about me: i'm ray, 28, she/her, pan. this blog is 18+. minors dni. my writing may contain triggering topics so please be sure to check the content warnings at the beginning of each fic before reading.
𝄃 requests are open 𝄂
find the themes/characters/shows/films I'd currently love to see requests for below the cut. list will change with hyperfixations ⇣
⤷ ANGST, HURT/COMFORT, INJURY, AND CHRONIC ILLNESS
⤷ SHORTS/BLURBS
for when I don’t have time to write full fics
⤷ RESIDENT EVIL
leon s. kennedy, carlos oliveira
⤷ ARCANE
vi, sevika
⤷ THE LAST OF US (TV OR GAME)
joel miller, tess servopoulos, abby anderson (game only), tommy miller (show)
⤷ THE WALKING DEAD
rick grimes, daryl dixon, glenn rhee
⤷ STRANGER THINGS
eddie munson, jim hopper, and steve harrington
⤷ THE WITCHER III
geralt, yennefer, ciri
⤷ ASSASSIN'S CREED VALHALLA
fem!eivor
⤷ MCU
bucky barnes, yelena belova, kate bishop
⤷ LOST
sawyer
⤷ BUFFY
spike
⤷ TED LASSO
roy kent, jamie tartt, dani rojas, and sam obisanya
⤷ DOCTOR WHO
nine, ten, eleven, thirteen
things i don't write ⇣
⤷ SMUT WITHOUT PLOT
i'm happy to write steamy scenes with plot
⤷ INCEST, PEDOPHILIA, RAPE, ETC.
⤷ NON-ROMANCE
e.g. where the characters are just related to reader
⤷ REAL PEOPLE OR MINORS
I only write fictional characters of 18+. not the celebrities who play them
⤷ I CAN WRITE TRIGGERING THEMES
e.g. mental illness, abuse, death etc. but please note i will do my best not to romanticise them
kinda in the mood to write something angsty in relation to the jacket post I made about abby but I would once again be cheating on the dozens of requests I have and also immune fic
imagining the casual intimacy of abby draping her jacket around your shoulders when you’re cold. maybe you disappeared after a fight and she finds you hours later perched on a curb. even though she’s mad — about the argument and that you took off — she knows saying anything will only lead to more conflict, so she puts the jacket around you and begs you to come home. “let me get you home and warm, then we can talk it through.”
or maybe you drunk call her one night asking to be picked up, and her first instinct is to bundle you up before she gets you into the car. she just likes to take care of you, and this is her most basic, instinctive way. she’ll wrap an arm around you afterwards, rubbing warmth back into you through the fabric. “you sure you’re okay?
her heart will flutter when you nestle into it with a lazy smile, inhaling her scent on the collar. she likes to feel needed, and seeing that become so obviously true chases away any doubts she might have.
Abby Anderson x Female!Reader
Summary: Your girlfriend not coming home from patrols quickly turns into a rescue mission when the sun sets, and she still hasn’t returned.
Warnings & Tags: A little bit of fluff, a little bit of angst, happy ending! Pre-established relationship, mentions of death, injuries being treated, including stitches, typical Tlou2 violence, probably incorrect setting stuff, but again happy ending!
Word Count: 2.3k
Abby was never late.
Not to meetings, not to patrols, not even to dinner. Yet now, as you watched the last golden rays of sunlight begin to dip low beyond the stadium walls, she still had yet to return. Your anxious pacing inside the doors hadn't done anything to help the worry that had taken hold of you. Neither had watching every other squad but hers return safely. It wasn’t lost on you the dangers of patrols. Stepping outside of the stadium walls always posed a risk, and right now you were intimately familiar with every single one as they raced through your swirling thoughts. The lower the sun fell, the lower your heart sank.
Talking to the patrol coordinator hadn’t helped at all either. He radioed as was procedure, but after not hearing anything back, he said there wasn’t anything more he could do. Even if the team was missing, they wouldn’t be able to send out a rescue group until the morning. Navigating the city in the dark was a beyond dangerous task, even for the best of the soldiers. This was what worried you. Abby was among the best of the soldiers, and without a rescue in sight, she was going to have to try and survive the night, if she was even still alive.
The thought of her being gone, it took hold in your chest, agonizing and all-consuming. You did all you could to push it out of your head. Of course she’s still alive, she has to be. You’d long since said a world without her isn’t a world you’d want to live in. A sunrise without her arms tenderly wrapped around you, holding you firmly to her, trailing delicate kisses along your hair to your cheek and finally your lips as her hand tilts your head up to meet them. A night spent curled into her side, head on her chest, listening to the rhythmic beating of her heart as she read out loud to you, or shared some music, or simply talked until neither of you could stand to keep your eyes open anymore. A patrol without her on your team, her steady voice guiding you along the tough terrain, the overwhelming feeling of safety in the face of danger because you knew she was there and she would never let anything happen to you. The more the ugly reality of her absence forced you to face the possibility of a life without her in it, the more your determination grew to prevent that from happening.
