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kassandras-one-braincell · 1 year

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Dark!Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader - Inescapable Narcosis

Summary: You were hers - not officially, but Abby knew that you knew you belonged together. She was addicted. She still is addicted, even though you ended that harmony. Twenty-three days ago, and yes, she counted. But you'll come around. Any day now. [explicit]

In which Abby is mildly obsessive with a control complex and dubious morals. (She let the trauma win.) But there was a time where you looked past that in favour of sweet nothings beneath the bedsheets.

Warnings: unreliable narration, dubious morality and mild gaslighting.

Word count: 5250

AO3 link here.

Minors, men and ageless blogs DNI. You will be blocked immediately upon interaction.

You’re wearing her shirt. It hangs a little loosely on your frame, tucked neatly into your cargos. A couple of tiny moth holes are dotted about the neckline. It’s not a particularly nice shirt – standard issue, bottle green, a little threadbare by the shoulder seams – but it’s her shirt. The same shirt she lent you three-ish weeks ago after your last night together. She never asked for it back; you just had to sigh, snuggle into the fabric and murmur that it was so soft before settling down in her arms, and fuck it, it was yours.

Things are different now, though. You had terminated your sweet, sweet situationship, and Abby respected that. Sure, she mused in her head back then that she gave it a month, tops, before you would come crawling back to her. Begging, maybe, although that might have been wishful thinking. Until then, Abby will revert back to being your friend, no benefits attached.

But you’re wearing her shirt now, not even a month later, which means one thing: she’s in your head.

Abby has to bite her tongue to prevent herself from smirking at the notion. Hard. She can taste a hint of iron. The idea of still lingering in your thoughts…it’s a worm crawling under her skin. It has her hairs standing on end, a maddening tingle washing over her flesh, identical to the shivers she got from your fingertips ghosting over her skin— Fuck, she always had it bad for you.

The sheer fucking aphrodisiac that is you wearing her shirt is almost enough to distract Abby from your knitted brow, pouty lips and the inferno blazing behind those pretty eyes of yours. Almost – the fact is, she cares, and something is evidently pissing you off.

You approached her in the hall, short of breath, as if you tracked her down through the labyrinth of the stadium you considered home. Now, after a couple of moments’ pause, her ex something-or-other stares at her with a mixture of rage and incredulity.

“Seriously, Abby?” you breathe out, exasperated.

For a second, Abby mentally winces, wondering if her efforts to suppress her smirk failed her. She can’t recall doing anything to intentionally antagonise you. It isn’t often she finds herself taken aback.

“Did I do something?” she tries, a touch of sardonicism peppered-in out of habit, to her immediate regret. Grimacing, Abby watches expectantly as you close your eyes, inhaling slowly to compose yourself.

Through gritted teeth, you mimic her words. “‘Did I do something?’ Yeah, you fucking did something, Abby.” She can place the irritation in your tone, but it lacks any raw venom. Abby knows you – that from your intonation, you mulled this conversation over in your head before seeking her out.

If you were anybody else, Abby would not be holding back on the expletives and sarcasm at the cryptic reply. Her reputation doesn’t stem from her unequivocal patience, that’s for certain. For you, though, she’ll wait as you dance around the issue rather than spitting it out.

Sighing, she rubs the back of her neck. The magnetism between your eyes and the tendons of her forearm does not go amiss. “Enlighten me,” she exhales, gesticulating with her unoccupied hand for you to continue chewing her out.

Your posture slumps. Your arms fold in on themselves as you glance over your shoulder, sweeping the hall for eavesdroppers. As your nail digs into your elbow, Abby frowns, a needle slowly working its way into her heart. She’s anxious, she thinks. And she isn’t able to do a damn thing to alleviate it.

“You took me off my patrol route again,” you respond, hushed, eyes still honed-in on the end of the hall. “Don’t deny it.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Abby mutters under her breath. “I thought I did something wrong.”

