Discover Top Posts Tagged with #commercial actor

Good Boy

(Spot Pet Insurance - "Good Boys" Ads') Unnamed Actor (Colt William Buehner) x Male Reader

Summary: It was your job to make sure the co-lead actor puppy had breaks and was well cared for. The other co-lead actor also wants you to take care of him during a break.

Word Count: 5.61k | (one-shot)

Author's Note: Welcome to the first April Fools' fic on this blog! (I honestly wrote this so I can feel validated about how beyond sexy this man is🫣). Links to the commercials/ads/promotions are provided at the bottom!

Important Note: I feel like I have to legally say this... Spot Pet Insurance has no affiliation with me, this blog, or this fic, nor do I with them. I am not sponsored by them, nor do I wish to be. Please don't come after me, big insurance company😭. If I knew how to Photoshop out the logos, I would😭.

Side Note: I tried for SO MANY HOURS to find out who this (fine-ass🫦) actor is in these promotions, but I couldn't find a single clue, nudge, or hint to who he is. I am so sorry, unnamed actor, you don't deserve the non-recognition😭. But, as usual, this is a work of fiction, and I don't mean to imply anything about this (unnamed) man. I respect his work and him as an individual. I hope to see the same.

(04/12/26) Edit: Huge shoutout to @elreystories for finding out who this hunk of a man is. I've edited the tags to give this man (Colt William Buehner) the credited spotlight he deserves, but I won't be editing the fic, because honestly, I find it a bit amusing that the reader doesn't know his name. Thanks again, king!

| FEMALES DNI PAST THIS POINT |

You leaned against the far wall, the prop table somewhere off to your right with its scattered arrangement of spotlessly fake martini glasses, an x-large white dog cone left open from the unstuck velcro, a herd of orange rubber tennis balls, a thick medical black arm sling, and a stack of unopened fake chocolate bars. From this angle - in a not meticulously chosen position, as you told yourself - a row of bright, white GVM LED lights crowded in a huddle that blocked most of the scene, but with a tilt of your head, you were able to catch the connected screen that displayed the capturing footage from the recording Canon video camera being handled by some poor college-aged intern.

A brunette man playfully shook his head back and forth with a plush Dalmatian-patterned - white with black spots - bow-shaped chew toy gripped between his teeth as he craned himself, so it was just out of reach of the yellow Labrador retriever puppy's curious head. You felt your heart warm at the scene, eyes repeatedly trailing back to the man's high-spirited demeanor, his nose slightly scrunched with a singular setting wrinkle across the bridge, and cute crow's feet marking the edges of his focused eyes. This might have been a commercial being shot, and your priority solely lay with the safety and well-being of the yellow Labrador retrievers, but you were not blind. The brunette man was easy on the eyes, and you noticed with the minimal adjustments to the filming equipment that the cameras agreed.

The dotted scruff of the actor's barely noticeable beard and connecting mustache softened the edges of his jawline - the on-set stylists decided to make him look more approachable and highlight his dimples. It was all a part of the craft; you didn't even want to think about the amount of pre-planning this less-than-a-minute-long commercial had gone through. Not only had there been countless hours spent on designing his full-body burning-orange colored two-piece suit and the custom-built comical brown dog ears and tail to match his dark hair, but you had also been on the receiving end of the team's sharp eyes.

You remember two weeks ago, when you pulled up to the shoot with a variety of curious barks and yips from the thrilled puppies of different breeds tugging you along down the halls. As per the director's words, the 'chemistry screening' was essential in not only guaranteeing that the male actor and the chosen puppy would mesh well together personality-wise, but in verifying their assumption that the breed they had in mind would be their candidate of choice. You were heavily biased, falling a little bit in love with all the animals you've worked with on sets, and after the few weeks of training you had with these adorable pups - to at the minimum make sure they wouldn't run off stage, were used to the presence of so many prying eyes and crowding equipment, and were potty trained - they definitely had become some of your favorite to work with. There really wasn't a competition in hindsight; yellow labs were fundamentally the United States' favorite dog breed, as they were often confused with the preferred golden retriever that came with the aforementioned white picket fence, wife, and 2.4 children.

