internalized homophobia!abby x lesbian!reader
Warnings: lesbian sex (abby!receiving)
I lost the request to this but if you were the anon who requested this, here ya go!
You still remember the first time Abby Anderson looked at you like you weren’t normal.
It was sophomore year, outside the locker room after gym. You were laughing with a girl you had a crush on—nothing big, just flirting, the kind you thought no one really noticed. But Abby did. She stood a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, watching like she’d stepped into a room that smelled wrong. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed. And then she said it—loud enough for everyone to hear.
“No wonder no one wants to change next to you.”
You froze. The other girl laughed, awkward and sharp, and peeled away from you like she’d touched something dirty.
You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. The damage was done.
Abby never hit you. Never shoved you into lockers or called you slurs. Her cruelty was quieter, more calculated. Snide comments in the hallway. Avoiding group projects when your name came up. A pointed roll of her eyes when you answered a question in class. Loud whispers of “Jesus” or “disgusting” when she passed you holding another girl’s hand on campus.
And she had a following—friends who mirrored her disapproval with mocking stares and muttered jokes, like she gave them permission. It didn’t matter that she was smart, respected, even admired. Her words were always sharper around you. Her tolerance thinner. Her discomfort obvious.
You learned to ignore it. Or you tried to.
It wasn’t the worst bullying you’d faced. But coming from her, it hurt more.
Because before that moment in sophomore year, Abby Anderson used to smile at you.
Just once or twice. Passing in the hall. When you said something funny in class. There was a flicker of warmth there—confusion, maybe, or curiosity. You remembered thinking she had kind eyes.
But now you’re used to Abby Anderson looking at you like you’re something she wants to scrape off the bottom of her shoe.
It’s a stare you’ve come to recognize: a cold, disdainful sweep from head to toe that lingers a beat too long, like she’s cataloguing everything she hates about you. Or maybe everything she doesn’t understand.
She doesn’t talk to you anymore. Which is weird, because you’ve had at least three classes with her over the last two years. You move in the same social circles, even if they rarely overlap. You’ve been at the same parties, stood feet apart at campus rallies.
But she acts like you’re radioactive.
Like if she got too close, she might catch whatever makes you… you.
You tell yourself you don’t care. You roll your eyes when she glares. You smile brighter, laugh louder, flirt more when she’s in the room—just to spite her. If she’s going to judge you, then she might as well have something to look at.
But when your professor calls out your name alongside hers for the upcoming group project, your stomach drops.
You don’t hate her. You wish you did.
She sits next to you in the library like it’s a punishment, her legs splayed wide, arms crossed, a hoodie pulled low over her face like armor.
“I’m not doing the girly stuff,” she mutters before you’ve even opened your laptop. “No pink fonts. No cutesy transitions.”
You arch an eyebrow, smiling tightly. “You think I use pink fonts?”
Her lips press into a line. “You know what I mean.”
She finally looks at you. Her eyes are sharp, blue-gray, too intense for someone who’s always pretending not to care. “Just… I’m not putting rainbows all over the slides.”
“Right,” you say, teeth clenched. “God forbid someone think you’re not aggressively straight.”
Her jaw ticks. “I’m not doing this.”
You lean back in your chair, folding your arms. “Then don’t.”
You meet again the next day. And the next.
She doesn’t say much, but she shows up. Brings notes. Stares hard at the screen and refuses to make eye contact.
You catch her looking, though—always out of the corner of your eye. A flick of her gaze to your lips when you chew your pen cap. A second too long staring at your hands when you scroll.
She’s not subtle. But she wants to be.
You don’t say anything. Not yet.
It happens on the fifth day, when you offer to get her a drink from the café downstairs. She grunts something like approval, and when you return with a coffee just the way she likes it—black, two sugars, you remembered—she stares at the cup like it’s a trap.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she mutters.
“I know,” you say, shrugging. “But you look like you’re gonna bite someone if you don’t get some caffeine in you.”
She doesn’t smile. She never does. But her eyes flick toward you—curious. Conflicted.
The breaking point comes when you’re at her dorm. A last-minute cram session. Her roommate’s gone, the place smells like cedar and something faintly floral—body wash, maybe. You sit on the couch, notebooks scattered between you.
It’s late. You’re both tired. And something in the air has shifted.
She’s quieter tonight. Less combative. She leans back against the cushion, legs stretched out, her knee brushing yours. She doesn’t pull away.
You glance at her profile—sharp, defined, so fucking beautiful it’s painful. Her lips are slightly parted. Her throat works when she swallows.
And then she says it. Out of nowhere. Like it’s been boiling under her skin for years.
“I mean, I act like I do. I know. But I don’t.”
You set your pen down. Carefully. Slowly. “Then why do you treat me like shit?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her jaw clenches, and her eyes stay fixed on some spot in the distance.
Then, quietly—so quiet you almost miss it:
“Because you make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”
You shift toward her, cautiously. “What does that mean?”
She exhales, long and shaky. “It means I don’t understand how you can just be so… open about it. Like it’s not a big deal. Like you don’t even care.”
You stare. “About being gay?”
She flinches at the word. Doesn’t answer.
“Abby,” you say softly, gently, “are you—?”
Her voice is sharp. Defensive. But not angry—scared.
You reach out, almost instinctively, your hand brushing her wrist. “It’s okay. Whatever it is you’re feeling—”
“No, it’s not,” she snaps, and finally looks at you. Her eyes are wild. Shining. “I wasn’t raised to think this was okay. I’ve been trying to ignore it for years. But you—”
She stops herself. Breathing hard. Her whole body trembling.
