summary: facetiming with gf!ellie who finds herself quickly distracted by your jewelry (no real warnings, just suggestive)
gf!ellie x fem!reader
18+ MEN & MINORS DNI
wc: 0.3k
a/n: ITS ALIVEEEE!!!!! well..kinda. to be so real ive been on the struggle bus lately but i am starting to feel more like myself! hoping to keep writing and keep being active. but in the mean time here’s this little thought. much lurb always
“come on babe, don’t you love the hot pink?” you tease, holding the shirt up in front of the camera so ellie can see.
it’s got a cute whale spraying some water on the front, the words ‘daddy’s lil’ squirter’ printed around the design.
she snorts out a laugh. “it’s awful, but at least it’s fitting.”
the insinuation makes you roll your eyes, but she still gets a smile out of you regardless.
“mine’s the worst of the bunch. guess i shouldn’t be surprised, though.”
you’d do anything for your sister. that doesn’t mean you love her idea to wear these out in public for her bachelorette.
you discard the tee onto the dresser and flop down into bed, quick to situate yourself on your elbows.
ellie hates it when she can’t see your face.
“thank alina for me and make sure you bring that home.” she smirks.
you flip her off. it’s a silly gesture — you know you’ll do whatever she wants.
“maybe. if you can behave while i’m gone.”
she puts a hand to her heart. “i’ll be so good, promise. nothing to worry about here. i take it the beach has been treating you well so far?”
“yeah, it’s pretty. i’ll send some pictures of the sunset, please hold.”
you minimize the facetime and tap into your photo library. your tongue pokes out of the corner of your mouth as you focus.
ironically, it’s distracting ellie.
her eyes slide down to your chest, which is fully on display in the little tank you put on after your shower.
the dainty locket she got you for your first anniversary hangs around your neck. it’s caught between the valley of your breasts in a way that knocks the air out of her lungs.
“okay, jesus, they finally went through.”
your voice sounds yards away, and by the time she realizes that you’re speaking to her, you’ve already caught on.
“ellie!” you chastise, but you don’t change the camera angle.
“sorry, sorry, looking at them now. the photos, i mean. not...” she trails off, because she’s just digging herself deeper.
her flush is obvious. it’s always charmed you and it probably always will.
Joel came home late. His boots were heavy against the floorboards as he dragged his tired body down the hallway. A grunt slipped from his lips when he caught a glimpse of a figure in the living room.
He huffed, half amusement and half exhaustion, when he saw you asleep on the couch, wearing one of his old flannel, a blanket draped over your body. His wife. Always stubborn, never listening when he told you not to wait up.
The floor creaked softly as he knelt in front of you. His gaze softened at the sight of you sleeping so peacefully. Slowly, he laid a hand on your shoulder, rubbing up and down until you stirred.
You yawned and stretched, a drowsy smile curving your lips. “Hi, honey.” you murmured, raising your hands to cup his face, stubble rough against your palms.
“Told ya not t’wait up, darlin.” Joel said, voice gruff but warm, leaning into your touch.
You shrugged, fighting a smile. “Couldn’t sleep without my husband. And no one to warm the bed.” Your eyes searched his tired face, noticing the shadows under his eyes despite the fondness in his gaze. “Rough night? You’re late again.”
Joel hummed, nodding. A long day. Too many customers. Too many complaints. But he didn’t want to talk about work. He just wanted you.
He pressed a kiss to your temple, then scooped you into his arms. You wrapped yourself around him easily, already knowing his drill. The bedroom door creaked open as he carried you in, setting you gently on the bed.
He tugged the blanket high around your shoulders before lying down beside you. Propped on one elbow, he met your eyes in the dark. “Now that I’m here, shouldn’t be a problem sleepin, yeah?”
You chuckled. “Right, right.” Leaning up, you pressed a kiss to his cheek before settling against his chest, fingers lacing with his. Sleep was already pulling at your eyes. “Good night, honey. Dream of me.”
Joel snorted softly, giving your cheek a little pinch. “G’night, darlin. I’ll make sure I do.”
He never said I love you outright. Not with words. But it was there, in the way his hand rubbed your back until your breaths evened out, in the kisses he pressed to your forehead long into the night. His own quiet way of saying it, over and over again.
