𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: abby anderson x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: porn with plot, mdni, once again I know Ellie isn't part of the Seattle crew but this is fiction and here she is because I simply can't not include her
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Isaac’s golden rule: Loyalty above all. Abby’s spent years obeying it—until you, all sharp edges and I dare you eyes, make her question everything.
: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]
𝐚/𝐧: I really need to stop writing when I'm ovulating but here it is anyway so yeah (might come back and edit more when I'm less horny we'll see) oh and please let me know if there's any requests i've fallen down the rabbit hole with this one
It’s common knowledge at the WLF not to fuck with you—everyone knows it, though for two very different reasons. One—you’re lethal. You move like a blade unsheathed: all controlled violence and sharp edges. The training yard is your proving ground, and the mat drinks blood more often than sweat when you’re on it. Soldiers twice your size hit the ground before they register the strike, their pride bruised worse than their ribs. Knuckles split, breath steady—you don’t hesitate. Not with cocky recruits who mistake silence for weakness, not with grizzled veterans who forget their place.
Two—Isaac Dixon owns this city, and you? You’re his. Not by blood, but by something thicker—something carved into the bones of this ruined world. The man who raised you after everything fell apart doesn’t tolerate disrespect, least of all toward you. And if some idiot is stupid enough to cross you and lives to tell the tale? They won’t for much longer, not once Isaac finds out. And he always finds out.
Abby knows this better than anyone. She’s seen it firsthand—the way his grip tightens on your shoulder when some fresh recruit lingers too long on the curve of your smile, the way his voice drops into something lethal when your name leaves someone’s lips wrong. It should terrify her.
It does.
But not enough.
Not when she’s lying awake at night, replaying the sound of your laugh—low, warm—in the hollow of her skull. Not when she catches the flex of your hands during drills and imagines them dragging her closer by the waist, fingers digging into the softness beneath her armour.
It’s treasonous.
You are treasonous.
The way your sweat-slicked skin glows under the flickering gym lights, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when you’re focused—Christ, even the way you breathe feels like a provocation. Every glance, every accidental brush of your fingers against hers, every time you smirk at something she says—it’s all a slow, sweet torture. She shouldn’t be tracing the lines of your body with her eyes in the mess hall, shouldn’t be lingering outside the showers just to hear the hitch in your voice when you hum some old song under the water. She shouldn’t be imagining what it would be like to press you against the wall of some abandoned storage room, her mouth hot on your neck, her hands slipping under your shirt while you gasp her name like a prayer.
But she does.
And it’s killing her.
Because wanting you isn’t like wanting anyone else. It’s not something she can exorcise with a rough fuck in a supply closet, not something she can walk away from with a smirk and a shrug. No, this feeling lingers. It festers. It follows her like a devil on her shoulder, whispering all the things she can’t have—
The way your breath would shudder if she bit down on your collarbone.
The way your hips would roll against hers if she pinned you beneath her.
The way you’d moan, soft and broken, if she finally, finally let herself take what she’s been craving.
It started with the glances—sharp, stolen things, like she was committing a crime just by looking at you. You’d catch them in the fractured seconds when she thought you weren’t watching: dark, assessing, lingering a second too long before she’d wrench her gaze away. Her jaw would tighten, teeth pressing into the soft flesh of her lower lip, like she was pissed at herself for looking, pissed at you for existing in her periphery like a thorn she couldn’t pluck out—or maybe more like a wound she kept pressing on, just to feel it sting.
And oh, how it stung.
Because then came the touches—small at first. The brush of her knuckles when she passed you supplies, calloused and deliberate even in its carelessness. The way her hands lingered a heartbeat too long during sparring, fingers digging into your hip to adjust your stance—her grip firm enough to brand you through your clothes. You’d smirk, and she’d snatch her hand back like you’d burnt her, muttering "Focus" like it wasn’t her own touch that unravelled you.
But the worst—the absolute worst—was the way she looked at you after. Like she was caught between wanting to wipe that smirk off your face and devouring you whole. Her jaw would clench when you smiled at her, teeth grinding like she was imagining all the ways she could shut you up. Her fist? Maybe. Her mouth? Definitely. Her thighs? God, yes. You’d seen the way her muscles flexed when she trained, sweat-slick and powerful, and you weren’t above admitting—at least to yourself—how badly you wanted her to put them to better use. Wanted her to pin you down and ruin you with them, just to see if she’d finally, finally lose that fucking control.
