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pascalsbby · 8 months

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Hot Single Dad of The Neighborhood

Summary: It used to be benzos to take off the sharp pain of the day, this life- now it’s Joel fucking Miller.

Warnings: mdni, 18+, eventual smut (c’mon…wouldn’t be a celebration without it)

This is satire. Kinda. It’s me laughing at myself & my love for this fictional man. But you’re laughing along, because you get it. Let me know what you think!!

This is a part of my 700 follower’s celebration. Read the detailed description here 🩷

It all started with this:

Let me set the scene:

It’s 9:45pm on a Friday, and this is better than having the house to yourself. This is the time of week where we tuck our children (and husbands) in, and we gather around this shitty glass table as the tales are whispered through. It starts off with your usual: sugar-salted peach margaritas turned to two, a joint, and then the riveting conversation of, “now who would leave that dick?”

We call ourselves ‘Joel Miller’s Neighborhood Wives’. It’s a mouthful. But we like a mouthful. So- sit down, have a smoke, a wee little drink, and listen to the goss.

The neighborhood wives (Kat, Kali, Chloe on the right of you, Kit, Vic, Bug & Angela to the left) are all cuddled around Kat’s patio, enacting a dramatic retelling of ‘who the fuck is Joel Miller?’ Himself, somewhere across the street, wondering why every now and then he hears a chorus of squeals. Then, he smiles to himself and wishes he had the guts to grace y’all with his presence. He’s not invited though.

This is the first time you’ve hung out with them, and maybe the last, tbh. No way this Miller guy is worth all this fuss.

And, action.

It used to be benzos to take off the sharp pain of the day, this life- now it’s Joel fucking Miller. We take whatever we can get from him, between when we hear his truck two streets over, lightly running across the hollow wooden floors to put on our slippers. The low growl from his truck pipes (or yours) grows louder as he turns the corner onto the street. We watch as he drops out of the truck and thuds against the concrete, slamming that damn door closed. Probably how he lets all his ladies know he’s home. Our eyes follow his form, tapping all the way up to his front door before he takes those goddamn cowboy boots off. We stumble out of the front door and check the mail. Well, only for the third time that morning. What? We are all always expecting something, alright? You catch what you can before his shoulders disappear through the blue-chipped front door, right back into his house. We close the mailboxes simultaneously and sadly drip back to our front doors. No hello’s today.

Sometimes later in the night before supper, you’ll see the door shaped hole widen in the darkness, warmth boasting from behind as Joel’s form takes up the light, smiling as he pats Tommy on his way inside. Tommy usually drinks too much and stays the night, so we sit back and tend to the family. We ride our delusions in the meantime. Then, the cycle continues. It’s like… the cycle of life. You know?

He seems like your typical gentleman, Joel. A Southern-raised man, one who would let you be his nuclear-family sweetheart. Cook for him, clean for him, spread *it open for him, let his massive fucking hands feel any part of you they wanted. Especially if that meant they were to explore more under the stiff shirtwaist dresses. Or in. We would all rather him in.

Spread, what, exactly? Oh yeah dude, sorry. I meant: *Cunt, asshole, any part of you he wanted to look down the middle of and split open, really. We aren’t shy about it when it comes to talking to each other. Obviously.

The aforementioned Tommy?

That’s his brother, probably about seven or eight years younger. He is a beau too, but he doesn’t seem the type to really fuck it out of ya. I mean sure, he has done his fair share of fucking around with the moms’ of the neighborhood, too. Bug even whispered a tale of Tommy going after those mom’s college daughters, swooping in to help clean the pool before setting them gently on the concrete and swiping their panties to the side as he buried his face in them. He always made sure they were at least 22. This is only moments after the pretty younger girls make their way back into the pretty, white iron gates afront their parents' houses.

Fair enough, he has the same curls wrapping down the base of his neck, kissing the skin beneath them. He has the ‘Miller Smirk’ - what the town wives call it. The Miller brothers are known throughout the neighborhood for their distinct brand of charm. Both possess an effortless charisma that begs you to get on your knees. But they never let us. Sad. Their shared features aren’t few, but none are as similar and charming as their half-smiles. Grins always slightly tilted, as if they were sharing an inside joke with each other but not the rest of the world.

So of course Tommy is desired to an extent, physically, of course. Emotionally? Probably not. But shit, you’d have both if you could. Paris looks great this time of year. Anyways.

He wasn’t the Miller we all grappled over and wanted so deeply, despite a metal band around our fingers (or not). His competency and willingness. They way he looks at his daughter. Oh yeah…girl dad. The way he looks in the Texas heat. His back, flexed and sweating through his too-tight shirt. “The day that man wears a white shirt and it’s over 90 degrees- I will drop fucking dead. Someone take care of the kid for me,” Kat.

There’s been one story about Joel that is retold over and over like it’s fuckin’ Genesis Chapter 3, creation and all. The story on how, why, we all got here to begin with. No one can agree who first told it. Angela or Bug, shit…was it Chloe? Okay, okay, it really doesn’t matter at the moment. Just listen.

It was late August, three years ago. Hot and dripping with the dead-end heat of summer. Almost as if it was giving all it could before the last of it sputtered out and away, knowing Fall was right around the corner to take its place- happy to finally have a rest. A for sale sign that had been smiling at you for months was suddenly gone, the dirt still fresh from where it had been happily ripped. Joel Miller, Mr. Texas cowboy himself showed up one day as the crickets started singing, he kissed the cicadas goodbye for the season, unloaded the Miller Construction van and then he never left. A few weeks later after he and his brother fixed up the place, a little girl was running up the concrete to the front door. But there was no wife.

When he moved into the neighborhood, a new era dawned. It was one where the wives would rather mow the lawn, take the trash cans out on Wednesday nights, and tend to the long-forgotten garden. No really, all of our gardens are pristine now. Because somewhere not too far away there was a beautiful, muscular man with a mustache you wanted to wet, and God, his nose. A nose that was prominent even a few houses down, sun setting behind as it sat there strong and just uh- you knew a nose like that would be tickling your clit while he used his tongue other places. Or the other way around, whichever way you were sitting. Whatever way he wanted you to sit.

It was something about that deep navy cotton shirt his chest and shoulders grace about once or twice a week. The other is some form of a Lakers’ tee, yellow or purple, love-worn but scrunched up and stretched in the right places. You’ll see. Maybe that in itself, how it wraps around his sun-bathed/loved/kissed skin is the reason for everyone’s fever induced fluster. Maybe it’s the drawl, and the fact he absolutely drips of sex.

Most interactions end with deep breaths leaning against the door, knocking on your chest. Or texting the group message (we’ll add you in a minute, it’s called JMW)((Joel Miller’s Whores)). He always has something to say, something to coo at you while you in turn try not to purr back… at least with your mouth. Although no, because you would purr around him with your mouth if he’d only ask for it.

But you? Metaphorically, denoting us all. No, he would never look down upon you, between his eyelashes and brooding smile, dark, tanned skin smelling of the day- “want you to pull the pretty dress up and get on your knees. I’m tired from the day, workin’ so hard for this family. Leas’ you could do is suck my cock, no?” And he didn’t know it, but he was right. He did work so hard for this family. He was your maladaptive daydreaming, he’s what you giggle at during fake conversations, he was the cock slipping between your hungry folds at night.

Instead, it was half-baked smiles and short waves in the drop off line in the morning. He walks Sarah in, every single day. She’s getting to the age where she seems like she’d deter the sweet action, but she doesn’t- she loves him that much. We never see him in the afternoon, his barely-present wife (he has to have a wife, right? Like Bug says, “I mean look at him”), was probably the one picking up Sarah. Probably taking her to some even bigger house on the richer side of town because it's her turn to watch her. How the hell could you leave someone like Joel?

But regardless, we never see her. Never have the entire time we’ve peeked out of our blinds, running to turn off the lamp so no one can see the strip of light coming from the window.

He has never brought a woman inside of that house, let alone has anyone left it. Once, Tommy brought a girl to their Thanksgiving dinner and Vic told Kit she had come alone, first, and hugged Joel. That “Joel was extra smiley to her.” Moral of the story, we don’t know for sure if he’s still married or he’s just somehow keeping that dick to himself.

Jesus, Kat retold that story for three fucking weeks. But, we don’t really blame her. It was how it all began.

Don’t get me wrong, Joel Miller is available- if that pesky little wasp hive directly atop your living room window is getting out of hand, and you just happen to be a single mom who so desperately needs a man’s touch. Not like that. Well, yeah like that. Then, you could count on Joel Miller to back up his old blue truck bed into your driveway, set up his ladder, and allow you to spend the next hour watching through the window as his shirt pulls up his stomach as he does his diligent work.

His v-lines kissed by veins and tufted black hair towards his middle, peeking up and saying hello every time his jeans got a little too low. Musta forgot his usual belt. Or maybe his work belt was a tad too heavy today. Uh, to take that pressure off of his back for him, and into your hands.

But him owing you? That’s a different kind of available. It was a week later, the morning before the mom gathering, and you had only seen Joel once. Yes… peaking through your blinds. Then you heard his voice.

“Hi ma’am,” he waved, turning your attention from where you were setting your bags in the car. “Sarah, ask the pretty lady what you wanted, don’t make her wait any longer in this heat.” He was loading his work tools into the bed of his pickup. Another bed of his you’d like to grace.

Shit. Maybe this Miller was worth the fuss.

Part 2 later this week babes <3 It will be an actual fic, hehe.

@justagalwhowrites @cool-iguana @strang3lov3 @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @netherfeildren @chloeangelic

#700 followers #celebration #pedro pascal #joel miller #tlou #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #pascalsbby #joel miller x y/n #pedro pascal memes #carnal #tdahb #joel miller x reader #neighbor!joel #singledad!joel

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thedevilandhisbride · 10 months

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*crawls out from behind my little tv where i have been working away doing nothing protective and daydreaming the whole time* dont mind me :3 just uhhhhhh *hides unproductivity with gay porn art and fanfiction that i did three weeks ago* doin some stuff :3 haha

#shhh dont tell mom #tdahbposting #will // tdahb

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evilwriter37 · 4 months

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📓 👀

-tdahb

@thedragon-and-hisboy

Hm, a fic I haven’t written but have ideas for? Let me see…

I have the fics that I plan on writing for the rest of Winter Whumperland!

