Beldro & Caruso, Attorneys at Law

At Beldro & Caruso, Attorneys at Law, we strive to legally achieve legal laughs, legally, in a sexy, NSFW Pedro Pascal™ fanfic way, in a manner that legally brings sexy pleasure, funnily, but also legally.™

[legallyboundfanfics]

The Official Case Files

as Seen on TV!

In NYC the dedicated Attorneys at Law who investigate these fics are part of an elite squad, known as the Legally Bound Fanfics Unit.

These are their stories.

And they're all 18+

TLOU + Joel Miller Case Files

Narcos + Javier Peña Case Files

About Beldro & Caruso, Attorneys at Law

Learn more about the dynamic duo working around the clock to ensure that you have the best legal representation in Pedro Pascal fanfiction™.

[legallyboundfanfics]

“Fighting for justice, chaos, and carnal release—one absurd trope at a time.” - B&CAAL

In these unprecedented times™—when the world feels like a collapsing court of appeals and every day is an objectionable mess—we, the undersigned, hereby submit the following:

Life is hard. Politics are worse. Climate? Questionable. Capitalism? Overruled.

So we, Beldro & Caruso, have formed this firm not for profit, nor prestige, but for pleasure. And parody. And Pedro. And love for the fanfic community.

Our mission is simple: to prosecute your inner thirst, defend your right to laugh mid-makeout scene, and file motions under the sensual influence of Pedro Pascal's sexy characters. We write stories where the tropes are loud, the passion is louder, and the gifs are legally inadmissible but emotionally vital.

Think of this space as a safe haven for those who need a recess from reality. You need a break, we need a break. In the words of Audre Lorde, "rest is resistance", and art is an act of defiance.

Here, cases are cracked open, hearts are accidentally entangled, and nobody questions why or how these characters find themselves in various situations that end in carnal passions.

We are not responsible for:

Snorting laughter at inappropriate times.

Sudden increases in heart rate.

Deep attachment to characters in morally dubious positions.

Uncontrollable urges to yell “Objection!” during sex scenes.

Welcome to the firm. Your representation is... unconventional. But relentless.

Case closed.

Legal Disclaimer:

All cases are considered unofficial until proven to be too hot for public viewing. Proceed with caution.

Additional Case Notes

If you or someone you know is in need of professional and legally binding zuzhing of a Pedro Pascal based fanfic via gif, please feel free to reach us via our Toll Free Hotline. We're an equal opportunity provider, eager to promote your work with a little flair.™

Return to Case Load

[legallyboundfanfics]

Beldro & Caruso, Attorneys at Law present

Pairing: Joel Deborah Miller x fem!reader

Wordcount: 2000ish

Rating: 18+ NSFW

Summary: SEX / A half-collapsed research lab, long-abandoned, buried under snow. Joel and the OC are seeking shelter, but something in the air messes with them. They don’t know it at first, but it's SEX FOG! A subversion of Sex Pollen.

CW/TW: No plot. PIV. "dirty talk". rough sex. "degradation". mention of "not a girl"; "fork" / "scissor"

You hadn’t noticed it at first—just the kind of numb that comes from a bitter wind and too many miles on aching feet. Joel had scouted the abandoned lab, cleared it of clickers, motioned you in with a grunt and a nod. It was supposed to be safe. Warm. But the cold just… lingered.

By the time the doors sealed behind you, it was worse. Too cold. Bone-deep and strange. Like something crawling under the skin, not just outside it. Your breath fogged the air, but your fingers were stiff even inside your gloves. And Joel?

He was pacing like a man trying to outrun something that wasn’t there.

“We need firewood,” he muttered, rubbing his palms together. “This ain’t right.”

“No wind. No broken windows. Should be warmer than this.” You pressed your hands to the sides of your neck. Even that didn’t help. You felt… muted. Like someone had pulled a curtain between your body and your mind.

You watched Joel strip off his jacket, despite the cold, shaking it out. “Somethin’ in the air,” he said. “Feels… wrong.”

He wouldn’t meet your eyes. That was the first red flag.

Joel never avoided eye contact.

You knew how he looked at you—how he usually looked at you when the adrenaline of a close call faded. Like he couldn’t stop himself. Like hunger bottled tight behind those stormy eyes.

But now? Nothing.

And that emptiness hit harder than it should’ve. No flicker of heat in your gut. No zing in your chest. No awareness of the space between your bodies. It was like something had scooped the desire right out of you both and left only the ghost of it behind. The absence burned in a different way.

“…Do you feel it too?” you asked, low. Not teasing. Not coy.

