cherry🫧

Abby doesn’t notice the exact moment it starts to rot.

It’s not dramatic. It isn’t a slammed door or a shouted fight that finally cracks something open. Just small changes she ignores until they stack up into something she can’t unsee.

Owen stops looking at her like he wants her. Starts looking at her like she’s just there. Like she’s become part of the background he doesn’t need to think about anymore.

His jokes land sharper than they used to. Half laughs that don’t mean anything. Abby laughs anyway because it’s easier than asking why she suddenly feels like she’s not enough.

She tells herself it’s nothing. That it’s just a phase between them.

She keeps telling herself that.

—

Abby notices the shift long before she lets herself name it.

It starts quietly, in the middle of ordinary days, slipping into moments that should mean nothing. She’s sitting beside Owen on the bleachers overlooking the WLF yard, his knee bumping hers while he talks about something trivial—patrol routes, maybe, or Isaac being in a mood again—and Abby is nodding at the right places without actually hearing him. Her attention drifts, pulled by something she doesn’t consciously choose.

You’re across the yard, leaning against the railing, laughing at something Manny just said. The late afternoon light catches you like stained glass caught morning sun, all color broken across your shoulders, softening the hard edges of everything around you, and Abby finds herself staring. Not casually. Not the way you look at a friend you’re fond of. It’s heavier than that, her gaze lingering as if she felt something familiar in a place it didn’t belong.

When you glance up and catch her looking, Abby jerks her eyes away immediately, heat creeping up the back of her neck.

She tells herself it’s nothing. Just distraction. Just fatigue.

Owen nudges her. “Hey, you even listening?”

“Uh- yeah,” she mutters, too quickly.

But she isn’t. She could pretend though.

—

That’s the first time she feels the flicker of something like unease, thin and sharp beneath her ribs.

You’ve always been there in the edges of her life in the WLF, close enough to feel like gravity, close enough that she can turn her head and find you already looking at her like she matters. Like she’s not something to be managed or endured, but something to be understood.

It happens again, and again, and again.

You brushing past her in the hallway, your shoulder grazing her arm, and Abby freezing mid-step because the contact lingers in her mind far longer than it should. The warmth of you seeps through the fabric of her sleeve, and she finds herself replaying it hours later, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, irritated at herself for caring.

You handing her a canteen after training, your fingers brushing hers, and Abby’s stomach tightening unexpectedly. She pulls her hand back too fast, hoping you don’t notice, hoping no one notices, as if there’s something to hide.

She starts noticing everything. Like your presence rearranged the air and she didn’t know where to stand in it yet. Your voice would always soften when you’d ask if she’s eaten, if she’s sleeping enough, if her injuries were healing properly. You looked at her like people look at altar pieces they aren’t sure they’re allowed to touch.

It shouldn’t matter.

It matters too much.

Abby tells herself this is just what close friends feel like. She repeats it like a rule she’s trying to memorize. You’re important to her, that’s all. You’ve always been close. There’s nothing strange about that.

Except the explanations don’t stop the way her pulse jumps when you laugh, or the way her chest feels hollow when you leave the room.

—

Owen notices something before she does, or maybe he always knew and doesn’t care enough to be gentle about it.

“You two are glued together all the time,” he says one evening, more irritated than usual.

Abby swallows, trying to sound as casual as possible, there’s no reason she shouldn’t be.

“She’s just a friend.”

“Yeah,” he replies, but there’s something dismissive in the way he says it, like he doesn’t quite believe her.

He starts getting colder after that. More distant. Watching her like he expects her to slip up somehow.

She starts paying attention to herself, measuring her behavior, trying to act normal. She leans harder into the relationship with Owen, tries to be more attentive, tries to remind herself that this is what she’s supposed to want. Let’s him pull her closer when he wants. Let’s him kiss her, determined to feel something real.

Sometimes it works.

Most times it doesn’t.

Sometimes, shamefully, her mind drifts, and she wonders what it would feel like if it were you instead.

And she hates herself for it.

She pulls away early one night, muttering something about being tired. Owen sighs, annoyed, and turns over. Abby lies awake afterward, staring into the darkness, her stomach twisting.

She whispers a quiet apology into the silence, though she isn’t sure who she’s apologizing to—Owen, herself, or something larger she feels like she’s disappointing.

—

The breakup isn’t explosive. It’s tired. Frayed.

They argue over something small, something that shouldn’t matter, but the tension between them has been building for months. Owen says she’s distant. Abby says he’s unfair. He tells her she’s not the same anymore. She wants to ask him what that even means, but she already knows.

Because she isn’t the same- not to him at least.

Because she’s been carrying something she doesn’t understand, and it’s pulling her in a direction she’s afraid to examine.

When it ends, she expects to feel devastated. She expects grief, regret, something heavy or final.

Instead, she feels… like she can breathe again.

Not relief exactly. But space.

And in that space, her thoughts fill immediately with you.

That’s when the panic rises.

There were parts of her she treated like they had already been condemned. She didn’t know how to separate wanting something from believing she was allowed to have it.

Without Owen, there’s nothing to hide behind. No structure, no distraction. Her feelings don’t have anywhere to go except inward, and they grow louder in the silence. She catches herself watching you more, and this time there’s no excuse left to cling to.

She starts avoiding you.

At first it’s subtle. Taking a different path through the stadium. Leaving conversations early. Volunteering for patrols she knows you won’t be on. Each time she does it, guilt settles heavier in her chest, because she sees the confusion in your eyes.

You look hurt.

She hates that.

But being near you feels worse, because the pull is undeniable now, and she doesn’t know what to do with it. She tells herself distance will fix it, that if she pushes it down hard enough it’ll fade. She lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, repeating silent prayers she hasn’t said since she was younger.

Please let this go away.

Please let me be normal.

Please let me stop thinking about her.

They don’t work.

—

The day it finally breaks open, it’s not planned.

It’s a supply run that goes wrong in the most boring way possible—bad intel, wrong building, too many infected in tight hallways that were never meant to hold this many people.

You’re assigned to the same team, and the knowledge sits heavy in her stomach. She keeps her distance, keeps her focus forward, tries to ignore the way your presence hums at the edge of her awareness.

The building is narrow, stale air thick in the corridors. You move carefully, clearing rooms one by one. Abby keeps her breathing steady, clings to routine, to muscle memory. It’s easier than thinking.

Then the infected rush the stairwell, and everything dissolves into noise and motion.

She loses sight of you for half a second, and her heart lurches so violently it nearly comes out of her throat. She finds you again quickly just as you both duck into a storage room, the door slamming shut behind the two of you as she blocks it with something heavy.

The silence afterward feels too loud.

The room is small. Dust hangs in the air, drifting slow like incense after a service no one stayed for. And the only sound is your breathing and hers, uneven from adrenaline. You’re standing close—she realizes this is the closest she’s been to you in weeks—and Abby becomes painfully aware of every detail. Every familiar thing about you that she’s missed.

