sapphic shapeshifter (butch/femme lesbian) | 25 | TLOU | RDR AO3: sheriffaxolotl 18+
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⊠ON HIATUS âŠ
#See you all soon-ish#Off the ledge will come along with my time away#but yeah#work and uni do be kicking my ass#so this is to ease my mind of anything
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stop earning advanced degrees i need you to finish your fanfiction
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Abby being annoyed cause I think she looks hot when she is annoyed đ€·đŒââïž
#abby anderson tlou2#abby anderson#abby tlou2#abby tlou#tlou2 abby#tlou abby#god she is so pretty#down bad lesbian here đ©
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Iâm not in love. Iâm in peril. Thereâs a difference and itâs mostly the sweating
No. Iâm not doing this. Iâm not going to fight you. ABBY ANDERSON: THE LAST OF US PART II
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HI QUEEN [same anon from the 1st chapter of better lmao hi]
chapter 2 was literally everything i couldâve dreamed about and more đ© i love how you write abby!! sheâs so soft and sweet and just the right amount of possessive
also her getting down on her knees for the reader?? HAVE MERCY. đ”âđ«
that was so fantastic iâm shaking in my boots!!! thank you SO much for taking the time to write a part 2 seriously. it was 10/10 beautiful, absolute chefâs kiss đđđđ
HI AGAINNNNN đđđ
Omg it makes me so happy that you came back for chapter 2!!! đđ Abby being soft and a little possessive is literally my kryptonite too, so Iâm THRILLED youâre enjoying the way Iâm writing her!!
AND YES⊠her getting on her knees??? sometimes you just have to let her be the momentđ§ââïž
Thank you for taking the time to send such a sweet message, seriously. I grinned the entire time reading this đđđđ chefâs kiss right back at you!!!
If you ever have any requests or ideas you wanna throw my way, feel free to drop them in my inbox! Iâd love to hear them đâš
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I wanna be her post-workout protein shake but like. emotionally. and also physically. preferably consumed.




Abs, using her charm
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every muscle on her body is a separate reason to lose composure in public

in my head me and abby are in love
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iâm barking. iâm howling. iâm chewing through drywall like itâs enrichment time at the zoo.
Abby's back, in game
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Reading. Waiting. Yearning. Go show this fic all the love and devolution it deserves Abby lovers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
đČđšđźâđ«đ đđĄđ đšđ§đ„đČ đšđ§đ đđĄđđ đą đ đđ đ„đąđ€đ đđĄđąđŹ đđšđ« - đ.đ.

đąđą. đđ«đđđŠ đ đ„đąđđđ„đ đđ«đđđŠ đšđ đŠđ
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 wasnât 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.
âLate again,â Nora says in a sing-song-like tone as you burst through the flaps of the medical tent.Â
Thereâd been a lull in patients since this morning and thankfully itâs still just the two of you. Nora has seen you in worse shape than this since you became roommates over a year ago, so itâs not nearly as embarrassing when you hunch over, bracing your hands on your knees to steady your ragged breathing.Â
âJesus, did you sprint all the way here?â she asks, tone bordering on playful concern.Â
âY-Yeah, justâŠneed a minute. Iâm fine,â you wheeze, giving her a thumbs up.Â
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.Â
âSo, ya gonna tell me why you came sprinting in here like a bat out of hell?â she eventually asks once youâve calmed down, a knowing look on her face.
