#it cannot get physically closer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

voyter · 8 months ago

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NO NUT NOVEMBER ⋆ 정국 !

pairing. jeon jungkook x fem!reader

jungkook and his friends are all in on the internet's most ridiculous trend: no nut november. but you’re determined to make your boyfriend lose — and you know just how to do it.

⟡₊ ⊹ THANKSGIVING SPECIAL !

word count. 8.9k words warnings. stupid fucking nnn challenge. JUNGKOOK IS SOOO DRAMATIC IN THIS OML. competitive koo. oc being petty as fuck. oc a brat hehe. jungkook cannot lie to save his life. he fighting demons in his head. needy koo. slight crack. smut. oral (fem!receiving). MUNCH JK. dry humping. blindfolding (very brief lasts like five seconds). koo loves her boobies. unprotected sex. dom!jk (i dont usually like writing him like this but i didnt hate it).

ana's notes. happy (very late) thanksgiving !!! BETTER LATE THAN NEVER RIGHT. this was supposed to be posted after thanksgiving but i got so busy and then the writers block crept up on me :\ .. ANYWAYS i am so grateful for you guys and the support you have shown for my writing, it means a lot since this is a hobby that i love. heres a little silly smutty fic for the holidays !! keep your comments positive or say nothing at all <3

There was this utterly ridiculous trend that resurfaced on the internet like clockwork every year — No Nut November.

The viral phenomenon was a joke. Honestly, who in their right mind would actually take part in such a thing?

Well... Jungkook and his friends would.

Never ones to back down from a challenge, they had turned the trend into a full-blown competition: the last man standing would walk away with a cash prize collected from everyone who failed. And Jungkook? He wasn’t about to lose. Not to his friends. Not to anyone.

It wasn’t like he needed the money. Jungkook was doing just fine in that department, thank you very much. But the satisfaction of watching his friends begrudgingly hand over their hard earned cash, faces red with defeat? Fucking priceless. Count him in.

Unbeknownst to you, the bet was in full effect. Therefore, in preparation for what promised to be a painfully unfulfilling month, Jungkook made the most of Halloween night. His desire was overwhelming as he pulled you into his arms again and again. By the time you were both utterly spent, he’d taken you three times — round after relentless round, ensuring he had no regrets before the clock struck midnight.

It was all part of his plan: to have you as many times as he possibly could before November hit and he couldn’t have you at all. He was dead serious about this challenge. Winning was secondary — what mattered most was that he didn’t lose.

By the first week of November — just five days in — Jungkook had been doing surprisingly well. His restraint was impressive, and he’d managed to keep his touches brief and calculated. The physical contact between you two had been limited to sweet, innocent moments: the kisses you shared when he left and came home from work, the soft pecks exchanged before falling asleep, or the comforting warmth of cuddling. None of it lingered too long, and Jungkook was acutely aware of how easily even the smallest touch could spiral into something much harder to resist.

But Jungkook’s plan didn’t seem to work so well after all. As the week drew closer to its end, you began to get eager.

Your arms would wrap around his waist from behind, your chest pressing against his back as you left featherlight kisses against the nape of his neck. Each one sent a shiver down his spine, your breath warm and teasing against his skin. Your fingers trailed along his arms and shoulders a little longer than usual, like they couldn’t bear to part from him. When you kissed him, your lips lingered just a second too long, brushing against his with a softness that made his heart pound and his resolve crumble.

And Jungkook — poor, stubborn Jungkook — felt the strain of holding himself back with every passing moment.

The tension in his body was unmistakable. His jaw clenched, his hands fisted at his sides, as if anchoring himself in place was the only way to resist you. But it was getting harder. Your every move — a tilt of your head, a brush of your fingers, the soft hum of your laughter — was a calculated test of his willpower.

There were times where his thumb hovered over the group chat. His mind screamed at him to type out the words, to admit defeat, to let it all go so he could have you the way he so desperately craved.

But he didn’t.

He kept his composure, though it was a battle he felt he was losing by the second. Temptation clung to him like a warm, enticing embrace, your every move a test of his self control. You were irresistible, and he knew it. Hell, even the fucking dickwad of a neighbor — the one who always found a reason to greet you while mugging Jungkook — knew it. But as much as he wanted to give in, Jungkook had to tread carefully. Ignoring you completely would be suspicious, and pulling away would be totally out of character. You’d see right through him.

So he found a fine line to walk, a delicate balance: giving you just enough to keep you satisfied while keeping his own burning desires tightly in check. A heated makeout session here, his hand squeezing your ass there — little gestures that made everything feel normal. Just enough to keep you from noticing anything was off, but never enough to let things spiral out of control.

The thought of explaining the ridiculous bet to you was out of the question — he wasn’t about to tell you he’d willingly signed up to not get his cock wet for a whole month. So instead, he silently resolved to endure.

It wasn’t easy. Hell, it was torture. But the thought of losing to his friends? That was even worse. Their smug faces, the relentless teasing — it was unthinkable. Jungkook would rather give himself the worst case of blue balls imaginable than admit defeat.

But just as the next week was about to begin, Jungkook’s willpower met its match.

At night, Jungkook stuck to his usual routine. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and climbed into bed. He scrolled aimlessly through his TikTok for you page, waiting for you to finish up in the bathroom and join him. It was the same comforting ritual as always.

Usually, when you slipped into bed, he’d put his phone down immediately. Without a word, he’d shift closer, press his chest to your back, tangle your legs together, and throw a protective arm over your waist. It was an unspoken rhythm you both loved, the closeness of his warmth pulling you both into peaceful sleep.

But tonight, something felt different.

It had been a long week — too long. You hadn’t had him, hadn’t felt his touch, hadn’t been able to drown in the comfort of him. And tonight, the ache of missing him was unbearable. You needed him, desperately.

As you stepped out of the bathroom, the soft light from the lamp illuminated him sprawled across the bed. His focus was on his phone, completely oblivious to you — but your attention was elsewhere.

The thin material of his sweatpants did nothing to hide the outline of his cock, pressing firmly against the fabric as he lay there in complete ease. It was almost unfair how effortlessly attractive he looked.

And just like that, the last of your restraint snapped.

You didn’t even try to play coy. Not tonight. Not when every fiber of your being screamed for him, for his touch, for his warmth.

You crawled onto the bed with purpose, straddling his hips in one smooth motion. Jungkook tensed beneath you, his phone slipping from his hand onto the mattress. His dark eyes met yours, wide with surprise, but the second your lips captured his, you felt him relax into the kiss.

It didn’t take long for your lips to wander. From his mouth to his jaw, each kiss slower and deeper than the last. That’s when he knew.

This wasn’t going to end with a few kisses.

“It’s getting late,” he murmured, his voice breathy, like he was trying to convince himself more than you.

“Mhm,” you hummed, your lips trailing down his neck, suckling gently at the spot you knew made him shudder.

“We should go to sleep,” he tried again, though his words sounded more like a plea than an order.

“Don’t wanna,” you whispered against his skin, your hand sliding down between your bodies, cupping the hardening length beneath his sweatpants.

The guttural moan that tore from his lips was instant, raw, and uncontrollable. His reaction was visceral, his hands flying to your hips to still you, but it was too late. That single touch had ignited something primal in him.

With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back, his hands capturing your wrists and pinning them firmly above your head.

“Why do you never listen to me?” he said through clenched teeth. His frustration of trying to compose his restraint thinning. Why won’t you let him win? His face was so close to yours that the tip of his nose brushed against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips.

“Love pissing you off,” you shot back, your grin wicked as your eyes gleamed with mischief. You tilted your head slightly, your voice dropping into something softer, sultrier. “Makes me wet.”

“Brat,” he spat. His grip on your wrists tightened just slightly, his jaw clenching as if holding himself back took everything he had.

To you, it was all in good fun — a playful game, harmless teasing. But to Jungkook? It was sweet, unrelenting torment. Every kiss you pressed to his skin, every soft laugh that spilled from your lips, and every calculated touch you offered worked to chip away at his resolve, unraveling him one agonizing piece at a time.

He wanted to be strong, to resist, to uphold his own ridiculous self imposed boundaries. But how could he? How could he lay down beside you and simply go to sleep when your every movement, every sound, every look begged him to surrender? His body betrayed him first, drawn to you like a magnet, unable to keep his distance. The tension in his muscles, the sharp hitch of his breath every time you touched him — it all screamed of a man teetering on the edge of self control.

Jungkook swallowed hard, his gaze flickering over you, taking in the way your lips curled into a smile that was equal parts innocent and dangerous. He hated how much you affected him, but at the same time, he craved it. Every fiber of his being ached for you — your warmth, your softness, the way you felt against him. He knew he was doomed the second you whispered his name, voice laced with need.

Giving in wasn’t just inevitable; it was everything he wanted. And as much as he’d tried to fight it, there was no denying you. Not now, not ever.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice raw, laced with a pain so desperate it borders on pitiful. His head drops, forehead pressing against your sternum, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. It’s as if he’s trying to ground himself, clinging to the fragile threads of control slipping through his fingers.

For a moment, he stays there, his breath warm against your skin, his body taut with tension. Then, slowly, he lifts his head, meeting your gaze with eyes darkened by lust and want, swirling with a need so intense it makes your stomach all jittery. His cheeks are flushed, the faintest rosy tint blooming across his face and staining the tips of his ears. He looks utterly undone, vulnerable in a way that steals the air from your lungs.

Before he could think twice, his lips crashed against yours in a feverish kiss, devouring you like you were his favorite candy — sweet, irresistible, and utterly addictive. He poured everything into that kiss, every ounce of frustration and need, as if losing himself in you was the only thing that mattered.

His lips began to trail south, brushing along the curve of your jaw before dipping down to the sensitive hollow of your neck. Each press of his lips left a trail of heat on your skin, and your breath hitched, a soft sound that sent a rush of satisfaction through him. He didn’t stop, didn’t falter as his hands moved to the hem of your shirt — no, his shirt. You always stole his shirts for bed, and as much as he teased you about it, he loved seeing you in them.

He pulled the fabric up, lifting it just beneath your chin and exposing your bare chest. Your breasts, freed from the confines of the shirt, bounced softly back into place, and Jungkook’s breath caught. His dark eyes locked onto the sight, a low groan rumbling in his chest as his hands instinctively cupped them, squeezing gently, pushing them together as if appreciating every inch of you.

Unable to stop himself, he buried his face in the softness, his nose stuffed in between your tits, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Kook!” you giggled, your voice light and teasing, pulling him back just slightly from the haze of his desire. Your hands reached down, cupping his face and tilting it upward until his eyes met yours.

“Prettiest titties ever,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. He leaned forward to press a tender kiss to one breast, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your lips curved into a warm smile, and your thumb traced softly over the scar on the apple of his cheek. The tender moment was fleeting, though, as Jungkook’s mouth found its way to your chest, his lips wrapping around one of your nipples. His tongue flicked against the sensitive peak, drawing a sharp wave of pleasure through your body. You bit down on your bottom lip, trying — and failing — to stifle the moan that bubbled in your throat.

Your hands moved instinctively, brushing back the dark strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead. Your touch was soft, almost reverent, as you gazed down at him. The sight of Jungkook — cheeks flushed, lashes kissing his cheeks as he lost himself in you, his lips tugging gently at your sensitive flesh — made your heart race and your body ache with want.

He let out a low hum against your skin, the vibration sending a delicious shiver cascading down your spine. His tongue swirled around your nipple with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each motion igniting sparks of pleasure that left you breathless. His focus was unrelenting, his attention on you so singular it made your toes curl. The warmth of his saliva mixed with the heat of your skin, creating a sensation that was utterly intoxicating.

You let out a quiet gasp, your fingers tugging gently at his raven hair, earning a soft groan from him in response. Jungkook didn’t stop, his lips worshiping you like you were the only thing that mattered.

But as his mouth continued its ministrations, Jungkook couldn’t ignore the ache building in him. His cock throbbed, painfully hard and straining against his sweats, begging for relief. The urge to push everything aside and lose himself in you was overwhelming.

Maybe he could lose. Maybe he could just not tell them.

No. That wasn’t fair, and Jungkook hated lying — especially to his best friends.

But fuck, you weren’t making this easy for him.

With your pretty, soft boobs. Your sweet, irresistible lips. The way you tasted, the way you sounded.

He released your nipple with an audible pop, leaving your skin glistening and flushed from his attention. His lips lingered, warm and damp, as if tethered by an invisible string, reluctant to part. Then, slowly, he began his descent, tracing a line of soft, deliberate kisses down your stomach. Each press of his lips was unhurried, almost worshipful, leaving a trail of fire in its wake as anticipation tightened in your core.

When he reached the waistband of your panties, his movements paused. His lips hovered just above the fabric, warm breath teasing your skin. He glanced up at you, eyes hooded and dark with want, as if searching your face for permission to continue. The moment felt suspended, heavy with tension, before he shifted his attention lower, redirecting his kisses to the delicate, sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

His pace was maddening, each kiss a whisper against your skin, igniting every nerve and sending shivers rippling through you. His lips barely grazed you, his touch so featherlight it felt almost cruel, building the pressure inside you until it was nearly unbearable.

Then he saw it. The damp patch on your panties. His movements stilled for a moment, the sight pulling a soft moan from his lips, thick with need.

"Fuck me," he muttered under his breath, as if meant more for himself than for you. His voice was strained, low and raw, betraying the war raging inside him.

You were blissfully unaware of the full weight of his internal struggle, the impossible battle between his ironclad resolve and the magnetic pull of you beneath him. But for Jungkook, this wasn’t just lust; it was a consuming craving, threatening to shatter the very challenge he'd sworn to uphold.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, his touch firm yet tantalizingly gentle as he began to slide them down your thighs. The soft fabric dragged against your skin with agonizing slowness, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. When the panties finally slipped off and landed somewhere forgotten on the floor, his gaze dropped to the apex of your thighs, and a deep, guttural groan rumbled in his chest.

Your pussy glistened in the dim light, your slick coating your folds, the evidence of your desire laid bare before him. Jungkook's tongue darted out to wet his lips as impatience flickered in his eyes. Without hesitation, he leaned in, starting with slow, deliberate licks, savoring the taste of you like a man starving.

Your breath hitched, a shudder racing through you as you glanced down at him. His dark eyes locked with yours for a brief, smoldering moment before he closed his lips around your swollen clit, sucking gently yet firmly.

A moan tore from your throat as your head tipped back, your fingers instinctively finding one of your breasts. You cupped the soft mound, your palm pressing into the supple flesh. The room filled with the sounds of your ragged breaths and the wet, sinful noises of his tongue working you over.

Jungkook's hand shot up, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist as he yanked it away from your breast. He possessively replaced your hand with his own. His large, tattooed hand cupped your tit, kneading the soft flesh with a firm yet reverent touch.

He lifted his head from between your thighs, his lips glistening with your slick, and his heated gaze met yours. Without a word, his free hand slid down, his middle and ring fingers gliding through your folds with expert precision. He paused for a moment, his fingers coated in your arousal, before pressing them slowly inside you.

Your breath hitched at the delicious stretch, your sopping wet heat greedily sucking him in with ease. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his throat as he watched your body respond to his touch.

“So fucking wet," he whispered, voice thick with lust. His fingers curled slightly, stroking your walls with an unrelenting precision that had your thighs trembling.

Jungkook leaned back down, his lips latching onto your clit with a hunger that made your thighs quiver. He sucked and flicked his tongue over your sensitive bud, the wet, rhythmic sounds driving you wild. His fingers continued to thrust in and out of you, the steady, deliberate pace sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body as he curled them just right, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

His other hand stayed on your breast, groping and kneading with a firm possessiveness that left you aching for more. His thumb brushed over your nipple, pinching and rolling it between his fingers, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

He was everywhere — on you, in you, surrounding you. The intensity of his touch, his mouth, and his presence consumed you entirely, leaving you trembling under him as he worked your body like he was born to do it. You could feel the tension building, the coiling heat low in your belly threatening to snap as he devoured you like a man obsessed.

“Baby,” you whimper, your voice trembling, raw with need as your fingers twist into the sheets beneath you. “G- gonna cum.”

Jungkook doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down or falter. If anything, your words fuel him, igniting something feral inside him. He needs this — needs to feel you fall apart on his tongue, to taste every shiver and moan you can give him before he has to deny you for the rest of this painfully long month.

A low hum vibrates against your clit, and the sensation sends a fresh wave of heat surging through you, your body arching instinctively toward him. His tongue moves faster now, precise and unrelenting, flicking and circling as if the very act is his lifeline.

His fingers thrust into you, curling just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and your vision blur. The rhythm is perfect, practiced, like he’s mapping your body by memory, knowing exactly how to coax you to the edge.

Another hum escapes his throat, deeper this time, resonating against you with an intensity that feels almost like a plea — an unspoken command for you to let go, to surrender completely to the pressure building inside you.

And with each stroke of his tongue and every curl of his fingers, he pushes you closer, until you’re teetering on the brink, your body burning with the promise of release.

His hand on your breast squeezes more firmly, his thumb flicking and pinching your nipple with just the right pressure, as if he knows exactly how to push you over the edge. Your hand shoots up to grab his wrist, your nails digging into his skin, while your other hand fists the sheets desperately.

Your head tips back, lips parting in a silent, breathless moan as the tension inside you finally snaps. Your thighs instinctively begin to close around Jungkook’s head, trembling as your release crashes over you in wave after blissful wave.

Your body shakes beneath him, overcome by the force of your orgasm, but Jungkook doesn’t stop. His mouth continues its sinful work on your clit, sucking and licking with unrelenting precision, while his fingers maintain their steady thrusts.

Despite the painful, throbbing ache of his cock, Jungkook finds a twisted kind of satisfaction in giving you pleasure. The way your body arches, the sounds you make, the way your nails dig into the sheets — it’s intoxicating. It fuels him, spurring him on as though your ecstasy alone is enough to soothe his own torment.

He doesn’t want to stop. Not when you’re trembling beneath him, your body so responsive to his every touch. But there’s a limit to how much you can take, and he knows it. As much as he loves pushing you to the edge, watching as you surrender completely to him, overstimulation begins to creep in, your soft whimpers turning into desperate little gasps.

Still, there’s a reluctance in him, a battle between the unyielding need to give you more and the understanding that your body can only handle so much. Even as you writhe beneath him, pleading for reprieve, there’s a part of him that aches to keep going, to hold onto this connection for just a moment longer.

But he’s Jungkook, and if there’s one thing he values more than his own desires, it’s you. The sight of you trembling, your chest heaving as you fight to steady your breath, tugs at something deeper within him. He takes a deep breath, the taste of you lingering on his tongue, and finally, he pulls back.

His lips and chin are glistening with your slick, a sinful testament to his devotion. He doesn’t bother wiping it away; instead, he leans over you, his eyes dark and heavy with satisfaction as they roam your flushed face.

“Munch,” you giggle, your voice soft and teasing as your fingers brush his hair back from his forehead.

Jungkook chuckles, the sound deep and warm, scrunching his nose in playful protest. His pretty bunny-like teeth peek out in a smile so endearing it makes your heart skip a beat.

Unable to resist, you lean in, pressing your lips against his. Your tongue brushes against his, exploring him as the taste of you still lingers on his lips. The kiss grows deeper, more heated, and you feel his hard-on pressing insistently against your thigh.

Without a second thought, your hand slides down, grabbing his cock through the fabric of his pants. He groans softly against your mouth, the sound vibrating between you.

“Mmm,” Jungkook hums, breaking the kiss as he pulls away, the warmth of his lip still lingering on yours. He stands, his movements abrupt, leaving you breathless on the bed. His lips, swollen and glistening faintly in the dim light, speak to the intensity of your embrace, but his gaze doesn’t meet yours. Instead, it darts away, like a guilty child caught red-handed. He scratches the back of his head, his posture stiff as he moves toward the bathroom door. “I think I’m gonna go shower,” he blurts out, the tension in his voice betraying his attempt at casualness.

