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.
Abby x masc reader who can DANCE hips waist and everything is moving and Abby’s just hypnotized, then getting wayyy wayy too jealous when they end up catching ass on accident
Angst or smut or fluff is fine!! (But please fluffy)
𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒-𝐘𝐎𝐔
━━ ᝰ.ᐟ
──★ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 abby anderson x reader / 0.8k words
──★ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 suggestive, jealousy
──★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 this was such fun to write! thanks for requesting, i hope you like it!!
♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎
The music pulses through the club, a steady thrum that settles in your chest like a second heartbeat. Lights strobe overhead, casting flashes of color across the crowd.
Abby’s hand is warm in yours as she pulls you through the chaos, weaving past bodies with single-minded purpose. She’s taller, broader—built like she could knock someone out without breaking a sweat—and right now, she’s dragging you like a ragdoll toward the bar.
She doesn’t look back, doesn’t need to. You follow, breathless and grinning.
Abby orders a beer—classic. No surprises there. You opt for a whiskey and coke, because the bartenders here are generous with the ice and stingy with the pour. You don’t even try to hide your fond eye-roll when Abby pulls out her wallet.
Swiftly, you push her hand down and slip your own card to the bartender. “Let me pay, baby,” you murmur into her ear, soft and teasing.
Abby makes a sound—half grunt, half sigh, clearly displeased—but she doesn’t push it. She never really wins these little standoffs, and you both know it.
You take your drink, give her a look, all crooked grin and heat behind your eyes. “Wanna dance with me?”
She takes a swig of her beer instead of answering. The scoff she lets out is subtle, but you hear it loud and clear—her silent “hell no.” You just laugh, lean in to press a quick kiss to her cheek. Her lashes flutter at the touch.
And then you’re gone, slipping into the sea of bodies moving under colored lights.
The music’s something vaguely familiar—upbeat, maybe a 90s throwback—and it fills your limbs like static. You let it guide you, hips swaying, arms loose at your sides.
You’ve never needed company to own a dance floor, and if Abby prefers to brood in the corner with her beer and her eyes locked on you like a sniper—well, that’s her prerogative.
You’re in your element. You’re grinning. Until she shows up.
A girl—tipsy, bold, barely held together in a slinky black dress—locks eyes with you from across the floor. She points, long manicured nail aimed your way like a dare.
You barely have a second to react before she spins around, throws an arm around your shoulders, and grinds herself against you like you’re part of the scenery.
Your arms shoot up, stiff in the air like you’ve just walked into a bank robbery instead of a club. You don’t move. You don’t touch. Not because you’re uncomfortable, but because you already feel the change in the air.
You don’t need to look to know she’s seen it.
Abby.
She moves through the crowd like a storm brewing slow and dangerous—shoulders squared, jaw tight, that unmistakable scowl carved into her face like stone.
Her eyes are locked on the girl plastered to you like a second skin, and if looks could kill, there’d already be blood on the floor.
You swallow hard.
Shit.
“Get the fuck away from my girlfriend.” Abby’s voice cuts through the music like a whip—low, sharp, and laced with barely restrained fury.
Before the girl can blink, Abby’s hand clamps around her upper arm and yanks her back.
She stumbles with a startled squeak, heels catching on the floor, and spins around with a glare already forming—until she gets a proper look at Abby.
All 5'9" of broad-shouldered, scowling woman.
The girl's expression flickers from defiance to survival instinct in half a second. She mutters something under her breath and slinks off, wisely choosing not to test her luck.
Abby doesn’t even spare her another glance. Her arm snakes tightly around your waist, firm and possessive—like a claim, like a warning. You feel it in your bones, and it makes your knees a little weak.
Your heart’s still hammering like a war drum, but you lean in, smiling softly despite yourself. “I think I like jealous-you,” you tease, arms sliding easily around her neck.
“That’s ‘cause half these bitches think you’re a stud,” Abby grumbles against your neck, voice all gravel and heat as she presses a trail of warm, lingering kisses to your skin.
You hum, half-laughing, fingers toying with the soft hairs at the nape of her neck. “Yeah, well…” you begin, breath catching when her lips brush a little too close to your pulse.
Abby huffs, half into a smirk. “Gotta start makin’ you wear skirts—can’t have us both out here lookin’ like masc trouble.”
“Oh, hell no.” You scoff with a laugh—but barely get the words out before her hand slides down and grabs a handful of your ass.
“Would look good on you,” she murmurs, shameless. “Might give me easy access.”
Your ears burn, and you slap her bicep with a shocked laugh. Abby just grins wide, unbothered, delighted with herself, her laugh low and rumbling in your ear.
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.
warnings: 18+, violence, blood, a little hint towards smut but not really, a hint towards ptsd, very vague situation for reader because i don't have the brain cells to think up a real scenario. this is a modern au BUT imagine wlf!abby who's assigned to protect a seraphite who is in danger after it's discovered that she's been feeding the wolves information? whew.
