Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
── .✦ THE PITT BOYS have very different methods for keeping their needy girlfriend satisfied during a shift
★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ MDNI fem reader, whiny-ish readere, workplace sex, semi-public sex/risk of being caught, finger, oral - f receiving, p in v, edging/orgasm denial, orgasm control, dom/sub undertones, begging, praise, teasing, condescension, pet names, lowkey slight reverse harem themes if u squint very very hard
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
JACK ABBOT tries, initially, to make you use your words.
A reasonable request, he thinks, particularly considering you have spent the better part of ten minutes communicating primarily through sighing, squirming and the relentless manipulation of his free hand.
Separating his fingers and fitting yours between them and then starting over.
“You haven’t paid attention to me all night,” you inform him, for what may be the third time, dragging all into something plaintive and theatrical.
Jack hums without looking away from the chart he's reviewing.
“That’s a complaint,” he says, scanning another line. “Not an accurate one, either.” He turns the page. “Try again. What do you want, angel?”
Your mouth purses and you drop your eyes, instead taking his index finger and twisting it petulantly between yours, first one way and then the other until Jack has to let his hand go limp.
“I dunno,” you mumble.
“Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Is it interfering with your ability to work?”
“…Yes.”
Interfering might actually be putting it mildly. The question was largely ceremonial and both of you know it. You have done fuck-all since nine except follow him around from room to room like an imprinted duckling who has mistaken an attending physician for its mother.
“Tell me exactly what you need and maybe I’ll do something about this little crisis of yours.”
Jack has to work not to laugh when you immediately retreat. An entire evening spent attached to his hip, and now that he has finally asked you to name the obvious, you suddenly cannot bear to have a face.
You take his hand and hide behind it instead, pressing his palm over your mouth while your burning cheek fits itself into the cup of it.
Jack indulges you, fingers spreading gently along your temple.
“Need you, please,” you say eventually, muffled against his skin.
That is good enough for Jack. Several minutes later, he has the nearest consult-room locked behind you.
He sits you on the edge of the exam table and takes care of the rest himself. He would just like his functioning girlfriend back sooner rather than later.
Never mind that he gets to achieve that goal with his favorite activity — his fingers between your dripping thighs. One arm keeps you close, his mouth brushing your temple while he alternates praise with firm reminders that Shen is working close enough to hear you if you get careless.
“Quiet, angel. C’mon. You asked me to take care of you, let me do it.”
By the time he is fixing your underwear and smoothing your skirt back into place, you have gone pleasantly boneless beneath his calloused hands.
Jack checks you over once with intolerable satisfaction and says, “There. Think you can survive until we get home now?”
MICHAEL 'ROBBY' ROBINAVITCH notices the second you start to hover.
Suddenly his desk becomes the only viable place in the entire emergency department to sit, every trip past him requires some unnecessary little brush of your fingers over his arm, and tasks that should send you back to the front desk somehow end with you standing beside him again, blinking up saccharinely and asking if there's anything else he needs.
So very industrious and thoughtful. And entirely coincidental, surely. As though Robby hasn't learned your tells by now. That when you start taking your secretarial duties this seriously, what you actually want has very little to do with paperwork.
He has no intention of sharing that information with you, though.
That would be idiotic, handing you the answer key to your own behavior when half the fun is knowing what you want hours before you finally muster the courage to ask for it.
Much better to keep quiet. Much better, too, not to satisfy you immediately.
There is a particular sweetness to letting the problem marinate, to watching ordinary want become restless, fidgety desperation under his neglect.
He'll usually pull you somewhere private, like he's doing now, just to wind you tighter. Hand beneath your skirt, mouth against your ear, giving you exactly enough attention to make you think you'll get what you want, then he stops.
Smooths your skirt back into place, thumbs flat the little wrinkle he made at your hip.
Your face when you realize is almost worth the inevitable whining. Almost.
“Back to work.” He tips your chin up when you stare at him, wounded and incredulous. Fucking cute. “And don’t touch yourself. I mean it.” One last squeeze to your waist before he opens the door. “I’ll check later, sweetheart. You better be able to tell me you listened.”
His method has always been control. But not deprivation as you so often claim it to be.
Robby gives you plenty, eventually, but he likes deciding when you get it, likes watching your entire demeanor reorganize itself around the promise.
And it works well.