Joel stopped. Turned. And there was confusion on his face—like he didn’t want to say it out loud.

“I do,” he admitted finally. “It’s like I’m supposed to want to fork you senseless, but all I feel is cold.”

You blinked. “Exactly. Like... I know I want to. I just don’t feel it. Not in the usual places.”

He scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What, your spleen?”

You laughed. A real one.

And he did look at you then, like maybe laughter had cracked through whatever the hell was pressing on you both.

“But I miss it,” you murmured. “That wanting. The tension. Even the stupid looks you give me when I stretch.”

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate, like a man moving through fog.

“Maybe that’s the test,” he said, voice low. “See what we are when all the scissoring and fork-your-brains-out urges are stripped away.”

“And what are we?”

Joel reached out, took your hand in his. You should’ve felt heat. Instead, it was a weird mix of numb and pulse—like your body remembered what it should feel, and wanted it back.

“We’re still here,” he said simply. “Still wantin’ to reach for each other. That’s somethin’.”

You stood there for a beat. Just breathing. Just feeling the nothingness between you. And in a weird way, it tightened the bond. Like you were being rewired.

When the fog lifted hours later—when the cold retreated like a tide and the normal pull returned—it hit like a damn freight train.

He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed your face and kissed you so hard your teeth knocked. And when the fork and the scissor finally came? It was clumsy and greedy and feral, like trying to drink after weeks without water.

Because maybe missing the hunger made it all the sweeter when it returned.

The cold didn’t fade gradually.

It snapped.

One moment, your fingertips were numb. The next, the air around you was hot, stifling, wet with the kind of charged humidity that meant one thing and one thing only: the fog was gone—and the flood came rushing in right behind it.

Your knees buckled.

You clutched the edge of the broken lab table as a firestorm tore through your veins, leaving ash and want in its wake. The throb between your thighs hit you so hard, you gasped—and across the room, Joel made a sound.

Not a word. Not a groan. Not a grunt.

A sound. Animal. Desperate. Like a man finally, finally feeling the full weight of what he'd been denied.

He turned to you with murder in his eyes.

No. Worse. With need.

“Off,” he growled, already closing the space between you. “Take it off, all of it.”

You were shaking, fumbling with your layers, suddenly sweating under the remnants of your coat. He reached you before you could even tug it past your shoulders. Ripped it. Threw it.

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, fast, merciless—no patience left. His hands were rough and clumsy, calloused palms dragging across your waist, your chest, down to your hips like he didn’t care about finesse, just contact. Your name left his mouth in fragments, like he couldn’t finish it without getting lost in the next word.

“I should’ve—fork—should’ve done this weeks ago,” he panted against your throat. “Wanted to… every damn night.”

You could barely think. Barely breathe. Your legs wrapped around his waist without permission, grinding up into his thigh like a woman possessed.

“Joel—” you whined, trying to speak, trying to form anything resembling English, but all you could manage was, “Please.”

His hand found the seam of your pants. “You’re soaked.”

You nodded frantically. “Fix it.”

He didn't even undo the rest. Just shoved everything out of the way and pressed his fingers into you like he’d been waiting to memorize the shape of you since the day he met you. You cried out, nails clawing into his jacket.

“Fork,” he hissed. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You didn’t care what he called you. You just wanted more. Faster. Deeper. The emptiness from before had twisted into something unbearable—like the fog had trained your body to ache for him on instinct.

“Joel,” you gasped, tugging at his belt now, losing all shame, “I need you to scissor me so hard I forget my name.”

He laughed. A dark, low rasp, like he couldn’t believe you’d said it.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. You won’t remember a damn thing.”

And then he was inside you.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful.

It was war.

Every thrust was punishment for the hours you’d spent empty. Every groan from his chest was another apology he didn’t know how to say out loud. The table screeched beneath you. His grip bruised your hips. You didn’t care. You wanted the bruises.

You wanted to wake up tomorrow and feel him in every inch of your body.

Your legs locked tighter around him. His pace faltered—barely—but you felt it.

“You close?” he rasped, forehead to yours, panting.

You nodded, eyes wild. “Fork me harder. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You shattered mid-sentence.

Back arched. Mouth open. A silent scream. Everything clenched around him so tight he nearly followed you over the edge, groaning your name like it was a sin to say it aloud.

He didn’t pull out. Couldn’t. He came with a grunt that shook his whole body, burying his face in your neck like he could hide the mess of emotions tearing out of him.

You stayed like that for a while. Sweaty. Shaking. Clinging.

