A

She/Her, 22, TLOU fanatic

[abbyandersxnswife]

Welcome!

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Men and minors DNI please!

Currently on HIATUS.

I write canon wlw Abby Anderson fics <33.

Other about me; 22, lesbian, avid gamer, fandoms include The Last of Us, Elden Ring, and Life is Strange

Help Palestine here

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MASTERLIST:

Look For The Light; CanonAbby! x reader, apocalypse au!

Synopsis: You and Abby used to be best friends back in the Fireflies, but after her trip to Jackson, she makes it clear she no longer seems to even like you anymore. However, her actions keep stating otherwise...

Warnings; Best friends to enemies to lovers, smut, switch Abby!

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Tis The Damn Season; CanonAbby! x reader, apocalypse au!

Synopsis: You and Abby have always loved each other, but grief, time, and circumstance have separated you both. After you bump into her unexpectedly in Jackson, can you reconcile? Can you still accept her after learning what happened in the lodge?

Warnings: Angst, comfort ending

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[alloftheimagines]

abby anderson | i still love you

MASTERLIST | TAG LIST

words: 2k warning: 18+, angst, intoxication, blood, pining synopsis: abby is handling your break up with alcohol and fists. when she turns up at your door drunk and hurt, you're the only one who can put her back together, even if it means you're falling apart. tags: @hakandnsjoqmsn @abbyily @mamas-evil-hag

A knock at your door at three a.m. isn’t all that unusual in the WLF, but it never gets any easier to haul your ass out of bed when you’re still half asleep. You open the door and wish you hadn’t, stomach dropping at the sight on the other side. Abby, draped over Manny, peppered in bruises from her face to her knuckles and sporting a lazy, drunken glower. 

Your throat is dry. You’ve barely seen her since the break-up, and of the two of you, she’s the one who holds her shit together day in, day out. You’re supposed to be broken, not her.

And you are. Just not like this. 

“You gonna let us in before my damn shoulder falls off?” Manny demands, and pushes past you without permission, Abby staggering at his side. She’s mumbling something unintelligible. God, you’ve never seen her like this. You don’t know what to do, what to say.

“What happened?” you ask weakly. 

“Had too much to drink and picked a fight with half the night watch.” Manny throws her down on the bed. Your bed, and she hmphs as she rolls onto her back.

Usually, she saves the fighting for the front lines and, despite what people think, she doesn’t enjoy using her fists unless she has to. This isn’t her. And you think maybe it’s your fault. 

“Why… Why’d you bring her here?”

“‘Cos about the only thing she’s said that makes any sense is your name. Put her out of her damn misery. And me. I need sleep.” He attempts to leave, and you’re quick to stop him. 

“Manny, wait. You can’t just leave her here!”

“Your girlfriend, your problem.”

“She’s not my—” The door is slammed in your face before the sentence is finished, and you shoot it the middle finger before whirling back around to your not-girlfriend. 

He was right. She is saying your name, a lot. 

Your breath sticks in your throat as you grab a glass of water and go back to her sprawled form. It won’t be enough; you’re going to have to clean her bloody lip, and probably get her out of the clothes she’s wearing, the damp patch on her chest reeking of vomit.

“Jesus, Abby,” you whisper softly. “What am I going to do with you?”

Her brow puckers at the sound of your voice, lids fluttering open to hooded slits. Your name again, this time a question. 

“I’m here. Can you drink this for me?”

At the glass pressing against her mouth, she groans, but you force her head up. 

“C’mon. Gotta sober you up a little.”

“Don’t wanna,” she slurs. 

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Used to be your baby.”

You pause, grip around the glass tightening until your knuckles are white. You think, or at least hope, she isn’t trying to hurt you on purpose, but it still cracks your chest open to be reminded of what you’ve lost. You miss her like hell, at least the version of her you know. This is a stranger. 

“Drink,” you say again, more forcefully now. When she clamps her mouth shut, you huff again. “Abby, please. For me.”

“Tha's not fair.” But she does, for you, gulping down half the glass. When she retches, you think it’s going to come right back up, but she swallows thickly, face crumpling. It must hurt one of her injuries, because a clumsy hand rises to her temple. “Shit. D’I get hit by a truck?”