You simply shrug, unable to meet her gaze as you return to your feet.Â
âJust realized how late I was,â you lie, continuing across the tent. âDidnât want to leave you stranded.â
You cringe inwardly when your voice raises an octave, something she clearly catches.Â
âUh, huh, okay,â she snorts, unconvinced. âIf you say soâŠâ
She thankfully drops the subject for now, but knowing Nora, she wouldnât 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.Â
The both of you settle into a comfortable silence as you work, but that calm doesnât last for longâit never seems to.Â
Another group of recruits comes stumbling in from their first patrol, and the chaos of the morning resumes. You're just thankful she doesnât have the chance to bring up your flustered state the rest of your shift. Youâre 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.Â
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 wasnât 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 donât 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.Â
While you werenât always able to find comfort in food, you still had books. Youâd 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 youâd hoped.Â
Youâd 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 didnât need any more tragedy plaguing your thoughts.Â
Youâre 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. Thereâs a thick novel thatâs been left behind discarded on one of the chairs but itâs the picture on the cover that stops you in your tracks, causing a warm flush to creep up the back of your neck.Â
Youâd seen books like these over the years during patrols, spicy novellas as Manny had so lovingly referred to themâbut youâd never taken an interest in one before.Â
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 itâs the male that you are unable to tear your gaze away from.Â
His face is obscured, buried completely in the womanâs 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.Â
Why does he remind you of her?Â
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 youâre grateful for the solitude as you speed through your bedtime routine.Â
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.Â
The premise isâŠincredibly cheesy to say the least, a damsel being taken aboard an enemy vessel and held captive while out at sea. And yet somehow itâs 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 GabrielâŠÂ
The universe has to be playing some cruel joke on you.Â
You donât 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.Â
A gentle drawl of your name has your eyes fluttering open and the sight before you sets your pulse racing.Â
Abby, always Abby.Â
Sheâs 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.Â
âThere she is,â she murmurs, her calloused fingers cradling your jaw. âThought I lost you for a minute there, pretty girl.âÂ
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.Â
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 isnât faring much better as the waves continue to crash against the shore, washing up and drenching your entangled bodies.Â
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.Â
âTouch me,â you breathe.Â
And the dam breaks.Â
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.Â
âAbby, please,â you plead when her fingers dip between your parted thighs, the blonde hushing you with another firm kiss.Â
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 insideâ
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 werenât 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.Â
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 couldnât have given you fifteen more minutes?Â
Another knock sounds again, but this time theyâve grown more impatient as they bang their entire fist against the solid wood.Â
âOkay, Iâm coming!â you shout, unable to stop your annoyance from bubbling to the surface.Â
Well, you certainly would have by nowâŠÂ
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.Â
There she is⊠thought I lost you for a minute there, pretty girl.Â
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.Â
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 doorâŠ
and your heart just about falls into your ass.Â
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 itâs really unfair. Sheâs wearing her normal patrol clothes, a gun strapped to her upper thigh and her pack draped across her back.Â
âNice slippers,â she remarks and you suddenly wish the stadium would crumple apart and swallow you whole.Â
Itâs 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.Â
âAy dios mĂo, princesa, gonna give a guy a heart palpitations lookinâ like that.âÂ
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.Â
âHow long will it take you to get ready?â she asks, her tone strictly business.Â
But it still makes your stomach flutter.Â
âReady forâŠâ you trail off, your confusion evident.Â
Abby sighs. âSo Nora didnât tell you.âÂ
âTell me what?âÂ
âWeâre 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,â she explains.Â
You immediately notice the smug expression on Mannyâs face, now understanding the reason for Noraâs unexplained absence after work. Oh, you were going to kill them both.Â
âShe absolutely neglected to mention that,â you mutter, trying to keep the full irritation out of your voice. âJustâŠgive me, like, 20 minutes and Iâll be ready.â
Abby nods, shrugging away from the wall and you canât 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 dreamâŠ
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 thighsâŠ
âWeâll meet you down at the mess hall, chica,â Mannyâs voice instantly snaps you back to reality, the male shooting you a playful wink before he guides them down the hallway. âGrab ya something on the way.âÂ
You donât 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 theyâve disappeared from view, your body collapsing back against it.Â
You are so, totally fucked.Â
âą part three.
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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 girlfriendâs wounds by flashlight, fingers trembling but steady, whispering, âIâve got you.â
boss: âGreat job on the report!â me: âThanks!â also me: cried because Abby held her hand for the first time in chapter 9
no one here knows Iâve written more emotional dialogue for two fictional women than Iâve spoken to real people all week.
#[brainrotaxolotl]#day job? boring#night job? emotionally intense lesbian#Abby Anderson rights#they donât know Iâve 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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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.
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Oh, how I love herâŠ. đ« đ



Abby Anderson đđż
Babygirl with some different hairstyles đ„°
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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, hereâs Part 2âfeedback is always welcome! Happy Pride Month! đ â âââââââââââââââââââââââȘ Part 1 ⫠ââââââââââââââââââââââ â
Summary: She said sheâd 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.
