aemondsbabe - Tumblr blog

aemondsbabe · 4 days ago

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34+35+??

a/n: if ariana said "can you stay up all night? fuck me ‘til the daylight?" then i had no choice but to write 5 fics that left me dehydrated, limping, and spiritually transformed, bruh this fic took way too long. this post contains nothing but sickening smut, filthy filth, and hot women ruining me six different ways, every pairing is its own little porno novella. i made sure nobody goes home unsatisfied, so please hydrate, stretch, and turn your notifications off this is 10,000+ words of certified coochie combustion. yall have been warned ➤ MINORS DO 👏 NOT 👏 INTERACT ➤ scroll carefully, some of y’all can’t handle the grayson section ➤ reblogs and likes pls, i worked my clit off enjoy sluts 💌 —mama mila

pairings [SEPARATE]: sevika x reader, ambessa x reader, grayson x reader, vi x reader, caitlyn x reader

warnings... mdni ;; 18+ ;; nsfw ;; rough sex ;; dom/sub dynamics ;; oral ;; toys ;; overstimulation ;; degration ;; praise ;; body worship ;; size kink ;; straps ;; mommy kink ;; mirrors ;; cigarettes ;; orgasm control ;; fingering ;; marking ;; choking ;; hair pulling ;; slapping ;; gagging ;; titty sucking ;; age gaps (all legal) ;; spit play ;; possesiveness.

꒰ Sevika - baby, you might need a seatbelt when i ride it…

You wake up to her mouth already between your thighs.

It’s the softest kind of sinful. Blankets pushed down to your hips, sunrise sneaking through the blinds, and Sevika’s massive hands gripping your thighs like handles as she eats like she’s starving. Like this is breakfast. Like you’re hers.

You twitch when her tongue circles your clit again, sleep barely clinging to your body as she works you open. She's deliberate, slow, heavy licks, her nose brushing your mound as she hums against you. Your legs twitch once, twice.

"Morning, sweetheart," she rasps, lips slick and chin shiny as she peers up over your stomach. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You just looked too good.”

She kisses the inside of your thigh. Then bites it.

Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "Sevika!"

“Shh.” Her eyes are dark. “Back to sleep, baby. I’ll take care of everything.”

You’re already soaking, but she drags it out. Makes out with your pussy like it's your mouth —slow, tongue heavy, teasing your hole and sucking your clit between her lips until your hips buck off the bed. She laughs, low and smug.

“Already squirming?” she murmurs. “Barely been ten minutes. Thought you liked it slow in the mornings.”

"You're insane,” you hiss, fisting the sheets.

She shrugs, voice full of that cocky rasp. “You say that like it’s new.”

You whimper when her fingers join her tongue. Two thick digits, slow but deep, curling up with practiced precision. You swear she knows your body better than you do. She sets a rhythm that makes your thighs shake, tongue flattening over your clit while her fingers drag across your sweet spot like a perfect key.

The orgasm hits you so hard, your vision blurs.

She keeps going.

Doesn’t even let you come down. Licks through it like she lives for your overstimulation, like every whimper you let out is worth waking up for. She only pulls back when you tug her hair and sob out her name.

Your breath stutters. “ohh I can’t! ”

“You will,” she growls, eyes dark and gentle all at once. “One more, baby. Just one.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re folded in her lap in front of the mirror.

She’s got her strap inside you, big, thick, and black with a low curve that rubs perfectly. Her thighs are spread wide, muscles flexing beneath you as she makes you grind down on her cock slow and sloppy. The mirror reflects everything: your flushed cheeks, your soaked thighs, the way she grabs your ass and helps you bounce, your teary, fucked-out eyes blinking up at your own reflection.

“Look at that,” she purrs, one hand grabbing your jaw and turning it to the glass. “Takin’ it so good. So deep.”

"Too much," you pant. Your hips are trembling, thighs burning, and her strap is buried so deep. You’re full in a way that makes your stomach ache, the angle hitting all the right spots as your slick makes a mess across both your legs.

“Nah, you got room,” she rasps. "This pussy always knows how to make space for me."

Her arm wraps around your waist, hand splayed across your stomach to press you down. She grinds her hips up, feeding you more of the strap, and you nearly collapse when the tip bumps your cervix.

“Thought you said you wanted a seatbelt?” she teases, breath hot against your ear. “Where’s all that bratty energy now, huh?”

Your hands scramble against her thighs, fingers digging into her thick, muscled skin. She’s wearing nothing but a wife beater, sweatpants half-down her thighs, strap cinched so tight around her hips it creaks when she moves.

And she moves.

Bucks her hips up into you, holds your waist down and grinds until you’re gasping, legs shaking, nails leaving crescent marks on her skin. You can feel your orgasm building again, too fast and too deep, your stomach's already tight, eyes already glassy,

“Go ahead,” she murmurs. “Cream on it. You're doing soo well, baby.”

You wail as you come, whole body tensing in her arms as she fucks you through it.