You scoffed at the allegedly reachable dream while a young beagle was trying to lick off the grimace from your face, the noise catching the insurance company's executives' attention as they briefly turned your way with disdain, impatience, and a shared raised eyebrow. You just faked a laugh until they all turned back around to continue watching the other puppies interact, the beagle in your arms still tickling your cheek with kisses to further sell the act. You couldn't bring yourself to say it aloud - not that the dogs would ever understand your tongue - but she was your favorite out of the bunch. She was a little more reserved than the five other pups, which was why you were on the concrete floor with her, the two of you watching everything unfold with enough distance that kept her comfortable and unstressed, and you close enough to step in at a moment's notice if need be. Not that it seems like the crew members, team, or executives cared about your presence once you unleashed the puppies.

Some time later, and many whispered comments you weren't meant to hear, you had begun to collect a row of napping dogs around you. There were two of them that personal assistants had handed to you with a soft, apologetic smile, and the other two had slowly crawled over to you, deeming their trek close enough to you when they reached your shoes from your outstretched legs and got comfortable in a sprawl against the cool ground. In between the snores surrounding you, the excited howls from the remaining yellow lab running back and forth at the attention it wasn't able to distinguish, and the rising chatter from the executives to ignore the puppy's pleas at their feet, you turned your head into the room's entrance as you heard the approaching footsteps. It seemed like you weren't the only one either.

A loud, delighted bark filled the room as the pup weaved through shocked legs, and he jumped up into the man's awaiting arms. You had watched the sequence play out, letting the cuteness twinkle and etch into your conscience for a few moments until you remembered that you were still on duty. You shot up, sleeping beagle still within your arms, and stepped around the others with a hopefully believable, shy smile. You ignored the stunned look that the commercial director had, as if lightning had just struck him as a result of a magnum opus stepping into the light. Or stood in front of the doorway.

"I am so sorry about him, he gets excited easily," you say once you reach the brunette man.

"It's no problem, the little guy is adorable," the man responds, a deep baritone soothingly alluring. You don't catch him watching your movements as you hike up the floppy-eared dog further up your arm so she can rest your head on your shoulder, nor do you note how his hazel eyes wander down your figure in an appreciative once-over. His voice slows, like he didn't want anyone but you to hear him say, "I get excited easily, too, especially when someone like you is standing before me."

Your head snaps back up too late, the brunette playing off the flirty comment by looking down at the pup in his arms, a short yawn finally emitting from the yellow lab. Finally taking him in, you thought the man looked ridiculous with the full orange suit and fake dog ears. And yet, you couldn't ignore how it seemed to match him, his evident handsomeness still shining through his accentuated physical features. Together, the sight of him met somewhere in the middle - hunky attractiveness mixing with wackiness to find magnetic, enticing charm. Is this the commercial's actor? you asked yourself.

Your eyes met again, a small smirk tugging at his lips when he caught you already staring at him. You go to ask him your thought, when you hear shuffling nearing. "Sir, you're the actor, correct?" the director's asks with glee like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

The brunette's gaze flickers between the two of you, steadying back onto your face as he answers. "Yes, sir, I am."

"Great, because if you weren't, then I would have had to fire that other guy we already hired! You and this young lab are perfect for this commercial! Oh, I could envision it now..." the director trails off, mentioning potential shared scenes for the two of them. He calls out for his intern, a young college-aged man, who whips his head and takes his clipboard with him as he finishes writing down what the director had said, almost acting more like a personal assistant, even though you felt like that wasn't what the guy had initially signed up for when he took up this position. The brunette beside you didn't pay either of the two mind as he found you much more worthwhile to pay attention to, if the skip in his heart had anything to say.

You turn back, continuing your conversation with the actor. "So, you are the actor."

"I'm the actor, fur real." His face doesn't show it, but he hopes he didn't project his internal cringe at the pun.

The absurdity of the dog-related humor shocks a quiet laugh out of you, powering through and cutting off the shuddering cringe you instinctively would've normally gone through in the past when men flirted with you once they learned of your profession. It felt real, authentic in a way that you assumed matched his personality. That he's not just using this joke on you because of your profession, but because of the situation you both found yourselves in - mirroring the other with an adorable puppy resting within your arms.

"They are paying you to say that, even while off the clock?"

"Nope, that's an original." His face beams while admitting, "I tend to speak before I think when I'm in front of a man as fetching as yourself."

This time, you couldn't hold back your recoiling flinch, the brunette tilting his head from amusement at your reaction. You say with a shake of your head, "Wow," dragging out the syllable. "Nope. I could stomach the first pun. But that. Never call me that again. Does this usually work out for you?"

