you. Knowing you're alive. Knowing that this body is in his arms.

“In a church.” He replies just as quiet, slowly closing his mouth and nose into your neck. All he does is breath, feeling the pulse from your jugular vein against his skin. He closes his eyes, so close that his eyelashes brush your skin, and there’s that breath. Almost stuttered, almost shallow. His affect on you.

“Why’s that?” you nearly whisper.

He breathes in. Because you’re holy. Because you’re pure, in a way. Purest you can be. I don't know why, I don't know how, but I feel it when I touch you. It’s on your tongue, and you don’t know that when I kiss you, I drink you. Your spit’s like holy water. You can’t make me pure. But you let me taste some of it.

“Cause.” Is all he says. He doesn't know how to speak these words. Not yet. He tries, and sometimes it works, but he’s too caught up in the feeling of every part of his body pressed against you. “You just… fit.”

“Well that’s cryptic.” This would be a place for you to chuckle, but it seems you’re just as caught as he is. The idea alone is intoxicating. He knows this love isn’t one sided, but each time he remembers that you might love him just as much as he loves you, it’s intoxicating. He sucks in your scent.

“You really… have no idea what you do to me, do you?” He presses his lips against your skin as he speaks, wrapping his arms tighter around you, holding you close to him.

“What do you mean…?” You breathe out, so clueless… do you really not know? After all this time, you haven’t realized?

“Well…” Joel’s lips automatically go to start pressing kisses over your neck, magnetically called to your skin, “I guess I’ll have to show you.”

He’s not even sure what he means by that exactly, and already, his head is swimming. Joel closes his eyes, keeping himself pressed against you, and starts snaking his hands over your stomach, your waist, your chest, your sides, lips still pressing softly over your neck. It’s like he wants to touch every part of your body at once. He can’t get enough, can never, ever get enough. He wants to envelop you, show you that everything he is is for you. His body starts to move as it pleases, beginning to slowly grind against you. He’s stiff already, hips sliding right up on your ass. And as he does, you make a sound, a breathy moan, only a moment long, but it does what it always does, and his grip tightens, mouth becoming greedier, opening to taste you. His body loves you just as much as his mind, its own separate being, wanting you, needing you, seduced by the existence of your body on its own.

“I love you,” he breathes out, moving his lips over the bare skin granted by the scooped neck of your dress as his grip slides down to your hips, beginning to roll into a push and pull of your body to his. Tongue against your shoulder, he moans, soaking up the dopamine that seeps out of your skin. You dance at the podium, bodies working together in a sultry waltz, and its proof alone that you were made for each other.

He was made for you, he knows that, and though he didn’t know it, he’s been following that destiny all this time, and it’s all he’ll do for the rest of it. Because he has everything now. You, here in this church, he feeds on the holiness, licking it off you, pulling it against him. And hearing those perfect sounds coming out of you, he knows he’s making you feel good, almost as good as you deserve. He’ll be seeking out that limit for the rest of his life, trying to give you what you deserve.

But he knows how good he fucks you already. You tell him. So he can’t help but fuck you again, right here in this church. Your grip on the sides of the podium as he unbuckles his jeans as he pulls your dress up and slips your panties down. He presses into you, and as he groans, you maon, and he feeds on it. Like a leech. Like the hungry dog he is. Like the victim of your elixir, he needs it, and it’s all over his fingers as he slips them down the front of your pussy, swirling his fingers around your clit.

Slow. He likes to start slow. Soak it up. Let you get used to it. A taste at a time. He likes to bury himself deep first. Know that you're his. That he’s the one this deep inside of you now, that this seraph is taking his cock, and you like it, you love it, and you show him that you need it when you push yourself back onto him.

“Oh, baby,” he groans, every inch of him inside of you, and he can’t help but start to fuck a little faster.

Joel lips are all over your neck, sliding his mouth around it, kisses and licks and just the lightest of bites. He doesn't want to hurt you, all he wants is for you to feel good, and then you tell him, “Feels so good,” in that small purr of yours, holding his hand on your breast, and he groans again.