When the last of the streaks of light finally disappeared below the horizon line, and darkness settled across the base, the patrol coordinator and remaining soldiers left, with a promise to send out a rescue team in the morning as they had reassured. However, you knew that wasn’t good enough, and even more, some part of you knew she couldn’t wait that long. So you forced yourself into action. Stepping away from the circle you’d paced into the grass, you retreated into the base to collect the supplies you needed. Only bothering to make a quick stop to leave a note for Manny before going off to gather your pack and prepare.
The days were warmer now, but the nights were still cold. You pulled a black sweater out, one Abby had lent to you weeks ago, pulling it on. Your senses were filled with a rush of woodsy cedar, mint, and something distinctly her. A feeling of comfort washed over you, steadying you to your mission. Your handgun holstered to your leg and your rifle slung across your back, you were prepared to leave.
Sneaking out of the base wasn’t an easy task. Even at night, the area was heavily patrolled and the entrances guarded. However, that wasn’t the only way in or out. You and Abby had developed a penchant for urban exploring, using your seldom time off to slip beyond the boundaries of the stadium and into the outskirts of what remained of Seattle. It wasn’t long before your silent sneaking footsteps led you to a small gap in the fortifications, just enough for you to pull back the fencing and slip out. You knew technically, without authorization, this could be considered desertion, which is part of the reason you had left a note for Manny in the first place, so he could make an excuse. It also made sure someone was going to come looking for you if you didn’t make it back.
You were familiar with a majority of the patrol routes at this point, including the one Abby and her partner Jules had set out on all those hours ago, and on the other side now you were free to follow it. The city wasn’t lit up outside of the gates, and the darkness that settled around you was eerie. Only silver strips of moonlight lit up the path ahead before you found your flashlight. Beyond its reach, however, was total darkness. You tried to push out of your mind what lurked in that darkness, and how exposed the simple act of lighting your way had made you. The fear for your own well-being had dissolved the moment you realized Abby was in danger, even more so when you decided to go after her.
The start of the patrol path was well trodden and not out of place, the street broke off at points, forcing you to divert around and closer to the buildings. Out in the open, there was space to run, but you shuddered at the thought of being cornered inside with a Scar, or worse yet, a shambler. You stayed true to your path as best you could, keeping an ear out for any sound, but you were only met with the heavy silence of the night, broken up by the occasional cricket or critter. Each noise that broke through filled you with a new sense of hope, only to tear it away again when you realized it wasn't her. The further you walked, the more discouraged you became, and the more panicked, what if Abby wasn’t here anymore? You couldn’t fathom to think of what might have happened if she’d been taken or forced to hide somewhere unfamiliar.
The time that passed felt heavy and carried with it more and more uncertainty, until you saw it: blood splattered across the pavement. Something bad had happened here, it was the first thing you were certain of. You braced yourself as you followed the trails. Amongst the run-down cars and overgrown grass lay a myriad of bodies, twisted and contorted, riddled with injuries. Your hands trembled as you looked closer at each, praying to God or whatever may be listening for the first time that night that you wouldn’t find Abby, not here, not like this. Some of the bodies had been taken by the virus, that much was obvious. Another scattered few you recognized immediately as Scars. As you approached the last body, face down and still in the grass, a rush of relief rushed through you as you noted it was far too small to be Abby. Getting closer, however, you realized it was just the right size to be her partner. You hesitate, you hadn’t known Jules well, but god, that didn’t mean you wanted to see her lying dead here amongst the carnage. Leaning down slowly, your hand inches from her, you decide you have to check. Her family deserved to know. You gently brush the blood-soaked hair back to find Jules looking back at you. Eyes vacant and staring, dead. Standing up, you mark on the map your location so her body can be brought back to her loved ones.
A heavy swirl of emotions surged through you at this: relief and the guilt that comes with it, the grief. You lifted your head, trying to imagine where Abby would’ve gone from here, your heart pounding in your chest so loud it was hard to think. You couldn’t start to panic now, but as your mind raced, you couldn’t stop it. The thudding pounded louder and louder. Digging your nails into your palms and forcing yourself to breathe, the cold night air filling your lungs felt insufficient, but still you repeated. Repeated until you could hear the sound of your own thoughts again, until your motivation came back to you: Abby wasn’t dead. She had gotten out; now she just needed you to find her.
You focused your gaze on the ground, looking for any sign of a trail, when you noticed the tall grass leading away from Jules' body was trodden. You headed in the same direction, noting splatters of crimson blood coating the blades of grass, a violent contrast that you prayed didn’t come from Abby herself. The trail inevitably led to a small storefront. You pushed the door open quietly, surveying your flashlight around the shop and taking a few cautious steps inside.
