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.”
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.
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!!
UUUUGGGHHHHHH. Me writing a multi chapter Joel fic, 8 chapters in but only just looking at the soundtrack names now? BELDRO! THEYRE' MAGNIFICENT CHAPTER TITLES.
Omgggggg it's been a while since I made some gifs and I had to do it when this trailer dropped. I love Clint, I knew I would. The Pedro content has been so overwhelming (not complaining) this week but Clint did me in. Enjoy!
💜 Please use and enjoy my gifs as you please! Reblogs appreciated💜 Gif requests are open!
FUUUUUUCK!! You are well on top of things. Thank you for these delicious gif(ts). Once again, produced with intention, beautifully rendered and not just slapped together. @arcanefoxgifs you are, and always will be, the best giffer 💜
THE Beldro Ramscal @thebeldroramscal - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