⟢ bodyguard!abby who doesn't talk much. sometimes she's so quiet, you forget she's there, and then her shadow will shift in your periphery: she is so still, so tense, a predator just waiting for the opportunity to pounce.
⟢ and then, as she becomes part of your everyday, you'll start feeling her touch: when you're getting into cars, when you're trapped in crowds, sometimes even just when she senses that you're anxious and need the extra support. the two of you have barely exchanged three words, but her hands are forever hovering near your spine, and you feel them like electricity. sometimes, her arm will wrap around your stomach, holding you back so that she can check everything's secure first. "think you can work on your patience for me?"
⟢ you ask about her past, about how she became a bodyguard. she'll give you some vague, non-answer about how she used to be in the military, but she'll never say why she left, or what her job was. there is violence brimming under her surface, though, and both of you know it.
⟢ at night, she'll have nightmares of losing you the way she lost so many other things, and they'll haunt her into the day, making her eyes hollow and dark. she withdraws more on those days, until you think you imagined the bond the two of you share.
⟢ she'll check every room you enter for threat so thoroughly that it takes eons to go anywhere. peeling back curtains to gauge whether anybody in nearby buildings can get access to you, stopping any guests and patting them down — she does not trust the world to take care of you, and you don't know if it's a sign of her care, or just her traumatic past.
⟢ either way, you have never felt safer in somebody's presence. she proves herself a rock you can fall against, physically and otherwise. when you are shoved around in a crowd, she's a barricade. when it gets too much and your nervous system collapses, she stands outside your door and refuses anybody entry. she yells when people try to push you, one hand always hovering over her holstered gun. she doesn't have to ask what you need: she just knows.
⟢ she takes her job so seriously that she refuses to cross the line. except she thinks about you all the time, and that in itself feels like a transgression. with your life threatened, you'd never ask for more, but there are sparks whenever your pinkies touch, and you think constantly of her pursed lips and narrowed eyes, her squared shoulders. you've memorised the slabs of muscle in her back, because it's always turned to you as she scopes your surroundings. she is a weight, an anchor, a haven.
⟢ there will be these moments with just you and her, in the car, or in your hotel room, and it will be so quiet, so peaceful, and even though you barely talk, you will feel like you know her. occasionally, she will make you coffee, and she'll come out with a dry comment to one of your questions. it will surprise you enough that, despite your fears, has you laughing. it becomes her new favourite sound.
⟢ you'll try to get her attention, slowly. undressing in front of her, asking her to triple check the door. one night, you'll have a nightmare and you'll ask her to stay close, so she'll lie on the floor next to you, thinking of all the ways she wishes she could touch you — to comfort you, and to make you forget.
⟢ she hears you moaning sometimes through the bedroom wall, using your vibrator, and she'll be so pent up, so desperate to touch herself — but she won't compromise your safety. she'll wait until she's off-duty, in the shower or under the covers, and whisper your name as she makes herself come.
⟢ one day, after another threat comes in, you'll admit how scared you are, and it will kill her to see you so vulnerable. she'll inch closer than is appropriate, forgetting who she is, who you are, as she reaches out to trace your jawline. "I'd never let anything happen to you. ever. it's my job to protect you."
⟢ and then you kiss, hungry and hurried, and she knows it's wrong, but she can't stop. her thigh slides between your legs, brushing against her core, and she's so strong and all-encompassing that you truly believe you'll never be afraid again. she presses you against the wall, cages you in with her arms, before her kisses trail down your neck. "you have no idea what you do to me."
⟢ her firm hands squeeze your tits roughly, thumbs brushing over your nipples and making your back arch. only then does she realise the lines she's crossed, so she peels away all at once, shutting down. "this is wrong," she whispers, and it breaks your heart. "I can't afford to be distracted. not like this. you're... you're my client."
⟢ "I don't care, abby," you'll say, trying to pull her back.
⟢ she'll rip away, thinking only of all she's lost. "well I do. this can't happen. not ever."
⟢ secretly, she'll wonder if you only sought her out because she made you feel safe at a time when you are anything but. is it her you want, or just somebody strong and capable?
⟢ then the unthinkable happens. somebody takes you in the night, and she enters the next morning to find you gone. everything inside of her will turn to ice. she'll blame herself, even though she's never, not once, stopped thinking about your safety. but she knows that her feelings for you have distracted her, and that was why she should never have let herself feel them. she's been unprofessional. she's failed you.
⟢ she becomes distant and unknowable as she manoeuvres the threat, gun poised with precision, eyes narrowed. to the rest of the team, she'll only come across as determined to get you back, but inside, her heart will be pounding, the sound of gunfire — and worse, the thought of you caught in it — enough to turn her knuckles white.
