He has started crying for the second time tonight, and it is nothing but exhausting for you to have to submit to this self-destructive routine where you play a role that you abandoned so many months ago but that keeps appearing in your hands without your consent and it is thanks to him.

Dex's shoulders tremble under the hand you have resting on them, you let out a sigh that doesn't hide your tiredness and he continues to hiccup, pressing himself closer and you feel suffocated.

You muster the courage to speak, reaching your limit tonight.

“Leave,” you murmur, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, but there’s no reaction from him. He remains in his position, completely ignoring you.

His weight seems to sink fully onto you when you move, trying to push him away. There’s a small, muffled sound from his lips that are pressed against the skin of your neck, and that’s when he finally deigns to speak.

“Just—Just for tonight.”

You manage to hear him and close your eyes, frowning at the annoyance of having to hear those words again.

“Leave.” you reply.

“Please.”

“Put your fucking clothes on and leave.” You spit out in disgust, and he tenses up over you, finally pulling his face away from your wet, bruised neck, showing his face.

He braces both hands on either side of your head against the mattress for support as he stares into your eyes full of pure malice and his are so red and glossy, pupils dilated that the hazel is almost nonexistent now, his eyelashes wet with those poor tears, and a pout forms on his lips, making you feel nauseous, and you mentally brace yourself for another of his pathetic, empty promises.

“I swear— I swear to you it'll only be for tonight this time, and I'll leave tomorrow, in the morning, before you wake up, you won't even—” he hiccups, not even being able to let the words out. “Notice I was here.” he doesn't like how you remain silent, just staring at him with ragging repulsion and he feels sick.

His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes and the lack of change is making him feel anxious. “Say something, please, please tell me it's okay.”

The last part is just so hilarious, and there's a smile full of fake humor forming on your lips.

“Tell you it's okay?” you ask incredulously, smiling at him, and there's a glimmer of hope in those bright eyes until he's hit with the reality that you're mocking him without pity.

“Why would I tell you it's okay for you to stay here after I kick you out because I'm tired of you coming around?” You raise an eyebrow, waiting for an answer he won't give you, and at least he's buying you time to continue.

The situation is making you want to laugh out loud because he looks so embarrassing on top of you, there's an intense, hot sensation building up in your lower abdomen, and you lick your lips to continue, letting out an involuntary laugh.

“You're a fucking headache, Benjamin.” you say between ragged giggles, kind of hysterical, saying that name knowing perfectly well how much it irritates him, and more tears are welling up in his eyes after that. “Doesn't matter how much you cry like a baby, I won't let you stay. At least be happy that I let you in in the first place."

After that, Dex frowns, hurt by your words, by the use of the wrong name, then he swallows the lump in his throat and, still, ignores you again.

“Let me stay.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “No,”

His mouth opens and closes rapidly, his breathing quickens slightly, and his hand flies swiftly to your neck. You grimace, not even surprised, and before he can tighten his grip on your throat, you clench your fist and punch him in the cheek, making him stagger and tremble from head to toe, a small, involuntary whine escaping his lips and now his tears are falling down his flushed cheeks, thick and pathetic, and God, you regret it because now he'll get worse.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says in a small, childlike tone, as if he’s losing his voice, and his arms weaken.

Dex falls on top of you again, burying his face in your neck once more, snuggling closer and sobbing and you roll your eyes, contempt mixed with interest preventing you from shoving your finger deep inside his ear until it hurts him.

He continues apologizing against your neck, hiccuping about leaving right now, telling you that he’ll leave you alone for real this time, that he’ll finally change, but that he will not bother you again.

Just other lies of his.

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 05 / 05 / 26

Do not think we take requests I will kill us both, but this submission got us like this

“He’ll be fine, right?” the small boy tugged on the woman’s sleeve.

“His leg just hurts a little. Remember when you broke your arm?”

“It doesn’t work that way—” the man standing next to them scoffed, but he was stopped mid-sentence.

“Shhh. He’ll be fine.” She turned back to the boy and smoothed his hair.

For weeks, the horse’s lame leg had been dragging behind the brown gelding as he carried supplies or a rider. Today, the limp had grown so bad that he refused to move, no matter how many men tugged on the rope. His head hung low, his weight heavy on three good legs.

It was still midday, and the sun filtered through the crowns of the trees as the group gathered around the animal.

“We have to get Joel.” An older man rose from his spot.

“No.” A young woman stood up, blocking his way. “You won’t.”

“Then what the fuck do you expect me to do?”

“We wait. We give him a week.” The young woman in the turtleneck sweater looked around, scanning the group’s faces. “Feed him some more.”

Some people nodded.

“We waited a week already,” the man said, lowering his voice. “The horse is dead.”

“Then we wait one more.” The woman was joined by a young man at her side.

“He won’t get better.”

“So what, we just kill him?” a young girl standing beside the horse wailed.

“We don’t.” The man muttered and pushed past the woman, marching toward the edge of their makeshift camp.

Leaves rustled under his boots as the group held their breath.

