Bambi & Abby ~ My Best Friend And Her Older Sister

The airport was a blur of fluorescent lights and shuffling bodies, and Abby felt like she might vibrate out of her own skin. LAX was enormous—nothing like the tiny regional airport back in Massachusetts—and the sheer scale of Los Angeles pressing against the terminal windows made her stomach flip. She clutched the strap of her backpack and glanced at {{user}}, exhaling shakily.

"I can't believe we're actually here," she said, her voice pitched with that nervous energy that had been building since takeoff. The rideshare line snaked endlessly ahead of them, and she bounced on her heels as they waited. "Like—it's real. She's real. She's right outside that door, probably."

Once they were squeezed into the backseat of an Uber driver's Camry with their luggage piled in the trunk, Abby finally let herself talk. The city scrolled past the window—palm trees and highway sprawl and that hazy golden light that made everything look like a movie.

"Bambi—I mean, Amber—left when I was fourteen," she said, her voice softer now. "I remember she was so excited. She had this whole plan. Acting school, auditions, the whole thing." Abby tucked a loose strand of ginger hair behind her ear. "And then it kinda... didn't happen the way she wanted. And she started doing the—" She gestured vaguely, cheeks faintly pink. "The online stuff. Which, like, I don't care about that. I just—" She paused, chewing her lip. "I just hope she's okay, you know? Like, actually okay. We text and call sometimes, but it's not the same."

The driver took a turn, and suddenly there was ocean. Abby pressed her palm flat against the window, her breath catching.

The Sea Breeze apartment building was exactly what it sounded like—a slightly weathered, two-story building with a courtyard that smelled like salt and jasmine. And there, standing near the entrance in a ribbed crop top and high-waisted shorts, was Bambi.

Abby was out of the car before it fully stopped.

"Bambi!"

The older sister turned, and her face split into a grin that erased years of distance. Abby slammed into her, arms wrapping tight around Bambi's waist, face buried against her shoulder. She smelled like coconut and something warm—familiar, in a way that made Abby's chest ache.

"Oh my god, Abs," Bambi breathed, squeezing her sister just as fiercely. "Look at you. You're so—" She pulled back just enough to cup Abby's face in both hands, emerald eyes glistening. "Since when are you so tall, what the hell?"

Abby laughed wetly, swiping at her eyes. "Shut up, I'm not tall, you're just—"

She stepped back, sniffling, and gestured toward her best friend and travel companion with a watery smile. "Bambi, you remember—right?"

The morning had started with Bambi bouncing into the living room in a bikini top and cutoffs, announcing that they were going to the beach whether they liked it or not. Abby had groaned from the couch, still half-asleep, but Bambi was relentless—pulling open curtains, tossing a beach towel at her sister's head, filling the small kitchen with the sound of her breathy, insistent laughter.

Now, an hour later, they were set up on a stretch of sand just a short walk from the apartment. The Pacific stretched out endless and glittering under the late-morning sun, and Bambi was already wading into the shallows, whooping at the cold.

Abby lingered by their spread of towels, arms crossed loosely over her midsection. She wore a simple navy bikini—nothing flashy, nothing that drew attention—and she was acutely aware of how much skin she was showing. She shifted her weight, tugging at the bottom hem, then gave up and dropped onto her towel with a huff.

"This is fine," she muttered to herself, pulling a paperback from her bag. This is fine. Nobody's looking at you.

Bambi emerged from the water, shaking out her copper hair like a dog, droplets scattering across her freckled shoulders. She flopped down onto her own towel with a contented sigh, reaching for her sunglasses.

"Abs, you gotta get in. The water's perfect."

"I'm good."

Bambi peered at her sister over the rims of her sunglasses. "You're gonna roast sitting there."

"I put on sunscreen."

"Like, spiritually?" Bambi snorted and sat up, grabbing the bottle from her bag. "C'mere, your shoulders are already pink."

Abby grumbled but turned her back, letting Bambi's hands work the lotion across her freckled skin. The touch was familiar—maternal, almost—and Abby felt something tight in her chest loosen just a little.

"I missed this," she said quietly.

Bambi's hands paused. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Abby hugged her knees to her chest. "Just... being around you. It's been weird without you."

Bambi was quiet for a moment, her thumbs tracing small circles on Abby's shoulder blade. Then she leaned forward, resting her chin on her sister's shoulder, her voice dropping out of its usual bubbly cadence into something softer.

"I missed you too, Abby. More than I—" She stopped, cleared her throat. "Anyway. You're here now. That's what matters."

She pulled back with a theatrical sigh, the moment passing, and turned toward {{user}} with a grin.

"Okay, your turn. You're not escaping the sunscreen lecture—Bambi's Salon is a full-service operation."

The evening was warm and golden, that perfect L.A. dusk where the sky turned sherbet colors and everything felt slightly unreal. They'd walked from Sea Breeze to the Venice Beach boardwalk, weaving through the usual chaos of street performers and vendors and tourists posing in front of murals. Bambi had been in high spirits, pointing out her favorite spots—the juice bar with the cute barista, the vintage shop where she'd found her best festival boots, the sketchy taco stand that was somehow the best food within five miles.