To touch you. To hold you. To kiss you. To fuck you. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, but he knows he has it, so he does.

What a sight this would be, if anyone were to wander into this church. Some big, old man with his grimy hand reaching up under your dress to feel over your chest, fucking this perfect young woman from behind, up here on the chancel. The devil fucking an angel. But she likes it. She loves it.

“Joel,” you moan out as he squeezes your breast, and with his face still pressed against your neck his breath over wet skin, he begins to speak.

“I love you so much,” he says quietly, muffled against you, his eyes closed, just feeling you—that's when he can speak like this, though it’s always slurred, because he’s drunk on you. When he’s buried deep, smelling and tasting and feeling nothing other than you. When he gets wrapped up in you, that is when his voice is released. “You’re my angel, you’re my everythin’, an’ I was made for you, an’ all I want is you, all I want is to taste you, feel you, fuck you, make you feel good. I’d give you anythin’. Everythin’. Anythin’ you want. It’s yours. I’d burn the whole damn world if you asked me to. I fuckin’ belong to you, darlin.” And he feels it, almost like an ache in his chest, how profoundly he loves you. “Aw, baby,” he nearly whimpers, picking up his pace because he can’t help it, because he’s too damn hungry, and you feel too damn good. He keeps his hand over your pussy, swirling his fingers on your clit, slipping a finger down to feel himself coming in and out, and how wet you are for him. He adjust his stance, bending his knees slightly, fucking harder and faster. Moans bump out of you, his singing angel.

“Joel, all I want is you, all I need is you,” you utter, voice high like it gets when he fucks you like this, hand going into his hair, running through it, holding him there. Against you. In you. He nearly growls.

“Forever. I need you forever. In this life and the next. I don’t ever wanna lose you.”

“God, fuck me,”

“I didn’t believe in god,” The flood continues, almost unable to even hear himself over the rushing falls of his own feelings, emotional and physical. “I still don’t. But I believe in you. You’re the closest thing to it. You’re so perfect it drives me crazy. You drive me crazy, baby, y’know that? Holy fuckin’ pussy right here.” He drives himself deeper, and you moan louder. “My perfect baby, angel, you’re an angel. And you know, I belong out there in the pews.” Joel raises his hand away from between your legs to point out to them, but you take it right back to your pussy, pressing it back into your sweet wetness. He growls, clamping his teeth gently over your shoulder before pulling away to speak, though his lips stay stuck to your skin. “I love it when you do that, darlin’, when you show me how much you want it. All I wanna do is make you feel good. All I wanna do is for you. All I am is for you.”

Suddenly, you pull away, but only to face him, taking his face in your hands to kiss him. He hoists you into his arms automatically, dick focused on its own personal mission, placing your ass on the podium so that he can keep himself inside of you.

“God, yes, fuck me,” you say into his lips, so he does, harder, and he can feel himself bottoming out, and you cry out sounds of pleasure into his lips. But he can’t stop talking.

“You’re a gift from fuckin’ somewhere, I swear. I don’t care. I used to get so riled up about it. Who the fuck is this chic,” you chuckle into his lips as he speaks, messy, needy lips and tongues and teeth that he has to talk around, “and why’s she doin’ this to me? What the fuck am I doin’? And why am I lettin’ ‘er? Fuck if I know—but I have her,” he pauses to kiss you deeper, the weight of his own words, of the reality of all of this, scrunching his face up. Because he has you. In this world, on that road out here, and here in this church, so open for him, taking him so well, like you always do.

“I love you,” you say, loud and lilted by pleasure, and he groans and moans and growls and whimpers back into your lips.

“I love you more than anythin’. More than life it’s fuckin’ self, I swear. I swear, more than anythin’. You’re it for me, darlin, you’re it for me. Anythin’ you want.”

“I just want you.”

