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misaerabl · 2 days ago

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WHERE THE COFFEE IS ALWAYS HOT

(Diner Owner Abby x Single Mom Reader Headcanons / Inspired by Luke Danes and Lorelai Gilmore from Gilmore Girls)

!!Includes SFW and NSFW!! CW: wc... 2.7k - hc's, fluff, rough, real long and dirty tbh, mentions of both of you having partners before getting together, tension, morning sex, diner counter fucking, shower sex, face sitting, fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (a!receiving) mostly top butch abby

SFW

Grumpy Abby, Sunshine You: Abby Anderson—the butch, no-nonsense, grease-stained, and flannel-clad diner owner—is known for her deadpan humor, perpetual scowl, and habit of cleaning a perfectly clean countertop just to avoid small talk. Meanwhile, you’re the charming, chatty regular who somehow worms your way into her life. You stroll in every morning, all bright-eyed with your kid in tow, talking her ear off about your chaotic work schedule or your latest attempt at cooking something other than boxed mac and cheese. Abby pretends to be annoyed, tossing out a gruff, “You ever shut up?” but she secretly looks forward to your rambling.

Saturday Breakfast Tradition: Every Saturday morning, you and your 9-year-old daughter settle into your usual booth—the one near the window, where the sun hits perfectly. Your kid demands a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and a pancake shaped like a dinosaur (even though it always ends up looking more like a deformed blob). Abby, with a playful eye roll, dutifully delivers, never once mentioning how misshapen the pancake actually is. She even drizzles syrup around it like a moat, just to make your daughter giggle.

You and Abby have your own language of banter, a constant push-and-pull that keeps everyone in the diner entertained.

You: “Is the coffee supposed to be this bitter, or is this just a reflection of your personality?” Abby: (deadpan) “You want sugar or are you just gonna keep being a pain in my ass?” You: (grinning) “What’s the difference?” Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smirk, but you catch the subtle dimples anyway.

Your kid picks up on the playful bickering and joins in.

Your daughter: (innocently) “Abby, why are you always so grumpy?” Abby: (mock scowl) “Because some kid makes me make weird pancakes every week.” Your daughter: (smugly) “You love it.”

Late-Night Diner Visits: On your worst days, you find yourself at the diner long after closing. Abby, still wiping down tables in her usual rolled-up sleeves and worn-out jeans, lets you in without a word. She makes you a grilled cheese and sits with you in the dimly lit diner, quietly nursing a beer while you vent about work or single-parent struggles. She never says much, just listens with a steady presence. When you get too tired to talk, she squeezes your hand, calloused fingers firm but gentle, and you swear she holds on just a little longer than necessary.

The Handywoman:

Abby, ever the butch handyman, becomes your unofficial repairwoman. When your kitchen sink leaks or your window frame sticks, she’s at your place with her toolbox before you even finish describing the problem. She grumbles under her breath the whole time—mocking your “shoddy” faucet and declaring your window “a lost cause”—but she fixes it anyway. You offer to pay her, but she just smirks and says, “You cook. I fix. Deal?”

You often come home to find tiny repairs you didn’t even ask for—a newly patched wall, a freshly oiled door hinge. She never mentions it, but you always notice.

Abby and Your Kid: Abby is a total softie for your daughter. She teaches her how to tie proper knots, use a wrench, and change a bike tire. Your kid starts bragging to her friends, proudly declaring, “My mom’s friend can fix anything.” Sometimes, Abby lets her help at the diner—letting her sprinkle cheese on burgers or pretend to take your order with a notepad.

When your daughter gets sick, Abby shows up with a fresh batch of soup and a stuffed dinosaur she won at the county fair, grumbling about how she “just had it lying around,” even though you’re pretty sure she spent an hour trying to win it.

Jealous Abby: The first time you go on a date, Abby is grumpier than usual. She slams plates onto tables a little too hard and glares at the poor bastard sitting across from you through the diner window. When you return, she doesn’t ask how it went. Instead, she casually mutters, “Your taste in men sucks.”

The Girlfriend Phase: For a brief, painful period, Abby dates someone. The woman is conventionally pretty—stylish, delicate hands, perfect makeup—and she clearly doesn’t like you. She gives you the cold shoulder and glares when she catches Abby sneaking smiles at you from behind the counter.

One night, you find Abby on your porch, beer in hand, freshly broken up. “She didn’t like the people I care about,” she mutters. She won’t meet your eyes, but her knuckles brush yours on the porch swing, and you feel your heart stutter.