“No, just a couple fists. Apparently, you’ve been busy fighting. What’s that about?” 

“Night watch ’re assholes.” 

Well, that’s true, but Abby can usually handle assholes. As one of Isaac’s top fighters, she doesn’t need to stoop to their level. Walking past them with her head high, a subtle glare their way, is usually enough. 

You make to go get a cloth, but then her fingers are coiled around your wrist, rough and tight and desperate. “Don’t go.”

Another fracture behind your ribs. You perch on the bed to brush the sweat-matted strands of hair from her face, tutting at the mess her braid has become. “I’m not going anywhere. Just need to clean you up.”

And then she tries to kiss you. 

You pull away against her sour breath, a hand pressed to her chest to keep the distance between you. Tears are welling in your eyes, throat filling with sand. “What are you doing?”

“C’mon. Miss you so bad. Please. Please, just kiss me, baby. I need it. Need you.” She cups your jaw, and you flinch. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, and you don’t like it. 

It isn’t fair. You’re trying to move on, forget, and she’s here, sad eyes and pink pout, making it impossible. And you can’t say so, because you can’t talk to her like this. She’s not even here with you — or maybe she’s only here with you, and everything else has been forgotten, which is just as bad. 

You pry her hand away, force it back to her side, shaking your head. “We’re not doing this tonight. I’m gonna clean you off, and then you’re gonna sleep it off. Okay?”

Her face crumples, but she mumbles an okay, sinking back against the headboard hard enough to leave a crack in the plaster where the wood meets wall. You turn away for a minute, just to compose yourself, because you’ve missed her, too. So badly. And all you want is to whisper that it’s okay, that she’s okay, but it isn’t your job to take care of her like that anymore, and this is the best you can do without breaking. 

You search under your bed for one of her old shirts and drop it in her lap. “Wear this. You smell like shit.”

Her eyes close. You’re losing her. 

“Abby,” you beg, and you can't help it. You cup her cheek, right after you just told her not to do the same. She nestles into your touch, humming. “Abby, don’t go to sleep yet.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re full of blood and vomit.” And you know there’s no way that she’s cognisant enough to change her T-shirt. “At least lift your arms for me.”

When you pinch the hem of her tank top, she manages to throw up an elbow that quickly falls to her side again, making your job harder. You manage, somehow, stripping her down to her bra. It’s a strange sight, her sturdy muscles matched with the mess she’s made. Bruises litter her toned stomach, writhing with heavy breaths, and you squeeze your eyes closed. You hate this. You hate her, a little, for making you see it — but you’re also glad it’s you. Nobody else would take care of her properly. 

It has to be you. 

“W’s wrong?” she asks. 

“Just don’t like seeing you hurting.” The shirt is pulled over her head, mussing her braid even more as you wrestle her arms into the sleeves. You decide to untie it, blonde hair kinked as though it wants to stay put as it cascades down her back. You rarely get to see it this way, only ever after she’d taken a shower. Sometimes, after a long day, she’d ask you to braid it for her, and you’d take your time weaving the sections, never able to get it quite as neat as she does. 

“‘M fine,” she lies, but there’s a tear on her blood-spattered cheek. 

You put her feet in your lap to untie her laces and peel off her boots, slipping them under your bed. She nestles further into your pillow. This time, you don’t bother to tell her not to. Maybe it will be easier if she’s asleep. 

She doesn’t protest when you leave to grab a damp cloth and some alcohol wipes. You kneel beside the bed, cleaning her face of the blood with a soft touch. When you near her mouth and she winces, you’re quick to whisper a “Sorry, angel.”

Because you’ve forgotten, for a moment, that she isn’t yours anymore. That you don’t get to call her that. 

“Never gon’ be pretty enough for you now,” Abby mumbles, a hint of mirth dancing in her voice. 

“Shut up.” You linger longer than you should, unable to keep from tracing her pronounced cupid’s bow until her pout dissolves just a little. 

