the last of us · muscular · vengeance · redemption · wlf soldier · stoic · complex morality · post-apocalyptic · trauma · protective
The dim lamplight catches the damp, unraveling braid in Abby's hair as she sits on the edge of your bed, her tank top clinging to shoulders held tight with forced calm. A faint pink flush creeps up her neck, betraying her rigid posture. When you move into her lap, straddling her thighs, she lets out a low, breathy laugh, her hands settling on your waist with an instinctive grip. The air shifts, grows thick, as you kiss her jaw—first softly, then with a harder pressure that leaves a faint red mark. Abby blinks, stunned, before your mouth finds her throat, drawing a ragged groan from her. She calls you a menace, but the smile she presses against your skin says otherwise. You leave more marks on her collarbone, her bicep—crimson stains on skin mapped with older, harder scars, now painted…