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lieutenantsluvr · 6 hours ago

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Nights In White Satin | Oneshot

div credit dollywons

masterlist

❝ nights in white satin, never reaching the end ❞

pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, NSFW, smut, mentions of violence, death, and gore. mentions events of s2e2, mild angst, confession, mentions of survivors guilt, extreme guilt, anxiety, maybe some ptsd, yearning, unprotected p in v, mentions of overstimulation, oral sex (f receiving), mature language, grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n. would this be a fix it fic? who knows.

synop: what if the events of (game 2, s2e2) happened a little bit differently? what if he survived? what if you got your happy ending. and, what if you showed him what that happiness really felt like?

a/n: im a widow, okay? take a oneshot bc i miss seeing him. also this has been in my drafts for awhile.. so pls ignore if its choppy</3

w/c 10.1k

"Mornin'," he rumbles, voice thick with sleep, rough like gravel under boot. The coffee cup skates across the cool granite, leaving a streak of warmth behind, and the smell—rich, dark, almost divine—hits you like a prayer answered by the gods above. Liquid fuckin sleep.

"Good morning to you too, Miller," you murmur around a yawn, curling two fingers through the handle and pulling the mug close. Heat seeps into your skin, chasing away the chill clinging to your bones.

Your gaze lifts to him—Joel—watching as he drags a hand down his face, wiping away whatever dreams still clung to him. His fingers thump against the counter with a soft, aimless tap, and you catch yourself staring at the rough, calloused pads of them, worn, weathered and real.

"Tired?" His voice is softer this time, threading through the sleepy silence between you.

You nod, sipping carefully at the coffee. Blessed and sorely needed.

"Is Ellie up, or did you let her sleep in?" you ask, stifling another yawn as you tip your head in a lazy nod toward the next patrol filing into the mess hall.

"I let her sleep," he mutters, gaze flicking down to the coffee steaming in his hand. You don’t have to press him—you already know. They’re still tangled up in whatever silent war they started. Fighting, ignoring each other, walking on eggshells… some messy, stubborn version of a father-daughter standoff that's got both of them fraying at the edges.

"Aren’t you a good daddy, eh?" you tease, hiding a smirk behind the rim of your mug. Your eyes cut sideways, waiting—almost daring him—to react.

Right on cue, he lets out a low, gruff hnf, a sound half embarrassment, half warning.

"I wouldn't press you about it anyway, Miller," you say with a soft grin, slipping down from the barstool. The soles of your boots scuff lightly against the floor, the sound too loud in the sleepy hush of the mess hall.

"I'm with Jesse this morning—we’ve got the market patrol," you add, turning as you shrug into your jacket, tugging it into place with a few sharp tugs. Still, your gaze can’t help but drift back to him.

Joel stands there, broad-shouldered and a little crumpled around the edges, like sleep hadn't quite finished with him yet. Your eyes catch on the strands of silver threading through the dark, messy curls at his temples.

Pretty, you think, a little surprised at yourself. Stupidly pretty.

He doesn’t notice the way you’re looking—or maybe he does and just pretends not to. He’s good at that.

"I'm with Dina," Joel says, giving a small nod. His eyes flick sideways, quick, like a habit he can't quite shake. Watching you. Pretending not to. It's subtle, the way he does it—barely there—but you catch it anyway.

"If you’re back in time, we can hit the bar for happy hour~," you tease, voice lilting into a singsong as you nudge a playful jab toward his shoulder, stopping just shy of actually making contact. "Maybe even get you to talk about your little daddy-daughter debacle."

You flash him a grin, wide and shameless, knowing full well how much he hates when you call it that. The word debacle alone is enough to get that tight, uncomfortable pinch around his mouth—the one he tries and fails to hide every time.

He huffs out a breath, more air than sound, and levels you with a look—one that’s supposed to be warning, but doesn’t have much bite behind it. His mouth pulls into a tight line, and for a second, you think he’s going to let it go.

But, of course, Joel Miller never lets anything go easy.

"You’re askin’ for trouble, y'know that?" he mutters, low and gravelly, eyes narrowing just a touch. Not angry. Just… exasperated. The kind of exasperated that sounds a whole lot like fond when it’s him.

You just laugh, light and careless, throwing a wink over your shoulder as you head for the door.

"Been askin' for trouble since the day you met me, old man," you call back, earning a rough, half-hearted hnf that follows you all the way out into the morning chill.

. . .

Patrol was boring. The kind of boring that makes you wish for something stupid to happen, just to feel your blood move a little faster. The roads were dead quiet, muffled under thick, heavy snow. Jesse didn't talk much—just rambled now and then about town repairs, busted generators, and roofs that needed patching. Stuff that drifted past your ears without sticking.

Building wasn’t really your thing, anyway. You stuck to what you were good at—helping out in the greenhouses, lending a hand at the infirmary—anything that didn’t require a hammer and nails. Unfortunately, you were still subjected to freeze your ass off on patrol.

The wind bit at your face until your eyebrows went numb, your eyelashes stiff and clumped with frost. You were about five minutes away from becoming a human popsicle when you finally reached for your walkie.

"Jackson, come in, over," you called, voice crackling through the static.

There was a beat of silence before a faint voice answered, a little too quick, a little too tense. "Jackson copy. Twin Forks, how’s it looking out there?"

You glanced over at Jesse, who just gave a small shrug, his breath clouding in the frozen air. Raising the walkie back to your mouth, you huffed out a sigh.

"Freezin' half to death. Roads are mainly clear. We're headin' back, over" you said, teeth chattering a little around the words.

Static hissed through the speaker again. Longer this time.

Your eyebrows pulled together, unease creeping slow and sharp down your spine. That wasn’t like Jackson. They were usually fast—too fast sometimes, like they were just waiting for any excuse to chatter your ear off.

Before you could say anything, the walkie cracked back to life:

"Twin Forks, copy—have you heard from Dina or Joel? Over."

Your stomach dropped clean through you. Like stepping into thin ice.

You tightened your grip on the walkie, heart already kicking up in your chest.

"No," you said, sharper than you meant to. "Aren’t they supposed to be back already?"

The static answered for them.

And for the first time all morning, the cold wasn’t the thing making your hands shake.

Your eyes flicked up to Jesse. His face was stone—jaw tight, mouth a grim, thin line. You knew he had something with Dina. Whatever messy, tangled thing it was between them, it ran deep enough to light that cold fury in his eyes now.

"I'm following their route," you said, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "You can come with me… or you can go home."

Your teeth caught your bottom lip, biting down hard enough that the sting cut through the churning anxiety in your gut. It felt like your stomach was trying to turn itself inside out, the nerves scraping raw against your ribs.

For a second, Jesse didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, snow catching in his hair, breath huffing out in slow, frosted clouds.

Then he nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.

"Let's go."

You didn’t wait. You just adjusted your pack and started moving, boots crunching hard through the deep snow, following the trail Joel and Dina were supposed to take.

Every step forward made the pit in your stomach twist tighter. Something was wrong. You could feel it, thrumming under your skin like a warning.

You tapped your heel against your horse’s side—once, twice—and the animal surged forward into the snow, kicking up white powder in its wake. Fingers tightening so hard around the reins that the leather bit deep into your palms, leaving angry, stinging red imprints.

"Joel? Dina? Come in. Over," you barked into the walkie, voice clipped and sharp from the cold and the panic creeping higher in your throat.

Static answered. Again. No Joel. No reply.

"Fuck," you hissed under your breath, jamming the radio back onto your pack with a rough snap.

The trail ahead was still. Too still. Snow stretched in every direction, pristine and coated except for a broken trail of hoof prints leading up toward the mountain.

You didn’t need to think. You urged your horse faster, heart hammering in your chest, every muscle wound tight.