WARNINGS— pictured santa barbara ellie while writing this 🙂↕️love my wife's short hair, wlw/afab reader, not really any dom/sub it's just sex, thigh riding duh, cursing, clit play, fingering, nipple/breast play, NSFW MDNI.
you're straddling ellie's bare thigh, hips rutting back and fourth as you pant and whimper into the crook of her neck. your right hand is shoved between her warm thighs, rubbing mercilessly at her clit which you can feel pulsing beneath your pruned fingers.
you let out a whine as she clenches her thigh for you, tightening the muscles for you to hump against.
"fuck, els. feels s'good..." you mutter breathily, your fingers playing with her wetness, circling her twitching clit before shoving two fingers back into her sloppy pussy. she sucks in a breath and the grip she has on your hip tightens.
"yeahhh just like that, sweet girl."
she tilts her head back, letting it rest on the back of your ratty, worn down couch you'd had for years. the slick sounds of your juicy cunts fill the space, as well as your moans of pleasure and the heady scent of sex.
It's intoxicating. she's intoxicating, truly, seeing as you'd been fooling around for over an hour now.
ellie's lips brush your cheek and you immediately twist your head to swallow her desperate cry when the heel of your palm grinds against her swollen clit. you can feel her quivering around your fingers, and it only makes you all the more eager in humping her deliciously firm thigh.
your pussy leaks incessantly onto her sticky skin, slick spilling over her thigh until it pools under her and seeps into the cushions. "ellie...oh shit, 'm close." you mewl against her lips, the earlier kiss slowly morphing into something more desperate and pathetic as you pant into one another's mouth.
"me too, just a little faster, baby." she instructs you softly. and you obey almost instantly, fingers pistoning in and out of her hole at a quicker pace as your palm slaps wetly against her bundle of nerves. "fuck yeah, holy shit that's good."
the way she groaned and arched her hips ever so slightly when your fingertips grazed her g-spot has your eyes rolling back as you give up on the kiss fully, burying your flushed face in her shoulder.
"els, please..." you beg, not fully knowing what you're even pleading for in the first place. but when her hands come up to toy with your nipples through your loose tank top, letting the skin spill through her fingers as she gropes you, you knew you didn't need anything more.
"come on. come on my thigh, pretty. I'm so fuckin' close." she says in a strained tone, still working her hands over your tits as white hot pleasure courses through you everytime your clit drags over her soaked thigh.
"oh fuck, 'm coming—!" you choke out, your hips stuttering as your body contracts in pleasure. ellie's not far behind you, her thighs clenching and her pussy gushing liquid onto your hand as she listens to your whiny moans.
after drawing out her orgasm by prodding at her g-spot softly, and ellie doing the same with you by dragging you up and down her thigh by your hips, you slump against her, your cum slick hand pressed against her tummy as the both of you attempted to catch your breath.
"mmm, shit. that was good..." you mumble, tangling your fingers in her auburn hair to pull her into a slow, unhurried kiss. you can feel her lips curling up against yours, smiling as she pulls back. "agreed."
help bc this is literally so hot. need ellie to fuck me that good. please i’m begging.
- just thinking about the way ellie would be so lost in the moment to the point where her hips would be thrusting deep into you on their own- just selfishly chasing after her own orgasm, absolutely LIVING off of the small sparks of friction her overstimulated clits getting on every push.
- she’d be rambling and shit, all “fuck baby you’re takin’ me so good,” and “god you’re so fuckin’ wet for me,” just blabbering anything and everything that’s coming to mind.
- and you KNOW ellie’s so delusional to the point where she swears she can actually feel you wrapped tightly around her strap. girl treats her precious green 6 incher as a fr LIMB.
- and so ofc that’s making her mutter cocky shit like, “gonna fill you full with my cum, baby. yeah you’d like that wouldn’t you? fuckin’ slut.” and ofc things like: “shit, babe, you’re gripping me so tight ya gotta let me move, c’mon.”
- since ellie’s such a strap lesbo you absolutely BET she’d fucking lose it seeing you squirt all over it. our girl knows she’s a total god with her silicone but like fuck, dude, this good?
- and yes, she is this good. because it’s nearly impossible for you to shut up at all when she’s fucking you dizzy ‘n dumb, g-spot hit deliciously with every stroke, clit prodded perfectly every time her hips meet yours.