꒰ Ambessa - show me can you keep it up? Cause then I'll have to keep you up,

You asked to be on top.

Ambessa laughed.

And now you're here, legs trembling, face flushed, mouth locked around her tit, while your soaked pussy grinds down onto her strap like your life depends on it.

Her hand spreads across your ass, massive and hot, guiding your movements as you try to ride her in rhythm. But you’re falling apart. Every bounce makes her cock grind deeper inside you, her pelvis pressing into your clit just enough to keep you constantly on the edge.

“You wanted to be in control,” she growls, tilting your chin. “Show me, baby. Show me you can keep it up.”

You moan around her nipple, lips wrapped tight, tongue flicking it in desperation. Her tit is heavy in your mouth, sweat-slick and perfect, and she groans when you suck harder, needier.

“Such a greedy little mouth,” she purrs, flexing her hips up. You whine as the strap hits deeper.

“mmh too big...”

“I know,” she smirks. “you begged for it.”

Her arms flex, muscles rippling beneath her skin, and suddenly she’s lifting you, not off the dick, but just enough to bounce you down harder. She does it like it’s nothing. Like you weigh less than the glass of wine she drank earlier.

Your thighs burn. Your hands grip her shoulders. You can't stop moaning into her chest, sucking her tit like it’s air, while she takes your hips and drives you down on her cock over and over again.

“Fuck, Ambessa m-mommy”

“Mmm. That’s more like it, little girl.”

She slaps your ass, not hard, commanding. “Such a sweet little mess. Look at you. Crying already, and we’ve barely started.”

“I can’t,”

“oh you will.”

you’re bent backwards on her gold-trimmed bed, throat dry, legs shaking, while she fucks you into the kind of submission that leaves your soul floating.

“Open your legs for mommy.”

You obey instantly. Her voice doesn’t allow disobedience. Ambessa kneels between your thighs, strap glistening from the last round, her lips glistening even more.

She goes slow this time.

Not because she’s being gentle, but because she enjoys watching you unravel. Her hands keep your legs spread wide, and her mouth... god, her mouth moves like she’s tasting the finest fruit in the empire. She hums, deep and low, like she owns your body and wants the world to hear it.

You writhe.

"Stay still," she warns. "or I’ll tie you down."

The threat makes you clench.

She chuckles. Then she spits on your pussy and dives back in.

You cum with a scream, thighs trembling so hard you nearly kick her in the face, but she holds you still, licking until you’re sobbing, too sensitive, too full,

She loves it.

“Poor thing,” she croons, rubbing your stomach. “so small. So easy to ruin.”

Eventually, you pass out.

For like... six minutes.

꒰ Grayson - you might think i’m crazy, the way i’ve been craving…

You’re in her lap. Her big, warm hands are resting on your thighs, just under your skirt, her mouth brushing the corner of your jaw.

She whispers against your skin. “You gonna tell me why you came here at midnight in something so short?”

You shift in her lap. It’s already hot between your legs. Her thigh is thick and firm beneath you, and you can feel her muscles move through her slacks when she shifts. Her hand glides to your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You gasp when she slips her thumb into your mouth.

“There,” she murmurs. “just like that, relax. You’re safe here.”

She kisses you. Full lips, gentle pressure, firm hold. You moan into her mouth, and she just drinks it in, one hand cupping your ass, the other sliding up your back beneath your shirt. Her fingers are calloused. Warm. She slides them up until they find your bra clasp and unhooks it like she’s done it a thousand times.

"Is this what you wanted, darling?" she whispers against your lips.

You nod frantically. “Please, I need —”

“I know,” she says softly, like she's soothing a fire. “Let me take care of you.”

Grayson sets you on her desk.

Pushes the reports aside, the polished nameplate, the pen you’d been chewing on earlier. Her hands go to your knees and part them like it’s nothing. Like you belong to her.

She sinks to her knees.

Your heart skips. You’ve seen this woman command entire divisions. She’s terrifying in a court, powerful in every room, and she’s kneeling in front of you like worship.

Your panties are already soaked.

She doesn’t even pull them down at first. She just presses her face into the damp fabric, nuzzling, inhaling. Her breath is hot through the cotton.

“So sweet,” she murmurs. “You’ve been wet since I called you ‘darling' earlier, haven’t you?”

You whimper. "mhmm yes ma'am."

She doesn’t make you beg long.

Her tongue is slow at first. Gentle. She kisses your inner thigh. Then licks you through your panties, long, slow, messy licks until you’re squirming and your hands are in her hair.

She slips your underwear down your legs and hums when she finally gets her mouth on you.

Her tongue moves like she’s memorising you. Circling your clit, pressing into your folds, curling up into your entrance just to tease. Her hands are on your hips, holding you still.

You start to cry when she moans into you.

It’s too much, too intimate, and when you sob out her name, she finally looks up. Her mouth is slick. Her eyes are kind.

"That's it. Let go. I've got you."

