In this post outbreak world, society is starting to settle. It has been too long since you've had good sex. Sex is easy to find, but good sex is non existent. You're resigned to thinking that the sex you want, the sex you need, is another thing you have lost. You miss BDSM, the sensations, the connection that resulting bond.
Nights of masochistic, violent submission, humiliation, degradation and being treated like a toy, a whore or a ragdoll are a distant memory.
You're introduced to Joel Miller. Similar wants. Similar needs.
Welcome to your basement.
This story is 18+ for many reasons. Chapters are tagged accordingly. What you read is your responsibility.
“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.™
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.”
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—
CW/TW: No plot. PIV. "dirty talk". rough sex. "degradation"
Biggest ups to @carusolikey you beautiful, powerful musk ox.
You didn’t know his name at first. But you knew the way he watched you.
Joel Miller was a problem.
A big, broad, gruff-as-hell problem wrapped in worn denim and a stare that made your stomach twist. He wasn’t subtle about it—his eyes lingered when you bent over, his hands found your waist when he passed by, always just enough to make you feel it.
You should’ve ignored it. Should’ve kept your distance.
But here you are now, back pressed against some rickety table in an abandoned house, jeans shoved down to your knees, Joel’s fingers buried deep inside your soaking cunt.
"Look at you," he grunts, watching the way you clench around him. His fingers slide deeper, curling against that sweet spot inside you, and you whimper. “Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ hand. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ spread open like some needy little thing.”
Your head tips back, a moan spilling out, but Joel catches your chin in his rough grip. “Nuh-uh. Eyes on me.”
You obey, but it’s hard with the way he’s working you open—his thick fingers pumping in and out, thumb rubbing circles over your swollen clit.
“That’s it,” he mutters, watching your breath hitch, your thighs trembling. “So fuckin’ greedy. You wanna cum already, baby? You wanna soak my hand like a good little thing?”
You nod, panting, but he tuts. “Use your words, sweetheart.”
"Yes,” you gasp. “Please—”
Joel pulls his fingers out.
You whine at the loss, thighs shaking, but he just chuckles, bringing his slick fingers to his mouth. Sucks them clean with a filthy groan.
"Goddamn, baby, you taste good. Bet that pretty little mouth would feel just as sweet wrapped around my cock."
He’s already undoing his belt, pushing his jeans down, and your mouth waters at the sight of him—thick, heavy, flushed an angry red at the tip.
He sees you staring and smirks. “What? Ain’t never had a man this big before?”
You shake your head, and something dark flickers across his face.
"S’gonna be a stretch, baby," he murmurs, rubbing the head against your slick folds, teasing. "You sure you can take it?"
“Yes—God, Joel, please—”
"That’s my good girl."
Then he’s pushing in, slow, unrelenting, and fuck, it burns in the best way. You feel yourself stretching, splitting open around him, and Joel groans—low, wrecked.
"Jesus. So fuckin’ tight. Like you were made for me.”
He sinks in inch by inch, one rough hand braced on your hip, the other wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head swim.
"Too much?" he rasps.
"No," you gasp. "More—"
Joel growls and snaps his hips forward, bottoming out in one brutal thrust.
You cry out, hands clawing at his shoulders, but he just grins, pulling back only to slam in again. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Let me ruin this pretty little pussy."
And he does. He fucks you like he owns you, like he’s got every right to.
His thrusts are deep, devastating, his grip bruising. One hand stays on your throat, the other slipping between your thighs to rub rough circles over your swollen clit.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”
You’re already so close, body burning, muscles tensing.
"Joel—"
"Do it."
That’s all it takes. The coil inside you snaps, pleasure crashing over you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight, and Joel groans.
But he’s not done.
“Oh, we ain’t finished yet, baby.”
He keeps going, chasing his own high, pounding into you with filthy, wet sounds, his grip tightening as he fucks you straight through your overstimulation.
Tears prick your eyes, body shaking, but you don’t tell him to stop. Can’t. Not when it feels this fucking good.
"Makin’ such a mess, baby," Joel groans, watching where you’re stretched around him. "S’drippin’ down your thighs. Look at you. Fuckin’ wrecked for me."
His pace stutters, breath hitching, grip tightening. “Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make sure you remember who you fuckin’ belong to.”
With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.
For a long moment, all you hear is harsh breathing, the sound of your racing heartbeat.
Then Joel pulls out, watching his spend drip from your wrecked, swollen cunt. He smirks.
Where was the reader left last chapter? Oh that's right, hands and knees, covered in food, soaking fucking wet. A little peep of what's to come....
