ℳℯ𝓁⁷

I made this drawing back in january of this year but never posted it anywhere (expect reddit lol)

she hovers over you with a triumphantly smug grin, her hips pressing you harder against the mat. her pupils dilate as she drinks in your stunned expression, using one hand to keep your arms securely pinned above your head. and when you desperately try to wriggle out from under her, she just laughs—low and taunting.

“y’know, you almost made it too easy.” she snickers, her voice laced with condescension. “but it’s really cute when you try to act so tough, doll face.”

while her words are meant to annoy you, they seem to have the opposite effect as heat pools low in your belly and your thighs press together with each slow, drawn out word that leaves her mouth. but you’re just grateful she doesn’t realize that you’re squirming for a completely different reason now.

“alright, you proved your point, anderson… now let me up,” you huff, pushing against her grip on your wrists.

it’s bad enough that you’ve fantasized about being in this exact scenario on more than one occasion—right down to the way her strong hands keep a firm hold on your wrists and her hips press you into the floor.

only in this version you both are wearing way too many clothes.

“hey, you’re the one that claimed you could take me on…” she hums, that cocky grin widening. “it’s not my fault you can’t handle it.”

everything comes to a sudden halt when abby’s eyes flicker down to admire your lips, her gaze lingering a little too long to be considered an accident. a rosy flush creeps up her neck when your eyes meet again, your breath coming out in shallow pants as she starts to lean in closer. her grip on your wrists looses, and you can practically taste the mint on her tongue as your lips ghost over hers.

and maybe it’s the challenging glint in your eyes, or the tension that’s been building between you for months—whatever the reason, it breaks down her remaining defenses as she eagerly chases your mouth. your lips meet in a desperate clash of tongue and teeth, her hands releasing your wrists to cradle your jaw, deepening the kiss with a low groan.

but you can’t hide the wicked grin from spreading across your face as you grab onto her broad shoulders and frantically buck your hips up. abby releases a noise that’s a mixture between a moan and a gasp, using her distracted state to take back control—flipping her over and onto her back. you release a laugh at the look of confused disappointment on her face, her lips slick with your spit.

"So I just, inhale?" Abby asks, eyebrows furrowed as she watches you finish rolling the joint. You lick the edge of the paper, glancing at her with a smile.

"Mhm... you just breathe in normally. You don't want to take too big of a hit since you've never smoked before." You sit on the couch next to her, thigh brushing against hers. Abby leans into you, head nearly on your shoulder as she watches you light the joint. You take the first hit, eyes already half lidded as you pass the joint to her.

The joint looks comically small in Abby's hand as she lifts it to her mouth, lips still curled in a pout as she takes a tentative first hit. She doesn't immediately cough, so she takes an even bigger hit sending herself into a coughing fit.

"Shit- you okay Abs?" You murmur, taking the joint from her. She nods through the coughing, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Yeah... didn't think it would burn like that," she mumbles, frowning as she watches you take another long hit.

"Coughing means you'll actually get high," you joke as you throw your legs over her lap. "Want some more?" Abby nods, clearing her throat as she takes a couple more small hits.

By the time you've both smoked the joint down to a roach, you're pleasantly high and sprawled out on the couch. Abby feels kinda floaty, limbs heavy in a way she isn't used to. She's barely paying attention as you put a movie on.

She makes it about ten minutes before she starts squirming, thighs spreading further in an attempt to relax. You glance up at her, one eyebrow raising at how flushed she is.

"You okay?" you murmur. Abby nods once, her hands squeezing your legs. "The highs hitting, huh?"

"Yeah..." Abby sinks further into the couch, lazily turning her head towards you. "You're real pretty, y'know?" You giggle, a knowing glint in your eyes. Normally it would make Abby nervous, but she's too high to notice.

"C'mere baby," you murmur, giggling as Abby struggles to crawl over you. Her movements are clunky and awkward, her brain working overtime as she leans over you.

She tries not to crush you as she stuffs her face against your neck, but she's too busy thinking about how good you smell.

"Didn't expect you to get horny when you're high." Abby makes a disgruntled noise, sounding almost sad as she mouths at your neck.

"'M not."

"You totally are, Abs. Don't worry, I think it's cute." Abby groans, pulling away to do her best attempt at a glare.

"You're such an ass. You knew this was gonna happen, didn't you?" Her mouth is suddenly dry, her tongue dry and heavy.

"The dispensary said the strain was kinda an aphrodisiac, but I thought it was just a marketing gimmick." Abby makes a disgruntled noise, her lips pulled into a pout.

"You're not serious."

"Cmon... it's a little fun."

"If I wasn't so horny right now I'd be pissed," Abby grumbles, struggling to sit up as she paws at your pajama pants. Her limbs are heavy as she finally grabs the waistband, barely giving you anytime to lift your hips as she yanks them down. She half falls off the couch, clumsy as she refuses to look away from your cunt. "Fuck baby," she groans, yanking your hips towards her face.

"Abby-" You start, Abby cutting you off as she dives into you, tongue already half buried into your hole. Her mouth is so dry you somehow taste better than normally. "Shit, Abby slow down," you whine, hands tangling in her hair.

Abby mumbles something incoherent against your cunt, nose grinding against your clit as she tries to get as much of your slick into her mouth as possible.

"Fuck, taste so good, baby..." Abby's voice is barely audible half smothered against you.

"Abby- Abs... shit- if you don't slow down I'm gonna-" Abby either doesn't hear you or doesn't care as she continues doing exactly what she is. She barely seems to notice you gushing on her face, hips flinching away from her in overstimulation.

"Abby! Fuck- 's too much..." You whine, grasping desperately at her hair. You're second orgasm rips through you, your body going limp as Abby finally pulls away from you.

"Baby-" she groans, already crawling up your body. She forces her pants and underwear off, clearly focused solely on getting relief.

"Wait- Abs, what're you... oh fuck!" Abby slots herself against you, her whole body shuddering at the first grind of her clit against yours. She's always been big, but the weed seems to have made her clit even bigger than normal.

"You feel so good," she whines, head falling back as she desperately ruts against you in pathetic little grinds. There's no rhythm to her rutting, but every time her swollen clit just barely slips into you she stutters and keens.

"Why don't you just fuck me, Abs? I think you're big enough right now." Abby whimpers, a sound you don't think she's ever made.

"Don't- Don't say stuff like that!" She's flushed and panting, chest heaving under her wife beater. You don't think you've ever seen her this fucked out before.

"You gonna come, baby?" You laugh as you finally grind back against her. Abby goes limp, her clit twitching where it's just barely slipped into you. You grin, focusing on clenching as you grind her clit further into you.

"Oh my god- fuck- wait!" Abby goes stock still, all her muscles clenching as she moans. You feel her gush, her clit twitching and going down in size just a little bit. She whimpers you slip off of her, limp against the couch as you crawl up over her.

"Abs? You with me baby?" She nods sleepily, eyes barely open as you curl up on her chest.