She says your name again, always your name, trying to touch your face. You stop her, intertwining your fingers instead. 

“What? What do you need?”

“You.”

“I’m here.”

“Not.” The crease between her brows deepens. “You gave up 'n us.”

The accusation is breathed softly, but it cuts through you all the same. You drop her hand, turning your back to her as the first sob rises in you. You can just about trap it, digging your fingernails into your scalp in an attempt to compose yourself. 

“Is that why you drank yourself stupid?” 

“Y’re mad at me again. Always mad at me.”

“Go to sleep, Abby.”

You feel the mattress shift, feel her eyes burning into your back. And then her fingers are tracing the knots of your spine, and you want so badly to give into it. “Please, baby. ‘M sorry.”

“Stop it,” you snap, because if she keeps talking to you that way, if she keeps saying your name when she can barely remember her own, you don’t think you can keep this rift between you. And you need it. You need to protect yourself so she can’t hurt you again. Because she did hurt you. She changed. She stopped talking to you, stopped asking you before she threw herself into battle with the Scars. And she went to Jackson after you asked her not to. She came back with more blood on her hands than was right. She stopped sleeping, started taking more assignments, anything so she wouldn’t have to think or talk about what she did.

It was no way to live. But then, neither is this. 

Abby whimpers, like the distance between you is a burn. “Just lie with me. ‘S all I want.”

“You’re not being fair,” you hiss out. “I’m trying to get through this, too — and not with drink and fights. Not by turning up at your door and begging.”

She tries to sit up. Fails. “I… just… I dunno how else to…” Her face crumples. “Fuck. Fuck, I made it worse. ‘M a fuckin' piece of shit. I am.”

You want to tell her not to say that, but if you open your mouth, you’re not sure what will come out this time.

For moments, it’s silent. You think that she’s asleep and finally let the tears fall into your hands, shoulders wracked with silent sobs. 

Only she isn’t asleep. When you finally stop and turn to her, her face is stained with tears, too, and her hand is outstretched like she wants so badly to touch you again. She’s not looking at you, just at her split knuckles with something like hatred in her eyes. 

It’s worse than anything else you’ve seen tonight. 

And there, that yearning to take care of her opens up bigger than ever. You drag the cloth over the ruined skin, then wipe away her tears with the back of your hand. 

“Sleep it off, Abs,” you say again. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Don’t hate me. Please.”

“I don’t hate you, angel. I could never hate you.” You wish it wasn’t true. Hating her would be so much easier.

But in the end, you know her heart too well. You know that this is suffering, and that you caused it, at least partly. You know that she’s haunted by what happened to her dad, and that doesn’t make her a monster. It just made her unable to give you the love you yearned for. 

The love that is here now, lying between you like a third body. It didn’t go away. It never goes away. 

So you don’t, either, shuffling to sit beside her so that she can rest her head against your stomach. You play with her hair, and she moans like she used to, and you wonder if you made a big, big mistake in letting this go. 

Especially when she whispers, “Still love you.” Drunk and half-asleep and broken beyond repair, and all she can do is love you, still.

[abbyandersxnswife]

Another amazingly written work, highly recommend if you like reading angst, comfort, and hella yearning.

Women who yearn, earn, or whatever the saying is

[jerryandersonsdaughterinlaw]

god she’s so hot. that should be me 😩

[abbyandersxnswife]

God NEED THATTTTTT

[abbyandersnsgf]

oooooh i need her so diabolically bad

[dr-paint]

Team Seattle, Choose your fighter.

[abbyandersxnswife]

Abby Anderson my love

[n1ce2me]

i don’t understand how anyone who has played or enjoyed the games, enjoys hbo abby. they have fucked her character completely. if the writing was done appropriately for her character i don’t think nearly as many people would be pissed off about physical attributes. but they have robbed abby of everything that she was fundamentally and that shit will never sit right with me. game abby, sweetheart, i’m so sorry they’ve done this to you.

[justanotherabbystan]

Couldn’t have said this any better.

