[warnings]: chef! Abby, unserious, suggestive mentions, headcannons, wc 1k , part 2 is being rewritten!
Chef! Abby’s! first viral video was around a year ago. A simple clip of her making cacio e pepe. The video was beautifully shot, a warm coloring complementing the glossy dish. but what really got everyone’s attention?
The way her forearms tensed while she cracked fresh pepper. Veins showing themselves along her freckled skin. Comments often reading:
@ “ok but how do i get the pasta to look this good?”
@ “i have something to say but i want to go to college”
@ “ma’am, i’m trying to focus but your ARMS?????😣”
@ “looks SO good💕..and the food i guess”
Chef Abby! had always loved cooking, growing up in a kitchen with her dad, who ran The Cordova, one of downtown Washington’s finest restaurants. But she liked the no pressure vibe of TikTok—just her and her food. She decided she wouldn’t show her face much, if at all. Letting the small flex of her muscles when she kneaded dough into a floured surface be the main visual. While comments? They were only half focused on what she was making.
Naturally, her account gained traction. No face, no voice—just hands, muscles, and literal food porn. Every video felt like a Sunday afternoon in a kitchen. @buffandbasil, now sat at 2.5 million followers.
Chef Abby! tried to ignore the thirst in her comments. How could she? It was honestly a small ego boost, even if it was a bit over the top at times. Like the second pinned video on the top of her page—where all she was doing was making bread.
@ : “knead ME like that.”
@ : “both lips are smiling rn”
@: “need her to bake something in me, respectfully😇“
@: “we need to chill in the comments… *saves video*”
Chef Abby! wasn’t a huge fan of putting her face in her videos. However, the occasional face slip would happen. A quick shot of her golden hair in view or a reflection in a clean pan.
The third and final pinned video? The one sitting at a few million views and a comment section that out-ratioed it?
Her hair draped over a fitted black Henley shirt, the top button undone. Sleeves rolled up to her elbows. And when she reached up for something overhead in a cabinet? A small sliver of her torso—those abs?
Yeah. They lost it.
@ “niagara falls just relocated”
@ “MY CLOTHES, WHERE’D THEY GO!!?!”
@ “her strap drags, for sure. touches the floor.”
@^ “mind you, i would take it.😊”
@ ^^ “y’all are TOO freaked out 💀”
And trust—Chef Abby! loved it. Really. Laying in bed, straight cackling on FaceTime with her best friend Manny, sending him screenshots or full-blown screen sharing. She didn’t reply. Not really. But she absolutely posted a few videos after. No shirt, just her “Kiss the Chef” apron and vibes.
And the one time she did reply?
@: “Do you do weddings?”
@buffandbasil :“Yes, actually.”
Harmless, right? Simple. Straightforward. She had catered weddings before. Large events, alongside her father, but—
@: “As… the bride?”
She saw it exactly three minutes after posting her reply. And in those three minutes, her comment had already tripled in likes. The replies? A war zone.
@ “ANSWER THE QUESTION!”
@ “HELLO???????”
@ “bro air balled.”
@ “ok so u free next saturday or???”
She paid it no mind. Mostly. But sometimes, a few profiles caught her attention. She was human, after all. Chef Abby! had seen your likes. You didn’t know it yet.
For you? It was originally just another cringe or brain rot video being sent by your roommate, Dina. But when you clicked the video of @buffandbasil all laughter halted. Typing back—
You: “Dee, hear me out..😭”
Dina: “Oh my god. OH MY GOD. Lost the plot.”
Chef Abby! considered reciprocating the engagement but saw how many views you usually received on GRWMs and storytimes and decided on a more… exciting approach. Wanting to see if you’d bite.
No aesthetic instrumentals—this time, a voiceover. Her voice, soft, steady Tutorial style.
“So today, we’re making sourdough from scratch. You wanna make sure your starter is active, and then we’re gonna knead it—”
@: “OH SHE TALKS???”
@: “it’s all over the screen ngl 🌊”
@: “asmr videos when?”
@: “great now i have a crush on a faceless chef, thanks.”
@: “I’m ovulating rn please chill 💔💔”
But the only comment she was looking for? Yours.
@ you: “Me next🫦!”
You typed it. And went to bed. She had so many comments—she probably wouldn’t even see it.
But as the sun poured through your curtains the next morning, your stomach flipped. A notification.
Followed by @buffandbasil. 2 hours ago.
Legs swinging the blankets off, then you were sprinting down the hall, launching yourself onto Dina’s bed like a feral animal let loose.
She groaned, blindly swatting at you. “Dude, what the—”
Without another word, you shoved your phone in her face. Dina squinted, blinked a few times, then—loud, cackling.
“Dee. This isn’t a ‘hear me out’ anymore—this is a hold me back.” You said, falling next to her dramatically, smiling.
Dina wheezed, shaking her head. “Nah. You are in the sunken place now, sister.”
CONTAINS: rough draft for a fic idea I had. MDNI. Religious guilt, impure thoughts, short.
She does it on purpose. You swear she does.
The lift of her shirt to swipe sweat from her forehead. Being sure you’re in her line of sight while she works. The small touches when passing by.
How could one woman weaken your resolve so much?
How, after a long day of doing nothing but giving your wet dreams more fuel, could she step into the main house and “report back”?