"Never smoking weed with you again," Abby mumbles, arms wrapping around you.

"Yeah right," you murmur as you tuck your head against her neck. Abby is quiet for a moment, hands gently rubbing your back.

"Roll another joint?" she mumbles, smiling as you practically jump up from her, grinning ear to ear.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 — 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐏𝐎𝐌-𝐏𝐎𝐌𝐒

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 — 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 — 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊, 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐖

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 — 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 — 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 — 𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 — 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊’𝐒 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄 .

𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 (𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐀): 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐖𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄  .

༺ 𓃘 ༻ ˚ 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 : mood boards ⸝⸝ reader analysis ⸝⸝ headcanons

At first, she didn’t react to it, but when she felt the emptiness over her head, a slow smirk crossed her lips, almost devious in its existence alone.

“Abby—? How was your day? You didn’t answer me—woah!”

Abby suddenly picked you off, lifting you up, strong hands holding you by the waist, “haven’t even gotten inside yet, and you’re already doin’ this,” but she didn’t sound angry…

“Bad day?”

“Mhm…”

You smiled. You knew what that meant.

She was almost always on her feet, whether that be car crashes, drunk driving stops, missing children, domestic disturbances, whatever it was — Abby always made sure that she was on the scene. It wasn’t just because the town was pretty small, it was also because while she did trust her deputies to take charge whenever necessary, she preferred being on the scene herself. It gave her a first-hand view of everything.

It wasn’t even just that, it was because she loved her people and she loved helping people out in general, and her dedication to the job was one of the many reasons you fell in love with her, other than the fact she was also very gentle for someone who was built like a fucking tank. Regardless, she was your sweet wife.

While she did like to chew out some of her people, it’s not because she disliked them or something, it’s just because she preferred keeping authority over other people, especially those who worked under her. For some reason, whenever you could see her being that way, being a little shit to everybody else, it made you feel different on the inside because she always treated you differently.

She always protected you, cherished you, took care of you, and whenever she spoke to you, her voice just softened, almost as if she’s scared of startling you.

It’s not because she thought you were fragile or something — quite the opposite actually. She knew you were very much capable of self-defense. And seeing you beat up some guy who started a bar fight by hitting on you was exactly how she met you, fell in love with you. And now, you both were married, living the best life together.

But even then — you knew Abby had her ups and downs.

A lot of downs actually — being a Sheriff meant she witnessed A LOT, most of the time… those weren’t nice things and you couldn’t help wishing you could make it all better. You couldn’t magically change anything, but you could always… lend a hand to help her take the edge off…

Clothes littered the hallway floors, her hands all over your body as she pinned you down to the mattress, using her weight as leverage to keep you moving under herself.

“You’re soaked.”

Her hand came out from between your thighs, glistening with your arousal.

“I need you, Abby…”

“Uh-uh.” She shook her head, pushing her fingers past your lips and into your mouth. “That’s Sheriff Anderson for you, sweetheart.”

You felt something in your stomach flip, excitement only making your arousal grow. “Yes, Sheriff Anderson…”

“Good,” she pulled back, one hand unbuckling her belt, “get in position. Face down. Ass up.”

You did exactly as told, pushing your face into the pillows with one cheek pressing the soft pillowcase, slowly pushing your ass out. The cold air of the room teased your presented holes as you held the position, and the sight alone was enough to make Abby’s clit throb with need. The belt clinked free, releasing her pants and she undid her shirt, before crawling in bed, naked alongside you.

“So are you gonna—?”

Before you could finish your sentence, Abby rammed inside two fingers without warning. Her digits pumped steadily with that filthy squelching sound evident. Every time she pulled her fingers out, your pussy walls clung onto them needily.

“Fuck, look at it — so needy, so fuckin’ tight. You want me here all night, don’t’cha’?”

You whined into the pillow and nodded your head. Her hand came down hard on your ass — smack!

“Use your words, sugar.”

“I do, I want you so badly,” you said helplessly pushing yourself back on her fingers to get her deeper, “please, fuck me harder…”

Abby smirked, satisfied with your answer, “what a good little slut for me.”

As her fingers continued moving, they made the most lewd sounds ever. The room was filled with tense silence, and the occasional whimper coming from you, accompanied by the sounds your cunt made around Abby’s thick, calloused fingers. She fingered you in a way that had you squirming already.

“Sheriff Anderson,” you called, voice barely audible as you pressed your face into the pillow, “ohhhhh, fuuuuck…”

Abby curled her fingers. Your body jerked.

“I’m close — I’m gonna cum.”

“No, you’re gonna hold it, sweetheart.”

“W-what?” You turned your head around to look at her, “b-but, why?”

“Because you didn’t ask for permission, my sweet.”

Your pussy clenched around her fingers desperately as if you were pleading with your cunt.

“Please, don’t edge me,” you mumbled into the pillow, “Sheriff Anderson, please, can I cum?”

“Hmmm,” she twisted her fingers and curled, “what do you think, sweetheart?”

“I think I’ve been good…”

“Then cum for me,” she said, kissing the small of your back as her fingers helped you ride out your orgasm. Your body shuddered as the pleasure crashed over you, and rolled out in waves.

Abby wasn’t done. She was far from done.

“Don’t move.”

“Mmm?” You craned your neck around to watch her as she got off the bed.

Years of experience and work had sculpted her muscles onto her body, hard as rock, glimmering with the slightest sheen of sweat under the light of the bedroom — she looked simply divine as she bent to reach for the strap in the drawer full of sex toys you both kept, and a pair of cuffs…

She turned, dangling the cuffs from one finger, “you’re under arrest,” she walked to you slowly, “hands where I can see ‘em.”

You rolled your eyes, but laughed softly anyways as you let her cuff your hands behind your back, “mmm, is that so, Sheriff?”

“Yes, that is so.”

“Arrested for…?”

“Grand theft… of my heart.”

You tried to hold back the smile that came with red hues on your cheeks.

“You have the right to remain silent,” she continued as she pulled your cuffed hands back almost harshly.

Your eyes widened slightly, a faint moan escaping, “easy there, Sheriff Anderson, I might start thinkin’ you’re into me.”

“Ain’t that a darin’ assumption,” she drawled, guiding the head of the strap to your slit before she pushed it inside.

You gasped as you felt the toy stretch your right cunt around its thick girth while she let the entire length sink inside slowly for you to adjust to it. She held for a second and then started pistoning her hips, setting a brutal pace.

“Sheriff — fuck,” you moaned loudly, “I don’t — I don’t think you’re supposed to exert more force than necessary.”

“Mhm?”

She pulled your hands back using the cuffs, your back arched perfectly hitting that textured spot inside your pussy. You were dripping your love juices everywhere, on the sheets, rolling down in thick gushes down your thighs, and the strap was smeared with it.

“I wouldn’t have to be so rough if you weren’t resisting arrest, doll.”

“B-but, Sheriff—”

“Uh-uh, tell it to the judge,” she slammed herself deeper.