And when the cold started to creep back into the edges of the room?

Joel just pulled you closer.

“Next time,” he muttered against your skin, “we don’t wait for the damn fog.”

The Hypothesis: The fog is gone.

The Method: Repeated exposure to intense, prolonged scissoring.

The Subjects: One very wrecked you. One feral Texas man on a mission.

You were still gasping when Joel lifted his head from the crook of your neck.

Sweaty strands of hair clung to his forehead. His lips were red, raw, slick with the taste of you. His pulse thudded beneath your palm like a drum about to break. And yet—yet—his eyes? Not done.

Not even close.

“We gotta be sure,” he rasped, voice all gravel and sin. “Can’t risk it comin’ back.”

You blinked, still dazed, like your brain had been shaken loose by the first round. “Be sure of what?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “That it’s gone. That I can keep touchin’ you like this without it disappearing again.”

You whimpered. “You think we didn’t test it enough?”

He sat back on his heels, dragging you down with him until you were flat on your back on the floor, half-naked and wrecked, legs still twitching from the aftershocks. “Not even close.”

He settled between your thighs again, and you felt it—the weight of him, hard again, pressed against your thigh. Already. The man was made of fury and fork.

“I ain't done with you,” he growled. “Not 'til I’ve mapped every inch of you and made sure you still feel every forkin' second of it.”

You laughed, breathless. “This for science?”

He smirked. “Strictly experimental, ma’am.”

He started slower this time. Not soft. Just methodical. Like he was taking data. Measuring your pulse with his tongue, your breath with each drag of his teeth along your skin. His hands pinned your thighs open, thumbs pressing into the meat of them, holding you still as his mouth dipped low again.

“Oh, God—Joel—”

“Shh. Need to observe your reactions,” he murmured, not lifting his head. “Gotta see how sensitive you still are.”

You tried to tease him, to say something smart, but then his tongue curled just right and you forgot how vowels worked.

He didn't let up. Not once. Brought you to the edge and back again, letting your whole body tremble against his tongue and fingers like you were strung on wires. Every scissor of his mouth against you had purpose, every hum of satisfaction like a checkbox on a mental list. He was tasting your soul.

You came again with a cry that echoed through the empty lab, arching up so hard your spine left the ground.

Still. Not done.

You barely registered when he flipped you, chest pressed to the cold floor, hips lifted by his firm grip. You only knew the air shifted, his heat behind you like a second skin, and then—

He filled you again.

This time? It wasn’t rushed.

It was relentless.

Joel ground into you with deep, punishing strokes, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. Your cheek was flush to the floor, fingers clawing at nothing, sobbing his name between gasps.

“You still feel that?” he bit out, his voice ragged. “Still feel me, baby?”

“Yes—yes—Joel—God, don’t stop—”

“Fog ain't comin’ back,” he grunted. “Not after this. You’re gonna remember me every time you forkin’ breathe.”

You could barely handle it. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All you could do was take it—every thrust, every slap of skin, every filthy word he growled in your ear as he used your body like it was his salvation.

When you came this time, it was silent—so deep it didn’t even make it to your throat. Just a full-body quake that left you limp and twitching in his arms.

He followed seconds later, emptying himself into you with a roar that shook your ribs.

And when it was over? When the fog stayed gone and your senses didn’t fade?

He held you there on the floor, chest to your back, both of you panting like you’d just survived a war.

“Yeah,” he muttered, lips at your shoulder. “Definitely gone.”

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “Still feel a chill…”

He growled. “Fork me—don’t tempt me, girl. I’ll make you sweat ‘til spring.”

Return to TLOU + Joel Miller Masterlist

Return to Main Page

[legallyboundfanfics]

Fancy a good scissor?

[legallyboundfanfics]

Beldro & Caruso, Attorneys at Law present

Pairing: Joel Deborah Miller x fem!reader

Wordcount: 2000ish

Rating: 18+ NSFW

Summary: SEX / A half-collapsed research lab, long-abandoned, buried under snow. Joel and reader are seeking shelter, but something in the air messes with them. They don’t know it at first, but it's SEX FOG! A subversion of Sex Pollen.

CW/TW: No plot. PIV. "dirty talk". rough sex. "degradation". mention of "not a girl"; "fork" / "scissor"

You hadn’t noticed it at first—just the kind of numb that comes from a bitter wind and too many miles on aching feet. Joel had scouted the abandoned lab, cleared it of clickers, motioned you in with a grunt and a nod. It was supposed to be safe. Warm. But the cold just… lingered.

