My World

98% Fics-27 y/o❤️

[krmy2386]

Masterlist 👑

I literally made this so I can find my own shit😅❤️

Jake “Hangman” Seresin

Game of Hangman

Always Quiet Pt2 Pt3

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

If It Kills Me

Stupid Jar Opener

I Hate Love Songs

Robert “Bob” Floyd

Second Fiddle Pt2

Eau de Parfume

Beau “Cyclone” Simpson

Admirals’ Daughters

Different Lives

Tom “Iceman” Kazansky

Tom is Finer

Rhett Abbott

Routine

Kind Not Weak

[my-head-is-an-animal]

What She Deserves

Toby Ziegler x OFC (Kaitlin Stone)

Rating/Warnings: Implied Domestic/Sexual Abuse, Some Depictions of Violence, Smut 18+

Summary: Kaitlin Stone works with CJ, Toby has loved her for eight years, since the beginning of the campaign trail. Kaitlin's abusive boyfriend is the only thing standing in his way from getting what he wants and giving her what she deserves.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33

Hope you enjoyed the story!

If you liked this, please consider supporting me ☕ thanks for reading!

[twohearts-hs]

Dove & Captain Series Masterlist - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Words in Total: ~60k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, Miscarriage, etc.

Hope you enjoy :)

-

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

[abbotjack]

(18+ only) nsfw alphabet– michael robinavitch .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

pairing : michael "robby" robinavitch x afab!reader

18+ MDNI—warning : explicit sexual content, use of cunt, rough sex, praise kink, post-sex intimacy, body worship, possessive language. this is just pure filth start to finish like oh my god...

a/n : no plot, just robby being hot, obsessed, and way too good at ruining your cunt. you're welcome. roughly 4,000 words... needless to say I was very passionate about this one as well. I also did one for dr. abbot!. anyways, happy pitt thursday & ty for 100 followers !

♡ A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He treats aftercare like it’s an extension of the act itself—just as intimate, just as necessary. He pulls you against his chest immediately after, and murmurs, “You alright?” His voice is low and hoarse, lips ghosting your temple. He doesn’t rush. You’ll feel his fingers smoothing across your skin, touching every place he left red or trembling.

He wipes you down gently with a warm cloth—he never makes you do it yourself—and then pulls the blanket up over both of you. There’s a certain reverence in the way he laces your fingers together afterward. He might not always say the words, but it’s there: You’re mine. I’ve got you.

♡ B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite on himself : His hands because they get to touch you. He’s obsessed with how much he can make you feel with just his fingertips. “Tell me where you want me,” he’ll whisper against your throat while teasing a finger down your thigh.

On you : Your mouth. Not just for what it does, but how it moves. The curve when you smile, the little intake of breath when you’re trying not to moan, the way it parts when he slides a finger into you and whispers something filthy against your ear.

He’s obsessed with the way you whimper against his kiss. Sometimes he’ll press his thumb into your bottom lip and say, “Let me see how much you want it.” And then watch—ruthlessly—as you fall apart

♡ C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Robby finishes deep, every time. It’s instinctive. You clenching around him when he starts to lose control? That’s what does it. He’ll bury his face in your shoulder with a groan that sounds almost pained, holding you in place while he spills inside you. And afterward? He stays inside just a little too long. “Just… let me have this for a second.”

He loves watching it drip out of you after. Fingers gentle but greedy as he brushes it back in, eyes dark with a possessiveness he never voices out loud.

♡ D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He has a thing for catching you in the middle of it.

Not touching yourself for him—not some showy, performed thing. No. He wants to catch you when you think he’s not there. When it’s real. Quiet. Desperate. Private.

That’s his secret.

He’s walked in on you once—half-asleep, legs spread, hand between your thighs, whispering his name under your breath without even realizing it. You didn’t notice him right away.

But he noticed everything.

The way your hips stuttered. The little gasp you made when your fingers brushed just right. The slick sound of you trying to get yourself off like it wasn’t already too much. The blush that crept up your chest when you finally looked over and saw him standing there, hard in his jeans, eyes dark, watching.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

And sometimes—he doesn’t mean to—but he lingers outside the bedroom door when you don’t know he’s home. Just listening. Breathing slow. Letting his cock throb in his hand while you whimper his name with your fingers buried inside you.

He won’t ask you to stop. He won’t interrupt.

♡ E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Robby is the guy who doesn’t look like a heartbreaker, but you find out after that he could be. He’s had lovers—but he doesn’t throw it around casually. When he touches you, it’s obvious : he knows what he’s doing. His rhythm, his pressure, the way he reads your breath and adjusts in real time. Precision with heat.

And when you moan his name? His lips part, slow, like he’s drinking you in. “That’s it. Just like that. Good girl. Let me hear you.”

♡ F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

In the privacy of the bedroom, Robby's preferred position is classic missionary. He loves to have you lying beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, allowing for deep penetration and full-body contact. This position enables him to maintain eye contact, reading every nuance of your expressions, and to kiss you deeply, muffling shared moans.

What elevates this position for him is the intimacy it fosters. He can feel your heartbeat against his chest, synchronize his breathing with yours, and whisper sweet or filthy nothings directly into your ear. The ability to have his hands free to explore your body, caress your sides, or intertwine fingers adds layers to the connection. It's not just about the physical pleasure but the profound emotional bond it reinforces each time.

♡ G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Not really goofy—more warm. He’s serious when it counts, but he has this soft, crooked smirk when you laugh mid-kiss. He’ll say something under his breath like “You’re trouble, you know that?” while flipping you over. The humor is subtle—intimate. Like you’re in on something private.

♡ H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s got a full bush, thick and dark, not out of neglect but because he doesn’t see the point in shaving something that feels natural. The hair down there is soft but dense, and when he’s hard? It frames his cock like it’s meant to be worshipped.

There’s a trail leading up from his pelvis—dark and straight. It’s the kind of thing you see once and can’t stop staring at, especially when his shirt rides up after a long shift and your eyes catch that line of hair leading down. He notices when you look. He always notices.

And let’s not skip the beard.

He loves burying his mouth between your thighs like it’s the only place he wants to be. His tongue is slow, deep, deliberate. His stubble drags across every tender inch, rough enough to leave you raw, just the way he knows you like it.

He shaved once.

He came out of the bathroom with a towel slung low, jaw bare, clean, pink in places where the razor caught. He looked at you—wet hair, smug expression, a glint in his eye like he thought he’d done something special.

Your eyes dragged over his face, down to the curve of his throat. Blank. Quiet. Then :

“You shaved.”

He nodded, a little too proud. “Figured I’d try something different.”

You didn’t answer. Just got under the covers, and faced the wall.

You didn’t fuck him for a week.

You still let him pull you close. Still let him kiss your neck. But your cunt stayed untouched, aching and slick in silence, because you chose to starve him with it. To remind him that this—you—has rules.

You waited until the stubble came back.

That night, you let him between your legs.

You didn’t speak. Just pulled him down and pressed your cunt to his mouth like something owed. He took it like an apology.

Now, he doesn’t forget. When he fucks you with his mouth, he does it slow. Thorough. Until you shake. Until you cry out. Until it’s more than just pleasure—it’s possession. His jaw works like he’s starving. Like he remembers every second of those nights you wouldn't let him have it.

When he pulls back—chin wet, lips parted—his breath ghosts over your skin. You’re flushed and trembling, still pulsing from the friction.

He looks up, voice wrecked, reverent.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

You exhale, heavy, jaw slack.

“You won’t.”

♡ I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

When he’s in your bed, it’s not about sex—it’s about claiming space in your life. Every touch is intentional. Every glance lingers a second too long. Every thrust carries the weight of everything he doesn’t say out loud.

He gives his full attention, eyes locked on yours while his hands hold you still, and his voice drops in your ear :

“I want you to feel me tomorrow. I want you to remember this.”

And afterward? When your legs are still shaking and your mind’s gone foggy? He pulls you into his chest because you’re his. It's the kind of closeness that tells you—no one else gets this version of him.

♡ J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Robby jerks off only when it’s necessary—when he’s so hard it aches, or when he’s had a day that pressed every damn button and he needs you to take the edge off… but you’re not there.

He always does it the same way : Back against the headboard, hand braced on his thigh, one slow stroke at a time while his eyes are shut and you’re the only thing in his head. Sometimes it’s your voice. Sometimes it’s the way your body looked the last time you collapsed under him.

He finishes hard, jaw clenched, chest rising. And every time? He mutters your name under his breath, like a confession he’s still trying to outrun.

♡ K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He doesn’t just want to fuck you—he wants to manage you. Override your thoughts. Rewire what you associate with pleasure until the only thing you crave is his voice, his rules, his cock.

And he does it slow. He makes you ask. Not because he’s into power trips—but because he wants to hear you break.

“You want something, you say it. Use your words.”

“That tone won’t get you what you need, sweetheart.”

And when you finally say it—broken, desperate, voice shaking—he rewards you by giving all of himself, rough hands, heavy weight, deliberate thrusts that make you sob.

He’s into positional control—knees spread wide, hands behind your back, chin tilted up with one thick hand under your jaw. Not to scare you. To focus you.

You don’t look away. You don’t squirm.

You listen. You obey.

And when you don’t? He’ll stop mid-thrust, press his body flush to yours, and growl :

“Try that again. See what it gets you.”

When he puts you where he wants you and says, “Stay still while I fuck you,” —you do. Every time.

That’s the kink : You, undone. And him, fully in control of everything.

♡ L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He’s a bed man, 100%. Not because he’s boring—because he wants time, room, and access. Sheets pushed down. One knee between your thighs. He wants to make a mess.

But he does have a soft spot for the couch especially after a long day, when you curl into his side while watching something on TV, kiss his neck, and he doesn’t even bother pulling your pants all the way off before tugging you into his lap and sliding in from underneath.

♡ M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

What gets Robby going?

You. Wanting him.

It’s the way you shift closer when you speak—like your body can’t help but chase him. The brush of your leg against his under the table, slow and unthinking, but your breath always catches after. The way your eyes dilate when he says your name low.

