bella

𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦!

₊˚⊹⋆ ꪆৎ

Jealous! Abby x Reader

wc: 2.7k

cw: fingering, jealousy, dirty talk

maybe a biiiiit of a mischaracterization

the idea of this was reader was such a great eater abby can't stand to see another person put her hands on them

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

It had been a week since the last time you and Abby had… crossed that line.

A week since your mouth had been on her—since her thighs had trembled around your head, since she'd gripped the mattress and cried out in that barely-there voice she only used when she was drunk enough to drop the act. And God, she was drunk that night—sloppy, stumbling, all glassy-eyed and rough-laughing in the corners of Manny’s room. You hadn’t been quite as gone, but the liquor had still blurred the edges of your restraint. Still, that memory clung to you like the scent of her skin in your sheets: raw, warm, and shamefully vivid.

Now, you were in Leah’s barracks.

The room smelled like sweat-drenched gear and cheap cleaning wipes, a half-burned sandalwood candle flickering lazily near the vent. The heat in the barracks had been inconsistent all week—either freezing or stifling—and tonight the place had a humid, stale weight to it, like breath trapped in fabric. Someone had propped open the small window, letting in the distant sounds of a party still raging deeper in the stadium halls: indistinct bass thumping under bursts of laughter, the scrape of boots, the occasional shout.

You had a warm beer resting against your bottom lip, fingers idly tapping the rim. The can hissed slightly each time you tilted it. You weren’t really listening to Leah—she was seated on the edge of her bunk, rambling about how she hated being assigned back to outer patrol routes. Something about the flooded tracks near the FOB and how she missed the high vantage points of the TV station. But her voice had started to slip into a murmur in your ears, almost hypnotic.

Your head was resting in Nora’s lap, the soft fabric of her sweatpants brushing your temple. She smelled like antiseptic and a hint of menthol from the ointment she used for her shoulder. Her fingers ran absently through your hair, raking gently across your scalp, tracing slow shapes without purpose. The comfort of it—the casual intimacy—only made the knot in your stomach tighten further.

You hadn’t told her what happened with Abby. You hadn’t told anyone.

And then, the door creaked open.

You heard it before you saw it—the metallic squeal of the hinges, followed by the sound of laughter, low and familiar. Manny’s voice, cocky and slurred. Then footsteps. Heavy boots on concrete. Two sets.

You didn’t need to look to know who the second one belonged to.

Abby.

Your heart kicked up in your chest like it had been startled from sleep. You forced yourself not to move, not to flinch, not to sit up and give her that power. But your eyes flicked toward the door anyway.

She was already looking at you.

The moment her boots crossed the threshold, her gaze locked onto where you lay sprawled on the floor, beer in hand, head in Nora’s lap. Her hair was damp at the edges, maybe from sweat or maybe from a rushed shower. Her shirt clung to her frame—tight around the biceps, loose around the collar. And her face… it didn’t give anything away. But her eyes betrayed her. Dark. Pinning. Hungry.

You swallowed hard. The beer tasted metallic and warm now.

Your face flushed—instantly, embarrassingly. You hated how quickly your body remembered. Hated the way heat pooled low in your stomach and made your skin buzz, just from the look in her eyes.

Because all you could see when you met that stare was that night.

The way she’d slumped back onto your mattress, knees spread, her voice rough and breathy as she asked you to “just keep going.” The way she whimpered when your tongue circled slow and cruel, when your fingers pushed deeper. The way she shattered—completely—like she’d never let herself fall apart for anyone before. You remembered how she’d whispered your name like it hurt. How you’d kissed her inner thigh after, tasting sweat and salt and something raw.

Now she stood across the room, stone-still. Staring.

And you were laid out in another woman’s lap.

You sat up a little too quickly, your head spinning slightly from the beer and the blood rush. Nora’s fingers slipped away, and she blinked down at you, puzzled but not questioning. She reached for her water bottle and took a sip.

Abby still hadn’t moved.

Manny, oblivious, grabbed a chair and turned it backwards before straddling it with a goofy grin, already trying to drag Leah into some story about the fight pit last week. His voice was booming, carefree. He filled the space without realizing the quiet war starting in it.

Abby finally tore her eyes from you and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. She dropped onto the lower bunk beside Manny, her arms crossed over her chest like she was restraining herself from something—maybe a punch. Maybe a word. Maybe a memory.

She didn’t say a thing to you.

But her shoulder was tense as hell. You saw it from across the room. Saw the way her jaw clenched every time Nora laughed softly near you. You weren’t touching anymore, but the ghost of her hand still lingered against your scalp.