Her chest tightens.

“You okay?” you ask, heaving.

“I’m fine,” she replies, breath stuttering, hand still on her weapon.

You study her, and she knows you see through it. You always do.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

The words are gentle, but they land heavy. Abby looks away, jaw tight, guilt pressing down on her.

“I thought it was the breakup,” you continue, glad you’re stuck together so she’ll finally talk to you. “But… it feels like something else.”

Her throat tightens. She wants to lie again, but the space is too small, the tension too thick. There’s nowhere to hide. She knows you know something’s up, you’re too smart not to notice.

Because the truth is standing right in front of her, close enough to touch, and she’s terrified of what happens if she finally admits it.

Her eyes flick to yours finally. That’s a mistake. Looking at you is always the mistake.

There’s a smear of dust on your cheek, a small cut near your lip. Nothing serious. But she stares at it like it like it’s personally offended her.

“That’s not what this is,” she answers abruptly, but it’s weaker now. Less certain.

“Then what is it?”

There it is. The question she’s been dodging so hard she’s practically made a new life out of avoidance.

What is it.

Abby opens her mouth, closes it again.

She thinks of Owen’s face when he looked at her after he suspected something was up.

She thinks of how she’d never seen you look at her with disgust. How you look at her like she’s something you don’t want to miss a second of.

She thinks of all the years she’s spent trying to force herself into shapes that don’t fit.

Her voice comes out rough.

“I can’t—”

She stops.

Her throat tightens.

You take a small step closer, cautious now. “Abby, please talk to me.”

Something in her snaps at that. Not anger. Not exactly. More like pressure finally finding a seam at your plead.

“I can’t be around you right now,” she chokes out, and it sounds harsher than she intended. “I can’t think when you’re this close to me.”

Silence.

Your expression changes just slightly, confusion flickering into something sharper.

“…What are you talking about?”

Abby laughs once, but there’s no humor in it. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand,” Comes your sharp reply.

There were things in her she was scared to let reach the surface, like they might become real if spoken aloud.

Abby steps forward before she can stop herself.

The space between you thinning. The storage room feels even smaller, the air suddenly too warm.

“I broke up with Owen,” she states.

You nod solemnly, the guy was an ass and you could definitely treat her better, but you hated seeing her this upset about it.

“I know.”

She swallows.

“I didn’t want him.”

Your brows knit slightly. “You- oh...”

The way you say it, like you’re waiting, like you’re unsure of what comes next.

“I didn’t want him,” she repeats, quieter now, “and I kept pretending I did because it was easier than admitting to what I actually wanted”

Your eyes don’t leave her face.

Abby’s hands curl into fists at her sides.

“And then I realized something,” she continues, voice breaking just slightly on the edge of control. “And I’ve been trying not to look at you, or talk to you because if I did I’d—”

She stops again.

Breath shakes once.

“I’d know.”

There’s a beat of silence so heavy it feels physical.

Then your voice, softer now.

“Know what, Abby?”

Her eyes finally meet yours fully, and she doesn’t lie this time.

“That it’s you,”

The admission felt like relief and terror all at once. There was nothing in it she needed to undo afterward.

Your breath catches slightly, just enough for her to notice.

Abby looks like she might bolt immediately after saying it. Like she’s braced for rejection so hard her whole body is already halfway out the room.

But you don’t say anything, you just look at her.

Like the answer’s been standing in front of you this whole time and you’ve been waiting for her to catch up.

“Abby,” your sweet voice curls around her name like a prayer.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits, voice barely holding together. “I don’t know what this is. I just—when I’m near you… everything feels right.”

You take a step closer to her with certainty.

“You don’t have to know everything right now,” you say.

Her breath stutters.

“That’s not fair,” she whispers.

“Neither is avoiding me,” you mutter, but there no actual bite in your tone.

The reminder stings but she definitely needed to hear it. She hates that she caused you pain in any capacity. She’ll do anything to make it right.

Her eyes flick down to your mouth before she can stop herself. And something in the space between you changes.

Abby doesn’t really decide. The silence stretches, and she reaches for you almost absentmindedly, fingers brushing your sleeve like she needs something solid. You don’t pull back. That’s what undoes her.

She leans in slowly, hesitant, close enough to feel your breath before her mouth finds yours. The contact is soft, unsure, more like she’s testing the reality of it than committing to it. She pauses there for a beat, waiting for the doubt to rush in.

It doesn’t.

Your hand lifts slowly, like you’re giving her time to change her mind, and settles lightly along her jaw. You’re not holding her in place, just anchoring her there, your thumb brushing once, absent and gentle. The softness of it cause her to let out an unconscious sound against your mouth, that she probably would be embarrassed about under any other circumstances. Instead the nervous edge in her shoulders eases as she leans a fraction closer without realizing.

The kiss deepens only slightly, still careful, still quiet, and when she pulls back, it’s only to breathe. She doesn’t move far. Your foreheads stay close, the space between you warm and fragile.

“I’ve never—” she starts, the words catching.

“I know,” you murmur, so quietly it almost disappears between you, and the understanding in it settles her more than anything else.

Her hand lingers where it rests against you, fingers curling a little as if she’s afraid the moment might disappear if she lets go. The tension that had been coiled in her chest begins to loosen, replaced by something calmer, more certain.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” she says, voice low, the admission almost fragile.

Your thumb brushes along her cheek in a gentle pass, more instinct than intention. “Then we don’t rush,” you murmur. “We can just stay like this.”

The words settle into her, simple and grounding. Abby closes her eyes for a moment, feeling the tightness she’s carried for weeks ease in a way she didn’t expect.

When she leans in again, the kiss changes. There’s less hesitation this time, more trust in the space between you, and the warmth spreading through her chest feels unfamiliar in the best way.

Outside the storage room, the noise is still there, just farther away now, like it doesn’t quite reach them anymore.

Inside, Abby stops trying to think her way out of it. She stays close to you, not pulling away this time, like she finally trusts what’s happening between you without needing to name it.

Her breath catches once, and your name slips out of her before she can stop it, more like relief than anything else. She doesn’t correct it, doesn’t step back, just stays there with you for a moment longer like she’s finally allowed to.

Later, it won’t feel like a moment of clarity, just the first time she stopped fighting something that had always been true. She’d spent so long pushing it down and praying it would go away, like that alone could change what she felt.

a/n: shoutout to Lizzy McAlpine for inspiring this and absolutely ripping my heart out of my chest✌🏼 this song has just always felt wlw to me guys, idk makes way more sense this way. Hits close to home too coming from a comphet lesbian, sigh😔

Abby stays just a step behind you, close enough for you to feel the heat of her presence, but far enough to still remain untouchable. A profound silence hangs heavily between you, stretching out like an endless abyss. 

That silence isn’t accidental—it’s deliberate. A new part of your arrangement that was decided for you, just like everything else in your life. 