The feeling of a broad arm wrapping around you and pulling you hard into their chest was the first thing you felt. The second was the heavy pressure as her bicep snaked its way around your throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe.
“What the fuck were you doing out there looking at the bodies, huh? You’ve come here to finish the job or just to fucking gloat?” Her voice comes out harsh and strained, but you recognize it immediately.
“Abby, it’s me,” You squeak out, the strain on your airway immense. You’re just barely able to push the words past your lips.
She loosens her grip on you immediately and rapidly turns you to look at her. Her eyes scan your face in a mix of pain and relief before pulling you back in and holding you tightly. You wrap your arms around her in return, gripping her shirt, the force holding her to you like a refusal to ever again part.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She asks, trying to sound stern, but the relief and affection coming through are undisguisable.
“You didn’t come back, I had to find you. I wanted to make sure you were okay”
“I’ve been better,” She answers, pulling back from the embrace just enough that you can get a look at her. The motion of it causes her to make a small sound of pain.
Gingerly, you trace your fingers across her face. Around her eye is washed in dark shades of blue and purple. Blood has dried under her nose and lips, intermingled with the crimson splatters across her you’re pretty sure didn’t come from her. She flinches a little away from the touch before settling, allowing your hands to trail down her heaving chest, and you realize she’s clutching her side, the blood below her hand undeniable.
“What happened?” You ask, fingers tracing over hers as you move to pull her hand away, trying to get a better look. You could see the fabric was torn, reaching to pull the zipper of her sweater down, she doesn’t object. Underneath, the blood had soaked most of her shirt, gently pulling it up to expose the skin, she winced, but you could finally see the jagged wound.
“The Scars ambushed us, they left spikes on the road and popped the truck tires. They attacked the second we stepped out of the car. Assholes managed to stab me in the side, and the chaos attracted the fucking infected. One of ‘em got Jules. I tried to get to her, but it was too late, she was bit. I put her out of her misery before she could turn. I wanted to go back, but it was getting dark. It’s dangerous out here, and it only gets worse at night, you know. So I holed up.” She answered as you evaluated her injury, her breathing laboured and heavy, a quiet pause filling the room for a moment before she continued, “It wasn’t safe for you to come. You could’ve gotten hurt”.
You pulled the small first-aid kit from your pack and began disinfecting her wound to the best of your ability.
“I wasn’t going to leave you out here. I couldn’t live with not knowing. Not even for a minute.” Your answer was firm, fiercely determined.
“Not knowing?” She questioned.
“If you were alive.”
A silence falls between the two of you once more as you focus on stitching her wound. Taking your time in the dim glow of the flashlight, Abby gritted her teeth, inhaling sharply through her nose. You admired her strength, even as you watched her face scrunch up in a mask of pain. When you’re finally done, and she’s bandaged, you stand, your hand coming to gently cradle Abby’s face. She leans into it, her own coming up to hold yours while your free hand tenderly dabs the blood off of her face. Finishing, you brush her hair back, now letting your other hand hold her face as well.
“You did the right thing, you know, with Jules.” You peek up at her, her lips are pressed tight, and her eyes linger on the grass through the window.
“I know,” she murmurs
“It doesn’t make it any easier”
She grimaces, her eyes glassy as she looks back to meet your gaze. The softness in them, the tenderness, is rimmed with something wild and desperate.
“I’m glad you came. It was dangerous and stupid, and if anything happened to you I’d kill you myself, but I’m glad you came,” She says. You laugh, a soft sound that feels out of place where you are.
“I’d follow you to the ends of the earth Anderson, you can’t get rid of me that easily”
She smiles fondly, the hand holding yours lifts to cup your cheek as she pulls your face down, her lips crashing against your own. The kiss is hard, passionate, and she hopes it conveys the feelings she’s afraid she’ll never have the words for, that fill her so completely it could drive her insane. Pulling back to catch your breath, you rest your forehead against hers, a delicate smile coming across your features.
“I love you, thank you for coming for me,” She says. Her voice comes out gentle and warm.
“I'll always come after you, no matter how far, I love you too,” You promise.
Abby tries to make it slow for you, she really does. It takes everything in her not to rip right through you the second you’re alone with her but she restrains herself.
You’ve never been treated much ‘like a lady’ in the past, other partners expecting the work in the bedroom to come from you and Abby knew that too. She was desperate to show you how much you were worth to her.
Her restraint trembles. Dragging her lips down your thighs, the thick warm overwhelming smell off you pulling her desire out further than she is able to contain while she hooks her fingers under the elastic of your boxers, pulling them off as controlled as she can handle.
Her tongue reaches you, one slow drag through your centre.
It hits her like a drug.
Her fingers grip tight around your thighs and suddenly she is both drowning in you and needing you like the air she breathes.
A low guttural moan hums through her as your back arches at the sudden increase of pressure and heat.