You took another drink and finally looked away.

“Bathroom,” you muttered, voice low and tight in your throat as you pushed yourself off the mattress in Leah’s barracks.

The air in the hallway was cooler than the stuffy warmth of the room behind you, but it felt no more forgiving. The lights overhead buzzed softly, flickering in and out with the usual temperamental hum of the stadium’s generator. Your boots thudded heavily against the concrete floor, echoing like distant gunfire down the narrow corridor.

Your hands were clenched into fists at your sides.

What the fuck was that?

The way Abby had looked at you—searing, unreadable, furious—burned into your brain like the muzzle flash of a rifle. It wasn’t the look of someone who didn’t care. It wasn’t even the look of someone angry about a casual hookup. It was possessive. Accusing. Like you’d betrayed something unspoken between you.

But what even was there to betray?

You gritted your teeth and walked faster.

You’d figured she barely even remembered that night. She’d been drunk, eyes glazed over with whiskey and exhaustion, her body heavy against your mouth, her moans breathy and slurred. She hadn’t touched you at all. Just taken. Just laid back and let you serve her.

So what was the attitude now?

You turned into the single-use bathroom at the end of the hall—the one with the busted fan and rusted faucet that always screeched when you used it.

You barely got the door open before a force shoved you hard from behind, and you stumbled over your own boots, catching yourself on the sink.

“What the—?”

But you were already being slammed back against the cracked tile wall.

Your breath caught.

Abby.

Her hand still rested on your chest where she’d shoved you, pinning you in place with ease. Her body was flushed, skin shining with a faint layer of sweat from the heat and the alcohol. Her pupils were blown wide, almost black, and her nostrils flared like she’d been running. She hadn’t followed you—she’d hunted you down.

The door clicked shut behind her.

“You fuck me,” she spat, voice low and venomous, “and then sit there in front of me like that? In her lap?”

Her breath was ragged, lips parted in disbelief—no, not disbelief. Rage. Her eyes burned into you, her body thrumming with restrained violence. Not the kind that wanted to hurt you. The kind that wanted to own you.

You tried to find your voice.

“She didn’t—Nora didn’t do anything. We were just—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Abby snarled, and your words died in your throat.

She grabbed the front of your shirt, bunching the fabric in her fist as she shoved you harder against the wall. You could feel the heat of her body now, radiating off her skin in waves. The corded muscle of her forearm twitched, and for a moment, all you could do was look at her. The way her jaw clenched. The vein in her neck pulsing. Her tank top clinging to her in all the places your hands had been.

Your cargo pants were loose on your hips—regulation WLF issue, too big since you lost weight during ration season—and your shirt was hiked up slightly from her grip. The wall behind you was cool and unyielding, but her body was fire.

And she was furious.

“Seriously?” she hissed. “With fucking Nora?”

Her voice cracked like a whip against your skin.

You flinched.

You hadn’t thought she cared—not really. You’d told yourself over and over again it was just a one-night thing. But now… her voice, the way her fists shook, the rawness in her tone—it was jealousy. Insane jealousy.

Your lips parted, but your brain scrambled for something to say.

“No, I mean—Abby, it wasn’t—”

Before you could finish, her hand was at your waistband. Fast. Rough.

The button popped open under her fingers like it was nothing.

Then—

Her fingers slipped inside your pants, past your underwear, and into you.

Your whole body seized.

A high-pitched gasp escaped your throat before her other hand clamped over your mouth. You bucked against the wall instinctively, your legs twitching from the sudden intrusion. Her fingers curled instantly, hitting that spot that made your knees buckle.

You moaned against her palm—shocked, desperate, wrecked.

Her breath ghosted hot against your ear.

“This,” she whispered, her voice guttural, feral, “is mine. No one fucking else’s.”

Her teeth grazed your earlobe. Her fingers pulsed inside you once, hard and deliberate, sending a white-hot jolt down your spine.

Then—suddenly—she withdrew.

The absence left you cold and aching.

She pulled her hand back like she’d been burned, her breath coming in short, heavy bursts. Her eyes dropped to the floor. Her chest rose and fell with the force of someone who had lost control and wasn’t sure if she regretted it.

She turned away from you slightly, bracing herself against the sink. Her fingers trembled. Her face was flushed red, neck and ears included. Something in her expression had shifted—no longer aggressive, but… ashamed. Wrecked.

Like she didn’t mean to unravel like that.

You took a second to catch your breath, heart thudding painfully in your chest. You smoothed your shirt down with shaking hands and pulled your pants back together.