It was only a few yards up the slope when you saw it—Dina and Joel’s horse, standing riderless in the snow.

But no Dina. No Joel.

Your eyes snapped to the cabin tucked just ahead. It looked solid—half-renovated, sturdy enough to stand against the winter. Someone had been here, maybe still was.

"Jesse—front door," you ordered, voice low but firm. "Make sure no one goes in or out."

Your gaze cut to him, sharp and urgent. He nodded, pulling his gun free from his belt as he circled wide, boots crunching over the frozen ground.

"I’ll take the side door," you added, already slipping from your horse, landing hard in the snow. "Look around."

You hesitated, just for a second—just long enough to catch his eye—and the words slipped out, rougher, quieter:

"And… be safe."

The look you gave him said the rest. You were already wired tight with anxiety, your nerves scraped raw. One wrong move, and this whole thing could turn sideways fast.

Jesse gave you a tight nod, disappearing toward the front, and you turned toward the side of the cabin, heart hammering loud enough you swore it echoed in your ears.

Hand on your weapon, you moved in.

he bile clawed up your throat, threatening to spill out. Your whole body felt like it had caught fire—nerves sparking, brain short-circuiting, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes.

You rounded the corner of the basement, sweeping it methodically, breathing shallow, every inch of you tight with dread. Clear. Clear. Clear.

Until the stairs came into view.

You climbed them slow, careful, each step deliberate, barely daring to breathe. The wood creaked under your boots, but only slightly—only enough to make your heart jump into your throat.

Then— "Ha—ha—HA—"

The ragged gasping hit you like a blow to the chest. Violent. Desperate. A woman’s voice, cracked and breaking from the strain of it.

You froze, finger curling tight around your trigger, inching closer to the source.

Through the narrow sliver of the cracked door, you saw it.

Blood. Everywhere.

The metallic scent hit you hard, thick and suffocating.

And then— The mess of salt and pepper curls. Familiar. Burned into your mind from only this morning, when you were smiling over your coffee and teasing him about happy hour. When you wished you had told him that since the day you met him, he had meant everything to you.

Joel.

Blood soaked the floorboards beneath him, pooling like something alive, something hungry. Gushing. And he wasn’t moving.

Your body moved before your brain had time to catch up. You slammed your shoulder into the door with a force you didn’t even know you had, sending it crashing backward with a groan of splintering wood.

The room was a blur—chaos and blood and panic. The familiar weight of a body on the ground, unmoving. Your eyes barely caught it before you were reacting, fingers tightening around your weapon. The shot was instinct, clean and precise, straight to the face. The sound of the gunshot rang in your ears as one of the women dropped like a ragdoll, her body crumpling.

But then— The wind was knocked out of you.

The second she hit the floor, another figure lunged, grabbing you by the shoulders, slamming you back against the wall with bone-crushing force.

You gasped for air, panic flooding in as your body screamed to move, to do anything but be pinned here. There was a man on you, wild eyes flashing with terror and fury. You fought back, muscles burning, your hand darting to the nearest thing—anything to give you an edge. It landed on a glass bottle, slick and cold in your grasp.

Without thinking, you swung it, the bottle crashing against his skull with a sickening crack. He staggered back, momentarily dazed, giving you just enough space to slip away, your chest heaving as you fought against the rage, the fear, the overwhelming anxiety that turned your blood to fire.

Your eyes blurred—tears, or maybe just the smoke of too much anger, too much chaos. Every breath felt like a fist in your ribs.

You barely recognized yourself in that moment.

The fury inside you was pure, uncontrollable—fueled by terror, by the sight of him, by the fact that he was here, and he shouldn’t be.

And it was all too much.

You spun around, gun already raised, your finger pulling the trigger without a single hesitation. The man who had been on you moments ago crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud, his body twitching once, twice, thrice, before stilling.

Your eyes snapped to the remaining two. One was kneeling over Joel, her braided hair swinging wildly with each frantic movement, fingers locked tight around a golf club. The other was above Dina’s body, her face stained with tears as she hovered over the fallen woman. You couldn’t tell if Dina was still breathing. The sight of it made everything inside you twist in fury.

The world around you narrowed—there was no room for hesitation, no time to think.

Angry. So fucking angry. Calculated. Bloodthirsty.

You took a step forward, the weight of the rage feeding you, making everything feel sharp and clear. With one fluid motion, you threw your empty gun to the floor. The clatter echoed in the room, loud and final.

The braided woman took a sharp breath, and before you could even blink, she swung the club at you, a brutal arc aimed right for your face. You felt the crack against the bridge of your nose, the force enough to send you stumbling back, but you didn’t flinch. You welcomed it—felt it fuel the fury already pumping through your veins.

You wanted to feel this.

You didn't give her a second to recover. You lunged, body crashing into hers with everything you had. It was all strength—no technique—just pure violence. She hit the ground hard beneath you, gasping for breath, but you didn’t stop.

Your hand found her side, fingers brushing over the knife strapped to her waist. In one brutal move, you ripped it from her and lifted it high.

The first slash was messy, a deep gash across her throat. She choked, but you didn’t stop. Not until the blade bit down again and again, each thrust deeper, each second an eternity of rage, until her body stopped moving entirely.

You pulled the knife from her throat, your breath coming in ragged gasps, chest heaving as the adrenaline coursed through you, a sick buzz that made everything feel… distant. Empty.

The silence in the room was suffocating now.

You hadn’t even realized it, but Jesse had already moved in, subdued the woman who had been hovering over Dina, and now he was holding the girl in his arms, checking her pulse. Through the ringing in your ears, his voice cut through—low, steady, but with a note of relief.

"She's alive."

The knife slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor with a sickening finality. But you didn’t even look at it. Your body was already in motion, adrenaline still coursing through you, pulling you toward the only thing that mattered now.

You stumbled over to Joel, heart hammering in your chest, each beat pounding like a war drum. You leaned over him, your breath shaky as you hovered above his bloodied form.

"Hey, hey, hey…" The words came out soft, almost like a prayer, your fingers hovering above his battered skin. Every inch of you wanted to touch him, to make sure he was still breathing—still there—but you were terrified. Terrified that if you did, if you moved too quickly, you might break him with a single touch.

His face was bruised and battered, blood streaked down his jaw and neck. His breathing was shallow, ragged—but it was still there. He was still here.

Your hand trembled, fingers hovering just above him, a fragile hesitation before you finally let them settle on his chest, feeling the weak rise and fall beneath your palm.

"Joel," you whispered, voice cracking, soft but desperate. "Joel, stay with me. Cmon, don’t do this.”

. . .

It had been two weeks since the incident, but time felt warped—like it had both stopped and dragged on at once. You hadn’t left this chair. Maybe just to go to the bathroom, but even then, you barely registered it, too numb, too drained.

The room had become your world. The pale walls, the soft beeping of the machines keeping a rhythm to your broken thoughts. Every other sound faded into the background, until it was just you and the memories that haunted you.

At some point, Tommy had barged in and threatened to force-feed you if you didn’t eat something, anything, before dragging you out of the infirmary for a few minutes of air. You barely remembered it—just that he was there, urging you to move, to care, but you hadn’t felt it.

And then Maria had made you change. She wasn’t gentle about it, but you were too far gone to fight back. She made you strip the bloodstained clothes off your body—clothes that clung to you like a second skin of guilt—and put on something fresh. Something clean. Something that didn't smell like the blood of the man you nearly lost.

Joel was in stable condition now, his heart still beating, his lungs still taking in air. He still hadn't woken up.

His face was burned into your consciousness. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it. The bruising. The blood. The scar on his temple you always teased him about, now covered with black and blue. The deep, unsettling weight of it all settled in your chest, each time harder to breathe through.