When he returned, he was not alone. The crowd fell silent as they approached; some lowered their gaze, others stared. The man was tall and broad, but that wasn’t what made him who he was to them. There was no excess muscle, no supernatural strength.

And yet, they all stared. The woman pulled the boy behind her.

He walked toward the horse, the group parting before him. He swept a look across the crowd. Several people dropped their eyes.

The gelding’s head was close to the forest floor now, warm nostrils almost touching the ground.

When he reached the animal, he looped the rope around his hand and tugged its head up to hold it in place. He reached into his pocket, and the silver blade glinted in the sunlight.

“Aren’t you supposed to shoot it?” someone in the crowd asked.

“’m not wastin’ rounds on a horse,” Joel muttered, not taking his eyes off the animal, the blade pressed flush against its skin.

The horse didn’t move, either unaware of its fate or too tired to resist.

“We’re not slaughtering him like this!” another voice shouted.

“Sure. Gimme my gun then.” He held out his hand, and someone turned to fetch it. “Just keep yours ready for when the horde hears this.”

The crowd fell silent. The man who had moved for the gun straightened and looked away.

Joel turned back to the horse and laid his hand on its neck, pressing against the warmth of its hide and the steady beat beneath it. With a single sharp motion, he drove the knife deep into its neck.

The horse’s neigh came out weak as it thrashed, Joel’s arm straining to keep its head in place, but no one dared step closer.

He sawed the blade deeper into the wound. The horse flailed once more before collapsing, its knees buckling beneath it.

Blood pooled beneath its neck as it seized one final time.

Someone gasped. A child began to cry, its mother shushing it quickly.

A girl reached out to touch the horse’s still-warm nostrils, but a hand caught her shoulder and pulled her back.

Joel crouched beside the body and leaned over it. The blade pierced the skin again, slicing along the animal’s abdomen.

“What the fuck,” the tall man near the scene whispered through clenched teeth. “What the fuck are you doin’?”

“Take him away, there are children here!” a woman shouted.

Joel’s movements didn’t falter, his hands skilled as he cut clean lines through skin and flesh, separating tissue.

“Calm down, guys,” a voice said. “He’s right. We need to skin it quickly before it rots.”

“Do you hear yourself, Tommy? Why would we skin our horse?”

“’Cause we need the hide, and we need the meat, Janet. I’m sorry.” Tommy placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, both to comfort her and to keep her from lunging at his brother.

“But this is Bill.” The woman pointed at the body with a trembling hand. “We had him for weeks. He carried us and the supplies.”

“And now he’s gonna feed us too. Let it go, Janet.” Tommy pulled the crying woman into a hug. Then he looked at the others. “Show’s over, everyone.” He gestured for the group to scatter.

***

Tommy seemed to appear out of nowhere. He checked once more to make sure no one had followed him before announcing himself.

Joel’s back was turned, seemingly unaware, but Tommy knew better. If he couldn’t hear him, he could at least sense him.

“You scared ’em today. Again.”

“What the fuck did you expect me to do? Put him in a splint?” Joel asked, washing the blood from his hands in the stream.

“No. Just… take it easy on them. They left their office jobs less than three weeks ago and—”

“Well, too fucking bad.” He rose and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I hope they enjoy dinner.”

“You don’t have to be like this.”

“It’s better for you if I am.”

***

Bill’s flesh simmered above the fire, portioned and made into stew.

The group gathered around and shared a meal. They told stories from before. Someone sang a song. The pieces of meat no longer resembled the animal.

One bowl was set aside, and when the feast ended and the group dispersed into their tents, Joel emerged from his.

He took the bowl and headed back toward the edge of camp.

Once there, he crouched and shoveled the food into his mouth, eating quickly, glancing left and right as he did.

***

By Thursday, Bill’s lifeless body seemed long forgotten. The remaining flesh was cooked and dried, and his hide cleaned.

Apart from the affection the group had for the horse, his absence posed a more pressing problem. It was now impossible to travel farther from camp to hunt, secure the perimeter, or haul game.

There was the car, its tank still half full, but it wasn’t practical in the woods and would attract too much attention.

Most of the group fell into a lull, unaware of the danger the situation posed. Life carried on—clothes washed in the cold stream, food cooked over the fire, someone laughing.

On good days, it almost felt like a camping trip.

The day was quiet. It was getting warmer, and the group lounged outside the makeshift tents.

It happened quickly.

Something rustled in the leaves, and before anyone could react, a small figure appeared in the bushes.

It was a child. Frail, a girl judging by the braid.

Jessica and Adam noticed her first, freezing in their tracks.

“Hey, baby girl,” Jessica cooed. “Where’s your mama?”

The girl twitched but didn’t step forward.

“Are you alone?” Jessica crouched and extended her hand.

The child took a step forward, her body shaking as she moved.

“She’s got it,” Adam said. “She’s bit.”

“You don’t know that,” Jessica replied, still facing the girl.

“She’s twitching already.”

The girl inched toward them. Leaves cracked beneath her shoes.

Her neck twitched slightly, and Jessica flinched but didn’t move.

“We gotta do something,” Tommy urged, his rifle now raised and pointed at the girl.

