kdogreads

[kdogreads]

taking it slow

Summary: having sex with Carmy for the first time. Somewhere along the way… he discovers he has a bit of a size kink.

Warnings: size kink, piv no protection, Carmy has a rlly big dick okay, praise praise praise, soft dom Carm vibes, minimally proofread if you’re reading day of posting.

Word count: 2690

Carmen is nervous. It’s not his first time having sex, but it’s his first time having sex with you—which is a really big deal to him. His heart beats a mile a minute inside his chest as he walks hand in hand with you to his apartment.

Although he’s teeming with nerves on the inside, he doesn’t let it show for a second. Quite the opposite, actually. He’s the definition of calm when you press your lips against his in the elevator. You’re too eager to wait for him to make the first move, so you take matters into your own hands.

Carmen only pulls away from you for a moment when the elevator opens up. He deftly walks you backwards out of the elevator to the door of his apartment without letting his lips leave yours. After pining you to the door, he deepens the kiss, letting his tongue trace across your bottom lip while he digs in his pocket for his keys.

Once he opens up the door and guides you inside, you instantly try and pull him by his jacket to the first piece of furniture you see, the couch. He makes a noise of protest against your lips. “No—not gonna fuck you on the couch for the first time. Bedroom’s this way,” he says, holding your hand and leading you down the hallway.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, giving you half a second to take in your surroundings. It’s obvious he cleaned the place—there’s not a single article of clothing on the floor. There’s not much decoration, only a couple of—

“I can give you a tour later,” he smiles, interrupting your train of thought. “C’mere.” He pats his lap gently.

After you’ve settled on his lap, straddling his hips, Carmy takes your face in both of his hands and brings you in for a gentle kiss. It only stays gentle for a moment though. His thumb pulls down your chin, letting him explore your mouth with his tongue. He licks into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you, and you would gladly let him at this point. At the same time, he lets a hand drift to your hip, urging you to grind onto him.

Carmy’s touch is tentative—almost hesitant. His hands remain firmly planted on your hips. It takes a moment of grinding on his lap for him to finally nudge his hand underneath your shirt. “Can I take your clothes off?” he whispers against your lips. 

“Y-yeah—yeah, please.”

Carmy doesn’t even realize how big of a tease he is right now. He’s treating your clothing with a slow and steady mentality. As each layer is taken off, he pauses to kiss at your skin. 

When he takes off your shirt, he pauses to kiss your jaw. Your head instinctively falls back, giving him more room to move onto your neck, then your chest. He trades kisses for small sucks and bites on the skin as he grows more urgent. He treats your pants the same way, trailing kisses down your legs as he pulls the fabric down. 

He does not treat his own clothing with the same care. The second your hands slide underneath his shirt to feel his stomach, he rips the shirt right over his head. While Carmy works on his own clothes, you hastily unclasp your bra and push your underwear off. 

You're gazing back up at his figure as he’s pushing down his boxers, revealing his very hard cock. You don’t try to hide your staring. At first, your eyes start at his chest, wandering down to his chiseled abdomen. They finally end up on his, quite large, dick. Your eyes widen at the sight of it. 

Carmy turns pink under your gaze, heat rushing to his cheeks. He breaks eye contact by opening his bedside drawer, starting to rummage through it. “Uhm—I think I got some in here…”

You quickly grab his wrist to stop his searching. “I uh—m’on the pill, so you don’t have to if you’re comfortable…” you trail off. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

His eyes dilate at your words. “Shit—yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah—that’s fine with me.” He’s nodding with those big thoughtless eyes as he speaks, and crawls over top of you.

His cock weighs heavy against your thigh as Carmy kisses you again. It’s a rough clash of tongues, leaving a string of spit between your mouth and his when he pulls away. 

Carmy breathes heavy when he takes his dick into his hand, giving himself a few pumps. You gasp when you feel the tip nudge against your entrance. “I don’t know if it’s gonna fit—“ he mumbles. 

“It can—I can take it.”

His eyes are locked at where he presses up at your opening, using his thumb to spread your fold apart to give him a better look. “I dunno, sweetheart. I think it’s too tight—I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Before you can voice a protest, he starts rutting his dick through your folds, instead. Every thrust bumps up against your clit, making you whimper. You’re thoroughly coating his cock in your wetness. 

You can only stand it for so long. “S’not too big. I can take it. I promise I can,” you mutter. Your legs spread wider, eager to feel him inside of you.

Carmen zones out for a second, staring intently at your entrance. You’re pulsing around nothing, slick starting to make its way out of you and onto the bed sheets. It takes a whine from your throat for him to snap out of it.

“Carm—“ you pout. “Need you, please don’t tease me.”

“Sorry, baby. Wasn’t tryin’ to.” In the next moment, he’s lining himself back up. He can’t help the groan that leaves his lips as his tip makes contact with your hot, wet center. Carmen eases his hips forward, slotting the head of his cock inside of you. He fights the urge to let his eyes close at the sensation, but he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of your facial expressions. 

Your mouth falls open as he presses inside of you. Your core pulses around his cock, wrapping him in warmth. He’s already losing his mind and he’s barely even inside of you. 

Carmy’s over half way in when your hands jolt out to grab his where they hold onto your hips. A sharp whine stops him dead in his tracks. He takes a hand off of your hip to hold your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

“Shh—I know, sweetheart. You’re doing so good f’me,” he says in between kisses to your lips. He doesn’t press his hips any further. He pulls back a bit, not able to contain the low groan from the throat at the friction. “Already feels so fucking good. So fuckin’ warm and tight.”

“Just a little more, okay? You can take it—I know you can take it. Just tell me when you’re ready.” There’s no rushing tone in his voice, just pure sincerity. Carmen nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck while you adjust. He presses sweet, gentle kisses to the side of your face and your neck. After a moment, you nod your head. “You can move.” 

Carmy presses in again, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. The only sign is your eyes squeezed shut. It’s a stretch for the rest of him to fit. He’s average length wise—maybe on the larger side, but his girth was more than you’ve taken before. It feels like he’s splitting you in half—in the best way possible at least.

When he bottoms out, he’s holding himself up by his forearms overtop of you. He presses kisses to your cheeks and your neck, mumbling praises. “Did so good, baby—feels s’good. So fucking perfect.” He struggles to keep his hips still, grinding into you. 

The first true thrust makes your head spin. Carmy pulls out at a gentle pace until just the head of him remains inside of you. He pushes back in more quickly than before, taking your breath away. He’s just as affected as you are. His mouth is open, breathing deeply as soft groans tumble out of him.

He builds up the pace gradually, taking the time for you to adjust. It’s not long before you’re no longer wincing at the stretch. Finally giving you a chance to take in the sight of Carmen in front of you.

His hair is messily pushed back as a bead of sweat builds at his brow. His abs flex with every single thrust he takes. The gold chain on his neck swings back and forth, hitting his chest. You grab what you can of his body, one hand grabbing onto his bicep while the other holds onto the headboard for support. 

Every thrust fans the flames building in your belly. You squeeze at his arm, nails digging into his skin. It’s never felt like this before, and it’s starting to make you dizzy. The sounds coming from the room are erotic—the sound of skin against skin. You’re so wet it’s practically dripping out from around his cock. 

“I’ve never felt so full—you’re s’big, Carm.”

He pauses again, smiling at the way you whimper from the loss of movement. You can see the wheels turning in his head before he speaks. 

“Can I try something?” He says breathlessly, and you nod your head frantically in response. He accepts the wordless answer for now, but he’s going to have to work on getting you to use your words later. Carmy sits up on his knees while staying inside of you and grabs your leg from around his hip. He has a dark look in his eye when he lifts your leg and throws it over his shoulder. He thrusts gently into you, testing the waters. There’s a choked groan caught at the back of his throat that you don’t miss. His lips press to your calve, leaving a series of kisses on your skin. “This okay? Too much?” His voice is thin, like he’s barely holding himself together. 

Another moan slips out of your mouth when Carmy does another soft thrust of his hips. “Not too much—shit, Carmy. I think—I think I can feel you in my stomach,” you babble. 

At the sound of your moans, he increases the intensity of his hips. It’s not too much more; he’s still trying to take it slow and let you adjust. The words you just said are getting to his head, though. “You serious?”

“Mhm.” You reach for one of his hands at your hip and tug it up to your stomach. Carmy looks at you with a furrowed brow, but you completely ignore it. You manipulate his hand so that the base of his palm rests at your pubic bone, and his fingers splay in the space between your hips. You lay your hand flat over his and push down. “Feel it? Feel how deep you are?”

“Holy shit,” he whispers. 

Then he’s just keeping his hand there, making eye contact while he rolls his hips up into you. You can’t take it, closing your eyes in pleasure. That’s another thing Carmy was going to have to work with you. “Hey—keep your eyes on me, baby. Keep ‘em on me, yeah?”

Your eyes open immediately at his instruction, meeting his gaze. You can barely make out the bright blue of his eyes; his pupils have grown, making the color a thin ring. “S-sorry,” you blurt. 

“None of that,” he grunts. He’s still continuing to roll his hips while talking. “Nothing to be sorry about. I j’st wanna see those pretty eyes.”

He gets distracted by the pout on your lips, leaning down to give you real kisses again. This inadvertently pushes Carmy’s cock even deeper inside of you, almost like he’s folding you in half. All the while, he continues fucking into you. A sharp whine leaves your throat again, and your nails dig into the muscles of his back. Carmy freezes in place, worried he went too far—worried that he hurt you. “Shit—I’m sorry sweetheart—“

You vigorously shake your head. “Feels good—holy fuck Carmy.” You cry out. “Please don’t stop, please don’t stop.” You beg.

“That the spot? Yeah?” He murmurs as his thrusts start back up again. This time he’s more calculated, like he’s trying to hit that spot and make you lose your mind. “Such a good girl for me—taking it like you’re made for it.”

“Fuck. Squeezing me so tight.” Slick pools out from around his cock with every thrust, leaving a white ring around the base of him. “Those fuckin’ noises—shit,” he mutters. 

Your eyes flutter closed. It’s all too much. The heat in your stomach was going to consume you at this point. You don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel Carmy’s hand on your jaw. 

“Remember what I’ve told you? Need to see your eyes, baby. Keep lookin’ at me and I’ll give it to you, I promise. Just keep you’re eyes on me; I’ve got you.”

In the next moment, he’s taking his hand from your jaw, and sliding it down your body to rub your clit with his thumb. Carmy is fully resting his forehead on yours, keeping his eyes on you. 

“C-Carmy I—I can’t I’m—“

“Let go, baby, let me feel you cum around me.”

Those words make the tight band in your stomach snap. You pulse around him as your orgasm washes over you. You’re probably drawing blood with how deep your nails are in his skin, but you don’t care at this point. 

Watching you come undone under him gets Carmy even closer to his peak. Your cunt squeezing him makes him pound into you even harder. 

He wants to be closer to you—needs to be closer to you. He drops your leg from his shoulder, and practically puts all of his weight onto you; your chest is firmly pressed against his chest. Both of his arms wrap around your back, keeping you tight to his body. Carmy buries in face in the crook of your neck, and begins a reckless pace that takes your breath away. He’s going to town now that you’ve cum, pressing kisses to your shoulder and collarbone to try and conceal at least some of his whimpering. 

He still manages to mumble more about how fucking good you feel, and all you can do is hold onto him just as tight as he’s holding onto you. You wrap your legs around his back and interlock your ankles to him even deeper. He groans loudly, like the wind has been knocked out of him. Your hands are tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. You make a soft “uh” noise with every thrust of his dick. He’s on the verge of exploding. You’re all over him. Pulsing around him. Leaking around him. He’s convinced he’s died and gone to heaven.

He glances down and sees the ring of your arousal around his cock for the first time, and damn near loses his mind.

His hips start losing their precision, sloppily rutting up against you. Carmy lifts up his head from the crook of your neck to rest his forehead against yours. “C-can I—fuck—can I cum inside? M’so close.” His voice is filled with desperation and need.

“Shit—please. Please, please, please. Want it inside—please fill me up.”

A few more sloppy thrusts and Carmy spills deep inside of you with a whimper. His hips keep moving after his orgasm ends, lazily grinding his cum further into you. 

He fully falls on top of you afterwards, trying to catch his breath. You muster enough strength to comb your hand through his curls. Your limbs feel like jelly. “Fuck, Carm.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard in my life—holy shit,” he replies with a laugh. 

“No like, I don’t think I can walk. My legs feel like jello.”

He presses another kiss to your shoulder. “I can carry you to the bathroom and clean you up. How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect.”

[kdogreads]

Your camera roll while dating John Nolan 🩷

[kdogreads]

[kdogreads]

Tommy loves to grumble And she loves to listen to him

Author's note: I love it when Tommy grumbles, I want to kiss him on the cheeks at that moment Pairing: Thomas Shelby / reader Genre: romance, ironic domesticity with a gangster overlay, fluff .

When He’s Grumbling, There Are a Few Ways to Calm Him Down

Thomas Shelby entered the house like a man preparing for war.

His steps echoed down the corridor, coat slung over his shoulders like a battered suit of armor, his face carved in stone. He didn’t glance around — just let the coat fall onto the armchair with the kind of disdain that made it seem like the furniture had personally offended him.

She heard him from the kitchen. She didn’t need to look — she knew the sound of his grumbling, the weight of his steps, the sharp inhale through his nose when the world dared challenge him.

A button had snagged on his sleeve, and he muttered something under his breath. Quietly, but with the venom of a man tired of everything — of people, noise, bad cigars, and his own patience wearing thin.

She didn’t rush out. Let him stew in his own storm for a minute or two. Let him curse the button, the weather, the weight of his name — and, inevitably, her, if she smiled too soon.

Then, and only then, did she appear at the doorway, graceful as if she had rehearsed her timing.

“You lose another fight to a button, Tommy?” she asked, leaning against the frame, arms crossed with a quiet sort of amusement.

He didn’t look at her. Just gave a disgruntled twitch of his shoulder.

“Buttons. City council. The sky. Everything’s against me today.”

“Strange. Thought you had them all in your pocket.”

Her voice was slow, lazy in the most deliberate way — the kind of calm that drove him mad because it made his anger look childish.

Which was exactly why he always came back to her.

He sank into the chair. Not sat — sank. Like a man dragging the whole day down with him. The lamp cast soft light over his face, drawing shadows under his eyes, over the creases on his brow, those unspoken war-lines no one dared ask about.

“Where are my cigarettes?” he muttered without looking up.

She stood near the window, wrapped in a blanket, cup in hand. Beautiful in the quiet way only women who knew exactly who they were could be.

“You’ve got two hands, two legs and a whole head. Find them yourself.”

No reply. Just a long exhale, as if he could release the whole cursed day through his lungs. She walked over, placed the cup on the table. No fuss. No coddling. Just tea — not whiskey. Whiskey made him meaner. Tea gave him a chance.

“This isn’t whiskey,” he noted dryly, eyeing the cup like it was betrayal.

“It’s better,” she said, sitting next to him. “Whiskey won’t calm you down. I will.”

A breath of a smirk. Barely there.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“You sound concussed.”

He opened his eyes. That look again — heavy, not cruel. Tired. She knew that look better than anyone. She’d seen it when he came home bleeding, when he stared out windows for hours, when his silence roared louder than his voice.

“You grumble like an old man,” she murmured. “Like the world owes you something and keeps forgetting to pay.”

“It does.”

“You know what’s funny?” she leaned a little closer, shoulder brushing his. “You look dangerous. But really... you’re just exhausted.”

“Exhausted from what?”

“Everything. People. The street. The fucking buttons.”

He said nothing. Just sat there, soaking in her presence like a man crawling out of winter and into warmth.

She didn’t touch him, but he felt her — her calm, her quiet defiance. The kind that didn’t demand, didn’t beg, didn’t fix. Just... stayed. That was what grounded him.

When he grumbled, there were a few known cures:

Cigarettes.

Silence.

The dark.

Lately, there was a fourth.

Her.

The one who brewed tea like it was medicine.

The one who matched him word for word.

The one who didn’t need him to be anyone but the tired, fraying, furious man he was.

He glanced over.

“You staying?”

“I’m always here, Tommy. Even when you’re too tired to remember it.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t know how. But his eyes — they softened.

And that was enough.

He grumbled again.

Of course he did. As if silence was too heavy, and words — even angry ones — made the weight of the day sit better on his chest.

“Bloody tea’s gone cold already,” he muttered, pushing the cup aside with a single flick of his fingers. “And the whole bloody room smells like rose soap. When did that happen?”

She didn’t reply.

Just looked at him — long and unreadable — before stepping in close.

Too close.

Tommy squinted. “What are you doing?”

“Interrupting your grumbling,” she said sweetly.

And then — she kissed him.

Not his lips.

His cheek.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Soft, precise little kisses like she was trying to erase every line carved by anger. Left. Right. Near the corner of his mouth. Under the eye he always narrowed when annoyed.

“Stop that,” he said gruffly.

She kissed him again.

“Stop it,” he repeated, turning slightly — so she just followed, kissing the other side.

“This is harassment,” he added flatly, but there was the slightest twitch in the corner of his mouth. The ghost of a smirk.

She ignored the words, leaning in to kiss his temple now, her tone mocking and syrupy:

“Oh no,” she cooed, “the mighty Thomas Shelby is under siege. Attacked by affection. How ever will he survive?”

He huffed, but didn’t pull away.

“D’you make it your life’s mission to be a nuisance?”

“No,” she whispered, pressing a kiss just below his jaw, “just to annoy you.”

“I’m trying to be serious.”

“That’s your problem. You’re always trying.”

He turned to face her fully now, brows low, voice dry.

“You know, most people would be terrified to interrupt me mid-rant.”

She tilted her head, studying his face with a maddening little smile — that maddeningly tender smile that always got under his skin.

“I’m not most people. I’m the woman who kisses your bad moods until they surrender.”

He exhaled through his nose.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t stop her.

Another kiss. Another soft mockery pressed to his brow.

“You’re lucky you’re beautiful,” he muttered.

She grinned, finally sitting down beside him again, curling a leg underneath herself like a cat too satisfied with her chaos.

“I know. You remind me every time you frown.”

He let his head fall back against the chair, eyes slipping closed, voice rasped with something that wasn’t quite defeat but certainly wasn’t war.

“Bloody woman,” he muttered.

“Say it again,” she teased.

“Bloody. Woman.”

And this time, he didn’t even try to hide the smirk

[kdogreads]

Cream and Sugar, Baby

pairing: Kermit x f! waitress reader

tags: unspecified age gap, dual POV, diner romance and aesthetic, slow burn (kind of), grumpy x sunshine, mutual pining, no physical description of reader, Kermit has a filthy mouth, dirty thoughts, masturbation, dirty talk, unprotected PiV, strangely romantic

summary: You work the late shift at a rundown diner with coffee that tastes like regret and floor stains older than you. He’s a quiet regular with a name you still can’t take seriously and eyes that see way too much. You’re not supposed to want him. He’s not supposed to want you back. But some things simmer slow—and burn fast.

notes: Had this unhinged idea and wrote the whole damn thing in one feral sitting. Also, me? Writing someone other than Frankie?? Someone call a doctor, I might be running a fever.

word count: 8,4 k

read also on ao3

Tom’s Diner was the place where dreams went to suffocate slowly under the hum of flickering fluorescents and the stench of burnt coffee. More accurately, it was the last pit stop before hell—or wherever people go once they finally tap out. Unfortunately for you, it was also your workplace. For three years now, not that you were counting—because tallying the days would only make the whole thing feel more like a prison sentence.

You hadn’t meant to stay long. It was supposed to be temporary, a pit stop while you got your life back on track. You had dreams once—college, a degree in literature, maybe even writing for a living someday. But life didn’t give a damn about your carefully drawn plans. It threw punches instead—relentless, low, and sometimes straight to the gut. One of those sucker punches came in the form of Brad.

Brad, with his crisp suits, finance bro confidence, and that nauseating promise of “I’ll take care of you.” You were foolish enough to believe him. Quit your job. Talked about babies and engagement rings and cradles like it was all just around the corner. You even let yourself think maybe, maybe you were safe.

Turns out Brad liked the idea of commitment more than the reality of it. Or maybe his assistant just sucked—well, blew—him into believing she was a better option. Joke’s on her, really. Brad never lasted long. Five seconds in heaven, if that, and especially quick if you’d warmed him up with your mouth first. You sometimes grinned thinking about her—about how she probably thought she hit the jackpot, not realizing she’d signed up for a lifetime subscription to disappointment.

Brad was a grown-up mama’s boy with the emotional range of a teaspoon and a superiority complex the size of Texas. Honestly, him leaving you? A blessing. At the time it felt like getting flattened by a train in slow motion, but now? You saw it for what it was: a much-needed escape.