“... Fuck,” you came hard around the strap.

Abby raised a brow, “such a slut, gettin’ off from this,” she eased the strap out, smirking at the mess you had made on the shaft, “turn around.”

You obeyed, coming face to face with her, but she grabbed a good handful of your hair and pushed your face down to the strap.

“Suck it clean, sweetheart.”

Your lips wrapped around the strap as Abby waited patiently, eyes fixed on your knelt form. It filled your mouth up the best way, all eight inches of the strap disappearing all the way in your mouth before hitting the back of your throat — you hesitated, but Abby wasn’t having any of that.

She grabbed the back of your head, your scalp stinging from the sudden grip on your hair, and she pushed your head down on her dick.

You choked around the sudden intrusion, tears already at your eyes but she didn’t pause. She used your throat, fucking herself into your mouth mercilessly. Her grip on your hair was tight, unforgiving as she slammed herself deeper in your mouth.

You gagged around the length, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks. She pulled herself free, saliva stringing from the tip.

“Look at me,” she tilted your face up, “that’s right,” she ran her thumb over your bottom lip, “that’s my good little fucktoy. Good for nothin’ but this dick.”

You licked the tip obediently, “Sheriff,” your voice came out hoarse, “please…”

She chuckled, “aw, darlin’. You don’t even know what you’re beggin’ for, do you?”

“... nnno…”

“Lemme take care of that,” she stuffed your mouth full of her strap again, watching as her strap sank deep in your throat again.

Your eyes squeezed close, your throat burnt, more hot tears trickling down your face. You tried your best to breathe every chance you’d get when she pulled herself out just to slam herself back in. Your throat was raw.

But Abby was anything but tired.

She was just getting started.

This was like foreplay to her.

When she finally pulled herself out and slapped the length of the cock against your cheek, you were gasping for air, voice barely making it out of your sore throat.

“Please, have mercy,” your hands struggled a little against the cold cuffs, “I’ll be a good girl.”

“You are being a good girl,” she wiped your tears with one thumb, “be takin’ me so well you’re showin’ me why I shouldn’t throw you in a cold cell, all alone.”

You whined softly, leaning into her touch as she soothingly wiped your tears as if she hadn’t just been fucking you mouth and pussy til they were both sore.

You thought she was giving you a break, but you were so mistaken. Her arm wrapped around your throat almost affectionately, and she yanked you back in a headlock. You gasped for air, choking on your own saliva. Your cuffed hands struggled behind your back making Abby chuckle.

“You know your safe word if you wanna get outta this so badly,” she whispered as she thrusted herself back inside.

Your pussy squeezed around her instantly, welcoming her in as she rammed in you mercilessly. Your eyes rolled back. The pleasure was immediate, your inner walls were sore but still warm and wet.

She used you like you were some object. Like you’re a fuck doll, made solely for her relief.

“There you go, squeeze that dick with your cunt,” she grunted with every thrust.

Her bicep bulged, arm squeezing around your neck. You moaned low in your throat, cumming fast from how sensitive you were.

Creamy discharge dribbled down the length of the cock. Messy. Overstimulated.

“That’s my girl, that’s my good girl — fuck, come on,” she pulled you closer, arm tightening around you, “show me what you got, baby.”

“I can’t… more…”

“You can, just gotta do it f’me, baby.”

The way her voice softened when she said “baby”. You made a small choking sound and your release came in an almost humiliating gush of squirt. Abby watched with amusement before her arm loosened, releasing you from the headlock. You gasped for air, tumbling forwards on the bed so you were laid on your stomach, hands still awkwardly cuffed behind your back.

“That was so good,” Abby turned undid the cuffs, throwing them to the side, “let me see you, sweet thing,” she brought you closer and planted a kiss right on your lips, “you make me so happy.”

You smiled tiredly, “feel any better..?”

She nodded, “lots better than before,” she picked your wrists to examine the marks that the harsh metal cuffs left on your wrists, “we should really get some softer cuffs…”

“No,” you brought them to her lips so she could kiss the marks, “I like the real ones.”

Abby couldn’t hold back the smirk that climbed her lips, “is that right?”

“Mmm…” you climbed onto her lap, laying your head over her shoulder, “as long as you take care of me after.”

the first time you saw abby anderson, she was leaning against a blacked-out range rover in the valet lane of a club you couldn’t even pronounce the name of.

you were waiting for your ride—a friend of a friend who was already twenty minutes late and she was just standing there.

watching you like you were the only thing worth looking at in a city full of flashing lights.

she didn’t smile. she just tilted her head, took a slow drag from her cigarette, and let the smoke curl around her face like a veil.

her suit was charcoal gray, probably cost more than your rent, and the way she held herself said she owned every inch of concrete she was standing on.

“you waiting on someone who isn’t coming?” she asked, voice low and rough, like she’d been up for days running numbers or breaking kneecaps. you couldn’t tell which.

you shrugged, clutching your purse a little tighter. “guess so.”

she nodded, flicked the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it with the toe of her heel. “get in. i’ll take you home.”

you should’ve said no. any sane person would’ve said no. but there was something about the way she looked at you.

like she already knew you, like she’d already decided you were hers—that made your mouth go dry and your common sense take a backseat.

you got in. that was six months ago.

now you’re sitting in the passenger seat of her maybach, the leather so soft it feels like butter under your thighs.

watching the city blur past as she drives one-handed, the other resting on your knee like a brand.

she’s got a fresh pack of cigarettes in her jacket pocket and a duffel bag in the trunk that you know better than to ask about.

“you’re quiet tonight,” she says, not looking at you. “something on your mind, baby?”

you chew your lip. you’ve been thinking about it for weeks now—the way she gives you things.

the way she never lets you pay for anything.

the way she showed up at your apartment one day with a key she definitely shouldn’t have had and a box from cartier in her hand.

“abs,” you start, and her fingers tighten on your knee just a little, like she knows what’s coming. “i don’t know if i can keep doing this.”

she doesn’t react. not at first.

the car hums beneath you, smooth and dangerous, and she takes a turn a little too fast, pressing you back into the seat.

“doing what, exactly?” her voice is calm. too calm.

“this.” you gesture vaguely at the car, at the city, at her. “all of it. the money, the gifts, the—the way you just show up. i didn’t sign up for this.”

the silence that follows is heavy enough to crush bone.

abby pulls the car over, not in a parking spot, just in the middle of a dark stretch of road where the streetlights are few and far between.

she kills the engine and turns to face you, and for the first time, you see something flicker in her eyes that makes your stomach drop.

it’s not anger. it’s amusement.

“you didn’t sign up for it?” she repeats, and a slow, cruel smile spreads across her lips. “baby, you signed up for it the second you got in my car that night. you just didn’t know it yet.”

you swallow hard. “that’s not fair.”