“Definitely not fucking shoot her,” Jessica scoffed, rising to her feet.

“Guys, decision time.” Tommy’s finger lingered just above the trigger.

“Where the fuck is Joel?” someone yelled, and heads turned around the camp.

Suddenly, leaves crunched under a heavier weight.

A shriek cut through the woods.

A grunt.

A gush of blood.

A loud but stilted „No”.

The child struggled briefly, held in large arms, then went limp. Her pale body looked like a rag doll held up by its neck.

Joel stood behind her, his blade buried deep in her neck.

Once she stopped thrashing, he let her body fall to the ground with a thud. 

Jessica gasped, frozen in place, her arm still stretched towards the scene.

Tommy moved the rifle back over his shoulder, but there was no relief in his eyes.

The group dispersed in silence.

***

The group settled into this life as best they could. Old habits died hard, and the outbreak had not waited for anyone to harden.

You sat by the fire one night, warming your palms near the flames when a familiar face appeared beside you.

“Hi, Tommy.”

“Hey, you.” He nodded toward the fire. “Sorry, I need to put it out soon.”

“That’s okay.”

You moved your hands closer to the flames, the heat prickling at your fingers.

“You’re a tough one,” he said suddenly. “You don’t look it. But you are.”

You weren’t sure what he meant. You couldn’t recall any acts of bravery on your part in the past weeks.

“It’s either this or you die.”

“Yeah, I don’t think everyone got that memo.” He chuckled.

Your thoughts drifted back to David, who felt he was too good to spare to take watch or hunt. He was of the strong belief that the experience gained in the position he held at the city council would prove very useful when the group built an actual settlement.

You snorted, though not everyone had found it amusing. Janet said it made sense.

“Where does he go when he’s gone?”

“You mean Joel?”

You nodded.

“Keeps to himself.”

You fixed your gaze on the flames, then shifted it to him. Thirty, at most, he already looked older than when you first met him. The crease between his brows had deepened, but there was still warmth in his eyes.

“They don’t like him.”

He snorted, but without humor. “Yeah. He’s… too much for them sometimes.”

“He protects them.”

“Mhm.”

You wondered why Tommy didn’t stay with his brother or force him back to camp. You had a sister, too, somewhere. If she were still here, you would stand by her no matter what she did.

“You don’t agree?”

“Joel has his way of doin’ things. It works, but it’s not always pretty.”

“Who cares what’s pretty?”

“I reckon we should care. We should never stop carin’ about it.”

“What? Keeping appearances?” Irritation crept into your voice.

“Bein’ human. Gettin’ dressed in the mornin’, sayin’ please and thank you, bein’ kind.”

“He’s human,” you shot back.

“He doesn’t want to be, I think. Not anymore.”

You wondered what had split the brothers so differently. Why saying please and thank you still mattered to Tommy, and Joel stopped concerning himself with it from the very beginning.

“Was he a soldier?” you asked.

Tommy shook his head. “No. I was.”

“You?” You stared at him.

“Yep. He built houses.”

You imagined Joel’s hands building something instead of breaking it.

***

Two days later, you moved the camp deeper into the woods. The infected shrieks woke the group in the dead of night, and just like that, it was decided.

On the way to the new spot, Jessica found an abandoned backpack. It was full of cans, and it felt like a gift from the universe that had betrayed you. Janet thanked the Lord, and someone scoffed loudly.

That night, everyone sat by the fire again, the warmed cans emptied into bowls and mugs.

You remembered when Joel still approached the group without being summoned, when he shared meals with you. Mothers ushered their children away from him. Men subtly positioned themselves between him and the women. One day, someone spat on the ground in front of where he stood. After that, he stopped coming altogether.

You hesitated at first, but it felt right. You picked up the bowl they had set aside and, careful not to draw attention, slipped away from the fire.

His sleeping bag wasn’t far from where the others slept, but it was separated by a line of bushes. He sat on the ground, focused on something in his hands.

You approached quietly and saw him carving a small shape with his pocketknife. Your steps were light, deliberate—but when you came close, his eyes snapped up to meet yours. His brows were drawn tight, his body coiled, ready to lunge.

You extended the bowl toward him and set it down carefully, your movements slow, cautious—as if feeding a wary animal. His eyes never left yours as you stepped back.

Once you were out of his sight, you turned and ran.

***

It became a habit then. Every day, it played out the same. You slipped away from camp with the bowl and brought it to him, his distrustful eyes tracking your every step.

You stopped running back. Instead, you watched from behind a tree as he ate.

One day, you didn’t retreat at all. There were two bowls in your hands now, and you moved closer to him than before.

“Don’t,” he said.

You stayed where you were. You didn’t move any closer. You crouched, set one bowl on your lap, and nudged the other toward him.

“What do ya want from me?”

“Nothing,” you said, digging into your food.

He waited, watching you. When you didn’t budge, he finally reached for the bowl. He ate more slowly than before, but his eyes never left you, his body still coiled, ready to run or fight.

***

You shifted closer each day, and he pretended not to notice—but of course he did. His eyes scanned the surroundings constantly, alert to everything.