You couldn’t escape it.

His face. The desperate, silent plea you could never erase.

Ellie had visited numerous times. She never asked what you were thinking, never pressed you to speak, but she didn’t have to. She knew you well enough to see the anger, and sadness swirling beneath your skin, the tension in your every move.

She knew this wasn’t just exhaustion or grief—it was guilt. Deep, suffocating guilt. Whether it was survivor's guilt or something more, Ellie saw it, knew it. And she also knew, without a doubt, that you cared for him. The way your eyes lingered on his sleeping form. The way your hands would twitch, wanting to touch him, but afraid to.

But you didn’t act on it. You couldn't.

It was too much. The weight of your own feelings, the weight of what had happened, the fear that maybe you didn’t deserve to feel this way. Not after everything. Not after the bloodshed. Not after the fact that you were still here, breathing, while he was lying unconscious, fighting for every breath.

Would it be better to die? The thought had plagued you more than once. To die with him, to end it all and erase the possibility of this endless ache that gnawed at your insides. To take away even the chance of missing him, the chance of waking up and still feeling this pain in your chest.

What if he died and you never got the chance to say you loved him. How each and every longing stare meant something more than 'I'm afraid to let you in.' Please don't leave without letting me love you.

You wondered if it would be simpler, if the universe would just let you follow him into the dark. Maybe it would stop this gnawing emptiness. Maybe it would stop the endless loop of what-ifs, of imagining him waking up and letting your hands roam against his skin—lips and tongue trailing against every scar, every inch pain he's ever received. kissing it better.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.

But, you couldn’t escape it. The raw, bitter truth that you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t leave him. And somehow, even if it felt like a punishment, you had to keep going. Had to keep breathing for him, even when every part of you wanted to shut down and fade into nothing.

. . .

You could barely function the morning it happened. Your body felt like it was made of lead, eyes swollen from exhaustion, hands shaking as they pressed against your temple in an effort to stay upright in the hospital chair you hadn't left in days.

The rustling of sheets cut through the exhaustion. Your eyes shot open, heart hammering against your chest, panic. For a split second, the room seemed to warp—was it another dream? Another cruel twist of your mind playing tricks on you?

You blinked, trying to focus through the haze of fatigue, and then you saw it. A pair of soft, tired mocha eyes meeting yours—slow and heavy, yet unmistakably aware. It wasn’t a hallucination. He was here.

“Joel…” The name slipped from your lips, barely a whisper, trembling and unsteady, as if you weren’t sure if it was real either.

He blinked once, his gaze flickering around the room like he was still piecing things together, his breath shallow but deliberate. The faintest glimmer of recognition passed through his expression, a slight furrow in his brow as if the fog in his head hadn’t completely lifted yet.

But the sight of him—alive, awake, breathing—was enough to make the world stop spinning for a moment.

You held your breath, every muscle in your body frozen. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. You didn’t want to blink, didn’t want to miss a single second.

Before you could finish your thoughts, before you could form some grand gesture, before your body could even drop to its knees in relief or allow yourself the catharsis of crying… the door to the room opened.

The flood of people—Tommy, Ellie, Maria, and a few others—poured in. Their voices were muffled, distant, like static in your ears as the room seemed to close in on you. You felt their eyes, their relief, their joy. But all you could feel was the suffocating weight of guilt pressing down on your chest. It crawled beneath your skin, an infection that wrapped itself around your throat, choking the air from your lungs.

He’s alive. You wanted to scream it, to be happy, to feel like you had the right to feel something other than shame. But it was like the joy couldn’t reach you.

Instead, it only deepened the ache. The guilt. You had almost lost him. You had almost killed him. What if you didn't make it in time? You should have gotten there sooner. Look at him. Do you see those bruises? Do you see his face? This is your fault. Your fault.

You didn’t want to face anyone. Not yet. Not now.

You turned, before anyone could speak, before they could reach you. The world seemed too loud, too bright. The room felt like it was spinning out of control, like every inch of space was filled with a thousand questions you didn’t want to answer. You left.

You couldn’t breathe in that room, surrounded by their relief, their comfort. You couldn’t breathe with him alive, with everything still hanging in the balance. You couldn’t face them. Not now.

It had been four days since he woke up. Four days since the flood of guilt and relief had crashed over you, and you hadn’t spoken to anyone since. You hadn’t answered your door when they knocked.

The world felt suffocating, and you didn’t feel like you deserved to face it. You didn’t want to face the world. You shouldn’t. The anxiety gnawed at you, relentless. It kept you up at night, pacing in the small space of your mind, suffocating you with every breath. And tonight, it was no different.

You found yourself standing outside his door in the infirmary, fingers trembling as you reached out. The wood was cool beneath your touch, but your hand felt as if it might tremble right through it. You had to do this. You had to.

A soft breath escaped you as you gathered whatever courage you could, your hand hovering just inches from knocking. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, a steady, painful rhythm that echoed in your ears.

Knock Knock Knock

What if he’s angry? What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if it’s too late for us?

The thoughts swirled, but you pushed them down, your knuckles gently tapping against the door. The sound seemed to reverberate through your body, like an announcement that you were about to face everything you had been running from.

"Come in."

The voice was rough, deep, and it hit you like a wave—like honey to your brain, smooth and warm, yet leaving you trembling in its wake. The same voice you had sinned thinking about. "Thatsa' good girl." … "It's like you were made for me." … "Take me so good." Late at night when your thoughts spiraled, when guilt and longing tangled into something too complicated to sort through.

The same voice that had sent chills down your spine and made your heart race even when you tried to ignore it. The same voice that had teased you about liking sugar in your morning coffee, a soft joke that always lingered just a little too long.

Your breath caught in your throat. That voice. You could still remember every word, every inflection, like the memory of him had been etched into you long before this.

You let out a shaky breath, pushing the door open slowly. You didn't dare let your footsteps be loud, like maybe if you made yourself small enough, you could avoid the flood of emotions threatening to pour over the edge.

You shut the door softly behind you, the sound of it clicking shut making everything feel too real. Too right.

Your gaze flickered to him.

Joel was sitting up in the bed, propped up by pillows, his figure still worn but somehow more solid than you'd seen him in days. His expression was tired, but his eyes—they locked onto yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart skip. His hair, though still messy, had the same dark, unruly curls you remembered. But the bruises were fading now, the bloodstains mostly gone, leaving just the raw remnants of the pain he'd been through.

He didn’t speak at first, but his gaze said everything.

You’re here.

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn't come. They got stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled in the fear, the guilt, the ache.

"Hey, Miller…" Your voice came out soft, creaky, and far too small. Awkward. You felt like a stranger in your own body, unsure of how to act, unsure of how to bridge the chasm of silence that had stretched between the two of you for so long.

Joel's gaze softened slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was tired—physically, mentally, emotionally. His face still held the remnants of pain, the tiredness that seemed to etch deeper into his features every day. He had a rough, unshaven jawline, the dark stubble more pronounced now, and his eyes looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks either. You weren’t the only one haunted by everything that had happened.

You felt a flush of heat rise up your neck, self-conscious of how you must look—dark circles under your eyes, skin pale and flushed from lack of sleep, your clothes barely hanging on your frame from the stress and nightmares that had claimed your nights.

It felt like everything about you was falling apart. You didn’t want to show him this side of you. The broken, tired version of yourself that you were trying so hard to bury beneath the weight of it all.

Joel's voice was rough when he finally spoke. "You look like hell."

The words were blunt, honest—but there was no cruelty behind them. Just a quiet, tired acknowledgment.

Your chest tightened. You don’t even know the half of it.