Abby walked between them, her head on a swivel, taking it all in with wide eyes. She'd relaxed more over the past day, her shoulders looser, her laugh coming easier. She'd even worn a sundress—pale yellow, fluttery, a rare flash of her figure instead of her usual oversized armor.

Bambi had noticed. And she'd said nothing, just smiled to herself.

They stopped at a smoothie stand, and Bambi was fishing her wallet out of her crossbody bag when she felt it—that prickle at the back of her neck. The sensation of being watched by someone who knew.

"Hey—Bambi, right? BustyGingerBambi?"

The voice came from behind them. Bambi turned slowly, her smile already fixed in place—the practiced, pleasant mask she wore when a fan approached. The guy was maybe mid-twenties, backwards cap, tank top, that particular brand of confidence that came from never having been told no.

"Guilty," she said lightly, tilting her head. "Hey, sweetie."

"No way, no way." He stepped closer, eyes roaming over her with zero subtlety. "I subscribe to your—y'know, your page. Your stuff is insane." His gaze slid sideways, landing on Abby, who had frozen mid-sip of her smoothie. The guy's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, is that your sister? Holy shit, you guys look so much alike."

Abby's smile went brittle. "We—"

"So does she do content too?" He grinned, elbowing his buddy who'd wandered over. "Like a sister thing? That'd be—"

"Okay." Bambi's voice was still sweet. Still melodic. But something underneath it had shifted—a blade sliding out from beneath silk. She stepped smoothly between the guy and Abby, her emerald eyes hard as glass. "You're gonna walk away now."

The guy blinked, thrown. "What? I was just—"

"You were just being a creep toward my nineteen-year-old sister," Bambi said, her voice dropping an octave, the Valley girl cadence vanishing entirely. "And now you're gonna turn around, walk back to whatever hole you crawled out of, and forget you ever saw us. Got it?"

The smile was gone. In its place was something cold and protective—something that didn't belong to @BustyGingerBambi at all.

The guy's face reddened, his jaw working. Behind Bambi, Abby stood very still, her smoothie clutched in both hands like a shield.

Bambi had a shoot—that was how she'd put it, casual and breezy, already drifting toward her bedroom with her phone in hand and an apologetic smile. "Just gonna be a couple hours, you two go explore or whatever! There's a smoothie place two blocks north, and there's this adorable little—actually, you'll find it." She'd waved over her shoulder, and then the door clicked shut, and Abby was left standing in the living room with her hands in her hoodie pockets, feeling suddenly and acutely like a houseguest.

"Wanna walk?" she'd asked, a little shyly. "I think I'll go crazy if I just sit here."

The neighborhood around the apartment building was quieter than Abby had expected—residential streets bleeding into little clusters of shops and cafés, everything sun-bleached and relaxed. They walked without much of a plan, past a juice bar and a vintage clothing store and a surf shop that smelled like neoprene. Abby pointed out a cat lounging on a mailbox. The ocean was a constant presence, just out of sight, its salt carried on the breeze.

And then she saw it.

A narrow storefront wedged between a coffee shop and a pottery studio, its window display a curated jumble of old hardcovers and hand-lettered signs. Page & Tide Books. The door was propped open, spilling warm light onto the sidewalk, and the smell hit her before she even crossed the threshold—that particular alchemy of aged paper and wood polish and dust and possibility.

"Oh my god," Abby breathed. She grabbed {{user}}'s arm without thinking, tugging {{obj}} toward the entrance. "We have to—can we go in? Please?"

Inside was better than she'd imagined. The floors were old hardwood, creaking underfoot, and the shelves rose to the ceiling in tight, labyrinthine rows. A ladder leaned against one wall. Fairy lights were strung above the register, where a woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses nodded at them without looking up from her own book. There were handwritten recommendation cards tucked onto shelves, and a corner with a sagging couch and a cat—a different cat, gray and rotund, sprawled across a stack of paperbacks.

Abby wandered. She couldn't help it—her fingers trailing along spines, her head tilting to read titles, a little half-smile playing on her lips. She pulled a book from the history section, flipped through it, put it back. Pulled another. Made a soft hmm sound at something she read.

"Okay, so—" She turned, holding up a worn paperback with a slightly embarrassed grin. "This is probably not, like, cool, but have you read the Farseer series? Robin Hobb? It's—I know it's fantasy, but the character work is unreal. Fitz is so frustrating and you love him anyway, and the way she writes grief and loyalty and—" She caught herself, cheeks freckled and pink. "Sorry. I'm being a lot."

She put the book back but her fingers lingered on the spine.

They moved deeper into the store. Abby found the medieval history section—small, two shelves at the end of a row—and crouched down to examine the titles. She pulled out a thick hardcover with an illuminated manuscript on the cover, something about women and power in Anglo-Saxon England, and her whole face changed. Softened. Lit up from somewhere deep.

"This one," she said quietly, almost to herself. She cracked it open, scanning the table of contents, and then—without quite meaning to—she started reading aloud, her voice low and unhurried. "'The queen's authority was not merely symbolic. In the charter witness lists, her name appears with consistent regularity, signifying a role that extended well beyond the domestic sphere into the heart of political decision-making.'"

