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octbrsaturn · 1 month ago

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𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

part one– summary | Two strangers and their internal loneliness attract like magnets. Joel is at a loss, stuck—and you are alone, terrified. In the forced, shared space you find that distraction was the easiest way to cope.

content warning | dddne — DUBCON (this is an ongoing theme for a while), coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, not quite kidnapping/stockholm but reader has nowhere to go, brief mentions of pregnancy (like literally one line), mentions of starvation due to food scarcity but appearances isn't deeply described, mentions of sa and other relating themes, mean!joel, girthy age gap (reader is 20, joel is 54), joel is riddled with guilt but what's new amirite, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv and creampies, if i missed anything please let me know!

author's note: guys this has been sitting in my drafts finished for almost a year and this new picture has sparked a fucking fire in my docs over this series (another one? yeah i know), this is probably the heaviest thing (for me) i have ever written? so just, be warned. i don't have a timeline for this, i'm literally just vibing it out as i am with most fics lately and if you see a tag you don't like. don't read. you're responsible for the work you consume. a full list of triggers/warning can be found on the masterlist.

word count —10k

part two | part three | strangers masterlist

“She’s a stray, look at her.”

Two pairs of eyes stare back, across the dimly lit room. You’re curled up in the chair, thick leather coat lined with wool draping your shoulders and your toes curled around the edge of the seat, hands balled up near your chest as you savor the warmth.

It was the first time in a month that you’ve seen a fire—sure, you’ve tried to build one. But, you never quite got it and usually ended up burning yourself in the process and added onto the litany of other scars left as memories and reminders on your skin.

Survival—while you weren’t good at it, you did what you had to. Pure, primal instinct. Find shelter, find food, get safe. Don’t die.

Your nose was bloody, lips chapped and cracking, running on a few hours of sleep over the last several days. Place to place, you had to keep running. If you didn’t, they would catch you, surely.

Your muscles ache as they had a moment to relax, legs sore from walking miles and miles, the lingering cuts and scabs that hadn’t healed from your own clumsiness and a mix of being at the end of a blade of a man with too much pride to allow you to damper the moment.

You licked your lips and your eyes flitted away, staring out the window and counting the string of illuminated, plastic orbs hanging on the house across from the one you were currently being interrogated in—the men were still looking at you. Your outer stoic expression hid away the trembling fear you kept inside. They were waiting for you to speak.

That never came.

“You got a name?”

You shake your head, eyes quickly averting in a different direction.

The two men were similar in build—tall and stocky, large and filled out bodies built of muscle and years of hard labor, older based on the grays littering their well-kempt hair and trimmed beards. One has hair that curls just beyond his ears, a warmer brown than the other mans.

They both pull the same expression—complete and utter confusion.

Nearly identical. Oh, they’re brothers.

If not, they sure did bicker like it.

“She’s pullin’ our fuckin’ leg, Tommy.”

Your ears perk up, assigning the name to a face. He seemed softer than the other man, less weathered and guilt-ridden. It wasn’t like you knew anything about these men, but you’ve learned to identify as much as you could within a couple looks.

Figure them out.

What do they want? What can you give them?

Tommy rounds the table separating you from him, a safe, protective distance as he presses his palm into the chair pushed under the table, fingers curling around the top.

“Listen, you’ve gotta give us something.” Tommy explains, “Given the shape of you, I’m tryin’ to avoid the whole vetting process we go through. We don’t take kindly to raiders or tricks or people looking to cause trouble.”

“We ain’t even got space for her—”

Tommy holds his hand up to the other man, eyes still locked on you.

“Look at me,” His voice is solid, demanding.

But, he’s not yelling. You turn meekly, gripping for the jacket when it slips from your shoulders. Your clothes were torn, jagged edges barely hanging on in some places. Garments soiled and unwashed for weeks and god—you fucking reek. You can smell it, you know they can smell it.

You were a stray feral cat that had scurried up to their doorstep and passed out from exhaustion and while one was attempting to take pity, the other was ready to crush your skull under the weight of his boot.

“Can you talk?” He asks, eyebrows raising slightly in question.

Your tongue rolls against the front of your teeth and you switch your gaze between the two men before shaking your head, a barely noticeable gesture if they hadn’t been staring you down.

You were being truthful—you couldn’t speak. It wasn’t like you’d had your tongue cut out and were ridden with the choice, but quiet has been the only thing that has ever brought you peace.

Familiar phrases echo loudly in your mind.

Don’t speak, be a good girl.

Seen, not heard.

Speak and I will rip your fucking tongue out.

So, no—you can’t talk.

“We’ve got families comin’ in—men and women that are willing to be a hell of a lot more cooperative than this—”

“Joel,” Tommy warns with a voice that shakes the room, causing you to jerk in response and this time he is holding his hand out to you, palm raised as if to ease you down, “we can give her a fair chance, just like we do the others. Grab a piece of paper and pencil,” He points toward a desk tucked against a far wall and Joel's heavy boot stomps follow Tommy’s orders before he’s returning, slapping the items back down on the table and taking a similar stance to Tommy.

You were sandwiched between the two men as they surrounded you, shaking as you took the pencil in your hand and gripped it, fumbling for the paper as you used your fingertips to drag it close.

“Where did you come from?” Tommy asks.

You remember the dark room, chains and screams—blood-curdling screams. One meal a day, if you are good. Constant pacing in the halls, a building in the city holding a much darker secret in the quarantine zone you had been kidnapped and forced to take home in.

Bad place, you write in sloppy handwriting.

Tommy leans to look and his brow furrows, subverting toward Joel who shakes his head at you.

“No—state, city. Anything. Bad place ain’t gonna cut it, kid.”

Kid.

They’ve never called you a kid before.

Men like him—he wasn’t them, but they all start to look the same after a while.

Salt Lake? Old QZ in the city.

Joel knows that place had crumbled years ago and quarantine zones were nearly non-existent now. Taken up by people trying to start anew, much like Jackson, but more often than not it was raiders—the filthy kind of people who took without asking and killed first, asked questions never.

He couldn’t blame them, but the handful of years in Jackson has taught him a new approach. It wasn’t his favorite, but it allowed him to sleep easier at night, usually.

“You left on your own?” Joel asks, speaking before Tommy could, likely ready to ask the same question. His insipid tone makes your skin crawl.

You chewed at your bottom lip and your eyelashes touched your cheeks in a flurry of blinks as you scribbled out the one word onto the paper.

Escaped.

The alarm is immediate, Joel’s head snapping up as you push the paper toward the middle of the table and allow the pencil to roll with it.

“Tommy, can I speak to you for a minute?” Joel’s voice is harsh, not nearly the question he posed it as.

Tommy rolls his shoulders and walks around the back of your chair, following Joel into the hallway, hushed voices shocking the tension back into your body as you curl into yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and allowing your eyes to scan the room.

Memorize, categorize—this was one of the men’s houses, of whom you weren’t sure for the moment.

But, it was stocked with personal items and supplies, a bassinet shoved away in the living room and as you turned that way you noticed a pair of eyes peek around the doorframe leading that way.

A girl, young—not much younger than yourself but she is noticeably more child-like, curious.

Her shoes squeak against the hardwood startling you both and suddenly Joel is reentering the room and directing his voice toward her.

“Go on home,” He speaks to her, his expression washed-out and tired, “don’t linger ‘round here, kiddo.”

“I’m the one who found her,” She seems to take an angle of defense, coming into view. Clothes that hung off her body, not well-fitting and clearly second hand but more intact than your own, “I was on watchtower duty with Dina—”

“Ellie, this doesn’t concern you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, walking closer regardless of Joel’s words and tossing a knife on the table.

Your knife—the black-handled switchblade closed shut. It still had old, dried blood caked on the handle. It could have been your own, but that was just a lucky guess. That thing had been your lifeline for weeks, moments away from a terrible night of near starvation or a desperate attack on you, it helped keep you safe.

You instinctively reach for it but Joel is quick—unnaturally, as he curls it into his hand and gives you a look of warning.

“This,” He holds it up, the switchblade dwarfed between his large, calloused fingers, “ain’t yours.”

Your lips pull into a thin line, eyes falling to the floor.

Tommy’s tongue clicks against his cheek as he rounds the corner, fingers rubbing at his chin as he paces, his face deep in thought and contemplation as he back steps toward the edge of the table near you, leaning into it and crossing one foot over the other. His hands are tucked away in his pockets.

“That place you escaped—” He looks up toward Joel briefly before his gaze lands on you again, “they gonna come lookin?”

You could tell the truth—you weren’t sure.

You weren’t the only girl that was locked away in the central tower of that city, the only person who was being used so inhumanely for the needs of others in the most heinous of ways.

Selfish, sick and demented, men who got off on that desperate need for power and control.

So, instead and out of self-preservation, you lie.

Shaking your head, Tommy takes a small breath and nods.

“Alright—I’m trustin’ you. Still, we’ll beef up security for a bit, and add a few extra patrols. You need a place to stay and we’re gonna give you that. But, we got rules.”

“Rule number one–you earn this,” Joel holds up the knife again before it’s tucked away in his pocket for safekeeping. Your eyes drag toward his pocket, staring daggers into the material.

“You earn your keep—I’m going to give you some time to settle, but eventually we’re going to assign you to a station. You work or you leave, there’s no other way about it.” Tommy continues, “And while I’m more inclined to give you a space of your own, we’re all full up singles and giving you a townhome…well, I’m not so sure that is the best idea.”

You weren’t going to argue—not that you had the will to speak up for yourself now, not when both of their presence were so oppressive. You nod obediently and look over at Joel who is still lingering, like an ugly guard dog ready to bare his teeth at a moment’s notice.

“I’d keep you here, but with my situation I’m not putting anything at risk,” Tommy says and you suddenly realize that this was his home. You weren’t that slow-witted. He had a family, something you were never familiar with.

But, you understood.

“So, you’ll be staying with Joel.”

It clearly wasn’t his choice, based on the way his teeth clench, jaw flexing as he crossed his arms, fabric stretching over broad shoulders and thick, muscled biceps. His piercing gaze makes you shrink into your chair, if that were possible.

Your nose scrunches slightly, in a faint show of disgust but you quickly collect yourself.

“I’m also gonna suggest you see our doctor, get those bruises checked out. Make sure you don’t have any broken bones and they can stitch up any—”

It forces you into a panic, heart beating rapidly in your chest as the jacket drops from your shoulders, fingers reaching out to wrap around Tommy’s wrist—and, like you had suspected, Joel is quick to grab at your own wrist, ready to tackle you to the ground. It wouldn’t take much given your size difference—he was just...massive, threatening in a way you've never felt. Joel could snap you like a twig, but his restraint is there.

Tommy notices the panic in your eyes—you weren’t trying to attack. You were attempting to communicate in a moment of worry, he nodded and waved Joel off, prying your hand from his arm gently and placing it against your knee.

“Alright, no doctor.” Tommy settles, “For now.”

You slump back and blink away the burning sting of tears that filed your eyes.

“Get her settled in,” He tells Joel, “make sure she eats.”

Joel doesn’t nod, but he moves, backing out of your way and giving you space.

You move slowly, shaking the jacket off your shoulders before Tommy is shaking his head and grabbing hold of the lapel, pulling it back up. You jerky slightly, averting your body from his sudden touch.

“Sorry–just…keep it,” Tommy tells you—it was a look of pure pity, his eyes softening around the naturally hard edges, “I’ll have my wife go searching for some clothes tomorrow, get you out of those and into something clean and better fitting.”

You follow behind Joel to the door, a careful distance as you linger, bracing yourself for the cold crunch of snow under your bare feet.

“And brother,” Tommy calls out—there it was. Joel twists the knob and looks over his shoulder, “don’t go scaring her more than she already is.”

You weren’t sure if it was even possible to feel true fear anymore.

The walk is short, but painful. Small winces that get caught in your throat as you quicken your pace to keep up with Joel, a slight limp to your walk from the bruising on your ribs and the tinge of pain in your hips and pelvis—your body has relaxed for too long, it felt brittle.

You hurt all over, but lately, you could will it all to go numb if you tried hard enough. Disconnect, disassociate, and disappear from your own body.

Eventually, you do meet his front door and you’re enveloped with warmth in a matter of seconds, making your way inside hesitantly as Joel holds the door open. He hadn’t spoken a word since you left the other house, fingers gripping hard on the pair of gloves tucked into his left hand. You look around curiously, the house shrouded in darkness aside from the fireplace ignited and crackling in the far room to your left. Joel moves quietly behind you, placing his belongings on the kitchen counter, but the switchblade is still tucked away in his front pocket, you know that much.

He plucks at a note folded under a magnet on the fridge, reading it to himself silently.

“Come on, kiddo,” He mumbles to himself, realizing it must be from the girl—sounding exasperated as he balls up the paper and tosses it in the trash. He favored that word, but you can’t tell if it’s just a habit.

You weren’t a kid, not even close. It felt patronizing when it was aimed your way.

He eyes you carefully, sighing as he presses a hand against the kitchen counter.

“I’m settin’ you up in the basement—none of the other rooms are in good enough condition.” Joel explains, speaking to you in the most civil way he has all night, “nothin’ is off limits except my room. And Ellie’s. She’s out back but you don’t get to go snoopin’ around. Got it?”

You shrug the jacket off but hold it close to your chest, arms crossing over each other as you hug the thick material. You nod slowly.

“Really, nothing?” Joel asks.

All it takes is a look, eyes bleary and sorrowful.

“Go on,” He nods, “there’s a bed down there, a shower, a change of clothes—”

You quickly scurry off, overwhelmed by the intensity of his unwavering gaze and the sound of his voice as it becomes more and more muffled the deeper you trek down the stairs, careful steps on your torn up feet, he seems to finally give up when your feet hit the concrete floor.

It’s still warm here, but not nearly as much. A small rectangular window sits right above the old bed, a mattress on a rusted metal frame that looked like it barely had any life left in it. But, it was an actual bed. Not boxes and a bedsheet, a makeshift pillow made from your dirtied clothes to give the ache in your neck some much needed relief.

There was a small room in the corner, a bathroom that barely managed to fit the necessities you needed—but it was still something. A shower, a toilet, a sink. A mirror that you couldn’t even bother to look in, making your way around the room you find the stack of clean clothes and towels on the coffee table in front of a worn couch, threads pulling apart at the seams on the arms.

You crouch, despite the screaming protest from your body and sift through the pile. A clean shirt, a clean pair of sweats. Underwear—you haven’t had the luxury of clean undergarments in months, often finding that going without was easier. A lump burns in your throat.

You move slowly, tucking the jacket over the edges of the mirror to cover it and placing the clothes on the closed toilet seat as you struggle for a few minutes to figure out the shower, jolting at the touch of hot water when it shoots out from the spout above.

You strip carefully, shirt pulled over your head with a small wince before your fingers are dipping into the waistband of your bottoms, slipping them down your hips and allowing them to drop silently to the floor before you step out of them—the moment the water touches your skin you regret it, the dirtied water pooling at your feet.

You cry, sob under the spray of water and scrub away every inch of dirt and grime and blood from your body–it hurts, it fucking hurts but you can’t find it in you to stop. You could scrub the skin raw, open up old wounds and make the fresh ones worse, but you’ll settle for red and welted skin. A mix of re-opened gashes and cuts flushed out by the stream of water and your maniacal scrubbing, but at least you didn’t smell like the stench of your own bodily fluids and weeks of built up dirt on your skin, nights of sleeping on wet ground in the woods.

There is a moment of running your fingers through your hair that feels nice, hair still slightly matted from the lack of care but it feels cleaner, as much as you could manage before your arms gave out from exhaustion. You savor the warmth until the water runs cold, heavy footsteps above you shaking the dust from the ceilings.

Right. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

But, that didn’t bring you comfort either.