Listing everything she took care of—
That wobbly fence your belt loop always seemed to catch on. The left tire on your daddy’s truck that made that god-awful squeak when started in the early morning.
Everything but the small flicker of amusement she’d get when she caught your stare—or even just felt it.
The grumbling of your father’s “Sounds good, thanks again, Abbigail,” seeming more frequent than before.
Didn’t she fix that fence last week?
The only relief was writing it out.
The dark green journal that stayed tucked in the back pocket of worn jeans. Pages of thoughts, frustrations, fantasies.
And hidden in the back pages— Not passwords to the Wi-Fi, or the lockbox— Your feelings. The real ones. About her. Starting innocently from last summer, when she filled in for her father.
Jerry did honest work. Only lived a few roads down—he was the first person you called when things went belly-up. But he’s older now. Knees don’t work as well. So naturally, she came.
Quiet. Worked quickly. Efficient. Good hands are always welcome on the hundreds of acres your family owned.
Months of torture.
Farmhands came and went—but not her. She—Abbigail—always came back.
In your dreams.
And in the back pages of that journal.
June 5th, 2025
“She said she liked the top I was wearing last night. The one I swore I’d never wear again because of how tight it felt across my chest. But her eyes—they lingered. Just for a second. Long enough to make me feel bare. I didn’t sleep after that.”
God, you prayed she never read that one. But what was a girl like you calling on Him for? Impurities like that didn’t deserve His protection.
Sinners only thrive when hidden in the comfort of shadows.
When the sun greets the sky, the mask takes its place— In the form of the farmer’s daughter.
She made supper every evening, brought water to those helping hands, leaned into her daddy’s kisses on the forehead.
So busy being the golden girl, you—so worn—you didn’t notice that your back pocket was empty as you entered the house. Sleeping peacefully in your mattress. Farm dog Gracie barking occasionally when cars passed in the distance.
All while the green spine cracked open—
By fingers that didn’t hold the pen that stained the pages. With an ease, nothing rushed—like it had been done millions of times.
The pages flipped until their heart’s content.
Those same eyes watched you the next morning, messy hair falling as you lifted from your bed. In full view of the bay window warming the room.
The new day dances around you. Smiles and “you’re welcome”s, as usual. Until a voice sent panic striking through you like lightning.
“Not doodling in those pages of yours this mornin’?” your father said as you reached the bottom of the stairs, still slightly sleep-ridden.
No caffeine could wake someone faster. Your hand flew to your pockets. Eyes widening as the words stuck in your throat.
Where is it? Why didn’t I double-check last night? Did someone else find it? Your mind raced.
“Oh sweetheart, relax—you probably left it in your room,” your mother called out from the kitchen
Before they could say another word, the screen door flew open. Your boots crunched the gravel, bolting for the barn. You’d been there last night, writing to your heart’s content. Dreams of the future. Leaving the fields behind one day. Sending postcards to Momma with different cities attached.
But those weren’t the ones you were worried about.
A heaving chest and shaky fingers reached for the rusted latch. Greeted by moos, and Gracie sleeping near the ladder. Eyes searched the wooden floors, hands and knees warming as you looked.
And looked.
Where the hell is it? The furrow in your eyebrow deepened as did the pit in your stomach.
“You alright?” a voice called out a few feet away.
Your body jerked, a small gasp leaving you. Not expecting anyone else to be here. So early anyhow. Slowly lifting your head, trailing up the woman who almost seemed to have appeared.
Heavy boots, dark-washed jeans. That thick brown belt, silver buckle. A white beater lifted just enough to see that blonde happy trail that made your thighs squeeze together.
“Jesus, you scared me—yeah, I’m alright.”
You glanced to the woman with a quirked eyebrow at your position. Realizing how ridiculous you must’ve looked, you pushed to your feet. Hands dusting off your knees.
“Good morning, Ms. Anderson.” You stood slightly awkwardly, with a small head nod.
“I always tell you that just Abby is fine.” She smiled. “But good mornin’” The silence stretched out. Abby cleared her throat and spoke once more. “What are you looking for… in here?”
“Nothing, I just… thought I lost something in here. And now that I’ve checked… I’ll be on my way.” You gave a small smile, shifting to turn on your heels. Unable to hold that eye contact any longer.
“You sure?” “Because I found this—“ short fingers grazed something as she turned, reaching behind her. “on the floor.”
There it was. Thank God. Maybe He was listening.
“Oh! Thank you—little squirrel brain of mine sometimes.” A joke you forced out.
She huffed at the attempt and hummed “Don’t mention it.”
Your fingers brushed as you went to take it from her. Your heart rammed against your ribs. Pausing when she lifted it again slightly like she’d changed her mind. Eyes flickered to her face, meeting hers. Your hand now left with nothing as she teased it backwards. Only you heard her say—
“The way she moves—like she knows time will wait for her.” You froze. Your breath caught. Abby only tilted her head “That’s pretty, y’know? Like poetry.”
Oh, how sweet, you thought. Yet, Your heart pounded louder. How far did she read?
“Thank you…It’s nothing really. Just something I do when I’m bored.” You barely managed the words. They sounded distant, hollow in your mouth—like they belonged to someone else. Your hand closed around the journal like a secret you couldn’t bury fast enough. And then you turned. Quick. Too quick. Boots scraping against the barn floor. already vowing to be more careful next time.