But Abby hasn’t spoken to you in two weeks, not since that night. 

The night where you had somehow managed to thwart a kidnapping attempt. But it was also the night where she gathered you up in her arms and pressed you up against your chamber door, kissing you like she couldn’t stand the thought of ever losing you. 

Only for her to turn around and act like it never even happened. 

You couldn’t decide which was worse: knowing that she wanted you—craved you—or that she would rather punish you both than act on those feelings again. 

That is what this felt like. A punishment, because, regardless of what happened, she was always there. 

Waiting outside your chamber door every morning with dark circles under her eyes growing more sunken with each passing day. Trailing beside you in the palace’s lush rose gardens, her eyes sharp and focused as she surveyed the area for any signs of imminent danger.

And now, as she escorts you to the palace’s library, she’s silent and stoic as she follows you through the long, winding corridors. 

Abby had foregone her armor for something far more practical: a pair of dark, fitted riding pants, leather boots and a crisp white linen tunic that she wore tucked beneath a navy doublet. 

A golden emblem of a wolf is stitched over her breast pocket, a symbol of her allegiance to King Isaac. Her dark blonde locks are pulled back in her signature braid, but it’s looser from the day's wear. Her sword rests in its sheath against her hip, one of her hands perched atop the hilt—showing off that she is still a force to be reckoned with, if the occasion were to arise. 

And yet, she’s softer like this. Displaying a rugged kind of beauty that you’ve always admired since the moment you first laid eyes on her. Ser Abigail Anderson was known widely throughout the ten kingdoms as the Iron Wolf, simultaneously revered and feared.  

She knelt before the king and vowed on her own life to keep you safe from harm, and that was all it took for you to see beneath that hard, constructed exterior. To see the kind, gentle woman that lay hidden beneath, who was still frustratingly out of your reach. 

But despite the fortress she’s built between you, there’s no denying that something had shifted between you that night. Between your roaming hands and eager lips, she wasn’t just your hired protector anymore. 

And her refusal to acknowledge it hurt worse than you could have ever imagined. Every stolen glance felt hollow and cold, if she even dared to look your way at all. Her warm presence that had drawn you in like a moth to a flame was replaced with a rigid disposition. 

But it was the softer moments, the ones where you could truly see past that stone cold exterior that hurt the most. The novels she continued to leave on your bedside table each week, which were hand selected for you with the utmost attention and care. While she was out in the training yard, you realized she was still using the silk handkerchief you had given her that very first day to blot the sweat from her brow the same way that you had. 

It was beyond maddening, and none of it made any sense. Her silence and cold demeanor felt like rejection, but her constant presence and thoughtful actions spoke of something else entirely: a deep affection she was keeping hidden beneath that iron breastplate. It only left you reeling with each passing day. 

But as days turned into weeks, those feelings of hurt and confusion slowly morphed into a burning resentment that settled deep within your chest. It was heightened with Abby’s incessant need to have you in her direct line of sight at all times.

You can feel the silence between you start to swell, growing heavier with each step you take. It's a suffocating and unrelenting sort of feeling, pressing down on you until you can almost feel your lungs start to burn. 

You stop abruptly, and her steps immediately falter behind you. You can feel her release an unsteady breath, the sound tickling the back of your neck and sending shivers down your spine. You flick a quick but fleeting glance over your shoulder and the way she’s looking at you makes your stomach flip. 

But she remains still, silent and the last of your patience evaporates. 

“I think I can manage the rest of the way without the need of an escort,” you say as you whirl around to face her.

You can see the muscles in her jaw work as she looks at you, her brows pinching together in a scowl. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—” she starts.

“Oh, so you can speak?” you interject with a sharp laugh. “Could have fooled me.”

Abby sighs deeply and takes a step toward you, forcing you two paces back in an effort to keep your distance. And she has the audacity to look hurt. 

“Please don’t do this,” she hisses, glancing over her shoulder. “Not here.” 

You have to hold back another bewildered laugh. “Why? Are you afraid someone might overhear that the fearless Ser Abigail would choose to suffer in silence rather than chase what she wants? Where is the honor in that?” 

She angrily runs a hand down her face. “It’s better this way,” she says, not fully meeting your eyes. “For both of us.”

Her words slice through you like a dagger, but the way she’s refusing to look at you only twists the blade in deeper. “Better for us?” you question. “Or better for you?”

The question hangs in the air between you, charged and full of indignation.

Her mouth twists, but her eyes don’t leave the ground. “There is no us. I’m sworn to protect you. It cannot be anything more than that.”

“You’re a coward.” 

Her head immediately snaps up, her eyes narrowing as they bear into yours.  “What happened that night was a mistake, I never should have crossed that line with you. It will not happen again.” 

Her words are the finishing blow to your already crumbling disposition. “Right,” you whisper, your throat tightening and your eyes stinging. “I really wish you would have figured that out before you convinced me otherwise.”

You start to turn and she grabs your wrist. 

“Don’t you dare touch me,” you choke out, yanking your wrist free and taking off down the hall. 

Behind you, Abby curses sharply but regains her composure enough to chase after you. Her footsteps are loud and heavy against the polished stone, rivaling the way your heart pounds in your ears. She’s already gaining on you. You quickly hike up the many layers of your gown in your fists and force your legs to move faster as you tear down the empty corridor. 

You ignore each call of your name, not bothering to think where you’re headed, only that you need to get as far away from her as possible. A passage leading to a winding staircase stretches before you and you quickly duck inside, taking the stairs down two at a time. 

You just barely reach the landing when a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist and lift you off the ground, whisking you out of the open stairwell and down a dark, empty corridor.

“Put. Me. Down,” you seethe, trying and failing to wiggle out of her tight embrace.

“Calm down and I will,” she chides, her lips grazing the shell of your ear. 

A shiver of delight races down your spine and you go practically boneless in her embrace, the last of your defiance disappearing with it. 

“Fine,” you whisper defeatedly. 

Abby loosens the iron grip she has on your waist and slowly lowers you to your feet. She doesn’t give you another opportunity to run as she backs you into the cold wall, bracing her palms on either side of you, caging you in. 

She’s so close that you can feel her warm breath fan across your mouth with every slow exhale—a ghost of a kiss—and your lips part.

It’s hard to make out her expression in the dark of the hall, but as your eyes slowly start to adjust you notice the deep rosy flush sweeping across her cheeks…and the way her eyes have unmistakenly fallen to your parted lips. 

“What are we doing here, Abby?” you prod. 

What am I to you? 

Abby releases another deep sigh, her eyes slipping shut as she bows her head. “I don’t know.” 

“Do you regret it?” you whisper. 

“No. I—” She grits her teeth, leaning her forehead against yours. “I’m trying to do my job, to keep you safe. I cannot allow my own feelings to complicate things more than they already have.”

“Why do you see them as a complication?” 