"Never seen anyone like yourself before, so I can't be paw-sitive. You're the first," the dog-earned man reveals without hesitation. Cautiously, you scan his face, focused and prepared to detect a crack that could grant you access to the truth - a twitch from his nose, a gnaw at his bottom lip, a half-second falter in his smile, or a shift in his eyebrow. No matter how hard you try, you don't find anything. And that's when your skin begins to tingle, an overwhelming crash of simmering heat dances upon the flush. Eyes widening at the recognition that you've been practically ogling the man for way too long, and his stunning face hadn't turned away for even a moment, hazel eyes attentively absorbed in watching you back. Like he desired your attention.

You hear the director shout your name somewhere behind you, slicing through the tender tension much to each of your hearts' contention. Shoulders stiffening, you miss the brunette's quick pout while you shut your eyes to gather yourself and relax a fraction enough to slip back into professional mode. "Sounds like they need me," you tell him, craning your head over your shoulder when you remember that your arms were still preoccupied with the sound asleep young beagle. "I should take him off your hands. I've gotta put this girl down with the rest anyway." It's the least you could do, you think.

"I should be the one telling you that. You're the one juggling too many responsibilities," he says, voice still low like he wanted you both to be transported back into that bubble before it was popped from the disruption. He takes a step forward to close the distance and shifts his crossed arms to make enough space for the pup in your arms to also fit comfortably. "Just hand her over and let me know where I should leave them."

The effort is cute, you note as you shake your head, turning around to walk the tens of feet across the studio where the rest of the puppies were still sprawled against the floor in their exhaustion. You feel him follow you with haste that you could only imagine he's trying to play off as suave. You feel his suit jacket brush against your side with each step he takes, nerves activating from even the briefest contact. As you pass the mostly empty craft services' table, your breath hitches as he leans over to whisper against your ear, "Please. I still insist."

You don't respond. You can't, not yet. It was dumb, really, how much he tried, especially when the remaining puppies were less than ten strides away. When you finally crouch to gently lay the beagle down, you are a bit surprised when the actor doesn't delay in handing over the yellow lab in a cautious relay onto your outstretched arms. His hands linger many moments after the puppy's body is safely in your grasp, and you're the one to pull away when also laying down the dog. He has a triumphant smile as you rise, fingers incrementally curling into fists like he needed to rid himself of the buzzing energy without you noticing the effect you had on him.

"Don't you think you're coming off strong?" you teasingly question.

"Maybe." And with a tilt to his head, he produces one of the most natural puppy eyes - the fake ears no doubt carrying a massive amount of his effort. "Is it working?"

"I don't fall for anyone too easily. I hope you can keep this up," you remark, patting his right shoulder before walking away to catch up to the patiently awaiting director in the middle of the room. Hazel eyes follow your figure, but his body remains stuck standing next to the sleeping puppies. There's a burning determination that brightens behind his eyes, heart ascending like the blush blooming beneath his cheeks as all he heard was that he very much had a chance with you. If you wanted him to work his charming magic, that's what he would do.

And so for the past thirteen days, the actor had found you time and time again. Either he would bump into you while crossing paths on set, while he was on his way over from his makeshift dressing room to the hair and makeup stylists, and you had to scramble to keep the yellow lab from leaping out of your arms and into his. "What? I don't get any pets, too?" he would make the same joke every morning, eyes ensnared on your mouth as you would look down to hide your snicker and half-smile, fingers repeatedly booping the puppy's cute little nose to keep its attention on you.

It was that initial day after he met you, he greeted you with his hair tousled, vest left open, his white undershirt beneath also missing a few top buttons connected to intentionally reveal some of the skin of his toned chest, bowtie loosely hanging against his collar, but his fake dog ears were the only feature that rested seamlessly in his hair. He greatly took that snicker as a secured win, and even when he couldn't find you in the morning because his tiny co-star took an extra few hours of sleep and wouldn't arrive on set with you until after noon, he'd dress himself the same. His stylists were confused and thought he was another pretentious actor who couldn't do anything for themselves, until after a few days, when one of them caught the bounce in his step and your retreating figure in the opposite direction and put two and two together.

Then there were the late afternoons, when - with a leash hanging around your neck - you would head onto set, picking up a yawning puppy who somehow always ended up half-asleep on the faded black couch and took his position and maneuvering him to lie on your lap. If the brunette knew any better, it seemed like the young lab was in on getting you together. Wiping a stray bead of sweat from his forehead, the bright artificial film lights finally clicked off - the filming for the day having concluded. "Ruff day?" he'd ask, head already watching you since you sat down, and body slightly following his left arm stretching across the back to reach you - a few feet always left in between his hand and your shoulder because he wanted to give you plenty of space. He didn't want to force anything onto you or cross any boundaries without your permission.

