Professor! Abby Anderson x Reader
Chapter 65 Don't you want to apologize to Mommy?
**THIS IS AN AU CHARACTER PERSONALITIES MAY NOT MATCH UP TO CANON**
cw: SEXXXXXXXXXXXXUH reader givinggggggg
Professor Anderson ignored you for the rest of the night.
She didn’t come back to help you out of the bath. By the time you finally climbed out, the water had disappeared completely, leaving you cold and dripping on the tile. You stood there for a moment with the towel clutched around yourself, waiting anyway. Listening for footsteps in the hall.
You had to rummage through the bathroom cabinets until you found a box of pads shoved behind extra toilet paper and unopened bottles of shampoo. They were enormous maxi pads, thick and stiff between your legs, and once you pulled your underwear up you immediately hated the bulky pressure of it. You felt like you were wearing a diaper.
Usually, Abby would have laughed if you told her that.
Tonight, you kept it to yourself.
She didn’t help you get dressed either. You pulled your clothes on alone, struggling with damp skin and sleeves that kept catching against your wrists. When you finally stepped into the bedroom, Abby was already beneath the blankets with her back turned toward you.
You climbed in carefully and stayed on your side for a while, watching the shape of her beneath the covers. Eventually, you moved closer and slipped an arm around her waist.
Then she scooted forward.
The rejection was so small you could have pretended it wasn’t one. You moved your hand back to your own chest and stared into the darkness, listening to the space she had made between you. A few minutes later, Abby threw the blankets aside and got out of bed without a word.
You heard the guest-room door close down the hall.
Professor Anderson barely looked at you. You found her in the kitchen with her hair still mussed from sleep, standing near the counter while the coffee maker sputtered. You reached automatically for another mug.
“I can make yours,” you offered, already opening the cabinet.
She gave no indication that she had heard you.
You glanced over your shoulder. “Abby?”
You remained there with the mug in your hand, staring at the empty doorway until the coffee maker clicked off behind you.
After that, you stopped trying.
You didn’t eat. You didn’t drink any water. You didn’t bother changing out of the clothes you had slept in. Hunger came sometime around noon, a dull twisting beneath the cramps already lodged in your abdomen, but eventually even that faded into the rest of you.
You crawled back into Abby’s bed and pulled her pillow against your chest.
It still smelled faintly of her shampoo.
For hours, you lay there with your cheek pressed into it and watched the sky through the bedroom window. Clouds drifted past in slow, shapeless masses, breaking apart and gathering again while afternoon gradually drained from the room. You counted them until you lost track. Then you stopped counting.
No footsteps came down the hall.
The light turned gray, then blue, then disappeared entirely.
You never turned on the lamp.
When night finally filled the bedroom, you tucked Abby’s pillow tighter beneath your chin, closed your eyes, and went back to sleep.
You woke to the faint pressure of lips against your cheek.
Still tangled in sleep, you made a tired noise and swatted blindly at whoever was bothering you. Your hand barely made it through the air before Professor Anderson caught your wrist. Her fingers closed around it, guiding your arm back against the mattress and holding it there.
“Are you ready to apologize?” she purred against your ear.
For several seconds, you couldn’t understand what you were looking at. Sleep clung stubbornly to the edges of the room, turning the morning light hazy and indistinct. Then Professor Anderson came into focus above you.
She wore only her bra and underwear, black lace against her skin.
Your brow twitched as you blinked up at her, still struggling to drag yourself fully awake. Yesterday returned in scattered pieces. The bath. The drain. Her back turned toward you. The guest-room door closing. Coffee cooling untouched in the kitchen.
Abby watched recognition gather across your face and smirked.
She lowered her mouth to your neck, pressing a trail of kisses along your skin while her hand remained wrapped around your wrist. “It’s so hard when you’re this big of a brat,” she murmured, a quiet laugh warming your throat.
The word lodged strangely inside you.
You stared past her at the ceiling.
Was that what she thought you were?
Your mouth tightened. Yesterday, you had told her you didn’t want children. That was all. You hadn’t screamed at her. You hadn’t insulted her. You hadn’t tried to hurt her. You had shaken your head.
Then she had left you in the bathtub.
Ignored you when you tried to hold her.
Walked away when you offered to make her coffee.