That was a close one. Just leave, get this book of sin from her. Wanting to throw lighter fluid on it even. However, before you could make your escape she continued, the words burning in the light—
“Her eyes lingered. Just for a second. Long enough to make me feel bare.” Then with a small chuckle “That’s the line, ain’t it?”
Her silky voice cut through the air behind you, amusement wrapped around every word. You stopped cold. Turned slowly. “Didn’t sleep after that, huh?”
“What—what did you—” you stammered. “Oh lord—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for you to read—”
She cut you off with a soft laugh, stepping closer. “It’s alright, really”
“That’s a filthy little thought for a girl who says good morning like a church bell.” Her eyes flicked to the journal still clutched in your guilty hands.
Moving to Washington was nice. The neighborhood was quiet. White picket fence. Shiny rock on her finger. A warm bed, talks of future kids, and kisses on the cheek. But even with all that, Abby couldn’t help herself. Not when you were there. Almost every. Single. Morning.
Married Abby! who first noticed you on a run. Headband, ponytail, and an ass that just made her—ugh.
“Coming!” she called back out, ripping her eyes away from the kitchen window.
To whom? Her wife. Sweet Amanda. High school sweetheart. Love of her life. Well, that’s what she told herself. Who was she kidding? It’s been rocky since the move.
The truth was, Abby had agreed to the move because Amanda wanted to be closer to her family. But Abby’s dad was sick. She needed to be here, to help, to take care of what mattered—her family. When she tried to explain that, it spiraled like it always did.
“So my family’s less important now?” Amanda snapped, arms crossed over her chest.
Abby exhaled sharply, already exhausted. “That’s not what I said.”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“Come on, Amanda,” Abby ran a hand down her face, jaw tight. “I’ve done everything to make this move work for you. You wanted the suburbs, the perfect house, the perfect life—”
“For us, Abby. Not just me.”
Abby scoffed. “Really? Because it feels like every time I bring up my dad, it’s suddenly a problem.”
Amanda shook her head, biting back frustration. “It’s not a problem, it’s just—what about our future? You spend all your time working or worrying about your dad. Where do I fit into that?”
The arguments piled on top of each other, never-ending, circling back to the same, tired place. Cold dinner plates. Unfulfilled, half-hearted attempts at intimacy. And, worse, lonely nights spent rubbing one out to try to release something. Since her wife was always “not in the mood.”
But no matter how hard she tried to push you out of her mind, she couldn’t. You. Sweating in the sun, that warm glow on your face. The small bounce of your ass in those tight black leggings as you passed her large kitchen window.
Jesus, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander.
Married Abby! Who’s worked under Graves Electrical ever since she was a girl, soaking up her father’s teachings. Now, a few weeks settled, known as ‘Miss Fix It,’ a well-known figure in the neighborhood, called for all sorts of emergency repairs.
She used to have her sore muscles rubbed on by doting Amanda. But now? Epsom salt and a bath she’d fall asleep in more often than the actual bed became her best friend.
Married Abby! Knew a little about you, aside from how her body reacted when you passed by. Seeing you come home with a basket full of what looked like school supplies—crayons, Elmer’s glue—combined with the sticker on your car bumper that read, “Teaching is a work of heart,” with a drawn apple. she put it together fairly quick.
It was sickeningly sweet compared to the gloomy cloud hanging over her own household. Unlike her, no ring on your finger. Just colorful clothes, gel-polished nails, and fitted workout clothes that drove her nuts.
The only thing sicker than your positivity? The fact that her wife was the one to show you the property you came home to at 4:15 on the dot, Monday through Friday.
And what almost broke her resolve completely? Yesterday morning.
You stood at her door, smiling, something wrapped in tinfoil in hand—coming to thank Amanda for helping you move in now that you were settled. The low-cut floral dress made her grip the doorframe a little tighter.
“Hi,” she forced out, clearing her throat. “Can I help you?”
[a/n]: I literally couldn’t get this out my head, so I had a few headcannons for a fic later, where the idea came from!, short random blurb, suggestive-ish.
Professor Anderson, who loves her job.
Professor Anderson, who is always so patient. She replies to every email, text message, and phone call because she cares deeply about her students’ success!
She’s fully aware of her own appearance, who tolerates no fraternizing from her students—no flirting, no jokes, none of it. “You are here so I can teach you, nothing more, nothing less.”
She would never even look at a student below the neckline, loves eye contact. shows respect and that you are engaged in her material.
always has someone help her when she’s trying to present because she’s so bad with computers. The type to leave the YouTube video off full screen, unable to get the sound right until someone steps in to help.
Often forgets her glasses are on the collar of her shirt or the top of her head until someone calls it out, and it’s a short laugh every time. Just a little chuckle, followed by a soft, “I swear, I’ll never learn.”
Professor Anderson had always imagined she’d be married in the next few years but was okay with her own company. A framed picture of her loving canine sat on her desk, a constant companion who was always there for her, even when no one else was.
She never specifically says “wife” or “husband,” just “partner” when asked if she’s married. Yeah, probably wasn’t straight. She never felt the need to explain herself—just content with the way things were.