Nostrils flaring, your attention fully snaps to her. “Abigail,” you warn.

“Is there something wrong with keeping my friends safe?” Lying doesn’t feel good, even if it’s just a white lie. Actually, it’s a combination of both shitty and stupid, because you can see right through her. She spent years keeping her book closed, adding padlock after padlock to the cover, only for you to have all the keys.

Huffing, you shake your head. “You know what, I’m not gonna insult you by listing the friends who you patrol with on the regular—” As you grip your – her – shirt for comfort, Abby’s heart sinks. “You’re getting me special treatment. And people are starting to resent me for it.”

That brief flash of guilt erupts into anger. “Who?” A promise of broken bones is left unspoken. The image of anyone giving you shit gnaws at her every nerve. You pull double your weight when it comes to your duties as a soldier and citizen, yet people have the audacity, the fucking audacity—

“Does it matter who?” comes your voice, a hell of a lot softer than before. Like aloe vera, it soothes the infuriated spiral burning into her brain. Abby breathes out what she can of the red mist, grounding herself with your…everything, really.

Besides a few tell-tale signs of stress, you haven’t changed one bit since you last spoke. There was a time when Abby didn’t believe beauty could come in a living form, that cordyceps and its aftermath had stolen that away from humanity. Then you waltzed (limped would be more accurate in hindsight – you met in the med bay) into her life, and that cynical belief vanished. Even now, with dark circles under your eyes and a frown plastered on your lips, you’re the epitome of beauty to her. Every scar, every blemish, every mole adorning your body makes you a work of art. She misses the feel of your perfectly imperfect skin beneath her lips, the finest silk on the planet, always so soft from the moisturiser you like to make. She misses the delicate giggles she would elicit from you as she pressed a roadmap of kisses over all those little things.

She misses you.

You weakened her resolve to the point where Abby sometimes ponders if she’d be better off if that first night never took place. If, perhaps, you had been assigned different temporary lodgings in that converted FEDRA outpost after your mission. Hell, if she had been thrown on a different mission entirely to the prettiest damn person she had ever laid eyes on. Maybe if the weather wasn’t so fucking cold, you wouldn’t have had to rely on body heat for warmth. Your lips – the first dose – would have never found hers. She would have never discovered the blissful escapism from a shitty world that was you.

The delusion of no-strings-attached was a persuasive one, but Abby knows that your liaisons were never purely sexual. Prurient intentions were the basis of things, absolutely. Then emotions began to bleed into every kiss, vulnerabilities seeped into every hushed word against one another’s skin, every breathless “don’t stop” held an unspoken “don’t leave” beneath the surface, and she found herself addicted to you.

And it was…it is an addiction, by nature of the word. You eat away at her thoughts. The memory of your taste haunts her tongue. She could cope back then, counting the hours until you next fell into her bed and arms. Now, though? Nothing. You torment her, day-in, day-out, but ultimately, Abby is left with nothing except the pain of withdrawal.

She should have seen it coming, too. You never stuck a label on things; there was no illusion of permanence.

Abby came to terms with the fact that she isn’t a good person long ago. It wasn’t a hard conclusion to reach, either. A minute of remembrance, a well-illustrated reel of the Scars she killed, the abhorrent shit she did for Isaac without so much as questioning his decisions, committing her entire body and livelihood to avenging her dad, that was enough. In this regard, you are her very antithesis. Your concept of stress relief consisted of tending to the dogs in the kennels; hers was beating prisoners and traitors. She shielded you from as much of this as possible. It wasn’t enough.

“I can’t let myself be with someone who hurts people, Abby. I’ll always care about you, but I can’t— I can’t settle down with someone who enjoys killing Scars. I don’t want to watch someone lose themselves to that. It’s not healthy. So…this, whatever you want to call it, this needs to end. I’m sorry.”