And now she was here, kissing your neck as though the entire day between those moments had been punishment for poor behavior.
You swallowed, feeling her lips move against your skin again.
But was that really what it was?
“You know,” she began, sitting upright, “it would mean a lot to me if you’d mother my children.”
Her fingers found the clasp of her bra and unfastened it. She let the black lace fall aside.
Your eyes dropped immediately.
Professor Anderson noticed. Of course she did. A pleased smile curved across her mouth as she watched every remaining thought leave your face.
“It’s so hard giving you the silent treatment,” she confessed, the words slipping out with a quiet hiss. Her expression softened as she looked down at you. “I missed you, Ruby.”
The admission struck deeper than you wanted it to.
She pulled the blanket away and settled over your hips, her weight pinning you pleasantly into the mattress. Yesterday had been an entire day of reaching toward her and finding empty air. Now she was everywhere again: her warmth, her perfume, her hair falling forward as she tilted her head to study you.
“Yes!” The answer burst out before she had even finished asking.
Your hands rose instinctively to her chest. “I did.” Your face burned beneath her gaze, breath arriving in uneven little waves.
You had missed her so badly that admitting it felt humiliating. The pillow pressed against your face. The clouds crawling past the window. The untouched coffee downstairs. Every hour spent wondering when she would decide you had suffered enough.
And now she was touching you again.
Relief moved through you so quickly there was hardly room to examine it.
Professor Anderson smiled down at you, and for a moment, being forgiven felt so much better than remembering you still didn’t know what you were apologizing for.
She cooed softly, her voice wrapping around you as she caught your wrists and guided your hands upward.
Your palms met the soft warmth of her breasts, and she pressed them there, holding you in place. “You like touching Mommy’s breasts, baby?” she asked, the sweetness in her tone curling through the air between you.
Your hips bucked up against her without permission, a helpless jolt of need.
The word scraped out of your throat first. “I…” You swallowed hard, throat clicking. “I do.”
She hummed low in her throat, pleased, and moved your fingers for you, circling them over her nipples until they tightened under your touch. She showed you the rhythm she wanted, the exact pressure, the slow twist that made her breath hitch. Her head tipped back, exposing the long line of her throat, and a gasp tore from her as she rocked harder against your lap, grinding down with a slick, insistent heat.
“Do you want to make Mommy very happy?” she murmured, eyes half-lidded as she looked down at you. “Say sorry for being a bad girl?”
You nodded quickly, teeth sinking into your lower lip to keep from making another sound.
Heat flooded your face, your chest, every place her body touched yours.
She smiled and eased herself off your lap.
The absence of her weight left you strangely empty.
She lay back on the bed, hair spilling across the pillow, and parted her thighs. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear, sliding the fabric down and away until there was nothing left between you and the sight of her wet pussy.
“Then come here,” she whispered, voice velvet-soft, “and say sorry to Mommy.”
You crawled forward on trembling limbs, settling between her spread thighs. The heat radiating from her skin drew you in like a magnet. You looked up at her face, searching, and her fingers brushed through your hair with tender approval.
“Go ahead,” she cooed, her voice low and indulgent. “You can set the pace.”
She smiled down at you, then reached between her legs and parted her folds with two fingers, opening herself completely for your mouth.
Your breath caught in your throat.
You leaned in slowly and pressed a kiss to her slick heat, lips brushing over every soft, wet inch of her. Then your tongue followed, tracing gentle circles around her clit. She tasted warm and heady, overwhelming.
“That’s it, baby,” she exhaled, the words drifting down. “You feel so good.”
A moan vibrated out of you in answer.
You sucked her clit between your lips, letting your hands settle firmly on her thighs to hold her steady. Her legs began to quiver under your palms as you worked her, swirling, sucking, losing yourself in the rhythm.
“Use your fingers too,” she moaned, hips rolling up to meet your mouth. “Come on, make Mommy feel good.”
You pressed two fingers inside her without hesitation, slick heat enveloping them. You tried to remember exactly how she had touched you, the angle, the curl, hoping you were doing it right. You sucked harder, tongue swirling in time with your thrusts, soft desperate sounds slipping from you with every lick.