Shower? Now? Really? His dick is literally straining against his sweats, the outline unmistakable, practically begging for attention. You can still feel the heat of him pressed against you, the way he twitched beneath you just moments ago.

He’s not serious. There’s absolutely no fucking way.

“What?” Genuine confusion coats your tone, your brows furrowed. “You always shower in the mornings.”

“I- I know, baby,” he stammers, his pitch climbing an octave as his composure unravels faster than a poorly wrapped gift. Panic flashes in his wide eyes, and his mouth hangs open, grasping for an excuse he clearly doesn’t have.

“Then what’s wrong?” you ask, your softer now, a thread of worry weaving through your tone. You sit up, the oversized shirt you’d stolen from him slipping down your chest, covering your boobs he wished he could stare at for just a second longer. “Is something going on?”

“I-” His eyes dart around the room like the answer might be written on the walls. “I’m just tired.”

Your brow arches, skepticism written all over your face. “Tired?” you echo, your face scrunching in disbelief. “You’ve never not wanted to have sex.”

Jungkook visibly winces, his ears turning a bright shade of red. Rising from the bed like it might help, he sits at the edge, his hand nervously brushing your shin. “I- I had a long day at work.”

You tilt your head. “But you love having sex after a long day,” you say, your voice tinged with confusion. “Jungkook, seriously… what’s wrong?”

He freezes, like a deer caught in headlights, his lips parting in silent panic. “Nothing!” he squeaks, his voice cracking.

You lean closer, your suspicion mounting. “Well it’s clearly something! Do I not smell good?”

His head whips toward you, his face a mixture of offense and horror. “What? You smell amazing!” he practically yells, his voice high-pitched. “Honey, I could eat you all day if you’d let me!”

“Then why are you running off like this?”

“I’m not running!” he protests, though the crack in his voice suggests otherwise. “I just- uh- need to clear my head!”

“Clear your head?” you ask, squinting at him. “From what?”

“All the thinking I’ve been doing!” he exclaims, clearly grasping at straws. “It’s... exhausting.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. “Thinking about what?”

His mouth opens, but words fail him. After a moment of floundering, he groans, throwing his head back and covering his face with his hands. “You’re impossible,” he mumbles, his voice muffled behind his palms.

“And you’re a terrible liar,” you fire back. “Spill it. What’s really going on?”

He exhales deeply, dragging his hands down his face in defeat before clasping them together in front of him as if in prayer. His eyes squeeze shut, his lips pressed into a tight line. “I’m trying so hard right now,” he mutters finally, his voice low and desperate, “and you’re not making it easy.”

“Trying hard to what?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.

“To not combust right now!” he exclaims, his voice rough with need. His eyes snap open, locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. “You’re killing me, babe. Just... let me shower first, and then let’s just have a good night, okay?” His breath hitches, barely able to keep his composure as he watches you, a mixture of desperation and affection in his gaze.

You blink at him, your mouth slightly open, trying to piece together his words. Before you can say anything, he kisses you once more, the movement rushed and almost sheepish.

“Go to bed, honey,” he says, practically bolting for the bathroom. “I love you!”

The door shut behind him with a sharp, decisive click, followed by the distinct sound of the lock turning. It was jarring — Jungkook never locked the door. There was no reason to; it was just the two of you living together, no one else to intrude. The realization sank in quickly, a bitter confirmation that this time, he was actively shutting you out, trying to keep you from coming in and uncovering whatever was weighing on him. You sat there, frozen, staring at the closed door in stunned silence.

Whatever it was, one thing was clear — you weren’t letting this slide. You were going to figure out what was going on with your boyfriend if it was the last thing you did.

After that night, you kept your distance.

Jungkook hated it. He hated the silence, the lack of your warmth, the way you avoided his touch. But he couldn’t blame you. He knew he was the root of the problem — he had fucked up that night. He should’ve been smoother, handled it better, but he completely blew it. Jungkook was good at many things. Lying was not one of them.

For a few days, you gave him the silent treatment. When he leaned in for a kiss before heading to work, you turned your face, leaving him with nothing but a peck on your cheek. The lack of communication was agonizing, eating away at him every time he caught your cold glances. But you were petty as fuck, and he knew it. You weren’t about to kiss his ass — not when it was obvious he’d lied to you that night. If he didn’t want to talk to you, then you weren’t going to talk to him.

When you were alone — at work, lying in bed, or just lost in thought — your mind spiraled. What could he possibly be hiding? The thought haunted you, gnawing at the edges of your sanity. Was he cheating on you? The idea felt impossible, unthinkable. Your Jungkook would never… or at least, that’s what you wanted to believe. But his strange behavior, the evasiveness, planted seeds of doubt you couldn’t ignore. The very thought made you feel sick to your stomach, but the ache of curiosity refused to leave you alone.

You needed answers. And if Jungkook wasn’t going to give them to you, you decided to go to the one person who knew him best.

you [3:15 pm]: what is wrong with my boyfriend ??

jimin [3:17 pm]: That sounds like a question you should be asking your boyfriend, don't you think?

you [3:17 pm]: I KNOW YOU KNOW SOMETHING.

jimin [3:18 pm]: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT???

you [3:18 pm]: whats her name

jimin [3:18 pm]: Who??

you [3:19 pm]: HIS SIDE BITCH

jimin [3:19 pm]: GIRL WHAT

jimin [3:19 pm]: You think he’s cheating on you?

you [3:23 pm]: is he ?? just tell me so i can save myself the humiliation pls

jimin [3:23 pm]: Bro no he would never

jimin [3:23 pm]: I’d chop his dick off and then kill the girl if he did

jimin [3:23 pm]: What makes you even think that in the first place?

you [3:24 pm]: hes acting weirdddd :(

you [3:24 pm]: i was trying to fuck him a few nights ago but he wouldnt let me touch him

jimin [3:25 pm]: First of all ew

jimin [3:25 pm]: Second of all

you [3:28 pm]: SECOND OF ALL ????

jimin [3:30 pm]: 😂😂😂

If you weren’t pissed at Jungkook before, you definitely were now.

After talking to Jimin, you finally learned the truth about the challenge. It wasn’t even the fact that Jungkook had hidden it from you that irritated you most — it was the challenge itself and his ridiculous competitive spirit. Why did he have to be such a sore loser?

According to Jimin, five of the seven participants had already been knocked out. Seokjin and Yoongi, being married men, didn’t stand a chance — they were bound to lose. Namjoon, like Jungkook, was in a committed relationship, but unlike him, Namjoon had the good sense not to put himself through that kind of pain just to preserve his pride. Hoseok and Taehyung? They were notorious party addicts — losing was inevitable for them.

Now, it was down to just Jungkook and Jimin. And, of course, Jungkook’s competitive streak wouldn’t let him back down, no matter how ridiculous the stakes were. The thought made your blood boil. How could he have dragged himself — and by extension, you — into this mess?

You didn’t confront Jungkook about what you’d learned from Jimin, though you did drop the silent treatment act. Instead, you decided to take a different approach — one far more devious than simply ignoring him.

Even with the heater running, the November chill still lingered in the air, but it didn’t stop you from dressing provocatively around the apartment. You roamed in short shorts, sometimes just your underwear, paired with a silk camisole that left little to the imagination. The thin fabric did nothing to hide your hard nipples, which poked against the material as you moved about. Jungkook would notice, of course — he’d grope your ass or give you a quick kiss goodbye before heading to work — but that was it.

When he was away, whether at work or hanging out with his friends, you upped the ante. You sent him pictures of yourself in matching lingerie sets, always in his favorite color, knowing how much he loved them. Sometimes you sent something more daring — nudes that left nothing to the imagination. Usually, those photos had him texting back immediately, promising to deal with you as soon as he got home.

But this time, his responses were different. Short. Terse. Instead of giving in, he’d simply tell you to stop.

Frustration boiled over each time you read his dismissive replies. You groaned and threw your phone onto the bed in defeat. Why wouldn’t he just give in already? You wanted him so badly, and you refused to even touch yourself because what you craved was him — his hands, his mouth, his dick.

If teasing him over the phone wasn’t working, you decided it was time to take things up a notch. One night, when you heard the shower running, you didn’t hesitate. Stripping off your clothes, you quietly stepped into the bathroom. The steam swirled around you as you opened the shower door and stepped in.

Jungkook froze the moment he saw you. His wide eyes scanned you from head to toe, lingering on your curves as if he hadn’t seen them countless times before. His jaw tightened, his chest heaving as his restraint wavered. Then, with a groan of frustration, he threw his head back against the shower wall, his eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out the temptation in front of him.

Don’t give in. Don’t give in. Don’t give in.

Despite his impressive self-control, his body betrayed him. His cock stood stiff and proud between you, a silent plea for attention. But no matter how much you pressed closer, your skin grazing his, or how boldly you touched yourself in front of him, he didn’t break.

With a stoic determination that only fueled your frustration, he focused on washing off, his movements precise and distant, as though ignoring the tension hanging thick in the air. And just when you hoped he’d finally push past his limits, he’d step out of the shower, leaving you behind in the steam, your desire unfulfilled.

It was maddening. Teasing him was supposed to work — it always worked. And while you were determined to push him until he snapped, you had to admit, his composure was far better than you’d anticipated.

It was just days before Thanksgiving, which meant this painfully long month was finally nearing its end. But you were done waiting. Done teasing. The ache in your body had grown unbearable, a constant, gnawing need for him that no amount of patience could soothe.

You were going to have him tonight, or you were going to actually die.

Jungkook had a day off tomorrow, so he was sprawled on the couch, completely absorbed in his Nintendo game. His focus was unwavering, his brows furrowed in concentration as the soft clicks of the buttons filled the room.

Dressed in a matching lacy black set that left little to the imagination, you moved silently behind him, your determination unwavering. Gently, you placed your hands on his broad shoulders, your fingertips tracing soft patterns over the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance up, much too engrossed in the virtual world on his screen.

But then you leaned down, your lips brushing against the side of his neck. The soft, teasing kisses trailed along his skin, featherlight yet deliberate, leaving a warm path behind. You felt the slightest hitch in his breathing, a telltale sign that despite his effort to remain focused, you were beginning to unravel him.

His eyes fluttered shut, his focus on the game completely shattered as his head tipped to the side, exposing more of his neck to your eager lips. His lips parted, heavy breaths escaping him, each exhale laced with a vulnerability you rarely saw.

“Baby…” he moaned breathily, his voice low and strained, warning you.

“Shh,” you whispered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. Your voice was soft, commanding, and it sent a shiver rippling through him. You felt his resolve beginning to crack, the tension in his body shifting as your hands slid down, teasing the line between tenderness and temptation.

Pulling away, you reached for the tie you had stolen from his drawer earlier. With a deliberate slowness, you brought it up to his eyes, slipping it over and covering his vision.

“What-” he began, his voice tinged with confusion as his hands instinctively moved to stop you.

But you were quicker, gripping his wrists to still him. Leaning in close, your lips brushed against his ear as you whispered, “I know about your stupid challenge, Jungkook.”

His body tensed beneath you, the air between you heavy with tension. His breaths came uneven now, a mixture of guilt, surprise, and something else simmering just beneath the surface.

“Let me explain-” he started, his voice edged with desperation.

“No,” you cut him off, your tone firm but quiet. “It’s too late for that now.”

You secured the tie around his eyes, knotting it with careful precision. The soft fabric sat snugly against his skin, cloaking his vision completely. His lips parted as if to protest, but he stopped himself, seemingly caught between resisting and surrendering to whatever you had planned.

Rounding the couch, you reached down and plucked the device from his hands, setting it aside on the coffee table without a second thought. His body went rigid beneath you, his breath hitching as you settled in. The unmistakable hardness of his cock pressed against you, igniting a spark of satisfaction that curled your lips into a smirk. Slowly, you began to move, rocking your hips against his in steady, purposeful motions, grinding into him just enough to draw a reaction.

“Do you know how much I missed you, Kook?” you murmured, your voice dripping with need as your lips hovered near his ear. “Missed your pretty cock… my fingers could never give me the satisfaction you do.”

His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, the silver of his piercings glinting under the warm light, drawing your eyes like a magnet. That perfect little mole just beneath his lip was on full display, a teasing reminder of how irresistible he looked like this — teetering on the edge of control.

His lips parted as a soft, breathy moan escaped, the sound low and unrestrained. It sent a shiver straight through you. His hands, no longer hesitant, slid to your hips, gripping firmly as he guided your movements. Each roll of your hips against his was deliberate, his touch coaxing you to grind harder, deeper, until the friction was almost too much to bear.

You hooked a finger into the fabric covering his eyes, tugging it free with a teasing slowness. His lashes fluttered as he blinked, his vision gradually clearing — and then he saw you. Nothing but his favorite set of yours graced your body, clinging to your curves in all the right ways.

A low, breathless please escaped his lips, muttered more to himself than to you, as if trying desperately to maintain his composure. His eyes squeezed shut, and he turned his head away, a feeble attempt to resist you.

But you weren’t having that. Your hand shot out, firm but gentle, cupping his chin and turning his face back toward you. His eyes snapped open, dark and hungry, as you reached behind you, unclasping the delicate hook of your bra. The straps slipped from your arms, the fabric discarded behind you without a care.

Your hands came up, cupping your bare breasts, teasing yourself as his gaze darkened. His restraint frayed before your eyes as his hips bucked up into yours, seeking friction, a desperate need taking over. His jaw tightened, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips, a clear sign of how much he craved you.

Those should be his hands, not yours.

His hand twitched, reaching out instinctively, but you caught his wrist, guiding it purposefully down your body. Your gaze never wavered from his, locking him in place as you slid his hand beneath the waistband of your underwear. His fingers pressed against the soaked fabric, and his breath hitched when he felt just how wet you were. The slickness coated your plush lips, a testament to how badly you wanted him.

“Honey…” he warned, his voice shaky and breathless, teetering on the edge of control.

“Please, Kook,” you whispered, your tone laced with desperation. “Fuck me tonight, or I’ll lose my mind. It’s been weeks. Don’t you miss me as much as I miss you?”

Your plea hung between you, thick with need and longing. His jaw clenched, and you could see the internal battle playing out in his dark eyes as his fingers twitched against you, his restraint unraveling with each passing second.

How was he supposed to get up and walk away with his cock straining painfully against his sweats, and you like this, laid out before him? His hand was still buried in your underwear, fingers sliding effortlessly over your slick folds, forming a V as they trailed up and found your clit. His jaw clenched at the way your body shuddered beneath his touch, the quiet moan slipping from your lips like a siren’s call.

And then there was you — your smaller hands kneading your soft, perfect tits, the ones he loved so much, the sight alone nearly undoing him. The way you whimpered, the way your body responded to him, had his restraint crumbling to dust.

This was it — his breaking point.

He didn’t care about the fucking challenge anymore. Nothing mattered except you.

It was like a switch flipped inside him. In a sudden, fluid motion, he grabbed your waist, lifting you effortlessly as he laid you down on the couch. His broad frame hovered above you, the way you’d missed for so long. His dark eyes were locked onto yours, blazing with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

He didn’t waste time. You were already soaked, your body more than ready for him. No need for extra preparation — he knew he’d slide right in. With one hand, he freed his cock, giving it a few languid strokes, his eyes never leaving yours. He hooked a finger under the edge of your panties, tugging them to the side, baring your pretty, dripping pussy. He couldn’t wait to get inside it. The flushed tip glistened, teasing your entrance for a heartbeat before he pressed forward, the head sinking in.

A sharp gasp escaped both your lips, the shared sensation so overwhelming it felt as if you were experiencing each other for the first time all over again. Jungkook moved slowly at first, his cock stretching you inch by inch, filling you with deliberate care. His brows furrowed, and his jaw tightened as he savored every moment, every inch of warmth he’d been denying himself for far too long.

But restraint wasn’t his strong suit tonight. The need coursing through him was too much to bear. His movements quickened, his hips snapping forward with purpose. The wet, obscene sounds of skin meeting skin filled the room as his pelvis slapped against the back of your thighs. The steady rhythm of his thrusts deepened, each one more urgent than the last, driving both of you closer to the edge.

His upper body lifted off of you, and with a swift motion, he pulled his shirt over his head. The sight of his broad, muscular frame sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. He was absolutely stunning, every inch of him on display — his skin glowing under the dim light.

His arm was covered in intricate tattoos, the ink curling around his bicep like a story you wanted to read. His chest was thick and broad, with a layer of muscle that made your fingers itch to trace every curve. His arms were solid and meaty, a strength you could feel even from just looking at him.

You couldn’t help yourself. Your hand moved instinctively, running down the defined lines of his chest, your fingers grazing over the hard muscles of his stomach. His abs flexed beneath your touch, tense and firm, the warmth of his skin sending a wave of desire crashing through you. The simple touch made you want more, made you crave everything he had to offer.

But now it was Jungkook's turn to take control. With a swift motion, he caught your wrist, his grip firm as he seized your other arm and pinned it above your head. The dominance in his touch was undeniable, and you knew exactly what that meant. He always did this when he wanted to take over, to remind you who was in charge.

His hands moved quickly, grabbing one of your legs and effortlessly throwing it over his shoulder. You gasped at the sudden shift, your body bent in half, your chest pressed against him, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. His face hovered just inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin as he studied you.

A small whimper escaped your lips at the stretch, your body not as flexible as you'd like, but that discomfort was fleeting. It quickly morphed into something else — pleasure, intense and consuming — as his brutal thrusts began again, filling you completely.

He was relentless, each movement pulling another gasp from you. His breath came out in ragged bursts, his voice low and laced with command. "You never listen to me, do you? Huh, you brat?" His words were a breathy growl, like a warning. "Just had to get fucked."

You couldn’t find the words to respond, your mind completely consumed by the overwhelming pleasure. Every inch of your body was alive with sensation, making it impossible to form coherent thoughts. Instead, soft moans and breathless hums spilled from your lips, your chest rising and falling rapidly as his thrusts deepened, each one hitting you harder than the last.

Your body arched into him instinctively, eager to feel more, to give in to the rhythm he set. The tension was building, spiraling higher and higher with each movement, each sound leaving your mouth a mix of pleasure and need. You couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything but the way he was making you feel, his hands and his body taking you exactly how he wanted.

"You made this so hard for me, baby." His voice was breathless, low and laced with desire as his thrusts didn’t falter. "Can’t resist you. Too fucking pretty to not touch." He spoke as though he couldn’t control himself, his words slipping out between harsh breaths, his hands gripping your body with barely restrained urgency.

“M’already so close, Kook,” you moaned, your voice shaky with the intensity of the pleasure coursing through you. The pressure inside you was building, so close to release, but you needed him to push you over the edge.

“Yeah?” His gaze darkened, his hips snapping into yours with even more force. “Show me. Let me feel you, please.” His words were more than a plea — they were a command, a desperate need for you to let go so he could feel every inch of your pleasure. It’s been so long since he felt you. He wants to feel you. Needs to feel you.

With each punishing thrust, your breasts bounce uncontrollably, catching Jungkook's undivided attention. His hooded eyes are glued to them, pupils blown wide with lust, as if he's seeing something so utterly captivating it leaves him in a trance. The way they move, the way your body responds to him — it’s driving him wild. His tongue flicks over his lips as he lets out a low groan, jaw tightening, the need to mark you overwhelming every coherent thought.

You gasp sharply, a broken moan escaping your lips as your orgasm slams into you with ferocious intensity. Your body arches off the couch, your hands still pinned above your head as waves of euphoria ripple through you. Your head tilts back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of your neck, and your chest heaves as you ride out the high.