You turn off the water and reach for the towel, allowing yourself to get dressed at a careful pace—they must be Joel’s clothes, a plain white shirt that was soft to the touch but clearly worn and a pair of black sweats that had seen better days, the color warped and faded. You manage to slip the socks of your feet with one stumble, hand pressing against the sink to catch yourself.

The jacket remains hung and you flick off the light before taking space on the bed, palms pressed out against the clean, linen sheet, the comforter tucked away against the wall as you laid down, body protesting the entire way.

Eyes squeezed shut, you grit your teeth and pull the comforter over your shoulders.

You try to sleep that night, but it is futile. The light hanging above your bed flickers occasionally—every fifteen minutes to be exact, it had done it thirty two times that night.

–

It never fails—just as you feel yourself drifting off every early morning, Joel is awaking you with the sound of his heavy footsteps and a bag of food. Sometimes a tray or plate. It varied.

You’ve been here three full days now, not counting the night they had taken you in.

You hadn’t left the room, hadn’t asked for a single thing.

Joel was starting to believe that your tongue was cut out—that you were robbed of the ability to speak entirely, but he knows that isn’t the case when he watches your tongue peek out as you take a bite of the scrambled eggs he had grabbed from the town dining hall for you.

You haven’t seen an authentic plate of food in months, and with proper silverware—having half the mind to dig in with your hands before Joel passes you the fork. It was real, warm food. Your stomach growled with greed as you shoveled the food into your mouth quietly.

Joel watches you with a strange look, not with judgment but a genuine curiosity that he doesn’t act on with questions or crude statements. He waits until you're done, leaning against the door that leads to the rest of the house, only coming near when you press the plate to the floor with a soft clang.

And it continues like that for a couple days—occasional Joel will bring more than food; a book, a magazine, a set of cards. He never explicitly acknowledges the items, but he does leaves it behind. You can’t bring yourself to leave the room, in fear of what you faced outside of here. Even just a few steps into Joel’s kitchen and it made your stomach twist and the bile stir.

Sometimes the food comes in only paper bags, a few at a time and things that didn’t need to be kept cold because when Joel had to go away on patrol he couldn’t watch over you, even if he felt the need to.

He wasn’t sure if you were going to try and make a break for it, escape over the walls.

He wouldn’t stop you, wouldn’t blame you either. But, the state you're in, he can’t see you surviving more than a day. Bruises were healing, cuts were scabbed up and scarred over. He never tended to your wounds, always allowed you to do that on your own. At least, he assumed you were. You’ve learned to not scamper away as much, taking things from him with minimal contact and a small nod, sometimes allowing a small gesture of thanks with a hand on your chin that you bring downwards.

Joel only scowls his brow and looks at you confused.

“You stink.” Joel says one day, out of the blue over dinner as he watched by the doorway.

You stop chewing mid-bite and look at him.

“Have you showered at all since the first day?”

Impishly you look away toward the bathroom.

It felt selfish, to overuse the hot water and indulge in the pleasure of the heat—always used to cold showers and the bare minimum of scrubbing yourself down in thirty seconds. It was routine: in, wash, out. There was no enjoyment.

You shake your head after a while and push your plate aside, feeling your stomach turn.

“Go,” He nods as he steps toward you, swiping up the plate in his right hand and leading the way toward the bathroom, noting the way the coat was still hung over the mirror. He doesn’t comment on it, but he nods his head in the direction of the shower.

You look at him slightly unsure, “If I have to force you in there I will,” He says, but there isn’t any real bite behind, although the look in his eyes tells a different story, “there’s plenty of hot water, use it.”

But…

The word lingers in your head.

“I’ll have Ellie grab you some new clothes, somethin’ that fits better.” Joel tells you, “Just get in the goddamn shower.”

You brush past him quietly, beginning to undress yourself without warning which alarms Joel.

“Oh—well, shit. I mean after I left.” Joel turns away and his descending footsteps eventually fade and despite how hard it is to get your body to work, or even move, you shower.

You grab the unused towel hanging over the barely clinging metal rack nailed into the wall, wrapping it around your body securely, bare feet pressing against the ground and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t hurt. It’s sore, but it doesn’t sting as harshly as it did.

There’s a suspicious lack of clothing—your dirty ones nowhere in sight, no clean ones either. In fact, the room was practically bare of all trash and old clothing. You ignore the dull pain at your hip, a wound still on the mend and step around the corner of the doorway carefully and hear the sound of footsteps above you, the soft hum of voices until one fades, a door closing following in the wake of the newly discovered sounds.

The door is open. Joel left the door open.

You stop several feet away, staring out into the hallway, the house was dim aside from the bright glow of flames burning in the fireplace. You feel so strongly to run toward the door and slam it closed, clamber back into bed—fearful that if you left the room then this bubble of safety and protection would be broken. But, there was the small voice in the back of your mind screaming to take a step forward, and then another, until your fingers were lingering over the doorknob and pushing it open further.

You take a step out, only to be met with the chest of someone else running into your arm clutching at the towel wrapped around your body—it couldn’t be anyone but Joel, and of course, you’re right.

He’s staring at you emotionless, aside from the subtle acknowledgment that you had listened to him.

“Got you a couple sets—something to sleep in, something to wear during the day.”

He doesn’t elaborate, handing the clothes over into your empty hand. You’re halfway in the process of dropping your towel before Joel’s hand is wrapping around your wrist, forcing you to stop.

“Stop doin’ that,” Joel commands, nodding toward the bathroom behind you, peeking over your shoulder in that direction before looking back at him with wide, startled eyes, “privacy—do you understand that?” His voice is slow, almost patronizing.

Privacy wasn’t lost on you—but it had long been a foreign concept.

You nod.

“Then go, get dressed.” He reprimands, pointing down the hall, a different bathroom then you’ve seen before.

You scurry away with the clothes clutched to your chest, catching a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you step inside the room—it was startling, having not seen your appearances in weeks, days and days of constant guessing, wondering how the time starved in the Wyoming forest had damaged you.

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

It had taken a toll and it was even more visible than you expected.

You looked rundown, eyes tired and sorrowful. It was pathetic. You tried not to linger for long, noting the appearance of your body and moving on—having to look back at yourself in the mirror was far worse than being attached to it.

The clothes Joel gave you were thin, fleece pajamas that felt soft to the touch and kind against your still sensitive skin. You exit the bathroom quietly and Joel is nowhere to be found in your immediate vicinity, half-expecting him to be waiting outside the bathroom door. You edge back toward the basement door before you spot him on the couch in the living room, the back of his head and broad, stocky shoulders the only glimpse of him you have.

He seems relaxed, staring off into space as he looks down.

You don’t know where the pull comes from, but it wraps around the ache in your chest and pulls you closer, toward him. The creak in the floorboard gives you away.

“Don’t sneak around,” Joel says, “makes people anxious ‘round here.”

Makes him anxious, clearly.

After a moment of silence, he extends the invitation to join him.

“If you’re cold, sit—got room if you want to sit somewhere closer to the fire.”

He did have quite the sizable living room, a couple couches and a few arm chairs surrounding the otherwise bare living space.

You can see the softness on his face under this light, his eyes drawing up to look at you while his head is still tilted down, his hands rubbing away at his stiff knuckle joints. He keeps flicking his eyes between the two—his hands, you, then back again.

If he has something he wants to ask, he doesn’t.

You’re silent as you avoid each piece of furniture all together and quietly make your way between his outstretched legs, a perfect place to tuck yourself between as you kneel.

Thank him, he deserves it.

He didn’t strike you as a shy man, but you’ve done this plenty of times before—it was really no different, but this was more of a silent offer than the usual demands you were faced with.

Joel doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even react.

Until you touch him, your hands gliding over his knees, his thighs, leaning forward to nuzzle your face against his thigh as you pull at his zipper—again, his fingers wrap around your wrist. But, no words follow. You make eye contact with him then, feeling at your most confident and bold when he looks so worried, frightened—the deep feeling of intrigue buried underneath it all.

You pull away from his grip and wrap your fingers around his waistband, pulling slowly until he moves, wordlessly he responds by using his thumbs to push his jeans far enough down that you can comfortably press your hands over the obvious bulge in his boxers—it wasn’t hard or straining, but the touch of your hand against his cock had it growing to that point quickly, his eyes downcast and half-lidded.

It was like he didn’t want to look, but couldn’t look away. You took it in stride and pulled at his boxers until you could tug his cock free of the confines, watching it spring up against his stomach—thick in every sense of the word and large, much more than any man who’s ever claimed you. Pretty, almost, if you could consider it that. He’s well-kempt and clean which was nice, unusual given the time you lived in now. More importantly, you feel your mouth watering at the prospect of taking him inside, pressing your tongue flat against the tip and swallowing him down.

That has never happened before.

You settled between his legs more comfortably, raising up on scabbed up knees and dragging your fingers delicately along the shaft and down to his balls, watching them tighten at the attention you showed before you’re leaning down to take his cock into your mouth without much of a warning. Joel shifts slightly and you ancitpate him to push you away.

But, really, you just wanted to thank him. It was the only way you’ve learned how.

He breathes out softly, the first sound you’ve heard since you touched him.

You drag your tongue from base to tip, hand pressed his cock flat against it as you circle around the tip before dipping back down, slipping back into the motions so easily it feels mind-numbing.

Your eyes flutter as you force yourself to take him as deep as possible, nearly gagging before you pull away, catching a slight glimpse of him behind bleary, wet eyes.

His own are wild, hands pressed flat against the cushion, mouth only slightly ajar. But, he won’t look at you. Only the action, your hand wrapped around his shaft, the other pressed against his thigh and he fights off that urge to touch you, tilting his head back against the couch as you continue with a sudden fervor you didn’t have before.

You bob effortlessly, taking him just near the point of impossible before you’re pulling away, repeating that until you can feel that faint throb, that familiar pulse as his balls tighten with his impending orgasm and just as he reaches for your hair, ready to pull you away, you fight against it. He comes in your mouth with a low groan, gripping onto the surface of the couch in desperation.

When the pulsing finally calms you pull away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and standing slowly, adjusting your clothes where they had shifted out of place slightly before taking a silent seat on the couch beside him, laying down and curling up into yourself.

You hear the dull sounds of him readjusting his pants, zipping them, shuffling slightly as he clears his throat and suddenly there is a throw being draped over you—a soft, sherpa lined blanket that immediately bathes you in warmth.

Joel catches your gaze as you blink up at him, pausing briefly to acknowledge how lost you seem—in need of guidance. It settles in him then, dawns on his mind that this was what you were used to, wherever you had escaped from was far worse than anything he’s ever suspected. He tucks the blanket in gently and double checks the locks on the door. You’re already asleep by the time he passes by, leaning over the back of the couch to check on you.

Joel feels the guilt creep in slowly.

He should have stopped, he knows he should have. But, he didn’t.

Why? He couldn’t explain it.

The walk to his bedroom seems miles away and when he finally reaches it he’s closing the door with a dignified sigh, immediately making his way toward the en-suite bathroom and undressing his clothes—it was his second shower that day but he didn’t give a shit.

He needed a moment to reconvene in his mind…or escape.

Really, he just needed a distraction. It was selfish need.

The clothes pile up on the tile floor as he turns on the water, the stream shooting out of the shower head in quick spurts before it levels out and Joel steps inside, head first as the water soaks his hair, face, traveling down his body.

It wasn’t the first time he’s allowed his hand to travel to his cock within the privacy of this bathroom—a man with no one to keep his bed warm at night, or morning–or ever, really. He’s learned to cope, release some of the built up anger and frustration even if for a brief moment.

But, this was different. Because the only thing he could think of was you. The meek looks you offered, dumb-founded and lost, like a young gazelle lost in the woods. He can only imagine, suspect what you’ve been through, but the look you had given him while you took him into your mouth was something Joel couldn’t describe.

There was no clear acknowledgement, no hard line of yes and no. The lines were blurred and he doesn’t know why, but he was okay with it for a moment. Truly, you’d had all the power in the moment anyways—Joel was helpless under the touch of your mouth, a goner the second your hand touched his skin.

He tugs at his cock lazily and with no real purpose, knowing if he tried to come again so soon it wouldn’t happen, but for the brief moment of peace, he imagines you there, kneeling before him with the spray of water over your face and his cock buried in your mouth, puffing out your cheeks and how you would be so willing to do whatever he’d ask.

Obedience—that was the one thing that stuck out. You always listened when he spoke.

He could help you, he thinks. Heal you.

Or, he would fuck up and make it far worse.

He wasn’t sure if it was even worth the trouble.

The next morning you wake to the startling clang of pans behind you, shooting upright on the couch and snapping your head toward the kitchen to catch a glimpse of Joel’s back, shoulder blades stretched and outlined under the thin material of his shirt, clinging to his back snuggly. There’s a savory smell that breaches your nose–meat, potatoes, something of a near feast as you spot the few plates on the table stacked with various other foods.

Joel seems to sense your eyes, turning his body slightly to look behind him and your gaze quickly averting down, playing with a loose thread on the blanket as he plates the remaining food.

“Beginning of the month,” Joel explains, “usually the only time we get to eat like this.”

Joel swiftly decided that taking the route of pretending nothing ever happened was the easiest, brushing off the events of the previous night with a point to the seat near the kitchen island.

“C’mon, dig in,” He invites, “Ellie should be up soon and lord knows that kid doesn’t care about savin’ enough for the rest of us. Fill up while you can.”

Your footsteps are quiet and slow as you approach the island, the long sleeves tucked under your fingers mid-palm, crossing your arms over your chest as you look at the cacophony of items. Not sure where to start or end. Joel reaches for a plate and points to the items in order from left to right, plating a couple items with every nod you give him.

He was an enigma of a man—so brute and intimidating at a glance and he was when he needed to be, but this was a soft crack in a hard exterior, years of built up trauma intertwined with a rough world dependent on the strongest to survive. It had to level out at some point–and here that big strong man was, making up your plate and plopping a piece of bacon down before you impishly nod your head toward the pile of bacon.

“More?”

You nod quickly and Joel feels a subtle grin tug at his face, nodding in agreement with your choice as he gives you another piece.

You eat in silence—chewing slowly and methodically as you listen to the quiet, roving chatter of people outside, neighbors readying for their day. It was a community, a town, well-oiled and rare in this world.

“Are you done hiding down in the basement?” Joel asks eventually, peeking up from his plate as he leaned against the counter adjacent the island, “Eventually you’re gonna have to talk to Tommy, get you set up with a job.”

Right. Work. Sustenance. You had to carry your own weight.

“You can talk here, you know?” Joel tells you, “You can talk, can’t you?”

Your eyes flick away briefly, avoiding the question.

“Let me try that again,” Joel clears his throat and tosses his empty plate behind him in the sink, fingers curling around the edge of the counter beside him, “Can’t?”

You shake your head.

“Won’t?”

A jerky nod as you push your own plate away.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry or force it—jus’ think it may cause problems eventually.”

You make a motion of writing with your hand shyly, hoping he’ll understand.

Joel nods jerkily and turns to rummage through a drawer in the kitchen, filled with a miscellaneous amount of junk, finding a pad of paper and a pencil and handing it over to you.

Not scared. Of you.

Joel watches as you scribble the words down and furrows his brow.

“No, I’m not sayin’ you are—”

You scratch out the words and start a new line.

If we talked, they hit.

They?

Joel doesn’t voice the word but you see the confusion on his face.

They do nice things and we thank them. The men. If we didn’t, they would hurt us. Or kill if they were angry enough.

You scrunch your nose up slightly, looking disgruntled. Joel watches your hand shake as you continue—it didn’t help to be vague, but that fear they had instilled in you lingered like a dark, suffocating cloud.

I grew up in that place.

Bad place, Joel reminds himself. That was what you had told him and Tommy.