Every single sound you make, every time you move into her when you’re desperate to chase more and buck away when it grows too much is pure bliss to her.
It’s almost an hour before she pulls herself out of her daze, blinking half lidded up at you while you’re finally able to catch your breath. Moaning through each shudder of the after-shocks, still trembling under her long after mouth travels up your body. Kissing a path to your lips and holding you till your limbs go limp against her.
You’re sleeping in her arms while she’s already thinking about the next time she can lose herself between your thighs.
Bit of a masc reader thingyyy. Idk it’s 5am and I’m horny.
Perm taglist cause yall wanted to be on these little drabs too hehe: @lobotomymutt @alloftheimagines @thatredheadloserlesbian @lacyfemmes @fleetwonder
some hyper famous artists like Van Gogh transcend overratedness and become underrated because they're so normalized. Like I'll look at a van Gogh and I'm like wait this really is amazing you guys don't get it
needy!bottom!abby who pushes your face impossibly deeper into her pussy, grinding her hips down hard. whining that she needs you even closer than that.
needy!bottom!abby who sneaks in quickies anywhere, even on patrols—finding quiet hidden places for you to ruin her. once securely hidden she shyly pulls your hand down to her her belt buckle whimpering a small “please” & “i’ll be so fast.”
needy!bottom!abby that will often lay in your shared bed in positions that expose her glistening pussy, in hopes that you’ll be so tempted she won’t have to ask you to give her what she so desperately needs.
needy!bottom!abby who isn’t afraid to get handsy in public. hands wrapped around your waist dipping just a bit too low; everyone around thinks it’s her way of asserting her dominance, but you know this is her way of telling you she needs you.
needy!bottom!abby who also gets really clingy, sitting next to you so close your thighs are touching, her arm wrapped around yours. often quickly burying her face in your neck to give quick kisses.
needy!bottom!abby that whenever you’re out for a long time she’ll lean down and whisper “i can’t wait to go home” in an attempt to be subtle. at her breaking point she’ll give you the cutest pouty face looking at you and then gesturing towards her.
needy!bottom!abby who goes feral when you eat her pussy and finger her at the same time. even though she tries to be quiet out of courtesy for your neighbors she can’t help but let out the sluttiest noises. she completely loses her mind and she loves every second of it.
needy!bottom!abby who’ll sometimes edge herself when she’s alone so she’ll be even more desperate for you.
needy!bottom!abby is completely addicted to your strap, she’ll do anything to feel you inside of her. she loves fucking herself on it in doggy, completely bottoming out
one thing about me is I will never adjust my writing style to avoid people believing it’s AI. I spent my whole adult life learning this skill. I will not go out of my way for even a second to make room for AI. if my writing ever, ever feels like AI, it’s because AI stole from us. learned to mimic us. I was here first, and it will not take a single thing from me. and another thing: I love em dashes. they are mine.
words: 4.4k
warnings: 18+. MINORS DNI. pitfighter!abby, catalina island au, reader & abby broke up, vi cameo teehee, blood, violence, self-destructive behaviours, one mention of ow*n, probably out of character idk i'm rusty, typos i'm sleepy
She pretends not to feel it at first. Goes about her usual routine at the Catalina Island Firefly base. Doesn’t sleep, barely eats, but acknowledges neither the exhaustion nor the hunger. Focuses on training, patrols, resources. Looks away when your paths cross. Brushes Lev off when he asks what happened. It’s not a wall she’s built. More an iron cage without a door, nobody allowed in or out.
But the ache of missing you still seeps through the cracks.
Then she overhears rumblings of secret fights held in a warehouse just off base. She’s seen more bruises than usual recently, but chalked it up to training injuries until now. And when she asks about it, her fists ball like she’s already in the pit. Only recently has she gotten all of her old muscle back, and she likes the sound of living, breathing punching bags. It’s reckless, and she’ll have to be careful not to harm her opponents so much that the Firefly leaders begin to notice the injuries, but the idea of fighting, letting all of her anger out, sounds a hell of a lot better than staring at her ceiling, trying to forget the sound of your voice, all the while knowing your shirt is still under her bed because giving it back would mean it’s really over. She’s in purgatory. Shut down.
Maybe this will wake her up.
By the second week, she’s the reigning champion. She fights every night. Nobody beats her, but they do batter her. She likes it — the physical pain builds, builds, builds, until there’s no room left in her broken bones for missing you. Lev notices the bruises. She is a bad liar, but good at shutting down. She knows she’s cruel to make him worry, but he’s getting older now. She convinces herself he doesn’t need her the way he used to.
You notice, too. You have to bite your tongue to keep from asking what happened, knowing it’s not your place.
She fights again. Again. Again.
By week four, she’s accepting the drinks offered to her by those winning money in her favour. She goes to sleep and wakes up drunk, or at least foggy. It helps with the pain, so she doesn’t stop.
