#kitchen scene

Untitled , Kohlrabi - Jeremy Miranda , 2025.

American , b. 1980 -

Shane Walsh x Fem!Reader

Summary: Shane gets off shift, shows up hungry and grumpy, only to find you baking his favorite dessert—peanut butter chocolate pie. You tease him for being bossy. He ruins your kitchen. And then he ruins your body in the sweetest, messiest way imaginable.

SUGAR, SPICE & SMUT MASTERLIST

It always started the same way.

Boots on the tile. Gun on the table. Shirt clinging to his back from the heat.

You didn’t even look up. “Rough shift?”

Shane grunted in response, peeling off his deputy’s jacket with a sigh, running a hand through sweat-damp curls. “Two arrests, one cracked rib, and a meth-head who threw a toaster at me.”

You slid the bowl of chocolate filling closer to the edge of the counter. “Sounds like a win.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyeing your apron. “You makin’ that pie again?”

You lifted a spoon to your lips and licked it clean. “Depends. You gonna be nice?”

“Baby,” he muttered, stepping into the kitchen like a man possessed, “you know I’m not.”

Your smile was smug. He hated that.

“I told you it had to set in the fridge for a couple hours,” you teased, stirring the peanut butter mixture. “You can’t just come home and expect—”

“I didn’t come home for pie.”

You turned, leaned on the counter, and looked at him with a little tilt to your head. “Oh yeah?”

Shane was already crowding you. Chest to chest, hand slipping around your waist. “Nah. I came home ‘cause this is the only goddamn place I can breathe. And ‘cause you make the best goddamn mess I’ve ever seen.”

You rolled your eyes. “Charming.”

“You love it,” he muttered against your jaw.

“Your badge is digging into my hip.”

“You say that like it’s a problem.”

His lips brushed your neck. His hands slid beneath the apron, thumbs hooking just inside the waistband of your shorts. You gasped as he tugged—slow, rough, intentional.

“Shane—”

He pulled back enough to look at you. “What?”

“You’re filthy.”

He smirked, crooked and proud. “You knew that before you let me in the door.”

You reached for the bowl of melted chocolate on the counter. Dipped your finger in and tapped it against his collarbone.

He blinked. Looked down.

Then grinned.

“You startin’ shit?”

“You started it,” you murmured, now smearing a line down his neck.

Shane caught your wrist mid-move, eyes dark.

“Hope you’re ready to finish it.”

He didn’t give you time to answer—just lifted you by the thighs and sat you on the kitchen counter like it was muscle memory. The bowl of peanut butter nearly tipped, but neither of you cared. Not when Shane was pushing your legs apart, not when his mouth was kissing its way up your thigh, tongue already catching that streak of chocolate you smeared too close to the edge.

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna say that a lot,” he growled.

He grabbed the spoon from the peanut butter bowl, scooped a generous amount, and smeared it—right across your chest, just above your bra.

You gasped.

“Shane!”

“Relax,” he said, smirking. “I’m cleanin’ it up.”

And he did.

Slow, deliberate tongue strokes that made your head fall back against the cabinet. His hands never stopped moving—pushing your shirt up, thumbs circling over your ribs, groaning low in his throat like you were the only thing that ever really shut his brain off.

The peanut butter melted slightly from your skin’s heat, and Shane’s mouth followed it, licking, sucking, taking his time.

“God, you taste so fuckin’ good,” he muttered, licking between your breasts now. “Sweet. Sticky. Messy. Just like I like it.”

You were already arching into him, the warmth of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble—none of it careful.

He wasn’t careful.

He was hungry.

And when he knelt down again, mouth returning to your thighs, he glanced up with that lazy, cocky look that always got him in trouble.

“What?” you asked breathlessly.

He pulled your shorts down. Kissed your inner thigh again. “I didn’t come for dinner, baby.”

Then his tongue slid through your folds, slow and hot, and your hips jolted.

“Shane—fuck—”

He moaned into you, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you spread. His tongue worked in lazy, sinful strokes, licking every drop of you like he was addicted. One hand grabbed the chocolate again, smeared it against the top of your thigh, and licked it off with a low growl that vibrated.

Your voice cracked. “You’re insane.”

“No,” he mumbled, mouth against your pussy, “I’m starvin’.”

Then he dove in harder—tongue flattening, licking up and down before circling your clit in tight, perfect patterns. You cried out, back arching, hands fisting in his curls.

“Shit—don’t stop—please—”

He didn’t.

Didn’t even pause when you moaned his name, didn’t slow when you trembled, didn’t let go when your thighs shook around his head.

He held you there. Devoured you until you couldn’t think. Until your eyes rolled back and your body broke open with a moan so loud the damn neighbors probably heard it.

He licked you through the aftershocks, then stood, breathing heavy.

“Messy enough for you?” he panted, wiping his mouth with the edge of your apron.

You couldn’t even speak. Just nodded, chest heaving.

🎶 Two radios, one unforgettable kitchen scene

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