delilah

i dont think it will hurt if you smile 20 - mdni

[levsb0w]

me! rules/dnis! masterlist! fandoms!

extras!

[levsb0w]

also haha anyone want to send more ellabs requests haha thatd be hilarioussss

[wahterlemon-deactivated20260305]

i NEED abby anderson right now. holy fucking fuck i need her so bad RIGHT NEEOOOOWWWWWWWUUUGHHHH

[levsb0w]

if i ever sucked dick i already know id puke on that thing

[tacticaljorts]

ellabs on a camping trip where ellie insists she has to wear her headlamp to go down on abby, because

"baby i wanna see it quiver"

she's pouting with tears in her eyes and abby has one hand over her mouth, trying so hard not to laugh because of how serious and how ridiculous she looks, and the other in ellie's hair to try and shut her up by pushing her into her cunt

----

@gardengnosticator the visionary

[wonderlanderings]

Drunken Words Are Sober Thoughts...

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: cowgirl!abby anderson x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff, intoxication, light smutty thoughts 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: In the hazy glow of a bonfire, fueled by liquid courage, a drunken confession cracks open the carefully constructed world between a cowgirl and the woman she's been pining for. Abby Anderson, all calloused hands and a guarded heart, has spent weeks watching from the shadows, convinced her rough edges could never be worthy of something so gentle. But one whispered admission shatters every excuse, forcing her to confront a truth as terrifying as it is undeniable: the feeling might just be mutual.

: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]

𝐚/𝐧: still obsessed with this sry

It starts like this: you’re drunk.

Not falling-over, make-a-fool-of-yourself drunk, but the good kind. The kind that settles in your veins like warm honey, slow and sweet, making your limbs loose and the world soft around the edges. The air is cool against your skin, a welcome contrast to the heat of the bonfire that licks at the dark, painting everyone in flickering shades of gold and shadow.

The scene around you is a symphony of a perfect Friday night—the clinking of longnecks, the crackle of splitting pine logs, the twang of some heartbreak ballad leaking from a truck radio. Your friends' laughter weaves through it all, a comfortable, familiar sound. But for you, it’s all faded into a pleasant, distant buzz, like a TV programme playing in another room.

Because the only thing in sharp, HD focus is Abby Anderson.

She’s leaning against the tailgate of her car, the one with the fine layer of ranch dust still clinging to the wheel wells. The firelight catches the sweat on her bottle, the strong line of her forearm, the easy smile she gives to something someone else said. It’s a smile you’ve seen a thousand times, but the whiskey in your belly makes it feel new, makes it feel like a secret just for you. A stray lock of hair has escaped her braid, curling against her neck, and you have the stupid, overwhelming urge to tuck it back behind her ear. To feel if her skin is as warm as it looks.

And that’s when you feel the words, the ones you’ve kept locked up tight behind your teeth during early mornings mending fences and late nights on the porch swing, start to slip their leash.

And you, like a planet pulled into orbit, are leaning into her space. It’s a gravitational inevitability, a law of physics you have no hope of fighting.

Your shoulder presses against the solid muscle of her arm, a steady, radiating warmth that seeps through the worn denim of her jacket and into your very bones. It’s a point of contact you map with hyper-aware precision. Every time you shift to laugh at something one of your friends says—a sound that feels a little too bright, a little too performative—your thigh brushes hers. It’s just a flash of contact, over in a second, but it’s enough to burn. A brand that reminds you with every frantic heartbeat how easy it would be to just… close the distance.

Too easy.

To let your pinky finger stray, to link with hers where her hand rests, palm-down, on her own knee. To let the weight of your head drop onto that strong, inviting shoulder and just… stay. To feel the rumble of her voice in her chest if she were to speak.

She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t quite relax into it either. It’s a standoff in the middle of a crowded space, this tension between you as tangible as the condensation on your drink. You can feel the weight of her gaze when she thinks you aren’t looking, a physical touch that raises goosebumps on your skin. Those sharp eyes are tracking the flush you know is creeping up your neck, a tell-tale heat you’re powerless to stop.

The world narrows to the circle of firelight, the rest of the party fading into a distant, unimportant murmur. The bonfire is a living, breathing beast, crackling and spitting embers that spiral up into the velvet dark like dying stars. It paints Abby in flickering gold and deep, shifting shadow, and you’re a moth drawn helplessly to the flame of her, knowing full well you might get burned.

Your attention, once a wide-angle lens, is now a laser focus. You trace the sharp, strong line of her jaw, clenched tight even in repose, as if she's holding back a torrent of words with sheer physical force. You watch, mesmerised, as her throat works around a long pull of beer, the muscle flexing in a way that is painfully, beautifully animal. It looks like she's choking down something desperate and unspoken, something that tastes a lot like the same confession sitting heavy on your own tongue.

And then your gaze drops.

It falls to the sweat-slick hollow of her collarbone, a perfect, vulnerable dip where the top button of her shirt hangs open. The light catches the sheen of sweat there, making it gleam. It’s a silent, agonising invitation, a topography of want. The thought is sudden and unbidden, a lightning strike in the whiskey-hazed dark: you want to press your lips right there. You want to feel the frantic beat of her pulse against your mouth, taste the salt on her skin, and learn if she would gasp or sigh or finally, finally break.

The alcohol in your veins, the heat of the fire, the sheer want of it all—it’s a cocktail that obliterates every last shred of your filter. It’s a sweet, welcome annihilation.

You lean in, your breath ghosting the shell of her ear, sending a visible shiver that has nothing to do with the night air skittering down the side of her neck. The words are out before your brain can catch up, your voice a low, confidential slur.

“Y’know,” you murmur, “for a cowgirl who’s s’posed to be so tough, you’re awful soft to lean on.”

Abby freezes.

It’s an absolute, heart-stopping arrest of motion.

She doesn't look at you.

Not yet.

She’s a statue, processing the impact.

Around you, the easy chatter of your friends—Jesse’s laugh, Mel’s story—dips for a single, suspended heartbeat before rolling on, unfazed. Of course, it’s not news. Abby Anderson, all coiled muscle and quiet swagger, is the worst-kept secret in the county. Half the town is half in love with her, whether they'd admit it or not; it's just a fact of life, like the summer heat. But you… you just said the quiet part out loud. To her.

The longneck beer bottle halts halfway to her lips. You are close enough to see the minute details: the way her knuckles have gone white around the brown glass, the slow, deliberate blink of her eyes, the almost imperceptible part of her lips as her breath hitches—like she’s one wrong breath, one wrong word, away from snapping the glass in her bare hand.