“Can I sit here?” you asked once you reached the spot where he usually sat.

“I ain’t gonna tell you what you can or can’t do.”

You sat beside him. The sudden proximity overwhelmed you, but you didn’t let it show. The bowl was back in your hands, food shoveled into your mouth.

You could see him clearly now. He had sun-warmed skin and hazel eyes—like Tommy’s, but sadder. His dark curls had grown long enough to tuck behind his ears. You had the sudden urge to thread your fingers through them.

No one spoke as you ate.

***

The next time you finished your meal, you didn’t retreat immediately. He sensed the shift.

“You want somethin’?”

You hesitated. Maybe you had overstayed your welcome. Maybe you didn’t belong here. Maybe the rest of the group was right, and your defiance was juvenile.

You reached into your pocket, your fingers closing around the scissors. He tensed, the bowl slipping from his hands and hitting the ground.

“I can cut your hair. If you want.” Your voice sounded thin, uncertain.

His mouth twitched. He looked down, then scanned the trees again.

You pulled the scissors out slowly and held them in your open palm so he could see.

He looked at the tool, then back at you. The nod he gave was so slight you thought you might have imagined it. But when you stepped closer, he didn’t move.

You stood beside him and reached for his hair—carefully, slowly—but he still flinched at your touch. You tried again.

His hair was soft, and you had expected him to smell bad, but he didn’t.

Your fingers moved through the strands of his curls, the dull office scissors trimming away the excess length. You had never cut a person’s hair before, but it wasn’t so different from grooming a dog.

When you finished, you allowed yourself a small breath. He looked more like a person now, and only now you noticed he was much younger than you’d thought. 

You kept your hands in his hair for a few moments more than necessary, and you were surprised to see he didn’t move away from your touch—instead, his head pressed up slightly against your palm, in a movement so minuscule, you wondered if it was deliberate.

His eyes didn’t walk you back to camp.

***

You moved camp again, chased off by sounds you couldn’t place but instinctively wanted farther away from. Joel took down two infected while you were on the move, and the sound of the blade sinking into their necks still rang in your ears.

Food was scarce, and tempers were short.

When you finished your food—a sorry excuse for a meal—you set the bowl aside and rested your hands on your knees. Joel looked at you expectantly. There was a quiet understanding between you now. You ate in silence, sitting close. He let you mend his shirt.

“Can I stay here?”

His brows furrowed, and he shifted away from you.

You dragged your sleeping bag closer to his. He gave you a displeased look as he lay down, but he didn’t say anything.

In the morning, you slipped away before the others could notice—but Joel was already awake, watching you leave.

***

The other night, surrounded by chilly air and distant sounds of the hunting animals, you edged closer to him, holding your breath so you wouldn’t startle him.

He shifted but didn’t turn toward you.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

You were close enough now to smell him.

“I’m no good.”

“You don’t have to be.”

He didn’t say anything. And you stayed.

***

The day was warm, but the stream’s water was icy as you wrung out the freshly washed shirts.

Jessica was doing laundry beside you, but instead of her usual humming and chatter, she kept her distance. Every so often, she looked at you assessingly when she thought you wouldn’t notice.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, your hands straining to twist the water from a pair of jeans.

“I know where you’ve been.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

You twisted the fabric again.

“You’ve been whoring yourself to the older Miller.”

Your fingers froze on the wet denim.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She huffed a laugh and stepped closer, stopping just inches from your face.

“Was it your idea?” she asked with a smirk. “Think you’ll be safer now?”

“You’ve got it wrong.” You didn’t move.

“Stupid fucking girl. He’ll start expecting this from all of us.”

“He demands nothing from us.”

That seemed to amuse her.

She leaned in closer, her lips nearly brushing your ear. “So you’re just a whore then.”

Your fingernails dug into your palms, but you didn’t budge.

Finally, Jessica stepped back and grabbed the basket of laundry. Before heading toward camp, she turned to you once more.

“Wait until he’s done with you. Used up or pregnant—and he’ll just take another. Wonder how pleased you’ll be then.”

***

You fell into your sleeping bag with urgency and didn’t even look at Joel before zipping yourself up.

You were furious and didn’t know at what exactly. Was it the accusation? The fact that it was not true? Your lack of reaction?

“Somethin’ happen?” His raspy voice suddenly sounded.

You were so unaccustomed to him speaking that it startled you.

„No.” You shot back. „Night.”

You tossed and turned, but sleep wouldn’t come. You inched closer to Joel in your sleeping bag, crawling like an oversized worm.

You scooted close, but not nearly close enough to touch. He didn’t stop you.

***

The voices stopped when you approached the fire. You didn’t pause. You kept walking toward the simmering pot.

You glanced around. A few of them turned their faces away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Janet said.

“Me?” You looked around. “Why?”

“You know why.”

You searched for Tommy’s eyes, but he looked away. His arm was wrapped around Jessica, who pressed her face into his chest as if afraid of you.

“Look at me, Tommy,” you demanded. “Tell them.”

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he whispered.