“Because I don’t think I would survive if I had to lose another person that I love.” 

The words are spoken softly, a confession that she never intended to reveal to you. Abby meets your gaze, releasing her hold to take a step back, fear and uncertainty in her eyes. 

You reach for her, cupping her face in between your palms. “But you won’t lose me.” 

She quickly shakes her head, removing your hands from her face to wrap around your wrists. Not to restrain you, but to ground herself. “You have people after you. You cannot promise me something like that,” she counters, unable to keep her voice from shaking. 

“You have sworn your life to protect me, Abigail. Why won’t you let me do the same?” 

Abby just stares at you for a moment, unblinking and tense as a silent battle wages behind her eyes. Then she stalks forward, the last of her restraint shattering as she closes the distance between you and crashes her lips against yours. 

She claims your mouth with the kind of desperation that leaves you feeling lightheaded, and you surge into her, kissing her back with just as much fervor. Her warm hands encircle your waist, splaying across the dip in your spine to pull you flush against her chest. Abby eagerly swallows your small gasp, releasing a strangled noise of her own when your fingers thread themselves into her braid to give an experimental tug.

The way she grounds out your name has liquid heat pooling in your middle, her lips leaving a trail of wet kisses over the curve of your jaw…down your throat, until she reaches the crook of your neck. Her teeth skim over the sensitive flesh there, earning her another breathy whine. 

“Abby,” you breathe, your fingers digging into the taut muscles of her shoulders. “Touch me, please.” 

Her fingers grip the layers of fabric keeping you apart, hiking up your gown as she hitches your thigh around her hip. The hilt of her sword digs into the soft flesh there, but you hardly mind when you feel her hand dip between your legs. 

Abby’s hand cups your mound of curls in her warm palm, her calloused fingers gliding through your slick center with ease. You grip tightly onto her shoulder with one hand, the other fisting into the soft fabric of your gown. Your hips jolt forward unexpectedly as she continues her descent, her fingers ghosting over that sensitive bundle of nerves—a place only you have touched. 

You only explored yourself in the seclusion of your bed chambers, where you’d bury your hand between your thighs and sink your teeth into the pillows to keep your whines from reaching the beautiful knight standing guard on the other side of your door. 

“Oh God,” you gasp softly, lashes fluttering when she brushes her fingers over that aching spot again. “That’s—Right there.” 

The corner of her mouth crooks up into a satisfied grin, but when her touch suddenly falls away you nearly whimper from the loss of contact. Abby hushes you with a firm press of her mouth before she drops down to kneel before you. 

“What are you—” you rasp, but the heated look she sends you has the words dying on your tongue. 

She quirks her brow up in a silent question, her fingers trailing over the back of your hand where you’re still clutching tightly onto the rumpled fabric of your gown. A pulse of white hot desire thrums through you, but instead of answering, you lift the fabric higher. 

Abby eagerly ducks beneath the layers of your dress skirt, her lips pressing a tender kiss to the skin just above your knee before she gently guides your leg up to rest over her shoulder. Her movements are slow but deliberate, each kiss and drag of her fingers are enough to have you trembling before she even gets her mouth on you. 

And when she does? You melt. 

She goes slow, taking her time to explore the most sensitive parts of you with her tongue, almost as if she's trying to make you feel all the things she’s too afraid to admit aloud. 

I want you, I need you, I’ll love you till my dying breath. 

Abby releases a muffled groan against your core when you cradle the back of her head, the vibrations sending another jolt of arousal through you. She presses the flat of her tongue harder against your sensitive bud and slowly guides a finger inside you. 

Abby’s hand stills once she’s slipped the entire digit inside, and while you appreciate her chivalry, that is not what you need right now. 

She groans when you start to grind into her palm, your breasts straining against your bodice with each shuddering breath. “Please,” you plead. “I need more.” 

And more is what she gives you. 

Abby slips another finger into your dripping heat and your body welcomes it, your eyes nearly rolling back from the sheer sense of relief you feel when she buries herself to the hilt inside you. Her tongue circles back over your throbbing center, the sound of each wet thrust echoing down the empty corridor. 

“God, that feels…” you trail off with a gasp, your knees starting to shake. “You feel…” But any semblance of thought leaves your mind when she curls her fingers up and rubs against a spot that has you completely coming apart at the seams. 

Abby eagerly works you through each shuddering wave, finally relenting with one final flick of her tongue that has your hips jerking back. You can feel the small puff of breath when she chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to the plush skin of your inner thigh before she guides you to stand on both feet again. 

When she emerges from under your gown to rise to her feet, her hair is a complete mess and you can’t help but giggle at the sight. The corner of her mouth quirks up in a grin as she snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against her chest. Her other hand reaches up to cradle your jaw, the pad of her thumb brushing over your lower lip before she leans back in. Her lips are warm and wet when they meet yours, the taste of you and her overwhelming your senses. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve dreamt of doing that,” Abby confesses, pressing another urgent kiss to your swollen lips. “How many nights I had to stand outside your chambers, hearing you touch yourself.” Another kiss. “The sheer willpower it took to keep myself from barging in there and claiming you with my mouth.” 

In one fluid motion, you have her pinned to the wall, allowing your lips to eagerly mouth over her bared throat while your fingers fumble to loosen the ties of her trousers. 

“You should have,” you mumble against her jaw, “God I wanted you to.” 

Abby is panting, soft ragged breaths that have her breasts surging against your own as your hand slips down past her waistband to untuck the soft fabric of her tunic.

“What else did you dream about?” you murmur, grazing your teeth along her jaw before nipping gently on her earlobe. “Please tell me.” 

The low moan that she tries to stifle only encourages your wandering hands. They slide up and under her tunic, over the warm, contoured planes of her stomach. You feel a burst of confidence when she shudders beneath your gentle touches, her back arching into your palm when you cup one of her breasts. 

One of her hands that had previously been occupied with gripping the fabric bunched at your waist captures your other wrist before it can finish its ascent. You start to pull away to look at her then, worried you had done something wrong. But Abby doesn’t let you stray very far, reeling you back in until your chests are flush. 

Her cerulean eyes are nearly black with a hunger you’ve never seen before—her full lips and chin still slick with a mixture of you and her saliva. Her hair is mussed and wild and she looks downright feral, sending another rush of pulsing heat between your thighs. 

Abby’s touch is firm but still gentle as she guides your hand up to her mouth, slipping two of your fingers past her lips and swirling her tongue around them. You release a soft whine when she begins to sucks on them, and you can feel her hum of approval against them. 

After a long, erotic moment, she finally releases your slick fingers with a soft pop, maintaining eye contact as she coaxes them back down and past the waistband of her trousers. 

“It was this,” she whispers finally before capturing your lips in another desperate kiss. “I dreamt of you doing this.” 

She thrusts her hips into your palm, and you’re met with a mound of soft curls and wet heat. You moan into her mouth as you slide your fingers lower, gathering more of the slick that has pooled at her entrance and circling it back up and over her sensitive bud. 