When she slides two fingers inside, it’s perfect.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just deep, slow, and careful. She watches your face the whole time. You can’t look away. She’s so beautiful like this, face flushed, sleeves rolled up, blue jacket still buttoned, hair mussed from where you gripped it.

She curls her fingers, presses her palm against your mound and drags her touch across that perfect spot inside you. You cry out, back arching. She doesn’t stop.

“Keep your eyes on me,” she murmurs. “I want to see your face when you come.”

And you do.

You fall apart on her fingers, thighs shaking, body quaking as her mouth claims your clit again and she keeps working you through it, gentle but relentless, dragging the orgasm out until your nails leave marks on her desk.

You don’t even realise she’s lifted you until you’re in her lap again, back against her chest.

Her fingers are still inside you, lazily fucking you as you twitch from overstimulation. Her other hand is on your chest, cupping your breast.

“Such a good girl,” she murmurs against your neck. “So good for me. You did so well.”

꒰ Vi - Got the neighbors yellin earthquake, 4.5 when I make the bed shake,

"Strip. Now."

You’re naked and on your knees in seconds, thighs already shaking in anticipation.

Vi pulls out the toy bag like it’s a ritual. Unzips it, slow and smug, and holds up the strap first —black, thick, and buzzing lowly in her palm. Your mouth drops.

"Remember this one, baby?" she grins. “The one that made you cry and drool last time?”

She climbs on the bed, already strapping in. The curve is perfect, the base buzzing quietly while she fastens it to her hips like a fucking weapon. She's not even undressed yet, just in that damn hoodie and those godforsaken gray sweats, letting her strap do the talking.

“You know the rules,” she says, licking her lips. “Color?”

“r-red,” you breathe, already throbbing.

She nods. “Good. You’re gonna need it.”

First, she ties your wrists.

Not tight, but enough to keep you still. Arms above your head, ankles spread by her hands as she crawls between your thighs, eyes burning.

“Missed this pussy,” she whispers. “Missed the way you taste when you’re desperate.”

Her mouth hits your cunt and you scream.

No teasing. No warm-up. She eats you like she’s starving, fast, messy, spit and tongue everywhere, her nose grinding your clit as she groans into you like she’s trying to leave a mark. You writhe, sobbing into the pillows, already close because she knows you. Knows how to lick, suck, fuck with her tongue and make your brain go blank.

You come in like 90 seconds. She doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow down.

She just slides two fingers in, curling, rough, and holds you there while you writhe, overstimulated and crying into the mattress.

“Already?” she laughs. “You’re falling apart and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

When she flips you over, your thighs are trembling.

You’re on your back now, wrists tied above your head, legs open, and Vi between them with that strap angled just right. She holds a vibrator in one hand, silver, sleek, vicious.

She clicks it on. Presses it to your clit. You scream.

She smiles.

Then lines up the strap and slides in.

You didn’t know you could feel this full.

The dildo is thick and long, already vibrating inside you as she fucks in deep and slow. Your body arches off the bed, muscles tightening as she grinds her hips down, rolling the toy against every sweet spot inside you. The vibrator is still on your clit, held tight between you.

She’s fucking you into the mattress. Literally.

The bed frame bangs against the wall, once, twice, loud enough that the neighbor knocks from the other side.

“Vi, oh!” you gasp.

She laughs. "Let ‘em hear," she grunts. “Let ‘em know who fucks you this good.”

Your orgasm hits like a truck. You go stiff, back bowing, a cry ripping from your throat as you clench around the vibrating strap and the toy makes your clit throb. Vi watches the whole thing, smirking, sweating, thrusting through your release like she’s on a mission.

Then she turns the vibrator up. Another level.

You sob. “No no no I can’t Vi, please!”

She leans over you, breath hot, one hand wrapping lightly around your throat as she slows the thrusts to deep, grinding pushes.

“You can,” she purrs. “You’ll give me one more. I know you will. You’re my good little mess, aren’t you?”

You nod frantically, tears falling, thighs twitching as she forces another orgasm from your wrung-out body.

You scream again when you come. She kisses your open mouth, still fucking deep and slow, like she wants you ruined for anyone else.

꒰ Caitlyn - You such a dream come true, true. make a bitch wanna hit snooze, ooh

Her accent is worse than the teasing. Worse than the lingerie she bought you, white lace, half-off, thin and already soaked. Worse than the mirror showing every inch of your shame, flushed cheeks, trembling thighs, the way your cunt clenches nothing when she so much as grazes your skin.

"Eyes up," she commands softly. "I want you to watch yourself fall apart."

She touches you like it’s a lesson in patience.

No rush. Just long strokes over your stomach. A kiss behind your ear. Her hand sliding between your thighs and resting there. Not rubbing. Not moving.

“Desperate already?” she muses. “So needy for my fingers. Or is it just the sound of my voice?”

You nod, frantic. “n-need you”

She hums. “Manners.”

“Please, Miss Kiramman.”

She smiles. That smile. Dangerous. Rich. Full of pride and ownership.

“Good girl.”

The first touch is electric.

