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vampwilliams · 1 month ago

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ain't no grave

chapter four: low lamplight

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summary: A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

content warnings: angst, trauma, PTSD, pain, guilt, smut, fingering, p in v sex, no y/n used, good girl praise, possessiveness, she/her pronouns, joel being soft, established relationship, jackson setting

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics.

The bright sunlight hit you like a punch, flooding your vision in a way that made your head swim. You squinted against it, your hand rising instinctively to shield your eyes—only there was no hand.

Your breath hitched. A cold, hollow ache opened in your chest, sharp and sudden, as your gaze dropped to the bandaged stump where your wrist should’ve been. The motion had been so natural, so reflexive, and now it was a mistake you’d have to keep learning not to make.

Your bottom lip trembled, a wave of something between grief and numbness threatening to crack you open.

Then you felt it.

Joel’s hand at the small of your back was warm and steady, rubbing small, slow circles through your jacket. That simple touch grounded you in a way nothing else could. It pulled you back from the edge.

“Just stay low for a bit,” Maria’s voice cut through the static in your head, calm and cautious. “Only a few people in Jackson know what happened. Best to keep it quiet until—”

Tommy laid a hand on her arm, gently stopping her.

“Darlin’, let ‘em go home,” he murmured, his voice carrying a quiet kindness. “We’ll deal with the rest when it comes.”

You saw Maria's brief flicker of irritation before it softened. She gave a reluctant nod, stepping back.

Joel’s eyes met Tommy’s then. A look between brothers that said more than words. Gratitude. A silent thank you for knowing when to step in.

“I feel fine,” you lied softly, forcing a small, tired smile in Maria’s direction. It didn’t touch your eyes. You could feel how brittle it was, how forced.

But it was enough to get Maria to nod.

You weren’t fine. Not even close. The sunlight felt too bright, the town too big, every glance from people who didn’t know you yet like a weight pressing down on your chest.

“I’ll check in tomorrow,” Tommy said, giving Joel a firm nod before gently guiding Maria toward the town hall. She didn’t look back.

You let out a long, unsteady breath, shoulders sagging as the space around you grew quieter. The weight of everyone else’s presence faded, leaving only the hollow stretch of road between you and the house you’d once called home.

You glanced up at Joel, offering a weak, crooked smile. The kind that was meant to say I’m okay, but didn’t convince either of you. It lingered for a heartbeat before slipping away, like it was too heavy to hold onto.

Joel saw it. Saw the exhaustion in your eyes, the weight pressing down on you. Your steps felt uneven, like the ground had shifted under you since the last time you’d walked these streets.

And it gutted him.

He kept his hand at the small of your back, guiding you wordlessly, his thumb brushing small, steady circles there like the only thing tethering him to solid ground.

He hated what he’d done. Hated what it cost you.

But he didn’t regret it.

Not for a second.

The guilt gnawed at him anyway, sitting heavy in his chest, knotting his stomach, the memory of your fresh blood on his hands refusing to fade.

You walked silently, the snow crunching beneath your boots, the late afternoon sun slanting long shadows across the road. Familiar faces moved in the distance, people going about their lives, blissfully unaware of how yours had come apart.

Everything looked the same. It felt wrong.

The ache in your wrist—or where it should’ve been—throbbed in time with your pulse. Every step was a reminder. Every brush of your coat against the bandage sent a cold shiver up your spine.

“I’m—I had to…” Joel started suddenly, his voice rough, catching like gravel in his throat.

You looked up at him, brow furrowing, your steps slowing just enough for him to feel it. His face was tight, his eyes fixed ahead like he couldn’t bring himself to look at you.

“I know, Joel,” you said quietly, the words soft but steady, though you could feel them cracking at the edges. “You did what you had to do.”

You let out a shaky breath, your gaze dropping for a second before forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Don’t you dare feel guilty over it. You saved my fucking life. You took a risk and—” Your voice wavered, snagging on the weight of it. It felt like your chest was caving in.

Joel’s jaw clenched hard enough that you saw the muscle twitch. His shoulders tensed, his hand flexing at his side.

“But look what you lost,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it any louder might break something between you.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, an ache swelling up behind your ribs. There wasn’t a correct answer to that — no words that could undo what had been done or make it easier to carry.

So instead, you reached out.

Your good hand brushed against his, fingers sliding between his with an unsteady, awkward grace, lacing them together as best you could. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be.

Joel’s steps faltered for a heartbeat, and his grip tightened around yours. Firm. Unyielding. Like a promise he couldn’t say out loud.