Jungkook growls when he feels your walls clench down on him, the tight grip almost sending him over the edge. “Oh, yeah,” he rasps, voice rough and deep, his hips grinding against you. “That’s it. Just like that... so fucking good.”

But he doesn’t slow down. If anything, his pace quickens, the desperate need for his own release taking over. Each thrust is brutal, precise, and deliberate, as if he’s claiming every part of you, chasing that high he knows is just within reach. His grip on your hips is bruising, holding you in place as he slams into you again and again, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the room.

Finally, with a strained groan, he pulls out abruptly, his cock slick and throbbing in his hand. He strokes himself hard, the sight of your trembling, sweat slick body beneath him sending him over the edge. His release comes in hot, thick ropes, splattering across your stomach and tits in messy, deliberate streaks.

He lets out a guttural moan, chest heaving as he watches his cum paint you like a masterpiece, dripping down your skin in glistening trails. His hand slows, and his eyes never leave the sight of you — glistening, marked, and utterly his.

Once he milks every last drop of his release, he does something that shouldn't be as devastatingly sexy as it is. Leaning down, his gaze locked onto yours with a feral intensity, he drags his tongue in a slow, deliberate stripe up your stomach, collecting his own cum. The heat of his mouth follows, traveling upward until he captures a nipple between his lips, sucking and swirling his tongue with maddening precision.

You giggle, your face flushing with heat as he releases your nipple and makes his way up to your lips. The moment his mouth connects with yours, you taste his cum on his tongue, and you can't help but moan softly into the kiss. He pulls back, resting his head on your chest with a contented sigh.

“Can’t believe you made me lose. I was so close,” he sulks, his voice laced with playful frustration.

“Jimin texted me. He gave in yesterday. You won,” you tease, your fingers softly running through his hair.

His head shoots up quickly, eyes wide like a dog hearing its name. “Seriously?”

You nod, giggling softly at his excitement.

Without warning, he stands up from the couch, pulling you with him. He scoops you up by your thighs, lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

You squeal, half-laughing, half-terrified, “What are you doing?!”

“Making up,” he grins, his voice low with promise as he strides toward the bedroom. “I’m gonna fuck you all night.”

The door clicks shut behind you, the remnants of your clothes scattered haphazardly in the living room, and the night unfurls into a whirlwind of heated kisses and passion that sweeps you both away. Jungkook’s teasing words and touch keep you on edge, but it’s the way he makes you feel — desired, cherished, and completely consumed by him — that transforms the night into something unforgettable.

You knew that this Friendsgiving would be one for the books. Jungkook wasn’t going to let any of the guys forget it. Always the bragger, that one. He’d be sure to shove it in their faces every chance he got.

And he might have won the bet, but it’s you who’s the true victor tonight.

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook imagine

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save-the-child-qais · 20 days ago

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DON'T SCROLLING, PLEASE I BEG YOU.

The children of Gaza have 48 hours or they will lose their lives.

My little son Qais is suffering deeply. He is hungry, cold, and scared. I am doing everything I can as a parent, but I cannot provide him with food or warmth. We are asking you, from the bottom of our hearts, to please donate and support us. Every little bit helps us survive one more day. Your kindness can feed Qais and give him hope.

The Causes and Dangers of Famine in Gaza

The famine in Gaza is caused by several critical factors:

first, the ongoing blockade severely limits access to food, medicine, and basic supplies;

second, continuous destruction from conflict has left families without homes, jobs, or resources;

third, humanitarian aid is often blocked or delayed.

These conditions have created a deadly crisis for children like Qais. Malnutrition is weakening their bodies and putting their lives at risk. Without urgent help, many may not survive.

Please, I Beg You

I am exhausted mentally, emotionally, and physically. I watch my son cry from hunger, and I feel helpless. Qais is only a baby — the famine could take his life if we don’t get support soon. I beg you with all my heart, please don’t ignore this. Don’t scroll past. Share what you can, even a small donation could save Qais. You are our only hope.

Every hour without help is another hour closer to death for babies like Qais.

PLEASE DONATE HERE

If Qais was your only child, would you leave him to face his fate alone?

DONATE HERE PLEASE

DON'T SCROLLING ✋🚨 you're the only hope to save a child😔😭

#all eyes on palestine #free palestine #free gaza #gaza genocide #gaza #gazaunderattack #palestine #gaza strip #i stand with palestine #palestine fundraiser

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sapphicstrawcore · 9 days ago

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—feral, touch-starved, down bad Sevika who cannot physically restrain herself ‘cause you look good.

You’re standing in front of your phone, tripod steady, ring light glowing. The dress is long, tight, stretchy and illegal in seventeen countries. You hit record. Pose. The dress hugs you in all the right places, and you’re mid-spin when suddenly—

Sevika, off camera, muttering like a threat. “You look so good like this I could bite you.”

She creeps into frame like a jungle cat—slow, deliberate. Human arm flexing. You immediately dodge her wandering hands.

You, swatting her off, hissing. “Baby— no! It’s filming!”

Sevika pauses. Eyes flick to the camera, back to you. Squints like she’s deciding whether to behave or get banned from Instagram.

“Then cut it. I’m trying to admire you in peace.”

“This is the OOTD! I’m documenting the look for the girls.”

“I am the girls.”

You keep posing, giving angles, talking about the fabric. Sevika paces behind you like a lion in a cage, hands twitching, jaw clenched. She tries again to sneak in a back hug—

“Get. Off.”

She retreats, dramatically slumping on the couch, mumbling something about “not fair” and “sexual harassment via outfit.” Meanwhile, you keep filming like nothing happened, giving full influencer confidence.

You, to the phone. “Anyway, the dress is from that boutique I showed you guys last week—“

Second attempt. She sneaks up like a ghost, metal hand on your hip, the other cupping your ass, lips grazing your shoulder.

“You look like a sin like this.”

You, sweet but firm. “I love you. Hands off.”

“It jiggles, it’s calling for me—“

“That’s gravity. So now—“ Tap-tap, not hard but firmer, and off she goes. Again.

She starts pacing in the background, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. She walks in circles like she’s trying not to flip the table. Then—

Sevika mutters, “why would you wear that and then tell me not to touch you?”

You don’t answer to her and keep talking to the camera. Sevika walks to the wall, presses her forehead to it like it personally betrayed her. She’s mouthing words—maybe a prayer. Her fingers twitch like she’s deciding whether to grab you or just kill herself.

You glance back, “you good ?”

“No.”

Another attempt. This time, she just goes for your waist mid-spin. You don’t even stop—just gently pat her hand off like she’s a dog at dinner time.

“Off. Down.”

You come closer to the screen to show your jewelries and when you bend over to show the necklaces on your neck to the camera, it’s too much. She lets out a groan and slumps into a squat like her legs gave out. Hands clasped together like she’s begging the universe, head down. You don’t flinch, straightening and still showing the back of the dress.

Camera off. You finally turn around. Sevika stands up like she’s been released from jail. You barely finish saying “Okay I’m done—” before you’re wrapped up and lifted off the ground.

Yes I was bored again so I wrote this real quick and it’s so funny to me. I’m writing firefighter!sev chapter 2 and I’ll publish it tonight 💔

#sevika #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #lesbian #wlw #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #arcane sevika

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atlabeth · 2 months ago

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bittersweet - joel miller

summary: you stumble into joel's life and he has no intentions of keeping you there. too bad you're just as stubborn as he is.

a/n: did someone order a whole novella of plot mixed with occasional banter ending with no relationship in sight but a new bond that will inevitably grow to be more? no? here it is anyways!

set before joel gets to boston but he's already been separated from tommy but who tf cares about canon tbh we're just having fun here. i started this when the show first began and as usual, abandoned it and as usual, came back with a fervor 2 years later. hope you all enjoy! i barely proofread this bc ive already read it so many times while writing and i physically cannot do it one more time rn so please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes

wc: 20k (officially my longest one shot! congrats joel)

warning(s): fem!reader (she is southern); decent age gap (joel is 40 and r is 27), half and half on fluff and angst; canon typical violence, some directed at reader; a lot of cursing; a lot of gun violence throughout most of the fic; numerous gunshot wounds; threats of sexual violence against reader but nothing ever happens! joel kills a lot of people (and is kinda mean for the first half of this); inaccurate medical stuff!! i did my research but am prob wrong on some stuff so pls dont flame me

both gifs bc i imagined both of them while writing and bc theyre both so hot jfc

You wish you weren’t so accustomed to waking up to gunshots.

You dart up from your bed immediately, the sound rattling around your brain as your weary mind tries to make sense of the situation. You have your pistol in your hand before you even fully realize it, your instincts honed even in your grogginess.

Screams accompany the gunfire and you push against the grimaces trying to fight their way to the surface. This isn’t the first time the compound you’ve stayed in has been taken over by force, but it’s the first time you’ve been this unprepared, and the first time you haven’t been on the ground floor for easy evacuation. No one is in your room trying to kill you—not yet, at least—and you have to take that blessing while you’ve got it.

You throw on your jacket and shove your feet into your boots, thankful you tucked your laces in months ago. You can handle the minor discomfort in exchange for the advantage. You throw what you can into your backpack, ensure your knife is secured in its sheath, and edge towards the door.

Normally, you share a room with Devon, but she went on a supply run alongside a few others a couple days ago—you regret not taking her offer to come along on account of your many patients, but you can’t waste what could become a very short life on regrets.

You open the door and peer out, trying to gauge your chances. The gunshots are getting closer and the screams are louder. If you weren’t on the top floor, you would have considered the window. But you have to get to the infirmary first, and you don’t really feel like breaking your legs.

Soon as there’s an opening, you run. Your most recent area of refuge is a run down high school, and you know it well after your months here. You practically throw yourself down a hallway to hide from a group of men coming up the stairs, and your heart threatens to beat out your chest.

Their rifles and shotguns are much bigger than the little handgun that you’ve carried state to state. You have to press your body against the wall to stop it from shaking, and grip your pistol so tight you feel the ridged handle indent into your palm.

“Go room by room!” one man at the front shouts. “Leave no survivors!”

Your only hope is to get out before they find you. The infirmary is in the old nurse’s office on the first floor—if they’re already up here gunning down the last of the compound, then you have little doubt that your patients are already dead. There’s no point in joining them out of some false sense of heroism.

There were no heroes anymore.

You back up slowly, making sure you stay flush against the wall while you keep an eye on the hallway. You think about slipping into the classroom you’re next to, but you decide against it. You can’t afford to get trapped.

You continue to stealth your way down the hallways, keeping your head on a swivel as you try and think through all your escape routes.

There’s another staircase on the other side of the top floor, but that might be too out in the open. A couple of stairwells are tucked behind unassuming doors, but that would leave you even more trapped if things went south. And of course, you can always throw yourself out a window and hope you don’t break your legs.

More gunshots, more screams—you hear the thumps of bodies falling to the floor and you have to steel yourself. It doesn’t matter that these people were your friends or acquaintances or anything close to it. They’re dead now, and you refuse to join them.

You turn the corner and immediately retract—a trio of armed men are going classroom by classroom, and you hardly stand a chance against one. Once you retrace your steps, you poke your head around the corner only to be greeted with the sight of more bandits. You press yourself against the wall, heart racing.

You’re stuck in this hallway, dead if they see you. Might as well make things a little worse and at least get yourself some cover if you’re trapped either way.

The ceiling is crumbling above you, has been falling apart for a few months. You pick up a piece of tile, take a deep breath, and throw it as hard as you can. Two of the trio go to check it out, and the third is focused on them to watch their backs. You dart out of your hallway and run as quick and quiet as you can, and you make it to the alcove leading into a classroom.

Twin classrooms actually, connected by a door in the middle, so you’re not completely stuck. You breathe out a sigh of relief, but it’s immediately short-lived when you hear the pump of a shotgun.

You whirl around to see the empty shell fall to the ground, your hands already flying up on instinct. You’re staring down the barrel of the gun, held by a man standing in the doorway between the two classrooms. He doesn’t look particularly nice, but he hasn’t shot you immediately, so you should learn to count your blessings.

“I’m a doctor!” you proclaim, your heart threatening to pound out of your chest at this point. You’ve learned it’s the best thing to lead with. “Don’t shoot, I—” you suck in air as fast as you can, but all this running with your life on the line is wearing on you— “I’m a doctor.”

Again, he doesn’t instantly kill you. He keeps his gun trained on you and takes a few steps closer, and you’re making much more eye contact with the barrel than him.

“A doctor?” he repeats skeptically. “You look a little young for that.”

“I was a surgical resident before the outbreak,” you lie. “I just have a young face.”

He lowers the gun just slightly, so it’s not aimed at your head anymore. “You’re a surgeon?”

“Yes,” you nod repeatedly. “They said to leave no survivors, but I— I can help any of your wounded. As much as you need, just— just please don’t kill me.”

The man stares at you and you tense every muscle in your body to not shift under his scrutiny. Eventually, he fully lowers his gun.

“Thank you,” you breathe. You feel like you could collapse from the relief, but it doesn’t last long as he moves in. Soon as he’s close enough, he slams your hand against the wall and your gun falls out of your limp grasp.

Your heart rate spikes as you flatten yourself against the wall in an effort to put space between the two of you, but it’s fruitless.

“If you’re fuckin’ lying,” he mutters, his hot breath hitting your face as his grip on your wrist tightens painfully, “you’ll end up like the rest of your people.”

“I’m not lying,” you enunciate stiffly, staring him right in the eye.

The man holds your gaze for another moment before he nods, seemingly satisfied. He lets go of you to pick up your gun from the ground and tuck it in his holster, and you stumble forward when he pushes you with the barrel.

“Get movin’, little lady,” he says. “I’ve got an awfully itchy trigger finger.”

You fight the urge to talk back. You’ve avoided getting shot for this long, and you don’t really fancy getting a shotgun to the face in such close quarters. You keep your hands up and start walking, hoping by pure will you can stop them from shaking.

You walk out of the classroom and through the hallways, and you’re able to catch glimpses of dead bodies as you go. You recognize far too many of them—those with their features still intact, at least.

These people welcomed you into their community with open arms, treated you like family even though they’d only known you for a few months. You knew anyone like that didn’t last very long, but you tried to ignore it.

You couldn’t think about that now, though. That was how the world worked—how it had worked for a long time now.

You stumble your way down the stairs and finally make it to the lobby. Even more bodies litter the first floor—you see Eleanor, the woman who brought you back here when she could have left you for dead; Delilah, who you worked with in the infirmary; Cade, who flirted with you too much for his own good but always managed to make you laugh—

Your focus is jarred from thoughts of your comrades survival to those of your own as the man pushes you hard with the barrel of his gun. You just barely manage to catch yourself with your hands as you fall to your knees. You look up to see yourself in the middle of a group of bloodstained bandits, and you clench your hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

“What part of ‘no survivors’ do you not understand, Jake?” one of them says. “We don’t need another mouth to feed because you want a plaything.”

Your skin crawls at the thought, but he just shakes his head with a grumble. “I’m not like Marshall. Didn’t kill her ‘cause she says she’s a doctor. She can get Becca and Joel back on their feet,” he looks pointedly at a woman, “can make sure Nadine’s still in working order.”

“How do you know she’s not lying?” the woman counters, and she squats down to look you in the eye. You meet her inquisitive gaze, refusing to look away—she breaks first, at least, and stands back up. “Could be tryin’ to save her own ass.”

“I’m not lying,” you grind out. “Wouldn’t do me any good to get shot at your camp instead of here, would it?”

“Watch your mouth,” she says, but she backs off anyways.

“Check her for weapons and tie her up,” another one says. “We’ll take her back once we’ve picked this place clean.”

Again, you swallow the words you want to say. You bite your tongue when you’re wrestled from the ground and searched for weapons. You don’t fight back as your hands are tied together behind your back, you don’t fight back when Jake prods you with his gun even as he follows you to the infirmary to get your medical bag, you don’t fight back against anything.

You’re a captive of the people that slaughtered your friends, only alive because of the overexaggerated skills you’ve used like a shield since the outbreak started. Your continued survival depends on helping people you might not even be able to save, and you doubt this group will want to listen to your medical explanations.

But you are alive. And that’s all you care about.

(You’re not breaking the one damn promise that still matters.)

It’s not a very fun ride back.

These people travel by horse and they don’t want you running off, so you have to sit in front of Jake, the man who spared your life who seems to be some kind of leader. He makes idle comments to pass the time, and it’s not as bad as it could be, but you dislike him anyway. He did help murder your whole community.

Sunrise comes around just as you make it to camp—you have to fight to stay awake on the ride, and when you jump down, you’re reminded that this slaughter happened in the middle of the night.

It doesn’t matter how tired you are, though, because your work starts almost immediately. You think about asking Jake for coffee as he leads you to your first patient, but you don’t think he would take too kindly to it.

He mentioned Becca when he was pleading your case, and she ends up being your first stop. She’s got a nasty gash on her leg that she got from hopping a barbed wire fence and it’s kept her off her feet since it happened.

You clean it out as best you can and stitch it up with what these people have on hand, which happens to be a needle and thread. At this point, you think you’ve done more stitches this way than the normal way. To her credit, she bears it well—better than Jake, who grumbles every time you ask him for the materials you need. It’s like he doesn’t even want you to help, which doesn’t really make sense when he’s standing there with his gun like he’s ready to shoot you at any moment.

Next is Nadine, and you’re accompanied by the woman who accused you of lying. They must be close, because she doesn’t leave her side during your entire checkup. Nadine has a broken arm that you can tell she hasn’t been resting properly, but at least there’s no swelling. They’ve already done a makeshift sling for her, so you just do a par for the course checkup then refashion her sling to be more effective. None of them appreciate you telling her she needs to rest, but you figured that would be the case. This doesn’t seem to be the happiest bunch of people.

Finally, you’re hauled off to your last patient, Joel. You’re exhausted from your sleepless night and walking on glass with every passing second, but he’s the last one. He can’t be too difficult to deal with.

You reach the final room and Jake pounds on the door.

“Joel!” he calls. “You decent?”

“Do you know what time it is?” a gruff voice responds, and you hold back a sigh. Is everyone here difficult?

Jake opens the door anyway and gestures for you to walk in. You do, and you see a man laying down in bed atop the sheets. His eyes are closed but he doesn’t even look peaceful—just annoyed.

You purse your lips. Everyone here is difficult.

“We got ourselves a doctor,” Jake says. “So stop complainin’ and let her look at you.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” he says.

“You got shot two days ago,” he retorts. “Only reason no one’s looked at it more is because no one thought you would make it through the night.”

“I’m fine.” He sits up with a groan characteristic of someone who is not fine, and he levels his gaze at you. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I’ve got nothing but time,” you say. “I don’t think he’s gonna let me leave until I look you over, so…”

Joel scoffs. “Don’t tell me you went and kidnapped a doctor.”

“We got lucky at the school,” Jake says.

He rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m fine.”

You glance at your captor. “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere.”

“You better get somewhere,” Jake says.

“I might make better leeway without you standing over me,” you say.

He frowns. “You’re a prisoner. Can’t trust you alone.”

“I’ve gotten through the past two patients just fine.”

“I don’t need you jumpin’ out the window and running the first chance you get,” Jake says.

“Look,” you say, a muscle working in your jaw, “do you want your man to get through this or not? Because if you do, I need to work in silence, and it doesn’t seem like the two of you are very good at it together.”

He doesn’t budge, and you let out a loose breath. “You can wait outside, and if I do anything suspicious, feel free to shoot me. But at least give me the room.”

The approval of your own murder seems to satisfy him, however temporary, because after staring at you for another moment, he grunts. He goes over to the door, then lifts his gun and looks at you. “Remember, I’ve got an itchy trigger finger.”

He leaves the room to let the threat sit in the air, and you close your eyes and sigh deeply. You don’t know when, but you know you have to get out of here eventually.

