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17 | tlou be

[lvnchh]

17 - Italian - wlw - PTSD - leo

I KNOW i’m a minor. if you want to complain, insult me, insult my stories, just don't interact🙏🏻. It's my life, and I'm free to write whatever I want as long as I'm not bothering anyone. Also, please don't judge any grammar mistakes, as English is not my native language. I'm sorry if the whole stories aren’t that good. i’m here for fun.

TW I also have PTSD (DIAGNOSED), and what you will read is based on my personal experiences. Writing about it is a form of therapy for me. If you are sensitive to topics like violence and domestic violence, please do not read these stories. Thank you🙏🏻

REQUESTS: You can make requests, but only about female characters. (abby, ellie, billie) Writing content about straight or gay couples makes me uncomfortable. My stories are written just for fun, and I don’t consider myself good at writing smut, partly because I’m afraid of being judged for how I write it. Still, I’ll do my best.🫶🏻

MASTERLIST

Abby

GUESS

Eight Years In The Spotlight

Burnt Edges (PTSD) (Abby’s version)

WISH YOU WERE GAY

Ellie

Burnt Edges (PTSD) (Original version)

PTSD BASED

Burnt Edges (Abby)

Burnt Edges (Ellie)

[lvnchh]

WISH YOU WERE GAY

abby anderson x f!reader (it’s not really WYWG meaning IK)

The WLF cafeteria was alive with chatter, the dim lighting and half-drunk soldiers creating a tense but oddly celebratory atmosphere. The radio had long stopped working, leaving the group desperate for some form of entertainment. Manny, ever the instigator, spotted you sulking in the corner, your guitar leaning against the wall beside you.

“Hey!” he called, weaving through the tables to get to you. “You still owe me a performance. Tonight’s the night.”

You rolled your eyes, your fingers tracing the edge of your beer bottle. “Not happening, Manny.”

“Oh, c’mon, amiga,” he pressed, crouching beside you. “The radio’s dead, everyone’s bored, and you’ve been humming that song for weeks. Just do it. Make it interesting.”

You glanced across the room and caught sight of her—Abby Anderson. She was seated at a table with Owen, her broad shoulders tense, her face turned away from the crowd. Even from this distance, you could tell she wasn’t laughing at whatever Owen was saying, and that little observation stirred something bitter inside you.

Manny followed your gaze and smirked. “She’s gonna hear it either way. Might as well make it count.”

You took a long swig of your drink before grabbing your guitar. “Fine,” you muttered. “But don’t expect me to hold back.”

The room quieted as you made your way to the front. One of the guys already on a guitar looked up at you, confused, but you gestured for him to follow your lead. Quickly, you showed him the notes to play on loop, your tone clipped and impatient.

The first chords filled the space, soft but deliberate. You adjusted the mic, refusing to look at Abby. This wasn’t for her approval—it was for you.

You started singing, your voice steady, cold.

“Baby, I don’t feel so good… six words you never understood.”

Your hand shot up, showing six fingers to the crowd, before dropping one.

“‘I’ll never let you go,’ five words you’ll never say.”

The five fingers slipped to four, then three as you continued.

“If three’s a crowd, and two was us…”

Your hand dropped to two fingers.

“One slipped away.”

You left your middle finger up, a smirk tugging at your lips. The crowd chuckled nervously, and Manny outright cackled, slapping his knee. “Damn!” he muttered, barely containing his laughter.

Abby’s jaw tightened. Her eyes bored into you from across the room, her fists clenched on the table. You didn’t care. You kept going.

“I just wanna make you feel okay, but all you do is look the other way.”

Your gaze finally flicked to Abby. She didn’t flinch, but her shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths. Owen shifted uncomfortably beside her, clearly picking up on the tension.

“I can’t tell you how much I wish I didn’t wanna stay. I just kinda wish you were gay.”

Your words hung heavy in the air, dripping with bitterness. The room was silent except for the music, and every lyric felt like a dagger aimed directly at her.

“Our conversation’s all in blue… eleven ‘heys.’”

The crowd grew quieter as you sang. Abby’s face darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Nine times, you never made it there. I ate alone at seven, you were six minutes away.”

You didn’t just sing the words—you spat them out, each one a reminder of every time she let you down, every moment she chose Owen over you.

By the time you reached the bridge, you leaned into your fury.

“Don’t say I’m not your type. Just say that I’m not your preferred sexual orientation.”

You saw her flinch at that, her mask cracking just slightly. Owen said something to her, but she ignored him, her eyes glued to you.