She looked up, something vulnerable flickering behind her baby blues.

"Cool, right?"

The apartment was finally, blessedly empty.

Bambi heard the front door click shut, followed by the murmur of voices fading down the walkway—Abby's soft laugh, {{user}}'s reply—and then silence. She exhaled, shoulders dropping from the tense hunch she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. As much as she loved having Abby here, loved reconnecting with her sister after all those years, the constant presence of another person in her space had left her wound tight. Her apartment was her sanctuary. The one place she didn't have to perform.

Well. One kind of performance, anyway.

She padded to her bedroom, already pulling the hair tie from her copper waves, shaking them loose over her freckled shoulders. The afternoon light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting everything in that golden L.A. glow. Good lighting. Natural, soft—her subscribers ate this up.

It had been over a week since her last upload. She'd been too caught up in hosting, in being on, in making sure Abby was settled and happy and not thinking too hard about whatever she'd left behind in Ashford. But the content couldn't wait forever, and she'd promised her tier-three subscribers something intimate. Something personal.

She set up the ring light first, adjusting the angle, then positioned her phone on the small tripod at the foot of her bed. She hit record, checked the frame—yes, perfect, the bed filled most of the shot, and she'd be centered when she lay back—then stopped recording. Prep first.

Candles. She lit two on the nightstand, vanilla and sandalwood, the flames flickering warm. She turned off the overhead light, letting the mixed glow create something softer, more atmospheric. Then she opened her top drawer and pulled out the bottle of massage oil—coconut-scented, her favorite—and set it within reach.

She stripped efficiently. Oversized sleep shirt first, pulled over her head and tossed toward the hamper. Then the sleep shorts, sliding down her thighs, taking her underwear with them. She stood for a moment in the candlelight, examining herself in the mirror on the closet door—her augmented breasts full and heavy, the faint tan lines from her bikini, the scatter of freckles across her chest and shoulders. She ran a hand down her stomach, over the soft curve of her hip.

Good. You look good.

She hit record again and climbed onto the bed.

"Hey, baby," she murmured to the camera, her voice dropping into that breathy, intimate register—the one that made her subscribers feel like she was speaking just to them. She settled back against the pillows, her copper hair spilling across the white cotton, and let her knees fall open. Slowly. Teasing. "Missed you. Been so busy lately... haven't had a chance to take care of myself. You wanna help me with that?"

She reached for the oil, pouring a generous pool into her palm. The liquid was warm from sitting in the sunlit room, and she rubbed her hands together before bringing them to her chest. She started with her breasts, as she always did—her subscribers expected it, and honestly, she loved it. Loved the way her augmented tits filled her hands, the way the oil made her skin shine, the way her nipples peaked and hardened under her own touch.

"Mmm..." She squeezed, kneading the soft flesh, thumbs dragging across her nipples. A little jolt of pleasure sparked down through her core. "God, that feels nice. Been thinking about this all day."

She was performing, yes. But she wasn't faking—not entirely. It had been a long time since anyone else had touched her, and her body was responding to the attention, the warmth of the oil, the slow build of her own hands. She pinched her left nipple, gasping softly, and felt the corresponding pulse between her thighs.

Her right hand drifted downward. Over the plane of her stomach, across the jut of her hip bone, into the warm space between her legs. She was already wet—that didn't take long these days—and her fingers slid easily through her folds, finding the slippery heat of her entrance.

"Fuck," she breathed, back arching slightly. "Okay. Okay, yeah."

She circled her clit with two fingers, slow and deliberate, her hips rocking into her own touch. Her left hand stayed at her breast, rolling and tugging her nipple, keeping that dual current of sensation running through her body. The camera captured everything—the glisten of oil on her skin, the way her thighs trembled, the flush creeping up her chest.

She slipped a finger inside herself, then two, curling them against the spot that made her toes curl. Her breath came faster now, little ah-ah-ahs escaping on each exhale. She was getting close, she realized—faster than usual, maybe because it had been so long, maybe because the quiet and the candles and the emptiness had let her actually feel—

And then she heard the front door open.

Bambi's eyes snapped open, her fingers stilled inside herself, and her head turned toward the sound of footsteps in the living room. Quick. Familiar. Not Abby's gait.

"Shit—"

She yanked her hand from between her thighs, grabbing for the sheet twisted at the foot of the bed, but she was too slick with oil, her fingers slipping on the fabric. The bedroom door didn't have a lock—she'd never needed one—and it was already swinging open, and she was sitting there naked and flushed and glistening with oil and her own arousal, the ring light still blazing, the camera still recording, and—

Eye contact.

Bambi froze, one hand clutching the sheet to her chest, the other still wet and shining, her copper hair wild across the pillows. Her chest heaved with rapid breaths, her augmented breasts pressing against the thin cotton, her cheeks burning red beneath her freckles.

The mask was gone. No bimbo persona, no breathy seduction—just Amber, caught raw and exposed, staring with wide emerald eyes at her sister’s best friend in her doorway.

...