Still, he left you with the rent and no job. So you took the first thing you could find that paid fast—Tom’s Diner. The hours were ungodly, the tips mediocre, and the grease-stained uniform never quite stopped smelling like onions and despair. But the paycheck cleared, and that was all that mattered.

Over time, the diner became a kind of strange orbit. You didn’t have a social life anymore, just this odd constellation of coworkers who floated around the same gravitational hellhole. There was Marla, the older waitress who'd been there so long her name was carved into the break room table. She was kind in that no-nonsense way that only people who've seen too much can be. Smelled like menthols and lavender hand cream, her laugh hoarse from decades of smoke breaks and bad coffee. She always called you “kid,” even though you were probably only fifteen years younger.

Then there was Rick, the line cook with slicked-back hair and a temper that only grilled cheese could soothe. His only real culinary skill was making the perfect grilled cheese—golden, crispy, gooey in the center, and just enough butter to make your arteries cry. But damn, that sandwich could fix your day better than therapy ever could. He had a thing for conspiracy theories and wouldn’t shut up about the moon landing being fake, but he never burned your order, so you let it slide.

And, of course, Tom. The owner. A walking, talking cautionary tale about what happens when someone cares more about the cash register than the humans working behind it. Tom didn’t give a shit about food quality, customer service, or employee morale. He cared about two things: not getting shut down and not spending money. You once caught him spraying pesticide while the pantry door was open. Roaches skittered like it was rush hour in there, and he just waved a hand and told you not to tell anyone unless you wanted to be jobless.

But in a weird, twisted way, it was your place now. Your version of normal. Your dysfunctional, smoke-scented, roach-infested routine. And as depressing as that sounded, it was also oddly comforting. Because when life knocks you flat on your ass, sometimes all you can do is find a spot to land and figure out your next move—even if that spot smells like bacon grease and floor cleaner.

The regulars at Tom’s were their own cast of recurring tragedy, comedy, and everything in between. Most were locals who didn’t have anywhere better to be, or they did, but this place was easier somehow—less judgmental than home, cheaper than therapy, and just greasy enough to feel like comfort.

There was Old Joe, who always sat in the same booth by the window with a black coffee he never finished and a crossword puzzle he rarely got past the third clue. Rumor had it he was a widower, used to be a history teacher. Sometimes he mumbled facts to himself—dates, names, half-remembered battles—and Marla once said she thought he just liked being around voices again.

Then there was Candy, not her real name, but that’s what she told everyone to call her. She wore leopard print like it was a personality trait, her eyeliner sharp enough to kill. She claimed she used to be a showgirl in Vegas, but you had your doubts. Still, her stories were good enough to believe for five minutes, and that’s all anyone really needed in a place like this.

Most of the men, though? Less charming. The diner uniform—short skirt, tight blouse—was probably designed by someone who’d never worked a day of real service in their life. It clung and rode up and made you feel more exposed than you ever wanted to be on a Tuesday morning during the hash brown rush. You caught stares constantly, eyes following you like they had the right, and more than once, hands tried to test the boundary between appropriate and disgusting. The first time it happened—some sweaty man in a plaid shirt grazing your thigh as you passed by with a tray—you froze. Your heart punched against your ribs, nausea climbing your throat.

Then Marla stepped in. Swatted his hand with a rolled-up menu and said, loud enough for the entire diner to hear, “Touch her again and I’ll break every finger you got, you crusty son of a bitch.” And that was that. You learned quickly—how to step out of reach, how to hold a coffee pot like a weapon, how to laugh things off even when your skin crawled. It didn’t stop it from happening, not entirely. But it dulled the edge. You got used to it.

Still, not everyone was like that.

One of the newer regulars started showing up about four months ago, right at six p.m., like clockwork. He looked like he got lost in the '80s and decided to make it home. Wore shorts no matter the weather, ridiculously high socks with prints you still hadn’t figured out—pineapples? Dinosaurs? Both?—and sneakers that looked like they’d survived several apocalypses. His t-shirts were always faded beyond recognition, and, most memorably, he wore this beige thermal vest like it was the pinnacle of fashion, even though it did absolutely nothing for him.

But once you looked past the fashion crimes, something about him stuck.

He had warm brown eyes—kind, but tired. Not in a drained-by-life way, more like someone who'd seen a lot and wasn’t shocked by much anymore. His hands were big, the kind that looked like they could fix a car or hold a person without letting go. He wrapped them around his chipped diner mug like it was keeping him grounded. His shoulders were broad, arms strong beneath that hideous vest, and his face was framed by a full mustache and a bit of scruff, like he shaved just often enough not to be mistaken for a drifter.

The first time he spoke to you, really spoke to you, he cleared his throat awkwardly while you were refilling his coffee. “What’s the menu of the day?” he asked, voice low and a little gravelly.

You answered automatically, your server voice polished and quick. But then his eyes met yours—really met them—and the rest of the words died on your tongue. There was something in the way he looked at you, not like you were on display, not like he expected anything. Just… seeing you.

He gave you a quiet nod, one corner of his mouth twitching up into the faintest smile. It wasn’t much. But it knocked something loose in your chest, left you a little breathless. You turned on your heel so fast you nearly tripped over your own shoes, face flaming, heart tapping out a stupid rhythm in your ears.

After that, you paid more attention. Not because you wanted to—okay, maybe a little because you wanted to—but because something about him made you curious. Curious in a way you hadn’t let yourself be in a long time.

And he kept coming back. Same time. Same booth. Always alone. Always watching the world quietly from behind his coffee cup, like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

After a few weeks—and with Marla’s cigarette-scented breath always a little too close to your shoulder—you learned his name was Kermit.

You had to excuse yourself to the back and laugh into the crook of your elbow.

Kermit. Like the fucking muppet.

The irony wasn’t lost on you. He didn’t look like a Kermit. He looked like a Hank, or maybe a Jack—something solid and a little weathered. But Kermit? That was a curveball.

Still, once the name attached itself, you couldn’t imagine calling him anything else.

Every day, he showed up at the same time—6 p.m. sharp, like his internal clock was set to diner hours. And every day, something in you felt just a little bit lighter when you saw that ridiculous beige vest and the worn-out sneakers step through the door.

He never missed. Not once. Even if it rained. Even if the place was packed or dead quiet or the kitchen had just caught fire (which had happened once—grease trap, Marla blamed Rick, Rick blamed ghosts).

And at some point, you realized he watched you.

Not in the way most men did. Not the strip-you-down, up-and-down kind of watching. No, he watched like he noticed you. Like he saw how your smile tightened by hour six, or how your shoulders dropped when the dinner rush finally slowed. His gaze tracked you as you moved between tables, eyes soft but unreadable, like he was memorizing your patterns.

When it came time to pay, it was always you. He made sure of it. Sometimes with a quiet “Could I get her?” nod in your direction. Sometimes he didn’t even have to ask—Marla would just toss you the check with a smirk and a muttered, “Loverboy’s waiting.”

You rolled your eyes the first few times. But then it became a rhythm. A little ritual. Something stable in the mess of chipped plates, burnt coffee, and customers who acted like their eggs being over medium instead of over easy was a federal offense.

Kermit tipped well, always. Better than anyone else. Enough to make you feel guilty for noticing it, even though that wasn’t why you started watching him back.

Because somewhere between the first nod and the tenth refill, something shifted. You found yourself looking for him before the door even opened. Catching yourself adjusting your apron or fixing your hair in the reflection of the coffee machine before his usual time.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even logical.

But every time those brown eyes found yours across the room, something inside you paused. Like for just a second, nothing else mattered but the way he held his mug—steady, deliberate—like it kept him grounded, and you almost wished he’d hold you that way instead.

Which was, frankly, ridiculous. You didn’t even know his last name. And he wore thermal vests in June.

But logic didn’t stand much of a chance against something slow-burning and magnetic. Not in Tom’s Diner. Not when Kermit kept showing up like he was meant to.

It was a lie.

The coffee was shit. Burnt and watery, with powdered creamer and sugar packets that stuck to your fingers. The food? Barely passable. Rick’s idea of seasoning was salt, more salt, and occasionally dropping the food on the greasy floor for flavor.

But he came anyway. Every damn day.

And it wasn’t the coffee. It was you.

You were young. Way too young for him. Mid-twenties, maybe. Radiant in a way that wasn’t showy—something quieter. Like sunlight on dust motes, not a spotlight. Your uniform was short and terrible, the kind of thing a creep like Tom thought passed for “quirky retro,” but you wore it like armor, chin up, back straight, always moving.

Kermit didn’t even know your name for the first couple weeks. Didn’t need to. He just watched—carefully, respectfully—learning you in fragments.

The way you leaned into the counter at the end of a long shift, shoulders sagging like someone who carried too much and kept doing it anyway. The way you had this tiny furrow between your brows when you took orders, like you didn’t trust people to get it right. The way your laugh—when it came—broke out like you hadn’t meant to let it free.

You weren’t just beautiful. You were real. And Kermit, who hadn’t let himself feel much of anything in years, started to look forward to those stolen glimpses like they were oxygen.

He stayed longer some nights. Not always, just when he couldn’t help himself. Sat with his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, pretending to read the paper or stare at the muted television, when really he was just watching you move around the place like gravity didn’t stand a chance.

And he never overstepped.

He knew better. He was too old, too tired, and too damn aware of how the world worked. He wasn’t stupid—he knew you were out of his league in every way that mattered. You deserved someone with energy, a clean past, a working truck that didn’t rattle like a death trap at red lights.

Still, some things crept in.

The way you flushed that one time when your eyes locked—he saw it. The way your voice softened when you greeted him, like he was something familiar and safe. Like maybe, maybe, he wasn’t imagining all of it.

Then came the night it rained.

It poured, actually. Fat, angry drops hammering the windows like fists. Marla, at least that’s what her name tag said, had already called it and headed out with a plastic bag over her hair. The diner had mostly cleared, but he stayed, hands loose around his mug, watching you mop up a spill near the counter.

“You got a ride?” he asked, low, careful.

You looked up, a little startled, brow furrowing the way it always did when you thought too much. “Nah. I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

He hesitated. Then: “Let me take you. I don’t mind.”

Your eyes searched his, and he held still—didn’t move, didn’t let himself hope too hard. And then, after a long beat, you nodded.

“Okay. Just this once.”

The drive was short. Silent. Sweet torture.

His truck—older than you, definitely—smelled like dust and oil and the faint ghost of pine-scented air freshener from two owners ago. The windshield wipers groaned in protest, squeaking out a slow rhythm as they dragged across the glass. You sat beside him, close enough that he could feel your warmth, hear the faint brush of your fingers against your damp jacket.

You said “thank you” when he pulled up in front of your place.

Just that. Soft, gentle, heartbreaking.

He watched you step out and jog to the entrance under the downpour, hair already clinging to your cheeks, and for a second, you turned back and gave him a little wave. Then the door closed behind you, and he was alone again.

That night— He touched himself for the first time in years to something that wasn’t just porn. It was to the image of you. To your soft smile. To the sound of your voice wrapped around those two simple words. To the warmth you’d left behind in the passenger seat.

And when he came, quietly, into the calloused grip of his own hand, it wasn’t dirty or desperate.

It felt like aching. Like longing. Like a hunger that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with needing something to matter again.

After the night he drove you home, something shifted.

You were sweeter than usual. Not in some forced way—Kermit would’ve noticed that. It was in the way you lingered a little longer at his table. The way your fingers brushed his knuckles when you passed him the check, like you didn’t mean to, but didn’t exactly pull away either. The way your smile seemed… softer now. A little slower to bloom, like you were letting him see a piece of it you didn’t show everyone else.

And he couldn’t resist it. Not even if he wanted to.

He told himself he’d keep the distance. That it was a line he wouldn’t cross. He was older, rough around the edges, with a truck that sounded like a dying animal and a spine that cracked every time he got out of it. You were still full of spark, trying to make rent and claw your way back to some version of the life you wanted. The diner wasn’t your final stop—it was a stepping stone. He could feel it in your bones.

But damn if you didn’t make it impossible not to fall.

That next week, you stopped by with his coffee like you always did, and he said something dry about the weather—just to fill the space, not expecting anything. You leaned on the counter and rolled your eyes with a little grin.

“It’s June and I had to wring out my bra before my shift. Tell me that’s not grounds for emotional trauma.”

Kermit snorted. Snorted. Like some awkward teenager.

Your eyes lit up like you’d won something. “Did you just—was that an actual sound? Jesus, I think I’ve cracked the code.”

He grinned, helpless to stop it, and shook his head. “Careful. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, leaning in just slightly. “What is your reputation, exactly?”

“Grumpy old guy who tips well and doesn’t talk much.”

“Hmm.” You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think. “Add surprisingly nice driver with a mysterious past and we might have a Hallmark movie.”

That made him laugh again, a real one this time. Low and warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

You left to take another order, and Kermit watched you go, a tight pull settling low in his stomach. The kind that felt dangerous in the best way. The kind that made him realize he wasn’t just falling for you—

He already had.

And it was fast. And it was reckless. And it made no goddamn sense.

But it was real. Realer than anything had felt in years.

He started memorizing the way you moved, the way you smelled like cinnamon and cheap coffee and rain-soaked pavement. The way your voice dropped when you were tired. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused. The way you smiled without knowing you were doing it.

He should’ve been scared. Hell, he was scared.

But he also felt alive again.

And for a man like Kermit, that was worth everything.

You noticed the shift almost immediately.

The way Kermit’s eyes held onto you a little longer. The way he smiled more—barely there, but enough for you to feel it warm between your ribs like something precious. Something secret.

He didn’t say much more than usual. Still reserved. Still guarded. But there was something about him now—something almost like softness underneath the scruff and sarcasm. A warmth that simmered low and steady, and you found yourself leaning closer to it like a moth to a flame.

You tried not to read into it too much. Told yourself you were just imagining it. That he was polite, that’s all. Generous with tips. Quiet. Unassuming.

But then you'd catch him looking when you weren’t supposed to notice.

You’d turn away from another table, and there he was—his eyes already on you, his hand wrapped around the coffee mug like it was anchoring him to the moment. You’d brush past him and feel the air shift. Like his gaze was a tether you’d suddenly walked into.

And god, your mind went places. Stupid, reckless, filthy places you had no business wandering off to.

You thought about those hands of his—broad, strong, with rough fingers and dirt beneath his nails that never seemed to fully go away no matter how clean he looked. You imagined how they’d feel on your skin. If they’d be gentle or greedy. If he’d press you into the wall of his truck with the same firm steadiness he used to hold his mug. You imagined his mouth—how it might taste like coffee and rain and cigarettes, how it would move slow at first, like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years and didn’t want to fuck it up.

Some nights, you’d be on autopilot during your shift, smiling at customers while your head drifted into daydreams that curled hot between your thighs. Kermit, leaning over you in the back alley, one hand braced against the brick wall behind your head, the other beneath your skirt. Kermit, pulling over his truck because he couldn’t wait. Kermit, mouth low against your neck, saying your name like a secret too big to keep.

You never let it show, not really.

Maybe you lingered at his table a little longer than necessary. Maybe your fingers brushed his a few too many times. Maybe you smiled differently when he was around. But that was it. Because he was still distant. Kind, yes. Attentive, even. But guarded like a man who’d built walls too tall to even remember what was on the other side.

You didn’t know what held him back—age, history, maybe just the fact that you were a little too alive for someone who looked like they’d already been through hell and didn’t trust heaven.

So you played it safe. Kept the fantasies tucked behind your eyes, replayed in the quiet dark of your apartment when you were alone. Imagined what it would be like if he wanted you back. If he ever looked at you and saw more than just a diner girl who brought him coffee and called him Kermit, like the fucking muppet.

But you felt something in him. Some pull that matched yours.

And god, you hoped you weren’t wrong.

The place was dead.

Dead in that eerie, almost sacred way it sometimes got after ten, when the air turned still and the fluorescents buzzed low above your head like they were holding secrets. No customers, no clatter, not even the hiss of the fryer. Just Marla muttering to herself while scrubbing at that goddamn stain near booth four—like she was trying to erase years of sins baked into the tile—and Rick humming something off-key in the kitchen, probably stoned, probably still convinced his grilled cheese deserved a Michelin star.

And Kermit, always Kermit.

Staring out the window like the street had something worth looking at. Like his mind was somewhere far, far away.

You hadn’t meant to take the shot—just a quick nip of cheap whiskey behind the counter—but your fingers had trembled when you poured it, and you knocked it back like it was medicine. Liquid courage. Fire in your throat. A flush of clarity.

Your heart beat fast but steady as you stepped toward him. Toward the booth he always claimed like it had his name carved into the vinyl.

You didn’t ask permission.

You just slid into the seat across from him and watched the way his body jolted, the slow turn of his head, the way his brows climbed in surprise. He looked at you like maybe he’d conjured you with a thought and now didn’t know what to do with the result.

“Am I imagining this?” you asked, voice low, clear, sharp.

His lips parted, but no sound came for a second. Just breath. Then—

“What?”

You tilted your head, your gaze steady. “This. Whatever this is between us. You look at me like I’m not real. Like you’re waiting for me to disappear.”

He stared at you, jaw working, words caught behind teeth.

Then, finally, he breathed out, voice rough and laced with that honest ache you weren’t ready for.

“This shouldn’t be happening.” A shake of his head. “You’re—you’re too young. And I’m too fucked up.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he kept going.

“I’ve got years I don’t talk about. Mistakes I don’t let people get close enough to find. And this,” he gestured between you with a vague, helpless hand, “you shouldn’t waste whatever this is on someone like me.”

You leaned in.

“I’m not wasting anything.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I want to.”

He ran a hand over his face, like he could scrub away the pull between you, but it only made him look more human. Tired, worn, beautiful in that bruised way.

“I’ve got ghosts. And regrets. And a body that creaks when I stand too fast. You deserve someone with a future, not just a past.”

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you pushed away from your seat, rounded the table slowly, your breath shallow, pulse loud. His eyes followed every move like he couldn’t believe you were real.

When you reached him, you hesitated—just a beat—before sliding into his lap, sideways. His body stiffened beneath you, the muscles in his thighs going taut. His hand hovered, then landed gently at your waist. Not pulling you in, not pushing you away. Just there.

You were so close now you could count the lines by his mouth, the gray strands in his mustache, the way his pupils darkened as they settled on your lips.

The air buzzed. Thick and electric.

You placed your hand against his chest—steady, solid, thudding with restrained thunder—and looked straight into him.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” you whispered. “Don’t wanna feel this, and I’ll leave.”

Silence.

“But if there’s even a small part that feels the same,” your voice cracked with truth, “don’t push me away.”

His grip on your waist tightened—just slightly. His breath caught.

You were warm.

That was the first thing Kermit registered—the heat of you sinking into his lap like it was always meant to happen. The weight of you wasn't heavy, it was grounding. Real. Too real.

And it lit something up in him so bright it bordered on painful.

His hand hovered at your waist like it was holding a live wire, barely resting there, fingers twitching against the curve of you. You smelled like soap and coffee and something softer he’d never be able to name without sounding stupid. Your hair brushed his jaw as you leaned in closer, breath mingling with his, and every instinct in his body screamed to move—grab you, hold you, kiss you until neither of you remembered why it was wrong.

Because god, it was wrong. Wasn’t it?

But you were looking at him like he was the miracle.

And Kermit, poor stupid Kermit, felt like a man cracking open down the middle after years of holding himself together with spit and duct tape.

When you said “don’t push me away,” it split something in him. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

He felt everything—your thigh pressed along his, your fingers against his chest, the exact way your weight settled like a secret between his hips. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—heat flooding low and fast, shame hot on its heels. He swallowed hard, forcing his muscles to stay still, to behave, to respect you even as his blood betrayed him in every possible way.

Because this wasn’t porn. This wasn’t a fantasy with the volume down and the lights off.

This was you.

And he’d never touched himself to anything real until you stepped out of his truck that night, flashing him that small, earth-shattering smile and whispering thank you like it meant more than just a ride home.

His hand curled tighter around your waist now, gently, just to keep you from slipping away too soon. He wanted—fuck, he wanted everything. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t trust himself if he did.

Then—

“Hey! Need a hand back here or I’m burning the fuckin’ toast again!” Rick’s voice cracked through the moment like a thunderclap.

You startled just slightly, blinking like the spell had been broken. Kermit didn’t dare breathe, barely dared to look at you as you slipped off his lap with a grace that made him ache.

You didn’t say anything right away.

Instead, you reached for a napkin from the dispenser and pulled a pen from the tiny chest pocket of your waitress uniform. Kermit watched, half in awe, half in full-blown panic, as you scribbled something fast and slid it across the table toward him.

Your number.

He stared at it, then up at you.