“I thought of you every night,” you confess, the sound of her stifled moans spurring you on. “How you would feel…what you would sound like and, God,” you sigh, “how you would taste.” 

It was true, you had thought about her far too much. Of what it would feel like to kiss her…hold her…spread her out on your silk sheets and taste every inch of her. You were plagued with these thoughts and fantasies for months, and now that one of them had come to fruition, you were going to savor it. 

Abby releases a string of curses under her breath, tilting her head back to rest against the stone wall. You can’t help but admire the way her eyes screw shut in pleasure, and her lips part with each drag of your fingers. But your gaze eventually drifts lower to watch the rise and fall of her chest and back down to where your hand is still inside her trousers. 

The sight alone has you squirming against her, unintentionally grinding your hips into hers in desperate need of some friction. The action pulls a strangled groan from her throat, as it forces your fingers to press harder against her swollen bud. 

“That’s…fuck—” she chokes out, her hips beginning to buck up frantically against your palm. You meet each of her thrusts in earnest, your fingers rubbing tighter circles against her until you feel her completely lose control. 

You stop once you feel her legs start to tremble, cupping her in your palm as her body sags back against the wall. Abby releases a soft, satiated sigh and leans forward to rest her forehead on your shoulder. 

You both stay like that for a long moment, no words, just holding her close as her breathing returns to a normal pace. But it’s not long before you feel her hands beginning to grab fistfuls of your gown, dragging the soft fabric back up to expose your bare thighs. With one gentle nudge, she spreads your legs apart with her knee, sliding it home right between your thighs. 

An offering. 

“Only if you want it,” she murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. The ache between your thighs reignites with a sudden vengeance, and your frantic nod urges her to press her knee up against your aching center. “Take what you need.” 

You release a breathy gasp, gripping onto her shoulder with your other hand and rocking your hips down onto her thigh. Every one of your nerves feels like a live wire, and each frantic grind of your hips is tipping you dangerously closer to the edge. 

“There you go,” she murmurs, her teeth lightly nipping at your exposed collarbone. “You’re doing so well for me, love.” 

Her soft praise and the feel of her thigh flexing against your dripping core unravels you completely and you sink your teeth into your lower lip in an attempt to stifle your moans from spilling freely down the corridor. 

She holds you close as your body writhes against her, slowly dragging her fingers up and down the length of your spine. Once the euphoric haze begins to clear, you come to the delightful realization that your hand is still buried inside her trousers. 

You release a soft hum, pulling back far enough to hold her gaze as your fingers descend one last time. Abby’s hips twitch involuntarily as you lightly brush your fingertips over her bundle of nerves, and she bites back a moan when they dip lower to gather more of the slick that’s pooled at her entrance. 

Your dutiful knight has been reduced to a panting mess once you slip your hand back out of her trousers, holding up your fingers to admire the mess she left behind. 

“Come here,” she says, pulling that familiar handkerchief from her breastpocket and reaching for your wrist. “Let me.” 

But you stop her with a subtle shake of your head, pushing away the offered handkerchief and slipping your fingers inside of your mouth to greedily suck each digit clean. Abby’s eyes darken at the sight, her jaw muscles flexing and you let out a small giggle. 

“You will be the death of me,” she mutters fondly, pulling you in close to bury her face in your bosom. 

You release another soft laugh and thread your fingers through the loose hair at the nape of her neck. “Well, at least it’d be an honorable way to go,” you tease and Abby nips the top of your breast in return. 

“Well, darling, I’m nothing if not honorable.” 

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖒𝖔𝖔𝖙𝖘: @justanotherabbystan @lobotomymutt @somebitchprobably @mxmsuki

Something happens to Abby the further you walk, her jaw tightening ever so slightly and her lids fluttering shut. 

“You okay?”

“Hm.” She licks her lips. Guilt leaves your heart beating faster. This is too painful for her. You’re making her give you a last day, and it isn’t fair, isn’t— “We’re only a little ways down the coast from where Lev and I were taken,” Abby admits shakily, pulling you from your worries. You stop, feet sinking into the sand, waves embracing around your ankles and then pulling away again. “We were tied to a pillar on a beach a little like this. Dehydrated, sunburnt, starving. I thought we’d die there, until…” 

You can’t imagine it. You think you know suffering, but what Abby describes… it sounds like something beyond it. Like hell, if it truly existed. You trace her inner arm gently, encouraging her to go on. She doesn’t. 

“Until?”

She meets your gaze finally. “Until someone saved us.”

“A Firefly?” 

She shakes her head, but doesn’t elaborate. “It doesn't matter now. I’m not there anymore.”

“No, you’re not.” You bring her hand to your mouth, kiss her knuckles, like maybe you can put a balm over those wounds. You wish you could. She doesn’t deserve to live with those memories. 

When this is over, will you just be another ghost haunting her whenever she looks to the sea? Will she wear that same strained expression because she’ll think not of pillars and rope, but of you, the one covered in bites? The one she could have loved if you weren’t already dead?

A particularly strong wave rushes over your feet, and you gasp at the new cold, seaweed swirling over your skin. Austen barks at the splash, jumping up to rest his front paws on your thighs as though in need of reassurance. 

“You will take care of him, right?” you ask Abby. 

Abby says nothing, lips flattening into a thin line as she stares out at the horizon. 

“Abby—”

“Don’t go,” she blurts all at once. 

You frown, squinting in the beating sunlight. Your bites are beginning to burn, the way they do in your sleep, and you fight the urge to scratch at them. “What?”

“You don’t need to do this. We can go somewhere else, somewhere safe, where we can start again.”

You shake your head slowly, tears blurring your vision. She can’t be asking this of you. Not now. “Don’t, Abby. Don’t try to talk me out of this.”

“You shouldn’t have to become a martyr. You’re… You deserve better than that.” Her chin wobbles like she’s on the verge of crying, too. You almost turn your back, but settle for staring at the coastline behind her. You can’t look at her, not with this acid burning inside you. Haven’t you made it clear that this is what you want? The promise of death is the only thing that's kept you company these months, your suffering given a purpose most aren't lucky enough to have. God, until her, you were excited for this day to come. Excited for it to finally be over.

“The world deserves better than to have their one chance at a cure taken from them,” you spit out. “You know that I made my choice. You know–”

“I’m asking you to change your mind, because I…” Her tongue touches the roof of her mouth, forming the shape of an L. You know what it means. You also know it’s ridiculous, which is why she doesn’t say it and you don’t force her to. Her throat bobs. She tugs at the short ends of her hair. 

“You’re being selfish,” you whisper.

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re just not used to somebody choosing you.”

“And what about Lev? Hm? You gonna leave him?”

“No. He’ll come with us. I know where he’ll be stationed tonight. Nobody will see us if we’re quick.”

