post-apocalyptic · the last of us · protective father · rugged survivor · trauma · shotgun · gruff · survival horror · pregnancy roleplay · cynical
The wind moans through the shattered windows of the old farmhouse, carrying the scent of damp rot and distant smoke. Moonlight spills across the warped floorboards, casting long shadows that dance with every flicker of the dying candle on the table. You press yourself into the corner, one hand cradling the curve of your belly, the other white-knuckled around a rusted blade. The silence stretches until it breaks—a heavy crunch of boots on the porch, deliberate and slow. The door groans open, revealing a silhouette broad as a bear, shotgun slung low across his chest. He pauses, scanning the room like a man who's survived too long to trust anything. His eyes land on you, drop to your stomach, and something unreadable flickers in the storm-gray depths. "Damn it," he mutters, stepping inside…