You just smiled—soft, knowing—and turned on your heel like nothing seismic had just happened.

Kermit sat there frozen, napkin under his hand like it might burn through his skin. He was terrified and the happiest he’d been in years.

Kermit never thought he’d retire his old flip phone—not for a boss, not for a daughter who begged him to get "with the times," not even after the third time he accidentally dunked it in his coffee. But for you? Shit. You made him do a lot of things he never planned to.

So there he was, in the dim light of his trailer, squinting at a glowing screen way too bright for his tired eyes, typing with thick, calloused fingers that moved like he was defusing a bomb. It took him ten minutes to send a single message, autocorrect fighting him like a damn rodeo bull, but when he saw your name light up with a reply, it was worth every frustrating second. 

You texted like you talked—fast, clever, a little wicked—and God help him, it undid him. The emojis confused the hell out of him, the peach made him break a sweat, and your teasing had his mustache twitching and his cock straining before he could even find the “send” button. You were even more dangerous over text, throwing out lines like “i’m counting on it being hard” and “show me what those big hands could type if you weren’t holding back,” and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t sit there staring at your words for a long, hungry moment. 

You made him feel like a man again—young, wanted, alive in a way that terrified him—but he wasn’t backing down. Not from this. Not from you. So he tightened his jaw, rolled his shoulders back, and typed like hell, knowing he was way out of his depth—and wanting you anyway.

You’d asked him once, over lukewarm coffee and a shared cigarette break behind the diner, about the scar on his ribs. He told you it wasn’t a scar—it was a brand. From a ship that lit up the woods behind his trailer , left him dazed in a cornfield three hours later with radio static in his teeth. You’d laughed, but not cruelly—like you wanted to believe him. And ever since, it became a running thing between you two. Jokes about tin foil hats, the aliens that "took him and ran" instead of marrying him, and that time you asked if they probed his heart too.

Tonight, you sent the message while lying in bed, half-wrapped in a blanket, still flushed from thinking about the way his eyes lingered on you all shift.

12:17 AM — You

you up or dreaming of alien abductions again 👽

12:21 AM — Kermit

wide awake. no green men tonight. just thinking of a waitress who won’t leave my damn head.

12:22 AM — You

she sounds hot.she got legs for days and a smart mouth?

12:26 AM — Kermit

and eyes like she knows too much. dangerous combo.

12:28 AM — You

only if you’re scared of being seen (which you totally are, btw)

12:33 AM — Kermit

i’ve been shot at. chased by wild boars. abducted by something i still can’t explain. but yeah, you scare the shit outta me.

12:35 AM — You

good. i scare easy too. like when your hand brushed my thigh last night and i felt it for an hour after

12:39 AM — Kermit

jesus. you’re not playin fair.

12:40 AM — You

never said i would. you ever think about kissing me?

12:44 AM — Kermit

every night since you sat in my lap. every goddamn night

12:45 AM — You

what are you thinking about right now?

12:48 AM — Kermit

your voice. your legs in that damn uniform. the sound you’d make if i pressed you up against the side of my truck and told you what i want

12:51 AM — You

i’m not wearing much. you’d hate it. it’s sinful

12:53 AM — Kermit

send help (i lied. i’d fall to my knees for a single goddamn glimpse)

12:55 AM — You

one day you might earn it, old man.

12:57 AM — Kermit

one day i’ll show you what slow, hungry patience feels like. not a damn thing rushed.

12:58 AM — You

i might not last that long.

1:01 AM — Kermit

then we’re both in trouble.

You noticed it the second he walked in.

He looked nervous?

Not like jittery or uneasy, but something softer. Something quieter, like he'd ironed the creases out of his shirt with his hands and smoothed his hair a little more than usual in the cracked rearview of his truck. There was no thermal vest today, which was tragic in its own way—but he wore one of those old flannel shirts that fit just right across his shoulders and clung to his forearms every time he moved. You were trying to be normal, just like you had the night before when he lit your phone up with slow, hot honesty that left you squirming under your covers.

But now, with him standing in front of your booth, his coffee going cold on the counter behind him and his hands tucked awkwardly into the pockets of his jeans, it was near impossible.

“Hey,” he said, gruff as ever, but there was a hitch to it—like maybe he’d practiced it in the truck and forgot halfway through.

“Hey yourself.” You smiled. Too wide, maybe. You couldn’t help it.

He scratched at his jaw, looking away for a second, before shifting his weight like the floor suddenly got too hot under his shoes. “So… I was thinkin’. Been comin’ here a while. Drinkin’ way too much bad coffee just to see you in that goddamn uniform…”

You tilted your head. “Kermit…”

“What if—just what if—I bought you coffee that wasn’t sludge for once?” he finished, voice a touch too fast and way too hopeful for the man who usually looked like nothing in the world could rattle him. “Or dinner. Or somethin’. Somethin’ that ain’t here, and not just ‘cause I wanna look at your legs without Marla breathin’ down my neck.”

Your heart did a stupid, warm little stutter.

You leaned forward on the counter, propping your chin in your palm as you smiled at him like you’d waited weeks for this—which, honestly, you had.

“Are you asking me on a date, Kermit?”

He shrugged, then nodded, then cleared his throat. “I am, yeah. If that’s alright.”

You pretended to think about it, just for the drama of it all. But then you pushed the sugar jar toward him with two fingers, soft and slow, and murmured, “Took you long enough, old man.”

And the way his face lit up, subtle but unmistakable, like someone let the sun leak in through all his tired cracks, yes, this was your undoing. 

You took a rare day off—the kind you usually reserved for illness or breakdowns, not… dates. But this wasn’t just any date. It was him. So you took extra care getting ready, slipping into something soft and cute that didn’t smell like fryer grease and linoleum floor cleaner. Something that made you feel a little bit more like you, the version that existed before Tom’s Diner and soul-sucking routines.

Kermit showed up right on time. Of course he did. And when you opened your door and saw him standing there—jeans pressed, thermal vest swapped for a collared shirt that made your mouth go dry—with flowers of all things, you nearly folded. No man had ever brought you flowers before. Not Brad, not anyone. And it wasn’t even a flashy bouquet. Just a simple mix of sunflowers and wild daisies, probably picked with care and a little uncertainty. That detail alone? Melted you.

Dinner was at a small, surprisingly charming bistro tucked away from the main street. Nothing fancy, just good food and soft lighting. Kermit pulled out your chair, looked a little stiff doing it like it had been a while, and you adored him for trying. Over shared fries and whatever pasta special he insisted you had to try, he started opening up.

“I was in the army,” he said quietly, not like he was ashamed, but like it was a detail he didn’t offer up unless it mattered. “Long time ago now.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just listened.

“Married once. Didn’t work out. We were kids, really.” A shrug, then a smile, “Got a daughter though. She’s twenty-five. Smart. Got her mom’s fire.”

You blinked. That was close to your age.

He must’ve seen the flicker across your face because he leaned back and added quickly, “I get it if that weirds you out.”

“It doesn’t,” you said without pause. “You light up when you talk about her. That’s never a bad thing.”

And from there everything softened. The wine, the conversation, the invisible weight he’d been carrying. Laughter slipped out easy. At one point you made a joke about how you were never going back to Tom’s after this and he smiled in that crooked, rare way that made your stomach flip.

It didn’t matter—not the age gap, not the lines time carved into his face or the fact that you came from completely different lives. Chemistry didn’t ask for permission. It just was.

When he drove you home, he walked you to your door and you caught the nervous edge in him again—shoulders a bit tense, thumb dragging over the skin of his palm like he wasn’t sure how to move forward.

So you did it for him.

You leaned up and kissed him like you’d been wanting to for weeks, maybe even months. Like a dam bursting. Kermit groaned low in his throat, a sound you felt all the way down your spine. He braced one hand against the door beside your head, the other curling around your waist like he couldn’t believe this was real—like if he didn’t hold on, you’d disappear.

“You got no idea the shit I wanna do to you,” he rasped into your ear, voice rough and reverent all at once.

Next thing you knew, your door creaked open behind you, and you were inside—his hands never leaving your body.

It wasn’t clumsy, but it wasn’t graceful either—the kind of rush that happened when too many weeks of wanting finally snapped the thread. You stumbled with him, tangled together, breathless laughter and desperate hands guiding you toward the nearest surface—which, of course, was the couch. Definitely not your bed. Kermit slumped down, legs spread wide like he belonged there, and when he patted his thigh with a half-smirk, half-dare, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed into his lap like you’d been born for it, settling against him, your knees bracketing his hips, his big hands already claiming their place on your waist.

You fit there too well. Like a puzzle piece he didn’t know he’d been missing.

His mouth found yours again and fuck—it was electric. Better than you’d dared to fantasize. Every kiss was deep and aching, a collision of want and restraint, and when his lips trailed down your neck, lingered at your collarbone, you tilted your head to give him more. His fingers worked at your clothes with a reverent urgency, peeling away fabric like each layer was a secret he’d waited too long to learn. And for every inch of skin revealed, he left a kiss—open, warm, needy.

But his mouth, god.

The filth that fell from his lips, murmured against your skin like confession, had your thighs clenching around him before you even realized.

“So fuckin’ soft,” he groaned against your chest, voice gravel and honey. “Been losin’ my mind thinkin’ about how you’d sound underneath me.”

Your breath hitched.

“Wanted to taste you since the damn diner. Every time you handed me a check, I thought about you on your knees instead.”

He kissed lower, dragging his tongue down between your breasts, hands spreading across your back as he held you tighter, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

“You look like sin sittin’ in my lap, you know that?”

You moaned before you could stop yourself, your hips shifting instinctively against the hard length of him beneath his jeans, and he hissed through his teeth.

“Shit, baby—keep movin’ like that and I’m gonna come before I even get you outta these clothes.”

You laughed, breathless, and leaned down to bite his bottom lip in return.

“Guess you better hurry, then.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

With a low, breathy curse, Kermit laid you back, his rough palms guiding you down as though he was afraid you’d vanish. He hovered over you for a moment, his eyes drinking you in—wide, dark, starving—before he tugged off his clothes in a rush. You tried to help, your hands fumbling with buttons and denim, but he was faster, more frantic, and all you could really do was watch and ache.

When he finally bared himself, it took your breath away—not just because of the body, solid and scarred and strong, but the way he looked at you. Like worship. Like you were the answer to a prayer he’d long forgotten he made.

You laid there, splayed and already trembling, and his gaze narrowed, heat flickering in it before he dipped low again. His mouth claimed your breasts first—kissing, licking, sucking until your nipples were aching and slick, his teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk. He left bites lower too, down your ribs, across the soft curve of your belly—marks you knew would bloom into bruises by morning, and you didn’t care. You wanted them. Wanted him, feral and raw.

There was nothing shy about the way he touched you. Nothing half-hearted. Kermit was all need, all groaning devotion. When his thick fingers found your pussy, already dripping for him, he grinned—a wicked, pleased thing—and swiped them through your folds slow, almost lazy.

"You’re soaked for me, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with awe and something more guttural. “All that mouth and you’re still this fuckin’ sweet.”

You gasped as he circled your clit, teasing, then lower—one thick finger pushing inside, curling with cruel precision. He didn’t look away. Not once.

“Look at me,” he said, quiet but firm, like an order, and when your eyes fluttered open to meet his, it nearly undid you. “Wanna see what your face does when I make you fall apart.”

Another finger joined the first, his palm grinding against your clit, and you cried out, bucking into his hand shamelessly.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Ride my fingers, baby. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

And god help you—you did.

Your first climax hit like a freight train—hard, fast, and so overwhelming it stole the air from your lungs. You trembled under him, thighs tightening around his hips as he coaxed you through it, not stopping for even a second. Kermit watched you fall apart, his fingers working you with relentless precision, and the raw awe in his voice when he murmured, “That’s it, baby, fuck—look at you,” made the aftershocks roll even harder. You’d never felt more wanted in your life. Not just desired—craved.

When the wave finally began to settle, you blinked up at him, dazed and glowing and undone. He bent to kiss your neck, the press of his lips suddenly so soft, so tender, it made your eyes sting. Then he kissed your mouth—harder, more desperate—like he couldn’t get enough.

He pulled back only slightly, voice gravel-rough and breath shaky. “You on anything?” he asked, thumb brushing your cheek. “'Cause I wanna feel all of you. Every inch. Every fuckin’ heartbeat.”

You nodded, almost breathless, and that was all he needed.

He sat back on his knees, fist wrapping around the thick length of his cock—god, he was big, his hand not even able to cover the whole of it—and stroked once, twice, slow and steady, just to ease the tension. The sight alone made your mouth water. He was so hard, so flushed and beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair—chest heaving, veins in his arms taut, sweat sliding down the lines of his body.

Then he leaned forward and pressed in—the angry red tip nudging at your slick entrance, and you mewled, the anticipation almost too much to bear.

“Jesus,” he rasped, forehead brushing yours. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

And then—one thrust. A slow, devastating slide as he sank into you inch by thick, relentless inch. The stretch made you cry out, nails digging into his back, the burn delicious and blinding.

He stilled once fully sheathed, letting you breathe, chest rising and falling against yours. His voice was nothing but a breath in your ear: “You okay?”

You nodded, still pulsing around him, and he began to move—rolling his hips in a deep, measured grind that sent a spark of pleasure straight to your spine. But the moment he sensed you were ready, when your moans shifted from whimpers to want, he didn’t hold back. Not anymore.

He fucked into you, brutally slow at first, then faster, rougher, pounding you into the couch cushions with obscene rhythm. Each thrust pushed you higher, dragged cries from your throat and made the heat build all over again.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he groaned. “Takin’ me so well, baby—so goddamn perfect.”

Your second orgasm crested with dizzying speed, the angle and pace too much, too perfect—and when it broke, your whole body arched, shuddering beneath him as you clenched around his cock, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

Kermit’s breath hitched, pace faltering just enough for you to feel the shift. His hands gripped your waist, grounding him, and then his whole body locked—deep groan dragging from his chest as he came, hot and thick and deep inside you. His head dropped to your shoulder, body trembling with release as he spilled into you, breath ragged, hips grinding slow, needy aftershocks.

You’d never seen anything like it—how beautiful he was in that moment. Lips parted, brow furrowed, eyes clenched shut like he was overwhelmed by pleasure itself.

You lay tangled on the couch, half-draped over Kermit’s broad chest, both of you still catching your breath. His hand—those big, rough, calloused hands that had touched you with the kind of reverence that broke something in you—rested warm against the bare curve of your spine. The room smelled like sweat and sex and something sweeter, something like comfort, and you closed your eyes, heart still stuttering in your chest.

Kermit was quiet, as always. But his fingers traced slow, lazy lines on your skin, the softest thing about the man who normally grunted more than he spoke. You didn’t need him to say anything. That touch said enough.

“You okay?” he murmured after a long stretch of silence, his voice wrecked and deep in a way that made you ache all over again.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumbled into his chest, too blissed out to move.

Kermit let out a low chuckle, one of those rare ones that rumbled from deep in his chest and warmed the room more than any furnace ever could. “That a complaint or a compliment?”

“Oh, it’s a complaint,” you teased, smirking. “Marla’s gonna see me limping around and ask if I slipped a disc. I am not emotionally prepared for that conversation.”

His hand stilled for a moment on your back, then resumed, slower now. “You want me to pick you up after your shift tomorrow?” he asked quietly, not looking at you—like if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be as terrifying to offer.

You blinked. Sat up just enough to look down at him, surprised.

“You mean in your haunted pickup with three seatbelts and the Check Engine light that’s been on since the Bush administration?”

Kermit grinned, crooked and real. “She purrs if you treat her right.”

“So do I,” you muttered, and he actually blushed. Just a little. Enough to make your heart twist in your chest.

The next day, your legs did, in fact, ache in ways that made you wince with every step. Marla raised her eyebrows, asked no questions—but her knowing smirk said she didn’t need to.

And that night, when your shift ended and the sky was painted in dark velvet, headlights cut across the lot. You stepped out, already reaching for your jacket, and there he was—Kermit, leaning against that rustbucket truck, arms crossed, looking like he had all the time in the world.

Not at the window anymore. Not watching from the booth like he used to, guarded and distant.

Now he was waiting.

For you.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @almostfoxglove @whirlwindrider29 @jolapeno @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28

[kdogreads]

hello!! i hope you’re doing well, lovely ❤️‍🩹

could you maybe write about joel waking up at night because girlie is pleasuring herself and then taking matters into his own hands ?

────۶ৎ wake me up nice, sugar

you can’t sleep, so you help yourself. joel wakes up. joel does not let you finish alone.

warnings: smut, dom!joel, fingering, rough sex, spanking, choking, possessive talk, creampie, overstimulation, dirty talk.

ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: this was TOO much fun to write. joel waking up to a soaked mattress and just taking control is such a feral concept and i wanted to make it feel raw, sleepy, mean, and full of claiming you. 🤭 enjoy the sin

more

ᖭ༏ᖫ

you don’t mean to wake him. truly. but it’s hot tonight. sticky. your thighs are slick and pressed tight, his arm heavy across your waist, and it’s not enough. hasn’t been for the last twenty minutes while you’ve been layin’ there with your hand between your legs, slow and quiet, trying not to move the bed too much.

but your breath starts catchin’.

and joel—joel hears everything.

he shifts behind you with a grunt, sleep-rough and low. then, still. his nose brushes the back of your neck. breathes. “…what d’you think you’re doin’, darlin’?”

you freeze, hand still snug between your thighs, fingers soaked.

“nothin’,” you mumble, already flushed, already guilty. he hums behind you, and you can feel the smirk against your skin. “mm. that so?”

his voice is like gravel, still thick with sleep. then, low and darker: “go on, then. show me.”

your thighs clench around your hand like instinct.

“joel—”

“no, no, don’t fuckin’ stop now,” he mutters, hand sliding over your hip, warm and rough. “woke me up bein’ a needy little thing, now you’re shy?”

you exhale, shuddering, and slide your fingers back where they were. your clit’s throbbin’. he watches you over your shoulder, his cock hard against your ass, growing with every breath you let out.

“fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, palm sneaking down to spread your legs wider. “wet just from touchin’ yourself. goddamn.”

you can’t help it—you start rubbin’ again, messy and fast, chasing it. but he catches your wrist just when you’re right there.

“uh-uh. nah. that’s mine.”

and then his hand replaces yours. two fingers down your slit, spreading the mess.

“jesus. soaked the whole fuckin’ bed,” he growls, lining up behind you, bare, thick. you didn’t even hear him spit in his palm. just felt the weight of him pressin’ in.

“joel,” you gasp, arching. “fuck—”

he slides in slow but mean, one hand pressing your head down into the mattress. the other smacks your ass, loud and stinging.

“this what you wanted?” he pants. “grindin’ all over me in your sleep like a goddamn bitch in heat?”

you moan into the pillow, walls fluttering. he drags his cock out halfway, then slams it back in, teeth gritted.

“wake me up like that again, i’ll fuckin’ keep you like this all night. cock-drunk and cryin’.”

you nod, mouth open, wrecked. he slaps your ass again. “say it.”

“yes—fuck—joel, yes, please—”

“please what?”

“please don’t stop—please fill me, i need it—”

he groans loud, hips snapping faster, rougher, the bed creaking in rhythm. your thighs shake and his fingers wrap around your throat from behind, pulling you up so he can fuck you deeper, meaner.

“gonna make you cum on it first,” he pants, “then i’m gonna fill you up, baby, make sure it takes. you hear me?”

you cum with a broken cry, choking on it, body clenching around him like a vice. he fucks you through it, doesn’t stop. not even when you twitch, not even when you whimper.

“good girl. takin’ me so fuckin’ good—shit—there it is—”

he spills into you hard and deep, grinding his hips down to make sure not a drop’s wasted.

you’re both breathing like you’ve run ten miles. he stays there for a minute, still buried, hand on your belly. then—he leans down, kisses the back of your neck. real soft.

“…next time,” he murmurs, smug and low, “you wake me up, you better be ridin’ it.”

ᖭ༏ᖫ

thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.

[kdogreads]

wait, i need one where joel spanks the reader 🙏 yk for… Educational purposes

the belt ୨୧ joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel loves to teach you a lesson with his belt. warnings: spanks, explicit gif ahead (the one from the first pic lol), fingering, size difference, kind of rough joel ig, and fluff

you hear the truck pull in just as you’re placing the last warm bun on the plate. the air still smells like cinnamon and sugar, sweet and homey, and you’re wearing that little dress—thin straps, soft fabric, barely brushing your thighs. it’s his favorite. you know it.

you don’t run to the door. you wait.

when it opens, he steps in slow. boots heavy, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the sun. he looks tired. tense. but more than that—there’s something dark behind his eyes when he sees you.