You scoff bitterly. “You really have it all figured out, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were better than this.”

Abby stops, nostrils flaring. “What?” Her voice is quiet with a fragility you’ve never seen in her before, and it makes you want to run away, never look back. You must have done something terrible to be the one to cause it. 

“You said your dad died for this. You made it seem like you cared about my choices, but you don’t, do you?”

You regret it almost immediately when her expression crumbles and she turns towards the sea. “I care about you. I think you deserve to be alive. I don’t think you should carry the weight of the cure on your shoulders. There are other immune people out there. There’s no reason why this has to end in your death.”

“If that were true, wouldn’t your father have found another way? If there was another outcome, we wouldn’t be standing here right now. The world would already have its vaccine.”

“You’re not like she was.” You can only assume she’s talking about the other immune person. When she turns back to you, her eyes are glittering. “Your blood works differently. Cal—”

“Do not!” you yell, recoiling at the sound of his name. “Do not fucking use him to convince me. His friends turned because of me. And you said, you fucking said, that it was my choice, my body! What, you fuck me a few times, and suddenly that’s not true anymore?”

You know it’s not fair. Not really. If the roles were reversed, you’d likely beg in far worse ways to keep her alive. Loving someone, in this world, means fighting to the death for them, even if they don't want you to.

Maybe, then, you shouldn’t have fallen in love. Maybe she should have known better. 

Abby rubs roughly over her mouth. The crashing waves only fuel your fire, and it feels excruciating to wait for a response, especially when the tears roll down her cheeks. 

“I just want you to be alive,” she says finally.

“I was dead when you met me,” you hit back, then shake your head. “I shouldn’t have let it get this far. Neither should you. All of this was a fucking mistake.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” 

“I’m ready to go. I’ll wait in the car.”

She sniffs, nods, and it’s the hardest thing in the world to turn on your heel without her by your side, knowing you're leaving her broken.

But it’s clear that it's he only way you can make it to the Fireflies. There’s nothing left to say, and you pray she won’t ask to reconsider again — if not because you’ve made your choice, then because, for just a moment, that resoluteness had quivered against her pleas. That black void of a future had been lit up, the light the same colour as her golden hair.

Of course you want more days with her. Of course you want to leave so that you can be together. Of course you want to make her happy in any way you know how. 

But this is not one of those fairy tales you’d read a thousand times for comfort. This is a world that is barely hanging on, and the only thing more terrifying than dying is the thought of surviving. Living another ten, twenty years with these bites on your skin, knowing you’re one of them, connected. Knowing everything is bound to be lost sooner or later.

Even Abby can’t chase away that dread. You refuse to let her try.

A dent appears between your brows as you stir, letting out a serene hum that tugs at both her heart and her core, because it’s so similar to the pretty moans you let out last night when she was tasting you. God, she wants to hear them again. The sun-soaked breeze through the window has washed away her nightmare, though she still feels parts clinging to her always. As long as you’re here, she can forget them. 

She traces the shape of your lips, trying to coax you gently into the land of the living, so hyperfocused on every microexpression you make as consciousness finds you, like you're a science she wants to understand the formula to. Finally, you blink your groggy eyes open, yawn breaking apart your face until it feels like there isn’t an atom of you she doesn’t know. She no longer bothers to try to suppress her smile; you’re too adorable for that, and in these moments, wrapped in the intimacy of your near-constant proximity and how it allows her to see you without barriers, she doesn’t have to think about what comes next. 

”Sleep well?” she asks when you finally focus on her. 

“Yeah. The best I have in a while, actually.” Your throat is hoarse, probably because your mouth has been gaping wide for half the journey. She hands you her flask, and you take a long sip before sitting up to look around. “Shit. I slept all day.”

“You needed it.”

“Weren’t you bored?” 

She shrugs. The answer is no, she wasn’t bored, not when she got to enjoy your quiet presence at her side. Not when she was trying, constantly, to chase away thoughts of tomorrow. “I managed.”

“How’s Austen?” You crane your neck to peer into the truck bed… and pause, a grin creeping over your features. Abby tries and fails to shrink in her seat. 

“No fucking way. Where did he get a toy?”

“Must have just found it when we stopped for gas,” she lies.

You narrow your eyes. “That so?”

“Yup.”

“Hmm.” You reach for the shampoo bottle tucked under her seat. “Looks like he found himself some other things he might need, too.”

“Weird. I don’t know where that came from.”

“Did you perhaps stop at a pet store, Abby?” You cock your head, smug, beautiful, hers, and she tries to school her features into something resembling disgust, because jesus christ, she does not need to get attached to this fucking mongrel. 

But then, the time for not getting attached has been and gone, hasn’t it? 

“I may have happened across one, yeah,” she admits finally. “Only because if we leave him out here tonight, he’ll run away, and that would break your heart.”

You soften immediately, leaning over the gear stick to cup her face. “I knew you couldn’t resist saving another stray.”

“Hey,” she chastises. “Just the one stray.” 

You hum noncommittally, checking the label on the back of the shampoo bottle. “Do you think it matters that this expired like ten years ago?”

“No. He looks like he expired ten years ago,” Abby says, taking her keys from the ignition. 

You gasp in horror and nudge her with a sharp jab, which only draws a laugh from her.

“Don’t listen to her, Austen!” you call as you open the door, rushing to fuss over him. She rolls her eyes, then scans her surroundings just to be sure there are no signs of company tonight. She found this place long before this trip and has never once run into trouble, but after last night, her guard's still up.

It’s her favourite place. She found the brown-bricked library once before, on a long solo patrol, and stored a few necessities in case things ever went south with the Fireflies. After Seattle, she knows that having a back-up, a safe place to bring Lev, is a good idea. 

A place to bring you, too. Just in case. 

You regard the library slowly, feet carrying you forward. It’s one of the few buildings she’s seen that is still beautiful, despite the boarded windows and dense carpet of ivy dripping dried brown leaves over the crooked sign outside. 

“Better than camping, right?” Abby can’t hide the smugness from her voice.

You let out a quiet laugh of disbelief. “It’s beautiful.”

“C’mon. We’ll clean up the mutt, then get settled.” She tugs your unwilling frame away, Austen rushing off to pee on a leafy wild fern ahead. She knows already where she’s going: the river bordering town. It’s a much nicer evening than the one prior, though still humid, and she notices that you limp from your blisters. Soaking them will hopefully help. 

Austen finds the water before you do, ducking under a sagging rope swing and rushing straight in. It isn’t the cleanest place to bathe, but it’s better than sitting in this sweat another night. The amusement that twinkles in your eyes as she watches the dog splash around almost makes every painful step of this journey worth it.

Setting her stuff down, Abby toes off her boots, and it’s enough to tear your attention away. She smiles, a little soft, a little sultry, as she peels off her cargoes and leaves them on the shore. Your cheeks flush like it’s the first time you’ve seen her, and you step closer to pinch the hem of her t-shirt. “Can I?”

