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sheriffaxolotl · 22 days ago

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Reading. Waiting. Yearning. Go show this fic all the love and devolution it deserves Abby lovers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 - 𝐚.𝐚.

𝐢𝐢. 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞

abby anderson x plus size reader

part one | masterlist

word count: 2.2k

warnings: 18+ only, gay pining ofc, brief mention of overeating, light smut, some cheesy goodness, a literal wet dream, manny and nora are a meddling duo we hate love to see coming

a/n: i just want to say thank you so much for all the love on the first part of this fic! genuinely wasn’t sure on the kind of reception it would receive. also a huge thank you to my bestie @undead-supernova for beta reading and helping me edit. i do plan on making this a into little series, so i hope you all enjoy xx.

“Late again,” Nora says in a sing-song-like tone as you burst through the flaps of the medical tent.

There’d been a lull in patients since this morning and thankfully it’s still just the two of you. Nora has seen you in worse shape than this since you became roommates over a year ago, so it’s not nearly as embarrassing when you hunch over, bracing your hands on your knees to steady your ragged breathing.

“Jesus, did you sprint all the way here?” she asks, tone bordering on playful concern.

“Y-Yeah, just…need a minute. I’m fine,” you wheeze, giving her a thumbs up.

She just shakes her head with a fond grin but continues to sterilize her tools while you take a seat on one of the empty cots and allow your breathing to return to normal.

“So, ya gonna tell me why you came sprinting in here like a bat out of hell?” she eventually asks once you’ve calmed down, a knowing look on her face.

You simply shrug, unable to meet her gaze as you return to your feet.

“Just realized how late I was,” you lie, continuing across the tent. “Didn’t want to leave you stranded.”

You cringe inwardly when your voice raises an octave, something she clearly catches.

“Uh, huh, okay,” she snorts, unconvinced. “If you say so…”

She thankfully drops the subject for now, but knowing Nora, she wouldn’t give up so easily. You just hope you can come up with a better explanation by the time your shift ends. The last thing you want to do is own up to your own cowardice. So you try to keep yourself busy by organizing the supply shelf, compiling a list of items that are getting low.

The both of you settle into a comfortable silence as you work, but that calm doesn’t last for long—it never seems to.

Another group of recruits comes stumbling in from their first patrol, and the chaos of the morning resumes. You're just thankful she doesn’t have the chance to bring up your flustered state the rest of your shift. You’re exhausted by the time Mel comes to relieve you a few hours later, giving you stern orders to go eat something and get some well deserved rest.

But you inevitably find your way to the library, wanting to bury your nose in a book after the day you just had. It definitely wasn’t an excuse to avoid your friends that were enjoying dinner in the mess hall.

The library is practically empty when you arrive, which is unsurprising. Majority of the soldiers in the WLF don’t seem to have much of an interest in literature, even if it would do them some good. You begin to wander the makeshift stacks in a daze, your fingers lightly trailing over the worn spines. The aroma of frayed paper and oak welcoming you back like an old friend.

While you weren’t always able to find comfort in food, you still had books. You’d willingly lose yourself in tales of romance and make believe for hours, anything to make the horrors of your day to day reality a little less daunting. So you peruse the aisles with intent, pulling book after book off the shelves. But nothing seems to capture your interest like you’d hoped.

You’d skimmed through the pages of multiple books, but knew you didn't have the mental wherewithal to endure a story about cancer ridden teenagers falling in love or a woman faking her own disappearance to get back at her shitty, cheating husband. You didn’t need any more tragedy plaguing your thoughts.

You’re about ready to abandon your search altogether, feelings of frustration beginning to bubble up inside you when you pass one of the many reading nooks. There’s a thick novel that’s been left behind discarded on one of the chairs but it’s the picture on the cover that stops you in your tracks, causing a warm flush to creep up the back of your neck.

You’d seen books like these over the years during patrols, spicy novellas as Manny had so lovingly referred to them—but you’d never taken an interest in one before.

A couple is sprawled out on a deserted beach, their bodies entangled in a passionate embrace while the raging sea continues to crash around them. The woman is devastatingly pretty, a sheer nightgown clinging to her unmistakably curvy figure. Her head is thrown back, a look of complete bliss ingrained on her soft features. But it’s the male that you are unable to tear your gaze away from.

His face is obscured, buried completely in the woman’s bosom as he ravishes her. His dark blonde hair is long and luscious, cascading over his broad shoulders. And his body, while toned in all the right places, has a feminine quality to it that makes your breath catch.

Why does he remind you of her?

But before you can decide to overthink it, you quickly snatch the novel off the table, keeping it tucked securely under your arm as you rush back to your room. Nora is miraculously absent when you slip inside your shared space, but you’re grateful for the solitude as you speed through your bedtime routine.

You feel so much more relaxed after washing your face and brushing your teeth, slipping on an oversized t-shirt before crawling into bed. You pull the covers up and over your bare legs, clicking on your bedside lamp before rolling onto your stomach and flipping open the book.

The premise is…incredibly cheesy to say the least, a damsel being taken aboard an enemy vessel and held captive while out at sea. And yet somehow it’s still entertaining enough to hold your interest. But once you are introduced to the captain of the ship (and the eventual love interest) you almost toss the book aside, because of course his name is Gabriel…

The universe has to be playing some cruel joke on you.

You don’t remember exactly when you dozed off, the worn romance novel left dangling between your nimble fingers.

But you awake to a pair of strong hands grazing over the dip in your hips, the sound of waves crashing around you. You can taste the salt in the air when your lips part, a soft sigh tumbling from them.

A gentle drawl of your name has your eyes fluttering open and the sight before you sets your pulse racing.

Abby, always Abby.

She’s breathtaking. Her blonde hair is down, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves as she hovers above you. Her freckled cheeks are flushed from the harsh wind, her look of initial concern melting away when your lips curve up into a warm smile.

“There she is,” she murmurs, her calloused fingers cradling your jaw. “Thought I lost you for a minute there, pretty girl.”

Blurry images of the sea overtake you, water filling your mouth and lungs before a pair of strong hands pull you out of the treacherous waters and onto the sandy shore where she breathed life back into your lungs.

A biting gust of wind has a small shiver wracking through your body, your nightgown entirely soaked through. The thin material clings to each dip of your curves, leaving very little to the imagination. But she isn’t faring much better as the waves continue to crash against the shore, washing up and drenching your entangled bodies.

Salty mist clings to your lashes, a few droplets wetting your lips when she leans closer but the warmth of her breath stops them from trembling. Another forceful wave has her hips rocking forward, pulling a needy moan from your throat.

“Touch me,” you breathe.

And the dam breaks.

Her lips are soft but urgent when they collide with yours, kissing you with a kind of desperation that makes you dizzy. Your hands slip around her waist, swallowing her throaty moans when you nip at her lower lip. You only pull away when your lungs are begging for oxygen, but her mouth never leaves your skin. They trail along your jaw and down your throat, sucking on a spot behind your ear that has your toes curling in the sand.

“Abby, please,” you plead when her fingers dip between your parted thighs, the blonde hushing you with another firm kiss.

Her fingers slide easily through your slick folds, the pad of her fingers barely brushing over your clit before they continue their descent. She curses softly when she feels the full extent of your desire, gathering more of your wetness on her fingers. Your hands slide up her back, nails digging into the broad expanse of her shoulders when she slowly guides one of her thick digits inside—

A loud knock on your door startles you awake, your body jolting upright in bed. Your body is flushed, chest heaving as you try to come back down to reality. The red light from your alarm clock blinks, reading 4:45 am, and you let out a frustrated groan before collapsing back against your mattress. You weren’t supposed to be back at the medical bay until much later in the afternoon, so someone must have been dead or dying if they were pulling you this early.

The throbbing ache between your thighs continues to mock you as you glare up at the crack in your ceiling, and you honestly want to throttle whoever is on the other side of the door. They couldn’t have given you fifteen more minutes?

Another knock sounds again, but this time they’ve grown more impatient as they bang their entire fist against the solid wood.

“Okay, I’m coming!” you shout, unable to stop your annoyance from bubbling to the surface.

Well, you certainly would have by now…

You slide the blankets off your bare thighs, swinging your legs over the side of the mattress. You hiss when your feet touch the cold tile, blindly searching for your bunny slippers that you keep tucked under your bed. But you end up finding that cheesy romance novel first, the cover an almost carbon copy of your dream.

There she is… thought I lost you for a minute there, pretty girl.

You unintentionally press your thighs together, further damping the fabric between them. But you quickly shove the book under your pillow before you allow your mind to wander again, reaching back under to find your slippers. Your arms stretch above your head as you stand, rubbing the remaining sleep from your eyes while you pad over to the door.

You pull it open without a second thought, not exactly caring about your disheveled appearance until you see who is waiting for you on the other side of the door…

and your heart just about falls into your ass.