Neither of you spoke after that. The silence stretched between you, not empty but full—thick with grief and unspoken love, with everything you’d both survived and everything you’d still have to face.

____________

“Nice and easy,” Joel murmured, his voice low and steady, the kind of voice meant to anchor you when the ground beneath your feet kept shifting.

His fingers brushed your side as he helped lift the torn, blood-crusted shirt over your head, careful not to jostle your injured arm. The fabric clung to your skin, stiff with dried sweat and blood, tugging at your hair as it came free. A sharp sting bloomed in your shoulder, but you bit it back.

You hadn’t changed in two days. The jacket sleeve was shredded, and the collar was stiff with old blood. You could only imagine how you looked if you caught your reflection — sunken eyes, dirt-smudged skin, bruises blooming beneath your jaw.

Joel didn’t flinch at the sight of you. Didn’t comment. He just tossed the ruined shirt aside and knelt to untie your boots.

You opened your mouth to protest, some old stubborn instinct kicking up, but his gaze flicked up to yours — not sharp, not pitying, just a quiet, tired sort of patience.

“I know you can,” he murmured, like he could hear what you weren’t saying. “Just let me do this.”

The words loosened something tight in your chest. You nodded, swallowing around the ache in your throat.

When your boots were off, Joel guided you to the bathroom. The small space was already thick with rising steam. A clean towel hung from the hook, and a folded pair of soft clothes waited on the counter. The bath was drawn — hot water glinting in the low light.

Joel crouched beside the tub, testing the temperature with a hand, adjusting the tap like it was the most natural thing in the world as if this weren’t some terrible, broken aftermath.

“Water’s good,” he said, standing and rubbing a hand over his neck, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself. His eyes darted to yours. “I’ll be right outside. Call me if you need anything.”

You hesitated.

And he saw it.

That brief flicker of hesitation, of wanting him close even though you weren’t sure how to ask.

Joel didn’t say a word. He just gave a short nod, crossed back to you, and rested a calloused palm against your cheek.

His thumb brushed there once, slow and sure.

“You’re home now, baby,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

“Stay,” you muttered, your voice catching, your bottom lip trembling despite your best effort to hold it together. The word felt small in the heavy, steam-thick air.

Joel’s gaze met yours — steady, quiet, something breaking in his eyes. He gave a slight nod. No hesitation. No question.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m stayin’.”

He moved to strip off his jacket first, the blood-soaked fabric hitting the floor with a wet, heavy thud. His shirt followed, streaked with dried blood and grime, clinging to his skin as he peeled it away. He didn’t bother looking at the mess of bruises and scrapes blooming along his own arms, his focus never leaving you.

You eased into the water with a wince, the heat biting at your skin, sharp and stinging against raw cuts and tender bruises. You bit down on a hiss, trying not to show it, but Joel saw — he always did.

“Too hot?” he murmured, reaching for the tap, adjusting the cold.

You shook your head, your throat tight. “It’s fine,” you whispered. It wasn’t, but it was the first thing that had made you feel anything in days, and you weren’t about to let it go.

Joel finished undressing, his movements slow, methodical, and careful. He understood this wasn’t about the bath. It was about not being alone.

He slid into the water behind you, the tub barely big enough to hold both of you. His legs bracketed yours, his arms resting on the rim for a moment before one slid around your waist, pulling you gently back against him.

The contact broke something loose in your chest. You let yourself lean into him, the weight of his body grounding you, his chin brushing the top of your damp hair.

Joel reached for a washcloth, dipping it in the water, wringing it out, then carefully running it along your shoulder. His touch was light, unhurried, working over the dried blood, the dirt, the grief clinging to your skin. He didn’t flinch when he reached the bandaged stump of your wrist. He was always steady, even when everything else was falling apart.

Your eyes stung with hot tears threatening to spill.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” you whispered.

Joel kissed your temple, the scrape of his stubble rough but familiar.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, his voice low and sure against your skin.

The water had gone from scalding to warm, clinging to your skin like a heavy second weight, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the storm in your head.

You stared down at the rippling surface, the band of skin where your wrist used to be, and the knot in your throat thickened. The silence between you and Joel wasn’t uncomfortable — it was thick, heavy with all the things neither of you had the strength to say yet.

“I shouldn’t have wandered off,” you whispered, the words falling out of you before you could stop them. Weak. Shaky. Like a confession you’d been holding onto since you woke up.

Joel’s hand moved before his words did. His calloused fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes met his. You hadn’t realized how badly you were shaking until he touched you.

“Stop,” he said, and it wasn’t sharp, wasn’t harsh. It was soft, but its weight left no room for argument.