The First Kiss: It happens after months of unresolved tension—after late-night repair visits, lingering stares, and brushes of her fingers against yours. One evening, Abby is fixing a leaky faucet in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, arms slick with water. When she finally finishes, she leans back on her heels and grins smugly.

“What would you do without me?” she teases, wiping her hands on a rag.

Without thinking, you grab her wrist and tug her toward you. You kiss her—slow, lingering, and deliberate. Abby freezes for half a second before she melts into you, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. When you pull back, breathless, she presses her forehead against yours and chuckles softly.

“Finally,” she whispers, before kissing you again.

Your Daughter’s Adorable Reaction: You try to be subtle at first, keeping your newfound relationship quiet. But your daughter catches you sooner than expected. One morning, she strolls into the kitchen and finds Abby pressed against the counter, your hands in her hair, lips locked.

Your daughter: (deadpan) “Umm… are you guys kissing?” You and Abby freeze, eyes wide. Abby: (awkwardly) “Uh… yeah.” Your daughter just shrugs and grins. “Cool. Does this mean Abby can sleep over all the time now?”

NSFW

Kitchen Counter Chaos: One night, you stop by the diner after hours to thank Abby for fixing your broken window. One thing leads to another, and suddenly, she’s pinning you to the counter, her strong arms bracketing you in. Her rough hands slide under your shirt, tugging it over your head, and her mouth trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. You dig your fingers into her short hair as she pulls your legs around her waist, her hips grinding against yours. The countertop digs into your back, but you barely notice with her between your thighs.

Lazy Morning Sex: When Abby sleeps over, she wakes early but doesn’t leave the bed. Instead, she rolls you onto your stomach, pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder blades. Her hand slowly drifts beneath your shirt, palm splayed across your stomach, fingers trailing lower. She takes her time, slow and deliberate, until you’re trembling beneath her.

Possessive Words: After confessing how jealous you were of her ex, Abby pins you against the wall, her breath hot against your ear. “You could’ve just said you wanted me,” she murmurs darkly before kissing you roughly. Her fingers curl around the back of your neck, voice low and possessive. “You’re mine. Got it?”

Sweaty, Greasy, & Gorgeous:

You have a not-so-secret thing for Abby fresh from working—a grease stain on her cheek, arms flexing in her white tank. She’s halfway through kicking off her boots when you grab her by the tool belt and pull her onto the couch, kissing her hard enough to make her groan against your lips, and everytime without fail, it ends in you on your knees, face buried between her legs as your toungue laps on her pussy.

Rough, Desperate, Can’t-Wait Sex:

One night, after the diner closes, you’re helping Abby clean up. You’re wiping down a table, and she’s behind the counter, her gaze dark and heavy as she watches you bend over ever so slightly. The tension is palpable—the kind that’s been simmering for weeks. Finally, she snaps. Without a word, she grabs your wrist and drags you into the back storage room. She slams the door shut and presses you against the wall, her lips crashing against yours with raw, unrestrained hunger.

Her hands are rough and desperate as they push your pants down, knuckles grazing your thighs. Her mouth is on your neck, biting and sucking, leaving faint bruises as she growls low against your skin. “Why do you have to be so damn gorgeous?” she pants, voice husky. She doesn’t waste time with teasing—she’s already dropping to her knees, lips trailing down your stomach as she hooks your legs over her shoulders, holding you in place with a bruising grip.

Her mouth is hot and relentless, making you squirm against the wall. When you tug at her hair, she groans into you, the vibration making you shudder. Her fingers are rough with callouses as they curl inside you, moving with purpose. She doesn't stop until your legs are shaking and you’re clinging to her broad shoulders, gasping her name like a prayer.

Kitchen Table:

It’s late, and Abby’s at your place after fixing your leaky faucet. She’s still in her flannel, the sleeves rolled up, and she’s leaning against your counter, arms crossed, watching you with a lazy smirk. You’re leaning over the kitchen table, cleaning up your daughter’s craft supplies, when you feel her warm breath against your neck.

“You should’ve asked me to fix you instead,” she mutters, voice low and gravelly.

Before you can retort, her hands are on your hips, guiding you back against her. She’s firm but careful, holding you in place, her lips teasing along the shell of your ear. When you push your hips back against her, she groans, hands tightening possessively.

She bends you over the kitchen table, sliding your shorts down with slow, deliberate movements. Her hands are rough—calloused and slightly scraped from all the repair work—and they feel so good gripping your thighs. She doesn’t hold back, fingers thrusting into you with an almost punishing pace, making you gasp and clutch the edge of the table.