Itâs 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, itâs been real.
Sheâs been at your side every day sinceâwithout 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 itâs 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, itâs not just polite. Itâs genuine. Like sheâs just happy to be there with you.
And you?
Youâre smiling more. Laughing more. Nicer to people. Less on edge. Because for the first time in a long time, youâre not faking it. Youâre not holding yourself together with duct tape and denial, pretending a half-present boyfriend is enough.
Abbyâs not just filling a gap.
Sheâs showing you what itâs like to not need one in the first place.
And today, finally, itâs just you and her.
For weeks, youâve been staying at your place. Her idea, gently offered. âI want this to be about you,â she said one night, curled around you in bed, fingers tracing soft circles along your spine. âI want you to feel safe. In your space. On your terms.â
So thatâs what you did. Built a quiet rhythm in your own sheets. Sheâd come over with takeout, sleep beside you, kiss your shoulder in the morningâbut never asked for more. Never asked for hers.
But tonight, for the first time, you're staying at her place.
Because you asked.
The buildingâs older, solid, with a quiet charm. With warm brick, soft lighting in the hallway, and a potted plant by her door that looks like itâs actually thriving. When Abby opens it, sheâs 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.
âHey,â 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. Thereâs 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. âYou cooked?â
âObviously.â Abby flashes a crooked grin as she returns to the kitchen to stir something on the stovetop. âYou think I was gonna let you come over for the first time and order takeout?â
You let out a soft laugh and drop onto one of the barstools at the counter. âCouldâve fooled me with how much you liked that Thai place.â
âThatâs different,â she says, flicking her eyes to you, playful. âThatâs our lunch spot. ThisâŠâ She gestures toward the bubbling pot on the stove. âThis is a stay-the-night meal.â
You blink, the words catching you off guard in the best way. âA stay-the-night meal?â
âYep.â She spoons a generous portion of something golden and rich onto a plate and sets it in front of you with a fork. âButter-sage ravioli. I even grated the fancy cheese. I like feeding people I care about. Deal with it.â
The food is perfect. Warm, comforting. And so Abbyâstraightforward, 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 donât pull away from either.
She listens intently while you talk about your classes, the projects piling up, the anxiety thatâs been gnawing at you for weeks. She doesnât 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 donât move. You let it stay there.
âIâm glad we could do this,â you say softly, not really planning to, the words slipping out before you can catch them. âI really needed this.â
Her eyes find yours. That smileâslow, unguardedâspreads across her face like it means something deeper. âIâm glad youâre here,â she says. âIâm glad weâre⊠figuring things out.â
The warmth in your chest isnât just from the food. Itâs her. The way sheâs here, with youânot just in proximity, but fully present. Thereâs something grounding in her presence, something steady in the way she looks at you, like every touch is a reminder sheâs not going anywhere.
âYou really do take care of me,â you murmur, half teasing, half in awe. âNot just with food. With everything.â
Abby lets out a soft laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. âSomeoneâs gotta do it.â
Maybe itâs the wine. Maybe itâs the softness of the moment. But everything between you stills for a breathâlike the room is waiting.
You donât rush the last few bites. Thereâs no hurry now. And when the plates are finally empty, Abby rises, collecting them with practiced ease. Her movements are calm, unrushed, like sheâs done this a hundred times before. Like taking care of you is instinct.
âWant to pick a movie?â she asks, drying her hands on a towel. âSomething low-stakes. Digestive.â
You raise an eyebrow. âComfort movie or guilty pleasure?â
She tosses a glance over her shoulder. âYouâre the guest of honour. Dealerâs choice.â
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 doesnât 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 doesnât 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. Itâs not the movie that holds youâthe 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 youâve quoted a thousand times, soft and real. The way her gaze rarely meets yours, but when it does, itâs with that same quiet tenderness thatâs 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 sheâs weighing words she hasnât 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 thatâs all the invitation you need.
The kiss starts slow. An exhale, a gentle parting of lips that melts into hers. Abbyâs hand slides up your spine, pulling you closer like sheâs 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 yoursâdeepening, 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 againâdeeper this timeâlike staking a claim, like holding back for far too long.
Itâs not frantic. Itâs not shy.