That’s new. That’s a reaction no one else gets to see. That’s for you, and you alone. And the air between you suddenly feels too thick to breathe, charged with a static that has nothing to do with the dry night.

"Yeah?" she says, and her voice is rougher than a gravel road, low enough that it’s almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire and the distant chorus of crickets. It’s a sound you don't just hear; you feel it in your bones, a vibration that settles deep in your chest. "That a fact?"

You nod, the movement slow and deliberate, solemn as a Sunday prayer. "Mmhmm." You lean in, closer this time, close enough to catch the faint, intoxicating scent of pine on her—a scent that’s starting to feel like your own personal addiction.

You hold eye contact, a feat that feels both impossible and utterly necessary. The words are out now, hanging in the smoky air between you, and suddenly you’re not quite sure if the heat flushing your skin is from the fresh log Ellie just tossed into the flames or from the way Abby’s gaze drops, heavy and deliberate, to your mouth.

It’s not a glance; it’s a brand. A searing, possessive look that steals the air from your lungs. It feels like she’s not just looking, but memorising. Like she’s already imagining how you’d taste, and the thought alone is enough to make your knees go weak.

She barks out a laugh then, a sharp, startled sound that cuts through the night, but there's something jagged in it, something raw and unravelling at the edges. "Christ, sweetheart. You’re wasted." It’s supposed to be a dismissal, a wall to shut this down, but it comes out like a plea—a desperate, last-ditch attempt to cling to the safety of the game you’ve both been playing.

"Not that wasted," you protest, the words slurring just enough to betray you. The space between you vanishes, the inch of night air replaced by her warmth. The firelight catches in her eyes, and for a second, they’re not just looking at you—they’re a bonfire themselves, all golden heat and dancing shadows, and you are more than willing to be consumed.

And—oh.

Oh no.

Because she’s looking at you, really looking, and the teasing mask is gone, shattered. Her gaze is a physical touch, a slow, searing sweep from your eyes to your mouth, lingering at the frantic, rabbit-quick flutter of your pulse in your throat. It’s the look of someone trying to solve a puzzle they’ve been staring at for months, finally letting themselves see the shape of the missing piece. It’s the look of pure, unguarded want, a hunger so stark and honest it steals the air right from your lungs. The world doesn't just fade; it incinerates. There is only the crackle of the fire, the thunder of your own heart, and the terrifying, beautiful truth burning in Abby Anderson's eyes.

And fuck, you’ve seen Abby Anderson pissed off, all coiled rage and white-knuckled fists, a storm contained in skin and sinew. You’ve seen her tired to the bone, shoulders slumped as she unsaddles her horse in the fading evening light, her movements slow with the weight of the day. You’ve seen her covered in a day's worth of dirt and sweat, a streak of grime on her cheek and a curse on her lips, as untamed and real as the land itself.

But you have never seen her like this.

The easygoing cowgirl facade is gone, sandblasted away in an instant, leaving behind something raw and utterly undisguised. It’s like you’ve spent your life looking at a finished painting, and in a single moment, you’re seeing the wild, furious, and beautiful first strokes. Her eyes are dark, the pupils swallowing the colour whole, and they’re fixed on you with an intensity that feels like a physical weight, pressing the air from your chest. It isn't anger. It isn't amusement.

It's hunger.

A pure, unvarnished need that hollows her cheeks and parts her lips just slightly, a silent invitation or a desperate gasp for air. She looks at you like you're the only water and she's been lost in the desert for a lifetime.

Her voice drops, a low, gravelly whisper that rasps against your skin like worn leather, a secret meant for you and you alone. It’s a warning and a plea, the last line of defence before the whole world goes up in flames.

"Keep talkin’ like that, darlin’," she says, each word measured and deliberate, heavy with the weight of a hundred unsaid things, "and I might just start believin’ you mean it."

The words hang there, a challenge and a surrender all at once.

And God, she hopes you don’t.

She prays to a God she’s never much believed in that when the sun cracks over the horizon and burns the liquor from your veins, this moment will have faded like a dream. That you’ll laugh it off with a sleepy smile, call it a slip of the tongue, a joke fueled by one too many whiskeys, and go back to being just friends. Back to the safe, agonising distance of shared chores and sidelong glances. Because the alternative—the terrifying, glorious possibility that you do mean it—is a cliff edge she isn't sure she can step back from.

Because if you do mean it?

If you meet her eyes in the clear, unforgiving light of day and there’s no regret in your gaze—only that same steady, heart-stopping certainty? If you’re still looking at her like that, like she’s the only soul in a crowded room, the only star in a midnight sky… If you whisper those sweet, dangerous things again, your voice steady and sure, your hands gentle as you treat her like she’s something precious to be wanted, to be cherished, and not just a hard-handed girl with a stubborn heart and too damn much to lose?

Then it’s over for her.

The careful distance, the walls built high and strong around a heart that’s been bruised more than it lets on, the flimsy excuses she’s clung to like a lifeline—it will all crumble to dust. It will be a surrender, not a defeat. A laying down of arms after a war she never wanted to fight in the first place.

And she won’t be able to stop herself. She’ll be done for, completely and utterly. She won't just fall; she'll plummet, a freefall with no end in sight, and she’ll fall so hard there won’t be a single, recognisable piece of her old self left to pick back up. And the terrifying, glorious truth is, staring into the dizzying possibility of you, she’s not sure she’d even want to.

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy with everything she isn't saying, a third presence in the space your whispered confession left behind. Then she mutters it, the words low and rough, almost to herself, like they’re being dragged out of her against her will by some fundamental, gravitational force of need:

"Thought you had a thing with Jesse."

It’s an accusation and a question all at once, a Hail Mary pass thrown from the depths of her own jealousy. She’s seen you with him, after all. Seen the way he can sling an arm around your shoulders and make you laugh, easy and bright, a sound that’s been stuck in her head for weeks, gnawing at her ribs with a quiet, persistent ache. The easy familiarity of it has been a splinter in her heart.

You wrinkle your nose, a swift, immediate reaction of pure, unfeigned distaste. "Ew. No." It’s so final, so unconsidered, as if the very idea is physically offensive. The dismissal is so effortless it steals the air right from her lungs, leaving her dizzy.

"No?" Her voice is a studied masterpiece of casualness, a complete and utter lie. She focuses on picking at the edge of the label on her beer bottle, peeling the corner with a meticulousness she does not feel, pretending her heart isn't hammering a bruise against her sternum. She is the picture of nonchalance, a statue of indifference, while inside she is a live wire. Like she’s asking about the weather and not the single thing that’s been quietly poisoning her thoughts.