You spend the rest of the shift behaving beautifully. Phones answered, paperwork handled, not one smart comment when Frank starts needling you, because every so often Robby materializes beside your desk, bends down to look at you over his glasses, and asks, “Still being good for me?”
You nod every single time. A little quicker as the hours drag on.
By the time another quiet-ish stretch finally opens up, he decides you have suffered enough. And Robby is generous when generosity has been earned.
He takes his time despite having almost none of it, hands spreading your thighs wider while his mouth works between them with languid attention, licking through the slick mess of your pussy you have been carrying around all afternoon.
Every little attempt to squirm away from his tongue gets corrected with a firmer grip. He knows exactly what he withheld from you and apparently intends to repay it with interest.
“Knew you could listen,” he says when he finally looks up. His mouth is wet. “Much nicer like this, isn’t it? When you behave.”
FRANK LANGDON has very little tolerance for your neediness because it tends to expose his own.
Wanting you is manageable when you’re across the department, reduced to glimpses between curtains and the occasional flash of your smile over somebody’s shoulder. Those he can quarantine alongside hunger and exhaustion, banal inconveniences he will deal with later.
It becomes harder when you follow him into the supply room and wrap both arms around his waist before the door has even settled shut behind you.
“Missed you,” you say against his back.
Frank keeps looking at the shelf in front of him, though he has stopped reading any of the labels.
“We saw each other twenty minutes ago.”
You make a small, unconvinced sound and edge nearer, fitting yourself along his spine, turning breathing into a shared activity.
Your mouth rests just below his shoulder blade; he can sense the question gathering there before it arrives, “Didn’t you miss me?”
“I think we need to start working on this attachment issue of yours,” Frank snorts, though the hand that finds the lock does so with pathetic urgency. “You’re spoiled, you know that? Nobody ever taught you you can’t get everything the second you want it.”
The lecture might carry more authority if he weren't already turning around and walking you backward, one hand closing around your waist until your shoulders meet the wall.
“What’re you gonna do when I take a vacation?” he asks, mouth grazing your cheek.
His fingers are already working his belt loose. He gets the button open, drags his zipper down and pushes his pants lower with one impatient shove, proving absolutely nothing about which of you missed the other more.
Frank maintains the fiction anyway.
Every little sound you make against the supply-room wall while he fucks you earns some irritated huff against your cheek, a muttered Jesus, baby, like your whining is an inconvenience being inflicted upon him rather than the entire reason his pace keeps changing whenever he finds one he particularly likes.
The hypocrisy lasts all the way through, right up until he walks you back into the department himself with you looking very obviously debauched, prompting Robby to stare at him and Jack to ask whether Frank understands the meaning of discretion.
Frank does not.
MARIA NOTE idk this is kinda shit i feel like the shell of a person rn BUT i just think reader deserves to have three boyfriends available to deal with her at all times… even if they are technically supposed to be saving lives or whatever
Jack Finds Out You’ve Never Finished - @geminiwritten 🌺
Tummy Appreciation - @iheartshawn 💋
Loving You Gently
@barnesdreamcatcher 🌺
More Jealous Jack - @0nlyangelxx 🌺
Jack Makes His Feelings Known About Your Boyfriend - @utterlyvanya 🌺
‘Give It To Me Baby’ - @oxalaia-quilombensis 🌺
Jack Praises You Knowing The Affect - @missmanlykink 💋
Jack’s Night Off (ft his SWAT uniform) - @whitehorsesrun 🌺
‘Gut Feeling’ - @abbotsmyhabit 🌺
A Nude Can Be An Update - @richeeduvie 🌺
Jack’s Favourite Positions - @cumkissed 🌸
Jack Proves You Wrong - @peppermint-toads 💋
‘Most Alive I’ve Ever Been’ - @angelabbot 🌺
Problem Solver Jack - @pittmebabyonemoretime 💋
Reader Scared of Pelvic Exams & Jack Helps - @lostalioth 🌺 (a personal fave I loveee the representation of us girlies who are scared of medical settings!!)