Itâs 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. âThis okay?â she murmurs, voice rough, eyes searching.
You nod, chasing her mouth again. âYeah,â you breathe. âMore than okay.â
The next kiss is different from the last. Messier. Urgent.
Abbyâs 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 closerâcloser 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 deepenâopen-mouthed and breathlessâteeth 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 movieâs 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 sheâs 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. Abbyâs body is lean strengthâbroad shoulders tapering to a firm waist, muscles subtly defined beneath smooth skin. Solid under your hands, warm and steadyâthe 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, âGod, you look so fuckinâ good,â 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. Sheâs 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 youâall of it.
âBeautiful,â she murmurs, almost to herself, before her mouth finds your throatâbiting 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 lowerâkissing along your chest, pausing at the swell of your left breast, wrapping around your nipple with a gentle suck that makes you whimper.
âGod, the sounds you make,â she growls against your skin. âI could spend hours just listening to you fall apart.â
You canât think. Canât speak. Only feelâher 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.
Abbyâs hand drags down your body until it nestles between your thighs. Her fingers press into your pussy through your pants, gentle but maddening.
âJesus Christ,â she mutters, voice ragged, lips brushing your ear. âBeen good for me,â she says, low and heavy with meaning. âSo fucking good.â
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.
âCome with me?â she whispers, soft but sure.
You nod, breath catching, words barely there. âYes. Please.â
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 tooâclean 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 coinsâsome old, some foreign, each one worn with history, like theyâve been touched a hundred times. The quiet hum of a distant city seeps through the slightly cracked window. Even though youâve never been here before, it already feels like home.
She doesnât 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 lowerâdown 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. âCan I?â she asks, voice low and full of need.
You nod, breathless. âYeah.â
With careful reverence, she peels your pants and underwear downâslow, like unwrapping something preciousâdragging the fabric over your hips and thighs until youâre bare before her. When she sees you, skin flushed and breath caught in your chest, she exhales softly, almost reverent.
âSo fuckinâ pretty,â 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 eyesâlean, 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 shoulderâand 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.
âYouâre so fuckinâ wet,â she whispers against your mouth, voice low and rough. âFuck, baby. That all for me?â
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 thighâuntil you feel her breath fan over you, settling between your legs.
Her lips crash down on your cunt hungrily before her tongue slides over youâlong, 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.
âYou taste like fucking heaven,â 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 sheâs 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 sheâs starvingâslow 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 throatâit 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 doesnât 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 handsâa 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 graceâas if sheâs still tasting your cunt.
Memorizing.
Etching the way your pussy looksâwet, 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 sheâs just been. The sound you make into her mouth is raw, unguarded, instinctive.
Your thigh shifts between hers, and her breath catchesâjust 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. âYou feel that?â she whispers, voice wrecked and breathless as her hips move again, slower this time. She grinds down, and the frictionâthe filthy, perfect press of her pussy smearing slick across your thighâmakes your vision blur for a moment.
âThatâs what you do to me.â
You try to nod, but itâs barely a motionâmore 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 sheâs 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 doesnât 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 sheâs afraid youâll 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 itâs too much, like youâre too much, and her breath punches out in hot, heavy bursts against your lips. âFuck,â she rasps. âYou feel so fucking good.â
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. Sheâs so wet itâs 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.
âIâm gonna come,â she whispers, voice wrecked. âJust from thisâfuck, baby, just from your fuckinâ thigh.â
You whimper at that, your hands gripping her ass, helping her grind harder, right where she needs it. The friction is relentless nowâher 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. âDonât stop,â she pleads, like sheâs barely holding on. âDonâtâdonât fuckinâ stop.â
You donât.
You can feel her comeâfeel 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 doesnât stop.
Abby shiftsâslow, controlled, but determinedâand grinds down again. You can feel her cunt pulses against your thigh with need. She doesnât need to say a word. You can feel it. Sheâs insatiable. And watching her fall apart like that, right against you, soaking your thigh, dragging her pussy along your skin like sheâll die without itâ
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.
âTell me,â Abby murmurs, voice tight and low, barely more than a growl. âTell me what you want.â
You canât pretend. Canât tease. Canât even beg properlyânot when your thighs are slick and trembling, your pussy dripping, your mouth gone dry from how badly you need her.
