deepouterspacecandy - Tumblr blog

deepouterspacecandy · 3 hours

Text

I'll Find You in the Next

Oh, we've got some angsty drabbles today and it hurts my heart strings. But I can never leave it that way. There will always be a happy ending for Abby if I get any say in it. 18+ only. Violence and sexual themes.

When Abby writes about that day, her faded, leather-bound journal settled on her iron thigh, it’s the faint sweetness of damp earth she remembers first. The way her boots sank into the muddy ground, as if nature itself was begging her not to go.

She recalls your chilly nose pressed against her neck, your gentle, rain-kissed hands unzipping her jacket to wrap your arms around her in an embrace you both knew prying eyes couldn’t steal.

The memory of those soft fingertips climbing the notches of her spine in hungry whispers, how seamlessly you fit against her body as she bound her sprawling hand against your lower back to pull you closer.

It’s an ache in her gut, the sensation of your lips as they trembled against the delicate curve of her ear, your words a lonesome spider weaving an intricate web woven deep into the chambers of her heart.

“You’re not coming back, are you?” you asked. “This is the last time I’ll get to hold you like this.”

Abby’s own voice sounded foreign to her, squeezing past the hot daggers in her throat. She held you so tight it extracted every ounce of oxygen from your lungs. She leaned back just enough to trace the contours of your face with her blurry eyes.

“Don’t say shit like that, okay? I’m right here,” she said. “I’ll always come back for you.”

“Anderson—shake it and let’s go!” a gruff voice bellowed from inside the Humvee. “We’re losing daylight!”

“You’re still my girl, yeah?” Abby whispered.

“I’m still your girl,” you said.

There was a hollowness and distance in your voice she’d never heard before. Her tone wobbled with panic as tears threatened to rival the downpour and drown her.

“Say it again,” she ordered, her grip on you unyielding. “I need you to say it again, okay? Don’t send me off wondering if I’ve got someone to come home to.”

The truck came alive with a sinister growl, a powerful rumble that echoed through the stillness of the morning air.

“Baby, please,” Abby begged.

Your body convulsed with sobs, causing your shoulders to shake. Desperate to hold herself together, Abby pressed her forehead against your cheek and longed for the comfort of your fingers tangled in her hair, just like they always did when she nestled into you.

When your hands completely withdrew from her, she nearly buckled to the ground.

“May your survival be long,” you said.

With a forceful tug, Abby clutched your belt loops and closed the distance.

“Stop,” she uttered with a disjointed huff. “Look at me, okay? Don’t do this. I promise I’m coming back for you.”

“Come on, Abby. He’s not going to let that happen,” you said.

“He doesn’t have a choice,” she chuckled humorlessly. “You think I'd let him come between us?”

You kissed her so hard sparks danced behind her eyelids. Her lips, icy and numb, melted into your warmth. In her arms, you were weightless, your whimpers harmonizing with the pink caress of dawn that teased the surface of her skin through the treetops. Tears mingled with the wetness of your tongue; a slick, salty tang that stripped Abby bare.

She’d taste you forever if you’d let her.

Against her jaw, you spoke, your cries muffled and fractured.

“I love you, Abigail. Please be okay out there," you said.

“Fuck,” she muttered, loathed to break away from you. It felt like goodbye.

With a swift pivot, you left her, forcing her to watch you walk away, twigs snapping under your footsteps. The heavy burden of sadness split her down the middle. It took her years to gather the courage to confess her feelings for you.

There was a void in her life, a dull emptiness, until you entered the picture.

“Six months will go by in a flash,” Manny said, his hand dropping to her shoulder in reassurance. The collective sorrow of her squad washed over her as their hearts ached in solidarity. “You will get through this.”

“She’ll never forgive me,” Abby sniffed.

You tried to convince her that Isaac’s actions were driven by a desire to separate you both, but she refused to believe his intentions were so cruel. Time and again, Abby demonstrated her unwavering loyalty as a soldier, willingly sacrificing her life to carry out Isaac’s whims. This was an important mission that sought to enhance the lives of everyone in the community, including you.

Surely, after everything was over, he would allow her the safety and tenderness of your affection.

Two weeks after she had left, Abby finally got her hands on a radio to stay in touch with you. She’d gone to drastic lengths to acquire it, willing to do whatever it took. Discovering that you had packed your bags and deserted the WLF, she felt an unparalleled agony that seemed to seep into her very bones.

She has been on a constant quest to find you ever since.

With a hushed thud, Abby closes her journal, revealing a weathered photograph of you, a treasured keepsake from days gone by—one thousand and ninety-five, to be exact.

Three long years since she last held your beautiful face between her palms.

With the pen spinning effortlessly between her fingers, she imagines palm trees swaying in the breeze. Perhaps you made your way to California, lured by the promise of endless sunny days.

The walkie talkie crackles at her hip, filling the room with static. Absentmindedly, she tucks the pen behind her ear and listens.

“Yo, Anderson, there's someone at the gate asking for you.”

The pressure of a brewing headache intensifies behind her eyes, prompting her to pinch the bridge of her nose in a feeble effort to ward it off.

The responsibility of managing a military base has proven to be a demanding task, leaving her in a state of perpetual exhaustion. Juggling the search for you and the responsibility of keeping the ship running smoothly, she hasn't had a good night's sleep in a long time.

“Who?” she asks, completely resistant to leaving her bed. “Light a fire under Manny’s ass. He can handle it.”

"Uh, Boss, that's not gonna happen.”

The moment Abby catches wind of a familiar voice reprimanding her squad mate in the background, an explosion of adrenaline courses through her body like a supernova.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson

25 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 4 hours

Note

Im loving fallout right how, your writing is so beautiful 🤍Part 2 is so sweet I’m crying 🫶

I'm so beyond thrilled to hear it! My heart absolutely swells knowing my tidbits of writing bring happiness to your doorstep. Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to reach out. Means the world. 💖✨️🌙

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby

1 note · View note

deepouterspacecandy · 9 hours

Note

You’re so gorgeous wow

Thank you so much! YOU'RE so gorgeous. I feel like a sore bag of prickly pineapples today. All these heavy circles I've been lifting this week are catching up to me. Bodybuilding hurts in the best way, I'll tell ya.

The kindest souls gravitate here, I swear. I appreciate the pick-me-up before I tear my muscles to shreds in the gym. ✨️

If I run into Abby, I'll tell her you say hi. 😉💖

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian

5 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 4 days

Note

How do I get a gf with muscles?

Please ask me questions like these daily so I can giggle like an idiot. This is absolutely hilarious and wonderful. Okay.

✨️Carry high protein snacks with you EVERYWHERE!

✨️Pretend stuff is too heavy for you to lift.

✨️Be in the gym because that's about the only place you'll find 'em. Extra points if you act like you don't know how to use the equipment or you need a spotter.

Jokes aside, be yourself. Seriously. That is ALL you need, I assure you. Anyone who tells you differently sucks, and they probably don't have muscles.

Now go be gay and extraordinary. 💖 💪🏻

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson #tlou part 2

42 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 5 days

Text

Spared

I intended to write a short drabble about Abby being immune to Cordyceps, but alas, it morphed into approximately 5k words right before my very eyes. How does this happen? Anyway. I appreciate your presence, taking the time to read these fragments of my mind. Thank you for being here. I hope you enjoy. This is a darker, more angsty, gore-filled journey and, as always, it’s intended for 18+ audiences only. Violence and sexual themes.

A man on a mission, Dr. Jerry Anderson devoted himself to eradicating the plague that wreaked havoc on the world.

Developing a vaccine against Cordyceps consumed his life.

In their quest for answers, people would come from all corners of the globe, hoping to be included in his trial. Despite undergoing countless procedures and surgeries in a desperate pursuit of a cure, most patients tragically succumbed to the treatments themselves or to their initial infections. As the years passed and resources became scarce, his experiments progressively lost their footing.

Mere weeks before his untimely demise, Dr. Anderson conducted his last trial on a patient. The experiment unfolded in a way he never anticipated.

After receiving the injection, the patient, without previous exposure to the virus, experienced a perplexing mutation, developing far more than immunity to the perils of infection.