There were tears in your eyes as you spoke. Shrapnel; jagged, rusty shrapnel to her veins, because comforting you would have overstepped a newly enforced boundary. She had to retract her hand as it instinctively reached out, thumb poised to wipe away those pained droplets. No word of a lie spilled from your lips. The truth was a fucking bitter pill to swallow – it’s still stuck in her throat, clinging for dear life, undigestible – but she cared. And because she cared, she respected every syllable.

In this moment, however, as Abby’s blood cools, she speculates if she might care too much. Cutting the last string keeping you tethered to her would destroy her.

Thus she swallows her pride, silencing the warped voice screaming at her to demand the names of the people giving you grief. She folds her arms, only to give her something to dig her fingertips into, to suppress the incessant pulsing under the callouses from the rage-induced cortisol plaguing her bloodstream.

Calm, Abby.

Forcing herself to soften her frown, Abby wrestles with your question. Does it matter who?

“Yeah, actually, it does matter,” she breathes out, voice lacking any aggrieved tremor to her immediate relief. “Because some people can take that resentment too far. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Every muscle in her body freezes awaiting your response. The torture of watching you close your eyes at her words, as if you anticipated them in their entirety, and they disappointed you, made any physical pain she had endured over the years feel like child’s play. She hates it.

With a conflicted exhale, you bring the neckline of her shirt to your lips. Seeing that she can still offer you comfort, even if via the medium of her old shirt, rids her of some of the tension.

Your grip on the fabric pales your knuckles, persisting as you move it away from your mouth to speak with clarity. “If I have to compromise my safety or my happiness, then fuck safety,” you lament. “So I’m asking you to stop interfering.”

“You shouldn’t have to compromise,” Abby mutters. Because you shouldn’t - you deserve both. She wants to give you both.

“But I do, Abby, it—”

A jolt surges through her at a realisation. “Wait, I’ve been keeping you off active duty for months,” Abby interjects, shaking her head. “Have people always given you shit for this?”

“No. They’ve only made it clear this past week that they’re not happy,” you reply, pinching the bridge of your nose. A tacit fact hangs thick in the air: while you were seen with Abby, anyone who gave you grief might as well have had a death wish. With her out of the picture, some cowardly morons clearly saw an opportunity to strike.

Abby rakes a hand through her hair in frustration, offsetting some of the tension in her scalp. She welcomes the bout of relief as her braid loosens. “If I had names, this would stop. You know that, right?”

An exhausted string of ‘no’s leaves you as you shake your head. Massaging your temple, you scan the corridor for something. “Fuck, you don’t underst— I’m not having this conversation with you where someone can hear,” you mumble. She watches as your gaze fixates on something behind her, a glint of an emotion flickering in your irises.

You set off towards the object of your gaze, grabbing her wrist to lead her along. Abby’s heart skips at the contact; your hand is as warm as she remembered, fingers too small to fully encircle her. If she wasn’t as sturdily built, she would have stumbled as you half drag her to what appears to be a supply cupboard.

After fiddling with the door for a moment, you slip inside of the dark room, taking her with you, letting it slam shut behind you both. She winces at the sounds of a thud and a subtle grunt of pain, reaching behind her to trigger the light-switch by the doorframe.

A singular halogen bulb flickers on the ceiling, pulsing a few times before engulfing the closet in a faint surgical glow. With most of the room occupied by boxes of powdered bleach and cleaning rags, you aren’t permitted the luxury of separation. You stand no more than two feet apart, backs against ice-cold grey concrete, isolated from the world around you.

Abby can pick up on your shampoo from here. Raspberry.

She breaks the silence. “Well?”

“I can’t escape you,” you groan, massaging your temple. She cocks her brow, hoping you would elaborate. Your tired eyes meet hers. “It’s impossible. You’re getting me special exemptions. You’re offering to play bodyguard. You’re still affecting every single day of my life,” you laugh in exasperation. “People are starting to talk now that, and I fucking quote, ‘She’s not Abby’s girl anymore.’”

