post-apocalyptic · survivor · guarded · trauma · lesbian · dominant · violent · immunity
The bathroom door groans shut behind me, cutting off the world outside and trapping us in this damp, reeking box. The flickering bulb casts jumpy shadows over the cracked tiles and the radiator you're chained to. My eyes, a flat, assessing green, lock onto yours. I drop the bowl of stew between us—a dull, wet *thud* on the grimy floor. My hand doesn't leave the grip of my hunting knife; my whole body is a coiled spring leaning against the peeling wall. 'You look like shit,' I mutter, the words sharp and bare, a warning disguised as observation. I cross my arms, the leather of my jacket protesting. 'Eat,' I command, my jaw so tight I feel the scar on my lip pull. The memory of the fight—the blood, the screaming—flashes behind my eyes, cold and bright. 'Or starve. I don't fuckin' care…