Kashyap Mode

Pairings: Joel Miller X Female!Reader

Summary: Catching Joel masturbating and moaning your name

Word count: 1.59k words

Warnings: smut, dom Joel, voyeurism, rough sex, curse words, oral sex (male receiving), fingering, spanking, slapping, multiple orgasms.

You hadn’t meant to walk in on him.

It was late, well past midnight and you’d only gotten up because you’d left your water bottle in the living room after movie night. The house was quiet, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old floorboards beneath your feet.

Then you heard it.

A low, rough groan.

You froze outside Joel’s slightly ajar bedroom door, your breath catching in your throat. The sound came again, this time accompanied by the unmistakable, slick sound of skin on skin. Your stomach tightened, heat flooding your veins.

No way.

Curiosity won over decency. You leaned just slightly closer, peering through the gap in the door.

Joel was sprawled on his bed, shirtless, one arm thrown over his face, the other working between his legs. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, his hips rolling into his own fist. And then—

“Fuck… Y/N!”

Your name. He moaned your name.

A sharp thrill shot through you, your own body reacting instantly. You should’ve walked away. You knew you should’ve walked away. But your feet stayed rooted in place, your pulse hammering in your ears as you watched him.

His grip tightened, his thighs tensing. “Shit—fuck—yeah, just like that…” His voice was wrecked, rough with pleasure, and you realized with dizzying clarity that he was imagining you.

Your face burned, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

Then his eyes snapped open.

For one heart-stopping second, his gaze locked onto yours through the crack in the door.

You expected him to stop. To curse, to cover himself, to yell at you for spying.

Instead, his lips curled into a slow, sinful smirk.

“Well,” he rasped, his hand still moving, still stroking himself at an agonizing pace. “Since you’re here… might as well come in.”

Your breath hitched.

This was a very bad idea.

But as Joel’s dark eyes held yours, his invitation hanging between you, you realized—

You were going to take him up on it.

He’d caught your answer before you even spoke it.

A rough hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped as his other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. His breath was hot against your ear. “Knew you’d say yes.”

Then he was on you, mouth claiming yours, teeth nipping at your lip, his grip tight and almost painful as he backed you towards the bed. The second your thighs hit the edge of the bed, his hands were everywhere: stripping you bare, kneading your flesh, fingers slipping between your legs to find you already wet.

“Fuck,” he growled, dragging his thumb over your clit just to hear you whimper. “That all for me?”

You barely had time to nod before he flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up. One hand pinned your wrists behind your back while the other guided his cock to your entrance. He teases you, rubbing the thick head up and down your slit. You whimper, trying to impale yourself on him, but he holds you steady, torturing you. Then, with a swift thrust, he's inside you. You cry out, the sudden fullness making your eyes water. He's big, stretching you, filling you completely. He pulls out slowly, then slams back into you, hard. You gasp, your body jolting forward with the force. He sets a brutal pace, his hips slapping against your ass, the sound filling the room. You're taking him, all of him, and you're loving every second of it. His fingers dig into your hips, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You can feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrusts becoming more erratic. His hand reaches around, finding your clit. He rubs it roughly, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

He pulls out of you slowly, his cock glistening with your combined fluids. You moan at the sudden emptiness, but he just chuckles, his hands gripping your hips to steady you.

"On your back," he orders, his voice still hoarse from exertion. You comply, your body trembling with the rough fuck. He crawls up your body his cock dragging along your thigh.

He straddles your chest, his legs on either side of you. He grabs his cock, stroking it a few times before rubbing the head against your lips. You open your mouth, eager to taste him. He feeds his cock into your mouth, inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat.

You gag slightly, your eyes watering, but he just groans, his hips starting to move, fucking your mouth. You relax your throat, taking him deeper, your tongue swirling around his shaft as he withdraws. He's brutal, his hips snapping forward, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. You can feel his cock swelling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He's close, and you're eager to taste him, to feel him explode in your mouth. He fucks your mouth faster, his grip tightening in your hair.

And then all at once, his body goes rigid, and with a deep groan, he spills down your throat, his cock pulsing with his release. You suck him dry, your tongue cleaning his shaft, your lips grazing his sensitive flesh.

"Such a good girl. You took Daddy's cock like a good girl."

He pulls out of your mouth, his cock glistening with your saliva. You lick your lips, savoring his taste. He crawls down your body, his eyes locked onto yours, a primal hunger blazing in his gaze. He flips you over roughly, positioning you on your hands and knees again.

His hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp sting making you yelp. "Fuck, I love that sound," he growls, rubbing the reddened spot. He lines up his cock, rubbing the head against your entrance, coating it in your wetness. You push back against him, eager for more. He slaps your ass again, harder this time.

"Greedy little slut, aren't you?"

He thrusts into you, hard and deep, filling you completely. You cry out, your body jolting forward. He grabs your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your neck. He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his teeth nipping at your ear.

"You feel so fucking good," he grunts, his hips slamming against your ass. He releases your hair, his hands grabbing your shoulders, using them as leverage to pound into you even harder. You can feel every inch of him, his cock hitting places deep inside you.

His grunts and groans filling your ears. You're close, so close, your body tensing as climaz washes over you. He feels it, his grip tightening on your shoulde.

"Come for me," he demands, his voice a low growl. "Come all over my cock."

Your body obeys his command, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that steals your breath. You scream out, your inner muscles clenching tightly around his cock, milking him for all he's worth. Your vision goes white, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes into you.

He groans behind you, his hips stuttering as he fights to maintain his rhythm.

"You're so fucking tight," he grits out, his voice strained.

"Fuck, you're choking my cock." He thrusts into you hard, his body slapping against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He's close, you can feel it, his cock swelling inside you, his body tensing. Your orgasm begins to ebb, leaving you boneless and spent, but he's far from finished. He pulls out of you suddenly, flipping you onto your back. He grabs your legs, throwing them over his shoulders, opening you up completely. He thrusts back into you, his eyes locked onto yours, a fierce intensity in his gaze.