‘Jack Abbot is a pathetic mess’ - @romanticpursuit 🌺
‘Stubborn Patient’ - @mabel-777 🌺
Jack’s Reaction To Reader Getting a Tramp Stamp - @romanticpursuit 💋
‘A Song For Jackie’ - @groovyangelkisses 🌺
Jack Abbot Is Insatiable- @soobshi 🌸
Loves It When You Say I Love You During- @ifawns 🌸
You Are The Lesson Jack Can’t Learn - @champagneholland 💋
‘Out of Practice’ - @groovyangelkisses 🌸
‘Baby Rabbit’ - @redd-blushing-roses 🌺
Learning How To Take Care Of Jack - @tumbleweedstillhaspanic 💋
jack abbot loves eye contact, but when he's really comfy with you — whether you're curled up together in bed or lazing on his chest on the couch — he blinks slow like a cat :(
ohhh playing a lil game doing slow cat blinks back and forth with jack.... sneaking kisses while his eyes are shut.... he's smiling under your lips, the crinkles at his eyes deepening with affection as he starts to kiss you back...
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: waking up to an empty bed after a nightmare leaves you distraught. jack isn’t as far away as you think
cw: reader has a nightmare which includes the pretty graphic description of the death of a loved one, non-sexual nudity, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff
wc: 1.1k
a/n: jack abbot, come save me pls
okay, so i wrote this in may, hated it, didn't scrap it. edited it today and decided to post it cause i have nothing else. nothing's finished. i'm a fraud :)
now playing: NFWMB – Hozier
Red and blue lights flash around you wildly, the colors bleeding into each other.
You don’t know anything except that you’re searching for him. He might be hurt or—or worse, but you don’t let yourself think about it. The sun shines too brightly as you run along the grey tarmac; it almost blinds you.
Your lips part to form his name, but not a single sound comes out.
Your lungs have forgotten how to work.
Every breath you draw tastes like ash. Your throat is so raw, it feels like swallowing glass shards.
Somewhere in your peripheral vision, you catch sight of the one thing you’ve been trying to avoid. You don’t want to look that way because you know what awaits you. But your eyes don’t obey you, the same way your lungs don’t.
You don’t see Jack on the ground. You see a body. His body.
The head doesn’t seem to fit onto the shoulders it belongs on; it is turned so far that your stomach revolts. You remember running your hands through those very same curls, now painted red instead of silver.
You fall to your knees right beside him, shaky hands reaching out but hesitating. He looks nothing like the man you wake up next to every day.
Just as the tips of your fingers brush his forehead, his eyes snap open. The second his pupils set on you, the whites around them streaked eerily red, you wake with a start.
There’s no oxygen for a few seconds, just pure, bitter fear.
It takes you a few moments to orient yourself.
You’re in Jack’s bed. His side is empty. It’s 7:42 am, and he is supposed to be home by now. Each realization deepens the pit in your stomach.
Just as in your dream, your lungs refuse to cooperate the second you notice his absence. You reach out, hands trembling as you touch his side of the bed—you hope that maybe you’ll feel some warmth that proves that he was here and just got up again. But the sheets couldn’t be colder.
If you weren’t lying down, your legs would have given out under you.
You push away the blanket; it tangles in between your ankles as you try to kick yourself free of it. Panic runs through your veins too quickly to keep up with it, and your instincts are screaming—something is utterly wrong.
Once you finally manage to stand, you rip open the curtains and take another look at the bed. But Jack hasn’t appeared out of thin air as you had hoped. The bedroom remains empty, save for you and your labored breath.
The sound of your blood pumping through your ears almost drowns out the quiet drizzle coming from the bathroom—almost.
Between the heavy thumps, you hear the echoes of movement. The faucet squeaks, a bottle opens and closes again.
You rush to the door, rip it open, and step into the steam-filled room.
The shower runs steadily, warm enough to fog up the mirror. The screaming ache in your chest dies down the moment your eyes land on Jack’s back. He sits on the shower chair, his prosthetic leaning against the tiled wall behind the sink.
Hundreds of droplets cascade down his broad shoulders, kissing each freckle individually.
Your heart takes over the decision-making while your mind is still trying to comprehend that Jack is safe. With three large steps, you cross the distance and step into the shower, your pajamas getting drenched instantly. Your hands find him before your mind does—gripping at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can reach. Jack jumps slightly at the contact, a startled exhale falling from his lips.
“Angel? Jesus, you scared me,” he gasps.
As he turns to look at you, his brows draw together. “What happened? What’s wrong?” he asks, concern clinging to his voice.
“Nothing,” you whisper. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re okay.”
Slowly, you drop to your knees as relief turns into devotion. It feels like you’re getting ready to pray as you rest your forehead on his left leg, your hands folded in your lap.
