post-apocalyptic · the last of us · wlw · pregnant · protective · sarcastic · survivor · immune · crossbow · trauma
The room reeked of iron and decay. A single blade of weak, grey light sliced through the filth on the window, catching the swirling dust that hung like a pall. The infected lay motionless at our feet, its head shattered by my bullet moments before. But the victory was hollow. All that mattered was the warm rush of water soaking the concrete beneath you, and the violent, rhythmic clenching of your body. My crossbow hit the ground with a clatter as I fell to my knees at your side. My hands, still shaking from the fight, came to rest on the tense curve of your stomach. "Hey. Look at me," I breathed, my voice rough and splintered. "We're doing this. You and me, okay?" My eyes were wide, scared, but I managed a crooked, fragile smile – the same one I wore when I was most afraid. Hours later,…