You can’t bear it. You barely recognise her. It’s Lev who convinces you to break the radio silence between you, eyes big and round and pleading. “I’m worried about her. Please. I can’t get through to her, but you can. I know you can.”
“If she wanted to talk to me, she would,” you insist.
His fingers curl around your forearm tight. “Please.” His chin wobbles. “She’s going to get hurt.”
Your chest lurches with the sincerity of it, and the fear.
More than that, the guilt, even though she’s the one who ended things. Maybe you should have fought harder, but you weren’t in the habit of chasing people when they cast you aside. You needed her to love you, let you love her, and she couldn’t. Always so stoic, always so focused on her duties. She could shut you out for weeks, and, fuck, it hurt. You wanted to be patient, but in the end, you found yourself begging for a speck of attention, a second of her time.
“Maybe this is as far as we go."
“What are you saying?”
Her expression had shuttered, features made of impenetrable steel. “I can’t give you what you need.”
A lump filled your throat. It took eons to clear it for long enough to choke out, “Then why take it this far? Why string me along this long?”
She had the good sense to dip her chin with guilt, turning away from you in increments: one foot twisting, then the other, until you’re staring at the slabs of muscle on her back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
You’d been falling in love with her. Her lack of care, of emotion, of anything, shattered you to a million pieces.
But like her, you’re a soldier, so you didn’t let it show, instead grabbing your belongings from her room as hastily as you can. Pants and shirts and gun all shoved into your backpack. “No. No, you shouldn't have.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, but her voice was flat. She’d checked out at the first opportunity, and you were a fool for not seeing it sooner. “It isn’t anything you did—”
You scoffed. “Spare the cliches, Abby. I don’t need to fucking hear them. You don’t want me, I’m gone. I’m just sorry we both wasted so much time.”
She hadn’t argued, hadn’t given you the reassurance you’d needed so badly to hear. She’d let you go, and you hadn’t spoken to her since.
“Do you know what, exactly, is going on with her?” you ask Lev.
He shakes his head. “Just that she’s gone every night, and she comes back a mess.”
It’s likely nothing to do with you at all. She's tormented by far worse things than you and your brief flame. Still, it’s Lev. It’s Abby. You nod and placate him: “I’ll try. No promises.”
His grateful "thank you" dislodges something inside you.
That evening, you catch her heading down the corridor where both of your rooms are stationed. Since she looks right through you, don’t beat it around the bush, grabbing her arm with rough abandon. Her eyes are glassy and glacial as they meets yours, but there are cracks. Under them, you see a question shimmer.
“Lev is worried about you. Whatever you’ve got going on, whatever hole you’re digging yourself into, stop it. Now.”
Her lip curls with something akin to a sneer, and as she yanks away, the stench of vodka wafts over you. She’s already drunk. Up close, you see purple smatterings over her jaw, her cheek. She rubs the place your hand had clamped over, revealing split knuckles. She’s been fighting. You’d bet anything that it’s connected to Simon’s two missing teeth, which you noticed the day before, and Leo’s broken arm the day before that.
“Did he ask you to say that?” she responds tersely.
“Yes,” you hiss. “For whatever reason, he thinks it might make a difference, and I wasn’t about to break his heart. Are you?”
Her lips purse as she looks you over like she would a stranger. The braid she usually keeps so neat is falling apart at the seams, just like the rest of her. “He doesn’t need to worry.”
“No?” You cock your head. “So the split knuckles and sour breath… All normal, right?”
“It’s none of your business,” she grinds out.
“This isn’t you,” you protest with an equal amount of vehemence. You hate that your emotions crack through, hate that you’re practically pleading, but the shadows in the hollows of her cheeks and under her eyes scare you. She’s never, not once, succumbed to her demons before. Never touched a drink, never been reckless, knowing that she has to be responsible for Lev if not herself. All of this is new. Was there something else, something you missed, when you were dating?
When she says nothing, you sigh and try another tactic, softening as you inch closer. Your fingers ghost over the raw skin on her hand. “Maybe it makes me an idiot, but I’m worried about you.”
The barrier seems to gain another layer of reinforced metal as she jolts away, all but glowering at you through hooded slits. “Don’t be.”
She walks away, leaving you alone and no closer to fixing this.
Only when her figure has retreated completely do you let a jagged breath gutter from you, stomach tying itself in knots.
You still love her, despite your better judgement, despite your pride, despite your heartbreak — and this is an abandonment far worse than the one previous, because it isn’t you she’s left behind. It’s herself.
The next night, you go to a fight. You hadn’t believed the rumours to be true, believing that surely your peers had better survival instincts than to bet on each other’s aggression for sport. But depravity rears its ugly head in every community you’ve ever been a part of, so of course the opportunity was taken.
You just never thought Abby would be the first to raise her fists.