“And just who the hell are you?”

You open your eyes to see Joel staring right at you, very unimpressed. He looks to be in his 40s, the greying in his scruffy hair and beard giving it away—if that didn’t do it, the hardened weariness in his eyes would.

Men like him tend to be the worst patients, at least in your limited experience. Something tells you Joel won’t be any different.

“A doctor,” you say. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You don’t look like a doctor,” he says.

You already hate this guy. “Sorry. I lost my white coat and stethoscope when people started eating each other.”

“I mean you look too young.”

“Well, you look too old to still be this annoying,” you retort. “Now tell me what’s wrong with you so we get over this quicker. ”

Joel grumbles and rolls his eyes, but he eventually answers you. “Got shot a couple days back.”

“There an exit wound?” you ask.

He nods.

“How much does it hurt?”

“Like hell.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You this short with all your doctors?”

He grunts, and you sigh as you kneel down next to him. “Alright. Show me.”

Joel stares at you for a moment before relenting. He shrugs off his jacket then pulls up the bottom of his shirt, revealing a shoddily bandaged wound on his lower chest.

You raise your eyebrows. “Who patched you up? And when?”

“Does it matter?” he asks.

“Yes, actually. Helps me know the likelihood of infection, and if there is one, how fucked you are.”

“Why do you need to know who did it?”

“Because it’s pretty shitty handiwork,” you say.

“Kept me alive,” Joel says. “Far as I’m concerned, that means it’s pretty good.”

You roll your eyes. “You tell yourself that when you’re dying of sepsis.”

“Not everyone has your luxuries, doc,” he responds dryly.

“I’d say you certainly have some luxuries,” you say. “Looks like this missed your major organs, for one. You’re extremely lucky.”

He huffs a mirthless laugh. “Wouldn’t really classify myself as lucky.”

“You should,” you say, glancing back up at him. “Takes an awful lot of it to get by these days.”

Joel remains silent. You sigh again and take it as your sign to start working.

You gingerly peel back the bandages, and to Joel’s credit, he only grimaces the smallest bit.

“No infection,” you murmur. “That’s good.”

“Guess it was patched up pretty well then,” he says.

You glance up at him. “You dressed it yourself, didn’t you?”

Joel shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You seem pretty normal for someone who got shot a few days ago,” you say.

“‘Cause it’s not the first time,” he says. “You tellin’ me you haven’t been shot?”

You shake your head. “Stabbed, sliced, scratched, bit, but never shot.”

His eyebrows rise. “You’ve been bit?”

“By people, not infected.” You chuckle. “The one thing I’ve managed to avoid, at least.”

He makes some noise of acknowledgement. “Things get crazy in that hospital of yours?”

You smile wryly. “Nothin’ crazier than I see out here everyday. And nothing worse than Outbreak Day.”

Joel goes quiet at that. You don’t know why you continue on as you clean out his wound, why you’re talking so much when you went through the last two patients in relative silence. Maybe it’s because Jake isn’t standing over your shoulder.

“I worked in a hospital in the middle of Boston,” you explain. “The city practically imploded when it all started—felt like we were the epicenter of it all. Patients turned their nurses, folks in the waiting room killed their families, and all the infected that managed to escape went on a rampage in the city.” You shake your head with a sigh. “Sometimes I still don’t know how I made it out alive.”

You feel Joel’s gaze on you for a long time after. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, so you busy yourself with dressing both sides of his wound now that you’ve cleaned it out. Eventually, though, he speaks.

“Boston’s a long way from Kansas,” he says. “How’d you end up here?”

You shake your head again as you finish taping the last piece of gauze across his exit wound. “Can’t reveal all my secrets day one.”

“Bold to think I care that much,” he says.

You frown. “You were the one that asked.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted when the door opens. Both of you look over to see Jake, looking unapologetic.

“I got bored,” he says, answering your unspoken question. “Can’t take this long to bandage someone up.”

You set down your nearly depleted roll of gauze. “I just finished, actually.”

“He gonna live?” Jake asks.

“Bullet went straight through and missed any vital organs or arteries, so he really avoided the worst of it,” you explain. “I cleaned it the best I could and covered it with gauze—I think it would do more harm than good to stitch it up. He should be okay, but someone should really monitor him for the next few days to make sure it stays that way. And if you have antibiotics, send ‘em his way. Better to be safe than sorry when it comes to infection.”

“Good,” he nods. “I think we have a couple—I’ll get ‘em to you.”

“Good,” you echo. “Then I think we’re done here.”

You stand up from the bed, thinking you’re finally in the clear, when he pulls out a pair of handcuffs. You’re about to question it when he opens them and clips one side around the radiator next to the door, then looks at you.

“We got one last order of business,” Jake says, and it clicks in your head.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you say incredulously.

“You said it yourself,” he says. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on him. Might as well be the one that treated him.”

“This is ridiculous,” you spit. “I did what you asked, and you treat me like— like a goddamn animal?”

“You’re a prisoner,” he says, like he has to remind you. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. You’ll run off the second you can.”

You grind your teeth together. “Can’t even put me in a cell like a dignified prisoner?”

“If Joel dies, it’s your head,” he says. “You should thank me. This gives you the best chance possible.”

You want to fight it, but you can’t. Not when he could put a bullet in your head with that shotgun he seems very fond of.

So you clench your jaw, swallow your pride, and let him handcuff you to a radiator that looks like it’s a decade older than you. This motel they’ve hitched up in really has all the luxuries.

“What if I do start dyin’ in the middle of the night,” Joel says dryly. “She can’t exactly work her magic with one hand.”

“I’m sure she can do plenty magic with one hand,” Jake chuckles, and your skin crawls as he looks you over. You clench your jaw so hard you think your teeth might crack.

“Real clever, jackass,” Joel intones.

Jake rolls his eyes. “Just walk your sorry ass across the room if you have to.”

“You really thought this out,” he says.

“Don’t make me regret makin’ her save your life,” Jake says, and he turns his attention back to you. “Don’t do—“

“Anything stupid,” you interrupt despite yourself. “Yeah, I know.”

You feel the pain before you even really see him pull the gun out, the glint of metal the only hint to the searing fire in your cheek. You fall to the ground, hissing as your free hand darts up to nurse the wound rather than try to catch yourself. The pain smarts both on your knees and your cheek, blood already spurting from the cut he opened up. Your vision swims in front of you.

“Watch your mouth, bitch,” he growls. “Remember why you’re here.”

You just grit your teeth as he holsters his pistol—no, your pistol, the bastard—riding through the wave of dizziness. You want to remind him you won’t be of much use if you’re fucking dead, but you don’t feel like earning yourself another badge of his approval. So you just nod in submissive acknowledgement, and he looks at Joel.

“Keep her in check, will you? I don’t feel like dealing with more of this bullshit in the morning.”

“Sure,” Joel says.

That seems to satisfy him, because Jake only gives you another dirty look before he leaves and kicks the door shut behind him.

Your eyes begin watering against your will, lesser pain than you’ve experienced in the past somehow managing to bring you down. You bite down hard on the inside of your lip as you shift to sit against the wall, hoping a different source of pain will force the blood trickling down your cheek into the background.

You can’t cry over something like this. Not in front of a man like Joel.

“I know you’re looking,” you say bitterly. “If you want to call me an idiot, just do it.”

“You’re an idiot,” he says. You don’t really know what you expect.

“It’s one hell of a group you’re running with.” You pull your hand away from your cheek, grimacing at the concerning amount of blood coating your fingers. Between this and the dull pain in your knees, you’re going to bruise something fierce.

Nothing like getting pistol whipped with your own gun by one of the hunters that slaughtered your community like sheep to make you feel at home.

“They’re the same as everyone else,” he says. “Don’t know how you’re still surprised after all these years.”

Your thoughts go back to the first group you had to leave. The first time you were forced to be terribly, horribly, woefully selfish, when you lost the only thing that mattered. You wonder if he thinks about you as much as you think about him.

Screams echo in your mind. You shut them out.

“...I’m not,” you say. “Just acknowledging.”

As silence consumes the air between you, you can’t help but pull your legs closer to yourself in an effort to be as small as possible. You’re intimately aware that you’re at Joel’s mercy, and you can only hope he’s not that sort of man. Jake’s comments don’t bring you much solace.

He must notice how tense you are, because he sighs and shakes his head. “Relax. Ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“Sorry if I don’t believe that,” you mutter.

Joel scoffs. “Don’t matter what you believe or not.”

“Well, I believe that I’m royally fucked,” you spit. “I’ve been here for five hours and I’m already bleedin’ and stuck in a room with you. Doesn’t fare well for my future.”

“How’d you even end up here?” Joel asks. “We ain’t exactly bringing in new folks.”

You huff. “You weren’t too far off with them kidnapping a doctor.”

He doesn’t seem fazed, and you think that should concern you. “What, they just wander into a hospital and pick you up?”

“They wandered into a high school and murdered my whole community,” you correct. “I’m only here because I pleaded my case before they could shoot me.”

“...Wound does feel better,” he says. “Least you kinda know what you’re doing.”

You glance away. “Bandaged more GSWs these past few years than I ever did in med school. I’m used to it by now.”

There’s another knock on the door and your whole body tenses. Joel calls out that it’s unlocked, and you’ve never been so grateful to see the woman from before. Nadine’s sister, you remember— Rachel. She breathed over your shoulder the entire time you fixed up her sister’s sling.

“You better?” she asks.

He nods. “Back on my feet, at least.”

“Good,” she says. She seems to notice you, bleeding and deflated and restrained, and looks back at Joel unfazed. “What’s the deal here?”

“Jake did it,” he says. “Wants to keep her in check.”

“Long as it means she’s not a problem, I couldn’t care less,” she admits. “But you gotta get your ass in gear, Joel. Community meeting in the lobby.”

“Y’all woke me up at four in the morning,” Joel complains. “Can’t let an old man sleep day after he gets shot?”

“You said it yourself; you’re back on your feet,” she says. “Better see you in five.”

She leaves and closes the door behind her, not even passing a second look at you. You felt less alone when you were moping your way through Missouri.

Joel heaves a sigh and stands up. He grabs his jacket from the bed and slips it back on, buttoning it up in the middle. You watch him go through the motions because you have nothing else to do, but you notice the roughness of his hands.

“You gonna do anything about those torn calluses?” you ask.

He glances at you with a frown. “Why’re you lookin’?”

“Got nothing else to do,” you say. “You don’t cover those up, they could lead to infection.”

“Sounds like everything can lead to infection,” he mocks.

“Kinda does,” you say. “‘Specially in this world.”

Joel huffs a laugh and he pulls a couple bandaids out of your medical bag, still sitting on his bed. “That good enough for you?”

“Don’t do it for me,” you say. “Do it for yourself.”

He grumbles as he tucks them into his pocket, and you continue to watch him as he gets ready. Ties up his boots, shoves knives into sheaths on each leg, fixes the watch on his wrist—

“Quit starin’ at me,” he mumbles.

“I told you,” you say. “Nothin’ else to do.”

“Look at the wall,” Joel says as he slings a rifle over his shoulder. “More interesting than me.”

“The wall doesn’t have your overwhelming charm,” you say.

He scoffs. “Can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”

You shrug. “Can always kill me yourself and be done with it.”

“Who’ll save me when I crash in the middle of the night?” he mocks.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” you say. “You patched yourself up, after all.”

Joel exhales a little harder than usual out of your nose, and you figure that’s what passes as a laugh around him. You take a strange amount of pride in it.

You think he’s about to leave, but instead he picks up your medical bag and slides it over to you.

“Patch yourself up for a change,” he says. “Don’t want you bleedin’ all over this expensive flooring while I’m gone.”

That gets the slightest laugh out of you as you pick it up. “Thanks.”

Joel grunts in acknowledgement, and he moves over to the door. You start unzipping the bag but have to pause, the sight of your blood all over your hand making you grimace. You’ve gotten some on your jeans unwittingly, and you can’t help but sigh. Sure, they’re already covered in dust and grime and blood from other people, but you didn’t want to add yours to the mix. Especially on your favorite pair of jeans.

Maybe you’d be able to scrounge a bottle of hydrogen peroxide up sometime. It’s the least this world could give you.

You look up to see Joel standing in the door frame, looking at you instead of leaving.

“You’re gonna be late,” you say. “Then we’ll both be on Jake’s shit list.”

Joel blinks. He looks like he wants to say something, but he just nods.

“See you ‘round,” he says.

“Not like I can go anywhere,” you say wryly.

You go back to rummaging through your bag, trying to find the gauze you haphazardly shoved back in. Joel’s still looking at you, and his gaze burns your skin. You hope if you ignore him, he’ll leave.

He does. He shuts the door behind him when he leaves, quieter and gentler than you expect.

You stare at your hands, one bloodstained and the other cuffed. You’ve taken care of your calluses better than Joel, at least.

The thought is warmer than it should be.

Makes you realize how cold the room feels.

Joel doesn’t come back for a while. Half the day, you think.

It’s difficult to keep track of time in here. With the door closed and the window shutters down, what little light streams through doesn’t give you much of an idea of the hour.

You also don’t really have much to do, which makes the time pass even slower.

You clean your cheek out the best you can and tape it shut with some small butterfly bandages. You hope that’ll make it heal quicker, or at least keep it protected from the elements. You can’t let it get infected after all you’ve spouted to Joel.

It still smarts, but you try your best to ignore it. Jake did a number on you, and with your own pistol at that.

He might have spared your life, but you’re killing him before you escape this place.

You try to sleep, but it doesn’t really work. You’re exhausted, plain and simple, but you think your body will have to give out for you to get some rest at this point. The position you’re stuck in is too damn uncomfortable for your brain to shut off, and every time you get close, you just see the bodies of your friends, see the same nightmares you’ve relived for a year and a half.

So instead, you decide to test your boundaries.

You’re handcuffed to one of the middle pipes, which goes all the way down to the ground and about a third of the way up the wall. You use your finger to measure and figure out you have around five inches of leeway with the chain. Not enough to do much of anything with, but still something.

Once you’re done with that, you just… look around. There isn’t much else to do, but this is Joel’s room. You were a psych minor before the world ended—maybe it’ll give you some insight into him, give you something to use. You’re not above manipulation if it means you can get someone on your side.

But frustratingly, there’s almost nothing. It’s not like you expect him to have a whole decorated room in the apocalypse, but he’s really giving you nothing here.

An open pack of bullets sits on his bedside table. His sheets are still a mess from his rude awakening because he didn’t bother to make his bed before he left. The extra unused pillows lay scattered on the ground,

So you can’t analyze him using his barebones room—you have nothing but time, so you think back to how he looked before he left and go from there.

Joel’s beard and facial hair were both relatively under control, so he’s someone who cares a decent amount about cleanliness and hygiene. He carries two knives and a rifle outwardly, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he had a handgun hiding somewhere or more weapons in his bag. He speaks with a Southern accent—stronger than yours, but you lost some of it while you were studying in Boston.

You used to not mind. People seemed to respect you more without it, seemed to take you more seriously, and that was all you wanted in med school. Now, it just feels like another part of yourself that you’ve lost. Like you can’t even call yourself an Okie anymore.

He looks to be in his forties, but you don’t remember a wedding ring. Whether he’s been a life-long bachelor or loved and lost and just chooses not to wear it, you don’t know. From what you’ve seen, all hardened survivor-like, it’s hard to imagine him with a wife and kids and a white picket fence life.

But what do you know? Anyone who’s still alive at this point has to have a hardened heart. There’s no other way to survive. There’s a reason you’re fucking handcuffed to a radiator.

Maybe before this all started, Joel was kinder. Softer. Maybe he did have a wife and kids, and he loved them more than anything. Maybe he actually smiled.

You shake your head. No use thinking of the past, and certainly no use judging him. You’ve changed too. Everyone has. And if he has a family that he lost, then you’ve got more in common than you think.

Maybe you can use that.

Joel is covered in blood when he eventually comes back into the room. He gives you half a glance before he pulls his pack and rifle off and sets them on the bed.

“Can’t believe you’re still here,” he says.

“Can’t exactly leave,” you respond. “How’re you all bloody after a meeting?”

“Went huntin’ after,” he says. “Things move quick here.”

“Well, how’d that go?”

“We ain’t gonna starve, so as good as it could be.” Joel passes another glance at you, this time a little longer. “Your cheek looks better.”

“Feels like shit,” you say. “How’s your chest?”

“Feels like shit,” he echoes. “But I’ll live.”

“None of that blood is yours, is it?”

“No.” He points his finger at you. “And you’re not doin’ another checkup, doc, so don’t even think about it.”

You smile sweetly and hold up your shackled wrist. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

Joel huffs. “Still can’t believe Jake did this. Like he’s tryin’ to punish me, sticking you with me.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I feel like they’re punishing me by sticking you with me too.”

“You can’t be stuck with me,” Joel says. “This is my room. You’re the intruder.”

“I’m real threatening, huh?” you mock. “So much so that I gotta be restrained.”

“Threatening, no. Annoying, yes.”

“You’re too kind,” you drawl. You watch him unpack some more, then you purse your lips. “Y’know, you really shouldn’t have gone hunting when you got shot a couple days ago.”

“Was only half a mile out.” Joel scoffs. “There you go provin’ my point.”

You hum. “Guess you really are stuck with me, then.”

“Lucky me,” he mutters.

Joel is in and out for the rest of the day, and even when he’s in you don’t really talk. When he comes back for the night he at least brings some stale bread and a small ration of meat for you—you and your growling stomach are appreciative, but it makes you feel like a prisoner even more than the handcuffs.

What’s worse is how annoyed he seems about it all. Like this was your choice—like you not only chose to throw in with these people, but you chose to stick yourself with him. You think about telling Joel that, but you decide against it.

Just because he said he wouldn’t hurt you doesn’t mean he won’t go back on his word. People tend to not really care about their word these days.

You try to make small talk, but he doesn’t give. Eventually, when he settles in for the night, you decide to try as well.

It’s even more uncomfortable than when you tried earlier. You lay down on the ground, you lean against the radiator, you settle against the wall— it doesn’t matter what position you try because they all cause some part of your body to start hurting within minutes.

You thought it would be easier, considering how many nights you’ve spent sleeping on hardwood floors and cold dirt, but it’s not. Blame it on your privilege from the bed in your previous compound or the unsettling nature of being stuck in a stranger’s room or the endless nightmares that follow you wherever you go—it doesn’t really matter.

A few pathetic hours of tossing and turning pass, and Joel ends up throwing a pillow and a blanket in your direction. When you thank him, he just grunts in response and goes back to sleep.

It makes it a little easier. Makes you feel a bit better about your forced company, at least.

Jake comes by in the morning to send Joel on his way for whatever task he has to do that day and pick you up. He unlocks your cuffs and takes you on the world’s shortest version of rounds. You look at Becca’s leg wound (no infection), ensure Nadine is resting her arm (she is), and by the time it’s Joel’s turn, he’s already out and about.

Turns out him lounging in bed was an oddity caused by being shot the day before, because you and Jake find him in the parking lot with a couple others getting ready to go out on a supply run.

“You know, you really should be resting,” you say as you walk up to him.

Joel scoffs when he sees you approaching and puts the last bullet into his rifle’s magazine. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, allowing you to see the slight ripple of his forearm muscles as he pushes the bolt back into place.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Certainly don’t need you followin’ me around.”

He grimaces a little when he stands up, and though he hides it well, you see his arm move for just a millisecond as he fights an instinct to press against his wound.

“Clearly,” you respond dryly. “Look, I know what I’m talking about.”

“You look like you learned medicine from watching Sesame Street.”

You scowl. “I know more than you ever will. Just like how I know that if you ain’t careful, you’re gonna ruin all my hard work.”