Her voice is gravelly in your ear as she mutters, “You take it so fucking good for me.” When you moan her name, she smirks against your neck and growls, “Louder. Let me hear you.”

Over the Diner Counter:

You show up at the diner after hours, wearing one of Abby’s flannels over nothing but your underwear. She’s leaning against the counter, cleaning a mug, but her eyes lock onto you the second you walk in. Her pupils darken as she slowly sets the mug down, wiping her hands on a rag.

“You’re gonna regret that,” she mutters darkly, her voice low and raspy.

You saunter over, leaning against the counter, giving her a teasing smirk. Before you know it, she’s grabbing your wrist and hauling you over the counter. Your back hits the cool surface as she wedges herself between your legs, pulling the flannel open with one swift tug. Her lips are on you instantly—hot, possessive kisses that leave you breathless.

She doesn’t waste time. Her hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, squeezing your hips. When she pushes two fingers into you, she watches your face with that cocky, satisfied smirk. “You’re so wet for me already,” she growls against your jaw. Her pace is rough and unrelenting, her fingers moving with purpose, hitting that spot that makes you arch off the counter.

When you whimper her name, she grips your jaw, forcing you to look at her. “Eyes on me, baby,” she commands, her voice rough with need. She doesn’t let you look away, holding your gaze as she makes you fall apart beneath her.

Shower Sex – Steamy and Wet:

After a long, sweaty day at the diner, Abby shows up at your place. Her white tank is clinging to her back, her hair damp from running her hands through it, and she smells faintly of motor oil and wood smoke. You drag her into the shower without a second thought, stripping her down and pulling her under the hot spray.

The second the water hits her skin, she’s all over you—backing you against the tiles, her lips trailing down your wet skin. She drops to her knees, her hands spreading your thighs apart, and she kisses the inside of your thighs with slow, teasing nips. When you whine her name, she smirks up at you, droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes.

Her tongue is slow and deliberate at first—long, languid strokes that make your legs tremble. When you clutch her damp hair, she groans against you, gripping your hips tighter. Her fingers leave bruises on your thighs as she holds you still, devouring you with a maddening rhythm that makes your legs buckle.

When you tug her up by her wet hair, desperate for her lips, she presses you into the wall and slides her thigh between your legs. Her voice is rough in your ear as she growls, “Ride me.” The friction of her strong thigh against you is almost too much, and when she grips your ass with both hands, pulling you harder against her, you come undone with a cry muffled by her kiss.

Wall-Fucking, Abby Style:

You show up at the diner wearing a little sundress—short enough to drive Abby absolutely feral. She watches you flit around the place, talking to other customers, flashing smiles that should be hers. By the time you get up to leave, Abby’s practically vibrating with jealousy.

The second you’re out of sight, she grabs your wrist and drags you into the alley behind the diner. She presses you against the brick wall, caging you in with her broad frame. Her lips crash against yours, hot and possessive.

“You like driving me crazy, huh?” she mutters against your mouth.

Her hands yank up your dress, bunching the fabric at your waist. She hikes your leg around her hip, her strong thigh pressing between yours. Her fingers are rough and desperate as they slide inside you, and she growls low in your ear,

“You’re mine. No one else gets to see you like this.”

She fucks you against the wall with raw need, her pace relentless. When you dig your nails into her back, she grunts in satisfaction, grinding her hips against yours as she pushes you higher and higher. When you finally cry out her name, she smirks wickedly and presses her lips against your throat,

“That’s it, baby. Let everyone hear who you belong to.”

Face-Sitting:

You’re sprawled out on Abby’s bed, legs spread, breathless and needy. She stands at the edge of the bed, shirtless, jeans unbuttoned, looking down at you with that cocky smirk.

“You’re gonna ride my face,” she growls, gripping your hips and pulling you onto her. She lies back, hands firmly gripping your thighs, keeping you in place.

She doesn’t let you be shy—she pulls you down onto her tongue with firm hands, growling when you try to squirm away. Her tongue is relentless—slow at first, then fast and needy, flicking and curling in perfect rhythm. Her rough, calloused fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you exactly where she wants you.

“Don’t run from it,” she groans against you. “I wanna feel you fall apart on me.”

When you finally come undone, legs trembling around her head, she holds you there, keeping you riding her through the aftershocks. And when you collapse, breathless and boneless, she grins smugly from between your legs, her face flushed and slick with you.

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