Snotlout and Hiccup are captured by Dagur and forced to watch each other’s torture. They are rescued by the rest of the Dragon Riders. (RTTE Season 1)

Continuation of Day 7. Lycanwing Hiccup is captured by Viggo years after his exile from Berk. Viggo thinks him nothing but a wild dragon.

Toothless is captured, injured, and left to die. Hiccup does everything in his power to find and rescue him.

Heather is publicly branded as Viggo’s slave.

Hiccup is incredibly sick during Snoggletog, and Fishlegs keeps vigil beside his bed to make sure he makes it through the night. Hiccup feels trapped inside his body.

Okay, so, this is reminding me why I have to work on Winter Whumperland! I love these ideas of mine! (The one I’m working on now is still the first Lycanwing Hiccup one.)

#asks #httyd #whump #fanfiction

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gammaliminal · 10 months

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hi ily both mwah mwah!!! cant wait to see this expand hehe

-agawaateyaa, tdahb 🦌

aahhh us too!! we're very excited for all of this to kind of unfold and whatnot, tumblr is confusing but thats okay :]

- ΔΘ

#ΔΘ post #sweet asks #ask us anything

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elindhes · 5 years

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Felix and Benjamin’s last (planned) performance together

#felix sandman #benjamin ingrosso #rixfmfestival #live #hug #belix sandgrosso #benix #fenjamin #bromance #tror du att han bryr sig #tdahbs #happy thoughts

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veredayurveda · 5 years

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Este domingo!!! El estrés crea efectos físicos, mentales y emocionales de enfermedades que en ocasiones no logras desprenderte y se vuelven cíclicas. La meditación de forma cotidiana te libera del estrés y te permite tener las condiciones para lograr una estabilidad mental y emocional que te permitirán tener una salud física. Reserva al 55 5432 3130 #VeredaAyureda #Ayurveda #Yoga #Meditación #AdiHolistica (en Vereda Ayurveda) https://www.instagram.com/p/B1yar-TDahB/?igshid=17hq8tbfzsrqm

#veredaayureda #ayurveda #yoga #meditación #adiholistica

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pascalsbby · 8 months

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The Devil & His Brother

Joel x Tommy x You

Prologue / Part I : 6.4K / Part II

Summary: The Devil was begging you to forgive him, and you wanted to. You wanted to bring your palms together and whisper his name through the cracks, hoping he would hear your silent prayer. “Let me stay here, with you.” He would get down on his knees and pray to your altar. He would bless it first, kiss it clean, before he would send two fingers to spread open your love.

Warnings: 18+ mdni, eventual smut. enemies to lovers, slow-burn, angst/comfort/sex, age gap, power imbalance, possessive tendencies, drugs/pills/alcohol, major daddy issues (that’s why you need BOTH miller brother’s instead of 1). talk of death, shit-talking god & the devil himself.

This was a labor of love, please comment, reblog, & let me know what you think <3

I will take a crowbar and pry out the broken pieces of God in me.

- Anne Carson

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *₊.• ♡ °:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *

Your soul was given to another man before you had even yearned for the rage to scratch it back yourself- have a choice in the matter of your own eternity. Two eyes looking down upon you, gazing into the depth of your skull. Where the fuck was he, when his children were screaming on their knees for his forgiveness, for whatever they had done to deserve this?

You couldn’t remember your own baptism- despite seeing countless bodies pushed underwater, coming back anew. Later in life, not coming back up at all. Drowning sinfully sin-less. You were thankful now, that the hard stuff was done when you weren’t old enough to know it- or deny it. You wouldn’t have washed yourself clean for him, drown for him, now.

You were angry at him- you had every right to be. You were utterly alone in a world that was trying to devour you whole by sinking one tooth into any part of your tender flesh. Your eternal soul was saved (given) to a hand in the sky before you even knew what a God was, what he was capable of, what he would allow, and you had suffered for it during life. But now, when it mattered most, you didn’t have to do a goddamn thing but lay here and die. Yet he wasn’t doing his part. What a fucking surprise.

He never came like all the people said he would, like the Bible said. There was no reckoning. Even he was too scared of what he created.

“I ain’t no God, sweetheart.” The sound reverberated through his throat in a sickly Southern accent. He might as well have been. His thick arms were the ones holding you, warming you against the soft flannel. You haven’t been touched by another human in a long time, and the veins running through his arms were suddenly whispering love stories into your own running blood. His hands were so big.

They refused your pleas. “Please, if you don’t do it just hand me the gun.” Always met with a thickly harsh, “don’t think so,” from the one who shot you. The younger one is somehow quieter than the first. You had been full of anger for years, but it didn't seem as heavy as it normally would, despite barking, “You already tried once and failed, let me do it myself then.” He looked at you, surprised that you wasted your breath in such a manner, it had barely come out of the back of your throat to begin with. He huffed a laugh as he turned his head back to his brother before looking straight into the dark night again, focusing on something that wasn't even there. Focusing on anything that wasn’t you.

You were used to men not following through. Your father was the ‘savior’ (born-again post-outbreak pastor)(liar) of a small group, all now a couple of feet underground, frozen in the decomposing water of themselves- and whoever was lucky enough to be thrown in the dug-up hole on top of them. Baptized over and over as the ground warmed in the spring and froze again in the winter. Perpetually drowning until they become what they were trying to escape all along- food for the earth to devour.

We didn’t burn them, because that would have given us away, invited anyone near to pluck the last of us out, but fire would have been easier. But we don’t do easy, not here. We gather whoever is responsible for your already rotting body and make them throw you into the ground, all in the name of God. You had written a lot into your leather-bound notebook, at first not wanting to fill the pages, because once the paper was gone, there was nowhere else to rip the thoughts out of your head, let them bleed through the pages. You read that specific entry over and over, having memorized it by now, making crinkles in the dusty pages from how many times you turned back to it and prayed to a God that wasn’t there to save them- you.

He was never planning on it.

Your journal was the same color as the Devil’s eyes, darkened honey-brown, alive. You didn’t have many places to look whenever you did have enough spite in you to open your own, body swaying from side to side on a horse that wasn’t yours, in a man's lap that you didn’t know. He looked pretty, even from below, even more so leaning his chin downwards towards your face and gazing up your body. I guess anything safe looks heavenly amidst fire.

Why would they do that? Kill you and then take you along for the ride. They hadn't spoken much for however many days you had been dying, watching as the sun kissed the sky goodnight and welcomed the moon, at least three times. Maybe you were bait for something even bigger- a young woman goes a long way these days. Always has, really.

You had always harbored a deep fear of death. It wasn't exactly the physical suffering that frightened you, but rather the haunting notion of losing loved ones. The consequences of deviating from the life path thrown on you by your parents. There was always this looming presence of the ‘evil’. The Devil… Lucifer, Satan, whatever moniker you choose. In the narrative your parents scripted for you, he was cast as the villain. It was all too funny now, his thighs warming your skin, setting you ablaze.

Lucifer was a beautiful, Southern gentleman- one who spoke quickly and stern. And God sat right next to him, mouth shut, waiting for command. You were so tired of following orders from men but suddenly it’s as if you’ve known all along that his gaze would be the one you melted under. Sludge. Burning flesh. Maybe there was no God. Sure, the other man who sat next to him looked like one, but so does this one. He was an idea, the fear instilled in you, your parents' guilt. But you knew evil more than you knew true good, and the Devil was below you, only cementing that truth further. He was keeping you right here, draped across his lap, and despite your dying, he still caught glimpses of your naked flesh. And you didn’t know if it was eyes burning into you, or the gunshot wound he had so nicely gifted you. You almost wanted to thank him, if that’s what it took for him to wrap himself around you.

Romans 6:4 hung on a carved board in your parent's room after the first wave of death. After your father decided that the group needed someone to lead them, and that your mother wasn’t it, she sat back happily and carved words into worn wood. You had felt safe there, sixteen and under the guise of whatever your parents told you. Young, naive, pure.

‘We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. We’re now dead to the power of sin. Being raised from the water.’ It later hung in the main room of a run-down grocery store turned Church. The church itself was down the street, the rotten door holding in rotten bodies from whoever had come before. Maybe they had sat and awaited the way you all did at first, waiting for their savior. He never rang the doorbell, never knocked. He had just walked right on by, whistling his hymns and being grateful he was above it all.

A new life? If Jesus died for our sins, wouldn’t he be upset with you right now? Laying on your… death horse…. And still not bruising your knees for him? Why can’t he be angry enough to let you slip out of line and take the easier way? I guess suffering wasn’t his go-to, at least outwardly. Fear was more his thing, and fear would eat you alive and cement your veins before true sin ever could. Guilt is what gnaws at your ankles, whispering poetry into your hair. Fear had passed. Anger had too, momentarily. Rage was a common home.

He should have taken you by now, held your hand and kissed your forehead goodnight. But you knew that he wasn’t coming. He never came for your parents either, nor your brother. You waited each time by their bodies, but he never called, never even picked up the goddamn phone.

He promised resurrection to people who needed something to hang on to. Promises made to be broken. God was more comfortable than death. You repeated it over and over as a prayer to those who had lost someone. We all have. Your dads own voice booming through the quiet. Now, you are losing yourself.

But really, there was no more you, not really. Maybe the horse knew too, bucked you off, and laughed as you felt the thud of the ground under your shoulder blades, because suddenly there was no air left in the entire dwindling world. The snow that was kicked up into your face from the weight of your body wasn’t melting as it would have before. You were cold. There was no world. There was just endless pain before a bout of relief. Not even enough to fill your lungs in one breath in or out. Even the horse knew you were dead weight. Every animal fighting for its survival. That’s why you were shot, too.

You scared the Devil and he took it upon himself to punish you.

At least that’s what you convince yourself as you lay dying on the cold, unforgiving ground, the weight of your pain bore down on your frail body- words trying to come out in shallow gasps. He wasn’t coming.

“Please,” you begged.