His gaze was glassy in the low light, rimmed with exhaustion, but there was no anger—only grief and tenderness.

“It ain’t your fault what happened,” he murmured, thumb brushing across your cheekbone, catching the tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

Your bottom lip quivered again, a fresh wave of guilt breaking loose in your chest. “I put you in that position,” you choked out, the words hitching as your throat tightened. “I made you—”

“Hey,” he cut in gently, shaking his head. “No. Don’t do that, sweetheart. Don’t you dare do that.”

Your breath broke, a sob catching in your chest. And before you could turn away, before you could fall apart alone, Joel pulled you in. Both arms wrapping around you, drawing you back against his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head as the tears came.

You pressed your face into his neck, the scent of him grounding you even as you cried, your shoulders shaking. The water sloshed around you, your sobs ragged in the quiet room.

Joel didn’t speak. He just held you. Solid. Unmoving. His hand moved in slow, steady circles over your back, and the beat of his heart was a steady drum beneath your ear.

He let you fall apart, and when the storm started to ebb, his voice came again — low, rough, and close.

“You’re here. That’s what matters. Nothin’ else.”

Somehow, you believed him even if the ache in your chest still lingered, even if the guilt didn’t quite go away.

____________

After the bath, you sat on the edge of the bed, one of Joel’s shirts swallowing your frame, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of him. It hung off your shoulders like borrowed armor you didn’t feel you deserved.

Joel sat behind you, one knee pressed to the mattress, carefully brushing your damp hair. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask if you wanted him to. He just did it, the slow, steady drag of the bristles through the tangles.

You knew this wasn’t for you.

Not entirely.

It was for him. To prove you were still here, still breathing, and solid beneath his hands. Every gentle pull through your hair and every brush pass was a way for him to keep from falling apart: a ritual, a reassurance.

So you let him.

And maybe you needed it, too.

Your gaze stayed fixed on your lap, at the loose drape of fabric where your hand should’ve been. You flexed your fingers on your good hand, feeling the phantom weight of the other one. It still felt like it was there sometimes, an itch, a flicker of sensation, a cruel trick of your brain.

You thought about how you couldn’t even brush your hair anymore. Couldn’t tie your boots. Pull on your jacket, how you’d have to relearn every small, stupid thing with your nondominant hand. How something as simple as buttoning a shirt might unravel you on the wrong day.

The thought made your throat tighten.

You didn’t want to be someone he had to take care of. You didn’t want to be a weight he carried. You wanted to be strong. Capable. You wanted to be the person who watched his back, not the one slowing him down.

But right now, sitting with his hand warm and steady at the nape of your neck, you let yourself be this version of yourself.

Joel didn’t treat you like glass. He didn’t fuss, didn’t ask if you were okay. He just kept moving the brush through your hair with a quiet kind of tenderness that made your chest ache.

His thumb brushed a damp strand from your cheek.

“There, sweetheart,” Joel murmured, so soft you weren’t sure you’d even heard it. It brushed against the air like a secret meant only for you.

He set the hairbrush down on the nightstand, the faint clatter louder than it should’ve been in the thick quiet. Then he came around to stand in front of you, his gaze searching your face.

“Since when did you get so patient?” you asked, trying for teasing, for some version of the old you, but your voice came out thin, brittle. The weight in your chest wouldn’t budge.

A small smile ghosted over Joel’s lips. “Only for you, darlin’,” he said, and it felt like the world hadn’t come apart for a moment.

But it didn’t last.

Your thoughts turned, sharp and ugly. The heaviness settled again in your chest, curling like smoke in the back of your throat. The knot of guilt, grief, and fear was winding tighter with every heartbeat.

You wanted it to stop. You wanted it to go quiet. You tried to stop feeling like this broken, lesser thing. And beneath all that, the sharp, unbearable ache of what if he doesn’t want me like this?

The words slipped out before you could catch them.

“Do you still… want me?” you whispered, barely able to look at him.

Joel’s breath hitched, and his eyes darkened — not with pity or shock, but with something rough and fierce.

“Hey,” he said gently, crouching in front of you, his hand brushing your thigh. “Ain’t a thing in this world could make me stop wantin’ you.”

You bit your lip, fighting the burn in your eyes.

“I’m not—” you started, but he was already shaking his head.

“Stop,” he rasped, his hand cupping the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You’re still you. Every goddamn piece of you.”

He reached for your injured arm, his touch light, seeking your permission in the flicker of your gaze. When you gave the faintest nod, he carefully unraveled the bandage. The sight of it — raw, red, wrong — made your stomach turn, but Joel didn’t flinch.