"He’s Jesse," you say, with a wave of your hand, as if those two words explain the entire universe and his place firmly, irrevocably, outside of your romantic orbit. As if he's a brother, a fixture, a fact of life—anything but a rival. And in that simple, devastating sentence, every one of her jealous assumptions shatters.

Abby’s quiet for a beat too long. The firelight catches the tight cord of tension in her jaw, the way her teeth grind together minutely, like she’s chewing on shards of her own resolve. She’s balancing on a knife’s edge, the one she’s been walking all night. Then, carefully, so carefully, like she’s stepping onto thin ice she knows is already cracking—like one wrong word, one wrong breath, will send her plunging into freezing, unforgiving water:

“Not your type?”

You see the gamble in her eyes, the flicker of raw, unvarnished fear beneath the thin veneer of bravado. She has thrown the last of her chips on the table, and she is terrified to see how you'll call her bluff.

And so you grin. It’s a slow, deliberate, cat-got-the-cream curl of your lips as you tilt your head, your gaze dropping to her mouth for a heartbeat before returning to her eyes, watching the last of her composure unravel right there in real time.

“He knows I’m not into guys,” you say, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush meant only for her. You let the pause hang, let the implication sink its hooks in deep. Then, you deliver the final, killing blow: "Told him I'd rather have a woman who's strong enough to knock me on my ass, and stupidly hot doin' it."

Something in her expression fractures.

You can actually see it—a seismic shift deep behind her eyes, the final, foundational wall giving way. It’s a tiny, involuntary twitch at the corner of her mouth, a fragile tremor as if you’ve snipped the one single, taut string holding all her composure together.

The effect is instantaneous. Her breath hitches, catching in her throat in a sharp, ragged inhale that’s less a breath and more a body blow, like she’s been sucker-punched right in the solar plexus, all the air and all the fight leaving her at once. Her grip instinctively tightens on the bottle, her knuckles bleaching bone-white with the strain, tendons standing out in sharp relief along her forearm. For a wild, heart-stopping second, the glass groans under the pressure, and you genuinely think she might shatter it in her bare hand, a perfect, violent metaphor for what you’ve just done to all her carefully maintained boundaries.

The sound she makes is barely a whisper, a raw exhalation of your name.

Because you’re drunk, but Abby? Abby’s only tipsy—just enough to feel the edges of her control soften, to let the recklessness simmer in her veins like a low-grade fever, but not enough to blame the fallout on the liquor later. She is terrifyingly, painfully present, her mind a sharp, clear pane of glass, and every look, every touch from you has been a fingerprint smudging it beyond repair.

And fuck, she remembers everything.

The phantom weight of your head leaning into her shoulder when you laughed earlier, your temple brushing the sensitive curve of her neck, not like an accident, but like a brand. The devastating warmth of your breath against her skin when you whispered some stupid, confidential thing, a secret she didn’t even hear because all her senses had narrowed to the hypnotic, dangerous shape of your lips. The way you’d looked her dead in the eye, your gaze unfiltered and true, like it was nothing. Like wanting her was the easiest, most obvious thing in the world.

And in the wake of your latest confession—a strong woman—those memories don't feel like memories anymore. They feel like a roadmap. A destination she’s been circling her whole life without ever daring to look at the signs. And now, with your words ringing in her ears, she’s standing right on the edge of it, the ground crumbling beneath her boots, the path ahead terrifying and clear.

It isn’t easy for her.

Nothing about you is easy.

Not the way you flirt like it’s breathing, as natural and essential as drawing air, leaving her constantly off-balance and wondering if she’s just imagining the heat in your glance, or if she’s just another person you charm without a second thought. Not the way you tease her with a glint in your eye, a sly, knowing curl of your lips that suggests you know exactly what you’re doing to her, like you can see the frantic, traitorous rhythm of her heart beating a wild tattoo against her ribs.

Not the way you’re looking at her now, all challenge and smouldering heat, a silent dare that screams "come on, then." Your gaze holds none of the uncertainty that churns in her own gut; it’s steady, assured. Like you’re a hunter who’s already sighted their quarry, and you’re just waiting, patient and sure, for her to finally, finally surrender. 

And the most terrifying part is the dawning realization that a piece of her, a piece she’s tried so hard to shackle, is already straining at the leash, ready to run headlong into the trap and call it freedom.

And God, it’s the furthest thing from easy when she’s spent weeks—agonising, endless weeks—biting her tongue until she tastes copper, building walls stone by stone just to watch them crumble to dust the second you walk into a room.

She’s been a prisoner of her own gaze, watching you from across the general store, her eyes tracking you over shelves of canned goods and feed sacks like you’re the only thing in focus. From her usual shadowed corner of the bar, nursing a beer and studying the way the low light catches the curve of your smile, mapping its shape in the quiet dark of her mind.

She’s spent a small eternity in a special kind of hell—the hell of not knowing. Wondering if the way you held her gaze a second too long over the counter meant anything at all, or if it was just your way of being kind to the quiet, coiled-up cowgirl who never seems to know the right thing to say. Wondering if you had any idea—if you could possibly tell—just how many nights she’d lain awake in her lonely bed, the scent of hay and leather clinging to her sheets, her mind relentlessly replaying every accidental brush of your shoulders that felt like a lightning strike, every shared laugh, every time your fingers had lingered just a desperate, hopeful heartbeat too long when handing her a tool or a drink.

It’s a curated collection of moments, a secret museum of your proximity that she visits in the dark, and every exhibit is a fresh lesson in want.

It wasn't easy. It was a special kind of torture, and you were the most beautiful wound she'd ever known.

Not when she’s been too goddamn scared to even form the question, the words turning to ash on her tongue before they could ever see the light. Too acutely, painfully aware of how a question like that would sound coming from someone like her—all calloused hands and sharp, unforgiving edges, a woman built on a foundation of grit and a reputation that precedes her like a warning shot. She’s the kind of woman who takes what she wants without apology, whose touch is all demand and possession, who leaves marks on skin and wild, whispered stories in her wake.

She’s a brushfire, and she knows it. A force of consumption and raw, untamed power. And a brushfire should never be allowed to want something as gentle, as soft, as you. The thought of it felt like a transgression, like bringing mud and violence into a church, like her very desire was a sin against your light. You were the morning sun on a quiet, dewy field; she was the bruised-purple cloud and the cracking thunder of the coming storm.