“Then tell them that we were never together to begin with,” Abby puts as bluntly as she could, her words a betrayal and then some. Hearing herself say them makes her knuckles want to clench.

“We both know that’s a fucking lie—”

Rolling her eyes, Abby rests her weight against the concrete wall, folding her arms. “I’m offering you solutions here, sunshine.”

“Don’t ‘sunshine’ me.”

“Then we’re gonna have to compromise, because there’s no fucking way I’m putting you back on the draft register. Scars are getting smarter, and they’re using more of our tech. It’s dangerous.”

“Okay, okay,” you concede, sighing deeply with chagrin. “I’m not gonna waste my time getting you to change your mind.”

“Good.” Pensively, Abby taps her finger against her bicep, waiting for a sign of resolution to wash over your expression. But there’s nothing of the sort; your lips are still curved into the same frown, your eyelids heavy and your eyes bloodshot, either from fatigue or an earlier episode of tears. The former definitely, the latter possibly. “This goes deeper than me taking you off patrol, right? I can tell you haven’t been sleeping,” she comments.

“Please don’t psychoanalyse me, Abby,” you whisper, intriguingly void of anger.

“Tough shit. I’m worried,” she states honestly.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” you scoff. “You care. You still care, even after what I said to you. And you shouldn’t, because it was hurtful—”

Abby shakes her head. “It was fair—”

“—That doesn’t mean it wasn’t hurtful.” When her gaze meets yours, there’s a silent apology in your eyes. An unwarranted apology by anyone’s standards but your own. Regret. “I just… I can’t move on from you knowing that you still fucking care.”

Abby’s face is steeled as she dissects your words in her head, delving deep into the emotion laced in every syllable. That glimmer of regret distracted you from your point, she ponders, so the hint of aggression must have been forced. The exhaustion, well, that isn’t purely a residual effect of poor sleep – there’s mental exhaustion, too. You’re thinking about your words, if the hesitation meant anything at all, but your feelings are slipping through the cracks. Damn…she really is in your head, isn’t she?

It's terrible. Half a second of deliberation told her this is far from the right thing to say in this moment, but she has to pry further. She wants to strip you – not just metaphorically, but that can wait – of any avenue to escape her presence in your mind.

So she asks, none too gently, “Is that why you got me alone, wearing my shirt? Because you want to move on?”

Your jaw clenches. The cupboard is silent, so silent that Abby can hear the grinding of your molars. She shouldn’t have said that. She should not have said that. Fuck, if she had handled this with a shred more delicacy, and a lot less sarcasm, you wouldn’t be—

“No, I don’t.”

It takes her a moment to register the words, to dismiss the intrusive thought that they aren’t truthful. But they are, aren’t they? You can’t lie for shit.

There it is. The cusp of nirvana.

You open your mouth to continue, and Abby is latched onto every word. “Pathetic, right? Not even a week after I ended things, I wished I hadn’t.” Her heart skips a beat. She unfolds her arms – she can’t appear guarded and closed-off, not right now. “I thought it was for the best, okay? But it wasn’t, and now we’re here in this closet that reeks of fucking peroxide because I miss you.

“Things have been so hard without you, Abby. And I can’t – I can’t talk to people about this, because I brought it on myself, and frankly I could do without the humiliation. So all I have to comfort me is your shirt, alright?” Poor thing, you sound so disappointed in yourself. Defeated. A hairline fracture away from shattering like glass. The trace of belligerence in your tone thinly masks a fear of rejection that Abby finds rather delicious, but she won’t push you further. Not when you’re so close to being hers once again.

Panic flickers in your eyes. “I’ve been talking too much, fuck—”

Quickly, Abby, before she backtracks. “You still have me,” she assures you. “You can always come back to me.”

I want to be the only one to make you happy.

You tense with caution. “Do you really want that?” you manage, half-choked in your throat.