She possessed the ability to communicate with it and maneuver through it, like a ghost.

----------------------------------------

“You wanted to see me.”

Isaac extends his arm, signaling for you to have a seat at his desk. He swirls a decanter filled with a rich, dark liquid before pouring it between two sturdy glasses.

With a jarring crack against the maple surface, Isaac sets one glass before you.

“I don’t drink,” you say.

As you bring the potion to your nose, the pungent smell of the liquor assaults your senses, and you search for a compliment to give out of courtesy. Hoping to dissuade him from making further gestures of rapport, you decide against it.

“Is this an issue I need to be aware of?” he asks. “I have no patience for drunks.”

Leaning back in his chair, he peers at you intently over his glass.

“No, sir.”

Given the stories you’ve heard about his inebriated escapades, it’s quite ironic to hear such a statement from him.

You feel the uncomfortable burn of his glare, a demand for you to elaborate. Clearing your throat, you offer him a hesitant explanation.

“I prefer to keep my head straight. It’s important in my line of work,” you say.

Unimpressed by your reasoning, he leans forward and flicks your glass, producing a sharp sound that resonates through your chest.

“Do you smell smoke?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “But I’d really rather not—”

Silencing you with a raised hand, he swiftly cuts you off.

“Good. I don’t recall setting a fire. Have a drink,” he orders. “We have matters of discretion to discuss.”

As usual, his matters of discretion connect you to his hidden mercenary, a soldier you have treated multiple times throughout the years unbeknownst to your comrades. She’s Isaac’s most lethal weapon, a secret you wish you didn’t have to protect. What he is doing with her feels cruel, using her impenetrable body for brutal warfare and then leaving her isolated with her injuries, all while she waits for the next assignment.

It takes weeks for the roiling feeling in your gut to subside after meeting with her.

“When do you plan on ending this?” you ask.

Maybe the booze is taking effect, emboldening you beyond your usual self. It’s impossible to bite your tongue, the torment of watching this unfold gnawing at you.

“Excuse me?” he drawls.

“Sir, she’s alone out there. It’s not right,” you say, reluctantly downing the last remnants of the glass before pushing it across the desk. “There are factors you need to consider. Mental decline, her physical limitations. If you’d consider bringing her in, she’d make a promising squad leader.”

Trying to reason with him about her basic human needs will be futile, so as with every other matter, it’s more effective to approach the situation from a tactical standpoint. His perception of human beings as living entities is questionable as is.

“Do not underestimate her faculties,” Isaac says. “She’s built differently. This is the purpose she serves to keep her people safe, and she does it willingly.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but sir, if you’d just give me a minute.”

“Do I need to find someone else to handle this case?” he asks.

It’s a loaded question, a double barrel to your temple. The act of assigning someone else to handle her case doesn’t entitle you to be included in the mission rotation again.

Only you hold the key to the secret of her existence, and it will die with you.

“When do I ship out?” you ask.

“Tonight,” he mutters.

He turns his back to you, and you can hear the faint sound of liquid pouring into his glass. When he dismisses you by consuming it alone, you see yourself out.

----------------------------------------

The journey to the prison is a tumultuous one.

The absence of infected is a relief, but the spray-painted rattle snakes garnishing the buildings and the maze of explosives on the roadways dangle ominously in your face. With Bear, your devoted canine companion, you make it as far as the gas station before a spike strip shreds the front tires of your Humvee. The sunken road, slicked by rain and oil, causes the vehicle to lose traction completely, sliding sideways into the long-abandoned propane tank sitting at the edge of the freeway.

Warmth spills through your eyebrows, prompting you to reach up and touch your forehead to locate the source. Your fingers, stained bright red, begin to tremble as you observe Bear—his ears flattened with every dark hair along his spine raised in alarm.

It’s a matter of seconds before a pair of violent hands tear you from the vehicle and toss you into the dirt, jarring rock granules forcing your eyes shut. You blink them away until all you see is a mangled police visor staring down at you, its surface speckled with dried blood, a menacing baton swinging an inch from your nose. Though the mask muffles the voice behind it, there’s a barbed, frigid edge to his tone.

Bear lunges out of the cab, seizing the enemy by his throat and forcing him to the ground. It grants you enough time to scramble to your feet, only to be met with the disturbing view of an infected hoard stumbling toward you from the hillside, chains dragging behind some of them.

Your vision becomes increasingly blurry as nausea ferments in your stomach, twisting you inside out. You pilfer the rifle off your attacker, as a group of his mates emerge from the shadows. You lean against the Humvee, examining the firearm before chambering the only bullet attached to the limp body at your boots.

“Fuck ‘em up,” you command.

Bear is a missile, darting through the rubble, his target set everywhere at once. Next to Isaac’s best kept secret, your dog is a diabolical killing machine.

“Shoot that fucking dog!”

Your eyes narrow in on the enemy poised to strike Bear, and you steady your aim. The roar of your scream lingers in your ears as you fire the only round you’ve got. An aggressive swarm of infected are moving toward the chaos in a cluster of rot and tangled limbs and you’re frozen. A horrific slaughter, surpassing any level of violence you’ve encountered, breaks out in a flash.

The infected shred your attackers apart, ribbons of flesh and shattered bone coating the pavement. The moment you call out for Bear, the sudden noise turns a dozen vacant, pustule eyes on you.

With no weapons at your disposal, you frantically scramble onto the roof of the Humvee, scanning the surroundings for an escape route. A sea of infected pool together like a rancid colony of ants.

Some say that the pain from a Clicker attack is unlike anything else. Perhaps it’s their blind, frenzied hunger that makes them so vicious.

You’re on the brink of discovering it firsthand when the decaying corpse, with its outstretched arms and gnarled fingers, halts mid-motion.

The infected stop in their tracks one by one, haunted marionettes with abruptly yanked strings. Save for the sound of your own blood pumping in your ears, the silence becomes deafening. Their bodies writhe in an eerie synchronicity as you try not to breathe.

In rare form, you squeeze your eyes shut to escape the fear. The sudden weight of a hand on your shoulder causes you to swing violently in its direction, your fist caught by a solid, calloused palm. Your piercing scream permeates the silence before you instinctively clamp your hands over your mouth.

Despite your shock, the lifeless figures remain unaffected, and you squint to make sense of it.

“I don’t understand,” you say.

Through tangled locks of greasy hair, celestial blue eyes stare expectantly. Her intense gaze rakes over you, a familiar pearl-white streak marring only one iris. It’s been a while, but her angular face is a sight you remember well.

“They can’t hurt me?” you ask.

“They can,” she explains, reaching up to examine the gash on your forehead. “But they won’t.”

“Bear,” you blurt.

Using her thumb and forefinger, she turns your chin until you spot your dog at the edge of the hoard. You can feel his confusion as his tail wags anxiously, ready for your next command. The simple act of turning your head sends a tsunami of vertigo crashing over you.

Out of nowhere, your mind becomes a jumbled mess, making it a challenge to string coherent thoughts together. She senses your trepidation, and her hands immediately find your hips, offering stability as you falter.

“I’m dizzy. I need to get down,” you stammer.

Her grip tightens and you try to focus on the sharp sting of her fingertips digging into your skin. The world tilts, the infected shuffling and groaning as they slowly snap out of their trance.

“Breathe,” she says. “Stay with me.”

Darkness cloaks your vision before you can summon the energy to respond.

----------------------------------------

As you blink awake, the biting cold hits you first. The source of the unwelcome breeze draws your attention, as the chilly gusts sneak into the room through a slit in the concrete. It’s meant to be a window, but it falls miserably short of the mark.

You’ve spent countless nights inside this prison, mending the wounds of Isaac’s soldier in the dim, flickering light. It’s the first time you’ve landed yourself in her bed.

The blanket, enveloping you like a cocoon, is unpleasantly musty, and you peel it away. Rising from the rigid steel slab, the room spins, deterring you from getting on your feet. Your body feels heavy and sore, a relentless ache pulsating behind your eyes. You give it another shot and stumble to your feet, using the walls as a crutch until you regain your balance.