Her fingers press against your clit, slow circles that drag a whimper from your throat. Your legs twitch. She holds you still with one hand at your lower back, the other teasing your entrance without giving you what you want.

"So responsive," she murmurs. “I could do this all night.”

And she does.

She edges you. Brings you close, then pulls away. Toys with your nipples, mouth warm and wet, tongue swirling slowly as her fingers sink inside you, just enough to make your thighs shake. Not enough to let you come.

Over and over. You sob. You beg. Your knees give out.

Caitlyn just tilts your face up to the mirror again.

"See that? That’s what I do to you.”

You finally break when she pulls out the vibrator.

Small. Silver. Discreet. She turns it on and presses it to your clit with precision, holding it just right while two fingers slide back in. Your whole body convulses.

"oh Cait, please I can’t!"

She clicks her tongue. “You’ll come when I say, not before.”

You’re sobbing.

She kisses your cheek. “You’re like a dream come true, darling.”

Your orgasm hits when she lets it.

She leans down, voice velvet against your ear. “Now, my love.”

Your body shatters. You scream, legs twitching, tears streaking your cheeks as she works you through it, vibrator still on, fingers slow and loving, her lips murmuring praise into your neck.

"That’s it. That’s my girl. So perfect for me."

reblogs are appreciated!!

taglist: @georgiahs-stuff @shanesevikasfuckdoll @illbecanon @sevikas-whore @barelykiramman @sapphicstrawcore @sevikaswinkinghole @riotstemple29 @amri0ram @yuripilledfemme @mommyissuesismypersonality @butchpuppyy @shxdy0ariia @kousanosgf @lucidfairies

#fic recs #arcane #sevika #vi #ambessa #caitlyn #grayson #sevika x reader #vi x reader #ambessa x reader #caitlyn x reader #grayson x reader

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aemondsbabe · 4 days ago

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Save a Horse (Ride a Cowgirl)

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: cowgirl!abby anderson x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.7k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Abby’s always been good with her hands—roping, riding, and ruining you with just one kiss. Tonight, she plans to do all three. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mdni, smut, cocky abby but let's be real she has good fucking reason to be, as always i barely proofread this so if there's any many major mistakes in it I'm sorry, is abby being smitten a warning?

𝐚/𝐧: turns out i’m not done horning for abby yet, but at least I had @littlexdeaths as my personal cheerleader for this one If you guys have any other fic ideas PLEASE send them my way (if tumblr stops shadowbanning me at least)

The bar is loud, sticky with spilt beer and the humid press of bodies, the air thick with the tang of liquor and the twang of some half-drowned country song fighting its way through the chatter. But you barely notice—not when Abby’s leaning against the counter next to you, all coiled muscle and lazy smirk, her boot propped up on the rail like she owns the place.

Which, judging by the way the bartender slides her whisky over without asking (“Same as always, Anderson”), she might as well.

Ellie, perched on your other side with a beer bottle dangling between her fingers, rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick. “Christ. You two are disgusting.”

You don’t even glance at her. Abby’s thumb is tracing idle circles over your knuckles where your hand rests on the bar, calloused and warm, and the rest of the world might as well be static.

“Jealous, Williams?” Abby drawls, her voice all honey and gravel. She lifts her glass to her lips, but her eyes stay fixed on you—dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

Ellie scoffs. “Of this? Nah. I like my dignity intact, thanks.” She jerks her chin toward Jesse and Dina at the pool table, the latter of whom is currently miming exaggerated gagging motions in your direction. “Pretty sure the whole county’s sick of you two making cow eyes at each other.”

Abby just chuckles, low and unbothered, her free hand drifting to the small of your back. “Ain’t my fault my girl’s too pretty to look away from.”

You snort, but your face heats anyway. “Smooth, Anderson.”

“Damn right.”

You nudge her with your elbow, nodding toward the mechanical bull in the corner—some poor sap just got tossed off, his ego bruised worse than his ass. “No way anyone lasts a full minute on that thing.”

Abby’s eyebrow ticks up, slow as a rattler coiling before a strike. The amber liquid in her glass catches the dim bar light, painting shadows across the sharp line of her jaw. You shouldn’t have said anything—should’ve known better than to poke the bear—but the words slipped out anyway, half-teasing, half-doubtful.

“No one rides those things without training. It’s gotta be rigged.”

A slow smirk curls at the corner of her mouth. “That a challenge, sweetheart?”

The way she says it—low, rough, like she’s already tasting victory—sends a shiver down your spine. You lean in, close enough to catch the scent of leather and her cheap cologne, the kind that clings to her skin no matter how many showers she takes. “Maybe.”

Behind you, Ellie groans. “Oh, here we go.”

Abby’s grin widens. She sets her glass down with a deliberate click and turns to face you fully, one arm braced against the bar, caging you in without touching. The noise of the place fades to a dull roar under the weight of her attention.

“Tell you what,” she murmurs, voice dipping so only you can hear, “I stay on longer than a minute, you owe me a kiss. Right here, in front of God and everybody.”