“People—they ain’t like that here��” Joel says, but you’re already scribbling before he can finish.

You don’t know that.

Ellie disrupts the quiet conversation with her loud entrance through the back door, looking tired as she tugged her jacket over her shoulders, pack already slung over her back.

“You’re up early,” Joel notes, preemptively handing Ellie a slice of bacon.

“Jesse wants to get an early start for the patrol since that big storm is supposed to hit tomorrow.”

Joel nods, noting how you looked between the pair curiously.

Ellie seems to notice you’re staring too, offering a casual, “Hi,” around the bacon her teeth tore into.

“Right, shoulda remembered to tell you,” Joel looks over at you, “we’ll both be gone for a few days, longer patrols with all the extra ones Tommy’s pushing at.”

“Seems pointless,” Ellie shrugs, “but…whatever.”

“You get goin’,” He tells Ellie, “I’ll catch up.”

Ellie chews at her breakfast indifferently, nodding in response as she departs, the front door closing gently behind her.

Joel gathers the dishes quietly but you feel the urge to move, helping him gather the rest of the dirty dishes and pile them into the sink. You don’t ask and he doesn’t either, but as he washes, you dry, and it feels normal.

Maybe the only normal experience you’ve had since you ended up here.

You couldn’t place your finger on him, though—Joel. One moment he was kind, talkative and curious, willing to take his time to figure out what he could about you. But, other times you felt like you were a stray dog that popped up at his doorstep and refused to leave. So, now he was forced to house you, feed you, take care of you.

So, obviously, it only made sense to take care of him.

He’d enjoyed it the first time.

Joel’s drying his hands on a towel you hand him before you’re reaching for his belt, metal clinking against metal and you tug, but you’re stopped short, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel asks, shoving your hand away forcefully.

But, it’s the clipped, peaking anger in his tone that forces you back further.

You blink away the quickly forming tears in your eyes and retreat quickly, mouth hung open slightly in shock, frightened at the almost instantaneous shift in Joel’s voice. His face. His entire demeanor—you’ve crossed into dangerous territory, like mindless prey.

You’re amiss to the way Joel’s jaw clenches at his sudden outburst, internally shaming himself for the strain in his jeans at even just the thought of you touching him again—the willingness and eagerness of your actions, how long you’ve been conditioned into this.

He doesn’t call after you, though—only stopping by the house later that afternoon before he left to set you up with enough meals and changes of clothes to last you those three days. A knock on the door startles your timid heart, forcing you to your feet and by the time you reach the door he’s nowhere in sight. You’re thankful for that, actually. You weren’t sure if you could even look at him, fearful of the disappointment.

There was a small note folded on top of the pile placed on the floor, unfolded with a careful touch, it read—House is all yours.

Three days, all alone.

You couldn’t bring yourself to leave that basement once.

–

When Joel returns home it’s late and he’s toeing his boots off at the door the moment he steps inside and notes the lack of warmth—a fireplace unused and the door to the basement closed shut. Ellie had already wandered off with Dina for the night, one less thing he had to worry about. He was more appreciative that she’d finally broken out of her shell and actually made a few good friends.

He ignites the fireplace, looking over his shoulder every few seconds waiting, wondering if you were waiting in anticipation—those curious eyes tracking every movement he made. He’d picked up some dessert from the mess hall on the way to his house, selfishly wanting to keep it for himself but he feels that tug, that push to extend the olive branch.

He needed to clear up this…confusion. Try—he could try, at least.

“Sorry, I actually didn’t want you to suck my dick.”

“I enjoyed it but we shouldn’t do that again.”

“I know it’s wrong, but I didn’t want to stop you.”

Joel knows he sounds ridiculous in his head, but he was at a loss.

He’d stopped you because it was wrong–but not because he didn’t want you to.

Joel doesn’t even consider the idea that you may already be asleep for the night, pulling out the small box of dessert and a fresh pair of clothes he’d picked up alongside the food when he checked his horse back in at the stable, picking up a few other spare supplies.

You hear him before you see him when he opens the door, those heavy boot steps thunk, thunk, thunk against the floor and you lie still, staring at him meekly as he approaches the couch adjacent to the bed in a near corner, resting the items on the table and taking a seat silently.

“You hungry?” He asks casually and your stomach growls on command despite your unwillingness to move, blanket tucked under your chin.

He can see you shake your head slightly, easy to miss if he wasn’t staring you down.

“We need to talk,” Joel says, your eyes jolting to him suddenly, “about the other night.”

He jerks his head over, silently asking you to join him on the couch—he’s leaned back but not comfortable, his hands resting in his lap, much like the position you caught him in that night.

When you don’t move, he sighs. A deep, soft sound that has you turning over in bed to face the wall.

“I’m not asking.”

Heavy footsteps follow, the sounder closer and closer, his boots scuffing against the ground before they stop and you can feel him at your back, the whole of the bed shifting as he rests a hand on a decorative knob of the arched bed frame, creaking under his weight.

“Sit up,” He says again, “come on.”

There’s an irritation in his tone that tells you he isn’t leaving until you do, pushing up slowly and crawling to the side with your hands. The last lingering wound stings as you move, a gash on your lower back, toward your hip that you had haphazardly sewn up a few weeks ago with some sewing thread and a needle. It still hadn’t healed like the rest of your wounds. The last remaining physical memory of that time, aside from the scars.

Joel tilts his head to the side and back, noticing as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain and irritation.

“You’re still hurtin’,” It's a statement, he knows it—he can see it on your face.

You shake your head unconvincingly.

“Let me see.”

You shake again, backing into a corner but Joel is quick, he follows and leans down, pulling at the edge of your shirt that was already riding up your back, noting the red and fussed up wound by your hip—it was infected, there was no doubt in his mind.

“Does it hurt?” He asks now, “Don’t lie to me.”

Your eyes lock for a long, lingering moment before you nod, shifting away from his touch as it presses featherlight against the skin.

“I got some supplies upstairs,” He tells you absently, eyes examining the festering wound, “you need that cleaned and stitched up properly before you end up septic.”

Not that it sounded like too bad of a prospect anymore, you square yourself away as he retreats without another word, his figured disappearing out of sight as he turned the corner outside of the basement, your eyes following the sound of his footsteps and noticing the soft rustle of dust above—it took a while for you to realize his room was above yours at first.

He’s back swiftly, a trove of supplies in one arm and a wooden chair in the other, hauling them like they weighed nothing, sleeves already rolled up at his elbows. The chair skirts the ground, squealing loudly as Joel brings it near the edge of the bed and motions for you to turn around and face the wall.

Again, not asking.

With shaky hands and fingers you move, slowly until you back meets Joel’s fingers at your shoulder, curled up into a fist and pressing gently into your skin.

“Lift your shirt,” You grab the edges, ready to strip it over your head before Joel grabs your bicep and stops you, “—that’s—that’s fine, alright? Just hold it there.”

Joel slowly cuts away the old thread and removes the old stitching with a careful hand. You bite at your bottom lip until it draws blood. It unsettles Joel with how quiet you are, even now. Not a word or a single sound or expression of pain, just white knuckles gripping the shirt bunched under your chest and your head tucked down as you shake with a silent cry.

“Stop movin’,” He says brutishly, cleaning up the wound with an antiseptic that makes you squirm away slightly, “I’m almost finished.”

He cleans, re-stitches and covers up the wound with minimal effort, like he’s done this a million times before. And you hear the shake of a pill bottle behind you, whipping your head around quickly.

“S’just antibiotics,” Joel explains, “we picked away at a pharmacy a few months back that had a decent supply,” He pours one into his hand before it rolls to his fingers and he’s handing it off to you—as he suspects, you eye it wearily, “look, your choice. I got enough here to clear that up within a week or you can continue to suffer, not my problem.”

Reluctantly, you take the pill from him and dry swallow it down with a small, nearly silent wince.

There was no reason to trust Joel, but you did.

At some point between the walk from your bed to the table, Joel realizes he’d bypassed the entire reason he had come down here–to talk. About it. That instance you were both dancing around, the one he’d fended off the second time with a barking, heavy voice.

His lingering presence is hard to ignore and you grip the edge of the bed, standing on your own two feet with his back turned to you.

He’d helped you again. Maybe you wanted to thank him.

Or you just wanted a distraction from the pain, the creeping loneliness.

He’s so distracted he doesn’t hear your footsteps approach him, a newly found vigor as you pull at his forearm and turn him with a sudden strength Joel wasn’t expecting, sending him tumbling on his heels to the couch. He sees it in your eyes then, the task you’re focused on, already undressed from the waist down, the length of the shirt reaching a few centimeters short of mid–thigh to cover your naked down as you climb onto his lap and Joel allows it.

He doesn’t yell or scream, there is no apprehensiveness there. Not now.

He could sit in your eyes—this was coping with whatever you couldn’t bring yourself to face, unspoken trust that you didn’t want to voice. This was a distraction for him too.

He could fight this off, but Joel never considered himself a great man. Or, really even a decent one. And, as you work at his belt, he finds his hands joining your own, struggling for a moment before he’s yanking the leather from the belt loops and unbuttoning his jeans as you pull at his zipper, lifting slightly off his lap as he pushes his jeans down to his calves—there was a beauty to how easily your bodies worked against each other, your push to his pull.

Wordless, he knew what you wanted. And you knew exactly what to give him.

He was like the bad men, but wholly different.

The wonder and admiration in his eyes told you so, even if they were quickly clouded by desire and lust, his face suddenly stoic as you grab at his cock, tugging it to full hardness within seconds before you’re dragging the tip of his cock down the center of your cunt before sinking down harshly—and the hands stilled at his sides finally act.

He’s careful of the wound on your hip, dragging his fingers over your ass and to your thighs, fingers curling around the back of your bent knees to pull and tug you in, groaning quietly into the thick, thready material of your top as you curl into him.

He couldn’t bear the idea of looking at you, watching you as you moved so eagerly against his cock, soft breaths at his ears that made him wanton for the sounds you couldn’t make, the terrible vocal paralysis like a vice anytime someone looked in your direction, especially him. Your palms press into the wall behind him, dull fingertips clawing at chipped paint as you bounced your hips fiercely, quick and efficient in the process. It was clear you’ve done this before—detached and just a means to an end, a device of pleasure.

And Joel uses it, selfishly. One hand falling to the back of your neck to curl you in further, the other at your ass as he squeezes, guiding your hips down to the sharp, pointed thrust of his own movements and Joel can already feel that familiar cole in his groin—days of staving of his own need for release from the sheer amount of guilt he felt over this, somehow ending up here again.

Using you—and maybe you could admit it yourself, it was just as much a distraction for you as for him, but the sudden warmth in your chest is startling. You could come like this, the drag of his cock hitting so deep inside of you with every thrust that your visions starts to white—a mix of delirium and pure euphoria, the gasp that leaves your mouth is broken and barely audible but Joel can hear it, feeling you tip over that cliff with a hand tangled in his hair, needing an anchor and finding that it was him in that moment.

But, you don’t stop either. Working through the crest of your orgasm with a reflexive squeeze of your cunt as you came apart and pulled him in, his balls tightening in warning as they slapped against your cunt with each drop of your hips and Joel tries to warn you, pushes gently at your hips but you don’t move—won’t. And he comes inside of you with a muffled, tired grunt as he pants into your shirt.

Whatever mutual agreement was made had become void.

“Get off,” He says after a beat, but doesn’t push.

You listen, moving off of him and turning away immediately, arms tucked around your middle as you eyed the fresh clothes and still uneaten slice of dessert, one that Joel had offered to share.

A peace offering, an act of forgiveness. But, that was all shattered and swept away now.

“You stupid, girl?” Joel asks suddenly, turning to him at the harsh words and finding him re-dressed, brow drawn in as he snatches his belt in his right hand, gripping it tight. “That your master plan, here?”

You’re confused and Joel’s eyes drag to your legs, unseen but you can feel his cum dripping down your thighs, pushing out of your cunt as it pulses from the comedown of your own orgasm.

“Gettin’ knocked up and hopin’ that a baby will keep you safe here?”

You were safe nowhere and you knew that.

Joel had no idea, but you couldn’t even begin to explain how wrong he was.

Babies, even the prospect of that idea made your skin crawl.

So, with frustration evident on his face and already anticipating your answer, you shake your head.

“You try that shit again and I’ll—”

You brow raises in anticipation and Joel opens his mouth slightly before he clenches his jaw.

“Knew it was a fuckin’ mistake taking you in.”

And it feels like a gut punch, but he was right.

Joel tosses the pill bottle on the table and you watch as it lands, rolls before hitting the floor and stopping just at your bare toes.

He departs with a deep scowl, door slamming behind him and you wait, count the steps until you hear his footsteps above the basement and you wander over toward the table.

The remnants of the items he’d brought with the intentions of a one-sided conversation, a lecture, really.

It was pointless now.

Opening the container to the uneaten dessert, you sniffed it testingly before swiping a single finger over the icing on top, pressing the sweet, sugar cream against your tongue and letting your eyes drift closed at the flavor, giving yourself a few seconds to enjoy and savor before you’re ripping into the thing with your bare hands, a fuck you the peace offering Joel was trying for.

There was no peace to be had. You would never find peace here, either.

A new emotion floods your body—not anger or rage, but jealousy, greed. You wanted him, and deep within, you knew he wanted you too. Even if just in a primal way, a means to distract.

And in your sudden, newfound boldness and curiosity you linger toward the kitchen in a fresh change of clothes for that night, snatching up the notepad Joel had left out from your previous conversation before scribbling the rest of that out and ripping off a jagged piece of paper.

It was a thank you.

Flipping it over, you continue the message.

There is no plan. I trust you.

You fold the paper up and wander down the hall, counting the steps until you land at a closed door, one that you can only assume and hope is Joel’s and slip the paper under the gap at the bottom of the door.

There was a chance, the anticipation that Joel could convince Tommy to strand you out into the forest again, forced back into harsh survival, but something tells you Joel doesn’t have it in him, not anymore.

Joel catches the sight of your departing shadow as he retreats toward his bed, the paper flying across the floor with the sudden draft and landing right at his feet, he picks it up and readies to trash it without a thought before he catches sight of that simple phrase.

thank you – no plan —

Joel pauses, reading over the final set of words with a dangerous tug in his heart.

I trust you.

That tug was guilt and the creeping sensation of doom.

Trust. You.

He’s really fucked up now.

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

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octbrsaturn · 2 months ago

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LOVE YOU GOODBYE ──── a rafe cameron smau.

a social media au by kissylec

if tomorrow you won't be mine, won't you give it to me one last time?... being a secret is hard, and even more when prince kook himself is the one hiding you. a bittersweet wheel of emotions comes to you when you decide to put an end to a situationship that is hurting you, not taking into account how difficult it would be to get away from the oldest of the cameron siblings.

pairing . . . rafe cameron x pogue!reader warning .ᐟ . . . inspired by love you goodbye by one direction, obx spoilers, half canon half not, curse words, angst, sexual innuendo, allusion to smut, forbidden love, rafe is kind of an ass, reader is friends with the pogues, english is not my first language so bear with me kissylec says . . . SO NERVOUS OMG, this is my first smau so i'm scareddd. i'm new to all of this so pls be patient with me 😿 again, english it's not my first language so 😆🙏 i will be posting some chapters later in the week, hope you guys like it 🫶💐

TAGLIST IS PERMANENTLY CLOSED.

masterlist .ᐟ 𝜗𝜚 navigation .ᐟ

chapter one. chapter two.

chapter three. chapter four.

chapter five. chapter six.

chapter seven. chapter eight.

chapter nine. chapter ten.

chapter eleven. chapter twelve.

chapter thirteen. chapter fourteen.

chapter fifteen. chapter sixteen.

chapter seventeen. chapter eighteen.

chapter nineteen. chapter twenty.

chapter twenty-one. chapter twenty-two.

chapter twenty-three. chapter twenty-four.

chapter twenty-five. chapter twenty-six.

chapter twenty-seven. chapter twenty-eight.

chapter twenty-nine. chapter thirty.

extras . . .