"I—" You swallowed thickly, but the words stuck. The shame, the anxiety, the feeling of being so lost in your own head, it all bubbled up, suffocating. "I didn't—"

The guilt was there again, squeezing at your lungs, choking the air out of you. You hadn’t been there for him. Not in the way you needed to. And now, everything between you felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You swallow. Deep. Visibly. The lump in your throat is thick, hard to push down, but you try. You have to say something.

"You're one to talk." Your words are meant to be a jest, a poor attempt to deflect, to mask the fragile state you’re in. But the moment the words leave your lips, you know it’s hollow. You feel it in the way your voice cracks, in the way your shoulders tremble with the weight of everything unsaid.

The tears start to fall, slowly at first, as if your body couldn't hold them back any longer. You feel them trickle down your cheeks, hot and stinging, leaving tracks where they slip beneath your eyes. It’s like the dam inside of you has broken.

"C'mere, Darlin'." His voice is low, a soft sigh that seems to carry all the weight of everything unspoken between you.

Before you can even respond, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, gentle but firm enough that you can’t pull away, not even if you wanted to. The touch isn’t demanding; it’s an invitation. A silent plea for connection, for comfort, for whatever fractured piece of yourself you were too afraid to offer.

His pull is soft, like he’s letting you decide whether or not to lean in. And you do. Slowly, you lean over the bed, drawn toward him like a magnet, feeling the warmth of his body. It’s the closest thing to safety you’ve known in days.

The moment you’re within reach, his arms are around you, pulling you in, and you can’t stop the sob that escapes you. His hands are in your hair, fingers splaying against the back of your head, holding you to him like he’s afraid you might break into pieces if he lets go.

It’s a hug. No words, no explanations. Just him and you, and the space between you that was never meant to be there.

Your arms sink into his body, like you were carved for each other, like you were always meant to find this moment. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart. It’s solid. It's real. It’s the reassurance you didn’t know you needed.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself break. His presence steadies you.

"I thought I lost you." You hiccup, the words coming out ragged, broken. The tears just keep falling, unstoppable now. The weight of everything hits you harder than you expected, each sob shaking you to your core.

"I thought I didn't make it on time—" You inhale sharply, the breath hitching painfully in your chest as your heart races. The air feels too thin, too cold. "I thought, I thought—" The words don’t come out in a way that makes sense, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to explain.

Joel doesn’t speak at first, but his arms tighten around you just enough to ground you. To remind you that you’re still here. That he’s still here. But when you whisper the words that have been haunting you, your voice soft, shaking, the weight of it lingers in the space between you:

"What if you died?"

It’s like you’ve just said the one thing you’ve been avoiding for days. The truth. The thought that has been crushing you silently, quietly, as you tried to keep it together. The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Joel's breath stills for a moment, and you can feel the subtle shift in his chest, like he’s absorbing what you’ve just said. He doesn’t pull away, though. He doesn’t let you go.

After a long pause, his voice comes, deep and steady, like he's trying to find the right words to anchor you. "I’m here, Darlin'. I’m here. And I’m not goin’ anywhere."

You tremble against him, a few more tears slipping free. His words feel like a lifeline. Like the space you’ve been treading on has finally found solid ground.

It felt like hours passed, the tears still coming in waves, but slowly they began to quiet. You didn’t even know how long you’d been there, in his arms, the two of you sorting through the guilt, the fear, the helplessness.

The silence between you now wasn’t suffocating—it was calm, soothing.

Somehow, though, you found yourself on the infirmary bed, tucked next to him. His presence was warm, steady, and his chest rose and fell with a deep, even breath that kept you grounded.

You had never thought you’d end up like this—lying next to him, with the scent of sterile bandages in the air, the soft hum of the room around you, and the quiet weight of his hand in yours. But here you were.

The pad of your finger traced along a deep purple scar against his forearm the one you couldn’t help but notice when you first sat down beside him. It was a stark reminder of how close you came to losing him.

Your touch was gentle, almost reverent, like you were afraid that if you pressed too hard, the moment might shatter. His skin was rough under your fingertips, but it was warm, real, and alive. Each scar, each mark on him felt like a story, a part of him that you couldn’t change. It made you ache. It made you feel sick.

Joel’s voice broke the silence, quiet but with a hint of warmth that made your chest tighten. "You don’t gotta do that, y'know." He said, his voice softer than usual, but there was an understanding in it.

"I know," you whispered, your voice a little strained, but calm, for the first time in what felt like forever. "I just… need to know you're okay."

"I'm here. Can't get rid of me." His voice is steady, but the weight of it carries something more—something unspoken. Joel’s eyes drift over your face, tracing each line, each imperfection. He doesn’t say anything about how you look, though the words are there, heavy in the air. You look like hell—tired, broken—but to him, you’re still the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever seen.

The intensity of his gaze makes your chest tighten. For a second, it feels like everything stops. The world outside the infirmary fades away. His eyes are searching you—like he’s trying to figure something out, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s the same thing you’ve been trying to figure out, too.

Your breath hitches slightly, but you hold his gaze, even though you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. It's like time slows down. An eternity of silence stretches between you, and in that silence, everything seems to hang.

You don’t want to ruin this. Not this moment. Not whatever this is.

The thought of naming it—of putting a label on it—feels overwhelming. Is it friendship? Coexistence? Just two people trying to make it through this hell together? Or is it something more? You can’t tell, but you’re afraid that if you try to define it, if you try to make sense of it, you might destroy what little of it you have left.

“You’ve got a way of making everything feel… complicated,” you finally whisper. You wish you could say more, but you don’t know how.

He chuckles softly, and you can hear the tiredness in his voice. “Yeah, I’ve got that effect on people.” His hand shifts, his fingers lightly brushing the side of your face, almost tentative, but the warmth of it fills the space between you. "I don’t have all the answers. But you’ve got me, Darlin'. That’s more than I can offer right now."

Your eyes close for a brief moment, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s a kind of comfort in them, in the uncertainty. In the fact that neither of you has it all figured out.

Fuck it.

Like a string that snaps, your brain rewires the moment you make eye contact again. It’s sudden, electric—You don’t think about it. You don’t think about the consequences, the mess, or the fact that this might break whatever fragile balance you’ve managed to keep. You just act.

Your hands slip up, fingers trembling ever so slightly, but the moment they make contact with his dark curls, something inside you stills. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. His eyes are steady on yours, but there’s something raw in them now. Something that tells you he’s as desperate for this connection as you are.

Inches away, you breathe in his scent, that familiar mix of dust and earth, the roughness of the world outside, but underneath it—there’s him.

A presence that’s always been there, always just out of reach. But now, now it’s close enough to touch.

Your lips part, but it's only an invitation. You don't say anything. Don’t have to. Everything that needs to be said is written in the way your bodies lean toward each other, drawn together like magnets.

His breath hitches, and before you can even think about it, he’s closing the distance between you. His lips find yours with a desperation that takes your breath away, and the world outside falls away entirely.

It's nothing like you imagined. It’s messy, raw, and full of that intensity that neither of you can contain.

His free hand slips effortlessly against your thigh, lifting your leg and guiding it over his waist. It’s instinctual, animalistic, the movement seamless. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. He kisses you like a man starved, teeth scraping lightly at your bottom lip, as if claiming you in a way words never could.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the rush of heat, the feeling of him—his strength, his need, his warmth, the way his body presses against yours.

Then, as if sensing the balance of control slipping away, you pull back just enough to whisper, your voice rough, "This was—"

He inhales, as if the pull away from you visibly made him chill.

"This was a mistake. I'm sorry." You mumble, slipping back from his hands cascaded gently into your hair. His eyes dull, as if they really calculate what's really happening here.