He finally met your gaze. There was an apology in his eyes—but it was hollow. It didn’t matter anymore.

You straightened and took two bowls.

***

You woke up close to him, your bodies covered in blankets, almost touching.

Without thinking, you reached for him, burying your fingers in his hair.

He flinched, startled by the sudden touch. He turned to face you, and even after realizing there was no danger, he scrambled to move away.

“Don’t do that,” he grunted.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t damn yourself.”

You shifted back, and he slowly lay back down, farther away, but facing you for the first time.

***

One night, not long after, he almost chased you off.

Emboldened by the previous nights spent in close proximity—close enough to smell each other and hear each other breathe—you edged even nearer.

This time, you didn’t reach for him. You only positioned yourself close enough that any shift of his body would press him against you.

You waited for what felt like an eternity, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. Apart from that, his body remained still.

Sometime in the night, you jolted awake when his body trembled against yours.

In a matter of seconds, he pulled away, widening the space between you. The sudden absence of heat made you feel cold.

“It’s not safe for you here,” he rasped.

You frowned in confusion. “Where else would be safer?”

He lay back down and turned away from you again.

You stayed awake for a long time, watching his broad back rise and fall with each breath.

***

The day started with him, your every day did lately—but this time he moved fast, slinging the rifle over one shoulder and his backpack over the other.

You checked your pocket for the scissors — the plastic handle firm and reassuring in your grip.

He turned back to you, one brow raised in question.

“I wanna come.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t gonna tell you what to do.”

The forest was quiet, the snap of sticks underfoot the only sound around you. He walked ahead, steady and tall. He never looked back, but you knew he was aware of your footsteps falling close behind his own.

You moved far from camp and deeper into the woods. Despite the midday sun, the canopy thickened overhead, the path growing darker with each step.

“What are we hunting?” you asked, tired of the silence between you.

“Whatever we can.”

You were surprised he answered at all, even if it was dismissive. He didn’t slow down or turn.

Something loomed ahead. You stayed behind him without a word, though if he’d been anyone else, you would have pushed forward to see first.

It was a cabin—small and weathered, more a hunting shack than a home.

Joel stopped so suddenly you nearly collided with his back. He held out a hand, signaling you to stay.

You’d spent the last five weeks in the woods, growing accustomed to its rhythm—the stream, the trees, the animals. No matter how unprepared the group had been, this felt safer. The alternative—other people, other groups, the army—was what you all knew you had to avoid.

The cabin could mean people.

It could also mean food. Guns. Ammo. Tools.

Joel stood still, scanning the clearing in silence, then finally stepped forward. You moved close behind him.

He gripped the rifle as he approached the shack. Your fingers closed around the scissors in your pocket.

The door resisted at first, but when Joel finally kicked it open, there were no obvious signs anyone had been there in weeks.

You scanned the room. Bare wooden walls. A table with six chairs still around it. Shelves. Cabinets.

“Oh my God,” you whispered as your hand closed around a can stored high above your head. You brushed your fingers over the cool metal. There were more.

You stood on your toes to pull them down.

Bolognese sauce. Canned peaches. Baked beans. Your mouth watered as you stared at the labels.

Later, when you tried to recall what happened and in what order, you were never able to.

One moment Joel stood beside you, reaching for the cans.

The next, for the rifle.

A thump against the door.

Two men.

Pain—as you were shoved into the cabinet.

A scream.

A gush.

A chair crashing to the floor.

You froze, scissors clutched so tightly in front of you that your knuckles turned white. You were there—right there—but it felt distant, as if you were watching it from somewhere else.

He looked even bigger now as he drove one of the men into the wall. Blood poured from the man’s neck where Joel’s blade was buried.

A grunt. A twitch. Still.

The other one—taller, broader, furious, Joel’s equal in all the ways that mattered now—lunged.

His fist was raised but empty. It was just hands now. Flesh against flesh.

They grappled until Joel forced him backward, out the door, and onto the cabin steps.

One wrong step. A snap.

Joel’s hand clamped around his head.

He drove it down against the wooden step. 

Once.

Twice.

The sound of bone cracking.

Again.

The body went limp, but Joel’s grip didn’t budge, smashing the battered head against the wood again.

Blood pooled across the step—thick, dark, spreading. Flesh and bone reduced to mush.

A face that was no longer a face.

Your body was still frozen, scissors pointed—at who? At them? At Joel?

His body heaved with strain. His fingers loosened, and the mangled head dropped to the ground. The sound was wet, and somehow that was the thing that made your stomach turn.

When he straightened and turned toward the inside of the cabin again, his face was freckled with specks of blood, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide. He looked almost high on the violence, breathing heavily through his mouth as he walked toward you.

His bloodied fists were still clenched tight, as if ready to take on another threat.

“Joel.” Your voice came out barely a whisper.

He walked toward the point of your scissors until they pressed against his chest. 

For one breath, you stood like that—his broad frame towering over you, your back against the wall, the dull blade digging into his shirt.

Your fingers loosened around the scissors, and you let them fall to the floor with a thud. 

It was inevitable. There was no version of this moment in which it didn’t happen.