“Of course.” 

So you do, dragging the stiff material over her head. She tries not to worry about the smell after not being able to wash, or the terrible memories that chased her into her sleep last night. She wants to be here with you, not somewhere else. 

Your belly presses against her bare one as you brush your nose against hers. As though reading your mind, you say, “It’s our last night together.”

She shutters all at once, because she doesn’t want to talk about that. Think about it. “Yeah.”

“I just wanted you to know that…” Your trembling voice slips through the spaces between her ribs all the same. She can no longer shut you out, and maybe she’ll come to regret the fact. “I wanted you to know how glad I am that I got to meet you before…” 

“You said we weren’t going to talk about this—”

“We aren’t talking about Roe, or what happens next, but you need to know, Abby. You need to know that…” Tears fill your eyes, and you glance up in an effort to staunch them. 

She can’t let you do this now. She can’t let you borrow tomorrow’s goodbye. So she kisses you to quieten you, taking you by surprise enough that you gasp into her mouth. It’s angrier than she intends. She has forgotten how to be gentle in her grief, in her reluctance to let you go. She kisses you like it’s the last chance she has of convincing you, and when you finally kiss her back, she imagines it has worked. It’s a game of pretend, but haven’t you earned it after everything you’ve both been through?

Don’t you get just one night?

You pull away finally. “I really, really need to wash Austen.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, you really do.”

She pretends not to feel the time ticking away, instead wading into the murky water to help you lather Austen in soap and lotion, laughing when he shakes out his fur and covers you both in the unpleasantly scented foam. 

She isn’t sure she can watch this end — yet she doesn't seem to have a choice.

*

It makes you ache, to stand in a room filled with books you’ll never have the time to read — with a woman you’ll never have the time to completely love. Your fingers creep over the faded and beaten spines as you murmur, “Do you think they knew how lucky they were?”

“Hm?” Abby is preparing dinner in the corner. She caught a quail on the way back from the lake, and it’s now frying over the camping stove, filling the library with the delicious scent of fat drippings. 

“Before the outbreak. Do you think people knew how lucky they were to be able to read all these books and listen to whatever songs they wanted?”

“Probably not. Gratitude has never been our strong suit.”

You turn around, eyebrow arched. “I didn’t take you to be such a nihilist, Abigail.” And then, “That is what Abby is short for, right?”

She snorts as she turns off the stove, shredding the meat in the pan with a knife and fork. She’s added dried fruit and nuts for the extra flavour — a truly decent last meal together. “What else would it be short for?”

You shrug. “Abbyson? Abbybelle? Abbatha?” 

Her lips twitch with suppressed mirth, though her brows remained furrowed, just as they have been since this morning. This ridiculous rambling is just your way of trying to distract her from it. You don’t want anything between you tonight, even if it’s ridiculous to expect her to forget about what tomorrow holds. 

“You are…” 

“What? What am I?” You wiggle your brows as you collapse onto the cushion beside her. Austen is on her other side, and has already enjoyed his fair share of scraps, given when Abby thought you weren’t looking. You knew the disdain was all an act. At least, if nothing else, they’ll have each other when you’re gone. 

“Something else,” is her answer, and the conversation is quickly shoved aside as she spears the quail with her fork, holding it out for you to taste. “Here. Pretend it has actual seasoning.”

“Why? Is this perhaps a date, Abbatha?”

Her answering look is nothing but deadpan, so you decide it best to cooperate, leaning in to taste the food. Despite the lack of seasoning, it’s delicious, your stomach grumbling happily the second you swallow it down. “Mmm. Add cooking to your list of talents.”

Her eyes follow your tongue as it darts over your bottom lip, and the fork lingers by your mouth for longer than it needs before she hands it to you. 

“Along with what?” she responds.

“Shooting. Driving. That thing you did with your tongue last night.”

She almost chokes on her own food. “You’re on a roll tonight, huh?”

“Yeah, but it isn’t working. You’re still scowling.”

“I’m not scowling.” Yet her fork jabs the quail violently, like it’s hurt her feelings, and Austen ends up eating more of it than her. 

In the end, you grab a book from the nearest shelf, curiously reading the blurb. It happens to be an erotica. “What the hell is an Omegaverse?”

Abby flushes, just like you hoped she would. You’ve already read your fair share of romance — of all types. “Is that really the reading material you've decided on?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you plan on actually looking at me tonight.”

She sighs, meeting your eye. Defiance squares her jaw, but you see the hesitance, too. She’s in her own head. Always has been, but she’s more distant than ever. Maybe last night is the last time she’ll ever let you touch her, and that doesn’t seem fair, not when you were both tired and sore. She deserves more than just a quick fumble in the dark. 

“Since you didn’t answer me before, I’m assuming this isn’t a date.”

Her chin dips. “I’m trying, okay?”

“You don’t have to. Not for me. If this is too much, if you regret it all because of what happens tomorrow, I won’t hold it against you.” Even if pain claws through you at the thought. Even if you’re so, so tired of not knowing what she needs from you. 

Abby pushes away the pan of food and takes your hand, drawing light circles over your wristbone. “There’s so much I want to do with you. For you. And not because we’re running out of time, but because we…”

“I know,” you say, because you do, and she’s right. It isn’t fair of you to expect anything tonight. You would hate to think of her fucking you only because it’s her last chance to, especially after her confession this morning. It would be a pity fuck. A goodbye fuck. Not an I'm falling in love with you fuck. “It’s okay, angel. If we don’t get anything else, we had last night. I’m grateful for that.”

Her throat bobs. “That’s not what I meant. God, that’s not what I meant at all. I wanna spend the whole night between your thighs. I wanna make you come over and over again. I wanna make you feel so good that you forget these.” Her fingers travel up your arm, over your bites. “I wanna hear you say my name so I can memorise the sound of your voice.”

A burning begins in your core, panties already growing damp as goosebumps travel across your skin. Nobody has ever spoken so plainly to you before, not about this. You love how she always talks you through it, spells it out, like she isn't ashamed. More than that, like she wants you to be prepared so you know what you're agreeing to.

“Well, then… why the fuck didn’t you just say that?”

Her mouth is on yours in an instant, greedy tongue nudging open your lips. In her absence, Austen gobbles up the quail and scuttles away behind a shelf of books, but neither of you care, not as she yanks you onto her lap. 

“Are you sure, Abby? I don’t expect—”

“I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t sure,” she promises, rough hands groping your tits with reckless abandon. “Fuck, I wanted to go slow this time. I wanted to kiss every part of your body.”

“You have all night,” you remind her, and then drag your palm down her firm stomach to unbutton her pants. “But you don’t get to be selfless tonight. I want to make you feel good, too.”

“You already do, just by letting me touch you.” She nuzzles into your neck, tongue swiping over your collarbone. You smell the soap she used in the lake earlier, and the damp earth, and smoke from the frying pan. You want to bottle it up, but it wouldn’t be the same without her warmth at the heart of it. “Take your sweater off,” she begs. 