Instead, he lifted your arm, what was left of it, to his lips.

And he kissed it.

It was slow, tender, like it wasn’t something to pity but worth loving. His mouth brushed the skin just above the wound, and your breath shuddered out, something in you breaking loose.

His other hand cradled the back of your neck, guiding your forehead to his. He kissed you deeply and slowly until your mind stopped spinning and his warmth was all that existed.

The world dulled, the panic pulling back like a tide.

“I got you, baby,” he murmured against your lips. “Always.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering open to meet his dark hazel eyes burning with something that made your skin prickle and your stomach tighten.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely more than your breath.

Joel’s jaw clenched, something sharp and desperate flickering in his eyes at the words. Before you could second-guess it, your fingers brushed across the hard line of his chest, tracing the dip of a scar, feeling the steady drum of his pulse beneath your touch. You let your hand trail higher, curling around the back of his neck as you pulled him down onto the bed.

The mattress gave way under your combined weight; the worn cotton of Joel’s shirt brushed against his bare skin. He settled over you, bracing himself on his forearms so he didn’t crush you, but his body pressed against yours.

“Jesus, baby,” he rasped, leaning down to kiss you again, this time deeper, rougher. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger edged in tenderness, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy drag that made your toes curl.

You arched into him, needing to feel every inch of him against you. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers dragging over your ribs, tracing every curve. His touch was reverent, but possessive too — like he was reminding himself you were still here, still his.

Joel pulled back just enough to look down at you, his thumb brushing your lower lip, swollen from his kiss.

“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said, voice gravel-soft and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your breath trembled as you reached for him again, hooking your good hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down until your lips brushed his ear.

“Then show me,” you murmured, voice breaking on the words, equal parts plea and challenge.

Joel leaned down, kissing you breathless, his mouth rough and tender all at once. Every brush of his lips against yours made the rest of the world slip further away — the fear, the grief, the ache you hadn’t known how to name. There was only him—the weight of his body, the scratch of his stubble, the warmth of his skin.

You parted your legs wider, instinctively, needing him closer, and he slid between them like he belonged there, like it was the only place he was ever meant to be.

His hand skimmed up your thigh, slow and steady, his calloused palm leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You shivered under his touch, a soft gasp catching in your throat as his fingers reached the curve of your bare hip, pushing his — your — shirt higher.

The fabric bunched around your ribs, the cool air kissing your skin where his hand had been, but the ache between your legs only grew sharper, needier.

Joel’s gaze dropped, the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. That soft, wrecked look in his eyes didn’t fade, though — hunger threaded with affection, like you were something sacred and he was starving for you.

“No underwear, pretty girl?” he murmured, voice dark and low, the words thick with fondness and something rougher beneath it. His fingers teasingly dragged along the edge of your hipbone before sliding lower.

You felt your breath stutter when his touch reached the slick heat between your thighs, the lightest brush of his fingers against you sending a pulse of pleasure up your spine.

“Smart girl,” Joel rasped, eyes locked on yours as his touch moved in slow, unhurried strokes, like he had all the time in the world. “Makes it easier for me to take care of you.”

Your hips arched, chasing his hand, your skin flushed and tingling. A soft whimper escaped you, half pleasure, half relief — because this, this , you could feel. This made you forget the space at the end of your wrist and remember what it meant to be wanted.

Joel leaned in, kissing the corner of your mouth, jaw, throat — all those places he knew made you tremble. His free hand cradled your cheek, steadying you.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he whispered, dragging his lips against your skin. “Gonna make you feel good.”

You whimpered, your head tipping back as his finger slipped inside you, the stretch sending a pulse of pleasure straight to your core. His thumb brushed over your clit in a slow, deliberate circle, and your breath hitched.

“ Joel ,” you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a plea, your hips rolling helplessly into his hand.

His lips ghosted against your neck, hot and damp, and then he kissed you, open-mouthed, lingering, his tongue flicking against your skin. Each kiss left behind the faintest sting, tiny marks he knew would bloom later, little claims only the two of you would know were there.

His pace increased, finger moving with a little more intent, the slick sounds of your arousal filling the space between you, mixing with your soft, breathless whimpers.

Then another finger pushed inside you, the stretch making you moan, your thighs trembling around him. He groaned low against your neck at the way you clenched around him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel rasped, his voice like sandpaper, thick and low in your ear. “So goddamn sweet for me.”

He kissed the underside of your jaw, his stubble rough against your flushed skin, while his thumb kept that steady, perfect pressure on your clit, making your head spin.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your throat, and it wasn’t a command. It wasn’t possessive in the way it might’ve been years ago. It was a promise. A reassurance. A tether.