She let out a soft, breathy giggle that melted into a moan. “Take your pinky,” she instructed, reaching down to guide your hand. She eased your smallest finger toward her ass until it slipped inside. “Oh—there,” she moaned, the sound raw and satisfied.
Your eyes widened at the tight, fluttering grip around all three fingers, at the way her clit pulsed against your tongue. You could feel everything, both holes clenching, her body responding with every movement.
“Oh, good girl,” she breathed, voice breaking. “Oh, like that!” Her hips bucked wildly against your face as the pleasure sharpened.
You moaned into her, licking and sucking with renewed hunger, fingers pumping faster. Her mess coated your cheeks and chin. The world narrowed to the taste of her, the sound of her gasps, the way her body trembled around you. You wished you could stay here forever, lost in her pleasure.
Then her thighs locked around your head. A long, guttural grunt tore from her throat as she came, pulsing hard around your fingers.
“Oh god,” she panted, still shaking. She grabbed a fistful of your hair. “You want Mommy’s cum, baby?”
You hummed against her in eager response.
“Move your fingers faster.” Her teeth clenched as her hips fucked against your mouth with frantic need.
You obeyed, moaning into her soaked flesh, fingers driving deeper and quicker.
When the peak finally broke, she gasped and slowly came down, gently pulling your fingers from her body.
She brought them to her lips and sucked them clean, one by one. You tried to hide the flicker of disgust when she reached your pinky, but it passed quickly as she leaned forward and kissed you.
Her tongue pushed into your mouth, carrying the salty, intimate taste of herself. You kissed her back anyway, hands roaming over her flushed skin, desperate to keep touching her.
“So good, baby,” she moaned against your lips, the praise sinking deep into your chest. “You did so good for Mommy.”
Her hands slid down to your waist, fingers pressing possessively into your skin as she looped under your waistband.
Your hands darted toward hers. “Wait!” you yelped, but she caught the protest with another kiss.
“I know you’re bloody,” Professor Anderson whispered against your mouth. Her voice stayed maddeningly gentle. “Mommy needs to see if it’s any better, okay?”
You shook your head hard enough to shift your hair across the pillow. “No way.”
She chuckled softly, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as though your refusal amused her more than it deterred her.
You squeezed your eyes shut. “I don’t need an inspection,” you managed through gritted teeth.
“Inspection?” Her lips wandered along your neck, and you felt the shape of her smile against your skin. “That’s a good word for it.”
She moved down the bed, easing your pants and underwear away while your thighs trembled beneath her hands. Every muscle in your legs wanted to draw inward, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, but she coaxed them apart until you were exposed beneath her gaze.
Professor Anderson gave a startled little gasp.
“Wow.” She nodded, studying you with an attention that made heat rush violently into your face. “Such a heavy flow.”
You immediately turned your head away.
Anywhere else. You could look anywhere else.
Her touch remained careful as she continued examining you. “Oh,” she murmured, tenderness slipping unexpectedly into her voice. “It’s so pretty, even like this.”
You stared stubbornly at the wall, wishing she would stop looking while another, more confusing part of you registered how completely unbothered she seemed. There was no disgust in her voice, no hesitation in her hands. Only that unbearable attention.
Somehow, that made the embarrassment worse.
Her fingertip brushed lightly against your opening.
“One day, our baby will come from here,” Professor Anderson murmured. The words were spoken with such softness that, for half a second, you could have mistaken them for tenderness. Her eyes lifted to yours. “You’ll do it for me, won’t you?”
Her finger tapped lightly against you, blood staining the tip, while the question remained suspended between you. Your throat tightened around the answer. Yesterday returned in one sickening rush: the bathtub draining around you, her back turned in bed, the guest-room door closing, the coffee she wouldn’t let you make for her.
Professor Anderson hummed, pleased. “You always make me so happy.”
The praise landed strangely. You couldn’t decide whether it warmed you or hollowed you out.
She helped pull your underwear and pants back into place, smoothing the fabric over you with the same casual tenderness she always used. Then she brought the bloodied finger to her mouth and licked it clean.
You fixed your eyes on her bare chest instead.
That was easier. Skin was easier. The familiar shape of her body was easier. You could let your attention blur there and refuse to understand what you had just watched, because you knew, with sudden and terrible certainty, that if you allowed your mind to fully register it, you might start screaming.
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