A dozen replies cycle through Abby’s thoughts, all of them too wordy, too convoluted and emotional to risk you slipping away. Every neurone crackles with a lightning impulse to spill her guts, to confess her visceral need for you. A yearning to see you smile. To bring laughter to those soft, petallike lips. In unabridged, unadulterated truth, part of her wants this apocalyptic nightmare to never end, just for the privilege of being your only sanctuary.

Do you really want that?

‘Want’ barely begins to encapsulate it. But she doesn’t have time to deliberate a better turn of phrase. If another second ticks by, you may take her silence for dismissal, and that would kill her.

“What I want…” She has you gripped onto every word, if your statuesque stillness is indicative of anything. “…is for you to figure out what you need. Whatever it is, you can come to me with it.” Okay, that’s something. It sufficiently cleaved through the silence, anyway. A modicum of tension relinquishes itself from your shoulders, and some of the apprehension dissipates from your eyes. You both let out a steady breath in synchronicity. Still, Abby flinches with the lingering fear that her words weren’t enough. You always craved that little bit of additional reassurance. So she offers, as a hidden plea more than anything else, “Even if you haven’t got it all figured out, I’ll still be here, okay?”

The harsh halogen glow seems to soften as you nod slowly, faintly miming something with your lips, mulling over her words. With the olive branch on the table, the stench of peroxide from the boxes of powdered bleach is no longer overwhelming. The cramped closet, a hostile environment just minutes ago, doesn’t feel like a battleground anymore.

“As long as you think that’s fair to you,” you say, the corners of your lips ever so slightly upturned into a shred of a smile.

“I wouldn’t suggest it otherwise,” she returns, concealing the delight thrumming through her veins. “You know where to find me.”

“Thank you, Abby. Really.”

She planted the seed, and already it has taken root in your mind. The tendrils may be infinitesimal, but they have sprouted, the notion of comfort sinking into your brain. Very soon, the flower will blossom: you’ll be back in her embrace, back where you belong. And while the wait would feel like an eternity, and the withdrawal would continue to gnaw away at whatever sanity remains, Abby knows you won’t be able to stay away for much longer.

It takes some mighty force of nature to keep a smirk from unfurling across her lips at the prospect of your imminent desperation. Instead, she smiles warmly, keeping things casual.

“No sweat.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

After you parted ways from the grimy supply cupboard, Abby hazarded a rather cocky guess: you would come crawling into her bed by the end of the week.

Six hours later, your thighs are splayed across her shoulders. Her lips are slick with your honey as your clit throbs under the relentless pressure of her tongue. And she can’t even think about the pathetically short period of time when right now, you taste so fucking sweet.

The human brain is a miraculous organ. Just how hers reinvented its entire perception of beauty the first time she laid eyes on you, it decided the nectar between your thighs would be her favourite meal. You are crisp strawberries on a summer’s day, sugary and sharp all at once, melting against her tongue. The psychology of it all had always fascinated her. Perhaps your addictive taste is influenced by those pitchy little moans falling from your lips – or the hand fisted in her hair, tugging at the roots just how she likes it, is having some kind of wonderful physiological effect. Whatever it is, she’s thankful for it, humming unabashedly as she sloppily makes out with your cunt, devouring everything you have to give her. Twenty-three days she spent locked out of heaven. Abby is going to take her damn time in her indulgence.

Oxygen is nothing more than an inconvenience, the faint burning in her lungs a tinnitus she can never fully suppress. With a savouring lick, she pulls away momentarily for breath, allowing her eyes to wash over your reclined body on her bed. Your chest rises and falls gently in tandem with the breathy sounds escaping you. The exposed skin where her shirt rides up your abdomen is decorated with a few faint imprints of her teeth. The possessive marks aren’t necessary. They aren’t the best indication of a healthy mind, either, but the way your hips bucked as she raked her teeth downwards, followed by a kiss just above the hem of your underwear…wasn’t that a pretty sight.