Abby is casually leaning against your door jam, her eyes immediately dropping to skim over the bare skin of your thighs before they flick back up to meet your startled expression. Her hair is still damp but pulled back into her signature neat braid. She looks so effortlessly gorgeous it’s really unfair. She’s wearing her normal patrol clothes, a gun strapped to her upper thigh and her pack draped across her back.

“Nice slippers,” she remarks and you suddenly wish the stadium would crumple apart and swallow you whole.

It’s then that you finally notice Manny, who is also in patrol attire, leaning against the wall on the other side of the hall. He lets out a low wolf whistle, raising his brows in a suggestive manner as you try to tug your sleep shirt a little further down your thighs.

“Ay dios mío, princesa, gonna give a guy a heart palpitations lookin’ like that.”

You scoff softly, rolling your eyes before tucking your legs safely behind your door. Abby looks between you both for a moment, a deep frown settling onto her features when she crosses her arms over her chest.

“How long will it take you to get ready?” she asks, her tone strictly business.

But it still makes your stomach flutter.

“Ready for…” you trail off, your confusion evident.

Abby sighs. “So Nora didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“We’re doing a supply run today, outside the city. She told Manny you were switching with her, because Issac wants her at the hospital for the next couple of days,” she explains.

You immediately notice the smug expression on Manny’s face, now understanding the reason for Nora’s unexplained absence after work. Oh, you were going to kill them both.

“She absolutely neglected to mention that,” you mutter, trying to keep the full irritation out of your voice. “Just…give me, like, 20 minutes and I’ll be ready.”

Abby nods, shrugging away from the wall and you can’t help but notice how her muscles flex beneath her shirt. Heat pools in your middle, teeth sinking into your lower lip as your traitorous thoughts begin to wander back to your dream…

And how her muscles felt when they tensed under your fingertips, her warm breath lingering against your neck, and her fingers, oh god, her fingers, when they slid in between the plush skin of your thighs…

“We’ll meet you down at the mess hall, chica,” Manny’s voice instantly snaps you back to reality, the male shooting you a playful wink before he guides them down the hallway. “Grab ya something on the way.”

You don’t have a chance to answer before they turn the corner, Abby sparing you one last glance over her shoulder. You practically slam the door shut in a panic once they’ve disappeared from view, your body collapsing back against it.

You are so, totally fucked.

⇢ part three.

#♡Sheriff♡recs♡#abby anderson x reader #Plus size yes please

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sheriffaxolotl · 22 days ago

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me at work: smiling, answering emails, being so painfully average it hurts

also me last night: writing Abby Anderson patching up her girlfriend’s wounds by flashlight, fingers trembling but steady, whispering, “I’ve got you.”

boss: “Great job on the report!” me: “Thanks!” also me: cried because Abby held her hand for the first time in chapter 9

no one here knows I’ve written more emotional dialogue for two fictional women than I’ve spoken to real people all week.

#[brainrotaxolotl]#day job? boring #night job? emotionally intense lesbian #Abby Anderson rights #they don’t know I’ve mapped out their trauma arcs in a color-coded doc #professional by day #gay disaster by choice #abby tlou #abby anderson

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sheriffaxolotl · 22 days ago

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Guess who got not just one but TWO HD (High Distinctions) for uni assessments and is getting back into planning Off the Ledge? This gay bitch. In Pride Month? It's only right.

#[Brainrotaxolotl]#Uni is such a bitch #I just wanna write about Abby

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sheriffaxolotl · 22 days ago

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Oh, how I love her…. 🫠💓

Abby Anderson 💜🌿

Babygirl with some different hairstyles 🥰

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sheriffaxolotl · 23 days ago

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Better ♡ Part 2 (Abby Anderson x f!reader)

Warnings: Smut (18+ MDNI), strap-on use, oral (f!receiving), fingering, use of words like cunt/pussy, soft aftercare Wordcount: 8.6k A/N: Thank you so much for the love on Part 1! As requested, here’s Part 2—feedback is always welcome! Happy Pride Month! 🌈 ❛ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━･❪ Part 1 ❫ ･━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ❜

Summary: She said she’d wait until it was your choice. Until you were ready. And tonight, you are. Her hands treat you like something precious… before she ruins you just right.

It’s been a few weeks since that night.

Since the party. Since the kiss that changed everything. Since Abby asked you to be hers. Since you said yes.

Not to anyone. Not publicly. Not yet.

But in all the ways that matter, it’s been real.

She’s been at your side every day since—without making a show of it. Not clingy, not trying too hard. Just present. Steady.

She brings you when you're in class, texts you reminders to eat, walks you home after late-night study sessions. At the gym, she spots you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her hands firm at your waist, her grin teasing but warm. She listens when you talk, like really listens, and when she laughs at your jokes, it’s not just polite. It’s genuine. Like she’s just happy to be there with you.

And you?

You’re smiling more. Laughing more. Nicer to people. Less on edge. Because for the first time in a long time, you’re not faking it. You’re not holding yourself together with duct tape and denial, pretending a half-present boyfriend is enough.

Abby’s not just filling a gap.

She’s showing you what it’s like to not need one in the first place.

And today, finally, it’s just you and her.

For weeks, you’ve been staying at your place. Her idea, gently offered. “I want this to be about you,” she said one night, curled around you in bed, fingers tracing soft circles along your spine. “I want you to feel safe. In your space. On your terms.”

So that’s what you did. Built a quiet rhythm in your own sheets. She’d come over with takeout, sleep beside you, kiss your shoulder in the morning—but never asked for more. Never asked for hers.

But tonight, for the first time, you're staying at her place.

Because you asked.

The building’s older, solid, with a quiet charm. With warm brick, soft lighting in the hallway, and a potted plant by her door that looks like it’s actually thriving. When Abby opens it, she’s barefoot, in light washed denim jeans and a tank top, hair tied back, a slow, easy smile spreading across her face the second she sees you.

“Hey,” she says, voice low and fond, stepping aside so you can enter.

You step in, toeing off your shoes, the wooden floors cool under your socked feet. Her apartment smells like home. It was warm and clean, faint cedar, and dinner already on the stove. There’s music playing low from a speaker tucked by the window, and the lights are dim, cozy. A sweater of hers is draped across the back of the couch like a casual offering. The whole place feels lived-in. Loved in.

You smile, stepping further into the warmth of her apartment, letting the scent of garlic and something buttery wrap around you like a hug. “You cooked?”

“Obviously.” Abby flashes a crooked grin as she returns to the kitchen to stir something on the stovetop. “You think I was gonna let you come over for the first time and order takeout?”

You let out a soft laugh and drop onto one of the barstools at the counter. “Could’ve fooled me with how much you liked that Thai place.”

“That’s different,” she says, flicking her eyes to you, playful. “That’s our lunch spot. This…” She gestures toward the bubbling pot on the stove. “This is a stay-the-night meal.”

You blink, the words catching you off guard in the best way. “A stay-the-night meal?”

“Yep.” She spoons a generous portion of something golden and rich onto a plate and sets it in front of you with a fork. “Butter-sage ravioli. I even grated the fancy cheese. I like feeding people I care about. Deal with it.”

The food is perfect. Warm, comforting. And so Abby—straightforward, full of flavor, a little bold but not overwhelming.

As you eat, the conversation settles into an easy rhythm. Her knee brushes yours beneath the table every now and then with soft, accidental touches that neither of you acknowledge, but don’t pull away from either.

She listens intently while you talk about your classes, the projects piling up, the anxiety that’s been gnawing at you for weeks. She doesn’t rush to offer solutions. Just asks the right questions, promises to check in on your progress, her voice low and warm.

She tells you stories in return. Memories from her freshman year that make you laugh until your stomach aches. The professor who assigned a fifty-page reading on the first night. The roommates who tried to cook pasta with barbecue sauce. You edge a little closer without meaning to, pulled into her orbit, until her hand brushes yours on the table.

This time, you don’t move. You let it stay there.

“I’m glad we could do this,” you say softly, not really planning to, the words slipping out before you can catch them. “I really needed this.”

Her eyes find yours. That smile—slow, unguarded—spreads across her face like it means something deeper. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I’m glad we’re… figuring things out.”

The warmth in your chest isn’t just from the food. It’s her. The way she’s here, with you—not just in proximity, but fully present. There’s something grounding in her presence, something steady in the way she looks at you, like every touch is a reminder she’s not going anywhere.

“You really do take care of me,” you murmur, half teasing, half in awe. “Not just with food. With everything.”

Abby lets out a soft laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the softness of the moment. But everything between you stills for a breath—like the room is waiting.

You don’t rush the last few bites. There’s no hurry now. And when the plates are finally empty, Abby rises, collecting them with practiced ease. Her movements are calm, unrushed, like she’s done this a hundred times before. Like taking care of you is instinct.

“Want to pick a movie?” she asks, drying her hands on a towel. “Something low-stakes. Digestive.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Comfort movie or guilty pleasure?”

She tosses a glance over her shoulder. “You’re the guest of honour. Dealer’s choice.”

The living room is warm with low light, a candle flickering on the coffee table in that cedar-linen scent that smells like her. Feels like her. The couch is soft, worn in just enough to be welcoming.