“fair?” she laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “you think i got where i am by playing fair? i built an empire on dirty hands and designer taste, sweetheart. every dollar i spend on you came from a deal that would put me away for life if anyone found out. and you think you can just—what? walk away?”

her hand leaves your knee and comes up to cup your jaw, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip. her touch is gentle, but the look in her eyes is anything but.

“you’re mine,” she says, soft as a promise, sharp as a blade. “and i don’t let go of what’s mine.”

you should be scared. you are scared.

but there’s something else too, something hot and shameful that curls in your belly when she looks at you like that.

she sees it. of course she sees it.

“that’s what i thought,” she murmurs, and then she’s kissing you, deep and possessive, her tongue sliding against yours like she’s staking a claim. her hand slides into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, and she swallows the sound like she’s drinking it.

when she pulls back, you’re breathless, and she’s already reaching into the glove compartment for a fresh cigarette.

“we’re going home,” she says, lighting it with a flick of her zippo. “and we’re going to talk about this. but let me make one thing clear.”

she blows smoke out the window and turns to look at you, her eyes glinting in the dim light.

“you don’t get to leave. not ever. and the sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us.”

you don’t say anything. what is there to say?

she puts the car in drive and pulls back onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to find yours. she laces her fingers through yours and squeezes, just once, like a reminder.

you squeeze back.

because the truth is, you don’t want to leave. that’s the sick, twisted part of it all. you don’t want to leave her.

and she knows it.

the penthouse is all floor-to-ceiling windows and cold marble floors, the kind of place that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. you’ve never gotten used to it.

not really—the way the city lights glitter below like a thousand tiny diamonds, the way the air smells like expensive candles and something faintly metallic, like gunpowder and old money.

abby shrugs off her jacket and drapes it over a chair, moving through the space like she owns it. because she does. she owns everything. including you.

“drink?” she asks, already at the bar, pouring herself something amber and expensive.

“i’m fine.”

she glances at you over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “didn’t ask if you were fine. asked if you wanted a drink.”

you hesitate, then nod. “okay. yeah.”

she pours you one anyway, brings it over, and presses the glass into your hand.

her fingers linger against yours for a moment too long, and then she’s sinking onto the couch beside you, close enough that her thigh presses against yours.

“so,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “talk to me.”

you stare at the amber liquid in your glass, watching the light catch it. “i just... i don’t know who you are, abby. not really. you give me all this stuff, you take care of me, but you won’t tell me what you do. you disappear for days and come back with bruises and blood under your nails, and you expect me to just pretend i don’t notice?”

she’s quiet for a long moment. then she sets her drink down on the coffee table and turns to face you fully, her knee brushing yours.

“you want to know who i am?” she asks, and her voice is softer now, almost tender. “you want to know what i do?”

“yes.”

she reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, her touch featherlight. “i’m the person people call when they need something done that no one else will do. i’m the person who makes problems disappear. i’m the person who keeps this city running from the shadows, and i’ve been doing it long enough that my name carries weight.”

she pauses, her eyes searching yours.

“and you? you’re the only good thing i’ve got. the only thing that’s mine that isn’t covered in blood or built on someone else’s ruin. so when you say you want to leave, it scares me.”

you blink. “you? scared?”

“terrified,” she says, and she says it like a confession. “because if you leave, i don’t know what i’d do. and that’s the scariest part—i don’t know if i’d let you go, or if i’d burn the whole world down to keep you.”

your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. “abby...”

“i’m not a good person,” she continues, cutting you off. “i’ve done things that would make you sick. i’ve ruined lives, ended them. but i’ve never lied to you. not once. and i’m not going to start now.”

she takes your hand, brings it to her lips, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“so here’s the truth: you can stay, and i’ll give you everything i have. every dollar, every diamond, every piece of me that isn’t already destroyed. or you can go, and i’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you regret it.”

the threat is soft, wrapped in velvet, but it’s there. unmistakable.

you should run. you should scream. you should do something other than sit here, frozen, with her lips against your skin and her eyes boring into your soul.

but you don’t.

“i don’t want to go,” you whisper, and the admission tastes like surrender.

abby’s smile is slow and dangerous, like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

“good girl.”

she pulls you into her lap, and you go willingly, curling against her like you belong there. her arms wrap around you, solid and warm, and she presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“you’re mine,” she murmurs against your hair. “and i’m going to take care of you. forever.”

you close your eyes and let yourself believe it. because what else can you do?

the next morning, you wake up alone in a bed the size of a small country, tangled in sheets that probably cost more than your first car.

the sun is streaming through the windows, casting everything in a warm golden glow, and for a moment, you forget where you are.

then you see the note on the pillow beside you.

"had to handle something. be back tonight. there’s a car waiting for you downstairs if you want to go shopping. don’t forget your key. — a"

underneath it, there’s a black american express card and a key to the penthouse on a simple silver keychain.

you pick up the key, turning it over in your hands. it’s heavy. real. a symbol of everything you’ve gotten yourself into.

and despite every warning bell screaming in your head, you smile.

you get dressed, pick out a bag you don’t remember buying, and head downstairs. the car is waiting, just like she said.

a sleek black town car with tinted windows and a driver who nods at you like he knows exactly who you are.

“where to, miss?”

you think about it for a second. then you give him the name of the most expensive store you can think of.

if you’re going to be kept, you might as well look good doing it.

the shopping trip is a blur of silk and cashmere, of saleswomen who recognize the black card and treat you like royalty.

you buy things you don’t need, things you don’t even have space for, because you can. because the card never gets declined. because this is your life now.

by the time you get back to the penthouse, the sun is starting to set, and there are bags upon bags stacked in the entryway.

you’re exhausted, but it’s a good kind of exhausted. the kind that comes from hours of indulgence and the heady rush of spending money that isn’t yours.

you’re pouring yourself a glass of water when you hear the door open.

abby walks in looking like she’s been through a war. her suit is rumpled, there’s a smear of something dark on her collar, and her eyes are ringed with exhaustion. but when she sees you.

standing there in the kitchen with your new designer dress and your armful of shopping bags, her whole face softens.

“hey, baby,” she says, her voice rough.

“hey.”

she crosses the room in three long strides and pulls you into her arms, burying her face in your hair. she smells like smoke and metal and something sharp, but you don’t pull away.

“missed you,” she mutters against your neck.

“you were gone for like eight hours.”

“too long.”

you laugh, and it surprises you—the lightness of it, the ease. “you’re ridiculous.”

she pulls back just enough to look at you, her hands cupping your face. “ridiculous for you. always.”

and then she kisses you, slow and deep, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. when she pulls away, her thumb traces your bottom lip, and she smiles.

“come on. let me show you what else i got you.”

you raise an eyebrow. “more?”

“always more.”

she takes your hand and leads you into the bedroom, where a small velvet box is sitting on the pillow.

your heart stutters as she picks it up, opens it, and reveals a diamond necklace that catches the light like captured starlight.

“abby, this is too much.”