It was a fundamental mismatch, a law of nature written in the very soil of this town, and that law had kept her anchored in a silence so deep and so long she'd almost forgotten what her own wanting sounded like.

But now?

Now she knows.

The truth is a live wire in her chest, sparked to life by your drunken, fearless confession. The words have burned away every flimsy justification, every shield she’s ever held up between the woman she is and the one she wishes she could be for you. The smoke has cleared, and there is nowhere left to hide. The "what if" that has haunted her for months has been answered with a resonant, undeniable "this is."

Now she’s lost her last, best excuse, and the ground beneath her feet has never felt so terrifyingly solid, or so final. The path of retreat has crumbled into the abyss behind her. There is only forward motion now, a single step into a future that is suddenly, blindingly clear. The paralysis of not knowing has been replaced by the terrifying freedom of certainty, and it is the most sobering feeling of her life.

[levsb0w]

when im on my period so i lowkey have to miss university and uni until my cycle is over in case i have a seizure mid shift 🫰

[levsb0w]

the voices (me) yearn for nancy wheeler..

[pearlessance]

Violent Delights

summary: A brush with death on a hunting trip has you more needy for Tommy than ever. He kisses it better, just like he always does.

pairing: raider!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, virginity loss, tommy covered in blood, unprotected piv, nipple play, heavy petting, multiple orgasm, power imbalance, praise kink (like an absurd amount of praise jfc), size difference, lots of pet names (bunny, sweet girl, little girl, baby), canon typical violence, age gap (unspecified, but like 12-15 years), kinda codependent dynamic, dacryphilia, tommy gives reader hickeys, some light begging, oral f!receiving, pussy pronouns, no beta

note: uhm, yeah so...this sort of came out of left field for me. filthy filthy raider tommy smut, inspired by this ask and also by @trulyourslola ily <3 i hope you guys enjoy, let me know what you think! tysm for reading!!!

wc: 6.02k

[MASTERLIST] [AO3]

You’d promised to stay out of trouble. 

Lifted your pinky, wrapped it around his, and sworn on it. Locked the promise with a kiss against your fist. 

You just wanted to get out of there. Out of the big, empty warehouse where the four of you had been holed up for the last two weeks. Tired of the smell of wet cement and mildew and the incessant arguments with Joel and Tess, many of which you’d antagonized. 

But they’d killed that boy in cold blood. 

Tricked him into trusting, just to put a bullet in the back of his head the moment he turned his back. All for a singular can of beans. 

They’d even tricked you into thinking you were going to help him, save him.

You were too soft for this kind of violence. Even though the outbreak had happened nearly ten years ago, the bloodshed never seemed any easier to witness. Never felt less like damnation, no matter how many times Tess sat you down and explained, “We have to. It’s us or them now.”

You understood killing for necessity. 

But the two of them were long past that. Every day it felt more and more as if Joel and Tess were killing instinctually. A gut reaction, a first choice instead of the last.

You couldn’t stop seeing it.

Couldn’t stop looking at them and seeing that boy's face. He wasn’t much younger than you. Twenty, maybe. Not innocent, because no one was anymore, but still human. 

And they’d killed him with his back turned.

You could still feel the blood spray on the side of your arm. Right above your elbow, crimson splashes of gore that stained more than just skin.

Tess and Joel both had told you a million times to grow thicker skin. That the world was cruel now. Unforgiving. Told you that you had to be the same. 

But that wasn’t who you were. You’d never been like Tess, even before the outbreak. Had never been anything but rounded edges and easy words. And the world had changed, yes, but you hadn’t. Couldn’t.

Tommy, though—he had a soft spot for you. Everyone knew it. And it showed in the way he’d return from a scouting mission with a handful of wildflowers or a new book or a jeweled hair clip or—your favorite, the fuzzy plush rabbit you now had tied to the strap of your pack.

That soft spot was likely the only reason he’d agreed to take you hunting with him.

You had come to him with tears in your eyes and explained that you needed time away. Time to think, to breathe, to feel the loss so you could rid your heart of the anger you held onto. 

He was hesitant, the way he always is. “It’s not safe,” he’d said. “You could get hurt.”

All it took was a sweet-laced, “Pretty please?”

His eyes softened the way they always do when it comes to you, and you knew right then and there that he was going to give in. But just to seal the deal, you’d held out your pinky and promised, “I won’t get into any trouble. I’ll be really, really good for you.”

His lips parted at your words, just enough to let out a trembling breath. But then he grinned in that wolfish way that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, wrapped his pinky around yours, and kissed his fist. “You know the rules, bunny,” he’d whispered, pushing your intertwined hands toward your mouth. “We lock our promises.”

You’d never forget. It was your favorite part about making promises with Tommy. 

It was almost like kissing.

You left Joel and Tess and the warehouse behind just after the break of dawn, slinking off into the overgrown woods. It didn’t take long for Tommy to find a pair of doe tracks in the fresh snowfall, and you followed for miles while he tracked the animal.

He was a warm, looming presence at your side. Comforting but lethal, the way he’s always been. Tommy kept one hand around your cold fingers and the other steady on his rifle, sometimes offering you the water from the side of his pack, other times bringing your knuckles close to his mouth to warm them with his breath.

His mustache would tickle your fingers, and you’d giggle softly and he’d say, “There she is. My sweet girl.”

You’d stumbled upon the cabin by accident.

Tommy saw it first, of course. Extended his hand at your side and forced your movements to a sudden halt.

It looked abandoned. The wood was crumbling and withered, there boards over every window, and a half-secured tarp over a hole in the roof.

Tommy scouted out the perimeter first. Ordered you to stay close, to keep your eyes open and the safety off.

When it was time to push inside, you prayed there would be food. Half a bag of rice or a jar of jam一something.

The inside of the cabin was in better shape than the outside. Small and dust covered, but cozy. There were mounted deer heads on the walls and a small fireplace and a sienna-colored couch in the corner.

You followed right on his heels. Tommy had his rifle raised and his finger on the trigger as he did a sweep of the two rooms in the back of the cabin. A tiny bedroom with nothing but a moth-eaten pile of folded blankets and a twin sized mattress, and an even smaller bathroom with glass mirror shards in the sink.

No sign of life but the two of you.

“Clear?”

Tommy lowered his rifle. “Yeah,” he said. “We’ll stay here for the night. Dark’s comin’ soon, anyhow. Pick up the trail in the morning.”

“I’m gonna check the kitchen.”