Bear sleeps peacefully at the foot of the bed, his gentle snores filling the room. It’s intriguing how he finds more peace in the prison than in his own home, but he certainly deserves some rest.

The clank of iron plates echoes down the corridor, and you follow the sound. Your bare feet recoil against the chilly ground, and you’re left pondering when exactly you misplaced your boots. The hiss of heavy breathing and the occasional strenuous grunt accompanies your journey from one cell to the next, guiding you down the hallway toward the sound.

You peek around the corner and wild blonde hair appears in your line of sight.

Chances are, she already senses your presence, but you give a gentle warning that you’re approaching just in case.

“How long have I been out?” you ask.

Performing dips on a rusted bench, she maintains her focus, her back turned to you. Muscles flex and bulge with each repetition and you notice she’s adopted fresh scars across her ravaged back since your previous visit. Without a word, she powers through her reps and smoothly transitions into her next set.

It took several visits before she would give you anything more than a frosty response. Despite the feeling of regression, it’s possible she just needs time to adjust.

“I noticed you grabbed my bag,” you say, idly fidgeting with your hands as you linger in the doorway. “Thank you for that—for all of it, really. I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you.”

Her body stiffens into a plank, losing momentum in her push-ups. Beads of sweat roll down her face and drip to the ground, her solid body trembling. She takes a deep breath before releasing it in a huff, continuing her routine without pause.

“Have you eaten? I packed some spices I think you’ll like.”

With a frustrated growl, she shakes her head, trying to dispel the irritation. Your instincts tell you to leave her alone to finish her workout, but for some odd reason, you find yourself unable to hold back the torrent of words.

“I thought it’d be cool to start a garden here. Herbs are nice to cook with, you know? Some for healing, too. There’s a decent spot in the yard for it.”

“What’s next—rose bushes?” she mutters.

“Roses can be great for tinctures,” you explain. “It’s a learning curve, but you get great sunlight for them.”

She props herself up on her elbows mid-push-up and lets out a choppy breath. When she raises her eyes to meet yours, anger fills them to the brim, and the hostility is scalding.

“I want Isaac to stop sending you.”

The pain of the unexpected dagger is far more intense than you could have ever imagined. You often wish that Isaac hadn’t implicated you in his secret, but you’ve grown to care for this wounded soul.

“You might as well take me out back, then,” you chuckle humourlessly. “Because that’s a death sentence.”

“Give me five minutes,” she sneers. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Look, I didn’t ask for this,” you say, a kernel of truth wrapped up in a rather emotional reaction to her painful barb. “I’m his soldier, too.”

Springing up from the ground, she snatches her shirt off a nearby chair and pushes past you. Before she slips the tattered garment over her head, you catch a glimpse of a deep, jagged laceration at the base of her neck.

While you make a mental note of it, you ultimately decide against bringing it up.

Rather than hounding her when she clearly wants to be alone, you decide to hunt for that old claw bathtub, desperate for a soak and maybe a good cry.

----------------------------------------

This tomb scatters beauty, but you easily find its seeds.

The copper tub catches the flickering candlelight, and the gleam is otherworldly against the lonely shadows. The moment you step into the hot water, you can feel your skin buzzing with gentle licks of heat and your tired muscles begin to surrender to the relaxation it brings.

You can recall the day she dragged this old bathtub into the prison, the legs of it squeaking across the concrete floor as if the claws belonged to a corporeal animal. Showers alone proved ineffective in hastening her healing process and cleansing her wounds and, surprisingly, despite her initial uncertainty, she took your advice.

The candles differ from the ones you previously left behind, so you assume she still makes use of the hollow luxury when the mood strikes.

Submerging your head, you study the muffled sounds brought about by the density of the water. Everything is disparate beneath the surface, the low-pitched hoots of an owl muted and distant.

“I made food.”

“Jesus Christ!” you choke, body thrashing and creating a chaotic spray of water in every direction.

Your actions soak the woman standing beside the tub and, when she averts her gaze, droplets of water slip from her dirt-slicked lashes.

“Knocking helps!” you say, bracing your arms on the copper ridges.

“Count the doors in here—I’ll wait!”

Her sarcastic wit catches you off guard, and you feel your cheeks sting as confused gaiety tugs at them.

“What’s that face for?” she snaps.

It’s difficult to discern whether she’s asking a genuine question or if she’s in a defensive stance, so you wager it’s a blend of both.

“You’re funny,” you say. “When you’re not being a jerk.”

This time, when her eyes meet yours, the fury dissipates. There’s something soft and temperate where you’ve only ever witnessed the bane of unforgiving steel.

The pads of her fingers are a deep pink hue, and it dawns on you that the porcelain bowl must be extremely hot. You gesture to the side table disguised as a wooden stump and she sets the dish down.

“Can I have a look at that?” you ask, reaching for her hands.

The tub and clever positioning shroud your naked body, but the rest is all about her and her sudden ardent manners. With her face turned away, she offers you her palms first.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” she says.

While inspecting the burn and its surrounding wounds, you notice her shoulders dropping.

“You can sit, if you want,” you say.

Upon surveying the area, you’re aware that the number of chairs matches the number of doors, prompting an apologetic chuckle. A tiny smile teases her mouth as she crouches at your side instead.

“You need to run this under cold water, okay? And I should dress these cuts, so they don’t get infected.”

“What about you?” she asks. “I tried to clean it out, but it’s ugly.”

She moves to touch the gash on your forehead, and her quick movements startle you. When you flinch, her hand lingers in the air until she decides to rework her pace, taking a more languid approach.

“It’s been forever since someone called me ugly,” you jest.

“Missed opportunity,” she mumbles, biting her bottom lip to keep her grin at bay.

“You haven’t polished off that honey I brought yet, right?”

Her expression resembles a guilt-ridden thief caught in the act, and you struggle to suppress a burst of laughter.

“I should’ve known better. Maybe you need a hive instead of a garden,” you say.

She snorts at your suggestion before grabbing the cloth hanging on the tub and dunking it into the water. Instinctively, her weathered hands shape the fabric to dab gently at your injury. The surface is bruise-tender and the pain throbs outward in torturous sparks. She cups your jaw with her other hand to keep you from squirming.

“What if I’m allergic to bee stings? Because that’s a death sentence,” she mimics.

“I’ll try not to throw you in then,” you say. “No promises.”

A wide, earnest grin spreads across her tough features, and you forget how to breathe for a spell. She’s filthy and in desperate need of a hairbrush, but she’s still prettier than anyone you’ve met.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

Isaac never refers to her as anything other than his mercenary, and every time you had considered asking her in the past, your better judgement advised against it. Her preference for anonymity is clear, but you have so many unanswered questions.

In a smooth motion, she glides the cool cloth across the bridge of your nose.

“Do you really want to know?” she asks.

Seeking a moment of connection, you grasp her wrist, pausing her ministrations. Her gaze meets yours with a sense of urgency and she doesn’t break eye contact.

Water trickles from your hands, twirling along her wrist and cascading down her forearm. She fights to keep her eyes open, a raspy hum building at the back of her throat until goosebumps skate across your skin.

“I really want to know,” you say.

Her nod is slow and deliberate, contemplating the price she will have to pay for her decision.

“Once you see me,” she warns, and it’s uncertain whether she’s cautioning you or herself. “There’s no going back.”

“I can live with that,” you whisper.

Just when it looks like she’s ready to share, her body tenses up and you can almost touch the impenetrable barrier rising between you.

“Your stew is getting cold,” she says. “I’ll grab you a towel.”

----------------------------------------

Away from the stadium lights, midnight is a mesmerizing weave of glistening diamonds spilled across an indigo sky. The sight of the Milky Way reminds you of her. That blemish etched along her iris—a celestial river carving through blue canvas.

You curl up on a bedroll in the tall grass and listen to the melodious ensemble of crickets and frogs, yearning for extra time in the countryside. There’s a sense of security here, with no sign of danger for miles. The tall and formidable walls back home do little to drown out the blood-curdling cries of the infected. Their presence is always looming, close enough to unsettle you, but never close enough to harm. It’s enough to disrupt your sleep, their ruined faces bleeding into your nightmares.