You reluctantly release the deep bite you had on your forearm, drop your forehead in to the blanket and let him hear you breathe, hear you moan. You bury your hands in your hair, pulling it to add to the sensations your body is being overwhelmed with.
You immediately feel Joel’s hand over yours.
“move”
You obey, immediately. You’re in deep now, you’ll do what he says without much thought.
He grips your hair and roughly pulls you upright so that you’re almost ear to ear with him. His fingers are alternating from being inside you to gliding over your clit and as you begin mounting that familiar hill.
He pulls his fingers away from your cunt and his arm wraps around your waist. You’re pulled to your knees before you can let out a whimper in protest.
“not yet”
He bites your neck, sucks your neck, bites your neck, sucks your neck... That’s going to leave a mark. Was that hard enough to bleed? You can feel his cock against your naked arse through his pants. He is very, fucking, hard. That can’t be comfortable. So many thoughts are racing through your head at once.
CW/TW: No plot. PIV. "dirty talk". rough sex. "degradation"
Biggest ups to @carusolikey you beautiful, powerful musk ox.
You didn’t know his name at first. But you knew the way he watched you.
Joel Miller was a problem.
A big, broad, gruff-as-hell problem wrapped in worn denim and a stare that made your stomach twist. He wasn’t subtle about it—his eyes lingered when you bent over, his hands found your waist when he passed by, always just enough to make you feel it.
You should’ve ignored it. Should’ve kept your distance.
But here you are now, back pressed against some rickety table in an abandoned house, jeans shoved down to your knees, Joel’s fingers buried deep inside your soaking cunt.
"Look at you," he grunts, watching the way you clench around him. His fingers slide deeper, curling against that sweet spot inside you, and you whimper. “Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ hand. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ spread open like some needy little thing.”
Your head tips back, a moan spilling out, but Joel catches your chin in his rough grip. “Nuh-uh. Eyes on me.”
You obey, but it’s hard with the way he’s working you open—his thick fingers pumping in and out, thumb rubbing circles over your swollen clit.
“That’s it,” he mutters, watching your breath hitch, your thighs trembling. “So fuckin’ greedy. You wanna cum already, baby? You wanna soak my hand like a good little thing?”
You nod, panting, but he tuts. “Use your words, sweetheart.”
"Yes,” you gasp. “Please—”
Joel pulls his fingers out.
You whine at the loss, thighs shaking, but he just chuckles, bringing his slick fingers to his mouth. Sucks them clean with a filthy groan.
"Goddamn, baby, you taste good. Bet that pretty little mouth would feel just as sweet wrapped around my cock."
He’s already undoing his belt, pushing his jeans down, and your mouth waters at the sight of him—thick, heavy, flushed an angry red at the tip.
He sees you staring and smirks. “What? Ain’t never had a man this big before?”
You shake your head, and something dark flickers across his face.
"S’gonna be a stretch, baby," he murmurs, rubbing the head against your slick folds, teasing. "You sure you can take it?"
“Yes—God, Joel, please—”
"That’s my good girl."
Then he’s pushing in, slow, unrelenting, and fuck, it burns in the best way. You feel yourself stretching, splitting open around him, and Joel groans—low, wrecked.
"Jesus. So fuckin’ tight. Like you were made for me.”
He sinks in inch by inch, one rough hand braced on your hip, the other wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head swim.
"Too much?" he rasps.
"No," you gasp. "More—"
Joel growls and snaps his hips forward, bottoming out in one brutal thrust.
You cry out, hands clawing at his shoulders, but he just grins, pulling back only to slam in again. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Let me ruin this pretty little pussy."
And he does. He fucks you like he owns you, like he’s got every right to.
His thrusts are deep, devastating, his grip bruising. One hand stays on your throat, the other slipping between your thighs to rub rough circles over your swollen clit.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”
You’re already so close, body burning, muscles tensing.
"Joel—"
"Do it."
That’s all it takes. The coil inside you snaps, pleasure crashing over you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight, and Joel groans.
But he’s not done.
“Oh, we ain’t finished yet, baby.”
He keeps going, chasing his own high, pounding into you with filthy, wet sounds, his grip tightening as he fucks you straight through your overstimulation.
Tears prick your eyes, body shaking, but you don’t tell him to stop. Can’t. Not when it feels this fucking good.
"Makin’ such a mess, baby," Joel groans, watching where you’re stretched around him. "S’drippin’ down your thighs. Look at you. Fuckin’ wrecked for me."
