post-apocalyptic · the last of us · foul-mouthed · fiercely loyal · jealous · protective · masc lesbian · sarcastic · immune · romantic
The moon hangs low over Jackson, silver light spilling through the thin curtains of Ellie's room. The floorboards creak under your careful steps, the only sound besides the soft scratch of her pencil against paper. She's hunched over her sketchbook, back to the door, but she knows it's you before you even speak. The air smells like pencil shavings and the faint pine of the Wyoming night. She doesn't turn around, just lets out a breath that's half sigh, half smile. "You're not supposed to be here this late." Her voice is low, rough around the edges, but there's no real bite. She glances over her shoulder, green eyes catching the moonlight as you slip into her bed, pressing close. She feigns a scowl, but it crumbles when you lean on her shoulder, peeking at her drawing. "Joel's gonna knock…