The once spirited and untamed landscape of home now only grows the carefully cultivated visions that Isaac orchestrates, depriving both his plants and his people of freedom.

Prior to Isaac recruiting you for his mission, you contemplated abandoning your ties to the WLF. You didn’t want to spend another moment on this planet living in a perpetual state of war, never knowing when you’d catch a stray arrow.

The peaceful ambiance of birdsong in the early morning tempers the harsh world for you. It’s a reminder that amidst famine and devastation, there must be more.

“You’re not sleeping inside tonight?”

Bear’s collar jingles, bringing you a sense of comfort as the dog keenly explores the prison yard before heading back indoors to nap. Your pup instantly feels at ease with the mysterious woman from the middle of nowhere, and you have no trouble comprehending why.

“I am,” you say. “I just wanted to see the stars first.”

“You don’t see much of that where you’re from?” she asks.

When you pat the ground, she sits cross-legged next to you like an old friend.

“Not really. It’s too bright in the city,” you explain. “I’m going to need to stitch that up—don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

While shooting you a disapproving look, she absentmindedly traces the cut near her collarbone before leaning back on her rugged arms. She tilts her head to study the cloudless sky, and it draws your attention to the neat braid resting at the nape of her neck.

A fresh and woody scent emanates from her, with a subtle hint of pine carried to you by the wind.

“I’ve always wondered why there are no infected here,” you say. “You keep them away when I’m around, don’t you?”

You know it’s her, the one responsible for it all, but you’re still in the dark about her methods. The extent of its impact on her remains elusive to you, but you’ve witnessed her increasing exhaustion. Her strength and abilities set her apart, but they also have the power to decimate her reserves.

“They’re closer than you think,” she says.

“If I get up right now and walk out those gates, am I in danger?” you ask.

“Yes,” she says, a look of agony flashing across her features. “But not for the reasons you think. I can’t—it’s people I can’t control.”

“I wasn’t imagining things, then?”

Her teeth grind in apprehension, as she plucks blades of grass from the ground to build a small mound above the laces of her leather boots. You let the gears turn, patiently waiting for her to come to her own conclusions. The struggle lies in wanting her to confide in you, wanting to divide the burdens that shackle her.

“I’m here,” you say. “Whenever you’re ready to talk.”

“What if I can’t?”

“I’ll still listen,” you say.

When she turns her head to face you, fragile threads of trust blur her stern demeanour, a courageous step taken in silence. She lumbers from the ground until she finds her feet.

“Where are you going?” you chuckle lightly. “You need rest.”

Brushing the dirt off her pants, she makes her way to the perimeter fence, beckoning you to follow.

Left untended, the field beyond it is a forgotten acreage of towering weeds, sun-stretched wildflowers wilting beneath the somber moon. The ringing chorus of quick, guttural frog croaks fades as a Runner emerges clumsily from the treeline.

Your heart skips as her rough fingers intertwine with your own, a bolt of sweet lightning cleaving through your chest. You can feel the strength in her grip as she guides your joined hands to the chain-link. She squeezes, pressing the tips of your fingers around the galvanized wire.

You’re left bewildered, staring at her, before she gestures towards the field with a subtle tilt of her chin. The writhing, infected body creeps nearer and your heart pounds. With every graceless step the creature makes, nervous vibrations fuse between your ribs. It stumbles, festering limbs lunging forward, and it takes every ounce of self control to keep from screaming.

The warm body at your side inches closer to ease your erratic breathing. Her composure is remarkable, as if she has performed this action countless times, a mastery of the dead—a striking juxtaposition to your tight, hard swallow resonating through the lonesome field.

Behind the disease-ridden shell, the faint traces of a woman’s features start to emerge as the battered body reaches the other side of the fence. The infected woman is so close to you that you can see the intricate network of veins in her eyes, and the red, inflamed rims of her eyelids where her eyelashes once were. Every muscle in your body freezes, not daring to twitch or even let out a breath.

The septic woman pushes her forehead to the fence, head tilting at an unnatural angle, seeming to study every detail of your face. The putrid odour hits your nostrils with such force that it’s impossible not to recoil. As terror grips you, it spreads like wildfire.

“How?” you rasp, your voice so faint, it’s barely a whisper. “Why isn’t she attacking me—doesn’t she want to?”

“It’s all she wants.”

Your attention falls to the soldier whom Isaac has bound you to restore, and you notice she is rapidly losing strength, her skin growing paler as the life force ebbs away.

“Okay, that’s enough. Make it stop,” you order, panic rising as her nose trickles a thin stream of red. “You know what? Fuck it!”

Without hesitation, you reach for the knife holstered on her thigh, sliding the sharp blade through the fence, until the spindly body collapses to meld with the soil.

----------------------------------------

Your hands move with care as you suture the wound above her collarbone, the heat of her breath fanning your face. Positioned behind her is a mural she painted, featuring a serene beach and a shipwrecked boat nestled against the coastline. Decorated with kelp and dappled with rust, the sailboat’s intricate detailing is striking.

“I’ve never been to the beach,” you say.

Her blue eyes, wide with curiosity, lock onto yours, and a huff of quiet laughter escapes her parted lips.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“I’ve never been, either,” she admits.

You take a step back to observe her, noticing the lines etched on her face that tell stories of resilience. There is a captivating depth that makes you long to delve further.

“Well, you had me fooled,” you say, reaching for the scissors on the surgical tray. “You’re a talented painter—I’m sorry I hadn’t noticed sooner.”

With a dismissive shrug, she makes it seem like transforming a gloomy prison into a magnificent cathedral of art is a piece of cake. Her artwork is so impressive that you would never guess she has spent little time at the beach.

“Nah, it wasn’t here last time,” she says, adjusting her stance and widening the space between her thighs to provide you with more room to work. “I thought I’d try something new. We’ll see if it sticks.”

You lean in closer, gently tending to the cuts and scrapes that have gathered along her shoulders and neck. Her skin, adorned with freckles, is a beautiful mosaic of its own. Some strands of her braid have unraveled, perhaps because of a lack of practice, but the untidiness complements her.

“I’ve always wanted to learn to braid hair,” you say, pondering for a moment if, for her, it’s a self-taught skill or something guided by someone more experienced. Her mother maybe. “It suits you.”

Her nose wrinkles skeptically as she lifts her hand from her lap, her fingers carefully tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” she asks.

Given the antics outside, it’s a valid question. You can’t think of a scenario that sent chills down your spine quite like that one. But with her by your side, you felt an unspoken sense of protection. She nudges you with her knee, her eyes narrowing in anticipation of a response.

“I think I am,” you confess, pulling the steel cart to the other side of her brawny frame to better access the supplies you need.

“And yet, you stay,” she asserts. “I guess you don’t have much of a choice.”

“I always have a choice.”

While you meticulously inspect her newest scars, cleansing the wounds that besiege them, she takes hold of your hand, motioning for you to stop.

“Abigail,” she says, worrying her bottom lip. “My name—if you still want it.”

In an instant, your inquisitiveness peaks, keen to uncover both her origin and the path that led her to this place. All in good time, you suppose.

“Abigail,” you say, appreciating how smoothly it rolls off your tongue. “That’s a really pretty name.”

You watch in awe as a blush creeps up her cheeks, giving her a rosy glow.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.”

“Maybe we can change that,” you whisper.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby

49 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 5 days

Note

hiiii i just wanted to say that i love your writing and i think youre absolutely stunning💟

Thank you!!! Writing is an important part of my life and among my absolute favourite creative hobbies. It means so much to me to know the bits of my brain I share on here are appreciated.

At the end of the day, I just want to make people smile doing what I love. You brightened my day! Every message similar to this one, sitting in my asks right now, has truly made being here a pleasure. I see them all, and I'm incredibly grateful. 💖

Thank you again. ✨️🌙

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson #tlou part 2

21 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 7 days

Note

What is your favorite thing about yourself?

Oh, this is a tough one. Thanks for asking! 💖

I guess the things I dig about myself also make my life harder in some ways, so it's a complicated kind of self-love. Being a forgiving person, for example, often lands me in sticky situations I'd rather do away with.

