Not understand feelings is not a phenomenon Annie Edison is comfortable with. She despises not being in control, and not being in control of her own fucking emotions? It's disgusting.
And it's Abed's fault.
Because Abed is weird. And she can sympathize with freaks if she needs to, she can be a role model, she can counsel. But she is not supposed to fall in love with someone like that. She should fall in love with someone like Jeff: handsome (if arrogant), smart, together.
Unfortunately, her heart isn't listening to her cerebral reasoning, because just the thought that Abed is only a few tiptoed steps through the dark house away is giving her all kinds of palpitations in her chest.
No, she silently scolds the butterflies. Stop. Abed is immature. I'm not in love with him.
But you like that he's immature, they seem to tease with a smattering of fluttered wings.
And she does. She didn't even realize it until- god, when? That day in the dreamatorium? It just hit her, it was so obvious. He had loved her, quietly, in his own little Abed way since the first day of Spanish 101. He invited her to the study group. He sat in a room for 26 hours. He kissed her during paintball and snuggled with her on Valentine's Day. And what had she done? Nothing. Tried to convince herself that she belonged with Jeff fucking Winger.
Fine, she hisses at her stupid inclinations. Run wild. We're getting up.
She's not sure how to go about getting him back to her room without waking up Troy. She pitapats into the kitchen, still working on a plan, when she literally collides with Abed headfirst.
She stares at him for a moment in shock: she'd expected a few more minutes to get her bearings together, to decide what she'd go about doing when she actually lured him away from the bunkbed, and-
He crushes her lips in a kiss. (It's shocking how someone with such little sensitivity for blatant social cues can read her like a book. Maybe they're meant to be.)
He takes the lead (again: predicting her exact wants even when she herself was unsure of them), guides her to the bedroom and pushes her back. He has too much affection for her for it to be truly rough, which she finds herself vaguely disappointed by.
She also has no idea what this is going to be like. She's only had sex that one time with that gay guy to Madonna, and she doubts Abed has much more experience. He watches a lot of movies, though. And so far, so good.
So far so good turns into better and better and best as his hands roam her body. Two fingers find a nipple, a thumb brushes her clit. His mouth is buried in her neck and he found this spot she didn't know existed, and she's pretty sure there's a nerve running from there directly to her center even though she's pulling an A in biology and hasn't heard of it.
Then he slides into her, slowly: her back arches instantaneously, her nails drag across his back. It hurts, but not as much as she thought it would, and he's being so careful but not so careful that it's annoying and she finally, finally, finally just lets go. Instinct powers the rest of her movements, the bucking of her hips and the moans that escape her lips.
It's something like perfection, something far more amazing than she ever thought she'd achieve by abandoning obsessive compulsions and overanalysis.
I should've done this a long time ago, she thinks.
It's okay. They can certainly make up for lost time.