You turned the safety on and slid your pistol back into the holster strapped to the side of your thigh.

But you don’t make it two steps out of the bedroom before he’s on you.

Gun to your temple, white-knuckled grip around your throat. You cough and sputter and try to spin out of reach, but it’s no use. 

The man’s too big—the man you’d somehow missed in your search. Stuck in some crack or crevice, hiding like a roach in the dark.

Tommy hears the commotion and is there with his rifle raised in a second. “Let her go,” he orders.

The man at your back laughs. “And why would I do that? I don’t tolerate raiders here. Now—walk outside. Off the porch. Lay your gun down at the door, and then maybe I’ll consider letting her live.”

Your lungs feel heavy. Each breath feels more strenuous than the last, labored against the pressure of his palm on your neck.

Tommy does as ordered. Backs out of the front door of the cabin slowly, eyes locked on yours. 

You weren’t scared—you never were, not as long as Tommy’s with you. But seeing the fear on his face makes you uneasy. Has your heart hammering against your sternum and your palms sweating.

He lays his gun down and raises his hands in surrender. Tommy’s voice is low when he speaks. Dark and threatening. “If you hurt her,” he says, his steady breaths creating clouds of condensation in the frigid air. “I’ll kill you.”

The man cocks the gun against your head and the metallic sound echoes inside your skull.

A revolver. Familiar. The same kind Tess uses. 

Your hands begin to shake. 

“And if I let her go now, you’ll just come back another day to kill me,” the man says bitterly. “You never should’ve come here.”

He walks forward, shoving you along. He kicks Tommy’s gun away from the door, further out of both his reach and yours.

You need to move. Reach for your gun or the knife in your belt. Something, anything. 

But your brain refuses to catch up, to process anything but a singular thought. 

You broke your promise.

Swore on it, sealed it with a kiss, and yet here you were. 

Trouble. 

The man steps off the porch, only a few feet from Tommy now. “There more of you? A group?”

“No,” Tommy lies. It comes out easily. Smooth and practiced. “Only the two of us. Just passing through.”

His grip around your throat tightens, cutting off your air. “Liar,” the man spits. “Try again.”

There’s panic in Tommy’s voice now. Not much, but enough that you pick up on it even through the ringing in your ears. “We used to be four,” he answers. “Lost some folks in a warehouse a few miles back. Infected.”

Your fingers reflexively come up to claw at his hand around your throat, nails digging in deep. And you try to breathe in slowly through your nose and will your frantic heart into a normal rhythm, but it’s no use. 

No use, because you can’t breathe and the metal barrel of his revolver has warmed to the temperature of your skin now and Tommy’s—

Tommy’s pulling the serrated sawback knife from the inside of his coat and casting it towards you. 

It strikes true, black metal lodging itself in the man’s thigh. A hair's breadth from yours. Not a lethal wound but it’s enough, just enough to stun him. 

You take the opportunity, slipping out of his hold, stumbling back onto the porch steps. The snow bites into the flesh of your palms, and you take in greedy breaths, filling up your aching lungs.

The gun goes off.

In the time it takes you to turn around and scramble backwards, Tommy’s already launched himself forwards, bowed just enough to narrowly miss the fired bullet.

He tackles the man to the ground, and it’s the first time you’re able to get a good look at him. Greying and wrinkled and malicious.

Tommy swings his fist and red crimson stains the crisp snow.

Emotion comes flooding in fast, filling up your belly, your chest, your mouth. White and hot and overwhelming.

When the tears finally spill over, they’re warm against your wind-chilled cheeks.

Tommy reaches back and rips his knife out of the man’s leg. “I told you what would happen,” he grits out, eyes alight with fury. 

And then he sinks the knife deep into the man’s chest.

Pulls it out.

Shoves it in again.

“You never should’ve touched her,” Tommy seethes, shoulders shaking with each ragged breath.

Blood gurgles out of the man’s mouth now, steam forming and rising above the hot liquid.

Tommy doesn’t stop. Repeats the action again and again and again, even as the blood splashes up against his face and coats his hands in gore.

He doesn’t quit until there’s nothing but stillness lying below him. A man no longer.

You press your hands to your mouth, holding back a sob that threatens to claw its way out from behind your teeth. 

But the horror isn’t from watching the scene before you unfold. No, it’s the realization.

The feeling of loss. Or what would have been, had Tommy been just a little slower, a little less untrained. If his ability to lie was just a little worse or if his aim was just a little shaky.

If he wasn’t Tommy, your Tommy一you’d be dead. 

And so would he.

The thought alone is crippling. Has your heart aching and your stomach turning and一

“Oh, bunny.” 

His eyes are soft. Gentle, even, despite the blood droplets that smear down his forehead, his cheeks, his chin.

Tommy drops his knife into the snowbank and raises his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry you had to see that. But he…he hurt you. You know why I had to, don’t you?”

You feel frozen in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

He stands and carefully closes the distance between you, moving slower than you’ve ever seen. Like he’s terrified any sudden movement will have you scurrying off akin to your namesake. 

Tommy lowers himself to his knees before you with desperate eyes and pleads, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, sweet girl. Please, don’t…please, baby, don’t be afraid. Not of me.”

And somehow, that hurts worse. Knowing he thinks you’re afraid of him when the only thing in the world that has ever brought true fear to your heart is the thought of losing him.

It’s enough to finally, finally move you.

You’re throwing yourself into him unabashedly, frantic to feel him, to touch him. You climb into his lap and press your tear-soaked face into the crook of his neck.

Tommy folds his arms around you and holds tight, big hands splayed wide on the expanse of your back.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, the scent of him calming you just enough to get the words out. He smells like snow and wood and iron, but there’s something warm beneath it all. Something just Tommy, something just yours. 

“Got nothin’ to be sorry about, silly girl. Shh, s’okay.” He presses tender kisses to the top of your head and his biceps flex around your body, squeezing you tight. 

“But I promised I’d be good! I promised and I一”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupts, tucking his finger beneath your chin and forcing your eyes to his. “S’my fault,” Tommy says. “Not yours. Never yours. You hear me? S’my job to protect you. I should’ve double checked. Should’ve gone with you. You’re perfect, bunny. So—God, you’re so fucking good for me. So sweet and soft. My good girl.”

The tears flow faster now, your head and heart alike swimming in his praise.

Tommy thumbs away your tears and strokes his warm hand down your spine, soothing you the way he’s always been good at. 

Your cheeks are still damp when you lean forward to kiss him. A slow, tentative press of your lips against his at first. The same kind you share in secret when Joel and Tess aren’t looking. 