You sit beside her, close enough that your arms nearly brush. You scroll through the options with little interest until you land on something familiar, something easy. The kind of movie where you already know all the lines, but it doesn’t matter.

She throws a blanket over the two of you without comment, and her arm comes to rest lightly along the back of the couch. She doesn’t pull you in. Just waits.

You shift toward her, leaning into the warmth of her side.

And she lets you.

Her hand finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers weaving together like they were made to fit. It’s not the movie that holds you—the flickering screen fades into the background, eclipsed by the slow, steady circles her thumb draws on your skin. The way she laughs at a line you’ve quoted a thousand times, soft and real. The way her gaze rarely meets yours, but when it does, it’s with that same quiet tenderness that’s been unravelling you, thread by thread, for weeks.

When the credits roll, neither of you moves. No one reaches for the remote. Abby turns to you, hand still clasped in yours. For a moment, her expression is unreadable, as if she’s weighing words she hasn’t dared say yet.

The heat of her body, the softness of her breath against your skin, the way her hands hold you, familiar and grounding. But tonight, it pulses with something deeper. Something that wants more.

You shift again, closing the space between you. Her eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up, and that’s all the invitation you need.

The kiss starts slow. An exhale, a gentle parting of lips that melts into hers. Abby’s hand slides up your spine, pulling you closer like she’s been waiting for this exact moment, wanting to taste every second.

You settle against her, the blanket pooling around your hips as your legs tangle without thought. Her free hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, her mouth moving with yours—deepening, deliberate. Her lips are plush, her kiss unhurried but hungry, sparking fire beneath your skin.

You hum softly against her lips, fingers gripping the fabric of her shirt. She pulls back just enough for her forehead to rest against yours, both of you catching up to the rhythm of your own heartbeats. Then she kisses you again—deeper this time—like staking a claim, like holding back for far too long.

It’s not frantic. It’s not shy.

It’s weeks of want, slow and sure, unfolding between the worn couch cushions as the candle burns low behind you.

Abby shifts beneath you, her hand sliding from your jaw to your waist, gripping just enough to guide without force. She leans back, bringing you with her, coaxing you into her lap with a steady confidence that leaves no doubt where you belong.

You follow willingly, knees bracketing her hips, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan as your chest presses flush to hers.

Her hands steady you, with palms firm on your waist, grounding you. “This okay?” she murmurs, voice rough, eyes searching.

You nod, chasing her mouth again. “Yeah,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

The next kiss is different from the last. Messier. Urgent.

Abby’s hands roam, slipping under the hem of your shirt, palms dragging along your spine with just enough pressure to make your hips twitch forward. She groans softly at the contact, fingers digging in like she needs you closer—closer than your body can go.

You rock against her instinctively, and the heat pooling low in your belly flares hotter when she grips your hips tighter. Her kisses deepen—open-mouthed and breathless—teeth grazing your bottom lip before she sucks it between hers.

You whimper pathetically at that, hands clenching the fabric of her shirt as your bodies move in sync.

The blanket is long forgotten, pooled somewhere on the floor. The movie’s credits finished rolling who-knows-how-long ago; the screen now idles on the home menu. Faint flickers of light cross your faces, but none of it registers. Not with her paying such attention to you.

Her hands slide higher beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine again before fanning out over your ribs. She explores like she’s learning you by touch again. Each stroke sends a shiver through you, making you arch toward her, aching for more contact, more pressure, more.

You tug at her shirt, desperate for skin, not cotton. She lifts her arms without hesitation, letting you pull the fabric over her head and toss it behind you.

Your breath catches.

The sight of her body always has you in shambles. Abby’s body is lean strength—broad shoulders tapering to a firm waist, muscles subtly defined beneath smooth skin. Solid under your hands, warm and steady—the kind of body that feels like both safety and fire all at once.

Her hands are on you again before you can catch yourself, pulling you flush against her bare torso. The heat of her skin meets yours, and your breath stutters at the contact.

Your mouths crash together. Tongues tangling, lips bruising. Abby groans into your mouth as your hips grind down against hers again, her grip tightening on your waist, guiding your rhythm with a slow, steady roll.

She breaks away just long enough to murmur, “God, you look so fuckin’ good,” before her mouth travels to your neck, sucking a mark into the tender skin beneath your ear that makes your toes curl.

You shiver in her lap, nails raking lightly across her shoulders as you cling to her, lost in the drag of her teeth and the sweep of her tongue. She’s breathing hard against your mouth, hips pressing into yours with a slow rhythm that pulls a low, desperate sound from deep in her throat.

The shirt pressed between you becomes unbearable, and Abby feels it too. She pulls back just enough to peel it off, her eyes raking over you with something fierce, a devotion tangled with raw want.

Then she moves. Strong hands bracing at your hips as she shifts, easing you down onto the couch cushions with careful intent. The weight of her settles over you, pinning you there, thigh pressed firmly between your legs, one hand slipping behind your back as her body covers yours.

Her eyes meet yours and for a moment, all you can do is breathe. The grounded weight of her body against yours is everything.

You reach for her again, desperate for skin on skin, for the grounding heat of her pressing you into the couch. She gives it to you—all of it.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, almost to herself, before her mouth finds your throat—biting gently, then soothing the spot with the soft brush of her tongue. You arch into her, craving more friction, more pressure, more of her everywhere.

Her hips roll down with slow, deliberate force, grinding against your aching pussy, drawing a needy moan from your lips as your back arches instinctively. Her hand slides beneath you, deft fingers unhooking your bra. You barely register the soft clink as it falls to the floor before her lips trail lower—kissing along your chest, pausing at the swell of your left breast, wrapping around your nipple with a gentle suck that makes you whimper.

“God, the sounds you make,” she growls against your skin. “I could spend hours just listening to you fall apart.”

You can’t think. Can’t speak. Only feel—her hands, her mouth, the way she moves like she knows every spot that will leave you undone.

Her thigh slips higher between yours. When your hips rock down on instinct, she gasps low against your breast, the sound rough and hungry.

Abby’s hand drags down your body until it nestles between your thighs. Her fingers press into your pussy through your pants, gentle but maddening.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, voice ragged, lips brushing your ear. “Been good for me,” she says, low and heavy with meaning. “So fucking good.”

Her touch scorches along your skin as her hands trail down your thighs, sending shivers deep through you. You let out a breathy moan, pressing closer, the heat between you flaring hotter.

“Come with me?” she whispers, soft but sure.

You nod, breath catching, words barely there. “Yes. Please.”

She leads you down the hall to her bedroom, the dim hallway light tracing the curve of her shoulders, shadows playing across her back. The room smells like her too—clean linen, faint hints of lavender, and the subtle musk of skin and sweat. Soft light filters through sheer curtains, casting gentle patterns across the hardwood floor and a bed piled high with rumpled blankets and pillows.

A small stack of well-worn books sits on the bedside table, their spines creased from rereads, stories she clearly returns to. Beside them, a shallow wooden tray holds a neatly arranged collection of coins—some old, some foreign, each one worn with history, like they’ve been touched a hundred times. The quiet hum of a distant city seeps through the slightly cracked window. Even though you’ve never been here before, it already feels like home.

She doesn’t hesitate. Her hands find your waist, that steady, grounding touch you know so well. She leans in, lips brushing your jaw, then trailing down your neck, open-mouthed. Her hands trace along your sides as uou sigh into her, and she smiles against your skin.

Her kisses drift lower—down your collarbone, over your shoulder, across your sternum to the swell of your breast. Her lips find your other nipple, tongue flicking slow and lazy, teasing in a way that makes your breath catch. Her hands cradle your ribs gently, holding you still as her mouth continues its descent.

She sinks down onto her knees.

Her thumbs hook into the waistband of your pants, her eyes dark and intent as she looks up at you. “Can I?” she asks, voice low and full of need.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

With careful reverence, she peels your pants and underwear down—slow, like unwrapping something precious—dragging the fabric over your hips and thighs until you’re bare before her. When she sees you, skin flushed and breath caught in your chest, she exhales softly, almost reverent.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” she murmurs, the words slipping out before she can hold them back.

Your hands find the hem of her sports bra, and she rises with effortless grace, lifting her arms to give you easy access. As you pull it over her head, the soft stretch of more her skin is revealed to your eyes—lean, strong, and inviting beneath your fingertips. Your palms glide over the curve of her shoulders, tracing the line of her back as you draw her closer, every touch sparking warmth between you.

You kiss her throat, her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder—and she lets you explore, letting you relearn her body with your hands and lips. Yet, her own hands keep returning to your hips and thighs, unable to resist.

Your fingers find the button on her jeans, working quickly, almost on instinct. You pop it open, tug the zipper down, and push the denim past her hips impatiently, desperate to feel more of her skin.

Now both naked, she takes your hand and guides you gently onto the bed, settling you onto the soft mattress. She crawls over you with effortless grace, lips crashing onto yours as her hand slips between your thighs.

