𓃴 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦… 𝘈 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳
Abby x Reader
wc:3.2k
cw: rough sex, dominance, slapping
You and Abby… well, to put it plainly, the relationship you had developed over the past two months wasn’t what you’d once dreamed of. You’d imagined long, quiet mornings together, laughter over canned coffee, her hand finding yours during patrol, maybe even her whispering promises against your neck when the world felt too heavy.
Not since Salt Lake. Not since her dad.
She’d changed. Everyone had, but Abby—she’d become something else entirely.
You had agreed to come with her to Seattle, to join the WLF. Where else would you go? That’s where the remnants of your world were gathering anyway. Manny, Mel, Nora—everyone. But you came for her.
Before, back in Salt Lake, she’d been bright-eyed, filled with some stubborn, relentless hope that things could get better. That she could still be the kind of person her dad would’ve been proud of. But the girl standing in front of you now—towering, cold, and unreadable—was not the same person.
She had bulked up over the past four years, her frame solid and intimidating. The sleeves of her WLF-issued t-shirts struggled to contain her arms. Her eyes, once soft and full of light when she read to you under the blankets, now looked more like steel. Focused. Brutal. Exhausted.
You stayed through the long nights in her shared bunk with Manny, waiting until he left so she could pull you into her arms, so you could feel like she still needed you. She used to ramble then, get animated about City of Thieves, about how it was so unfair and so fucking good, her voice soft and fast like it could outrun the pain she never talked about. You’d watch her as she paced her little corner of the bunk, her hands moving, her hair falling across her cheek in that perfect, crooked way.
You loved that version of her. The tender one hidden under all that armor.
It snuck up on you, how you started to love the way she sat with one leg bent up, how her mouth would twitch when she tried not to smile. You noticed everything. You memorized it.
And then one night, she noticed too.
Your cheeks flushed when her thigh brushed yours. She raised an eyebrow. You looked away.
You thought that meant something.
You asked her, weeks later, voice barely steady, if she was your girlfriend. If this—whatever this was—was real.
“I’m still in love with Owen,” she said flatly, like it didn’t cost her anything to say it. Like it wouldn’t haunt you for weeks.
And yet here you were—sitting on the edge of your bunk, wearing nothing but a loose tank top and underwear, your breath still catching in your chest, skin dewy with sweat and shame. Your thighs were trembling slightly from what you’d just done.
From what you weren’t supposed to do.
Abby loomed in the doorway, arms crossed, her jaw tense, blue eyes narrowing at the sight of you—flushed, messy, and trembling.
“You finished without me,” she said, voice low, calm, but laced with disapproval.
You looked up at her, lips parted, pulse thudding in your ears. Her presence filled the room like smoke—slow, suffocating. You didn’t recognize this version of her. This woman who watched you like she owned you. Who barked orders, who withheld affection unless you earned it. This wasn’t the Abby who used to press kisses to your shoulder while you both lay in bed, limbs tangled.
You didn’t know when the shift happened.
Did she wake up one day and decide to be this cold? This dominant? Did she like how you flinched when she gave you rules? Did it make her feel in control?
You blinked up at her, breath shaky. “I—I didn’t mean to.”
She stepped closer, her boots loud against the floor. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
“Did I say you could touch yourself?”
She nodded once, slowly, and knelt down in front of you. Her face was so close now, you could smell the lingering sweat on her skin, the faint trace of soap from her shower hours ago. She looked at you—not with anger, but with calculation. Like she was deciding what to do with you.
This wasn’t the Abby you knew before Seattle.
This wasn’t the girl who gushed about books and curled around you for warmth.
You didn’t know where that Abby had gone.
You let a shaky breath out through your nose, your cheeks burning with humiliation. Your body still trembled from the aftershocks of pleasure, but it was shame—not satisfaction—that settled heavy in your chest now. Moments ago, your hand had been buried beneath the waistband of your underwear, fingertips slick, your breath catching as you chased relief in the quiet of your shared bunk. You’d thought she was still at the gym. You hadn’t heard the door.
And she’d seen everything.
