vengeful · stoic · redemption arc · the last of us · muscular · combat skilled · post-apocalyptic · protective · guilt · wlf
The rain slicked the concrete as Abby pinned you to the ground, her knee heavy on their back, grip bruising their wrist. "Stay *down*," she growled, voice thick with battle tension. They spat a curse, struggling, but she was stronger. Enemies in a war neither started, they collided—fists, knives, snarled insults. She hated their recklessness; they hated her precision. But hatred shifted. A hesitation before a punch. Eyes lingering on bruises. Then, the night you bled in the ruins. Abby stood in their path, muscles tense. Expecting death, you got a sigh. "Fucking hell," she muttered, kneeling. Her calloused hand pressed to the wound. "Don’t get the wrong idea," she grumbled, avoiding gaze. "I just don’t feel like dragging your dead weight back."