It’s instinct. Want in its rawest form. Not loud. Not deliberate. Just something in you pulling toward something in him.

And he notices.

Feels it in the silence. In the way your thighs tense when he stands too close. In the heat radiating off you when you pretend you’re not thinking about his hands on your skin. But you are. And he knows it.

And when you do ask?

That’s what does it.

Just a soft little please—barely above a whisper. His cock’s already hard in his pants, jaw tight, breath low and steady, because if he moves too fast, he’ll lose it.

And if you’re already wet when he checks?

He groans—low, rough, wrecked.

“Yeah. That’s all I fuckin’ need.”

Because that’s what gets him. Not performance. Not noise. Just need. Honest, helpless, soaked-through need.

The kind that has your cunt dripping just from the thought of him.

That kind of power? That kind of want?

He’ll fuck you senseless for it. Every time.

♡ N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He won’t turn sex into something cold and punishing.

You can tease him. Push him. You can mouth off just to see how long it takes for him to press you into the mattress and make you sorry you started it. He likes that. He likes the challenge.

But he doesn’t want cruelty. Not from you, not toward you.

The first time it comes up, it’s not even in bed.

You say it offhandedly—half a joke, half testing the waters. Something you read in a post, or a thread, or some comment section that said men like him—older, quiet, in control—like it mean. That they get off on making you cry. That pain is the point. That it’s not real unless it hurts.

And his reaction is immediate. Not angry—just quiet. Controlled. Serious in that way he gets when he needs you to listen.

He touches your chin, gently, turns your face toward him. Thumb brushing your cheek. His eyes on yours.

“No, honey. We don’t do that here.”

His voice is low, even.

“You want to be taken apart? Fine. You want to be mine? Good. But not like that.”

Then he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

He doesn’t care what you’ve read or what men like him are supposed to want—he’s not here to watch you cry just to feel powerful, not interested in pain that leaves you numb or pushing past what you can take just because you think that’s what gets him off.

He wants you honest, wanting, undone by pleasure. He’ll ruin you. Wreck you. Push you to the edge of something so intense it leaves you shaking.

But pain for pain’s sake? Anything that feels hollow, detached, or cruel?

That’s where he stops.

♡ O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving?

Devotional. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t tease. He feasts. Like your thighs are the only place he wants to die.

One arm looped under your leg, the other gripping your hip. He’ll drag his tongue in deep, slow strokes until you’re begging. Not because he wants praise—because he wants you undone. Wants your thighs trembling, your voice high and ruined, your fingers scrabbling through his hair with desperate little gasps.

Receiving?

He loves it—but more because he likes watching you want it. The heat in your eyes, the way you look up while you suck him slow, spit slicking your lips. If you grip his thighs and choke a little, he’ll groan and push your hair back :

“Easy, sweetheart… take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

♡ P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Controlled.

Not fast, not rough—measured. Like every thrust is calculated to make you feel exactly what he wants you to.

He’ll keep it slow until you’re practically begging, then snap his hips once—just once—and smirk when you whimper.

“That’s what you needed, huh?”

He’ll go harder when you ask. But his rhythm never loses that precision.

♡ Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Robby doesn’t like quickies. Not really.

He wants time—wants to press his mouth to every inch of your skin, listen to the way your breath shifts, draw your orgasm out like he’s conducting it. Quickies cut corners, and Robby? Doesn’t like cutting corners.

But you? You’re standing just a little too close during a quiet stretch in the ER—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, voice barely above a whisper: “Please. I need you. Right now.”

And when you reach for his hand, tug him gently by the wrist toward the back hallway— He knows where you’re going. And he doesn’t stop you.

You slip into the empty on-call room. He’s two steps behind you, shutting the door with a quiet click and turning the lock.

His voice is low, sharp, already strained:

“You really want this here?”

You nod, out of breath.

“Please, Robby… I need it. I don’t care if it’s quick. I just—fuck—I need you inside me.”

That’s all it takes.

He’s on you in a second—one hand at your throat, the other already pushing you back against the wall. His mouth crashes into yours—filthy, impatient—and he grabs your scrub pants, yanking them down just enough to expose your thighs.

Your underwear stays on.

He hooks a finger under the elastic, pulls it to the side, and groans when he sees you—slick, swollen, already soaked for him.

“You came in here like this?” His voice is gravel now. “Fucking desperate for it?”

You nod again. Barely.

“Robby—please. I need you—need to feel you—”

He growls low in his throat and presses two fingers into you hard and fast, feeling you stretch around him, already pulsing.

“God, you’re fucking dripping.”

He pulls his cock out fast—thick, flushed, angry—and lines himself up without another word. Then, still holding your underwear to the side, he drives into you in one brutal thrust.

You gasp—loud—and his hand’s at your mouth now, pinning you to the wall with his weight.

“Shhh. Be quiet for me. You wanted this so bad, now take it.”

The rhythm is relentless. Fast. Deep. Ruined in five minutes flat. Your hands scramble at his back. Your forehead presses to his collarbone. You’re so full, so fucked, all you can do is sob into his palm as your orgasm crashes over you way too soon.

He fucks you through it. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just grits out,

“That’s it. Just like that. Come around me. God, you feel fucking perfect—”

When he spills inside you, it’s with a broken moan into your shoulder, hips jerking, fingers gripping your waist like he’s trying to hold himself together.

After? He pulls out slow. Gently tucks himself away. Adjusts your underwear back into place and helps you with your pants. Then brushes his thumb along your lower lip where you bit down too hard.

“Next time? You wait until we’re off shift. So I can do that right.”

But you know—The next time you beg?

He’s going to cave again.

He doesn’t like quickies. But for you? He’ll fuck you like it’s the last five minutes of his life.

♡ R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Robby’s not reckless. But behind closed doors? He’ll try anything once—as long as it comes with trust.

You want to be tied up? He’ll get a rope. You want to try temperature play? He’s already warming the oil. But he needs to know you’re there with him, not playing a part.

♡ S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Two to three rounds, easily—if not more, depending on the day.

And in between rounds? He doesn’t check out. He kisses you. Runs his fingers through your hair. Stays in it.

You won’t even realize he’s hard again until he’s flipping you over, saying, “We're not done yet.”

♡ T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Selective. But curious. He keeps a viberator in the nightstand drawer—not for you to use alone, but for him to hold against you while he’s buried inside you.

“Let go. Come on. Let me feel it.”

He’s also into remote-control toys. The idea of having you wear one while you sit across the table at dinner? Knowing he could ruin you the second you tease him?

Yeah. He’s thought about it. A lot.

♡ U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He lives to tease. Not cruelly—strategically. He’ll keep you on the edge for hours. Pull away right before you come. Make you ride him slow until your voice breaks.

And the whole time? He’ll say shit like:

“You want to come? Say it. Say it like you mean it.”

And when you finally do? He’ll give it to you. Hard. Without hesitation. But only once he’s dragged every drop of want out of you first.

♡ V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Grunts. Groans. Low curses whispered into your neck. The sound he makes when he comes is rough.

And when you ride him, slow and deep? He’ll let out this low, desperate moan into your chest that sounds like he’s trying to hold himself back and failing.

That sound? It’s all because of you.

♡ W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He kept the first pair of underwear you left at his place. Not to be creepy. Not to sniff or jerk off to. Just… because.

They’re in the back of his drawer, folded neatly like he might give them back, but he won’t. It’s a memento. A reminder of the first night you stayed. The first night you were his.

♡ X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Thick. Heavy. Veined. He’s not porn-star long, but he doesn’t need to be—the girth alone is enough to make you gasp every time.

You feel him with your whole body. Even when he’s just rubbing the tip through your slick folds, your hips buck involuntarily, desperate for him to fill you. Stretch you. Keep you full until your thighs shake.

And he knows it. Smirks when he catches the way you hesitate right before he pushes in.

“Too much?” he’ll murmur, nudging at your entrance with slow, deliberate pressure.

“You can take it. You always do.”

He presses all the way in, holds there while your body adjusts. He doesn’t fuck like he’s showing off. He fucks like he’s memorizing you with it. Like he’s been thinking about it all day.

And when he pulls out, slow and slick and aching, you’re already sore. Already wanting it again.

♡ Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Robby can hold off for days. Weeks, even. But when he finally has you?

He’s starving.

He doesn’t just want your body. He wants you wrecked. Tearing up. Shaking. Pressing your mouth to his neck so no one hears how hard you come for him.

He wants you craving him just as badly. Not for show. Not for ego. Because that’s the part he hides from everyone else—how badly he needs you when he doesn’t have you.

And when he’s buried in you, deep and slow, holding your wrists down above your head, mouth at your throat, voice shaking from restraint?

That’s when you hear it : “I’ve needed this. You have no idea how fucking much.”

♡ Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

You fall asleep on your side, facing him. One arm draped over his chest, leg tangled between his, skin still hot from where your bodies were pressed tight.

You’re bare.

Still flushed.

Still soft all over, your thighs sticky, your cunt sore and slick from how deep he took you.

And Robby’s still wide awake. Lying flat on his back, one hand resting on the dip of your waist—but his eyes?

They’re on you.

He watches the way your breath slows, the way your mouth parts slightly, the way your fingers twitch against his ribs while you sleep. You’re loose now. Limp and warm and completely undone—and he still feels you, everywhere.

Your stomach rises and falls against him in slow, perfect rhythm. There’s a faint line on your hip—stretch mark, scar, something you used to try and hide.

He sees it.

He loves it.

He traces it lightly with his thumb, barely a touch.

He wants to move.

Wants to roll you onto your back, lick into your cunt until you're whimpering again, make you take him slow all over.

Wants to feel you twitch when he whispers things he never says out loud—like how badly he wants to keep you like this forever he literally has a ring hidden in his nightstand but that’s besides the point.

But he doesn’t. You’re asleep. Spent. Trusting him with your whole body.