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octbrsaturn · 2 months ago

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Struggling with descriptors? Here are some synonyms to make your scene more interesting!

=========

Afraid

=========

Apprehensive

Dread

Foreboding

Frightened

Mistrustful

Panicked

Petrified

Scared

Suspicious

Terrified

Wary

Worried

=========

Annoyed

=========

Aggravated

Dismayed

Disgruntled

Displeased

Exasperated

Frustrated

Impatient

Irritated

Irked

=========

Angry

=========

Enraged

Furious

Incensed

Indignant

Irate

Livid

Outraged

Resentful

=========

Aversion

=========

Animosity

Appalled

Contempt

Disgusted

Dislike

Hate

Horrified

Hostile

Repulsed

=========

Confused

=========

Ambivalent

Baffled

Bewildered

Dazed

Hesitant

Lost

Mystified

Perplexed

Puzzled

Torn

=========

Disconnected

=========

Alienated

Aloof

Apathetic

Bored

Cold

Detached

Distant

Distracted

Indifferent

Numb

Removed

Uninterested

Withdrawn

=========

Disquiet

=========

Agitated

Alarmed

Discombobulated

Disconcerted

Disturbed

Perturbed

Rattled

Restless

Shocked

Startled

Surprised

Troubled

Turbulent

Turmoil

Uncomfortable

Uneasy

Unnerved

Unsettled

Upset

=========

Embarrassed

=========

Ashamed

Chagrined

Flustered

Guilty

Mortified

Self-conscious

=========

Fatigue

=========

Beat

Burnt out

Depleted

Exhausted

Lethargic

Listless

Sleepy

Tired

Weary

Worn out

=========

Pain

=========

Agony

Anguished

Bereaved

Devastated

Grief

Heartbroken

Hurt

Lonely

Miserable

Regretful

Remorseful

=========

Sad

=========

Depressed

Dejected

Despair

Despondent

Disappointed

Discouraged

Disheartened

Forlorn

Gloomy

Heavy hearted

Hopeless

Melancholy

Unhappy

Wretched

=========

Tense

=========

Anxious

Cranky

Distressed

Distraught

Edgy

Fidgety

Frazzled

Irritable

Jittery

Nervous

Overwhelmed

Restless

Stressed out

=========

Vulnerable

=========

Fragile

Helpless

Insecure

Leery

Reserved

Sensitive

Shaky

=========

Yearning

=========

Envious

Jealous

Longing

Nostalgic

Pining

Wistful

=========

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octbrsaturn · 2 months ago

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cw: abuse and trauma and other unsavory things

interesting character backstories

because "my parents hit me or force me to be perfect" won't cut it for every character in the cast

-characters who grew up poor. poverty is traumatizing, people. i wanna see characters who never ask for anything, count dollars and coins, freak out when the bill isn't split fairly and immediately suspect bed bugs when someone says they're itchy. and mention the ugly stuff too. smelling bad and having water stains on the walls. ice cream for dinner and not eating breakfast. lights going out and fourteen year olds supporting a family of five.

-characters who were neglected. not physically abused, neglected. who don't understand why people care when they don't show up, or seem kind of down today, or leave a party without saying goodbye. who are too independent for their own good. who can't think of anything to say when asked to describe their parents. who are okay with being lonely. who always feel lonely. who get uncomfortable if you even ask them how their day was. who does that?

-characters who were smothered. who were treated like a toddler well into their teens. who were practically stalked by their own parents, never allowed a moment of privacy. who were constantly belittled and denied their autonomy as the adults in their life made every decision for them. regardless of how loved they truly were, this is abuse. this could go in two diverging directions: end result of a very guarded, mature character feeling a constant need to prove themself, or end result of a passive, immature character who requires attention, praise and constant assistance. both have extremely low self-esteem.

-characters who are fundamentally different from their family. maybe they're queer, or adopted, or disabled, or aren't fully related to the rest of them (bonus points if they aren't the same race as their family). characters who watch like a ghost as everyone else smiles and bonds. and maybe it's their fault that they're like this, or maybe it's their fault for not reaching out to the family themself, but... nobody else had to ask for it.

i forgot about this blog

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octbrsaturn · 2 months ago

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Summary: After a moment of revelations with Ellie and Maria, you retreat to the quiet of upstairs, where Joel brings you something that reminds him of you

a/n: AHHHHH

After a warm shower upstairs, you step out of the bathroom, steam rising and billowing into the room as you tie the robe tightly around your waist. Ellie sits on the edge of the bed, already changed into a fresh set of clothes—new jeans and a long sleeve. The coat Maria left still sits nearby, but with the warmth inside the house, there’s little need for it.

You move to the bed, squeezing the last drops of water from your hair into a smaller towel as you approach.

“What’s all this?” you ask, eyeing the neatly folded clothes Maria left for you. Beside them, you notice a small, unopened contraption. You inspect it and discover a rubber funnel-like device, small enough to fit in your hand. Ellie giggles from her spot on the bed, flipping through a comic book. Her hair is still damp, dripping onto her new clothes.

You narrow your eyes at the small user guide that came with the contraption. Diva Cup.

And then it clicks. You start giggling, feeling heat rise in your face. Ellie joins you, her laughter filling the room.

There’s also a note on the bed. "I’m across the street.”

“Okay, okay,” you hiccup through your laughter, “Let me get my shit together and we’ll head over.”

“Can’t we just—” Ellie starts, a slight frown creasing her brow as she leans back against the headboard.

“We’re guests. We have to be good,” you say, and she rolls her eyes, gazing out the window.

You pause, watching her for a beat. “You sure you’re okay?” The question hangs in the air, heavy in the silence that follows.

“Yeah…” Ellie trails off, her eyes still on the comic book, distant.

Not wanting to press, you tell her you’ll get dressed in the bathroom, and soon enough, both of you are heading out the door.

At Maria’s, the house is quiet. You let yourselves in, taking in the cozy furniture and the comfort of the space. The warmth is a welcome reprieve from the chill of the outdoors. It reminds you more and more of home, of the life you lived with your dad. You can hardly believe you managed to survive for months without the simple comforts of electricity, warm meals, and clean clothes.

You both stop in front of the fireplace, drawn to the small chalkboard sign hanging above it.

Kevin 04/03/2000—09/29/2003 Sarah 07/20/1989—09/26/2003

“That’s the day…” you whisper, pointing to the date beneath the girl’s name. “That’s the day the world went to shit.”

“You remember it?” Ellie asks softly, her voice serious.

“It was my fifth birthday,” you reply, eyes still fixed on the names on the chalkboard. Half-melted candles sit in front of the names, their faint glow long gone. You wonder how many nights Maria and Tommy must have spent lighting those candles for their children, thinking of them.

A soft voice breaks the silence. “Hey.”

You turn to see Maria smiling at both of you. You greet her with a quiet, “Hello.”

“I just traded for some better coats,” she says, holding up two jackets in her arms. They look warm, thick, and winter-ready. “Go ahead and try them on.”

You walk over to her, grabbing the black one while Ellie takes the purple.

“Thank you,” you say, lifting it over your shoulders.

“It’s, uh…” Ellie says, eyeing her jacket. “Super fuckin’ purple.”

Maria smiles. “It’s eggplant,” she teases, wiping off the jacket and making sure it fits. “Shoes fit, too? Did you get the thing I left for you?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Weirdest gift ever,” Ellie mutters, turning it over in her hands.

“But useful,” Maria finishes. “Come on, let me get my scissors for that mane of yours.”

“Wait, wait–” Ellie protests.

“Just a trim! The ends!” Maria calls over her shoulder as she heads toward the other room.

Soon enough, you’re sitting down in front of Maria, who combs through your hair, snipping the tangles with every few strokes.

“So…” Ellie says, leaning forward, “Was this your job, or something, back then?”

Maria chuckles softly. “No, I was an Assistant District Attorney out of Omaha, Nebraska.”

“Sounds fancy,” you comment.

“I put bad guys in jail,” Maria replies. “But I always liked doing hair. Maybe it was a mom thing.” Her voice softens, and she glances at the memorial you’d been looking at. “I saw you looking at the memorial Tommy made.”

You look back at the names again, your stomach tightening. You nod quietly.

“I’m really sorry about your kids,” you murmur.

“It’s okay,” Maria replies, voice soft. “And… just Kevin. Sarah was Joel’s daughter.”

Your stomach drops, a tight knot forming deep in your chest. The weight of Maria’s words presses down on you, suffocating. You didn’t expect it to hit this hard. The idea of Joel’s daughter—Sarah, her name now etched in your mind like a brand—was something you never imagined he’d kept locked away, hidden behind his walls of silence. It made sense now, why he was the way he was, why he could be so hard, so distant, why he didn’t let people in. The pain, the rawness of losing someone you loved so completely—how could anyone recover from that?

Your throat tightens, and the moisture in your eyes wells up before you can stop it. You blink rapidly, feeling the sting of unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall. You can’t. Not here, not now, not in front of Maria, who clearly didn’t mean to stir all this up. She couldn’t know.

“Oh,” Maria says, noticing the silence. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s okay,” Ellie answers for you, her eyes watching you carefully.

Joel had a daughter, and he never said a word about it. You imagine, though, that losing anyone is hard enough. You never spoke about your mom after the outbreak, and your dad never brought her up, so you followed his lead. But Joel… his daughter, of all people. Dying on outbreak day. It’s devastating.

“It kinda explains him a little,” Ellie says, her voice thoughtful.

You nod, wiping your eyes and forcing a chuckle. “Definitely explains him.”

Maria shifts, standing in front of you, leaning on the back of a chair beside Ellie. “Look,” she begins, “I’m not gonna ask what you’re doing with him—”

“Good,” Ellie interrupts, her tone sharp.

“But there are clearly things you don’t know about Joel.”

“Like he used to kill people?” you say suddenly, your blood heating under your skin. “We know.”

You’ve been quiet since you arrived—polite, respectful, not once stepping out of line—but this? This is where you draw the line. You won’t let anyone question Joel's morals, not after everything he’s done for you and Ellie.

Maria’s hands resume their work on your hair, brushing through it. “So he doesn’t do that anymore? Killing people?”

“Doesn’t kill innocent ones,” Ellie shoots back, her eyes narrowing. “Besides, how do you think we made it this far? By singing show tunes and hugging it out with everyone we met?”

You cough out a laugh at that. Taking lives was never easy, but it was a necessity. It wasn’t something you wanted to do. It wasn’t something you ever did until Joel came into your life. But that wasn’t his fault. Some people were out for blood, and the only way to survive was to fight back. You’d never regret what you’d done to protect yourself and those you care about, and you sure as hell wouldn’t start questioning Joel’s actions.

“Girls,” Maria says, standing up and placing her hands on her hips. “There’s a whole lot you’re not telling me. And that’s okay. Good, even. Just…be careful who you put your faith in.” she pauses, turning, “Now, grab your coats. We’re going to the movies.”

You hesitate, then speak softly, “I’d really like to stay here, if that’s okay. It’s just… it’s a lot of people.”

Maria nods, understanding. “That’s fine. But Ellie is coming.” As Ellie opens her mouth to argue, you shoot her a look. Be nice. Be polite.

It’s a couple of hours later when you hear the heavy, familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. You’re settled in the largest bedroom upstairs, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a book in your hands, trying to keep your mind occupied. You know who it is before he even opens the door—the unmistakable sound of heavy boots on the steps, the familiar grunt he makes when his joints protest the climb. It’s a rhythm you’ve gotten used to over the past few months.

The door creaks open, and there he is: Joel Miller, freshly cleaned, newly clothed, but with that same familiar scowl etched deep into his face. His dark eyes meet yours for a moment, then flick to the floor as he closes the door behind him. There’s something in his hands—he’s holding it behind his back, his posture slightly awkward. You don’t know why, but the way he’s standing makes your pulse quicken just a little.

“Hey,” you greet softly, trying to mask the unease bubbling up inside of you.

He gives you a small, almost hesitant nod, and then, in that way he has of doing things without really making a fuss about it, he reveals what’s in his hands. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the sight. It’s a bow. A bow that looks carefully made, with white wood, smooth and carved beautifully, the string taut and waiting. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time.

“Found somethin’ for ya,” he says, his voice low, a touch unsure but steady.

You swallow, unsure of how to react, before you rise from the bed. Your legs feel unsteady as you walk toward him. The smell of soap and musk is faint but noticeable as you get closer, and there’s a brief moment where you can feel the heat of his body, the closeness, that makes you pause for just a second.

Joel’s eyes are on you, waiting, as you take the bow into your hands. You run your fingers over the smooth wood, tracing the shape of it. It’s different than yours, heavier, unfamiliar. But it’s a bow. And something about it feels so right. You’ve missed the one you lost in Kansas City, the one left behind in the truck when you were running for your life, when there was no time to grab it. It had been a simple, quiet tool to you, something familiar that helped keep you alive.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, still in awe, your fingers lingering on the curve. You look up at him then, your voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

His eyes soften as he watches you, his face unreadable. There’s something in his gaze that shifts, something behind his usual guarded exterior that you hadn’t noticed before. It’s like the weight of all the days you’ve spent together suddenly comes to the forefront.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you step forward, your hands moving up to wrap around him. You can’t fully explain what it is that makes you do it. Maybe it’s the vulnerability in his eyes, or the way he’s protected you for months on end, never once thinking of leaving you behind, even when he could’ve sent you off to fend for yourself back at the house. Maybe it’s the quiet understanding that just today you learned he lost his one and only daughter. Or maybe it’s the simplest, most unexpected reason: the fact that he thought of you. When he saw that bow, he knew how much you missed yours, how it had once been an extension of you, and he had the heart to bring it to you. As a gift.

Even now, you’re afraid to look into his eyes as you reach for him, afraid you’ll find rejection, assessment, or worse—nothing. So you avert your eyes from him and close the gap between you without hesitation, wrapping your arms around him. The warmth of his body against yours is familiar, comforting, like something you didn’t know you needed until it’s right here. Your hands instinctively find his neck, fingers curling gently against the rough fabric of his shirt. You pull him closer, and for a brief moment, the world seems to hold its breath.

To your surprise, he hardly flinches, and doesn’t even pull away. His hands, though, hover over you, unsure at first, but they come down gently to your lower back, pulling you into him with a tenderness that makes your heart constrict. You can feel his too, both of your hearts pounding against your rib cages. It suddenly occurs to you that maybe he’s just as nervous as you are.

You let yourself stay there for a long moment, in the comfort of his arms, and for the first time in a long while, you don't feel the weight of the world pressing in. The tension, the fear, all of it fades away as you feel his warmth surrounding you, steady and real. But even in this fleeting peace, you can’t ignore how every nerve in your body seems to hum, to come alive in a way that feels almost overwhelming. Every inch of you craves more—more of this closeness, more of him.

As the silence stretches on, you feel his arms settle more securely around you, pulling you in even closer, as if he finally is allowing himself to be close to you. His head dips into the side of your neck, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, slow and steady. The quiet of the moment is broken only by the sound of his inhale, and you realize, for the first time, just how much you’ve missed this kind of tenderness. It’s as if, in his presence, you don’t have to worry about anything, not for a single second.

It feels so right, so good to be held like this. To have him, this person who has protected you with every ounce of his being, just hold you—no words, just the comfort of being together. You let yourself sink into it, letting go of all the tension that’s built up over days, weeks, months of constant survival.