Her fingers brushing over your slick cunt.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet,” she whispers against your mouth, voice low and rough. “Fuck, baby. That all for me?”

You moan, your answer spilling out as her fingers start moving, slowly, caressing the wet folds of your cunt. Her mouth trails downward all the while, over your belly, across your hip, to the soft inside of your thigh—until you feel her breath fan over you, settling between your legs.

Her lips crash down on your cunt hungrily before her tongue slides over you—long, slow, and fucking maddeningly good. A low, hungry groan rumbles in her throat as she pulls back just enough to whisper against your slick, trembling pussy.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” she breathes, voice thick and ragged with want, as her eyes lock onto the sight of your cunt.

Then her tongue flicks out flat and wide, dragging across your dripping folds, swiping over your puffy clit like she’s claiming it. She sucks gently, her mouth warm and wet as she wraps her lips around your clit, the pressure building with each suck, each lick, each flick of her tongue that sends shivers roaring through your whole body.

Her tongue dives deeper, sliding inside your cunt with smooth, rhythmic strokes, tracing every sensitive spot she came into contact with. She licks like she’s starving—slow and methodical, tasting every inch, exploring every curve, the way her mouth opens wide to take you in deeper, sucking and swirling, never rushing but never letting up.

Your breath catches, ragged and uneven, fingers clawing into her hair as her mouth devours your cunt with a raw hunger, her tongue moving in circles that grow tighter and faster, driving you wild.

She hums low in her throat, vibrating against your pussy, the sound raw and desperate, matching the frantic pulse of your hips pressing into her face. Her hands brace on your thighs, holding you open, steadying you as she eats you out like she means to memorize every taste, every shudder.

The wet slide of her mouth, the slick drag of her tongue flicking over your clit, the deep suckle that pulls a strangled moan from your throat—it all builds you higher, tightening your muscles around her tongue, drawing you toward the edge in slow, torturous waves.

When your hips jerk and your breath shatters into gasps, Abby groans low and guttural, her body trembling against you, but she doesn’t stop. She keeps going, pushing you higher, faster, deeper into a frenzy of slick, heated pleasure.

Your cunt clenches hard around her probing tongue, your body shattering in waves of burning, white-hot release. You come undone in her hands—a mess of gasps and shudders, your heart hammering wild as every nerve ignites with raw ecstasy.

Only when your body finally stills, when your grip loosens and your hips go slack, does she ease back, lips ghosting over your cunt with one last, worshiping kiss.

Then another, soft and slow, trailing down the inside of your thigh.

Her mouth glistens, warm and soaked with your slick.

She rises from between your legs with a deliberate, lingering grace—as if she’s still tasting your cunt.

Memorizing.

Etching the way your pussy looks—wet, undone, and hers.

Then she comes back up over you, her body sliding against yours. Her mouth finds yours again, deep and messy, tongue tasting where she’s just been. The sound you make into her mouth is raw, unguarded, instinctive.

Your thigh shifts between hers, and her breath catches—just a hitch, but it makes your pulse skip. Then she rolls her hips, slow and deliberate, grinding her pussy down against the firm muscle of your leg.

You feel it immediately.

The heat.

The unmistakable wet drag of her cunt against your skin.

A rough groan breaks from her throat as her forehead leans into yours. “You feel that?” she whispers, voice wrecked and breathless as her hips move again, slower this time. She grinds down, and the friction—the filthy, perfect press of her pussy smearing slick across your thigh—makes your vision blur for a moment.

“That’s what you do to me.”

You try to nod, but it’s barely a motion—more a tremor that starts in your chest and rolls through your limbs. She grinds harder, more desperate, and a sharp, helpless sound tears out of her.

Her hands brace on either side of you, fingers digging in to sheets like she’s anchoring herself to keep from falling apart. Your hands slide up her back, feeling every defined line beneath burning skin. Her body is tense, trembling, every breath a ragged plea she doesn’t say out loud.

Then she grinds against your thigh again, rougher this time. Slick spreads across your skin, warm and obscene, and you whimper.

Her moans are shameless now, open and hungry, each breath caught between a gasp and a groan. She rocks harder, rhythm faltering, one hand planted beside your head now, the other gripping your waist like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The muscles in her back shift beneath your touch as you hold her, feeling her fall apart from the inside out. Her pussy slides wet and hot over your thigh, her clit catching just right again and again, until her whole body goes taut and trembling.

Her eyes flutter shut like it’s too much, like you’re too much, and her breath punches out in hot, heavy bursts against your lips. “Fuck,” she rasps. “You feel so fucking good.”

You press up, giving her more, feeling the flex of your muscle beneath her soaking cunt. Her pussy drags along your thigh, each shift of her hips coating your skin in more slick, and the tension in her body winds tighter.

God. She’s so wet it’s dripping down your leg now.

Her rhythm falters for a beat, hips stuttering in that telltale way. She catches herself with a gasp, burying her face in your neck, teeth dragging lightly across your skin as she pants against you.

“I’m gonna come,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “Just from this—fuck, baby, just from your fuckin’ thigh.”

You whimper at that, your hands gripping her ass, helping her grind harder, right where she needs it. The friction is relentless now—her clit catching against you, every stroke of her soaked cunt getting sloppier, louder.

She moans into your throat, high and wrecked, her whole-body trembling on top of you. “Don’t stop,” she pleads, like she’s barely holding on. “Don’t—don’t fuckin’ stop.”

You don’t.

You can feel her come—feel it in the way her hips stutter, the sharp, guttural cry she buries into your throat, the rush of slick soaking your leg. She grinds through it, riding every last wave, until she slumps against you, breath hot and panting against your cheek.

But even in the aftershocks, she doesn’t stop.

Abby shifts—slow, controlled, but determined—and grinds down again. You can feel her cunt pulses against your thigh with need. She doesn’t need to say a word. You can feel it. She’s insatiable. And watching her fall apart like that, right against you, soaking your thigh, dragging her pussy along your skin like she’ll die without it—

It ruins you.

You can barely breathe. Barely think. Your clit throbs and your whole body arching into her, aching for friction, for pressure, for something to snap that building tension.

She lifts her head at last, gaze locking with yours, her pupils blown wide and dark with lust.

Her hand slips up from besides your bodies, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip like a question.

“Tell me,” Abby murmurs, voice tight and low, barely more than a growl. “Tell me what you want.”

You can’t pretend. Can’t tease. Can’t even beg properly—not when your thighs are slick and trembling, your pussy dripping, your mouth gone dry from how badly you need her.

“I want you,” you breathe, broken and hoarse. The truth of it burns through your chest like a live wire.

Her gaze drops to your mouth, then your trembling body, then back up. Her fingers dig into your thigh, slick with her own come, grounding you in the heat of her presence.

“Yeah?” Her voice is rougher now, unravelling. “Want me how, baby?”

You whimper, hips lifting like they’re searching for hers again. “Abs…” It slips out like a sob, gutted and raw. “You know how. Please. Just—fuck me.”

She stills.

That teasing smirk she sometimes wears? Gone. What’s left is hunger.

“Want me to fill you up, sweetheart?” she asks, voice ragged, barely hanging on. “Want to feel me deep inside that pretty pussy?”

You nod, frantic now, every inch of you pulsing with want. “Yes. God, yes. Please, Abby.”

She groans like she’s the one falling apart. Her hand slips between your thighs, fingers brushing your soaked slit, and she groans again, lower this time. “You’re dripping,” she mutters, almost to herself. “So fucking ready for me.”

Then she leans in, lips to your ear, voice a velvet rasp.

“I’ll give it to you, baby. I’ll fuck this needy little cunt until you forget your own name.”

Abby kisses you once more before she finally rises from the bed.

The sudden loss of her body heat makes you shiver, a hollow ache settling low in your belly. You watch her bare skin catch the soft glow of the lamp as she crosses to the bedside drawer. She crouches down before pulling the drawer open.

Her fingers sift past a phone charger, a spare flashlight, a well-loved paperback—moving with quiet purpose toward the back. You know she’s searching for something specific. Something heavy, something that will change the current between you.

And then, she finds it.

The harness lies coiled at the back of the drawer—dark, sleek, waiting. It’s not flashy. Not built for show. But you know that the moment it’s on her, it’ll be devastating.

She lifts it out with careful hands, the soft leather unfurling between her fingers like a promise. For a long beat, she just holds it there, letting you see it.

Without breaking eye contact, she rises.

Her movements are fluid, practiced—an intimate dance you’ve seen before, but never like this. She slips one leg into the harness, then the other, the straps catching against the curve of her hips before she pulls them taut. Her fingers tighten buckles, adjust tension, smooth each piece flat against her skin like a sacred ritual.

The ring at the centre glints briefly in the low light as she fastens the last strap.

She looks like something carved out of fire and will—power wrapped in leather and desire.

You swallow hard, pulse quickening.

Then her gaze drops—and for the first time, she hesitates. Just a flicker. Just enough for you to catch it. Enough for the breathless anticipation twisting your stomach.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, not quite playful, more desperate than anything. You tilt your head, voice low and teasing.