So he shifts in a little closer. Presses a kiss to your shoulder. Lets his palm settle over your hip, wide and warm and claiming. Because for now, that’s enough.

Eventually, his eyes will close.

But not yet.

Not when you’re still glowing from what he did to you.

[abbotjack]

(18+ only) nsfw alphabet– jack abbot .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

pairing : jack abbot x afab!reader

18+ MDNI—warning : dominant!jack, slow burn, public sex (on-call room/supply closet), praise kink, overstimulation, restraint/control, emotional repression, soft but possessive aftercare, rough sex with emotional weight. It's all smut so read at your own risk!

a/n : I fear I went a little too feral with this because why is this like 3,500 words. Also all of these are just my opinion! Maybe I'll do one for Robby next idk. But if you enjoyed this perhaps consider giving me a follow so you can stay up to date on newer stuff!

♡ A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Jack doesn’t say much after sex—he never has. But that doesn’t mean he leaves you hanging.

He moves like muscle memory: wipes you down with slow, practiced hands; helps you into his T-shirt without breaking eye contact; presses a kiss to your knee like it wasn’t just shaking against his shoulder minutes ago. His hands tremble a little, sometimes—not from the sex, but from the way you look at him after. Like you see through all of it.

And when you fall asleep against him, spine curved to fit his body, he doesn’t move. Not for hours. Not even when his arm goes numb. He just lies there, heartbeat still ragged, staring at the ceiling like he’s waiting for the world to end.

But when he does finally breathe—deep and full, like it hurts—he buries his face in your hair and says the one thing he never lets himself say out loud.

“Don’t go.”

You’re already asleep.

He’s glad.

Because if you heard him? He’d never be able to pretend it didn’t mean everything.

♡ B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His : His arms. Thick-veined, corded with muscle, scarred from combat and trauma and living too many lives. When he wraps them around you, it feels like armor.

Yours : Your hips. He grips them when he’s losing it, when he’s fucking you deep and saying your name like a warning. He’d die with his mouth on that soft skin just above your hipbone.

♡ C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Jack doesn’t just cum—he surrenders. He tries to hold back (he always does), but when it hits, it’s like a dam breaking. His whole body tenses. His voice breaks. He spills deep, possessive, groaning into your mouth or your cunt like he needs to be inside you to survive. There’s always a pause afterward—like he’s shocked by how much he needed it.

♡ D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He has a photo of you—nothing explicit. Just you in his bed, back turned, bare shoulders peeking out from the sheets, sunlight catching the curve of your spine. You were still asleep when he took it.

He told himself it was just the light. Just the moment.

But that photo? He looks at it more than he should. Especially on the nights where he’s on call and his body aches . He opens it, zooms in—not even to jerk off. Just to breathe. To remind himself there’s softness waiting for him somewhere.

But sometimes, after a night that’s been too long and a shift that took too much, he’ll sit on the edge of his bed, phone in one hand, the other wrapped tight around his cock. And he’ll stare at that photo, jaw clenched, thinking about how warm your body felt under his palms, how you sighed when he kissed the back of your neck.

You’ll never know about it. He’ll never show you. It’s not porn. It’s not even explicit.

But it’s the dirtiest thing he owns.

Because it’s real. And it’s you.

♡ E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Jack knows bodies. Intimately. Years of military life, adrenaline-fueled hookups, flings that burned fast and left no ashes. He knows how to make someone come hard, fast, and quiet. He knows pressure points, pace, rhythm. He knows what makes a body break—but not what makes one stay.

And then came you. And suddenly, none of that mattered. He learns you.

Because this isn’t just sex anymore—it’s a goddamn reckoning. Jack touches you like he’s afraid it might be the last time. Kisses you like he doesn’t know how to stop. Every time he fucks you, it’s a war between instinct and emotion. Between everything he knows and everything he’s terrified to feel. He’s experienced, yes. But with you? He’s learning all over again.

♡ F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

You, facedown, pinned under his weight, your legs spread, his hand wrapped around the back of your neck. Not choking—just anchoring. He likes knowing you’re there, fully his, every inch of him pressed to every inch of you. But he also loves when you ride him—loves watching your body take him, he is so greedy when it comes to you.

♡ G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Not in the moment. Jack is intense. Serious. But afterward, when your cheek is on his chest and your fingers are tracing the scar near his ribs? He softens. He smirks. Says things like “Didn’t know you could make that noise” just to watch your face burn.

♡ H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Jack keeps it neat. Always has. Military habit. Something about order, control—even in the most private parts of himself. It’s never been about looks; it’s about function. Clean. Trimmed. Routine. No fuss.

But it’s not bare. Never has been. That’s not him. And after you told him—quietly, shyly, your fingertips brushing his lower stomach—that you liked it, the way it felt against your thighs, the way it looked when you were on your knees? He started letting it grow just a little longer.

Not much. Just enough for you to feel it when you're grinding down on him, slick and panting, your body flush to his. Just enough that when you tug his pants down and your fingers slip into the waistband, they brush coarse hair and your breath catches.

He noticed that sound.

Didn’t say anything. Just… didn’t trim as short next time.

It’s a quiet thing. A choice he makes without ever acknowledging it. Jack wouldn’t tell you that your preferences have changed his habits—but they have. And he likes the way your eyes drop when he undresses, the way your touch lingers there.

It’s one more thing that belongs to you. Even if you’ll never hear him say it.

♡ I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Jack doesn’t do soft—at least, not like other men do. He doesn’t light candles or lay rose petals on the bed. But he holds your face in both hands after sex like he’s trying to memorize it. He strokes your lower back long after you’ve stopped trembling. And when he pushes into you slow, deep, deliberate, with his forehead pressed against yours, he says your name like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He kisses you. Slow. Starved. Like a man who knows exactly how far he's fallen but refuses to stop.

♡ J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He doesn’t do it often—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t. Not when you’re not there. Not when all it does is remind him of what he’s missing.

But when he does? It’s always in the dark. After a shift. Alone. With your scent still lingering in his sheets and his body aching like hell. He pulls your shirt from under his pillow—the one you left after staying over, the one you said he could keep. He fumbles for it one-handed, already hard, already leaking. He buries his face in the cotton and groans against it like he’s ashamed of how much he needs you.

♡ K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Jack doesn’t talk about what he likes. He shows it. Quiet control. Firm hands. A mouth that worships. He loves being in charge—not because he wants to own you, but because he wants to take care of you.

His biggest kink? Obedience, but only when you choose it. When you’re writhing beneath him, wrists pinned, whispering “Please, Jack” like he’s the only one who can give you what you need.

Also? Praise. He doesn’t say it often, but when you clench around him and cry out and break, he grits his teeth and growls it into your neck :

“That’s it. You take me so fucking well.”

“Good girl. Just like that.”

You come harder when he says it. And he knows it.

♡ L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Jack wants you at his place. Always has.

His apartment isn’t flashy, but it’s his. Clean. Controlled. Quiet. And the bedroom? That’s where he lets go—not of control, but of everything else. That’s where he fucks you like it’s the only time he’ll ever get to. Where he strips you bare one piece at a time, lays you out on his dark sheets, and takes his time learning every inch of you all over again. Pressing you into the mattress with the kind of weight that makes you gasp, slides into you so deep and slow it feels like your spine lights up.

“My bed. My rules. My fuckin’ girl.”

And when he makes you come—back arched, his name bitten into your tongue—he kisses you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

That’s how he prefers it.

But sometimes? He can’t wait.

You know that look in his eye—the one that says I need you now. The one that burns across the ER. The one that makes you pause in the stairwell because he’s following too close, and you know what’s coming.

→ The on-call room

He locks the door behind you like he’s done it before. No words. Just hands. Rough. Skilled. Urgent. He lifts you onto the cot, pushes your scrub pants down, and slides his fingers between your thighs while your back hits the pillow.

“Already wet for me?” he whispers, voice dark and quiet, body crowding yours.

You nod, breathless. He kisses you like he’s starving and fucks you like he’s trying to keep you there forever. One hand over your mouth, the other gripping your thigh to keep you open, filled, silent.

But you’re not silent. Not when he whispers, “You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Just like that?”

You always do.

→ The supply closet

It’s tighter. Dirtier. The fluorescent lights hum above your head as he shoves boxes aside, pulls you into the corner, and pushes you against the shelving. His knee presses between your thighs, spreading you open. His mouth crashes into yours like a mistake he’ll make a thousand times over.

He hikes your leg up and thrusts in without preamble. You both groan. You’re still in your coat. His ID badge brushes your chest every time he slams into you. It’s ridiculous. It’s filthy. It’s perfect.

“Gotta be quick,” he pants, forehead to yours.

You claw at his back. You come with your eyes rolling and your voice cracking.

And when he pulls out, kisses you fast, and adjusts your scrubs for you? You swear he almost smiles.

♡ M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You. Always you.

The way you say his name like it’s a dare. The little sigh you make when you stretch first thing in the morning. The curve of your waist when you’re standing in scrubs and not even trying. He notices everything, even if he pretends not to.

But what really undoes him? When you touch him without needing anything. Just… because you want to. Your fingers grazing his jaw. Your mouth on his shoulder. Your hand slipping into his lap during a silent moment.

“You want something?” he’ll ask, low.

You’ll just smile.

“Just you.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

♡ N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Jack draws hard lines. Nothing humiliating. No hardcore degradation. No making you feel small—he’s seen enough of that in the world and he won’t recreate it in the one place that’s supposed to feel safe.

Another limit? Emotionless sex. He’s done it before. He’s lived in it. He won’t go back.

With you, it has to mean something. Every time.

♡ O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He eats pussy like it’s the first thing he’s tasted in days. Slow at first—just his tongue flicking softly against your clit, building you up. He likes to tease, to wait for your thighs to shake and your hips to roll up into his mouth before he gives in.

But once you’re begging? He gets filthy. Hands pinning your thighs wide, tongue fucking you until you scream his name. And when you come? He groans like it’s his orgasm too.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Give it to me. I’ve got you.”

