𐙚 ⊹ ⸻ Picnic Snack
𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: fem!pillowprincess!abby x reader
𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠: fluff , i’m serious about the fluff , established relationship , domestic fluff , motion sickness doesn’t exist , teasing , sensual eating of a strawberry , car sex , public sex , spit as lube , light sub/dom , praise kink , strap (a!receiving)
𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠: cute picnic date with fem abby that turns a little needy
𝑤𝑐: 5.0k
abby x reader oneshot masterlist , abby x reader oneshot taglist , masterlists
𝑎/𝑛: i visualised the reader more masculine but i was sure to make it so that you can imagine them however you’d like ;)
The post-sunrise shine grazes gently across your cheekbones as you guide the wheels of your 2015 Toyota down the twisting hill. Tall trees line either side of the road, their branches blocking the view of the long drop below.
Your fiancé, Abby, sits contentedly beside you, her eyes down-turned as they etch into the yellow-tinted pages of her copy of Little Women. One hand supports the spine of the book while the other rests against the page. Her thumb occasionally shifts beneath the corner, anticipating turning the page.
Abby loved it when the council planted the trees. She was terrified of this road before.
She used to hate seeing the sharp, cliff-like edge that disappeared into nothing but bushland. She would beg you to go slower until walking pace was faster.
Every time you would approach a bend, her fingers would instinctively clutch her necklace, nervously fiddling with the chain. Her other hand would pick at the skin between her thumb and nail in her lap.
You would always notice.
You'd reach over the gear and take her hand, gently separating her pointer finger from the skin she'd already irritated red. You'd interlock your fingers tightly with hers, whispering soft reassurances, letting her know when the next turn was coming or when there was a bump.
It would still startle her every single time. Her pupils would dilate and her leg would begin vigorously bouncing on its heel.
You had once seen a news article about the trees. Apparently, the sharp turns had been responsible for a concerning amount of accidents. The trees had been planted in an attempt to reduce the severe consequences of someone forgetting a turn.
You had never told Abby about the article.
You had a feeling it would be enough to convince her that the two of you needed to move.
You both own a warm cottage at the top of the hill.
The front driveway connects to a small concrete area that, when you first moved in, neither of you had any idea what to do with. For the first couple of weeks, it sat there in all its ugly, bare glory.
Then, one day Abby gave you the puppy-dog eyes.
She stood in the arched kitchen doorway with her hands clasped behind her back, looking up at you.
"Can I have a fruit garden in the front," she'd asked in her politest voice.
You'd let out a defeated sigh, not arguing with her pleading expression.
After some construction that you decided to take on, the concrete area was sectioned into four small patches of soil for Abby to use however she wished.
She planted peach, apple, lemon, and olive trees in the first two sections. After much consideration—and pestering for your opinion between orange or pink tulips—the remaining two sections became a flower and vegetable garden.
You'll never forget the ruddiness of her cheeks and the glimmer in her eyes when she brought you the first tomato the vine had grown. She'd carried it inside with both hands, as though it was a fragile baby chick.
Now Abby spends at least an hour every day tending to her plants. She checks for pests, tests the soil fertility, pulls weeds, and hunts snails. Abby hates snails.
The backyard gets them too, but not nearly as many. Abby absolutely envies it. Maybe one day she'll move her entire garden to the back.
The backyard itself contains a small patch of well-kept lawn where your labrador, Bertha, loves to play after the grass has been freshly mowed. She always gets the cut grass stuck to her paws, staining her legs a bright green. She'll run to the back veranda door and make the softest, most pitiful whines. Abby always rushes to the rescue, unable to handle another millisecond of Bertha’s solemn whimpering.
Abby's chicken coop is also in the backyard, but it sits further back through the bushes, surrounded by paths of worn down grass.
Each morning Abby wakes up at the crack of dawn and checks for eggs while you remain curled in the sheets. She replaces their food and water before returning to the house with a basket full of eggs tucked against her hip. You always wake up shortly afterwards with a groan, sliding your feet into pyjama slippers and make your way to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Abby comes back with her basket, telling you which eggs look best and which ones she'll save for her next pie, complemented by the lemons she's picked from her tree.
It's been a year since the last moving truck drove away. Back when Abby was only your girlfriend of two and a half years.