The warehouse is dank, the pit a square in the middle of the rotting third floor marked out by masking tape and lit by floodlights powered by a generator. Rations are traded for beer and moonshine, bets are placed in the currency of rota duties and rare supplies. You’re surprised at just how many of your own friends come down to watch the bloodshed. If they kept it a secret, it was likely because they knew their star fighter was a sore subject for you.
It makes you angry to think of them all drunkenly cheering her on every night, enabling this.
You worm your way to the front of the crowd, Simon muttering an, “Oh, shit,” beside you.
“What?” You raise a brow. “Surprised I didn’t want to miss out on the fun?”
“Don’t even think of reporting this,” he warns. “It’s the only fucking excitement we get.”
You mock zipping up your lips, turning your attention back to the ring with folded arms. A patroller named Vince quietens the roaring audience to announce the first fighter: Violet, a tattooed fisherwoman you know only because she brings home enough salmon and cod to feed the entire base. She’s lean, tall, almost as strong as Abby, and twice as fierce as she warms up with swift jabs into the air. The cheers make it known that she has people rooting for her.
And then the reigning champion is introduced. Abby Anderson. She enters the pit with far less flamboyance, that same steely gaze you bore the brunt of yesterday dragging over the crowd as she secures the blood-stained wraps around her knuckles. Acid builds in your throat. Why is she doing this?
And why is she swaying like she doesn’t even care about winning enough to stay sober?
It only hits you then how bad this is. Lev had every reason to be terrified for the woman who has dragged him through hell. With hunched shoulders, she already looks defeated, and you find it hard to believe that her raw strength was enough to get her here. There is no will there, no determination. Just a withering shell letting her body speak for her, and even that might not be enough. She’s lost muscle recently.
You can’t let her do this — but by the time you step into the pit to go to her in the opposite corner, a countdown has begun and Simon is dragging you back. “She’s fine. She's never lost a fight.”
You rear back. “She’s drunk.”
“Never stopped her before.”
Suddenly, you hate everyone in this room, her included. After everything these people have survived – everything she has survived – they’re willing to ruin their bodies over a sadistic little sport?
The fight begins before you have time to process it, blows thrown on both sides. You wince when Violet’s fists collide with Abby’s jaw in an audible thump, leaving blood to trickle down the corner of her mouth. Abby snarls as she wipes it away, a new scorn rising in her all at once. She hits back twice: once to Violet’s cheek, the other to her chin. When Violet stumbles back, nose already busted, Abby drives a boot into her toned stomach.
You’re relieved: it’ll be over quickly. Except Violet snaps to attention, throwing daggers as she rights herself. The women are all primal fury as they hit and parry. After moments of catching their breaths with light jabs, Violet swings, sending Abby tumbling across the pit, towards you. She spits blood, unaware it’s your shoes it lands right next to. Her freckles are crimson now, too.
You can’t do this. You can’t watch this. She’s destroying herself. The worst part is the slimy grin she gives whenever she’s hit, like she enjoys the pain.
Soon, blood is staining her teeth. Violet is in worse shape, but it doesn’t make you feel better. Part of you wants to leave, find a way to claw the love you have for her out of your chest so you never have to feel this nauseating devastation again.
Another part of you — the strongest part — wants to stop this. Now.
That part of you wins out.
You elbow Simon in the gut as he tries to stop you, marching into the pit and just barely missing Violet’s swings. You ignore her, wedging yourself between the fighters and catching Abby’s wrist before she pummels into you instead of her opponent.
“Stop it. Now. Please,” you beg.
At first, her expression is blank, like she doesn’t recognise you at all.
“Get out of the fucking ring!” Violet orders from behind, shoving you towards the edge. The referee joins, all of them grappling to usher you away, but you latch onto Abby, cupping her jaw.
“You’re going to get yourself hurt. I need you to stop. I’m begging you, Abby.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers, breath all heady whisky and sourness.
“Get the fuck out of my way!” Violet is screaming, and then you’re thrust aside like you’re nothing more than a featherlight obstacle. The crowd catches you as you stagger into them, and you whip to wreak vengeance —
But Abby gets there first, knocking Violet to the ground with more carnal fury than you’ve ever seen in her before.
There are cheers and boos, complaints it wasn’t a fair fight, but your ears ring loudly enough to drown them all out, because you don’t know who this woman is. Her chest heaves ferociously, fists balled tight as knots, teeth bared like a wild animal.
She looks at you, and it wavers. All of her wavers, right down to her powerful stance.
Without waiting for the ref’s verdict, she storms away, disappearing behind a smog of angered onlookers.
There is nothing you can do but follow.
Abby marches out of the warehouse still brimming with rage, your crumbling expression imprinted on the back of her eyelids. As soon as she hits the weed-infested concrete, she doubles over, vomiting bile mixed with the blood she can still taste. She likes it, that metallic tang that drives thoughts of you away — but not tonight. Tonight, she can’t escape you.