He loves how wrecked you get. How sensitive. How breathless.

And he doesn’t stop after one.

♡ P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Jack doesn’t fuck like a man in a hurry.

He takes his time—too much time sometimes. Because when you spread your thighs for him, when your hands reach for his body like you need it to live? He doesn’t rush. He watches. Studies. Breathes through it like he's grounding himself in the moment.

That first thrust is slow. Deep. Intentional. His forehead touches yours as he pushes all the way in, until your breath hitches and your fingers curl against his back.

“There you go,” he murmurs, voice low and ragged.

“Nice and full, huh? I’ve got you.”

He pulls out just as slow. Watches your face. Feels your cunt clench around nothing.

Then he does it again. And again.

And again.

He keeps that pace—not teasing, not soft. Just controlled, the kind of fucking that makes your thighs shake long before you come. He’s punishing in how patient he can be. Like he knows exactly how close you are, and chooses to keep you right there—hovering on the edge, dizzy, begging.

“You want it faster?” he asks, breath warm against your cheek.

“Then say it. Say you need me.”

And when you do—when the words finally break out of your throat—his hands grip your hips harder. He pulls out halfway and slams back in so fast and deep your back arches off the bed.

That’s when you see it. The crack in him.

Because when Jack loses control, he loses it all the way. His rhythm turns punishing. Relentless. That perfect control unravels in a blur of heat and friction and need. He presses you down into the mattress, fucking you with his whole body, like he’s trying to anchor himself inside you.

You moan. Sob. Shake.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until your voice is raw and your body is wrecked and he’s buried deep, groaning into your neck.

♡ Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Jack doesn’t chase quickies—but he doesn’t pretend he doesn’t think about them either. Not when you look at him like that.

Not when your palm rests on his chest for a second too long while passing in the hall. Not when you whisper something filthy against his neck just before rounds, smile innocent, and walk away.

He holds it together better than most—years of training, war, ER chaos. But you? You’re the thing he can’t regulate. And every so often, when the tension coils too tight and the shift won’t give him space to breathe, he takes what he needs.

He’s careful about it. Deliberate. And it’s fast—but not careless.

♡ R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Jack calculates risk like breathing—it’s instinct, wired into him from years of surviving things most people can’t imagine. He doesn’t leap into anything he can’t control.

But you? You make him want to.

He won’t take dumb risks—but if the room’s empty, the door locks, and your body’s on his mind all shift long? He’ll fuck you up against that wall with one hand over your mouth and the other gripping your thigh like he’s daring you to say stop.

♡ S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Jack lasts long. He wants to feel everything. Wants to see how many times he can make you come before he even thinks about finishing.

He can edge himself for what feels like forever, holding back even as his arms tremble from restraint. If you beg? If you plead? He’ll give in—but it’s never just once. He’ll take you again, slower. Or rougher. Or with your legs trembling and your voice breaking as you say his name like it’s the only one you know.

“You done?” he’ll ask, lips brushing your jaw,

“Or do you want one more?”

Spoiler : it’s always one more.

♡ T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Jack never went in for toys. Not because he’s opposed—but because he never needed them. He knows your body. He knows what works. His fingers. His mouth. His cock? That’s always been enough.

But when you brought a small vibrator into bed one night—nothing dramatic, just something quiet and simple—he didn’t blink. Just watched you lay back, already flushed, already wet, the toy pressed between your thighs while you looked up at him.

He didn’t say anything.

Just took it from your hand. Gently. Calmly. Pressed it back to your clit while he slid his fingers inside you and watched. Watched your body respond. Watched your eyes flutter. Watched you break apart.

“That’s it.”

His voice low, steady.

“Stay right there.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t narrate. Just kept his eyes on you and held the toy in place while you came, legs shaking, breath stuttering.

Now? It lives in his nightstand. Just one. That’s all he needs.

He only pulls it out when he wants to take his time. When he wants to hold you down, watch you tremble, keep you on edge for so long that by the time he finally fucks you, you’re already half undone.

♡ U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Jack is brutal.

Not with his words—but with his restraint. With how long he can edge you. How calmly he can keep his voice as your hips grind against him, slick and desperate, and he still doesn’t give you what you want.

“Not yet.”

“Hold still.”

“You wanted this—now take it.”

He doesn’t tease to humiliate—he teases because he loves watching you need him. Watching you squirm. Watching you crack.

And when you finally come?

He leans in, mouth at your ear, and whispers :

“Told you I’d get you there.”

♡ V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Jack’s not loud—but he’s not silent either.

He breathes heavy through his nose. Grits his teeth when you moan his name. Curses under his breath when you tighten around him and drag your nails down his back. “Fuck. Just like that.”

He groans—low, deep, like it’s being pulled out of his chest. Sometimes? He growls your name into your neck right as he comes, rough and almost pained.

♡ W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Jack keeps a spare toothbrush for you at his place. He pretends it’s not a big deal.

He also bought new sheets after the first night you stayed over, because he remembered you said his were stiff and too clinical. The new ones? Dark. Soft. Worn-in. The first time you curled up in them, naked and flushed from three rounds, he just watched you for a second and quietly said :

“These work better, huh?”

You never asked him to change a thing.

He just does. Quietly.

Because you’re not a fling. You’re home.

♡ X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Thick. Heavy. Cut. Not absurdly big, but enough to stretch you open and make you feel it for hours.

Veiny. Warm. You can see it pressed against his thigh when he’s rock hard and pacing across the bedroom trying to hold it together. You’ve touched it over his jeans before, and he hissed through his teeth and growled, “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

The first time you saw it? You went quiet.

“You okay?” he asked, cocky but concerned.

You just nodded and whispered, “Yeah. I just... need a minute.”

He smirked.

♡ Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Jack has a high sex drive—but he’s disciplined. He won’t beg. He won’t whine. He’ll just sit there, quiet and still, his cock hard in his jeans, watching you stretch in a way that drives him insane.

But when you give him the slightest sign?

When you reach for him first, or whisper that you need him, or crawl into his lap? He’s on you in seconds.

And when he’s had you once? It’s never enough. He’ll take you again. Slower. Rougher. Messier.

♡ Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Jack doesn’t fall asleep after sex. Not right away. Maybe not for a while.

His body stays there—solid, warm, wrapped around yours like armor—but his mind? Still on. Still pacing. Still waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

He’s not used to staying. Not used to being held. Not used to feeling safe enough to let his eyes fall shut.

So he watches you instead. Lets his fingers trace the length of your spine, barely there. Memorizes the shape of your body where it melts into his. Listens to your breathing like it’s his new heart rate.

And when you shift against him, soft and sleepy, murmuring something only half-formed?

He exhales, slow. Anchors you closer. Not possessive—protective.

“I’ve got you,” he says. Quiet. Almost to himself.

Eventually—if your weight stays against his chest, and the room stays dark and still—he’ll fall asleep.

But not because he’s tired. Because you are.

And because you let him stay.

[annwrites]

⸻ let's get married. ⸻

· pairing: benny cross x fem!reader · type: one-shot (collection) · summary: benny takes you downtown to the court house to pay for parking tickets. or that's what he tells you, at least. · word count: 1,534

You’d known Benny for five days when he asked it. Well, not so much asked, as just presented it like it was some sort of casual idea.

“Let's get married.”

You blanch, staring at him from across your kitchen table where the two of you are having lunch—cheeseburgers with sides of small bowls of vegetable soup, all prepared by you.

You swallow, nearly choking on your food, and then you grin nervously.

“We can’t do that,” you reply.

He takes a bite of his burger, licking his lips. “Why not?”

You’re in disbelief that he seems actually serious.

You can never tell when he’s joking.

“We haven’t even known each other for a week yet. And…we barely know each other in general. We’re not—we’re not in-love.”

He shrugs, taking a sip of his soup. “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other later.”

You raise a brow, staring at him like he’s insane. Honestly, sometimes he makes you wonder, and you’ve known him for only a handful of days so far.

You look back down to your food, shaking your head. “We’re not getting married.”

He smirks. “We’ll see.”

It’s a Friday—your day off—when Benny still shows up on your front porch.

You open the door—clad in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and your hair in a messy ponytail, because you’d intended to stay in for the day—to the sight of Benny leaning against the doorframe with his shoulder, his other hand in his pocket. 

“I’m not working today,” you say quietly.

“I know. I have to run downtown to pay a couple of parking tickets. Was wonderin’ if maybe you’d want to come with me, and we could go do somethin’ after.”

“Oh. Uh, sure.”

He steps over the threshold, shutting the door behind him. 

“Wear somethin’ pretty,” he tells you, tracing his fingertips gently along your cheek.

You flush, nodding. “Okay.”

You cross your legs, smoothing the skirt of your light-pink dress, waiting for Benny to finish up with the paperwork that rests in his lap.

“When’s your birthday?” He asks.

Your brows furrow for a moment before you smile softly and answer him.

It’s not for awhile, but it’s sweet that he’s planning ahead.

“What’s your middle name?”

You raise a brow, but give him an answer, nonetheless.

Maybe he’s just trying to get to know more about you?

You watch from the corner of your eye as he ticks off a couple of boxes on his paperwork, before writing something.

“What’s your social?”

You turn toward him then. “What? Why do you need to know something like that?”

He glances to you, then back to the paperwork before him. “I need it to finish the application for our marriage license.”

Your eyes grow impossibly wide.

“Our what?!” You shout—people turning their heads in your direction.

He hardly reacts to your outburst as he leans back, resting an arm behind you.

“Benny, we can’t—you can’t—we’ve known each other for…barely two weeks. This isn’t—no—”

“What’s the problem?” He asks, resting an ankle over a knee, setting the application atop his bent leg.

“We’re still practically strangers to each other,” you say, trying to reason with him.

He shakes his head, resting it atop his fist after sliding his pen behind his ear. “Not how I see things. You’re my girl. And I figure we’re going to get hitched eventually, so why wait?”

Your eyes flit between his. “Benny, I don’t want to. Not…not yet.”

“Why not?”