Now, two months after you proposed, your names are printed together on a small metal sign attached to the porch door.
Abby still hasn't stopped talking about how much she adored the proposal.
You'd taken her to the grassy stretch of the nearby beach, supposedly to celebrate your three-year anniversary. It was the exact spot you'd shared your first kiss. As the sunset had descended over the horizon, you'd slipped the ring box from your back pocket. You were sure to kneel in the exact place you'd kissed her those years ago.
You still remember the expression on her face, soft tears streaming down. And how she'd spent the whole night teasing you about every future anniversary being ruined because it couldn't possibly compare.
The twist of the steering wheel pulls you from the memory.
You make the final turn of the dirt road, now reaching the main streets and driving through the suburbs.
Today is supposed to be something simple. Not extravagant, just sweet.
Abby bought a picnic blanket a couple of weeks ago and you thought it would be the perfect time to use it. You've packed all kinds of food into the willow wicker basket sitting on the backseat.
You were sure to carefully check everything before you’d left. But you had checked the strawberries at least ten times, tediously chopping at any small imperfections. They're Abby's favourite, they have to be perfect.
Abby’s wearing a baby pink dress today. It has puffed sleeves and delicate frills along the hem. Small, fine-lined patterns of dahlias scatter across the fabric.
It's your favourite. She looks so beautiful in it.
The colour brings out her ocean blue irises and complements the warmth of her peachy skin.
Her hair falls in soft, wavy curls that brush along her jawline. The crown of her hair is pinned back in a French barrette while the rest lies loosely across her shoulders and collarbone.
The sun catches every strand differently. Some reflect a gold, some a matte blonde, and some have a warmer undertone. Her hair sways in the wind coming through the car window, a strand occasionally sticking to her lip gloss.
A Lana Del Rey track plays quietly through the speakers, low enough that Abby can read and loud enough to give you something to listen to besides the rattling engine. But you don't really need it. Catching her reflection in the central mirror and her floral perfume blowing over to you—mixed faintly with her pine soap—is entertainment enough.
You know better than to interrupt Abby while she's reading. If you keep talking she'll start to give you increasingly shorter responses. Never disrespectful or inconsiderate, just distracted. After a couple of minutes, she'll turn towards you with her features softly contorted, one eyebrow slightly raised and her upper lip pouty. You'll apologise and she'll glare at you for another second before turning her attention back onto the words.
"We're almost there, princess," you say, your voice rough from not speaking.
She gives you a knowing grunt, not bringing her attention off the page.
You always let Abby know a couple of minutes before you arrive. Otherwise, you'll both be sitting in the car for another five minutes while Abby begs, "Just 'till the end of the chapter," before proceeding to methodically read each word and then immediately start the next chapter.
You only protest with a calm, "Abs—" before she apologises and slams the book shut.
You find the park a few minutes later. It's a small, secluded patch of grass with a couple benches and public fitness machines. You keep your eyes peeled for an available parking spot.
Abby slides her string bookmark between the pages, the little charm hanging from the end settles against the cover just as you switch the car into park.
You immediately start to climb out, the car practically still moving.
On your first official date together Abby got out of the car herself. A truly criminal act.
Now every time you ride in the car together, regardless of how short or insignificant the trip, you must open the passenger door for her and offer her your hand.
Abby has complained profusely that it's ridiculous. But you know that if you were to stop, she'd probably sit in the car with her lips pushed into a pout until you came back.
You fling the door open and extend your calloused fingertips to her.
Abby lets out a soft chuckle as she accepts your arm, "Thanks, baby."
You help her out before reaching back into the car for the picnic basket. You then take Abby's hand again and lead her across the road to the park.
It isn't busy this early, only a handful of dog owners walking their pups before work.
You find a nice patch of grass underneath a jacaranda tree; its blossoms providing some shade.
You set down the basket and grab Abby's picnic blanket. It's a traditional red and black gingham pattern with a tiny needlework flower stitched into the upper right corner. You spread it over the grass and set your water bottle on the edge so that it isn't picked up by the wind.
Abby walks over, beaming as she picks up her dress and neatly lowers herself onto the blanket.
You sit beside her, setting down the picnic basket in front of you. You open the hatch and fling the lid open, revealing the containers of snacks you've prepared.