“An’ here I am, darlin’,” he replies, then grabs your ass in both hands, a better grip for him to pump himself into you, just how you like it, because he’s memorized what you like and how to do it so he can make you feel good, make you cum every single time he fucks you. “I’m not leavin’. I’m not leavin’.” He continues on, some words hitched or interrupted by a groan or moan or whimper, the sound of skin slapping skin and your own moans a chorus to it. “I’ll never leave you. Never. You make me feel human. You make me feel right. You make me feel… almost… holy. Like I’m close to it. To bein’ right. True. I’ll never be righteous. I’ll never be pure. But I can be somethin’ for you. I can do somethin’ good for you. I’ll keep you safe. Forever. I’ll keep you safe, baby, I’ll keep you safe. My sweet girl. My darlin’. My lovely girl. I love you.”

You seem at a loss for words, very much unlike him at the moment, but he knows that’s a good sign. It means you’re close to cumming.

“My dove. My love. Cum for me, angel, cum for me.” He slips his hand back between your legs, beckoning your climax, and your moans stutter and your thighs clamp around his waist and there’s that heavenly squeeze around his dick and you’re cumming but he can’t keep his mouth shut, “That’s my girl. That’s my angel. So good to me. So good to me. It’s fuckin’ unreal, darlin’, how good you are to me. What did I do to deserve this?” He asks in between kisses, sloppy and wet and loud on your quivering lips, still seeping moans as you finish on him, “What did I do to deserve this?” He can’t stop his hips from jutting into you, holding your hips tight, so he begs, “can I keep goin’ sweetheart?”

“Yes, yes,” you breathe back out, gripping his thick forearms, holding onto him as he fucks faster, needily.

“God you feel so good,” he says back into your lips, starting to pour out moans. Your fingers slide around his face, cupping it, pulling him away only enough to lock your gaze. Then, he’s gone. Nothing else exists, not even the church. Just your eyes, that almost sleepy look you get after cumming hard like that, and the feeling of rutting into you, wetness starting to drip down his thighs.

Despite how difficult it’s becoming to get words out, and how interupted they are by the other sounds he’s making, he’s always the most talkative at this stage. It’s when he finally lets himself go, unleashing himself in more ways than one. Being this close to you, this level of intimacy, it all comes out.

“I don’t know how I got you. I don’t understand it, darlin’. You do somethin’ to me. You did somethin’ to me. You changed me, darlin’. I know I, I’m still rough around the edges, and I bet you can’t even tell, but, you did somethin’ to me. Somethin’ I don’t understand. But I feel it. I felt it when I saw you for the first time. I felt it shift. I felt everythin’ shift. You scared the shit outta me, darlin’. You still do. Cause I love you so goddamn much. I love you hard, darlin’. I think that’s the only way I can love. Hard. Like a fist. Like a bullet. But I—I’m sweet with you, aren’t I? I’m not too rough on you, am I? You like it when I fuck you like this, darlin?”

“Yes, yes,” you nod, face screwed up again and interrupting him with moans.

“Yes,” he nods back, “I make you feel good, my angel?”

“Yes, yes, you make me feel so good,” your breath hitches, cut off by a moan.

“You deserve it, baby. That’s all you deserve. Everything’ that’s good is made for you. I don’t understand how you fit down here on this Earth. But you do. You’re an angel, an angel of death, sharp and smart and quick and perfect in every goddamn way.” Joel slows, turning his head to press his lips to your hand on his face, kissing your fingertips, your palm, breath still sharp and hot. He closes his eyes, your long moans filling his ears. “You’re so perfect, darlin’. You’re so perfect. And you feel so fuckin’ good.” He moans loud, then leans into you, laying your back over the podium, hands on your thighs to keep them around him, and he fucks harder, jolting his hips faster, face back down on your skin. He fits his throat against yours with his lips to your ear, and he can feel your blood moving and the vibration of your voice as you moan, louder, and god, oh, god, all he wants is this, you, and he wants to make you cum again.