You scoff, wracking your mind for the right words to make him see reason. "We're not in-love."

His lip twitches. "I love you."

You lean forward, resting your bent elbows atop your knees before cupping your face in your hands.

"No you don't," you mumble, shaking your head.

He slides his hand down your back, tracing your spine with callused fingertips. "Sure I do, little lamb."

You sigh at his chosen nickname for you.

You sit up again, and he slides his hand higher, wrapping it gently around the back of your neck, massaging the tautness from it.

"What's my favorite color?" You ask, turning slightly to him.

His eyes trail along your dress before he gives you a smirk. "Pink."

Too easy.

"My favorite book?"

His eyes gaze into yours. "Probably something with fairytales and romance, if I had to guess."

"You're not supposed to guess," you insist. "You're supposed to know."

He shrugs. "Have the rest of my life to get to know you. Rather do it while married."

No wonder why you sometimes think that he's maybe not playing with a full deck when he just jumps into things like this.

"What happens in two weeks, or a month, when we do get to know one another, only to find out that we've made a huge mistake and we're incompatible?"

He slides his fingers into your hair and watches with satisfaction as your eyes begin to droop while he rubs your scalp.

"I don't see that happenin'," is his simple reply.

You blink slowly at him, having a difficult time concentrating now.

You're supposed to be having a very important and serious conversation, and you know that's why he's playing with your hair: to throw your mind off-track. But you also don't want him to stop...

You'd like to curl up in his lap like a housecat and go to sleep.

You're sure he'd love that.

"What if it does? What if we both want different things, or have annoying habits that're deal-breakers for one another?"

"What things?" Benny asks.

"I want a nice house, and kids someday. I don't even know where you live yet."

He leans his head to the side. "So I'll buy you a house. And I'll get you knocked up when the time is right."

You roll your eyes, then nearly close them in relaxation.

You stare at him from beneath hooded lids. "I know what you're doing."

He grins. "What'm I doin', little lamb?"

You slowly shake your head, indicating that the answer should be obvious.

A corner of his lip tugs upwards. "If you marry me, you could have me doin' this for you every day."

"Habits," you say.

He raises a brow.

"Maybe my being a neat-freak will get on your nerves. Or you not being one will get on mine. Or—"

"Know what they say," he says, interrupting. "Opposites attract."

You groan quietly.

"I'm supposed to believe you want to settle down already? I saw the other night how the girls look at you when you were teaching me pool."

He leans in closer to you, tucking loose strands behind your ear with his free hand. "Didn't see me lookin' back, though, did you? I got eyes for only one woman now."

Your own feel ready to close from sleepiness.

"This is a bad idea," you state.

He smirks. "I'm all about bein' bad, baby. It's why I like that you're so good."

You snort, quietly giggling. "That was dumb."

He merely stares at you affectionately in response.

Finally, he releases you, and you nearly whine at the loss of contact.

He retrieves his pen, looking back to his paperwork.

"Social?"

"You don't even have a ring," you insist—your mind beginning to clear once again.

He glances to you with a raised brow in challenge. "Don't I?"

You remain silent.

He shoves a hand into his right pocket, then pulls out a small black box before handing it to you.

You study him for a moment before popping it open and you gasp lightly. "When—how—"

"Picked it up four days after we first met," he tells you. "Got a good deal at a pawnshop."

Your eyes flit to his before filling with tears.

"Knew I was gonna marry you that first night. Would've brought you down here then, but figured it'd be better if we waited a little, for your sake. Not to mention they were probably already closed," he says with a playful smile.

You look back down to the ring.

A gleaming silver band shines up at you—three small diamonds implanted within the metal.

"Got it engraved," he tells you. "Had to take it to a jeweler. And it cost me, but it was worth it."

You remove the ring from the box and hold it close to your face while narrowing your eyes, turning it in a circle.

"Little...lamb?"

You look at him again and he smiles warmly at you in return.

"Do you like it?" He asks—his voice actually wavering slightly.

You don't think you've seem him nervous even once so far.

You look at your ring and nod. "I do."

He chuckles. "Should've had a damn priest here when you said that."

He takes the trinket from you, tucking it back into the box. "You get your present back when you say it again."

"Until death do us part," Benny mutters, caressing your cheek, his blue eyes staring lovingly into your own while tears slip down your flushed cheeks.

He leans forward then, taking your face between his hands, and he crushes his lips to yours.

[scoopdedooop]

Masterlist

I keep getting requests to do this and I'm not very savvy so I may have missed some. This is all just Ted/Jason stuff.

Ted Lasso x Reader

One Shots

Reunited (NSFW)

3:03am (NSFW)

Sunday (NSFW)

The Bet

Ted's toddler is a terror (NSFW)

Side fic of this

Gala (NSFW)

Motivational Conference (NSFW)

Coming back together (NSFW)

I love you x3 (NSFW)

The argument (NSFW)

Teasing Ted (NSFW)

Rough time (NSFW)

Late at night (NSFW)

Sleepover (NSFW)

Series

Having a Moment

Chapter 1 (I never finished this cos it depressed me too much)

Ted Teaches

Riding (NSFW)

Public Sex (NSFW)

Sex Shop (NSFW)

Phone Sex (NSFW)

Spanking (NSFW)

Squirting (NSFW)

Roleplay (NSFW)

Make Up Sex (NSFW)

He Fell First, She Fell Harder

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Prompts

Hormones

Tattoos (NSFW)

The dreaded T word

Body image woes (NSFW)

Coming isn't easy to do (NSFW)

The horny stage (NSFW)

Stamina (NSFW)

Sweet Things (NSFW)

Insecurities (NSFW)

Family (NSFW)

Taking it out on you (NSFW)

Daddy (NSFW)

Work out for Ted (NSFW)

Jason Sudeikis x Reader

One Shots

Punishment (NSFW)

Party (NSFW)

Making Up (NSFW)

Girlfriend (NSFW)

The Break Up (NSFW)

Prompts

Welcome Home (NSFW)

Road Trip (NSFW)

Jealousy (NSFW)

First I Love You (NSFW)

Halloween (NSFW)

Period

Let's Make a Baby

After Thundergong (NSFW)

[absurdthirst]

Absurdthirst’s MasterList

HeadCanons

Sex Pollen MasterList

NSFW Alphabet

Holiday Central

Kinktober 2020

Kinktober 2021

Kinktober 2022

Kinktober 2023

Kinktober 2024

Weekly Writing Round Up

Writer Wednesday Blurbs

Monster Fucking/Loving MasterList

Early Morning {PP character of choice x F!Reader}

Banging Time Machine {Multiple Character x F!Reader}

The Mandalorian MasterList

Francisco “Catfish” Morales MasterList

Agent Whiskey/Jack Daniels MasterList

Pero Tovar MasterList

Javier Peña MasterList

Oberyn Martell MasterList

Ezra (Prospect) MasterList

Marcus Pike MasterList

Max Phillips MasterList

Dave York MasterList

Marcus Moreno MasterList

Max Lord MasterList

Zach Wellison MasterList

Dieter Bravo MasterList

Javi Gutierrez MasterList

Joel Miller MasterList

Tim Rockford MasterList 

Marcus Acacius MasterList 

[reallyrallyauthor]

Here We Go

8 fic series- COMPLETE ☑️

•Part 1 Steven has had a crush on you ever since you took his old job at the museum gift shop. With Jake's help, he finally asks you out. Things go a little further than planned.

1- Here We Go- your pov (~1.7k) 🔥 2- Here We Go- Steven's pov (~2.4k) 🔥

•Part 2 A dinner date at Steven's apartment. Marc planned to cook, but when you show up early, he and Steven are forced to adapt.

3- Here We Go Again- your pov (~2.1k) 🔥 4- Here We Go Again- Steven's pov (~2.6k) 🔥

•Part 3 Marc introduces himself, and demonstrates the benefits of having more than one boyfriend.

5- You're Easy- your pov (~2.6k) 🔥 6- You're Easy- Steven & Marc's pov (~3.1k) 🔥

•Part 4 Jake introduces himself, and explains a few things: about himself, Moon Knight, and exactly the behavior he expects from you.

7- To Please- your pov (~3.5k) 🔥 8- To Please- Jake's pov w/ Steven & Marc (~3.9k) 🔥

**masterlist** **MK masterlist**

[myspace]

Hex Girls in Scooby-Doo! and the Witch's Ghost

[krmy2386]

Swan

Lord Alfred Debling x Reader (childhood crush on Benedict) about 2.5k words

1. PLEASE DO NOT STEAL!!! I WORKED VERY HARD ON THIS!!!!

2. NOT PROOF READ!!!

3. Yes I love Benedict but I needed a plot to don’t hate me😅

————————————————————————

Lady Y/N L/N was always called the Ugly Duckling. Not that she was ever actually ugly. More awkward in her younger years, especially compared to the beautiful Bridgetons, her closest friends.

She remembers the first time she was called that name. It was Benedict Bridgerton, her best friends’ brother, and the boy she had harbored feelings for as a child.

One day Violet Bridgerton was reading a book of stories to Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Y/N and Daphne. When they finished the infamous “Ugly Duckling,” young Benedict loudly declared the Y/N must be a swan, because she was an ugly duckling. This immediately caused Y/N to sob hysterically and Violet scolded Benedict while Lady L/N tried to console her daughter. Eventually the two children made up and it was forgotten. By Benedict, never by Y/N. She never forgot how those words made her feel.

Over the years, Y/N grew into both her features and her attitude. This was her third year on the marriage mart and it was no secret to the ton that Y/N would not be doing anything she did not want to do. She had a sharp wit and a tendency to find mischief. Many people, mainly the men, joked about who could “tame” her.

Maybe that’s why she was so drawn to Benedict. He seemed to radiate joy and light. Y/N wanted that. She wanted someone who would send shocks through her.

But that would never happen. Because now, as a grown woman, she hated Benedict Bridgerton.

————————————

Lord Debling was praying for the ball to end when he realized he had only been there about 5 minutes. He felt like a duck being hunted by a hound.