[sapphointhe21stcenturyposts]

𓈒࿐ ࿔*:･ SALT THE EARTH BEHIND YOU

I swear I thought I dreamed her; she never asked me once about the wrong I did

CHAPTER I - POINT CONCEPTION

(post Santabarbara) abby x fem!reader: they say the ocean delivers and destroys. when a blonde, bloodied girl washes up on the shore of your lighthouse, she changes the tides of your life. What will remain when the storm settles?

masterlist // series masterpost wc : 1.4k cw: canon typical violence, descriptions of injuries, blood, angst an: this took wayy too long for something this short lmaoo. taglist is open <3 divider creds: @/cafekitsune, @/saradikagraphics

The sun has long abandoned the shores of the ‘Cape Horn of California’. At least that’s what you think it’s called. Was called. The tourist flyer you found had been rotting by the time you found it, all those months ago. Now the waves rise like jet columns, scraping the rock outcrop and rendering the atmosphere in lines of smog and salt.

The vantage point of the lighthouse is far from luxurious, but you wouldn’t trade its safety for anything. Your lamp casts its uncertain light across the beams of the ceiling, providing a low-resolution lens for your nightly watch.

Waves rise in practiced motion; nothing unusual. Sprays of salt, swirling clouds, shifting debris, a silhouette…

You blink. The ocean is the primordial trickster, using your solitude and paranoia against you. This you know too well. You squint, binoculars pressed to your browbone. But the figure remains, only gaining clarity as you stare. Dark clothes, pale skin, close shorn hair.

A body.

The binoculars clatter to the wooden floor.

You run.

8 months ago

The sand is hot shattered glass under your feet, kicking up as you dash across the beach. The gunshots are still ringing in your head, even though they’ve been left miles behind. First came the wolves, then came the snakes.

Will the feeling of being chased ever leave you?

You climb over the barricades on shaking legs. One upward glance tells you why the area is abandoned. The rock outcrop stretches like the form an old sea god, imposing and unforgiving. Steep black and brown walls form a fortress, the lighthouse its tall watchtower at the centre.

You know that your hopes of salvation lie dead on the shores of Seattle. They were shot through by the men in uniforms, and then left for the Wolves. But as you see the tower, its tall walls and the complete lack of any other life around it, you almost sob in relief. If I cannot have salvation, I will have safety.

You’re heaving by the time you make it to the lighthouse entrance. Bloodied knuckles clutch the doorframe, looking into the darkened room. There’s no sound, save for the howling wind. Your sight tunnels as you see a staircase.

It’s only after you make it to the very top of the lighthouse that you allow yourself to look around. The giant Fresnel lens in the centre of the room is covered in grime, cracking from years of exposure. The glass panels of the room have been left open, hinges rusting red. The salt air stings your open cuts as you look out. Hurting and healing.

All around you, the wasteland of the West Coast stretches far and wide.

The waves lap at the girl’s limp ankles.

You approach with a mix of weariness and urgency, pistol in one hand, a lantern in the other. There’s no sign of movement. You’re not sure if you should be relieved or horrified.

As you come closer, the darkness moves and shifts under the light, revealing the girl’s form. The close shorn hair is darkened by water, but you can tell it would blonde otherwise. The figure looks emaciated, muscles frail and sunken under the skin. Large lacerations litter almost every surface. 

You place the lantern on a rock, bending down to turn the body over.

You brace yourself for the worst.

And you certainly get it. The skin is gaunt and sallow, sand covering her forehead and cheeks. The eyes are open a fraction, no doubt in delirium, eyeballs moving wildly behind the lids. You think you catch a glimpse of blue, but the darkness makes it hard to say for certain. Alive, then. At the very least.

Your eyes drift towards the fishing boats docked near the edge. A deep sigh reverberates through your lungs.

Is this a bad idea? Probably.

You grab a fishing net regardless.

In Abby’s nightmare, a statue of Saint Mary burns on a pyre.

The woods around her are on fire. Smoke rises, a black cloud that blots out the sky. All paths before her are covered in smog.

When she turns around, the hospital lies in ruins.

When she looks down at her hands, they are red and bloody. She knows it’s her father’s blood.