Jack watches you for a second, confusion lingering in his eyes—a second passes. The only thing you concentrate on is the sound of his breathing. It steadies you, not enough that you can fully calm down, but enough for you to get enough oxygen into your own system to function.
“Easy,” he whispers.
His hand comes to rest on the back of your head, threading softly through your hair.
“What happened, baby?” he murmurs. “Talk to me. What are you doing, hm? You’re getting drenched.”
You’re quiet for a moment before the accusation spills out of you.
“You died.”
Jack freezes.
“I’m right here,” he replies, his expression serious. “I’m not dead.”
He’s not making fun of you—the worry in his eyes is genuine. As he reaches behind him to turn off the shower, your gaze snaps upwards.
“No, wait,” you plead. “Just… just a second. Please.”
He stops moving instantly and reaches for you instead. Gently, he pulls you up by your upper arm, away from your place at his feet.
“Let me get you a towel,” he offers, but you shake your head inconsolably.
“No.” You sound like a child begging to stay up a little past your bedtime. “Just let me… don’t- don’t leave me alone.”
Jack simply nods. He doesn’t protest; he doesn’t complain. His hands snake around your waist, pulling you towards him onto the shower chair. You’re scared to hurt him as you sit down on his lap, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
“It’s okay, angel,” he says. “You had a nightmare, remember? You’re fine. I’m fine.”
He cradles you against his chest, where you fit perfectly. Tucked away into the crook of his neck, you listen to the water fall while he cups the base of your skull.
“Say it for me, please,” he instructs gently. “You had a nightmare.”
You take a deep breath before you pull away far enough to look into his eyes.
“I had a nightmare. You’re okay. I’m okay.”
Jack nods softly. His chest rises against yours, forcing you to feel the rhythm of the system that keeps him alive, keeps him by your side. Over time, the frantic beat of your heart slows down to match the speed of his, and your breathing evens out.
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
summary: waking up to an empty bed after a nightmare leaves you distraught. jack isn’t as far away as you think
cw: reader has a nightmare which includes the pretty graphic description of the death of a loved one, non-sexual nudity, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff
wc: 1.1k
a/n: jack abbot, come save me pls
okay, so i wrote this in may, hated it, didn't scrap it. edited it today and decided to post it cause i have nothing else. nothing's finished. i'm a fraud :)
now playing: NFWMB – Hozier
Red and blue lights flash around you wildly, the colors bleeding into each other.
You don’t know anything except that you’re searching for him. He might be hurt or—or worse, but you don’t let yourself think about it. The sun shines too brightly as you run along the grey tarmac; it almost blinds you.
Your lips part to form his name, but not a single sound comes out.
Your lungs have forgotten how to work.
Every breath you draw tastes like ash. Your throat is so raw, it feels like swallowing glass shards.
Somewhere in your peripheral vision, you catch sight of the one thing you’ve been trying to avoid. You don’t want to look that way because you know what awaits you. But your eyes don’t obey you, the same way your lungs don’t.
You don’t see Jack on the ground. You see a body. His body.
The head doesn’t seem to fit onto the shoulders it belongs on; it is turned so far that your stomach revolts. You remember running your hands through those very same curls, now painted red instead of silver.
You fall to your knees right beside him, shaky hands reaching out but hesitating. He looks nothing like the man you wake up next to every day.
Just as the tips of your fingers brush his forehead, his eyes snap open. The second his pupils set on you, the whites around them streaked eerily red, you wake with a start.
There’s no oxygen for a few seconds, just pure, bitter fear.
It takes you a few moments to orient yourself.
You’re in Jack’s bed. His side is empty. It’s 7:42 am, and he is supposed to be home by now. Each realization deepens the pit in your stomach.
Just as in your dream, your lungs refuse to cooperate the second you notice his absence. You reach out, hands trembling as you touch his side of the bed—you hope that maybe you’ll feel some warmth that proves that he was here and just got up again. But the sheets couldn’t be colder.
If you weren’t lying down, your legs would have given out under you.
You push away the blanket; it tangles in between your ankles as you try to kick yourself free of it. Panic runs through your veins too quickly to keep up with it, and your instincts are screaming—something is utterly wrong.
Once you finally manage to stand, you rip open the curtains and take another look at the bed. But Jack hasn’t appeared out of thin air as you had hoped. The bedroom remains empty, save for you and your labored breath.
The sound of your blood pumping through your ears almost drowns out the quiet drizzle coming from the bathroom—almost.