You heard shuffling, and then a shadow covered the setting moon above you. The all-to-familiar sound of his boots gaining on your still body. You could still smell him, had been able to this entire time you had been on his horse, in his lap. You could feel the pressure of his fingers rapidly squeezing your cheeks, feeling for blood flow, then the burning of his fingers on your neck, looking for signs of life amidst the dark night. Finally, he was touching you again. Maybe now he would kill you, too. His final gift.

“Fuck,” he hissed. That muttered obscenity made you feel more alive. “Get the fuckin’ horse away from her Tommy.” You heard the reins of the animal you were sat upon being pulled, and the hooves cascading further into the night. He returned to you, the coolness of his rings stung against your face, the cool air keeping them cold despite the warmth of his body. The bullseye tattoo, the only indication of who was touching you besides his smell. You had seen it multiple times throughout the rising and falling of the sun. It had cupped your body against his. He holds your face, as he leans into you, bullseye sitting right beneath your chin.

Throw a dart and it would hit you right in the throat- where you wanted him. Where you wanted him to breathe life into you again.

“Please. Help me go home.” Home hasn’t existed in years. You’d been unconscious for days.

“Shhh. No point in talkin' baby. Hurts too much. We’re goin’ home.” You looked up at him and despite the hardness of his exterior, you saw the understanding in his eyes. Just as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared back into his skull.

Almost how a lighter ignites, flickers, warms, almost unbearable but not quite. The wind blows the fire to your fingers, stings, then disappears. As did his burning gaze. The feeling of putting out a cigarette as it shoves its last bit of self out into the world, smoke followed by nothing, simultaneously.

That was him, you would come to find out, as his silhouette and his own warmth flees from your touch. As the brown from his eyes turns to black as your own close. He sighs.

The snow crunches under his weight as he assesses how to pick you back up.

“And you ain’t goin’ anywhere but where I take you. Got it?” A half-attempted nod before a sigh of pain.

You didn’t know where you were going- why, you were still alive… or whatever this in-between was. All you know is that you prayed to the Devil. And he answered.

He was the only one who ever answered.

The return to Jackson was painful, the remnants of a long-ago shattered world marred the landscape. As they neared home, the journey became colder, perhaps another reason why it remained a well-hidden place- not many people made it there alive. Joel and Tommy, ever vigilant, guided the two horses with unwavering resolve, constantly scanning the horizon for any indications of danger. Meanwhile, they carried the injured girl, whose body was only partially present after being thrown from the horse three days ago, blankets thrown atop. It had been five days since she was shot. Since Joel shot her.

The way you looked up at him every once in a while was breathtaking- it was too much of a painful reminder that he’d lost (or will lose) everything he’s ever cared about. He could see it in your eyes, the confusion of who and where you were. Watching life move through someone's body and out of their eyes used to be a victorious occasion. It meant he succeeded, that he was still alive regardless of the mangled bodies he left behind. But this felt different to him. You were so godamn young and he plays the scream ripping through your throat over and over an- he swears he didn’t pull the trigger. Joel's gruff voice broke through the haze of silence that had fallen upon them days ago and never left. He broke through his own circling thoughts. As he spoke to Tommy a mixture of concern and guilt for your being broke through, he felt it in his throat, his chest. He didn't want to be responsible for this death, but he sure as hell didn’t want to know you either. Because knowing someone only meant more pain.

“We've been carryin’ her for days, Tommy. How much longer can she hold on like this? No point in bringin’ a dead girl home.”

Denial was a motherfucker, wasn’t it?

Joel knew of death- he didn’t believe in shit besides such. He used to be a God-fearing man but knew if he ever had the chance to stand in front of him he’d rip him in two and gnaw on the pieces of his holiness.

Tommy knew of death too, even before the outbreak, but the difference was that he also believed in life. He knew exactly why Joel had that scar, even though they’d never talked about it. It was a quiet understanding, one he never pushed or even poked and prodded.

Tommy's response was laced with a fear, for what Joel had done, but empathy for what he knows he sees every single time he looks down upon you. "We're almost there, Joel. She's tough, you know that. She should have died from that wound but she’s still breathin’, that counts f’something. We'll get her to Jackson, n’ she'll have a chance." He kept looking into his brother's eyes before pulling away and looking ahead into the blinding white. If he said what he really wanted, he wouldn’t stop. “You fuckin’ shot her but now you want to save her? Make up your fuckin’ mind.” The least he could do is help him save someone, even if it’s just for Joel’s sake, especially after he couldn't save Sarah. ‘Least he could do is keep his mouth shut.

Joel was the last person he had- the only person. Ellie didn’t even love him like she loved Joel. It’s always the broken, harsh ones that receive the most attention. People spend so much time trying to put broken people back together that they don’t realize the others are teetering with one foot over the edge.

They’d gone outside the walls because funny enough, they thought it would be more safe this time of year, the dead of winter. Ellie had begged for months for the boys to take her out with them and show her this and that. She was getting homesick for a place she never truly loved. She was tired of sitting still inside walls of safety when everyone she had ever loved was buried outside of them. Tess came along too, providing an extra line of safety, ‘just in case’.

Tommy remembers Joel whispering, “There's somethin’ coming.” More so someone, you. A moment later, a gunshot, a thudding body. Joel was normally calm on the trigger, rifle in hand, looking down the barrel of the gun, aimed at his prey. But Ellie was there, Tommy, and Tess. His people. There was no time to fuck around, so he didn’t. Tommy understood. But that didn’t make it right in his head. His brother was never patient in the moments that mattered the most.

One evening, about ten hours from wherever the fuck they were taking you, the sun began to set, setting ablaze a warm glow over the frozen landscape. You had been awake, more so than the past couple of days, looking up at the moving clouds in the sky, watching as his chest moved and released more air into the sky, breathing visible and dancing in the cold. The horse beneath you abruptly stopped and the two men descended their spots atop of them, stretching their legs and gaining more control of their tired bodies.

“You’re awake,” the younger one let out, moving his focus from the soft mumbles he was giving to the other man. “‘Bout time we clean your wound again, see how it’s doing.” You let out a faint, “mm” and attempted to sit up. “No. We’ll get ya off the horse. Be still,” the other said. The Devil grabbed the water and reached up to you, his fingers moved across your face as he gathered your wandering hair and moved it away from your lips. He turned the canister upwards, slowly, letting you drink from it. “Thank you,” you managed. It was the first time he heard your voice not mangled with absolute fear. He stared, eyes roaming the silence, looking ever-so surprised that you had said anything at all, and so clearly at that.

The angel moved closer and reached out his hand, thinking now was a good time to introduce himself to you. “Tommy, Miller. This is my brother, Joel.” he looked toward him. Joel forced an upside-down grin and nodded his head toward you. “You…” pointing towards the one called Joel, “you shot me.” Silence followed, it was heavy, thick. “I didn- Thought you were dangerous, came around that corner too fast.”

“I wasn’t even armed, I-“

“Don’t wanna talk bout’ it.” he huffed, almost angrily. You opened your mouth again, wanting to rattle off one of three hundred questions that you had, but he looked you over once more, and then turned around and walked off. Tommy, with gentle hands, tenderly lifted your body off of the saddle and carried you towards the fire Joel was nursing. The crackling of a campfire and the scent of cooked food filled the air as they set to work, tending to your wounds with diligence that spoke to Tommy's belief that you would be okay (You had to be. He couldn’t fail Joel again. Couldn’t watch as his face fell with the realization that you were completely dead).

His fingers were deft as he cleaned your wounds, his touch sending shivers down your spine. He saw the goosebumps rise, and felt them, as the fire lit your skin. You caught glimpses of concern in his eyes, a silent reassurance that he was determined to see you through this. Joel's presence was a constant anchor, as he spoke into the fire, keeping it lit. They laid out blankets, far too many for just two people to be carrying alone, and sat you atop and below them.

The rest of the night had been filled with your echoing screams, Joel’s palm across your mouth, “Stop screamin’ or someone is gonna find us.” Sure, stop screaming while dirty, whiskey-cleaned fingers are prodding at your open wound. Not even a sorry moved past his lips.

Joel laid down on one side of you, Tommy on the other. “M’ sorry,” he whispered towards you. They both smelled of sweat and whiskey. Their chests rolled and fell at different times, Joel murmuring in his sleep once he finally stopped looking around the parameter. You could tell they were brothers.

It was night when the three of you arrived ‘home’. You heard a young girl's voice above the gathering crowd.

“Joel!” She parted the gathering crowd as the patter of quickening footsteps approached. His head whipped quickly, finding her immediately.

“What the fuck?”

“Ellie,” he warned.

“You can’t fucking do that Joel, I thought you…We made it home three days ago. Tess dragged me by my hair but I-”

“Good,” he huffed back, “Where is she?” Ellie blustered but gave up arguing.

Multiple men gathered around and took the blankets off your body, the air hissing through your torn clothes. You whimpered as they moved your body off of Joel’s horse. He didn’t say anything to you, instead he turned and followed Ellie out of the crowd, carrying the reins with him.

You were carefully carried to a bigger two-story home on the outskirts of the city. As the night turned towards the morning sun, you found yourself gaining strength. The length of the night had been blurry, chattering voices and hands, everywhere. Needles, bliss, whispers. Stripping you from the blood-ridden clothes and water pouring over your lips. Fingers, hands touching you, always caught in a delicate dance between stoic tenderness and warmth

‘Gonna be jus’ fine, baby.” Tommy had assured you, multiple times.

Suddenly it had been a week. They took turns caring for you, someone sleeping in the same room as you at all times in case you needed something. Always talking about “patrol shifts” and how Tommy was expected to be a leader of some sort. You had overheard a lot of conversations booming through the thin walls of the house. One hurting more than the others.

“Shouldn’t have fuckin’ brought her here in the first place. You know the whole town is gossipin’ about it right now. The Miller brothers bringing in another mouth to feed.”

“Stop it. Sh’can hear you Joel. You know that’s not how anyone thinks of it. She could help this place. Give her a chance.”

“She’s been practically fuckin’ unconscious for a week now, Tommy. You think she’s just gonna get right up n’ run the town?”

“Why did you take her in if you don’t even want to be responsible for her survival?” Tommy threw back at him. He regretted saying it immediately, watching as it hit Joel in the face before he closed his eyes and looked away. Joel was more so there to watch you and make sure you didn’t bleed into his wooden floor, while Tommy tried to provide as much comfort as possible. After realizing that this was Joel’s home, it made sense in what little you knew about him. There were few things on the wall, but there were remnants of him everywhere.