âI want you,â 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.
âYeah?â Her voice is rougher now, unravelling. ïżœïżœïżœWant me how, baby?â
You whimper, hips lifting like theyâre searching for hers again. âAbsâŠâ It slips out like a sob, gutted and raw. âYou know how. Please. Justâfuck me.â
She stills.
That teasing smirk she sometimes wears? Gone. Whatâs left is hunger.
âWant me to fill you up, sweetheart?â she asks, voice ragged, barely hanging on. âWant to feel me deep inside that pretty pussy?â
You nod, frantic now, every inch of you pulsing with want. âYes. God, yes. Please, Abby.â
She groans like sheâs the one falling apart. Her hand slips between your thighs, fingers brushing your soaked slit, and she groans again, lower this time. âYouâre dripping,â she mutters, almost to herself. âSo fucking ready for me.â
Then she leans in, lips to your ear, voice a velvet rasp.
âIâll give it to you, baby. Iâll fuck this needy little cunt until you forget your own name.â
 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 paperbackâmoving with quiet purpose toward the back. You know sheâs 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 drawerâdark, sleek, waiting. Itâs not flashy. Not built for show. But you know that the moment itâs on her, itâll 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, practicedâan intimate dance youâve 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 willâpower wrapped in leather and desire.
You swallow hard, pulse quickening.
Then her gaze dropsâand 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.
âSoâŠâ you murmur, eyes dragging down to the ring, âwhat exactly is going to fit into that?â
Abbyâs lipâs part, hesitation vanishing like smoke. She steps toward you slowly, hands sliding back to your thighsâfingertips digging in just enough to make your breath hitch.
âReach under the pillow,â she says, voice rough with promise. âGot something under there for you.â
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 thereâheld in your hand, chosen for youâmakes your skin flush even hotter now.
She doesnât say anything. She doesnât need to.
Her eyes lock onto yours, dark and hungry as she watches you take it inâwatches 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, perfectlyâlike 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 sheâs done before, but never quite like thisânot 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 handâthe 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 itâs slick and glistening, she runs one hand slowly down your inner thigh, coaxing them further apartâlike you werenât already open and waiting for her.
And when she finally speaks again, her voice is a rasp.
âLook at you,â Abby murmurs, gaze dropping to your soaked centre. âSo fucking ready. You want it that bad, huh, baby?â
You nod, silent, your throat too tight to form words. Anything you say would come out brokenâtoo breathless, too needy to hide.
She doesn't move right awayâjust 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.
âYouâre wet enough to take me,â she murmurs, voice low and strained. âBut I still want to feel you firstâŠâ 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 easilyâyour body more than preparedâbut 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 doesnât break eye contact. Instead, she brings them to her mouth, tongue flicking out to taste. She groansâlow, guttural, like sheâs the one being undone. âFuck,â she mutters. âCould eat you again and again.â
Then, and only then, does she line herself up.
The tip is cool as it brushes your inner thigh, then lower stillâdragging 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 doesnât 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 againâcoating 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.
âSo fucking perfect,â she murmurs, voice low and rough. âYouâre dripping for me⊠and this little cuntâs aching to be filled.â
But she doesnât give in just yet. Instead, Abby lets the strap drag along your entrance one more timeâslow and teasingâmaking 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 fullyâalways 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 entranceâcoating you, tempting you, ruining you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, every nerve ending singing, your thighs trembling from restraint.
And she knows it. Sheâs watching you too closely not to.
Her mouth curlsânot into a smirk, not quite. It's something darker. Hungrier. A look that says sheâs memorizing every twitch of your body, every sound you make, every way you beg without words.
âLook at you,â she murmurs, voice low and rough like gravel. âSo fucking needy. This tight little pussyâs already clenching, and I havenât even begun to fuck you properly.â
You whimperâshameless, 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 theyâre 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 clitâslow, deliberate circles that send shocks through your entire body.
You gasp, thighs parting wider, helpless to the way she works you open.
âYou want more?â she rasps, voice so low itâs almost a growl. âWant me to fuck you like I mean it?â
You nod, franticâtoo far gone for words.
But she doesnât 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.