- and imagine her cute lil puffy clit already rubbed raw from fucking you so hard w the strap just throbbing to the point it hurts from how hot you look under her, completely drenching her dick with your squirt.
- and she wouldn’t even be all that smug about it at first— no that comes later—she’d just fucking keen at the very sight of you.
- her cute eyebrows just scrunching up tightly together as she lets out the most unexpected, adorably needy whine, cumming immediately all over the base ‘n watching pervertedly as your dirty juices mix.
- and she’s just moaning complete nonsense, “god, please- fuck, fuck! ‘m cumming!” —literally more out of it than you are because she’s that turned on from watching you make a mess of the sheets.
- and THEN’s when she makes her annoying yet endearing ass quips, all “aw, you’re such a cute little mess for me,” and “big one, huh? who got you squirting like this, hmm?” as if she didn’t just whimper like a submissive bitch two seconds earlier.
my girl 4ever though i fr live for ellie and her strap. best duo in tlou. perhaps the only (surviving) duo? like damn not even her fingers- nvm.
hello ml i hope you're doing well! i hope requests are open if not please ignore this im so sorry. im here to request joel x reader who has big thighs n feels insecure over them w some fluff, smut and a tiny sprinkle of angst i never see any representation of the big thighed girlies 😓😓 the rest is up to u!! i absolutely love your writing thank u for feeding us mwah xx
joel miller x reader drabble
|| angst and fluff tiny bit nsfw, Jackson!Joel, no physical descriptions ||
a/n: thank you for the request my love! here's just something short and sweet for monday :)
Joel Miller loves your thighs.
He loves them wrapped around his waist, your pretty little center rutting up against him as you'd grind against his lap. His broad hands find the soft places where your curves deepen, gripping tight at the tender join of thigh and backside, pulling you in closer.
The only times you ever forget about them are when his hands are on you like this, so rough and sure, anchoring you in place as your mouths meet, slick and slanted against each other, tongues sliding, the world narrowing to the feeling of just him beneath you.
You forget about them when he’s between them, when his shoulders press your legs apart and his mouth is working slow, greedy circles over your dripping center. His fingers grip your soft flesh without hesitation, digging into them like they were made to be held, claimed, worshipped.
And when the room is quiet, when your skin is cooling, you glance down to find yourself painted in shades of violet and dusk. Fingerprints bloom plum and orchid along them, deeper where his mouth left its mark on the sensitive inner flesh. And just for a moment, you stare. And you think… maybe they’re beautiful like this. Maybe they’ve never looked more like yours.
But you don't forget about them as the weather starts to warm in Jackson. When the town begins to shed its layers and you keep yours. You watch the other girls in their tiny denim cut offs, their little skirts in the breeze, legs bare and sun warmed. You keep your jeans, your wide cargo pants, or better yet, the long skirts that skim the floor, cloaking the parts of you you've never quite made peace with.
Joel knows. Of course he does. But he never says a word. Never suggests you wear something shorter, never hints at what he might prefer. That’s not his way.
Instead, he shows you.
At home, when you’re in your smallest sleep shorts, the hem riding high, bunched in the crease where your thighs meet your hips, he stares. He watches you walk into the kitchen like you’ve got a goddamn halo around you. His hands find your legs every time you pass. A squeeze here, a graze there. When he's finally had enough of the torment, he pulls you onto his lap, and it’s always your thighs he touches first, palms gliding over every inch like he’s mapping constellations into your skin.
One night he comes back from patrol, battered and bruised and visibly exhausted. His steps are heavy, the door shutting quietly behind him as he moves through the house like a ghost. He shucks off his boots without a word, then shrugs out of his flannel, leaving it where it falls. What’s left of his short sleeve shirt clings to him, stained with dirt, sweat, and something that looks like ---
“Is that your blood?” you ask, suddenly sitting up straighter on the couch.
Joel shakes his head slowly. “No, baby, not mine,” he says, voice low and frayed at the edges. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he says it. Just sinks down beside you, close enough that your knees bump together.
You expect him to pull you in like always, expect his arm around your shoulders, the soft tug that means he wants you curled against his side. But instead, he leans forward, then folds over entirely, lowering himself until his head rests heavy in your lap.