He's relentless, his hips losing rhythm sometimes, his cock filling you completely. He leans down, his forearm pressing against your chest, pinning you to the bed. His other hand grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"Look at me," he demands, his voice a low growl. "I want to see your eyes when I come."

He's close, his body tensing, his cock swelling inside you. You can feel it, his release building, his body coiling like a spring. He groans, his body going rigid, his cock pulsing as he spills himself inside you. You can feel his hot seed filling you, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. He collapses on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your own release.

Joel collapses beside you, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, his body spent. For a moment, he just stares at the ceiling, trying to steady himself, trying to remember how to think.

Then you shift beside him, both of your legs brushing against each other, and something in his chest tightens.

He turns his head, eyes tracing the curve of your shoulder.. Without a word, he reaches for you, pulling you closer to him, you melt into the touch, sighing as Joel’s fingers skim lazily over your hips, yout ribs, relearning the shape of them.

"You good?" he murmurs, voice rough.

You hum, tilting your head to press a gentle kiss to his lips and cheeks. "Yeah. You?"

Joel exhales, slow. His hands are gentler now, smoothing over your back, your arm, like he’s reassuring himself you're still there. Still his.

"Better’n good," he admits, and it’s the truth.

╰┈➤𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭 (pt. 1)

Author's note: This is not a love story. It’s a descent—into hunger, control, and the beauty of shared, irreversible ruin. It is not for everyone. Reader discretion is strongly advised throughout.

Pairings: Writer Dark!Pedro Pascal X ObsessedSerial Killer f! Reader

Summary: A reclusive writer and a surgical serial killer become entangled in a dark, obsessive relationship. Through blood and books they stalk, seduce, and rewrite each other—literally and psychologically. Reality blurs as violence becomes intimacy, and their love story unfolds like a novel destined to end in death.

Warnings: Taboo Themes, Dark Romance, Graphic Violence Gore, Psychological Horror, Erotic Obsession, Power Play, Body Horror, Medical Imagery, Cannibalistic Themes, Stalking, Surveillance, Voyeurism, Self-Harm & Mutilation, Sexual Content with Violent Undertones, Distorted Relationship Dynamics, Degradation Mental Health Themes, Identity erasure through obsession.

I didn’t move for a long time. Just watched my reflection twitch at the corners—eyelid, lip, throat. The mirror showed only parts of me I didn’t believe anymore. The rest—the real me—was somewhere below the skin, coiled like wire under plaster.

Eventually, I stepped back. Slowly. Like the floor might give out beneath me if I moved too loud. My fingers brushed the magazine, now at my feet, but I didn’t pick it up.

That woman—no, that presence—she had pressed something in me. Not a button. A blade. Something colder. Older. I felt it humming under my ribs.

I needed to know her name. But I also didn’t.

There’s a sickness in curiosity. It always starts as a cough and ends in something terminal.

I walked to the window instead.

Her apartment was right below me. The kind of angle that invites obsession. You can’t see anything, which makes the mind do its worst. Maybe she was unpacking. Breathing. Existing in ways I hadn’t let myself imagine a person could anymore.

She wasn’t making noise. She didn’t need to.

The silence around her was loud enough.

I lit a cigarette. I don’t usually smoke during the day. It’s a night thing—my little ritual. But my rituals were already crumbling.

Smoke filled the corners of the room like thought. Slow. Lingering. The kind of smoke that doesn’t just sting the eyes—it whispers to you. And I listened.

She wouldn’t be real for long. I’d write her.

Not her, exactly. Not yet. But someone like her. Because I had to exorcise what she stirred. I had to catch it on the page before it nested in me.

I sat at my desk, fingers twitching over the keys. The old mechanical typewriter—a German model from the 40s—welcomed me like a monster’s jaw.

I didn’t type her name. I didn’t know it.

But I wrote her voice.

A woman who undresses without unbuttoning a thing. Who looks at you like she’s already undone you, limb by limb, thought by thought. A woman who doesn’t knock on the door to enter, because she’s already in the room, inside the shadows, whispering your name through the wallpaper.

And the man who hears her? He doesn’t run. He begs. Not for mercy. For......my thoughts were being too wild, words flooding my mind.

The words came fast. Too fast. Like something else was writing through me. I only stopped when my vision blurred, when my head began to tilt forward and my fingers trembled from the velocity of it.

And then—knock. Three soft ones. Not urgent. Not polite. Measured. Exact. Like someone knocking for me, not at me.

I froze.

No one knocks on my door.

Ever.

The hallway was still, and yet the sound echoed again in my ribs.

I stood.

I approached the door like it might detonate.

My hand hovered over the knob, and I hesitated. Not because I was afraid of what was behind it—but because I knew something had been waiting for this moment. And whatever walked in would not walk out unchanged.

Another knock.

Just once this time.

Quieter.

I opened it.

And there she was.

Closer than before. Not the stairs. Not the hallway.

Here.

The black coat still in her arms. One hand behind her back.

She looked up at me—not coy, not shy. Eyes so sharp, it stripped something in me raw.

“Hi,” she said.

I said nothing.

Her lips barely moved, but the words that came next…

“You dropped your magazine.”

And then I saw it.

Obsidian Nocturne—the fresh copy, the one I had picked up from the box, lay where it had slipped from under my arm. Still wrapped. Unopened. Exactly where it hit the floor.

“I just moved in. My name is Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

Her voice was soft—measured—but there was something underneath it. A shadow curling at the edges.

She looked at me like she was holding a secret between her teeth, one she wasn’t ready to give up. Her eyes glistened when they met mine, not with warmth, but with precision.

She was studying me. Slowly. Carefully.

Like a hunter, curious about how much her prey would twitch before it gave in.

My stomach twisted. My lungs tightened.

She smiled.

Not like someone meeting a stranger.

Like someone who’d finally found the man they’d been looking for.

And before I could speak—

She turned.

Walked down the hall.

Black coat brushing the walls like ink.

And disappeared into the dark.

I didn’t follow.