By the time the doors sealed behind you, it was worse. Too cold. Bone-deep and strange. Like something crawling under the skin, not just outside it. Your breath fogged the air, but your fingers were stiff even inside your gloves. And Joel?

He was pacing like a man trying to outrun something that wasn’t there.

“We need firewood,” he muttered, rubbing his palms together. “This ain’t right.”

“No wind. No broken windows. Should be warmer than this.” You pressed your hands to the sides of your neck. Even that didn’t help. You felt… muted. Like someone had pulled a curtain between your body and your mind.

You watched Joel strip off his jacket, despite the cold, shaking it out. “Somethin’ in the air,” he said. “Feels… wrong.”

He wouldn’t meet your eyes. That was the first red flag.

Joel never avoided eye contact.

You knew how he looked at you—how he usually looked at you when the adrenaline of a close call faded. Like he couldn’t stop himself. Like hunger bottled tight behind those stormy eyes.

But now? Nothing.

And that emptiness hit harder than it should’ve. No flicker of heat in your gut. No zing in your chest. No awareness of the space between your bodies. It was like something had scooped the desire right out of you both and left only the ghost of it behind. The absence burned in a different way.

“…Do you feel it too?” you asked, low. Not teasing. Not coy.

Joel stopped. Turned. And there was confusion on his face—like he didn’t want to say it out loud.

“I do,” he admitted finally. “It’s like I’m supposed to want to fork you senseless, but all I feel is cold.”

You blinked. “Exactly. Like... I know I want to. I just don’t feel it. Not in the usual places.”

He scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What, your spleen?”

You laughed. A real one.

And he did look at you then, like maybe laughter had cracked through whatever the hell was pressing on you both.

“But I miss it,” you murmured. “That wanting. The tension. Even the stupid looks you give me when I stretch.”

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate, like a man moving through fog.

“Maybe that’s the test,” he said, voice low. “See what we are when all the scissoring and fork-your-brains-out urges are stripped away.”

“And what are we?”

Joel reached out, took your hand in his. You should’ve felt heat. Instead, it was a weird mix of numb and pulse—like your body remembered what it should feel, and wanted it back.

“We’re still here,” he said simply. “Still wantin’ to reach for each other. That’s somethin’.”

You stood there for a beat. Just breathing. Just feeling the nothingness between you. And in a weird way, it tightened the bond. Like you were being rewired.

When the fog lifted hours later—when the cold retreated like a tide and the normal pull returned—it hit like a damn freight train.

He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed your face and kissed you so hard your teeth knocked. And when the fork and the scissor finally came? It was clumsy and greedy and feral, like trying to drink after weeks without water.

Because maybe missing the hunger made it all the sweeter when it returned.

The cold didn’t fade gradually.

It snapped.

One moment, your fingertips were numb. The next, the air around you was hot, stifling, wet with the kind of charged humidity that meant one thing and one thing only: the fog was gone—and the flood came rushing in right behind it.

Your knees buckled.

You clutched the edge of the broken lab table as a firestorm tore through your veins, leaving ash and want in its wake. The throb between your thighs hit you so hard, you gasped—and across the room, Joel made a sound.

Not a word. Not a groan. Not a grunt.

A sound. Animal. Desperate. Like a man finally, finally feeling the full weight of what he'd been denied.

He turned to you with murder in his eyes.

No. Worse. With need.

“Off,” he growled, already closing the space between you. “Take it off, all of it.”

You were shaking, fumbling with your layers, suddenly sweating under the remnants of your coat. He reached you before you could even tug it past your shoulders. Ripped it. Threw it.

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, fast, merciless—no patience left. His hands were rough and clumsy, calloused palms dragging across your waist, your chest, down to your hips like he didn’t care about finesse, just contact. Your name left his mouth in fragments, like he couldn’t finish it without getting lost in the next word.

“I should’ve—fork—should’ve done this weeks ago,” he panted against your throat. “Wanted to… every damn night.”

You could barely think. Barely breathe. Your legs wrapped around his waist without permission, grinding up into his thigh like a woman possessed.

“Joel—” you whined, trying to speak, trying to form anything resembling English, but all you could manage was, “Please.”

His hand found the seam of your pants. “You’re soaked.”

You nodded frantically. “Fix it.”

He didn't even undo the rest. Just shoved everything out of the way and pressed his fingers into you like he’d been waiting to memorize the shape of you since the day he met you. You cried out, nails clawing into his jacket.

“Fork,” he hissed. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You didn’t care what he called you. You just wanted more. Faster. Deeper. The emptiness from before had twisted into something unbearable—like the fog had trained your body to ache for him on instinct.