Professor Anderson always signs her webmails with:
————————————————-
“Do the best you can until you know better. Then, when you know better, do better.” — Maya Angelou
Abigail Anderson
Spanish, English
XXX-X-XX
Click to schedule an appointment | Classroom Padlet
She’s just such a sweetheart! So when you accidentally sent her a selfie to her work phone, she just replied:
She didn’t think much about the interaction after. Just a mix up.
Professor Anderson did notice how you held eye contact with her, head rested on your hand as you soaked up her every word. It made her smile. you liked her class. Liked her teaching you. So she did, she smiled at you a little, then turned her attention back to the board, going over the study material. But just for a moment, a smile that she quickly masked, focusing on the next point in her notes.
She would find herself enjoying the small back-and-forth on discussion boards, especially when classmate Emily corrected yours, laughing at the response.
You were her best student. So Bright. Always prepared. Always watching her so closely, like what she said mattered. So of course she opened your latest assignment ready to grade and be done for the day. Only to be greeted with another photo of yourself—less modest than usual.
Professor Anderson, who immediately closed her laptop. Heart racing against her ribs. She stared at the screen for a second too long before it went black, the image still burned into her mind. That wasn’t meant for her. Not at all. A slip-up, clearly. An accident.
Why would you even have something like that saved on your computer? Why had it ended up in her inbox? She ran a hand over her face, fingers brushing against the frames of her glasses perched on top of her head—forgotten again. She let out a shaky exhale and removed them, setting them gently on the desk like she was setting the moment down, trying to ground herself.
————————————-
Subject: Wrong File
Dear,___
I believe you may have attached the wrong document to your last message. Please double-check and resend when you have a moment.
Best,
Professor Anderson
—————————————————
She took a deep breath, taking off her glasses. You were gorgeous, yes. But that’s simply not a line she’d cross. She’s better than temptation. She wasn’t about to risk her career, her boundaries, or her principles just for a moment of fleeting attraction.
Like things are getting hot and heavy and Abby admits she’s a virgin and experienced reader gets off on being Abby’s first ever while being really sweet and gentle.
Have a good one eat, stretch, drink something
-saturn
And they were roommates .ᐟ
Virgin! Abby ݁˖°✧
꒰࣪ Warnings:꒱ bits of plot, mostly A! Receiving, body hair ˖ . ݁˖°✧ mentioned, jealousy, talks of virginity (duh), hair pulling, loser Abby, oral, Mdni!
-oh my god, they were roommates?
Roommate, roomie, the woman you share your space with. That’s Abby—friend of three years, roommate of a few months.
Perfect roommate would be an understatement. So, of course, when your old landlord raised rent too high for your liking, she was the first person you asked to help look for a new place. Only to catch the way her eyes sparkled when you found one—quiet neighborhood, not too far from work. The extra bedroom was originally going to be an office of some sort, but plans changed.
She cooks, cleans, respects your space, always knocks before she enters your room.
—Well, usually she did. Except for last night.
Those usual soft knocks or “Can I come in?” fell on deaf ears. After moving in, things had unknowingly shifted between you two. An unspoken understanding to not make things awkward. However, one fateful night of her not knocking led to a sleepy, on-the-couch discussion days later, after a long work shift.
The scene was something straight out of a wet dream, (un)fortunately engraved in her mind.
The image of her wholesome roommate—the one who always compliments her cooking, offers to redo her hair when she’s too tired, and has her reach the top shelf. The classic excuse of “Putting those muscles to good use,” you’d say in the sweetest tone. All of that, down the drain the moment her eyes locked onto the woman beneath you. Writhing in pleasure. One leg tossed over your shoulder, the other splayed somewhat behind you. Pornographic whines and pleas smacking Abby in the face the second the door creaked open.
She’d completely forgotten what she even came in there for. A shirt? Where the dustpan was?
Fuck, she had no idea.
The door slammed shut harder than she intended, guilt pouring over her as she realized she’d walked in on such an intimate moment. Hookups for you weren’t uncommon. Always the same pretty faces. One stood out, though. Tall, more on the butch side. Clearly a gym rat. Her arms weren’t nearly as impressive as Abby’s, but she hated herself for even making the comparison.
She’d even bumped into her one morning in the kitchen during breakfast, eyes narrowing at the sight of her mug in the woman’s hands.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
It felt like a taunt. Abby told herself she was being delusional, trying to shake off the bubbling irritation.
The week passed, you two still hadn’t talked about it, along with a few other things—the time she ended up zipping your shirt for you and her hand lingered on your hip even after she was finished. Even that small glimpse of your bare skin reminded her of that night. Or how you always found yourself brushing your teeth next to her in the morning, feigning that you were “just saving water.”
It all whirled in her mind, even as she exhaustedly turned her key, prying open the front door.
Fallen boots and a thrown jacket into the hall closet later, she found herself slumped onto the plush couch. Already hearing your nagging about how her neck would pay for not taking the few extra steps to her bedroom in the morning. The warm yellow light reflected on the flooring, indicating you were home, tucked away in your room.
On Friday nights, you two usually watched a few episodes of one of the many TV series you started together and vowed not to watch without the other. She hadn’t seen much of you since the walk-in, although between your opposite work schedules, that wasn’t alarming.