But you’d nearly lost him today, almost watched him slip through your fingers like smoke, and you need more. Need to touch him, to taste him, to forget everything but the heat of his mouth and the roughness of his hands. 

So, you deepen the kiss. And it’s clumsy, the way it always is when you lead. You’re not like Tommy. Not as experienced, not as sure of yourself. Always tentative, always timid. 

But it’s okay, because Tommy knows what you’re asking for the moment your tongue brushes his bottom lip. And he takes care of it—takes care of you—the way he always does.

His fingers round from your jaw to the back of your neck, touch gentle and reverent, as he parts your lips with his warm tongue and slides it inside of your mouth. 

He tastes so good, like safety and strength and home. You lean further into him, pressing your chest to his and leaning forward until your thighs are on either side of his hips. 

You’ve only kissed like this a handful of times. Usually when Tommy comes back from a supply run or a raid and he’s got this harrowed look on his face. He’ll wait until Tess and Joel are asleep or away, and then he kisses your lips raw and his hands will sometimes wander a little until he comes back from the violence he’s inflicted. 

Tommy kisses you like this when he’s searching for solace behind your tongue.

But he’s always been so, so careful. Respectful. Always stops himself just short of devouring you whole.

But you’d almost lost him

You don’t want restraint. Not now. 

You anchor yourself in his lap with your hands on his shoulders. And when you tilt your center over the bulge in his jeans, the movement is slow. Experimental.

Tommy makes a low sound at the back of his throat, his fingers flexing around your hip.

You want to hear it again. Want to taste his desire. So you find a sloppy rhythm—growing more and more needy with each roll of your hips.

Pressure blooms low in your belly at the heat between you, the swell behind his zipper pressing more incessantly.

When you slip your fingers beneath the shirt under his flannel and your skin finally brushes his, you whimper helplessly into his mouth. He’s so warm and so big, all you want is to be beneath him. Fully pinned by his weight, safe. 

Tommy hesitantly pulls away. “Talk to me, baby,” he mutters. “Tell me what you need.”

And the answer is simple, falling from your tongue with ease. “You, Tommy. I want—I want you. All of you.”

The darkness in his eyes flares, pupils blown wide. “Are you…” he stops. Takes a slow, steadying breath and swallows thickly. “Are you sure that’s what you want? You know I’m…I’m old, darlin’. Almost old enough to be your daddy. Joel an’ Tess’ll be…they’ll be awful mad at me, baby. I shouldn’t…”

It’s your turn now, you know. To be the strong one. To be the comfort instead of receiving it from him. You press a soft kiss to his cheek. “But they’re not here,” you say, mouth moving towards his jaw. “And even if they were, I wouldn’t care. I love you.”

He exhales shakily, his hands tightening on your waist. “You know I love you more, bunny. You know I do. But I一”

“I want you inside me,” you interrupt, lips pressed to his ear. You cheeks heat, both at the confession and at the way he groans again, more desperate this time.

Tommy drops his head against your shoulder, and hesitates for only a moment more before he nods into the curve of your neck. “Okay, let’s just一let’s go inside.”

His arms tighten around you, and you cling tight to him as Tommy stands and steps back into the cabin. He kicks the front door behind him and moves further inside, to the back hallway and into the bedroom at the back. 

When he carefully shoulders you onto the twin sized mattress, he follows you down. Presses the heaviness of his waist into yours and kisses you deep, his blood stained hands cradling your face like you’re something holy. 

You lift your hips, pressing into him, and push his coat off his shoulders. “I wanna feel you,” you murmur against his mouth.

And Tommy gives you exactly what you ask for, exactly what you need. The way he always does.

He leans back just enough to unbutton his flannel and discard it on the floor beside the bed. His undershirt soon follows, and then the black elastic holding his hair back. 

He towers over you, chest bare, the curls falling around his face elegantly. And the blood…God. Tommy’s never been someone to fear. Not to you. But he’s nothing short of animal now, of predator. The blood on his hands and the splatter on his forehead and beneath his eyes and the crimson spots on his neck are evidence of it.

But when he looks at you, his eyes are soft. Gentle. A stark contract to the man he really is. 

It sends a shiver down your spine, seeing it. The gore and the love and the violence.

“C’mere, sweet girl,” he says.

And you do. Take his bloody, outstretched hand and let him pull you towards him. Tommy takes off your jacket and top and adds them to the steadily growing pile.

When you’re in just your jeans and the pink bra you’d plucked from an abandoned shopping mall, Tommy’s eyes grow heavy. And you feel suddenly a little shy beneath his acute attention一reverent and hungry.

But then he gently touches his knuckles to your sternum and caresses the valley between your breasts. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Got no clue what you do to me.”

He reaches around slowly, unhooking your bra and discarding it with the rest.

Tommy holds your breasts in his hands, heavy and wanting, fingers kneading gently. He brushes his thumb across one of your nipples and your spine bends just slightly, pushing up against his hands. That wolfish smile finds its way back to his mouth, and Tommy does it again. 

“I’m gonna kiss you here,” he tells you. “Is that okay, sweetheart?”

Your nod is a little too eager, you think. Almost embarrassing. “Yes,” you answer. “Please.”

Tommy grins. “Lie back,” he orders. And when you do as he says, he makes space for his large frame between your legs, hooking them around his hips. He leans forward and kisses your lips first. All sweet and loving and warm.

But then his mouth moves to your chin, down your neck, his tongue flicking over your pulse. he bites there一just a little. Just enough to feel his teeth, just enough hurt. And then he kisses you there again, soft and sweet. 

He continues his pursuit, worshipping you with his mouth. He bites again just on the inside of your breast, this time leaving a purplish bruise behind. But that doesn’t hurt at all. Instead, it has you whimpering softly and pushing your fingers into his curls. 

You’re not sure it can get much better than seeing that mark in your skin, feeling claimed by him in such a physical, primal way. But then he presses a wet, open mouthed kiss to your nipple and a gasp parts your lips.

His mouth curls up at the corners in amusement, but you don’t have time to comment on it before his tongue slips out and slides across the hardened peak. Wide and wet and warm and so fucking perfect.

It has warmth stirring low in your belly. Has your legs clamping down hard around his waist.

Tommy does it again, this time eliciting a full blown moan. “Oh, bunny,” he sighs. “Sound so pretty an’ I barely touched you yet.”

His words sound so filthy in your ears. But there’s only one thing you care about now. “Please don’t stop.”