“So…” you murmur, eyes dragging down to the ring, “what exactly is going to fit into that?”

Abby’s lip’s part, hesitation vanishing like smoke. She steps toward you slowly, hands sliding back to your thighs—fingertips digging in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Reach under the pillow,” she says, voice rough with promise. “Got something under there for you.”

You shift instantly, your hand sliding beneath the pillow she nodded toward. Your fingers brush against something cool, firm. When you pull it out, your breath stutters.

The dildo sits heavy in your palm. Smooth. Perfectly sized. Just seeing it there—held in your hand, chosen for you—makes your skin flush even hotter now.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

Her eyes lock onto yours, dark and hungry as she watches you take it in—watches the way your fingers curl around the base, how your thighs instinctively part a little wider without you even noticing.

Then she moves, lowering herself between your legs again, kneeling, steady, letting her hands trail upward until they close over yours.

Her fingers wrap around yours, guiding them as you offer her the toy. She takes it from you, slow and careful, and threads the dildo through the O-ring. It fits snugly, perfectly—like it was made for her to wear, and for you to take.

She tightens the straps at her hips once more, smooths the leather flat against her skin, checks the angle. Every motion is deliberate. Like a ritual she’s done before, but never quite like this—not with you laid out in front of her, breath shallow, cunt already aching.

Then, without a word, she reaches back toward the drawer and pulls out a small bottle of lube. She gives it a little shake, flicks the cap open with one hand—the motion quick, practiced, unfairly hot.

She looks at you as she pours a generous amount over the toy now strapped to her. The slick sound is sharp in the quiet room. Her eyes never leave yours. Not even as she uses her palm to spread the lube down the shaft, stroking it with the kind of care that makes your thighs twitch.

When it’s slick and glistening, she runs one hand slowly down your inner thigh, coaxing them further apart—like you weren’t already open and waiting for her.

And when she finally speaks again, her voice is a rasp.

“Look at you,” Abby murmurs, gaze dropping to your soaked centre. “So fucking ready. You want it that bad, huh, baby?”

You nod, silent, your throat too tight to form words. Anything you say would come out broken—too breathless, too needy to hide.

She doesn't move right away—just watches you, drinking in every twitch, every tremble. Then, finally, she exhales and sinks to her knees again, the strap brushing your inner thigh as she settles between your legs.

“You’re wet enough to take me,” she murmurs, voice low and strained. “But I still want to feel you first…” The words are more to herself than to you as she reaches for the lube, slicking her fingers before sliding them between your thighs.

Then she slips one finger inside you. It goes in easily—your body more than prepared—but she still takes her time, adding a second, then a third, working them slow, curling just right. You moan, back arching into her touch, your hand finding hers and holding on.

When she finally pulls her fingers away, slick and glistening, she doesn’t break eye contact. Instead, she brings them to her mouth, tongue flicking out to taste. She groans—low, guttural, like she’s the one being undone. “Fuck,” she mutters. “Could eat you again and again.”

Then, and only then, does she line herself up.

The tip is cool as it brushes your inner thigh, then lower still—dragging slowly through your folds. It glides slick with lube and your own arousal, parting you with a lazy motion that makes your breath hitch. She doesn’t push in. Not yet.

Instead, she teases.

Abby moves her hips with maddening precision, dragging the head of the strap through your slick slit again and again—coating it, rubbing just right over your clit, letting it catch there for half a second before pulling back. Her hands are firm on your hips, thumbs stroking your skin, holding you in place even as your body tries to chase more.

Her eyes darken as she watches you fall apart beneath her, lips parting in a needy gasp.

“So fucking perfect,” she murmurs, voice low and rough. “You’re dripping for me… and this little cunt’s aching to be filled.”

But she doesn’t give in just yet. Instead, Abby lets the strap drag along your entrance one more time—slow and teasing—making sure you feel every slick inch before she slides deeper.

Then, finally, she pushes the dildo inside you with slow, torturous patience. The friction of the leather straps pressing tight against her hips sends a fresh rush of heat between your thighs. The toy slides slick and heavy, stretching you deliciously, but she never lets herself go fully—always pulling back just enough to keep the ache building, the desperation growing.

Her pace is maddening.

Abby rolls her hips in shallow thrusts, just the tip slipping in and out, dragging slick along your entrance—coating you, tempting you, ruining you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, every nerve ending singing, your thighs trembling from restraint.

And she knows it. She’s watching you too closely not to.

Her mouth curls—not into a smirk, not quite. It's something darker. Hungrier. A look that says she’s memorizing every twitch of your body, every sound you make, every way you beg without words.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low and rough like gravel. “So fucking needy. This tight little pussy’s already clenching, and I haven’t even begun to fuck you properly.”

You whimper—shameless, broken. Words catch in your throat; all you can do is feel. The drag of the toy through your folds again makes your hips jerk, your hands clutching the sheets like they’re the only tether keeping you grounded.

Abby leans over you now, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding the strap. Her skin is flushed, damp with heat, and her breath fans softly across your lips as she drags the toy over your clit—slow, deliberate circles that send shocks through your entire body.

You gasp, thighs parting wider, helpless to the way she works you open.

“You want more?” she rasps, voice so low it’s almost a growl. “Want me to fuck you like I mean it?”

You nod, frantic—too far gone for words.

But she doesn’t give it to you. Not yet. One strong hand grips your thigh, holding you wide, and she leans in close, her mouth brushing your ear.

“I need words, baby,” she murmurs, low and dangerous. “I need to hear you beg for it.”

A whimper slips from your lips. Your hands claw at her shoulders, grounding yourself in the heavy, hot weight of her body.

“Please,” you breathe, the word broken, wrecked. “I need you, Abby—need you to fuck me.”

Something inside her snaps.

A guttural sound tears from her chest, and then she’s moving—pressing forward, claiming you with slow, deliberate force.

The head of the strap pushes inside, thick and unrelenting, and you cry out—your back arching as she fills you, inch by aching inch. The stretch is dizzying, your body pulling her in greedily, trembling around the toy.

“Fuck,” Abby hisses through her teeth, watching you fall apart. “Look at how perfect you take me.”

Her hips grind deeper, burying herself fully. And you're gone, lost in the friction, the fullness, the filthy praise pouring from her lips.

You sob out a moan, hips tipping toward hers, desperate for more. “Goddamn,” she growls, her voice rough in your ear. “You sound so fucking good.”

She holds there, for just a breath—letting the weight of it settle, letting you feel all of her. The stretch. The fullness. The way you pulse around her like you were made to take every inch.

Then she pulls back.

And thrusts.

The first stroke is slow, deep—an almost reverent press of her hips—and you arch up into her with a choked sob. Then she does it again. And again. A steady rhythm that builds the pressure, the ache, the need inside you until it’s something blinding.

You dig your nails into her back, thighs locking around her hips as she starts to fuck you in earnest. Each thrust punches a moan from your lungs, wet obscene sounds echoing in the space between you.

“Yeah,” Abby groans, grinding deep, her forehead pressed to yours. “Take it, baby. Take all of me.”

You're not sure when you started crying—just little gasps, little tears slipping down your cheeks from the intensity of it. But she kisses them away. Kisses your mouth, your jaw, your throat, never breaking rhythm as she drives into you, relentless.

“You feel that?” she murmurs, voice frayed at the edges. Her thumb traces the corner of your mouth, slick with sweat and spit and heat. “Every time I slide into you… fuck, this tight little pussy just pulls me right back in.”

You whimper—pathetic and grateful—and try to rock up to meet her, but her hands pin your hips down to the bed, holding you in place like you’re something breakable.

“Not yet,” she says, soft but firm. “Want to feel this pretty cunt beg before I let you come.”

Then she grinds.

Not thrusts—grinds. Her hips move in a slow, punishing roll that presses the strap just right inside you, dragging across that perfect spot, making your back arch and your thighs tremble. She does it again. And again. Every motion precise. Intentional. Drawn out.

You’re soaked, stretched, trembling under her, reduced to gasps and open-mouthed moans. She dips her head, lips brushing your throat as she whispers—

“This is mine.”

A shallow thrust punctuates each word. “This. Fucking. Pussy.”

You choke on a sob. You’re close—so close it hurts—but she’s still holding back, still keeping the rhythm just on the edge of unbearable.

“Please,” you breathe, voice wrecked. “Abby, please—just fuck me. I’m yours, just—please—”

Something in her breaks then—cracks open and spills.

And she does.

She fucks you.

Harder now. Deeper. Her grip on your hips turns bruising as she sets a rhythm that rocks the bed, slick and filthy and so good it knocks the air from your lungs. Your body opens for her, greedy and pliant, each thrust punching pleasure through your core like a heartbeat.

Your orgasm builds hard and fast—helpless. Hot. Violent.

And Abby knows.

She can feel it—in the way your pussy clamps down hard around the strap with every thrust, the tight heat pulling her deeper inside you. Your breath hitches, torn and ragged, spilling out in desperate gasps that make her pulse quicken.