One of the most challenging skills I've had to learn and practice throughout my life is when and how to say "no" without needing to defend myself. It's really empowering to get there, though!

I guess if I had to choose, it would be that I'm highly disciplined in my passions, but I'm also a HUGE goofball.

What is your favourite thing about yourself?

I'd love to learn more about the people reading my work! ✨️🌼🌙

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson #tlou part 2

13 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 8 days

Text

Fallout: Part 2

All's fair in love and nuclear war but maybe there’s hope where you least expect it.

Violence and sexual themes. All my works are 18+ only.

Inside the confines of your desolate bunker, you’ve witnessed the fleeting presence of things you once cherished: your family, your sanity, that beloved tennis ball.

In this place, it seems nearly impossible to hold onto memories, as if the bombings have somehow affected your ability to retain information. One detail remains vivid—the sensation of that stupid yellow ball rolling around your sneakers as your parents sped towards the fallout shelter, their panicked voices fading into a blur. The conversation never seemed to end, their words painting a bleak picture of an impending loss.

Instinctively, you reached down to grab the one item that stood out on the truck floor.

Witnessing the crumbling world through the passenger window, the smell of rubber and felt brought an unexpected sense of calm. Neglected for years, the tennis ball had rolled free from its container, a relic of your parents’ short-lived obsession with becoming tennis pros.

Before that, it was badminton. Shortly thereafter, bouldering. The stand-up paddle board and the kayak. Each summer, they would try a different activity to unite the family, only to be left with a garage full of shattered ambitions. Opting to throw money at a promise was a simpler choice than the act of raising children with affluent spoils of quality time.

You had grown accustomed to the jagged emptiness that masqueraded as a happy home. Those illusions of grandeur that left you a carved, hollow pumpkin rotting away on the wooden steps. Your mother excelled at the sport of chronic stress organizing, perhaps the only venture she committed to—so by the time your friends came over to play, she’d transformed your home into a treasure trove of familial joy that you had to acquaint yourself with. A façade you came to expect when the promise of company lingered on the horizon.

Given the chance, you would have willingly stuffed yourself into your friends’ backpacks to flee.

The experience of being trapped together in close quarters amplified both the virtues and flaws of all involved until everything eventually dissolved into a haunting silence. It was a reality that initially seemed terrible but turned out to be quite familiar after all.

Disdain for sports aside, you’re loathed to feel a profound longing for that damn ball.

You find yourself missing the percussive sounds it created as it bounced down the hallway in breathless pops, losing momentum and softly rebounding.

It was the beginning of a hobby that you became passionate about.

As you greet the mountain of bottles you’ve amassed, another vestige of the old world quickly disintegrating, you wonder if Abby tried building a bowling alley too, inspired by your design.

The bowling alley, which once served as the only hallway in your bunker, is a noteworthy tripping hazard now that it has lost all purpose. Since it stopped being a functional hallway the very moment you entered but could no longer turn back, you wager the tunnel is not carrying its weight, and it irritates you.

It isn’t for lack of trying on your part, either.

In an effort to reinvent the sport without the tennis ball, you experimented with a rolled-up pair of socks as a stand-in. However, that approach proved ineffective before it got off the ground. Undeterred, you then tried to enhance the original concept by stuffing the socks with rice. This not only resulted in a waste of precious preserves, but it created the additional hindrance of cleaning up the spilled carbohydrates until your untimely death.

You’re still finding stray grains of your failed design at the edge of your tattered carpet.

Filling the bottles themselves and launching them at their own kin provided a flit of thrilling excitement until weariness settled in from their repeated collisions with the walls.

They just didn't move with the same fluidity.

With that being said, you can’t help but wonder what it means to hold the family record for the longest commitment to one activity, a feat that sets you apart from them, surely.

If only that ball hadn't vanished without a trace.

With a dejected gesture, you wave your hands in the air and blurt, "I refuse to look for you again. Not a chance!"

The echo of your voice has you reaching for your sweater.

Truth be told, you have searched every nook and cranny for the stupid thing.

As long as the ball knows, it doesn't matter if nobody else hears it—the search party has been officially called off.

When the computer chimes, your body reacts so quickly that your skeleton seems to reach the chair before the rest of you.

A: I've got it all figured out!

⚡️: Care to elaborate?

A: I found a better game!

Sharing your troubles with Abby came naturally. In her quest to unravel every aspect of your life, you've spent countless late nights in her company. The thought that she genuinely pondered your conundrum stirs up a gentle flutter between your ribs.

⚡️: Better than bowling? Nonsense.

A: Hear me out, yeah? Radiation roulette.

⚡️: So that’s a hard pass, and I will not hear you out. I can already tell it’s a bad idea. Next!

You glance at the tabletop mirror and notice yourself smiling around your spoon, a polished shine as the light bounces off its surface. With Abby present, the rehydrated cereal somehow takes on a noticeably sweeter flavour.

A: Okay, fair. I kind of expected that. Toxic tango? It’s a movement-based game.

⚡️: Do you mean dance? It’s a dance-based game?

A: Don’t you mock me, bunker girl! We’re spitballing here.

Her words have a magical effect, filling you with an irresistible desire to experience them in her voice. You strain to bring Abby to life in your mind, but all you hear are snippets of dialogue from the 80s films faintly playing in the background.

⚡️: Fine, I’ll hear you out, but only because your first idea was truly terrible. Tell me about Toxic Tango.

A: That’s as far as I got. Has a ring to it though, right?

Since meeting her, you've giggled more than you have in the past twenty years, and it instantly saddens you she wasn't someone you crossed paths with on your way to the bunker or had the privilege of growing up with.

⚡️: I wish you were hitchhiking the day we fled.

A: Did you get into the wine again? Are we a little tipsy?

⚡️: I’m no day drinker, Abigail! What do you take me for?

A: Maybe it’s nighttime, you don’t know.

The lighthearted quip bears the traumatic weight of artificial time and it’s a quick lead shawl over your shoulders.

Suppose it's nighttime and your clocks are no longer accurately calibrated to the outside world. While it may not have a major impact on your overall life, it's still nagging at the back of your mind.

A: I thought about it all night.

⚡️: Wine?

A: No, you goofball. Fuck the wine.

⚡️: What, then?

You haven't asked Abby why she takes a while to respond sometimes, assuming it's because she's engaged in the same process of typing and deleting sentences to perfect her thoughts. The more time you spend with her, the more curious you become about even the most mundane things.

A: You, mostly. Our conversations kept replaying in my mind. This feeling that maybe we were supposed to know each other. Is that weird?

⚡️: Being trapped in doomsday bunkers under the earth is weird. I’m not sure what this is, yet. I know I haven’t laughed like this in a long time. Maybe ever.

A: I’d kill to hear your laugh.

⚡️: Oh, it’s super annoying. Think… cackling witch left all alone with a canister of helium.

While it isn't true, you certainly wouldn't claim to be the ultimate authority on what makes up the world's most alluring laughter. Still, you’d bet your last dollar that Abby's laugh is the kind you could listen to for a lifetime.

A: Damn. That’s pretty sexy. I’d risk radiation sickness for that.

⚡️: You’re ridiculous.

The conversation stalls, leaving you unsure if she’s lost in thought, contemplating her response, or if the connection is faltering.

Your skin hums at the realization that somewhere nearby, another human being is curled up in front of her computer screen, sharing her moments of life with you.

A: I better hit the weights before I lose daylight, but I’ll sign back on tonight, okay? Will you be around?

⚡️: Hold on. I’ll have to check my schedule. I’ve just got so much going on, you know? All these pressing matters and such.

A: I totally get it. Take your time.

You swivel in your chair for a few rotations and sneak a quick glance at the clock. One minute should suffice. Anything more than that is a waste of valuable time.

⚡️: I guess I can shuffle a few things around.

A: I’d sure appreciate that. Man, you really dragged that out for dramatic effect. I’m actually starting to sweat a bit.

If the ache blooming from your jaw to your cheekbones is any indication, you hope she’s sharing the same rush of giddiness.