One of his arms slips around your back and the other reaches across your legs, his hand finding your opposite thigh, bare in those little sleep shorts again. His fingers press gently into the soft flesh, not gripping, not needing anything more than the contact. He breathes out, a long, slow breath that spills warm over your skin. The kind of breath that releases everything he'd seen and done within the last twelve hours. It loosens his muscles, makes his head rest heavier into the soft flesh of your lap as he finally allows himself to feel safe.
You touch him gently. Your fingers find his hair first, brushing it back from his forehead, then letting your nails gently scrape his scalp. You trace along his ear, down the curve of his jaw, and back behind his neck. His skin is warm, a little damp. You scratch lightly at his back, slow and steady, the way you know helps him sleep.
He doesn’t speak again, but you hear his breathing even out, his shoulders releasing another wave of tension.
And before long, he’s out. Heavy across your lap, his cheek pressed to your leg, lips barely parted in sleep.
And for a moment, for that quiet, fragile moment, you think maybe your thighs aren’t something to be ashamed of after all. Maybe they were made for this. To hold him. To carry this kind of love. Maybe you like them best like this.
joel who could get off just at the thought of you on your knees, unbuckling his belt for him with a hunger in your eyes that he had never seen in anyone before.
thinking abt biker!ellie and how you’d take a picture in the mirror with her helmet on and her fav lingerie and get the picture engraved on a key chain and engrave, ‘be safe, i love you baby’ on the other side. you’d give it to her for christmas and she’d have tears in her eyes, you’d just giggle at her and hug her, rubbing her back in circular motions. “it’s okay baby” you’d laugh softly. “no it’s not i have the best girlfriend i could fucking asking for” she’d sob into your shoulder and you’d just smile at how grateful she was that she had you.
she’d put the key chain on her keys and she’d always look at it and give it a small kiss every single time she went for a ride, without fail. it was like you were watching over her, and she always said you were the reason she never got into an accident.
ok but you write for tommy so well??? 🧎♀️🧎♀️ i’m literally obsessed with the way you capture the dynamic 😭😭 pls i need more of this energy in my life like yesterday
ask and you shall receive 🙌
masterlist
tommy miller x f!reader
warnings: petnames (darling, sweetgirl, doll), fluff, adult language, weapon usage, slight angst
December
You inhale, slow and uncertain, a shaky finger curled around the trigger. You press—just enough to feel the internal click of the mechanism, but not enough to fire.
“C’mon, sweetgirl,” his voice anchors you, low and steady beside your ear. His hands come to rest over yours, calloused palms warm against the cold metal, against your knuckles stiff-white with nerves. His touch is a lull against the rifle’s bite.
You hold your breath.
The shot cracks, loud and sharp, echoing into the treeline.
The deer’s head snaps up, eyes wide—and then it bolts.
A flash of movement, gone in seconds.
“Shit,” you groan, slumping forward as your knuckles rap against the old tree stump. The rifle settles in your lap, its weight heavier now with the puff of a miss.
Tommy laughs, light and teasing. “Alright, maybe huntin’ ain’t your calling.”
You look over your shoulder, face scrunching in mock indignation. “Bolt-actions are hard to use, in my defense.”
“Oh, no doubt. It’s a very complicated gun. Takes a genius to pull a trigger.”
You smack his arm with the back of your hand. “I hate you.”
“Mmhmm. Say it louder. You’re wearin' my flannel.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth of him seeps in again—his smile, the way his fingers are still loosely tangled with yours.
“I didn’t want to kill it anyway,” you mutter.
“I know,” he says softly, dropping the sarcasm. “That’s why I didn’t pull the trigger for you.”
You glance at him, eyes capturing his morning-painted freckles.
He shrugs, standing to stretch. “And if you are gonna kill something someday, you deserve to know you could. On your own.”
The forest is quiet now, just birdsong and wind weaving through branches.
You sigh, brushing a stray hair from your cheek. “You always gotta turn everything into a life lesson?”
Tommy grins, reaching down to haul you up with ease. “Only when I’m right.”
You scoff, but let him take the rifle from your hands anyway, his fingers brushing yours again—reassuring, steady.
Shifting in the snow, your boot nudging up a mound of powder before smoothing it back down with your heel.
The cold bites gently at your cheeks, but it’s the kind of quiet cold that settles, not stings.
“It’s just hard, that’s all,” you say, your breath curling into the air, a cloud of warmth swallowed by the wind.