“You gonna come for me?” she whispers, breath hot and shuddering against your ear. “Gonna come all over my cock like my good, fucking girl?”

You nod, helpless, the ache inside you breaking loose, unravelling you whole.

She doesn��t slow—not even for a second. Her hips press flush to yours, the harness tight against her skin, the base of the dildo pressing firmly against her own clit through the leather. The friction—a deep, steady pressure matched perfectly to the rhythm of her movements—sends a shiver crawling up her spine, sparking fire between her legs.

Her hands glide down your sides, fingers digging into your hips, then roam lower, settling on your trembling thighs. She holds you steady, grounding herself even as the heat inside her coils tighter, threatening to break free.

Her breath stutters as she finds the perfect angle, adjusting the harness with careful precision, pulling you flush against her. The base presses harder against her clit, each roll of her hips driving her deeper into that maddening, delicious friction. It’s relentless—an exquisite torment that twists in her belly.

Her eyes flutter shut, mouth parting in a soft, ragged gasp.

“This,” she breathes, voice rough, almost desperate, “this is fucking heaven.”

She picks up the pace—hips rolling harder, grinding deeper. The leather strap rubs hot against your slick folds, every stroke slick and urgent. Your hands clutch at her back, nails digging in, pulling her impossibly close. Your bodies move in perfect sync—breath mingling, skin slick with sweat, hearts hammering.

The tension coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound just for this moment. Her breath catches—yours trembles—and you both teeter on the edge.

“Fuck,” she gasps, voice raw and ragged, “come with me.”

And you do.

Together.

Your orgasm crashes over you both—wild, overwhelming waves breaking through every nerve ending. Your muscles clench and tremble around her thick shaft, a fierce, pulsing grip that threatens to swallow her whole. You cry out her name, voice breaking, lost in the tidal rush of sensation.

At the same moment, the base of the dildo rubs harder against Abby’s clit, the friction igniting a white-hot fire that crashes through her too. Her hips jerk forward, thrusting deeper, chasing the pulse spreading through her with every shudder.

Her breath stutters, voice breaking with need. “Fuck—I'm coming with you.”

Her whole body trembles against yours, shaking and clinging, every nerve alight with pleasure. She rides her release with slow, rolling hips, pressing deeper inside you, grounding you both in this beautiful, perfect wreck.

When the storm finally ebbs, she leans down, forehead resting softly against yours, her breath warm and steady on your cheek.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, voice low and reverent. “You’re perfect.”

And you believe her—every word, every aching moment of it.

Her body still trembles against yours, soft and spent, the slow, steady rhythm of her breath brushing over your skin like a whispered promise. The weight of her pressed close grounds you, safe and whole.

She pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded, glowing with the aftermath of everything.

Your fingers find the curve of her neck, tracing slow circles that soothe the fire still burning beneath your skin. She sighs, satisfied.

“You good?” she murmurs, voice rough but gentle.

You nod, words tangled up in the quiet, in the way your heart still races, and your body hums with lingering heat.

Her lips brush yours—a tender, lingering kiss full of reverence and something unspoken, something deep.

Slowly, she shifts, pulling the harness free, her hands warm as they settle over your hips, steadying you both. The room feels heavy with the silence that comes after, but it’s not empty. It’s full. Full of everything you’ve given each other.

She wraps an arm around you, drawing you close again, her body a steady anchor. Your cheek rests against her collarbone, breath mingling, hearts syncing in the quiet.

She keeps her hands gentle, slow, as she rubs your back, soothing away the last lingering tremors beneath your skin. After a while, she shifts, sitting back on her heels and looking at you with that soft, attentive gaze—like she’s reading every little need you haven’t spoken.

“Want me to help you clean up?” she asks, voice warm and tender.

You nod, barely able to form the words, and she’s already moving with that practiced care—her hands reaching for the harness straps, fingers deft and patient as she loosens them. The cool air grazes your heated skin as the strap comes free, and she sets it gently aside.

Her hands glide over you, wiping away the slick sheen of sweat and lube with a warm, soft cloth. The touch is gentle but deliberate, reverent—like she’s memorizing every inch of you all over again.

Abby stands and holds out her hand. “Come with me. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Her warmth radiates through your fingers as you take her hand, letting her guide you from the bed. She leads you into the dimly lit bathroom, the tile cool beneath your feet, the quiet hum of the fan the only sound as she reaches for the faucet.

She tests the water with her hand, adjusting the temperature with practiced care until steam begins to curl from the edges of the glass door. The soft hiss of water hitting porcelain fills the space like white noise, soothing and gentle.

When it’s just right, she turns back to you, eyes soft as she steps into the shower first, her body disappearing into the warm mist. Then she reaches out again, hand open, inviting.

“Come here,” she murmurs.

She steps in first, the heat enveloping her before she pulls you close, the water washing over both your bodies. Her hands explore anew—soft, wet, alive—tracing curves and hollows with loving care, rinsing away the remnants of your shared heat.

Your breath catches when she presses you against her, the slickness of water and skin mixing, the steady rhythm of her touch grounding you in the moment.

Her fingers thread through your wet hair as she leans down, lips brushing your temple, neck, and finally your mouth in a slow, tender kiss. The steam swirls around you both, wrapping you in a quiet intimacy.

She murmurs against your ear, “You’re so beautiful,” voice low and tender.

Her hands glide over your shoulders, down your arms, lingering at your hips as she pulls you closer, skin slick against skin. The warmth of the water and her body seeping into you, chasing away every leftover ache, every fragment of tension.

You slide your hands along her sides, feeling the soft muscles under her skin, the steady beat of her heart beneath your palms.

For a long moment, you simply hold each other, suspended in that perfect calm—the world outside forgotten, reduced to the sound of water and slow mingling breaths.

Eventually, she reaches for the shampoo, gently massaging your scalp, fingers working through your hair as you tilt your head back and sigh into the sensation.

Her lips brush your forehead as she rinses your hair, the water carrying away every trace of heat and longing.

Then, carefully, she washes her own hair, the simple act of care grounding you both even more.

When the water slows and the steam begins to fade, she wraps you in a plush towel, pulling you close again. Her hands cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek as she searches your eyes.

Her eyes search yours for a long, quiet beat—tender, steady, like she’s seeing something she doesn’t want to look away from. Then she leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips—soft and slow, not demanding, just there, full of everything she doesn’t say aloud.

You melt into it, into her, lips parting slightly as her fingers stay gentle on your cheeks, holding you like something fragile and treasured all at once.

When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests against yours again. “Come on,” she whispers. “Let’s get you warm.”

She towels you off with quiet care, wrapping the thick fabric around your shoulders before grabbing one for herself. The air is cool outside the bathroom, but she doesn't let you feel it for long—one arm loops around your waist, keeping you close as she guides you back to the bedroom.

She disappears briefly into the dresser, tugging open a drawer and pulling out a soft, worn-in shirt—something oversized, faded at the edges, the scent of her skin clinging to the fabric.

Wordlessly, she helps you slip it over your head, her knuckles brushing along your sides in the process. The shirt drapes over you like a second embrace, and you can't help the small, content noise that escapes you.

“Looks better on you,” she murmurs, lips curving into a slow, sleepy smile as she pulls back the covers, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound between you for a beat.

You slip beneath the sheets, the cool cotton brushing against your skin before your body sinks into the lingering warmth of the mattress. The oversized shirt she gave you drapes down to your thighs, swallowing you whole in her scent—faint traces of cedarwood, clean linen, and something uniquely her.

Abby joins you a moment later, the mattress dipping gently under her weight. She doesn’t hesitate—just moves with the same quiet certainty that’s carried through everything tonight, her arm curling around your waist like instinct, like muscle memory. Her chest presses to your back, strong and steady, anchoring you.

She exhales slowly against the nape of your neck, the warmth of it slipping beneath your skin. Her hand finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers tangling with yours in a soft, grounding hold. The pads of her fingers stroke slow, lazy circles over your knuckles, like she can still feel the echo of your heartbeat there.

“You good?” she asks again, her voice low and rough with sleep, but laced with genuine care—like she’s not just asking about tonight, but everything.

You nod, pressing back into her, feeling her body mold around yours, heat to heat, skin to skin. This time, the words come easier. “Yeah. I am now.”

There’s a pause—quiet, intimate—before she leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder, then the nape of your neck. It’s not hurried, not just a habit. It’s slow, like she means it. Like she wants to stay in this moment as long as time will allow.

Her voice is soft when she speaks next, almost reverent. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

And she does. You feel it in every place your bodies touch—in the way her fingers don’t let go of yours, in the way her legs tangle with yours like she’s trying to keep you close even in dreams. Her breath evens out slowly behind you, but her grip never falters.

The room settles into a warm hush, filled only with your joined breathing and the soft rustle of sheets as you shift to get even closer. Outside, the world moves on—quiet, indifferent—but in here, everything stills.

You close your eyes, wrapped in her scent, her warmth, her love.