When she looks up, the smoke is not really smoke at all. The swarm of fireflies surround her, the blinking lights blinding her. The press of hundreds of small flying bodies crushes her from all sides.

She’s rooted to the ground, feet planted. She swings at the cloud of fireflies blindly, the knife cleaving through the light.

But it’s no use. As one crowd of the fireflies are dispersed, another emerges in its place. Abby’s lungs are wracked with sobs. Her arms thrash, desperately fighting a relentless hydra of blinking light.

In the distance, Abby can hear the howl of wolves.

She screams till her voice resembles theirs.

Your knife slices through the tattered clothes, reducing them into strips of fabric. They’re too far gone to be worn again, so you might as well put them to good use as kitchen rags.

The lighthouse’s living quarters are silent as usual. But this time, the slight but steady sounds of breathing join the white noise of the crashing waves outside.

 It’s been three days since you hauled the mysterious woman up to the lighthouse. In retrospect, you wonder just how ridiculous you must have looked; a fishing net wrapped around the body to give you leverage, and then you huffing and straining to bring her up the stairs, muttering sympathetic ‘sorry’s whenever you accidently knocked her head somewhere (not that she had the consciousness to even realize what was happening)

She now lies sprawled on the sofa in the living quarters. You’ve done the best you could with the resources available to you. They’re limited, of course. The surrounding areas have been picked clean by you months ago, and venturing out any further was a death sentence. One you are all too familiar with.

A clean shirt and pants cover her haggard form. Her hair is as clean as you could get it. The short tufts of murky blonde hair glint with lighter highlights, no doubt due to all the sun exposure. The woman’s skin has regained some colour, the bruises starting to turn tan and brown at the edges as they heal.

You place your knife on the wooden box you use as a makeshift coffee table, inching closer to the sofa. Your gaze travels over her, silently inspecting the state of her injuries. The major lacerations have been bandaged painstakingly. Your joints hurt as you remember that night, your body heaving with exertion as you attempted to manhandle her around in the effort to patch her up. Despite her cadaverous appearance, it’s clear that she had once had a formidable build.  

The thought should scare you. Her wounds are not caused by rocks or the elements, that much was obvious. Most of her injuries are marked with intention, cuts clearly made by some sharp object; the remnants of an attack, perhaps even a close-range fight. This woman could be a soldier, probably is. But your concern always seemed to win out in the end. The thought of leaving her out there caused your heart to constrict painfully. It would be inhumane.

You turn away, the very thought annoying you. That word, those morals are from a time long gone. You walk over to the window instead. The woman’s breathing becomes more laboured, her eyes moving wildly behind her lids again. She’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for the past three days, so you pay it no mind. It’s surprising that she’s even alive, and you weren’t exactly expecting her to be in perfect condition so soon. Must be a nightmare.

You turn your back on her, gazing over at the waves. The sun stands proud at midday, the heat causing a slight sheen of sweat to gather on your forehead. The water glitters, deceptively beautiful. You breathe deeply, wondering what you should make for lun-

The cold blade of your own knife presses into your back, the threat hovering over the thin fabric of your shirt. Your breath freezes in your lungs. All the warmth of the sun seems to flee the room with the speed of a gust of wind.

The woman’s voice is raspy, the danger in it unhindered.

"Where’s Ellie?"

Taglist : @madislament

[abbyandersxnswife]

I have been waiting for a post TLOU2 Catalina island fic for so long this is amazing so far !!! <333

[dreamcastomatic]

Some Abby stuff for my wonderful wife

[crystal-ae]

Plans with the wifey 💕A & C 💕

[abbyandersxnswife]

Tis The Damn Season ── ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

Canon!Abby x reader, apocalypse AU

Synopsis: You and Abby have always loved each other, but grief, time, and circumstance have separated you both. After you bump into her unexpectedly in Jackson, can you reconcile? Can you still accept her after learning what happened in the lodge?

Warnings: Angst, comfort ending

Word count: 1.2 k

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The air was frigid in Jackson, the settlement heavy with snow. You had been returning with a patrol when you spotted a woman running past you, clearly trying to catch up with her crew up ahead. Curiously, you followed. Strangers were rare in Jackson.