His body caged yours against the wall, the weight of him pressing you harder into the wood.

“Joel.” You mouthed it, but no sound came out.

You gasped as his hand grabbed the back of your head, fingers buried in your hair, pulling at the roots. Your faces collided—not in a kiss, but in shared breath, a clash of foreheads, a hungry look.

You could smell the sweat on his skin now, all strain and adrenaline and man and killing. It should have repulsed you, but instead you breathed in deep, desperate for more.

Pull. Turn. Push.

You almost tripped as he walked you back toward the table. The edge dug into your thigh as he pushed you on top of it and pressed you flat onto your back.

His jaw was clenched, teeth grinding as he hovered over you.

Your head throbbed with adrenaline, pulsing with blood as he reached to unzip your jeans, tugging them along with your underwear from your hips until they hung around your ankles. He seemed to expect you to struggle—you expected it too—but your body moved on its own, raising your hips to help him undress you, kicking the jeans off your legs to spread before him.

You were left spread open, exposed for him, right on the bloodied table, right next to the body lying against the wall.

He pressed you hard against the table, and you wondered why. You did nothing to stop this. Nothing to escape him. You didn’t tighten a single muscle to struggle.

He didn’t let you go for a moment, even when he struggled with his own jeans, big, shaking fingers fumbling with the button. His teeth ground harder as he finally freed himself.

Your body pulsed—your head, your fingers, your cunt. Fight or flight or fuck.

He guided his cock—thick, red, already wet at the tip—against your entrance, and his large palm rested on your face, holding it against the table so you’d look away from him. 

The first stretch of him was painful, your body barely accommodating his girth.

Your breath hitched as he pulled back out, only to bury himself to the hilt again. Soon, the table creaked beneath you with every fast, sharp thrust he gave you, the constant burn of the stretch soon starting to mix with raw pleasure as your body molded itself around him.

“This what you wanted?” he grunted, not slowing his brutal thrusts. “’Cause this is what I am.”

The weight of his hand pressed your cheek harder against the table, and you raised yours to cover it, turning your head to look at him, despite the weight of his palm. His bloodied fingers on your cheek twitched, but he didn’t force it back.

Your eyes met, and immediately, he turned his gaze away, fixed it on the wall instead, forcing you to stare at his blood-stained jawline.

His cock drove into you at an unforgiving pace, hips crashing into yours, the other hand harshly holding you down, and you thought you were supposed to be scared, but now trapped underneath him, it was the first time in a long time you were not scared at all.

“Joel.” You reached to cup his jaw, and he flinched, but didn’t brush it off.

Guided by your hand, he turned his face back toward you, finally looking into your eyes.

His face cradled with your hand. His palm still on your jaw. 

The sharpness of his thrusts against the pain in his dark, haunted eyes, the deepened crease between his brows.

He looked deep into your eyes, beyond them, inside you, and your eyes burned, but you didn’t even blink, desperate to see inside too.

The moment didn’t last long—his thrusts turned erratic and soon he pulled out, leaving you empty, and with a low grunt, he spilled on the ground between his feet.

Heavy breaths. A bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. Cool air between your wet thighs.

Your fingers tightened on his face, but he yanked himself out of your grip.

“Fuck.” He spat it out, turning away from you, already zipping himself up.

He paced a tight circle in the middle of the cabin, running a hand through his hair. Finally, he turned to the shelves and stripped them bare, sweeping cans and supplies into your backpacks with sharp, efficient movements.

Your legs shook as you lowered yourself to the floor, pulling up your jeans with trembling fingers.

He didn’t look at you again, not in the cabin, not when you stepped outside. Not the entire walk back to camp.

***

The backpacks hit the ground, and three women immediately crouched beside them, rifling through the contents and pulling out the precious cans.

Janet clasped her hands and tipped her face toward the sky in silent prayer, thanking the Lord for the path he never walked, the people he didn’t kill, the food he didn’t provide.

Joel slung his pack over his shoulder and walked away without a word. No one commented on the blood on his hands or clothes—whether they didn’t notice or simply chose not to ask.

You moved to follow him, but he stopped you, his arm shooting out the same way it had when you reached the cabin.

“Don’t,” he said, and stepped away.

You were left standing beside the cheering group, your face still marked with the blood of the man whose skull had been smashed against the cabin steps.

***

You spent two days on the edge of the campsite, lingering near the tree line, trying to be invisible.

They didn’t acknowledge you, but let you slip past them when you washed your bloodied shirt in the stream and when you grabbed a bowl to eat near your sleeping bag, away from the fire.

You didn’t grab one for Joel. And for two entire days, you didn’t dare go see him. You lived like an animal, alone and without words, the same way he did.

On the third morning, you woke to screaming—shrieks of terror tearing through the woods.

Still groggy, you pushed yourself up and hurried toward the noise, careful to stay far enough away that no one would think to stop you.

You recognized his broad frame immediately, standing among the group like something half-man, half-bear—burly, immovable.

“John, please, you know we have to—” Tommy held his hands out, trying to calm the other man.

“Move the fuck away, Tommy.”