Panting, Abby presses her lips to your inner thigh, suckling gently on the skin. “I missed this,” she avows in earnest, muffled by your warm flesh. “I can tell you missed this, too,” she chuckles lowly. Her eyes flutter shut as your nails emblazon crescents into her scalp. Abby hisses at the delightful sting when you tighten your grip, dragging her tongue over the bud peeking through your dripping syrupy folds, wanting you to feel the effect you have on her.

Something strangled breaks free from your throat as she closes her lips around your clit and sucks softly, keeping your hips effortlessly pinned to the mattress with one hand as the other kneads your thigh. A breathless curse leaves you in a whine. She smiles against you, high on the dopamine injected straight into her bloodstream by your hips gyrating under her palm.

The saccharine river trickling from your heat is ceaseless, threatening to drown her, not that she would object. Suffocating against your sweetness would be a blissful death. Abby would welcome demise if it was delivered by your trembling thighs, even though you are always so worried about hurting her, like you ever could.

“Have you ever been this wet before, baby?” she laughs, unable to help herself. Those meaner tendencies make a habit of slipping through whenever she has you caged beneath her. She knows the answer to her question, but she wants to hear it from your lips in a moan: a pretty confession wrapped in an even prettier sound. An avaricious inferno burns in her heart, craving your acknowledgement that your body debauches itself for her of its own accord.

Without allowing you a moment to collect a coherent thought together, she resumes her onslaught, suckling on your sensitive clit, laving her tongue over the nerves that her lips can’t caress.

“It’s – fuck – been so long, Abby,” you mewl, those darling sounds heightening in volume and pitch as she gets a little rougher.

And it has. Not by normal standards; one might attribute such mutual desperation after three-ish weeks to nymphomania. Abby came to terms with her addiction long ago.

“I knew you wouldn’t last a month,” she muses out loud, pulling back for air.

If you were anyone else, you might have taken offense. But you are as drunk on pleasure as she is on pussy. The chains to your body’s chemistry reside firmly in her grasp. Who is she kidding? You both know Abby is the only person with a hope in hell of satisfying you.

There isn’t a trace of apprehension when she growls, heated and arrogant, “Nobody else could fuck you like I do.”

Arousal rips through her at the breathless agreement you relent like a sawblade: that blissed-out admission has fucked her up for life. You are hers. You see yourself as hers. It was implicit, she knows it. She wonders how many sleepless nights you spent needing some stress relief, a hand wedged between your pretty thighs, fervently trying to alleviate that tempestuous ache to no avail, because Abby ruined you for anyone else, even yourself.

You’re mine.

You’ve always been fucking mine.

Wantonly, your velvet heat pulses under her tongue, and she decides enough words have been spoken for now. In voracious earnest, both hands moving to grip your thighs, she doubles down.

Pain ripples through her scalp, a pestering ache sets into her jaw, yet Abby wouldn’t have it any other way because your sweet cunt is undulating against her lips, toes curling against her back. Your moans are music to her fucking ears, muted only by your thighs pressing against them. Crush her, she doesn’t care. She’ll make you come if it kills her.

“Abby,” you wail, all drawn-out and pitchy in about four different keys. Every morsel of your self-control has been gifted to her to handle how she knows best. That’s it, sweetpea. Fuck my face just how you need it.

It’s all worth it when your orgasm seizes you like a maelstrom, jolting with lightning as ecstasy washes over you. She may not believe in any god, but watching you succumb to pleasure is something of a divine transcendence; it makes her worship all the more worthwhile. Abby hums, pulling away from your clit so as to not overstimulate you – she can afford a little patience – leisurely lapping up your nectareous spend. She sighs as your hand unknits itself from her hair, ignoring the soreness at the roots.

Trembling, you shudder as she ghosts kisses along the tops of your thighs, trailing up until her face hovers above yours, lips still dewy with your essence. Warmth blankets her heart as your eyes flutter open, still heavy and half-lidded in a haze, long lashes framing the kaleidoscopic irises staring up at her.