And so maybe it was fate when the woman had stumbled, nearly falling off the nearby precipice, when you grabbed her hand, hauling her up.

Whatever words you had planned to say next died in your throat upon seeing the woman’s face, your heart pounding as your gaze met familiar green eyes.

“Abby..?”

It was like all the memories just came flooding back…

-

“I ran to the operating room and he was..” Abby sobs. You hold her in your arms, gently smoothing the flyaways out of her face. She continues, “He was dead, just lying there. I kept screaming, Dad wake up, but he couldn’t..”

“I’m sorry Abby” You say softly. Abby just clutches onto you, arms tight around your waist. “He loved you, it’s not your fault, you didn’t know-” You murmur, trying your best to comfort her.

“I hate that he left me.. That he’s dead… what am I supposed to do now?” She asks, lashes wet with tears. “I’m gonna find whoever did this and kill them” She says darkly.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, we don’t know who it was. Why don’t we just stay here for now? We’ll figure it out, together.”

Abby nods at your words, and then breaks into sobs again, unable to stop. You stroke her hair, tucking the blankets a little tighter around the two of you on the couch. Nothing could go bad as you were together.

Nothing.

-

“Y/n?” Abby asks, confused as she gets up. You stare at her, mentally cataloguing all the differences. Her cheekbones are more defined, her eyes are colder, she’s several inches taller, and more muscular.

“What are you doing here?” You ask in return, noticing the blood on her shirt. You grab her arm, concerned. “Are you hurt?”

Abby blinks, taken back, but she doesn’t step away. “No.. it’s not mine.” She says, eyes darting to the ground. Her demeanor seems more distant, yet more sad, than you remember.

“I was supposed to be with my crew… but-” Abby looks off into the distance, not a trace of her crew left. “Fuck.” She swears, clearly at a loss for what to do.

You look at her, the settlement not too far away. “You could stay with me, I’ve got a cabin in Jackson. There’s a nasty storm coming.” I nod to the quickly darkening sky.

Abby’s eyebrows are furrowed, clearly torn. Her gaze darts to the horizon, scanning, before she sighs, turning back to you.

“Okay, just for tonight..” Abby says.

You head down to the settlement, making your way towards the cabin, hearing shouts as people race past you towards the lodge nearby.

“They fucking killed Joel!” A girl shouts, and you turn your head to look, but Abby grabs your arm, wrenching your gaze away.

“How much farther? Can we hurry?” Abby says, looking around furtively. You oblige, despite the sinking feeling you feel in the pit of your stomach.

“What did you do?” You ask, once you two are safely inside the privacy of your cabin. You kneel down to start a fire, bathing you both in a warm glow.

Abby stands awkwardly, shifting her weight. For the first time since you’ve seen her again, you catch a glimpse of your Abby, some echo of 17 year old Abby coming through.

“I… it was for him. My dad.” Abby says heavily, sitting down on the couch. You sit down next to her, hesitant to press her.

“It was you. You guys killed… that Joel guy. You and your crew, in the lodge.”

Abby looks up at the mention of Joel, her eyes meeting yours. They’re fraught with a mixture of emptiness, anger, and sadness.

“Yes.”

You look at her for another second, still searching her eyes. There’s a little bit of hope resting in them, as if she still longs for your acceptance, even after all this time.

“It’s okay.” You say simply, rubbing her shoulder. “But, can I ask you something?”

Abby nods, her expression tired.

“Did it make you feel any better..?” You say softly, leaning towards her.

Abby’s mouth forms into a thin line, trying to speak, just before her face cracks, her body racking with sobs. Old habits kick in, and you draw her into your arms, her feeling weirdly familiar despite the obvious changes you two have been through, physically and not. She wraps her arms around you, head resting on your chest as she cries.

“No..” Abby whispers, “it didn’t.”

She pushes out of your arms, face darkening. “It was supposed to make me feel better- the last 4 years wasted, training to kill fucking Joel Miller..” She trails off angrily, looking past you.

“You need to grieve, killing Joel was never going to give you the kind of closure you needed.” You say.