John lunged at him, but Tommy caught him and held him back, struggling to keep him from breaking free.

You stepped closer, needing to see what had driven him to this.

John’s son, Steve stood a few feet away, gangly and young, his eyes wide with fear. You didn’t know them well. You hadn’t cared to. You wondered if you cared now, seeing him at gunpoint.

Joel’s gunpoint.

“Tommy, please.” Jessica stood nearby, looking like a college girl trying to break up a bar fight. “Please, there has to be another way.”

“There’s no way, baby.” Tommy’s voice softened, though his grip on John stayed firm.

The crowd gathered tighter around them. Someone shouted. Someone else began to cry. The noise swelled into a mess of wails and pleas.

“Dad.” Steve’s voice cut through it all. “Dad, stop. Stop it and let them.”

“I won’t let this fucking monster near you,” John growled, still straining against Tommy. “I won’t fucking let it.”

“I’m already fucking gone!” Steve’s shout commanded silence—even from his father. “Do it now. Do it before I turn.”

He straightened his back and lifted his chin, turning toward Joel.

From where you stood, you could see Joel’s face clearly. The crease between his brows. The tight set of his jaw. His gaze flicked to Tommy, to John, down to his own hands, then back to Steve.

Before anyone could move, he stepped forward, lowering the gun to drop it on the ground.

One hand came up to cradle Steve’s face.

The other drove the blade into his exposed neck, and with a gushing sound and a gasp, the young man fell.

John’s wail cut through the woods, Tommy holding him through it. You wondered if his embrace was meant to comfort the man or shield his brother from him.

Joel wiped the blade on the ground and tucked it back into his pocket before taking in the scene—the horror on the faces of the crowd, John’s devastation—and walking back to his corner of the edge of the camp.

***

There was a slight tremble in your hands as you carried both bowls in front of you, step by careful step, moving farther from the camp.

The night was dark and quiet, marked by the heavy weight of the first death since you’d settled in the woods. A death by the hands of one of your own—though you wondered if Joel could even be called Steven’s killer and if he was truly one of your own at all.

He was carving a piece of wood with his knife, but he sensed your presence the moment you came close.

Without a word, he set the wood aside and lowered the blade.

He seemed too tired, too pained to fight you off or send you back. Instead, he silently accepted the food.

With the bowls empty and the meal—hearty, warm, worth the two lives lost in that cabin—sitting heavy in your stomachs, you inched closer to him. His face was wary but exhausted, and his body didn’t move when you approached.

You cupped his face. Instinctively, he flinched—but he stayed.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark, sad. So fucking sad and ashamed.

Your hand slid to his chest, pushing gently until he leaned back. You kept pressing, slow and steady, until he lay on his sleeping bag.

You straddled him carefully, determined not to spook him. Moving slowly, as if there could be movement slow enough not to be detected until it was too late to retreat.

He let you.

You held his gaze. When he tried to look away, you steadied his jaw again, urging him to stay with you, to see you.

His palms were flat against the ground, pressing hard into the soil as if anchoring himself, restraining whatever instinct told him to move.

You reached down, palming the growing hardness beneath his jeans, coaxing him fully awake under your touch.

His brow lifted slightly, confusion flickering at the corner of his mouth, but he stayed still—letting you decide what happened next.

You unzipped him and freed his erection, drawing a surprised, stilted gasp from his throat.

You pushed your jeans down your legs and kicked them aside, the hem of your shirt the only thing covering you now.

Before you could think it through—before doubt could creep in—you guided him toward you, notching him at your entrance. You dragged the tip of his cock through your wet folds, coating him in your slick.

His expression tightened, almost pained. His arms twitched against the ground, fingers digging slightly into the soil.

You sank down slowly with a soft whimper, taking him inch by inch until he filled you completely, stretching you the way you’d needed since the violence-stained day in the cabin.

As you began to move—slow, deliberate—it became harder and harder for him to remain motionless. Still, he forced himself to stay grounded, limbs tense, face set in concentration.

When you reached for his hand, he flinched again. It was heavy, its weight burdened by restraint and shame. He tried to pull it away, but you held on, guiding it to your waist beneath your shirt. You pressed his fingers into your skin, urging them to curl there.

He gave a slight shake of his head—a silent protest—the first real movement he’d allowed himself.

You pressed his palm harder against you.

“I want it. Please, I want you,” you whimpered.

He shook his head again, the crease between his brows deepening.

“I’m no good.” His voice was rough, strained thin.

“You’re good.” Your hand softened on his cheek. “You’re good for me.”

He looked as if your touch burned.

“You’re making me feel so good,” you whispered, keeping your hips moving slowly against him.

His eyes closed — not to escape, but to feel — and a quiet whimper slipped from his mouth.

Your rhythm changed, rising and sinking with more intent, lifting until only the head of him stretched your sensitive entrance before taking him deep again. Another choked sound left him.

His hand tightened on your waist, not possessively, but with certainty, with choice, and you slowly moved your hand from his, trusting him not to let you go. 

His rough, calloused fingers were gentle against your skin, holding it with care and reverence, with fear of breaking.