Ellie would come home and sit with you, read to you and then tuck you in after Joel carried you up the stairs and into his bed. You missed Tommy’s gentleness when it wasn’t there, but you missed the warmth from Joel's body, his lap, when he wasn’t there. His breathing, his nervous habit of cracking his fingers. Even though you could tell that every nerve ending in his body wanted you anywhere else but wherever he was- there was still a silent curiosity.

About a week and a half after your arrival, someone knocked on the front door of the tattered house and Joel called for Tommy up the stairs. He walked down them quickly, walking out of the front door with Joel.

He returned a few minutes later, looking at you sitting in the seat you hadn’t left in since you’d been there. He gave you a look, slowly looking towards the ground as he spoke up so you could hear him. “Gotta go for a couple of days. Heard there’s a group who probably followed us close to here, saw their smoke, gonna take care of them before they can make it any further.” You hadn’t spoken much, if at all, the past couple of days. You didn’t think you would make it this far, and now you were sitting with two strangers and a teenager in their house, rotting away. They had poked and prodded, trying to get any information out of you that they could, but you didn’t give in.

You stared out the window and answered meekly whenever spoken to, if at all. You should be ecstatic at the thought of finally being housed somewhere ‘safe’, somewhere with electricity and running water. Somewhere where they gathered the children and let them watch movies in the mess hall (all information coming from Tommy, telling you stories as he changed your bandages)- but you weren’t. You felt like you were still teetering on the edge of death. You felt like a burden to Joel.

You didn’t answer Tommy, just nodded. He packed up a few things and promised to ‘be back in no time, then maybe you can tell me your name.’ And then he was gone out of the termite-ridden front door.

You had fallen asleep, and awoken to Joel in another room somewhere, those same goddamn boots thudding against the creaking wooden floors. His presence was constant, every once in a while getting up from a creaking chair to come look at you. You slept, mostly. Ate the dinner he got from the dining hall. Your rage had returned. But baring your teeth in anger took energy you didn’t have.

Joel couldn’t look at you without feeling like he was looking straight through the blood and guts of you(r)(side). Tommy wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone about it before he left. How pretty you were, how there ‘weren’t many pretty faces left n’ you’re tryin’ to kill one?’ He watched as Tommy cooked you with his stare, warming his next meal only to put on his best-dressed suit and bail on the date before he could even pick up the tab. He was glad he was gone for a while, letting him forget about the fact that he had put the bullet in you. He loved his brother, but he knew his games. He knew his inability to stay.

Joel had nursed you back to… alive. At least. He hadn’t really thought about what that entailed after you were stable. He was surprised you were still breathing. He didn’t think about the feeding, changing, and bathing of you. Of hands touching flesh and natural bodily reactions to such.

You could tell he was the older brother. He held the normal stereotypes, sternly telling you what to do. The older one was always more serious, and stoic. The younger, who probably got away with more, but was the loneliest from eyes diverting. But his big brother was always there, begrudgingly present. And he was in this instance too.

Tommy had washed you multiple times before he left, but never your hair or the rest of you. He was more concerned that your stitches didn’t get infected.

Joel probably thought giving you a rag bath was wasting water, but did it anyway, probably tired of your stench in his bed. It’s cold until he heats the towel after noticing you shiver. “Let me draw you an actual bath. Think you can take one now.” He was softer at that moment, more gently with the way he wiped the towel across your chest. Those moments happened least expectedly. But when they did happen, it hurt even deeper. You felt something for him. And that just wouldn’t do. Rather it be lust, loneliness, or your raging fucking daddy issues.

Tommy likes the water cold, and Joel likes it burning to the skin. Of course, he does. He is all or nothing. Hot or cold. Soft or hard. He’s solitude but brings the same warmth of a front door opening to a sea of snow, chimney warm, lights warmer, hot chocolate, and bourbon- he is. In any other world but this one, he would probably be a good man; one to settle down with. One to hold you against himself, despite of raging night.

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a/n: Phew do I have plans for these three…

taglist: @worhols @sarap-77 @mishasminion360 @justagalwhowrites @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @romanarose @milla-frenchy @bandluvr97 @alwaysdjarin @basicoccult @hellfyreroz @northernbluess-blog @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @pr0ximamidnight @bambydxll @morgaussy @n7cje @theywhowriteandknowthings @gracie7209 @pedritoferg @twirl731 @med494 @k-ra @gintheginger @obscurexsorrows @cool-iguana @livingdeadmaria @ours-is-a-strange-fate @megangovier20 @rayslittlekitten @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @pedrotonin @bluetattoos @sscorpiiio

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pascalsbby · 9 months

Text

The Devil & His Brother

Prologue

Joel x Tommy x Reader

Summary: 3K / Joel x Tommy x f!reader

The day he killed you is the day you fell in love with him. You died in his arms, just grateful there was a God, wondering why he was on his knees for you, holding you, after you spent your entire existence denying his very own.

The one in where you fall in love, lust, with both of the Miller boys. But only one can have you. Right?

Series Warnings: 18+ mdni, eventual smut. Outbreak, Jackson, slow-burn, angst/comfort, age gap, power imbalance, possessive tendencies, drugs/pills/alcohol, threesome, major daddy issues (that’s why you need 2 daddies instead of 1). Talk of death, God, the Devil himself. Girlfriend sharing, cuckholding, begging Miller boys. Probably some shared brotherly words of encouragement, voyeurism, age gap, dominate & aggressive, pet names, praise kink, all holes filled <3, ‘he’ talks you through it, tells you what to do.

Unreliable reader for now- uhhh she’s dying.

“I choked / on such longing I couldn't spit out. Yes, desire is so different / when God bore you hungry.”

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Warm water soothing an aching throat, cold, sweet fingertips from cherry seeds staining white napkins. His fingerprints burned into your core. Deep red in the corners of your wet mouth, dripping down the side of the horse, painting the snow carmine. The baritone of his voice shaking through the pool of blood, “What’a shame. Hell, woulda made a pretty wife.”

The sweetest part of a cherry is its heart. Suckling, rolling, and removing the fine skin with your teeth. Your skull hitting the ground. Red. You’re scared you’ll choke on it, but you don’t spit it out. You can’t. The sweetness is gone and you’ve accidentally bit your tongue.

The splitting of cherry skin, from teeth to skull. Loud, thunderous around the sound of cicadas screa- no, singing you a lullaby. Hips, swaying.

God humming.

It’s darker now, you can hear the thud of hooves imprinting the cold, every single movement screaming through your being. You were sat atop stretched denim over thick thighs, rugged and hot against the freezing expanse of your exposed skin.

They leave most of themselves behind- stem, seed, head, heart- the cherries. Sacrilegious-ly religious-ish. Or something. Had you known religion? Starstuff sounded better than dirt. Would you die from the gunshot wound or the cold, first?

No. But anything stands in for a cross, especially when he’s sitting there above you vertically, heart opened horizontally. He was looking down upon you, holding you against his body. Floating.

You’re warm, you’re warm, finally you’re—

And your body slackens as your brain does too, from him. From the ground, the sky, the back of this horse. Blue, blue- black. The last rising of your chest, cold air running through the sharp pains in your throat. Mouth dry, silent, slack.

Was this the dust part? You don’t want to say good night to the moon, so you you look up at her and make eye contact with her comforting stare- and you don’t blink- because blinking is returning to the looming darkness. Blinking is allowing the night to take you. The warmth from his body upon yours, melting your body into the ground. The moon is so bright.

And she looks down upon you and whispers, “I’ve got you bunny - I’ll hold your hand and you just think about those stars. How pretty they look right now- jus’ for you.” Even the moon sounded like him.

“We’ll be home soon, baby.” He pleaded.

Home.

A scream. Not one of terror, one of defeat- desperation. Vilely testing through the back of his throat.

A release… comfort.

A death.

Your own.

He was supposed to save you. He was like water- quenching and soothing your aching throat before you drown in it.

Fire, warming you- before burning you alive.

Tears releasing, falling, leaving- before the pain in the back of your throat, slithering to your jaw.

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Three resounding gunshots bounced off the distant hills, the thick snow-covered ground. The sound carrying its ominous message far and wide while the silence that followed bore witness to the weight of their deadly intent. Feet, crushing the crystals against the Earth, running from your falling body, rather than to. More than just a pair, moving in the apposite direction. Smaller, smaller, gone.

One sound traveled further, still quivering in your ears, kissing the air around your body as the bullet made a home in you. Your own death tearing from your mouth into the now, quiet, night. Even the cicadas had stopped howling, feeling the force of yours as it tore through your stomach, out of the back of your throat. You rested your head upon the soil and suddenly the ocean was inside of your ears. The mumbling of hurried male voices, anger, present.

The ground was holding you, and it was so cold.

"Mierda,” another beings voice stuck in the thick air, furious at his God. "What the fuck are you doing?”

Their identical voices now filled with resentment, clashed, and you felt like an intruder in your own death. You hadn’t excepted it, but they had. And God was speaking again “- ‘till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” He was blessing you before fate found death and invited her in.

His boots reached your ears last. He was immense, expansive- held shoulders that could carry you to safety, if he so pleased. But he didn’t. You don’t know why God chose today as the day you were going to die… why he was lying about it to one of his most loyal servants. He had shot you. His eyes were the first thing you’d had seen as soon as the barrel of his gun lowered behind the bushes.

You had wished for death so many times, it was almost a relief that this, was it. There was nothing reaching around inside of you pulling your organs closer to the ground. Even though that’s where we mostly end up these days— in ash. Burned, split into stardust. Or thrown on top of each other in endless pits, burned to Earth once more. Entering the world is painful enough. Why can’t we exit it peacefully?

Maybe this was peaceful enough. You were lucky he was here to take you home. Even in his hesitancy. Even in your own confusion as to why he had to take you right now. You’d been alone for three years before this moment. Yes, you were grateful it was him.

It could have been his brother, instead.

But you’d been a good girl, you knew you wouldn’t be meeting the Devil anytime soon.