Her teeth caught her bottom lip, eyes flickering between your door and the TV. She wanted to come get you, act natural. She really, really did, but her thoughts snapped back to that night. How her thighs shifted uncomfortably together, the heat that pooled in her gut when her mind replayed your sounds. How the recurring face you slept with oddly resembled hers.
“Hey, Abs.” She was too deep in her own thoughts to realize you’d emerged before she could call out to you.
“Oh! Heya,” she said, followed by a small head nod.
Even now, as you pushed off the wall, you seemed at ease, completely unaffected by the thoughts that threatened to consume her own mind.
She’d managed to act semi-normal over the past painfully slow thirty minutes. The uneasy feeling caused her to blurt it out before she could stop herself.
“Sorry about the other night. Random, I know— I just, uh, had to get that out.”
“No, no, my door should’ve been locked. Got caught up in the moment and—well, I’m sure you get it.” You waved off with a laugh.
“Yeah, of course,” she answered, a little rushed.
A lie. A big lie. She had no idea. In fact, the closest thing she’d ever allowed from someone else was a few hickeys and semi-decent make-out sessions—always pulling away right before things got too handsy.
Fear wasn’t holding her back, nor was insecurity. For her, it was comfort. She was dating the past, yeah, but the companionship  was craved more than the lost clothes and complaints from neighbors during a heated moment. Although, she knew this only stayed true up until you guys grew closer. With her presence becoming like a second skin to yours, of course, loose t-shirts without a bra and underwear as pants happened. Seemingly unaware of how it sent heat to her cheeks.
But you did know. Of course, you knew. Gracefully adding to the list of teasing. Seeing if she’d crack. And tonight, she did.
It started with a joke, in Abby’s mind—the nuisance that clung to you through the weeks. A joke about if someone could do it better, then maybe you’d stop calling her. It turned into more ‘jokes,’ turned touches, turned into a sudden cup of her cheek and a crashing kiss.
This was one of those moments where you’d get lost and discuss it later. Or, at least, it was—because as quick as it came, she pulled away.
“Sorry—was that too much? I just thought—are you good?” You pulled your hands back from traveling lower than they already were.
“What—?” She blinked, snapping back. “No, I just—yes, I’m good.”
The murmur of the TV did little to ease the tension. The heat never left the room. The whispered words you’d said in her left ear bounced inside her mind. Her slipped comment about how badly she wanted you, unsure if she should’ve said it.
“Soo… you haven’t then?” You knew the answer, but confirmation in this moment was beyond needed.
“If I answer, will you laugh?” She sighed.
“Laugh? Of course not.” Your expression softened.
“I… haven’t.” The words felt heavier out loud. “It’s just, I wanted it to be special.” She turned her head back to you. “Is that silly?”
“No, dude, what? I wish I would’ve waited.” You shook your head.
She scoffed. “You’re just saying that—”
“I’m serious.” You shifted closer. “Your body is a temple and all that jazz. You should be glad you’re waiting.” You finger quoted.
You continued as Her eyes flicked over you, thoughtful. “Whoever gets to tap this”— you gestured vaguely toward her frame—“is lucky. As hell. And.. if you were serious about earlier, Abs… it’s still on the table, okay? Don’t rush anything you don’t want. It’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.”
You smirked. “Literally. I live here.” You said dramatically gesturing around the living space
She laughed shaking her head. “You’re such an idiot.”
You grinned. “Oh, fuck you. I was trying to be sentimental.”
“I know… and I appreciate it.” Abby exhaled, running a hand through her hair before reaching for you, fingers grazing your arm. “But, uh—can we circle back to the part where you were taking your shirt off?”
Your breath caught. “You sure?”
“more than sure.” She took a deep breath. “Just gentle, yeah?”
˖ . ݁˖°✧
As nice as kissing her was, your lips were slightly swollen at this rate, and you weren’t sure how much longer she planned to drag this part out. She seemed comfortable, but her hands stayed rooted at her sides—stiff as a board.
“You say you’re relaxed, but your shoulders are telling a different story,” you teased, pressing your hands to them, feeling how tense she was. “See?”
Abby huffed, exhaling sharply through her nose. “Yeah, okay. Maybe a little.”
But before she could dish out another apology. You spoke back up “Don’t apologize. You’re not doing anything wrong. But if you’re not ready, we don’t—”
“—No, I am.”
“Okay, so let’s start small.”
“Smaller than you kissing me?” she muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Shut up. Just do me a favor—take a deep breath. In and out.”
Your eyes followed the rise and fall of her chest, so close that her breath fanned against your skin. “You feeling okay enough to keep going, or are you planning to suck my lips off my face first?”
Abby huffed a quiet laugh. “Not my fault you taste good.”
“Oh? That right?” you teased. “Then tell me what you want.” She hesitated, shifting slightly under your gaze. “Don’t get shy on me now, c’mon—it’s just us.”
A beat passed, pools of blue locked onto yours. “I want you to touch me.” a little rushed, like she’d forced the words out before she could second-guess them. Then, quieter—“Please.”
“Good, that’s a start.” You nodded. “Now tell me where.”
She swallowed, jaw tightening for a second. “I-Shouldn’t I be…?” She trailed off, tilting her head to expose her neck without finishing the thought.
“Uht uht, don’t worry about me right now.” You pressed a lingering kiss to the pulse point at her neck, and her breath hitched—followed by a sharp exhale through her nose. “Oh, you liked that, huh?”