“nothing is too much for you,” she says, and she fastens it around your neck, her fingers brushing against your skin. “now you’re really mine.”

you look in the mirror, at the woman staring back at you.

dressed in silk, dripping in diamonds, with a criminal’s arms wrapped around your waist.

you don’t recognize her. but you’re starting to like her.

the weeks blur together after that. you fall into a rhythm that’s equal parts domestic bliss and quiet terror.

abby is attentive, almost obsessive in the way she cares for you. making sure you eat, making sure you sleep, making sure you want for nothing.

but she’s also possessive in a way that borders on suffocating.

she doesn’t like it when you go out without her. she doesn’t like it when you talk to strangers. she doesn’t like it when you look at anyone else for too long.

and she’s not subtle about it.

“who was that?” she asks one night, her voice deceptively casual, as you climb into bed beside her.

“who was who?”

“the barista. at the coffee shop. he smiled at you.”

you blink. “he was being polite, abs.”

“i don’t like the way he looked at you.”

“he was just doing his job—”

“i don’t care.”

her hand shoots out and grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. her eyes are dark, intense, and there’s something in them that makes your breath catch.

“you’re mine,” she says, low and dangerous. “and i don’t share. not with anyone. so if i see another man look at you like that again, i’m going to make sure he never looks at anyone ever again.”

you should be horrified. you should be scared. instead, you feel a thrill race down your spine.

“okay,” you whisper.

she holds your gaze for a long moment, then releases your wrist and pulls you into her arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“good girl.”

you close your eyes and let yourself sink into her embrace, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat against your cheek.

this is your life now.

and you wouldn’t have it any other way. it happens on a tuesday.

you’re at a little café downtown, the one with the good pastries and the outdoor seating, because abby had a meeting and you needed to get out of the penthouse.

you’re scrolling through your phone, sipping an overpriced latte, when a shadow falls over your table.

you look up. he’s handsome, in a clean-cut kind of way. suit, tie, smile that’s a little too bright.

he’s holding a coffee cup and looking at you like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

“you’re abby anderson’s girl, right?”

your blood runs cold. “who’s asking?”

he pulls out the chair across from you and sits down, uninvited. “name’s detroit. i work for a... competitor of hers. and i’ve been looking for a way to get to her for a while now.”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“sure you don’t.” he smiles, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “but here’s the thing—i know you’re not stupid. i know you know exactly what she does. and i know you’re sitting on a goldmine of information.”

he leans forward, lowering his voice.

“help me take her down, and i’ll make sure you walk away clean. new identity, new life, somewhere she’ll never find you. you’ll never have to look over your shoulder again.”

for a second—just a second—you consider it.

the idea of freedom. of being your own person again. of not being owned by anyone.

but then you think of abby. the way she holds you. the way she looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

the way she kissed your knuckles that night and told you she’d burn the world down for you. you think of the diamond necklace still warm against your skin.

“no,” you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel.

detroit’s smile falters. “excuse me?”

“i said no. i’m not helping you.”

he stares at you for a long moment, then laughs—a short, sharp sound. “you’re loyal. i respect that. but you’re making a mistake.”

“maybe.” you stand up, grabbing your purse. “but it’s my mistake to make.”

you walk away before he can say anything else, your heart pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. you don’t look back.

you’re halfway to the car when your phone buzzes.

it’s abby.

“come home. now.”

no explanation. no context. just those two words, and the weight of them makes your stomach drop.

you get in the car and tell the driver to take you back to the penthouse.

when you walk through the door, abby is sitting on the couch, a glass of whiskey in her hand and an expression on her face that you can’t read.

“i heard you had an interesting conversation today,” she says, her voice flat.

your heart stops. “how did you—”

“i have eyes everywhere, baby. you know that.” she takes a sip of her whiskey, then sets the glass down and stands up, crossing the room to stand in front of you. “detroit. he approached you.”

“yes.”

“and you said no.”

“yes.”

she’s quiet for a moment, studying your face like she’s looking for a lie. then, slowly, she reaches out and cups your cheek.

“why?”

you swallow hard. “because i’m yours.”

the smile that spreads across her face is slow and devastating, like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“that’s right,” she murmurs. “you are.”

and then she kisses you, hard and deep, and you melt into her like you always do.

when she pulls back, her eyes are bright, almost feverish.

“i’m going to take care of detroit,” she says, and there’s a promise in her voice that makes you shiver. “and then i’m going to take you to bed and remind you exactly who you belong to.”

you don’t argue. you never do.

the night is a blur of hands and mouths and whispered promises. abby is relentless, taking you apart piece by piece until you’re nothing but a trembling mess in her arms.

she marks you—bites and bruises and fingerprints that will take days to fade and you let her, because being marked by her is better than being forgotten.

afterward, you lie tangled together in the sheets, her head on your chest and your fingers in her hair.

the city lights glitter outside the window, and for a moment, everything is perfect.

“i meant what i said,” she murmurs against your skin. “i’d burn the world down for you.”

“i know.”

“and i’d do it again. a thousand times.”

you press a kiss to the top of her head. “i know, abs.”

she lifts her head to look at you, and in the dim light, her eyes are soft. vulnerable. human.“you’re not going to leave me, are you?”

it’s the first time you’ve ever heard her sound unsure. you cup her face in your hands and look her in the eyes.

“never.”

she exhales, long and slow, like she’s been holding her breath for years.

and then she’s kissing you again, soft and sweet, and you feel something shift between you—something deeper than possession, deeper than obsession.

something that might be love. or as close to it as two broken people can get.

the next morning, there’s a new bag on the kitchen counter. chanel. you don’t even bother asking how it got there.

abby is already gone, but there’s a note next to the bag. went to handle detroit. be back tonight. wear the red dress. — a

you smile, pick up the bag, and head to the bedroom to get ready.

because this is your life now. and you wouldn’t have it any other way. weeks turn into months. months turn into a year.

you’ve settled into the role of abby anderson’s girl like it was made for you. you know which restaurants to avoid, which questions not to ask, which smiles to save for her and her alone.

you’ve learned the rhythm of her world—the late nights, the sudden trips, the way she sometimes comes home with blood on her hands and a faraway look in her eyes.

you’ve learned to wash the blood away. you’ve learned to hold her when she shakes.

you’ve learned that love, for people like her, looks different than it does for everyone else.

it’s not flowers and candlelit dinners—well, it is, but it’s also bruises and threats and the kind of devotion that borders on madness.

and you’ve learned that you’re okay with that. more than okay. you love her. god help you, you love her.

it’s a rainy night when she comes home with a cut above her eyebrow and a split lip.

you don’t ask. you just lead her to the bathroom, sit her down on the edge of the tub, and gently clean the blood from her face.

she watches you the whole time, her eyes soft and unreadable.

“you’re too good for me,” she says, her voice rough.

“probably.”

“you should run.”

she catches your wrist as you reach for a bandage, pulling you closer until you’re standing between her thighs.

she looks up at you, and there’s something raw in her expression—something she usually keeps locked away.