Safe. Calm. Held.

And with her heartbeat steady at your back, you finally fall asleep.

#abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x reader smut #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #lesbian

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sheriffaxolotl · 28 days ago

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Hii i loved off the ledge, it was AMAAZZINGGGG !!!! Are you going to continue it?? This isn't a "post pls" ask people have lives ik😭 just a genuine question!! Much love to u and your writing <33

Hii!! AHH thank you so much 🥹💖 I’m so happy you loved Off the Ledge. That seriously means the world to me!! And yes!! I’m absolutely going to continue it!! 😭💕

Life's been super hectic lately. I’m getting slammed with uni and currently on placement, so things are a bit chaotic rn. But I definitely plan to keep writing it as soon as I get a chance! Thank you for being so kind and understanding, and for reaching out with such a sweet message 💕 much love back to you!! <33

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sheriffaxolotl · 1 month ago

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Oh, how I could read this over and over again… STUNNING WRITING AND JUST UGH SO GOOD

Hello:) i hope its not too much of a bther to ask but could you do an modern au angst-comfort fic with Ambessa perchance? Maybe a scenario ambessa fucks up a little by kissing somebody while drunk and reader finds out, they go on an ambigious break and Ambessa is just doing all that she can to take reader back:( Pathetic ambessa is a spiritual need i fear

A/N: [Not a bother at all! In fact, this request is everything! I love a powerful woman on her knees!

If anyone has muscle mommy requests feel free, I'm very willing to write for any of them (Sevika, Ambessa, Vi, Grayson, Abby Anderson...)]

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

Ambessa Medarda was a name that opened every door. First Black woman on the cover of Forbes three years in a row. CEO of Medarda Holdings. Billionaire by 35. Voted "Most Intimidating Person in Tech & Finance" by Vanity Fair, twice. Her life was gold-dipped and diamond-cut. Every moment was a press statement, every movement was calculated.

Except you.

You weren’t calculated. You were a chaos she welcomed. Messy, mismatched socks left on her expensive rug. Your chipped mug next to her sleek, minimalist espresso machine. A toothbrush you "forgot" that had been sitting in her marble bathroom for months. You weren’t really together, you've never made it official. But you were something.

And Ambessa called you hers, in every way that didn’t involve saying it aloud.

Dating her was like trying to warm your hands on stone.

At first.

She didn’t flirt the way others did. She asked precise questions. Paid attention. Listened. And when she started showing up with coffee just the way you liked it, or rearranging meetings to catch an art show with you, it wasn’t flashy but it was intentional.

And intent with Ambessa meant more than flowers or poems ever could.

The first time she touched you - not sex, just touched you - was when she brushed your hair out of your face one night and said, almost like an afterthought, “You’re hard to stop thinking about.”

Your heart had leapt. Hers had clenched. Vulnerability was a battlefield she had no map for.

You kissed her that night. She kissed you back like she’d been starving.

That was the start.

She wasn’t good at being soft. But you never asked her to be anything she wasn’t. That was the thing. You just made space for her to be something else, if she wanted to be.

She wanted to be better. She just didn’t know how to ask for help doing it.

And when she kissed that stranger - stupid, meaningless - it was less about lust, more about cowardice. She had been afraid of how much she needed you. Of how much power you held over her simply by loving her.

And she broke it. Carelessly, like all things she touched. God, what a thing to throw away.

That night was supposed to be a boring gala. One of a dozen a year. Suits, speeches, too many cameras. She told you not to come: “It’ll be a room full of hedge fund parasites and social climbers. You’ll be bored.”

You didn’t argue. You trusted her. Trusted that she'd text when she got home, or maybe come back to your place tipsy and sleepy, mumbling into your neck about office gossip you only half-followed.

Before leaving she texted you a picture of herself in that deep green Armani suit you liked, with gold cufflinks. You sent back a “be good.”

She wasn’t.

She arrived at the gala alone. Perfect as always. The signature half-smile that never reached her eyes. Someone handed her a drink. Then another.

She didn’t mean to drink that much. She wasn’t even sure why she did. Something had been gnawing at her lately - a dull, aching edge of vulnerability she couldn’t name. The softness you’d brought into her life made her feel... fragile. And fragility scared her more than failure.

The woman who kissed her wasn’t special. She didn’t mean anything. Just someone laughing too loudly, standing too close. Saying all the wrong things that felt right for one drunk, stupid second. And Ambessa hadn’t pulled away fast enough. It all lasted three seconds. Maybe four. But someone took a photo.

And someone else sent it to you.

You didn’t scream or cry. You just texted her: “So that’s what we are, huh?”

Then: “I think I need space.” No “don’t call me.” No breakup, there had been no labels to begin with. Just space.

You expected her to reply with an excuse. You weren’t sure if you hoped for one. But it never came. All you saw were the three dots jumping up and down on your screen.

Typing. Deleting. Typing again. She sent nothing. It made you want to smash the device into the wall.

---

For the next few days you did anything to get your mind of the situation at hand. You deep-cleaned the whole house, answered emails and dodged your friend' questions. In fact you stopped checking your phone completely in hopes of saving yourself the disappointment over the vow of silence Ambessa decided on. It was easier to pretend her silence didn’t hurt more than the photo itself.

Then - as if the situation couldn't get more infuriating - a courier buzzed your door. He handed you a bouquet of white orchids- elegant, soulless. Arranged like a funeral display for a relationship that never got the dignity of a label. He also handed you a small pristine white bag, with a blue velvet box tucked inside. No note. Just the box itself.

Nestled inside the box was a blue sapphire, teardrop-cut. Framed by icy diamonds and impossibly delicate gold. The chain alone looked like it cost more than your rent.

You recognized it immediately. You’d admired it once, months ago, in the window of a boutique. You’d lingered in front of the glass and she remembered.

You slammed the box shut and tossed the bundle of wealth on the kitchen counter like it had burned you. Because accepting the necklace, even leaving it tucked away in a drawer, would’ve meant you were considering forgiveness. That you were even entertaining the idea of sweeping it all under the rug just because she threw something shiny at the problem. You were't letting this slide over this half assed non-apology.

You stared at the aesthetic perfection sitting before you and seethed.

Because she still didn’t get it. Still thought this was about damage control. Making up for betrayal like it had price tag.

You didn’t need diamonds. You needed her to bleed a little. To show up with her hands shaking and her voice uneven. To try - not with jewelry or the power of her last name, but with honesty.

Instead, she sent you something beautiful but safe. And it made you so angry. It wasn’t just the gesture - it was the message beneath it. The insult. That Ambessa Medarda thought she could kiss a stranger, buy an apology, and have crawling back without so much as a real conversation let alone a verbal apology.

Fine. If she wanted to play this game then so be it.

The next morning, you got dressed with intention. Clean lines without a trace of vulnerability.

You walked into Medarda Holdings with your jaw set and your head held high.

The receptionist glanced up, startled by the confidence in your stride. You placed the bouquet and the velvet box on the counter in front of her gently.

“These are for Ms. Medarda,” you said, calm and crisp.

“She’s not expecting anything,” the receptionist replied, blinking. “Do you want me to let her know you’re here?” the receptionist asked, reaching for the desk phone.

“No,” you said, sharper than necessary. Then: “I’ve already said everything I needed to... just make sure she gets them.”

You didn’t leave a note. Didn’t even glance tin the direction of her office. Just turned and walked out, heels echoing on marble, the kind of exit she might’ve made herself.

---

Ambessa was mid-email when her assistant knocked on her door. She stepped inside with a smirk, arms ful.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” she sang, placing them carefully on the desk. “These just came to reception. I put them in some water for you.”

Ambessa blinked, staring at the flowers like they might detonate.

Her pulse stuttered.

“I - what?” she asked, a beat too late.

The assistant placed them on her desk, clearly enjoying herself. “No card, but judging by the packaging? Someone’s trying real hard to impress you.”

The words hit like a slap.

The necklace in same box she’d sent you.The same goddamn flowers she’d ordered to make the gesture “softer” after googling which flowers represent regret.

Back. Returned. In front of her assistant, no less.

For a horrifying second, Ambessa said nothing. She stared at the items like they would tell her what to do now.

The assistant laughed, misreading the silence. “Okay, wow, you’re blushing. I’ll leave you to it.”

The moment the door clicked shut behind her assistant, Ambessa stood very still.

Ambessa opened the box slowly. The necklace glinted, untouched. Still flawless. She clenched her jaw, shut the necklace box - and hurled it across the office. It struck the wall with a thud, landing in the corner of the room.

She moved through her own office like a ghost. Her hands were shaking. She walked to her desk and gripped the edge, grounding herself in the cold marble.

She stared at the flowers for a moment, then tore them from the vase one stem at a time throwing them into the trash. Slowly. Almost methodically. Like she could dismantle the failure by undoing this arrangement.

Then she picked up the phone. Her voice cracked once when she spoke, and she had to swallow it back down before she could try again. “Cancel everything for the rest of the day,” she said. “All of it. Just - reschedule or... I don’t care.”