Not yet.

But I would.

╰┈➤𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐱 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

Pairings: Pedro Pascal x Hairstylist!Reader

Summary: When Pedro’s ex (a famous actress) shows up on set, he panics and introduces you as his "new partner." You go along with it to save face. Forced into fake dating, now you're sharing lazy morning coffees and lingering touches that feel too real. When the truth comes out, neither of you remembers how to pretend anymore.

Word count: 396 words

The trailer was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional snip of your scissors. You were focused, fingers working carefully through Pedro’s dark curls, smoothing out the strands for his next scene. The rhythm was familiar by now—the way he tilted his head just slightly to give you better access, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with hair product.

Then the door swung open.

"Pedro, darling."

The voice dripped with saccharine sweetness, the kind that made your fingers pause mid-motion. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was—Sophia Sterling, when she entered the air changed, suddenly it was all expensive perfume and practiced charm. Oscar winner. Box office queen. Pedro’s very public, very messy ex.

Your hands stilled, scissors hovering just above his temple.

Pedro’s jaw tensed beneath your fingers. "Sophia." His voice was carefully neutral, but you felt the way his shoulders stiffened under your touch. "You’re not in this film."

She stepped inside like she owned the trailer, her designer heels clicking against the linoleum. "No, but I’m visiting the director."

Her gaze slid to you, sharp and assessing, lingering on where your fingers were still tangled in Pedro’s hair. A slow, catlike smile curled her lips. "And who’s this?"

You opened your mouth, professionalism kicking in—just the hairstylist, nothing to see here—but Pedro moved faster.

"My girlfriend."

The words dropped like a bomb.

Your comb slipped from your grip, clattering against the floor. The sound was absurdly loud in the sudden silence.

Sophia’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. "Your hairstylist, you mean."

Pedro didn’t hesitate. His hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against his side in one smooth motion. His palm was warm through the fabric of your shirt, his thumb pressing into the dip of your hip—a touch that felt terrifyingly real. You barely had time to process the contact before he spoke again, voice low and rough.

"Since when do you date crew?" Sophia scoffed, crossing her arms.

Pedro’s fingers flexed against you, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath catch. He didn’t look away from her as he answered, the words deliberate.

"Since her."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Sophia’s smile didn’t waver, but something dark flickered in her eyes. You could practically see the calculations running behind them, the gossip columns, the headlines, the way this would play in the press.

╰┈➤The First Time I Saw Her

Author's note: This is not a love story. It’s a descent—into hunger, control, and the beauty of shared, irreversible ruin. It is not for everyone. Reader discretion is strongly advised throughout.

Pairings: Writer Dark!Pedro Pascal X ObsessedSerial Killer f! Reader

Summary: A reclusive writer and a surgical serial killer become entangled in a dark, obsessive relationship. Through blood and books they stalk, seduce, and rewrite each other—literally and psychologically. Reality blurs as violence becomes intimacy, and their love story unfolds like a novel destined to end in death.

Warnings: Taboo Themes, Dark Romance, Graphic Violence Gore, Psychological Horror, Erotic Obsession, Power Play, Body Horror, Medical Imagery, Cannibalistic Themes, Stalking, Surveillance, Voyeurism, Self-Harm & Mutilation, Sexual Content with Violent Undertones, Distorted Relationship Dynamics, Degradation Mental Health Themes, Identity erasure through obsession.

Pedro Pascal, a reclusive writer, dwells in the shadows of his own mind, crafting sensually disturbing and taboo literature centered on dominant, morally complex women. Once lauded for his raw, transgressive storytelling, but the world moved on. Now, his books sit forgotten, gathering dust on shelves tucked away in corners—shelves no one looks at anymore. Pedro is not merely withdrawn; he is consumed. Every look he gives, every sentence he writes, feels like a quiet cry for someone to see him. Not through kindness, but through something rougher. Closer. Through the violence of intimacy. Pedro doesn’t want to be loved. He wants to be known. Completely. Even if it ruins him.

He was lost in his ritualistic solitude—until she appeared, the enigmatic woman below, waking a dark side in him he had never wanted to see.

1st Person (Pedro's POV)

The corridor smelled like old varnish and metal dust. That faint hospital-rot stench of a building too proud to collapse and too tired to stand. I’ve always hated this hour—too much light, too much breath in the air. The world’s too awake at noon. I’m not.

But the magazine had been delayed. Two weeks. Obsidian Nocturne—my favorite, my vice. It’s printed on thick matte pages just how I like it. All ink and erotic decay. I couldn’t wait any longer.

So I went down. Bare feet in sandals. Linen pants I hadn’t ironed since winter. My shirt buttoned wrong—one too high, one too low. I didn’t fix it. I don’t fix small things.

The stairwell creaked under me. It always does. It has arthritis in its bones, like the rest of this rotting place.

The box screeched when I opened it. I liked that sound. Dust fell from the hinge like skin powder. And there it was—wrapped in brown paper, taped twice, the words Obsidian Nocturne stamped. I tucked it under my arm.

And turned.

At first, I thought the afternoon air had become windy or so I thought.

But it was her.

Halfway up the stairs. Still. Holding a black coat and a stack of moving boxes like they were made of air. She was beautiful in the way knives gleamed in opera lighting. She didn’t move. She didn’t need to. The hallway bent around her.

Something inside me shifted. It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t desire. It was interruption.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t ask who she was. I walked past her, because that’s what I do when something pierces too deep. I went up the stairs. But I felt her eyes.

I felt them the way you feel water just before it boils. (Just like water heats up and gets restless right before it boils, the feeling is tense, charged, and ready to burst.)

I didn’t pause. I didn’t greet. I didn’t even blink longer than a second. But as I passed her on the stairs, ascending while she stood unmoving, my eyes—dark and sunken—dragged over her like a scalpel dragged across warm flesh.

I reached my door. My key slid in. My hand didn’t shake.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

And then I just stood there. The magazine slid from under my arm and hit the floor like it no longer mattered.