Your pulse jumps. “And if you eat shit in front of the whole bar?”

She huffs a laugh, breath warm against your cheek. “Then I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow. And let you pick the radio station all week.”

“Deal,” you say, grinning.

Abby just winks at you before pushing off the bar, her hand lingering at the small of your back for a heartbeat too long—warm even through the fabric of your shirt, fingers pressing just there like she’s memorised the dip of your spine. “Y’all enjoy the show.”

Whistles and hollers follow as she strides toward the bull, the crowd parting like she’s royalty. Some ranch hand at the edge of the floor mutters, “Oh, this’ll be good,” and yeah. Yeah, it will.

Abby swings a leg over the bull like it’s an afterthought, all easy confidence, one hand gripping the saddle like it’s nothing. The machine hasn’t even started yet, but she’s already in control—back straight, shoulders loose, like she’s just waiting for the world to give her a reason to move.

The bull kicks to life.

And, God, you’re screwed.

Abby moves with it like she was born for this, her hips rolling in a way that should be illegal, thighs locked tight against the bull’s flank. It bucks hard, jerking sideways like it’s trying to throw her, but she just laughs, wild and bright, her braid whipping behind her like a damn battle flag. Thirty seconds in, and the crowd’s already eating out of her palm—cheers rising every time she leans into a spin, every time she arches back just to prove she can.

Forty-five seconds, and your mouth’s gone dry.

Because she’s not just riding it—she’s playing with it. Tipping her head back like she’s savouring the challenge, her tank top riding up just enough to reveal a strip of sun-browned skin along her waist. You can see the flex of her abs, the shift of muscle under sweat-slicked arms, the way her breath hitches—just once—when the bull nearly upends her before she corrects, thighs squeezing tighter.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ellie groans beside you, rubbing her temples. “Do you have to look at her like that?”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy watching Abby’s biceps strain as the bull jerks backward, her body curving into the motion like she’s dancing with it. A drop of sweat slides down her temple, her neck, and disappears into the collar of her shirt—

At fifty-eight seconds, she locks eyes with you.

Daring you to look away.

The bull lunges forward, sudden and brutal, and for half a heartbeat, you think she’s done for—her balance wavers, grip slipping—

But then she twists, muscles coiling like a damn panther, and rides it out like it’s part of the show. The crowd explodes.

The buzzer blares. A full minute.

The crowd erupts the second Abby’s boots hit the ground—cheers, whistles, the thunder of applause loud enough to shake the rafters—but she doesn’t even glance their way. Her eyes lock onto yours like a predator sighting its mark, and God, you’re done for.

She swaggers over, all rolling shoulders and that infuriatingly perfect smirk, her shirt clinging to the sweat-slick muscles of her torso. The bartender whoops, slamming a fresh shot down in front of her, but Abby doesn’t even reach for it. She’s too busy crowding into your space, one hand sliding rough and possessive along your jaw, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Told you I’d win,” she murmurs, voice thick with triumph, her breath warm and whisky-sweet.

You roll your eyes, but your pulse jumps anyway. “Lucky ride.”

Abby tsk's, her grip tightening just enough to tilt your face up to hers. “Ain’t luck, darlin’. That was skill.”

The crowd’s still roaring around you, but all you can hear is the rough scrape of her voice, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, the heat of her body pressing just this side of too close.

“Pay up, sweetheart.”

Your kiss is quick, passionate, full of the kind of heat that pools low in your stomach and turns your knees to water. Abby’s mouth is relentless, claiming yours like she’s determined to prove a point—and hell, she does. Her fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, and she swallows the sound with a satisfied hum.

The crowd loses it—someone catcalls, a glass shatters in the background, and Ellie groans, “I need new friends,” into her beer.

But Abby just growls against your mouth, her free hand sliding down to your hip, pulling you flush against her. “Mmm. Knew you’d taste like victory,” she murmurs, nipping at your lower lip before pulling back—just far enough to smirk at your dazed expression before grabbing the forgotten shot and knocking it back in one smooth motion.

“Still think it was luck?” Abby teases, her thumb brushing your lower lip, rough with calluses. Her voice is a low, honeyed drawl, the kind that curls under your skin and stays there.

You bite down on the pad of her thumb, just hard enough to make her breath hitch—and God, the sound she makes, half-laugh, half-groan, is enough to send heat straight to your core. You can feel the hammer of her heartbeat where your chest presses against hers, the way her fingers flex like she’s holding herself back. Barely.

You don’t give her the chance.

One second, you’re tangled together at the bar, her mouth hovering just inches from yours, her body a live wire of barely leashed want—the next, you’re dragging her toward the back door, fingers knotted in her belt loops.

Abby lets you lead, her laughter hot against your ear as she follows, her steps lazy, indulgent—like she wasn’t already two steps ahead. Like she knew exactly how this would go.

“Eager, ain’t ya?” She murmurs, her breath skating over the shell of your ear as the night air hits you both. The door slams shut behind you, cutting off the bar’s noise, leaving nothing but the sound of her voice and the rustle of fabric as she crowds you against the wall.