He was always eager when you turned the question back onto him with some hesitance, though he didn't know you had been practically watching everything he did all day. Albeit, of course, it was a part of your responsibility to keenly keep an eye on the furry co-star, and that's all he needed to know for now. His smirk would shift into a toothy smile when you would roll your eyes, but nonetheless, take his palm in hand as he eased you off the couch. He'd trail behind you, looking like a puppy even with his fake dog ears and clip-on tail in his grasp, as you would softly settle the yellow lab into the blue plush cushion inside his carrier and file away some documents into a folder that you would nudge with the rest in your satchel bag. You both would naturally pause in the hallway, the brunette actor taking the opportunity to ask if you wanted to get dinner or coffee with him. His face would fall momentarily when you would tell him that you couldn't - that you needed to get your daily report done and needed to hand it in before you could be done for the day. "I'll see you tomorrow," he would hear you say, the squeeze from your hand on his shoulder a reinvigorating burst of energy shooting from his racing heart.

And between it all, the actor would intentionally create bloopers where he would add one too many dog-related puns when the script wouldn't call for it and would wink at the camera in between takes, almost like he knew you were still watching him. Like he wanted to hear your laugh somewhere beyond the set. There were times when he'd stand beside you out in the hall as you both kept an eye on his puppy co-star as he zoomed back and forth, not a word said between either of you. The solid silence felt the most intimate to him, more than your shoulders brushing, more than the afternoon check-ins, almost on the same level as the lunches he would share with you, back pressed against the uncomfortable wall as he sat with you, ignoring how the dust and dirt were sticking onto his orange apparel. You always poured out the puppy kibble first and watched the young dog lap at his bowl before you would pull out your own lunch. The yellow lab would always step over your lap to reach the brunette man, legs stretching as he tried to nuzzle his face against his open hand. The actor would hear you playfully act appalled at how the puppy seemed to prefer his company.

"You jealous?" his low voice failed to hide the tinge of amusement from your comment.

You swallow the bite before continuing, "I'm the one who feeds him, walks him, and plays with him. And yet, there's something about you that he prefers."

"Don't worry," he starts, his voice slowing as he turns up his charm. The yellow lab tilts his head when he feels his fluffy ears covered by the man's hands. "There are plenty of things that I like about you. I much prefer you over him."

"Alright, everyone! We'll have a quick thirty-minute break, then we should be able to wrap up the final shot," the young personal assistant's voice booms across the room. You assumed he must've finally been able to convince the director one late night, having taken much more responsibility over the last few days. Much to a huff of agreement and a shaking head plastered with a small smile, you even relayed the thought yesterday during another of your shared lunches.

You fold over the manila folder, papers tightly trapped, pen clipped like a hanging seal, and your fingers curling through the rest of your folders within your messenger bag to rightfully place back. Your heart strained at the sound of the velcro sticking, a faint finality that lingered with each action in your surroundings. Everyone else was happily chatting about the project coming to a close, but you were stuck in place, frozen about an everlasting question.

Where does that leave us? you ponder trying to find the man in that same orange suit you thought looked ridiculous and handsome on him, poorly failing discretion. Not that anyone else seemed to notice - troves of people leaving the set. That shade of orange that earnestly invaded your heart, absent.

A breath of air is expelled from your lungs, and your fingers fiddle with agitated jitters against the messenger's strap of fabric. You shut your eyes as your thoughts berate you. Had you been too harsh on him? One too many refusals of invitations made him believe that your flirting denial added too much distance. Did he think you didn't want him back? You looked forward to the small moments you shared, seeing those stupid fake furry ears atop his head, and how the two of you had practically become dog dads to the yellow pup. But maybe you took too long in reflecting back his affection, and now he could just believe that you were stringing him along.

And all at once. "Hey," you hear that reassuringly deep voice in front of you, a suavely courteous expression bright on his face. There seemed to be a buzz about him that he was trying to stow away; was it nervousness? Not once had you ever associated the actor with that feeling. There had been many last-minute additions to the script - inserting scenes that forced him to make a fool of himself, and yet he didn't bat an eye. He took it all with a confident stride and also voluntarily made his job harder with all those forced outtakes just so he could get you to smile.