⟢ she'll find you trembling, afraid, hurt, and she'll whisper soft words as she rescues you. "I'm here now, sweetheart. I got you."
⟢ you'll mumble her name, over and over, so relieved. "abby."
⟢ they've stripped you of clothes, and she covers you with her jacket. "I'm right here. I'm so fucking sorry."
⟢ the blood and bruises make her snarl with primitive protectiveness as she tilts your chin to examine the damage. "I'll fucking kill them."
⟢ and then her voice will suddenly be soft again. "can you walk for me?"
⟢ "good girl. stay close, yeah? I got you."
⟢ you'll grip onto her belt hoop, crouched and trying to stay hidden.
⟢ she'll shoot your attackers without mercy. it will shock you so much that, when you see the blood, the bodies scattered around you, your vision will blur and your ears will ring, and though she's talking to you, telling you it's okay now, you won't hear her. you're in shock.
⟢ she ends up having to carry you out to the car, your tears dampening her shirt. it's a wonder she can even drive you to the hospital for how wrought her nerves are, and how often her gaze slides to you slumped in the backseat.
⟢ she'll disappear when the doctors take care of you, sitting in a chair in the waiting room with her elbows digging into her thighs until she knows you're okay, and then she'll drive until she no longer recognises her surroundings. you almost died today. she failed you. she thought she'd lost you, and it made her sick.
⟢ later, she'll come back. she can't stay away from you, not until she knows every last threat has been wiped from this earth.
⟢ you'll ask to see her. she'll come in pale, withdrawn, unwilling to let those feelings show because all they ever did was endanger you.
⟢ "abby," you beg. "please talk to me. I... I need you. I need you to be here with me. you're the only one who..."
⟢ her throat bobs, and she shakes her head. "I'm the reason you're here. I had one job. I fucking promised. I never should have let it go this far. I let myself get distracted, and it almost cost your life."
⟢ you will insist over and over that it isn't her fault, but she won't believe you. not until you break down, and then she knows she can't leave you, can't make you hurt any more than you already have.
⟢ she'll perch on your hospital bed, face curling with self-loathing as she looks at your bruises and the IV wires. she still won't cry. you don't think you'll ever see her cry.
⟢ "I don't know if I can work for you anymore," she'll whisper.
⟢ "please don't say that."
⟢ "I'm trying to do what's right."
⟢ "no, you're trying to punish yourself for something that wasn't your fault."
⟢ she hates how easily you see through her. her chin trembles as she brushes your hair from your face. "thinking I'd lost you... it was hell."
⟢ "so don't lose me, abby. stay."
⟢ with anyone else, she'd be strong enough to walk away. but not you. so she'll stay, and you'll fall asleep clinging onto her, and she'll figure out how to protect the woman she loves no matter how you distract her, because she refuses to ever let you go again.
seeing cassie do something hot and someone hearing you mutter a “fuck” under your breath ..
note: you’re not even together. you’re just yearning from a far
yummyyyy so delicious yum
MDNI - 18+
you were surrounded by your fellow residents as cassie talked you all through a complex suture. while everyone else watched her meticulous movements, you were staring at how her tongue darted from her lips, how her brows knit together in concentration.
you studied her hands, how her fingers pulled, making the skin taut, how the muscles in her forearms tensed and bent.
"fuck" you whispered.
santos gave you a sideways glance, a smirk spreading across her lips. she leaned over towards you, her voice low in your ear.
that last clip and she’s checking you out. imagining your figure under your scrubs oh my
“so he didn’t even pay?”
“she.”
“ohhh.”
oh.
“yeah, it just wasn’t a very good date, but it could’ve been first date nerves. we might click if we go out again…”
blah blah blah i need to see her gorgeous body. her curves. her tummy. i need to put my hands on her ass and grip her tits. god, i need to fucking worship this woman. i—
“cassie? should i go on another date?”
“hm? oh, uh…”
“i think she should’ve paid for you or at the very least talked about splitting the bill. i mean that’s what i would do.”
“my opinion? don’t waste your time.”
“but what if i’m single for the rest of my life? maybe i should just give up. i’ve been single for a while, maybe i’m a lost cause.”
“what? don’t say that, sweetheart.”
“it’s true! i’m going to have to make peace with the fact that i could be alone. i mean… this may be tmi, but cassie, i haven’t even gotten laid in two years.”
“do you want to change that?”
“i uh…”
“oh, god i’m kidding!”
“ohhhh! ha!”
“unless you’re not.”
“you would want to go out with me? me?”
“why wouldn’t i?”
“and you’re saying you… you want to sleep with me?”
“that’s one way of putting it.”
“oh, o-okay, yeah.”
“yeah?”
“oh my god, stop laughing, cass!”
“sorry! so… do you want to go out after our shift’s over, pretty girl?”