And then there’s right now—
The gym is a living thing around you: packed bodies and shouted bets, the air thick with sweat and the electric buzz of violence—or maybe that’s just the current arcing between the two of you, sharp enough to scorch.
Sparring matches are always prime entertainment here, but this? This is a spectacle.
Two of Seattle’s best fighters circling each other like the wolves they are, the mat a battleground of scuffed rubber and spit-shined pride. Abby shifts her weight across from you, rolling her shoulders in a way that makes her muscles flex under her sweat-damp tank top. The fabric clings to every ridge, every scar, and fuck, it should be illegal to look that good while also being fully capable of snapping you in half.
She’s stronger—all corded muscle and brutal precision, her strikes calibrated to bruise, not break. Every swing is controlled fury, like she’s holding back just enough to keep from wrecking you.
But you’re faster.
You slip past her guard like you’re floating, twisting away before she can land a hit that would leave blossoms of violet and gold under your skin. The near-misses send your pulse jackrabbiting, your body thrumming with the thrill of almost. Every block sends a jolt up your arms; every graze of her knuckles burns, lingering a second too long, like she’s savouring the contact. Like she can’t help herself.
She lunges. You dodge. The crowd erupts as you pivot, using her momentum against her—but she recovers fast, too fucking fast, her body slamming into yours with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. The mat hits your back with a dull thud, and then—
She’s there.
Thighs caging yours, her weight pinning you down like she’s been dreaming of this. The room dissolves into white noise; all you can focus on is the hot puff of her breath against your lips, the way her eyes flicker into something hungry, something desperate, just for a second—before she schools her expression back into that infuriating, ice-cold control. But you felt it. The way her pulse jumped when your hips rolled up against hers. The ragged hitch in her breathing when your mouth grazes her jaw.
"Going to admit you like having me underneath you," you murmur, "or do you want to keep playing pretend?"
Her grip tightens on your wrists, fingers digging in hard, and you watch the war in her eyes—the way her pupils swallow the colour whole, the flush creeping up her neck like a confession. The crowd is screaming, but all you hear is the sharp click of her swallow when your knee nudges between her thighs—
She knew this was a bad idea.
Knew it the second you stepped onto the mat, all cocky smirks and infuriating grace, like the fight was already yours. Knew it when the first brush of your skin against hers sent a spark down her spine, violent and bright, the kind that starts wildfires. Knew it when the crowd started chanting, their voices a distant buzz under the static in her ears—because the heat in your eyes told her you knew. Knew exactly what was going on in her head.
And now?
She’s fucking trapped.
Not by you—no, you’re the one pinned beneath her—but by the way your breath fans over her skin, by the way your voice curls around her like smoke, thick and intoxicating. By the way, your body arches into hers like you were made to fit there. By the fact that every cell in her body is screaming at her to either kiss you senseless or run.
A gasp tears itself from your throat—lost in the roar of the crowd, swallowed by the chaos. But you know she hears it, because her breath hitches, sharp and sudden, her body locking up like she’s been electrocuted. Her muscles coil so tight you can feel the tremor in her thighs where they bracket yours, her pulse kicking wildly under your fingertips. Her lips part—just to drag in air like she’s drowning. Like you’re the oxygen she’s starving for.
A ragged breath escapes her, and she swears under her breath—low, filthy, the kind of word that would’ve earned her a demerit from Isaac if he’d heard it.
Isaac.
The thought hits her like a punch to the gut.
Because you’re his. Not in the way she is—his soldier, his apprentice, his loyalty—but in the way that matters. The way that makes his voice soften when he asks if you’ve eaten. The way he barks at anyone who spars against you too hard. The way he watches you sometimes, like he’s memorising the ghost of someone he couldn’t save.
And Abby?
She owes him everything.
But then you move—twisting your hips, leveraging her distraction, and flipping her onto her back in one smooth motion. The crowd erupts—someone whoops, someone else groans—but all you see is the way Abby’s pupils blow wide, her gaze dropping helplessly to the rapid rise and fall of your chest. She stares at your lips, parted and panting, at the sweat glistening in the dip of your collarbone, a bead trailing down like an invitation, at the way your tank top has slipped just slightly, the fabric clinging to every desperate breath, and the hint of skin beneath taunting her.