“Joel,” you gasped, tugging at his belt now, losing all shame, “I need you to scissor me so hard I forget my name.”

He laughed. A dark, low rasp, like he couldn’t believe you’d said it.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. You won’t remember a damn thing.”

And then he was inside you.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful.

It was war.

Every thrust was punishment for the hours you’d spent empty. Every groan from his chest was another apology he didn’t know how to say out loud. The table screeched beneath you. His grip bruised your hips. You didn’t care. You wanted the bruises.

You wanted to wake up tomorrow and feel him in every inch of your body.

Your legs locked tighter around him. His pace faltered—barely—but you felt it.

“You close?” he rasped, forehead to yours, panting.

You nodded, eyes wild. “Fork me harder. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You shattered mid-sentence.

Back arched. Mouth open. A silent scream. Everything clenched around him so tight he nearly followed you over the edge, groaning your name like it was a sin to say it aloud.

He didn’t pull out. Couldn’t. He came with a grunt that shook his whole body, burying his face in your neck like he could hide the mess of emotions tearing out of him.

You stayed like that for a while. Sweaty. Shaking. Clinging.

And when the cold started to creep back into the edges of the room?

Joel just pulled you closer.

“Next time,” he muttered against your skin, “we don’t wait for the damn fog.”

The Hypothesis: The fog is gone.

The Method: Repeated exposure to intense, prolonged scissoring.

The Subjects: One very wrecked you. One feral Texas man on a mission.

You were still gasping when Joel lifted his head from the crook of your neck.

Sweaty strands of hair clung to his forehead. His lips were red, raw, slick with the taste of you. His pulse thudded beneath your palm like a drum about to break. And yet—yet—his eyes? Not done.

Not even close.

“We gotta be sure,” he rasped, voice all gravel and sin. “Can’t risk it comin’ back.”

You blinked, still dazed, like your brain had been shaken loose by the first round. “Be sure of what?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “That it’s gone. That I can keep touchin’ you like this without it disappearing again.”

You whimpered. “You think we didn’t test it enough?”

He sat back on his heels, dragging you down with him until you were flat on your back on the floor, half-naked and wrecked, legs still twitching from the aftershocks. “Not even close.”

He settled between your thighs again, and you felt it—the weight of him, hard again, pressed against your thigh. Already. The man was made of fury and fork.

“I ain't done with you,” he growled. “Not 'til I’ve mapped every inch of you and made sure you still feel every forkin' second of it.”

You laughed, breathless. “This for science?”

He smirked. “Strictly experimental, ma’am.”

He started slower this time. Not soft. Just methodical. Like he was taking data. Measuring your pulse with his tongue, your breath with each drag of his teeth along your skin. His hands pinned your thighs open, thumbs pressing into the meat of them, holding you still as his mouth dipped low again.

“Oh, God—Joel—”

“Shh. Need to observe your reactions,” he murmured, not lifting his head. “Gotta see how sensitive you still are.”

You tried to tease him, to say something smart, but then his tongue curled just right and you forgot how vowels worked.

He didn't let up. Not once. Brought you to the edge and back again, letting your whole body tremble against his tongue and fingers like you were strung on wires. Every scissor of his mouth against you had purpose, every hum of satisfaction like a checkbox on a mental list. He was tasting your soul.

You came again with a cry that echoed through the empty lab, arching up so hard your spine left the ground.

Still. Not done.

You barely registered when he flipped you, chest pressed to the cold floor, hips lifted by his firm grip. You only knew the air shifted, his heat behind you like a second skin, and then—

He filled you again.

This time? It wasn’t rushed.

It was relentless.

Joel ground into you with deep, punishing strokes, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. Your cheek was flush to the floor, fingers clawing at nothing, sobbing his name between gasps.

“You still feel that?” he bit out, his voice ragged. “Still feel me, baby?”

“Yes—yes—Joel—God, don’t stop—”

“Fog ain't comin’ back,” he grunted. “Not after this. You’re gonna remember me every time you forkin’ breathe.”

You could barely handle it. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All you could do was take it—every thrust, every slap of skin, every filthy word he growled in your ear as he used your body like it was his salvation.

When you came this time, it was silent—so deep it didn’t even make it to your throat. Just a full-body quake that left you limp and twitching in his arms.

He followed seconds later, emptying himself into you with a roar that shook your ribs.

And when it was over? When the fog stayed gone and your senses didn’t fade?

He held you there on the floor, chest to your back, both of you panting like you’d just survived a war.