The final chorus came out raw, your voice sharp and defiant.

“I just wanna make you feel okay, but all you do is look the other way.”

The last chord rang out, echoing in the silence. The room stayed still for a moment, unsure how to react. Manny clapped first, his grin wide and unapologetic. Others followed hesitantly, but you ignored them.

You slung your guitar over your shoulder and started to walk off.

“Wait,” Abby’s voice cut through the noise.

You stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Why would you—” she started, her voice tight with frustration. “Why the hell would you sing that?”

You turned slowly, your expression cold. “Why not? You said you didn’t care, remember?”

Her jaw worked as if she was holding back a retort. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, standing abruptly.

“Yeah, it is,” you shot back. “But you made it that way.”

She took a step toward you, her frustration evident, but Owen grabbed her arm. “Abby,” he said quietly.

You shook your head and turned away, stepping into the night air without another word. She could stew in her anger all she wanted. You were done letting her choices define you.

[lvnchh]

Burnt Edges

Abby Anderson x f!reader (with PTSD) 👉🏻original version 👈🏻 Wanted to make another version for my Abby girls so y'all can feel represented too 🫶🏻

I'm a minor and if you want to complain or insult me about it, just don't interact🙏🏻. It's my life, and I'm free to write whatever I want as long as I'm not bothering anyone. Also, please don't judge any grammar mistakes, as English is not my native language. I'm sorry if the whole story isn't that good.

TW: I have PTSD (DIAGNOSED), and what you're about to read is based on my personal experiences. Writing about it is a form of therapy for me. If you are sensitive to topics like violence and domestic violence, please do not continue reading. Thank you🙏🏻

Btw I need more Abby x PTSD reader stories because I want to feel less alone and represented

story below the cut

The WLF base was bustling as usual, soldiers moving in every direction with purpose. It was organized chaos, but the rhythm of it kept your mind just busy enough to not wander too far. You had been here for weeks now, a stray who Abby had somehow decided was worth keeping around. She didn’t talk much about why—just said you seemed “useful” and left it at that.

But tonight, after the day’s drills and patrols, you needed air. The weight in your chest had been building all day, the familiar tightness creeping in. The base was too loud, too crowded, too much like the chaos you used to live in. You found yourself climbing to the roof, the one place no one ever seemed to go.

When the door creaked open behind you, you sighed. So much for solitude.

“Figured I’d find you up here,” Abby said, her voice steady but not unkind.

You turned, finding her leaning casually against the doorway. Her braid hung over her shoulder, and her broad frame filled the space effortlessly. Abby was intimidating at first glance—hell, even second and third glance—but there was something about her that made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t in a long time.

“What gave me away?” you asked, forcing a weak smile as you lit your cigarette.

Abby stepped onto the roof and shrugged. “You disappear when you’re overwhelmed. You’re not as sneaky as you think.”

Her bluntness was typical, but it wasn’t cruel. If anything, it was grounding. She moved to sit beside you, her heavy boots thudding against the concrete as she stretched her legs out.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the distant hum of the base fading into the background. Abby wasn’t much for small talk, and you appreciated that.

“You smoke a lot for someone who can barely keep up on a run,” she teased eventually, smirking as she glanced at you.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Yeah, well… cardio’s overrated.”

“Not when you’re being chased by infected.”

“Fair point.”

Another silence settled, and you found yourself exhaling a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the night. You could feel Abby’s eyes on you, her curiosity barely masked. She wasn’t the kind to pry, but she wasn’t one to let something slide if she thought it mattered.

“You’ve been… off today,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter than usual.

You stiffened, gripping the cigarette between your fingers. “What do you mean?”

Abby shrugged, leaning back on her hands. “You didn’t even flinch when Manny cracked a joke at you earlier. Usually, you’d at least roll your eyes. Something’s eating at you.”

You hesitated, the weight in your chest growing heavier. Abby wasn’t wrong, but the idea of saying it out loud felt suffocating. Still, the look she gave you—patient, steady—made you feel like maybe you could.

“It’s… nothing,” you muttered at first, then winced at her unimpressed scoff. “Okay, fine. It’s not nothing. It’s just—this place. The noise, the shouting, the slamming doors. It reminds me of… home.”

Abby tilted her head, her brows knitting slightly. “Home?”

You took another drag of your cigarette, the smoke burning your throat. “My dad. let’s just say he wasn’t exactly Father of the Year material. Yelling was the least of it.”