“hey,” you say, soft, like honey. “i saved you the last ones. they were still warm when i left the bakery.”

you hold up the plate like a peace offering. like innocence. like you don’t know exactly what you’ve done.

he doesn’t say anything right away. just stares. his jaw tight. brow furrowed.

“you been waitin’ for me dressed like that?” he asks, voice low.

you smile. tilt your head. “don't you like it?”

his eyes drop to your legs. you shift your weight a little, just enough for the hem of the dress to rise. pretend like it’s nothing. like you don’t see the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“i missed you today,” you add, soft again. too soft. like a little apology hiding behind sugar and flour. “wanted to make you something sweet.”

he steps closer. doesn’t touch you. not yet. just looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether to kiss you or scold you.

you hold his gaze and bite your lip.

you know why he looks like that. you know you didn’t wear panties. you know he’s gonna find out when he gets close enough.

and still, you just smile. like you’re not doing exactly what you’re doing.

he glances at the plate in your hands, then back at you. "you went to work dressed like that?"

you blink, tilting your head like you didn’t hear him right. "like what?"

joel huffs, slow and deep, like he's trying real hard not to lose it. "don’t play dumb with me."

you just smile. give him that little look—the one that always softens him. "it’s my favorite dress," you say, like that explains everything.

you spin, slow, playful. let the fabric flutter just enough. when you face him again, he’s not smiling. his eyes are darker now. he sets his hands on his hips. voice low. steady.

"why aren’t you wearin’ any panties?"

you hesitate. just a second. then that smile creeps back in, slower this time. "i didn’t wanna get 'em messy... from the cinnamon rolls." you hold the plate up again like it’s a shield. or an excuse. "i was thinking of you all morning."

he sets the plate down on the table, a little too hard. doesn’t even look at the buns.

"you think this is funny?" he mutters, stepping closer. "walkin’ around town like that. dress ridin’ up. no panties. what the hell were you thinkin’, huh?"

you try to bite back the smile but it wins anyway. "what the fuck were you thinking, huh? thought you've learned your lesson this morning."

the way he’s looking at you—stern, jaw tight, eyes burning—you love it. so you laugh. soft. careless. like you’re not standing on the edge of a storm.

he freezes.

"you’re laughin’?" his voice drops even lower now. there’s a warning in it. "you want me to give you something to laugh about?"

you tilt your head, still smiling. "why are you so mad anyways?"

he takes a step closer. you don’t back away. "because you went out there showin’ everybody what’s mine. dress barely coverin’ a damn thing, no panties—" his jaw clenches. "you really think i’m just gonna be fine with that?"

you shrug, still acting innocent. "no one knew. i mean… it’s not like anyone saw anything."

his face hardens.

"and what if they did?" his voice is sharp now, laced with something darker. "what if some bastard looked a second too long? what if they noticed?"

he’s imagining it now. some guy standing behind you at the counter, letting his eyes stay on you, his blood runs hot even if they didn't really see anything more than just your legs. the thought hits him like a punch to the gut.

his fists clench at his sides.

you notice. and of course, you laugh again—soft, teasing, deadly.

"i thought you were proud of me bein’ yours." you make a spin, letting him see enough. your mound, your bare butt.

he doesn’t answer.

instead, he moves.

quick, rough, effortless—his hands grip your waist and suddenly you’re off the ground, tossed over his shoulder. your breath catches in your throat, a small yelp escaping as your hands press against his back.

"joel!"

"you think this is funny?" he mutters, voice low and dangerous near your thigh. "i’ll show you just how proud i am, darlin’. don’t worry."

he walks through the house like this is nothing new—like carrying you over his shoulder is routine. your fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, but he doesn’t say a word. only his grip tightens when you squirm, and you feel the heat of his palm pressing into your thigh and the breeze hitting your bare slit.

he kicks the bedroom door open, strides in without slowing down, and drops you gently onto the bed—just enough force to remind you who’s in charge, but still careful. you bounce a little, settling on the edge, knees together, looking up at him.

he stands in front of you, hands on his hips now, chest rising slow. his eyes roam over you like he’s deciding what to do even if you both know the answer. his fingers stay too long on his belt.

he unbuckles his belt—painfully slow. "i'm gonna give you five with the belt and five with my hand. understood?"

you squeeze your thighs together, because even if this is what you wanted… you didn’t think he’d actually use the belt again. "b-but—"

"no buts. no nothin’." he rasps. "five with the belt. five with my hand. and you're gonna count every single one."

he sits down at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. then, without saying anything, he pulls you gently forward and settles you across his lap, belly down.

his arm wraps around your waist, steady and warm, and his other hand rests on the back of your thigh.

you’re laid out over him, your hair spilling across the sheets, and you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

once you're secured beneath him, you can only feel how his hand shifts to the side, grabbing the belt while the other hand finally pulled the hem of your dress up, til your waist, revealing your bare butt, all pumped and ready for him.

"this is what you wanted, didn't you?"

his voice is low, rough around the edges. you feel the belt shift in his grip, the leather folding over itself. your breath stutters before the first strike even lands.

you jolt forward slightly, the sting blooming across your skin.

"count."

"one," you whisper, voice already shaky.

his hand rests on your lower back, steadying you. not gentle. just firm enough to keep you in place.

second one.

sharper this time. it makes your toes curl and he's delighted to see.

"two."

"keep count," he mutters. like he doesn’t trust you to.

the third comes with no warning. you bite back a sound, clutching the blanket beneath your hands.

"three."

he pauses—only for a second. maybe to let you feel the heat he’s left behind.

then, another one.

"four," you gasp. your thighs squeeze together, instinctively. maybe to hide, maybe to feel something more.

the last one with the belt hits a little lower.

"five."

you’re trembling now. you don’t even realize he’s dropped the belt until you hear it land on the floor. then his palm replaces it—warm and broad.

"halfway there, sweetheart."

the way he says it makes your stomach twist. you hate how much you love hearing it.

before anything, he took a second to stroke your already sore butt. feeling how warm your skin was, how it practically radiated heat beneath his touch — flushed and tender, like it still remembered every strike. his palm dragged slowly, as if he was checking his own work. "look what you made me do," he muttered, more to himself than to you.

you were still trembling a little, your breath uneven, skin hot and hypersensitive under his palm. your thighs pressed together instinctively, but there was nowhere to hide — not with you draped across his lap like that. you were at his will.

your fingers twisted in the bedsheets, knuckles white, as if grounding yourself in something. you didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. the way your body reacted spoke loud enough.

"alright, love. five more, yeah?" he said now a little more soft. "you think you can do that for me?"

"mhm," you nodded, pumping your butt to him.

he could catch a glimpse of that perfect little thing that belonged to him. your pussy was all his... and you've been wearing this dress at work with no panties. his gaze darkened again, this time, he will have no mercy.

his hand lifts and hit against your ass.

"ouch!" you whimper.

"that's not a number," he said and the next thing you feel is his palm against your butt again.

"six!" you squeaked, trying squirming for how though he had been.

you tried to change your position, trying to make him go softer, but he catched you and locked you even tighter against his lap.

"where do you think you're goin'?" ♡

he smacked his hand one more time, with no warning. the sound was so loud it made the whole room feel even quieter.

you muffled a whimper. "seven," it was barely above a whisper.

"attagirl."

he stopped for a second to take a look.

he could see his own handshape on your butt. it was more flushed, he was sure it would leave a bruise. but then... he spread your cheeks and found out his girl was naughtier than he thought.

"aren't you a sweet thing, mh?" he murmured. "gettin' all wet from spanks,"

you bit your lip and thank god he's not facing you cause your cheeks are burning red. you feel one of his fingers teasing your folds. feeling how slick your flesh was.

"you like the belt, hm?"

"m-maybe,"

he huffed and spreaded your knees enough to have better access down there. you barely gasped before you felt his palm hitting hard against your pussy.

"ah, fuck," you moaned.

"that's. not. a. number." each word was punctuated by the sharp smack of his hand, perfectly timed — one strike for every syllable, like he was making sure you felt each one sink in.

your pussy was responding to it, and so was your whole body, you felt yourself getting more wet, pussy throbbing, and joel… joel was enjoying it as much as you were, seeing how swelled it got, seeing how it turned out flushed by his struck.

he couldn’t help himself and caressed your folds carefully, feeling, teasing, until his finger found your nub. you hissed once he started drawing lazy circles, he loved how sensitive your skin was, how your body responded to his touch.

he swirled his finger around it, pressing, giving you pleasure. you could only moan softly, breathing heavily, feeling how your legs trembled, maybe because of pleasure, maybe because of the spanks.

his other hand came to your entrance, fingers teasing, eyes locked on your tiny little thing. he danced his fingers around it, just watching how you wiggled your hips for him, to let you him know you were ready to take him.

he slowly sank two of his fingers in you. getting a tiny whimper from your mouth. "that it," he rasped.

the view was obsecene even. his fingers—his whole hand looked so big for you. the very first time he was afraid he'd hurt you... but you, looked at him so needy, you'd beg him to fuck you, and he couldn't resist, not when you started rubbing your face on his scruffy beard, not when your hand caressed his cheek and tell him that you wanted him.

his fingers stretched you out. worked on you until all you could do was squirm, beg for more and moan his name.

you felt the orgasm forming in your belly at the same time you could hear your own juices when you pulled his fingers in and out.

he knew.

he knew you were close, knew that his girl was in a bliss, specially when he felt your falls throbbing, when he felt how you were clutching your cunt.

but he wasn't done yet. there were three spanks missing for you to count.

he pulled out his fingers all of the sudden, making you whine. "joel, please—"

"i'm not done," he said parting your knees again, and hitting your now sensitive skin.

you cried out, not sure if pain or pleasure. "eight."

he licked his lips at the view. all pounded, all flushed, all his.

"this what you get for wearing this damn dress with no panties," he growled and hit his hand against your pussy once more. "this is goddamn mine."

"nine," you whimpered.

his finger worked on your clit. you clenched your cunt, squeezed your thighs together, trying to find release, trying to come. but he wouldn't let you, he wanted your orgasm to be caused by him, by his hand hitting on your cunt.

so he just saw you falling apart, begging until he knew you were too weak, too eager.

he smacked his hand one last time, sending you to a total bliss. "ten," you whispered as you came, as you felt your legs weak, trembling.

he knew you were done by the way your body was spasming. you were a mess.

his hand, the same one that had been so firm minutes ago, softened now as it glided over your sore skin. slow, careful strokes — not to tease, just to soothe. your skin was flushed, warm and a little swollen beneath his palm, and he took a second to just be still with you.

then, gently, he shifted your weight. one arm hooked under your legs, the other cradling your back, and he turned you over. he brought you to his chest, settling you against him, your cheek resting right above his heartbeat.

you were still trembling a little, but he just held you there, his thumb tracing light circles over the small of your back.

"you were brave, i'm proud of you," he said softly, pressing his lips on your forehead.

“joel?” your voice was small, muffled against his chest. soft as a breath. “are you still mad at me?”

he let out a quiet sigh, more exhale than sound, and his thumb kept stroking slow circles against your spine. “no, angel,” he said, his voice soft. “you learned your lesson… right?”

you smiled, just a little — that playful smile that always made him raise an eyebrow. “mmhm,” you hummed, lifting your face to kiss him softly. “i did.”

he rolled his eyes like he didn’t believe you for a second, but he was smiling too. the kind of smile only you ever got from him. his hand reached up to tuck your hair gently behind your ear, fingers lingering there like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

“i know it won’t be the last time,” he muttered. “i know what’s mine like the back of my damn hand.”

you let out a quiet laugh, your nose brushing against his jaw, and then you nuzzled into his beard, smiling like it was your favorite place in the world — because it was. you loved the scratch of it against your skin, the way it smelled like him, like sweat and his cologne.

he had no idea what it did to you, how warm it made you feel, how safe. and he was right — it wouldn’t be the last time. because you loved it when he got like that. when his voice was low, when his hands got firm, when he stopped being soft and reminded you who he was.

there was something about the way he held himself — calm, steady, but strong. like even when he didn’t raise his voice, you felt it. and when you pushed too far, when you acted up just to see how far he’d let you go… he always knew how to stop you. how to bring you back down. you loved that. loved the way he could quiet you without needing to say much — just his presence, just his hands, just him being him.

you loved feeling the strength in him, the way he could hold you still with just one look. his big hands on you, setting you in place like you were something breakable and his all at once. you loved how serious he got — that controlled power that lived in his chest, that wrapped around you when you got too bold.

“i know you love the belt,” he added, low in your ear.

𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡

masterlist♡

[kdogreads]

Not Like Before Series Masterlist

Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!Reader

Warnings/tags: 18+; nurse!Reader, canon-divergence (no Abel or Thomas), fluff, angst, friends to lovers, eventual smut, girl dad Jax

Jax met you at a bar out near Fresno, California while on a run with the club. Unable to deny the instant attraction, you brought him back to your place for a few hours of the best sex of your life. Almost two months later, you realized you were pregnant with his kid and no way to contact him. Due to your hospital's budget cuts, you end up taking a job at St. Thomas Hospital, bringing both Emilia and yourself to Charming five years later, entirely unaware that the local MC is the one your daughter's father runs–and that out of the hundreds, you were the one he never forgot.

Dividers by the lovely @secretlysamcro.

Chapter List

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three {coming soon}

Chapter Four {coming soon}

[kdogreads]

some of my personal favorite moments from the LADbible interview

[kdogreads]

taking it slow

Summary: having sex with Carmy for the first time. Somewhere along the way… he discovers he has a bit of a size kink.

Warnings: size kink, piv no protection, Carmy has a rlly big dick okay, praise praise praise, soft dom Carm vibes, minimally proofread if you’re reading day of posting.

Word count: 2690

Carmen is nervous. It’s not his first time having sex, but it’s his first time having sex with you—which is a really big deal to him. His heart beats a mile a minute inside his chest as he walks hand in hand with you to his apartment.

Although he’s teeming with nerves on the inside, he doesn’t let it show for a second. Quite the opposite, actually. He’s the definition of calm when you press your lips against his in the elevator. You’re too eager to wait for him to make the first move, so you take matters into your own hands.

Carmen only pulls away from you for a moment when the elevator opens up. He deftly walks you backwards out of the elevator to the door of his apartment without letting his lips leave yours. After pining you to the door, he deepens the kiss, letting his tongue trace across your bottom lip while he digs in his pocket for his keys.

Once he opens up the door and guides you inside, you instantly try and pull him by his jacket to the first piece of furniture you see, the couch. He makes a noise of protest against your lips. “No—not gonna fuck you on the couch for the first time. Bedroom’s this way,” he says, holding your hand and leading you down the hallway.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, giving you half a second to take in your surroundings. It’s obvious he cleaned the place—there’s not a single article of clothing on the floor. There’s not much decoration, only a couple of—

“I can give you a tour later,” he smiles, interrupting your train of thought. “C’mere.” He pats his lap gently.

After you’ve settled on his lap, straddling his hips, Carmy takes your face in both of his hands and brings you in for a gentle kiss. It only stays gentle for a moment though. His thumb pulls down your chin, letting him explore your mouth with his tongue. He licks into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you, and you would gladly let him at this point. At the same time, he lets a hand drift to your hip, urging you to grind onto him.

Carmy’s touch is tentative—almost hesitant. His hands remain firmly planted on your hips. It takes a moment of grinding on his lap for him to finally nudge his hand underneath your shirt. “Can I take your clothes off?” he whispers against your lips. 

“Y-yeah—yeah, please.”

Carmy doesn’t even realize how big of a tease he is right now. He’s treating your clothing with a slow and steady mentality. As each layer is taken off, he pauses to kiss at your skin. 

When he takes off your shirt, he pauses to kiss your jaw. Your head instinctively falls back, giving him more room to move onto your neck, then your chest. He trades kisses for small sucks and bites on the skin as he grows more urgent. He treats your pants the same way, trailing kisses down your legs as he pulls the fabric down. 

He does not treat his own clothing with the same care. The second your hands slide underneath his shirt to feel his stomach, he rips the shirt right over his head. While Carmy works on his own clothes, you hastily unclasp your bra and push your underwear off. 

You're gazing back up at his figure as he’s pushing down his boxers, revealing his very hard cock. You don’t try to hide your staring. At first, your eyes start at his chest, wandering down to his chiseled abdomen. They finally end up on his, quite large, dick. Your eyes widen at the sight of it. 

Carmy turns pink under your gaze, heat rushing to his cheeks. He breaks eye contact by opening his bedside drawer, starting to rummage through it. “Uhm—I think I got some in here…”

You quickly grab his wrist to stop his searching. “I uh—m’on the pill, so you don’t have to if you’re comfortable…” you trail off. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

His eyes dilate at your words. “Shit—yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah—that’s fine with me.” He’s nodding with those big thoughtless eyes as he speaks, and crawls over top of you.

His cock weighs heavy against your thigh as Carmy kisses you again. It’s a rough clash of tongues, leaving a string of spit between your mouth and his when he pulls away. 

Carmy breathes heavy when he takes his dick into his hand, giving himself a few pumps. You gasp when you feel the tip nudge against your entrance. “I don’t know if it’s gonna fit—“ he mumbles. 

“It can—I can take it.”

His eyes are locked at where he presses up at your opening, using his thumb to spread your fold apart to give him a better look. “I dunno, sweetheart. I think it’s too tight—I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Before you can voice a protest, he starts rutting his dick through your folds, instead. Every thrust bumps up against your clit, making you whimper. You’re thoroughly coating his cock in your wetness. 

You can only stand it for so long. “S’not too big. I can take it. I promise I can,” you mutter. Your legs spread wider, eager to feel him inside of you.

Carmen zones out for a second, staring intently at your entrance. You’re pulsing around nothing, slick starting to make its way out of you and onto the bed sheets. It takes a whine from your throat for him to snap out of it.

“Carm—“ you pout. “Need you, please don’t tease me.”

“Sorry, baby. Wasn’t tryin’ to.” In the next moment, he’s lining himself back up. He can’t help the groan that leaves his lips as his tip makes contact with your hot, wet center. Carmen eases his hips forward, slotting the head of his cock inside of you. He fights the urge to let his eyes close at the sensation, but he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of your facial expressions. 

Your mouth falls open as he presses inside of you. Your core pulses around his cock, wrapping him in warmth. He’s already losing his mind and he’s barely even inside of you. 

Carmy’s over half way in when your hands jolt out to grab his where they hold onto your hips. A sharp whine stops him dead in his tracks. He takes a hand off of your hip to hold your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

“Shh—I know, sweetheart. You’re doing so good f’me,” he says in between kisses to your lips. He doesn’t press his hips any further. He pulls back a bit, not able to contain the low groan from the throat at the friction. “Already feels so fucking good. So fuckin’ warm and tight.”

“Just a little more, okay? You can take it—I know you can take it. Just tell me when you’re ready.” There’s no rushing tone in his voice, just pure sincerity. Carmen nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck while you adjust. He presses sweet, gentle kisses to the side of your face and your neck. After a moment, you nod your head. “You can move.” 

Carmy presses in again, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. The only sign is your eyes squeezed shut. It’s a stretch for the rest of him to fit. He’s average length wise—maybe on the larger side, but his girth was more than you’ve taken before. It feels like he’s splitting you in half—in the best way possible at least.

When he bottoms out, he’s holding himself up by his forearms overtop of you. He presses kisses to your cheeks and your neck, mumbling praises. “Did so good, baby—feels s’good. So fucking perfect.” He struggles to keep his hips still, grinding into you. 

The first true thrust makes your head spin. Carmy pulls out at a gentle pace until just the head of him remains inside of you. He pushes back in more quickly than before, taking your breath away. He’s just as affected as you are. His mouth is open, breathing deeply as soft groans tumble out of him.

He builds up the pace gradually, taking the time for you to adjust. It’s not long before you’re no longer wincing at the stretch. Finally giving you a chance to take in the sight of Carmen in front of you.

His hair is messily pushed back as a bead of sweat builds at his brow. His abs flex with every single thrust he takes. The gold chain on his neck swings back and forth, hitting his chest. You grab what you can of his body, one hand grabbing onto his bicep while the other holds onto the headboard for support. 

Every thrust fans the flames building in your belly. You squeeze at his arm, nails digging into his skin. It’s never felt like this before, and it’s starting to make you dizzy. The sounds coming from the room are erotic—the sound of skin against skin. You’re so wet it’s practically dripping out from around his cock. 

“I’ve never felt so full—you’re s’big, Carm.”

He pauses again, smiling at the way you whimper from the loss of movement. You can see the wheels turning in his head before he speaks. 