Her hands finally lifted, gripping the fabric of your shirt like she needed something to hold onto. “Yeah… do that again”
She shivered at the touch, her eyes slipping closed. Each kiss was slow, teasing, drawing out that shiver, that soft gasp of your name. Her fingers pressed into your back, nails leaving faint red lines against your skin through the thin material.
“Yeah.” She breathed out. “Just like that.”
You smiled against her skin as you traveled south, kissing along the rim of her shoulder, gently pulling her head to the side to give yourself more room. “You’re so vocal, Abs.”
She sighed, her head lolling to the side, offering herself up more. The grip on your shirt loosened as her breathing quickened just the slightest. With her head tilted, a soft mewl escaped her parted lips—a reaction to the tender kisses that made their way across her skin.
“It’s your fault,” she murmured. You giggled at her retort, hands finding the hem of her tank top, fingers tracing the fabric. You kissed over her shoulder a few more times before pulling back to look at her.
“You ready for me to take this off, or do you need more time?”
Abby chewed her bottom lip, her gaze flicking down to her tank top and then back up to your face. The flush that dusted her cheeks extended down to her neck, faint red marks from your ministrations littering her skin. She swallowed, eyes lingering on the way your fingers toyed with the fabric, before huffing out a:
“I—uh… yeah, I’m ready.”
“You sure? I’m going at your pace, no rushing needed.”
You asked for confirmation, thumbs stroking the skin of her abdomen under the fabric gently.
She inhaled sharply at the gentle touch, her mind clouded by the way your thumbs swiped across her skin. It was hard to form coherent thoughts while your touch burned with the promise of something more.
“I’m sure,” she murmured, her voice just loud enough for you to hear. “Wanna feel your hands on me.”
“Okay, lift your arms for me.”You scooted closer to her, gently lifting the hem of her tank top.
She obliged with a small nod, raising her arms in the air. The motion caused the fabric to ride up, revealing a sliver of her toned stomach. Her breath hitched as the tank top cleared her head, leaving her exposed—chest and torso bare, save for a few freckles and moles that dotted her skin like constellations.
You trailed a finger down her shoulder to her arm, keeping your gaze on her face.
“You’re so pretty, look at you.” You smiled, scanning over her torso momentarily.
“Shut up.” Even though there was no real bite behind it, she shifted slightly, trying to hide the way her chest rose and fell with her shallow breaths. Pinkish nipples pebbling as the cool air passed them.
You laughed.“Don’t be embarrassed—look, I’ll take mine off too. That better?”
She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure with little success. Seeing you strip too? Yeah, that sounded better. Her gaze raked over you, taking in every inch of exposed skin as you removed your shirt.
“Yeah,” she breathed out. “That’s better.”
Her gaze wandered shamelessly over your body, taking in the sight of your exposed shoulders, the way your bralette hugged your chest. Her gaze lingered there a moment before drifting up to your face—eyes, nose, lips. She nodded, words failing her at first as she tried to regain her composure.
You hummed in reply, trailing your hands to her collarbone, gently moving down to her breast, cupping the warm skin. “How does that feel?”
She let out a soft moan as your hands needed, the warmth of your touch. Her back arched involuntarily against your hands, trying to press herself closer.
“God. That feels…” She huffed out, struggling to find the words. “So, so good.”
˖ . ݁˖°✧
Thankfully once she was more relaxed, her thighs instinctively parting a bit as your hands continued their way up her legs. The gentle touch had her squirming gently, trying to get closer. Trimmed blonde happy trail leading to her oozing folds. arousal dripping down to her anus.
“H-hah—” abby’s eyes fluttering shut at the contact of your lips on her lower abdomen, her back sinking deeper into the couch. Her soaked through boxers somewhere lost on the floorboards. Glistening skin, slowly coming into view as you grew closer.
“Still okay?” You asked, between kisses.
Half-lidded eyes met yours, watching as you trailed lower, teasingly slow. She could only manage a nod, anticipation buzzing through her body.
“Use your words.” looking up at her through your lashes.
Her breath hitched. “Mhm… still okay.”
“Gonna start now”
A sharp exhale, fingers curling into the cushion beneath her. “God, please—” The words broke into a sucked-in breath the second your lips made contact where she needed you most. The feeling was new, almost overwhelming. Her fingers threaded themselves into your hair, tightening with each flick of your tongue.
Her muscles flexed with every breath as they grew heavier. She was wound so tight, every nerve alight, and god, if you could just stay right there—
She gasped, one hand gripping the side of the sofa. It wasn’t hard to find her clit, but she was still only partly spread out, hips shifting like she was chasing something just out of reach.
You’d glance up occasionally, feeling your own wave of heat pass through you at the sight. Her face was contorted in pleasure, her full-blown whines ringing out. Eating your roommate out after a semi-awkward encounter wasn’t on the agenda for the night, but the movie was now long forgotten.
“Please, d-don’t stop.” Her plea wasn’t louder than a whisper, eyes squeezing shut as you continued your ministrations on her sodden core.
If reducing a woman who could bench press you without breaking a sweat to a whimpering mess was a kink? You definitely just discovered it.
Air wasn’t an option when her hips kept jerking up involuntarily, seeking you—your tongue, her orgasm, everything. She let herself revel in the selfish need teetering on the edge, chasing it, desperate.