“Yeah,” he muttered, lips at your shoulder. “Definitely gone.”

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “Still feel a chill…”

He growled. “Fork me—don’t tempt me, girl. I’ll make you sweat ‘til spring.”

Return to TLOU + Joel Miller Case File

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[little-miss-rasputin-pageant]

all of tumblr: we fucking hate bots

also tumblr:

[kiralamouse]

Hey, I LOVE bots when they’re just here to play with us. COMMERCIAL bots suck.

[the-haiku-bot]

Hey, I LOVE bots when

they’re just here to play with us.

COMMERCIAL bots suck.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

[valakiir]

[legallyboundfanfics]

Beldro & Caruso, Attorneys at Law present

The Javier Peña Case Files

The following all contain things that children shouldn't have to worry about. Therefore, no one below the age of 18 shall pass unless they enjoy being sued to the fullest extent of the law. Hide your eyes, babies, you have your entire lives ahead of you.

Skidmark, a Road to Love Story - Javier Peña + fem!reader

Return to Main Page

[legallyboundfanfics]

Beldro & Caruso, Attorneys at Law present

The Joel Miller Case Files

The following all contain things that children shouldn't have to worry about. Therefore, no one below the age of 18 shall pass unless they enjoy being sued to the fullest extent of the law. Hide your eyes, babies, you have your entire lives ahead of you.

Yeah! Featuring Ludacris - Joel x fem!reader

Gravel & Sin, Fork & Fury - Joel x fem!reader

Return to Main Page

[legallyboundfanfics]

Beldro & Caruso, Attorneys at Law present

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader

Wordcount: 2000ish?

Rating: 18+ NSFW

Summary: SEX

CW/TW: No plot. PIV. "dirty talk". rough sex. "degradation"

This work is brought to you by the letter B for Beldro, the letter C for Caruso, and the number 69 for sexy times.

Secret link to Part 2

The hot Texas sun beats down, radiating heat off the asphalt. You're stranded on a long stretch of highway, the sound of cicadas filling the air. When your car starts to overheat, you curse under your breath. Perfect timing. The tire’s flat, and now this. The last thing you expect is for someone to pull up behind you.

The truck engine cuts off, and the door slams. The sound of boots crunching against gravel makes your heart skip a beat. He steps out, the unmistakable figure of Javier Peña, rugged and more than a little dangerous.

“Looks like you’re having some trouble,” he says, strolling up with a cocky grin.

You shoot him a smile, trying to act casual, even though the whole situation has you feeling… off-kilter in a way you can't explain.

He takes one glance at the hood and notices the faint trail of smoke. He touches the metal, pulling his hand back quickly. “Damn,” he mutters under his breath.

Without saying a word, he pulls a kerchief from his back pocket, folds it over his hand, and carefully opens the hood. His sunglasses sit low on his nose as he inspects the engine, his eyes narrowing. He pulls the dipstick out, wipes it clean, and then checks it again. It’s dry.

“This is a problem,” he says, his voice low, as his eyes flick up to meet yours over the edge of his shades. You try to breathe normally, but the way he’s looking at you makes your pulse race.

You bite your lip, the heat in your cheeks rising. “Oh no, I’m not under arrest, am I, Officer Peña?” you tease, trying to hold back a giggle.

His expression doesn’t change. In fact, it darkens, but not in a bad way. “No,” he responds flatly, “But you are coming with me.”

You blink. You’re not sure if it’s fear or excitement creeping up your spine, but the look in his eyes tells you that whatever happens next, it won’t be boring.

He slams the hood down with a grunt and looks at you, hands on his hips.

“You can’t drive this anywhere. I’ll call a tow for you, but it’s about 15 miles to the nearest diner. I’ll check if they’re open—probably not on Sundays…” He mutters under his breath to himself, clearly frustrated by the inconvenience.

When you get to the diner, the lights are off. Shit. The sense of urgency is now gone, replaced by Peña’s quiet, simmering frustration. He turns to you, raking his hand through his hair.

“Well,” he says, exhaling, “I’ve got a couch at my place if you want to crash for a bit. Or, I could take you to the motel down the road.”

You glance at him, unsure, your stomach doing flips. But something in his voice tells you you’re not just getting a ride. Not with the way he’s looking at you now.

“Your place?” You swallow, and the tension in the air shifts from frustration to something else entirely. It’s hotter. His lips twitch at your hesitation, his eyes going dark.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just jerks his head towards the truck and motions for you to get in.

Later, at Peña's Place...