He wasn’t in a hurry walking towards you, no. The ground was moving under your ear as he disturbed the dirt with the fist of his boot. You had been looking at him the entire time, sideways, face pushed into the dirt where you landed. Your body felt the presence of his before he was back in your eyesight, and suddenly you knew you needed to move. Your mind had accepted death, but your body hadn’t. He could shoot you again, put you out of your misery. But you were too far away from where you wanted to perish. The graves of your family, too far away. It’s too soon to die, please let me get to my family first.

Even God does what he needs to survive his guilt.

There was no remorse in the way his arm slung over the gun, beading sweat running towards whatever it could caress, his other arm resting beside him. He was sturdy, infinite as he rose closer… he knew he was successful in his attempt. His entire figure blurred as tears rolled horizontally down your face. He wasn’t worried that he’d killed you- that was his goal. He was worried you weren’t dead. And that just wouldn’t do.

His overworked cowboy boots were standing before you, kicking up ground into the dusk. His heals clicking louder, shotgun returned to his hand and pointed towards you; he locked his eyes into yours with an unnervingly malevolent gaze. It hurt to move, so you didn’t. You could hear him breathing, wondering for how long you’d be doing the same. At least you were leaving at the hands of God- not from the mouth of a Clicker.

How do they feel dying? Someone had told you a long time ago about how they’re still conscious up there, through it all- taking over the functions and body but leaving the brain to feel. Relief then, probably. To finally return to the ground with their brothers and sisters, not caring if it takes fire and gasoline, and his hands around your neck. You were okay with death if it meant never ending up even further caged inside your own brain. Or the end up in the act of taking someone else’s.

You whimpered at him, unable to move anything but your eyes, so you bore into his. He must have somehow set you on fire, your body scorching and reaching for air as he looked over you. You saw God in just the creases of his eyes— they smile, adorning his warm skin. The wrinkles whispering love songs to the skin they get closer to. “I am moving with you (time)((love)).” Age. Speckled. Small spots turning into stars in a night sky.

His irises were warm, far away, like he’s looked death in face, shaken its hand and kissed it better- and failed, mercilessly. Big and brown, eating away at your flesh. They were so sad, but not for your fate. They were sad that your fate had to be the same as the people he’d lost before. The ones you had lost. How everyone goes these days. He was sad it all turned out this way.

You knew in that moment that he’d seen this before- death. Of course he had. At his age, brows furrowing and light speckled against the darkness of his beard. The creases in his face softened as he looked into you.

He’s seen this before- a young girl bleeding out into the red dirt, fading, whispering away from a dying world. You stare up at him, knowing he is waiting for a response that you didn’t have. Spare me, you thought. His thick fingers curled around the base of his weapon and his knuckles turned white beneath the dried blood and dryer skin. He was contemplating. He was trying to forget.

Your own blood pooling, his knees cracked as he bent down to get a closer look. You felt yourself slipping as his fingers brushed over your skin in an understanding nod.

“I know it hurts, baby.” You may not be able to feel another’s hands, soon. You were weeping. “But I ain’t gonna hurt you sweet thing. Stay still.” The last bit a demand, rather than a suggestion.

He took in your form as your own blood cooled beneath you. He was making a decision. Suddenly, his face pained, burrowing the depth of his pain between his eyebrows. Were you praying to him? Screaming his name in vain? Begging for forgiveness?

He held his hand over you, pausing before reaching you and sinking his fingertips to your flesh, feeling. In the same motion, he lifted your shirt, brushing his knuckles across your side. You felt it. Deep.

He moved on to the legs of your pants, searching for the exact entry point. You wailed when his fingers danced on top of your skin. Eventually losing patience, he flattens his massive hand flesh to you, and slides his hands up your body. There it was, right above your hip bone on your left side. You were going to die. You, now covering him, seeping warmth into the cracks of his skin. Your DNA fusing into his. Your throat hoarse.

He stared down at you for a moment before he let out a sigh and picked you up, grunting at the weight of another human in his arms. He laid you on his lap and you stayed, languidly, letting him do as he pleases. It’s not as if you were really feeling much besides the consistent fire kissing your veins. The very veins that are bleeding onto his lap, seeping into his own cuts- you found yourself contemplating, hoping, there was still more seats left in the Heaven at his feet.

“Shhh, relax baby, stay still. Gonna be j’us fine sweet thing. Patchin’ you up. Gonna find the rest of ‘em then we’ll get somewhere safe, okay? Sun’s settin’. Need you to be still.” He hurried through his words, looking around for who could be inviting themselves into the party after hearing you struggle. He reached for a knife in his pocket and you let out another wail. He winced at its power and tore his sleeve from his shirt, securing and adding pressure ever so slightly to your side.

Them?

“This wasn’t supposed to happen, fuck.” He yelled another man’s name and then he was chanting quickly under his breath, “fuck, fuck, fuck.” He was doing a sour attempt at controlling his bodily reaction to you as you lie over his lap, soaking his denim in your blood.

As the seconds ticked by, you felt a surreal detachment from the world around you, his cooing voice seemed to slip from your grasp, as if you were drifting away from reality. It was peaceful, until it wasn’t. He was attempting to move you. The sun was setting. For the last time.

“Look how fuckin’ young she is Tommy.” And then another Angel appeared. He was angry as he looked down upon you, but it wasn’t directed towards you. He must have seen it in your eyes, death. “We got you baby. Settle down.” The voice was solid and clear, unlike the other. This was the person he was yelling for.

“I didn’t fuckin’ do it Tommy. I didn’t.” There was pain in his voice. Anger. God spoke and you thought maybe another bullet had entered your skin. You screamed like it had and the warmth spread.

Suddenly God wasn’t as he appeared before. His blood-red appearance contrasted sharply with the angelic figure beside him, his heat poured over your being as the Angel standing next to him wept; both of whom seemed strangely familiar to each other, though not to you. Their faces were disappearing into themselves, blurring.

He sneered into you and you felt it vibrate your bones. Looking as if he was laughing. Or maybe he was screaming. Everything, you, are fading at this point. The caress of the sky, humming lullabies into your hair.

His drawl sounds oddly beautiful running from the tip of his teeth, touching tongue, to the hot mid-July dusk; the mosquitoes riding around on droplets of wet dampenings- the sound settling at the base of your eardrum and running like water towards your center. Than towards your hip bones. He looked different now as he sang you to sleep, brushing his thick, callused fingers down the side of your face, nook of your neck, clearing it from the dirt that has already made a home in your skin. Your matted hair sticking to drying lips, yours.

You needed to focus on something- the slick of his mouth, lips, opening. Tongue running outwards until his teeth bit down. He runs his flattened fingertips against your scalp, trying to calm the pain of fading from the world. He had a mustache, graying facial hair. He was haunting.

There was nowhere else to look, his form hovered above you in contemplation.

Gazing upon him was like glimpsing a celestial being. Maybe the sun, itself, coming down to Earth to scorch it anew. He was red. Fire. He was melancholy, sadness, and so goddamn pretty.

He wasn’t God. He was Lucifer himself- a morning star. Light-bringer. Life-taker. Eenie meanie mini mo. He was heralding the dawn.

The other one, who at first you thought was Angel, must be God. He was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. But there was something about the one that almost smiled like the Devil. The one cast in red. The one who killed you. Amidst the echoes of their argument, you couldn't help but wonder if there was more to their anger than just the fact that the pretty one had shot you.

Amidst the confusion and pain, you heard distant voices calling out to you. The words sounded far away, as if you were standing three rooms away, ear against the door.

“Hey-“ it sounded closer now, coming from the emitting light. “Gonna hold you tight now Bunny, don’t move.”

He’s gone, the warmth from his fingertips has set in on their initial touch, burning heat like vines across your arm, stomach. Each bite individually riding its way towards your ears, body, core. You’re put atop something hard. In. Out. Holding less air than the lowered clouds in front of you.

Fire kissing at your stomach, making you wonder if it was from where his hand was sprawled, lower, pushing, hoisting your legs upwards, carefully unto another warm being- a horse.

You were too tired to keep your eyes open. So you closed them and softly said goodbye to yourself. The only words you had spoken, and no one has heard them. They were just for you.

As you close your eyes and slide further into the darkness, you find it almost humorous, the entire story of your death.

Sure, no one told you God was a cowboy, but they never mentioned the Devil was, too. And it seemed a lot more people had met the Devil. Including you.

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A/N: Thank you to everyone who commented on the intro post. Please let me know what you think 🥹 smut happening… SOON! Y’all mean the world!!

Tag List: @worhols @mishasminion360 @justagalwhowrites @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @romanarose @milla-frenchy @bandluvr97 @alwaysdjarin @basicoccult @hellfyreroz @northernbluess @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @pr0ximamidnight @bambydxll @morgaussy @n7cje @theywhowriteandknowthings @gracie7209 @pedritoferg @twirl731 @med494 @k-ra @megangovier20 @rayslittlekitten @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @gintheginger @obscurexsorrows @cool-iguana @livingdeadmaria @ours-is-a-strange-fate @sarap-77

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pascalsbby · 7 months

Text

The Devil & His Brother / II

Joel x Tommy x You

Prologue / Part I / Masterlist

Summary: “Good, been staring out the window for far too long,” he said. “You can look at something prettier now. Close your eyes, bunny.”

He slipped around on the wetness of your lips before he parted them with one, thick finger.

“Stick out your tongue for me.”

AKA: Bath time with the Millers 😈

Word Count: 7K

Warnings: 18 + mndi, DUBCON DRUG USE: enemies to lovers, heavy talk & use of drugs/pills, morally grey Millers, slow-burn, angst/comfort/sex, age gap, power imbalance, possessive tendencies, major daddy issues (that’s why you need BOTH Miller brothers instead of 1). talk of death, shit-talking god & praying for the devil himself.

I feel like I'm sending out something so personal... and familiar in ways that I know aren't. Maybe that's how memories feel after a while.

God is fucking with my oblivion. If he wants forgiveness, he shouldn't have given us memory.

- Vi Khi Nao

“Can’t do it, Joel.”

“Goddamnit.” His huff was deep and bothered by your apparent inability to do anything he asked of you.