You grin down at her, slow and knowing. "My eyes are up here."
Her hand snaps up, fingers curling around your wrist—too tight, too desperate—but she doesn’t shove you off. Doesn’t move. Just holds you there, her grip trembling with the effort of not pulling you closer, of not giving in to the thing clawing up her throat.
Her voice is a growl, rough with restraint. "You’re going to fucking regret—"
A particularly loud holler splits the air, reality crashes back in—and just like that, the moment shatters. Her grip slackens, fingers twitching like she’s been burnt. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard, too hard, like she’s forcing down something hungry and unfinished. With a snarl she shoves you off with enough force to send you across the mat. She's on her feet in one fluid motion, her breathing ragged.
"That's enough for today."
The words come out clipped, military-precise, but her voice cracks on the last syllable. She won't look at you. Can't. The flush creeping up her neck betrays her, turning the tips of her ears the same violent red as a fresh bruise. Every muscle in her back is corded tight as she stalks away.
The gym holds its breath. Dozens of eyes track her retreat—some amused, some confused, all riveted. The air hums with unspoken questions, the kind that'll fuel barracks gossip for weeks. Then Ellie shatters the silence like a brick through glass: "Pay up, shitheads!" Her cackle cuts through the tension like a knife. "Told you she'd fold first!”
Afterward, things get...complicated.
Abby doesn't just avoid you—she wages war against your memory. For days, she becomes a ghost in the compound, her presence evaporating the moment you enter a room. She takes the longest patrol routes, the ones that leave her boots caked in frozen mud and her fingers numb enough to forget how they once trembled against your skin. She volunteers for back-to-back overnight watches, staring into the pitch black until her vision blurs and doubles, praying for raiders or infected—anything she can justify pummelling into submission.
She runs stadium stairs until her lungs scream for mercy, until her thighs shake so violently she has to clutch the rusted railing to remain upright, sweat dripping from her nose onto concrete below. The weight room echoes with her punishment—plates clanging, her grunts sharp and guttural as she lifts until her muscles shriek in protest, until the barbell slips from her sweat-slick palms and crashes to the floor with a sound like gunfire.
Sleep is a casualty in this campaign. When exhaustion finally claims her—if you can call those fitful two-hour stretches sleep—she collapses in the barracks instead of her usual bunk. The thin mattress does nothing to cushion the distance she's trying to put between you, the space that does nothing to quiet the guilt gnawing at her ribs like a starved animal.
But it's all useless. A fool's errand.
Because when the compound falls silent and her eyes finally close—
She still sees you.
No matter how far she goes, the realization follows—if she stops—if she so much as hesitates—she’ll have to face it.
So she runs faster.
The archives are quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that presses against eardrums and makes breath feel too loud. Flickering fluorescent lights hum their death rattle overhead, casting erratic shadows that jump across Abby's hunched shoulders like spectators to her torment. Paper rustles under her restless hands—mission reports, supply manifests, anything with enough dry facts to drown out the memory of your voice, your scent, the way your body had yielded beneath hers only to flip the script and leave her gasping.
Her braid drips onto the collar of her shirt, the damp chill doing nothing to soothe the fever under her skin. Three showers today—three rounds of near-scalding water that failed to strip away the phantom sensation of your hips rolling up against hers. The soap had turned her hands raw, but she still smells you in the steam: that hint of salt and something sweeter beneath, the scent that had flooded her senses when she'd pinned you down. When your breath had caught just enough for her to hear it. When your eyes had gone dark with the same hunger currently eating her alive from the inside out.
Fuck.
Her pen snaps between her fingers. Ink bleeds across the inventory sheet like a bruise. She drags her nails down her forehead hard enough to leave red trails, as if she could physically scrape the images from her mind—Your lips parting when she leaned in too close. The way your pulse jumped under her grip. The sinful arch of your back when she—
"You avoiding me or something, Anderson?"
Your voice is a lit match tossed into a powder keg.