You didn’t elaborate, but Abby’s sharp eyes softened, her expression shifting from curiosity to something that looked like understanding.

“Shit,” she muttered, leaning forward. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well,” you said, flicking the ash off your cigarette, “it’s not exactly something I put on my résumé.”

Abby huffed a laugh at that, but it was soft, almost careful. She leaned back again, her gaze fixed on the skyline. “That why you’re always so jumpy?”

You nodded, not bothering to deny it. “PTSD’s a hell of a ride.”

She was quiet for a moment, the tension between you settling into something heavier but not unwelcome. “I can’t even imagine what that’s like,” she said finally, her voice low. “But… I get the needing space part. I didn’t grow up with that kind of shit, but since… since everything with my dad and the Fireflies, sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe when things get too loud.”

Her admission caught you off guard, and you turned to look at her. For all her strength, Abby carried a weight too. It was different from yours, but it was still there, etched into the set of her jaw and the faint lines around her eyes.

“Well,” you said, smirking despite the heaviness in your chest, “guess we’re both a little screwed up.”

“Guess so,” Abby agreed, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

You took one last drag of your cigarette before stubbing it out against the concrete. Then, without thinking, you added, “What can I say? My PTSD made me hotter.”

Abby blinked, staring at you for a moment before bursting into a laugh—a real, genuine laugh that echoed into the night. It was rare to hear her laugh like that, and you couldn’t help but grin, feeling a little lighter just from the sound.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

“Yeah, but you love it,” you shot back, leaning back on your hands with a smug smile.

Abby rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her expression betrayed her. “Don’t push your luck, rookie.”

[lvnchh]

Eight years in the Spotlight

Abby Anderson x reader inspired by this billie eilish interview<3

I'm a minor and if you want to complain or insult me about it, just don't interact🙏🏻. It's my life, and I'm free to write whatever I want as long as l'm not bothering anyone. Also, please don't judge any grammar mistakes, as English is not my native language. I'm sorry if the whole story isn't that good. please, let me know what you think!

i’m working on making my masterlist

“Once again like it happens every year I thought I had more time. And then it’s October 18 again.”

Abby sits in a relaxed pose, wearing an oversized black Jordan basketball jersey. Her muscular frame leans comfortably into the chair, her fishtail braid draped over one shoulder, and her freckled face carries a calm confidence. The screen flickers for a moment, revealing split images of seven previous versions of Abby sitting in the same chair.

What’s your name?

“My name is Abby Anderson,” says 16-year-old Abby from 2019. Her voice is quieter, her posture slightly stiff. The video cuts to each successive year. “My name is Abby Anderson,” repeats 2020 Abby, her tone stronger. “My name is Abby Anderson,” echoes 2021 Abby, her confidence visibly growing.

Finally, it lands on 2024 Abby. She tilts her head, smirking as she meets the camera’s gaze. “Feels strange seeing all these old versions of me frozen in time,” she says smoothly. “I’m Abby Anderson”

“It’s October 18, 2019.”

“October 18, 2020.”

“October 18, 2021.”

Each date ticks by until it lands on the present:

“October 18, 2024.”

How old are you?

“i’m Sixteen,” says 2019 Abby, her voice almost tentative. The years scroll forward, her voice shifting slightly with each one: “Seventeen.” “Eighteen.” “Nineteen.” “Twenty.”

the camera lingers on 2024 Abby. “i’m Twenty-three,” she says simply, her smile easy but self-assured. “It’s a weird age.“

How many followers do you have?

“257,000,” says 16-year-old Abby, with a slightly bashful grin.

“1.2 million,” says 2020 Abby, a hint of surprise in her voice. As the years progress, the numbers skyrocket. “32 million,” says 2022 Abby, almost shrugging. “75 million,” says 2023 Abby, trying to keep her excitement in check.

The screen cuts to present-day Abby, who sits back, resting an arm casually over the chair’s edge. “120 million,” she says with a small smile. “It’s a big number. Still wrapping my head around it, honestly.” She pauses, her smirk turning a little teasing. “But hey, people like what they like, right?”

What’s the biggest thing that happened to you this year?

Abby takes a deep breath, her lips twitching as though she’s holding back a bigger smile. “This year… wow. I dropped my third album, went back on tour, and, uh… I won another Oscar.”

A clip of 2023 Abby flashes on the screen with the question: Are you going to win the Oscar this year?

“I don’t know,” 2023 Abby says with a laugh, rubbing her palms nervously on her thighs. “I’m hoping so, but I’m not gonna fall apart if it doesn’t happen.”