"Look, we need to talk, I- I didn't mean to- I'm sorry for-" you try to coherently get out, but your confidence is quickly slipping.

"Don't terrier-self over me," he interjects, smile smoothing into a serious line. "I know you like me, too, don't worry."

"You don't think less of me for stringing you along? For keeping my guard up these two weeks?"

"It was all a part of our game. I was more than content to play whatever part you wanted me to - this long game or us making out behind one of our cars in the parking lot on that very same day."

You drop your forehead against the smooth material of his suit covering his shoulder and groan against him. "Am I an idiot?" you voice your thought in a muffle.

"Just a tad," he whispers, immediately feeling your hand push against his chest in what was supposed to be a slap, but it seemed like you gave up when his words were followed by a kiss against your head. And slowly, the actor feels your walls crumble against him. Your shoulders slump from loosening strain, the hand not pressed against his chest grips onto his midsection with your arm encircling him, and somewhere along the way, you pull him closer.

You both rest there for minutes, your back supported against the wall with his squeezing arms wrapped around you. You can feel the steady beating of his heart; it's draining you in a way that has you feeling secure, a lost state you've misplaced long ago. This is how you knew, you can trust him.

When you pull away from his shoulder, the brunette's palm shoots up to your head to intercept before it gets too far away for his liking, his own head dropping and tucking into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, nose nudging closer until his lips and your skin meet in a never-ending kiss. He couldn't let you go, didn't want to. Not now that he finally has you in his arms. Not since he was so close to never seeing you again.

"I think I need you." Your words pierce through your shared paradise, but didn't go further than your corner of the empty room. You feel the tension envelop his body, arms rigid, not because of the tightness of the suit.

He pulls back, a gulp bobs his Adam's apple, and his hazel eyes never once leave yours. "Are you sure? You don't have to if-"

"I want to," you barely let out as he's already kissing you, sparks shooting between you from the well-worth release of pent-up passion. He lets you push back against him, relinquishing the battle when he was delighted just to have you within his arms. You pull back, and even while panting for air, he presses three quick kisses against your open mouth like he wanted to suck the air out of you. Once you are able to focus enough again to breathe through your nose, you exclaim, "Whoa, Rover!"

He grins at the name, an appreciative flutter at the joke he'll keep in his pocket for as long as you have him. "Good one," he laughs, the baritone vibrating.

He follows you out into the hallway, your bodies tethered by the vice grip you have on his wrist. He shuts his dressing room door behind him, the echoing click of the lock gearing into place, granting you two a cocoon of intimate privacy. At least for the next twenty-something minutes. Knowing that your window of opportunity was diminishing, you hold onto his collar, keeping him at a distance as he tries to lap at your neck. Your heart swells at the attempt, but affectionate foreplay in the form of worshipping will have to wait for another day. Your fingers trace down his figure, and you can feel sturdy hills of muscles beneath his orange layers, faint lines of almost-there abs that shake when he sucks in a shuddering breath. When your hand lands on his hefty bulge straining against his crotch, his supposed-to-be curses sound more like breathy whimpers.

"We don't have much time," you remind him, and he nods straight away, jaw clenched in restraint and nostrils flaring in forced short breaths. You think you could've said anything, and he would've agreed with a devoted certainty. It only takes him moments to immediately start reclaiming your lips in needy tongue-filled kisses, his body following your lead and maneuvering backwards until his calves hit the edge of the weirdly out of place mint green tuxedo sofa. His legs spread out, giving your body ample room to fit between his knees as you kneel in front of him. Even before you could raise your arm, you notice his bulge twitch twice, and out of your periphery, you can recognize that familiar drag of his lips and half-lidded eyes - the same look you memorized the few times he repeated for the shot when he was practically eye fucking the chocolate bar.

While you pull him out of his confines, the thick, long cock slaps against the orange vest covering his waist, his handle rustles in his left pocket, pulling out a small, thin square of wrapping. You look up at him, taken aback by how prepared he was. "How long have you been carrying a condom with you?"

"The day after I met you," he answers as if it were the most normal action ever.

You shake your head to not burst out laughing. "You're such a dog."

"If that's what you want, then I'll be your dog," he says honestly.

"Slow down, Rover. You still have to take me out on a proper date," you tease, patting his thigh.