The door slams behind you. His apartment is dimly lit, and the air feels thick, charged with something neither of you have bothered to address yet. Peña motions for you to sit on the couch.

He stands across from you, still in his boots, his body relaxed but that same intensity in his gaze.

He crosses his arms and looks at you, just watching, like he’s waiting for something.

“Well?” he asks, his voice low, almost daring you to make a move.

The heat between you both is unbearable. You don’t need to say anything. Without thinking, you stand, closing the distance between you. His breath catches in his throat when you press yourself against him. His scent—leather, whiskey, and something warm—invades your senses. You breathe him in, your heart racing as you glance up at him.

Peña’s hand slides to the back of your neck, tugging you in, his lips crashing into yours without warning. He doesn’t kiss like he’s unsure. No, this kiss is raw, demanding, and full of urgency. His other hand travels down your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a slow, deliberate tease.

You gasp against his lips as his fingers move lower, brushing against the hem of your shirt, before he pulls it off entirely, leaving you exposed. His eyes rove over your body, and you can feel the heat in his gaze, but he’s in no rush. He’s taking his time.

“Damn, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice rough. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for too long.”

Your skin tingles at his words, but it’s the way he says them that sends a jolt of heat through your veins. You don’t even think anymore, you just need him. All of him.

He pulls you back in, his hands moving with purpose now, unzipping his jeans, and everything else melts away as he takes control. You can’t remember the last time you felt this alive.

The world outside ceases to exist as Peña proves exactly why he’s the kind of man who takes what he wants.

Your back barely hits the couch before he’s on you again, pressing you down with the full weight of his body, his mouth hot and insistent against your throat. His hands roam, exploring every inch of skin now bared to him, mapping out every place that makes you shudder beneath him.

He tugs your jeans down in one smooth motion, his breath hitching as he takes in the sight of you. His fingers trace a slow, teasing path up your thigh, his touch both possessive and maddeningly gentle.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, voice thick with want.

You barely manage a response before his hands and mouth are on you again, working you apart with an almost lazy expertise—like he knows he’s got you exactly where he wants you, like he enjoys watching you squirm beneath him.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as he continues his slow, torturous pace. The heat coils tighter, building, threatening to consume you entirely—

And then—he pulls back, hovering over you with that smug smirk, his lips glistening.

“Think you can handle me, querida?”

It’s not really a question. It’s a promise.

And as he finally presses into you—stretching, filling, claiming—you realize there’s no going back.

Not that you’d ever want to. Your gasp barely has time to leave your lips before the sound of fabric tearing fills the room.

“Jesus, Peña—”

“Shut up.” His voice is a low growl, his hands ruthless as he yanks apart what’s left of your shirt, tossing the shredded fabric aside. Your jeans are next, seams splitting under his rough grip, leaving you utterly bare beneath him.

You should be mad. You should be embarrassed.

But the way he looks at you? Like he’s just found something he’s been starving for? You feel nothing but wanted.

His hands are everywhere—squeezing the soft curve of your hips, gripping the flesh of your arse like he owns it. His fingers dig in, holding you still as he rolls his hips against yours, dragging a ragged curse from deep in his throat.

“Fuck, baby.” His teeth scrape along your throat, his breath hot against your skin. “Look at you. Perfect. Perfect.”

His mouth moves lower, his stubble scraping along your skin as he drags his tongue over the swell of your breast before biting down just hard enough to make you jolt. He chuckles at your sharp inhale, his hands sliding up your sides before cupping your tits, squeezing, kneading, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you whimper beneath him.

“You like that?” he taunts, his voice thick with amusement. He pulls at your hair, forcing your head back so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

He looks almost as wrecked as you feel.

His fingers slide lower, teasing, testing—until he pulls back suddenly, leaving you gasping, teetering on the edge.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips curling in a wicked smirk.

Your whole body protests, hips chasing his touch, but he holds you still, waiting, watching—until you’re trembling beneath him, desperate, needy—

And then he gives you exactly what you need.

To be continued...

What?! No!

Yes.

In Part Two: HERE.

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[legallyboundfanfics]

Beldro & Caruso, Attorneys at Law present

Continued...

...From Part 1: HERE

Your whole body protests, hips chasing his touch, but he holds you still, waiting, watching—until you’re trembling beneath him, desperate, needy—

And then he gives you exactly what you need.

There’s nothing slow, nothing careful about the way he takes you. It’s rough and deep and hungry—like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, like he’s trying to make sure you feel him long after this is over.