The mothers of the ton had set their sights on him. Their daughters were less intense but just as obvious.

He began lightly pacing, hoping for a hole to swallow him when he heard a shrill voice shout his name.

Oh God, he thought. Mrs Cowper, with her daughter Cressida in tow.

Lord Debling sighed, but did the gentlemanly thing and bowed.

“Lady Cowper, how are you this evening?” He asked politely.

Cressida flutter her eyes so fast a hummingbird would be jealous, “So much better now that I see you are here. Are you planning on dancing tonight?”

Fear ran through his body and he began to stutter, “Um, w-well I-I hadn’t..”

“Lord Debling!” It was his guardian angel, Lady Danbury. He felt relief fill his lungs and he turned to Mrs. Cowper and Cressida, “Excuse me.”

He rushed over to Lady Danbury and bowed before leaning to her ear, “Thank you!” He whispered.

Lady Danbury laughed lightly and patted his hand on top of hers, “Never fear, I promised your mother long ago to look out for you, and they looked ready to rip you to shreds.”

Lord Debling couldn’t help but nod. He tried to see the good in people but something about Cressida Cowper made him uneasy.

Something about the way she speaks down on everyone, her garish clothes, her unnatural hair shapes.

Alfred Debling never thought a love match would be in his future. The most he hoped for was a kindhearted friend to spend his days at home with. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have standards.

He didn’t want a fake person who would change the minute they were behind closed doors. He wanted someone real. Someone he could share life with, even if they were just friends.

“My mother would’ve loved this,” he mumbled softly. “Meeting people and dancing.”

Laney Danbury nodded in agreement. “Yes, your mother was a spirited and kind woman. And she would’ve put Lady Cowper in her place in a heartbeat.” She joked. Debling couldn’t help but laugh.

—————————

Y/N was miserable the entire carriage ride. Not only would she have to once again parade around like a peacock trying to catch a husband. It would more than likely fail. Her only solace was that she planned to escape to Penelope as soon as possible. But even the Featherington girl had been in social mourning since her whole plan with Colin blew up.

Stupid Bridgerton Boys, she thought to herself. They ruin everything.

“Y/N” she heard her mother’s gentle voice, “I know you hate this dear, but please try to have some fun!” Her mother was so genuine in her request, Y/N couldn’t help but smile. They didn’t need her to marry for money or title. She had that privilege.

Lady L/N knew something has shifted in her daughter. She never pushed Y/N to share, but she was worried. The spark had left Y/N’s eyes.

Y/ N grabbed her mother’s hand.

“I will try.” She said truthfully. Maybe she could force herself to enjoy one evening for her mother’s sake. She never meant for her mother to worry about her so much. As a child, her mother worried due to her talents in running off and climbing trees. Now she had all new worries, that Y/N might be sad, or lonely for a long time. No mother wants that.

—————————

Lord Debling was glancing around the room. Hoping for something, anything, to make the time go by faster.

When he glanced at the stairs he swears time stopped.

She was beautiful. She wore a cream colored gown with gold and silver thread embroidery. She glided down the stairs like she was floating. She didn’t have a large fake smile plastered on her face. She looked content but not overly excited.

“Beautiful is she not?” Lord Debling jumped at Lady Danbury’s voice.

“Yes,” he said. Then turning full attention back to the beauty on the stairs, “she certainly is… gorgeous.” He whispered.

Lady Danbury looked at poor Deblings face and almost chuckled. If he thought she was impressive to look at, wait until she spoke to him.

“That is Y/N L/N, daughter of some close friends of mine. She is a wonderful girl. Spirited.” Lady Danbury says with a knowing smile. “And, she is not yet married.”

Debling was now giving Lady Danbury his full attention. “She isn’t? Are you sure?” Lady Danbury normally would be offended at someone questioning her knowledge of the ton. But she took pity on him, this once.

“I’m sure. This is her third year out in society. She doesn’t need money or a title so she has the luxury of being picky. Although, most of the men in the ton find her to be too much to handle.”

Lady Danbury said gently. She loved and adored Y/N and knew she could be a bit much for some people.

This made Alfred Debling swoon. A woman who was unapologetically herself.

“Will you introduce me to her?” Lord Debling asked Lady Danbury.

This caught her slightly by surprise. He had never asked for her help meeting the women of the ton. He normally had no problem introducing himself to people. But she could tell by his eyes, he was begging.

“Alright.” She said taking his arm. “Follow my lead.”

———————————

After they descended the stairs, Lady L/N and Y/N thanked their host before heading into the main ballroom.

Y/N hadn’t seen the Bridgertons yet. Maybe. She would be safe after all.

“Duckie!” Hearing that name made Y/N cringe. There were only two people alive who still called her that name.

She turned cautiously and was greeted by both Colin and Eloise.

“She prefers Y/N, Colin. We aren’t children anymore.” Eloise scolded. She saw the hurt that would flash in Y/N’s eyes at the old nickname.

Colin, oblivious as ever laughed, “She’ll always be Duckie. Even her father called her that.”

At the mention of the late Lord Y/N everyone froze. Even Colin realized what he had done.

“I’m so sorry Y/N I didn’t mean to-“

Y/ N interrupted, “I’m going to get some air.”

And she all but ran away.

Eloise slapped her brother’s arm, “Great job Colin! We spoke to her for 10 seconds and now we’ll never speak to her again!”

It had been a year since Y/N had truly spent time with the Bridgerton family. Since her father’s death. Eloise had planned to ease their way back into her life. That clearly didn’t work. She should’ve known better to recruit Colin instead of Francesca.

————————

Alfred felt lightheaded as the approached Y/N. She was alone in the hallway. She excused herself from the ballroom and Lady Danbury insisted this was the perfect opportunity.

Y/N was staring out the hall window. Her mind was racing and she was praying for a distraction.

“Y/N! It’s so good to see you! How have you been darling?” Lady Danbury asked.

Y/N smiled. It was impossible to be in a bad mood around Lady Danbury.

“I’m doing well. How are you? I’ve heard about the new additions to your garden. Mama and I have been dying to see it.”

Alfred felt his heart jump at her smile. It was real. She was genuinely happy to see Lady Danbury. Maybe one day she would smile at him that way.

“Yes, the garden is in full bloom and ready for visitors. But I have someone here who wanted to meet you.” Lady Danbury gently pulled on Lord Debling’s arm, silently urging him to introduce himself.

“H-Hello Lady Y/N. I’m Lord Alfred Debling.” He choked out. Mentally cursing himself for stuttering.

Y/N was taken aback. A man wanted to meet her? A handsome man?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Debling. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.” Y/N said, mesmerized by his big, puppy dog eyes.

“Well I’ve been encouraged by my family to, um- get to know more people” He wasn’t sure how to explain his situation without blatantly saying he wanted a wife.

Y/N giggled. She knew exactly why he was here.

“I understand perfectly, Lord Debling. But I must warn you not everyone is worth getting to know.” Y/N said bluntly.

Alfred couldn’t help but smile.

“Is that so?” He started. “Perhaps you could escort me around the room and enlighten me to who is who?” He asked, mustering up all of the bravery he could.

Lady Danbury was shocked. Not only did Lord Debling offer Y/N his arm, she took it. Unheard of for both of them.

—————————

As the night carried on, Lady Danbury and Lady L/N watched happily as Lord Debling and Y/N walked circles around the room together.

Y/N talked on and on about everyone at the ball. Telling stories and sharing her personal experiences.

“And that is Lord and Lady Timsley. They are the oldest couple here.” She stated.

“Really?” Lord Debling asked. “How long have they been together?”

“52 years. They have a cottage close to ours in the country. Lord Timsley used to let me climb his Genovian Pear Tree. Until one day the branch I was on broke and I fell.” Y/N stated.

Alfred was shocked, “Good Lord! Were you alright?!”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes I was fine. My mother was furious and my father found the entire thing hilarious.”

Alfred couldn’t help but see the bittersweet look when she mentioned her father. It’s how he felt when anyone mentioned his mother.

“Is there anyone else here I should be wary of?” He asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Um-“ Y/N surveyed the room then sighed, “the only people left are the Bridgertons”

Lord Debling looked at her and immediately knew there was an issue, “Are they people to be wary of?” He asked.

“No. N-no. I just… “ Y/N started before she was interrupted by the one person she dressed to think of.

“Duckie! Where the devil have you been? It’s been ages!” Nearly shouted inebriated Benedict Bridgerton.

Lord Debling saw Y/N immediately go tense and he became on high alert.

Y/N could tell Benedict was drunk. He didn’t hold his liquor well. She briefly looked over to where the other Bridgestone stood and they all looked mortified.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Duckie?” Benedict smirked. “Names Bridgerton.” Benedict forcefully pushed his hand forward and eyed Debling. Almost challenging him.

Alfred took a few seconds and took in his surroundings. Y/N was visibly uncomfortable. Maybe if he found the confidence to talk to her. He could find it to defend her.

So he took a breath and grabbed the Bridgerton boy’s hand. Hard.

“Yes, Viscount Bridgerton. Lovely to meet you.”

Benedict’s faces dropped. “Um- no. That would be my older brother Anthony.

“Oh,” Lord Debling started, “terribly sorry, you are the one who just got back from travels. Tell me, how was Greece? I hear it’s beautiful.”

Benedict’s eyes hardened in the man. “That would be my younger brother.” He gritted his teeth.

Y/N was speechless. No one had ever truly challenged Benedict before. Even Anthony would let him win just to go away.

Before either man could speak again. Violet and Anthony stepped in.

“Benedict, dear it’s time to go home.” Violet tried to gently coax him.

“But I’m being introduced to Lord Dumpling.” He replied.

“It’s Debling, and you’ve already met.” Anthony stated, clearly annoyed.

Benedict’s face lit up with recognition, “Yes! The man who watches the birds! Tell me, what do you eat instead of meat?” Benedict asked cheekily.

“That’s enough brother.” Anthony said sharply.