“i don’t deserve you.”

you press the bandage to her brow, gentle and precise. “maybe not. but you have me anyway.”

she pulls you down into a kiss, soft and aching, and you taste copper and rain and something that might be desperation.

when she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours.

“i love you,” she whispers.

it’s the first time she’s said it.

you feel your heart crack open, feel something warm and terrifying flood through your chest.

“i love you too,” you whisper back.

she holds you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

and you hold her back, just as tight.

later, when she’s asleep, you lie awake and watch her. the rise and fall of her chest.

the way her face relaxes in sleep, softening the hard edges. the diamond necklace you never take off, glinting in the dark.

you think about the girl you used to be—the one who waited for rides from friends of friends, who clutched her purse in bad neighborhoods, who had no idea what it meant to be truly seen.

you think about the woman you are now.

dirty hands. designer taste. and completely, irrevocably, hers.

you press a kiss to her shoulder and close your eyes.

outside, the rain keeps falling. inside, for the first time in your life, you feel safe.

and that’s all that matters. the penthouse lights blurred like smeared oil paint as abby guided you inside, her hand firm on the small of your back.

the confrontation with detroit still buzzed under your skin, a low hum of adrenaline mixed with the sickly-sweet aftertaste of fear.

abby moved with predatory grace, shedding her blood-spattered jacket onto the marble floor. the scent of iron clung to her.

"you did good today, sugar," she murmured, her voice rough velvet against your ear. her fingers traced the line of your jaw, possessive, assessing.

"real good. loyal." the praise warmed you, twisted tight in your belly alongside the lingering unease. "deserves a reward. somethin' special."

she steered you not towards the bedroom, but deeper into the penthouse, to a room you rarely entered – her private study. leather-bound books lined the walls, untouched.

the air smelled of expensive tobacco and something sharper, chemical.

abby unlocked a sleek, modern cabinet disguised as part of the shelving. inside wasn't liquor. nestled amidst velvet-lined compartments were vials.

tiny baggies filled with powders ranging from bone-white to greyish-white, a delicate glass pipe, syringes wrapped in sterile plastic. your breath hitched.

"abs…" you whispered, the protest dying before it fully formed. her gaze pinned you, dark and fathomless, promising oblivion.

"hush now, baby," she soothed, selecting a small vial of crystalline powder that caught the low light like crushed diamonds.

cocaine, your mind supplied, the word sharp and dangerous. "just gonna take the edge off. make everythin'… softer. brighter. just for us." her movements were practiced, ritualistic.

she tapped a generous mound onto the polished surface of her heavy oak desk, used the edge of a black amex card.

absurdly mundane, to shape it into perfect, gleaming lines. the snick of the card was obscenely loud.

"kneel," she commanded, not harshly, but with an expectation that brooked no argument.

the cool marble bit into your knees through the thin silk of your dress. she stood before you, the desk at your back, her silhouette blocking the dim light from the doorway.

she held out a short, hollowed tube cut from a crisp hundred-dollar bill. "deep breath, darlin’. show me how good you can take it."

the degradation was implicit, woven into the act itself. kneeling at her feet, accepting poison from her hand.

you leaned forward, the scent of the powder acrid and inviting. you sealed your lips around the makeshift straw, inhaled sharply.

the burn was instant, a searing comet tearing up your nasal passages, exploding behind your eyes. the world crackled. sound sharpened.

the distant wail of a siren, the frantic thud of your own heart. colors bled into hyper-saturation.

abby’s face swam above you, a beautiful, terrifying moon.

a giddy, weightless euphoria surged, obliterating detroit, obliterating fear, leaving only a buzzing, empty vessel waiting to be filled by her.

"that’s it," abby crooned, watching your pupils swallow the iris. "good little thing. takes it so pretty." her thumb brushed a stray tear or was it sweat? from your cheekbone. the tenderness felt like a brand. "want more?"

you nodded, mute, already craving the harsh clarity, the blessed numbness. she prepared another line, thicker this time.

you bent again, the submission heady, the drug scorching a path straight to your frantic brain. your limbs felt loose, liquid.

abby’s fingers tangled in your hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring you as the room tilted.

"so pretty when you’re floatin’," she murmured, her voice thick with something darker than affection. "all mine. soft and open."

her free hand drifted down, skimming over your collarbone, the swell of your breast beneath the silk. the touch felt amplified, electric.

she hooked a finger into the neckline of your dress and ripped downward.

the delicate fabric tore like paper, baring you to the waist. the cool air hit your heated skin, making you gasp. "even prettier like this. bare for me."

her gaze raked over you, possessive, hungry. she traced the curve of your breast with a knuckle, then lower, over the frantic flutter of your belly, down to the damp silk clinging to your hips.

her fingers slipped beneath the waistband, pushing the ruined dress and your panties down your thighs in one rough motion.

you were exposed, kneeling naked on the cold floor before her, the cocaine singing in your veins, making you pliant, hyper-aware yet detached.

abby stepped back, surveying her handiwork. her eyes were pure obsidian. "look at you," she breathed, a low thrum of power vibrating in her voice. "drugged dumb and drippin’. just a desperate little cunt waitin’ for attention. ain’t that right, baby?"

the crude word, flung in the midst of the opulent study, amidst the lingering scent of her violence and the chemical tang of the coke, sent a jolt through you.

shame warred with a terrifying arousal, amplified tenfold by the drug buzzing in your system. you whimpered, a sound that wasn’t denial.

abby chuckled, a dark, honeyed sound. she closed the distance, her polished boot nudging your knees wider apart. "spread for me, sugar. let me see that needy little hole."

you obeyed, trembling, the marble unforgiving beneath your spread thighs. the vulnerability was absolute.

she traced your slick folds with the tip of one finger, the touch light, maddening. "soakin’ wet already. just from the powder and my voice? filthy thing."

then her hand moved. not a caress. a sharp, stinging crack as her open palm connected squarely with your exposed cunt.

the pain was bright, shocking, cutting through the cocaine haze like a lightning bolt.

you cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound, your body jerking forward.

the sting radiated outwards, hot and immediate, followed by a deeper, throbbing ache. tears sprang to your eyes.

"that’s one," abby stated, her voice devoid of mercy, thick with dark amusement.

she watched the heat bloom across your delicate skin, the way your body clenched instinctively.

"markin’ what’s mine." she didn’t wait for you to recover. her hand descended again.

crack! another brutal slap, landing slightly lower, the impact jarring your bones, sending fresh tears spilling down your cheeks.

the sharp pain ignited something primal, a desperate throb deep inside you that had nothing to do with escape.

"two." the degradation was complete. drugged, naked, weeping, your most intimate flesh stinging under her punishing hand.

