⊹₊ abby anderson | immune | ch. 12 ₊⊹
SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER
words: 4.1k warnings: 18+. MINORS DNI. I MEAN IT. TLOU2 spoilers, fem!reader, canon-typical trauma & violence including hints towards sexual abuse. discussions and imagery around suicide. angst. smut. lesbian sex including fingering, cunnilingus, humping i guess? synopsis: after the tense night, abby can no longer resist your pull. an: thank u for being patient!!!!!!!!! i hope it was worth it!!!!!!
tags: @hakandnsjoqmsn @abbyily @mamas-evil-hag @cherrybomber3000 @chraw @abbysburr1t0 @mewl3tte @loonetteslooneybin @lilredbird101 @wontilly @littlelittlebear @pomm3verte @mumuming @naponiac @ramsmain @chxrryxcx @sevviesbabe @nerdy-creature @thatredheadloserlesbian @vampgfrnd @mybodyismadeofcrushedstars @sweet-lover-girl @acfgio @abbysbbygrl@bambishaven@sentimental-sage @lovvrr @imheadintothemountains @warmness0ul @madsxh1022 @wonderlandwalker@@klmr0 @vi-sinner
Abby stops in the centre of the parking lot, trying to figure out which of the motel room doors you might be hiding behind. You’re not in the truck, and neither is your bagpack. If she were a better person, less selfish, she’d give you the space you so clearly need.
But she can still feel your warmth on her lips, and that violent ache in her chest, and she can’t let you be. So, she grabs her shit and searches for you.
Most of the rooms are uninhabitable, which at least makes her job easier. She gets to one with boarded up windows and stops, her heart speeding up like it already knows it’s close to you again.
She knocks. Says your name. She gets nothing, but she sees a thin strip of silver light dancing through the cracks in the wooden slats.
“I’m coming in,” she says gently, then nudges through the threshold with side-steps to avoid the barricade you must have only half-cleared on the other side of the door. Or maybe it was you who put the dresser and the old TV there, a weak attempt to keep her out.
You sit on the bed, a dingy mattress and rotten frame covered by your bedroll and blankets. Your flashlight is in your mouth as you try to wrap a bandage around your new bite. The bite she put there with her carelessness. You don’t look up, but your hands shake more.
She tuts, slowly inching toward you. “Let me.”
Around the flashlight, you grumble something like, “I’n go’it.”
She pries the bandages away anyway, sitting to gently cradle your arm in her lap. You drop the flashlight, shining it begrudgingly on the bite. She tries not to think of it, tries not to see those sunken teeth marks, as she patches you up once more, but her nostrils flare at the sight of that smooth skin now bearing the same marks as your other arm. How long before this becomes a sleeve of scars, too?
She looks at you beneath her lashes, thinking that, by the time this is over, she’ll be able to do this blindfolded. You’re still pale, eyes glassy, front teeth sinking into your lower lip like you’re trapping something. She’s scared to know what: a sob, or more yelling?
“Will you talk to me about it?” she asks.
“Thought you’d be sick of me talking by now,” you quip, but it’s flat. Your heart’s not in it. She rips the tape with her teeth to secure the bandage, but neither of you move when she’s done. She’s so tempted to let her fingertips dance across the delicate skin of your inner forearm, tempted to kiss and kiss until all of this goes away.
But it won’t. It’ll only make things worse. So why can’t she just let this — you — go?
“Please,” she whispers, like there’s anybody else to hear her but you. After the mayhem upstairs, it’s too quiet, enough that she feels underwater, yet she doesn’t dare break it. You and her, you’re wrapped in something unbearably fragile, and she’s just trying to keep it whole in her heavy hands. “I want to know what you feel when you’re near them.”
“So that you can tell Roe?”
She deserves the bitterness in your voice, but it still nudges her back.
“I don’t want to talk about Roe again tonight.”
You pull away, turning to untie your shoelaces. “I don’t want to talk about anything. We only end up fighting when we talk. Or we end up kissing, which isn’t much better.”
She swallows thickly, eyes never leaving your curved spine. She clasps her hands tightly. So tightly, her nails bite into flesh. You don’t notice, too busy trying to dislodge your bloodied feet from your boots. You weren’t exaggerating about the blisters, socks stained red along most of your heel. Abby sighs and moves to her knees in front of you, gently peeling away the fabric to see how bad it is.