“What I’m just asking.” Benedict said in his best fake innocent voice.

“It is odd is it not?” He asked, looking directly at Y/N.

“I think it’s lovely.” All Bridgertons and Lord Debling looked at her.

“Really?” Alfred asked.

“Yes. It takes a lot of will power and compassion to make a bold choice like that.” She said looking directly at Lord Debling.

Benedict felt his heart lurch. She didn’t even spare him a glance.

He turned to Violet, “I’d like to go now mother.” Said stomping off to the nearest exit. Anthony rolled his eyes and followed after him.

Violet looked at Y/N, “I’m so sorry for my son’s behavior.” She breathed heavily and added, “All of it.”

Y/N nodded in acknowledgement, “Have a good evening Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet left and Y/N’s mother walked over.

“Lord Debling, it is so nice of you to keep my daughter company.” She said gently. Not wanting to draw any more attention to the situation.

Lord Debling chuckled, “it was quite the opposite Lady L/N. She has been a wonderful guide for the evening.”

Y/N felt herself blush.

“I was hoping I could call on you tomorrow.” Alfred said to Y/N, “if that is okay with you” he directed to her mother.

Lady L/N looked to her daughter to answer.

Y/N looked at Lord Debling. And once again, she became entranced by his caring and gentle gaze.

“I would like that very much.” She smiled, and he smiled back.

[fayes-fics]

Innocence✨Masterpost✨

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Rating: 18+ smut, minors dni

Summary: Short series of fics following on from Temptation. Benedict teaches his intended all about sex.

Status: COMPLETE, 24k words

💫 Prequel fic 💫

Temptation occurs a few hours before Innocence Pt I

💫 Fics in this series 💫

Innocence Pt I: what a man can do with his mouth

Innocence Pt II: what a lady can do with her mouth

Innocence Pt III: self pleasure

Innocence Pt IV: losing it

Innocence Pt V: riding

Innocence Pt VI: talking

One shots set in this universe:

Target Practice Drabble set after they are married

[foxilayde]

Convergence [George Russell x Fem!Reader]

Summary Just a 1k thingy about going to the new opera house with George Russell, all thanks to @youvebeenlivingfictional for encouraging my George Russell infatuation.

Warnings: Overuse of the word "convergence"

A/N: this is my first non-oscar fic. a Noscar, if you will.

It isn't opening night, but it is still opening month, and the new opera house remains the talk of the town. Lavish, luxe, and French in the extreme. You'd assumed you'd be sitting in The Russell's box, along with a group; so you are shocked when Mr. Russell leads you, not upstairs with the other major patrons, but to the second tiered floor section; row J. Seat 14. The smack center of the house layout.

You're further shocked to learn that, tonight, it's just the two of you. You don't even inquire if he's expecting others because your row fills up quickly, the both of you bookended by strangers.

He looks like a proper gentleman in his attire. white tie and waistcoat, he favors black, you've noticed. Tonight's black jacket is a texture of finely woven wool with a crisp shine, just like his inky curls. The part and press of his hair is like a reformed beast and he's complete with white gloves that hide rough, hairy, hands. You are reminded that George Russell might be on the ground floor, but he climbed a fucking ladder to get here.

The two of you make polite small talk for a few minutes before the symphony begins. He speaks confidently of his family, of his business, and you can't help but wonder what in the hell you're doing alone, in the middle of the opera house, with George Russell. Sure, you had assumed. You assumed that his invitation meant... more than just yourself. It's not uncommon for people who own boxes to invite plus ones to their usual group, to shake up the dynamic. You nearly ask him, ask him why it's just the two of you, but the lights dim and the crowd goes quiet.

---

Mr. Russell every so often whispers in your ear. About the themes of the piece, the acoustics of the theater, that the first chair violinist is a noted prodigy from Spain, etc. And you feel so inadequate, because all you can do is nod back at him, having nothing interesting to offer because this man turns your usually sharp brain to mush, and you wish that you could say something smarter than “oh, fascinating.” But your lame responses don’t falter his little game of fact-giving. He continues to put his fucking mouth right up next to your ear and say things that only you can hear, and when he does it, the side of his goddamn thigh pushes against yours just enough to be innocent and yet, not enough to be warm. It’s maddening. 

At the end of each movement, when the applause starts it shocks you like an ice bath. And god, why does he keep looking at your face throughout to gauge your enjoyment ? As if this whole evening were just for you. As though he financed the music house to be perfectly curated to meet your expectations. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me something quite obvious.”

The first thing that pops into your head is the question, "is this a date?" but you don't say that. Because you aren’t a fool, and that's probably not the thing he's been waiting for you to ask...

The only obvious thing to you, are the obviously inappropriate feelings you have for this man. He’s picked up on what a doe eyed spastic you are for him, hasn’t he? Oh god. 

“What’s that, Mr.Russell?” You mutter as innocently and coolly as possible. 

The flutes and piano are all that are playing in the first half of the movement, so he brings his mouth to your ear closer than ever, as to not disturb the quiet around you. As if anyone in these seats would tell Mister George Russell to hush. Ha. 

His breath tickles the inside of your ear and your toes curl in your heels at the heat of his breath on your skin. 

“Why we aren’t in the box.”

And holy fuck, the way he hisses on the “x” makes your whole body shiver. Your breath gets shallow. The cello enters, mirroring the rapid beating of your heart. Curse your damn corset, not allowing you to breathe fully like you need to. God you need air. He’s not saying anything but his mouth remains at flute-solo distance and then he continues, unbidden.

“It’s because, this is the area of convergence.”

Why is he saying the word convergence like that?!? It sounds like too salacious to be an act of auditory architecture.

You swallow, keeping your eyes ahead on the orchestra and you try to steady your breathing. 

“The exact spot, where all the sound, perfectly joins together.”

Lord fuck, he is messing with you, isn’t he? It’s not just the things he’s saying, but the way he’s saying it-- with the long pauses and the barely-there brush of his lips on his “w”s and “p”s. 

You don’t want to look at his face, you don’t want to see the way his eyes glint in the limelight. God forbid you turn your cheek and feel the softness of his beard against your nose, or something equally terrifying.

Instead all you say is a tiny “oh?”, eyes on the conductor, arms waving with a mania to match your mind. Yours feel like lead in your lap.

“Yes, the sound waves, intersect right at your seat, in exquisite harmony.”

Mr. Russell is a bastard man who is attempting to murder you in the middle of The Metropolitan Opera House with nothing more than a whisper. Death by softly spoken secrets of sound science. The first in recorded history. 

He persists. 

“We do have a box of course. It’s the first one from the stage, on the left.” 

You refuse to turn your head for fear of bringing your face closer to his own, so you strain your eyes to the left to see which one he’s referring to. The box is empty, which is a shame since it would be seen by many to be the best seat in the house. 

“But it’s a social club, a room within a room. The sound is uneven and thin at that height."

You wonder if he realizes how long he’s been talking to you, his nose tickling your updo, his lips brushing your lobe. Does he understand how hot your ear has become with his breath? 

“Which is just as well, since you cant hear a thing, with the gossip.”

He is one to talk. Literally. You haven’t registered a fucking note since he first started purring into your ear at the start of the symphony. He might not be gossiping, but he’s certainly distracting.

“Can you hear it, the convergence?”

God there he goes with that word again. With strain on the verge. Bastard.

“I might be able to, if it weren’t for the man in my ear.” You allow yourself a smile when you feel his low huffs of laughter against your skin. 

“Apologies” he says without a hint of remorse.

He shifts back into a more appropriate position, one more fitting for a married railroad magnate. Back against his seat, facing ahead, thigh… still against yours. God.

You allow yourself to look at him now. He buttons his lips closed with a white-gloved finger, points to his own ear and mouths, “convergence” with his infuriating, swaggering smile. 

And you think you can hear it, wether from reality or powerful suggestion, over the thudding of your heart; the swell of strings, the beat of bass; meeting together in euphonious delight. Convergence.

END

Tagging the only two other ppl in the George Russell fandom 😂. No pressure. @the-anonymous-pen @massivecolorspygiant

[ddejavvu]

jake with a shy!reader i feel like that man would be so down bad he’d be unrecognizable to his friends

Tailgating by the beach means sand in your hair (and everywhere else), a trash can full of beer bottles, and a whole lot of wipeouts. For most.

For you, it means Jake’s sweatshirt bunched up under your head like a pillow as your back rests against the metal grooves of his pickup’s bed. Your pinky is intertwined with the man’s own as you stargaze, avoiding the cloud of smoke billowing up from the bonfire.

“That one looks like an F-35.” He informs you, pointing at a constellation that is definitely not a fighter plane.

“I think that’s Draco.” You hum, “Not sure, though.”

Jake turns to you with a furrow in his brow, “That little shit from Harry Potter?”

“No!” You shriek, louder than you’re used to speaking. Jake has a way of making you forget your reservations, giving you the courage to speak up around him.

“It’s a constellation.” You quiet yourself, feeling Jake’s pinky tighten around yours. “I read that it was supposed to be in the sky tonight.”

“You read up on the stars?” Jake turns to you, propped on his side in the truck bed. It must be awful on his hips, but he does it anyways to gaze at your side profile.

You give him a front view, turning your head to stare back at him, “I didn’t do it on purpose, I just saw it on Instagram, I think. On someone’s story.”

He hums in acknowledgment, but neglects to return to stargazing. He’s yougazing now, his eyes tracing the curve from your chin to your cheek, then sloping down the bridge of your nose.

“Do you think-”

You’ll never know if you and Jake share thoughts on whatever matter is in his head, because a sudden thud against the mouth of the truck bed makes you startle, and Jake nearly breaks his neck sitting up to see who made the noise. You draw yourself upright but slower, more cautiously.

It’s one of his squadron members, you’ve seen the guy before in passing, but you don’t think he’s ever noticed you. He’s on the shorter side, and he’s quickly flanked by both Coyote and a taller, unknown counterpart.

“Hangman,” The short one snickers, “I was betting you were passed out somewhere with a bottle in your mouth, not schmoozing some poor woman in your truck.”