The camera cuts back to 2024 Abby, who raises a brow and smirks at the camera. “Well, I guess past me got her wish,” she says, her tone playful. “Two Oscars, actually. Overachiever much?”

What do you want to accomplish by next year?

On-screen, 2023 Abby tilts her head, thinking. “I wanna get into racing,” she says. “I didn’t do that yet. I want more tattoos. And I wanna do some reckless shit—like, adrenaline-rush, borderline-dumb reckless and…, have some good sex.”

Back to 2024 Abby, who laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Well, I did the racing thing. Still no tattoos—I swear I’ll get there one day. And reckless? Check.” She smirks, her gaze flicking to the camera. “As for the other thing… let’s just say past me would be proud. You’re welcome, Abby.”

How do you feel about the new album?

The clip from 2023 Abby pops up. “I’m almost done with it, and I think it’s gonna be cool.”

Back to 2024 Abby. “It’s more than cool,” she says firmly. “It’s raw, it’s real, and I love it.”

What artist do you want to collaborate with?

2023 Abby raises a brow. “No one,” she says bluntly. “I don’t like collaborating.”

The screen cuts to Abby, wearing a black oversized Jordan jersey and loose pants, stands beside you. You’re dressed in a bold, effortlessly cool style. Abby’s expression in the still is sharp, playful, and undeniably flirty as she gestures at you, her tongue lightly resting on her teeth, while you stand confidently next to her, unfazed and magnetic.

The present-day Abby smirks when the camera cuts back to her. “Funny how things change. I ended up working with [your artist name], and it was incredible. We put out Guess, and honestly, it might be the best thing I’ve ever done.” She leans forward, grinning. “It was… a lot of fun.”

She pauses, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “I mean, come on. Look at them.”

The tone shifts as Abby glances off-camera. Her body relaxes, her voice softening. “Alright,” she says with a slight grin. “You know what time it is.”

You step into frame, settling next to her with an easy smile. Dressed casually, you radiate warmth as you lean slightly into her space.

“Hey, Abigail,” you tease, nudging her with your shoulder.

She groans, rolling her eyes, though her lips curl into a faint smile. “You always do this,” she says. “Every damn year.”

“Of course,” you reply with a laugh, draping an arm around her shoulders.

The screen flashes to past clips of you and Abby: younger versions of you teasing 2019 Abby, 2021 Abby stealing glances at you, 2022 Abby barely hiding her grin as you step into frame.

You glance at her now. “It’s wild seeing all these little moments. Watching you grow up, watching how far you’ve come.” Your voice softens, genuine. “I’m proud of you, Anderson.”

Abby looks at you, her smirk fading into something more sincere. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “Means a lot coming from you.”

You break the tenderness with a laugh. “For the record, though, Abby was such a pain. I fell for her the moment we met, and she spent years rejecting me.”

Abby rolls her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “Alright, fine. I was clueless, okay? But hey, look at us now.”

You smile, your gaze softening. “Yeah. Still love you, Abigail.”

She groans again, shaking her head. “Stop calling me that.”

The video fades to black, the sound of both your laughter lingering as the screen displays:

“See you next year.”

i’m obsessed with billie and Guess rn🙏🏻

[lvnchh]

Burnt Edges

Ellie Williams x Fem reader (with PTSD)

I’m a minor and if you want to complain or insult me about it, just don’t interact. 🙏🏻 It’s my life, and I’m free to write whatever I want as long as I’m not bothering anyone. Also, please don’t judge any grammar mistakes, as English is not my native language. I’m sorry if the whole story isn’t that good.

TW: I have PTSD (DIAGNOSED), and what you’re about to read is based on my personal experiences. Writing about it is a form of therapy for me. If you are sensitive to topics like violence and domestic violence, please do not continue reading. Thank you 🙏🏻

Btw I need more Ellie x PTSD reader stories because I want to feel less alone and represented

story below the cut

The roof was quiet, save for the soft hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the old building beneath you. You leaned back, one hand braced against the rough shingles, the other holding a cigarette lazily between your fingers. Beside you, Ellie sat with her legs dangling off the edge, her posture loose but her expression as tightly locked as ever.

She was like that—a fortress of dry wit and cold deflection. It had taken you weeks to even crack the surface, and even now, the glimpses of vulnerability she let slip were fleeting. Still, you stayed, drawn to her in a way that felt both dangerous and grounding. She didn’t make you feel fragile. She made you feel alive.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Ellie muttered, breaking the silence. She blew out a stream of smoke, the ember of her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim moonlight. “Roof’s unstable.”