⚡️: I should hit the treadmill so I can catch up!

A: I’d never turn down a good workout partner. Do you lift?

There are dumbbell racks hidden in this dungeon, but you can count on one hand how many times you’ve lifted them. And those few attempts were merely efforts to rearrange the space for a more rejuvenating atmosphere.

⚡️: Not really. I take it you like to stay active.

A: You could say that. My dad used to joke that it helped me keep things from getting too dark between the ears.

You ponder if Abby's sorrow mirrors the collective weight that descends upon humanity when the world collapses, or if her struggles stem from a distinct form of depression.

It makes you want to wrap your arms around her and absorb some of her grief.

⚡️: Was he right?

A: He was, but I wanted to keep them safe, too. Be the protector, as corny as that sounds. My mom didn’t understand it, even after everything fell apart. Some things never change, right?

⚡️: She didn’t want you to take on that role or something?

A: I think she just wanted me to be more like her. But I kept throwing curve balls, you know? She wasn’t ready to catch them. I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference anymore.

The two of you, hailing from different paths, share a connection rooted in the mutual understanding of pain. Perhaps this wasteland of solitude is not as lonely as it seems.

⚡️: I’m decent with a mitt. If you want, I’ll take a crack at it.

A: Oh, I’d pick you to be on my baseball team, any day of the week. I really should get my ass in the gym, though.

⚡️: We’re on for dinner tonight?

A: It’s a date. I’ll even wear my best tie for you.

It's been a while since you've had an appetite, but your hunger is making a comeback.

"So, she's the type to rock a suit and tie," you whisper. “I’m screwed.”

The cardio machine, though covered in a fuzzy veneer of dust, should still be operational unless it harbours tangible resentment from being neglected all these years.

It’s unclear why you haven’t thought of it as a solution to ease your mental woes until now, but maybe it’s worth giving it a shot, alleviating the restlessness if nothing else.

You adjust the settings on the panel to set your pace and it comes alive with a mechanical groan. The thought crosses your mind that you’re not dressed for physical activity, but you suppose being completely naked would matter little in the long run.

If the dull chore of laundry didn’t help you pass the time, you’d consider it.

Even at a reduced pace, you can feel the surge of energy in your blood and the accelerated rhythm of your heart. You're not going anywhere, but you're constantly in motion and it dwindles your worries into a fine mist. When adrenaline hits, it’s like honey sliding on glass, and the temptation to go even faster prompts you to do just that.

With the motor whirring, your footsteps pound the treadmill belt as the speed increases. You close your eyes, and the crisp morning air playfully tousles your windswept hair as you dash through a meadow brimming with blossoms.

“Oh shit,” you pant. “I could get used to this!"

Just when you think you couldn't possibly feel more alive, a yellow ball rolls out from beneath the machine.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson #tlou part 2

50 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 12 days

Text

Next of Kin

The pregnant reader requests are so sweet, I swear I'm not ignoring them. All of your messages and requests have been great and they mean a lot to me. I'm under the weather right now so I apologize big time for the slow updates and responses. I hope this drabble scratches the itch until I'm back. 18+ only.

What if Abby's girlfriend is the pregnant one in TLOU2?

Oh, there will be no more running from the infected or putting yourself in harm’s way. This comes to an end immediately.

She’ll be reluctant to let you lift anything, even when it’s safe to do so and even when you’re capable. Abby knows it drives you nuts, and it’s the one thing she doesn’t compromise on.

However, not all her doting bothers you.

Your heart swells with tenderness for Abby as she reaches out to grasp your elbow while you climb the stairs and drops to her knees to tie your shoes when bending becomes more challenging. Her duty is to make sure you get the nutrients you require, and she tirelessly hunts for any pregnancy related books she can find.

When Manny tells her that orgasms can trigger labour, she blushes furiously and groans at him to knock it off.

“It’s not like that,” she mumbles.

It is like that. Abby is deeply in love with you.

I don’t think she takes you back to the Stadium, though. I imagine she quietly settles beside you, observing your peaceful slumber, while wrestling with the weight of her actions as the renowned Scar hunter. Memories of her dad resurfacing to remind her of the dreams and aspirations he held for her. As she defects from the WLF, a small crew of soldiers joins her, eager to fight for a new cause.

In the beginning, she might feel too self-conscious to sing to your belly, but once your baby bump becomes more noticeable, she will seize any opportunity to touch and connect with you, as long as you are comfortable with it.

She is hell bent on finding a community with a medical team.

I see Abby as the girl who is by your side for every ultrasound.

The moment she experiences the baby kick, her eyes meet yours in disbelief, as if she’s overwhelmed by the extraordinary gift bestowed upon her by the world. When she lays eyes on the growing life inside you, her role as your protector becomes an eternal vow.

It’s not often that she cries, but if she misses an appointment because her assignments run late or there is an unexpected problem, it would be one of those few occasions. Trying to hide her emotions from her squad, she will steal a glance at her watch and clench her teeth, struggling to keep her lip from quivering.

The next time she cries will be the night your son is born, and she cradles him in her arms for the first time.

Abby surprises you by building a crib with her own two hands, meticulously sanding, and staining the wood. The day she finally confesses her love out loud, you can’t help but notice the pine chips tangled in her hair and the dust that coats her threadbare shirt.

“You’re a mess,” you say, brushing the remnants of her project from her shoulders and watching the particles float gently to the carpet. “I can’t believe you did this for us. It’s beautiful, Abby.”

“I want to be a part of this,” she says, breath catching in her throat as she lifts your hands to her chest. “I want to be yours.”

“You already are,” you murmur.

Although the labour theory that Manny suggested scared her to death, the minute she notices your libido is returning in full force, she goes all in, making the subsequent sexual experience fun and romantic.

She finds beauty in the soft curves and stretch marks that adorn your body, especially when you cannot see it yourself.

Is she a little obsessed with the way you looked during pregnancy? I don’t know, you’ll have to ask her, but she sure as shit adores your body as it is now.

Below the surface, Abigail Anderson may be gentle-natured, but nobody fucks with her son and wife.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson

156 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 16 days

Text

Fallout

What if—and stay with me here—you and Abigail Anderson meet after the nuclear war? Thank you for being here and for all the messages and comments so far. It means the world. Violence and sexual themes, my works are 18+ only. All screenshots on my blog are from my personal gameplay.

For the past twenty years, you’ve watched the same tropical fish, electric blue and fire-engine red, gliding across your computer screen in an agonizingly predictable rhythm. It’s only now that you find yourself longing to experience the texture of the water they inhabit.

You know very well that it would not be wise to go outside.

The blinding flashes of light and the thunderous clap of explosions are an acid burn against the labyrinths of your mind. The horrifying sight of the only landscape you’d ever known reduced to rubble while your family scrambled to get you to the safety of the bunker.

Maybe the loneliness has finally caught up with you, or perhaps it’s the relentless glare of the artificial lights slowly eroding your sanity.

But what if, contrary to their warnings, it’s not a desolate wasteland anymore?

As you ponder the enchantments that lie beyond your impermeable tomb, vibrant hues of coral reef and gently swaying anemones taunt you.

“Stupid sea turtles. You probably have twelve eyes by now,” you mumble, your plight only heard by the dust on your bookshelves and a solitary pair of slippers near the entrance to your sleeping quarters.

It’s time to take your daily dose of vitamins and choke down another prepackaged meal that tastes more like chemicals than actual food, and your stomach doesn’t even have the decency to growl. You reluctantly pry yourself away from the evening’s entertainment, your eyes darting to the digital clock above the whiteboard to count down the minutes to your dinner alarm.

On the menu for tonight are three delicious options: chicken and potatoes, beef mac and cheese, or a warm and comforting bowl of sloppy, insipid oatmeal with apple slices that never quite rehydrate as the package promises.

Truth be told, everything tastes like a monotonous heap of nothingness, and you’re tempted to paint the walls with it instead.

Alas, when the clock chimes at you like an insouciant bird suddenly forgetting it hasn’t seen the sun in over a decade, you begrudgingly get up and continue with your daily routines, trapped in the monotony of it all.