You’ve met Javy before, albeit briefly when you’d passed in the hallway of his and Jake’s shared apartment, and in the few terrifying seconds of confrontation your eyes stray over the man’s shoulder and meet Javy’s. He sends you a kind, sympathetic smile at the antics of his friend. You feel safe around him.

“What’s your name, honey?” The taller man leans over the side of the truck bed, a smirk on his face, “Last one was Brenda- no, Brianna.”

“Payback, that was months ago.” Javy snaps, and even though you know it’s true, Jake still looks guilty. He’d confessed in you that he wasn’t exactly a saint when it came to past relations, but all that mattered was the present for you; that you were the only one in it, and he’s stuck to that without a problem.

“I’m not schmoozing her, Fanboy.” Jake drawls, a vicious look in his eyes, “We were trying to have a private moment.”

Fanboy elbows Payback incredulously, shit-eating grins already on their faces, “Sex in a pickup! On the beach, in public. Jesus, man, there’s nothin’ you won’t do.”

“I won’t hesitate to break your nose if you don’t shut your mouth,” Jake seethes, and his free hand tenses into a fist even if he’s more bark than bite. Fanboy doesn't flinch, but Payback's smirk dims.

"Lay off, man." Coyote elbows Fanboy, "It's not like that."

"The only reason you've never met'er before is 'cause I knew you'd act like this," Jake scoffs, "Doesn't mean she's some cheap fling."

You desperately want to intervene, but you don't have the words to do it even if you tried. There's a thousand swirling in your brain, but there's a stopper in its drain to your mouth, a thick clog of panic.

"Well what is your name?" Payback repeats his question, more considerate this time. You're glad he seems to have dropped his bravado, even if you're not sure Fanboy has.

"Y/N," You manage to speak, glad that you know your own name well enough to utter it even when your brain doesn't cooperate. You don't say much else, though, and Javy fills in for your silence.

"She's Jake's girl," Javy smiles at you, happy to see his friend settling down, "She's not big on talking. Not to assholes like you, anyways."

"Well that's great," Fanboy's demeanor is much nicer when he's not goading his teammate, "'Cause Jake never shuts up. Sounds like a match made in heaven."

"I'm gonna send you to hell if you don't leave us alone," Jake glares pointedly at Fanboy in particular, but the expression is extended to Payback as well, "I wasn't kidding, we were having a conversation."

"That's our cue," Coyote informs the other two, who knew but weren't willing to give up their teasing leverage. He rings an arm each around their necks, bidding you a kind goodbye as he leads them away.

"Darlin'," Jake turns to you as soon as they're gone, like a guard dog that eases out of attack mode, "I'm so sorry. They don’t mean any harm, just- they seriously don't know when to quit, 'probably comes from bein' so aggressive in the air. I'm sorry they were so pushy."

"It's alright," You nod, "It's not your fault, Jake. I'm not angry, I just- I was a little embarrassed."

"I know," He hums sympathetically, leaning in to peck your lips, "I know baby. Listen, now they've met you, they'll probably back off. And if they don't, if you see 'em around somewhere and they try messin' with you, you let me know and I might accidentally fire on 'em in an exercise."

"I don't think you should murder your friends," You tamp down a smile at Jake's suggestion, because the last thing he needs is encouragement, "But I hope I don't see them when you're not around."

A hundred feet away, down on the smooth, wet sand of the shore, Coyote finally lets Payback and Fanboy go, shoving their heads down with the force of his grip around their necks.

"Ow, dude!" Fanboy gripes, but he deserves it the most, "If I'm gonna break my neck it's gonna be in the air, in some sick-ass stunt maneuver."

"Your sick ass needs to learn to shut up," Coyote scoffs, "He's serious about that girl, man! And I wouldn't be surprised if she was running for the hills now."

"C'mon, Coyote, we were just teasing," Payback pleads his case, but Coyote narrows his eyes.

"You can't tease her, not like that. Hell, the first time she ever came over I made a joke about wearing noise-cancelling headphones for them and she couldn't look me in the eye for weeks."

"The first time she came over," Payback's brow furrows, "He's been bringing her around your guys' place?"

"I told you he was serious," Coyote throws a glance back over to Jake's truck, where his hand is pointed in the air once more, "Know any other reason he'd be stargazing right now?"

Fanboy's face wrinkles in a confused grimace, "Stargazing? He's way too douchey for that."

"He's way too in love not to," Payback marvels, "Holy shit. That's- I can't process that, man, that's weird."

"Get used to it," Coyote takes a swig of his beer, "Y'know he's been lighting candles in our apartment for her? I mean, it's nice, 'cause it gets rid of his nasty laundry smell, but candles. Hangman, candles!"

Fanboy rears his head back, "What scent?"

"Lavender."

"Lavender?"

"I know!"

[fayes-fics]

Innocence✨Masterpost✨

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Rating: 18+ smut, minors dni

Summary: Short series of fics following on from Temptation. Benedict teaches his intended all about sex.

Status: COMPLETE, 24k words

💫 Prequel fic 💫

Temptation occurs a few hours before Innocence Pt I

💫 Fics in this series 💫

Innocence Pt I: what a man can do with his mouth

Innocence Pt II: what a lady can do with her mouth

Innocence Pt III: self pleasure

Innocence Pt IV: losing it

Innocence Pt V: riding

Innocence Pt VI: talking

One shots set in this universe:

Target Practice Drabble set after they are married

[startwelve]

Perfect wife… or mistress?

Pairing: Anthony Bridgertonxreader/Bedenict Bridgertonxreader Summary: You go to have tea at your friend Eloise's house, and her older brothers seem to have some interest in you. Warnings: None Note:It may be that I do two other parts, but they are two alternatives. I mean, one where you end up with Anthony and another with Benedict, if you liked how this fic turned out.

You swore you were going to pass out any minute.

An unbearable heat had settled over the City of London. And you, like all high society ladies, had splendid clothes to envy. These days you hated them.

You would quickly fan your fan of your family's distinctive color, trying not to let the sweat show on your face, as you looked out at the streets of Mayfair, sitting in your carriage. It seemed to take you forever to reach the residence of your friend Eloise Bridgerton.

You met when you were introduced into society at Queen Charlotte's ball. Your mother, as her only firstborn, was anxious to introduce you to every gentleman who came to speak to you. At first, you didn't mind, but there came a time when you felt suffocated, the corset was tighter than usual, and the sleeves of your dress itched. You needed air. When you finished dancing with a gentleman with an important title you did not know, you said goodbye and almost ran out, pretending not to.

Not far from you, a young woman was sitting on a bench, staring into the void. You recognized her, Eloise Bridgerton, sister of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Benedict Bridgerton, you knew because you had heard your cousins talking about them, eager for one of them to be her husband.

You noticed that she looked lonely, maybe, like you, overwhelmed. Carefully, hoping not to disturb her, you approached her and greeted her with a small "hello," not knowing that it would turn into a long conversation about hating this dance and the society in which you lived, the beginning of a friendship.

And there you were, going to her residence for tea.

Inside Aubrey Hall, in the living room to be exact, they sat on the sofa, Benedict drawing on a sheet of paper and Anthony reading the newspaper. Eloise was sitting next to a table with desserts and a tea set, writing in her notebook, eagerly awaiting your arrival.

Benedict frowned at her and said with a smile, "Are you expecting a suitor, Sister?"

Eloise gave him her characteristic smile and closed her notebook.

"No, I am expecting Lady Hartford," she said.

"Who is Lady Hartford?"

"My new friend I met at Queen Charlotte's ball."

"Did she introduce herself at the ball?" asked Anthony suddenly.

Benedict laughed.

Eloise was about to answer him, but was interrupted when the servant announced your arrival. Those in the room rose, Anthony quicker. They entered and Eloise walked excitedly up to them.

Anthony and Benedict couldn't take their eyes off you. You were dazzling, exquisite, beautiful….

Anthony thought that with your beauty, you would make the perfect wife.

Benedict thought that with your beauty you would be the perfect muse.

You bowed slightly as Eloise introduced them, bringing them out of their trance. When you saw them, you agreed with your cousins. These men were attractive and a good choice for husbands. But you erased those thoughts when you remembered the reason you were invited, and that one of their sisters was your new friend.

"Eloise, your house is beautiful," you complimented.

"Thank you. Now come," Eloise said as she walked over to the table of desserts and tea.

"The heat is unbearable," you complained. You grabbed the cup, took a sip and asked, "Did any suitors visit you today?"

"Fortunately not you?"

"Yes, five," you replied, laughing as you remembered what one of them told you. "One told my mother that my hips were perfect for having heirs."

You and Eloise laughed out loud. Anthony looked up and looked at you slyly, wanting to check if the comment was true.

"Are you thinking of accepting any proposals?" asked Eloise.

"Yes. I am a woman and the only daughter of a widowed mother. It is my duty to accept any proposal." This statement did not please Eloise, "Of course, I have certain requirements for my future husband."

"Which ones?"

You began to list them… many, drawing the attention of two brothers.

Could it be that you would be the perfect wife… or mistress?

[madhatterbri]

Lord Debling Fics

Lord Debling Headcannons - Just some headcannons.

Wedding Night - Summary: The Lord proves to be quite the gentleman on their wedding night. Smut. 18+.

Mama Knows Best - Summary: Y/N's mother hatches a scheme to make her youngest daughter marry Lord Debling.

Special Interests - Summary: Lord Debling takes a special interest in Y/N's hobby.

Wither - Summary: Y/N knows how to make Lord Debling wither.

Garden -

Summary: Y/N often walks with her husband in their garden. A proper gentleman out in public, he can't help the way he feels about her when no one is watching. Behind the hedges, he shows her how he feels. The servants block the entrance to the garden to not let them be disturbed. At night, the maids tease her about the gardens. "He was helping me with animal sounds, nothing more,"

Home - Summary: After coming home from a trip, Lord Debling craves his Y/N. 18+.