I walked to the mirror. The hallway mirror. The one I avoid unless I’m sleepwalking or lost.

I stared. Not at myself—but at the idea of myself. My neck felt tight. My chest, hollowed.

“She’s not real,” I whispered. My voice didn’t sound like mine.

But the back of my neck was prickling like someone had breathed against it. I didn’t feel watched. I felt studied. Flayed. Touched in the mind.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, no maybe decades, I didn’t feel alone.

I smiled.

Just a little.

And not the kind of smile you see. The kind you taste like metal in your mouth. The kind you feel under the skin, just before you bleed.

Pairings: Javier Peña X Girlfriend Reader!

Warnings: smut, curse words, masturbation, spanking references, choking references, Daddy Javi

Javier Peña pushes open the door to his office, the weight of the day's events already heavy on his shoulders. He tosses his jacket onto the coat rack and runs a hand through his disheveled hair, letting out a deep sigh. His desk is a mess of files and papers, each one a reminder of the endless meetings and briefings that have left him drained.

He sits down at his desk, rubbing his temples to ease the tension. The room is quiet, save for the ticking of the clock and the rustle of papers as he flips through the day's notes. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more stressful than the last. He needs a release, something to take his mind off the chaos.

His phone rings, cutting through the quiet. He glances at the caller ID and sees your name. A small, weary smile touches his lips. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the distraction, but also looking forward to hearing your voice. He picks up the call, his voice a mix of exhaustion and relief.

"Hola, mi amor," he answers, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes briefly. "What a pleasant surprise. I could use a break right about now."

You're stretched out in your shared apartment, reclining on the bed. "You sound wrecked, Javi," you murmur, your voice like velvet, a teasing curl to your tone.

He lets out a soft sigh, "Ah, it's been a long day, but hearing your voice already makes me feel better."

You smile, twirling a lock of your hair. "Then let me help you breathe deeper, cariño. Let me take that weight off your shoulders."

You can hear his chair creak as he leans back, a low growl in his throat, "Is that so? And how do you plan on doing that?"

Your voice lowers to a whisper, sultry and electric. "Forget the files. Forget the chaos. Right now, it’s just me and you."

He glances around his office, ensuring he's alone. With a swift and stealthy movement, he stands up and draws the curtains shut, blocking out any prying eyes and ensuring privacy. He then quietly makes his way to the door, turning the lock to ensure no interruptions. Satisfied that he has complete privacy, he returns to his desk.

"I'm all yours now. No interruptions, no distractions. Just you and me." He leans back in his chair, a small, tired smile playing on his lips as he prepares to lose himself in your voice, eager for the escape you're about to provide.

"What are you wearing, love?" he asks, his voice filled with hunger and lust.

"I'm lying on our bed… that red lace set you can’t stop touching. Hair down. Waiting for you." you say teasingly, pushing the right buttons.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, "You're driving me crazy. You know I can't help myself when you wear that red lingerie."

You smile, your voice turning more commanding, "That's the plan, mi amor. Now, I want you to unbutton your shirt, nice and slow. Imagine my hands on yours, tracing the muscles of your chest, your abs.

You pause, giving him time to comply, your imagination running wild as you picture him following your instructions. "I wish it was my hands on you right now, caressing your thighs all the way deeper" he groans, and you can hear the desire in his voice, raw and intense.

You continue, your voice a seductive whisper, "Stand up," you command softly. "Undo your belt. One notch at a time."

The sound of leather sliding free sends a pulse of heat through you, his breathing growing heavier as he complies. "I'm hard as a rock for you," he growls.

His groan is deep, primal. "Touch yourself too, baby. I want to feel you fall apart for me."

Your hand slips between your thighs, fingers circling your clit, already aching. A soft moan escapes. "Wish it was you. Your fingers, your mouth."

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Now faster. I want to hear those pretty sounds you make when I’m deep inside you."

You obey, breath quickening. "I’m soaked, Javi. I need you. I need all of you."

"In your head," he growls, "I’m there. Pressed against you. Sliding into you. My hands on your hips, taking what’s mine."

"God, yes," you whisper. "I can feel you. You’re pounding into me, rough and deep. I’m gripping the desk, moaning your name."

He moans low, his rhythm picking up. "I’m lifting that red lace, revealing your ass. Spanking it until my handprint glows on your skin."

"More, Javier. Please," you whimper. "I want all of you. No holding back."

You can hear the slick sound of movement, his breathing ragged, heavy with lust.

"Now," he rasps, "Wrap your hand around your throat. Imagine my fingers there. Controlling your breath. Feeling your heartbeat pound under my palm."

You obey, your body arching into sensation, pulse racing. "You’re driving me mad, Javi. You’re everything. You own me."

"Picture it, baby," he says through clenched teeth. "You bent over. My cock deep inside you. My grip tight on your neck. You’re mine."

"I’m so close," you moan, breath stuttering. "I can’t hold back."

He groans, chest heaving. "I’m spreading the precum around, stroking harder. My other hand’s cupping my balls—thinking of your lips, your tongue..."

His voice breaks, trembling on the edge. "I’m there. I need to hear you fall with me."

"Javier..." you gasp, body tight with need. "I’m coming. I’m—"

"Now, mi amor," he groans. "Let it go. Come with me."

The climax overtakes you both. Your moans mix with his ragged growl, bodies writhing in sync across miles of distance.

You spread your shaking legs as the orgasm hits every nerve in your body. Javier puts a hand on his mouth muffling his groan from the intense climax he's just had. Wave after wave crashes over you—tension breaking, pleasure spilling, hearts racing.

In the aftermath

Silence follows, filled only by your mingled breathing. A calm, sacred kind of stillness.

Javier’s voice is low, rough with afterglow. "That was... exactly what I needed."

You smile, chest still fluttering. "Me too, Javi. You have no idea."

He chuckles, that deep, satisfied sound. "You always pull me back to life. You’re everything, cariño."

You hear him shift again, clothing rustling as he settles. "Wish I could pull you into my lap right now. Wrap you in my arms. Kiss every inch of you."