Like he was reminding you — this is where you belong, right here, with me, alive, wanted.

The words sent another wave of heat through you, your body arching into him, a soft cry breaking free as your muscles tightened.

Joel’s free hand came up to cup your cheek, tipping your face toward his, and he kissed you deep, his tongue sliding against yours as his fingers drove you higher.

“I got you, sweetheart,” Joel breathed against your lips, his voice rough and deep, sending a shiver down your spine. “C’mon… let go for me. Be a good girl.”

Your name rumbled out of him like a prayer, his lips brushing yours as he spoke it, wrecked and reverent.

His fingers quickened, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision while the wet slide of his hand made your thighs tremble. Every stroke sent sharp, electric pulses through you, your body arching helplessly into his touch.

Your breath hitched, a soft sob escaping as the pressure built fast and sharp, coiling low in your belly, tighter and tighter until it was almost too much.

“Joel—” you gasped, your voice breaking as your muscles clenched around his fingers, your hand fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, pressing a searing kiss to your jaw, his stubble scraping your skin most deliciously. “Let me have it. Just like that.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit hard, your entire body jolting as white-hot pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your hips bucked, your toes curling, a strangled cry spilling from your lips as your vision blurred. It felt endless, sharp, wet, and overwhelming in the best way.

Joel held you through it, his fingers working through every last tremor, his hand cradling your cheek, grounding you as your body shook.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, his voice thick, raw with affection and hunger, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your throat as you came down, your chest heaving, skin flushed and damp.

You sagged against him, boneless and spent, the world blurring at the edges as his hands never stopped moving, soothing now, one brushing sweaty hair from your face, the other trailing soft circles against your thigh.

And in his arms, you felt whole again.

Desired.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

The aftershocks still rippled through you, leaving your limbs heavy and your skin fever-hot, but beneath it all was a deeper ache — the desperate, clenching need to have him inside you. To feel him, to be filled, to remind yourself you were alive, wanted, his.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice ragged and needy against his ear, “please… I need you.”

His breath stuttered against your skin, a low, broken sound that made your stomach clench again. He kissed your jaw, then your throat, the scrape of his stubble making you shiver as he gently guided you up the bed, your back sinking into the cool sheets.

“You got me,” he murmured, voice thick and low, the words more promise than reassurance.

His hands were quick, slipping under the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down and off with a rough, practiced ease. His cock sprang free, hard and heavy against his stomach, the flushed head already slick.

Joel caught your gaze. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown, and heat and tenderness tangled together in his expression like a storm barely held in check.

“You sure, baby?” he asked, thumb brushing over your cheek, giving you one last chance to stop him and choose something else.

But you didn’t hesitate.

“Joel,” you whispered, your good hand reaching for him, curling around the back of his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “I’m yours.”

That wrecked something in him. You felt it.

His mouth crashed into yours, hot and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues tangling, and then he was settling between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. The stretch of him was slow and so good it made your eyes flutter shut, a moan breaking from your lips.

Joel swallowed the sound with a kiss, one hand cupping the side of your face, the other fisting the sheet by your hip as he pushed deeper.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his breath hot against your ear. “Fuck, baby…you feel like heaven.”

“Move,” you moaned, your voice raw and desperate. “ Please, Joel… move.”

You didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel anything but him — filling you, stretching you, breaking you apart in the way only he could. You just wanted your mind to go quiet, to drown in him.

Joel let out a guttural groan, his jaw clenched tight as he slowly sank deeper, your wet heat gripping him like a vice. The stretch burned in the best way, the drag of him against your walls making your back arch off the bed.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel hissed through his teeth, his voice shredded and reverent. He pulled out to the tip, your body clenching around nothing, desperate for him, before he pushed back in hard and deep, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the dim room.

His pace built, each thrust dragging a broken moan from your throat. Your legs fell open wider for him, greedy, needy, the ache in your belly twisting tighter.

You clawed at his shoulder, your good hand fisting in the muscle there as you gasped, “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

“Not fuckin’ stoppin’, baby,” he gritted, leaning down to mouth at your jaw, your throat, his teeth scraping against your pulse point. “Not ‘til you fall apart for me again.”

The hand that had been fisting the sheets moved — strong, calloused fingers trailing up your thigh, leaving a tingling heat in their wake. Then he pressed his thumb to your clit, circling it in tight, filthy little strokes that made your entire body jolt.

A sharp cry tore out of you, your hips bucking, chasing his hand as your muscles fluttered around him.