You’d ripped your hand away so fast you nearly hit yourself, scrambling to yank the coarse military-issued blanket over your lap. Your eyes darted up to her—Abby, standing in the doorway, her jaw tense, brows furrowed, eyes dark with something unreadable.
You swallowed, shame clawing at your throat.
“Does it…” you started, the words catching on your tongue. You coughed once, trying to sound casual—like your heart wasn’t racing, like your thighs weren’t still twitching from being so close. “Is it that big of a deal?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
You didn’t meet her eyes.
She didn’t answer—not right away.
Instead, she stepped forward, her boots heavy against the floorboards, and slowly lowered herself to her knees in front of you. The air in the room shifted—thicker now, charged.
Her hands reached forward and tugged the blanket down from your lap, slow, deliberate, like unwrapping something fragile. You resisted the urge to flinch as the cool air touched your still-sensitive skin. She let the blanket fall to the floor beside her, then tilted her head slightly, those blue eyes dragging over every inch of you—every place her gaze landed felt like heat, like punishment.
Her hands settled on your thighs, broad palms pressing into your skin, warm and grounding. You could feel the callouses of her fingers from weight training and rifle grips. Her touch was firm but not rough—yet.
“You think it doesn’t matter?” she asked softly, the words quiet but razor-sharp.
Your mouth opened, then closed again. How were you supposed to answer that?
She didn’t let you look away. She just watched you, her face unreadable, her fingers flexing once on your thighs. The silence stretched until it wrapped around your throat like a rope.
Finally, you glanced away, staring at the corner of the room where your combat boots sat half-kicked off. “You’ve… you’ve been picking up extra patrols,” you mumbled, voice trembling. “You’ve been tired. Distant.”
Her hand moved with swift precision—gripping your chin and guiding your gaze back to hers.
“Hmm?” she prompted, eyes narrowing.
You furrowed your brow and jerked your head back, shaking off her hand, though the gesture lacked real force. “It’s just… you haven’t touched me in days,” you muttered. “You’ve been gone. I thought—” You cut yourself off. What were you trying to say? That you needed her? That it hurt when she treated you like just another burden?
She nodded, slowly, like she’d expected the excuse. Like she’d already played out this entire conversation in her head.
“But did I say,” she murmured, voice dipping low, honey-thick and dangerous, “that you could touch yourself?”
Her eyes bore into you. Her hands hadn’t moved, still splayed across your thighs, heat radiating through her palms. Her grip subtly tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to ground you, remind you exactly where you were. Who she was.
You bit your lip, eyes darting over her face. Her expression was unreadable, caught between disapproval and something else—something deeper. Hunger? Possession?
“I didn’t think—” you started, your voice cracking.
“I know,” she interrupted softly. “You didn’t.”
She leaned in closer, her breath brushing against your collarbone. Her lips hovered just above your skin, not kissing—just letting the heat of her linger there.
“You don’t get to come without me,” she whispered. “Not unless I say so.”
You swallowed hard. Your pulse thundered in your ears.
“Shh,” she said, thumb stroking a slow circle into your thigh now. “You’ve made a mess. And now you’re going to sit there, and listen. Understand?”
You nodded, barely breathing.
She leaned in even closer, her mouth ghosting over the shell of your ear.
“Next time you need me,” she murmured, voice like velvet over stone, “you ask. Or you wait. And if you can’t do either…” her hand slid higher, grazing the crease of your hip, “then I’ll have to remind you how to behave.”
She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again. The silence returned—but now it pulsed with something molten, electric, and terrifyingly intimate.
Her fingers slid up your jaw before you could react, warm and firm—then—
A sharp, surprised sound. More shock than pain.
You jerked backward instantly, hand flying to your cheek.
“What the fuck, Abby?!” you snapped, breath catching, the heat of the slap blooming across your skin.
But she was already leaning in.
Her lips pressed gently to the exact spot she’d struck—soft, warm, unbearably tender. The contrast made your breath stutter in your throat. She kissed you once, then again, as if soothing a scrape.
“It didn’t hurt,” she murmured against your skin.