Soft breaths came in ragged gasps. “Don’t stop. God, don’t stop—” The white-hot pleasure you were giving her consumed every thought. Abby—composed, polite Abby? She couldn’t think. Nope. Couldn’t form a single coherent thought except please.
She chanted it over and over until she couldn’t hold back anymore. The pressure in her gut snapped, sending a rush of euphoria crashing over her like a tidal wave. Her back arched, fingers tightening in your hair—a full-blown tug—as her climax tore through her.
“F-fuck—” she choked out, voice breaking as she rode it out.
You soothed her, voice gentle. “I got you.”
The death grip on the couch and your hair finally loosened, her body still trembling under you, breathless in the aftermath. A sheen of sweat beaded down her caved-in abdomen as she tried to catch her breath.
“Jesus Christ,” she gasped finally, dazed. Her eyes stuck on the ceiling.
And all you could think as you rubbed her thigh gently was—
If reducing a woman who could bench press you without breaking a sweat to a whimpering mess was a kink? You definitely just discovered it.
CONTAINS: age gap • Cheating • slight Power Imbalance • mutual obsession • Ellie ft • draft.
NOTES: idk my period wrote this evil piece of work
— Click clack, click clack.
Heels hitting the tiled flooring. At 7:59 a.m., every day. A sound that wouldn’t normally be disruptive—not in an office full of bodies.
But to her?
That sound meant work wouldn’t be so drab. A new motivation to finish a boring project, a repeated email, the dull activities of being at a company so long it had meshed itself with your identity.
Bright fluorescent lighting hitting the shiny countertops, reflecting one figure all too familiar to you.
The blonde, glancing up through her glasses from the file in hand, scanning over today’s carefully crafted outfit. She—Abby—never understood why you dressed the way you did.
In a fitted blouse that drove her nuts. The fabric outlining places she imagined her hands exploring.
Did you know what you were doing? Did you want her attention? And if so, why didn’t you look in her—direction?
The trail of perfume you left wafted behind you during the cross of the floor, where you’d sit pretty at a desk facing away from her. Then it was over. The show. Until break, where you’d continue to be blissfully unaware of the hungry eyes that tracked your every move.
Each roll of your sleeves, each bite of your pen, the lip marks left on straws after you set your morning beverage down.
Alluring wasn’t the word. No, you had her completely entranced.
Exactly where you wanted her. So how could so much change in only a few weeks?
It all started with her birthday.
“Big three-eight, huh, Anderson?”
“Said like you’re not right behind me,” Abby shot back, adjusting the too-small party hat someone had forced on her head.
“Welcome to the grown folks’ club.”
“Said no adult ever—happy birthday, Abby,” another coworker chirped, clapping far too loud for 8 a.m.
The phrase echoed around her all day—from every coworker, to the balloon hovering above the basket nestled beside her monitor.
“Happy 38th Birthday, Abby.”
Everyone said it— Except you. Not yet. Granted, you didn’t acknowledge her—or anyone, really—unless your computer ran some error you couldn’t fix. And what business does a twenty-something secretary have with her? Married. Two degrees laced across her name. A title that held weight—Creative Director at Buzzcut Media. A salary that kept her fed, comfortable, unreachable.
You had nothing in common. So she shouldn’t care. She should look away. But she didn’t. It was thrilling to think that if she ever dared to waltz outside the moral lines she’d drawn years ago— You might just bite. Might let her have a taste of something new. But for now, Abbigail Anderson, Creative Director, forced a practiced smile to the people gathered around her desk.
“Thank you, Jannie,” she muttered, as a coworker dropped another glittery card onto her keyboard “And everyone else.”
“Oh wow, very grown up. For sure,” another voice chimed in—cool, extremely amused.
It belonged to the only person in the building who could get away with mocking her: Ellie Williams. Partners in crime, some said. Just good coworkers, they’d claim. But what happened off the clock stayed that way. Building trust. And that stupid handshake Abby always said she hated.
“Can’t let me look ridiculous for one day?” She simply shook her head.
“Knock yourself out,” Ellie replied smoothly. “Just don’t expect me not to take pictures.”
As the small side hug lingered, Ellie caught her friend’s gaze. Those blue, wandering eyes were already drifting across the floor through the glass walls—
To a woman she had no business watching.
With a gentle nudge to Abby’s side, The kind that said keep staring like that and someone’s gonna think you forgot you’re married. Only to be played it off with a cough and a half-smile.
Over time, you caught on. Watching the same eyes that watched you.
The office swarmed in its usual, mild chaos—group emails, morning chatter, balloon tape squeaking on glass walls. You watched from your desk. Quietly. Ellie grinned from a few chairs down, party hat lopsided on her head.
“And You’re officially ancient, by the way.”
Abby shot her a look over her glasses. “You’re three years behind me. Watch it.”
But she didn’t look annoyed. She looked, tired.The kind of tired that comes from too many expectations and too little air. And maybe that’s why you stood. Small gift in hand. Your own little moment. Just for her. You didn’t walk to Ellie, Didn’t linger near the group.
You stopped at Abby’s desk. Waited until she looked up.
“Happy birthday,” you said, setting it down carefully. “Didn’t think you were the balloon type.”