Just as you are about to tear open your lavish foil packet of sustenance, a strange, unrecognizable sound echoes from the desk. At first, your heart skips a beat, mistaking the warbling sound for a warning alert, indicating a potential issue with the air ventilation system or some other critical failure in this sterile foxhole you’re forced to call home.

Despite this, as you plod your way across the frigid floor on your brisk return to the computer, you nearly trip over your own feet at what you discover.

It’s a chat box of some kind, from an interface you’ve never seen before.

A: Is anyone out there?

Your eyes strain as you read the unexpected message, the words blurring together until you’re finally jolted out of your trance by a second one.

A: Please tell me I’m not the only one left...

Gripped by the sudden fear that you might have quietly descended into madness, you blink hard, hoping the mirage might disappear so you can go about your riveting night with at least half your marbles intact.

A: God, it’s been so long since I’ve touched anyone, I forget what it feels like.

The chat box flickers impatiently, awaiting your response. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unable to produce a reply.

This can’t be real.

You spent years curled up by the radio, desperate for human connection, and not a single living creature drifted along those frequencies. The possibility of finding other survivors through the computer disappeared when the population and all its infrastructure vanished into sheets of vapor.

The buzz of florescent bulbs above your head is making it difficult to concentrate. You glance up at the long-abandoned treadmill beckoning you to step aboard to bring some order to your lunacy. You contemplate it until the next message appears and captures your full attention, keeping you firmly planted in your seat.

A: I swear if I have to scarf down another bag of chili mac, I’m going to lose it.

This person knows exactly what you're going through, struck by the same hardships. Finally, your mind and body synchronize, and you regain sensation in your fingertips.

⚡️Does yours come with peppermints? Mine does. They taste like shit, but I’m building a chess set with the ones I can’t bear to eat.

A: Holy fuck.

⚡️I know. I don’t even remember how to play chess.

A: HOLY FUCK!

It’s your first meeting with something other than the lifeless mop tucked away in the cabinet, and you scold yourself for coming across so indifferently. There is still a part of you that remains convinced you are in some sort of dream.

A: I can’t believe it finally worked. Are you for real?

It’s a relevant question, one you’ve battled with for some time now if you’re honest.

⚡️I’ve wondered the same thing lately. Maybe I’m just trapped in a really bad dream, or the air ran out in my bunker and I’m dead as a motherfucker.

A: Seems like a cruel way to spend the afterlife.

⚡️You should try the oatmeal. If there’s a Hell, I’ve got about four hundred packets of it in my pantry.

You take another quick look at the clock, and it's been around five minutes since you last replied. It’s not that you expect this person to read you a bedtime story, but if you're feeling anxious about losing them already, there's no one around to criticize you for it.

A: The one with the apples, right?

Your heart leaps with pure exhilaration. Either your brain is playing tricks on you, reflecting your experience to keep you from bouncing off the walls, or this person is destined to become your closest companion.

⚡️Do they get stuck in your teeth, too?

Your kitchen timer is rattling angrily on the countertop, and you're unable to determine how much time has passed since it started buzzing. The fear inside you grows, convincing you that leaving at this moment would somehow sever the connection. Putting yourself in harm's way is a real possibility when you choose to skip a meal. In response, you decide to sprint there and back, unwilling to take any chances.

A: No, but that’s because I know how to cook them properly.

With a loud clatter, your porcelain bowl lands on the desk, and the sauce immediately oozes onto your mouse pad. An indignant huff escapes your chest as you lick your fingers clean and plop back into your chair, almost losing your balance as it threatens to roll away.

It's possible that you're not as offended as you initially thought, as a slight stinging feeling radiates through your cheeks. How long has it been since you last smiled?

⚡️Hold up, are you saying I don’t know how to cook?

A: Not necessarily. How would you rate your ability to read directions, though?

Giggles slip out of your mouth, catching you off guard. The stark contrast between the gloomy ambiance of the space and the vibrant, hopeful sound is startling. But something warm and playful rises inside you.

⚡️That’s it. I'm turning off my computer.

A: Please don’t go.

Even though you've never met this person, the desperation in their tone weighs heavily on you.

⚡️Don’t worry, I won’t. I was only kidding.

The response is lightning fast, leaving you no time to acknowledge your meal—steadily cooling and forming an unappetizing skin across the surface.

A: Oh. Okay. Well, good then. I was messing around too... the apples are the fucking worst.

You stare in disbelief at the conversation so far, your mind a chaotic blend of empty thoughts and a flood of words waiting to burst out.

⚡️I knew it. They weren’t any good even before they expired!

A: Do your gardens still work?

It's been forever since you had the chance to look after them. The systems malfunctioned early on and gone were the days of fresh vegetation. You cried yourself to sleep for weeks.

⚡️No gardens.

A: I’m sorry, that blows. Broken, or you never had them to begin with?

⚡️Yeah, the first one. A while ago, now.

Your bowl of goop sits untouched as you reminisce about running your fingers over the lush, waxy leaves.

A: I’ll share my apples with you. Got any books over there?

Regardless of your unwillingness to accept it, your bunker boasts an extensive collection of literature that you have diligently read from cover to cover. Since the universe only gives so much at a time, you jest.

⚡️I hear the postal system is on hiatus. Any chance you were in bumfuck Montana when the world fell apart?

Her answer is so electrifying that it sends shivers racing from your scalp down to your toes and you have to steady your breathing before you can fully absorb the details.

A: Born and raised. I’m Abby, by the way. It’s really nice to meet you.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson #tlou part 2

113 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 18 days

Note

Flex?????

If you INSIST. 🤣

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson #tlou part 2

31 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 19 days

Text

She's definitely the woman you'd want in your bed and by your side during a zombie apocalypse.

And when she's this much of a badass, I'm sorry, but it's against the rules to hate her:

✨️Abby makes being a bodybuilder such a joy. More muscular women in media, please!✨️

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby

14 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 19 days

Text

This girl is tough.

She’d wipe out entire hordes of infected for you—destroy The Rattler compound and every pitiful soul in it with her bare, battered hands.

The moment she steps into a room, the energy shifts, as if her formidable strength fills every corner, leaving no doubt about what she is capable of.

We know this.

But when you kiss her, oh Lord, does Abigail Anderson ever whimper.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson

346 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 19 days

Note

how tall are you?

I'm 5'3" 😤

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson

20 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 20 days

Note

if Abby had a warning ⚠️ what would it be?

Warning: Pretty When Wet! 🩵⚡️💦

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #abby anderson

75 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 20 days

Text

Weathering the Storm

Okay, so the requests for angst or a fight with Abby have been rather prevalent. I hear you loud and clear. I truly enjoy writing pieces for all of you. But also, I don’t view Abby as the girl who is going to fight with you or land herself in a toxic relationship, so that’s not what this is. If anything, I think Abby is the girl who shows you what genuine, safe love is. It’s normal to tackle big emotions when you’re integrating someone into your life, but I don’t want to perpetrate unhealthy dynamics for my fellow lesbians. You're worthy of a love that doesn’t leave you feeling lost and lonely, and it’s out there. I swear.

Alas, here’s my interpretation of your first big spat with Abigail Anderson in a post-apocalyptic world. 18+ only, light angst, sexual themes.

Your first official fight with Abby feels awful, like a steely punch to the gut. You’ve squabbled and debated over trivial things in the past, but this conflict feels more substantial. It’s beginning to fester into a nauseating and distressing ache in your stomach that serves as a meager reward for feeling frustrated and guilty.

But here’s the thing—surely, it’s only natural to feel upset with her given what you’ve been told. So why then, does it feel like a dark, looming cloud hanging overhead? Maybe the ultimate challenge is in navigating the delicate equilibrium between your triggers and your trust in her.

As you process your emotions, you find temporary relief by immersing yourself in work, fully aware that she is employing the same coping mechanism somewhere beyond the walls of the stadium.

It would be reassuring if she were on the FOB, ensuring her safety and giving you peace of mind, but truthfully, Abby is a highly sensitive girl who becomes immensely distraught whenever she senses instability in her surroundings. Drawing on her inherent instincts, she leans heavily into the role of being useful, which eases the threat of her life coming undone.