“I’m not gonna run a marathon, so stop bothering me, will ya?”

“I’m your doctor,” you say. “This isn’t bothering.”

“You’re not a doctor,” he says. “And you’re certainly not mine.”

“I am one, and certainly the closest thing you’ve got to one,” you huff. “You’re not dead, are you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Just keep your mouth shut. It’ll do you a lot more good around here than whatever the hell you’re doing.”

“If you just let me do my check up, I would be gone already,” you insist. “Instead, you’ve gotta be a stubborn asshole.”

Joel looks behind you at Jake. “You put her up to this?”

He shrugs. “None of us really want you to drop dead out there, I ‘spose.”

He groans and shakes his head—you’d think you were asking him to shoot his mother the way he’s protesting. But eventually, he sits back down and does a flourish with his hand.

“Make it quick,” he tells you.

“I’ll do it well,” you retort. “Pull your shirt up.”

Joel does, revealing the bottom half of his chest once again, and there’s a whistle behind you. You see Joel shoot an absolutely scathing look out of your peripherals, and you do your best to ignore it all.

The gauze is bloody, but it isn’t soaked through. You remove the dressings and redo them, glancing up on occasion to make sure you’re not hurting him. He doesn’t grimace or wince, but when he tenses every time your fingers brush against his bare skin.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I should’ve asked if I could touch you.”

“I don’t care,” he says, but you feel him shift anyways.

The rest of it goes by pretty quickly, since you did all the important work yesterday. Once you’re done, you zip your medical bag up and nod.

“You’re good to go,” you say. “Just keep it clean to avoid infection. And don’t get shot again.”

He snorts. “Don’t plan on it.”

Joel walks off to rejoin the other hunters, and you watch him go until Jake clears his throat behind you.

“Time for you to start payin’ your keep, little lady,” he says.

You hum. “So I don’t just get to stay handcuffed to a radiator all day?”

He pushes you with the barrel of his gun to get you moving, and you stumble into a walk. “I hope you’re better at maintenance than you are at jokes.”

You just sigh and bite your tongue. He sucks, but he’s not actively threatening you. Might be the least you can ask for, at this point.

Your keep, it turns out, is doing miscellaneous chores.

You do laundry. You clean rooms. You help reinforce the wall. Bits and ends of a lot of different odd jobs, but you honestly don’t mind. It’s better than sitting in Joel’s room, shackled to a radiator and going stir-crazy.

The one bad thing about leveraging your skills is that it makes you useful, and therefore, important. These people can’t risk you running out on them when there’s new injuries to deal with every day, so you’re constantly being watched.

Random survivors that run off are just freeing up space and food. Random doctors that run off are risking lives.

Jake tries to make conversation, and it’s painful, but you go along with it. You swear your cheek hurts every time you look at him—he doesn’t even apologize for it, even though he’s there in the background the entire day. You want to ask him if he has any other job than to stand around you and threaten you into submission with a shotgun, but you decide to keep your mouth shut.

Night is falling by the time you finish things up, and you sit on a milk crate in the parking lot with another stale piece of bread and half a can of beans as your dinner. Not the most glamorous, but enough to fill you up.

You’re beginning to think it’ll be an uneventful night when you hear yelling.

“Open the fucking gate, now!” It’s Joel’s voice, angry and frantic. “We’ve got wounded!”

You jump into action before you even really know what you’re doing and run to the wall, following two other men that were eating their own dinner in the parking lot. Jake is on your heels as the three of you push the dumpster working as the world’s worst gate out of the way.

“The fuck happened?” Jake yells.

“The fuck you think happened?” another one responds. “Runners and hunters and—”

“And Paul’s fuckin’ bleeding out,” a woman continues, out of breath as she runs in.

You look up to see Joel bringing him over in a fireman’s carry, and you meet each other’s eyes. You let out a deep breath and nod, then pull your jacket off and lay it on the ground. You snap your fingers at another one of the supply runners. “Gimme your jacket.”

He frowns and looks at Joel, and he narrows his eyes. “You fuckin’ deaf? Do what she says.”

He does, thankfully, and you put it down next to yours. “Put him down, Joel.”

Joel shifts him off his back slowly then squats down to get him on his feet. Paul’s knees buckle and Joel catches him, then lowers him to the ground.

“Go get my medical bag,” you say. “It’s in your room.”

He nods and runs off, and you look down at your patient. The top half of his shirt is completely soaked with blood, but you see it’s coming from his arm. You put as much pressure on the wound as you can, ignoring his groan of pain. At least that means he’s still alive. Unconscious, but alive.

You look at another one of the supply runners. “What the hell happened to him?”

“One o’ the hunters shot ‘em in the arm,” he says.

“And where the hell is Daniel?” Jake suddenly says. “And Lee?”

“What the hell do you think?” the woman spits. “They got bullets in the head before we even knew what was happening— runners had us distracted.”

“And you thought it was smart to lead ‘em right back here?” Jake asks incredulously.

“We already lost two,” she grits. “I wasn’t gonna lose a third.”

“God fucking damn it!” he yells, and he points at the men that helped you open the gate. “Close the damn wall off, get your damn guns, and shoot on fucking sight! You hear me?”

They nod and get to work, and Jake runs off just as Joel gets back. He has your bag in his hand and you look up at him.

“Get down here,” you say. “I need your help.”

He nods and kneels down beside you, setting your bag next to you.

“Put pressure on the wound,” you say. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding, but I think the bullet hit his ulnar artery. That’s why it’s gushin’ like hell.”

Again, Joel does what you ask without questioning you. You’re thankful that everyone is listening to you when you need it—you only hope he survives this so they give you a little more leeway in the future.

You rifle through your bag until you get your water and gauze. You push Joel’s hands out of the way and you hastily clean the wound, just enough to ensure any dirt and debris is gone. You start packing the bullet hole with gauze, again ignoring his groans as you push it in deep. You do the same to the exit wound so you don’t have to get your ungloved fingers all the way in his arm—thank god, because dealing with bullet fragments is a headache you don’t think you can handle right now.

You see Jake run past with a number of people behind him. You recognize some of them from the raid on your commune, and it makes you realize your patient wasn’t one of them.

They all have their guns drawn out of an abundance of caution, and you think it’s a bit ridiculous, but you keep your focus where it’s supposed to be. You get Joel to apply pressure again while you check Paul’s pulse, two fingers on his neck then his wrist. It’s weak, but it’s there, and right now that’s all you need.

You’re just about to let yourself take it down a notch when a bullet whizzes right past your ear and buries itself into the pavement.

Your scream gets stuck in your throat, and your hand flies up to your ear on instinct. You can’t even tell if you’re bleeding because there’s already so much on you. Guess it wasn’t ridiculous.

Joel instantly shoots up from your side, bloodied hands already pulling his rifle off his back. He’s fired before you know what’s happening, and you lunge back over to put pressure on the wound again.

A firefight erupts immediately. Jake and another woman are yelling orders, and you can’t see whoever is shooting at you all but your only thought is that of your patient.

You watch Joel take another shot, and then he looks over his shoulder at you.

“Get out of here!” he yells, fire burning in his eyes. You don’t need to be told twice.

You slip your arms underneath Paul’s shoulders and stand up, then you pull him up as much as you can. You start dragging him, a mixture of adrenaline and pure willpower getting you through it. You get to the infirmary, thankful you stopped by there earlier when Jake was putting you through the gauntlet of odd jobs, and you get him onto a bed.

You check his pulse once more—still there at a similar strength. His wound isn’t actively gushing blood anymore, and he’s regained some color in his face. Since it’s not worse, you collapse into a chair next to the bed.

Gunshots ring out in rapid succession, and each one makes you wince. You would join to help, but you don’t have your fucking gun. At least if Jake gets shot, you’ll be able to get it back.

You don’t think you have any friends here. But god, you really hope Joel makes it out unscathed.

You don’t get to relax for very long. Three more wounded get brought in over the course of twenty minutes, each facing death in different ways. When the second is carried in, you force the escort to run out and get your medical bag, then stay with you so you can delegate. You only have two hands and you can't do every goddamn thing at once.

One man dies almost immediately. He took a couple bullets to the chest and one hit an artery. He bleeds out before you can even start trying to pack one of his wounds. You can’t even take a moment of silence for him because your second patient starts crashing.

It all blends together, honestly. Reminds you of the times you were with the code team for a shift, when everything was a life or death situation and everything could go wrong at once. But there’s only so much you can do in a motel room without any hospital equipment.

You tie a tourniquet with pieces of your shirt and a stick from outside. You pack wounds once more. You drag chairs and pillows around to elevate limbs. You put pressure on the wounds until they stop bleeding. You get blood on every damn thing you touch because you haven’t been able to find latex gloves anywhere for the past two years.

There’s only so much you can do when you have so little.

Eventually, though, it settles down. The gunshots stop, the bleeding stops, and the pulses get stronger. Everyone that was alive stays alive over the next few hours, coming in and out of consciousness. It’s still quiet, though, because most of them immediately fall back asleep. Getting shot takes a lot out of you.

Your assistant leaves after the first hour when you assure him you can handle the rest. You wish the sinks worked so you could get all this fucking blood off your hands, but you wipe off what you can and deal with the rest. Your shirt’s already covered in it.

Maybe you’ll convince Jake to let you go on a supply run so you can stop by a lake or something. You don’t want to waste what little water you have on cleanliness, but you make a point not to touch your face more than you have to. The last thing you need is to get an infection because you got blood in your eye or something—you think that would be the stupidest way for you to die.

You’re rifling through the barebones medicine cabinet, trying to see what would help in case of an emergency, when you hear approaching footsteps. You turn around to see Joel, and you can’t help but smile.

“Joel,” you say, relief rampant in your voice, “you made it.”

“So did you,” he says. He doesn’t sound half as glad as you do, but you’ve learned over the past two days that he doesn’t tend to show emotions other than anger. “How are they?”

“One’s dead, three are alive,” you say with a gesture. “Dunno their names besides Paul, so I guess you can spread the word.”

Joel nods as he looks at each of them. Again, he hides his emotions well—if he feels a particular way about any of them, he doesn’t show it. Eventually, he looks back at you.

“How are you?” His eyes trail up and down your body. “Any of that blood yours?”

“Thankfully, no,” you say. “The worst is over. I found some antibiotics, so hopefully we’ll be able to avoid any infections. Barring those or any freak changes, the rest should make it.”

“Good,” he says.

“Any of that blood yours?” you ask, inclining your head. He already has a fair amount of dried blood on his jacket—comes with the territory of being Joel, you think—but there’s some fresh.

“No,” Joel says. “We got most of the hunters, but some ran off. Couple of us went after ‘em to finish the job.”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he says. “Tracked ‘em to their camp and did what we had to do.”

You nod. Seems these people are pretty good at taking out other communes, Joel especially.

He probably wasn’t in the group that killed your people because of his gunshot. Had he been healthy, you bet he would have slaughtered them like all the rest.

But he didn’t. And he’s shown you more kindness in his own way than anyone else here has.

You realize hypotheticals don’t really matter to you as long as the bullet ends up in someone else’s head. You don’t really know what that says about you.

So you look back up at Joel and ask, “We safe for the night?”

“Yes.”

You nod again. “Okay.”

And that’s that.

You spend the next few days in the infirmary watching over your patients. Jake is in and out, mostly checking in during the day to ask about the injured and make sure you’re not about to run away. When he stays, he lets his shotgun rest against the wall rather than keeping it pointed at you. Maybe he trusts you more—you think it’s more likely he assumes you won’t run because you have critical patients.

He’s right. You don’t know them, and you only know Paul’s name, but you feel like you have to save them—have to save him.

Maybe it’s because this guy wasn’t part of the group that killed yours, maybe it’s because you think he’s your age, maybe it’s because he looks shockingly similar to Connor. But you feel a strange amount of obligation to this man to save his life.

Even if you were in here alone, you don’t think you would run. Guess the Hippocratic Oath stays with you even after the world has ended.

On the third night, Joel comes in. He has a bottle of water, your rations, and your jacket.

“You left it in the parking lot,” he says when he hands it to you. “I picked it up when we got back from the hunt.”

“...Thanks,” you say. You’ve been in these bloodstained clothes for way too long, but you don’t really have any changes. You were ripped out of your community as a prisoner, after all.

You pull your shirt off and slip into your flannel. Even though some of the blood soaked through to your skin, you already feel better. You’re doing up the buttons when you realize Joel has turned his head, making a point not to look at you.

“Uh, sorry,” you say. “I didn’t really think you’d care.”

“Figure at least one person here should respect your privacy,” Joel says.

You chuckle. It’s oddly touching from someone like him.

“Thanks.”

You hang your shirt on the back of your chair. It kinda is your only top, so you can’t just go throwing it away. You’ll get it clean eventually.

“The number’s down,” Joel says, looking at the beds. “Maya’s good?”

“I guess.” You still don’t know their names. “Bleedin’ stopped, and she was talking up a storm. Sutured her wound, gave her some pain meds, and sent her on her way.”

“Good. How’re the rest doing?”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m mostly just waiting until they’re consistently awake and making sure the wounds don’t get infected.”

“You talk an awful lot ‘bout infections.”

You shrug. “Out here, they’re usually a death sentence.”

“Noted,” he says wryly.

The two of you stand there for a while. The silence is awkward, but but you prefer that over the heaviness of the first night.

“Just make sure you get some sleep,” he finally says. “You won’t be much good if you’re fallin’ asleep when we need you.”

You chuckle. “Noted.”

Joel nods again and walks off. You sit back down in your uncomfortable chair, ready for another night of anxiety, when he stops in the doorframe and speaks up.

“I’m sorry ‘bout how you ended up here,” he says carefully, as if he’s unsure of his words. “But it’s probably a good thing someone like you is at this motel.”

You smile. You think this is the first time you’ve heard him be this genuine.

“Thanks, Joel,” you say. “You’re a stubborn jackass, but you don’t make for a bad roommate.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him. “Night, doc.”

“Night, Joel,” you say softly.

Things change after that week.

Joel looks at you differently. Everyone does, honestly—no one thinks you’re lying anymore, thinks you’re some naive twenty-something. You can hold your own, and you’re not someone to mess with.

But not everything changes.

(“Are you fucking kidding me?” you protest when Jake takes you back into Joel’s room. “I save three of your men and you still don’t trust me?”

“I trust you to save my men, not stay put,” he says. Since you don’t offer your hand, he just grabs your arm, pulls you forward, and locks the cuff around your wrist. “And you’re more important than ever now, little lady.”

You lunge at him, but you come up just short when Jake steps out of your range. He tuts and shakes his head at you.

“No need for that,” he says. “I’d hate to ruin that pretty face all over again.”

“This really necessary?” Joel asks, a hard edge to his voice.

Jake shrugs. “Way you’ve been spendin’ time with her, figure you’d jump at the chance to have her to yourself. Just don’t break her.”

Joel clenches his jaw as Jake leaves, letting out a growl when the door shuts.

“Un-fuckin-believable,” you mutter. Now you’re sure you’re going to put a bullet in his head before you get out of here.

“Took the words outta my mouth,” he grumbles.

“You wanna shoot him for me?” you ask.

Joel shakes his head as he sits back down on his bed. “Not yet.”

You blink. “Not yet?”

He grunts. “Ain’t talking about this with you.”

So you don’t. You don’t say much because he doesn’t say much—after your conversation with Joel in the infirmary, you’re not too keen on annoying him.)

You’re good enough to save lives but still can’t be trusted on your own. Maybe it’s actually a smart move, because you spend every spare moment thinking about ways to escape and ways to put Jake six feet under.

You also can’t stop thinking about Joel’s words: not yet.

You might have found an ally in the most unexpected place.

Another week passes with more of the same.

You check on your patients who have all survived their wounds. They’re out of commission for another week at least, but they’re alive. You finally have a conversation with Paul and he’s so much like your brother you want to cry.

You do the chores asked and now expected of you, and though you mainly keep to yourself, you find a friend in a woman named Trish when you spend a few afternoons together sewing up holes in clothes.

Though you’re still not trusted alone and you don’t have your own room or the freedom to move around at night, you’re no longer expected to spend every moment inside the walls. You end up doing weekly supply runs with Joel and you don’t hate it as much as you thought you would.

They never let you take the horses out, and you still don’t get a fucking gun. Apparently, you’re still a flight risk.

They’re not wrong, but you wish they would fall for it. It would be so easy to run with a horse.

So instead you’re given a knife, and you and Joel have to set out on foot each time. Always you and Joel, because apparently you can’t get away from each other. Maybe they think he’ll kill you if you do try to run. Maybe they can see you’re starting to warm up to him.

You don’t know, and you don’t particularly care. Joel has made it clear he won’t hurt you if you don’t try to hurt him, so you feel safe hunting with him. Besides, he’s a killer shot and you’re great with a knife, so you make a good team either way. He even gives you his revolver to use on the road sometimes, though you always have to return it before you’re back at the motel.

But if Joel is looking at you differently because of a newfound respect, you’re looking at him differently because of newfound feelings.

He’s handsome, anyone can see that—gruff and grizzled and muscled from the life of a survivor. He has sharp, dark eyes that narrow at everything, so much so that you bet his crows feet are from years of distrust rather than years of laughter.

You never really paid attention to it at the beginning because you were terrified you were going to die. Anything you tried to figure out about him or his life was in the name of survival, was about pinning him down in order to manipulate him.

Joel is angry and impatient and mean, and he's probably killed a hundred different people in a hundred different ways in the name of survival—but since that night he visited you in the infirmary, you swear he’s softened around you.

Quite frankly, it’s ridiculous. He’s at least fifteen years your elder, this is the apocalypse, and you’re still in a camp full of enemies. You have no time to be making heart eyes at Joel.

So you don’t make heart eyes. Instead, you just stare at him like you normally do and tell him he’s crazy when he questions you about it.

But god, it isn’t easy. You spend more time with Joel than anyone else—you guess he’s your Jake-appointed chaperone now—and the second time you go out on a supply run with him, you run across a lake.

You convince him to stay for a bit so you can wash off, finally cracking when you swear to him you still have lingering blood on your hands from your night running the camp ER. You strip down to your undergarments with little care and dive in, and when you catch Joel looking you up and down in what he thinks is a covert way, you think your heart might burst.

It’s been a while since you’ve done… well, anything sex-wise. You doubt you will ever get there with Joel, mostly because you’re going to take these feelings to your early grave, but you’re allowing yourself to be delusional when absolutely everything else in your life sucks.

After all the shit you’ve been through, you think you deserve it.

You end up having to cut your luxury excursion short when you hear the distinct croaking of stalkers. Joel grumbles the whole time you’re getting dressed, saying you’re gonna be the death of him and this was stupid and he regrets ever saying yes to you, but he puts himself in front of you every time he thinks he sees one.

It’s the little things.

Two weeks later, on your fourth supply run, things go a little differently.

Everything close by has been picked clean either by Joel’s group or people traveling through the area, so Jake and Marcos, the group leaders, decide that you’re going to go out farther than usual in order to get more supplies. Even though you go out every week, and other people hunt when they can, but it’s not enough.

You’re fine with it and Joel grudgingly agrees to it, so after getting some extra rations and water just in case, you set out on your way.

You find an abandoned convenience store when you’re walking down the side of a road that still has some water, meds, and cigarettes behind a couple toppled over shelves. It’s better than nothing.

When you venture into the woods you find a house. Joel insists on going first in case anyone’s inside—he checks the bedroom and the kitchen and says they’re clear. When he’s going up the stairs with his gun drawn, you a few paces after him on the bottom step, you get grabbed from behind.

Your scream of surprise gets Joel’s attention immediately, and there’s a knife to your throat before you even know what’s happening. Joel has his gun trained on the head of whoever’s got you just as fast.

“Let her go,” he says.