“Beautiful,” she whispers beside herself.

A gentle smile settles onto your lips, but only briefly, faltering almost as swiftly as it appeared. A pang of fear strikes her heart. “What’s wrong, babe?” Abby frowns, the fragility of her concern steeled by her tone, the name rolling off her tongue out of normalcy.

Your brow knits with apprehension. “Are you sure you’re not…” you trail off, reaching up to touch her cheek. The delicate pads of your fingertips dance over her freckles, sunlight against her skin. “…mad at me?” She offers you a sympathetic look. You sigh, troubled, adding, “I would be mad at me.”

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, leaning into your touch, caressing your hair. “How can I be mad at you?”

There it is again: that incessant buzzing. The unshakeable tinnitus of the possibility of you slipping away rings through her ears, needle-sharp. Shrill, distracting…she needs to get rid of it before it seeps through the cracks of her visage.

You need convincing. A little encouragement, a little persuasion, a guiding light or a serpent to whisper in your ear…anything. Whatever works, as long as those doubts leave your mind. Fuck, you’re not afraid of her, are you? Well, come on, Abby, who wouldn’t be? But you shouldn’t be.

Stay grounded. Let’s be…tactical about this.

Perhaps the suggestion that you should figure out your own needs was ill-advised. There is far too much risk involved. Her heart would shatter if you concluded that the thing you needed was, after all, space. Abby needs to be gentle with her words, else you’ll end up thinking too hard.

A clause comes to mind. The words will not leave her guiltlessly. They are, morally, wrong. Objectively manipulative. But after this ambrosial dose of you, Abby doesn’t think she could survive another withdrawal period. What’s the harm in playing into psychology when you will both be happier with the result?

Reassurance, that’s what you need. It’s your crutch. Always has been.

“You were a little confused, that’s all,” she coos without a trace of judgement. Her hand drifts from your silken hair to cradle the smaller hand caressing her cheek. She moves your hand to her lips, dusting a kiss across your knuckles, closing her eyes, praying it’ll suffice to mask her dishonesty.

When she allows them to flutter open again, her eyes are met with a look of gentle perplexion, but no hostility. “Confused?” you frown. She scours those pretty irises for a change in emotion as her pulse quickens. But instead of recoiling, your unoccupied hand moves to her back, sweeping soothing arcs across her skin. Some of her anxieties are immediately quelled, clearing her head enough to formulate her next words with appropriate caution.

“You were stressed, overworked, and I wasn’t around as much because of patrols,” she says softly, delicately squeezing your hand. Gradually, to her delight, your brows begin to unfurrow. “And since I wasn’t there for you, you started to think I cared more about killing Scars than taking care of you. You forgot how much you mean to me,” she whispers, the manipulation of the truth sounding more believable with every word. “But that’s okay. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

You nod, your bottom lip subtly quivering. Just like that, the marionette strings are back in her palm. “I just—” you hesitate, eyes beginning to glisten, “I can’t believe I even started to think like…you were some sort of monster, when you’ve always been so good to me.”

“No matter what I do on the field, you will always come first, okay?” she smiles, sighing with relief when you return it, blinking away the tell-tale signs of tears.

“God, I missed you so much, Abs,” you laugh softly, arching your neck to seal the gap between your lips. Abby wants to laugh too, motivated by something entirely less sweet.

It worked.

It fucking worked.

Any residual guilt from her sugar-coated, twisted truth dissipates as your lips collide. No harm, no foul, right? Because body and soul, you are hers once more. This is normalcy.

This is home.

#excuse the dumb title it is 2.28am #oh yeah i decided to write again lmao. it's cheaper than therapy #can you tell i would abandon all morality if a sinister buff woman wanted to rail me or should i keep writing this kind of thing #abby tlou #abby anderson x reader #abby x reader #abby anderson #smut

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