Abby just looks at you, her gaze hardening again.

“I don’t know. I just.. I just need to be alone.”

You understand, and nod, swallowing as you get up.

“If I leave you alone, promise me you won’t leave?” You ask, voice cracking a little.

Abby’s eyes seem to soften. “I promise.”

You leave her alone on the couch, staring into the fire, slipping softly into your bedroom. Maybe she’d be up for more talk later.

-

Abby’s quiet when you come out of your room a few hours later, and you prepare some stew for you both to eat. When you’ve finished ladling the soup into your bowls, you walk over to her, prepared to deal with an emotional Abby, but she’s sound asleep on the couch. You put the bowls down on the table, kneeling next to her.

Asleep, Abby looks much like her younger self, expression so much more peaceful than it did when she was awake. You’re unsure if to wake her, feeling she probably needs the sleep, and shift to get up.

An arm reaches out to stop you, Abby’s grip gentle as she holds you.

“Wait.”

You stop, kneeling back down, curious.

“I made you stew-” You say, gesturing. Abby sits up, blinking the sleep out of her eyes.

“I’m sorry for earlier… It's been hard, without my dad. Without you.” She admits, looking away at the last part. “I was angry about losing him, and got so bent on revenge… but I also felt angry about losing you, even if you weren’t dead. You could have been. May as well been.”

Your chest physically pains you, as you hear her words. The hurt in her voice is the same as the kind found in yours.

“Abby I didn’t want to leave Salt Lake City, the Fireflies disbanded after the massacre in the hospital… my family wanted to leave- and I.. you know I would have stayed if I could. I would have.”

You reach out to her again, hand resting on her knee, and Abby stares at it for a moment before putting her hand over yours.

“I needed you there..” She says, a single tear escaping again. “And you weren’t”

You get up, sitting beside her again. Your words come out hoarse, holding back tears at the sight of hers.

“I know. I’m sorry. I never wanted to be without you” I say. “I can’t make up for lost time, I know that… but we’re together again aren’t we? Maybe I could accompany you wherever you go next..” I suggest softly.

Abby looks at you, her eyes a few shades brighter, smile watery.

“I’d like that."

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[sweeney1999]

Idk y'all, I just don't think meaninglessly breaking up one of gaming's most formative wlw couples with little to no explanation is really the move. In today's media climate especially, when it feels as though all the doors Max and Chloe helped open are suddenly being slammed shut again... Whine about the validity of bae vs bay, doomed narratives, trauma-bonding, and ill-founded time traveling anxieties all you want, Pricefield is a pillar of the queer games community, a significant moment in history, and destroying it has an impact. And I think people affected by that impact are allowed to be mad about it.

[sinstear]

⛧ kisses with abby — abby loves when you kiss her, the second she’s woken up, to kissing her before work, or at random times throughout the day when you’re near her. no matter how long you’ve been together, or how far apart you’ve been for the day, it always has her cheeks flushed and a shy smile creeping up on her face when you randomly plant one on her face, her lips, or even her shoulder. she loves them all, no matter how short or long they are. but her absolute favorite? the one she cherishes deep in her heart? the morning one and forehead kisses. abby loves waking up in your arms, the feeling of your fingers tracing light patterns on her cheek, and the softness of your touch always has her burying her face deeper into the crook of your neck and holding you tighter. no matter the time, abby can guarantee you’ll be there whenever you're awake, planting soft kisses on her forehead as you thread your fingers through her soft blonde hair. the gentleness of your hushed whispers, the i love you’s and you’re so beautiful, against her skin always has her melting more into your arms, but not as much as when you kiss her entire forehead. half she time she acts asleep, but she’s really not. abby looks forward to waking up to you kissing her, she looks forward to seeing your tired smile the second her eyes flutter open. your favorite part is when you stop, and abby only has to huff, roll her eyes, and whine, then ask you to continue with a sweet please at the end. 

you’d do anything to see her smile and to see her happy. the whining and begging for you to carry on is just a little bonus you love to tease her about when she says she’s not needy for your kisses.