Abby's spine locks. Her breath stops dead in her lungs. There in the doorway, haloed by the dim hallway light, you lounge against the frame with that infuriating half-smirk—the one that lives in her dreams now, the one that makes her want to either slam you against the nearest surface or flee this godforsaken compound forever.
She hadn't heard you approach. Hadn't sensed your presence until it was too late. Too busy drowning in the kind of thoughts that would have Isaac demoting her to latrine duty for a month if he ever guessed.
The overhead light flickers again. In the strobe-like effect, she sees the knowing tilt of your head, the way your crossed arms make your tank top strain just so across your shoulders. Worst of all, she sees the way your gaze drops to her whitened knuckles, to the ruined paperwork, to the rapid rise and fall of her chest—reading her like one of these damned mission logs.
Abby goes rigid—muscles locking like she’s spotted a threat, a mistake, something she can’t afford. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A fucking mistake of nuclear proportions. She might be Isaac's apprentice, his razor-edged weapon honed to perfection, but you—
You're his pride. His joy.
The one who makes that permanent crease between his brows soften when you walk into a room. The one he looks at like you personally hung the goddamn moon and arranged the stars to match your freckles. His voice drops half an octave when he speaks to you, all rough edges sanded smooth—a tone Abby's only ever heard him use with one other person, back when there were still photos on his desk instead of empty spaces.
And her?
She's the soldier he trusts to keep her hands clean. The one he expects to be ruthless, disciplined, and unbreakable. Not the woman who fucks recruits in supply closets when the nightmares get too loud, who leaves a trail of broken hearts and rumpled sheets because it's easier than letting anyone see the cracks in her armour.
Isaac would kill her if he knew.
Not just because it's you—though that alone would be enough—but because he'd never believe this is different. That she's lying awake, aching for you in a way that terrifies her, because this isn't just hunger—it's something worse. Something that feels suspiciously like yours, like she wants to carve out a space inside her ribs just for you to ruin.
Why would he believe it?
She doesn't even let herself believe it.
"Why can't you just let this go?"
You've seen Abby angry before—fury is her native language—but this is something else entirely. This isn't the hot, reckless rage of battle; it's something slower, sharper, like a blade being drawn deliberately across skin. Her voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries more threat than a scream ever could.
"You tell me," you counter, stepping closer until your shadow swallows hers whole. "You've been staring at me for months."
She knew you’d noticed—hadn’t exactly been subtle with the way her gaze lingered a second too long when you stretched after training, muscles taut and glistening under the afternoon sun. Hadn’t hidden the way her knuckles whitened around her rifle when you laughed at one of Ellie’s stupid jokes, your head thrown back, throat bared like an invitation—like a fucking feast laid out just for her.
But she hadn’t expected you to call her out on it. To strip her bare with nothing but a challenge in your voice and that goddamn smirk that’s been haunting her dreams.
"You’re imagining things," she lies, but her pulse is a traitor, hammering where your fingers could so easily press against her throat—where they have before, in the ring, when she pretended it was just combat and not coveting. When she told herself the way her breath caught was from exertion, not the way your nails dug into her skin like you wanted to leave marks.
"Am I?" You tilt your head, eyes dark with something that makes her stomach twist, her skin too tight over the wildfire in her veins. "Then why do you look like you want to fight me?"
Abby’s breath stutters.
"Unless", you murmur, stepping closer, close enough that the heat of your body sears through the space between you, "you’d rather fuck me."
Both.
She wants both.
To break you—to pin you down and watch that smirk dissolve into gasps, to see if you’d still be so smug with her teeth at your pulse.
To bend you—to make you unravel under her hands, to hear the way your voice would crack when she finally wrings the truth out of you.
To ruin you—to leave you just as haunted as she is, just as desperate, just as hers.
To be ruined—to let you strip her bare until there’s nothing left but the truth she hasn’t dared to say.
And fuck Isaac. Fuck his expectations. Fuck the way he looks at you like something precious, because she’s not his perfect soldier right now—she’s a woman starved, and you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted to devour.
One second, there’s space. The next—
Her hand fists in your shirt, yanking you forward so hard your body slams into hers. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, but you don’t care—not when her breath is ragged against your mouth, hot and uneven, her lips so close you can taste the coffee she drank hours ago, the faint metallic tang of blood from where she’s bitten through her own restraint.