Abby's eyes widen, "Oh wow!"
She lets in a shocked gasp, leaning closer, "Strawberries too! The 'Berry Sweet' ones?"
You give her a curt, humble nod.
Her joy paints a silly, involuntary grin across your face. You can't help but smile when she's so happy.
"You're so sweet," she leans over the space between you and plants a kiss on your lips, her plush skin moulding to your bottom lip. It's not hungry or demanding, it's loving.
Abby pulls away and immediately snatches the container filled with strawberries from the basket, tossing the lid aside.
"Wait, Abs," you sputter through a laugh. "I got you…" you trail off as you lean into the basket, pulling out a fresh block of chocolate.
"It'll melt in the sun," you explain, tearing open the plastic packaging. "So you can dip them in."
You place the chocolate on the sunny corner of the blanket.
Abby's eyebrows lift as she grins at you, tucking her bottom lip under her tongue. "Mmm, that'll be so delicious."
You unpack the rest of the food, passing her an insulated bottle filled with juice. You made two triangle-cut sandwiches for each of you, making sure to leave the tomato out of Abby's. She refuses to eat it if it's soggy. And if you forget, her eyebrows curl together and her eyes turn downward at the edges as she takes a reluctant bite. Her face always contorts into the same respectfully disguised expression every single time. She couldn't pretend to like a food if her life depended on it. It's cute.
Abby reaches for her sun hat. She's always been very careful of UV rays. Even after covering herself in SPF-50 this morning, she still refuses to let the sun touch her face for too long.
She adjusts the hat over her hair, pulling a few strands from underneath.
Your eyes lock on her biceps as she reaches up and flicks her hair away from her face. Her sculpted arm relaxes again, settling between her legs.
The muscles look beautiful against the soft fabric of the dress. You've always loved her muscles. They're feminine, elegant in a way that doesn't diminish her strength. Controlled yet graceful.
They suit her. Who she is as a person.
Abby catches you staring, tilting her head to the side. "What?"
You blink hard, "Nothing."
Abby doesn't believe you, but before she questions any further she reaches behind her for a second bag. It's a large beach bag, loose and overflowing at the top. Her lips twist upwards as she pulls out two canvases and a set of paints with an array of paintbrushes.
You recognise what Abby’s planning immediately.
She's been talking about this couple's trend for months. You'd only held back for so long because of your lack of artistic ability. Well, it's more like a void of artistic ability.
Whereas, Abby has always been good at art. She'll sketch tulips and ferns by the fireplace every now and then, sometimes absentmindedly colouring whilst waiting for the kettle to boil. You don't know how she does it, seeing something and effortlessly replicating it on paper.
You pick up a canvas with an airy laugh.
"You'll do it with me?" Abby asks with a hint of nervousness shaking her vocal cords.
"Course," you pick up one of the medium-sized paintbrushes, awkwardly gripping it with your fist. "Just… you can't get mad. I haven't painted since I was, like, five."
Abby has a big smile, "I won't, silly. As long as you don't paint me as a horse or something."
"No promises," you grin.
Abby shakes her head and turns to face opposite you, positioning her canvas in front of her. She looks up at you from under the rim of her hat, a playful grin pulling at the corners of her lips.
Abby opens the paints and preps the watercolours with a few drops of water, choosing a larger brush and holding it with an effortlessly dainty pencil-grip.
For a moment, you stare blankly at the bare canvas.
Where do you even start? How could you ever create Abby?
You glance up at her. She's already painting the base, her features relaxed as she drags the brush over the coarse fabric. She occasionally glances up from the canvas to examine your features.
You can't replicate her beauty. Nothing could. You could paint every individual identifiable feature perfectly and still miss the Abby. The way that her eyes soften when she looks at someone or something she loves. The warmth in her voice when she calls you baby. Her true beauty can only be physically experienced, never portrayed.
But you have to try, for her. She lights up when she's happy, and this'll make her happy.
You dip the brush into the paint haphazardly, tracing the brush across the fabric with your shaky grip.
A lopsided circle is what you start with. You try to use vibrant colours, ones that remind you of her soul. But one eye is too low, her jaw is uneven, and the proportions are off.
You paint her dress and hair before finally stepping back to take a good look.
It's atrocious. An absolute mess.