But then, the moment shifts. When he pulls back just slightly, the warmth of his hands on your back moves, and you feel the shift in the air between you. His gaze lifts to meet yours, and you find yourself locking eyes with him, the intensity of his stare almost too much to bear. His chocolate brown eyes are searching you in a way you don’t quite understand.

His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing away something wet—tears you didn’t even realize had fallen.

“What is it?” he whispers, his voice rough, strained. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him speak with that kind of softness—like he’s afraid of the answer, afraid of what it might mean.

Sniffling, you shake your head, “I just…all this…” you sigh, looking up at him, unable to string together the right words, “You…”

His dark eyes still search yours, the silence stretching between you, heavy with unspoken words. You can hardly believe he hasn’t let you go. It’s as if he’s holding onto you as much as you’re holding onto him, both of you unsure if this is just a fleeting moment—or something more, something that might change everything between you forever.

Joel whispers your name, and that’s when you realize, with a sudden clarity, that the space between you is almost gone. His eyes have dropped to your lips, and your heart races in your chest. His thumb is still there, gently on your cheek, like he’s waiting, watching you for any sign that you might pull away. But you won’t. You can’t. You’d never pull away from him, never let him go now. Not when this moment feels like everything you’ve ever wanted.

It hits you then, deep in your chest, in your gut—you realize that this is it. This is everything. All the times you caught him looking at you with something more than just the need to protect you. All the times you found yourself looking for him in every room, in every corner, as if your heart knew where he was before your mind did. Even as a teenager, it was never like this. It was never so full of trust, so full of need, of longing. Of…love.

Joel Miller was very close to you now.

So close you could feel his breath against you, shallow and almost hesitant. He was moving slowly—agonizingly slow—and it took every ounce of willpower not to close the distance yourself. But you couldn’t. You needed him to show you that he felt this too, that it wasn’t just some fleeting crush, that this wasn’t just a momentary rush of emotions. After all this time, after seven years of separation, of waiting, of silently longing for him, you needed to know this was real.

Seven years of missing him. Seven years of dreaming about his broad shoulders, the scruff on his face, the way he moved and spoke. Now, you were here, living through the days side by side, finding comfort in each other in ways that had once seemed impossible. Protecting each other. Looking for each other. Sharing these small, fleeting moments that somehow felt like everything. This wasn’t just some passing thing. This was something both of you needed—something that, now that it was on the edge of being realized, felt so right, so complete, that there was no going back.

“Joel,” you whisper, your lips barely parting as he hovers inches away. The word feels like a plea, a desperate, silent begging for him to bridge the space between you. To finally take what’s been his for so long, what’s always been his, even when neither of you could admit it. There had never been anyone else, not in the way there had always been him. Not just because of your life in isolation, but because no one else could make you feel like this.

His hand that’s cupping your jaw moves then, sliding into the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, gently pulling you closer as he leans in.

Joel’s lips are so, so soft.

It’s a slow kiss, like he’s taking his time, like he’s savoring the moment—every inch of it. The contrast of his rough stubble brushing against your skin feels jarring yet comforting, a sensation that sends shivers down your spine. Your heart races, painfully tight in your chest, and a rush of warmth floods through you, spreading like wildfire, lighting every nerve. For a second, you feel weightless, caught in the storm of it all, the world outside forgotten.

He’s so warm.

The heat of him, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer, his hand still tangled in your hair, the solid press of his chest against yours—it’s all consuming. Waves of warmth flow from him, surrounding you, filling every part of you, inside and out. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, a calming, grounding force.

Then his tongue brushes against your lower lip, hesitant, testing. It’s so gentle, so careful that it makes your heart skip a beat. You nearly jump out of your skin, the sensation unfamiliar, intense. But then, you feel his smile against your lips, soft and reassuring. You open for him instinctively, feeling his warmth deepen as he moves closer, his tongue sliding into your mouth, slow and deliberate.

You can tell how mindful he’s being, how aware he is of how new this all is for you. Your movements are unsure, tentative, but somehow, with him, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. And despite all the uncertainty, despite the unfamiliarity, it feels so right, so entirely... him.

You both pull away to catch your breath, the air between you thick with the weight of the moment. But as soon as his lips leave yours, you can't help it. You lean in again, just a quick, soft peck, wanting more, needing more. Your body is reacting to him in ways you’ve never known, something deep inside you pulling and longing for more of him.

When you pull back, you catch sight of his cheeks—there’s a pink tinge there, soft and almost vulnerable. His expression is still serious, brows furrowed, but there’s something else behind it now, something gentler.

“Not that scowl again,” you whisper with a teasing smile, your hand reaching up to smooth the wrinkle between his brows. It’s a small gesture, but you can't help it, a way of soothing him even as you try to lighten the tension.

Joel’s eyes soften, and the faintest trace of a smile pulls at the corner of his lips. But it’s fleeting, replaced by something unreadable. His hand moves to your wrist, brushing it gently with his thumb. He holds it there for a moment, as if weighing something heavy.

With a deep sigh, he drops his gaze, breaking eye contact, and his hand falls away from your wrist. “I can’t do this, kid,” he mutters, shaking his head as he pulls back, his body language closing off.

The first thing you feel is the coldness—the literal gap between you as he releases you from his embrace. Your hands fall back to your sides, and the warmth that once existed between you both is suddenly gone, replaced by an empty chill. It’s a feeling you’ve known too well—the sting of rejection. The emptiness of being left behind. The gnawing, familiar ache that creeps in when you realize you’re not good enough. Abandoned.

You try to breathe through it, but the weight of it threatens to choke you. “I get it,” you whisper, though you can barely hear your own words, “if you don't want this…don’t want me. I understand why.” You want to scream, to beg him to change his mind, but the lump in your throat keeps you silent. Instead, you take a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. You want to believe it’s not true, but you can already feel the walls closing in.

Joel’s eyes flicker to you, a storm of conflicting emotions clouding his expression. His voice softens, low and almost tender. “Trust me, baby. I want it. I want you.” His hands come to his face, pushing back his hair in a heavy sigh, his words full with longing. “But I’m so damn screwed up. The things I’ve done…”

You step closer, your hand reaching for his chest, your voice steady despite the tightness of your throat, “You’re a good man, Joel,” you say, the sincerity in your words cutting through the tension. “Please. I’ve only ever wanted this with you. Ever since I’ve known you.”

Joel’s jaw tightens at the words. His gaze drifts away, the weight of his past hanging over him like a shadow. “What? When you nearly shot me with an arrow when I showed up at your door?” he chuckles darkly.

You shake your head quickly, a quiet urgency in your tone. “No, even before then,” you admit, stepping closer, your voice trembling with vulnerability.

His eyes soften again, but the hesitance lingers, like he's trying to convince himself of something. “Jesus, kid...” His words are barely above a whisper, his hand resting on yours as it sits on his chest.

“When are you going to stop calling me that?” you tease a little.

He doesn't answer at first, letting the silence stretch between you. Then, he takes a breath, meeting your eyes with resolve. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” you murmur. “There’s so many other men… boys your age.”

You can’t help the painful twist in your chest. “I’d rather be dead than have any of them,” you say, voice quiet but sure, your heart pounding. “I want you. I always have.”

Joel scoffs, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Not sure which one of us is more sick in the head,” he mutters. “You for wanting some old man, or me for wanting a girl I’ve known since she was fifteen…”

The space between you is charged, but still, you move closer, gently closing the distance. “I’m not scared of you, Joel.”

The silence lingers between you, thick and heavy, pressing in from all sides. You can feel the weight of the distance he’s placed between you, the rejection still echoing in the pit of your stomach. Every inch of your body aches to bridge that gap, to make him see that you don’t care about his age, his past, his doubts. You’ve never wanted anyone else. It’s always been him.

And then, without warning, Joel reaches for your face again. His eyes, dark and stormy, lock onto yours, and for a moment, you think he might pull away once more. But his hand moves to your face, cupping it gently yet firmly, as if he’s pulling you into him with just that touch.

“I’m already goin’ to hell,” he mutters, his voice gravelly and deep, his gaze never leaving your lips. Before you can process what’s happening, his mouth crashes into yours again—fierce, desperate, hungry.

This kiss is different. It’s everything the last one wasn’t. There’s no hesitation now, no uncertainty—only need and heat. His lips claim yours with an urgency that steals your breath, and you can feel his hands tightening around you, pulling you closer. His fingers grip the back of your head as he deepens the kiss, urging you into him like there’s no turning back.

You don’t fight it. You respond with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around him, hands sinking into his shoulders as you press yourself as close as you can, desperate for the connection. Every inch of you aches for him, and the moment feels like it’s stretching into eternity.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only to breathe. His chest heaves against yours, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. His eyes lock onto yours, wild and intense, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. His touch is still gentle, but there’s an edge to it, a possessiveness that lingers in the way his hands slide down to your waist, holding you close like you’re the one thing keeping him tethered to reality.

“I ain’t just this,” Joel whispers, his voice rough with emotion, each word weighted with a kind of raw sincerity you’ve never heard from him. “I want more. I want a life with you. Here.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as you search his eyes. There’s something there—vulnerable yet determined. You’ve never seen him like this before, so open, so unsure yet so certain at the same time. It makes your chest tighten with a mix of fear and hope, a sense of something deeper than you’ve allowed yourself to acknowledge before now.

“We can do whatever you want after we get Ellie to the Fireflies,” you say, your voice a little shaky, but the words come out with a lightness that contrasts the gravity of the moment. Your fingers idly play with his hair, grounding yourself in the simple act, but the truth of his words still rings in your mind, echoing with a promise you can barely begin to process.

Joel hesitates, the weight of the silence between you thick, but then he nods once, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss. His hands slide down your back again, urging you closer, and this time you don’t pull away. He keeps kissing you, like you’re the only thing, only person that’s ever mattered.

And for the first time in a long time, in this dangerous, unforgiving world, you feel like you’ve finally found something worth holding onto.

105 notes · View notes

octbrsaturn · 2 months ago

Text

Summary: Navigating the maze-like tunnels of the sewer system, Henry’s story—and his closely guarded secrets—begin to unravel. But freedom comes at a cost. As you emerge on the other side, hunters close in, their relentless pursuit making it clear just how badly they want your blood.

You are surprised at how well Henry seems to know the sewer system beneath Kansas City. The air in the tunnels is damp and heavy, the faint smell of mildew clinging to everything. You keep close to the group, your flashlight bouncing off the curved walls as you follow along.

“So, where did FEDRA go?” you ask, your voice low but clear in the echoing space. Henry glances back, his expression unreadable. “Do you have any idea? You seem to know your way around pretty well.”

Henry opens his mouth to answer, but Joel’s voice cuts through the air. “We always heard KC FEDRA was…” He trails off, looking pointedly at Henry.

“Mobsters?” Henry finishes for him. He gives a bitter smile, then a nod. “Savages?”

Your stomach tightens, dread creeping into your chest. “Yeah,” Henry adds, his voice dark. “You heard right. Raped and tortured people for twenty years.”

Your stomach twists at the thought. You freeze mid-step, your breath catching as a sharp chill runs down your spine. FEDRA, the government, the people who are supposed to keep order—it doesn’t seem real. Sure, your dad never trusted them, but he didn’t trust anyone. His hatred for the government is just one more thing he grumbled about over breakfast. But now, hearing this…

It makes sense why Bill had such a deep loathing for them. Why Joel seems to carry the same disdain.

No wonder so many Quarantine Zones had collapsed. The thought churns uneasily in your mind as you follow, the darkness pressing closer with every step.

“You know what happens when you do that to people?” Henry’s voice echoes sharply in the tunnel, cutting through your thoughts. He glances back, his face shadowed in the dim light. “The moment they get a chance, they do it right back to you.”

Joel gives a grunt of acknowledgment, his flashlight flicking ahead to scan the path. The silence that follows is thick, but you can’t let it go. “So where do you fit into all this?” you ask carefully. “You really just came in here one day with a group?”

For the first time, Henry hesitates. His shoulders tense, and his confident stride falters, just slightly. You notice his hands fidgeting at his sides before he stuffs them into his pockets. “Well,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’m from the area. But…we came here for a reason.”

The group stops almost as one. Joel turns to Henry with a sharp look, Ellie watching with wide eyes. You stand frozen, staring at the man who seemed so sure of himself only moments ago. The air feels heavier now, like it’s just waiting for the next words to drop.

Henry glances down at his brother, his face etched with guilt. “I’m a collaborator,” he admits, each word dragged out like it hurts to say them.

Joel’s reaction is immediate—a low, exasperated sigh as he turns away, rubbing a hand over his face. “Shoulda known,” he mutters, his tone dripping with frustration.

“What?” you ask, looking between them, confused. “What’s a collaborator?”

“He’s a rat,” Joel snaps, cutting to the point with his usual bluntness.

Henry’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t try to defend himself. Instead, he just stands there, looking at the floor like it might swallow him whole.

“I never work with rats,” Joel says, his voice low and resigned, shaking his head.

“Well, you do today. ‘Cause I know the way out,” Henry says, looking at Joel his face set with determination, “And I’ve gotten you this far, haven’t I?”.

The word turns over in your mind, the cogs slowly clicking into place. A collaborator—someone who works both sides, right? Maybe he played a part with the Fireflies or his own group, all while secretly working for FEDRA. A double-crosser.

Your heart twists uncomfortably, the pieces slowly clicking together. Henry isn’t some hero leading his group through the city to scavenge supplies or food. He isn’t just a guy trying to survive.

But the group presses on, flashlights bouncing against the damp walls. The air feels colder now, the silence filling the space like a physical thing.

“So why did you bother to help us?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Henry glances back at you briefly, his expression calm but guarded. “We’re on the same side. Tryna get out of the city, away from those assholes up there. When we come out the other end of this, we’ll be in suburbia. I just needed help clearing the way to get to my people. Then, like I told you, we’re going to try to find the Fireflies.”

Ellie, walking just ahead of you, glances over her shoulder, her voice clipped. “So why didn’t we go this way in the first place if you know it so well?”

Henry hesitates, his hand briefly brushing the wall as he looks down the tunnel ahead. “You…notice anything strange about the city? Other than the shit you’ve already seen?”

You stare at his profile for a moment, illuminated faintly by the dim beams of light cutting through the darkness. Then it clicks, and your heart skips.

“No infected,” you say quietly.

Henry turns, nodding slightly. “Oh, there’s infected. Just…not on the surface.”

Your skin prickles at his words, unease settling in.

“FEDRA sent them all underground years ago. Might’ve been the best thing those fascists ever did—”

“When you say underground…” You trail off, looking at Joel. His eyes meet yours, and they widen with realization before narrowing again, anger sparking.

“You’re leading us straight into infected territory?” Joel hisses, his voice dropping lower. His whole posture tenses, his body instinctively angling protectively in front of Ellie.

“Everyone thinks these tunnels are full of infected,” Henry says, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “But what I know is, it’s empty.”

“So you have been down here before?” Joel demands, his voice cutting through the stale air.

Henry hesitates again, his face illuminated by the light from your flashlight. His expression falls, guilt flickering in his eyes. “No.”

“Oh god,” you whisper, glancing at Joel and Ellie. They both look like they’re weighing the odds of surviving this plan—or walking into a death trap.

“But the FEDRA guy I worked with told me it’s completely clear. They cleared it out,” Henry adds quickly.

“When?” Ellie asks, her voice sharp with suspicion.

“Like…three years ago.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Joel’s face darkens, and he starts to turn back the way you came. “We’re turnin’ around,” he growls.

“Okay, maybe there’s one or two,” Henry says hastily, stepping in front of Joel. “But you can handle yourselves, and I can handle me and Sam.”

“What a great plan,” Joel mutters, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s dicey as fuck,” Henry admits. “But it’s a plan. And it’s all you guys got.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy. No one moves, and you can almost hear the gears turning in Joel’s mind as he stares Henry down.