His pace stutters, breath hitching, grip tightening. “Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make sure you remember who you fuckin’ belong to.”
With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.
For a long moment, all you hear is harsh breathing, the sound of your racing heartbeat.
Then Joel pulls out, watching his spend drip from your wrecked, swollen cunt. He smirks.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x reader x Santiago Garcia
Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI. 🏳️🌈
Warnings/tags: Oral (f + m receiving), deep throating, lots of cumplay, PiV, fingering (f), masturbation, titty fucking, one time use of 'slut' (directed at m), queer af, everybody is bi. Reader is mostly a blank slate, uses she/her pronouns, has breasts and a vagina.
Word count: 1.2K
A/N: This was very loosely written + edited, and what @lotusbxtch called my brain backlashing against the Materialists trailer 💀 (hence the title - no shade intended, it's just very much the opposite). Thank you to her and @mountainsandmayhem and @sin-djarin for letting me test drive this in real time, ditto for @magpiepills who encouraged me to not fuss around too much with editing and just post it!
main masterlist | read on AO3
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Laying with your head in Santi's lap while he strokes your hair, as he doesn't even want you to suck him off, but to just to lay there while Frankie fucks you prone bone and he can admire the view, every now and then reaching out to cup your ass in his hand, or his fingers around Frankie's dick as he's fucking into you. And when Frankie is getting close to coming, Santi tells him to pull out at the last min and come over your ass.
He'll probably wipe Frankie's cum off you with his fingers and then use it as lube to jerk himself off lazily. "She only came once, Frankie. You'd better eat out that pussy and do it well."
So Frankie flips you over on the matress and eats you out with vigor as Santi watches. The top of your head resting against the outside of his thigh, and he's still calmly jerking himself off, brushing his thumb slick with his precum and Frankie's spunk over your bottom lip.
"Lick it up." Voice low and demanding, but of course you are gonna oblige - would’ve even done it without the order.
Frankie pauses for a moment to watch you lick Santi's thumb clean, his breath still hot against your cunt. When Santi notices that he's stopped, he frowns at him and snaps his fingers. "Didn't tell you to stop, Francisco. Get back to it and give her two fingers."
Then Santi fucks your mouth with two fingers, pretty much at the same pace as Frankie fingers you while sucking on your clit. "She'd better be crying your name loudly when she comes on your tongue."
You do, so Santi decides that Frankie deserves a reward. He tugs Frankie by his hair, over your body and towards him, so he can kiss him and lick your taste out of his mouth. "Good job," he purrs at Frankie, who can't help but preen at the compliment, and before he can respond, Santi pushes his head down, urging Frankie's mouth to his cock. "Here's your reward, make it sloppy."
And you're still laying there, catching your breath with Frankie leaning over you and giving Santi the nastiest, sloppiest head. You brush your fingers over his nipples - always so sensitive - and lean up to press your lips against his heated skin, kissing his chest, and you feel him shiver in response.
It's not long before Santi is panting heavily, because Frankie knows exactly how to suck him off hard and quick. You can feel Santi's hips bucking up even though you can't actually see what's going on - but fuck, do you hear it. The slick sounds of Frankie feasting on his dick have you dripping wet, and you reach down to touch yourself, slipping two fingers inside to satisfy the yearning. It’s good, intoxicating even with your two guys pressed so close against you, but nevertheless your digits don’t fill you nearly as adequately as Frankie's fingers did.
"Deeper," Santi gasps, and you can feel how he urges Frankie's head further down, pushes himself all the way in probably, because for a second Frankie gags, then recovers as he continues. His own dick has stiffened but he’s not quite able to get fully erect again, bobbing against your stomach as he's smearing a mess of your combined cum all over your belly.
The guys are both panting now, and Frankie moves a bit further over, presumably to better position his mouth over Santi before he comes. Suddenly he groans, low and yearningly, and pushes at Santi to move. You're so gone on the rush of them as you’re fingering yourself, your other hand playing with your clit as you rub it, circling it slowly as your hips buck up - and initially you don’t get what's going on. You just feel Santi shifting a little away from you, making more room for Frankie to reposition himself.
With an obscenely wet sound, Frankie's sticky cock finds a home between your tits, accompanied by his groan of relief at the sensation. Everything happens so fast that you're barely able to keep track of it. Because Santi curses, his voice low and laced with lust ( "Mierda, Francisco - look at you being a greedy slut") as Frankie reaches down, his big hands grabbing both of your tits. He pushes them together tightly and fucks them, hard, more slick of his cock now dripping all over your tits and sternum, and you can hear him gasping for air - trying not to choke as he still has Santi’s dick in his mouth.