“Abby, please. I can look after myself—”
“I know that you can,” she says. “You just don’t have to. I’m here, okay?”
“They’re blisters.”
She moves to the other foot, examining the bite on your ankle. All the walking is preventing it from healing, blood seeping through the bandage you haven’t changed since she last dressed the wound, despite your insistence you would.
Since you’re out of water, and not even she can stomach the idea of leaving in the search of some now, soaking isn’t an option, so the best she can do is clean the blood and lather your skin in antiseptic cream until tomorrow. You watch her like you don’t understand why. Like you’re not sure you deserve it. Like nobody has ever, ever taken care of you before. Maybe Abby has been fending for herself these past years, but she’s lucky she at least still remembers the way her dad would tend to even the smallest of grazes with his patterned band aids. Kiss it better, even when she was far too old to believe in such magic.
Her brows knit together, hands curling around your calf as she looks up at you. What have you done to me? she thinks when her sinuses begin to prickle with the promise of tears. Why you?
“What did you mean,” she begins instead, “when you said I was dangerous? Is it… Is it what you saw me do to Cal?”
You shake your head, something like resignation on your face.
“Then what?”
“The way you make me feel, Abby.” You reach out, giving her ample time to prepare for your touch. Your palm lands featherlight on her cheek, cautious, expectant, like you’re waiting for her to pull back. Instead, she leans in, desperate to take anything you’ll give her. “I keep waiting for you to treat me the way everyone else does, but you don’t. You act like I’m not immune at all. Like these bites aren’t here. And when they are, you don’t run from them. You… You soothe them. To everyone else, I’m just a lab rat or contagious. You look at me like you see a person.”
“Because I do. I see you,” she says. “I see what you’ve been through. How you’ve suffered. And I want to take it away.”
“Why?”
She frowns, and you’re quick to add, “You could just take me to Avalon, hand me over to Roe, then go back to your life with Lev. No complications. You’d never have to think of me again. You’d never have to… to want to keep me alive. Instead, we’re dooming ourselves. We’re getting attached. Or, at least, I am. And it’s just going to make it hurt more later. The more you kiss me, the more I…”
“The more you what?” she pleads. And then, because she thinks maybe she knows exactly what it is you want to say, and needs to hear it: “Please, tell me. The more you what?”
You blink the tears from your eyes, bottom lip quivering again. “The more I wish things could be different.”
There it is. Finally, something that isn’t sheer indifference to your own death. She’s been desperate for some kind of sign, any kind of sign, that you want to stay. That you want to live. Nobody should want to throw away their own life. Even in her darkest moments, when a longing for the end had closed in on her, Abby had swiped those thoughts away quickly. Found a reason to keep going.
If you haven’t found one, she wants to give you one, because no matter how many people you’re saving, it isn’t right to give up on yourself like this. Not when you’re so good, funny, beautiful, gentle. Not when you’re the best person she’s ever met, second only to Lev.
She rises on her knees, sliding her hands over your thighs as she leans close. You’ve only given her more incentive, more desperation. If kissing you means keeping you, she’ll do it everywhere. There won’t be an inch of skin she leaves untouched.
“I can’t stop,” she admits shakily. “I can’t stop wanting you. Needing you. That’s your answer. That’s why. Because you deserved better than this.”
You shake your head. “Look at the world. We all deserved better.”
She cups your jaw, firm, now. Willing you to understand. “I don’t care about anybody else. That’s the fucking problem. Before I agreed to get you, Roe… She said I'm too comfortable in the darkness, and she was right. I changed after Seattle. I came here to get you because I thought I’d feel close to my father. Instead, I only feel close to you. I looked for the light, and I found you.”
Your lips part like there’s something waiting to break free, tears dribbling down your cheeks as you look at her with a softened gaze. You place your hands on her chest, fingers curling into her T-shirt. “This can’t change how it ends for me. I’m so glad I met you, Abby, but I still have to do this. It’s the only way all this pain will be worth it, if I can give the world a chance at a vaccine.”