When his mouth finds your nipple again, it’s greedier. Sucking harder this time, tongue swirling over the sensitive flesh. He wriggles his thick hand between you and cups your center over your jeans and all the air leaves your lungs.

All shyness, all restraint一it disappears in a single second. And what you’re left with is nothing but desire, but need. You press yourself harder into his hand, hips bucking, seeking out sweet, sweet friction. 

Tommy moves his mouth from one breast to the other, administering the same tender care. Licking and sucking and using his teeth in just the right places, fingers rubbing over the denim seam between your legs.

It’s all too much. His mouth, his hands, the weight of him on top of you一even the way he smells. Like blood and earth and yours. Pressure builds quickly, coiling tight around your spine. “Oh, God一”

“Not God, baby. Me,” he mutters, the words vibrating through your ribs. “Me. G’head. Say it. Say my name an’ cum for me.” 

Your fingers tighten in his hair and your spine bends off the mattress. It hits hard, fast, blinding light and bliss shooting like sparks through your veins. His name falls from your tongue, muddied by the sound of your moans.

Tommy presses his hand between your legs harder, doesn’t stop until your sounds turn into whimpers and needy breaths.

He lifts his head to kiss you again, his mouth and tongue greedy. Slipping between your lips, tasting you with ravenous movements. When he pulls back, it’s a struggle to catch your breath. His eyes are soft still, in that way they always are when he looks at you. “Did so fuckin’ good, bunny. My perfect girl. Always so good for me, hm?”

The words are so dizzying that you barely register his deft fingers as they unbutton your jeans and pull down your zipper. Tommy hooks his fingers into the waistband and leans back to pull them off, leaving you cold without his overwhelming warmth.

When he tugs your panties down, he moves a little slower. Drinks in every inch of you, savoring it.

You’re left completely naked while he’s still in his jeans, and the nerves start to trickle back in. “Do you think I’m…pretty?” Even your voice sounds timid.

“Prettiest girl I ever seen,” Tommy says, the words filled with both love and truth. “S’like you were made for me, baby.”

And you think yeah, he just might be right.

Because who else could it have ever been?

Tommy stands to his feet and kneels at the side of the bed. Grips the back of your thighs with his big, rough hands and drags you to the edge of the mattress. Spreads you wide, spreads you open, and lets a strand of spit fall from his mouth right onto your clit.

Your knees try to come together instinctually, but Tommy keeps them open with a firm hold. “My sweet little bunny girl,” he says affectionately. “Wanna see if you taste as sweet here, too.”

He leans forward and slides his tongue through your seam, groaning against you as he does. The sensation catches you off guard一the softness of his tongue, hot and wet, adding to the arousal already glistening between your legs.

Tommy licks you again, this time with his tongue pointed with precision. He circles your clit with the tip just before he sucks it into his mouth, his beard a little overgrown, scratching the insides of your thighs.

Everything feels so sensitive, every nerve ending in your body flaring as he kisses you in a whole new way. You whimper his name and the sound has him sighing against your pussy like it was some sort of unspoken goal he’d been working towards. 

He presses his tongue into you and you wonder if this is what heaven is like. His nose bumps the edge of your clit as he drinks from you, moaning in tandem like you’re made of ambrosia and honeysuckle.

His tongue continues its pursuit, pressing into you, softness from a violent man. All for you, only ever for you.

Tommy looks up at you from between your legs and admires the pretty way you throw your head back and arch your spine. He waits and waits until you’re close again, until you’re nearly there.

And then he pulls away. Cooing softly when you whine in protest, “Shh. S’alright, baby. M’gonna take good care of ya. Promise.”

Tommy undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, and rips it out of the belt loops. You watch with excitement as he pulls both his jeans and boxers off, knowing in the deepest parts of you that, with him, you’ll always be safe.

His cock hangs heavily between you. Big and intimidating, flushed red at the tip. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Can we…can we go slow? I’ve…I’ve never…” You can’t say it. Too shy, too nervous.

But Tommy hears you anyway, the way he always does. His brows furrow in curiosity, but there’s not a trace of judgment in his eyes to be found. His voice is gentle when he asks, “You’re a virgin?”

Your only answer is an apprehensive nod. You were young when the outbreak happened. And afterwards, there’d never been much time for experimenting.

Tommy laughs. It’s not cruel, just…a little disbelieving, maybe. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and squeezes his jaw with a bloodstained hand. “Course you are. S’okay. I’ll be…I’ll go real slow, okay? An’ if you change your mind, just gotta say the word. Yeah? S’that alright, bunny?”

You nod again, but Tommy shakes his head. 

“Wanna hear you say it. Use your words.”

There’s no hesitation. No wavering of your voice or nerves to be found when you answer, because you’re sure of this. Of him. “I want it, Tommy. Want you.”

He hums in response. A deep sound of satisfaction. He kisses your forehead, crawls back onto the mattress, and nestles himself between your legs. Says, “Might hurt a little. But you can take it.”

He slides the head of his cock through your wet center. Pushing in just a little at your entrance, and then sliding it up towards your clit again. Teasing, his breath coming fast. 

“She’s so fuckin’ pretty, bunny. Cutest little pussy I’ve ever seen. An’ all mine.” Tommy leans back on his heels. “M’gonna slide in now, sweet girl. Alright?”

You lift your hips in answer, saying again, “I want it. Please, Tommy. Pretty please.”

He sets the head of his cock right at your opening, and so, so carefully pushes his hips forward. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not at first. The stretch feels foreign but good. Like he’s everywhere, smothering in the best ways. 

Tommy pushes in a little more, and the ache starts to form. Hot, intense, a sort of heaviness you’ve never felt before. “Lemme see your hand, baby.” 

He doesn’t ask, just reaches forward and takes your fingers that are clutched tight in the sheets beneath you. Your muscles relax just a little as he uncurls them, presses a scratchy kiss to the palm of your hand, and then places your hand just above the place you’re connected. 

“Touch yourself for me, okay? S’gonna feel better. Promise.” 

And he’s never lied to you—never broken a promise, never done anything but give you exactly what you need. So you do as he asks, fingers circling your spit-soaked clit. 

It pulses beneath your touch, needy and wanting. 

Tommy pushes in deeper, and this time the intrusion is a little less like pleasure. A whine leaves your mouth, the stinging pain almost too much to bear. 

And it would be, if it weren’t for the way his thumb strokes the inside of your thigh or the way he says, all buttery and sweet, “Breathe. S’alright. I know it hurts. Halfway now.”