“Can I try something?” He says breathlessly, and you nod your head frantically in response. He accepts the wordless answer for now, but he’s going to have to work on getting you to use your words later. Carmy sits up on his knees while staying inside of you and grabs your leg from around his hip. He has a dark look in his eye when he lifts your leg and throws it over his shoulder. He thrusts gently into you, testing the waters. There’s a choked groan caught at the back of his throat that you don’t miss. His lips press to your calve, leaving a series of kisses on your skin. “This okay? Too much?” His voice is thin, like he’s barely holding himself together. 

Another moan slips out of your mouth when Carmy does another soft thrust of his hips. “Not too much—shit, Carmy. I think—I think I can feel you in my stomach,” you babble. 

At the sound of your moans, he increases the intensity of his hips. It’s not too much more; he’s still trying to take it slow and let you adjust. The words you just said are getting to his head, though. “You serious?”

“Mhm.” You reach for one of his hands at your hip and tug it up to your stomach. Carmy looks at you with a furrowed brow, but you completely ignore it. You manipulate his hand so that the base of his palm rests at your pubic bone, and his fingers splay in the space between your hips. You lay your hand flat over his and push down. “Feel it? Feel how deep you are?”

“Holy shit,” he whispers. 

Then he’s just keeping his hand there, making eye contact while he rolls his hips up into you. You can’t take it, closing your eyes in pleasure. That’s another thing Carmy was going to have to work with you. “Hey—keep your eyes on me, baby. Keep ‘em on me, yeah?”

Your eyes open immediately at his instruction, meeting his gaze. You can barely make out the bright blue of his eyes; his pupils have grown, making the color a thin ring. “S-sorry,” you blurt. 

“None of that,” he grunts. He’s still continuing to roll his hips while talking. “Nothing to be sorry about. I j’st wanna see those pretty eyes.”

He gets distracted by the pout on your lips, leaning down to give you real kisses again. This inadvertently pushes Carmy’s cock even deeper inside of you, almost like he’s folding you in half. All the while, he continues fucking into you. A sharp whine leaves your throat again, and your nails dig into the muscles of his back. Carmy freezes in place, worried he went too far—worried that he hurt you. “Shit—I’m sorry sweetheart—“

You vigorously shake your head. “Feels good—holy fuck Carmy.” You cry out. “Please don’t stop, please don’t stop.” You beg.

“That the spot? Yeah?” He murmurs as his thrusts start back up again. This time he’s more calculated, like he’s trying to hit that spot and make you lose your mind. “Such a good girl for me—taking it like you’re made for it.”

“Fuck. Squeezing me so tight.” Slick pools out from around his cock with every thrust, leaving a white ring around the base of him. “Those fuckin’ noises—shit,” he mutters. 

Your eyes flutter closed. It’s all too much. The heat in your stomach was going to consume you at this point. You don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel Carmy’s hand on your jaw. 

“Remember what I’ve told you? Need to see your eyes, baby. Keep lookin’ at me and I’ll give it to you, I promise. Just keep you’re eyes on me; I’ve got you.”

In the next moment, he’s taking his hand from your jaw, and sliding it down your body to rub your clit with his thumb. Carmy is fully resting his forehead on yours, keeping his eyes on you. 

“C-Carmy I—I can’t I’m—“

“Let go, baby, let me feel you cum around me.”

Those words make the tight band in your stomach snap. You pulse around him as your orgasm washes over you. You’re probably drawing blood with how deep your nails are in his skin, but you don’t care at this point. 

Watching you come undone under him gets Carmy even closer to his peak. Your cunt squeezing him makes him pound into you even harder. 

He wants to be closer to you—needs to be closer to you. He drops your leg from his shoulder, and practically puts all of his weight onto you; your chest is firmly pressed against his chest. Both of his arms wrap around your back, keeping you tight to his body. Carmy buries in face in the crook of your neck, and begins a reckless pace that takes your breath away. He’s going to town now that you’ve cum, pressing kisses to your shoulder and collarbone to try and conceal at least some of his whimpering. 

He still manages to mumble more about how fucking good you feel, and all you can do is hold onto him just as tight as he’s holding onto you. You wrap your legs around his back and interlock your ankles to him even deeper. He groans loudly, like the wind has been knocked out of him. Your hands are tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. You make a soft “uh” noise with every thrust of his dick. He’s on the verge of exploding. You’re all over him. Pulsing around him. Leaking around him. He’s convinced he’s died and gone to heaven.

He glances down and sees the ring of your arousal around his cock for the first time, and damn near loses his mind.

His hips start losing their precision, sloppily rutting up against you. Carmy lifts up his head from the crook of your neck to rest his forehead against yours. “C-can I—fuck—can I cum inside? M’so close.” His voice is filled with desperation and need.

“Shit—please. Please, please, please. Want it inside—please fill me up.”

A few more sloppy thrusts and Carmy spills deep inside of you with a whimper. His hips keep moving after his orgasm ends, lazily grinding his cum further into you. 

He fully falls on top of you afterwards, trying to catch his breath. You muster enough strength to comb your hand through his curls. Your limbs feel like jelly. “Fuck, Carm.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard in my life—holy shit,” he replies with a laugh. 

“No like, I don’t think I can walk. My legs feel like jello.”

He presses another kiss to your shoulder. “I can carry you to the bathroom and clean you up. How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect.”

[kdogreads]

More Harry Castillo x successful wife please! Maybe they went to a party or gala together

Magnetic

Pairing: Harry Castillo x wife!reader Summary: You and Harry Castillo turn heads at a high-profile gala, but behind the spotlight, it’s the quiet connection between you that steals the night. Warnings: established relationship, fluff

The first time you see the invitation, it’s sitting on the kitchen counter like something ordinary—like a coupon or a bill. Except it’s not. The envelope is thick, cream-colored, sealed with wax and gold embossing, the kind of invitation that says: You belong here. And also, you’re being watched.

Harry placed it there with no note, just the weight of his house key pressed into the top as if to say, Your call. But you already know what he’s thinking.

“We should go,” he finally said that evening, leaning against the doorway with his tie loose and his sleeves rolled up. That was all. No need for further explanation. In Harry’s language—precise, economical—it meant this gala was more than a formality. It was a statement.

You both knew what it meant to show up. Together.

——

Getting ready feels like preparing for war and theatre all at once.

You finish your last video call just after five, fingers aching from typing, your mind buzzing from legal briefs and deadlines. A full day of work, a cross-city meeting, and barely enough time to breathe. But this—this part, the transformation—is something you’ve perfected. You don’t just put on the dress. You inhabit it.

Navy silk skims your skin, hugging curves with the precision of something custom. The slit rises high on your thigh, tempered only by the structure of the neckline—sharp, clean lines, power in minimalism. The dress is designed to say don’t underestimate her. You add delicate earrings, a single cocktail ring, your heels. Polished armor. You become a version of yourself that commands any room she walks into.

Harry appears in the doorway just as you're applying your lipstick. You feel the weight of his gaze before you even lift your eyes to meet his in the mirror.

He looks lethal in black. The tux is tailored within an inch of its life—broad shoulders, fitted waist, crisp collar. No bow tie yet, just his open shirt and the smooth column of his throat. He watches you in the mirror, his expression unreadable but intense.

“If the goal was to silence a room,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with heat, “you’ve already done it.”

You smirk, smoothing a hand over your hip. “You haven’t even put your tie on yet.”

He crosses the room slowly, like gravity works differently around him. His hand lands on your waist, a warm, steady weight. His lips brush the spot just beneath your ear, and his voice is barely audible when he speaks again.

“I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

You lean into him, just slightly. A reminder: You don’t need to.

——

The gala is everything you expect. Glittering. Lavish. Cutthroat beneath the surface.

Held in the ballroom of a landmark hotel, the ceilings soar with crystal chandeliers and gold inlay, everything steeped in old money. Politicians, CEOs, celebrities who want to be seen as intellectuals—they’re all here. And the moment you and Harry step in, the temperature shifts.

People notice.

You’re used to attention. You know how to walk a room, how to wield your presence like a blade wrapped in velvet. But tonight, it’s different. Tonight, you’re not just powerful individuals. You’re a pair. You move in sync. Speak with shared glances. When one of you speaks, the other listens—so does everyone else.

It’s intoxicating, the way the world bends slightly around you both.

Harry’s hand stays at your lower back for most of the night. Light pressure. Just enough to guide. A subtle signal: I’ve got you. We’re in this together.

The people you speak to are careful with their words. No one wants to offend either of you—not the woman who once dismantled a Fortune 100 company in court, not the man who exposed corruption that left a trail of broken institutions. Together, you’re both admired and feared. A power couple people whisper about in corners.

But behind the poised smiles and the measured conversation, you feel it—Harry’s steady pulse under his cuff, the way his thumb brushes the side of your wrist when no one’s watching. There’s a current running between you, unseen and potent.

At one point, after a round of polite speeches and a standing ovation for someone you both barely tolerate, you find yourself in a quiet corner, half-hidden behind a marble column. Harry hands you a glass of champagne and leans casually against the wall, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“They’re all wondering who you are,” you tease, swirling the drink in your hand.

“They know who you are,” he replies. “I’m just the man who gets to go home with you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that how we’re phrasing it now?”

He smirks. “You’re the one with the accolades.”

“And you’re the one with three exposés, two awards, and an article in The New Yorker calling you ‘dangerously magnetic.’” You take a slow sip of your drink. “Let’s not pretend you’re just my plus-one.”

He leans in close enough that you can smell the hint of his cologne—sharp, cedar, something unmistakably him. “Let them pretend,” he murmurs. “Let them think I’m lucky. They wouldn’t be wrong.”

——

Dancing wasn’t on your agenda. But when the band starts playing a slow, smoky rendition of an old jazz standard, Harry offers you his hand without a word. And you take it.

The dance floor glows under amber light, soft and golden. You slide easily into his arms, your hand finding his shoulder, the other lacing with his. His hand settles just above the curve of your hip, firm and steady.

You don’t need to talk. The movement says everything. His fingers trace lazy patterns across your lower back as you sway, slow and deliberate, the rest of the room fading.

“There was a moment tonight,” Harry says after a long beat, “where I saw you from across the room and thought… if I didn’t already know you, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

You glance up at him, surprised by the softness in his voice. “Only one moment?”

He smiles, a little crooked, a little vulnerable. Rare. “It happens a lot.”

You rest your head against his chest, the beat of his heart calm beneath your ear. “You’re not the only one who feels that way.”

——

You don’t make it all the way through dessert.

You leave before the final toast, before the late-night espresso cart rolls out. The doorman calls for your car the moment he sees Harry’s subtle nod. Everyone watches you leave. They always do.

The drive home is quiet. His hand rests on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, thoughtful strokes. The city glows outside the windows—buildings like watchful sentinels, glass and steel catching the light like blades.

In your penthouse, you let your heels fall beside the couch, the gown slipping off your shoulders like a sigh. You catch Harry watching you from the doorway—tie gone, shirt undone, his expression dark with admiration.

“You meant what you said earlier?” you ask, stepping toward him.

He tilts his head. “Which part?”

“That you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off me.”

He closes the distance. His fingers find your bare waist, drawing you close. “I’ve been holding back all night.”

You smile, hands sliding up the fabric of his shirt. “Good. Because I don’t feel like being patient anymore.”

He kisses you then—deep and unhurried, but full of purpose. Like he’s waited all night to remind you exactly who you are when it’s just the two of you. Not the power couple. Not the faces on the guest list.

Just Harry.

And the woman he built a world with.

[kdogreads]

Heyyyy I love your workss! Can you write a fic Joel x Reader where Joel gets *very* rough with reader, at first everything is fine and both of them enjoy it but then Joel goes a bit too far and accidentally hurts her? Thank uuu ❤️

I'm here

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: Joel gets too rough, hurts you, then comforts you with deep remorse. Warnings: established relationship, explicit smut (+18), dom!Joel, free use, dirty talk, hair pulling, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v sex, breath play, choking, guilt, hurt/comfort, aftercare, cuddling

It starts the way it always does when he’s had a long day. When something gets to him—too much patrol, too many memories, too much silence. You recognize the way he watches you from across the room, jaw tight, hand flexing like it aches to touch.

And when you look at him like you want to be taken, like you trust him to ruin you, that’s all it takes.

He’s on you in seconds, mouth crashing into yours, hands rough and grabbing. You barely make it to the bed before he’s tugging your shirt over your head, pulling your pants down with a curse.

“You want it rough tonight?” he growls, voice low and frayed.

You nod, panting already. “Yeah. Take it out on me.”

That does something to him.

He flips you onto your stomach, grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes hard, the other hand fisting in your hair to yank your head back. His mouth lands on your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks that’ll bloom in the morning.

“You don’t get to speak unless I ask,” he mutters. “Understood?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

You feel the warmth of his body behind you, the scrape of his jeans still half on, the hard press of his cock against your ass. His fingers sink into your cunt without warning, rough and fast.

“Already soaked,” he grunts. “You like beggin’ for it, huh? Like knowin’ I’m gonna fuck you stupid?”

You whimper, back arching. “Joel—”

He slaps your ass—hard. The crack of it fills the room.

��What’d I just say?” His voice is sharp now. “Don’t make me ask again.”

You nod quickly, face burning.

When he finally pushes into you, it’s a single, brutal thrust. You cry out—more shock than pain—and he groans low against your back.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “So fuckin’ tight. You’re takin’ me so good.”

His rhythm builds fast—no buildup, no mercy. He’s using your body like a man possessed, both hands gripping your hips so hard you know he’s leaving fingerprints. Each thrust sends you forward on the bed, your arms shaking from the force.

You love it. You’re wet, dripping down your thighs, moaning into the mattress, eyes fluttering. The pressure inside builds fast, the burn delicious. You’re losing track of everything but him—his sounds, his body, his dominance.

He pulls out only to flip you, grabbing your legs and forcing them wide as he sinks back into you. Now he can see everything. The flushed look on your face, your tits bouncing, the way you cry out with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he pants, looming over you. “Gettin’ ruined like this. So fuckin’ pretty when you take it.”

He leans down and bites your breast, hand wrapping around your throat—not tight yet, just holding. You whimper, hands gripping his arms.

“I could fuck you all night like this,” he rasps. “Break you open.”

You nod fast, dizzy. “Please—don’t stop—”

And he doesn’t. He fucks you harder, slamming into you so fast your legs tremble. He shifts, pins your wrists above your head with one hand, and grips your throat again with the other—tighter now. You feel the pressure spike.

Still good. Still sharp. Still perfect.

Then—too tight.

You can’t breathe.

You try to swallow, but your throat is sealed shut under his grip. Your vision blurs at the edges, a ringing starts in your ears. You gasp, your nails digging into his arm.

You try to say something. Try to tap out. But it’s too much.

And then he sees it.

Everything stops.

Joel jerks back like he’s been shot. He stumbles off the bed, breath loud and horrified.

“Shit—fuck—baby, I—I didn’t—” His hands are out like he’s afraid to touch you. “You okay? Can you breathe?”

You curl into yourself, coughing, throat raw. Your voice is barely a rasp. “Y-yeah—give me a second—”

He’s already dropping to his knees by the bed, hands trembling. His face is white, lips parted. “I’m so sorry. Fuck, I didn’t know—why didn’t you stop me?”

“I tried,” you whisper. “I couldn’t get it out—couldn’t talk.”

Joel’s face crumples. He pushes both hands through his hair, then leans forward, pressing his forehead to the mattress beside you.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he mutters. “I hurt you.”

You shake your head slowly. “You didn’t mean to.”

He doesn’t move. His voice is quiet and cracked. “That doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t’ve let myself go like that. I wasn’t thinkin’. I—I could’ve—” He chokes on it.

You reach for him, fingers brushing his jaw.

“I need you here,” you whisper.

That breaks the trance. He rises immediately, crawling into bed beside you, gathering you into his arms like you’re something fragile, precious. His chest is bare, still damp with sweat, but his touch is gentle now, his mouth all apologies.

“I got you,” he whispers, over and over. “I’m here. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m right here.”

He kisses your forehead, your nose, your mouth—slow, tender, worshipful. His hand rubs your back, fingertips trailing soothing circles.

You melt into him, throat still aching, but the rest of you safe. Held. Loved.

You feel a tear slip down your cheek, and Joel wipes it away with the back of his knuckle, eyes dark with regret.

“I never wanna scare you like that again,” he says. “We don’t do it like that unless you can stop me. You hear me?”

You nod, swallowing thickly.

“I just… wanted to be what you needed,” he adds, voice breaking. “Didn’t realize I stopped listenin’.”

“You are what I need,” you murmur. “Just… not like that. Not when you disappear on me.”

His arms pull tighter, his mouth pressing to your temple. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

You stay wrapped in each other for a long time, skin cooling, bodies finally still. The room is quiet except for the pop of the fire and the slow thump of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

And later—after he’s helped you to the bathroom, cleaned between your legs, pressed kisses to every bruise—he tucks you under the blankets and cradles you close.

Not for sex. Not for dominance.

Just to hold.

Just to be here.

Just to show you that no matter how far he slipped, he came back.

And he’ll never go that far again.

[kdogreads]

Heyyy! Love your fics! Can you write one where reader is coming home from her shift at the greenhouse and find that Joel has already arrived home from patrol. She goes to greet him and finds him stitching a nasty gash on his arm/torso. Reader scolds him for not going to the infirmary and proceeds to patch him up herself (while he mumbles that he "could do it himself")

Maybe things get a little heated? Reader is focused on stitching him up and he keeps saying how gorgeous she looks taking care of him, what a good nurse you'd be, while his hands keep on rising up your thigh. Long story short, she rides the hell out of him but he still ends up with a couple of torn stitches (messy bloody sex? Hmm sign me up).

Stitches

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: You stitch Joel up, ride him bloody, then take care of him. Warnings: established relationship, explicit smut (+18), unprotected sex, p in v sex, bloody sex, blood, aftercare, cuddling

The greenhouse still clings to your skin when you get home. Damp warmth, the faint earthy sweetness of basil and turned soil — it’s all soaked into your clothes. Your knees are sore. Your palms are raw. You’d been elbow-deep in compost when the sun started setting, and the ache in your spine told you it was time to quit.

Joel was supposed to be on patrol for another hour at least.

So when you step inside and see his boots by the door, your heart stumbles a little.

You call out, “Joel?”

No answer.

The house is quiet except for a soft shuffle coming from the couch.

You round the corner — and stop dead.

He’s hunched forward, shirt half-off, covered in blood.

Your stomach drops as you rush over. “What the hell happened?”

He doesn’t look up, just keeps threading a filthy needle through an angry, torn gash across his side. It cuts diagonally from beneath his ribs and disappears toward his back. The flesh is puckered, red, bleeding fresh every time the thread tugs too tight. The blood’s dried in places, but it still seeps, and his skin shines wet beneath the weak lamplight.

“Ran into a fencepost.” His voice is gruff, hoarse.

“Jesus, Joel,” you breathe, dropping your bag and crouching beside him. “Why didn’t you go to the damn infirmary?”

“Could do it myself.”

Your eyes flash. “Clearly not.”

You reach for his hands, gently pulling the needle away, and he finally looks at you. His eyes are tired, ringed in gray, pupils blown wider than they should be — from pain, adrenaline, or the sight of you, you’re not sure.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed being this stubborn.”

Joel gives a low grunt. “You look real pretty when you’re mad.”

“Shut up.” But your mouth softens as you say it.

You grab your med kit — the one you keep stocked because you know exactly the kind of stupid things Joel does — and start cleaning around the wound. He hisses when the antiseptic hits.

You press gauze to the open edge. “Hold this.”

He does. His hand brushes yours — warm, solid, grounding — and you feel his fingers curl, just barely, around the side of your thigh.

You glance down. “You flirting with me while you’re bleeding out?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t need to. That look in his eyes — it’s hotter than any grin. “You’d make one hell of a nurse.”

“You’d be the worst patient.” You start stitching him, firm and precise. “Try to touch the nurse when she’s got a needle in her hand?”

His thumb brushes slow circles on your inner thigh. “Worth the risk.”

You inhale sharply, the motion sending a pulse right between your legs.

You want to scold him. You want to finish patching him up and march his ass to bed to sleep it off.

But Joel’s fingers keep rising, warm and insistent beneath the hem of your jeans. Your stitches falter for just a second, your hand pausing mid-thread.

“You’re drivin’ me crazy,” he mutters, looking up at you. His voice is low, desperate, rasping. “Comin’ in smellin’ like earth... skin all flushed... fingers all gentle.”

“Joel,” you warn, but it’s weak now. Empty.

You don’t stop him when he unbuttons your pants.

You don’t stop when his blood-slick fingers slide into your underwear and find how wet you already are.

You moan instead — soft, involuntary — and let the half-stitched wound wait.

“I should finish this,” you say, breathless.

“You can finish me first,” he growls, and that’s it — restraint’s gone.