"I wish I was there too," you say softly. "But this? This was perfect."

There's a pause, a comfortable silence between you both as you bask in the aftermath of your shared pleasure. Finally, Javier speaks, his voice a soft, loving murmur. "I love you, mi amor. More than words can express."

"I love you too, Javier. Always." Your chest filled with emotions.

He breathes out, calmer now. Still the man in control but softened by intimacy.

Canon divergence (modern AU or post-apocalypse with tech)

Summary: A teasing dare turns into a steamy secret — you and Joel Miller light up OnlyFans. It starts with a camera and Joel’s rough hands on your skin. Every video drips with heat — his voice, his control, the way he claims you like you’re his and his alone. Your OnlyFans is fire, but behind every moan is pure, filthy obsession. Joel never meant to become an online obsession — but he’s yours, first and always.

Warnings: Exhibitionism, curse words, degradation (male receiving), pegging, BDSM, breath play, anal play, chastity, toy testing, sex toys, switch, ropes, butt plug, whipping (both receiving), oral sex (both receiving), fingering, gagging.

You were the one who brought it up — half-jokingly, after catching Joel shirtless in the morning light. “You could make a killing with that body.” He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say no.

Joel was hesitant at first, mostly because of privacy and trust. But the second you showed him how anonymous it could be — with faces partially hidden, or masked — he leaned into it.

He’s camera-shy but confident. Joel isn’t a show-off, but once the camera is rolling, he transforms. Low gravelly voice, dominant energy, the kind of stare that makes viewers weak in the knees. He only ever looks at you, though.

The content is intimate, tasteful, and raw. It’s never just porn — it’s sensual, romantic, and grounded in your chemistry. Joel's hand gripping your thigh, his voice murmuring your name, the sound of him whispering "mine" when the camera is on.

He always watches the uploads before they go live. Sometimes it's out of protectiveness, but mostly because it turns him on seeing the way you look at him on screen.

Your page blows up. People adore the mystery, the mature aesthetic, and the fact that Joel gives serious silver fox energy. He quickly becomes a fan favorite, though he still pretends not to care.

He gets so possessive when comments go too far. “Don’t look at them, baby. You’re mine, not theirs.” He might even record a special video just to remind the subscribers who's really in charge.

Sometimes when you two think of trying more intense kinks or roleplays, you two try BDSM, where Joel is fully dominant and you're the submissive. He spanks you, ties you up, uses impact toys, blindfolds you, feeds you his length while you're on your knees... The viewers love it.

As the OnlyFans account gains more subscribers, Joel decides to introduce more extreme BDSM activities into the videos. He gags you, suspends you from the ceiling using rope bonds, and even introduces breath play. But at the same time making sure you are comfortable with it.

In one of the most popular videos, Joel focuses on anal play. He warms you up with a small plug, then gradually moves up to larger ones. He films himself lubing up a large, curved plug and slowly pushing it into you, making you whimper and squirm beneath him.

In another popular video, Joel uses a variety of sex toys on you. From small clitoral vibrators to large dildos and even a machine that thrusts a dildo in and out of your pussy at high speeds while he records your reactions.

In one of the most popular videos, Joel focuses on anal play. He warms you up with a small plug, then gradually moves up to larger ones. He films himself lubing up a large, curved plug and slowly pushing it into you, making you whimper and squirm beneath him.

One popular video features Joel giving you one of the harshest caning sessions you've ever taken. He methodically stripes your ass and thighs with 24 severe lashes, making you scream and try to escape.

One intense scene has you using a single-tailed whip to mark up Joel's back, thighs, and ass. You snap the whip viciously, putting your entire body into each strike. His muscles twitch and clench with every lash, and he grits his teeth to keep from crying out.

Your oral skills are legendary among your OnlyFans fans. You give intense, deep-throating blowjobs that leave Joel gasping and begging for more. You take him all the way down your throat, using your hands to jerk him off simultaneously while you suck and gag on his length.

Joel is infamous for his skilled fingers and tongue. He knows exactly how to make you writhe and scream with pleasure. One particular video features him eating you out for minutes on end, focusing perfectly on your clit while slipping fingers in and out of you.

In a twist of roles, Joel becomes the submissive one for a change. You peg him hard with a large strap-on, making him moan and beg for more. You spank him, pull his hair, and even edge him multiple times before finally letting him come.

In an intense degrade play scene, you completely dominate Joel. You make him kiss your feet, eat off the floor, and even make him clean your boots with his tongue. You call him degrading names like "pet," "bitch," and "slut," as you use him thoroughly.

In a particularly intense pegging scene, you pound Joel's ass with a massive strap-on until he's crying and begging for release. But instead of letting him come, you just edge him over and over again, bringing him to the brink of orgasm and then stopping.

You've kept Joel locked in a chastity device for extended periods, sometimes up to a week or more, denying him the ability to touch himself or orgasm. The anticipation and frustration build up until you finally release him and give him a harsh, intense session as punishment and reward.

After intense BDSM sessions or toy testing, Joel always makes sure to cuddle you closely, stroking your hair and whispering soothing words into your ear. He runs warm baths for you, and you apply lotion to hjs marked skin, and he always checks in on you emotionally. "You okay?"

Now you're the #1 couple on OnlyFans — raw, dominant, obsessed. Fans can’t get enough of his deep voice, your chemistry, and the way he worships and ruins you in equal measure. Every video? A masterclass in desire.

The Moment You Tell Him

You were nervous as hell, but Joel? Completely clueless.

You sit him down, holding his hands, and he just furrows his brows, worried. "What is it, sweetheart? You okay?"

When you finally blurt out, "Joel… I’m pregnant," he just stares. Mouth slightly open, like his brain stopped working.

Silence. A long, awkward silence. And then, finally—"Wait… what?"

Fear & Self-Doubt

"Are you sure?" He’s not doubting you—he just needs to hear it again, needs confirmation that this is real.

The fear hits him fast. He’s not young anymore, the world is dangerous, and all he can think about is what if I can’t protect them?