"I don't want to mess anything up — make it weird…" You hesitate before taking another step back. Feet brushing against the ground of the hospital, boots making a small scraping noise as they lift from the floor. "I'm glad you're awake. I'm glad you're alive." You practically spew, "But this— Us? This can't happen."

Joel doesn't move. Not right away. His hands remain suspended in the air where you'd just been, as if the weight of your absence took a moment to register. Slowly, they fall to his lap, fingers curling inward like he's holding something fragile that just shattered in his palms.

His brows pull together, the light in his eyes dimming but not extinguished. He nods once—slow, like he's swallowing something bitter—but doesn’t speak right away. The silence between you is thick, suffocating. The kind that says everything without a single word.

Then, his voice breaks through, rough and low. “You ain’t messin’ anything up.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case you don’t come back. “But I get it. Hell, I probably shouldn’t’ve—”

He stops himself, jaw clenching. You can see the hurt there, just beneath the surface. Not anger. Just a quiet ache he doesn’t know what to do with.

“You don’t owe me nothin’. Not after what you did for me. For Dina.” His voice cracks slightly, but he clears it, steadying himself. “If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.”

You turn to go. You don’t want to, but standing in this room any longer feels like peeling skin off a wound that’s still fresh. Like clawing your skin open, nails rough, sharp. You grip the door handle like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. The cold metallic of the handle searing into your hot sweaty palms.

But before you pull it open, you hear him again—softer this time, almost like he's talking to himself.

“I was glad it was you. When I woke up… I was glad it was you sittin’ there.”

Your chest tightens, fingers trembling around the handle. The sound of your boots echo as you leave, but his words follow you long after the door clicks shut.

. . .

It was two days later. Two days of hiding from the town. Hiding from the man whose ghost now walked on flesh and bone legs, breathing and real, and everywhere, even your head. Since Joel had been released from the infirmary, you hadn’t so much as walked past the diner. Not the greenhouse. Not even the training range.

He was free now. Free to walk Jackson’s frosted streets. Carrying the weight of that night, that kiss, that almost. Whatever almost was.

Flyers for the winter social had started popping up, taped to doors with half-used duct tape, and coffee stained paper.

Pulling one off your door with more force than necessary, crumpling it before it could flutter too long. The word celebrate stared at you like an accusation.

Celebrate what? Survival? Guilt?

You hadn’t even gone into town yet. Too afraid of seeing him again. Of his eyes. Of that voice, gravelly and soft, saying your name like it meant something.

But, I guess it did mean something. 'If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.'

'I won't push it.'

Fuck, Joel—You don't have to push anything. If you asked me to lay down on the ground and die, I'd surely succumb.

Your jacket felt too heavy as you shrugged it on. Maybe you’d walk. Maybe not toward town, but just out. Just far enough to quiet the thoughts screaming through your skull. Just long enough to convince yourself he hadn’t meant anything by it.

But then—three soft knocks on the door.

You froze, hand on the knob. Breath held. Like if you didn’t move, whoever it was would give up and go.

But they didn’t.

“Darlin’…?” The voice was muffled, but unmistakable. A drawl like smoke and honey, carrying your nickname like it was a prayer and a curse all at once.

Joel.

You don’t open the door. Can’t. Your fingers ghost over the handle like it might bite, like turning it would unravel something you’ve spent days trying to sew back together.

“Yeah?” you call, voice thinner than you’d like, strained from disuse and guilt and whatever mess you and Joel had brewed up in the dark of that infirmary room.

A pause. You can almost hear him shift his weight on the porch. One boot against the old wood, creaking just slightly. He’s nervous. Or maybe annoyed. It’s always hard to tell with him.

“I ain’t here to fight,” he finally says. His tone is gentler than expected. Tired. “Just… wanted to talk.”

You lean your forehead against the wood. Cold. Solid. Safe. “About what?” you ask, not unkindly, but not welcoming either. Somewhere in the middle. A purgatory of almost.

Another pause.

“’Bout that night,” he says, like it hurts to even admit it out loud. “About… what you said..”

You squeeze your eyes shut, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your chest.

You don’t want to open the door. But God, you want to hear what he has to say.

"I am uh— very sick. very ill." You lie, a fake cough following the announcement. "Cough, Cough, Haack."

There’s a pause. Long enough to make you think—maybe—he bought it.

“That so?” Joel says, flat. Almost amused.

You can practically hear the eyebrow he’s raising.

“’Cause I saw you at the stables this morning, arguing with Tommy ‘bout the feed schedule. Didn’t look real near deathbed to me.”

"That—was a hallucination," you say quickly. "Fever dreams. Very common with… plague. And, you're still recovering." Your face burns. Shit.

A muffled chuckle—soft, rough, and goddamn sweet.

“I’ll wait,” he says simply, like he's got all the time in the world. “Out here. Cold’s good for the immune system, and recovery.”

You bite your lip. Damn him. Damn that gravel-sweet voice and that infuriating patience. Damn that sexy ass fucking voice.

Because you know—you know—you’re going to open the door. Maybe not now. Maybe not in the next ten seconds. But eventually.

Your fingers wrap around the handle, pressing it down and pulling toward you. The wooden door creaks open, revealing the screen door. A thin barrier between you.

He looks… good. Brown jacket, blue jeans, a belt, and new boots, the remnants of blood no longer. His eyes were still dark, and tired, but there was an air of relief to them, like he had relaxed long enough to feel somewhat a semblance of peace.

The cold air rushes in, bites at your skin like karma. He’s watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that’s somewhere between stern and soft. Somewhere between don’t push me and please, push me just a little.

“Hey,” he says, simple. Low.

You swallow hard. Your throat’s suddenly dry, like the lie about being sick took too much out of you. Fuck, maybe you were ill.

“Hey,” you echo. Quieter.

He shifts, thumbs hooking against his belt. It’s a casual stance, but you can see the tension sitting behind it. You know him well enough to read the signs. He’s rehearsed something. That jaw twitch? That's anxiety settling into his gut. That tiny nod to himself? That’s a man about to dive headfirst into something he’s not sure he knows how to swim through.

“I ain’t here to mess things up,” he starts, voice steady, “or push somethin’ you don’t want. But I been thinkin’, and…” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re not the only one who’s scared, y’know.”

That hits harder than you expect.

“I wake up every day grateful I get to be scared,” he adds, quieter. “Grateful you pulled me outta there. Grateful I get to even have this conversation.”

Your fingers twitch around the edge of the doorframe. The weight of it all, the what-ifs, the blood, the almost—they come rushing back.

He steps a little closer, boots scraping softly against the porch wood.

“So I figured�� if you're done bein’ on your deathbed," his mouth tugs in a half-smile, “maybe you’d let me take you to that winter social at tipsys…”

You stand there. Mouth hung agape open like some fucking fool. I'm sorry? He said what? What the fuck did he just say to you?

"You.. uh.." You stutter, fingers curling against the door frame, "You… don't hate me?"

Joel’s brow furrows—just slightly. Not in frustration, but in that Joel Miller kind of way. The one where he's thinking? The one where he's registering how to fix this. The kind where concern looks like confusion and softness hides behind the grit.

“Hate you?” he repeats, like the words physically repulse him. “Darlin’, I don’t think I could hate you if I tried.”

He steps a little closer again, enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts across the screen.

“You saved my life. You nearly lost your damn mind doin’ it. I saw it. Hell, I felt it.”

His hand lifts, hovers at the screen like he wants to touch you through it but won’t risk the boundary unless you give the signal.

“I hated that you ran. I hated that I woke up and you weren’t there. But hate you?” He shakes his head, the weight of it settling like snowfall. “I could never.”

The silence that follows is sharp and thick, clinging to the air between you.

“You still think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice rough. Not angry. Just naked. “'Cause I’ve been tryin’ not to want you every damn day since I met you. And I’m losin’ that fight.”