Finally, Joel lets out a frustrated sigh, adjusting his grip on the rifle slung over his shoulder. “This better not get us killed,” he growls, turning to keep moving forward.

“Trust me,” Henry says, his voice quieter now.

Joel doesn’t answer. You don’t think he trusts anyone anymore.

A few more turns through the narrow passageways, and you emerge into an open space. The air feels slightly less oppressive here, though the faint dampness still lingers. It looks deserted, eerily quiet, with no immediate signs of danger. But as your flashlight pans up the walls, something catches your eye.

The light illuminates bright colors—pinks, yellows, soft blues. Flowers, a rainbow, and a sun with a wide, cheerful grin beam down at you from the concrete. It’s a child’s mural, its innocence strikingly out of place in the grim, dark sewer.

“Wonder who was down here,” you say softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Joel doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand finds the top of your shoulder, a steadying weight as he nudges you forward. “C’mon,” he says quietly, his tone as firm as ever but lacking its usual edge.

You flinch slightly at the contact—not because it’s unwelcome, but because it’s so new, so foreign. Touch wasn’t something you were used to. Growing up, affection had been sparse, practical. Bill’s hand on your shoulder was always to pull you back from danger or steer you in the right direction, never lingering. Frank had been warmer, offering the occasional pat on the back or brief hug, but even those moments had felt rare and fleeting.

Every time Joel touches you, it sends a strange, electric feeling through you—like a jolt that starts in your chest and spreads outward, leaving your skin tingling where his hand lingers. You can’t quite name the feeling. It’s not fear, but it’s not entirely comfort either. It’s… confusing. It makes you hyperaware of him in ways that catch you off guard.

You’re not sure if you’re comfortable with it yet. It’s unnerving, the way your chest tightens in the rare moments he reaches for you. It's like you’re on unsteady ground, unsure whether to step closer or pull away. But when he does pull back, when the warmth of his hand is gone, you always find yourself missing it. It’s like the absence of something you didn’t realize you needed until it wasn’t there anymore. That realization leaves you even more confused.

You glance at him as you keep walking, the weight of his hand still lingering on your shoulder. Joel’s eyes are ahead, his expression unreadable as always, but you can’t help wondering if he even notices what he’s doing—or what it’s doing to you.

You step through a rusted door into what looks like it could’ve been a janitor’s storage room once, and your breath catches. Nearly everyone reacts the same way—Ellie lets out a quiet gasp, and even Henry’s face shifts with something close to surprise. Only Joel seems unfazed, his steady gaze scanning the room like he’s seen it all before.

“Heard about places like this,” Joel says, his tone even, as he moves closer to a whiteboard covered in scribbled notes. The words “House Rules” stand out in bold letters, with bullet points beneath: Doors stay locked at all times. Do not share passwords. No shouting. Drills every week.

The rest of the room tells the same story. Children’s toys and books are scattered across the floor, long abandoned but eerily intact. Mismatched chairs and cushions are set up in rows like a makeshift classroom, while bright, cheerful murals line the walls. Flowers, animals, stick-figure families—bits of hope and innocence painted onto cold concrete.

“People went underground after Outbreak Day,” Joel explains, his voice low as he steps further inside. His eyes linger on the whiteboard before glancing at the rest of the space. “They built settlements.”

“What happened?” you whisper, stepping closer to one of the murals. A cluster of colorful stick figures stands under a smiling sun, their arms linked like a chain.

Joel doesn’t hesitate. “Maybe they didn’t follow the rules and they all got infected.”

His words are flat, delivered so dully that it takes you a moment to process them. You glance at him, already feeling a twinge of annoyance at the way he’s clearly trying to call you out, but then you catch it—just barely. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, subtle but unmistakable.

Okay, sarcasm. The thought makes you smile back at him. Maybe it’s the dim glow of your flashlight playing tricks, or maybe it’s real, but there’s almost a twinkle in his eyes.

Sam and Ellie wander off to explore, their curiosity pulling them toward the scattered toys and books. Sam picks up a small action figure, turning it over in his hands, while Ellie thumbs through a tattered comic book, her flashlight casting a soft glow on the pages. Their voices are low, a mix of fascination and amusement as they share their finds.

“We could wait the light out a bit down here,” Henry suggests, his tone cautious but practical. “Wait until it’s dark outside to hop out the other end unnoticed.”

Joel glances at him, his jaw tightening slightly before he shrugs. He doesn’t look thrilled about the idea, but he doesn’t argue either. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice gruff, as if he’s resigned to the fact that Henry’s plan might be the best option for now.

The room feels strangely calm, easier to breathe in than the tight corridors you’d come through. The absence of infected makes it bearable, even relaxed. You keep your flashlight steady, scanning the area. The painted walls and scattered belongings give the space a sense of eerie stillness, as though time froze here long ago.

It’s dark, the only illumination coming from the beams of your flashlights, but it’s enough. Enough to see what you need, enough to feel just a little less on edge. For the first time in hours, there’s a small pocket of quiet. A moment to pause.

After a while, you find yourself sitting next to Henry, the quiet settling in between you as Joel watches Ellie and Sam kick a soccer ball against the cement wall. The makeshift goalpost is drawn in thick lines of faded paint, bold lettering above it declaring rules or a name long since smudged. Their laughter echoes lightly in the space, a rare sound that feels almost out of place here.

“You know,” you say softly, your eyes on the kids but your words meant for Henry. He glances at you, his smile faint as he watches them too. “If you were…I don’t know…” You trail off, searching for the right words, the ones that always seem so hard to pin down when you’re trying to be genuine.

Henry waits, his expression open, and you push yourself to keep going. “If you were a collaborator to take care of him”—your eyes flick briefly to Sam before landing back on Henry—“I get it. You don’t deserve to be called a rat.”

His smile fades, replaced by something quieter, softer. “Thanks,” he says, his voice low but earnest.

You nod, looking back toward Ellie and Sam, the moment feeling heavier than you expected. The silence stretches, and you shift slightly, uncomfortable with how exposed you feel after putting yourself out there. But before you can say anything else, Henry calls your name.

You glance back at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes are warm, focused and slowly, his hand lifts, hovering near your face.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he says, his voice gentle but laced with a hint of teasing. His fingers brush against your cheek as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his touch careful and deliberate. “You’re…nice. Like, really nice. I don’t know how someone like you made it this far without, I don’t know, losing that.”

Your face heats at his words, your stomach flipping uncomfortably. “Uh, thanks,” you manage, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

He smiles again, leaning back slightly to give you some space but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “When we get to the radio tower,” he starts, his tone a little lighter now, like he’s trying to keep things casual, “you should think about sticking around. With my people, I mean. We could use someone like you.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Someone like me?”

“Yeah.” His smile widens, easy and disarming. “You’re good with people, even if you don’t think so. You’re kind, and…” He pauses, his eyes glinting with just a bit of playfulness. “You’re pretty decent company.”

Your cheeks burn, and you look away, overwhelmed. You glance at the kids, using their laughter as an excuse to focus on anything but Henry’s face. But the moment your gaze shifts, you catch Joel out of the corner of your eye.

He’s watching.

Joel’s still leaning against the wall, his arms crossed as his eyes flick between you and Henry. His face is hard to read, but there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—something sharp and assessing.

Your stomach tightens again, for an entirely different reason this time. Joel looks away quickly when your eyes meet his, as if the moment never happened, but your pulse picks up all the same.

Henry’s words stay with you, but they don’t feel the same. He’s kind, easy to talk to, and there’s warmth in the way he looks at you. But when his hand brushed your face, it didn’t stir the same feeling. Not like when Joel touches you. Henry’s touch was light and deliberate, but Joel’s? His touch always lingers, grounding and unspoken in a way that makes you notice every second it’s there—and every second it’s gone.

You shift in your seat, unsure of what any of it means. Feelings are messy, and yours are harder to name than ever. But one thing is certain: it’s not the same.

“So you’ll think about it?” Henry asks, his voice gentle as he brings your attention back to him.

You blink, trying to focus, but your thoughts are still tangled. You don’t really know what to say, so you just nod. “Yeah,” you murmur, a little breathlessly. It’s not a lie, exactly—you’ll think about it. Just maybe not in the way he’s hoping.

After a few hours, you continue through the passageway, your group moving quietly but purposefully. The oppressive silence still lingers, and while you’re relieved to find it so empty, the unease never fully leaves you. Every shadow feels like it could hold an infected, and every creak of the floor beneath your boots sets your nerves on edge.

Eventually, the cavernous space opens up again, revealing a stairwell to your left, its rusted iron rails gleaming faintly under your flashlight beams. It feels like a beacon of hope, cutting through the darkness.

“This way,” Henry says, his voice steady as he points his light toward the stairs.

Up and out into the fresh air, you feel like you can finally breathe again. The cool night breeze brushes your face, and the damp weight of the sewers lifts almost instantly. You tilt your head back to take in the sky, moonlight spilling across the quiet neighborhood you’ve emerged into.

“There it is!” Henry exclaims, pointing toward the radio tower in the distance. It stands like a promise of safety beyond the rows of darkened houses.

You’re quick to hush him, throwing a sharp look his way.

“Why can’t we use our lights?” Sam asks, his voice quieter but still curious, “No one is here.”

“You’re right,” Henry says, too confidently. “No one is here, and no one is going to be here because my plan worked!”

“So much goddamn talkin’,” Joel mutters, his voice low and irritated as he strides ahead.

“Just sayin’, I delivered! The radio tower is right over—”

Henry’s words are startlingly cut off by the sharp ping of a bullet striking metal, too close to Joel’s left side.

“Move!” Joel barks, grabbing your collar and then Ellie’s arm in one swift motion. He ushers you both down to the ground behind an abandoned car, his body moving with practiced precision. “Go!”

“Where is that coming from?” Henry asks, his voice shaking slightly as he crouches beside Sam.

Joel twists around, his eyes scanning the darkness. The night air crackles with tension as another bullet zings past, ricocheting off the car in front of you.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, your hands fumbling for your rifle. You peer cautiously out the broken side window, your eyes darting between shadows. Then you see it—a spark of white light from a second-floor window, milliseconds before another shot whistles through the air and slams into the hood of the car.

“Well,” you mutter, ducking back down and pressing your body close to the ground, “at least we know he’s got shit aim.”

Joel grunts in agreement, his focus unwavering. “Alright, stay here,” he says finally, pulling his gun out.

“What?” you and Ellie say in unison, your voices hushed but incredulous.

“If you don’t move, he’s not gonna hit you,” Joel replies firmly. His eyes flick to Ellie first, holding her gaze, then to you. “Stay. Put.”

“Let me help—” you start, gripping your rifle, but Joel shakes his head sharply, cutting you off.

“I’m gonna go around and through the back. It’s dark, and like you said, he has shit aim.” His voice is steady, like he’s already made the calculation and decided it’s the only way.

“He’s either gonna kill you or kill us,” Ellie argues, her tone biting but edged with worry.

Joel straightens and his voice softens, but his eyes stay locked on yours. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitate for a moment, the weight of the question settling in. But you do—you trust this man with your life, even if you can’t fully explain why.

Finally, you sigh and nod, your hands still gripping your rifle tightly. Ellie nods too, though her face is still tight with worry.

That’s all Joel needs. Without another word, he slips away, his movements low and silent as he disappears into the shadows. You swallow hard, trying to keep your breathing steady, and fix your eyes on the window where the shooter waits.

All you can do now is trust him.

The shotgun from the window continues to aim erratically, the barrel shifting slightly as if the shooter is tracking Joel’s shadowed figure. You press yourself closer to the ground, clutching your rifle tightly, every nerve on edge. All you can do is wait, the tension thick and suffocating, layered over the sound of the four of you breathing heavily behind the car.

“If he really can pull this off,” Henry whispers, his voice strained but hopeful, “I’ll never give him shit ever again.”

Ellie lets out a soft scoff, her attempt to lighten the mood barely masking her own nerves. “I’m not promising that.”

You glance at her, but before you can say anything, a different sound cuts through the air.

A gunshot—sharper, more deliberate than the erratic blasts from the shotgun.

The silence that follows is immediate and absolute.

Your breath hitches, your chest tightening as you stare toward the second-floor window. The shotgun has gone still—no movement, no sound. You exchange wide-eyed glances with Ellie and Henry, your mind racing.

When you peer over the car again, your eyes scan the window where the white light had been flashing moments ago. There’s no glow now, no sound of the shotgun going off. Unease knots in your stomach, and then you remember—the rifle you’d taken off that hunter has a scope.

Your hands move instinctively, adjusting the rifle and bringing it to your shoulder. Peering through the scope, you focus on the window, your heart pounding.

Sure enough, there he is. Joel. He’s leaning over, fumbling with the shotgun in the window as he looks out into the moonlit street below. Relief floods through you so fast it leaves you lightheaded. You lower your gun slightly but keep watching.

Then you see Joel pause. He straightens, turns back into the room, his movements sharp and purposeful.

“He’s okay,” you murmur, pulling your gun down and strapping it back around your middle. You glance back at the others, but before you can say more, a sound stops you in your tracks.

It’s faint at first—a voice, far away, barely cutting through the stillness. You hold your breath, trying to make it out.

Then it comes again, louder this time, echoing faintly through the night. A single word, repeated with growing urgency.

“Run.”

Your heart lurches. Joel’s voice.

He’s shouting now, the word cutting through the quiet like a blade, over and over.

“RUN!”

The headlights appear up ahead, blinding and sudden, as bright as staring into the sun. Your stomach drops. The truck barreling toward you is massive, the front fitted with a heavy metal plow, slamming through abandoned cars as if they’re nothing but toys. It’s heading straight for you.

“Go!” you shout, your voice cracking as you grab Ellie and Henry by their sleeves. Henry pulls Sam close, and the four of you take off in a scramble of movement. Fear burns in your chest as you sprint, your mind racing.

Behind you, bullets ricochet off the truck’s armored front, pinging sharply in the night air. You know it’s Joel, firing from the second floor, and you pray he’s got a clear shot at the driver. He’s better than the man stationed there before—you know that. But now, your life depends on it.

Ellie twists her body as she runs, her hand still gripping yours as she tries to aim her pistol at the truck. “Come on!” you shout, pulling her forward, panic surging as the truck closes the gap.

It’s so close now. The engine roars, the sound deafening.

You glance back at Ellie, making sure she’s still with you, her face set in fierce determination as she aims another shot. But you don’t see the uneven ground ahead, and your foot catches.

You fall hard, the impact jolting through your body as you hit the pavement.

At the same moment, you hear the shattering of glass behind you. The sound is sharp, cutting through the chaos. When you look up, heart pounding, you see the truck veering sharply off course. Its driver’s-side window is shattered, a clean bullet hole through the glass.

Joel got them.

The truck swerves violently, crashing into a nearby house. The collision is instant and brutal, the metal groaning under the impact. Flames burst from the engine, licking up into the night sky, and within seconds, the vehicle is fully ablaze.

Ellie grabs your arm, pulling you up with surprising strength. “Come on!” she says, dragging you toward cover as the flames roar behind you.

You stumble behind an abandoned car, your breaths coming fast and shallow, your knees hitting the ground hard as Ellie crouches beside you. There’s no time to catch your breath.

Behind the flaming wreck of the truck, more vehicles grind to a halt, one after another. Doors swing open, and the people hunting you spill out in a chaotic wave, their weapons raised. It’s a whole caravan, and their shouts echo through the streets, cutting through the roar of the fire.

Your heart pounds as you peek over the hood of the car, your grip tightening on your rifle. “Shit,” you mutter under your breath. There are too many of them—far too many.

Ellie ducks low beside you, reloading her pistol with shaky hands. “What now?” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the chaos.