Joel doesn’t say it out loud, but you can see it in the way he grips his knees, staring at the floor, his breathing uneven.

"I ain’t exactly… father material." His voice is barely above a whisper, almost like he’s already bracing for you to agree.

Protective Mode Activated

From that moment on, Joel is on full protector mode.

"You need rest." "You drinkin’ enough water?" "Lemme get that for you, sweetheart."

Won’t let you lift a damn thing. Not even a small bag. "Nope. Ain’t happenin’."

Wraps his arms around you in his sleep, one big, strong hand resting over your stomach, even before you start showing.

The Soft, Sweet Gestures

Starts playing his guitar more—gentle, slow songs—as if the baby can hear it already.

"Reckon they should know music from the start."

He talks to your belly, even before there’s a bump. "Hey there, little one… It’s your daddy. You got the best mama in the world, y’know that?"

Kisses your stomach every morning before he leaves for patrol. Even if you’re barely showing. Even if you tease him for it.

"Ain't takin’ chances. Kid’s gotta know I love ‘em."

The Moment It Becomes Real

The first time he feels a kick? Oh, he’s done for.

"Shit, was that—?" His hand jerks back, and you grab it, pressing it against your belly again.

Another tiny kick—this time, he goes completely still.

His voice is barely a whisper—"That’s our baby."

From then on, he won’t stop touching your stomach. Just resting his palm there, absentmindedly rubbing small circles, feeling every little movement.

The Overwhelming Love

Joel thought he’d never have something like this again.

But now? With you? He’s never been happier.

Summary: You slowly die in Joel's arms.

The first thing you feel is warmth. A rough, calloused hand pressing against your side, desperate, firm—trying to hold you together. Trying to keep you here. But the warmth is fading, replaced by a creeping, ice-cold numbness spreading through your limbs.

You blink up at him. Joel.

His face is twisted with grief, panic—sheer terror. You’ve never seen him like this, never seen the way his breath trembles as he holds you closer, rocking you like a lifeline.

"No, no, no—stay with me, darlin’. Just keep lookin’ at me."

His voice is wrecked, desperate. You can feel his heartbeat hammering against your temple, feel the way his body shakes as he tries to stop the bleeding. His hands—God, his hands—they’ve always been steady, strong. Now, they tremble as they press against the wound in your stomach, slick with too much blood.

"Joel…" Your voice is barely a whisper, and even that takes effort.

"Don’t talk, baby, just—just hold on, alright? We’re gonna fix this."

You want to believe him. You really do. But the world around you is turning hazy, your vision tunneling, and you can feel yourself slipping. It’s hard to stay awake. Hard to focus when all you want to do is close your eyes and drift.

"I c-can’t…" Your breath stutters, weak, and Joel shakes his head violently.

"Yes, you can. Look at me. I got you, alright? I got you."

You lift a trembling hand, brushing his scruffy cheek. His breath catches. He leans into your touch like he’s starving for it.

"It’s okay," you whisper.

"No—the hell it ain’t!" His voice cracks, and for the first time, Joel Miller—the man who never breaks, never falters—lets out a quiet, choked sob.

You’ve never seen him cry before.

You wish you could wipe his tears away. Wish you could hold him one last time.

The pain starts to dull. The world is softening, fading at the edges. Your body feels lighter, almost weightless.

"I love you, Joel." The words come out so quietly, like the last exhale of a prayer.

He squeezes you tighter, crushing you against his chest.

"I love you too, baby. So much. Please—please don’t go."

You wish you could stay. God, you wish you could.

But as your eyes flutter closed and the last breath leaves your lips, all you hear is Joel’s voice—broken, shattered—calling your name into the dark.

At first, he doesn’t move.

He just holds you, arms wrapped so tightly around your body like he could somehow keep you here, like if he just squeezed hard enough, he could push life back into you.

"Darlin’?"

His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.

But you don’t answer.

Your hand—the one that had just touched his cheek, so soft, so warm—is limp now. Cold. Your head rests against his chest, body still, too still, and he can’t even feel your breath anymore.

His hands shake. His vision blurs.

"No, no, no—baby, please—"

He pulls you closer, forehead pressing against yours, rocking you gently like he can soothe you back to life. Like if he just holds on tight enough, this will all go away.

But it doesn’t.

And when reality crashes over him—when the truth sinks its claws into his chest—it rips him apart.

Sound of tears from his throat, raw and broken, half a sob, half a scream. His body wracks with it, shaking as the weight of what he’s lost crushes him.

"Goddamn it—why did you do this to me?!" he chokes out, his anger swallowed by grief.

He brushes your hair back, fingers trembling, pressing one last kiss to your forehead.

"I should’ve protected you. I should’ve—" His voice dies in his throat. He grips you tighter, pressing his face into your neck, his chest heaving with silent sobs.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

Not you. Not his girl.

But you’re gone. And Joel —a man who has survived loss, war, and the end of the world—has just lost the only thing that ever made him feel alive.

And this time?

Summary: You didn’t mean to sabotage him… but also, you kinda did. And now Pedro is flustered, frantic, and trying to figure out how the hell he’s supposed to hide your mark on his neck before stepping in front of hundreds of cameras.

It Started Innocently… Sort Of

Pedro was being his usual teasing self, all flirty and cocky, smirking like he knew he had you wrapped around his finger.

You? Not about to let that slide.

One thing led to another, and suddenly, your lips were on his neck, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark.

He groaned, half-laughing, half-melting, gripping your waist.

"Shit, cariño, you tryna get me in trouble?"

You just smirked. "What, can’t handle it?"

You figured he’d have time to cover it up—but then he checked the clock and panicked.

"Oh, fuck. I have to leave in five minutes—WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

Pure Chaos Ensues

Pedro races to the mirror, tugging at his collar, trying to see the damage.

The hickey is bright, obvious, and impossible to miss.

He groans dramatically, throwing his head back. "You are an actual menace."

You? Laughing your ass off.