Your pulse is thunder in your ears.

Oh fuck…

Your gaze drops—floor, boots, anywhere but his eyes. Then slowly lifts again, like your body’s trying to catch up to your heart.

Your brain? Gone. Empty. Nothing but static between your ears.

Your hand moves on its own, fingers brushing the cold metal of the screen door latch. One soft twist.

Click.

The lock gives.

You glance up, startled by your own movement, eyes locking with his like you just said something out loud without speaking.

Because you did.

That sound—that soft, quiet click—wasn't just a noise. It was a confession.

You wanted him. Still do.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, waiting for him to make the first move. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, a nervous habit you can’t shake. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and for a moment, you wonder if it’s just you feeling this, or if he’s as sick with it as you are.

The seconds stretch on, too long. Too quiet.

Then, without warning, he steps forward, closing the distance between you. His hand reaches up, brushing the edge of the screen door, before he grips the frame with the same steady, sure hands that had been so tender earlier.

His gaze doesn’t leave yours. “You sure about this?” he asks, low and rough, voice dragging across your skin like a touch.

It’s a question, but you both know it’s not. It’s him waiting for you, giving you space to breathe, even as every inch of him is drawn to you.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, and it pulls at you like gravity, drawing you closer despite every rational thought telling you to back away. He’s patient, but there’s that edge beneath his calm—something hungry, something wild, that’s been buried too long.

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, betraying the storm crashing in your chest.

He gives a half-smile, a flicker of something dangerous. “Good,” he mutters, then leans in, just close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your lips, but not close enough to touch.

The tension is suffocating. The world outside doesn’t exist. Not anymore.

And then he speaks again, voice almost a whisper, lips brushing against your ear.

“Because you ain't runnin' away this time.”

With one quick motion he's in the house, hands slipping against the hooks of your jeans. His boot knocks against the wooden door, closing it. A sway of air as it slams.

His mouth is already against yours, hand moving up to splay against the middle of your back—leading you, leading you straight back against your kitchen countertop only a few feet away. Mouth falling from your lips, he moves into the nape of your neck, a quick and deep inhale—"Fuck, darlin,'"

"You don't know," A small nibble against the tender skin, "… what you do to me."

The air is thick, heavy with anticipation. His body presses against yours, firm. You gasp, it's the warmth of his breath skimming across your neck, his lips brushing against the delicate curve of your shoulder. Facial hair leaving a tickling sensation in wake.

His fingers tighten around you, pulling you even closer, and it’s as if your bodies have a language of their own—unspoken, raw.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me either, Joel,” you breathe, your own hands trembling as they find their way to his chest. His shirt soft against your fingertips, pulls at you like it’s just one more obstacle you need to get past. Nails scraping at the buttons of the flannel. You feel like a caged animal.

“I think I got an idea.” His chuckle is low, dark.

His hand slips between your legs, hand splayed across the material of your jeans with a subtle press. "Can practically feel it."

His lips find yours again, hungry this time, teeth grazing against your bottom lip. His free hand presses against the small of your back and the other your thigh, hesitating to lift you.

His voice drops, barely a whisper against your lips. “You sure you want this, darlin’?” It’s the same question from earlier, but now, it’s not doubt—it’s something softer, something more urgent. A plead. A fucking prayer. Like if you said no, he'd get on his knees and beg.

His eyes lock with yours, his thumb brushing the side of your jaw as he waits for you to answer.

It only takes seconds for you to dive into another kiss, urgency flooding your body like fire. Your fingers tremble as they work at the buttons of his flannel, fumbling slightly with each one.

His lips are on yours again, a hungry, desperate rhythm that matches the frantic pace of your heart. His hands move to your waist, gripping you tight. The flannel falls open, the fabric grazing your hand, and fingertips finding refuge against tanned scarred skin. It's a sin to hide a body this fucking pretty under clothing.

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath ragged, eyes dark with something raw, something dangerous. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The hunger in his gaze says it all. Without a word, he shifts you, his hand firm against the curve of your back, pulling you up just enough to sit you on the edge of the counter. The movement is quick, efficient, and the cool granite meets your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his body, pressed against you.

Your breath hitches as his hands slide under your shirt, rough against your skin, pulling you even closer. His lips hover just above your ear, his voice gravelly, rough. “You kiss like you patrol.”

He's purposeful with each movement. Every drag of his finger causing a fire in it's path. Hands gently coming to the hem of your jeans, and then with a small pop, the button is undone. A slow, and soft shimmying down until all he can stare at is his glistening prize.

"Greedy… Unhinged..." He continues, lowering down to his knees— his hands slipping down your thighs, to your ankles, and then hooking your legs above his shoulders, "Clumsily, maybe…"

Within seconds his mouth is against you. It's hot, wet, animalistic as if the man is starved. Clumsy. Messy. Tongue grazing over every sensitive fold— and your very swollen clit. He flattens his tongue against you,—then as quick as he can extinguish the pleasure, he nibbles against you. Profanities dripping from your mouth, his name followers like a prayer of forgiveness.

"Needy fuckin girl, y'taste so good."

The response to his words. Your free hand shoots out to the top of his head, fingers interlacing with salt and pepper curls. Wanting can't even describe your state of mind right now. It's more like yearning, fucking craving.

Forearm burning from strength it takes to hold yourself up on the countertop, needing to see him on his knees for yourself.

You curl your fingers, a soft tug of his hair earns that deep guttural growl from his throat.

"mmh, easy, girl," His breath fans across your pussy, sending shivers shooting up your spine.

You try to look away—try to break this sight, but you're pretty sure if you blinked hard enough you'd wake up from this dream. He dips lower, his mouth pulling you closer to the edge, grounding you to him like you were the only thing that ever mattered.

His lips release from your cunt with a pop, tongue curling against the spit line that follows. His eyes settle against your own— dark, and frantic.

The release of the sensation causes you to shiver, the overstimulation already coiling in your core. Twitching, a small huff to every breath you release.

"That all it takes to get you shakin' like a leaf?" He chuckles—soft.

The tension in the air thickens as you lean down, close enough to make your heart race, yet he doesn’t rush it. His hand still holds your thighs spread apart, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

"I want you." The words flow easily. Easily because your brain is pathetically melted inside of your skull.

He practically purrs, another deep growl from his throat, "Yeah?"

"Then take it… 'ts all yours," He tilts his head with his words, eyes dancing over every single feature you have. He stares at you like his brain maps out every mole, and scar. You needily grab at the remnants of his unbuttoned flannel, pulling it up towards you. He smiles, smiles. Excitedly standing back up, and leaning into your touch.

You don't hesitate. You pull him back in, mouths clashing, breaths hot and broken. His hands roam your thighs, your hips, possessive like he’s memorizing you, branding you. You feel the scratch of his callouses against your skin, grounding you, making you dizzy all at once.

One hand tilts your chin up, the other slides up your back, holding you steady while his mouth traces a trail from your lips to your jaw, then lower, pressing kisses down your throat, your collarbone.

You tilt your head back to give him more space, a soft, desperate noise escaping your throat. His name slips from your lips without thinking—"Joel."

That sound alone seems to snap something inside him. Saying his name like that. Like you need him. Like you fucking crave him. It practically got him drunk on sin.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and molten. His hands grip your waist firmly, thumbs stroking slow circles against your sides. “Gonna take care of you, darlin’. Gonna give you everything you been needin’… just like you deserve.”

The jingle of his belt catches your attention, as if your brain can process anymore. His fingers softly unthreading the leather from the metal, and with a clank—it's slipping to the floor.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice rough, thumb brushing tender over your hipbone.

You nod, too breathless to speak.