You are gentle with that aspect of her because you understand her struggle to be vulnerable.

It feels dreadful to be avoiding her like this, and it’s impossible to shake off the discomfort. But the scale of what transpired feels too enormous to dismiss, and you are at a loss on how to bring your emotions to the surface without everything collapsing.

With the blanket she knitted for you wrapped tightly around your shoulders, you reread the same page of your book a dozen times. You feel a strong desire to numb the sharp shards of glass piercing your stomach, the very place where warm flutters usually stir. The ache of Abby’s absence eclipses the original cause of your sorrow, leaving you feeling empty and lost.

When a knock at the door shatters your brooding thoughts, you toss your book onto the coffee table. The idea of dragging yourself off the couch to answer it feels overwhelming, your energy drained.

With a sudden click, the lock turns and Abby steps into your apartment. Her shoulders slump, as if weighed down by the assumption of your hesitancy to welcome her. After shutting the door, she leans on it, fidgeting with her keyring.

“Is it okay that I’m here?” she asks.

Nodding at her, you sit up on the couch, curling your arms around your knees.

With a clink, Abby drops the small lanyard into a trinket dish on the kitchen counter. After six months of subtle hints and coy smiles, it took a mere two weeks of dating for her to swipe the key to your place, and you were more than happy to surrender it to her.

“How’d everything go on your run?” you ask.

A half shrug lifts her broad shoulders, while her eyes deliberately evade yours, exposing her discomfort.

“You remember that old mall?” she asks. Engrossed in her thoughts, she chews on her lower lip. “We finally cleared it today.”

“That’s good,” you say. “Stalkers have been running the place for years. It’s about time new management stepped in.”

Abby puffs a soft laugh, her bittersweet chuckle implying she doesn’t feel deserving of finding your jokes humorous. Her face carries such a profound sadness that it pulls the strings of your heart tight, urging you to rewind time.

“I found something for you, but I left it at my place,” she explains. “I didn’t want you to think I was trying to grease your palm or anything.”

“Well, I’m not above bribes,” you tease, hoping to smooth the furrowed lines on her forehead. “I’ve always been a fan of your gifts.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Abby asks, choked with emotion.

Her question is a thunderous brick to your chest, stripping you of breath. It wasn’t a notion that had crossed your mind, but as the hours dragged on, you were anxious about her perceiving it as a thought you were mulling over.

“Is that what you want?”

“Can I be honest?” Abby sniffs.

She’s hugging herself so tightly that you’re concerned about her blood flow. Fear grips your heart, leaving your mouth parched as you struggle to swallow.

“Of course. You can tell me anything.”

You pat the spot next to you on the couch, and Abby eagerly shuffles closer, her footsteps soft against the carpet. The rug, carefully wrapped in a protective sleeve when you found it, was a surprising discovery on your most recent run together.

The way she unraveled you on it, after it arrived at your door, is a memory that will always stay with you.

When Abby takes a seat beside you, the weight of her body sinks into the cushion and creates a magnetic pull that draws you closer. Her initial apprehension fades as she gently touches your socked toes, her hands instinctively wrapping around them to provide warmth.

“Out of everyone in this fucked up world, you’re the one I can’t bear to lose,” she says. “But I know sometimes I’ll mess up and it sucks because I’m crazy about you.”

“I’m crazy about you, too,” you say.

“I can’t stand letting you down.”

“Yeah—I hear you there. I feel the same.”

Her hair falls across her face, and you reach out to tuck it behind her ear. She leans into your hand, savouring the gentle gesture.

“I’m sorry for making you doubt me like this. I promise there is absolutely nothing for you to worry about.”

“It’s just that everyone’s talking, you know? It’s a lot of gossip, but it still hurts.”

Reflecting on the day that woman arrived, you can’t help but recall her doe eyes raking over Abby, as if she hung the moon and all its stars.

Which she absolutely does—but only for you.

You two have been through this before, watching as crushes come and go.

Each week, the stadium welcomes a constant influx of new civilians and soldiers, captivating affection-starved humans with the beauty inside. Once people realize that the two of you are already in a committed relationship, they tend to respect the boundaries.

This woman gets under your skin in a way no one else ever has.

“It should’ve come from me,” Abby says. “I feel so bad you found out the way you did. Can I tell you what really happened?”

The pad of her thumb finds your ankle, tracing circles around the delicate bone.

“I want you to hear it from me this time,” she continues.

“Alright,” you say. “Shoot.”

She recounts the party at Manny’s last weekend.

It was the only event that you two hadn’t attended together since you officially became a couple. At first, you didn’t have any concerns because Abby has consistently been dependable in her communication with you.

Manny wanted to throw a wild bash to help everyone blow off steam after a nerve-wracking mission, and you wanted her to enjoy the breather. If you hadn’t been so exhausted the week leading up to it, the bass-heavy music and infectious laughter of your friends would’ve invigorated you—Abby playfully bouncing you on her knee to the rhythmic beat the way she always does.

Instead, it was someone else vying for the empty spot on Abby’s lap.

“She got pretty wasted, like—all over the place drunk. Near the end, she was hitting on everything that moved, basically.”

“Okay. And that included you at some point?”

“It took me a minute to notice, but yes. She tried to make a move.”

A hot, prickling sensation coils like a bitter serpent in the pit of your stomach, impossible to suppress.

“God, Abby. And you still walked her home after? I can’t understand that.”

Your attempt to keep your emotions in check proves futile as tears sting the rims of your eyes, threatening to spill over. The moment you sniffle against them, her gaze immediately locks onto you.

“Please don’t cry,” Abby whispers. Using the sleeve of her shirt, she dabs away the moisture staining your lashes. “Nothing happened. I swear on your life.”

“Did you think about hooking up with her?”

“Fuck no,” Abby says. “I would never, ever step out on you.”

When she clasps your hand, it’s with a firm grip, as though she’s afraid you might slip through her fingers.

“She was all over Manny, and his new girl was getting really pissed off. Like, she was a total mess, and no one wanted to deal with it. Before shit went down, I got her out of there. But she isn’t my responsibility and I realize that now.”

Mulling over her narrative, you’re convinced beyond any doubt that it’s truthful.

When something needs fixing, everyone instinctively turns to Abby. It has always been that way. She has adopted the duty of looking after her community and providing structure, and you deeply admire that quality in her.

There is a significant amount of pressure that accompanies the responsibility of being a protector. It would be nice if people cut her some slack from time to time.

Perhaps you could be the one to initiate it.

“You’re spoken for, Abby.”

“I know,” she says. “And I don’t take that for granted.”

“Maybe it goes without saying, but I’ll seriously fuck her up if she tries that shit again,” you warn. “I am not kidding, Abigail. Drunk or not, I don’t care.”

Sporting a mischievous grin, Abby bites down on the inside of her cheek. When she lets go of your hand to fidget with her own, you playfully nudge her.

“What?” you ask.

“I don’t hate this side of you.”

“Yeah, well, we better put the cork back on ‘cause things will get pretty real when I’m kicking her slutty ass all over town.”

“Copy that,” Abby smirks. “Putting the cork back on the crazy, pronto.”

She lifts her legs onto the couch to wrap the blanket around both of you. While she’s earnestly trying to convey the depth of her devotion to your relationship, she’s struggling to contain her laughter at your feistiness.

Her knees collide with yours, bringing back memories of the night she invited you over to watch a movie but couldn’t take her eyes off you long enough to pay attention to the screen.

That first kiss had such hunger and heat behind it that the recollection still makes your cheeks flush, her rough, curious hands keeping you breathless for hours.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Spill,” you say.

“You’ll always be my girl,” Abby says, tracing the curve of your spine with her fingertips. “I’ve known it from the start.”

“Well, I think the people may need a reminder,” you murmur.

You feel her velvet breath on the back of your hand as she kisses it. Tenderly, she pulls you onto her lap and nestles her face in your hair.

“Let’s give ‘em one.”

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #tlou part 2 #abby anderson

68 notes · View notes