Her eyes flicked from the gift to your face, and lingered.
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
But she didn’t push it away either. And when your fingers brushed—just slightly—against hers as she reached for the box, She didn’t flinch.
So yes, Abby Anderson was married when you met her.
Still is. Unhappily, or so she claims. You, on the other hand, were just Stationed at the front desk, with a white smile and a laugh that made her forget she had a mortgage. That desk was right outside her office, Which made everything so easy And so much worse. You weren’t naïve. Not completely. But you didn’t push either. You just asked if she needed help with the printer. Brought her coffee without being asked. Complimented her shirts—then her voice—then her hands on days her ring was left on her bedside table.
She told herself it wouldn’t go beyond that.
Until it did.
Now you’re in her apartment. Not hers and her wife’s. A “work crash pad” she uses when she’s too tired to drive back across the city. That’s what she told you the first night she asked if you wanted to split a bottle of wine. Just wine, nothing wrong with company.
But now it’s 3:22 a.m.
And you’re half-asleep on her chest, cheek pressed to skin that still smells like expensive soap and the ghost of her perfume. Her hand’s on your waist. Still. She hasn’t moved in minutes.
But her eyes are open.
Your shirt’s hanging off your shoulders. One arm slung across her stomach like you belong there. Meanwhile Abby’s already thinking of what excuse she’ll use this time— What lie will keep the guilt at bay for just one more morning.
She whispers your name once. Barely audible, Her voice is raw, She turns her head just enough to look at you. Her eyes trace the outline of your hair against her chest. You don’t respond.
“You awake?” Her hand glides along your hip, slow. She watches the movement, like it isn’t hers. Like she’s outside her own body. Her fingers linger on the bare skin, and she lets out a breath.
“M’ Sleeping.” You mumble into her skin, trying not to sound bitter. Trying to keep the ache in your chest from crawling up your throat.
She lets out a quiet laugh—more air than sound—trailing her fingers up your spine. “Liar.”
She doesn’t stop touching you. Her hand moves like she’s reading you in braille.
“Yeah…Because if I get up… you’ll leave.”You groan, burying yourself closer into her. The weight of your words digging somewhere it shouldn’t.
She goes still. Her hand flattens against your back.
“Don’t worry.” She says it too gently, and it only pisses you off more. She presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your shoulder. She’s trying to fix it with skin, like she always does. She shifts beneath you, tangling her legs with yours. Her hand finds your chin, turning your face to hers.
“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
You blink at her. “No? You’re gonna stay tonight?” You push a few strands from your face and lean into her, letting yourself want it for a second.
She hums in confirmation, thumb brushing along your collarbone. That tired little smile you hate loving pulls at her lips.
“Yeah… I’m gonna stay.”
She moves again, pulling you into her lap. Her hand cradles the back of your neck, pulling your face closer.
“Is that what you want?”
You nod, barely. “Yes. That’s what I want…”
You trace lazy shapes into her skin. She shivers under your touch. Her eyes flutter shut like she’s trying to burn it into her memory. Her hands slide down your thighs. “Good,” she murmurs, brushing her lips along your jaw.
You hum in response, arms draping around her neck. You let your weight rest fully against her. You want to melt. You want her to hold it all together for once. Her arms wrap around you, pulling you flush to her chest.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispers. “God… you’re so fucking beautiful.” She whispers it like a confession. Her lips press to your neck. Soft. Like she thinks gentleness will make it less wrong.
You laugh, tired. “Mhm? Beautiful enough to let me have you yet?”
You sigh, and the moment cracks. Her laugh is breathy but oddly guarded. Her grip on your waist tightens, and when her forehead touches yours, her face shifts. Something quiet and guilty takes its place.
“You can have me right now,” she murmurs, voice barely a breath. “Just like this.” As her teeth nipping at your ear.
You whisper her name. “Abs…” “That’s not what I mean.” You sigh, leaning into her neck. You know what she’s doing. Again. Always.
She’s quiet for a long time. Her fingers twitch against your thighs. When she finally speaks, her voice is tight.
“Babe…” She breathes against your cheek. “Not now. Alright? Just… not now.”
She notices. She always does. But she doesn’t know what to do with it. Her hand rests on your back, warm and careful, like she’s afraid to spook you. You stay still. Breathing slow. Your cheek on her chest. Listening to the way her heart skips when the silence stretches too long.
She swallows thickly. “I know you hate this,” she murmurs. “I hate it too.” You don’t answer. She tilts her head, cheek pressed into your hair. Her breath ghosts your scalp. “I just need more time. Okay?”
Your voice, when it finally comes, is flat. “You’ve had time.”
“I know. I know I have.” She’s nodding like it’ll make her words land easier. “I just… it’s not that simple.”
“No. It is,” you say, lifting your head slightly. “You just don’t like what that means.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue. But nothing comes out. You lie back down again—not because the answer was good enough, but because if you keep looking at her, you’ll cry. And you promised yourself you wouldn’t cry over a woman who won’t choose you.
Her hand starts to move again. Up your back. Down your arm. Like she can touch the tension out of you.
“I just need more time,” she whispers again, more desperate this time.
You nod slowly against her collarbone. But the nod doesn’t mean okay. It means I heard you.
It means I’m still here, even though I shouldn’t be.