You push his pants down just enough and straddle him on the couch, knees bracketing his thighs, heat already throbbing between yours. The stitching is half done, the wound weeping against your skin. You hover above him, slick and aching, and Joel drags you down onto him with a hungry groan.

The stretch punches a gasp from your lungs.

“Fuck—Joel—”

He’s thick, hard, warm, filling you so deep it’s almost unbearable. You start to move — slow, deliberate, grounding yourself with hands on his bloody shoulders, feeling his wound flex beneath your fingers.

His mouth finds your neck. His hips thrust up, matching your rhythm. The couch creaks, old wood groaning. Wet sounds fill the room, mixing with his gasps and your panting moans.

You roll your hips harder, faster, and Joel lets out a strangled growl. “Christ, baby—fuck—gonna ruin me.”

The pressure builds, your thighs trembling, your belly tightening. His hands squeeze your hips hard enough to bruise. One arm wraps tight around your back, dragging you flush against him, his wound grinding against your body, fresh blood streaking across your ribs and staining your top.

You rock together, desperate, frantic.

Then—snap.

He jerks beneath you with a sharp hiss of pain.

“Shit,” he pants, “that tore—fuck.”

You feel the blood—hot and wet—smearing across your side, his stitches splitting open.

“Joel—”

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Please—don’t stop.”

You don’t.

You ride him harder, grinding, chasing your climax with messy abandon. His pain blends with pleasure, his fingers tangled in your hair, dragging your mouth to his in a brutal kiss.

You come with a cry, shuddering against him, clenching tight. He follows seconds later, buried deep, his hips jerking as he spills inside you.

Everything slows.

You collapse against him, chests heaving, breath tangled.

Blood trickles down his side. Your thighs are slick — with sweat, arousal, and red.

He laughs, soft and low. “Gonna need you to stitch me up again.”

You pull back enough to look at him. “You’re an idiot.”

“You love me.”

You sigh, heart still pounding. “Unfortunately.”

And you lean down, press a kiss just above the broken stitches.

“I’ll fix you,” you murmur. “Then I’m tying you to the bed so you don’t pull them again.”

His hand slides down your thigh. “Not sure that’s the kind of tie-up you mean.”

——

You’re still straddling him when the ache sets in.

His breathing has slowed, but yours hasn’t. Not fully. Not with the blood drying sticky between your ribs. Not with the smell of iron and sweat in the air, and Joel’s hand still splayed wide across your thigh, like he doesn’t want to let you go even now.

“C’mon,” you whisper eventually, threading your fingers through his. “We’ve gotta clean you up before you start leaking on the cushions.”

He groans low, somewhere between pain and contentment. “Thought I was gonna die a happy man.”

“You’ll die of a damn infection before anything else if we don’t get you scrubbed.”

Reluctantly, you ease off his lap. His cock slips out of you with a slick sound that makes your thighs tremble again. He’s covered in it — in you — in blood and sweat and come and everything else that marks what just happened as messy and real.

You tug your shirt off and toss it aside, already stained dark where your bodies pressed together. “Bathroom. Now.”

He tries to get up and nearly buckles with a hiss.

“Jesus, Joel—”

“I’m fine.” He grits his teeth, letting you tuck yourself under his arm.

You walk him to the bathroom slowly, letting him lean on you. There’s blood running from the torn stitches, dripping lazy down his side, smearing your skin where he leans. You flick the faucet on, let the water run warm.

The room steams up fast.

You undress him gently, peeling the fabric back from his damp skin, careful not to touch the raw edges of his wound. When he’s finally bare, you guide him into the tub and climb in behind him, settling against the back wall with him between your legs. His back rests against your chest, heavy and warm, and you cradle him like something sacred.

You take the washcloth and begin to clean him.

Slow. Reverent. Silent.

The water turns pink at first, then red. You squeeze the cloth out and drag it up his stomach, over the soft muscles, along the trail of hair below his navel. Over the ruined stitches.

He watches your hand work.

“Y’really don’t have to—”

“Shut up.”

You kiss the side of his head and keep going. You don’t mind the mess. You just want him clean. Safe. Breathing.

Your hand glides up to his jaw, the stubble rasping against your palm. You tilt his face, press your mouth to the corner of his lips, and he sighs so softly you almost miss it.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a long pause.

“For what?”

“For scarin’ you. For bein’ stupid.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Can’t make promises I can’t keep.”

“Then I’ll duct tape you to the infirmary bench next time.”

His laugh is quiet, worn-out.

When the blood is rinsed away, you help him dry off. Wrap a towel around your own damp body and walk him to bed.

You sit him down first, then go back for the med kit. The stitching is harder this time — you have to undo what little he managed and start fresh. You sit in his lap to do it, your thighs bare across his, his hands gripping them more for grounding than anything else. His head rests against your collarbone as you work.

“Still think I’d make a good nurse?” you murmur.

He nods slowly. “Best damn one I ever had.”

You finish with the final knot and smooth gauze over it.

His voice is thick now, sleepy. “Stay right here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You pull the blanket over both of you, letting his body settle heavy against yours. One hand slips under the hem of the towel wrapped around your chest, palm resting soft over your breast. Not sexual — just seeking. Just needing to touch.

You press your mouth to the crown of his head and feel him finally go still.

Safe. Breathing.

Alive.

[kdogreads]

I would like to ask for a story where Pedro and the reader are actors and hate each other, but when they are going to film a hot scene for an adult film they end up letting their desire speak louder. Lots of obscenity, Pedro being cute and charismatic in front of the cameras but tough behind them and the reader being a bratty girl (not that much of an age difference, Pedro is 50 and Reader is 30)

Rolling

Pairing: pornstar!Pedro Pascal x actress!reader Summary: You hate him—your arrogant, charming co-star—but when the cameras roll for a steamy scene, you lose control, and acting turns into something dangerously real. Warnings: haters to lovers (kinda), language, age gap (reader is 30 and Pedro is 50), explicit sexual content (+18), dom!Pedro, bratty reader, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, pinning, breeding kink, unprotected sex, p in v sex, on-set sex, cocky Pedro, aftercare, cuddling, basically just pure filth A/N: I feel like I went a little too far with this one too but I hope you'll enjoy it!

You can’t stand Pedro fucking Pascal.

Everyone else melts around him—makeup artists, camera crew, even the goddamn caterers. He walks around the set like he owns it, flashing that golden-boy smile, whispering something charming and dirty into someone’s ear, letting everyone fall in love with him a little. But you know better. When the cameras stop rolling, so does the charisma. With you, he’s smug. Short. Superior. He treats you like some reckless brat who got cast on accident—like he’s the seasoned professional and you’re the wildcard. Which is probably fair but still pisses you off. And now, after a week of tense scenes and glancing blows, you’ve reached the finale. The big one. Full nudity, full contact, full simulated sex—though judging by the size of him when you caught a glimpse in the dressing room, there won’t be much simulated about it.

During blocking, he stands close. Too close. You can feel the heat radiating off his body as the director explains the positions, the angles, the rhythm. Pedro listens politely, nods, then turns to you with a smirk so subtle only you catch it. “You gonna be a good girl and actually follow direction today?” he murmurs, low enough for no one else to hear. You tilt your chin, giving him a practiced smile. “You gonna keep pretending you’re not ancient, or should I buy you a walker for the next take?” His smirk deepens. “There’s that mouth.” You step closer. “You’ll be crying for it later.”

But it’s not until the cameras start rolling that things really change. The set is minimal—warm golden lighting, soft bedding, that high-end, expensive kind of porn that’s more about chemistry and atmosphere than cheap thrills. The director calls for action, and Pedro leans over you on the bed like he’s worshipping you. On camera, he’s gentle. His voice is low, sweet, coaxing. “You feel so good, baby,” he says against your neck, the backs of his fingers trailing over your ribs. You arch beneath him because you’re supposed to, but the sound that slips out of your throat is more real than it should be. And when his body presses fully against yours, you realize he’s hard. Very hard. And that? That is not part of the scene.

“You’re soaked already,” he whispers, his mouth just below your ear. “Knew you’d like it when I got my hands on you.” You try to stay in character. You try to respond the way the script says, but something raw pulses through your belly. You dig your nails into his back. He doesn’t flinch. “Told you. That mouth,” he mutters. “Bet it’ll feel even better when it’s wrapped around my cock.” You let out a soft, involuntary sound. The director hums in satisfaction from behind the monitor. “Perfect. Keep going.” Pedro doesn’t stop. Doesn’t break character. But the way his hands grip your waist? The way his eyes darken when he rolls his hips against you? None of that is acting.

They shift to the oral scene, and you’re supposed to spread your legs while Pedro goes down on you. Easy. You’ve done scenes like this before. But you weren’t expecting the way he moves between your thighs like he’s hungry. Like he’s starving. His hands press your knees wide apart and he looks at you—really looks—like he’s been waiting for this moment. Then his tongue licks a slow, devastating stripe through your folds and you almost forget where you are. “Oh fuck—” you gasp. He doesn’t let up. He drags his mouth over your clit, slow and merciless, then sucks with enough pressure to make your back arch off the bed. “Keep quiet,” he murmurs. “Let me work.” You’re shaking. Your hand fists the sheet beside you. And the sound that tears from your throat is completely unscripted. He flattens his tongue and slides two fingers inside you without warning, curling them perfectly, and you lose it. You come, real and hard, legs trembling as he keeps licking through it, moaning into your cunt like he enjoys it more than you do.

When the director finally calls cut, you’re panting. You sit up quickly, robe yanked around your shoulders, avoiding Pedro’s gaze like it burns. You hate how smug he looks. Like he knows what he did. “Y’alright?” he asks, voice smooth and low. You glare. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” He just shrugs. “So did you.”

You storm back to your trailer afterward, still damp between your legs, your body flushed with something more than embarrassment. You’re halfway through slamming the door when a hand stops it. Pedro slips in behind you, calm as ever. “You don’t get to just walk in here,” you snap, but he’s already pushing you back against the door. “I don’t?” he breathes, his hand wrapping around your wrists and pinning them above your head. “’Cause that little moan you made while I was in your pussy said otherwise.” You try to twist free, but it only makes your hips grind into his thigh. “You’re a dick,” you hiss. His grin is slow and lethal. “Brat.” The word hits somewhere low in your stomach, a coil of heat tightening as he presses his body fully against yours. “You want me to prove it?” he asks. “That you’ve been mouthing off because you wanted this?”

You open your mouth to retort, but he kisses you instead—hard, messy, filthy. Nothing like the fake sweetness on camera. His hands slide under your robe, over your ass, squeezing roughly as he lifts you and walks you to the couch like you weigh nothing. When he drops you down, you scramble to sit up, but he kneels between your legs and shoves your thighs apart again. “Told you,” he mutters. “Such a fucking mouth, but your pussy? She’s honest.” He runs his fingers through your folds and groans. “So wet. So messy for me. Bet you’ve been touching yourself after every scene.”

You slap his shoulder, but your eyes are glassy, your body arching up into him. He pushes two fingers inside you again, slow and deep, then curls them and drags his thumb over your clit. “Want me to fill that bratty little mouth?” he asks. “Choke you until you cry?” “Fuck you,” you pant. He grins. “That’s the plan.” He fucks you with his fingers until you’re dripping, until you’re whimpering and squirming and close to the edge again. Then he pulls them out, sucks them clean, and unbuckles his jeans.

The first thrust knocks the breath out of you. He’s big. Thick. Stretching you open in a way no one ever has. He doesn’t go easy. Not anymore. He fucks you like he’s mad about how long it took, like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of you. And maybe he does. Because by the time you’re clawing at his back, crying out as you come again, you’re not mouthing off anymore. “That’s it,” he growls, pounding into you with sharp, perfect rhythm. “Take it. Take all of it. That’s my good girl now.” You moan for him. Shameless and soaked. He leans in, teeth grazing your jaw. “Still hate me?” You kiss him. Hard. He bites your lip and you whimper into his mouth.

When he finally comes, he buries himself deep, groaning your name like a confession. And then he collapses on top of you, his chest heaving, one hand cradling the back of your head like he didn’t just ruin you. Like he cares.

The next morning, he’s all smiles again. The Pedro the crew loves. Winking at you, teasing you with soft little touches, whispering “good girl” in your ear when no one’s looking. “You two really hate each other?” the director laughs, watching yesterday’s footage. “Could’ve fooled me.” You sip your coffee and say nothing. Pedro smirks across the room. You roll your eyes.

But your body’s still sore. And tonight? You’re not walking back to your trailer alone.

——

You should’ve said no. When he leaned in that night, brushing his mouth against your jaw and whispering “come home with me” like it wasn’t a threat—you should’ve said no. Instead, you’re in his bed again. Sore from the first round and somehow already aching for more. His place is bigger than yours, quieter, tucked away from the madness of New York, and somehow it still smells like him—cedar, clean laundry, and something warm that stays in your nose long after he’s left the room.

He makes you tea. Just hands it to you in a chipped mug like he didn’t just fuck you until you couldn’t walk straight. Like he’s not watching you from the other side of the couch with those same hungry eyes, thumb pressed to his bottom lip. “You're quieter tonight,” he says eventually, sipping from his glass. “That brat mouth finally ran out of gas?” You don’t answer right away. You’re stretched out in one of his oversized t-shirts, no panties, bare thighs curled under you. The fabric still smells like him, too. “Just thinking,” you mutter. “Dangerous,” he says, and you roll your eyes.

He shifts, turns slightly to face you, one arm slung over the back of the couch. “About what?” You sip your tea. “About how you act like a prince when the cameras are on, but behind closed doors you’re a complete fucking menace.” Pedro smirks. “You love it.” You glance at him, slow and sharp. “Do I?” He leans forward, elbow on his knee, voice dropping. “You came twice last night. You moaned my name like it hurt. You begged.” “Did not.” “You did,” he murmurs. “And you’ll do it again.”

You shift in your seat. Your thighs press tighter. It’s humiliating, how easy it is for him to read your body. To sense that pulse of heat before you’ve even admitted it to yourself. “You know,” he says casually, “they rewrote the next scene. Gave us another ‘intimate’ moment.” You arch a brow. “You mean another excuse to have your tongue in my pussy?” “Didn’t hear you complaining.” “I was working,” you say, lifting your chin. “I’m a professional.” Pedro hums. “Sure, sweetheart.”

He’s beside you before you register it—tea forgotten, mouth grazing the shell of your ear. “Want a rehearsal?” You mean to scoff, to push him off, but you’re already shifting toward him. Already letting your head fall back as his hand slips under the hem of the shirt. “You’ve been acting like you don’t want this,” he mutters, fingers trailing up the inside of your thigh, “but your body gives you away every time.” You shiver. “Shut up.” “Make me,” he growls, suddenly over you, pinning you to the couch with one hand around your wrists again.

You squirm, pushing at his chest, but your hips are grinding up against his thigh, desperate and warm and soaked. “Still hate me?” he teases. “Fuck off.” “That’s not a no.” He yanks the shirt up and off you in one smooth motion. “You act like I’m the problem,” he says, voice low, fingers tracing the curve of your breast, “but you’ve been staring at my mouth since we met. You wanted this.” You gasp as his tongue flicks over your nipple, then moan when he sucks it into his mouth. “You wanted me to ruin you.”

You claw at his hair, panting. “Then do it already.” And he does. He drags you off the couch, onto the carpet, his body warm and heavy over yours. His mouth is everywhere—your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. He eats you out slow, lazy, like he’s got all night. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs. “God, your pussy’s so sweet.” You tug at his hair, your legs wrapped around his shoulders, hips rocking against his tongue. “Pedro, fuck—please—” “There’s my girl,” he growls, gripping your thighs tighter. “Beg for it.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Please, I want your cock, I want it so deep, I need it—” He slides up your body and pushes inside without warning, and you cry out—loud, sharp, desperate. He’s rougher tonight. Harder. His hand closes around your throat as he thrusts into you, his other arm braced beside your head. “You’re mine now,” he mutters against your mouth. “No more pretending. No more attitude. You want to be my good girl? Say it.” You gasp, nails digging into his back. “Yours. I’m yours. Please don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He fucks you until your vision goes white, until your voice is wrecked and your whole body is trembling beneath him. You come again with a sob, and only then does he let go of your throat, only then does he kiss you—deep and sweet, full of something almost gentle. He stays inside you after, his weight heavy and solid, his nose nudging your cheek. “Still hate me?” he whispers. You manage a laugh, dazed and breathless. “So much.” He smiles against your jaw. “Liar.”

When you wake the next morning, it’s to the smell of bacon and coffee. You shuffle into the kitchen in his shirt again, hair a mess, thighs aching. Pedro’s already up, already dressed, charming someone on the phone in Spanish. His voice drops when he sees you. He ends the call, walks over, presses a kiss to your temple like he’s done it a hundred times. “I made you breakfast.” “Why are you being nice?” you ask suspiciously. He grins. “Gotta keep my girl fed if I’m gonna fuck the attitude out of her again later.”

You roll your eyes. But you eat the bacon. And when he kisses your shoulder while pouring your coffee, you don’t move away.

Not anymore.

——

The new scene is set in a sleek hotel room mock-up—low lighting, expensive props, champagne flutes placed just so on the bedside table. It’s supposed to be the climax of the film—pun intended—where the tension between your characters finally breaks. And you know how they wrote it now. No dialogue. Just a look, a kiss, and then bodies colliding against the sheets. Let the chemistry carry it. Let the audience believe you want each other more than anything.

Problem is, that part isn’t acting anymore.

Pedro’s across the set, talking with the director. He’s dressed in a crisp black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, slacks that cling to his thighs. Hair slightly messy, salt-and-pepper beard trimmed just right. He’s nodding politely, grinning at a joke. So damn charming. So good. And then he looks at you. Just a flick of his eyes across the space, like gravity snapped tight around your throat. Like he’s already fucking you with his gaze. He tips his chin up just slightly, smug, dark-eyed, like he’s already won. You hate him for it.

You’re in a silk slip dress, no bra, nothing underneath. You can feel the cool air prickling across your thighs as you step up to the bed. The assistant director mics you both, then clears the room. Just the bare minimum crew now—camera, lighting, the intimacy coordinator keeping a polite distance. Pedro climbs onto the bed beside you as they adjust the angles. You feel the heat of him through the mattress, your skin already buzzing.

“You ready, princess?” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “Fuck off,” you mutter. He smirks. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Action.”

You face him. The camera is on your profile, catching your expression as you lean in. His hand finds your jaw like the script says, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. It’s supposed to look tender. But there’s pressure behind it. Control. A warning. You let your mouth part, slow and soft, eyes locked on his like you’re daring him to take it further.

He kisses you. Open, slow, deliberate. His tongue slides against yours and you swear it’s worse than last night—hotter, deeper, needier. His hand cups the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh, and you can already feel the tremble in your legs. You shift closer, gasping softly into his mouth, and that’s when it happens.

The kiss breaks. Your eyes flicker to his. There’s something there now. Not just lust. Not just the high of performance. Something hungry. Curious. Territorial. You’re not supposed to speak, but you whisper, too quiet for the boom mics. “Are you hard already?” He chuckles low, dark. “You make me hard the second you walk into a room.”

You straddle his lap, like the script says. He slides the straps of your dress down your shoulders, kisses your neck, your collarbone, his mouth moving like he owns you. And maybe he does. Because you’re grinding against him, open-mouthed and gasping, and you can feel it—he’s not faking. Neither are you.

His hand slips between your thighs and finds you wet, already leaking onto his slacks. He swears under his breath. “Fuck, baby. Look at you.” “Shut up,” you hiss. “Then stop moaning,” he growls, and that’s when his fingers sink into you.

You nearly cry out. His fingers fuck you open, slow and deep, his thumb circling your clit just right. The camera gets it all—your face, your hips rocking down, the way you clutch his shirt like you’ll fall apart without it. “You want my cock so bad,” he mutters into your neck. “Say it.” You shake your head, breath hitching. “Say it, or I’ll stop.” “Fuck—yes—yes, I want it, please—” “There’s my girl,” he breathes, and pulls his hand away just long enough to undo his belt.

He pushes inside you, raw and slow and real. No padding. No barrier. The way you gasp is not acting. The way your nails claw into his back is not scripted. He fucks up into you with hard, deliberate thrusts, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other gripping your throat—not tight, just enough to make your breath catch. “You feel that?” he growls against your ear. “That’s mine. This pussy is fucking mine.”

You’re shaking. Moaning. Writhing. But somewhere under it—under the filth and the sweat and the obscene rhythm of your bodies—you feel it. The shift. The ache. The way he’s looking at you now. Like he’s trying to memorize every second. Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You come with a scream, grinding down hard, your body spasming around him. And he doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, eyes locked on yours, jaw clenched. “You gonna let me come inside you, baby?” he hisses. “Want to feel it? Want me to fill you up while they all watch?”