“Abby,” you said softly. “It was a one-night stand.”

You weren’t even sure who you were saying it for—her or yourself.

She turned toward you again, slowly.

“I don’t give a fuck what it was,” she growled. Her voice was quieter now. Hoarse. But it carried more weight than anything she’d said before.

Her brow furrowed hard, and then she stepped in close again.

This time, she didn’t push. She just leaned.

Pressed her body back into yours, close enough that you could feel her stomach against yours, her thighs against your hips. She was taller, broader. Her shadow swallowed yours in the flickering bathroom light.

Your breath hitched again.

This wasn’t the same woman who’d whimpered under your tongue, who’d clutched your sheets like a lifeline and whispered your name like it was a secret.

This was the version of her that led missions. That cracked bones and stitched wounds and lifted more than anyone in the weight room. This was the version people didn’t question.

But then her lips were on you.

It happened so fast your thoughts didn’t have time to scatter—just heat, pressure, the sharp inhale you took when her mouth claimed yours like it had always belonged there. Her kiss wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, territorial, her teeth grazing your lower lip before her tongue pushed in, demanding entry. You melted into it instinctively, hands gripping at her shoulders, breath hitching as her hands came up to your chest.

She didn’t hesitate. Her palms closed around your breasts, rough and sure, thumbs dragging slowly over sensitive skin through fabric. The sensation made you whine softly into her mouth, the sound swallowed by her kiss.

Then she lifted you.

Your back hit the wall with a dull thud as she hauled you up effortlessly, her strength undeniable. Your legs wrapped around her hips on instinct, boots scraping tile as she pinned you there, holding your weight like it was nothing. Her mouth never left yours, tongue swirling with yours in a slow, claiming rhythm that made your head spin. You let out a soft, broken moan, fingers digging into the back of her neck.

She pulled away just long enough to move you—turning, guiding, placing you onto the cold porcelain sink. The chill made you gasp, but she was already there, hands at your waist, dragging your cargo pants down your thighs with deliberate slowness. The sound of fabric slipping echoed too loud in the small bathroom, mixing with the hum of the busted fan overhead.

Her finger slid inside you again.

Just one this time.

Slow. Intentional. Sweet in a way that made it worse.

You shuddered, hips rolling forward helplessly as she worked you open with unhurried patience, her blue eyes locked onto yours like she was memorizing every reaction. Her thumb brushed against you in perfect rhythm, and you bit back a cry, knuckles whitening as you gripped the edge of the sink.

“How many?” she asked quietly.

The question barely registered. Your body was already betraying you, tightening around her finger, breath coming out in uneven gasps.

“Two,” you breathed, thinking she meant fingers, thinking only of how close you already were.

She stopped.

Not her hand—but her gaze sharpened, her jaw tightening as she looked up at you.

“No,” she said. “How many people have you fucked?”

Your eyes went wide, shock cutting through the haze—but she didn’t stop. Her finger kept moving, curling just right, pushing you closer to the edge. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, clenching around her as she added a second finger without warning.

You cried out.

Her thumb pressed harder, her mouth dropping to your neck, kissing and biting in all the places that made your knees shake. She murmured against your skin, low and dark.

“I don’t know,” you gasped, your voice cracking as the pleasure built too fast, too intense. Your hips bucked, chasing her hand, your body already closing in around her fingers.

She chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your throat.

“How many of them made you come like this?” she asked, curling her fingers deeper.

You arched hard against the sink, a sharp yelp tearing from your chest as the pressure snapped something inside you. Your legs trembled uncontrollably, muscles locking as your hips rocked against her hand, desperate and exposed.

“Hm?” she pressed. “C’mon. How many?”

You bit your lip, resting your forehead against her shoulder as your body shook, her fingers spreading you open, taking you apart piece by piece.

“Twenty?” you breathed, barely coherent.

She laughed quietly again, smug and low.

“You always take the lead?” she asked.

You nodded, breathless—and it was true. You were always the one in control. Always the giver. Always the one focusing on someone else’s pleasure. You’d never had attention like this—never had someone take you apart so deliberately, so thoroughly.

It made your stomach twist.

It made you shatter.

You spilled into her hand, gasping, trembling, humiliation and pleasure tangling together as she held you through it. Then, just as suddenly, she pulled her fingers free.

You barely had time to register the loss before she brought them up to your mouth.

“Open,” she murmured.

You didn’t question it.

You parted your lips and took her fingers in, sucking slowly, tasting yourself on her skin. Your eyes fluttered shut as you cleaned her hand, the intimacy of it making your chest ache in a way you didn’t have words for.