“I was born and raised in the city,” you add, even though Tommy already knows. He knows all of it. Knows all about you.
You crouch down, fingers brushing the frost as you gather your things—loose ammo, gloves, the half-folded target map—and shove them back into your pack with a slow, thoughtful rhythm.
“Could kill one of those monsters, easy,” you mutter, trying for a joke but not quite sticking the landing. “But an animal?” Your nose scrunches softly. “They’re just… too cute.”
Tommy crouches beside you with a grunt, tugging his gloves tighter. “City kid ethics, huh, doll?” he says with a grin. “Murder’s fine if it’s ugly.”
You huff a laugh, looking at him sideways. “You’re not helping.”
“I am a treasure,” he counters. “And you love me.”
You don’t deny it.
He looks out toward where the deer disappeared, jaw ticking slightly with thought. Then his voice lowers, not serious, but softer.
“It’s not about just killing for food out here,” he says. “It’s about knowing when not to. About not taking more than you need. That guilt you feel? That means you’ll do it right, if you ever have to.”
You nod slowly, eyes flicking back toward the trees. The snow is quiet again, the world waiting.
“Still too cute,” you say, a bit more playfully now.
“… y’know what else is cute?” you murmur, voice low, syrup-thick with mischief as you crouch down toward the snow. Your movements are slow, methodical, careful not to draw attention—like a hunter, but grinning.
Tommy doesn’t even turn around. “If you say me—”
“You,” you say anyway, drawing the word out in a teasing lilt. Your hand snakes behind your back, palm cradling the quickly packed snowball, cold seeping into your glove.
He starts to turn, suspicious now. “You’ve got that tone. The dangerous one.”
“Oh, do I?” You blink innocently, stepping closer.
“Yeah. That’s the voice you use right before you—"
Smack.
The snowball hits him square on the shoulder, shattering in a puff of white powder. He stumbles back half a step, staring at the impact zone like he’s been personally betrayed.
You’re already laughing, stumbling away through the snow with another handful forming in your glove.
“Oh, hell,” His voice cracks through the air, part exasperation, part glee. “That’s how it’s gonna be?”
You squeal, dodging behind a tree stump. “Consider it revenge. For the mystery peaches.”
“That was one time!”
You toss another snowball, missing deliberately this time—just grazing his coat. He fakes a dramatic fall, throwing himself into the snow with a groan.
“Unarmed man taken down during patrol,” he mumbles, lying there flat like a starfish. “I hope you’re proud.”
You peek over the stump, grinning. “So proud—Should I tell the town? Alert your wife?"
He props himself up on his elbows, snow clinging to his curls. “Can't have my doll seein' me like this."
You chuck a final snowball his way. “You’re so dramatic.”
He laughs, sitting up fully, cheeks red from cold and joy. “You started it, sweet'girl.”
You shrug, brushing snow off your jacket. “I’ll end it, too.”
He stands again, brushing himself off, that grin still tugging at his lips as he walks toward you—not with vengeance, but with the kind of affection that feels like a warm quilt pulled up on a cold morning.
When he reaches you, he plucks a bit of snow from your hair, his hand lingering in your tangles.
“Cute,” he echoes, voice low. “You’re way cuter when you’re smug.”
You mimic his voice in a goofy drawl, dragging your vowels and puffing out your chest in exaggerated mockery. “You're way cuter when you’re smug,” you parrot, lifting your hands to mirror his, cupping your cold cheeks like he had.
Tommy lets out a deep breath, head tipping back with laughter. “That’s not what I sound like.”
“Oh, it absolutely is.” You poke his chest for emphasis. “All wise and weathered. Like a very charming cowboy who’s been hit in the head one too many times.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Charming, huh?”
“Painfully,” you tease.
The laughter lingers between you, steam from your breath mingling in the winter air. Your hands drop slowly, then come to rest against his chest, his coat crinkling beneath your fingers.
You've been out too long—your nose is a bright red against the pale snow, and your cheeks are flushed with cold, tender from wind and joy. Tommy’s eyes linger on your face like he's trying to memorize the exact shape and shade of it beneath the winter glow.
You reach out, fingertip brushing along the seam of his glove, slow and absent. “Wanna go home?” you ask, the question small, honest.
His smile softens into something gentler than words, the kind that starts in the crinkles of his mouth and ends in his eyes.