You glanced at her, arching a brow. “What, you care now?”

She shot you a side-eye, lips twitching in the faintest hint of amusement. “Not really. Just don’t wanna scrape your ass off the ground if it collapses.”

“Touching,” you deadpanned, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. The wind carried it away almost instantly, as if even it didn’t want to linger too long.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it never was. Ellie had a way of making silence feel purposeful, like it was meant to be filled with thought instead of noise. You liked that about her, even if she was the most guarded person you’d ever met.

She broke the quiet again, her tone sharper this time. “You’ve been jumpy all day.”

You stiffened, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. “What makes you think that?”

“You twitched every time the generator kicked on. Thought you were about to bolt when Jesse slammed that door.” Her voice was cold, almost clinical, but you caught the undercurrent of concern buried in it. “What’s going on?”

You hesitated, staring down at the glowing tip of your cigarette. The memories clawed at the edges of your mind, threatening to drag you under. Your dad’s yelling, your mom’s pleading, the sharp crack of his fist against the wall—or worse, against her. It was all there, always there, no matter how far you ran or how many years passed.

Ellie didn’t press, but she didn’t look away, either. She had that kind of presence, the kind that made you feel seen even when you didn’t want to be.

“My dad,” you finally said, your voice quieter than you’d intended. “He was… violent. Toward my mom. Toward me, sometimes. I don’t know. Days like this, it just… sneaks up on me.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened, her eyes flicking toward the skyline. “Yeah. I get that.”

You glanced at her, surprised. She didn’t elaborate, but you could see it in the way her shoulders tensed, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever ghosts haunted her, they were just as heavy as yours. Maybe heavier.

She took a long drag of her cigarette, then said, “You ever wonder if this shit just… sticks to us? Like no matter how far we go, it’s always gonna be there. Screwing with us.”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Every goddamn day.”

Ellie turned her head to look at you then, her green eyes catching the faint light of the moon. “You’re handling it better than most,” she said, her tone serious, almost begrudgingly respectful. “Better than me.”

You smirked, leaning back on your hands. “What can I say? My PTSD made me hotter.”

Ellie froze for a second, then snorted—actually snorted—before catching herself. She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite her best efforts to suppress it. “You’re such a dumbass.”

“Maybe,” you said, shrugging. “But I made you laugh.”

“That wasn’t a laugh.” She exhaled sharply, flicking the ash off her cigarette. “It was a pity chuckle.”

“Sure,” you teased, grinning. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered, softening her edges just enough to make you feel like you’d won something. The two of you fell back into silence, the kind that felt warm despite the cool night air.

Maybe the scars would never go away. Maybe the memories would always be there, clawing at the edges of your mind. But sitting here, with Ellie by your side, the weight felt a little lighter. For now, that was enough.

[lvnchh]

GUESS

Abby anderson x female reader inspired by Billie Eilish feat in Guess

I’m a minor, and I write smut. Please, if you want to complain or insult me about it, just don’t interact. 🙏🏻 It’s my life, and I’m free to write whatever I want as long as I’m not bothering anyone. Also, please don’t judge any grammar mistakes, as English is not my native language. I’m sorry if the smut or the whole story isn’t that good.

Smut below the cut.

The soft hum of Tokyo nightlife buzzed around you both as you slid into a quiet booth in a tucked-away izakaya. It was late, the streets a blur of neon and rain-slicked reflections, but you didn't notice much of it anymore. Your focus was on Abby. Always on Abby.

Her presence was magnetic-broad shoulders and toned arms stretched beneath her simple black tank top. Her fishtail braid, slightly undone from the humidity, rested on her shoulder. And those eyes. Piercing, like they could see right through you, even the things you tried to keep hidden.

But tonight? Tonight you didn't want to hide a thing.

She sat beside you instead of across, the smell of her lingering-something earthy and familiar. You felt her thigh brush against yours as she shifted closer, her arm resting casually behind you on the worn leather of the booth. Abby wasn't subtle. She rarely was.

"You gonna drink that, or just stare at me all night?" she teased, her low voice a delicious rasp that made your cheeks warm. You glanced at the glass of sake in front of you, but your thoughts weren't on the drink. They hadn't been since the moment she saw you get dressed earlier. The way her eyes darkened as she caught a glimpse of black lace peeking out from the waistband of your jeans-it had been deliberate on your part. You didn't think she'd notice so quickly.