You glance at her, then toward Henry and Sam, crouched behind another car a few feet away. Their faces are pale, illuminated in the flickering orange glow of the truck still engulfed in flames. Joel is out there somewhere, hopefully still picking people off from the shadows. But right now, it’s just you and the overwhelming sense that you’re surrounded.

The truck’s fire intensifies, heat rippling in waves, and then it happens. A deafening explosion tears through the air, flames and smoke bursting outward in a blinding flash. The blast lights up the entire area, casting long shadows across the street and igniting everything nearby in an eerie orange glow.

You shield your face, blinking rapidly as your ears ring. When you dare to look again, your breath catches.

Through the car’s broken windows, you see a woman step forward. She’s calm, composed, her eyes scanning the wreckage like she owns the place. Behind her is a group of people—hunters, some in full gear, bulletproof vests, and face shields. All armed. All deadly.

The woman stops, her voice cutting through the crackling fire. “Come on out, Henry.”

Your stomach twists. You whip your head toward him. “These assholes know you?”

Henry freezes, his wide eyes darting toward you, but he doesn’t answer. His silence says everything.

And then it clicks. These must be the people he betrayed—for FEDRA. He didn’t come into the city to scavenge for supplies or scrape together ammo like a normal survivor. No, he came here knowing exactly who he was running from. Hunters. People out for blood.

And now, here you are. Stuck right next to him.

“Come on out, Henry,” the woman calls again, her tone almost friendly, like she’s trying to have a conversation over coffee instead of hunting you down.

“I’ll come out!” Henry shouts suddenly, making you flinch. Your eyes widen in horror as he raises his voice. “But let the rest of them go!”

The woman doesn’t even pause. “No,” she says, her calm voice as deadly as the weapons in her crew’s hands. “Those girls are with the man who killed Brian.”

Your stomach drops. Brian? The name doesn’t register, but it doesn’t have to. One of the many you—or Joel—took down while escaping the city. A face among the chaos. Oh god. You took out so many of their people. For a brief, sickening moment, you wonder if you’re the villain in their story.

“And Sam,” the woman continues, her voice colder now, “Sam’s with you. I know why you did what you did, Henry. But have you ever thought… maybe he was supposed to die?”

Your blood runs cold. You stare at Henry, the man you thought you were starting to understand. The pieces fall into place with gut-wrenching clarity. He hadn’t told you the truth—not all of it. Not why these people were after him. Not why he needed to sneak out of the city.

“He’s just a kid!” Henry yells, his voice breaking.

“Kids die, Henry. Every day,” she replies, unflinching.

Henry turns to you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. They’re desperate, pleading. “I need you to take him with you.”

Your breath catches. “No—” you choke out.

“Yes.” Henry’s voice is firm, quiet but commanding. “Take him and Ellie, and run.”

“Henry—” Sam’s voice is soft, trembling.

“Listen to her,” Henry tells his brother, his gaze unwavering. “Do what she says.”

Then, to your horror, he takes a deep breath and stands.

The silence stretches unbearably long, the air thick with tension. The only sound is the crackling fire, the heat pulsing against your back as you crouch behind the car. You watch, frozen, waiting for the inevitable.

The woman’s gun raises, the metallic click of a chambered bullet echoing unnervingly loud.

But before the shot comes, a louder sound rumbles through the air.

Your eyes dart toward the blaze. The ground trembles beneath you. The truck—the one now burning fiercely against the house—is starting to shift. No, not the truck. The earth beneath it.

You stare, your heart hammering. Oh my god.

The truck begins to tilt, its weight dragging it down into the ground. The pavement cracks and collapses beneath it, the sound like thunder.

Henry’s words echo in your mind. You notice anything strange about the city? Other than the shit you’ve already seen?

No infected.

Oh, there’s infected. Just…not on the surface.

Your breath catches as realization hits.

Oh. My. God.

The truck sinks deeper, the flames licking at the edges of the growing hole, and for one terrible, heart-stopping moment, everything is still.

Then, the night erupts.

70 notes · View notes

octbrsaturn · 2 months ago

Text

Summary: From below the bridge, you watch helplessly as chaos unfolds—gunfire, shouting, and the relentless tank chasing down the two people you prayed would survive.

a/n: kicking my feet writing that last part :') shorter chapter

It’s not until hours later, with the blue tinge of dusk beginning to peek through the overcast sky, that another sound reaches your ears besides the steady crash of waves.

Gunshots.

Your stomach pitches violently as the sharp cracks echo through the air, followed by distant shouting and screams. The bridge above comes alive with chaos, the muffled sounds of conflict carrying across the water. You leap to your feet, straining to make out what’s happening.

And then you see it—the tank again.

Its hulking shape moves like a beast in the dim light, the muzzle flashing as it fires through the air. Sparks and smoke ignite the night, casting eerie shadows that make your chest clench.

“Shit,” Henry mutters beside you, already standing and staring up at the scene.

But you don’t respond. Your eyes are locked on the figures near the bridge’s edge, moving frantically. One of them is small, darting between flashes of light—the unmistakable shape of Ellie.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

Beside her, Joel. His broad frame moves with deliberate urgency, grabbing Ellie’s arm as the turret fires again, closer this time.

“No,” you whisper, your voice breaking as the realization crashes over you.

Joel and Ellie are running, their silhouettes stark against the glow of chaos. They sprint toward the edge of the bridge, their movements desperate.

And then they leap.

Time seems to slow as they disappear from the ledge, their bodies plunging into the dark water below.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, the world feels completely still.

“No!” you shout, your voice hoarse as you stumble forward, your legs trembling beneath you.

“They’re in the water,” Henry says quickly, gripping your arm as if to hold you back. “They’ll make it—they have to.”

But the moment they hit the river below, you lose track of them. Your mind reels as you stare at the spot where they vanished, the water is churning and shifting in the dim light. Panic grips your chest like a vise, your breaths shallow and erratic.

“I can’t see them!” you cry, scanning the water frantically. “Where are they?”

Henry steps closer, squinting into the dark. “There!” he shouts, pointing toward a jagged rock jutting out of the water. The turret’s fire above has momentarily stopped, but the tension in the air remains suffocating.

Your heart plummets as you make out their forms—Joel’s body slumped against the rock, Ellie in his arms, both unmoving.

“They’re not—Henry, we have to—”

“No way,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “That current’s strong, it's too dangerous.”

“I don’t care!” you snap, tears stinging your eyes as you clutch his arm. “Please, Henry! Help me get them!”

He hesitates, his jaw tightening as he glances back at Sam, who stands frozen a few steps behind.

“Sam can’t swim,” he mutters, his voice strained.

“Then he stays here!” you shout, already pulling off your pack. “Please, Henry. They’ll die if we don’t.”

For a long moment, he stares at you, the conflict etched across his face. Then he curses under his breath, his hands moving to shrug off his gear. “Alright,” he sighs. “Let’s go.”

The two of you plunge into the icy water, the shock of it stealing your breath. The current tugs at you immediately, but you push through, your eyes locked on the jagged rock ahead.

“Ellie!” you scream, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the current waves.

As you get closer, the scene becomes clearer. Joel’s arm is draped protectively around Ellie, his body half-slumped against the rock’s edge. Neither of them are moving.

“I’ve got Joel!” Henry shouts, swimming toward him.

You reach Ellie first, gripping her by the shoulders and tugging her free from Joel’s grasp. Her small frame is limp, her head lolling against your chest as you struggle to keep her above the water.

“Come on, Ellie,” you whisper desperately, tears mixing with the water on your face. “Stay with me.”

Henry pulls Joel off the rock with a grunt, his movements powerful but hurried as he drags him through the water.

“Head for the shore!” Henry calls, his voice strained.

You nod, the weight of Ellie in your arms almost too much as you kick and fight the current. Somehow, the beach feels impossibly far, but the sand finally brushes against your knees as you stumble onto the shore.

Collapsing onto the wet sand, you lay Ellie down, your hands trembling as you tilt her head back. “Come on, come on,” you mutter, pressing your hands to her chest and starting pushing with all your might. With a steady rhythm, you push into her over and over, hands intertwined over each other on her soaked body.

Henry drags Joel onto the shore a few feet away, his body slumped and unmoving. “Joel?” Henry calls, shaking his shoulder, but there’s no response.

You keep working on Ellie, your panic mounting with every second that passes. “Breathe, Ellie. Please, just breathe!”

Finally, she coughs, water sputtering from her lips as her chest heaves.

“Oh god,” you cry, pulling her into a tight hug, your tears spilling freely now. She clings to you weakly, her small arms trembling.

“H–holy shit,” she sputters, pulling away to look you in the eye, “You’re alright!”

“ Me? ” you nearly let out a laugh that sounds nearly hysterical, “I can’t believe you made it!”

She cracks a tired smile, then looks over at Joel laying in the sand nearby. He still hasn’t moved, his body eerily still as Henry kneels beside him, his hand pressing to Joel’s chest.

“Come on, Joel,” you whisper, your voice tight with emotion as you kneel nearby, Ellie still clinging to your side.

Henry exhales, leaning back slightly. “He’s breathing,” he says finally, glancing at you and Ellie. “Just out cold.”

You nod slowly, your body sagging with relief. Ellie releases a shaky breath beside you, her small hands gripping Joel’s sleeve tightly.

Minutes pass in tense silence, the sound of waves crashing against the shore the only backdrop. You and Ellie stay close to Joel, her wide eyes watching his still form. She doesn’t speak, but the way she shifts nervously beside you makes it clear she’s still afraid.

Henry moves a few feet away, calling softly to Sam. The younger boy approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between Joel and the water as he lingers near Henry’s side.

After what feels like an eternity, Henry turns to you. “Hey,” he calls quietly, motioning you over.

You hesitate, glancing back at Joel. Ellie hasn’t let go of his sleeve, and you meet her eyes briefly. “I’ll be right back,”

She nods, her grip unwavering as she keeps her eyes on Joel.

Rising to your feet, you move toward Henry, your legs heavy and sore from the ordeal.

“We need to figure out the next step,” Henry says, keeping his voice low. His gaze flicks toward Joel and Ellie briefly before returning to you. “We can’t stay here long. If those hunters saw them jump, they’ll be sweeping this area soon.”

Your stomach twists at the thought, but you nod. “What’s your plan?”

“There’s a tunnel up ahead,” Henry says, pointing toward the shadowy expanse of beach leading to a crumbled rock face. “Well, more like the sewer. But it should take us under all of this and out of their line of sight.”

You follow his line of sight to the jagged rocks that meet the sandy beach, dread pooling in your stomach. But before you can respond, Ellie calls out from behind you.

“He’s awake!”

“See? What’d I tell you, huh?” Henry says with a broad smile, clapping you lightly on the shoulder. “He’s good. Everything is fine.”

But as Joel rises to his feet, there’s nothing “fine” about the way he moves. His steps are slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on Henry with a dark intensity.

When Joel reaches him, he doesn’t hesitate—he shoves Henry hard, sending him sprawling onto the sand.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Henry shouts, startled as he hits the ground.

You step forward instinctively, your gaze flicking between Joel and Henry. Joel’s hand goes to his pistol, drawing it in one fluid motion and pointing it directly at Henry’s chest.

“Joel, no!” Ellie yells, scrambling to her feet.

Sam shouts for his brother, trying to move toward him, but Joel’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and unyielding. “Get back, son.”

Henry’s hand shoots up toward Joel, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to get his attention back on him, “Hey, hey, hey,” he says quickly, his voice edged with nervousness. “He’s pissed, sure, but he’s not gonna shoot me.”

“You’re sure about that?” Joel snarls, his voice dangerous The pistol doesn’t waver, the tension in his body coiled tight as a spring.

You step forward cautiously, not quite getting between them but close enough to catch Joel’s attention. “Joel, stop,” you say firmly, your voice steady even as your heart pounds.

Joel doesn’t look at you immediately, his gaze locked on Henry. “You left us to die out there,” he growls. “Took off with her without a second thought.”

Henry’s eyes flick to you briefly, then back to Joel. “You had a good chance of making it,” he says, his voice more serious now. “And you did.” He gestures toward Joel, keeping his hands raised. “Coming back for you would’ve put Sam at risk. And her.”

Joel’s jaw tightens at the mention of your name, his glare hardening.

Henry presses on, his voice firm but not hostile. “I wasn’t gonna let Sam be in the line of fire. And she was already over the top, so it was easier to keep her safe by keeping her with us.”

“You think that justifies it?” Joel snaps.

Henry lets out a short breath, his hands still raised. “If it was the other way around—if Sam and I were pinned down—would you have risked Ellie?”

Joel’s silence is heavy, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. His grip on the pistol tightens briefly before he curses under his breath and lowers the weapon, shoving it back into his holster.

Henry exhales slowly, lowering his hands but not moving just yet. His eyes flicker between you and Joel. “For what it’s worth,” he sighs as he pushes himself to his feet, brushing sand off his clothes, “I’m glad we spotted you.” He pauses, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, shespotted you.” his voice lighter now as he points toward the cliffs. “Radio tower’s just on the other side of here, okay? It’s gonna be full of supplies, and you��re gonna be real happy you didn’t kill me.”

Joel doesn’t respond, his jaw tight as he turns away, his focus shifting to Ellie, who’s standing a few steps back with Sam. She’s watching the scene carefully, her small hands curled into fists at her sides.

“We’re gonna search this area, meet us up at the side of the cliff over here. I know a way through.” Henry calls over as his hand finds Sam’s shoulder and they walk away.

Joel only nods, his shoulders sagging slightly as he turns away with Ellie. You watch them go to the water’s edge, their figures silhouetted against the faint light creeping over the horizon. Ellie says something to him, her voice too low for you to make out, but her head tilts toward you as she speaks.

Joel stops, turning back. Ellie’s eyes flick to yours, her expression unreadable, before she moves to stand by Sam and Henry near the rocks.

Your breath catches as Joel approaches, his footsteps deliberate but measured. He stops in front of you, his broad frame looming, but there’s something different in his stance—hesitation, like he’s unsure of himself. For all his sharp edges and dangerous presence, discomfort seems to settle on him easily in moments like this.

For a beat, he just looks at you, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, to your heart-stopping surprise, his hand reaches out. There’s a brief pause, his fingers hovering midair as if he’s reconsidering, before his thumb and forefinger gently pinch your chin, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze.

You stand frozen, your hair dripping down your back and chest. Your skin prickles with cold, but all of it fades into the background.

Joel’s face is closer than you’ve ever seen it. The scar across his nose, the graying strands in his beard, the faint lines around his eyes—all of it feels sharper in the stillness.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low and quiet.

You manage a nod, your throat tight. “Mhm,” you murmur, the sound barely audible. Words feel impossible while his hand still holds you, his touch so unexpectedly gentle that it sends warmth rushing through your chest.

His thumb shifts slightly, brushing the corner of your jaw before he pulls his hand away. The absence of his touch leaves you unsteady, your knees weak as you try to steady your breathing.

You stand there for a moment, your thoughts spinning as you watch him walk away. Ellie glances back briefly, her expression unreadable before she turns and follows Joel, but you can’t help but notice the almost knowing smile that plays around her lips. You exhale softly, dragging a hand through your damp hair before falling into step with the rest of the group.

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octbrsaturn · 2 months ago

Text

Summary: After a nightmare, you wake to Joel's voice pulling you back to reality. In the quiet aftermath, you hand him an unopened letter, one from your dad that you’d never dared to read. But before anything more can be said, an alarm blares—something’s coming, and it’s not good.

warnings: scary nightmare, violence, harm to fmc

The door opens with a loud creak, loud enough that you swear the whole world outside these four walls could hear it. But the two figures in the bed don’t stir, their forms still and silent. The air in the room is heavy, suffocating, pressing down on your chest as you step closer.

“Daddy?” you call out, your voice trembling. But your voice sounds different when you speak again, younger, smaller. “Frank?”