[abbyandersxnswife]

I love soft Abby sm <3

[emixion]

lis fans: I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY TOOK PRICEFIELD FROM US

me, who picked the bay ending at the ripe age of 15 as a pricefield fan because I understood the importance of letting go and how it ties into the themes of life is strange: wow thats wild

[abbyandersxnswife]

The theme of Life is Strange is that there is no right choice. Everything has a butterfly effect. You make the final choice, Bay or Bae, you get to choose. Both are morally questionable, and if you believe saving Arcadia Bay is the way, then go ahead. If you want to save Chloe and have Pricefield live happily ever after, by all means.

A sequel was NEVER intended by the original developers, DontNod was clear on this. Double Exposure isn't a "gotcha! I chose the right ending!" moment, it's a game fueled by corporate greed using the legacy of the original game.

Decknine purposefully lied, saying they respected both endings because being honest about the fact that they only honored the Bay ending doesn't translate well into sales. Furthermore, they shouldn't be trying to retcon the original game, the way they've missed the mark on Chloe's characterization and the Pricefield breakup is abysmal.

[tangent101]

Okay. I can't just let this rest...

So. We have a clip from Max's journal that is out now that shows lackluster art, dialogue from Max and Chloe, and is basically Chloe teasing Max that they should have a threesome with some rando guy. And on the surface it's idiotic and stupid (and part of Deck Nine's efforts to demonize Chloe and break up Pricefield so people will ship Max with Safi). But if you know anything about LiS...

Let's get this straight. (Because neither Max nor Chloe are straight.) Chloe Price, the young woman who freaked out because her mom started flirting with an in-your-face ex-military type within two months of her father's death and married said asshole probably within a year of William's death (and definitely in canon married Joyce before Chloe's 16th birthday), who threw a huge fit upon hearing her not-quite-girlfriend Rachel Amber was sleeping with their drug dealer (and not just a one-and-done deal), and who Rachel Amber herself describes in a note to Chloe in giving the "stink-eye" when Rachel flirted with guys, this Chloe Price... suggested having a threesome with some random guy.

Chloe Price is not fucking Rachel Amber. She has abandonment issues, she is possessive as fuck, and she is fucking loyal. Even after learning about Rachel cheating on her, Chloe still wanted to find Rachel rather than just write her off. This girl can give dogs lessons in loyalty to those she loves.

I said this in previous posts. It is clear that Deck Nine is doing to Chloe in the Bae setting what they did to Max in BtS by making her into someone she is not and setting up a reason to hate Chloe so they can push their new ship. It is shoddy and sophomoric writing that fails to capture the character as she was previously established. It is the worse aspects of fanfic writing. And in fact, the majority of fanfic writers are better writers than these hacks.

[samtamdan]

I refuse to believe they broke up

[abbyandersxnswife]

Decknine, your Double Exposure cashgrab game will never be canon to me. Pricefield forever.

[virusasaurusrex]

girlfriend jump scare oh my gawd... Ily abby Anderson 😍😍

[abbyandersxnswife]

My wife 🥰😍

[arcadianlesbian]

(SPOILERS!)

everything i hear about double exposure and pricefield’s possible break up hurts me so much because what do you mean. What do you mean These Two broke up. it doesn’t make any sense

“max’s newest adventure being as hesitant about its LGBTQ+ themes as the first game was 10 years ago, they will be pleasantly surprised.” yes, i am??????? don’t nod entertainment has posted pricefield on # national girlfriend day, they concluded the pair’s ending with the fact that they are staying in US after the storm and now Lives Together. max has always been open on how much she liked chloe. they heavily agreed on never leaving each other. they heavily agreed on never leaving each other!!!!!!!!!

[abbyandersxnswife]

The way Decknine continues to shit on Pricefield players by revealing that they broke up if you chose the Bae ending and changing the interpretation of DontNod's postcard in LIS2 is sick. Also, Chloe is now into Victoria for some reason??? On top of all that, you're forced to romance Amanda after Max reveals Chloe is either dead or that your relationship was just "high school sweethearts" after being together 10 fucking years. Ridiculous.