She wants to argue. Wants to say pain will never be worth it, and a cure won’t change that. But she knows better than to try. She’s seen how badly you want this. She’s seen you try to scratch at the demons under your skin. She can’t take it away. She can’t hope you’ll change your mind.
All she can do is feel what she feels, and for you, that’s everything.
So she nods. Lies. “I know. I know that.”
“But until we get to Avalon…” you whisper, eyes darting down to her lips. Her throat goes dry, blood runs hot. “I can be yours if you want me to.”
And then you kiss her, and it feels like the first and last time, like the cool night air after a lifetime under the sun and like breath being pumped back into her lungs right when she thought it was over. She holds you tightly, afraid you might go again otherwise, gasping into your mouth as she nips at your bottom lip.
“Abby,” you whimper, and it only fuels her more. She tugs you down onto her lap on the floor, fingers knotting in your hair as your lips begin to pepper her nose, chasing every one of her freckles.
She is yours, too, she thinks. She will be long after this is over.
You can’t help but begin grinding against her thighs, bolts of pleasure shooting through you with every movement until, soon, you’re panting with want.
And then you remember all the times she’s recoiled from your touch, and you freeze. “Is this okay?”
She grips your hips bruisingly tight to keep you there, keep you locked against her on the floor. “Don’t fucking go anywhere.”
“Abby, I… I need you to tell me that you’re okay—”
“I’m good. Don't stop.” She licks up your throat, and your back arches involuntarily, breath hitching under her mouth.
“Fuck,” you whisper. “I forgot.”
“Forgot what?” Her eyes are near-black with a lust you surely haven’t done anything to earn.
“That not everything has to hurt.” Because all you’re used to is needles under your skin, and knives, and teeth, and whatever poison runs through you as a result. You can’t remember the last time you experienced pleasure that wasn’t a quick release by your own hand. Can’t remember the last time anybody savoured you, taunted those nerve endings for something other than pain.
She pulls away just far enough to meet your eye, her jaw setting with a sympathy you don’t want, because it means you’re likely more broken than you thought.
She traces your waistband, and you shiver each time her fingers find your soft stomach. “You want me to make you feel good?”
You nod. “And I want to make you feel good.”
Her chin quivers, a suffocating silence falling over you both as she… stares. Analyses. No, not that. It’s far too adoring to be that.
“I haven’t done this in a long time,” she admits.
“Me either.” You draw circles over the nape of her neck, wondering if she’ll ever tell you what happened to make her fear touch. Wondering why she lets you in anyway.
She closes her eyes, inhaling as she dips her nose into your neck. Her breath scuttles over your skin like laughter from a throat, palms squeezing your tits gently. “We can take it slow.”
“Abby,” you say. “We’re exhausted. We don’t have the energy or the patience for slow.”
A chuckle, soaked up by your goosebumps, like they’d risen just to hear it. “No. Maybe not.”
“Just tell me where you want me.”
“Can I take this off?” she asks, pinching the hem of your sweatshirt. You nod, helping her peel it off, and then your vest top. She kisses over the top of your tits, then sucks at your collarbone, your jaw, the top of your cleavage. She doesn’t stop when she gets to the bites over your ruined shoulder, only turning gentler.
“Be careful. Please—”
“I’m not fucking scared of them.” Her knuckle brushes over your ribs. “But I want all of you. Lie on the bed for me.”
You do, dragging her with you as your spine presses into the bedroll. The frame creaks under your shared weight, foam mattress sinking at either side where Abby’s knees bracket your hips. She treats your bare stomach with the same attentive care she gave the rest of you, and soon you’re biting down on a beg, embarrassed by the way your underwear is already soaked for all the arousal she’s eliciting. You can’t wait. You wrestle your bra away, watching her reaction carefully. She licks her lips, toying with your nipple before lapping at it.
You claw her hair, lids growing heavy as you stare up at the ceiling. It feels like you’re floating. Like this body is finally surrendering, showing mercy, in the way it allows you this warmth, this lightning.
“Can I see you, too?” you question.
She pauses, throat bobbing, before rising to remove her T-shirt. Fuck, she’s beautiful, all hard lines of strength, right down to the hinge of her hips.