With Santi' thick thighs having moved a bit away from you, there's just enough room now to tilt your head back further into the mattress. The angle is beyond awkward and strains your neck, but it's absolutely worth it as you see Santi's hips thrusting up, his cock red and almost visibly throbbing while he fucks Frankie's throat - the pepper and salt curls of his pubes soaked with Frankie's drool that's dripping down Santiago's length.
You whine as you fuck your fingers harder, thumb directly on your clit now, and your nipples so hard from the friction of his fingers teasing them. It’s clear that Frankie is desperately fighting his refractory period, riled up and eager for a release so he can come on your tits, even though all three of you know it's very unlikely to happen.
He suddenly pulls off Santi's cock as he gasps for air - two, three quick breaths, his lips almost impossibly slick - and he is just in time to put his mouth back on him before Santi erupts. Seconds later, you hear that familiar groan from Santiago as he comes hard, cursing up a storm, and you see the drops spilling from Frankie’s swollen lips as a visual betrayal of Santi’s release. It’s the last visual you have as your cunt tightens and you come hard on your own fingers, a gasped cry that starts out as Frankie’s name but morphs into something nonsensical as you can’t take your eyes off the guys.
Frankie’s full body slumps, no longer able to hold himself up, and you feel his overheated stomach brush your forehead as he lets go of your tits. You're pretty sure he didn't come, as he's clearly exhausted, needing to accept the defeat of his urge to climax again, but still being gifted Santi's release in his mouth.
"Jesus Christ, Frank," Santi's voice croaks as you close your eyes, trying to catch your breath while you hear and feel the guys rearrange themselves into more comfortable positions. "Give it to her," he adds a moment later, with that raspy sound that always gives you goosebumps, and you feel Santi's hand tap your cheek softly along with his demand. "Open up, hermosa."
You open your eyes when you feel Frankie's thumb tug slightly at your lower lip, and you stare up at him - the glorious mess of his face, his hair revealing how Santi clearly had his hands buried in those curls. Brown eyes still watering, multiple bodily fluids slick on his nose and lips, and his eyes asking you silently for permission.
You nod mutely as you open your mouth, sticking out your tongue and then at last receive that prize he's passing on. Slick and plentiful, tasting a bit of him but mostly of Santiago, who curses again as he watches Frankie feed his cum to you.
"Fuuuck."
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Tagging y'all who wanted to be notified of this being posted (and some more folks who might be interested) (I'm deliriously tired because it's way too late so I'm sorry for everybody who I'm forgetting to tag):
"He'll probably wipe Frankie's cum off you with his fingers and then use it as lube to jerk himself off lazily."
Get this fic, get these men, IN TO YOU.
I WON’T EXPLAIN THE CONTEXT OF THIS CONVO….As usual, plucked from the belly of my wip, maybe ch11?, WHO KNOWS!
The melancholy is REAL with me today so I thought I’d post some plot. And some tears. This is pretty much a monologue from Joel after some heavy shit goes down!
I'm always down for @legendary-pink-dot and @for-a-longlongtime things. But you're reading this, consider yourself tagged. I have no friends 'round here so jump aboard the Ramscal express and post yer WIPS!
OOPS!!! Forgot to put in CW: I am SO sorry! Here we go:
Talks of attempted self death. Loss and grief. And a whole buncha tears.
He was sitting on the ground, back leaning against the wall, forearms propped on his knees. He’d found a piece of string and was fiddling with it while he figured out what to say.
You sat on the ground opposite him. Not too close—he needed his space—but close enough that he didn’t feel ostracized.
“The next day, there was no reason for me anymore. So I tried, but I fucked up.” He paused, shaking his head. “I fucked it up.”
A brief silence. Then— “I was in the med bay for a while, saw all these people. Injured people. Working people. People fighting to stay alive, to move forward. And I couldn’t comprehend why.”
He exhaled through his nose, eyes cast downward, studying the tiny rocks on the ground.
“I was sitting there with this wound, another constant reminder, and all these feelings. Too many feelings."
“Grief.” He clenched his jaw and scoffed. “We didn’t have the luxury to grieve. It all got channelled into survival, into anger, into evil…” His voice trailed off.
“The guy in the med bay next to me—the one you’ve noticed at work—he knew I had no one. So he offered me a place with him. What else was I supposed to do? I left with him. Became part of his faction.”