“Yeah,” Joel rasped, his pace rough and perfect, each thrust stealing the air from your lungs. “That’s my girl. So goddamn tight… fuck , you’re killin’ me.”

Your head lolled back against the pillow, your vision blurring, the coil inside you wound so tight it was painful.

“Joel—” you sobbed, the pleasure tipping toward unbearable, your body trembling. “I—I need—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, circling your clit faster, grinding into you deep, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your stomach clench.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he rasped, lips brushing your ear. “Let it go. Lose yourself for me.”

Your orgasm ripped through you hard and fast, your body locking up, thighs shaking, mouth falling open in a wordless cry as wave after wave of white-hot pleasure crashed over you. Joel cursed, his hips stuttering as you clenched around him.

Joel groaned low in his throat, pulling out quick, his cock slick with your arousal as he worked himself with a rough hand. His eyes never left you, his gaze heavy, filled with something more than lust. A beat later, he came with a hoarse curse, thick ropes spilling into his fist, his chest heaving, skin flushed and damp.

You watched, your breath catching, teeth sinking into your lower lip at the sight. The ache between your legs pulsed, overstimulated but wanting, and for the first time in days, your mind was quiet. Empty in the way you’d needed, filled only with the sight of him, the man you loved, wrecked and beautiful like this.

You thought he’d be done. Thought surely a man in his fifties would be spent now, and maybe he was, but the look in his eyes as they dragged down your bare, flushed body was anything but finished.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” Joel muttered, voice rough and reverent. He let his hand settle on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles against your damp skin. “How you feelin’, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard, your gaze trailing over the broad line of his chest, the dark dusting of hair, the old scars, the way his stomach rose and fell with each breath. “I’m… better,” you managed, the words soft, a flicker of uncertainty still clinging to the edges.

Joel’s brow twitched, like he could hear everything you weren’t saying.

Without a word, he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water and rustling fabric following him. A moment later, he was back, a warm towel in one hand, a stubborn glint in his eyes.

“What are you—” you began, your brow lifting as he lifted your hips with surprising care, his touch gentle on your overly sensitive body.

Your clit throbbed at even the faintest brush of cool air.

“Gonna break my fuckin’ knees makin’ sure every ounce of doubt’s gone, pretty girl,” Joel murmured, settling back between your thighs like it was the most natural place in the world. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, the scrape of his stubble making your skin tighten.

You shook your head, chest tight, a sharp ache blooming in your throat. “Joel… I’m okay. You’ve proven your point,” you whispered, your voice shaking as you raised your arm — the stump was a brutal reminder. “You still… desire me even though—”

Your words broke off, your lip trembling, a wave of raw emotion crashing over you as your face crumpled.

Joel’s eyes softened, his hand cradled your jaw, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“Even though what?” he asked, voice low and rough, but not unkind.

You swallowed hard, unable to say it.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, slow and tender, then rested his cheek there, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I didn’t stay alive this long just for your pretty face, sweetheart,” he rasped. “I want all of you. Every inch. Every scar. Every fuckin’ piece. You hear me?”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you brushed your tears away with your good hand, the rough pads of your fingers catching on your damp cheek.

But Joel wasn’t letting it slide that easily.

“Repeat it,” he murmured, his voice low and firm—not a demand, but something filled with tenderness. A tether pulling you back to him, grounding you in the heat between you.

Your chest rose and fell in a shaky breath, and your eyes locked on his. He waited patiently, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your thigh.

“You… you want all of me,” you whispered, your voice raw but steady, the weight of the words thick in the air between you.

Joel’s gaze softened, something warm and wrecked flickering in his eyes, and a small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Good girl,” he rasped, and the praise made your stomach flutter, your pulse quicken.

His mouth lowered again, trailing soft, lingering kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Each brush of his lips was a quiet promise, a reassurance. His stubble scratched just enough to make your hips twitch, your breath catching.

“Every inch of you, sweetheart,” Joel murmured against your skin, his lips warm and steady, his hand sliding up to rest over your hip, holding you there like he’d never let go. “Every scar, every soft spot, every breath you take… mine.”

And how he said it made your chest ache in the best, most aching way.

You bit your lip, blinking against another wave of tears, this time for a different reason entirely.

You felt wanted.

Whole.

His.