You nod, whimpering. “Yes, yes—please—” “Good fucking girl,” he growls, and then he’s coming too, burying himself deep, groaning into your neck like he can’t hold it back anymore.

“Cut!” someone calls.

You collapse against his chest. Still inside you. Still trembling. He holds you, quiet, hand stroking your back. For the first time, there’s no smirk. No smug line. Just silence. Just his heartbeat thudding against your cheek.

He whispers, barely audible. “Did that feel like acting to you?” You swallow hard. Shake your head.

He pulls back to look at you. And his eyes—dark, soft, searching—say what neither of you has dared to speak.

Yet.

[kdogreads]

i have a pedro request x wife reader. You did write something about a third pregnancy. What if the wife is in a month where you can feel the baby kick. Pedro is Away filming for the week. The kids try to get the baby kick for them, nothing happens. Pedro gets home. The next morning all of them lay in one bed, because the kids missed him. Pedro talks with the bump and the baby kicks for the first time. The kids are exited and beg pedro that he should keep talking that the can feel the kicks. Pedro and wife are happy. And Pedro kisses the bump. Greetings from Germany.

First kicks

Pairing: dad!Pedro Pascal x actress!mom!reader Summary: You and your kids try to feel the baby kick while Pedro is away, but it only happens when he talks to your belly—filling you all with joy. Warnings: established relationship, fluff, family moments

The house had been unusually quiet the last few days.

Quieter than it should be with two kids and a third on the way. Quieter without Pedro’s laugh echoing from the kitchen, without his guitar humming in the living room or his voice drifting upstairs when he’d read to the kids at night.

Mateo had been quietest of all, which always gave you pause. At nine, he usually filled the silence without hesitation—question after question, joke after joke, his energy always outpacing your own. But since Pedro had flown out for a week of filming, he’d been subdued, crawling into bed next to you at night after Lucia had fallen asleep, always with a sigh like it was the biggest effort in the world to miss someone.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Lucia had followed your every step today, hair tangled from sleep, still in her pyjamas well past lunch, her head resting against your shoulder whenever you sat down. She was old enough now to feel the pull of absence, and she’d whispered this morning, “I miss Papá,” with a look so solemn you almost teared up right then.

It wasn’t even that long a trip. But when your days were usually stitched together with the presence of someone you loved, the absence pulled all the threads loose.

Now, the three of you were tucked under a blanket on the couch, a Disney movie flickering on screen, your hand resting low on your belly. You were well into your second trimester now—far enough along to feel the baby kick here and there, just a flutter every now and then. You had told the kids this morning.

And ever since, they’d taken it as a personal mission to coax movement out of the bump.

“Is the baby kicking now?” Mateo asked for the sixth time that hour, eyes glued to your stomach like he was waiting for a jump scare.

“Not yet, baby,” you murmured, brushing his curls away from his forehead. “Sometimes they get shy.”

Lucia sat up, suddenly serious. “Maybe if I sing to them.”

And she did—softly, off-key, a little made-up tune that went “Baby, baby, come kick for me…” while she rested her cheek against your belly and waited.

But the baby stayed stubbornly still, cozy in the warmth of your body, apparently unmoved by sibling adoration.

The sound of the garage door finally opening near dinner sent both kids sprinting toward the entryway, their delighted voices echoing against the hardwood floors.

“Papá!”

You rose slowly, hands on the sides of your belly, smiling already before you even saw him. And then—

There he was, suitcase still in hand, his arms open before he could even say hello.

They nearly knocked him off balance with the force of their hugs.

“You grew,” Pedro said, voice thick with laughter as he looked at Mateo. “And you—” he crouched to pull Lucia into a kiss, “you look taller than me now. What happened?”

She giggled into his shoulder. “We missed you.”

“Missed you more.” He looked up, eyes meeting yours. His voice softened. “Missed you the most.”

When he stood, you stepped into his arms without a word. He wrapped you up carefully—still mindful, still reverent. He always treated you like something sacred when you were carrying life.

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing his lips over your temple.

“Better now.”

He pulled back just enough to place a hand on your belly. “And you? You been giving your mama trouble?”

“The baby won’t kick for us,” Mateo said, already pouting. “Not even when Lucia sang to them.”

Pedro chuckled, one arm still around you as he kissed the top of Mateo’s head. “Maybe they’re just waiting for me.”

You didn’t sleep alone that night—not with two small bodies insisting they couldn’t possibly stay in their own beds.

So the four of you ended up in yours—Pedro in the middle, with a child tucked on each side and your bump nestled close to his hip, his hand resting there instinctively as the lights went out.

It was early morning when you stirred, still groggy with sleep, the sky just starting to turn pale outside the windows.

Pedro was already awake. His voice was low and quiet, murmuring just above a whisper.

“…I think you’ve got a fan club waiting out here, you know. Your brother’s been trying all week to get a kick. Don’t make me look bad, okay?”

You smiled, eyes still closed, his voice anchoring you to the warm softness of the bed.

“Papá,” came Lucia’s sleepy murmur from his other side, “are you talking to the baby?”

“I am, princesa.”

She rolled toward him. “Can I help?”

“Of course,” he said. “But you gotta be real gentle, okay?”

There was a small rustle as she moved closer, and Pedro lifted the covers slightly to bare the top of your belly. His hand settled again over the curve of it, and yours joined his, fingers overlapping.

Mateo, now awake too, scooted down toward the bump and rested his chin on your side. “Say something cool, Papá.”

Pedro grinned. “Cool like what?”

“Like Star Wars stuff.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing the swell of your skin. “This is your father speaking,” he said in his best Darth Vader voice, low and dramatic. “You are very loved.”

You laughed softly, and the kids giggled too, both leaning in to listen.

Pedro’s voice grew quieter. “We’re so excited to meet you. Your mamá’s been amazing. Your brother and sister can’t wait to hold you. And I already love you more than anything.”

And then—there it was. A flutter. Then a definite, tiny kick, right beneath his palm.

You all felt it at once.

“Oh my god!” Mateo gasped, sitting bolt upright. “Was that—?!”

“That was the baby!” Lucia squealed, pressing both palms to your belly. “Do it again! Talk more!”

Pedro’s eyes were wide with wonder, his hand still in place. He looked at you like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Hey, there you are,” he whispered, rubbing gently where the kick had landed. “You just needed the right voice, huh?”

The baby kicked again.

You reached up, fingers threading through his curls as he bent forward and kissed the bump, slow and reverent. He lingered there, then pressed his forehead against your belly.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You weren’t sure who he was thanking—the baby, the universe, or you. Maybe all three.

Mateo was still breathless. “I didn’t know babies could hear that good.”

“They can hear around this time,” you murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Sound travels through the belly.”

“Then keep talking, Papá,” Lucia said, cuddling closer. “Don’t stop.”

Pedro laughed gently and rested his cheek against your stomach. “Okay, okay. But you two owe me pancakes for this.”

You watched them all—your children curled in close, Pedro’s hand never leaving your skin, his voice low and warm as he told the baby about the birds outside the window, the names of their siblings, how beautiful you looked that morning.

And with every quiet kick, you felt a new part of your heart stretch.

Later, long after the sun had fully risen, the four of you stayed tangled in bed—Mateo drawing names in the air for the baby, Lucia already planning lullabies, and Pedro never letting go of your hand.

And as the baby kicked again beneath his touch, he looked over at you with that soft smile—the one only you ever got to see—and mouthed, I love you.

And you mouthed it back.

The moment etched itself into you, like the first heartbeat, the first ultrasound.

Just another perfect first.

[kdogreads]

Can I request one for reader asking Joel for a baby? Like, sheepishly, timidly asking him, uncertain how he's gonna react after all he's been through? (Hopefully he says yes??)

Where it begins

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: You ask Joel for a baby—and together, you begin again in quiet, tender hope. Warnings: established relationship, fluff, family talk, soft smut, trying for a baby

It had been on your mind for weeks now—quiet, persistent, a whisper tucked into the edges of your days. Not loud, not urgent. Just… there. The thought of a child. Of his child. It settled into moments when you least expected it: the way your eyes lingered on him across the table, how your chest ached watching him cradle Benji with that rare gentleness only Joel could carry, the quiet stretch of mornings where you stayed curled against him just a little longer. You weren’t even sure when the wanting had started. Maybe it had always been there, buried under gratitude and survival, waiting for a moment like this—when life had finally grown soft enough to let it bloom. But asking? Saying it out loud? That was something else entirely. Because Joel had lived through too much loss, and love didn’t come easy to him, not even now. You weren’t afraid of him. But you were afraid of the weight your question might carry.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shadows across the wooden walls of your home. It was late—later than you usually stayed up—and Joel had already kicked off his boots, sunk into the old couch with the same quiet sigh he always gave when his body finally gave in for the night. One arm rested along the back of the cushions, the other slung lazily over his stomach, his eyes soft and half-lidded from the firelight and fatigue. You’d already joined him once, curling beside him, your fingers brushing idly over the worn fabric of his shirt, taking comfort in his warmth, his presence. He hadn’t said much. Just kissed the top of your head and let the silence sit between you like a familiar friend. Joel didn’t need to speak to make you feel safe. He never had. But that didn’t make the words burning at the back of your throat any easier to say.

You stayed like that for a long time, heart thudding quietly against his side. You weren’t even sure what was stopping you. You weren’t scared of Joel. Not really. But this—this was different. This was a question that carried weight. That might change the shape of everything between you. You didn’t want to ask like you were testing him, or like it would break you if he said no. You just wanted to ask because… you needed to know. Needed to say it out loud and see how it landed. You traced the stitching on his flannel shirt with the tip of your finger, trying to calm the jittery flutter in your stomach, and your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost unsure.

“Joel?” you said, just barely above a whisper.

“Mhm?” His voice rumbled low in his chest, lazy and gentle. You could feel it against your cheek.

You sat up just slightly, just enough to look at him—really look at him. He turned his head to meet your gaze, eyes soft, brows raised just a little like he could already sense there was something on your mind. Something real.

You hesitated.

And then, without letting yourself overthink it again, you said it.

“Have you ever thought about having another kid?”

The words hung there between you, trembling, delicate. You felt them leave your mouth like a confession, felt the weight of them fill the silence like smoke. Joel didn’t answer right away, and your stomach twisted, your heart suddenly thudding against your ribs with a frantic kind of guilt. You started to backpedal before he could even open his mouth.

“I mean—not that we have to. Or that I’m saying we should. I just— I’ve been thinking about it lately, and I didn’t want to keep it from you, but if it’s too much or—”

“Hey,” he said, quiet but firm. His hand came up to your cheek, warm and calloused, grounding you instantly. “Slow down.”

You blinked at him, your breath hitching. He looked at you like he always did when something mattered. Like he was trying to see every part of what you weren’t saying.

“You’re not upset?” you asked, voice small.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not upset.”

You watched the way his jaw worked as he looked at you—how his eyes darted away, just for a second, before they came back. You could see the past moving behind his eyes. Not like a wall. Not anymore. But like a scar. Something that lived with him, always. Sarah. The years of loss and rage and ruin. The life he never thought he’d get again. And now this—this life with you in Jackson, where the snow fell quiet and soft outside the windows, and he could take off his boots at night without thinking of where he’d run next.

“I ain’t thought about it in a long time,” he admitted, his voice rough. “Didn’t think I’d ever get the chance again. Wasn’t even sure I should.”

You waited, breath caught in your chest.

“But then you came along,” he added, quieter now. “And every damn day since, I’ve started thinkin’ more and more about what it means to stay. To build somethin’. Not just survive it.”

Your eyes welled before you could stop them. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“You’re sure?” you whispered, still not quite trusting your voice. “After everything… you’d want that again?”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to yours, and let out a shaky breath.

“I’d want it with you,” he said, soft and certain. “Only with you.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and your hands found his. He pulled you into his lap without a word, cradling you like you were something fragile and precious. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped around each other in the quiet. His hands settled over your lower back like he was memorizing the weight of this decision, the gravity of your body against his.

“You’d be a good dad again,” you whispered against his neck.

His arms tightened.

“I’d try like hell,” he said, voice breaking just a little. “I’d give that baby every part of me I didn’t know I still had.”

And somehow, you knew he meant it.

You knew you’d never have to ask again.

——

Joel didn’t say anything else that night—not right away. He didn’t need to. You saw the answer in the way his arms folded around you, in the way his chest rose and fell a little deeper as you tucked yourself against him again, the silence wrapping around you both like something sacred. When you woke the next morning, he was already making breakfast. One hand on the skillet, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’d spent all night thinking. And when he looked up and caught your sleepy gaze from the doorway, he said, “We’ll talk about it. Tonight. After dinner.”

He didn’t run from it. That alone told you everything.

You didn’t plan it—not exactly. That wasn’t Joel’s way, and it wasn’t yours either. Life out here wasn’t about calendars and ovulation charts. It was snowstorms and ration counts, shared patrols and quiet meals. It was real. And when it came to something this tender—this monumental—it felt right to let it begin slowly. Organically. Joel had said yes without ever needing to say the word. In the days that followed, it lived in the way he touched you, his hands lingering longer at your hips when you passed behind him in the kitchen. The way he pressed soft kisses into your neck at night, his body warm and solid behind yours in bed, the weight of him so grounding it made you ache. The way he looked at you like he was letting himself hope—really hope—for the first time in years.

The first time you tried, it didn’t feel like trying at all.

It happened late one evening, the two of you curled in bed after a long day. Snow had fallen heavy outside, and you’d spent the better part of the afternoon helping Maria with sorting winter clothes for the kids in town. Joel had returned from patrol smelling like pine and cold air, his cheeks pink from the wind. You’d kissed him when he walked in, and he’d murmured something about the way your hands felt warm against his skin.

Now, you lay facing him beneath the heavy quilt, your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. His eyes were already on you, soft and unreadable in the amber flicker of the bedside lamp. There was something there in his gaze you hadn’t seen before—not nerves, not exactly. But something like reverence. Like he already understood what this could mean, and it was already making him a little undone.

You kissed him first.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The kind of kiss that made time feel like it didn’t exist, the kind that deepened by degrees until you were both breathless, his hands cupping your jaw, your thighs parting beneath the slide of his body. You felt his restraint first—the almost hesitant care he used, like he didn’t want to push too far, like he didn’t want to break this moment before it had even begun.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rasped, his lips brushing your cheekbone.

You nodded, tugging gently at his shirt until he took the hint and shed it, baring the warm, solid plane of his chest to the cool air. Your palms pressed there like you were holding something holy.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay. Are you?”

He kissed you then—not just an answer, but a promise.

Joel made love to you like he was memorizing the shape of this new future. He was unhurried, reverent, his hands everywhere—your hips, your back, the curve of your waist like he could anchor you both with nothing more than his touch. He whispered things he didn’t usually say, soft gruff words like “so beautiful,” and “I’ve got you,” and “you’re mine, sweetheart.” And when he finally pressed into you, he held your face in both hands and kept his eyes on you, chest heaving like he could barely breathe around the weight of it.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was deep, slow, and overwhelming in a way that had nothing to do with speed or heat. You felt the full truth of it in every thrust, every sound he let slip when your nails dug into his shoulders, every broken gasp when you whispered, “It’s okay, Joel. I want this too.”

Afterward, he didn’t roll away or pull back. He stayed right there, wrapped around you, his nose buried in your hair and his arm strong across your belly. You both lay in silence, breathing the same air, your limbs tangled beneath the blankets. His heartbeat felt steady against your spine, slower than usual. Peaceful.

“You think it’ll happen right away?” you asked softly.

He exhaled a short laugh, low and warm. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.” A pause. “But I want it to. With you.”

You smiled, eyes closed. “Me too.”

And so it began.

You didn’t talk about it constantly. You didn’t need to. It wove itself quietly into the rhythm of your life. Joel would sometimes wrap a protective hand over your stomach as you drifted off to sleep, or press an absent kiss to the inside of your wrist after dinner, like the act of trying had opened something in him he couldn’t quite put into words. There were nights where you reached for each other out of nothing but need—hot, slow, breathless—and nights where he buried his face in your neck and moved inside you with aching gentleness, like he was holding something fragile between you both. Sometimes it was laughter, sometimes it was tears. But it was always real.

One morning, after a late start, you stood in the doorway watching Joel tie his boots before patrol. He looked up, caught the small smile on your lips, and raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

You shrugged, heart full. “Just like seeing you.”

He huffed, rose from the bench, and walked over to kiss you, rough palm cupping your jaw.

“Get used to it, darlin’,” he murmured against your skin. “Ain’t going anywhere.”

And neither was this dream.

[kdogreads]

Taste in men

5k0 | Joel Miller x Javier Peña x fem reader | ao3 | masterlist Summary: your longtime friend, Javi, helps you make your ex jealous Warnings: 18+ mdni. Threesome mmf (Javi and Joel are bi), pet names (baby, sweetheart), oral (f/m), spit roasting, spitting, light overstimulation, praise kink, size kink, piv, anal, creampies. No age specified Javi is cheeky, flirtatious and a menace, Joel is a little grumpy but mostly calm and settled because I love this dynamic between the two of them. For this story, let's imagine it’s possible to smoke in a restaurant 🙏 (because Javi’s hot when he’s a sassy smoker 😌)

a/n: this is written for @mothandpidgeon @schnarfer and @whocaresstillthelouvre ‘s Magic number writing challenge (masterlist) I asked for a prompt and Al gave me "fake relationship." As a lover of threesome fics, thank you so much for this challenge 🙏❤️ Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta-ing me 😘💕 dividers @/saradika-graphics 🙏 Happy pride 🌈

“Can I ask you a favor, Javi?”

“Sure.” His quick reply was proof of your friendship and mutual trust, if any were needed. “Shoot, baby,” he added, already impatient. He was always on the move, both physically and mentally, he didn't like to settle down and take time for himself, which he wouldn't have known what to do with anyway. And he was always curious to know more about you.

“Would you help me make a man jealous?” 

And above all, Javi was a player. So he smiled and replied, his eyebrow raised, “Absolutely.”

Joel and you had never really been official. You never had dinners with friends or family, you only spent some time together. Time that extended more and more in the last months, turning into nights spent at his place or yours. Or into lazy weekends where you barely got out of bed all day, your sweaty bodies heated by the sun rays streaming into the room. Until the night came and the moonlight took over.

You should have seen it coming, though. Joel had always been clear that he didn't want to be in a relationship. And maybe the bond between you was becoming too heavy for his liking. 

However, when the “unofficial” ended, everything felt hollow. Not only because he was probably one of the most perfect guys you had met, attentive and soft, but taking charge when you needed him to. Or because you loved the way he wrapped his arm around your shoulder or your waist when you were walking side by side, showing his inner natural protectiveness. Life lost its color because the physical need of him was starting to eat you alive. 

Now that you weren’t a “thing” anymore, Joel was always on your mind. Especially when you were touching yourself in your bed that still smelled like him, your pussy begging for his cock.

You had a hard time accepting that you were probably the only one feeling that need, considering he was the one that had ended it.

So when you learnt from a mutual acquaintance that Joel was having dinner at the restaurant next to his house on Friday night, you didn’t hesitate to involve Javi.

Javi and you were good friends. Friends with benefits, even, when you weren’t in a relationship, or in something “unofficial”.

Javi, on the other hand, was never in a relationship, it wasn’t his thing. He loved to be free.

You never fell in love with him, probably because you didn't want to be on his long list of heartbroken conquests. Javi always had a different woman on his arm, or a different man to hang out with. He was charming, sensual, full of self confidence, a “go with the flow” type. The most beautiful butterfly. It was out of the question for you to be charmed by the colors of his wings.

You were both ok with the special place you had for each other, and you loved to walk by his side, your arm around his slim waist, his around your shoulder, as if he was your boyfriend and you were his girl. You loved to feel envious glances of women on you in the streets, as Javi threw his both nonchalant and cunty look at them, before kissing your neck to tease them. They would ogle at him, lingering on his black leather jacket, the smell of which you loved so much, and his tight jeans that couldn’t hide the size of the cock resting there. But you were the one he took home to make you come as much as you needed to, until you were panting on the bed while he’d lit a post-sex cigarette. His gaze on you was always soft, tender and sweet when he would kiss your forehead. This was your Javi.

The men's gazes on him weren’t different, and you were amused when some of them had to readjust themselves after an eye-fucking session with Javi. Then he’d just point his chin the bar's bathroom, and they’d join him there.

He was a free spirit, he didn't hide it, and you loved it about him.

On Friday night, shortly before Joel was supposed to arrive, you and Javi were already at the restaurant, the table strategically chosen so Javi could watch the front door and the whole room.