The parking lot lights halo her in gold, catching the sweat still glistening at her temples and the wicked gleam in her half-lidded eyes. The gravel crunches under your boots as you yank her toward her truck—an old Ford with peeling paint and a bumper sticker that reads "If You Ain't First, You're Last"—your grip tight enough to bruise.

Abby stumbles a step—just one—laughing low and rough against the shell of your ear, her breath warm, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

"Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart," she drawls, her voice thick with amusement, but your hands are already on her belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle like you’ll die if you don’t get her naked in the next five seconds.

She chuckles again, deep and knowing, and lets you shove her back against the tailgate, the metal rattling under her weight. Her smirk is a goddamn event, slow and filthy, like she’s been waiting all night for this exact moment—like she knew this was coming the second she climbed onto that bull and looked at you like that.

"Shut up," you grit out, voice trembling with want, "and fuck me."

Abby’s grin widens, her teeth flashing in the dim light. "Easy there, cowgirl." The word curls low in her throat, that gravel-dark rasp already unravelling you. Her fingers catch yours—calloused, unyielding—slowing you down with infuriating ease. She tsks, thumb dragging over your pulse point like she’s expecting the way it jumps under her touch. "Didn't realise you were this desperate."

You glare up at her, but your body betrays you, arching into her touch like a damn fool. "You—"

"Me?" she interrupts, all false innocence, her free hand sliding down to grip your hip, pulling you flush against her. The heat of her is maddening, the hard line of her thigh pressing between yours making your breath hitch. "All I did was ride a bull, darlin’. You're the one who can't keep your hands off me."

You open your mouth to snap back, but she’s already crowding you against the truck, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back. Her kiss is all teeth and hunger, lips hot and demanding, tongue sweeping into your mouth like she’s claiming territory. Her other hand grips your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as you melt into it, arching against her with a whimper.

“That why you ran out here?” She rasps, hands sliding under your thighs to lift you onto the tailgate like you weigh nothing. Her thigh slots between yours, denim rough against your bare skin, the pressure perfect, and you grind down on instinct, chasing the friction. “Got all worked up watchin’ me?”

You should lie. Should play it cool. But her palm skates up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your dress, and the truth spills out in a shaky exhale. “Fuck—yes.”

Abby’s laugh is dark, victorious. “Knew it.” Her teeth graze your jaw, her voice dropping to a growl. “Can see it on your face. Those pretty little noises you make when you’re tryin’ not to squirm.” Her hips roll against yours, and the friction punches a whine from your throat.

“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” Abby murmurs, her voice rough as gravel, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “All riled up over somethin’ I could do in my sleep.” Her teeth graze your earlobe, sharp enough to make your pulse jump, and her voice drops to a low, knowing drawl. “You ever seen me break a horse, sweetheart?”

You don’t get the chance to answer. Her knee nudges your thighs wider, the denim of her jeans rough against your bare skin as her fingers skate beneath your dress—not quite where you want them, just teasing, tracing idle patterns on the inside of your thigh that leave fire in their wake. The heel of her palm grinds down in a slow, taunting circle, and you jerk against her, a whimper catching in your throat.

She chuckles, the sound dark and pleased, and her free hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back so she can watch your face as she speaks. “Should take you out to the corral one mornin’,” she muses, her thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Watch me wrestle somethin’ twice my size ‘til it bows.”

The image flashes behind your eyelids. Abby, sweat-slick and sunlit, with muscles corded under her rolled-up sleeves and dirt smeared across her collarbone as she handles something wild and stubborn. Her voice, rough with command, barking, "Easy now—" while her thighs strain, while her grip stays merciless.

Your breath hitches, traitorous and loud in the scant space between you.

She feels it, of course. Always does. “Christ.” Her eyes rake over you—half-lidded, triumphant, like she’s already mapped every twitch and gasp she’ll pull from you. “Knew you had it bad, but this?”

Her thumb swipes over your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to make your mouth fall open. “You’re ruinin’ my goddamn jeans, squirming like this.” She rolls her hips, the deliberate drag of her thigh against you wringing a broken noise from your chest. “Maybe I oughta teach you how to ride somethin’ else, huh?”

You whine, arching into her, but Abby just clucks her tongue, pulling back just enough to keep you desperate. The rough drag of her calloused fingers along your waist is maddening, teasing where you want her most.

"Tell you what," she murmurs, her lips brushing yours in a ghost of a kiss—close enough to taste the whisky on her breath, but not close enough to really touch. "You beg real nice; maybe I’ll let you ride me next."

Her voice is pure sin, low and rough like gravel under tires, and it sends a shiver straight down your spine.

"C'mon, darlin’," she coaxes, all honey and heat. "Ain't you got manners?"

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering where her thigh presses between yours. "Abby—"

"Uh-uh." She nips at your jaw, just sharp enough to make you gasp. "Try again."

"Please," you finally choke out, fingers twisting in her shirt.