His anger didn't sit with you, but himself. He didn't really know that, though. Doesn't feel too much beneath the thickness of his skull. Hard-headed fucker.

The scent of you hung leaden in the steam-filled bathroom. Iron. Blood. Something saccharine that made him ache as he peeled your clothes from your weak skin. Lately, his temper has been short, and unbeknownst to you he hasn’t always been this way. Even in recent years. You assumed he was always like this, further etching the lines that softened on his face (only after yelling at you), but he would argue that you were acting like a little fuckin’ brat… so his snippy remarks were justified.

"Did all the work of carryin' you here and now you're gonna off yourself? Cause you won't let me help you bathe in the only hot bath water you've seen since you were what.... sixteen? M' not that big and scary, Bunny."

You both had your own ways of dealing with things, you guessed. Verbal expression of any kind besides small, whispered sentences had been scarce. Except for when he was angry. Except for right now.

You stopped listening because suddenly nothing seemed to matter too much. It didn’t all feel so black and white; life-ending like he was making it seem, being a real grump.

“Are you listenin’ to m–?”

His tuneful voice now sounded hollow as it bounced off of your blurring peripheral vision.

You didn’t answer Joel, instead, you listened to the music in your head and wondered how it got there. How you got into his arms.

Joel called Tommy’s name after you stumbled into his warmth. You winced at his raised voice, almost breaking you from a blissful trance. “God damnit Tommy, get in here. I can’t hold her up and wash her at the same time.” Ten minutes of Joel trying to get you in the bath like you were a fucking toddler was enough. He wouldn’t be able to hold your body up and wash you simultaneously, either. It was a two-person job to do it correctly, and gently.

Tommy returned an hour or so earlier, saying whoever had followed them had taken another way around, but they’d seen fresh hoof marks. “It’s weird Joel,” he said.

“Fuck, I just washed these jea-“ his voice coming from down the hallway. He turned the corner, changed into clean clothes, and was taken aback by your bare chest staring back at him from underneath Joel’s veined arm. His skin burns into yours.

“What the fuck did you give her?” He was immediately angry.

Give me? Peace. Radiating warmth, you thought. He didn’t know that you didn’t feel a lot anymore, but you knew deep down that you felt something more for Joel.

“She’s in pain, Tommy. Only thing she’s felt in the past nine years is pain. Help me get her in here and then take off the fucking jeans then, I don’t care. Get some towels and then get in here. Don’t know how much time we have ‘fore it wears off.” Joel growled. Then you close your eyes and let go, swimming through the low buzz in between their thrown bickers.

He’d talked real sweet to you, in hopes of getting you to take a bath. Mostly because being 'somewhere else' would be best when washing your wound, away from the water gripping at your side. Another small reason was that he didn’t want to hear you mumble, “no,” again. You needed a proper bath if you were ever going to get better. Although you didn’t seem too interested in such

That must have been the extent of Tommy’s anger, because he listens exactly to what Joel says. He unlocks his leather-backed metal belt and it hits the floor in the same instance, cling. He doesn’t mention the pills again, just takes his jeans off before he turns the handles of the running bath off and assumes his position outside of it. Joel takes his own shirt off, skin soft-looking and warm. He was sweating, skin slightly glowing from the sweat reflecting the bathroom lights. You could smell him. He kept his boxers on, still maintaining a sliver of his respect. He was willing his cock to follow the same.

He sunk himself into the bathwater with a deep groan, one of relief. Tommy walked you closer and helped you climb into the bath. It burned, felt like it was boiling. You were standing in it now, between Joel’s legs, hands still enclosed in Tommy’s as he helped you keep your balance. Joel was trying not to think about how your core was aligned perfectly before him as you stood. You turned, ass swaying as you prepared to sit on his clothed lap. They both looked away as your body was fluctuating in the prettiest fucking way they’d both ever seen.

“S’okay baby, sit down.” You bent down to hold the sides of the tub, letting Tommy go. You were spread open right in front of Joel’s face, the back of your pussy practically calling to him as it finally came in contact with his lap.

Tommy turns around and sighs before walking out of the bathroom to fetch towels like an obedient dog. Joel shuffled you, with what would have been awkward silence between the three of you if two of you weren’t high. If one of you hadn’t just left the room.

Joel has already swallowed his dusty piece of sanctuary. You had too, in the tea he made you thirty minutes ago. He was dangling another pill in front of you, now that Tommy was out of sight. This time allowing you a choice; rather than remain silent as it swam down your throat.

"Let me help you sum’ more, baby. Gonna give you something to help the hurt. Don’t go running, an’ don't tell Tommy. He wouldn't like that I'm makin’ you feel good."

Telling Tommy would consist of more non-compartmentalized guilt and yet another thing for him to look down upon Joel for. Another bullet point to add to Tommy’s list of Reasons Joel is a Fucking Asshole. And you needed help right now. This is how he could help you. So no, he would not be telling Tommy that he fed the girl more pills, too. She was simply exhausted and needed help bathing. She was in pain and needed him; them. Tommy would have done the same, no?

He slipped around on the wetness of your lips before he parted them with one, thick finger.

“Stick out your tongue for me.”

He notes your lack of hesitation to open your mouth for him. He places the bitter thing there, gently.

“Swallow.”

He smirked as you obeyed.

“You’re a’ good little thing, you know. S'good to listen and mind.” He tucked your hair behind your ear so that it wouldn’t keep falling in your face.

His drugs were now yours. His regrets, too. And he secretly hoped that his desires were burning into your body and being met with the same inner incineration. But he wasn’t regretting it right that moment. Not as he watched your body slacken. He knew your entire being was numb when you were reaching up at him, fingers looking for feeling.

His thumb ran across the plumpness of your bottom lip and his thighs flexed inadvertently. You felt the small jerk of his body, your eyes drawn upwards meeting his. He felt the moment your breathing became deeper, slipping through his skull and resting on the center of his lust. Then he heard the teetering of the old house as it sang. He heard chatter outside, and it all sounded happy, nothing scary around. He returned to your nose, where a little black wish sat, kissing your cheek. He moved his thumb up to brush the eyelash away and whisper his own silent prayer.

You looked around his face before resting your gaze on his lips, and he knew that you were slipping deeper too. The moment ended in a split second torn into a million, and you were looking him in the eyes. Your pupils are already blown, helpless, and in need of strong arms to hold you upright. It fucking hurt. You hadn’t been so willing without the drugs. The pit of his stomach crawled in need as your back rested against it. Your ass was scooted up, and he could feel the break between your legs, could feel the warmer skin of your pussy kissing his thighs.

He loosely assumed that you’d never been in the bath with a man before, either. Probably never been naked in front of one... or two. And he knew that it shouldn’t be something he was proud of, to have you here, safe in his arms and naked in his bath. But he was.

“Feel something?”

“Mhmm.”

He felt your response in the tone of your flexing abdomen. His wide fingertips sink into your cushioned fat and the softness of your stretch marks. It stung, the water, like having his presence near it set it off, simmering around his body, trying to kiss anything of him that it could. The water was pretty pink for a few moments, your body releasing the hold it had on your dried blood and the dirt accompanying it. His hands were occupied by the washcloth he was softly rubbing against your body. Then it was dark, and whenever you looked down it was harder and harder to see the end of his legs, stretching out before and underneath you, holding your body (against his) up. “Fuck me.” It was he who had released that sound.

“Good, been staring out tha’ window for far too long,” he said. “You can look at something prettier now. Close your eyes, bunny.”

You did what Joel wanted of you, and quickly you fell into the heavy light buzzing right outside of yourself like your aura was bouncing off of the smoldering color... like a blanket, maybe. One of blurred confessions and soft, radiating heat. Your arms are heavier but in a slow melting comfort, and it feels like butterflies right above your hip bones crawling right towards your cunt in a low pulse. As if the energy moved and hovered itself into your underwear and is prodding its fingertips into your soaking center, touching every bit of swollen flesh as his fingers disappear into you. But he’s sitting still, you think. He is everywhere but inside of you.

Your memories lilt against your skull, retracting from any indication of themselves. Much of who you were is gone, left in dark patches of shadow and musk. Outlines of a monster (human) ((him)) setting his jaw on your shoulder from behind, willing the air to kiss that spot right under your ear. Your own blood, his sweat. The undulating sway of his plush lips and impending jaw from below. You’d only seen him this way, from below. Like he was something holy, forever above you and rarely looking down. You reach up and feel his face, running the sensitive skin of your fingertips against his stubbly chin and neck.

Most of your time was spent contently sitting in your (Joel’s) favorite chair, the one you hadn't really left or released yourself from, just assuming that it had now formed to your body. Maybe you had melted into the dirty crevices, instead. You wanted nothing more than to sink into it and become a part of the worn and well-loved fabric. No one expected anything of this chair. For it to simply exist confirms its usefulness.

A week or so ago, you had been dying, pooling blood turned your skin terian-like, how the tips of your fingers used to turn in the now-cold bath. He was right– it had been years. This death doesn't feel much different. Just slower. You had been doing better before Tommy left to check the perimeters and outward land of Jackson. They didn’t know that no one would be following you. Or looking for you… needing you. Praying for you.

Joel thinks a lot about the comfort-glaze of your eyes whenever you saw Tommy that day like you’d been happy that he was there to see you off, hold your hand as you looked into the sky and deflate into the ground. He thinks about how you’d probably rather have him here, now.

Maybe that’s what you write in your notebook, still sitting in the chair, but this time with your face turned towards your lap, completely lost under the lamp every night around 10:37.

Maybe that's what is feeding into his mood.

You would have already been in that bath if Tommy were to ask you, rather than Joel. He thinks about how Tommy’s eyes lit up when he first looked into yours, hazel. Gaze flashing as if in recognition of an importance. Joel could see a hint of the brother he once knew, before his world ended. Before all of your worlds ended. He knew in that moment that something shifted for the both of you, but for Joel, it felt like drowning.

He looked at you and he saw the torn, soft skin of a small animal. He didn’t know that the damage was on the inside.

Joel resented the way he was drawn to you, it made him viscerally angry at himself. He was angry at how calling you baby had been so easy, the way he felt his cock thicken at the sound of your grunt in agreement. Or the smell of you, even though you hadn’t bathed in god knows how fucking long. He pretended it was the drugs, but it wasn’t. These were his secrets and the web was already intertwining with itself. He almost feels like if he were to tug on it now, even more shit would fall out, come unstuck and drag him into the ground to a place where he’s surprised he isn't lying already.