“Not everyday I get a couple bargin’ into my house,” your captor says smoothly. He has one of your arms in an iron grip, and your other hand is an open palm to convince him you’re not a threat. “She’s too pretty for you, don’t you think?”

“Joel—”

“Let her go,” he growls.

“Y’all were gonna steal from me,” the man says. “Don’t see how we can walk out of here all friendly-like.”

He presses the blade into your throat just enough to draw a thin line of blood, and you clench your jaw so hard you think your teeth might crack. Joel meets your eyes, and they actually have something in them you haven’t seen before—fear.

“What d’you want?” Joel asks.

“I think you know what I want,” he says. His grip on you tightens and something inside of you snaps.

You stomp on his foot as hard as you can. He grunts, the action shocking him more than it hurts, but his grip loosens and that’s all you need. You move faster than him as you rip your knife from your belt and reel it backwards to stab him in the gut. You grab his wrist and wrench it to the side, giving you the space to turn away from him and kick him in the chest. He falls to the ground, you pull Joel’s revolver out, and you shoot him in the head.

Your breaths are coming out as pants by now, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest as you stare at his dead body. Pools of blood are already forming behind his head and gut, and you feel nothing but red-hot rage.

You’re so fucking sick of men thinking they can take whatever they want, thinking they have a right to whatever they want. You’re honestly glad this happened. It meant you got to put a bullet in his head.

Joel says your name and you realize it’s the third time. You can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I feel fine,” you say. This isn’t the first person you’ve killed, you want to tell him, far from it. This isn’t the first time you’ve killed to save your life, you want to tell him.

For some reason, the words don’t form.

“He tried to slit your throat,” he says. “You’re not fine.”

“Still standing, ain’t I?”

He says your name again, a bit stronger this time. “You’re bleeding. You need to sit down.”

“I’m—”

“If you say you’re fine again, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and get you out of here myself.”

You huff. “Now you know how I felt that first night.”

Joel shakes his head. “Always gotta be right, don’t you?”

“You know me,” you say faintly.

You do sit down, eventually, if only because Joel looks like he would absolutely make good on his promise. You sit on the third step and he goes one below you, and you pull your medical bag out of your pack.

“I can clean it out,” you say as you rifle through it for your gauze. “Your hands are probably dirty.”

“Y’know, I’m not a complete idiot,” Joel says. “Remember when you said my bandaging was good?”

“I said it was passable,” you correct.

“‘Good enough to keep you alive’, I recall.”

“And you think I want good enough?”

You finally get to your gauze—you swear, it falls to the bottom every time—when Joel puts his hand on your wrist. It’s gentler than you expect, even with the calluses.

“Let me do it,” he insists. “Need to feel fuckin’ useful somehow.”

You stare at him, hoping your pupils aren’t dilated or something else just as stupid to reveal that your heart is beating out of your chest.

“That’s what this is about?” you whisper.

Joel clenches his jaw and glances away. “He could have killed you and I just stood there.”

“You didn’t have a clear shot,” you say.

“I should have made one,” he says. “Out here, we’re a team. Partners. You don’t let your partner get grabbed.”

“We had no idea he was here.”

“I should have known,” Joel says roughly. “I shoulda known and I shoulda stopped him and you wouldn’t have had to kill him.”

You cover his hand with yours before you can doubt yourself, and Joel looks back at you, surprised. He doesn’t pull away.

“It was a mistake, and we got out of it,” you say. “If we’re partners, then you can’t put all the weight on your shoulders and none on mine. I held my own, didn’t I?”

Joel doesn’t respond, and you sigh.

“If they keep sendin’ us out on these things, then you’ll save my ass so many more times,” you continue. “And I’ll save yours, and we’ll joke about it when we get back to that shitty motel and Jake locks me to the radiator for the hundredth time.”

“So it don’t matter that I pulled more weight this time,” you say. “Because it’s a whole lotta push and pull—you just can’t pull away from me because of this.”

“Clever,” he says wryly. “You sure you’re not a writer?”

You manage a smile. “Not even close. Are we good?”

Joel pauses for a moment, his gaze falling down to your hand on his. He clears his throat and pulls away, then holds his hand out. You huff a laugh and give him the gauze.

“We’re good,” he nods.

You sit together in silence as Joel cleans the blood off your neck, only interrupted by your occasional wince. He’s surprisingly gentle with you in a way that you never would have expected, never touching you more than he has to. Your skin burns wherever he does, and it takes everything in you to keep your breathing steady. You don’t want him to know, and you don’t want to mess up his work.

Joel finishes soon enough, and after a quick investigation in a broken bathroom mirror, you approve. You take what’s left from the house in supplies and then you get out. It takes a little longer because Joel refuses to leave your side—”what if a clicker bursts in through that broken window? You’d be dead like that.”—but you don’t argue. You think it’s sweet, actually, but you don’t tell him that.

When Joel insists on heading back early, you don’t fight him. When you insist you want to keep his knife back at the motel, even if it has to be a secret, he doesn’t fight you.

You don’t talk much on the walk back, but things are different. The air is lighter between you two. Joel doesn’t frown at everything. He actually manages to joke around with you.

Things are different.

You’re finding out that you don’t really mind.

You go even farther on your next supply run. The area isn’t as scarce as it could be, but Marcos insists on stocking up before summer, when it’s too hot to constantly venture out like this with little water.

Things are going pretty well, all things considered. You run into a decent amount of clickers over the miles that you’re able to take down with you distracting and Joel stabbing each time. You don’t run into any people, though Joel keeps his head on a swivel.

Eventually, though, it starts to rain. Clear skies shine above you, but you still get drenched within a couple miserable minutes.

“Where the hell did this come from?” you complain.

Joel takes a cloth out of his pocket and wipes down his gun. “They not teach the water cycle in schools?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” You scowl at the sky. “Was ‘sposed to be clear skies all day.”

“We’ll just call it short,” he says. “Go back to the motel.”

“We’re five miles out,” you say. The rain starts coming down harder and you curse. “We’re not making it back without getting soaked.”

“You can’t handle a little water?” Joel asks.

“I’m already miserable enough being around you,” you say. “Don’t need to add trench foot to the equation.”

He shakes his head with a huff. “Fine. I remember a cave a while back— you have another mile in you?”

“As a matter of fact, I did cross country in high school,” you say. “Also walked a whole lot when I was getting away from the coast.”

“Always gotta one up me, huh?”

You smile. “Always.”

It ends up being a little more than two miles, but you and Joel make quick work of it. Soon enough, after you’ve checked for any infected, you’re sitting in a little grotto waiting out the rain.

You’ve both taken your top layers off to let them dry, alongside your boots and socks. It feels a bit strange, a bit too familiar, to be doing all this with Joel—but like you said, you’re not too fond of trench foot, so you deal with it.

You sit near the opening of the cave, entranced by the downpour. The tension in your shoulders has slowly dissipated as you’ve watched the storm. There’s something calming about the sight, the sound— the way the world feels once it’s over.

“You shouldn’t be so close to the outside,” Joel says. Miraculously, the tension comes back.

“It’s fine,” you say.

“Ain’t so fine when everyone can see you,” he says. “Ain’t so fine when a passing hunter doesn’t like how you look and puts a bullet between your eyes.”

You sigh as you adjust your position to look over at him. He’s taken to sharpening a stick with one of his knives. “You always this positive?”

“I’m realistic,” he says. “How do you think I’ve survived so long?”

“Well, I’ve survived too,” you say. “And I’m not half the miserable bastard you are.”

“You’re half my age,” Joel says. “Give it time.”

You shake your head with a huff. “Got a bright future ahead of me, then.”

“I’m alive,” he says. “That’s as bright as it can be these days.”

“That’s so sad,” you murmur, your gaze turning back to the rainfall.

You hear him stop with his knife. “What’d you say?”

You know he heard you. Probably just trying to give you a chance to take it back, but you don’t care. “I said it’s sad.”

“Don’t see how it can be sad,” Joel says. “Survivin’s all anyone wants out here.”

“Maybe on a base level, but I—” you pause and shake your head again, trying to collect your thoughts. “I got a life I’m trying to build. Things I’m chasin’— things that make this all worth it.”

“Like I said, you’re half my age.” The joking lilt he’s had fades, and you know you’ve struck a nerve. “Everything you’re trying to get, I’ve already lost.”

“Joel,” you attempt, but he shakes his head.

“I built a life and I lost it,” he says. “I’ve trusted people and I’ve paid for it. So don’t act like I’m doin’ all this for no reason.”

“Then tell me,” you say, bolstered by his tone. “Tell me what you’ve gone through, what justifies this, so we can move past this— this barrier you’ve put between us, and actually get to know each other.”

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” he grumbles.

“Fine,” you say. “Then I’ll go.”

By this point, you’ve shifted your position completely to face him. Joel still won’t look at you, but he’s gone back to sharpening that damn stick.

“I’m not actually a doctor.”

Sure enough, that gets his attention. He stops so abruptly that you think he might slice his fingertip off. He doesn’t, but he looks at you incredulously.

“What?”

“I’m not a doctor,” you repeat. “Or a surgeon, really.”

He frowns. “Then how do you know how to do all this shit?”

“I was studying to be one,” you say. “But I still had a pretty long way to go.”

Joel glares at you. “How long?”

“I was in my third year of med school when the outbreak started,” you say. “Got to be MS3 for all of two months before everything went to shit.”

“You didn’t even graduate?” he marvels.

You shrug. “I passed my boards. Well, Step 1, at least. The world ended before I got to the others—”

“Oh my god,” he mutters.

“I was still a student doctor,” you assert. “I know plenty—”

“Not enough,” he interrupts.

“Enough to keep my patients and myself alive,” you remark. “And more than enough to stitch up your sorry ass.” You gesture at him. “How’s that gunshot feel?”

Joel just scoffs and shakes his head. He doesn’t look mad, like you thought he would be—just looks shocked, surprised, annoyed. Maybe angry just for the hell of it.

“Why are you tellin’ me the truth now?” he asks. “No one else is around. I could kill you right now for bein’ a liar—tell the group clickers got to you.”

“A liar with medical experience is better than nothing,” you say. “From what I’ve seen over the years, folks aren’t too keen on killing people like me. ‘Specially after I saved their people.”

“Besides,” you incline your head, “I don’t think you have the guts. Not after last week.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Joel says. “I’ve killed plenty of people less annoying than you.”

“Well, I don’t go down without a fight,” you say. “And I’m very good at stayin’ awake. So if you decide to go for it, you can’t take the easy way out.”

He scoffs, but you notice it doesn’t have the malice you’d expect behind it.

You should be wary. You’re alone together in the middle of nowhere, miles from your group—and they wouldn’t save you if it came down to it. For God’s sake, Joel has a knife in his hand. He could take you down easily enough if he wanted to. Weren’t you terrified of that when you were first stuck in his room a few months ago?

But you’re not. You can’t deny that you like him anymore, and that could be clouding your judgment, but you’re not scared of him. Not since that night in the infirmary.

You go back to watching the rain, making a point to have your back to Joel as you do. Maybe as a sign of trust, maybe to show you’re not scared of him—you don’t really know. But nothing happens. He doesn’t stab you in the back, literally or figuratively.

And eventually, he speaks up.

“I’m from Texas.”

You laugh wryly. “I tell you I’ve been lyin’ to everyone this whole time and you tell me you’re a Texan.”

“It’s somethin’,” he says. “Ain’t that what you wanted?”

You turn around and raise your eyebrows. “Where in Texas?”

“Grew up in Arlington,” he says. “Was in Austin ‘fore everything went to shit.”

You nod. “That makes sense. The accent and the attitude and everything else.”

Joel snorts. “‘Everything else’?”

“The way you carry yourself,” you say. “How stubborn you are. Classic ‘Don’t mess with Texas’. You ever have a bumper sticker like that?”

That gets an actual laugh out of him. A genuine laugh, a genuine smile. “Hell no. I didn’t need to showboat like that. Sarah woulda never—”

He stops suddenly, his smile fading just as quickly as it appeared. You feel the moment slipping out of your grasp quicker than you can run after it, and you feel a little desperate.

“Who’s Sarah?”

Joel shakes his head. “No one you need to know about.”

Just like that, the moment is gone and the barrier is back up. You try to hide the disappointment you feel. When Joel’s not being a jackass, you really enjoy talking with him.

“...Okay,” you say. You’ve already pushed him once. You don’t want to push him again on something that brings out that sort of reaction.

Joel goes back to sharpening the stick. It’s half the size it was before, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He’s got a couple to keep him busy.

You go back to watching the rain. The downpour continues, and eventually, you hear the crackling of thunder in the distance.

“Great,” you murmur.

“You see any flashes?” Joel asks.

“No lightning,” you say. “Least it ain’t close.”

“That means we can still get out of here tonight.”

You shake your head. “No way I’m doin’ seven miles in a thunderstorm.”

“We went five miles out,” Joel reminds you.

“And then went two miles off course to get here,” you say. “It’s already getting dark, and these woods have infected. You really wanna go through all that just to get back to that shitty motel?”

“They got food there,” he says. “We have nothing.”

“We’ll be fine for a night,” you say. “It’s not like we’re in danger of freezing. We can sleep in shifts so nothing can sneak up on us. We’re tucked away pretty well, anyways.”

Joel stares at you for a good, long second. You can tell he wants to fight—he always want to fight, you’ve learned—but eventually he lets out a sigh and makes a flippant gesture.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But we’re leavin’ at first light, rain or not.”

“Fine,” you echo.

You’re able to relax a little after that, knowing Joel’s not going to make you hike back to camp in these conditions.

The rain doesn’t ease up, but as night falls, your anxiety gets the best of you and you end up sitting against the wall, across from Joel. You have a sad little dinner together, the usual of stale bread and meat from whatever animal was hunted that week.

Soon enough, it’s pitch black outside and you only have the rain and the crickets for company. Better than rain and clickers, you suppose.

You wish you had a book, or a ball of yarn and some needles, or literally anything to give you something to do other than stare at a cave wall. Joel isn’t much of a talker, even now.

“I’m from Oklahoma, you know.” You decide to fill in the blanks, unable to take the silence much longer even with the rainstorm. “So we’re two southerners in a pod.”

“Knew you had some kinda accent,” Joel says. “Just couldn’t place it.”

“It faded while I was in Boston for med school,” you explain. “I wanted to get out as soon as possible.”

“How’s it feel, being back in the middle o’ nowhere after spending all your time in the city?”

You chuckle and look over at him. “You’re not gonna believe it, but I grew up in the middle of nowhere. Born and raised on a cattle ranch in Beaver.”

“No shit,” Joel says incredulously, and he actually smiles. “No shit you’re a farm girl.”

“Don’t act so surprised!” you exclaim. “I’ve more than held my own out here!”

“Thought you were some big city hotshot doctor when I first met you,” he says, shaking his head. “Turns out you’re just a farm girl med student.”

“Well, you’re just a jackass from Texas,” you retort.

“And you’re a jackass from Oklahoma,” he says. “Guess we ain’t so different after all.”

You laugh and look away, unable to bite back a smile of your own. “Whatever.”

That lightness from your walk the past week returns, and you and Joel spend the next few hours just… talking. You do most of it, because getting Joel to talk about his past is like pulling teeth, but you don’t mind.

You tell him stories from your childhood, what it was like growing up as a rancher’s daughter. How you spent your whole life trying to claw out your roots and how, now that it’s gone, it’s the only thing you want. What undergrad was like, what med school was like, how you spent just as many nights blacked out from alcohol as you did studying until your eyes bled.

Joel contributes in smaller places, like telling you what he was like as a kid or relaying his own high school stories, because he didn’t go to college. Tells you about his work as a carpenter. You find it hard to imagine a younger Joel when it’s near impossible to look in his eyes and see something other than the world-weary, grizzled survivor he is now, but with his words you’re able to piece it together. It helps that his voice is so nice to listen to when he’s not yelling.

You want to ask him about Sarah, but you don’t. Things are going so well that you’d be an idiot to ruin it. You hope he trusts you enough one day to tell you.

In the middle of it all, you realize the way you’re thinking: into the future, long-term future, with Joel a part of it. Your plan from the start has been to bide your time until you can gather enough supplies to run, get your pistol back from Jake and use it to put a bullet in his head, then get the fuck out of here.

But now you can’t stop thinking about Joel, and you realize you want to keep him in your life. You don’t want to stay here, but you don’t want to leave him. You don’t care if he doesn’t like you the way you do, you don’t care if he doesn’t even want to be your friend—you’re just tired of running from everything and defending yourself with lies. You’re tired of being alone.

Eventually, you can’t fight your yawns anymore. Joel tells you he’ll take first watch and you can already tell he’ll refute any arguments. You put your jacket and shoes back on and make sure Joel’s revolver is in grabbing distance, then you lay down using your pack as a pillow.

“Y’know, this is the first time we’re sleepin’ in the same room without a radiator.”

Joel huffs. “Yeah. You get through the night without runnin’, maybe I can threaten Jake into getting you your own room.”

“I dunno.” Your eyes are closed at this point, the mixture of Joel’s timbre at a softer volume and the downpour all around you almost lulling you to sleep. “I kinda like being in the same room as you.” You smile. “We can ditch the cuffs, though.”

Joel is silent for a while. If your brain were sharper, if you weren’t nearly asleep, you might’ve had the sense to worry or be ashamed. You’re sure you’ll regret it in the morning.

“Get some rest,” he finally says. “You need it.”

“Night, Joel,” you murmur. “Wake me up in a couple hours or I’ll kill you.”

He laughs quietly. “Night, doc.”

You dream of your old life. Early mornings on the ranch. Fighting with your brother to get the better chores and swearing you’ll never talk to him again when he gets the ones you want, just to end up racing him to the boundaries of the farm and back to settle disputes as usual. Waking up in the middle of the night to make your favorite dessert for the two of you, homegrown strawberries with whipped cream.

You dream of the day everything fell apart. Screaming in the hospital and your coworkers being killed and sights so brutal in the streets of Boston that you will never, ever forget them. Connor forces you to keep running through it all, tells you that you can’t stop to save anyone because you’ll die too, and he is not going to let you die. He swears he won’t leave you.

You dream of the night you saw him for the last time. Having no choice but to break the one promise your mom forced you two to make before she died in your arms, and making another one that you refuse to break for anything. The last time you saw Connor, a night that you’ve relived a million times where you’ve failed to change the story each and every time.

You wonder what he would think about the kind of person you’ve become.

It’s light outside when you finally wake up. You expect your back to be killing you, but after sleeping against a wall, floor, and radiator for most of the past few months, this was actually kind of comfortable.

You rub the grogginess out of your eyes and realize there are dried tears on your cheeks. You hope to god you didn’t actually cry in your sleep over some nightmares—you don’t need Joel to see something like that.

When you sit up, you see Joel cleaning his rifle.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he says wryly.

“Mornin’,” you say, interrupted by a yawn. You have to shield your eyes from the sun, and you’re about to ask him how he’s doing when it hits you.

“Oh my god— what time is it?”

Joel says nothing, just focuses on wiping out the barrel.

You push his shoulder. “Why didn’t you wake me up, you jackass?”

“You needed your sleep,” he says simply.

“Like you don’t?” you retort. “You’re twice my age, old man. You need it more than I do.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’ll sleep when we get back to the motel.”

You scoff. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And don’t you feel so much better?”

You shake your head as you stand up and begin to gather your things. “First light, my ass.”

Joel sighs. “Helpin’ you out is a thankless job.”

Though you want to stay mad, it’s a champagne problem that you get over it pretty quickly. You feel more refreshed than you have since you ended up in this group, and considering you were sleeping on a cave floor with your backpack as a pillow, things aren’t really going to be better for you back in Joel’s room.

You give him a grudging thank you right before you’re about to leave, and he accepts with a smugness that makes you regret it.