“Atta girl,” she croons, her voice gone thick with want. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than watchin’ you beg.”

Before you can answer, she’s yanking the truck door open, her hands firm on your hips as she lifts you onto the seat like you weigh nothing at all.

"Buckle up, sweetheart," she purrs, climbing in after you. "This ride’s gonna be rough."

Her knee slots between your thighs, forcing them wider as she drags you onto her lap, your dress rucked up around your waist, the humid summer air kissing your exposed skin.

And God, the way she looks at you—

Like you’re the last thing she’ll ever crave. Like she’d ruin herself just to ruin you first.

Her hands are everywhere, restless and ravenous. One second, her palm is splayed over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, teasing the tight peak through the thin fabric of your dress. The next, her fingers are digging into the meat of your thigh, kneading the soft skin there like she wants to leave bruises in the shape of her grip.

Her mouth latches onto your neck, your collarbone, the frantic pulse at your wrist—sucking marks into your skin between ragged breaths. You gasp when she bites down, just shy of too hard, and she groans in response, her hips jerking up against yours like she can’t help it.

Before you can register anything else, her fingers are inside of you, her touch sure and swift, the stretch burns so good you choke on your own whine.

Because Abby doesn’t just touch you—she worships you.

“Fuck,” she growls against your throat, her voice shredded with want. “Knew you’d feel this good.”

Her fingers move in slow, torturous circles, curling just right, wringing out every broken sound you try to bite back. Her thumb brushes your clit, light, just to feel you jerk against her, and the smirk she presses into your skin is downright sinful.

“C'mon, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her lips dragging along your jaw. “Let me hear you. Ain’t nobody out here but us.”

Her fingers thrust deeper, harder, and your back arches off her lap, your nails biting into her shoulders as you gasp her name.

“God, listen to you.” Her voice is all honey-thick drawl, curling around the words like she wants to conserve them, like the sounds you’re making are something sacred. The truck cab is too small, too hot, the windows fogged with your breath and the slick, filthy noise of her fingers working inside you.

“Fuckin’ music, baby.” Abby’s lips brush the shell of your ear, her teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. “Like you were made just to sing for me.”

Every word licks like a flame, branding you deeper than her hands ever could. Her free hand roams, greedy, slipping under the hem of your dress to palm your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. The denim of her jeans is rough against your bare thighs, the contrast of textures maddening—just like her, all soft words and ruthless hands.

Her fingers curl deeper, relentless, the calluses on her palms dragging just right as she works you open, and the way she watches you—fuck, the way her eyes darken when your hips stutter—makes it clear she’s memorising every second of this. Cataloguing the flutter of your lashes, the bitten-red of your lip, the way your breath hitches when she crooks her fingers just so.

“That's it,” she rasps, her breath hot against your ear. “Grind down on me. Take what you need.”

You obey without thought, hips rolling in frantic little circles, chasing the pressure of her fingers. The truck’s seat creaks under the movement, the leather sticking to your skin, but you don’t care—not when she’s got you like this, not when she’s watching you like this.

Her fingers crook harder, pressing up into that sweet, spongy spot inside you, and you sob, nails biting into her shoulders.

“So close already?” She taunts, slowing her strokes just to feel you clench around her, just to hear the broken noise you make when she denies you. “Think you can cum just like this? Just from my fingers fucking into you, from me telling you how good you feel?”

Her free hand grips your hip, holding you still as she leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Bet you fucking can.” The words are a rumble, her accent gone thick and syrupy with want. “Bet you'll let me ruin you right here, won’t ya?”

And, God, she’s right. There’s something about the way she says it—the possessive curl of her tongue, the way her voice drops to that tone, the one that usually accompanies her nodding at the ranch hands or murmuring to the horses—that makes your stomach flip. The same voice that says “Easy, darlin’” when she’s gentling a spooked mare now coaxes you, rough and sweet all at once.

You’re trembling, your thighs shaking where they bracket hers, your nails digging into the corded muscle of her shoulders. “Abby—”

“I know,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your throat. “I know.” Her fingers speed up, ruthless now, the heel of her palm grinding against you in time with each thrust. “C'mon, let me hear you. Let me feel it.”

Abby’s groan against your skin is almost pained with how much she loves it—loves you, the way you writhe in her lap, the way your nails bite into her biceps as if she’s the only thing tethering you to earth. Her arms flex under your grip, corded and unyielding, and God, you can feel the strength in her—the same hands that mend fences and break horses now holding you together while she ruins you.

But then—then—her rhythm stutters. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel the way her breath catches, the way her thighs tense beneath yours, and the way her hips jerk up involuntarily when you clench around her fingers.

For all her control, she’s shaking too.

Her chest rises fast, her pulse jumping wildly under your palm where it’s splayed against her throat. The smugness in her gaze flickers, just for a heartbeat, into something hungrier, something raw—like she’s one frayed thread from snapping. She needs this just as much as you do—needs to feel you come apart under her hands, needs to hear you break for her, needs it so bad her teeth ache with it.