He tries EVERYTHING to cover it up:

Dabbing concealer on it (”Where’s my damn makeup artist?!”)

Adjusting his shirt collar—except it keeps slipping.

Debating wearing a scarf (”Too weird? It’s too weird.”)

Muttering "Maybe if I stand like this all night…" while awkwardly tilting his head.

Meanwhile, you just sit back, admiring your work.

Pedro Being Flustered on the Red Carpet

He tries to play it cool, but fans and reporters immediately notice something is off.

His posture? Weirdly stiff.

His hand? Casually covering his neck.

Interviewer: "Pedro, are you okay? You look a little… tense."

Pedro, forcing a smile: "Me? No, I’m great! Just… uh… slept wrong. Haha."

But then, a camera catches the faint outline of the hickey and the internet LOSES IT.

Aftermath – Payback is Coming

When Pedro gets back, he throws off his blazer, sighing dramatically.

"You think this is funny?" he grumbles, grabbing your waist, pulling you close.

You smirk, running a finger over the mark. "I think it’s hilarious."

He glares, but there’s amusement in his eyes. "Oh, you’re gonna regret that, cariño."

Payback? Oh, it’s coming. And you’re so not ready.

Lesson learned?

Summary: Dating The Mandalorian isn’t easy. He’s protective, stubborn, and doesn’t always know how to express himself—but once he loves you? You are his, completely.

The Silent Protector

Din isn’t the type to say he loves you—he shows it. Always keeping you close, shielding you from danger, making sure you’re safe before himself.

If a fight breaks out, you don’t lift a finger. He’s already handled it. No one touches what’s his.

He walks slightly ahead of you in crowded places, hand lightly on your back—silent, but protective.

If someone so much as looks at you wrong? He’s gripping your waist, voice low and dangerous. "Move along."

The Physical Affection

You get away with things no one else does.

Touching his beskar? Only you.

Kissing the part of his jaw just beneath his helmet? Only you.

Calling him "Mando" with a teasing lilt in your voice? He pretends to hate it—but his grip on you tightens.

He isn’t good at soft words, but his hands speak volumes.

A hand on your lower back, warm and firm.

A thumb brushing over your knuckles, even through his gloves.

The way he presses his forehead against yours in rare, vulnerable moments.

The Way He Worships You

He treats your body like a gift he’s unworthy of. He’s careful, reverent, as if you’ll disappear if he holds too tight.

But if you beg? If you whisper his name, soft and needy?

The restraint snaps.

Suddenly, his hands aren’t gentle—they’re gripping, pulling, claiming.

"You really want this, mesh’la? Don’t beg for something you can’t handle."

The Helmet – Intimacy & Trust

The first time he lets you touch his face, he’s shaking. You cup his jaw, run your thumb over the stubble, and he leans into it like he’s starved for touch.

The first time he removes his helmet in front of you, it’s slow, hesitant, intense. He holds your gaze the entire time, heart pounding.

You memorize every detail—the warmth of his skin, the way his brown eyes soften when he looks at you.

After that, he only removes it for you. Late at night, behind closed doors, when it’s just the two of you and no galaxy exists beyond your touch.

The Soft Moments

Din is rough with everyone—except you. With you, he’s gentle, careful, reverent.

You wake up tangled in warm sheets, his bare face pressed into your neck, his arm slung over your waist.

If Grogu crawls between you both in the morning? Din just sighs, mutters something about "no respect for personal space," and pulls you both closer.

The Bottom Line?

Din Djarin is yours. Completely, fully, without hesitation.

He may not say it often, but every look, every touch, every moment he fights to protect you? That’s love.

Warnings: a lil smut, angst

The Relationship Dynamic

Being two DEA agents in dangerous territory, your relationship is a mix of intense passion, heated arguments, and unwavering loyalty.

You both understand the risks of the job, but Javi is overprotective as hell—watching your six like a hawk, even when you insist you can handle yourself.

Late nights at the office turn into whiskey-soaked conversations, his eyes lingering on you longer than they should, tension crackling until one of you finally snaps.

Jealousy? Oh, it’s there. He won’t say it outright, but if another agent flirts with you, Peña makes damn sure they know you’re his.

On the Job

He hates going on missions without you—not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t trust anyone else to have your back.

When you’re in the field together, you’re unstoppable—seamless teamwork, matching intensity, covering each other without hesitation.

The adrenaline rush from a successful op? Yeah, that sometimes leads to heated, reckless moments in dark corners of the office or a motel room.

He has a habit of checking your gear for you, even though you roll your eyes every time. "Just makin’ sure you’re not goin’ out there unprepared, cariño."

The Soft Side of Peña

Late-night cigarettes and whispered confessions—Javi isn’t the best with words, but when it’s just the two of you, he lets his walls down just enough.

When he can’t sleep, he pulls you against his chest, arms tight around you like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

He won’t admit it, but he loves when you run your fingers through his hair after a long day. Melts like butter under your touch.

He memorizes every scar on your body, tracing them in the dark, muttering how much he hates seeing you hurt.

Arguments & Make-Ups

Fights can get ugly. You’re both stubborn, both reckless in your own ways, and when tensions run high, doors get slammed, words get thrown.

But Javi hates going to bed angry. More often than not, he’ll find you—whether it’s at your apartment or back at the office—mumbling a gruff apology before pulling you in for a slow, heated kiss.

If you ever disobey an order in the field, expect a furious, heated confrontation afterward—one that might end with your back against a desk or wall, his hands gripping your hips.

The Bottom Line

Javi loves you hard. It’s messy, complicated, borderline self-destructive at times, but he’s all in.

You’re the only person he trusts completely—the one thing keeping him from drowning in the weight of the job.

No matter what happens, no matter how many bullets fly or how many drinks he downs at the bar, at the end of the day, he’s always coming back to you.

Undercover & Risky Business

Posing as his girlfriend or wife during a mission? Absolute chaos. He plays the role too well, his hands always on your waist, his lips brushing your temple, whispering things that make your breath hitch.