Every part of him is pressed into you, save for his knees against the podium. “I’m nothing’ without you, darlin’.” He buries himself deep, feeling himself fill you up, and the sweet friction of his cock sliding with your cum, wet and ready and perfect. “I’m a sinner, darlin… I’m a sinner… all up on you, this fuckin’ angel, god, fuck.” He groans, then plants his mouth on your neck, wet from it already. “I’m goin’ to hell anyways,” he continues, finding himself unable to shut the fuck up, “but I’ll take this heaven here. I’ll take it for as long as you’ll give it to me.” He groans, throat becoming tight, feeling himself coming close, his whole body warm and needy and full and ready to release, “can I have a little bit more, darlin’?”

“Yes, yes, please don’t stop Joel,”

“D’y’ think y’ can cum again for me, darlin?”

“Ahuh,”

“God, you’re so good to me, ” his hand slides back between you, laying his palm down over your stomach with his thumb circling your clit. With his hand there, he can feel it, your pussy starting to squeeze, and when it registers around him, he stops breathing for a moment, and cums, maybe harder than he ever has. His hips stutter, pumping you full of his cum, your pussy squeezing it deeper with every stroke. You grasp his hair, pulling bundles of it, the sweet pain only making it that much more euphoric for him.

“Heaven,” comes out in a breath as he presses himself as deep as he can into you, bodies united and still pulsing, your legs keeping him clamped there, thighs shaking in spurts.

“I love you,” he concludes.

“I love you, I love you,” you whisper. You save your words for other times, for the late nights as your fingers dance over his skin, wrapped together in the cold or the heat—it doesn’t matter, neither of your bodies seem to be able to keep apart when they have the opportunity. You lull him to sleep with effortless poetry, anything that comes out of your lips. Every word, every sentence, perfect, because it’s your voice, it comes from you.

Joel sighs deeply, laying over you, breaths deep and ragged with your own just the same under his weight.

After a moment of catching your breath, he pushes himself up to admire the view. Your lips are open and wet, plump from his own, eyes half lidded, neck marked, breasts pushing out of the top of your dress. An angel. Slowly, he leans in for a sweet, slow, kiss.

“You’re perfect.”

When he pulls away, you’re smiling, eyes closed. You hum and then open them, and it's everything. And then your hands are on his cheeks again, warm like sunlight, and everything is perfect.

“I love it when you get all lovey dovey on me, Joel. I love it when you talk. I love the things you say. You make me feel so special.”

“You are special.”

You smile, then lean in for another soft, simple kiss.

“You’re special too, Joel. You’re so special to me. I love you.” You whisper, and in this abandoned church, in the middle of who knows where, he’s home, in your voice, your lips, your skin; in you.

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brighttears · 5 months

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Summary: I don't know. It's just a thing, y'all.

Content Warning: implied relationship, intimacy, the general aches of middle age, minimal research

Rating: 18+ (as is everything I write), but no explicit content

Word Count: 1K

Pairing: Post-Outbreak!Joel Miller x gn!reader

Author's Note: I woke up two hours ago thinking about this and here we are. Barely edited and my first time writing Joel, so let's just see what happens.

Joel sags into the wooden kitchen chair, his hand already finding his knee, thumb rubbing deep circles into the ache there.

“What’s this one?” He lifts his eyebrow as he scans the assortment of salvaged jars and repurposed tins on the table. He picks up one – a small hinged box, the embossed Altoids logo revealing its original purpose even though the paint is long faded away.

He gives it a sniff. “Sage? Pine?”

“Arnica.” You twist the cap onto the jar you’re holding and slide it back into the cabinet. The shelf is filled with other jars just like it – plant leaves stuffed into oil or herbs tucked into bottles of alcohol. You call it the medicine cabinet, narrowing your eyes to amused slits when Joel calls you a witch.

At the name, he remembers you finding it last summer – coming home from one of your meadow rambles, your basket brimming with the yellow flowers. You’d held up a small sturdy plant you’d nestled into a cracked plastic cup, your eyes bright beneath the dirt streaks on your forehead.