"Say my name again," she growls, her lips grazing your jaw, her fingers driving deeper, curling just so. The rough pad of her thumb circles your clit, relentless, and you whine, your back arching. "C'mon, sweetheart—wanna hear how bad ya need it."

You sob it out—"Abby, Abby—"—and her grin is filthy with satisfaction, her hips rolling up to meet the frantic grind of yours, the denim of her jeans rough against your bare thighs.

"Yeah, that’s it." Her teeth catch your earlobe, sharp, and the sting makes you jolt. "Ain’t no one gonna fuck you like this. Ain’t no one gonna ruin you like I do."

Her fingers crook, hard, and the world whites out—her name on your lips and her fingerprints staining your skin, her sweat mingling with yours where your forehead presses against hers. You can feel her watching you, can feel the way her breath hitches when you clench around her, when your thighs tremble and your voice cracks on a broken please.

Proof, undeniable and hers, that she’s ruined you exactly the way she wanted to.

The orgasm crashes into you like a summer storm—sudden, violent.

Abby groans, low and satisfied, her forehead pressing against yours as she works you through it, her touch gentling only when you whine from oversensitivity.

“Mine.” Her laugh is quiet, smug, her arms wrapping around you to keep you steady as she presses a kiss to your hair. ⁠Her hips roll up to meet your frantic movements, the hard line of her belt buckle pressing into your thigh. “All mine.”

And when you finally sag against her, boneless and breathless, she doesn’t let you go.

No—she holds you tighter, her arms locking around you like she’s claiming you all over again, her biceps flexing under your fingers as you cling to her. Her heartbeat thunders against your chest, wild and untamed, matching the ragged rhythm of your own.

She pulls her fingers free, slow and deliberate, and brings them to her lips. Her tongue swipes over her knuckles in a filthy, languid stripe, her eyes never leaving yours—dark with hunger, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any colour left. "Taste even better than I remember," she murmurs, voice rough as gravel, before dragging her damp thumb over your bottom lip, smearing your own slick across your mouth.

You shudder, and Abby groans, low and approving, like the way you react to her is the best damn thing she’s ever seen.

Her breath is ragged against your neck, her voice rough with something that sounds almost like awe when she murmurs—

“Let me take you home.”

It’s not a request. It’s a demand, growled against your skin as she nips at your jaw, your throat, anywhere her mouth can reach. The words come out ragged, like she’s been holding them back for hours. “Let me ruin you proper.”

Her teeth sink into the tender skin beneath your ear, just shy of pain, and you gasp, your fingers tightening in her hair. She hums, satisfied, before laving the spot with her tongue, soothing the sting.

“Wanna lay you out in my bed,” she continues, her voice dropping to a sinful rasp, “fuck you slow ‘til you’re cryin’ for it. Then fast, mean—‘til you can’t remember your name, ‘til you’re so full of me you ache with it.”

Her palm slides up your ribs, possessive, needy, calluses catching on the lace of your bra. You can feel her trembling—Abby, who never shakes, who breaks horses and men like twigs under her boot.

And, God, that’s what undoes you.

Not the filthy promises, not the way her thigh is still pressed between yours, keeping you sensitive and twitching—but the way her breath hitches when you whimper, the way her fingers flex like she’s stopping herself from dragging you closer right fucking now.

“Say yes.”

Her lips brush yours, almost sweet if not for the way her teeth graze your bottom lip after. The plea is raw, stripped bare. “Please.”

And the desperation in her voice—the way she’s the one begging now, like she’ll die if you say no—tells you everything.

She’s just as ruined for you as you are for her.

You kiss her instead of answering, because words are too thin for this—for the way she groans into your mouth like you’re the only thing keeping her breathing, for the way her hands are everywhere at once—

She fumbles with the keys still in the ignition, her grip clumsy with want, the metal clinking uselessly until she finally swears and yanks hard enough to turn them.

She finally pulls away, but only far enough to let you slip into the passenger seat—her hand still tangled with yours as she presses a kiss to your knuckles, her teeth scraping just lightly over the ridge of bone. A promise. A threat.

The engine roars to life. Abby drives like hell itself is chasing her, her boot heavy on the gas, the truck’s tires spitting gravel as she peels onto the main road. And when she glances over—just for a second, just long enough to burn—her gaze drops to your swollen lips, your mussed hair, the way your chest still rises too fast under the fabric of your dress.

Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

"Gonna take so long with you," she murmurs, more to herself than to you, her voice rough as gravel and twice as warm. "Gonna learn every damn sound you make when I fuck you. Map out every fuckin’ spot that makes you shiver."

A beat. The truck flies past a stop sign. Abby doesn’t even blink.

"Gonna keep you in my bed ‘til the sun comes up," she continues, low and relentless, her free hand sliding up your thigh again, squeezing. "Then I’ll make you breakfast. Pancakes. With berries. The way you like."

#fic recs #abby anderson #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x reader #tlou #tlou2 #the last of us #the last of us part 2

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