"please," you sobbed, the word mangled, unsure if you were begging her to stop or to continue.

abby leaned down, her breath hot against your ear. "please what, baby? please mark you harder? please remind you who owns this sweet, stingin’ cunt?" her hand landed a third time, deliberate, measured. crack! the sound echoed off the leather-bound books.

the pain was a white-hot brand, the humiliation a suffocating blanket.

you slumped forward, forehead pressing against the cool leather of her boot, shuddering, tears dripping onto the polished toe.

the cocaine made the pain vibrate, made the submission feel inevitable, exquisite. you felt nothing but sensations.

the brutal slap echoing in your nerves, the cool leather against your skin, the chemical fire in your brain, and the overwhelming, terrifying presence of her ownership.

abby’s fingers, surprisingly gentle now, traced the heated, swollen flesh she’d just punished. you flinched, a fresh sob catching in your throat. "shhh," she soothed, the cruelty shifting seamlessly into dark possession.

"took it so well, my good, doped-up girl. marked you proper." her fingers slid through your slickness, finding your clit, swollen and hypersensitive.

she rubbed slow, firm circles, the touch agonizingly sweet against the raw sting.

"see how much you needed it? drippin’ all over my floor. such a messy, owned little thing." the dual sensations.

the throbbing pain of the slaps and the insistent pressure on your clit, collided, amplified by the cocaine’s ruthless clarity.

pleasure, sharp and shocking, began to coil tight beneath the pain, inseparable from it.

you arched against her hand, a broken moan escaping your lips, lost in the haze of drugs, degradation, and the terrifying certainty that you belonged, utterly, to the hand that hurt you and the voice that named you hers.

the room dissolved into a blur of sensation, pain, and chemical surrender, anchored only by the relentless pressure of abby’s fingers and the echo of her ownership ringing in your drugged, stinging flesh.

the world narrowed to the rhythm of her fingers and the burn between your thighs.

the cocaine had peeled back every layer of hesitation, leaving only raw nerve endings and the desperate need to be shaped by her hands.

you were clay, molten and trembling, waiting for her to decide what you would become.

abby's fingers never stopped their maddening circles, even as she used her free hand to grip your jaw, tilting your face up to meet her eyes.

your vision swam, tears and drug-haze blurring her features into something almost mythic.

"look at you," she murmured, her thumb pressing against your lower lip, parting your mouth. "drippin' from both ends. pretty little thing, all opened up and beggin'."

you couldn't form words. your tongue darted out, tasting salt and her skin, and she rewarded you with a deeper press of her fingers into your mouth.

you sucked instinctively, hollowing your cheeks, and the groan that rumbled from her chest vibrated through the floorboards.

"that's it. suck on 'em like you mean it."

she pulled her fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, then dragged them down your chin, your throat, between the valley of your breasts.

she painted a glistening trail down your stomach, and when she reached the slick heat between your legs, she didn't hesitate.

two fingers slid inside you in one smooth, brutal thrust.

you screamed—a raw, broken sound that bounced off the leather-bound walls.

the stretch was too much, not enough, the cocaine amplifying every ridge and knuckle until you could feel the map of her hand inside you.

she curled her fingers, searching, and when she found that rough patch of flesh deep inside, you saw stars.

"there she is," abby breathed, her voice reverent. "there's my girl. right there, ain't ya?"

she pumped into you with a rhythm that was all business, all ownership.

her palm pressed against your clit with every thrust, the friction maddening against the still-stinging flesh of her earlier punishment.

pain and pleasure braided together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

you were babbling now—please, abby, please, i'm yours, i'm yours, i'm yours.

the words spilling out like a prayer, like a confession, like the only truth you'd ever known.

"i know, baby," she cooed, her voice dripping with dark honey. "i know you're mine. but i wanna hear you say it. wanna hear you scream it so loud the whole city knows."

she added a third finger, and the stretch burned so good you thought you might split open right there on her marble floor.

your nails scraped against the leather of her boots, leaving thin, desperate crescents.

"i'm yours!" you sobbed, the words torn from your throat. "abby, i'm yours, i'm yours, i'm—"

"again."

"i'm yours!"

"one more time, baby. let me hear it."

"i'm yours!"

the orgasm hit you like a freight train, like a gunshot, like the first time you saw her leaning against that range rover and knew.

deep in your bones, that your life was about to change forever.

it ripped through you, violent and consuming, leaving you shaking and sobbing in its wake.

abby didn't stop. she fucked you through it, her fingers relentless, pushing you past the peak into something raw and overstimulated and almost unbearable.

you tried to crawl away, but her free hand fisted iqn your hair, holding you in place.

"uh-uh," she murmured. "you don't get to run from this. you take it. all of it. every last drop."

another wave crashed over you, weaker but no less devastating, and you slumped forward, spent, your forehead resting against her shin. your breath came in ragged, hitching gasps.

finally, slowly, she withdrew her fingers. you watched through blurred vision as she brought them to her lips, licking them clean with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving yours.

"sweetest thing i ever tasted," she said, and the tenderness in her voice was almost more devastating than the cruelty had been.

she knelt down in front of you, her expensive suit trousers soaking up the mess on the floor without a second thought.

her hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away the tears and the smeared mascara.

"you did so good, baby," she whispered. "so good for me. i'm so proud of you."

you leaned into her touch, boneless and trembling, the cocaine still fizzing in your veins but muted now, softened by the aftershocks of pleasure.

she pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your eyelids, then the tip of your nose.

"come on," she said, her voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "let's get you cleaned up. got a big, soft bed upstairs with your name on it."

she scooped you up like you weighed nothing, cradling you against her chest.

you let your head fall against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her—smoke and metal and something floral from the expensive soap in her bathroom.

"abby?" you mumbled, your voice thick and sleepy.

"yeah, baby?"

"i love you."

she pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you felt her smile against your hair.

"i love you too, sweet girl. more than anything in this whole fucked-up world."

she carried you up the stairs, past the bloodstain she hadn't bothered to clean from the hallway carpet, past the chanel bag still sitting on the kitchen counter, past all the evidence of the life she lived when you weren't looking.

and when she laid you down on the cool silk sheets and climbed in beside you, pulling you close like you were something precious, something worth protecting, you let yourself believe it.

you let yourself believe you were safe. you let yourself believe you were loved. you let yourself believe that this. all of it—was exactly where you were meant to be. and maybe, in some twisted, beautiful, terrifying way, it was.

𝐦𝐚𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐬 (13/50): @iadorefineshyt @pretty-u @y1ppeeyur1 @ryuwifes @almadellie @unicornclit666 @ajs-blogz @webwand3rer @un1c0rntam3r @blackdykegirlblogger @hopefullydoingokay2 @mermaidslament @dearbaes

Fuck, she knew you were trouble ever since Issac brought you into the base. What the hell was he even thinking, treating a Scar like one of their own— like a Wolf? Even with the saccharine story of you, an "apostate" that oh so kindly helped Issac and Owen when they were in an ambush, she didn't buy that shit.

Issac brought you in there, seeming all wounded and terrified. Your display of weakness had to be a fucking act. You didn't get those scars on your face from being scared, you got them by proving your bravery and worth to the Seraphites. That's why you had them.