Tears were running down Joel’s face, his eyes so full of sadness that one blink sent a cascade down his cheeks. You could see the ground beneath him, darkened where his tears had fallen. His voice remained quiet, unnervingly steady. A dissonance between what you saw and what you felt.
Your heart broke for him. But at the same time, he was so, so beautiful in the soft light.
“We all had stories,” he said, shifting his feet, making the briefest eye contact with you. “But we barely knew each other’s names, let alone talked about how we got there. Why we were there. What we had lost. Who we had lost…” He took a brief pause.” That was the one thing we all had in common. Loss. And with that loss came anger. And it was anger that kept us alive.”
“I was their builder. I had my job. I knew my place. I just got up and did what I was told.”
He swallowed hard.
“We were about twenty men. All fuelled by anger, resentment, and pain. Every day, we came back having seen more shit, done more shit. That does strange things to a group. A tribe. Things changed slowly, so slowly you don’t notice how far you’ve strayed. Winters were cold. We had no food. We became hateful men. Bad men.”
He dug his fingers in to his thighs.. “If you start starving someone like that, their blood turns black. I did—Jesus, the things I did—”
Joel rubbed his furrowed brow, squinting, as though he could see the things he was describing. You weren’t going to interrupt. He needed this catharsis. What happened between the two of you was put on the back burner.
Things were falling into place in your mind, and the picture being pieced together was so fucking sad.
“I eventually lost sight of what I was trying to hold onto in the first place. When I broke away from the group and could finally breathe, my past was buried so deep down I had no idea how to find it.”
His breath shook.
“All of that violence. All those lives. Families. It was all for nothing.”
You sat in silence. Joel was crying. Hard. But you stayed back, both for your own safety and to let him grieve uninterrupted.
“I left the med bay all those years back with deep sadness, but I still had a sliver of hope. When I left that group?” He shook his head. “All I had was blood. So much blood on my hands.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “...so much fucking blood.”
[Add in reader observations, body language, parallel imagery with Jackson Joel’s monologue. Water dripping onto the floor?]
A long silence.
“I can't remember what she looked like.” His voice cracked. “How she smelled. The last thing I said to her.”
He shook his head, tearing at the piece of ribbon in his hand. “It was all washed away. Her smile, the sound of her voice—all those memories. Replaced by death. Torture. Burning carcasses.”
He exhaled sharply. “All of that shit was justified under the veil of survival.”
“I've lost her spirit, y'know?”
His eyes met yours. All you could see was anguish, regret and sadness.
You hadn’t seen this side of Joel very often and never at this level. He was emotionally naked. What could you do but cry in empathy for all the pain and suffering he carried?
You went against your instinct to stay away from him and you slid closer, settled between his legs, facing him.
Joel immediately grabbed your hand and pressed it to his chin. His breath trembled.
Then—he broke.
His shoulders shook, and for the first time, he cried audibly.
“I’d give anything for just one happy memory to hold on to. One more breath of her hair. One memory of a birthday hug.” His grip tightened around your hand and you moved in to cradle him. “I can't reach it. I can't touch the goodness because there’s too much badness in the way.”
NO CHEATING: You're starring in a movie with the last person saved in your camera roll and the last song you listened to is the title. Who/what is it?
Thank you for the tags, lovelies @milla-frenchy @joelmillerisapunk 💞💞
Oofff. I’m feeling mutual pining, big legal age gap and then secret relationship with a lot of drama at the end
Npt💞 @toxicanonymity @yxtkiwiyxt @evolnoomym @604to647 @tateypots @sunshineispunk @sawymredfox @arcanefox207 @schnarfer and whoever would like to play🌸
I love this so much. Sorry for barging in @aurorawritestoescape , you came up in my feed and you seem pretty fucking cool! And oooph, I'll have some early bird tickets for opening night of your flick!! Whew!!
THIS ISN'T A POLITICAL POST! I CANNOT HELP WHO I'M CAST WITH *OR* WHAT THE PLOT IS, KAY?"
Hokey pokey, I'm in a movie called "The Humbling River" (puscifer) wiiiiiiith...
Australian politician Clive Palmer who is running a "Trumpit for Patriots" campaign.
I'm guessing that I'll play a Dominatrix who he needs to see because he wants someone to piss on him and tell him how "pathetic and worthless" he is. This will turn in to an "I've got a recording", espionage film that culminates in one of us dying and the other getting what they want...or will they, is there a double agent!? TWO DOUBLE AGENTS??
My ride or die. @carusolikey, you must do this. Pleeeasasssseeee. @for-a-longlongtime @legendary-pink-dot - hit me with your best shot!!