How can you hide such a carnal want? He’s unfamiliar with the feeling. Uncomfortable with it.

What would they say? Would Tess say? “One more pussy for you to fuck, Joel? This time it's new and fresh, betcha could teach her a thing or two, huh?” Tess had always been the jealous type, Joel clocked it the first week they met. She hid it well, but you can’t hide from someone who recognizes something in you, because they recognize it in themselves, too. Joel and Tess, Tess and Joel. The town knew there was something happening between the two of them, but no one said anything. They knew Joel was her loyal guard dog. They knew not to disturb Mr. Miller's peace. He was a kind enough man, besides that.

He was hoping for anything other than to hear the question, "You think you can save this one, too?" He knew that he couldn't. He couldn't promise your safety. However, he could sense that you were in need of it. Perhaps not obviously at first glance; you appeared tough on the surface, but there was something in your eyes that begged him, “Release me. Let me rest.” Something calling his name. He was hearing it now, in the cadence of your voice, whispering around his head as he stopped himself from touching you.

He knew that they, you, would get him in trouble if he didn’t stop it and try to pawn it off to someone else before it (his desire) got too bad. “Hey, look, she’s with him, not me. Now let me sit and stutter into the darkness while you take the only thing that has made you feel an inch of something in the past month.”

They would chain him up if he ever admitted the level of his desires. Embarrassed at the way he was already entirely attached to you. Something about, “I almost killed you, but let me be the savior. Love me enough to let me swallow you whole,” probably wouldn’t sit too well.

“Joel?” you questioned, slow and small.

His skin rises instantly, stunned by your sound and the touch of your body. “What did you–?” he softly shhh’s you because suddenly, the way your body hums into his when you speak is too much. Your hand continues to fall slowly against the thicker hair near his jaw, ghosting over unsaid words and lips. His breathing was becoming too heavy for someone who was just there to be a savior.

“Gettin’ clean feels good,” his heavy thumbs pinching deeper into skin, voice far away and muffled under yearning, drowning, “don’t it, pretty?”

You let your arms hit the water, too tired and blissed out to hold them up longer. He chuckled and it rang through every inch of your nude being. The water splashed, and the roundness of Joel’s lower belly retracted quickly from your back, startled by the closeness of your body. You hadn’t felt it before, his whole self pressed firmly against you. The thickness of it. Your thighs oozed over his lap, completely covering him. Your feet ended at almost his mid-leg. He stretched further out in the bath ahead of you.

Joel didn’t need a verbal response from you. Knew you couldn’t give him one anyway. He knew that he should, that’s the right way to go about this. But he had just carried you over his lap for a week, bleeding out on him, screaming. He would help you relieve yourself, too, when needed. Couldn’t pee by yourself the first couple of days. Didn’t bother him much, not after what he’d seen. He’s had much worse cross his hands. He knew the whole ride back that if you were conscious enough to know that you were still alive, you’d be embarrassed to hell that he would help you off the horse, pull your pants down, and hold you. He couldn’t understand why that had shuffled something inside of him. The point is, he’s seen it all anyway. All of you, physically at least. Now he was simply just helping you out some more. Until you could tell him to stop. It's the least he could do if he really did shoot her.

He watched as they pulled the bullet out of your side, Tommy pale-faced in the corner, shrinking.

Joel knew you were out from the pain meds they had stuck into your veins, but that wasn’t a good enough promise that you would sit still through it, that it would be painless.

When you hold more weight, you need a little more.

He slipped you a little something extra before all the men got there that night to see and help. Your body was lying on his kitchen table, sweating and tired, dying. But you– you were asleep with a soft smile on your lips. He held you still, just just in case, hands pushed down into your cushioned stomach. The other was around your wrists, positioned just above your head so that the ‘doctors’ had room to move freely around your side. It was hard not to stare at a body that looked well-fed and healthy, in a world like this. Your breasts were moving softly with every movement of your body from other hands. Your hair under your arms was dark and visible in the way he was holding your hands above your head.

No one dared speak upon your body with Joel around, especially since he was the one that dragged you in here, meaning you were his property, Miller property, now.

TOMMY looked away upon entering, watching Joel retreat from where he was whispering into your ear. He could hear the bass of his brother's voice, slowly echoing in the hallway. He would pretend, for the sake of his sanity, that he didn’t know exactly what was happening before witnessing it. Especially after Joel had mentioned a couple of times that you seemed closer to his age, meaning keep an eye on this one, brother. “She’d probably like ya more anyway, younger n’ more capable. Bigger name in Jackson, too.” This coming from the mouth of a man who even went as far as to say, “Coulda’ made a good wife,” three hours after shooting her.

People all deal with things differently, he guesses.

It wouldn’t be the first time that he secretly craved something that his big brother was dangling in front of him, knowing that somehow he had the advantage. But then Tommy felt guilty thinking that way. Joel had been through so much and lost too many people for Tommy to get in the way of whatever look took over your body as you sat against his chest, halfway immersed in water and looking up into Joel’s face. You looked more peaceful now than you have at any moment since stepping into this house.

“Come and try to get her, Tommy.”

But of course, he won’t show that he yearns for you, too. It feels wrong. That Joel was the one to kill you but you were staying with him; that he was your primary safekeeper and healer. You were sitting on his lap, nipples hard and body at attention, peacefully asleep with your cheek pushed up against the hair on Joel's chest, resting in the arms of the man who nearly succeeded at killing you.

If he were to say anything else, it would be, “I know you fucking drugged her, Joel. N’ you didn’t even give her a choice.” But he didn’t want to wake a sleeping bear, not right now. Not when you looked so peaceful and pain-free for the first time since they grabbed the world from underneath your feet. Not when the very thing Tommy could not stop thinking about was lying on the bear’s chest.

YOU can feel yourself between your legs. It’s the kind of absentee pulse that you almost want to stop, but it feels too good. Light fingertips brushing the hair on the back of your neck. Like that of knowing a lightning storm is crawling its way across the night sky. Or hearing the neighbor roll their trash can down their road, unable to tell if it’s thunder or an earthquake in its deep humming, only to be relieved that it is in fact another human existing in close proximity to you. Although not something that you remember too well now, just the feeling. It’s surprising and suspenseful at the same moment. It’s love and then what comes after.

There’s always an after.

Then you feel the drip running from right inside of you into the hot water, against the fluttering of your thickening lips.

Please. Kiss me here. Hard, hurtful, and sinful. Strip me to my bones and then use them as your toys. Then tell me I’m a good girl and run your hands through my hair. Tell me I fought good and hard and then let me lie here for a while.

Chanting like a prayer.

You remember the smell of his lap, much different than the smell of his neck, but still devastatingly carnal. You cradled into the warmth of his neck; in the burn of his embrace and you sat there, teetering between consciousness and the bliss of finally being held. You had always been afraid that you would leave the world and not even be able to wrap your own arms around you. But someone was holding you before the ground will be— forever. This didn’t feel like dying through.

This felt like something else. Similar, but different.

You sat on top of Joel’s lap in the bath for at least an hour, resting your head on his shoulder, turning and resting it against his chest, too. They both washed you, silently eating you up. Tommy stood outside of the bath, combing your hair after Joel ran his gruff hands through it, pawing at your scalp and rubbing the dirt (hurt) from your scalp. No one talked, everyone inside their own thoughts.

Joel was stuck thinking about the small bags of things you had lost grasp on whenever you fell (were shot). It looked like time-worn items that meant something, from before the world was this way. One is an old driver's license- your smile, happy, content, young. Your name, now repeating in Joel’s head over and over, and over and over, coating every inch of him. He still hadn’t heard it come from your lips.

9 years ago, this all started. You, now in your mid-20s. How long had you been all alone? No one had come running to your corpse.

They had come to the conclusion that you were doing well on your own. You weren’t skin and bones like most of them who are lucky enough to survive and find their way to Jackson. You were thick, and heavy in the most beautiful way. Heavy meant healthy, able to hunt, and useful. It meant maybe being able to carry children. It meant handfuls of skin and whispered praises. It meant more to wash, to take in, and try not to touch. It was too much for both of them. The only difference is that Joel knew he was a weak man. He wouldn’t be able to control himself if he kept feeling this way.

After they removed you from Joel’s lap, they towel dried you and you slowly became more aware of how different four large hands felt grasping at your body, taking care of you. Helping you.

An hour or so had passed and Tommy was lying in bed next to you, reading something. Joel turned the corner and leaned up against the doorframe.

“Tommy.” There was tar in his throat, dripping down the back of his tongue and settling in his chest. He was a million pounds and his legs could no longer bear the weight of her. Of you. Of his guilt for slipping your drugs and undressing you in his bathroom.

He looked into you, bounced off the sides of your mind, and then straight into the bed you were lying upon, sleeping so peacefully next to his brother. Tommy sees the pain in Joel's eyes, hung lower in embarrassment.

He did this to you. He took the life of someone who had the rest of this fucked up world ahead of her. And it was a slow and painful death, too. You were someone’s daughter. It’s fucked up how the world works like that, huh? It wasn’t enough losing his own daughter- he had to kill someone else too. Does your dad, husband, or mother, feel you slipping from the world? Do they hear hushed whispers in the night of your name leaving something tongue?

Joel stopped believing in God a long time ago. He was slipping from his grip, facing the fall, and Sarah’s last moments solidified his feet on the ground. Almost under. Still surprised it’s not under.

“I’ll take her, Joel. In the mornin we’ll pack up some things and go back to my house.” He said softly, nodding and looking down at the ground in an unspoken, “I know.”

It's Tommy who steps forward, taking charge and offering to care for you. He can sense his brother’s connection to you, why he wants to save you so badly. So much so that he can’t. He doesn’t trust himself for what will happen if someone else dies under his watch, because of him. Someone innocent. “I know she’s sleepin’ but can we have a moment?” Joel asks.

Tommy doesn’t question him, he marks his page, sets down his book, and carries his body from the bed to the hallway. Joel waited a moment and assured me that you were tucked in well, warm from the bath. He sighed, one of pain.