Why are you here?
“Abby—”
She flinches from your touch like she would barbed wire, thrusting you back, though she just knocked a woman unconscious for doing the same. She had no idea that sort of strength lived in her. She’d hurt people before, but she’d never wanted to rip them apart, not until she saw the other fighter lay their hands on you.
Your eyes are shimmering, the same way they did when she sent you away. It winds her more than the strongest of fists, causing her to bend over and cough up another splattering of foul acid. Her stomach hurts, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the retching or the punches she was dealt.
Or from you, for being here, seeing her like this. She isn’t proud of who she’s become in your absence. She just didn’t know where else to put all of the feelings she didn’t want to feel. The grief that came with knowing she’d never be able to open up and give you the love you deserve. She is not whole, and you were supposed to realise that and walk away before she had to make it known.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she demands.
“I’m trying to stop you from destroying yourself!” you scream back. Never, not once, have you raised your voice before: not at her, not at anyone else. It pierces through her with a razor-sharp edge, and she knows this is the fight she won’t survive.
“It’s none of your fucking business what I do—”
“Fuck you, Abby!” You shake your head, tears rolling down your cheeks. “You don’t get to do this! You have no idea how lucky you are to have people who love you, people who want to keep you here! Why are you trying to ruin it?” And then, in nothing more than a fragile rasp: “Why do you push us away?”
She bites down on her swollen lip, turning to unravel the wrap around her knuckles before the blood soaks all the way though. She barely feels the sting, adrenaline and liquor still pumping through her and casting her beneath an overwhelming, contradictory veil of confusion and clarity.
“I’m not doing this with you,” she spits out, because she can’t, and why can’t you just see that? Why don’t you understand that she can’t give you the power to ruin her?
“No. No, I’m not letting you pull this shit anymore. Whatever’s wrong, whatever has you acting like this, you tell me. Or you tell Lev. You tell someone and you figure out a way to live with it without burying yourself in the process.”
It amazes her that you can still care about her after the way she treated you. Her braid slips into disarray as she scrapes back her hair, spending extra time digging her palm into her forehead, where a steady pulse has been roaring for weeks.
There is nothing that she wants to tell you, or anyone else, so she throws down the bloodied bandages and begins to walk away.
You don’t let her, pushing her back into the wall and pinning her there. “You aren’t like this,” you say, voice hoarse and desperate. “You don’t hurt people for fun. You don’t fall apart.”
“I’m not falling apart—” Her spine cracks against the wall as you prevent her from leaving again, forcing a thick gulp from her.
“Bullshit.”
“I’m warning you,” she says lowly. “Get your hands off me. Now.”
“Or what? You want to punch me instead? Will that make you feel better?”
Just the thought causes disgust to contort her features. She looks away to avoid your gaze, but she can’t pretend the warmth of your digging palms isn’t burning into her like the first shred of hope she’s had in a lifetime. They also maim, their razor edge reminding her of how little she deserves you. How terrible she is for putting you through this, all because she can’t bear to let someone in after all the loss and tragedy and trauma she’s faced.
“Go ahead,” you’re saying. “Do it. You wanna destroy something, destroy me.”
“Stop it,” she hisses.
“No, Abby. I promised Lev I would get you back, and I’m not going back on it.”
The muscle in her jaw feathers as regret, guilt, self-loathing all surface. She remembers why she fell for you. You’re stubborn as fuck, more of a fighter than she’ll ever be. A force of nature, but with a heart so golden it almost blinded her.
“What do I have to do,” she utters cruelly, “to get you away from me for good?”
The blow lands the way she hoped, your strength wavering for just long enough for her to free herself.
“What is wrong with you?” you whisper. “What happened to you?”
She doesn’t have an answer. Not really. She realised she was falling for you one minute, and images of Owen lying in a pool of his own blood flickered through her mind the next. She caused that. She was the reason her friends died, the reason Lev lost his sister, the reason they were imprisoned in Santa Barbara for three months, surviving things that neither of them could put words to even now.
All of it came down on her at once, bricks of exhaustion and terror and self-hatred erecting a wall between you. If she let you love her, she would disappoint you. And you? You walked away so easily.
She wished that were still true, because this was harder. This was torture.
Your tears gleam in the moonlight, every emotion on full display now.
“You broke my heart,” you say. “You’re breaking Lev’s heart. I understand that I don’t matter to you, but doesn’t he?”
Abby’s long upheld resolve is almost in ribbons. She’s so close to buckling. “I’m just blowing off steam—”
“You’re killing yourself,” you say. “And you’re killing me. And the worst part is, you don’t seem to care. About anything. Was all of it a lie before? Were you just pretending? Because I don’t recognise you. I don't know who this is.”
When she says nothing, you thump your fists against her puffed out chest again. “Fucking say something, Abby! Did you ever care about me? About anything?”