“Late forties, slightly gray hair, ungroomed salt and pepper beard, broad ass shoulders, old green flannel, grumpy type?” Javi asked after you heard the door open, a few minutes later.

“Yep, that's him,” you answered.

Javi's smile widened. “Oh, this is gonna be fun,” he chuckled. “You didn't tell me he was that hot.”

Your dishes had just been served when Javi huffed “Ok, he bit. Did a double take at us and he doesn’t  seem happy,” he smirked. He was way too good at this. Sassy. “I wonder how long it’ll take before he joins us.”

“What? Oh no, I don’t think he’ll do that,” you said, shaking your head.

“Oh, baby… wanna bet?”

You didn’t answer. You just hoped to get on Joel’s nerves a little with this fake date, and hadn’t really imagined he would go that far, but Javi seemed so sure of himself that you had some doubts now.

“Shit, he put the ketchup down on the table so hard I thought the cap was going to pop,” he laughed, unable to hide his amusement, as the idea of ​​Joel being jealous pleased you.

“Ok, let’s tease him a little,” Javi added before wrapping his hand around yours.

“Javi!” you whispered, frowning, but he squeezed your hand, not letting you escape his grip, and looked at you with soft eyes. “Let me deal with it, baby, ok? That’s why you wanted me here, so trust me.”

You heard a loud chair scraping against the floor and then felt Joel’s presence near you. He sat down in the booth, looking at you first, then at Javi.

“Joel?” you said, your voice shaky, unable to hide your surprise at his bad mood. That wasn’t exactly like him. He tried to smile at you but it didn’t really reach his eyes, then turned to Javi, and grumbled “You are?”

“Javi, nice to meet you….?” he replied, waiting for Joel to say his name, smiling and full of charm, in total opposition to Joel's attitude.

“Joel.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Joel,” he said, before lighting a cigarette. “D'ya need some help?”

Javi's audacity was leaving you speechless as your gaze shifted from one man to the other.

“No I don't. Just wanted to say hi to my friend.” 

“You seem too upset for someone who just wanted to say hi to a friend. Don’t you?” He took a drag and blew it towards Joel. “So why don't you stop bullshitting us and tell us why you're here? Because from the way I see it, you look jealous, Joel.”

He was so full of self-confidence, showing no hesitation, no wavering, his eyes fixed on Joel. You on the other hand... you wish you had the ability to snap your fingers and disappear instantly. 

You looked at Joel, who surprisingly had a smile on his face. He was calm, unimpressed, his inner self finally back after this tensed introduction. You relaxed a little, as the pressure left your shoulders.

“You’re gonna tell me what this all is about, sweetheart?” he said softly, turning his gaze towards you. “Because if this guy was really a date… if you didn’t know him, I know you’d tell him to fuck off.”

Javi laughed, always confident in any situation. You, not so much, knowing that Joel had already figured it all out. You sighed, before answering “Javi’s a friend.”

“How much of a friend?”

“A good friend.”

“A good friend,” Joel repeated. “Ok. And you're both here by pure coincidence, or...?”

You looked down at your plate, unsure of how to respond. Being honest and implicitly admitting that you were not over the "ending", or lying. You were lost in your thoughts, knowing that the longer you took to respond, the more obvious the answer was.

You still didn't know what to say when Javi stepped in to help you.

"Oh come on man, stop torturing her."

Joel locked eyes with you as if he was crawling into your soul to find the answers. He frowned seeing what was there, a concern in his expression.

"Wanna come to my place? To talk about it?"

You hesitated. A part of you was glad that he was taking your emotions into account, even if they hadn't been expressed. You looked at Javi and asked him if he could join you, support you if needed, and help you gain perspective. When he nodded, you asked Joel if he was okay with that.

"Sure, sweetheart."

Once at Joel's, he offered you a drink and you all remained silent, until Javi rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, d’ya need me to be your matchmaker or what? What’s wrong with the two of you? But mostly, what’s wrong with you, man?”

“What is wrong with me? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I happily fuck her each times she calls me. And I’d happily fuck her right now. So what’s your problem?”

“You let him talk about you like this?” Joel asked, turning to you. He clearly had a hard time understanding that you could be friends, but he didn't know Javi like you did, didn't know what he hid beneath his player’s attitude — the most reliable, protective, funniest friend. So emotionally smart that he blew your mind many times by reading people.

“Javi is… Javi,” you answered firmly. “We've been friends for a long time and I love him for being so open minded, for always being there for me, as I hope I am for him. So yeah, it’s ok. I fuck him happily, too, by the way.” 

You couldn't help being harsh, your protective instinct towards your best friend taking over.

“Yeah, you do, baby,” Javi agreed, his smile cocky after hearing your words, checking you out openly before turning back to Joel. “You know what? I think you could be turned on in 2 minutes, if you saw what I’d do to her.”

You expected Joel to tell him to fuck off. You really did. But you realized it wouldn’t happen when you felt the atmosphere in the room change, becoming electric and sticky, and the smirk on Javi’s face showed that he felt it too. 

"I’d kiss her the way she likes to be kissed,” he started to say, eyes fixed on yours. “I’d lick her lips to tease her and I’d feel her breathing quicken. I’d rub my cock against her because she loves to feel me getting hard. And then I’d push her against this table, right here, and I’d know, just by looking at her, if she wanted me to eat her out or to split her open. I’d watch her tits bounce while I fucked her hard and deep. And then I’d make her come on my cock, feeling her squeeze it hard. Feeling her shake. She’d make those little moans that I fed on. And I’d fill her with my cum, because I love to know it would ruin her panties and that each drop would remind her how good I fucked her.”

When he stopped talking, only the squeaking of his leather could be heard in the room. You took a deep breath, swallowed hard and resisted the urge to rush to him. To kiss him. To grab his ass and hold him against you, to feel his hardness. 

“Shit…” Joel gruffed, putting his hands on his hips, his stare moving from Javi to you. You were soaked, a drooling mess, in the room with the two men, not knowing what to expect in that moment. 

“I guess I was right about turning you on in no time. So, Joel… are you gonna watch me do it all by myself, or you gonna join me?”

Joel turned towards you and asked “you’re ok with it?”

“Yeah... Yes, I am. If you are, too.” 

“Alright, then.”

“Come here, baby. Let’s show him how good we are at this.” Javi reached out his hand to you and you took it. He let his leather jacket fall onto the floor, revealing his chest covered by a black t-shirt, and you brushed his pecs.

“Bet you’re already droolin’ for me, after hearing this,” Javi uttered against the crease of your neck, but loud enough for Joel to hear. He smiled, feeling you shiver, running his long, thick fingers down your arms, the fingers that made you come so many times. 

You could feel Joel's gaze on both of you. You wondered if he was hard. If he wanted to keep watching or if he wanted to join you. You heard him growl and your pussy clenched with need of being filled.

You smiled back at Javi. He was right, you two were good at this. Everything was so easy, so known, so healthy, your bodies speaking their own native language without words being necessary. Even though Javi loved to express his feelings, it was always just a bonus. That always made you even hornier.

“Yeah… and I bet you’re already hard for me,” you replied, brushing his cheek with your digits, looking at his beautiful face. You loved every single inch of that man, every cell of his body and brain.

“Damn right, I am.”

You kissed his torso after taking off his t-shirt, his hand wrapped around the back of your neck. 

You loved his scent, the softness of his skin, its taste. And you loved his innate impatience, slightly restrained with tenderness when his hands were on you. 

It could have been so easy to forget that someone else was there at that moment, but not when it was Joel. When you looked at him, he understood the unspoken, pulled his shirt off and moved closer, urging you to tilt your face up with his fingers. You kissed him, finally feeling his warm, plushy lips on yours, still pressed against Javi, who kissed your neck then lingered on it with his moustache, and your eyes closed in pleasure under their embrace.

Javi slid behind you, roamed your body with his hands from your hips to your breasts, while you were making out with Joel.

Javi slowly undressed you, then brushed your wet folds with his fingers and pressed his hard-on against your ass. Your legs weakened and you squeezed Joel's t-shirt with your fist, holding on to it. For the thousandth time since the beginning of your friendship, you told yourself that Javi was a sweet menace, the definition of sensuality and a call to sin. You were lucky to have a special place in his life.

“Feel it?”

“Hard to miss it, Javi,” you tried to chuckle, but moaned instead when your friend’s fingers caressed your cunt and Joel pushed his tongue into your mouth, his hands on your waist, his crotch pressing against you, too. 

“Oh god,” you whined, as a part of you wondered if it was all a dream, if you were going to wake up soaked and alone in your bed.

Javi nibbled on your shoulder, and the slight pain confirmed it was real, you were really standing between these two men. You sighed with pleasure and kissed Joel again, your hand cupping his hard cock in his jeans. 

“I love when you’re dripping for me… for us,” Javi murmured in your ear, pushing a digit in your drooling heat. “Are you into men, too, Joel?” he asked, kissing your shoulder then your neck.

“It’s been a while since the last time, but… Yeah.”

“Good. ‘cause you’re fucking hot,” your friend said, grabbing the back of Joel’s neck and crushing his lips against his over your shoulder, flooding your underwear with a new wave of arousal. You kissed Joel's cheek as they were making out, until your tongue gravitated to theirs. 

“I understand why you’re so into him, baby,” Javi breathed out, parting from you two. 

You locked eyes with Joel and felt heat reaching your cheeks when he smiled. Javi had many qualities, but subtlety was not one of them.

“Where’s your bedroom, Joel?”

“Over there,” he replied, leading the way.

Javi took your hand when you walked through the door, and led you to the bed as if it were his own room. He lay down on it, pulled you towards him, and Joel followed. You three began kissing, lips crushing on others in a hot dance, until Javi took your nipple in his mouth, sucked and nibbled on it gently, making you moan into Joel's mouth.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he growled, slidding his palm to your crotch, and you pushed your hips upward to relieve the pressure that was driving you crazy. He chuckled against your lips, his fingers gliding easily over your soaked folds. 

Javi sat up to push your knees apart and leaned down to kiss your inner thighs, his lips getting closer and closer to Joel's fingers buried in your pussy. He licked your folds and the other man's fingers, before sucking on your clit.

His tongue played with your cunt, moving up and down, pushing in between the digits.

“It’s turning you on, baby, having your pussy eaten right in front of your ex?” he teased, making your whole body tremble as you whimpered against Joel’s neck.

"He’s right. You’re soaking my fingers, sweetheart," the man chuckled, but his breath suddenly hitched when Javi cupped his bulge. He kissed your stomach and straightened up, and you were about to beg him to go down on you again when Javi unbelted your ex’s jeans and took off his clothes just like he did with yours. Javi let out a slow whistle, one eyebrow raised, appreciating the sight of Joel's naked body.

Joel's hard cock was twitching against his lower abdomen, its red tip oozing. His massive balls rested against his broad thighs. How many times had you stared at his body, just like Javi in that moment, your mouth suddenly dry at the sight of him?

Your clit throbbed, as Javi’s face was inches from Joel’s shaft. They were the most gorgeous men you had ever seen, and you wanted them to feel good. So you watched, mesmerised, your fingers replacing Joel’s in your cunt and then fucking you slowly.

“Well shit, Joel… I really wanna suck your dick, now,” Javi said looking up at him, making sure that Joel was into it. 

“Go ahead.”

Javi spat in his hand and started jerking your ex off, smearing the precum with his thumb. When Javi took him in the mouth and his head began bobbing on his shaft, Joel quickly muttered a set of “fuck” and “shit,” one hand placed on the back of Javi’s neck, the other clenching the sheets.

Your fingers were moving back and forth between your folds, your empty pussy drooling on the bed, but you didn’t care about it, focusing only on the two men lying right beside you.

The glance Javi gave you looked like an invitation and you leaned down to lick Joel’s balls at first, then under them, where the skin was so delicate, and Javi moved them up to give you full access. His saliva flowed down to your throat when you took them in your mouth then licked the thick shaft. You took turns sucking Joel off, tangling your tongues on the way, turning your ex into a needy, whimpering and grunting mess.

“You’re so fucking pretty, baby, you know that?” Javi told you and the corners of your lips rose up as the flat of your tongue was moving up to Joel’s tip. "It's time to take care of you," he added, pushing you onto your back and lying down next to you. “Want you to come on his tongue.”

A strand of his hair fell on his forehead and you played with it a little, savoring your special closeness once again, grateful to know his tender side. He always looked at you as if you were the only woman he would always come back to, without ever asking for anything in return. You brushed his cheek and your thumb lingered on his lips. He was beautiful.

“You’re gonna make me really jealous,” Joel growled, pushing your thighs wide apart. His broad shoulders settled into your favorite place and Javi kissed the corner of your lips, listening to your moans when Joel let his saliva slide from his lips to your pussy.

You nibbled on Javi's lip when Joel grasped the back of your thighs and pushed them toward your chest to open you fully for him. He dragged his tongue over your soaked folds, reaching your throbbing clit. You squeezed Javi's biceps when his hand moved south, and you heard a sucking sound. A single thought of Javi’s finger between Joel’s lips, the sensuality of it, made you melt and you shivered when Javi brushed your bud softly with his wet digit while Joel was lapping at your cunt. You were feeling dizzy, limbs limp under their fingers and mouths, reduced to a moaning, weak mess between the two men who wanted you to feel good, too. 

You clinged to Javi, lulled by his praise, half in  English, half in Spanish, and then you came hard, your hips rocking towards the men, moaning into Javi’s neck who kept telling you, “you’re ok, baby, you’re ok. We got you,” until you stopped shaking. 

Your friend stood up and lit a cigarette when Joel crawled up your body and lay between your thighs. His gaze on you was soft. You loved feeling his weight again, his arms wrapped around you, creating a bubble where you always felt safe. You took his cock and nestled it at your entrance, just to make him push your folds apart with his fat tip. Just to feel him again.

“You missed him, baby? Missed my cock? That's why you planned that restaurant thing?”

“Yeah, I missed him. Missed having you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know… I didn't back up because I didn't want you anymore. I backed up because I liked you too much.”

His eyes fixed on you were still warm but gradually they filled up with fire and intensity when he pushed inside you and didn’t stop until he bottomed out, the stretch making you whimper. You kissed him to forget about all the questions swirling in your mind, at least for a moment.

“OI! love birds? My dick's gonna get limp as fuck if you keep up this soft shit, jeez…” Javi grumbled, discarding his jeans and sitting against the headboard, cigarette between his lips. He was shameless, his gorgeous cock hard against his lower belly, wriggling as if begging for your lips. It was massive, too, in the same proportions as Joel's, and you couldn't believe how lucky you were to have those two men with you right now.

“Commando… Why am I not surprised?” Joel smirked before looking back at you. “Wanna take care of him while I’m fucking you, baby?”

Your mischievous smile shifted to Javi. Yeah, you wanted to take care of him, wanted them both inside you. 

“Hands and knees for me, then.”

You put yourself on all fours and ran your tongue over Javi's shaft, pushing your ass out, allowing Joel to align himself and thrust in, as you took Javi into your mouth.

“Fuck, I missed your cunt, baby. You have no idea.” He pumped his cock in and out, clinging at your hips, his massive balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. He was going deep, and he was doing it slowly, to make you feel every inch of his cock.

You moaned, Javi’s tip between your lips, and he caressed your cheek, his ridiculously handsome face tilted down to you.

“You’re so fucking pretty, your mouth full of my cock. Pussy full of his. You’re doing so good, baby.”

His praise bewitched you, as Joel dug his fingers into your hips, holding you as he wished, rolling his hips against your ass.

“Tell me how it feels.”

You licked his shaft again, before stuttering “g- good. Fucking… good.”

“He’s big, right? I bet he’s stretching your little cunt wide open with his big dick.”

“Yeah… yeah, oh fuck!! He’s… he’s so big, Javi. You should… maybe you should try him.”

He smiled and looked at Joel. “If he’s able to leave this perfect hole to let me fill it, and if he wants to… why not?”

“Oh I want to, Javi. Lemme just…- oh, sweetheart, fuck! Easy, baby…. you’re squeezing me so hard, fuck… lemme just fuck her a little more,” Joel panted.

Javi slid beneath you until his body was aligned with yours, and Joel adjusted the position but didn’t stop pushing in. Your pussy was rubbing against Javi’s shaft, as you were licking at his lips, his tongue until your groans increased.

“You’re gonna come like that baby? Gonna give us another one?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, brushing your throbbing clit against him, covering him with your wetness that was dripping non-stop.

“F… fuck, Joel…” you breathed, eyes closed.

“Come on, baby, soak me. Lemme take my turn with you.” You moaned at the idea of them taking turns between your thighs, and clenched on Joel’s shaft, still humping against Javi.

“Oh fuck!! Fuck, fuck… I gotta… fuck I gotta pull out, shit…” Joel said, almost whimpering, hands still gripping your flesh, hips still thrusting in and out, before he finally pulled out.

“You're ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck…. I… fuck…”

“Lay on your back for me, baby. We’re not done with you.”

You shifted position and watched Joel open his nightstand drawer, pull out a tube and coat his cock with the lube.

Javi lay between your legs, his head diving in to lick a long stripe between your folds, making him growl and mumble. “You taste like him. Always taste so fucking good, but I love to taste him on your cunt.”

“J… Javi,” you stummered, voice weak.

“Tell me,” he whispered, nose grinding against your clit, tongue fucking your dripping hole.

“Too… too much…”

“Really?” he smirked. “Why are you rubbing against me then?”

“I… fuck…” You grabbed his head, pulling him closer, the exquisite blend of mild pain and pleasure mingling together.

Joel's broad body appeared behind him, and your friend groaned at the touch of the lube-covered finger.

“Give him one more, sweetheart. You know you can give us more.”

Javi's grunting between your folds increased. You wondered how many fingers Joel was pushing in. One? Two? Another orgasm built in your core at the thought, your fingers digging into Javi's scalp, and you rolled your hips even harder than 10 seconds before.

“You’re so close, so fucking gorgeous like that. Wide open for us.”

His praise made you come on Javi’s tongue, tears streaming from the corners of your eyes onto the pillow. Javi crawled up to you, eyes dark, hair disheveled, drunk on your juices. He slid his tip along your folds, all the way to your clit and you shuddered at this new overstimulation, spreading your thighs wide, giving him full access. He pushed in and you felt whole again. Filled like you needed to be. 

“Fuck… always so fucking perfect for me. So wet. He fucked you real good, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he always does. You liked watching me getting fucked, Javi?”

He didn't respond right away, feeling Joel kneel behind him. “Answer her,” your ex said in a low, velvety voice.

“I loved it. Loved to see you fall apart in my arms. Loved to see you take it, how breathless you were.”

“You’re gonna be breathless too, soon,” you said when Joel placed one hand on Javi's hip.

“You want me there, Javi?”

“Shit, yeah,” he groaned and Joel pushed in slowly, making room for his cock.

“Kiss me. Kiss me. Let me feel you fall apart, too.”

“Oh fuck…”

“I know, baby, I know. You’re gonna feel so good soon. Let him in. Let him in, Javi.”

You knew that Joel bottomed out when Javi did the same inside you, driven by Joel's pace, his body quivering and shaking. 

“Feel good?”

“Fuck… yeah. Shit.”

Joel picked up the pace, his eyes fixed on you. Yours were moving from one man to the other.

“You’re gonna come, Javi? Gonna fill my cunt?”

He nodded, unable to answer, his face twisted with pleasure. Joel's broad shoulders tensed, while his hands gripped Javi harder. One on his hip, the other on his shoulder for leverage. Javi was thrusting into you at the same pace Joel was sinking into him. You licked Javi's neck before nibbling on his earlobe.

“Babe…” he whined.

“Give it to me, Javi,” you said, eyes fixed on Joel. 

“Fuck! I’m gonna come….”

Javi moaned as his cum coated your walls, and didn’t stop humping you until you milked his cock to the last drop, the jolts of his body beneath your fingers and between your thighs then slowing down before they stopped. 

Joel was chasing his climax, thrusting hard and deep, hands on Javi’s hips. His jaw clenched and his body tensed, the veins in his neck bulging, as he threw his head back in pleasure when he bottomed out one last time. He froze, groaning, his large hand gripping Javi's shoulder tightly.

“Fuck,” Javi groaned, before they pulled out and plopped on the bed, Javi between the two of you. You were catching your breaths, bodies covered in sweat.

“See? Told you to trust me, baby, there at the restaurant,” Javi smiled and raised his arm for you to curl up against him. 

“I’m glad I did,” you said before kissing his chest. 

Your hand brushed Javi’s belly then reached Joel, and grabbed his side. He smiled at you.

You didn't know what your future held with those two men, but the weekend was just beginning.

More Javi x reader x Joel: Blackmail series (different AU)

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