And you let him you until the ache eased, until your breathing slowed, until there was nothing in the world but the quiet hum of his mouth on your skin and the steady, grounding weight of his hands on you.

taglist: @televangrl @burntsaltsblog @bowsnbang @yvonne-dump @salingers @unadulteratedcoffeetastemaker @amoooeba @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @bitchyfestnight

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vampwilliams · 1 month ago

Text

The Dragonfly & The Moon

main masterlist ✧ kinktober masterlist ✦

kinktober : day nine - afab!witch!reader x joel miller

prompt : blood drinking [ 18+ mdni ]

word count : 1.9k

summary : you and joel decide to take the next step in your relationship.

warnings, etc. : language, knives, cutting, ritualistic sex, religious symbols, blood, consensual violence, blood drinking (surprise surprise), gore, sort of body horror i suppose, premature ejaculation, and i used the middle name i head canon for joel whoops

a/n : hello my lovelies, i just finished this up before work i hope y'all enjoy this silly little story

“And you’re absolutely sure you’re okay with this?” You set each blade down in front of him, letting him watch as you soak each one in alcohol. He’s sitting up on the table, knees bent, elbows resting on his thighs.

“I did say I wanted to participate in your hobbies more.” He keeps his eyes on each one, you know he’s nervous despite the act he’s putting on but you just want him to be comfortable.

“This is a bit more than a hobby.” You set the final blade down on the cloth, walking around the table to take his hand in yours.

“I really want to, I promise.” He murmurs before bringing your hand to his face, placing a kiss to your palm.

He’s wanted to get married for ages now but you’ve been reluctant. It’s not that you don’t love him, of course you do, you’re just so… different. He’s a traditional man. He wants the wedding and the house with a white picket fence and the kids and the growing old together on a porch swing, and you want to live in the woods and sacrifice virgins to your dark lord.

But hey, opposites attract. (At least that’s what he says every time you try to have this conversation.)

And while he isn’t fond of your so-called hobbies, he’s been understanding. (Although it took a lot of convincing. He refused to believe you until you cut your own hand off and walked it across the table to him before promptly reattaching it.)

So when he got down on one knee you couldn’t say yes. Since then he’s been adamant that he be more involved in your life, desperate to prove that this could work.

Initially you’d told him you were busy tonight, your lord required an act of depravity as sacrifice and he’d been all too eager to offer to help.

He looks less eager now that he’s face to face with several of your blades.

“You really don’t have to do this-“

“I’m doing this. End of story.” You arch an eyebrow at his stern tone but nod.

“Okay. Take off your shirt.” You pick up the cloth with your knives on it, moving it to the counter as he unbuttons his denim top. He tosses it onto the chair as you light a few more candles around the room before lifting your sweater over your head and throwing it on top of his shirt, turning to him in just your bra and skirt. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He mumbles as you pick through the knives before settling on your favorite, a double edged small blade, the handle is shaped like a dragonfly.

“You have to pick one.” You turn so he can see the selection.

“I’ll take the one on the far left.” He nods in its direction as you take it by the blade, holding it out to him. You’re a bit surprised by his pick as you watch him examine the boline knife, tracing the curve with his finger before setting it on the table next to him.

You whisper a quiet prayer to yourself in latin, praying not just to your god to accept this sacrifice, but also to make this easier on your partner. You can think of several occasions where he had chosen to be especially cruel and a small part of you is aware of just how dangerous this situation is for Joel but you push that down, ignoring it.

You put the blade between your teeth, holding it in place as you climb up onto the table, straddling his lap before putting your hands on his chest, pushing him down flat onto the cold wood. You look down at him one last time, looking for any signs of resistance, when you see only determination in his eyes you whisper one last prayer before letting your own eyes roll back, feeling something darker course through your veins as it takes over. Your vision is clouded when you look back down at him and you know all he sees from them is white. You tenderly take the knife from between your teeth, spinning it in your hand.

“Still good?” This time when you mumble you’re vaguely aware of the fact that your voice is being layered with another, much deeper voice, his eyebrows shoot up in confusion but he just nods.

No reason to put this off any longer, you take his hand, entwining your fingers and lifting his arm up. You take the blade, gently drawing it across the side of his forearm, making an incision about four inches in length, watching as the thin line of red appears in its wake. You see his jaw tense but he doesn’t flinch. He gasps as you lean forward, dragging your tongue across the wound. You let out a shuddering moan as the sweet metallic tang coats your tongue.

You went over the ritual in great detail with him beforehand. You explained everything you would be doing and everything that would be expected of him but his eyes still wide with surprise as you begin to lick his wound, not wanting to waste any of him, you feel the bitter, sweet liquid settling in your stomach, sending a flood of warmth through you.