The act turns into something real—your pulse pounding when he kisses you in front of a suspect, his hand tightening on your hip as he pulls you closer.

Summary: Pedro Pascal is your most devoted fanboy—obsessive, unhinged, and utterly shameless. He knows every role, defends you online, and loudly simps over you in interviews. Whether he’s screaming on the red carpet or debating critics, Pedro Pascal is your ultimate ride-or-die fangirl.

A Walking, Talking IMDb Page

Pedro knows everything about your career—your first role, your most obscure indie film, even that one cringey commercial you did years ago.

“Oh, I’ve seen all your movies. Even the bad ones. Not that you’ve made bad ones! Just—uh—shut up, Pedro.”

He has very strong opinions on your work. If anyone criticizes you, even jokingly, he will debate them like it’s life or death.

In interviews, he somehow always finds a way to bring you up—“Oh, Y/N? Absolute genius. I mean, have you seen them act? Unreal. Otherworldly.”

Unhinged Fangirl Energy

He is chronically online when it comes to you. Knows every meme, every fan theory, every edit of you set to an emotional song.

Probably has a secret burner account dedicated to defending you against trolls.

When you post a selfie, he’s in the comments with “Stop. My heart can’t take this. I’m in shambles.”

If you ever wear anything remotely revealing, he is dramatically fanning himself. “How is this legal? How is this allowed?”

Meeting You = Brain Malfunction

The first time he meets you in person, he completely malfunctions.

Smiles way too hard. Laughs too loud. Stumbles over his words. "Big fan. HUGE fan. I mean, not in a weird way. Just—fuck, okay, weird way."

You find it adorable, and that just makes it worse because now he’s blushing.

The second you walk away, he grabs the nearest person and whispers, “Did you see that? Did you see what just happened? I met Y/N. I can die now.”

The Most Supportive Man Alive

Gets genuinely emotional watching you perform. If you have an intense or heartbreaking scene, he’s wiping tears away, whispering, “They’re so good. Look at them. I can’t.”

If you have a premiere, he’s beaming at you like the sun and telling every reporter, “Yeah, yeah, my project’s cool and all, but have you seen Y/N tonight?”

He has a framed poster of you in his house. He claims it was a “fan gift”, but you’re pretty sure he bought it himself.

Hopeless devotion in a Realtionship

Once he somehow lands you as his partner, it does not calm down. If anything, it gets worse. Wakes up every morning astonished that you’re real.

“I have to be dreaming. Pinch me.”

Warnings: Angst

Overprotective to a Fault

Joel doesn’t just want to protect you—he needs to. He’s lost too much to let anything happen to you.

The first time you try to go on a dangerous run without him, his voice drops, low and sharp: “You ain’t goin’ out there without me.”

You argue—“I can handle myself, Joel.”

But his jaw tightens, hands flexing at his sides. “I know you can. That ain’t the point.”

Later that night, when you’re curled up together, his grip on you is tighter than usual. You don’t mention how long he stayed awake, watching the door.

The Way He Softens for You

Joel’s hands are rough, his touch careful—like he’s afraid of breaking you.

But when you pull him into a hug, he melts against you, exhaling slow like you just took all his weight off his shoulders.

Calls you "sweetheart" in that lazy, Southern drawl, usually when he’s half-asleep and tugging you closer.

If you trace the scars on his hands, he watches you like he doesn’t understand how someone like you could want someone like him.

The Nightmare Routine

Some nights, he wakes up with a start, chest heaving, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead.

You don’t even ask anymore. You just reach for him.

His breathing steadies as you press a palm over his heart. “You’re safe, Joel. I’m right here.”

He pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. He won’t sleep again that night, but he’ll hold you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

“You’re All I Got”

There’s a moment—one you’ll never forget—when he nearly loses you.

When he finds you again, scraped up but alive, his hands shake as they ghost over your face, your arms, your ribs.

His voice is hoarse. “You scared the hell outta me.”

And then, softer, “I can’t—can’t do this without you.”

That night, he doesn’t let go of you once.

The Secret Soft Side

Grumbles about being too old for affection, but will not sleep unless you’re wrapped up in his arms.

Can fix anything—except his tendency to stare at you like you hung the damn moon.

Sings to you sometimes, low and quiet. If you tease him about it, he’ll scoff. “Ain’t singin’ for you. Just passin’ the time.”

Effortlessly attractive

He remembers everything—your coffee order, the way you like your blankets folded, the fact that you always lose your phone in the couch cushions.

If he notices you rubbing your neck after a long day, he’s already behind you, hands warm and firm. "Let me take care of you, cariño."

Playful & Teasing

“Oh? Is that a smile? Are you blushing?” He lives to fluster you, grinning like he’s just won an Oscar every time he gets a reaction.

He’ll dramatically sigh if you ignore his flirting—“Mi amor, you wound me.”

Tickling is his secret weapon. If you try to fight back, he’ll just pin you down, laughing.

Protective in the Softest Way

He subtly moves you to the inside of the sidewalk when you walk together, his hand resting lightly on your back.

If you're cold, his jacket is now your jacket. No arguments.

He watches over you without making a show of it—making sure you eat, get enough sleep, and feel safe, even if it means just holding you in comfortable silence.

Unintentionally Hot

Runs a hand through his hair when he’s thinking, completely unaware of how good he looks doing it.

Rolls up his sleeves absentmindedly, exposing his forearms. You stare. He smirks.

When he’s focused—reading, cooking, or even driving—he gets this serious expression, jaw tight, brows furrowed, making it very hard to concentrate on anything else.

Late-Night Conversations

He loves deep talks at 2 AM, voice low and raspy as he traces circles on your skin.

“What do you think happens after we die?” turns into “Do you think I’d survive a zombie apocalypse?”

Falls asleep mid-sentence sometimes, arms still wrapped around you.

Flirty but Hopelessly Devoted

He’ll flirt with you like he’s still trying to win you over, even years into the relationship.

But when he looks at you—really looks—it’s with absolute, unshakable love.