It didn’t. Not even close. But it startled you, made adrenaline burst through your chest. Made your instinct scream to push her away, to shout at her, to remind her you weren’t some obedient dog she could snap her fingers at.
But her lips were already trailing down your cheek, toward your jaw. She chuckled, a low, husky sound that vibrated against your skin.
“What did I tell you,” she whispered into the crook of your neck, her mouth brushing your pulse, “about swearing at me?”
Her breath was warm, her voice slow and velvety, sinking under your skin. Her hand stayed cupped on your cheek, thumb brushing the bone gently—too gently.
“Are you sorry?” she breathed, almost sweet.
Your body betrayed you—you nodded, swallowing hard, head tipping back as a quiet sound escaped your throat. You hated how natural it felt. How easy. How she could pull softness out of you even when you wanted to be angry.
Her fingers tightened on your jaw, dragging your face back toward hers—controlling the angle, the eye contact—before she delivered another—
This one held just a hint of sting. Your breath hitched. Your lips parted. You whimpered before you could stop yourself, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek to stop from yelling again.
Her smirk was small but devastating.
She watched you like she was reading you, learning you, savoring the way your chest rose and fell. Your gaze dropped—traitorously—to her mouth. You watched the way her bottom lip caught the light, the way her tongue ran briefly along the inside of her cheek.
When you lifted your eyes to hers again, she delivered a third—
Quick, precise. More sound than pain. More heat than harm.
“Are you sorry?” she asked again, voice impossibly soft for how sharp the moment was.
Not because you were defiant—no. But because your throat had closed, tightening around words you suddenly couldn’t form. Because you didn’t trust your voice. Because you were afraid of what you’d sound like.
Her eyes narrowed, but with amusement, not anger.
“Be good for me,” she murmured, kissing the sting immediately after, her lips warm and tender. “C’mon.”
“Are you sorry?” she asked again, syrup-thick, almost coaxing. Her fingers slid into your hair, gripping tight at the roots and tugging your head back so you had no choice but to meet her eyes. A tiny gasp escaped you at the sudden pull.
She kissed your cheek again—so gentle it confused your nerves—and tugged harder at your hair, holding you in place.
You nodded, breath trembling. “I…” you managed, voice cracking as your eyes burned. You swallowed, chest rising fast. “I’m sorry.”
She let go of your hair, smoothing the strands back with surprising tenderness. Then she leaned in, her lips brushing your cheek one last time.
“That’s what I like to hear,” she whispered, a soft smile curling onto her mouth.
She stood, rising with a slow, deliberate power that made your breath catch. From where you sat on the edge of the bed, she towered over you — a silhouette cut from heat and tension, her figure casting a long shadow in the low lamp light. Her fingers threaded into your hair, firm but not unkind, tilting your head up so your eyes met hers. Her crotch was perfectly aligned with your gaze, and the heat radiating from her made your lips part instinctively.
Her thumbs cradled your jaw as she stared down, smirking with a mix of amusement and quiet dominance. You felt your hands slide almost automatically around the backs of her thighs, palms pressing into her soft, sculpted flesh as you clung to her like an anchor.
“Should I let you make me come today?” she asked, her voice honey-thick, eyebrows lifted in mock consideration.
You swallowed hard, nodding, face flushing hot. She rarely let you. Not unless she was drunk or spun out after a long night, her walls softened by something stronger than desire. Vulnerability wasn’t something she gifted easily — and never in the daylight.
She laughed softly, a low chuckle that made your core tighten, and pushed your face gently into her stomach. You kissed her there without hesitation — just beneath her navel, where soft blonde hairs trailed down like a path you weren’t sure you were allowed to follow. You whimpered, desperate, lips brushing her skin just above the waistband of her pants.
She inhaled sharply but didn’t stop you. Not yet.
Her hand suddenly gripped a handful of your hair, yanking your head back so you had to look up at her again. Your breath hitched, eyes wide.
“Are you stupid?” she asked, her voice sharper now, testing.
You blinked, confused by the shift, your brows drawing together. “What…?”