“I finally found some.” You sounded jubilant as you beamed at him “I’m going to put it in my garden.”

He’d helped you plant it – dug the hole for you, amidst the calendula and the chamomile, the feverfew and the motherwort, watched you nestle it into the ground with loving pats.

“The infusion was ready.” You wipe your hands on the threadbare dishtowel you’ve tucked into the front of your jeans as an apron. “And I got some beeswax from Allan, so I could finally make a salve. You’re going like this one.”

He twists his neck side to side and rolls his shoulders with a grimace. “Gonna make me fifteen years younger? I wouldn’t mind that.”

You cross the kitchen to him and twist a lock of his hair around your finger with a soft smile. “God, no. I’d miss this distinguished gray hair.”

He slides his hand up your thigh and over your ass to your waist, pulling you against his side. You smell good – you always smell good to him. Sweet, dusty, earthy – the scent of your garden always clings to you. Sometimes when he’s out on patrol, he’ll see one of your plants – that’s what he thinks of them as, the ones you grow, ‘your plants’ – and rub a leaf between his fingers, just to smell the scent.

Just to feel you close.

“Arnica is good for aches.” You keep your fingers in his hair and add your other hand, the skritch of your nails against his scalp making his eyes close.

“You gonna fix my knees?”

“Your knees are a lost cause. But it’ll help with your back.”

Taking a step back, you pull out of his grasp, and he sighs as your fingers leave his hair. “Go take a shower and I’ll meet you upstairs. We’ll test it out.”

Twenty minutes later, Joel ruffles his hair with his towel a final time and hangs it up. He pulls on a pair of boxers; the fabric is soft and worn thin, with little patches at the seams where you’ve mended them. You’d spotted the fraying edges long before he had, fixing them without a word.

It’s one of the things Joel loves best about you – your eyes are tuned to the smallest of things. A tiny flower hidden amidst a scrabble of rocks, the beginnings of hole in a shirt cuff, a neighbor faintly wincing when they take a step – nothing escapes you.

He feels sometimes like you hold everything in his world together with your noticing.

He combs his wet hair in the mirror, slicking it back, and walks into the bedroom. The lamp on the nightstand is glowing and you’ve folded back the woolen blanket and quilt that the two of you sleep beneath. You’ve changed into your own nighttime clothes – a pair of thin cotton shorts and a faded tee.

You smile at him as you dip your fingers into the tin you’re holding in your hand. “Lay down.”

He flops onto his back, the bed giving an offended creak, and lifts his eyebrows expectantly.

“Roll over, Miller.” You rub the salve between your palms, warming it. “This isn’t a handjob.”

He chuckles but obeys, rolling onto his front and tugging a pillow beneath his head. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Your weight sags the mattress as you kneel next to him, your slick fingers sliding down the long muscles on either side of his spine. You knead the salve into his skin – fingertips digging into the muscles on the top of his shoulders, the heels of your palms pressing behind his shoulder blades, your thumbs working hard into the ache that settles low in his back.

His skin feels warm and awake beneath your touch and the fresh sharp scent of the arnica mingles with the oaty sweetness of the soap from his shower, and he sighs.

“Is it helping?” Your voice is closer than he expected, and he feels the brush of your lips against the back of his neck.

“It’s helping.”

“Good.” Another brush of your lips, your hands stilling on his shoulders. “You can roll over now.”

He does, with a grunt, and watches with half-open eyes as you pull your shirt over your head and slide your shorts down your legs.

His chuckle is hoarse. “Don’t know why you even put those on for bed. You never keep ‘em on.”

You stretch out next to him, your hands coming to his cheeks as you grin. “I was being professional. Didn’t want to give you the wrong idea about the salve.”

He captures your hand against his face, twists his head to kiss the center of your palm, your skin soft and slick there.

“Can I get the wrong idea now?”

You stroke your thumb over his mustache, your lips coming close enough for him to feel the humid heat of your breath.

“Yeah. You can.”

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