That's all he needs. The pads of his fingers undoing the button of his jeans, a soft slide down and the sight nearly makes you keel over. You've met god. How could someone hide such a perfect cock? The size of him itself steals the air from your lungs.

"Please," You breathe, "Please Joel."

"You look so damn pretty like this," he says, half in awe, half in something darker, heavier.

"Layin' below me, fucked out on your kitchen counter."

Without a delay he inches in, the tip of his cock pressing against your needy, and swollen entrance. The angle is perfect, a slow and greedy intrusion that causes your nails to scrape at the granite of the countertop.

"Fuck—" He exhales, a restrained whine from his throat, "You were made f'r me…"

Joel inhales as he plunges himself fully. Without a second thought, he pulls back out, before sliding back in. It's like a game for him, eyes downward on the motion. Watching the back and forth of his cock as he dives in and out of you.

His pace quickens, the musical rhythmic of the thrusting becoming faster, and faster. He's hitting spots you didn't even know you had. Spots that nobody has ever reached. You can barely hear, ears ringing, vision blurred by inklings of tears.

You don't realize your howling his name until he speaks.

"Gotta… Quiet down there, darlin'…”He chuckles, deep and gravelly as he holds back a strained noise. Hips snapping back and forth, the wet squelches of your pussy like music to his ears, "… don't want the neighbors thinkin' you got coyotes."

Every thrust is a further hit to your core, releasing a sound that vaguely resembles a wheeze rather than a moan. Each muscle in your thighs threatening to give out, as you open your legs wider and wider for his ravaging.

Joel likes to drag it out, pulling his cock all the way out, leaving only the tip—grinding there for a moment until his own body twitches, and then slamming back in as hard as possible. Hands vice gripped around your thighs, bringing you to and from him like a pocket pussy.

“Sweet girl, oh fuck.. fuck..”

Sloppy around him, already drenching the area between you two - wet squishing noises as he drags back the mixture of pre and slick, just to bury it back inside of you.

"Gonna paint your fuckin' insides at this rate…" He exhales, shakily. He's fucking into you like a wild animal. At the end of the day, that's what he is. Bloodthirsty, a killer, known for his haunting and inhuman actions.

“Fuck, please.. right there, oh fuck, Joel—" You cry out, hips clumsily and weakly fumbling against your meeting point, trying to bury him deeper inside of yourself.

Bottom lip taken between his teeth, glossy eyed staring down at the sight of his cock sliding in and out. "Can feel you squeezn', know how close you are…"

Back and forth— milking cries from your sweet lips. Continually riding the way you clamp down on him desperately, leaning into your orgasm.

"J-Joel— Oh my g.." The words can't even release from your throat, before your head tilts back and a series of gargled profanities and pet-names drool out.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that… take it just like that…" his words are pure fucking filth.

It's not long after you that his hips start to snap messily, losing his train of thought at every deep bury into your overstimulated pussy. Head tipping down—he clamps his eyes shut, riding the high of your squirming.

He cums. It paints your insides with boiling heat, both of you stringing out whines and grunts. The snapping motion continues, as he ruts the cum deeper and deeper inside of you. He's purposefully dragging out his own relief. Doesn't want it to end. Fuck, he never wants it to end.

"Fuckin' hell…" Joel murmurs softly, slipping out with a slow release. The tension eases in your gut, and you feel every muscle in your body screaming at you. You let out a noise between a sigh and a whimper, the feeling sends a shiver up and down your body. Goosebumps in the wake of his hot breath.

“Yeah.. you ain't gettin' away from me again…"

. . .

71 notes · View notes

writing-whump · 17 hours ago

Text

Between stations

Motion sick Rip part 2. Emeto, comfort and lots of angst.

Rip didn’t know how much time had passed.

Maybe an hour. Maybe ten years.

He drifted somewhere heavy and sick, curled sideways across the train seat with his head in Dylan’s lap.

Every few minutes, the train jolted, and another miserable gag would claw up his throat. Nothing came up anymore—just the dry, scraping heaves that made his stomach cramp and his chest burn.

Dylan kept one hand braced around Rip’s back, steady and firm. His other hand held the crinkly edge of a paper bag under Rip’s chin, so the sick wolf didn't have to do more than aim instead of having to lift himself.

Rip shuddered with nausea. His stomach ached from exertion, but the nausea was constant, frying his nerves, slime climbing up his throat.

"Easy, easy," Dylan murmured, patting his back. "You're okay. Let it pass. You're doing good."

Rip whimpered low in his throat, a broken sound he didn’t mean to make.

Dylan’s hand tightened slightly on his back in answer, rubbing slow, careful circles.

Rip hated it—hated the helplessness, the pitiful noises leaking out of him—but he couldn't stop. Couldn't do anything but breathe through the waves, his body lurching with each dry spasm.

Dylan smelled faintly of soap and something warmer—fabric and skin and a clean saltiness that grounded Rip more than the cold glass ever had.

Instinctively, without thinking, Rip pressed closer, tucking his face deeper against Dylan’s thigh where the scent was stronger. Like home and safety. A street light in a blizzard of disgust.

The steady thump of Dylan’s heartbeat, slow and even under his ear, became the only thing he could hang onto.

The compartment rattled around them—voices, the low hum of the rails, the occasional clang of doors—but it all faded to background noise.

Somewhere through the fog, Rip realized Hector wasn’t sitting anymore.

He kept getting up, stepping into the corridor, muttering on his phone with short, clipped annoyance.

Rip caught the flicker of boots, the rasp of the sliding door, the sharp rise and fall of Hector's voice — but it all passed like static over water.

Rip stayed where he was, shivering faintly, clenching the paper bag weakly in one hand.

Another dry heave racked him, a miserable, wrenching spasm.

"D..." he groaned softly against Dylan’s leg, shame burning behind his eyelids.

"Shhh," Dylan soothed instantly, his voice thick with sympathy. "I know buddy, I know. Just hold on to me."

The hand on his back kept moving. Not too gentle to tickle and not too hard to jostle him. Steady and careful, anchoring him against the sick roll of the world.

For a while he drifted off, but any sleep he got was restless and tiring. Nausea swirled in his belly with a new bite, like a snake curling up and then striking.

Rip lurched up with the feeling, retching harsh against the paper bag. Dylan helped him lean over and then caught him when his body slumped back down like a marionette cut from its strings.

"T-too much...make it stop, D. F-feel sick."

He felt Dylan's arms circling around him in response, pressing him against Dylan's chest and cologne. Dylan liked those citrusy perfumes and could spend hours picking the right one. It came in handy now — warm and clean, even through the sweat of hours on the train.

"Lean back against me and close your eyes. There you go."

Everything was twirling. Even the steps outside in the hall caused stabs of pain in his head. The train jolted again, making him curl up more.

Somewhere over his head the compartment door slid shut. The cold draft hit his damp skin like a slap.

Then sharp voices, cutting through his haze.

"-can't keep him like this for the whole night," Dylan said, voice booming under Rip's cheek. "He needs a break and real meds. This is torture."

"He is a stray wolf. This won't kill him."

"He can't even sleep. He is on the verge of passing out."

Hector scoffed. "I'm sure he's been through worse."

"I don't understand why he should be miserable, when it has an easy fix."

"Not my fault he didn't know-"

More scoffing and rough voices. Rip could tell Dylan was barely holding back from yelling. "-are getting off, you can do whatever the hell you want."

"Right. In the middle of nowhere? What you gonna do?"

"Find a fucking pharmacy. Wait for the next train. The next stop is small, it will be quiet. He can get some rest, I'll get him meds. The delay is what, a couple hours? Nobody cares."

"The tickets-"

"We can just buy new ones. What, are you gonna lecture me about money? Really? When it's about money it's about nothing. That's what my parents say."