You look from the canvas to Abby. She's eternally more beautiful.
Abby furrows her brows and squeezes her lips to one side as she carefully fluffs the brush on the edge of the canvas.
"Okay," she pauses, dragging the brush along the fabric a final time, "Done!"
She looks up at you, "You ready to show each other?"
You painfully wince at your effort.
"Not really, but…" you sigh. "You go first," you gesture towards your painting, "And lower your expectations to the floor, please."
Abby chuckles, "Okay, I promise I won't get weird. It's just a game."
You give her a wonky smile.
Abby picks up her canvas and twists it around. It's an intricate drawing of you in a cartoonish style. An orange ombré covers the background, highlighting the wisps of hair she had patiently painted. She's perfectly captured every aspect of you, from your cheeks to your eyebrows.
You sit with your mouth gaping open.
"You like it?" Abby innocently asks.
"Holy shit, honey," you exclaim, "It's amazing."
Her smile grows, down-turned in a shy manner. "Thanks," she points at your canvas, "Your turn."
The gentle anticipation on her face makes your stomach twist.
You pick up your canvas, hesitating before flipping it around quickly, ripping off the bandaid.
Abby's expression falters, falling to a soft neutrality. You can't tell whether she's horrified, sad, or disappointed.
Then, she bursts out in a throaty laugh.
You begin to chuckle too as you shift the canvas back to look at your crooked painting.
"I'm so sorry," your laugh slowly turning into guilt, "I hope I didn't ruin your thing."
Abby catches her breath, her cheeks rosy and tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "You didn't, baby. It's just," she bursts into laughter again, "interesting…"
You snort, "Oh, fuck you."
"I didn't say it was bad," Abby's tone rises.
"It was implied," you chuckle.
"I would never," her face is red from holding back laughter, "It's beautiful, the best painting I've ever seen."
She smiles sweetly and you both break out into feral fit of laughter again.
"I—I tried to get your lashes here," between breaths you point towards the black lines that look like spider legs above your excuse for eyes. "And—ugh—your hair is put up. See?"
Abby squints, "Oh, that thing that looks like a brick made of noodles?"
You can't help but snort, "Yup."
The childish laughter eventually fades into ragged breaths.
"I'm truly so sorry, honey," you say. "There's no point trying to paint you anyway. You're too beautiful, it… can't be put onto paper. Everything about you is just—"
A long pause swallows the morning breeze. Abby is waiting for you to continue.
She grins at you, putting down her canvas. "Everything what?"
Her playful tone drops your embarrassment as focus your gaze onto her eyes.
"Everything about you is just… so perfect," you lower your voice. "Your eyes, cheeks, lips—"
You take in a sharp breath, your eyes locking onto Abby's heavier bottom lip as she wets it with the tip of her tongue.
"It's—" you swallow. "It can only be experienced." Abby's back is arching slightly, chasing the gap between you. "Felt."
"Is that so?" she whispers, her voice holding an almost imperceptible feminine prowl between the words. But you notice, recognising it from all the other times it's come out.
"It is," you match her volume. "Someone that beautiful deserves worship."
Abby's mouth is now slightly parted, her bottom lip resting above her chin.
You pick up a strawberry without taking your eyes off her. You slowly twiddle it between your fingers before bringing it towards her mouth. Abby leans forward and sucks on the berry, cupping it with the bottom of her lip. Her lips close around the strawberry as she bites down. The juices spill over the corner of her mouth, dripping down her lip. The drop slowly falls onto her dress. Abby turns her head down to look at the growing pink stain, but her eyes aren't tainted with frustration or annoyance. Instead, she looks back up at you, pupils wide and cheeks flush.
Suddenly, the park feels too open. Too public.
You break the eye contact as she finishes the strawberry, tossing the remaining stem back into the container. It takes Abby a moment to realise that the paintings and supplies have disappeared.
"Wh—Baby, what are you doing?" she asks, a soft breathlessness seeping through her strawberry-stained lips.
You pause while packing the last supplies into the beach bag. "Look at those pretty little eyes," you mockingly coo. Abby's cheeks stain a deeper shade of fuchsia.
"I don't think we should be here," you whisper, your gaze drifting across the park and pausing on someone walking through the grassy path. Abby follows your eyes, understanding flowing through her features. Her cheeks keep their bright flush as she begins to help pack the blanket and food.