“With you?” he says, pulling your hand into his. “Always.”
“Who else would you go home with, huh?” you prod, grinning as you poke at his side with a gloved finger, just enough to make him flinch.
Tommy scoffs, feigning deep offense as he stumbles back a step like you’d wounded him.
Drama Queen.
“You wound me, darlin’. Like I got options.”
“Oh, please,” you laugh, taking a step closer. “You’re Jackson’s sweetheart. I’ve seen the way those girls at the greenhouse look at you.”
He raises both brows, amused. “The ones who talk to me ‘cause I helped build the planters?”
“Uh-huh. Flannel… Sexy white shirt… Sweaty…”
Tommy laughs, loud and shameless. “It was hot! I was working!”
You chuckle, brushing a bit of snow from his shoulder as another flurry floats gently down around you. A few flakes settle into the dark curls of his hair, tiny white speckles dotting his head like paint. You reach up to ruffle it gently, and the snow scatters into the wind.
He watches you with that same look he always gives when you're not trying to be particularly beautiful—when you're just you, flushed pink from the cold, standing there like the center of his small, rebuilt world.
“Well, for the record,” he says, lowering his voice just enough for it to wrap around you, “I don’t care how many people in Jackson look at me…"
"I only walk home with one.”
You glance up at him, chest tightening in that soft way it always does—so effortlessly, like he doesn’t realize he’s pulling the floor out from under you.
He's a charmer.
Snow clings to his lashes now. His cheeks are flushed too, but you don’t think it’s just the cold.
Tan freckled skin. It's a miracle how good he can look even in the cold of winter.
“Good,” you murmur, leaning your shoulder into his side. “I’d fight for the privilege.”
“Oh, I know you would,” he smirks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “You’re scrappy, huh, Darlin'?”
You nudge him again, and this time, he doesn’t flinch—just pulls you closer as you begin the slow walk back through the trees.
"Funny, Cowboy."
March
The snow had thinned, but the cold never left—just shifted.
Turned sharply. Turned violent.
The air in Jackson rang with screams and gunfire now, not laughter. Smoke rolled over rooftops, black against the morning sky.
The town was burning, and so were your lungs.
You could barely hear your own voice above the chaos.
“Please,” you gasped, chest heaving, “Please, let’s go home—”
It came out strangled. Broken. Like your own throat was closing in around the words.
You clung to Tommy’s jacket, fists clenched so tightly the muscles in your hands screamed. Your nails dug into the fabric, into his skin beneath.
Maybe hard enough to bruise. Maybe hard enough to make him stay.
He looked at you—his eyes wild with decision and duty, but his jaw trembled.
“Tommy—please—” You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t let go.
You were begging now, truly begging, and it was the most selfish thing you’d ever done.
“Stay—Stay with me,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his chest. “Let’s go. Please. Let’s just leave. You don’t owe this town your life—I need you.”
Selfishness was a monster that had consumed you long ago.
The decision between the town you had come to love, versus the man who holds you entirely.
It's as if someone asked you which to save: the world, or the person you love the most.
Sounds like a familiar decision, huh?
His arms were around you, holding you together because you were starting to fall apart. You could hear the shouting closer now.
The sounds of infected—no, people—people screaming.
He was shaking his head. You could feel it, even before he spoke.
“I have to,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “They’re just kids out there. People who can’t shoot. People like you were.”
You looked up at him, and something cracked in your ribs. “I’m not anymore—I’m not helpless anymore." A deep inhale, barely withstanding air, "Fuck—Tommy, please."
You can help him. You can go with him.
He brushed his fingers through your hair, slow and gentle like you weren’t both standing in hell.
“I know,” he said. “And that’s why you’re gonna make it. Even if I don’t.”
“Don’t you dare—” Your voice broke completely. “Don’t say that. Don’t even—”
He kissed your forehead, hard and lingering, like he was sealing something shut. Eyes clamped tightly, breath ragged against your skin.
“I’ll find you,” he whispered. “No matter what. I’ll find you again.”
And then he was gone.
You stood there in the street with your hands empty, covered in ash and blood and melting snow.
Somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming Tommy’s name—but it wasn’t you.
You just want to go home.
Yet, home had just thrown himself into the middle of danger.
authors note
tommy def makes it... i just like being dramatic af