Her assistant paused. “Are you okay, Ms. Medarda?”

Ambessa said nothing. Just hung up. She sank into the chair behind her desk, back perfectly straight - shoulders drawn taut like wire.

Tears were building behind her eyes and she hated them for it. Hated how weak it felt. Hated how unfamiliar it all was. She had never cried over a mistake. Now she was crying because the one person who had seen her beneath the armor wanted nothing to do with her.

And she didn’t know how to get you back. Because the truth was this: She’d never known how to hold anything fragile. And you were the first fragile thing she ever wanted to keep safe.

Ambessa hadn’t been sleeping. Four nights in a row she'd laid in bed staring at the ceiling. Tried the pills her doctor prescribed once, years ago. Nothing worked. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the disappointed expression you might have made when you typed out that text: “So that’s what we are, huh?”

She had known how badly she fucked up. But not how thoroughly.

You weren’t even angry anymore. You were finished.

---

Ambessa Medarda stopped showing up to meetings.

At first, people thought she was traveling. Or closing some high-level deal no one was cleared to talk about. But then the excuses started sounding thinner. Her assistant began rescheduling things with vague apologies - “Something came up,” “She’ll circle back soon,” “Thanks for your patience.”

After a week, people started whispering.

“She looked like shit at the summit.” “Did you hear she walked out of her own board meeting?” “Hungover, probably.”

But she wasn’t drinking. Not anymore, not after that night.

The crystal decanter of scotch sat full and untouched on the cart by the window. She hadn’t poured a glass in days. The ice bucket hadn’t left the freezer. The sight of liquor made her stomach twist now from the memory of that one moment when she stopped thinking and let her fear dictate her actions.

The green Armani suit was still on the floor. Crumpled in a corner of her closet, a crumpled $10,000 ghost of a life she didn’t deserve. She didn’t have the heart to send it to dry cleaning. Couldn’t look at it without flinching. It was the last thing she wore when she still had you and it was one of your favorite on her.

She wandered blindly through her penthouse. The chipped mug you always used still sat in the sink. Dry coffee stains marking the last time you touched it. She couldn’t even bring herself to wash it. Couldn’t throw it out, either. It just sat there. Waiting.

Like she was.

The bed was untouched on one side. Her side. She slept curled on the left now, where you used to sleep, where your scent still clung to the sheets no matter how many times she told herself it didn’t.

She kissed someone to prove she wasn’t in love. And in doing so, proved exactly how deep she’d already fallen.

She hadn’t spoken to you in nearly two weeks, and the returned necklace had gutted her in ways she hadn’t even understood yet.

She hadn’t meant for it to come off the way it did. But she didn’t know how else to say I’m sorry without sounding like a boardroom talking point. So she picked a gesture. A beautiful thing. A quiet offering.

---

Ambessa sat on the floor of her penthouse, back against the cold tall glass window. She hadn’t moved in hours.

Her phone lay beside her, screen dark. There were fourteen unsent messages drafted in her notes. All of them seemed too crafted. Apologies written like press statements. Declarations of regret edited to death. None of them felt real. None of them sounded like her. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe she didn’t know who she was without the script.

She stared across the room. Her head dropped back against the glass. She closed her eyes.

This - this pathetic haze of regret and silence - wasn't her. She’d built empires. She’d been humiliated and underestimated and had clawed her way to the top of an industry that had never wanted her in the first place.

But this - losing you? This had wrecked her more thoroughly than anything else ever had.

Because for once in her life, she hadn’t been fighting for control. She’d just been trying to be held. And she’d ruined it.

She picked up her phone again and opened a blank message, before pausing.

Then closed it again and slowly stood up. Her joints ached from sitting too long, unmoving.

No more texts. No more gifts. No more hiding. If she was going to lose you, she was going to do it honestly. Scared, flawed but trying.

---

It was late. You weren’t doing anything important. Curled up on the couch, doom-scrolling through your phone, a show playing quietly in the background you hadn’t really followed for three episodes now.

You weren’t expecting anyone. But then you heard three soft knocks and your heart stopped. Your body already knew before your brain caught up. Knew who it would be.

You stood slowly and opened the door. And there she was.

Ambessa.

She looked… tired.

Hair pulled back sloppily, curls loosening at the edges. A faint shadows beneath her eyes, skin slightly pale under the soft yellow hallway light.

She was wearing a sweater that was too big, sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms and jeans that looked like they hadn’t been ironed, maybe not even washed, in a while. Nothing about her matched. Her expensive wool coat hung open.

But somehow? She still looked beautiful. Not in the way she looked on magazine covers. This was something else. Something wrecked and raw.

Her shoulders weren’t squared. Her spine wasn’t straight. She looked like someone who had been standing outside your door for twenty minutes working up the nerve to knock (she had).

Her eyes met yours. And she looked like she might break.

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, her voice low and rasped. “I didn’t come here to make a scene. Or make excuses. Or to convince you. I just…”

She exhaled, shaky. “I don’t know what else to do but be honest.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away.

As her eyes bore into yours, she looked… afraid. Afraid of what she’d made you feel. Of what she might find in your face now.

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, quietly. “And I didn’t come here to ask for anything.”

You said nothing.

She swallowed. “I came because... I’ve tried space. Silence. Gifts. Control. I’ve rewritten a dozen messages and never sent any of them because I wanted to give you space... and because none of them felt good enough.”

Her voice wavered. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to ask you to forgive me in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m trying to win.”

You opened the door wider, just slightly. She didn’t move. Her breath hitched like she was forcing the words out before she lost the courage.

Her eyes were wet. Not crying yet. Not quite.

“I miss you. All of it. Your socks on the floor. You drinking out of that chipped mug in the morning... the way you say my name.”

Her voice cracked, finally. “And if you tell me you don’t want me anymore - if you shut the door in my face - I’ll try to respect that. I swear I will. But I’m standing here because I need you to know: I want to be better. For you. I just-”

Her hand lifted slightly, like it might reach for yours, then dropped.

“I just don’t know how to do it without you.”

You were silent as you stared at her. For once, she didn’t look powerful, or composed, or terrifying.

She looked like someone who hadn’t slept. Someone who used to have the world at her feet and now couldn’t even keep herself upright. She looked like someone who had learned how to beg without saying the word.

Finally you stepped back enough to leave the doorway open.

She blinked - half expecting for the door to be slammed in her face - then walked in carefully, like the floor might fall out beneath her.

She stood in the middle of your living room awkwardly, arms at her sides, not touching anything.

You sat on the couch and waited.

She just turned toward you and finally said, soft and unguarded: “I think about you constantly.”

You didn’t interrupt.

Her eyes were wide, glassy, rimmed with exhaustion.

“I kissed that woman because I was drunk... and I was stupid. And I’ve hated myself for it every single day since.”

She swallowed when she caught your glare. You shifted, arms crossed. “Then why did you do it?... Truly?” you asked, quiet but firm.

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. Her jaw worked, searching for something to give you - some answer that would make any of this make sense.

“I don’t know,” she said, finally. “I’ve asked myself that over and over.”

She sat down, but not next to you. Across. She shifted on the couch, wringing her hands - a gesture you’d never seen from her before. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t go looking for it. I just… let it happen. Like an idiot.”

She took a long breath. “I was stupid. And I couldn’t face what I had- what you were. It was like I looked at you, and it was too good. Too… undeserved. I felt myself needing you so deeply I didn’t know where I ended and you began. And instead of holding on, I ruined it.”

Her voice cracked there, just slightly. “And I wanted to need you less. But I didn’t. I still don’t... I didn’t know how to look at something that real and not break it.”

You looked at her. Really looked. All the cracks were showing now. The frayed threads. The sadness she didn’t know how to wear properly.

You let the silence stretch a little longer.

Then, finally: “I think... I needed to see if you cared.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours, startled.

“Not if you remembered my favorite flowers. Or sent me some luxury apology like a contract negotiation... I needed to know if you actually gave a damn. About me. Not about fixing your image. Or owning me like I’m some accessory to your success.”

Ambessa’s breath caught.

“I needed to see if you’d show up for me,” you said.

You paused. Watched the words hit her. “It took you a while but you did.”

She blinked fast. Her shoulders curled in slightly, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know I acted like being affectionate was a problem. Like you were… replaceable. But that's not true. You never were. You never will be.”

You didn’t say anything. But your hand moved - just slightly - toward her. And that was all it took.

She slid from the couch to the floor in front of you, knees meeting the rug with a soft thud. Like her body had been waiting to collapse for days.

She looked up at you - eyes shining, lips pressed together like she didn’t trust them to stay steady. Her head bowed for a second.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward. Wrapped her arms around your waist. Pressed her face into your stomach, like she was trying to hide the tears beginning to fall.

And finally -

Ambessa Medarda let herself cry. Just a few trembling tears that slipped past her control, pressed into the fabric of your shirt.

You held her not saying a word. Not because everything was okay, but because she'd finally given you something real to hold.

And that had to mean something.

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