You know how she gets when she's desperate. Her eyes don't shift from the centre, sticking to what's in front of her. She gets dizzy. She’s too dazed to form coherent thoughts, causing her sentences to come out in chaotic fragments. Her limbs become wobbly, making her lose her grip and stumble on her own feet, falling straight into your arms.
You can't leave your princess in that state. Helping her is a necessity.
You carry the bags across the road towards the car, the paintings sit secure in the beach bag.
You'll probably hang them up later, or at least Abby's. You might find a more discreet place in the garage or spare room for your painting.
You toss everything into the trunk before walking around to open the door for Abby.
She holds your gaze as she slips her legs into the passenger seat. You can tell by her glassy eyes just how much you've worked her up this time.
You practically run around to the driver's side, climbing inside and slamming the door behind you, too careless to lock it.
For a moment, neither of you move. You just stare at each other like dumb, horny teenagers in their parents' car after a pathetic first date.
Then, Abby's manicured hand settles on your thigh, her fingers caressing slowly and possessively.
The air in the car is warm, thick with lust and a mutual fervour.
You lean across the handbrake and smash your lips against hers. All of your stubborn circumspection from before dissolves as you ask for entry into her mouth, tangling your tongue with hers. Abby's mouth parts just enough to free a small amount of the desperate sounds that ache in her throat.
Your hands find her waist, caressing the sculpted curvature. Abby lets out a choked gasp as you move your mouth from hers, planting kisses down her neck. She gathers your hair, interlacing her fingers with the locks as your hand slips underneath her dress. The contact with her flushed skin sends a powerful jolt of desire through your senses.
Everything is suddenly heightened. You can smell every undertone in Abby's floral musk perfume. Feel every bump and line in her skin. Hear every moan and frantic heartbeat that fills the car. See every beam of mid-morning light flowing into the car, touching Abby's pleasure-filled expression. It's too much, but also just enough.
Your hand pets across her hip joint and moves down her thigh, but misses the strap of her underwear.
Another pass over confirms that there is no underwear to be felt.
Your hand wiggles out of her dress and begins groping Abby's tits over her bra. You shift your weight off the driver's seat, closing the space between you.
Abby's whimpers grow louder as you move her dress and bra to the side, revealing her bare breasts over her clothes. You slowly circle her hardening nipple with your calloused thumb, making Abby choke down saliva trying to regulate herself.
You finally lift your lips from her neck, only enough to let in a strained breath. "I've got something for you," your voice is now laced with a raspy desire.
Abby's breath hitches at the sound of your voice vibrating through the thin skin of her neck. The sound of your desperation flows into her blood, her clit pulsing in response.
You break away, trying to ignore the painful force pulling you back. You stretch backwards, reaching underneath the backseat and finding your hidden tool for emergencies. Clutching it in your palm, you reveal the present to Abby.
Abby's lips—still red from the friction of your mouth—shape into an 'O', twisted with a balance of surprise, lust, and gratification.
Without another word, you begin fastening the harness onto your hips, the sapphire silicone dildo protruding over your pants. You're too lazy to take them off, it'll take too much time. You need to be inside her now.
Abby's dilated pupils frantically scan across the windows in the small car, searching for anyone nearby. "Ah—are you sure this is a good ide—" her voice cuts off once she turns her gaze back to you. Her eyes follow the thick collection of spit as it drips from your mouth and lands on the shaft of the toy. Her gawking stare doesn't waver as you spread the spit along the fake cock in a carefully erotic manner.
"Uh—mmm," slips from Abby's lips as she watches in awe, desperation tinting across her cheeks and neck.
"There's no one around, Abs," you comfort her tenderly. "Just us. You came here with no panties on. I mean… what did you expect, princess?" a mockingly sympathetic tone slips beneath the words.
Abby pauses for a moment before replying with a kiss. She pulls you over her body, stretching your torso over the glovebox and gears. Her head rests on the bottom of the car window, her hair untidily splaying across the dark-patterned door panel. You slide your entire body over Abby, steadying yourself above her with the grab handle.
Abby lets out a soft moan as the movement causes your strap to brush over her inner thigh, her dress riding up. The smell of her arousal fills the small vehicle, the moist and heavy scent removing any last sensible thoughts you had.