But Abby always noticed.

The first time she picked those out for you, it had been a joke. A playful nudge at the store, her teasing grin as she held up the delicate black pair with the tiny bows, knowing damn well they were a far cry from the usual comfort you preferred. "Bet you'd look good in these," she'd said, low and confident, daring you to blush.

And you did.

You hadn't expected to actually love them, let alone wear them for her. But tonight? Tonight felt different.

"I already know what you're wearing under there,"

Abby murmured, her lips close to your ear now, her voice barely audible over the faint jazz playing in the background. Her free hand traced the seam of your jeans under the table, featherlight but enough to make your breath hitch.

"You think so?" you asked, attempting a coy smile, but the way your voice wavered betrayed you.

"I know so." she said, a playful smirk tugging at her lips "Saw 'em when you sat down. They're all I've been thinkin' about."

Her fingers pressed just slightly against your thigh, and you cursed yourself for the way your body responded instantly to her touch.

"Abby-"

"Hmm?" she asked, feigning innocence as her hand slid higher, her calloused fingers brushing against the edge of your waistband. "You wanna keep pretending, or should we cut the act?"

You bit your lip, your pulse racing. Abby had a way of unraveling you without even trying.

"I'm not pretending," you whispered, turning to meet her gaze. Her smirk softened, replaced by something darker, hungrier.

"Good," she said. "I can't stop thinking about them," her voice low as her fingers ghosted along the edge of your waistband. "The lace. The bows. How perfect they look on you."

Your breath caught, and you managed to mumble, "Abby-"

her lips brushing your ear. Her tone was soft, but the heat behind it made your stomach tighten. "Don't act like you didn't know what this would do to me."

You swallowed hard, fighting the heat creeping up your neck, but the corner of her mouth lifted, satisfied with your reaction.

She leaned closer, her hand slipping under the hem of your shirt to graze your skin. Her touch was firm, grounding, and made every nerve in your body light up.

"C'mon," she said, voice dropping even lower.

"Let's get out of here."

Abby had you pressed against the futon mattress before you even had a chance to slip your shoes off. Her lips were on yours, rough and needy, her hands already tugging at the hem of your shirt. When she finally pulled away, her gaze raked over you, her eyes trailing lower until they landed on the lacy black pair that had been driving her crazy all night.

"Just as good as I imagined," she muttered, her voice thick with desire.

You barely had time to respond before her mouth was on your neck, her hands gripping your waist like she couldn't bear the thought of letting go. Her fingers traced the edge of the lace, her touch deliberate, slow.

"They're gonna end up ruined," you murmured, your breath catching as her lips ghosted down your neck, her hands firm on your waist. her fingers hooking into the fabric as her mouth hovered at your navel.

"Don't care," she said simply, her voice rough and low. Her hand tugged the lace aside, her blue eyes locking on yours. "This? This is all I care about."

She grabbed your thighs and pulled you closer, her fingers digging into your skin as she lowered herself between your legs. Her eyes locked with yours, a dark smirk curling at the corner of her lips as she reached for the lace, tugging it to the side without a second thought. You couldn't hold back the gasp as her mouth met you, her lips pressing against you with slow, deliberate pressure. The sensation was electric, and the moment she dragged her tongue over you, your whole body tensed.

"Abby..." you breathed, your voice already shaky.

She didn't reply, just kept moving, her hands holding you steady while her tongue worked with precision. Every flick, every stroke was calculated, and she didn't need to ask how you were feeling— she knew. Abby's confidence was as overwhelming as it was intoxicating, and it made it impossible to focus on anything else but her.

"Fuck, you taste good," she muttered under her breath, her voice low and rough as her lips stayed on you, never wavering. Her eyes never left yours as she worked, a steady rhythm that had you trembling beneath her. You reached down, your fingers running through her hair, desperate to hold onto something. Her grip on your hips tightened, pulling you closer, making it impossible to escape the overwhelming pleasure she was delivering. She could feel the way your body reacted, the way you bucked against her, and it only spurred her on. When she pulled away briefly, just to look at you, her lips glistened, and you could see the satisfaction in her eyes.

[lvnchh]

I KNOW IT'S BAD, BUT Y'ALL CAN'T TELL ME THEY AREN'T THE SAME PERSON.

[lvnchh]

to anyone who defends Owen’s actions because 'he loved Abby,' don’t forget that he wanted to escape with Abby, leaving Mel, a pregnant woman, alone on her own. I don’t like Mel or Owen, but that’s still not good, man