You make casual small talk for the first mile, but things go in a different direction when Joel pops an unexpected question on you.

“Who’s Connor?”

You trip over your own feet, and you know it’s wishful thinking to hope he didn’t see it. You regain your footing and keep walking, making a point to not look at him.

“Where’s this coming from?” Your words might come out a little too aggressive, but you don’t really care right now.

“You talked in your sleep half the night,” Joel says. “Kept muttering about some guy named Connor, how you didn’t wanna leave him.”

“It’s none of your business,” you say.

“You don’t get to pull that shit with me after tryin’ to go all Twenty Questions last night,” he insists. “You told me ‘bout half your life anyways.”

Just because you told him about inconsequential childhood and college things doesn’t mean you owe him actually important stuff. You can do what he did and just shut him down again, and every other time if he happens to ask again.

But you were preaching all that shit about togetherness and getting to know each other and breaking down the barrier. Joel might be a hypocrite, but you have to be better than Joel.

“...He’s my brother,” you finally say. The words feel heavier saying them to him for some reason.

“He dead?” Joel asks. Leave it to him to be blunt.

“No,” you say roughly, hastily. “No, I—”

You swallow the lump in your throat and shake your head. “I don’t know. We lost each other a while ago, and I’ve been trying to find him ever since. So I guess I just really, really hope he’s not.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Two years ago,” you say. “We were in some commune in Ohio with a buncha hunters that tolerated us because I was a doctor and he was a good supply runner. One day, one of the leaders started accusin’ a bunch of people of stealing meds. Swore the supply was goin’ down—accused every person I’d treated the past few months of bein’ a junkie and stealing. Killed every single one of ‘em over the course of a week.” You shake your head as the memory comes back in full force. “Meds kept disappearing. Soon enough, no one was left to blame but me.”

“Did you take ‘em?” Joel asks.

“No,” you say. “I had no reason to. Still don’t know who did it. But Connor realized I was next on the chopping block and no amount of reasoning would bring him down from the edge, even if that meant killing his only doctor.” You bite the inside of your cheek to hold the tears back. “Connor and I fought like crazy that night, but eventually, he won. He gave me all his supplies and got me to leave in the middle of the night. I wanted him to come with me, but he said they would hunt me down. Said he had to stay cover my tracks. Told me to go back to Boston, find the QZ— he would meet me there.”

Joel is silent for a moment. When he speaks up, it’s his usual.

“You’re pretty far from Boston.”

“Roads I was tryin’ to take were completely overrun,” you say. “I had a car back then, in pretty decent shape—decided I would try and get back to the farm just to recuperate. Resupply, take a breather, just try to shit out before I had to get all the way to Massachusetts.” You shrug. “And I guess a part of me thought that Connor might have thought the same thing.”

You huff. “Pretty clear I never fuckin’ made it there, though. I just gotta hope he had better luck than me, and that’s waiting for me there—not dead in a ditch in Ohio.”

“He probably is,” he says.

“Fuck you, Joel,” you snap. “That’s all you gotta say?”

“I’m bein’ honest—”

“Well, I don’t need your honesty,” you bite out. “We made a promise to each other. Far as I’m concerned, he ain’t dead ‘til I see his bones. I don’t care how stupid you think it is.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, but when he does, it’s about what you expect.

“It is stupid.”

“Joel—”

“But it’s also admirable.”

You glance at him. “You hit your head back there or something?”

“No. Just think it’s rare to be able to keep up hope like that.” He shrugs. “One of the things I’ve admired ‘bout you for a while.”

Again, you feel your cheeks heat—your whole body, honestly. You busy yourself with the path ahead of you while you try to remember the art of subtlety.

“...Thanks,” you finally say. “But I think you’re lyin’. You thought it was stupid when we first met.”

Joel snorts. “Things’ve changed since then. You’re way less annoying now—can’t hold that against me.”

“I am the same level of annoying, thank you very much.” You smile at him. “You like me more now. Face it.”

He just huffed and shook his head, though you could tell he was fighting a smile of his own. “Just shut up and keep walking.”

You do, for the most part. Your path is pretty straightforward, only having to take a few detours due to infected that you take out pretty easily together. You and Joel have really found a groove working with each other since you started going on these supply runs.

Maybe that’s what gets you to speak up again.

“You really think my brother’s dead?”

Joel doesn’t respond immediately. He lifts a low-hanging branch so you can duck under it, and when you glance over at him, he looks conflicted.

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” he says. “Only matters what you do.”

“You say all the time that you’re older and wiser than me,” you say. “So give me some of that elder wisdom.”

Joel frowns. “I’m only forty.”

“Can’t be only forty when you’re constantly sayin’ I’m too young to know things,” you retort. “So tell me the truth. Do you really think he’s dead? That I’m wasting my time trekking across the country?”

“...I don’t know,” he says. “Been eight years since all of this fell apart. Logically, neither of us should still be kicking, but we are.”

“So you think he’s alive.”

“I think people beat the odds all the time,” Joel says. “And if your brother’s got the same stubborn genes as you, then I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s beat ‘em too.”

You nod a few times. Whatever Joel said wasn’t going to change your mind—you meant what you said, that you won’t believe Connor is dead until you see his lifeless body. But it feels like Joel is on your side, even if it’s just one foot over the line.

Those words echo in your head again: not yet.

You decide to test the boundaries.

“I think so too. It’s why I’m putting up with all this,” you say. “This… group. Jake’s bullshit. So I can get out when it’s time and keep trying to find my brother.”

This is bigger than the doctor thing, and you’ve just dropped it on a casual walk. You’re still considered a flight risk, hence Joel’s constant companionship and the radiator nights even after you’ve more than proven yourself. You don’t know how much Joel ever believed it, but this pretty much confirms that it’s true.

“Shouldn’t talk like that out in the open,” Joel says after a moment.

“We’re in the middle of the woods,” you say. “Who—”

“Anyone,” he interrupts. “Here or there. So whatever shit you’re planning, don’t tell me about it.”

“Joel—”

“I mean it,” he continues. “I don’t care if you get yourself killed. Just don’t get me pulled into it.”

You walk the rest of the way in silence.

Joel is barely around the next day, or the day after that. You earn your keep like normal, but it makes you nervous. You try to talk to him at night, but he doesn’t give. You shouldn’t have tested the boundaries.

It’s not like you think he’s loyal to this group—you don’t think he’s loyal to anyone but himself—but he’s been with them for longer than he’s known you. Why would he choose you over them? It doesn’t matter if he got scared when you were grabbed, if he let you sleep a little extra. It’s probably just a glitch in his programming or whatever.

One thing you should always remember about Joel is that he will always put himself above anyone else. You might have thought differently at some point, but it’s the truth.

You just hope he finds it in himself not to turn you in.

You barely sleep the next night, too paranoid about everything going wrong just because you decided to trust Joel with something other than watching your six.

That means when gunshots start erupting, it’s less of a rude awakening and more of a reprieve from your pitiful attempt at sleep.

You dart up so quickly you nearly slam your head against the radiator. You don’t like most of the people in this group, but at least they tolerate you—most of them respect you. You’re not too keen on pulling this stunt again with another group of hunters that could be even worse than this one.

That is, assuming this is an attack by humans and not infected. People, you can bargain with. Runners and clickers, not so much.

The thought makes you look over at Joel’s bed, surprised he’s not the one that woke you up. You quickly realize why.

He’s gone.

His materials, his bag, his weapons—it’s all gone. What’s more surprising is that he’s actually made his bed for once.

You don’t think he’s dead. But you also don’t think he’s coming back, so you’re officially on your own.

A part of you hopes against it. But why would he leave without saying goodbye if he wasn’t leaving for good?

You blink back tears. They shouldn’t even be falling. You’ve only known him for a few months and you spent half of those fighting him. But you liked him, damn it—sharp, jagged edges and all.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’re so tired of being at the mercy of others, constantly begging for your life with white lies you can only hope are enough. You can’t sit here and cry. You have to get out of here.

You pull your cuffed hand. It hurts, obviously, and you immediately switch tactics: pulling at the pipe you’re attached to. You grip it as tight as possible and pull, your feet pushing against the body of it for more power.

This radiator doesn’t even work anymore. It’s old and rickety and it can’t be that sturdy, even if it’s made of metal. You’ve been stuck to this thing for your whole time here, and you are so fucking sick of it.

You finally pull the pipe apart from the radiator with a yell, and you land on your back a few feet away from the force you used. You try to even out your breathing as you recover, and pull yourself back into a sitting position. The door suddenly slams open and you wield the pipe like a weapon, pushing away from the entrance on instinct.

Instead of an intruder or a clicker, it’s fucking Joel.

He stumbles inside, covered in blood with a hand pressed against his side and curses waterfalling from his lips. Your eyes widen as you continue to breathe heavily. He looks towards the radiator, then to you, but he doesn’t even seem surprised.

“The hell are you doing?” he asks.

“Trying to escape,” you respond breathlessly. “The hell are you doing?”

“Comin’ back for you,” Joel says. Your face heats inexplicably. “But it looks like you already handled half the job.”

He pulls something from his pocket and tosses it over to you. You loosen your iron grip on the pipe to catch it.

It’s the damn key to your handcuffs. You can’t help but laugh. You wasted all that effort just for Joel to show up ten seconds later, your knight in bloody armor.

“What’d you do?” you ask.

“What needed to be done,” Joel responds. His voice is gruff from the pain, though he tries to hide it. You don’t understand why. There’s no point. “Now get yourself out of those things and let’s go.”

You blink and look up at him. You’ve been dreaming of getting out of this place from the moment you got here—of killing everyone that killed your people, of clawing your freedom back from those that stole it from you. You can’t believe Joel got to it first.

“Why’d you do it?” You can’t help but ask. Far as you knew, he got along with these people. If not that, he at least survived with them. Didn’t care about the people they murdered.

“Because I had to,” he says. “You just gonna stare at ‘em?”

You want to ask more, but you have a feeling you won’t get anything out of him. Not now. So you push down on your thoughts of lost revenge to finally free yourself from those cuffs rather than relying on another.

“You’ve got a minute to grab anything you need,” Joel says. You’re just starting to massage your raw wrist when he starts to walk off, hand pressed even harder against the wound he’s trying to hide.

“Wait!” You shoot up, nearly tripping over your feet trying to follow him. It’s not hard to catch him when he’s doing more stumbling than walking.

“There’s no time to wait,” he says. “Gunshots bring people and clickers, and I ain’t dealing with either.”

“You’re hurt,” you say, only proven correct by how easily you get in front of him. The growing patch of blood on his shirt, holding his weight on his uninjured side, his labored breathing—you don’t need to be a med student to see the obvious. “Was your murder spree interrupted?”

Joel scowls. You find it funny how he always seems to take offense to you caring about his health. “Don’t act like it tears you up inside. I did you a favor.”

“Yeah, I appreciate that,” you say wryly. “Now, can you chill out for a second and let me at least look at whatever they did to you?”

“We don’t have—”

“We do have time,” you interrupt. “I assume you killed everyone in here, so we don’t have them to worry about. It’ll be a second before any infected get here, but if it makes you feel better, the doors lock. And in my medical opinion—”

“You’re not a doctor,” Joel bites out.

“I’m the closest thing you’ve got to one,” you retort. “And I don’t think you’ll make it a mile before your adrenaline fades and you’re out of luck.” You cross your arms. “Without bandaging it, you’re practically begging for an infection. How’s sepsis sound to you, Joel?”

He stares at you—glare is more appropriate, actually. “You and your fuckin’ infections.”

You stare back, refusing to move. “Not my fault you haven’t taken a shower since the outbreak started.”

Eventually, he groans in annoyance and walks back over to the bed, taking a seat that causes him to wince.

“Can’t believe you just wanted to walk out of here,” you say as you grab your medical bag.

“Save the preaching, get to stitching.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Pull your shirt up.”

He does, and you get to work, going through the same motions as the first time you met.

“You get shot or stabbed this time?”

“Stabbed,” he says. “You ever gonna wine and dine me, or you just gonna keep tellin’ me to strip?”

You smile. “You find some good wine out here and a kitchen that works, I’m more than happy to do it.”

You feel his gaze on you as you continue to work, feel his muscles tense then relax every time your fingers brush his skin, and you like it. You like knowing that he killed all these people without a second thought and he still reacts this way to your touch. Maybe it’s sick—this sort of lightness does feel wrong after what he did—but the more you think about it, the more you don’t care. It’s not like there’s anyone still around to judge you.

“Noted,” he says.

You bite back your smile to keep it from growing. “Who did this to you?”

“Don’t matter,” Joel says. “They’re dead now.”

You sigh and shake your head. “How’d you do it, then? These people are capable—tore my community down like it was nothing. You’re just one man.”

“Why d’you think I did it in the middle of the night?” Joel looks away. “Surprise is one hell of an element. They expected it from you, not from me. ‘Sides, it’s not the first time I’ve done this.”

“Ah.”

“Always known I would do it,” he continues. “Ever since I joined this group. They were just a means to an end—they were too reckless for their own good. Woulda gotten me killed sooner or later, and I ain’t lettin’ that happen.”

“Awful lotta time to make a murder plan,” you say. “Mine feels half-baked compared to yours.”

Joel shrugs. “Guess that’s why I did it before you. Helps not being handcuffed to a radiator.

You shake your head with a huff. “Worst way I’ve ever slept.”

You continue on in silence for a good while. You don’t mind because it helps you focus, especially once you start sutures—you’re usually the one that starts the conversations anyways. But then—

“I have a brother too,” Joel suddenly speaks up.

You smile wistfully. “Now you’re openin’ up.”

He shakes his head. “Just answerin’ your question. Why I did this.”

You frown. You continue suturing without faltering, but Joel must see your face because for once, he keeps going.

“You weren’t gonna get outta here anytime soon,” Joel says. “Not with Jake up your ass, makin’ those kind of comments. You didn’t hear the way he talked about you with everyone else.”

A chill runs up your spine. You fight to keep your hands steady.

“There was only so much I could do to protect you the way things were here,” he says. “So I changed things.”

He talks about it so simply. Slaughtering a whole camp of people is changing things.

But he did it to save your life. Can you really cherry pick any of that? Especially when you thought about doing the same countless times over the months?

“My brother and I fell apart,” Joel continues. “He didn’t like the shit I was doing to survive— said there was a line we had to draw, that there was more to life than just survivin’. I didn’t agree. So we went our separate ways.”

Joel meets your eyes. “I ain’t gonna let that happen to you. Not when you’ve still got a chance.”

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek when you feel the pinpricks of incoming tears.

He really did do this for you. To keep you alive—to keep you safe.

When you fell asleep that night, you thought he was only a couple steps away from betraying you.

Instead, he was your salvation.

After you stitch Joel up, give him some painkillers, and make sure he’s not going to die, you take your time going through the rest of the camp. There’s a surprising amount of materials around, especially that was being kept in individual rooms. It’s a little difficult seeing all the bodies, but not as hard as you thought it would be.

When you get to Jake’s room, you take your pistol from his body and shoot him in the head with it. He’s already dead, but it still brings you some sort of satisfaction. You think Joel will chastise you for wasting bullets, but he doesn’t say a thing.

You fit as much as you can into both of your packs and even more in your horses’ saddle packs. You pick the two that look to be the strongest and set the others free—they’ll stand a chance on their own rather than tied up here.

It’s nearly morning by the time you’re done, and you stand next to Joel as you watch the sunrise. It might be the one thing you never get tired of—one of the few things that remind you of how beautiful the world used to be.

Dawn is… oddly silent here. You grew up with frogs and cicadas and all sorts of barn animals making themselves heard into the night and early morning, but the apocalypse brings a strange sense of serenity. When it’s not being interrupted by infected or hunters, that is.

“Feels wrong standing out here,” you murmur. “Knowin’ what you did.”

“I told you, it had to be done.” Joel shakes his head. “You wanted ‘em dead anyways.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” you say. “Nothin’ does.”

“Maybe for you,” he says.

You hum in acknowledgment. This isn’t something you want to fight over—not know.

“Where’re you goin’ after this?” you ask.

“No clue,” he murmurs. “I sorta… drift from place to place. Anywhere I can survive.”

“I understand,” you say. “Spent a lotta time like that.”

You feel Joel’s gaze on you. “What about you? Where’re you off to?”

“Boston,” you say. “It’s where Connor and I agreed to meet again. We heard about a QZ there, so figured it would be a safe place to meet after however long it takes to get there. Been tryin’ to get there for a while, but I’ve been thrown…” you chuckle, “majorly off course. Seems like a pipe dream now, but I’m still gonna try.” You glance over at him. “Can you believe we’re stuck in Kansas?”

“Got no idea how the hell I ended up here,” Joel says with a chuckle of his own. “Figure you would like it, though. Close enough to your panhandle.”

“Close enough but farther than ever,” you say, and you smile wistfully. “I miss the farm.”

“I miss Texas,” he admits.

“Someday, we’ll get back,” you murmur.

Joel hums in acknowledgement. He looks back at the sky, and a good ten seconds of silence pass between you before he speaks.

“I’ll get you to Boston.”

Your eyes widen. For a moment, you’re not sure if you’ve heard him correctly. “What?”

Joel shrugs. “Didn’t save your life back there to leave you to die out here.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Joel,” you say. “You— you barely know me.”

“Actually, you talked my ear off enough that I know plenty,” he says. “‘Sides, I’m gonna need someone to keep an eye on this wound—rather have it be the devil I know.”

You feel a certain warmth settle in your chest, alongside a growing smile on your lips. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack,” he nods.

You stare at Joel for a good, long while, and then you hug him.

You can’t help it. You can feel his staggered heartbeat, his uneven breathing—the way he just… stands there, like it’s the last thing he expected. It makes you wonder how long it’s been since someone last hugged him, showed any kind of affection.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. It takes a second, but he hesitantly wraps an arm around you. He pats your back more than anything, but when you pull away, he’s fighting a smile.

“I mean it, Joel.” You laugh, almost giddy. “It felt like a death mission on my own. But with you… seeing my brother again feels real.”

“No sense in lettin’ someone else lose a brother when I can try and stop it,” he says.

“You’ll find Tommy again,” you say. “I know—”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “We made our choices. But you and Connor still got a chance.”

You swallow the lump building in your throat and nod. No use arguing with him over one of the sorest subjects. “This means more than anything, Joel. I’m serious.”

“Then let’s not waste it on being sentimental,” he says. “C’mon. We’re burning daylight.”

You let out a breathy sort of laugh, full of relief, as you follow him over. Joel locks his fingers together to give you a step up onto your horse, and once you’re on, he gives you an amused look.

“You do know how to ride a horse, farm girl?”

“Please,” you huff. “I grew up around ‘em. Probably know better than you.”

“Let’s not get crazy now.”

Joel gets on his horse and you ride up closer to him so you can look him in the eye.

“So we’re goin’ to Boston,” you say. “Any idea how the hell we get from here to there?”

He pulls a rolled-up paper out of his pack and flattens it out. “Just so happens our benevolent leader Jake had a map. It ain’t the best, but it’ll give us a path to follow.”

You nod a few times, your resolve steadily growing. “We can actually do this.”

“‘Course we can,” Joel says. “Didn’t do all this just to fail.”

“Some actual optimism,” you marvel. “I can’t believe it.”

He shrugs. “Balance is important.”

“And a joke, too,” you say. “If the world hadn’t already ended, I would think it was right now.”

“Alright.” Joel huffs and shakes his head. “Let’s get goin’ before I regret bringing you with me.”

You don’t try to bite back your smile this time.

You stir your horses into action as you begin to ride, Joel in front of you to lead but little distance between you.