âI need words, baby,â she murmurs, low and dangerous. âI need to hear you beg for it.â
A whimper slips from your lips. Your hands claw at her shoulders, grounding yourself in the heavy, hot weight of her body.
âPlease,â you breathe, the word broken, wrecked. âI need you, Abbyâneed you to fuck me.â
Something inside her snaps.
A guttural sound tears from her chest, and then sheâs movingâpressing forward, claiming you with slow, deliberate force.
The head of the strap pushes inside, thick and unrelenting, and you cry outâyour back arching as she fills you, inch by aching inch. The stretch is dizzying, your body pulling her in greedily, trembling around the toy.
âFuck,â Abby hisses through her teeth, watching you fall apart. âLook at how perfect you take me.â
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. âGoddamn,â she growls, her voice rough in your ear. âYou sound so fucking good.â
She holds there, for just a breathâletting 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, deepâan almost reverent press of her hipsâand 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 itâs 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.
âYeah,â Abby groans, grinding deep, her forehead pressed to yours. âTake it, baby. Take all of me.â
You're not sure when you started cryingâjust 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.
 âYou feel that?â she murmurs, voice frayed at the edges. Her thumb traces the corner of your mouth, slick with sweat and spit and heat. âEvery time I slide into you⊠fuck, this tight little pussy just pulls me right back in.â
You whimperâpathetic and gratefulâand try to rock up to meet her, but her hands pin your hips down to the bed, holding you in place like youâre something breakable.
âNot yet,â she says, soft but firm. âWant to feel this pretty cunt beg before I let you come.â
Then she grinds.
Not thrustsâgrinds. 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.
 Youâre soaked, stretched, trembling under her, reduced to gasps and open-mouthed moans. She dips her head, lips brushing your throat as she whispersâ
âThis is mine.â
A shallow thrust punctuates each word. âThis. Fucking. Pussy.â
You choke on a sob. Youâre closeâso close it hurtsâbut sheâs still holding back, still keeping the rhythm just on the edge of unbearable.
âPlease,â you breathe, voice wrecked. âAbby, pleaseâjust fuck me. Iâm yours, justâpleaseââ
Something in her breaks thenâcracks 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 fastâhelpless. Hot. Violent.
And Abby knows.
She can feel itâin 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.
âYou gonna come for me?â she whispers, breath hot and shuddering against your ear. âGonna come all over my cock like my good, fucking girl?â
You nod, helpless, the ache inside you breaking loose, unravelling you whole.
She doesnât slowânot 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 frictionâa deep, steady pressure matched perfectly to the rhythm of her movementsâsends 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. Itâs relentlessâan exquisite torment that twists in her belly.
Her eyes flutter shut, mouth parting in a soft, ragged gasp.
âThis,â she breathes, voice rough, almost desperate, âthis is fucking heaven.â
She picks up the paceâhips 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 syncâbreath mingling, skin slick with sweat, hearts hammering.
The tension coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound just for this moment. Her breath catchesâyours tremblesâand you both teeter on the edge.
âFuck,â she gasps, voice raw and ragged, âcome with me.â
And you do.
Together.
Your orgasm crashes over you bothâwild, 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 Abbyâs 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. âFuckâI'm coming with you.â
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.
âFuck,â she murmurs, voice low and reverent. âYouâre perfect.â
And you believe herâevery 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.
âYou good?â 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 yoursâa 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 itâs not empty. Itâs full. Full of everything youâve 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 gazeâlike sheâs reading every little need you havenât spoken.
âWant me to help you clean up?â she asks, voice warm and tender.
You nod, barely able to form the words, and sheâs already moving with that practiced careâher 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, reverentâlike sheâs memorizing every inch of you all over again.
 Abby stands and holds out her hand. âCome with me. Letâs get you cleaned up.â
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 itâs 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.
âCome here,â 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 anewâsoft, wet, aliveâtracing 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, âYouâre so beautiful,â 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 calmâthe 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 beatâtender, steady, like sheâs seeing something she doesnât want to look away from. Then she leans in, pressing a kiss to your lipsâsoft and slow, not demanding, just there, full of everything she doesnât 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. âCome on,â she whispers. âLetâs get you warm.â
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 longâone 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 shirtâsomething 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.