You don’t have to ask this time: she takes your hand and places it on the left side of her ribcage, right beneath the elastic of her bra. Her heart is pounding like drums. “This is what you do to me.”
You take her hand, slip it beneath your waistband so she can feel how wet you are. “This is what you do to me.”
Something fierce wakes in Abby. She bares her teeth, unbuttoning your jeans in one swift movement and tearing them off. You bend your knees, and her splayed hands force your thighs open, kisses beginning at your knee and ending at your groin.
Your cunt pulses with anticipation, and you’re worried you’re so far gone you might come before she even touches you properly. Every kiss, brush, feels like it’s pressing right against your centre, even the caresses of your hips, the kneading of your asscheeks. She yanks you closer, hooking her arms under your thighs so your legs rest on her shoulders.
When she slips your panties to the side to gather your slick, your head rolls back against the pillow, and you’re quick to move your hands to either side of you, afraid you might tug her hair too hard otherwise. You don’t know what she’s been through, don’t know what might pull her out of this moment and into a terrible one, and you refuse to take the risk.
Only, she looks up like she feels your absence, carefully guiding you back. “You can touch me however you want, baby. I’m okay. I promise.”
“Tell me if I do something you don’t like. Please.”
She nods, kissing the hollow between your ribcage. “I will. But you won’t. I like everything you do.”
The pad of her thumb presses against your clit, then, and you jerk involuntarily. Her lips curl, like it’s pleasure enough just to watch your reactions to her. “I’m going to make you come like this first, with my fingers. And then you’re gonna fuck my mouth. Does that sound okay?”
She says it so bluntly, as though she’s hashing out your next route with a map splayed out in front of her. Your brows knit together as pleasure begins to build against her fingers alone, hole clenching around nothing. “What about you?”
“After.”
“Not fair.” You sound intoxicated, words slurred as you turn your face into the pillow. She’s parting your folds to get better access, fingers slippery and gentle and perfect, like you have all the time in the world. “Didn’t I tell you not to go slow?”
She laughs again, nothing but a shadow carved by moonlight, placing a kiss on the side of your knee before she returns her attention back to your cunt. “God, you’re perfect. D’you know that?”
“Abby.”
“What, baby?” she coos. “‘S this better?” Her finger dips into your entrance, and your walls clench, trying to keep her there, hips bucking to meet her.
“Oh god. Please. More. Just… Forget the fucking fingers.”
Her teeth flash in the dark, and then she disappears between your legs, a kiss stamped against your clit that has you twitching, desperate. She’s warm, steady, fingers digging just this side of too firm on your hip, and you relish the idea of finding bruises that aren’t grotesque like your scars come tomorrow. Relish being marked by her, for once, instead of the infected.
You bravely tug her hair, and she growls against you like she likes it. “That’s it. You’re in control. Always have been.”
Her tongue stokes more fire in you, stomach tightening like a knot as your head begins to spin. You must be making sounds, because she keeps saying, “I know, baby. I got you,” but you don’t hear anything but her voice, don't feel anything but her lips and this building, excruciating bliss that feels powerful enough to cancel out all the bad in your body.
And then she plunges two fingers into you, just enough to fill your entrance, as her tongue flattens and ripples against your clit, and you think maybe you’re sobbing, or screaming, or both, as you convulse in a desperate effort to seek more, more, more. The room fills with lewd sounds of her licking through your wetness, and your nails drag over her shoulders. “Still… okay?” you just about gasp.
She rises, teeth gritted, and pins your arms on either side of your head before kissing you. You taste yourself on her, musk and salt and sweetness. Your leg slips off her shoulder, and she’s grinding against it suddenly, every movement brushing her knee against your core as she uses your thigh for purchase. “Gonna go back. I just… fuck—”
“Take these off,” you beg, sitting up to help her unbuckle her cargoes. You begin to finger her immediately, and she sighs like she’s finally found the relief she’s offering to you. The column of her neck gleams in the night, hair curling where it meets her shoulders, and you think maybe you’re already in love with her, which is ridiculous, but she slots against you so perfectly that you can imagine, almost, that the world made her as compensation for the rest.
You end up back on her lap, playing with her swollen clit while she stretches you out with her fingers. The sounds she makes are breathy and guttural, not too dissimilar to the ones you’d heard when she was fighting earlier — you suspect she never really lets that part of her go, though you can see the tension slowly dissolving from the veins in her neck, her forearms, as you explore her warmth.