You knew you would get out of this place somehow, but you thought you’d slip out in the middle of the night alone, running for your life with no idea of where to go next. You’d run into a group of people, barter your skills in return for your survival, and so on and so forth until you somehow made it to Boston. A pipe dream indeed.

Instead, you’ve got a horse, a pack full of supplies, a plan, and Joel.

You’ve got Joel, and you feel like you can breathe for the first time in months.

#joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fic #joel tlou x reader #the last of us x reader #tlou x reader #sadie writes

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vrystalius · 3 months ago

Text

How they show love — bg3

A tribute to the last patch of bg3 and in honour of starting my 12th playthrough (I haven’t finished a single one so far)

Pairing: Astarion, Gale, Gortash, Raphael (+Haarlep) x gn!reader

Summary: How do they express their love for you, their love language and a bonus scenario.

Genre: Fluff, slightly suggestive in parts

Words: 4.1k

Note: this is kinda popping off soo if you’re interested in receiving a written letter by your favourite character, I’m hosting a small event on my blog and anyone can participate!

(Not ascended)

Astarion Ancunín // The Pale Elf

Words — 1k

Nibbling and biting.

This one is quite obvious. Although Astarion sinks his fangs into your neck every now and then to enjoy a treat, he also enjoys nibbling on you just because. His favourite areas to do so are your hands and fingers, shoulder and cheek. Biting your fingers in boredom when you are in bed with him, in his arms, you not paying attention to him while flipping pages through a book.

What else is he supposed to do other than take your free hand and nibble on your finger while silently brooding about you being oh so busy. Your hand is also a pleasant alternative.

Your shoulder feels like the perfect place to trail featherlight kisses followed by small nibbles here and there, firm enough for you to arch into them but soft enough to not make you bleed. He doesn’t always have the need to chomp down and suck your blood out, you know.

That’s why Astarion sometimes leans down, bites and pull on your cheek a little instead of placing a small kiss. It’s silly, but it makes you giggle and wince in surprise so that’s perfect reason to keep doing it, especially when you expect a kiss and not him to bite you.

“I can’t help myself dear. You are too delicious for me to resist, with or without blood, although a little snack would be a good bonus. If you’ll let me…”

Words of affirmation and/or sweet nothings.

You are used to Astarion flirting with you all day and night, but you notice how they slowly became less and less shameless and more sincere, in a way. Not that they weren’t sincere before.

His eyes soften as they glaze over your face, his hands hesitating to reach out and run through your hair while your head rests on his chest, his lip quivering as he hesitates to speak his mind. Astarion’s brain is foggy from all the warmth and fuzziness pooling in his stomach and his heart racing uncontrollably from you simply being here. His mouth begins to talk without him having control over it.

His words may be flirty and sultry but you can tell that they aren’t just flattery. He rambles about how incomprehensibly gorgeous you are, how your info dumping and intelligence is unbearably attractive and how he could listen to you all day, how your eyes resemble the starry night sky, your grin that could make him fold over in an instant and so many other things he cannot get out of his damn brain about you.

Damn you for making him utterly weak and stupid for you.

“I cannot stop my damn mouth around you. It’s— Stop grinning at me like that! I can’t concentrate when you do that, darling.”

Physical touch.

At first, Astarion forced himself to constantly touch you. It felt good for you and for him, sure, but he mostly pushed himself to touch and feel you in order to make you feel seen and loved by him. He did it in order to get protection and support from you against Cazador and whatever other horrors come across your way. But after unfortunately falling head over heels for you, touching you is something he cannot go without.

His hand always lingers on your back for support, your waist to pull you closer and show to everyone with that you are his and he is yours, holding your hand while strolling the streets and roads and almost childishly swinging your arms back and forth like a happy-giddy couple. Letting himself get pulled into your arms after a long day in the privacy of his closed off tent and cuddling closely against you is probably the closest Astarion ever got and will get to pure bliss.

His cheek getting squished by being pressed up against your chest, his hands tightly gripping your waist as if fearing you might disappear on him. There is a soft, giddy grin spreading on his face.

Bonus scenario.

You thought he did it on purpose at first— After all, he is a vampire spawn and you can tell that his bloodlust overpowers him every now and then, but Astarion genuinely looks panicked as the flesh of your hand begins to bleed slightly, two holes buried into the skin right below your thumb. You watch as your boyfriend rushed around his tent to grab a cloth and wipe the blood.

“Astarion, I’m fine—“ He shushed you by holding his finger up while facing your back before finally spinning around on his heel and presenting the hand-embroidered handkerchief he had been worming on during the quiet evenings in camp. Immediately and without hesitation, he pressed the delicate cloth against your wound.

His face was etched in guilt and worry. “I’m so sorry darling, I didn’t mean the bite to be so…” You noticed how his eyes drifted away from how the blood began to soak the handkerchief. “It was meant to be harmless, I swear!”

“I know, I know.” Your free hand cupped his cheek and your lover immediately leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as his features softened slightly. You can tell how much it ripped him apart in the inside despite it being such a little injury, you know how Astarion always is careful with his biting when doing it on you, respecting your boundaries and always asking for consent beforehand. He would never, ever hurt you in any way. And yet he just did.

“It happens, it’s okay. I’m not seriously hurt.”

Lifting the cloth off your wound yourself and revealed how the blood already began to dry. His eyes drifted back to the puncture wound in your hand. His lip quivered. “I…”

“I’m still sorry. I should’ve been more careful.” Astarion watched your face, expecting some kind of negative reaction. Fear, anger, anything really. Instead, you leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

A wave of affection hit him the same way the club of an angry orc would, but it was much more pleasant. He huffed and angled your face for him to kiss you properly.

(Mortal)

Gale Dekarios // The Wizard of Waterdeep

Words — 1.1k

Info-dumping and rambling.

If there is a new topic Gale has been exploring and reading about, you will definitely hear all about. Probably more than once, too.

Before you Tara was the victim of his endless info-dumping, him gesturing around and doing his eureka! pose every now and then while proudly explaining how he already inhaled every piece of literature there is about this new topic. Now you are his victim.

Gale feels a little insecure about it though, afraid he might be boring or annoying you. So, you’ll have to assure and encourage him and make it known that you do want to know how you can reason and communicate with some mimics to the point of making them non-hostile. He adores to have his head rest on your lap while your hand fiddle with some loose strands of hair, him rambling on and on about something he happened to come across in the library today.

Since you tolerate his rambling so well, he’ll of course listen to yours with eagerness. Gale’s eyes twinkle slightly as he watches you talk, noting every movement in your face and hand, how the edges of your eyes crease a little when you explain a particularly fun fact to him. His heart flutters to see you being so passionate about something, sometimes he can’t help himself but let that affection out and give you a cheeky little kiss while you are distracted by talking, causing you to be completely thrown off and now confused on where you left on.

Gale also loves debating with you. The topics could range from when does a powerful wizard begin to live off cheese and wine to if eating a tressym’s wings be considered as fried bird, fried cat or fried tressym (although Tara was quite offended by that debate you held). He likes talking about nothing and everything about you and might just seek excuses to hear your voice. Getting the opportunity to info-dump about his interests is a mere bonus.

Gifts and trinkets.

Whenever he stops by the library or market, you have to physically withhold him from wandering off and going after that shiny twinkle he just saw from the edge of his eyes, in his mind already having hundreds of ideas on what it might be and if you would like it.

Gale has a habit of hoarding things in his wizard tower, but after getting his orb and getting rid of most the weave infused artefacts, he now had space for more trinkets: things that remind him of you.

Your wizard begins bringing you something every time he comes back from somewhere. Sometimes it’s a book from the library he thought might interest you, sometimes it’s jewerly Gale thought might fit most your outfits, but every now and then it’s a shiny rock he found in the corner of a street. He thought the colour resembled your eye colour and the way it shone in the sun almost blinded him, just how you blind him with love every time you’re near.

It’s silly but at least half the shelves are now filled with shiny rocks, books and a newly acquired wooden figure of a goat he found at the market. Gale said your stubbornness and persistence reminded him of one and didn’t get why you found it a little offensive to get compared to one.

“Whatever are you talking about? Goats are very graceful creatures and so are you! I find it quite the accurate comparison on my part.”

Physical touch and cuddles.

There is nothing better in the world than melting against your warm body after a good glass of wine and being surrounded by tombs, scrolls and books all day and Tara being curled up by your feet. His hand lazily tracing your waist and sneakily finding their way between your legs. Not for any improper reason, just to warm his hands up.

Speaking of your thighs, Gale is this close to begging on his hands and knees for a chance to have his rest between your plush flesh. The feeling of gently being squished while his fingers busy themselves by drawing intricate patterns across your skin or simply interlock with yours. Your wizard considers cuddling as some way of recharging his energy, both arcane and bodily.

He needs his morning cuddles before starting his day, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck while you brew some coffee or him refusing to let you leave the bed by positioning himself on top of you. He sneaks himself into your daily routine and tries not to interrupt whatever you are doing right while scooting himself right next to you, his chin on your shoulder while Gale watches you do whatever.

Also, thanks to you, this man can’t ever sleep without having you in his arms ever again. You spoiled him too much, he complains. Your body perfectly fitting together against his like it was always meant to be. But that also means whenever you get up in the middle of the night for some water, Gale is right behind you, sleepily following your steps.

“I can’t sleep without you, might’ve as well follow, right?”

Bonus scenario.

You did insist that your boyfriend should’ve stayed in bed while you dragged yourself to the kitchen for a glas of water. It’s not even early morning and the sun was still well below the horizon and yet Gale followed close behind. It kind of reminded you a cat that followed you into the bathroom in the middle of the night for no reason other than making sure you don’t get attacked by mice or something.

“Mhh. What time is it?” Gale scratched his chin sleepily as he leaned against the counter next to you. You shrugged and sipped your glass of water. He opened his eyes and glanced over to you, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist and pulling you against his oh so warm body.

You melted right into him, a groan escaping your throat as you buried your face in his hot neck, allowing yourself to take a deep breath. His scent was familiar.

Your eyes slowly drooped close and you felt yourself almost let the glass slip out of your hand but before it could, you placed it on the counter behind your very sleepy wizard.

As you did, your hands began to wander and trace the warm muscles of his back. You noticed how they have softened over time. After everything that had happened you and him began to live a more comfortable life without the need to lift a sword, or rather, a wizard staff.

Before you could point the softening muscles, how much you appreciate your life with him, how silly it is to think about what you went through together mere months ago, a snore interrupted your thoughts.

Did Gale fall asleep leaning against the cabin with you in arms? Seriously? And snoring like that as well?

And he is always the one that complained about your snoring.

Enver Gortash // Chosen of Bane

Words — 1k

Gift giving.

He literally cannot help himself for the love of the gods. Enver, as he ordered you to call him, swears he is not actively seeking for gifts to shower you in, they just come to him. Or are being brought to him by his Steel Watch and others.

Whatever had your attention for more than a fraction of a second you can expect to stare back at you in an instant, now presented on your nightstand or bed instead of the boutique you saw it in or the catalogue you flipped through. Somehow he always knows what you fancy without even needing to speak to him.

Enver also tends to send you little handmade trinkets during especially long and stressful periods of him being away. Despite what he likes to think himself, he doesn’t always work on papers in his office. When the files pile up and glare at him disapprovingly, Enver turns to the mini broken machinery tucked away in his desk and begins tinkering with it, working and trying new things out until it finally functions again.

Or he makes it look prettier and that it was before and lets it be delivered to you. Little reminder that he always thinks of you. He totally didn’t squeeze a miniature scrying eye into at least one of the trinkets to spy on you.

“Oh, it is nothing. Mere small tokens of my affection, no need to dwell on them.

Inserting himself into everything you do and annoying you.

Like a toddler, Enver follows you around and tries to insert himself into everything you do to try and stay close to you.

Cooking yourself a snack in the kitchen? You’ll feel his chin on your shoulder as he stared down at what you are cooking. “Give me a piece of that.”

In the bathroom to take a quick shower? He is already behind the curtain and turning the water on, filling the room with steam.

God forbid you are in bed, alone without anyone to cuddle onto? Yeah, you best believe he immediately sneaks up on you and makes sure you won’t be able to physically leave this bed, not until you pry his arms off your body. Enver is like a cat, he doesn’t openly ask for affection most of the time but invades your personal space whenever he wants to silently ask for it.

Besides acting a little child when wanting your attention and affections, Enver also enjoys showing you how much he loves you by purposefully annoying you a a little. He pokes your cheek over and over when you’re busy and watches you get more and more upset with his teasing until you finally slap his finger away. How unfairly you are treating him— Enver has been nothing but good to you!

“I’m simply making my presence known to you since you failed to acknowledge it until now. You shouldn’t be annoyed, rather happy to see me, love.”

Physical touch.

You know well that your lover is sleep deprived, dehydrated, touch starved, affection starved and whatever else you can be physically deprived off. You seem to fix all of these problems by simply slipping into his arms and using his soft chest as comfortable pillows and your legs tucked between his warm legs. Enver can’t suppress the blissful grin spreading on his face and couldn’t fight his eyelids slowly drooping close, his chin resting on your head.

He could remain like this for hours, days, in some form of hibernation. But he can’t. His duties are calling.

So, he’ll take you with to his office to continue the cuddles. You’ll be comfortably seated on his lap as he writes and flips through papers. The situation isn’t even sexually charged as in you are perfectly seated on his lap in a way that could make him moan and thighs shiver, rather you are there so he can take little breaks by hiding his face in your neck and groaning in frustration every now and then.

Sometimes he’ll be too tired to cuddle, so Enver’ll rind where you are currently resting and just laying down on top of you, letting his weight slightly crush you beneath him. He is a selfish man and needs his daily (hourly, really) head pats, hair strokes and back scratches.

Bonus scenario.

You felt Enver’s stare drill itself into your skull. You were just brushing your teeth and examining yourself in the bathroom mirror and getting ready for bed. You tried to ignore the looming presence behind you as much as you tried to avoid looking directly at him in the mirror.

“Are you ignoring me?” You heard the amusement in his voice. Yes you are trying to ignore him because of how much he has been getting on your nerves today, purposefully interrupting your doings, asking you to meet him in private and pulling you away from duties just for him to ask you to kiss him. A child is what he is.

“My love.” Enver called out again, now moving to stand beside you. His eyes never left your face. You didn’t spare him a single glance.

“Darling.” He started again. “Or do you want me to call you kitten?”

That one made you shoot him a glare. Aha! A reaction. Enver smirked at himself and lifted his hand, his index finger now reaching out to pole your cheek but before he could touch you, you gently pushed his hand away. But not backing down, he reached out again.

“Gortash.” You scolded and turned to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Yes? That is my name.” Completely unbothered, he mirrored your pose to mock you almost. There was that shit-eating smirk on his face you are all too familiar with and the one you can’t help but let it get to you. You couldn’t fight your own grin that was fighting itself to appear on your face.

“Aha. A reaction. I was looking for that.” He grinned and lifted your chin with a small nudge beneath your chin before leaning in for a quick kiss on your lips.

Raphael // The Devil (cambion)

Words — 1k

Quality time.

Raphael’s time is valuable and choosing it to spend it with you should make you happy enough.

But alas, merely basking in your presence and getting drunk of your affections sometimes isn’t enough, so Raphael takes you out to fancy restaurants in different cities all across Faerûn and spoils you with a colourful, expensive cuisine. Afterwards he’d suggest to get some wine and enjoy it somewhere else together, maybe go back to the House of Hope and play some rounds of Lanceboard together.

He would never admit it to you but being adorably domestic with you and sipping some wine while talking about nothing important is one of his favourite things to do, ever.

Besides restaurants and wine, your cambion will ask if you’d be interest in going out to watch theatre plays. How can you possibly deny him when Raphael keeps reciting quotes and scenes, trying to sway you into finally giving in. It’s kind of endearing watching Raphael’s eyes light up once you finally agree.

Raphael enjoys spending his time outside of his House of Hope, partly because he knows that you, as a mortal, probably don’t want to spend all your time down in Avernus, so he’ll prefer to take you out on dates on the surface.

“If you’ll have me, I would love to take you out on a lovely play being held in Baldur’s Gate. I believe you could enjoy it as much as I will.”

Acts of service.

Raphael may spoil you with acts of service but those are not without strings— He’ll expect something back in return, things like a kiss on his cheek, a compliment or your time to spend on him.

His “services” consist of him hand-tailoring infernal contracts for people that have mildly annoyed you in the past, people you may not even remember. Raphael will make sure they will work as slaves in his house personally serving you for the rest of eternity.

He maybe is enjoying eliminating and enslaving your ex-lovers, people you mildly dislike, people you despite and whoever else he can get his fingers on a little too much, don’t you think?

Also, Raphael tends to be very theatrical when hosting future contractees and souls he might strike a contract with. But with you, he is actually sincerely caring. He pulls out a chair for you, he pours you a beverage before even needing to ask, he remembers every single detail on foods you like and dislike and just the way you like it. Raphael will always serve you like you are royalty.

“Sit. Eat. Drink. Let the world and everyone in it kneel for you, my love. You deserve nothing lesser.”

Physical affection.

Raphael enjoys your touch the most. Simple things like holding your hand and prying it off whatever you are holding when they are not available, having his hand rest on your waist during outings and his tail subconsciously wrapping around your ankles when he is not even paying any mind to you. He craves your closeness, no matter if he wants to or not.

If he can’t provide with his own body and cuddle you up, he’ll send Haarlep to do his bidding.

Haarlep more than willingly curls up in your lap and shields you with their wings as their arms snake around you. They might let their hands wander and get a little touchy with you, but after putting the incubus in their place and giving them a piece of your mind, Harleep will obey and simply serve as a cuddle pillow and replacement for his master. Almost a little too enthusiastically, one could think.

But at the end of the day only Raphael will banish the incubus from your shared bedroom and will affectionately-force you to satiate his need for your touch. He is never the little spoon though, the devil would never give up his position as the big spoon and loose the opportunity to create a make-shift cocoon with his leathery wings trapping you against him.

It was your biggest mistake to not go and use the bathroom beforehand, Raphael will never let you go now, not unless you sprinkle holy water on him or something.

“Where did you— No! Put that flask down you harlot! How did you smuggle holy water into my home?!-“

Bonus scenario.

You felt squished. Sandwiched. A little crushed but kind of pleasantly so.

Raphael had his arms wrapped around your your stomach as you snuggly fit into his hold, against his chest. You felt the infernal heat radiating off his body and his tail having its tight hold on your ankle. Does he even know that his tail was clinging itself onto you?

You weren’t really paying attention to that though with Haarlep clinging against your front. It was comfortably pressing itself against your torso, its race snuggled against your chest. Their eyes were closed in bliss while their hands gently massaged your thighs. Now, how did you manage to convince Raphael to allow his incubus to snuggle up against you like you are theirs and theirs only?

Then again you could sense how the owner of the House of Hope silently brooding behind you and having his face nuzzled into your shoulder while Haarlep happily purred against your supple skin.

“Oh, I have been missing out on this. I didn’t think he’d be so lenient with me.” Haarlep was clearly testing the waters on how far he can go before his master strikes him down and throws his body into the Styx. Raphael lifted his head slightly and raised his brow, shooting him a warning glare.

“Both of you better behave.” You sighed, one hand leaning back to cup Raphael’s cheek while the other was busy running fingers through Haarlep’s hair. Again, the incubus purred and smirked against your skin.

This is something you could get used to.

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

Ngl I’ve also been in the mood for some Cyberpunk again. Also I’m also trying my very hardest to do a Durge run but I always end up starting another playthrough after the goblin camp 😭😭 I’m trying to stay strong for the extra voicelines and scenarios and stuff for Gortash but I’ve never been strong enough so far 😔 also I was this close to including ketheric throm on this list

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough.

Tame care of yourselves! Happy late Easter if you celebrate.

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