âLooks better on you,â 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 scentâfaint traces of cedarwood, clean linen, and something uniquely her.
Abby joins you a moment later, the mattress dipping gently under her weight. She doesnât hesitateâjust moves with the same quiet certainty thatâs 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.
âYou good?â she asks again, her voice low and rough with sleep, but laced with genuine careâlike sheâs 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. âYeah. I am now.â
Thereâs a pauseâquiet, intimateâbefore she leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder, then the nape of your neck. Itâs not hurried, not just a habit. Itâs 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. âSleep, baby. Iâve got you.â
And she does. You feel it in every place your bodies touchâin the way her fingers donât let go of yours, in the way her legs tangle with yours like sheâs 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 onâquiet, indifferentâbut 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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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 ikđ just a genuine question!! Much love to u and your writing <33
Hii!! AHH thank you so much đ„čđ Iâm so happy you loved Off the Ledge. That seriously means the world to me!! And yes!! Iâm absolutely going to continue it!! đđ
Life's been super hectic lately. Iâm 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 đ much love back to you!! <33
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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 werenât 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 werenât really together, you've never made it official. But you were something.
And Ambessa called you hers, in every way that didnât involve saying it aloud.
Dating her was like trying to warm your hands on stone.
At first.
She didnât 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 wasnât 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, âYouâre hard to stop thinking about.â
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 sheâd been starving.
That was the start.
She wasnât good at being soft. But you never asked her to be anything she wasnât. 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 didnât 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: âItâll be a room full of hedge fund parasites and social climbers. Youâll be bored.â
You didnât 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 âbe good.â
She wasnât.
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 didnât mean to drink that much. She wasnât even sure why she did. Something had been gnawing at her lately - a dull, aching edge of vulnerability she couldnât name. The softness youâd brought into her life made her feel... fragile. And fragility scared her more than failure.
The woman who kissed her wasnât special. She didnât 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 hadnât pulled away fast enough. It all lasted three seconds. Maybe four. But someone took a photo.
And someone else sent it to you.
You didnât scream or cry. You just texted her: âSo thatâs what we are, huh?â
Then: âI think I need space.â No âdonât call me.â No breakup, there had been no labels to begin with. Just space.
You expected her to reply with an excuse. You werenât 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 didnât 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. Youâd admired it once, months ago, in the window of a boutique. Youâd 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, wouldâve 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 didnât get it. Still thought this was about damage control. Making up for betrayal like it had price tag.
You didnât 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 wasnât 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.
âThese are for Ms. Medarda,â you said, calm and crisp.
âSheâs not expecting anything,â the receptionist replied, blinking. âDo you want me to let her know youâre here?â the receptionist asked, reaching for the desk phone.
âNo,â you said, sharper than necessary. Then: âIâve already said everything I needed to... just make sure she gets them.â
You didnât leave a note. Didnât even glance tin the direction of her office. Just turned and walked out, heels echoing on marble, the kind of exit she mightâve made herself.
---
Ambessa was mid-email when her assistant knocked on her door. She stepped inside with a smirk, arms ful.
âSomeoneâs got a secret admirer,â she sang, placing them carefully on the desk. âThese just came to reception. I put them in some water for you.â
Ambessa blinked, staring at the flowers like they might detonate.
Her pulse stuttered.
âI - what?â she asked, a beat too late.
The assistant placed them on her desk, clearly enjoying herself. âNo card, but judging by the packaging? Someoneâs trying real hard to impress you.â
The words hit like a slap.
The necklace in same box sheâd sent you.The same goddamn flowers sheâd ordered to make the gesture âsofterâ 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. âOkay, wow, youâre blushing. Iâll leave you to it.â
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. âCancel everything for the rest of the day,â she said. âAll of it. Just - reschedule or... I donât care.â
Her assistant paused. âAre you okay, Ms. Medarda?â
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 didnât know how to get you back. Because the truth was this: Sheâd never known how to hold anything fragile. And you were the first fragile thing she ever wanted to keep safe.
Ambessa hadnât 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: âSo thatâs what we are, huh?â
She had known how badly she fucked up. But not how thoroughly.
You werenât 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 - âSomething came up,â âSheâll circle back soon,â âThanks for your patience.â
After a week, people started whispering.