“Only half?” Tears spring to the corners of your eyes. “I don’t know if it’ll fit, I feel so—”

“We’ll make it fit, bunny. Don’t you worry,” Tommy reassures. And then he pushes in deeper, filling you so full you swear there’s no room left to be had. 

“Almost,” he says. Tommy pulls your hand away from your clit only long enough to suck your two middle fingers into his mouth and coat them in his spit before putting them right back. “Keep goin’ sweet girl. Gonna give it all to ya.”

And then he pushes all the way inside, his hips flush with yours, and you swear you can feel him in your belly, in your throat. “Oh, God. Tommy, I—”

He strokes your hair out of your face and kisses you softly. “Shh. There we go. S’all yours. M’all yours, baby. You did so good.”

Tommy leans back again, eyes half lidded and lust heavy as he admires the view between your thighs.

“Oh—look at that, bunny,” he hums, smiling wide when you prop yourself up on your elbows to see. “I’m so proud of you. My perfect girl.”

The contrast is jarring; hearing the softness in his voice, feeling the gentle touch of his calloused hands. All from a man covered in blood, who’d just taken a life all for threatening yours. 

The idea of it all pulls a whimper from the back of your throat, and Tommy shifts just slightly. “She likes that, doesn’t she? Hm?” 

You slide your glistening fingers lower, parting them on either side of his cock.

“Likes when I remind you how good you are. Can feel her squeezin’ me, baby.” He pulls out slowly and pushes back in even slower. Gentle still, though you can feel his restraint withering. 

He rocks his hips again, and this time something’s different. You can feel him inside of you—every curve, every vein, every ridge. And when he slides in he touches something sensitive. It makes your head fall back, makes you feel like crying. 

“S’that feel good, sweetheart? Right there?”

“Yes, yes—”

He finds a steady pace, careful at first. Easy. But each stroke grows a little less controlled, a little more desperate. 

The stinging pain is still there, but it becomes buried further and further beneath the blissful ache. You circle your clit faster with your fingers, seeking release.

“Christ,” Tommy hisses. “So fuckin’ pretty. So tight. My perfect little girl. M’always gonna take care of ya. Gonna keep you nice an’ happy an’ safe.”

Your orgasm builds slower this time. More intense. Hotter. And between your trembling fingers on your clit and the steady pressure his cock builds with each thrust inside of you, it doesn’t take long before that heat burns bright enough to hurt. 

“Tommy, I’m—oh, God—please, please, please—”

“I know, baby, I know.” He grunts low and rolls his hips against yours, forcing his cock impossibly deeper, falling forward to kiss away the tears that fall from your eyes. “S’okay if you gotta cry. I’m right here. Just let it happen, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

The saccharine words and the way he breathes them into your mouth—

This time, your orgasm hits you hard. Steals your vision and replaces sight with white light, numbing all of your senses except for those where you can feel Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. 

Nothing but the weight of him on top of you, the stretch of him inside you, and his sweet, sweet praise. 

“Ohh, yeah. There you go. Cum for me, baby. Good, that’s it. Always so good for me. Such a sweet little thing. Fuckin’ perfect. Perfect for me. My bunny. Love you so much. Fuck—so much, sweetheart. I’d do anythin’ for you. Kill for you.”

Ecstasy ripples through your bloodstream. Your thighs tighten up around his waist, trembling like a fawn in the snow. He kisses you through it. Fucks you through it. Doesn’t stop until that white hot feeling turns to nothing but sparks of adrenaline, flaring with each thrust.

His brow furrows, and Tommy suddenly pulls himself out of you. Just enough to press his cock firmly against the soft curve of your belly, spreading your arousal over your skin. He rocks his hips against you once, twice一and then he’s painting your skin with sticky ropes of release and groaning low against your tongue.

Tommy lays there for a while after. Presses soft kisses against your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids. Whispers again, different this time, more serious, “I love you, bunny.” 

You believe him.

Tommy cleans the mess from your skin with the cotton shirt he wore beneath his flannel. He carefully pulls you up, to the edge of the bed, and finds your clothes first. Says, “Arms up,” and smiles wide when you follow his direction with a quiet giggle.

You let him take care of you. Let him pull your shirt back on first, and then your jeans, and then your jacket. He dresses himself afterwards, but leaves his hair down.

When he outstretches his hand, you lace your fingers through his and wince when he pulls you upwards.

Tommy notices. Like he always does. “M’sorry,” he mutters. “You hurtin’?”

“A little,” you admit. “It’s not bad. Just feels…I don’t know. Kinda sore.”

He kisses the top of your head and leads you back into the front room. Points a finger at the empty coals in the hearth beside the sofa and says, “Why don’t you g’head an’ start a fire. Dark out now. We’ll stay tonight, rest up. Head back to the warehouse in the morning.”

Your face falls, and Tommy catches it immediately. 

“What’s wrong?”

There’s no real way to explain it to him. No way to make him understand that you love Joel and you love Tess and you know you have to go back, but…you love this, too. Being alone with him. Touching him. Freely, and without prying eyes.

So you just ask, “Before we go back, could we…do it again?”

Tommy laughs. Tilts your head up so he can brush the tip of his nose against yours. “Lets get you warm and fed first, okay? An’ then I’ll get all cleaned up.”

“And then we can?” His hand at your waist moves lower, squeezing firmly at the globe of your ass. “Yeah, bunny,” he says. “I’ll always take care of ya. I promise.”

tagging @dixie-isnt-cool as requested my love ❤️

masterlist here!

dividers by @/cursed-carmine

[levsb0w]

IM CUMMINGGGGGGGGGG AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH i need to write a tommy fic now now now now

[cumin233]

[gardengnosticator]

when ellie gets drunk she gets dry-humpy, sidling up to lean against abby from behind slur to out the world’s worst string of semi-coherent compliments as she grinds into her ass over her jeans.

[chaotic-ppeach]

My husband gave me an idea and I had to draw it immediately

[abbyswh0re-deactivated20260120]

since its thanksgiving im thankful for abby anderson and her immaculate strap game

i love you babe💗💗💗🥹👀

[b0redbutch-deactivated20260111]

Abby arms Anderson, at your finest.

[jerryandersonsdaughterinlaw]

seeing abby do this move is so cute idgaf

[levsb0w]

if any of you gluttonous, greedy, soul sucking americans spoil st5 i will personally fly out and throttle every one of u as punishment

[handsywoman]

gabriel luna as rafael tovar [ devil in disguise: john wayne gacy , 2025 ]