You pull back from the sloppy kisses and turn Abby over in a single, swift movement. A gasp escapes her lips as her face plants against the window. Her back arches, her ass perking up in front of you.
You flip the dress over her hips and it folds into a creased lump on her upper back. Her body now lies in front of you, completely undone and ready for you. Desperate for you.
You lay your palms on her either side ass and gently spread them apart. Abby's scent hits your nostrils, consuming you with a need beyond anything other priority.
You carefully inch your hips forward, running the shaft over her soaked pussy, the tip teasing her clit. You can feel the way her clit throbs beneath her faint hairs, light freckles tinting the vulnerable skin. She bucks her hips upwards, the tip nearing her entrance.
Abby lets out a shocked gasp as you push her forward by her waist.
You carefully slip the tip inside her aching pussy. Abby lets out a muffled moan, gripping the edge of the seat with white knuckles. You find a slow rhythm, inching the cock slightly deeper.
Once her pussy finally swallows the cock to the base, Abby turns her head to the side and looks back up at you. The deep blue silicone drips with Abby's slick as you slowly slip it back outwards.
She lays her head on the seat, "Pl—please fuck me, baby."
So you do.
You pick up the rhythm, curving at the exact spot that makes Abby cry out. You can practically feel how Abby's walls clench around you, her sensitive pussy responding to every slight movement.
Abby's noises become louder, more cracked and candid. Her moans cut off as waves of pleasure hit her more frequently. She's getting close.
You fold yourself over her back, still fucking deep into her dripping pussy. Your mouth grazes against the back of her ear, "Am I fucking you good?"
Abby opens her mouth to reply but only a series of cracked moans escape.
"Answer me," your tone turns more demanding, "or would you like me to stop, now? Show you what a cute little slut like you gets for disobeying orders?"
Abby swallows, lifting her face from the seat. "You're fucking me so good, baby. I—ugh—I’m gonna cum from how good you fuck—fuck—me." She pauses, the clap of skin against skin distracting her speech. "N—No one else could ever fuck me as g—uh hu—good as you do."
The praise flows through your veins like a drug, "That's my good little slut," you softly whisper.
You increase the pace, rewarding you with a vocal moan from Abby. Or maybe more of a scream.
The friction on your clit drives you crazy, intoxicating you with one objective: making your princess cum.
"Cum for me, princess," you say in a calm and shaky whisper. But you know that's exactly what she's doing.
You feel as her muscles tense and her whimpers falter. The air is left in silence for a moment before she lets out a gut-wrenching cry. Waves of muffled moans bounce across the car. You hold her up, thrusting through each hit of pleasure, draining out every little noise you can.
Eventually, her whole body goes limp, falling into a delicate pile. She quiets down, the last choked moans slipping past her lips.
You carefully remove the silicone cock with a lewd squelch. Soft tears run down Abby's cheeks as you pull her chin up and kiss her. Her mouth moves lazily, unable to properly manoeuvre a simple kiss.
You unfasten the harness and place the toy back behind the backseat. You slump back into the driver's seat. Abby sits at the edge of the passenger seat, resting her head on your lap. The familiar warmth of her skin soothes you, bringing your mind back to reality.
"Sorry for cutting the date short," you stammer.
"You didn't," Abby whispers in a bright pitch. She twists her head upwards, individually looking deep into your eyes, "You made it better."
You grin softly, petting along her back, flattening the creases in her dress. The smell of fresh sex still lingers in the car, but the atmosphere is more controlled. Not containing the animalistic tension from before.
Abby's delicate features stare up at you, "That's my idea of a perfect date."
𝑎/𝑛: this was so fun to write because i based the locations on my childhood area and home. i used to be so scared of driving down the hill, i loved the areas that had trees on the side. i think abby would appreciate the trees too because of her fear of heights.
and if you recognise any of the descriptions, specifically of the house or dog, no you fucking don’t. you actually hallucinated this entire fic.
also, i kept thinking about how owen is one lucky fucker so i made sure abby got some actually good backshots.
thank you so much for reading and thanks to everyone for the support on my last fic :)
taglist: @sashaaaur @fleetwonder
thank you for reading 𐙚