âShe looked like shit at the summit.â âDid you hear she walked out of her own board meeting?â âHungover, probably.â
But she wasnât drinking. Not anymore, not after that night.
The crystal decanter of scotch sat full and untouched on the cart by the window. She hadnât poured a glass in days. The ice bucket hadnât 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 didnât deserve. She didnât have the heart to send it to dry cleaning. Couldnât 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 couldnât even bring herself to wash it. Couldnât 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 didnât.
She kissed someone to prove she wasnât in love. And in doing so, proved exactly how deep sheâd already fallen.
She hadnât spoken to you in nearly two weeks, and the returned necklace had gutted her in ways she hadnât even understood yet.
She hadnât meant for it to come off the way it did. But she didnât know how else to say Iâm 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 hadnât 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 didnât 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. Sheâd built empires. Sheâd 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 hadnât been fighting for control. Sheâd just been trying to be held. And sheâd 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 werenât doing anything important. Curled up on the couch, doom-scrolling through your phone, a show playing quietly in the background you hadnât really followed for three episodes now.
You werenât 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 hadnât 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 werenât squared. Her spine wasnât 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.
âI donât want to fight,â she said, her voice low and rasped. âI didnât come here to make a scene. Or make excuses. Or to convince you. I justâŠâ
She exhaled, shaky. âI donât know what else to do but be honest.â
You didnât say anything. Not right away.
As her eyes bore into yours, she looked⊠afraid. Afraid of what sheâd made you feel. Of what she might find in your face now.
âI donât want to fight,â she said, quietly. âAnd I didnât come here to ask for anything.â
You said nothing.
She swallowed. âI came because... Iâve tried space. Silence. Gifts. Control. Iâve 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.â
Her voice wavered. âI donât know how to do this. I donât know how to ask you to forgive me in a way that doesnât sound like Iâm trying to win.â
You opened the door wider, just slightly. She didnât 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.
âI 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.â
Her voice cracked, finally. âAnd if you tell me you donât want me anymore - if you shut the door in my face - Iâll try to respect that. I swear I will. But Iâm standing here because I need you to know: I want to be better. For you. I just-â
Her hand lifted slightly, like it might reach for yours, then dropped.
âI just donât know how to do it without you.â
You were silent as you stared at her. For once, she didnât look powerful, or composed, or terrifying.
She looked like someone who hadnât slept. Someone who used to have the world at her feet and now couldnât 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: âI think about you constantly.â
You didnât interrupt.
Her eyes were wide, glassy, rimmed with exhaustion.
âI kissed that woman because I was drunk... and I was stupid. And Iâve hated myself for it every single day since.â
She swallowed when she caught your glare. You shifted, arms crossed. âThen why did you do it?... Truly?â 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.
âI donât know,â she said, finally. âIâve asked myself that over and over.â
She sat down, but not next to you. Across. She shifted on the couch, wringing her hands - a gesture youâd never seen from her before. âI didnât mean for it to happen. I didnât go looking for it. I just⊠let it happen. Like an idiot.â
She took a long breath. âI was stupid. And I couldnât 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 didnât know where I ended and you began. And instead of holding on, I ruined it.â
Her voice cracked there, just slightly. âAnd I wanted to need you less. But I didnât. I still donât... I didnât know how to look at something that real and not break it.â
You looked at her. Really looked. All the cracks were showing now. The frayed threads. The sadness she didnât know how to wear properly.
You let the silence stretch a little longer.
Then, finally: âI think... I needed to see if you cared.â
Her eyes flicked up to yours, startled.
âNot 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 Iâm some accessory to your success.â
Ambessaâs breath caught.
âI needed to see if youâd show up for me,â you said.
You paused. Watched the words hit her. âIt took you a while but you did.â
She blinked fast. Her shoulders curled in slightly, âIâm sorry,â she whispered. âI 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.â
You didnât 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 didnât 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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everyone was drawing this so naturally it was abbys turn
pls credit me if u repost elsewhere:)
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Cure the writers block with staring at her đ




how could anyone ever hate her? look at her sweet face đȘ
⊠. ăâș ă . ⊠. ăâș ă . ⊠. ăâș ă . ⊠. ăâș ă . ⊠. ăâș ă . ă
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