You try not to be too loud but when you’re in this state your inhibitions are lowered, he tastes like heaven and you can’t contain yourself as you raise your blade once more, slicing him horizontally, making a cross on his skin. You watch the crimson bloom as you hold him still. The sight of it makes your pussy ache as you lean forward, lapping at the bleeding cross as you subconsciously grind your hips against his.

In a moment of weakness you bend down, biting his shoulder hard enough to pierce his skin, sucking in harshly as you drink him in.

“Christ…” He mumbles, gripping your waist as you recoil.

“Fuck-“ You hiss. “Don’t say that, it makes you go sour.” You wipe the excess gore from your mouth on the back of your hand as he gives you an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize.” You watch how the blood rushes to his face, his cheeks flushing a divine shade of red. You can’t help it when you tangle your fingers in his hair to hold him in place, you aren’t in control anymore. You’re extremely precise in your movements as you carve a rune into the sun kissed skin of his cheek, careful not to go deep enough to scar. Once you’re pleased with your work you let out a content sigh before flattening your tongue against it. Thanks to the quick incantation he’s gone sweet again, an almost bitter sweetness that overwhelms your senses. “Jus’ a little more.” You mumble in your intoxicated state as you languidly drag the shimmering blade down the center of his chest.

He inhales sharply once but when he realizes you aren’t applying any pressure he relaxes some. Much to your delight you feel a stirring beneath you, you angle your hips instinctually to rest your throbbing cunt against the substantial bulge forming in his pants.

“Joel Arthur Miller, are you actually getting off on this?” He doesn’t respond, simply blushing harder as you scorn him with a breathy laugh, raising your knife again you press it into the soft flesh of his chest, tracing patterns into the salt and peppered hairs sprinkled across his sternum before finally digging the blade into the meat of his pectoral, a spray of blood gushing up at you. Your face is flecked with gore as your mouth falls open to eagerly lap up the rosy ichor, you feel the distinct sensation of his cock straining and twitching in his jeans as you do so, an orgasm fully driven by the pleasure you derive from the vulgarity of the act your performing is forming in your belly.

As cold and unforgiving as your patron is, he has been known to be generous to his long term subjects, you know he’ll push you over the edge just like this if you’d like.

And he does. Your teeth sink into the flesh surrounding the wound still spouting blood as you come undone with a snarl, your hips feverish and frantic as you grind against him, the force of your bite drawing more blood. The sensations swelling and filling your entire being consume you one last time as you sharply suck in, a rush of fresh blood flows into your maw and you hungrily drink it all in before finally sitting up with a satisfied look on your face, you chin coated in gore as your eyes return to their usual state.

“Are you okay?” Your voice has returned to normal now as you search his eyes for a sign that this crossed a line but you never find it.

Joel still doesn’t speak, he merely stares at you in awe, nodding.

“Your turn.” Your voice echoes throughout the house as he sits up, keeping you firmly in his lap as he grabs his chosen knife, bringing it between the two of you. “Remember, you can do it anywhere.” You murmur, anxious to feel the cool steel against you. He slides the curved blade down your sternum, hooking it on your bra.

“And I only have to drink a little for your spell, right?” His voice is quiet, he sounds positively enamored with you as his nearly black eyes stare into yours.

“You only have to drink a drop if that’s what you want.” You cradle his face in your hands, he draws a hushed gasp from you as he slices through the center clasp of your bra, letting it fall before tossing it to the floor. He’s far more delicate than you were, opting to not pierce your flesh just yet. Instead he just traces little shapes into the curves and valleys of your chest. You bite back a moan as he runs the blade along the outline of your nipple before finally drawing blood on your shoulder.

One clean horizontal line, only an inch deep but six inches in length, the moment he’s made the incision he tosses his own blade aside, latching onto you. His hips stutter and his tongue traces the gash wildly and with a fervor you’ve never seen from him before. He isn’t deterred in the slightest by the fact that your blood runs a crimson so dark it basically runs a shimmering black, he just drinks, lewd slurping sounds fill the kitchen followed by an inhumane groan from your partner and in an abrupt instant a soft howl fills the space and the candles go out, both of you freezing in place.

“Shit, I guess we did it?” You sit up a bit, feeling a little confused as you light a small flame in your palm. “That usually doesn’t happen until the ritual’s done…” You furrow your brows as you look at him in the flickering light, a sheepish expression on his face before it clicks for you. “Wait, did you-”

“Sorry.” He mumbles, you reach down between the two of you and sure enough the front of his pants are soaked in a warm dampness, his cock now soft.

“You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” You can’t help but grin as you lean forward, kissing the bridge of his nose.

Maybe opposites do attract.

a/n : happy oct 9th :)

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