“See? You’re gentle with me.”

You leaned forward until your bodies pressed together, your hands bracketing his face for balance.

The scent of him—his skin, his sweat—hit you hard, almost electric.

Your foreheads touched. Your noses brushed. You shared breath.

“You make me feel safe,” you murmured, moving against him. “I never feel safe here. But you make me safe.”

A sound tore from his throat — something between a groan and a wounded exhale. His eyes squeezed shut again, but his hand never left you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his other arm twitch beside him, as if fighting the urge to rise. You reached for it quickly, pulling his hand from the ground and dragging it up your body.

“I want you to touch me,” you whispered against his jaw. “I know you won’t hurt me. You’d never hurt me.”

This time he didn’t resist.

You placed his palm high on your thigh, where it met your ass. He cupped you immediately, stroking without guidance.

You whimpered into his neck.

“So good. Feels so good.”

His hips began to move beneath you—small, careful thrusts that met your rhythm.

His hands roamed more freely now.

You lifted your head to look at him. His eyes were open—barely—but enough to meet yours as you reached down between you, circling your clit in time with your movements.

Nose to nose, forehead to forehead, lips brushing but not quite kissing—just shared breath and quiet sounds.

Your legs began to tremble. Pleasure coiled low in your belly, tightening until it snapped, a wave breaking through you and pulling the air from your lungs.

You didn’t look away.

As you lifted off him, he slipped free, and you stroked him quickly, watching his face as release overtook him. He spilled into your hand with a muffled groan, eyes still locked on yours.

***

You knew your quiet life in the woods would one day end one way or another—a horde attack, wolves tracking you down, raiders pillaging through your camp. Danger was abundant, and you couldn’t outrun it forever.

What you didn’t expect was how it happened—and how anticlimactic the dissolution of the group would be.

One day, things continued the way they always had. Next, a girl was picked off by a stray infected. John didn’t come back from a hunt. And soon, the rest of them grew restless.

“It’s been weeks. They must’ve figured it out already, and we’re hiding in the woods the entire time.” David extended his hands as if preaching, a small group gathered around him. “We just need to find the army. They’ll lead us.”

“There is no army, David. No one’s gonna fucking lead us anywhere,” snapped a young man you didn’t know well.

They argued in circles until the group was divided. David and the others who still believed the army had things under control packed their belongings and left the campsite, led by faith in a new settlement that was surely waiting for them once they emerged from the trees.

Others stayed—but not for long. The group was vulnerable now, its numbers depleted, and it felt like something was ending whether they admitted it or not.

It was a shock to everyone but you and Joel when Tommy announced he was leaving.

“I caught a radio transmission. There are people tryin’ to make their own place out there. No army. No government.” He shoved his things into his backpack as he spoke. “Y’all can come with me. But I gotta leave now, while they’re still close.”

You saw the tears in Jessica’s eyes and the war in her head as she watched him. Someone called it a ruse. A trap. A pipe dream.

So Tommy left—with another man who had always been eager and reckless, the same way Tommy had always been eager and reckless too.

He came by before he went, lingering at the edge of the camp, his eyes searching until they found Joel.

“What do you want me to say?” Joel asked. “I ain’t gonna tell you what to do.”

Tommy nodded at him. Then he glanced at you, as if in question. 

And that was the last time you saw him.

You didn’t wait to be the last ones left. You packed in the morning—what little you had tucked neatly into your backpacks—and you left without goodbyes.

You never discussed where to go or where to settle.

But once you distanced yourselves from the camp, your legs led you in the same direction.

***

You were already standing on the doorstep of the cabin when he emerged from the trees. He took longer than you’d expected.

There was fresh blood on his sleeves and his hands, and as soon as it became clear it wasn’t his, you didn’t ask about it.

Once the door was closed behind him, you picked up the bucket of snow you had melted earlier. When he sat down—heavy and slow—on the wooden chair, you knelt on the floor between his legs.

His face was drawn tight with pain and exhaustion as he let you take his hands in yours, gently scrubbing away the blood and dirt.

His eyes never left you while you worked, even as you dried his fingers carefully with a cloth.

You ate dinner in comfortable silence, your elbows brushing against each other at the small table. The stew you’d made from the rabbits he brought you the day before tasted like something far finer than it was after weeks of hunger. He hummed in quiet appreciation as he shoveled it into his mouth.

At night, he lay down first, his body tired and heavy against the bedroll, while you stayed behind to tidy the makeshift kitchen—careful to dispose of any scraps that might draw animals back to you.

When you finally joined him, you were certain he was asleep, but the moment you shifted close to his broad back, you felt him tremble.

His eyes were closed, yet his body was still fighting something.

You moved closer, folding yourself around him—your knees curling into his, your chest pressed flush against his back, your arm reaching around to rest your palm over his heartbeat.

You buried your face in his hair and inhaled—the scent of woods and winter air, sweat, and faint iron beneath it.

He trembled again.

You held him there, anchoring him to you.

You mouthed soft, inaudible words against the nape of his neck—telling him he was good, that he kept you safe, that he did what had to be done.