No response. They remain as they are, lying side by side, their hands clasped together, faces serene and peaceful in the dim light. It almost feels like they’re asleep. You inch closer, your heart hammering in your chest, and reach out toward them.

The moment your fingers graze your father’s cold skin, Frank’s eyes snap open. But it’s not him—not anymore. Fungal growth bursts from his cheeks and mouth, jagged and unnatural, his eyes wide with fury. A horrible, guttural scream tears from his throat, a sound that is both familiar and alien.

“No, no no no…” you whisper, stumbling back, but it’s too late. His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in a crushing grip, his nails digging into your skin. His face twists with rage and pain as he lunges toward you, his mouth snapping open, trying to bite, to spread the infection that lives under his skin.

Then your father’s eyes open, too. The same grotesque fungus blooms from his face, and he joins the horrible chorus of snarls and screams. His hand reaches for you, his familiar voice twisted into something monstrous.

“Why did you leave us?” Frank’s voice echoes, warped and broken. “Why weren’t you here?”

“I didn’t!” you cry, tears streaming down your face as you pull against their grip. “I didn’t leave you!”

The world shifts, the room spinning as the screams grow louder. Their hands claw at you, pulling you closer, the fungus reaching for you, trying to make you its next host.

“Hey!” A rough voice jolts you awake. “Hey, wake up!”

Your eyes snap open, your chest heaving, your breath ragged and shallow. Joel is sitting on the side of the bed in front of you, his hands firm on your shoulders, face lined with concern. “You’re okay,” he says gruffly, his voice low but steady. “It was just a nightmare.”

You blink, disoriented, the room around you slowly coming into focus. The shadows on the walls are familiar, the faint glow of moon through the window painting the bedspread around you. You’re here. You’re safe.

But the panic still claws at your throat, your hands shaking as you clutch the sweat-soaked blanket tighter around you. Joel doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on you, waiting.

“You were screaming,” he says after a moment, his tone softer but no less serious. “I thought someone was attacking you.”

“I…” Your voice falters, cracking under the weight of the dream. “I’m fine. It was just…” You shake your head, swallowing hard as you sit up. “I think it was… just being in their bed. Where I found them.”

Joel’s eyes flicker, a flash of something like pity crossing his face. He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable as he takes in the tear tracks on your cheeks and the way your hands tremble. He doesn’t push, though, just sits there, his presence steady and solid.

“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t wake Ellie,” you sigh, rubbing the heels of your palms in your eyes.

“She’ll live,” he grunts, his voice low but not unkind.

The room falls into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint rustle of the blanket as you shift. Joel leans back slightly, his posture still rigid. You lower your hands, finally looking at him fully. The bags under his eyes, the lines etched into his face, the weight he carries in his shoulders—it all tells a story of exhaustion, of someone who’s been holding the world on his back for far too long.

You can’t help but wonder what his life was like before everything fell apart. He had to have been old enough to have a life, a family, maybe even dreams that didn’t involve survival. But now, looking at him, it’s clear the past twenty years have carved into him deeply, leaving cracks and scars you can’t see but can almost feel. You think about just the years between when you last spoke and now—what he endured, what he lost. You wonder if he’ll ever tell you.

“Why…” you begin, your voice soft, hesitant. “Why’d you stop trying to reach out? Over the radio?”

Joel shifts slightly, “Things got complicated back at the QZ,” he says finally, his tone low, almost reluctant. “Then I fell into this mess.” He pauses, exhaling heavily, and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, kid.”

You roll your eyes at him, scoffing softly. “You can stop calling me that now.”

Joel raises an eyebrow, his expression betraying the faintest trace of amusement. “What would you like me to call you?”

“How about my name?” you retort.

For a moment, Joel doesn’t respond. He just looks at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he’s weighing his next words. “Fair enough,” he says eventually, his voice carrying a subtle note of concession. “But you’re always gonna seem like a kid to me.”

Your lips press into a thin line, a mix of irritation and something softer stirring in your chest. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

Across the room, however, something catches your eye—something you’d left behind in this old room, forgotten in the chaos of it all, left to wither away with time. An envelope, yellowed and disheveled, rests on the dresser. The same one from your room, but this one has a different name scrawled across it.

Joel.

You suck in a small gasp, the words catching in your throat. For a moment, your mind spins as you lift the covers off of you. The thought of walking across the room in just your t-shirt and underwear, in front of Joel, makes you feel exposed, but that envelope— his name —is too much to ignore.

You hadn’t expected to ever see him again, let alone for the envelope to still be here. After all these years, after everything that’s happened, you’d almost convinced yourself it had been forgotten, just like the man it was addressed to.

You grab it with trembling fingers, staring at it for what feels like a lifetime before you turn and hold it out to Joel. He hesitates, his eyes flickering from the envelope to your face, and you notice the discomfort in the way his gaze avoids the envelope in your hand.

Finally, with a grunt, he stands up, walks over, and takes it from you.

“It’s unopened,” he mutters quietly, turning it over in his hands.

“Of course it is,” you whisper back, barely able to breathe. “You never came back. It’s… it’s from my dad and Frank.” You swallow hard, your throat tight.

You see Joel’s jaw tighten, his throat working like he’s trying to find the right words. He sighs, but it’s heavy, loaded with something that almost feels too personal. Then, he slowly opens the seal with his finger.

“You don’t want to—?” he offers, his voice softer now.

“No, no,” you shake your head, trying to push the ache in your chest away. “It’s okay, it’s for you.”

He stands there for a moment, the unopened envelope still in his hand. You can feel him watching you, but you don’t look up.

“Did they…” He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Did your dad leave you one too?”

Your pause is just long enough for the tension to feel like it’s building in the room. You stop halfway to the bed, the question hanging in the air. You try to focus on something else, anything else, but the weight of it all pulls you back.

“Oh, yeah…yeah they did.” you say quietly. He seems to recognize that you’re not willing to elaborate. You turn away, getting back under the covers, pulling them up around your shoulders.

Joel takes a slow breath, and without saying anything, he unfurls the letter, his eyes scanning the page. The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing, and you can’t help but glance over, the tension in your chest rising. He’s still reading, his face impassive, but then, somewhere on the page, something changes.

His eyes lock onto a particular part of the letter, and for a split second, his expression shifts. His jaw tightens, and his brows furrow, a flicker of something you can’t quite place flashing across his face. His eyes flicker up to you, holding your gaze for a long moment. Then, just as quickly, he collects himself, smoothing out his features and tucking the letter into his back pocket.

Without a word, he turns toward the door, hand landing on the doorknob. You don’t say anything either, but your mind is racing. What the hell did it say to make Joel Miller flinch like that?

"Goodnight," he says, and j ust as he begins to open the door, a loud, sharp alarm blares through the house. Joel’s eyes widen, and he snaps his head toward you.

You shrug, getting back out of the bed and pulling your pants back on, your voice steady but practical. “Sometimes animals or infected manage to pass the traps and set off the gate alarm. It’s nothing to panic over.” you keep the word yet from falling from your lips.

You don’t wait for his response, heading out of the room toward the stairs. The alarm continues to ring out in the house, clanging through your head. Joel is right behind you, but the tension is different now, sharp and palpable. When you reach the hallway, Ellie’s already there, looking equally half asleep and confused.

“What the fuck is going on?” she demands, her voice a mix of irritation and concern.

You don’t answer immediately. You move past her, heading straight down the stairs to the camera monitors. The grainy images flash across the screen, and as you focus, your stomach sinks. It’s not an animal. It’s not any infected.

“Oh, fuck.” You whisper harshly, dread building in your chest. Your feet are already moving before you can even think, running toward the dining room window that faces the front yard.

It’s people. A lot of them.

“Get out of my way,” you snap, your voice tight, and you burst out of the room. You’re already heading down to the basement when Joel’s voice calls after you, his words sharp and urgent.

“If there’s people, that means we need ot get the hell outta here, girl.” he demands, his voice following you.

You don’t answer, slamming open the basement door, running down to the bunker to grab a shotgun. The cold weight of it in your hands doesn’t offer any comfort, but it’s the best you’ve got right now. As you rack the gun, you hear Joel’s loud voice talking to Ellie, his tone commanding. Their footsteps follow you down the bunker stairs, the sound of their movement making the urgency settle deeper into your gut.

“Grab a weapon,” you order, not sparing them a glance as you load the shotgun.

Joel stands still for a moment, watching you with a stiffness that speaks volumes. “There’s too many of them,” he says, voice grim. “You’re never gonna be able to hold them off.”

His words land heavy, but they don’t stop you. Not yet.

Then, you hear it. The sound of a bullet tearing through the upstairs window, followed by the sickening sound of glass shattering.

You curse, adrenaline surging as you race upstairs. You slam through the door, your eyes immediately locking onto the front yard. The explosives you’d set up years ago—your father’s idea, when he rebuilt the fence with Joel and Tess—had gone off. The fence and gate suddenly blaze, flames licking up the sides of the fence, setting the street into orange light. The people, these raiders…it wasn’t stopping them. Those who hadn’t been hit by the blaze were climbing up the fence now.

You barely process the explosion in the yard, your mind shifting into overdrive. The fire’s spreading, but there’s no time to think about that. The raiders are close, and you need to get ready. You wrap your fingers tighter around the cold barrel of the shotgun.

Joel’s voice cuts through the chaos as he appears behind you, yelling your name as his eyes scan the yard before snapping back to you. “We need to move. They’re gonna break through soon, we can’t hold this place.”

You don’t look at him, ignoring the gnawing anxiety clawing at your gut. “No. We fight.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not just a few of ‘em, kid. You won’t make it.”

“I’m not leaving,” you snap, spinning to face him, your eyes flashing with defiance. “I’ll be damned if I let them take everything.”

But then a split decision runs through you. You know you’re fighting a long battle, and just in case... you need to be prepared. Without another word, you turn and race back into the house and up the stairs, past Joel and Ellie’s protests. The sounds of gunfire ring out behind you, but you don’t slow down. Your heart is pounding, but it’s not fear that’s driving you—it’s sheer need.

You slam into your room, the door barely staying open as you grab your old backpack, shoving it open. The straps bite into your hands as you yank open your dresser drawer and stuff a few sets of clothes inside. You move with mechanical precision, grabbing whatever you can—quick, efficient. You don’t have time to think.

But then, as you go for the bedroom door handle again, out of the corner of your eye it stops you. That stupid envelope with your stupid name on it.

“Dammit,” you growl, turning and grabbing it, pushing it into the front pocket of your bag. Then, within seconds, you're flinging the door open again and rushing downstairs.

The house shudders with the force of the gunfire, but you don’t stop.

You rip open the fridge door, grabbing the pickled food jars, the ones your dad had set aside years ago. The cool glass feels heavy in your hands as you stuff them in. Canned soups follow, quick but desperate, their labels fading with age. You catch sight of your fresh chicken, still in its plastic wrapping, and stuff it in too.

A shot rings through the window, and you flinch, but you don’t let it break your focus. They’ve taken your peace, the quiet of the night. Now they’re going to take your time and your home.

Joel’s voice calls from the other room, his words too muffled to make out, but the sound of his gun firing through the window tells you everything you need to know. You slam the fridge shut, your hands trembling slightly as you finish packing.

“Damn them,” you whisper under your breath, the words bitter. "Damn them for forcing me to do this now."

You sling the bag over your shoulder, every movement a desperate attempt to hold onto something, anything, before it all slips away.

Before Joel can say anything else, the unmistakable sound of men yelling rips through the air. Their steps are heavy and uneven, running across the street toward your house. You glance out the window, scanning the yard. Too many. They’re closing in fast, shadows moving like a swarm. And just as you spot a figure vaulting the fence, your heart stops.

A grenade flies through the air, hitting the side of the dining table with a sickening thud.

“ GET DOWN! ” Joel screams. His hands are on you instantly, pulling you and Ellie to the floor of the living room in one forceful motion.

The explosion rips through the air, and the world around you shatters. The blast sends everything in the room flying around, the deafening roar of fire tearing through the house as the walls shake with the impact. The smoke and heat rush toward you in waves, and your heart hammers in your chest. The house is on fire.

The men are surrounding the house. Fast.

You try to force down the panic clawing at your throat, but it’s impossible. The adrenaline surges again, the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in. Without thinking, you manage to get on your feet again, throwing open the door, rushing toward the front porch where the raiders are already firing at the house, their shots cracking through the air.

The shotgun feels impossibly heavy in your hands as you raise it, but you don’t hesitate. You squeeze the trigger. A burst of fire rips into the night, and you hit one of them square in the chest. His body jerks back, but there’s no time to celebrate.

The shots keep coming. More raiders pour onto the yard, and you don’t flinch. You fire again, another shot ringing out. This time, you catch one of them in the leg. They fall to the ground, but more keep coming.

Joel’s voice rings out from behind you, his words harsh and commanding. “Get in the truck! NOW!”

But you won’t move. Not yet. You can hear the raiders yelling at each other, the heavy thud of their footsteps echoing in the chaos. You won’t let them take everything. Not without a fight.

Then, another explosion. The house shakes violently, the force knocking you off balance. The sound of crackling flames fills the air, growing louder. The fire’s spreading. Fast.

You glance back at Joel and Ellie. Their eyes are wide with panic, frozen for a split second as they take in the destruction. The heat is intense now. The fire’s consuming everything. The roof above you groans under the pressure.

“We have to go!” Joel yells, his voice strained with urgency. His eyes lock onto yours, and you can see the worry there. “There’s too many! The house is burning down!”

You hesitate, your heart racing as your eyes flicker to the chicken coup. It’s right there, the only part of this place that’s still standing, still yours. You won’t let them burn alive, stuck behind the wire. You can’t— you won’t.

Your legs move before your mind catches up. You sprint across the yard, ignoring the ache in your legs as you race toward the coup, only to hear the sharp crack of gunfire in the distance. A bullet rips through your leg, sending you crashing to the ground with a yell.

Joel’s there in seconds, his voice frantic as he calls your name, but you can’t focus. Your vision is spinning, and everything feels far away. Then, his hands are on you, dragging you toward the truck, but you fight him.

“No!” You scream, desperation flooding your veins. “I’m not leaving them to die!” Your voice is raw, but you push yourself forward, crawling toward the coup, ignoring the pain, your hands shaking as you open the gate. The chickens squawk in panic, flapping wildly as they rush out into the open.

“We’re leaving! Let’s go!” His words are fierce, but there’s a trace of desperation underneath. Joel moves quickly, his hands grabbing you, lifting you up with an urgency that borders on desperation. One arm goes under your ribs, the other under your knees.

You’re too weak to fight him anymore. The pain in your leg is unbearable, and the world around you feels like it’s slipping away, the pain nearly pulling you into unconsciousness. Joel’s arm is the only thing keeping you upright as he shoves you into the truck. Ellie’s already in the passenger seat, her face pale, her eyes wild with panic.

Joel slams the door shut, and before you can even process what’s happening, the truck lurches forward. His foot hits the gas, and the tires screech as you tear away from the house, away from everything you knew.

But the pain is still there, gnawing at you, and the fire is still burning behind you, a monstrous reminder of what you lost. Ellie’s voice is shouting in the front seat, maybe asking Joel something, you’re not sure–it sounds muffled, distant, like you’re underwater.

You slump against the seat, your vision blurring, your body trembling from the shock of it all. The house—the one place you ever had that was yours—is gone. Reduced to ashes, just like that.

And for the first time, a sickening wave of loss washes over you. Not just for the house, but for the pieces of yourself you left behind.

But you force your eyes open, pushing through the fog in your mind. You can’t let the world swallow you. The road stretches out in front of you, dark and unknown.

But for now, the house is behind you. The life you lived for 20 years in that house, it can’t be gone that quickly, can it?

But it is.

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