But she didn’t give you time to answer. Her hands grabbed your shoulders, and in one dizzying motion, she spun you around and pushed you face-down against the bed. A pillow was shoved beneath your belly, lifting your hips. Your ass arched up toward her automatically, trained, aching. The air was cool against your exposed skin.
Her palm landed hard on your ass, the sharp sound cracking through the quiet room.
You yelped, more out of surprise than pain, the heat blooming quickly where her hand met your skin. Your fingers fisted the sheets as you trembled beneath her.
“Oh, so you can whimper, but you can’t listen?” she growled, dragging her nails lightly over the curve of your ass before striking again — this time slower, more purposeful. “Don’t ever look that confused when I give you a command. You know better.”
You nodded into the bedding, your breath ragged. Another smack. Your thighs twitched, clenching, your body humming with a need that bordered on unbearable.
“I said—” she leaned down, her mouth grazing your ear, “—do you want to make me come today?”
“Yes,” you gasped, the word ripped from your throat.
She stood upright again, one hand on your lower back to hold you in place, the other trailing down between your legs, finding you soaked through.
“Good,” she murmured, almost lovingly now. “Then earn it.”
You heard her zipper come down behind you — the sharp sound slicing through the tension-heavy room like a blade. Your breath hitched, chest already heaving into the sheets. You felt her fingers tug your underwear to the side, the fabric catching for a second on your damp skin before being shoved away, baring you completely.
You gasped, your body jerking forward involuntarily as the silicone pushed into you without warning. The air was ripped from your lungs. Your hands scrambled for the sheets, fisting them, knuckles white.
She filled you in one unrelenting thrust, hips slapping into the backs of your thighs with a punishing finality.
Your eyes flew open, wide with disbelief, and you twisted to look at her over your shoulder, voice cracking as you yelped, “Where the fuck did you get that?!”
But she didn’t answer. Instead, her hand shoved your face into the mattress, flattening you down. Her palm was heavy on the back of your head, and her other hand dug into your lower spine, pinning you there. She started to move—hard, fast, relentless. The rhythm was brutal, her hips slapping against your ass in sharp, echoing pulses.
“Shut up,” she growled, her voice dark, breathless with focus and control. Each thrust knocked the air from your lungs again, your body rocked forward by the force of her.
You whimpered, hands clawing at the bedding, thighs trembling beneath the pressure. You didn’t know if she had forgotten to warm you up—or if this was the warmup. If maybe that was just Abby. So commanding, so rough, but still clumsy in her control. There was always a little chaos behind the dominance. A hesitance she covered in bark and bite.
She grunted above you, planting one hand hard into the mattress for leverage while the other kept your hips locked in place. Her thrusts never missed—she knew where you needed it even if she didn’t know how she knew.
“Abby!” you cried out, voice cracking. Not in protest. In need.
She chuckled low behind you, her rhythm slowing to something deeper, more punishing in its restraint. Her hips dragged back before rolling forward again with a thick, deliberate grind. You felt her press in as far as she could go.
“Who am I?” she asked, her voice lower now, more controlled, but you could hear it — the slight break in her tone. Just a hint of nerves.
You bit your lip, nodding, your cheek pressed into the bedding. “Mommy,” you breathed.
Her palm slid up your back, fingers curling possessively around your ribs.
“And who owns you?” she asked again — firmer, but that crack was there, barely audible. The question came out less like a command and more like a plea for reassurance. Like she needed the answer.
Your whole body shuddered. You moaned into the sheets, the sound ragged and trembling. “You,” you managed, breathless. “You own me. I’m—close—”
Just like that, she stilled inside you. You whimpered, the loss of motion a cruel twist. Then, painfully slow, she withdrew. The drag of silicone leaving you made your thighs tremble.
“I bet you were,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.
You let out a strangled, frustrated sound, hips twitching helplessly back toward her. But she just hovered there behind you, her heat pressed along your back, her breath heavy.
“Next time,” she murmured, lips close to your ear now, “you’ll ask.”
@colorfulcherryblossomtidalwave
prguitarman
turnnoffyourmind
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
areudirty