His grip is bruising, his pace relentless, his words little more than filthy praise and breathless curses as he pushes you higher, higher—

Your body tightens around him, and Peña feels it—feels the way you tremble, the way you arch into him, every muscle drawn tight like a bowstring about to snap.

"That’s it," he grits out, his voice raw, wrecked. "Come for me—fucking take it—"

And you do. Hard.

Your climax hits like a lightning strike, white-hot and searing, leaving you gasping as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and Peña growls at the sting, but he doesn’t stop—doesn’t slow. He chases it.

"Fuck—" His pace stutters, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep with a guttural moan.

You feel it when he loses control—feel the way his whole body shudders, the way his cock throbs inside you as he spills deep, panting against your neck. His breath is hot and ragged, his weight heavy, grounding, and real.

The aftershocks leave you shaking, overstimulated, your body twitching as he rides out the last waves of his orgasm, his hips rolling in lazy, exhausted thrusts.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both ruined—drenched in sweat, gasping, clinging to each other like you’ll disappear if you let go.

And then Peña exhales a low, breathless chuckle, pressing his forehead to yours.

"Damn," he mutters, voice hoarse, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "You’re gonna kill me, baby."

He leans back against the bedpost, one arm still sprawled across your waist, pinning you down as his other hand reaches for the pack of cigarettes. His eyes flick to you, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You watch, transfixed, as he takes one between his fingers and lights it with a practiced flick of his thumb. The glow of the flame catches the edge of his sharp features, his eyes narrowing slightly as he inhales deeply. He keeps his gaze locked on yours as he exhales, the smoke curling around the space between you two.

You’re still breathless from everything, your body heavy and sensitive in all the right places, and his casual nonchalance makes something in your chest tighten. He reaches over you, the length of his body pressing into yours, and you realize—he hasn’t moved since he fucked the air out of you.

He hasn’t moved, but he's still got you right where he wants you.

“Damn, you’re a sight,” he mutters, exhaling slowly. The smoke drifts lazily around his face, but his eyes are all sharp focus, never leaving yours.

“Can’t remember the last time I had someone like you. Fuck, it’s been too long.”

You swallow thickly. You know what he’s talking about. You haven’t been fucked like that in ages, the kind of rough, uncontrolled passion that makes you forget your own name, forget who you are or where you are—just him. You press your lips together, trying to ignore how your body still aches for more, how your fingers are still trembling, but it’s hard to focus when all you can think about is the feel of him on top of you, his weight, his heat, the way he moves with slow, deliberate force.

His thumb grazes your bottom lip as you try to hold back your breath, his touch soft despite the fire in his gaze. You take in another breath of the smoke, the nicotine burning in your lungs, before handing the cigarette back to him, your fingers brushing against his.

His eyes flash, and he leans forward without warning, capturing your lips in a kiss so deep, so raw, it’s like he’s claiming you again. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth, coaxing you open, and you meet him halfway. You can taste the remnants of him, smoky and sweet, and the heat builds between you again.

You slide your hands up his chest, feeling the tight muscles underneath his shirt, feeling him flex as his body looms over yours. You can’t help but let out a soft moan against his lips, and he pulls back just enough to glance at you with that cocky grin of his, the one that says he knows exactly what’s going on in your mind.

“Not too often I get to fuck someone like you,” he growls, his voice rough. “But now? Now you’ve got nothing left to hide behind.”

You can feel the tension in your body snap, and it makes you shiver. But as much as you’re burning for him to go again, there’s something else now—something you’re not sure you’re ready for.

You glance down at yourself, at the shredded remains of your clothes strewn across the floor, and the thought hits you like a bucket of cold water. “What am I supposed to wear now?” you murmur, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. You tug the edges of his shirt a little tighter, but it's way too big on you, hanging off your shoulders like you're drowning in it.

Peña chuckles low, dark. “You’re asking the wrong guy, cariño,” he says, his voice warm with amusement. He takes another drag off the cigarette, letting the smoke curl between the two of you, eyes twinkling like he's already thinking about something else.

“But if you’re asking if you can wear anything at all... I wouldn’t mind you walking around like that.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised. His grin widens, that knowing, confident smile you’ve come to love. "I didn’t fuck up those clothes to leave you with nothing to wear. Besides, that shirt looks better on you than it does on me.”

But that cocky smirk doesn’t hide the dark gleam in his eyes. He reaches out, fingers brushing across your cheek with surprising tenderness, but the fire in his gaze is unmistakable.

“No clothes, no protection,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “You’re mine tonight. Every inch of you.”

To be continued?

Actually, it might already be in the works, bb. *WINK!*

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