You do, then go back to exploring her torso, teasing her waistband every so often because you can’t wait, either. She palms your tits until you’re moaning, then peels back the fabric of your sports bra to swirl her tongue over your nipple. Her thumb teases the other, drawing out zaps of pleasure that pulse straight to your cunt. You arch your back, head falling back.

“My pretty girl,” she murmurs into your flesh. Your fingers dig into her shoulders, hips working over her thigh for any friction you can get. 

“Abby,” you whisper: a plea. 

“What, baby? You want me to keep going? Want me to make you come?”

You nod, relieved when she moves with your legs wrapped around her to spread you out on the worn carpet. She slips the pillow under your ass, and you lift so that she can tear off your jeans and panties. 

In the end, she does take her time with you, kissing up your legs, right up to your groin, in an excruciatingly slow trail. 

“Fuck, please.” 

She echoes your words from earlier in a sly taunt. “I have all night, right?”

She falls to the inner hinge of your knee, fingers stroking the sensitive skin behind until you’re fighting back a shudder. You’re tempted to start touching yourself, cunt throbbing, walls clenching around nothing. You’ve never wanted like this before. It’s enough to make you feel alive again, not just a ghost, not just a monster.

And then her teeth scrape against your inner thigh, and you freeze at the sensation, because it’s too much like the bites of before, even if so much lighter, gentler. 

Abby notices right away, pulling back with your calf cradled in her hand. “You okay?”

A lump fills your throat. You want to lie, say yes, so that she’ll keep touching you, but the words won’t come. 

She drops your leg, the absence of her leaving you cold. “Baby… I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”

“It’s… It’s okay,” you whisper shakily, but it isn’t. Cal flashes through your mind. Shannon. The clicker of last night, and all the ones before it, right up until the very first time. The one that sentenced you to this slow, painful crawl towards death. 

Your bleary vision is suddenly eclipsed by her, concern taut over every corner of her face as she gently grazes her knuckles over your cheeks. “No, it’s not. You’ve been so careful with me, and I just…”

“It’s okay, Abby. Just give me a minute.” 

But you see it already. The self-loathing. The anger. Her fists ball as she rises onto her knees, too far away. You pull her back, breath leaving you in a ragged whoosh. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.” 

“I’m not. I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers softly. She takes your arm, kisses the trail of bites to your shoulder, her eyes fixed intently on you all the while to monitor your comfort. “Tell me what you need. I’ll give you anything.”

You don’t know what you need. You only know your panic is easing, and you’re naked in front of her — and she isn’t. “Take the rest of your clothes off.”

Abby blinks but obeys, rising to kick off her pants. 

God, she’s so beautiful, like some kind of marble statue from the old world, the ones displayed in the museums from your books. A goddess forged from sheer strength. She has the power to destroy, but she’s only ever cared for you. Not many people can master that type of control over their own nature. Anyone else would have become nothing but a weapon long ago, but not her. 

With her bare, you soon forget about her teeth. She’s all softness and safety, and she won’t hurt you. 

“Can I taste you?”

“Only if I can taste you, too,” Abby murmurs as she kneels back down to stroke up your arms. 

“Lie down," you instruct.

She does, propped on her elbows, and you regard her nervously. You’ve never done this before. 

You want to with her. 

You crawl up to her face and take a deep breath, wishing you could summon more confidence. “Can I straddle your face?”

“Please,” she breathes out, lying back. 

You do, thighs bracketing her head. You hover above her, running your hands over her stomach. “Ever done this before?”

“No, but I’m sure your Omegaverse book can give us some pointers.”

Your laugh reverberates through the library, threats long forgotten. “Do you want to?”

“God, yes.” Her fingers curl around your hips, digging into the innermost creases, but she’s so much gentler now than before, like she’s afraid to tug you back out of this if she prods too hard. You don’t want her to be wary, but you appreciate her willingness to be all the same. It only cements that you can trust her with anything. 

Even this. You lower your core onto her mouth, and the entire world stills as her warm tongue licks between your folds. 

“Oh my god.”

Your utterance only encourages her, and her feast begins in greedy laps. When she moves to your opening, her nose rubs between your asscheeks, and there are no words, thoughts, worries, left. Only white-hot pleasure coursing through you from all sides. Bending, you splay your hands across both of her thighs to spread them open. She’s so good for you, so compliant, her back arching when you toy with her clit, and this new position grants her easier access to your spread folds, too.

Her whimper vibrates against you when you begin to use your tongue, coy licks at first — and then, when her pleasure drives her face closer to your cunt, tongue working you faster, harder, you ravish her without any of your old insecurities. Her musky arousal coats your nose, your mouth, your chin, her legs beginning to quiver.

“Fuck, Fuckfuckfuck,” she’s whispering between pleasuring you. Her moans become more high-pitched when you drive your finger inside her, still latched to her pink, swollen clit until it remembers the shape of your mouth. 

You let out a breathy sound of your own when she clamps your ass down tighter, waves of bliss rolling through you as she returns to your clit with dedicated strokes. Promise of climax is already flickering bright in your belly, but you’re determined to make her come first, so you inch another finger inside her until she’s trembling. The more you make her squirm, the more friction you feel against your own weeping cunt.

“Abby… ‘M gonna…”

“Me too. So close.”

Thank god. The lewd sounds of your fingers moving inside her are what causes the last thread to snap, and as you ride her, she cries out, abdomen rippling against your tits and hips rutting against you. “So good. So good. So fucking good.” She’s saying your name, and you’re saying hers, and all those things she wanted earlier happen — over and over again, until you’re both too spent to truly appreciate the countless books around you.

You lay boneless in her arms hours later, Austen curled at your feet as you stare at the domed ceiling. Abby is still awake, her chest rising up and down beneath you. There are so many things you want to say, but you’re too wrapped in contentment to risk ruining it with reality. 

So you relish what you have: the knowledge that, for one night, with the doors and windows boarded up and barricaded, the two of you can fall asleep together without worry. 

You hook your leg around hers and turn onto your stomach to face her, smiling at the flush still on her cheeks. I love you, you think. And then, I’m sorry.

For what’s about to happen. For the fact that what just did happen never will again. 

Abby’s eyes move to meet yours, and she traces the shape of your face so tenderly you want to cry. “You okay?”

“Just trying to stay awake a little longer,” you admit.

She kisses the crease on your forehead and tugs you ever closer. “It’s not over yet,” she whispers. 

The lie sits between you like another body, heavy and pervading and inescapable. 

There are only hours left of her, and it isn’t enough. When it comes to Abby, no amount of time ever would be — and how generous it is of the world, to give you this one, final bit of good after all those months of nothingness. 

How unfair it is, to have waited until now, when you have needed her for months, years, lifetimes.