"You don’t know what you’re asking for."
Her voice is low. Dangerous. A last warning—the final chance to back away.
"Then show me."
And fuck, she does.
Her mouth crashes into yours like a gunshot—
No hesitation. No delicacy. Just hunger and heat and months of denial exploding between you in a single, devastating kiss.
Abby kisses like she fights—all teeth and dominance, her tongue sliding against yours with a greed that borders on violence. There’s no softness here, no tentative exploration—just the bruising press of her lips, the sharp bite of her canines when you gasp, and the way her fingers dig into your hips.
She pins you against the desk, the edge digging into your thighs as her body cages you in. One hand stays twisted in your shirt, crushing the fabric in her fist like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go, while the other grips your hip to haul you onto the desk—no asking, no gentleness, just taking.
And, God, you love it.
Your hands tangle in her hair, tugging hard enough to make her groan—a rough, broken sound that vibrates against your mouth.
"Fuck," she growls, tearing her lips from yours to bite down your neck, sucking dark marks into your skin like she’s claiming them. Like she wants the whole fucking base to know you’re hers.
Her knee presses between your thighs, forcing you to grind down shamelessly against the hard muscle, the friction perfect, maddening. Abby’s grip tightens—possessive—her fingers digging into your waist hard enough to leave proof, while her other hand slips into your shorts with a confidence that makes your breath stutter.
She teases you first—cruel, calculated—her fingertips tracing slow, torturous circles around your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, your nails claw at her shoulders. Then, without warning, she slides inside with a single, ruthless thrust, her fingers curling just so against that spot that makes you see stars.
"Fuck—Abby—"
"Gotta be quiet," she murmurs, nipping at your jaw, her breath hot and uneven against your ear. "Unless you want this to be over before I’ve even really started."
You bite your lip to stifle the whimper building in your throat, but it’s useless—your body betrays you, hips rocking against her fingers, chasing the pressure as she curls them just right, her thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.
She watches you with dark, satisfied eyes, drinking in every twitch of your muscles, every hitched breath, and every desperate roll of your hips. She knows exactly what she’s doing to you. How her fingers drag against your walls, how her palm grinds against you with every shallow thrust, how your thighs tremble when she slows just to hear you plead her name.
Your back arches toward her, your thighs clamping around her wrist like you can keep her there forever. But she doesn’t let up, her fingers pumping deep and steady, her teeth scraping your pulse point as she growls.
"Such a good girl for me."
Your body locks at the praise, a silent scream caught in your throat as pleasure wrecks you, wave after wave, her fingers milking you through it until you’re gasping, squirming, her name a broken chant on your lips.
But she still doesn’t stop.
Not when you whimper, oversensitive. Not when your legs shake so badly she has to tighten her grip to keep you upright. Not until your fingers are tangled in her hair, tugging weakly, your breath coming in ragged, uneven pants.
Then—finally—she pulls back, her fingers glistening as she drags them slowly over your lower lip.
"Look at you." Her voice is rough with something between awe and hunger, the words dragging across your skin like calloused fingers. "Fucking ruined."
Her thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open, and you taste yourself on her skin—salt and heat and her, always her. That distinct blend of gun oil and sweat and the cheap mint toothpaste from the barracks.
When she leans in to kiss you again, it’s deep and filthy, her tongue licking into your mouth like she’s starving. Like she’s trying to consume every gasp, every whimper you’ve given her, like she wants to carve herself into the very air you breathe, and you realise with dizzying clarity:
This isn’t close to enough for her.
Not when her free hand is already sliding up your stomach, thumb brushing over the curve of your chest in a possessive sweep, as if mapping every inch of you for later.
Not when the growl in her throat vibrates against your lips, raw and unchecked, the sound of a woman who’s spent too long holding back.
She nips at your jaw, sharp enough to make you gasp, then soothes the sting with her tongue, slow and deliberate. Her breath is hot against your ear as she murmurs:
"Oh, baby…" A chuckle, dark and promising. "I’m only getting started."
There’s no hesitation in her touch now, no pretence of restraint. Just hunger, honed to a razor’s edge, and the unspoken truth between you: This was always going to happen.
janainaart
jbbartram-illu
dededos
origamiaround
romaincrisis
ellievsbear
snowghoul