A tear rolls down your cheek.
“Fuck, stop, before I come,” she begs, but she doesn’t let you, thighs squeezing around your hand as her own thrusts speed up. Her coarse pubic hair tickles your palms, fingers wet and slippery and unskilled when you’re this tired and emotional and hers, but she doesn’t seem to mind, not as she splays you back onto your back to devour you like a wild beast.
“Abby!” you scream, mouth agape as you look down at her lapping at your cunt. You can’t control your jutting hips now, your whole body moving to fall into her rhythm because if it stops, just for a second, you might implode. “Please. Please, please, please—”
She nips at your folds, and the sharp sting pushes you over the edge. Abby stuffs her fingers into your writhing walls, drawing out the orgasm until you’re a boneless mess, fingernails clawing her thick shoulders and thighs quivering around her.
It lasts longer than any you’ve had before, aftershocks zapping through you as she continues to drive more pleasure into you with both her fingers and tongue. You slump back, unsure if you want to push her away or pull her closer so that you never know what it feels like to stop again.
“So fucking pretty for me like this,” she’s murmuring around your pussy. “God, you’re soaked.” And she’s drinking you like she wants every drop for herself.
You whine her name, twitching when the tendrils of her hair brush against your inner thighs. “It’s… It’s your turn now.”
“One more. Wanna make sure you forget about everything else.” Her fingers curl without warning, hitting your G-spot, and your overstimulated clit throbs against her.
“Abby.” A wave of exhaustion washes over you. “I don’t know if I can last much longer. Please. C’mere.”
She stops with one final kiss to your clit, rising to meet you with your arousal coated all over her lips and chin. She uses that on her fingers like a balm over your nipples, then cleans it with her tongue like she could never tire of playing with your body. Of worshipping it.
But it’s her turn, and you refuse to leave her without release tonight. You tug her down, unfastening her bra and drawing the straps down. Her chest is as toned as the rest of her, and you wish you could take your time with her, sink your teeth into all that thick flesh. Instead, you go back to her pussy, and she moans through closed lips.
“Fuck, I can still taste you,” she’s murmuring. “I don’t… I don’t need much more. Just like that. I’m already so close.”
Her head drops into the crook of your shoulder, stomachs pressed together, soft versus hard, hot meeting cool. Her legs tangle with yours as she falls on her side and opens herself up.
“You deserve for someone to take care of you for a change,” you mumble. “You’re so good, Abby.”
Her toes curl against your calves, and she tugs you closer, like she needs to feel you everywhere. It’s an awkward position, offering not nearly the pleasure she deserves, but her eyes squeeze shut as she ruts against you all the same.
“God, I…” She finds you again, stroking your clit softly this time, like she’s doing it just to touch you, to memorise you. Still, your sensitive core coils for her from the sheer pleasure of watching her fall apart. You find a rhythm together, your thighs locked in hers so she finds extra friction against you, and you her. It’s a raw, uncoordinated thing, rocking for the sake of pleasure, not caring what or how it’s gotten, only that you’re melding into one, so close you don't know where you end and she begins.
She comes with a sharp rasp of your name, and the increased pace of her thrusts has a second, gentler orgasm rolling through you.
You grip her through it, feeling like you might be falling.
“This… This was perfect,” you whisper as her movements finally ebb. “I’m so glad I got to have this before it’s all over.”
She tenses, suddenly, in your arms, hiding her face in your neck like maybe she can’t bear to look at you.
Still, she places a final kiss on your collarbone. Still, she stays tangled in you.
You feel her sigh as her breaths slow and wonder if, by some miracle, she’s actually sleeping. Running your fingers through her hair, you pull back to check and find her lids closed, breaths leaving your skin tacky.
In the darkness, you smile. Soon, you’ll have to get up to barricade the door and keep watch by the window, knowing she’d never forgive herself if you both fell victim to unconsciousness.
For just a few more moments, though, you get to be hers, and there’s a peace in that. A peace that, until now, you’d been searching for in all the wrong places.
⊹₊
⤷ CHAPTER THIRTEEN