Her fingers shackle your wrists as she sways under your heavy fury. You deserve to feel every bit of it.
“I hate you,” you mutter. “I hate you for doing this to us. I hate you for doing this to yourself.”
She closes her eyes, but the tears still come. She’s powerless in the face of them — the face of you.
You yield immediately, arms going slack in her grip.
“Abby,” you breathe. She knows it’s her last chance to keep you, and fuck if she wants to. She can’t quite remember why she was ever stupid enough to let you go.
Her tears are wiped from her eyes, only for more to take their place.
You edge closer, stomachs pressing together: yours soft, hers hard. You cup her jaw like before, only this time, she lets you, trembling and broken as she is. Because of you. Because it was only ever a matter of time before you ruined her with that big bleeding heart. She knows how lucky she is that she gets to see it. Most people don’t.
You let her in, and she couldn’t return the courtesy, but now, you’re tearing through the bars and she thinks maybe it’s inevitable that you climb into this cage and rearrange the furniture.
“I know this isn’t how you want things to be,” you’re saying gently. “I know. So stop. Look at me. Talk to me. Don’t keep making me beg. Don’t keep pretending you’re someone else.”
“You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t want to fix something that I broke.”
“I’m not going to sit here and watch you suffer. I love you, Abby. I don’t want to, but I do.”
Resigned, she presses her forehead against yours. “I don’t want you to, either.”
“Tough shit.”
“I… I don’t think I can love another person.”
“I’m not asking you to. This isn't about me anymore. I’m just asking you to go home to the boy who needs you.”
“I mean…” She’s stammering, tongue heavy, mouth cotton. “I mean… I lost so much.” Her voice cracks. “And it was my fault. And so is this. This is my fault.”
“So make it right.”
Her hands knot into your hair, drawing a gasp of surprise from you. “I thought letting you go was the right thing. You made me weak and I can’t be weak. Not ever again.”
“Abby, you’re not making sense. Please, just let me take you home.”
“I lied,” she blurts. “I lied to you. I pushed you away. I’m a mess. And I’m angry. I’m so, so angry. About what happened to me, to Lev, to my friends, my dad. I didn’t want you to see that side of me. I wasn’t ready.”
Only then does she see your mouth part with understanding. She is telling you that she loves you, in her own fucked up way.
You are listening, despite the fact she deserves nothing but hatred from you.
“You walked away so easily,” she continues. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“I needed to protect myself,” you admit. “You hurt me.”
“I’m sorry.” Her gaze bores into you all at once. “There are things I couldn’t tell you. I wanted to run from them.” Her fingers knot tighter in your hair. “I’m so angry.”
“Abby,” you say. “Let me take you home.”
She nods slowly. Mutters, “I’m sorry,” one last time.
This time, you say, “I know,” snaking your arm behind her back to keep her upright as you trudge back towards base.
When you get into her room, you force her to sit, quick to grab a damp cloth from the bathroom to clean her up. She’s a mess. Worse under the dim, bare lightbulb. She’s shuddering, too. You think maybe you’d rather her be a cold-hearted fighter again than whatever this is.
You promise yourself this is all it will be. You’ll clean her up and go, and tomorrow, she’ll fix things with Lev and all will go back to the way it was — before you fell in love with her, that is.
Only it doesn’t go quite like that. Her hand curls around yours midway through dabbing at the congealed blood under her nostrils, stopping you from continuing. “Stay tonight.”
You almost snort. Like hell will you put yourself in the position to be crushed by her again. She’s drunk and beaten, likely won’t remember or care about this in the morning.
“No.”
“Please. I know I have no right to ask, but I want you to stay.”
“I can’t.” You work to keep your expression aloof with the same ice she’s shown you over the past few weeks. “I’ll clean you up and I’ll get you back on your feet, but I’m not going to put myself in this position again.”
You want to believe that what she said before is true: that she’s sorry, that she pushed you away to avoid letting you in, that none of her behaviour was about her feelings for you, but you can’t stop waiting for her to harden again.
You move to her knuckles, tutting at the ruined skin there. “Pitfighting. Jesus, Abby. What were you thinking?”
“That I deserved to hurt,” she confesses quietly.
You hum, brushing the stray strands of hair from her face. “Go to sleep.”
She leans back, head hitting her pillow, but her fingers still lace through yours. You can’t summon the strength to pull away, not when her touch is as gentle as it used to be. There she is. Your Abby, not this new monster you met.
For her, you go back on your word. You stay. Not in her bed, not even close to her, but she’s long asleep before your hands untangle. The last words she utters as her lids close, a patchwork of yellows and blues and purples on her face, are, “‘M sorry.”
“I know,” you say in reply, pressing your lips to her torn skin. Maybe there’s no way to fix what she broke, but you’re willing to try if you can just keep her here with you — because you still love her. You would even if she continued to fight you for days, weeks, months.