Maybe that same bravery brought the two of you like this.

Abigail was the same as you, in one way or another; a stubborn fucker. You didn't like each other, didn't want to like each other, and that caused trouble. Manny had once joked that, maybe if you'd train enough, you'd be on Abby's level. That riled her up, absurdly so.

She hadn't trained for years for someone like you to get compared to her!

Well, all this back and forth of shooting dirty looks across rooms, switching the position of certain training equipment just to give the other trouble finding it and cutting the lunch line, caused you to break. You've had enough.

Sure, you hated Anderson's guts, maybe even more than she hated yours, but this childish behaviour was starting to get on your nervers. You confronted her on a rather uneventful evening, right in the gym where you knew she'd be.

The argument spurred and bubbled to a boil quickly. She called you a disgusting Scar that manipulated her way into the WLF to get information, you called her sick in the head for taking that man's life— you didn't even know his name, just some old guy that you heard one of Abby's friend run their mouth about. That was Abigail's breaking point.

She shoved you. Hard, rough hands straight into your shoulders. Your nails shot out and gripped her braid tight, slightly tilting her head to the side with the pressure of the tug.

"Fuck you!" Abby had grunted.

You huffed in response, dry and humourless. "Yeah? Fuck me? Fuck you, Abby!"

Then... everything became a blur of teeth against teeth, lips overbearing one another. She kissed you first? You kissed her? Who pushed who into the bathroom? It didn't fucking matter. The tension had been suffocating, building over months of silent anger, and it just all poured over the edge. You two took the fucking too seriously.

"Shit!" Abigail moaned, long and deep in the back of her throat. Her fingers were mirroring your earlier pull, nails digging in the top of your scalp to try and keep you there, buried between her legs.

Anyone could walk in, really, but she couldn't bother herself enough to care. Her eyes were focused on your face, on how your eyebrows were stuck in a furrow even now, how the start of your scars, going from your mouth to your cheekbones, were glistening with spit and her arousal.

"You cumming?" You muttered against her clit, each word sending a spark down her legs, making her thighs spasm.

"No–" She panted, all flushed and dazed. She didn't want it to end. Didn't want you to stop being so... annoyed. "Not yet."

She pressed your head deeper into her legs, muffling any further words you might've been wanting to say. Tongue pressed flat against her clit, your fingers found their way towards her entrance, teasing her with just the tip of your index.

"Just fucking put it in already." She whispered, raising the hem of her shirt and watching your eyes trail over her hardened abdomen.

With a grunt, you pulled away to press a kiss to one of her defined abs. "I thought I was a disgusting Scar. Are my hands not disgusting enough for you now?" Your voice was smug as you slapped her thigh, making her open her legs.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Touché. "Please."

With a sigh, half irritated and half amused, you complied. Not a lot of people managed to get Anderson to say 'please'— yet you did it. How could you not fulfil her request now?

Abby's knuckles flew to her mouth, teeth digging into her skin and leaving marks as she tried to keep herself silent. Your fingers were good. Better than her own even, and Abby had to admit that she thought she was pretty good at pleasing herself. "Oh, God,"

"Don't talk about Gods now." You scowled, plunging them deeper inside of her. "Nobody's gonna hear your prayers in this bathroom." Her eyes rolled back, and that scowl of yours turned into a smirk when you went back to suck her clit.

The poor thing was red and swollen, throbbing with Abby's nearing orgasm, and your tongue did little in soothing it. Hell, Abby swore she was lightheaded from... everything she was feeling. The tightness coiled in her stomach, the heat of your mouth on her, the tiles of the bathroom shower pressed against her back.

Fingers curling inside of her, your eyes locked onto Abigail's face in hopes to gauge her reaction. Her mouth fell open in a silent moan, and only then you noticed how her bottom lip was raw; probably from muffling herself. Shit, for how long have you been eating her?

"You taste so fucking good," Your voice was quiet now.

"So I've been told." She panted. "Don't think you're special for this. I've slept with people before, and they made me cum better–"

You bit the inside of her thigh, the tender skin there trembling.

Abigail gasped. "What the fuck was that for?!" Her words were followed by a whimper.

"To shut you up. Either you let me finish this, or you can go and let those people you're talking about make you orgasm."

Her eyes trailed from up the ceiling down to your narrowed eyes, seeing the heat beneath your glare. She could almost laugh; if it weren't for the moan escaping her lips, she would've giggled. "You're jealous."

"I'm not." You hissed, pulling your fingers completely out of her before slamming them back inside. "Can you take a third?"

She nodded. Slowly, you worked up a third finger and used your thumb to rub her, wanting to be able to see her face fully. Anderson was breaking, and fuck, it was the most arousing thing you'd ever witnessed— the most feared Wolf, at the mercy of your thrusts. You licked her slickness off of your own mouth.

Abigail's legs were shaking, barely able to hold herself upright anymore— the burn of your fingers stretching her was even more satisfying than when she'd push herself in the gym, leaving her muscles sore.

"You're fluttering,"

"I'm so close." She let out an airy groan, breaking half-way through and turning into a squeak. Of course her voice had to crack in a moment like this.

Abby's hand clutched your wrist, the one that was slightly cramping with the awkward position it was in to finger her, and began grinding. Gentle, deep moves of her hips.

This time, you couldn't hold back a moan of your own. "Fuck, Anderson..." You watched her puffy pussy glide across your hand, wet squelches obscenely louder than your words. "Move faster."

She obliged. Her teeth dug into her lower lip, eyes fluttering close. "Shit– cumming, I'm cummin',"

The sweetest little noise tore from her, and with that, your hand got drenched. Wetness coated her thighs, dripping down her skin and soaking into her jeans. "God, you're fucking gorgeous." You whispered breathlessly, wrapping your arms around her legs and bringing her to sit down.

"Don't talk about God." She repeated your earlier words, voice barely audible over her panting. With only one glance at her state; Abby saw that she looked like she pissed her pants. Well, thankfully you two were in the bathroom... she could just say that the shower sprayed her.

You gently pulled out of her, licking her off of your fingers before standing up. "You'll be good on your own?"

"Yeah... yeah." She muttered.

"Don't tell anyone about this." You glanced at her over your shoulder before heading for the door.

"Wait–" Abby sighed, patting herself dry with the towel she had brought on the way. "Aren't you gonna... I don't know, stay with me for a little?"

"Sorry, I can't," You answered, a bitter smile on your face. It stretched those ugly scars that Abigail hated. "Wolves don't need Seraphites." That was all you said before leaving.

Abby grit her teeth so hard she felt her jaw tense up, throwing her used towel at the towel. You were such a fucking bitch. She knew she was wrong to have acted on an impulse, that it would only cause her trouble later on, yet she did it anyway; now who was the loser who couldn't even enjoy the post-euphoria of her orgasm? Her. Of course it had to be her.