“I’m so sorry,” his voice was stern in the way that held back his tears. “You have to believe me,” he whispered your name, the first time it left his tongue and he wanted to say it over and over again. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have done that to you without askin’.” He caressed your face, watching as your body reacted to his touch, stirring, before the bed creaked with the weight of his body leaving, and then he was gone. You had heard everything, felt him leaving. The room felt entirely too empty.

The Devil was begging you to forgive him, and you wanted to. You wanted to bring your palms together and whisper his name through the cracks, hoping he would hear your silent prayer. “Let me stay here, with you.”

Tommy entered the room again and sank under the covers. He moved his body closer to you and you decided to bask in it, instead.

You wake up, unclear but clean. You don’t remember last night in great detail, or at least a few hours of it, at all. He slept peacefully despite the world’s end, cocooned in a haven his mind crafted. Your mind was far less forgiving— or maybe you still hadn’t learned how to ‘deal with it’. You always felt like everyone dealt with It better. The room lay shrouded in darkness, your thoughts raging, Joel’s words echoed in your mind, etching against the soft inside of your head, deeper with each repetition. His guilty confession and desperate plea for forgiveness replayed. But forgiveness was no longer something you believed in. The world had ended, shattered, and reassembled without remorse. You are sober now. You fall back asleep.

Your eyes opened again to Tommy caving the bed closer to him, moving your body closer, too. You closed your eyes quickly, away from him, and pretended you hadn’t been awake and listening to the lull of his deep breathing, trying to gain your standing. You felt comforted, waking up next to his freckled shoulders. The hazy light of morning was trailing in from the window and laying out on the carpet, stretching itself in the morning confusion.

There was one thing you were absolutely-fucking-sure about, and it was that Joel Miller had drugged you, and it had secretly awakened something unknown inside of you. It tickled, but it was shoving its way up your stomach and relentless, neverending in its pursuit of something.

Tommy Miller had saved you. At least he had put you to bed, it seems. And with him, too, rather than the one who seems to be dissolving into his own. Your hair was wet and you smelled like Joel, but you were shrouded in Tommy’s clothes. Slightly more fitting, and better kept together.

You’d never slept in a bed with a man before. And then all of sudden there were two, interchangeably. Brothers. One that smiled above your eyes and one below. Ones that rocked the bed differently each time their body swam through the damp covers.

You’d never taken a bath with a man either. Never had anyone's brother ever pulled your sinking body out of bathwater. You remember the inward push of the water and the hands that followed, reaching through it, pushing you forward to Tommy.

There’s a quick assessment you’ve always done, automatically but unintentionally, “Would this one stop if I asked him to?” Most are ‘no’s. Tommy was a yes in your mind. He would put away his soft, white wings and free you from his divinity if you were to ask.

He was sipping his coffee, dressed in his usual, alone at the table. He had opened the blinds he made sure three times he shut last night. The smoke billowed from the base of the cup into his face and hair, mixing with the silver tuffs. They shone against the darkness at the nape of his neck and the bottom of his chin from the emitting light.

He looked calm sitting there, as content as a devil could. He felt you before you had even turned the corner upstairs, but he didn’t say anything. He never really did.

That being said, you can't remember much of anything besides wondering if it was indeed your body that rustled the ground that day. It was, and then you felt a man. A few days could have been weeks, and suddenly you were sitting in a town. A word that didn’t mean too much for a long time, but it did again; sitting at the breakfast table of a man, undulating under his gaze and between the blank spaces of your memory.

An animal caged inside itself looks for relief in any way it can. Even if the relief is a different kind of pain masked as want. It meant throwing away your expectations and doing what it took to survive.

You intended on speaking first. Rather, you reached the bottom of the stairs and tucked Tommy’s red flannel across your sparsely clothed body, and suddenly heard, “Shouldn’t be half-naked when Ellie’s here. She’s a kid.”

He didn’t even take the time to move his attention away from his coffee cup. That would be too much effort given to you. You ignored him, wanting to scream, “Was she here last night when you played with me like I was your little fucking doll?” You didn’t give him what he wanted, but still hoping he would give you what you did.

You had watched the back of your eyelids dance with the small red and green dots for two more hours before getting up, willing remembrance. And oh, did it come.

“Got any more of those?”

“Of what?” He spat, eyebrows lowering in pretend interest in his hot coffee again… into his fuming lap. He knew exactly what the fuck you were talking about. How dare he take advantage of you and then throw it to the side like nothing happened. He was embarrassed. Embarrassed that he got high and took you with him.

“This is feeling’ a lot different than last night. Those little round things that kept me pliant an’ dead enough for you to press yourself into my naked body? – Joel, do you think I’m not payin’ any fuckin’ attention? The second I tasted the salt on your fingertips, I knew it was you shovin’ pills down my throat. I knew it. And the way you were talking to me, calling me babygirl and sweetheart? Then I didn’t know anything, for a while. Not really. But Tommy,” you were raising your voice now, “Tommy was there too, then I woke up in his bed with his clothes on instead of yours— just tell me what the fuck happened Joel!”

“Lower your voice, right now.” He was pointing at you, and his body moved closer to yours. “You… you wanted it Bunny,” He growled, “You practically drooled across my palm.” He sighed, gathered the lies from his web, and prepared them. He had already prepared his own cocoon, years ago.

He hadn't been the only one whose high wore off far too early in the night.

“You didn’t say you didn’t want ‘em and—“

Then you spoke above the sentence he was starting to dig deeper into the ground, to his surprise, in a softer tone. One that had a hint of sweetness to it, of want.

“Sweethear–”

“Do it again. Felt good.”

You liked it. Wasn’t the only thing he wanted to shove down your throat, either. No, no, no. Shaking the thought from his head.

He removed his eyes from the creases in the wood floor and sewed them into your gaze instead, eyebrows cresting. He wanted to make sure he heard you right. He wanted to hear you repeat it.

“Say that again?”

“Said feels good when you touch me like that. When I’m melting into your flesh and sinking down your bones. That’s what the water felt like. First, it felt like fire, perfect for a Devil, and then it felt like a calm warmth. Then your hands were touchin’ me and, no one has ever touched–

a pause, “like—“

“No one has ever touched you, bunny?”

“No, Joel. And I hate you so much for making me feel this way. For showing me something I can’t continue to have because it’s wrong and, for being so sweet to me and then eating me up like I'm a burden because you couldn't just fucking kill me when you had the chance... and…I can barely even fucking walk. I am in so much pain but you took it away for a while last night. You took everything bad away. Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Hate me, huh? Thas’a strong word for someone who is depending on me, wanting more.” Good. This is how it needed to be. He needed to take care of Ellie, himself now. He promised her that he would.

“Depending on you? Sorry, I forgot we hadn’t got to that part of the conversation yet, past the one where you drugged me. You dropped me into your brother's arms as of last night, didn’t you? I remember it, you musta popped one too many, huh?”

Your attitude and his lack of sleep were making it easier to will the words off the end of his tongue.

“He seemed better suited for someone…” he looked you up and down, “like yourself.”

You didn’t have anything to say to that, and he was immediately sorry after speaking about it.

“For being such a big bad man in this town, you don’t have your fucking shit together,” returning the look he gave you, “do you?”

You were out of breath, releasing too much of yourself into his anger, knees weak and side-splitting in pain. You weren’t going to tell him that you were awake when he begged for your forgiveness. That you heard every word he whispered and repeated it back to yourself as if it was a passage pulled right from the pen-marked Bible your dad used to shove into your hands nightly.

He thought you had been listening to everyone talking, in the mess hall and whatever drama Ellie had brought home. Maybe even Tommy had told you about the real Joel. The real Joel will tear you apart.

You sat down on the sunken chestnut couch and the pillows lifted more of his smell into your space, settling and trying to get comfortable. You both remained silent, stung. It made you even more mad that he had the ability to stick straight into your anger like that. So you wished for a way to really hurt him like you were some kind of child.

You weren’t done yet. You were angry. So fucking angry at everything you have endured. And he was standing there, pity and disgust in his eyes–but he was looking, seeing… listening.

“Tess.” Her name stung like the sound it ended with, for a reason you didn’t know, but inherently felt after last night. The hurt that flashed into his dark pupils spread through the tightness in his jaw.

“Don’t you fuckin-”

“Oh. Shut. Up. Joel. Heard ‘er talking to Tommy last night. Came knocking on the door around 1:30 am, asking for you. Tommy went to your room and you weren’t in there. Went back downstairs and said he couldn't find you, seen you only a couple of hours ago. She was throwing her hands against the door like it was hers to tear down. Guess she didn’t know I wasn’t with you,” you took a deep breath, trying to relieve the pain so you could continue, “Have you seen him? N’ that girl? Tommy, she's a fucking kid. Ain't right for him.” You mimicked her concern. You knew immediately who she was asking for. “Maybe I should go ask Tess if she would give me a few, she seems like she’d like to know what’s going on.”

His jaw was flexing, his eyes burrowing into you, biting the inside of his lip. You continued,

“Feels’good being numb for a’while. I’m always fanning off another fire but it always finds the loose thread and kisses it ablaze anyway. This feels like sinking... like I don’t have to fight anymore.”

His deep breath stifled the fire on his chest.

“Know it’s good,” his tone falling deep, low, and warning, “But you don’t need anymore.”

“Don’t I? You were the one who fucking shot me. The least you could do is slip me some pills. I’m in pain, Joel. I’m hurting.” He knew that you weren’t just talking about the wound in your side, that he put it there with his own split metal. He wanted to take that hurt away, get you curled up tight against him and high, painless, protected yet free– from a world you were too young to be living in alone. But how could he protect you from even himself?

He didn't even save her. Nothing has changed now besides the fact he finds it harder and harder to get out of bed every day. That he’s running low on whiskey and that's what keeps the bear inside. The pills keep it sedated. How could he admit that he was not fit to be your protector, and the only other person in town who it could be, was Tommy?

That's why today was the last day you'd be slamming down his stairs. Your footsteps were a reminder that the hurt animal had made its way into his house. A reminder that he was the one who hurt it.“‘M not given’ you anymore. So don’t open your mouth about it again. Got it?"

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