“You make it worse,” she says, voice breaking. “Because when I look at you, I can’t pretend anymore.”
Your throat tightens. “Then don’t pretend.”
You reach up. Touch her cheek.
She freezes. Eyes wide. Lips parted.
She doesn’t move for a heartbeat. Then her hands rise, uncertain, and she kisses you back.
It’s messy. Desperate. Her mouth moves like she’s starving for it, like she’s been craving this for years and never let herself feel it. Her fingers clutch your sides, your shirt, your hair—anything she can anchor herself to.
She moans into your mouth. It’s raw. Vulnerable. Scared.
You pull back only enough to whisper, “Are you sure?”
“No,” she breathes. “But I don’t want to stop.”
You pull back just a little, only to catch your breath—and hers.
Her lips are still parted, flushed from the kiss. Her chest rises and falls like she just ran a mile. Her eyes—those sharp, guarded, unflinching eyes—are wide now. Uncertain. Open.
“Abby,” you whisper, one hand still at her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone, “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” she says quickly, then—softer—“I think I want to.”
You nod, slow and steady. “That’s enough.”
She leans forward again, not quite kissing you—just pressing her forehead to yours, her breathing shallow, her hands trembling at your sides.
“I’ve never…” she starts, then stops. “Not with a girl. Not with—someone like you.”
You smile, small, just for her. “I’ll go slow.”
That gets a little exhale out of her. A nervous laugh, almost bitter. “You’re too good at this.”
You shake your head. “I’m not trying to be good at anything. I just want to be with you.”
That word—with—makes her shudder.
But she nods. Swallows hard.
You kiss her again, slower now. Less desperation, more depth. Her hands roam your sides like she’s learning you, memorizing every inch she’s never allowed herself to imagine touching. When your tongue teases the seam of her lips, she lets out a soft gasp, surprised at how natural it feels to open up to you.
Your hands slip under her hoodie, fingertips brushing her waist. She tenses—but doesn’t stop you. Just breathes harder, like every new inch of skin you find sends a shock through her spine.
You murmur, “Can I take this off?”
She nods, barely. So you do—pulling the hoodie up and over her head, revealing a plain gray tank top beneath that clings to her chest, rising and falling with every breath. You trace your fingers along the hem of it, and she closes her eyes.
“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.
She laughs again—nervous, shaky. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m not saying it for your sake. I mean it.”
That makes her open her eyes.
Something flickers there—pain, longing, disbelief. Like no one’s ever said that and meant it.
You lean down, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. Then another. And another.
When you kiss just beneath the strap of her tank, her fingers tighten in your shirt. Her head falls back, and her mouth opens in a quiet, breathless sound that goes straight through you.
You shift to straddle her lap slowly, giving her time to react. She watches every movement, frozen in place, lips parted. You sit over her, chest to chest, your thighs on either side of hers.
She nods—quick, almost frantic. “Yeah. Fuck—yeah.”
Your hands trail under the hem of her shirt, up over her stomach, feeling the solid muscle underneath. When your fingers graze the bottom of her bra, she flinches—but not from fear.
You pull her tank up and over her head. Her bra’s simple—black, cotton, a little worn at the seams. She looks down, arms twitching like she wants to cover herself.
“Hey,” you whisper, taking her hands gently. “You don’t have to hide.”
She exhales through her nose. “I’m not hiding.”
“No?” you smile. “Then let me see you.”
She nods, just once, and drops her arms.
You unclasp her bra slowly, sliding the straps down her shoulders, watching her the whole time. Her chest is flushed, rising and falling rapidly.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Abby.”
She closes her eyes like it hurts to hear. Like it’s too much.
But when you lean forward and kiss her breast—just above the nipple—her back arches slightly, breath catching in her throat.
Your tongue teases her nipple, slow and deliberate, and she moans—soft, almost like she’s trying not to. Her hands grip your hips hard. You take your time, sucking gently, kissing lower, worshipping her like she’s something sacred.
When you look up at her, her eyes are glassy. Her mouth slack. Her thighs are shifting under you like she’s already aching for more.
You slide one hand down, under the waistband of her sweatpants.
You pause immediately. “Too much?”
“No,” she says, voice hoarse. “Just—no one’s ever touched me there.”
Your heart swells at the vulnerability in her voice.
You ease your hand down, fingers slipping beneath her underwear. She’s already wet—soaking, warm, and trembling under your touch.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, half horrified, half amazed.
You laugh softly, kissing the side of her neck. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to want this.”
She doesn’t answer—but when your fingers find her clit, she gasps and grabs at your shoulders like she’s falling.
You circle it slow, barely-there pressure, watching her come undone piece by piece. Her hips lift. Her breath stutters. She bites her lip so hard you have to kiss her just to make her stop.
“Let go,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”
She moans into your mouth, louder this time, and grinds against your hand. You slip two fingers inside her—slow, careful—and her entire body jerks.
“You’re doing so good,” you whisper.
She clutches you tighter, rides your fingers like she’s chasing something she’s never let herself feel. You keep your pace steady—deep and slow, thumb brushing her clit, her breath getting more ragged by the second.
And when she comes—God, she shakes. Her body stiffens, legs trembling, her mouth falling open in a desperate moan she doesn’t even try to stifle. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her head drops against your shoulder.
You hold her through it, whispering softly into her hair.
When the tremors stop, she collapses back into the couch, breathless, wrecked.
You kiss her temple. “You okay?”
Then, quietly: “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”
You smile, pressing your forehead to hers.
“That’s just the beginning.”