Between the heavy thumps, you hear the echoes of movement. The faucet squeaks, a bottle opens and closes again.
You rush to the door, rip it open, and step into the steam-filled room.
The shower runs steadily, warm enough to fog up the mirror. The screaming ache in your chest dies down the moment your eyes land on Jack’s back. He sits on the shower chair, his prosthetic leaning against the tiled wall behind the sink.
Hundreds of droplets cascade down his broad shoulders, kissing each freckle individually.
Your heart takes over the decision-making while your mind is still trying to comprehend that Jack is safe. With three large steps, you cross the distance and step into the shower, your pajamas getting drenched instantly. Your hands find him before your mind does—gripping at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can reach. Jack jumps slightly at the contact, a startled exhale falling from his lips.
“Angel? Jesus, you scared me,” he gasps.
As he turns to look at you, his brows draw together. “What happened? What’s wrong?” he asks, concern clinging to his voice.
“Nothing,” you whisper. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re okay.”
Slowly, you drop to your knees as relief turns into devotion. It feels like you’re getting ready to pray as you rest your forehead on his left leg, your hands folded in your lap.
Jack watches you for a second, confusion lingering in his eyes—a second passes. The only thing you concentrate on is the sound of his breathing. It steadies you, not enough that you can fully calm down, but enough for you to get enough oxygen into your own system to function.
“Easy,” he whispers.
His hand comes to rest on the back of your head, threading softly through your hair.
“What happened, baby?” he murmurs. “Talk to me. What are you doing, hm? You’re getting drenched.”
You’re quiet for a moment before the accusation spills out of you.
“You died.”
Jack freezes.
“I’m right here,” he replies, his expression serious. “I’m not dead.”
He’s not making fun of you—the worry in his eyes is genuine. As he reaches behind him to turn off the shower, your gaze snaps upwards.
“No, wait,” you plead. “Just… just a second. Please.”
He stops moving instantly and reaches for you instead. Gently, he pulls you up by your upper arm, away from your place at his feet.
“Let me get you a towel,” he offers, but you shake your head inconsolably.
“No.” You sound like a child begging to stay up a little past your bedtime. “Just let me… don’t- don’t leave me alone.”
Jack simply nods. He doesn’t protest; he doesn’t complain. His hands snake around your waist, pulling you towards him onto the shower chair. You’re scared to hurt him as you sit down on his lap, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
“It’s okay, angel,” he says. “You had a nightmare, remember? You’re fine. I’m fine.”
He cradles you against his chest, where you fit perfectly. Tucked away into the crook of his neck, you listen to the water fall while he cups the base of your skull.
“Say it for me, please,” he instructs gently. “You had a nightmare.”
You take a deep breath before you pull away far enough to look into his eyes.
“I had a nightmare. You’re okay. I’m okay.”
Jack nods softly. His chest rises against yours, forcing you to feel the rhythm of the system that keeps him alive, keeps him by your side. Over time, the frantic beat of your heart slows down to match the speed of his, and your breathing evens out.
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
ALABAMA, 1996: Joel Miller goes on a blood-soaked revenge trek against the people who hurt his daughter; in the mean time, he meets his match in the shape of a religious, impressionable young woman.
click here to join the taglist. / click here for my main masterlist.
warnings: mdni, serial killer!joel, big age gap (reader is early 20s, joel is late 40s), reader is afab and goes by she/her, no outbreak, 90s au, southern gothic, reader is very repressed & infantilized by her parents, mentions of parental abuse (physical, verbal and emotional), dead dove: do not eat, a lot of religious themes (baptist church style), blood gore & violence, reader gets roofied at one point (nothing bad happens but she's terrified), religion-based misogyny (not from joel but from literally everyone else), minor characters deaths, joel calls reader 'kid', a sprinkle of cannibalism, joel is a liar who manipulates the shit out of reader, medical malpractice/gynecological violence, lots of movie references, no use of y/n and no physical description of reader, unreliable narrator, eventual smut (dubcon, unprotected piv, oral, rough sex, blood kink, daddy kink, corruption kink, virginity loss.)
fox says: hello friends! this is my entry for the ppcu horror challenge hosted by @ess-evo, my prompt was murder/serial killer! this was supposed to be a one shot but, as these things usually go with me, it ended up being a short series. it is a bit (a lot?) darker than what i usually write so please read the warnings. as always, please let me know how we feel about it.