There was a loud intake of breath from the others side. "Your parents, eh? Well, they can say it, in contrast to your good-for-nothing-"

Rip's grip on Dylan's jeans tightened. He couldn't force his eyes open, they hurt like he had sand in them. But he let out a growl at the words, threatening and angry.

The voices stopped for second.

Dylan's hand clasped his shoulder, fingers gently massaging the spot. "We're getting off, okay? On the next stop. Hold on just a bit longer."

Rip felt like he should protest, but felt nothing but relief. "M'sorryyyy..."

"Don't worry about it. I know it's bad."

...

And so it happened they ended up stranded on a small station somewhere in Hungary in the middle of a grass field on a white granite platform.

Dylan promptly got out GPS on his phone, running to get to the nearest place a Bolt would take him to a pharmacy.

To everyone's surprise Hector got off with them, taking their backpacks. Growling when they tried to take it themselves, as if territorial about the only way he was willing to be helpful.

Rip was more than glad to leave him on the phone with his girlfriend for the umpteenth time while he crawled to the edge of the station. It was slightly uphill, so when he manged to roll off it, he was covered from view and on cold unmoving earth with grass blades under his fingers.

It didn't calm his nausea immediately, but he felt immensily better without the constant jerky movement. The cold fresh night air felt heavenly against his lungs and the open space of the field was a balm on his nerves.

After almost four hours, he could finally take a breath again.

His limbs felt shaky and he felt off and tired. The nausea and the dehydration had his head throbbing especially behind his left temple—he was seriously worried it could turn into a migraine. That would knock him out for a couple days and he would be fucked.

As the nauseous waves ebbed away, shame and horrification crept in almost simultaneously.

Not to mention Hector's words, ringing in his head over and over, despite the queasy haze he's been in.

You should be stronger. You have been through worse. This won't kill you.

He had often seen that guy's face in his dreams. But it's been a while since he could hear his voice this clearly, reminded by Hector's comment.

You can't even take that, boy? Aren't you a wolf or what?

Rip drew his knees up, hugging them to his chest. His fingertips dug deep into his wrists, leaving little bloody scratches behind. He really wished Dylan was here, talking, making noise, anything. Touching him. Not leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The nauseous snake in his stomach slid up, coiling between his ribs, squeezing the air out of his lungs. His breathing picked up in panic.

He felt broken and anxious and like he had just failed everyone. All these people that had already made compromises for him, who had taken him under, who wanted to give him a chance.

A whine came out of his throat and he buried his face against his knees, rocking back and forth.

This wouldn’t have been a problem just a couple months ago.

When he was alone, he was fine—not expecting anything from anyone, not being expected to prove anything.

Isaiah had taken the blindfolds off — but he'd also stripped away his armor. Made him put his sword aside, hanging at his back and now Rip was too slow and clumsy reaching for it.

He was getting weaker. Soft and trusting and useless.

On some level, Rip knew this wasn't rational and that the anxiety was made worse by the sickness and the pressure and reminders he was projecting. But it didn't help against the snake, against the oxygen leaving his lungs, against the pounding headache. His stomach cramped painfully and he curled into a ball, feeling so small.

"Hey...you okay?"

Rip almost flew out of his skin at Hector's voice. The older wolf was standing above him on the platform, scowling.

"Still that bad? We aren't even moving anymore."

Hector sounded annoyed and rough and Rip wanted to get his old self back. The old him that would shrug or run and not take any of this personally. It was stupid it was getting to him.

Hector jumped down from the platform, coming closer. "Come on, let's-"

"Don't come any closer," Rip said with a growl, peering over his arms at the blond man. Rip's shadow hissed and the smaller wolf blinked in surprise. When did it get out? It was lying in a circle around him like a castle wall.

Hector ignored him, reaching out with his hand. "Don't be ridiculous-"

"Don't touch me!" Rip repeated, voice jumping up an octave higher than was meant to.

Hector stopped, raising an eyebrow.

Rip dug his fingers deeper into his wrists. His left eye was throbbing from the pain spreading from his temple.

He wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted to go home, curl up with Dylan on their couch.

He didn't want to feel anything at all.

"Seriously, kid. You are so not okay," Hector said and Rip agreed with him silently. It made his breath hitch and his eyes burn with tears he didn't have the liquids for.

And it made him angry. Because Rip knew that. Rip knew that better than anyone, having lived with himself longer than anyone. He didn't need Hector telling him the obvious.

But at least before, it wouldn't have made him want to cry.

...

Rip didn’t know who thought of it first. Maybe Hector told Isaiah to check on him. Maybe Dylan just gave Seline an update on their situation. Maybe Isaiah just knew.

The buzzing in Rip’s ears barely registered the vibration of a phone when a message came, finally adjusting to the signal.

He dug the phone out with clumsy fingers, squinting against the light of the screen. One new message.

Isaiah: Everything okay?

Rip closed his eyes, clutching the phone. His heart thudded painfully, unevenly, in his ears. He stayed like that for a long time, breathing through the nausea, the exhaustion, the urge to bury his face in his knees and disappear.

Then, before he could overthink it, he pressed the call button.

The line clicked once, twice—and then Isaiah’s voice came through, steady and even, like the train hadn’t shaken Rip apart. Like the world was still intact.

"Rip."

Rip swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. His voice rasped when he finally spoke. "When we get to Bologna," Rip said, keeping his tone as steady as he could, "what’s t-the...protocol?"

There was a beat of silence. Not hesitation—understanding. Isaiah picked up the thread without a single comment. "We'll be moving through neutral ground," Isaiah said. "Packs expect outsiders. No posturing. No scent-marking territory. You walk easy. Stay polite, but alert."

Rip nodded, even though Isaiah couldn’t see him. He pressed the phone harder to his ear, closing his eyes, letting Isaiah’s voice settle him.

"And your posture matters," Isaiah continued, tone calm, almost rhythmical. "Chin up. Shoulders back. Relax your hands. No fists unless you want it to mean something. You don’t flinch. You don’t cower."

Rip wiped the back of his wrist against his nose roughly, breathing through the rawness in his chest.

"You’re just passing through," Isaiah said. "Friendly. Civil. Not submissive."

Rip licked his dry lips, forcing out the next question. "And if... if someone notices?"

"Then we handle it," Isaiah said simply. "Polite nods. You keep walking. You’re not prey. You’re not a threat. You’re just not worth the trouble."

The words weren’t harsh—they were steady. Quietly confident. Reassuring. Like Isaiah just repeated what they both knew Rip would manage.

Exactly what Rip needed. He clung to the sound of Isaiah’s voice, even as tears pricked behind his eyes again.

He didn’t say anything about the train. About the sickness. About how small and broken he felt.

Isaiah didn’t ask.

But Rip heard it anyway—in the way Isaiah’s voice never rushed, never sharpened, never sounded disappointed.

Only calm. Only steady.

"You’ll be alright," Isaiah said after a moment, as if it were a fact, not a guess. "Dylan’s with you. You’ll have backup. You’ll do what needs to be done."

Rip curled tighter against the cold platform, squeezing the phone against his ear like it could keep him anchored there.

"Yeah," he whispered, voice cracked and raw. "Okay."

Isaiah didn’t push him to say more. Just stayed there, a low breathing presence in Rip’s ear, until Rip's lungs stopped hitching and his grip loosened a little.

"Get some rest," Isaiah said finally. "Call me...if you have any more questions."

Rip nodded again, his throat too tight to speak.

He ended the call before he could say something stupid. Breathed in, breathed out.

The snake was gone from his lungs.

#sickfic #emeto #hurt/comfort #vomiting #motion sick #bromance #angst #werewolf wip #my writing #Rip

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