His cock jolts, a soft thudded fall against his waist when the nickname enters his ears. The brunette growls as he rips open the packet with his teeth, tossing the wrapping somewhere behind him as he sheathes his large cock. His free hand reaches back into his pocket, plucking out a slim blue bottle of water-based lube that he generously lathers over himself. You take back control, grip stroking him to spread the lubricant further around, his cock convulsing, and the dark red at his mushroom head seeping down his shaft in a meeting with the drumming pump of blood. You pick yourself back up, unbuckling and unzipping your jeans, and stepping out of them to neatly fold and place them on the empty cushion beside the actor. You kick your shoes off, and your underwear follows your jeans.

The brunette is frozen solid, holding his breath as you carry yourself over him, anchoring yourself on the meat of his shoulders. He's hopelessly entranced by your figure, by you needing him just as much as he needs you, and by what the two of you were about to do. Your thighs bracket around his, the smooth fabric from the suit tickling your skin. His hands palm at your thighs, a reassuring squeeze on your left, while his thumb strokes small circles on your right. His cock jolts, a quick kiss against your awaiting rim as you carefully lower yourself, a gasp escaping when his tip begins to squeeze past. The pace is slow, too much so for the brunette's need to feel you completely around him, his entire body flexing from the exceeding restraint. And yet, his heart is fluttering without a care.

A minute passes before you're fully sitting on him; another sixty seconds follow, filled with sequential groaning shared between you as you wait for the pain to subside. The dog-eared man leans forward, the sweet press of his lips pleasantly shocking the nerves at your chin, hazel eyes mesmerized by the slowing comfort that blankets across your scrunched-up features. Once the pain has drained into tolerability, your first rise and fall has your hand shoot up into his hair as you feel him overwhelmingly fill you anew. Through your haze, you ask him if he's okay with hair pulling, and he agrees vehemently, wordlessly, with a rapid nod.

"Praise me," he requests, a following plea getting lost in the room as you begin to slam down onto him, the loud slaps of your ass meeting his thighs with each rough descent stuffed the small room just as much as when his enormity pressed against the small button of your prostate.

"You feel so big in me."

"Yeah?" he groans.

"Yeah, you're such a good boy."

The moment those words left your mouth, his hands seized your waist, a tight, bruising grip that ceased your movements. You look down at him, his pupils blown out, and your palm feels the guttural vibrations reverberating up his chest. His cock doesn't stop twitching, the girth of him expanding in you further. You don't need him to say anything; the title clearly has an immense effect on him.

"You like it when I call you good boy?" you ask anyway, a tug at his hair getting him to open his eyes.

"I won't be able to handle it anymore if you call me that again," he says through his gritted teeth.

"You're my good boy."

His neck cranes as he smashes his lips against yours, and you relinquish all control over to him. After shifting you on his lap, he starts to fuck up into you, the slaps of his thighs louder now. It was too much to handle, the searingly passionate kiss with the equally intense feel of his shaft plunging into you, so you let go, your release splattering onto his orange suit before you could even try to revert it. His release hounds after you, with one final drive that has his balls meeting your cheeks, and his load pumps into the plastic covering him. His thighs continue to lift, his pelvis gyrating with limited ability to try and dig deeper into you as he continues to shoot and shoot.

It feels too soon for both of you when you lift yourself off of him, his cock falling into a streak of your cum, and the sight has him twitching one final time. You settle on his left thigh, trying to ignore the impending pain you're sure to feel as your hand smooths through the waves of his dark hair, head resting on his left shoulder.

A realization causes you to shoot up. "Where's our pup?" you ask, too fucked out to carefully choose your words.

He grins up at you. "Our dog," he emphasizes the first word intentionally, "is with the groomer. She wanted to make sure that he looked all dapper for the TikTok we have to shoot later."

That calms you down a bit, your hand leaning down onto his thigh until your brows furrow at the sound of crinkling paper in his pocket. He doesn't say anything, a mischievous glint in his eyes giving away his guilt. You smooth the edges of a document - an adoption paper. Your mouth hangs open, the surprise leaving you more breathless than the fucking.

"Do you want to explain this document to me?"

"Well, I know I couldn't trap you with me, no matter how much I breed you," he jokes. A hearty chuckle fills the space between you when you roll your eyes. "So, I figured the next best thing was this. We're dog dads."

"I don't even live with you!"

"You want our first date for me to help you move in? Preferably tonight?"

God, this charming man, you think, your heart already agrees with wanting to move in.

Author's Note 2: Here are the commercials/ads/promotions! Again, I do not have any affiliation with Spot Pet Insurance, nor do they with me.