This might be the most far out shit I’ve ever written. And that says a lot. Soooo many warnings. Heavy BDSM. Daddy kink. Pussy Inspection. Spanking. Free use. Loss of autonomy? But she freely gives it over. Unprotected sex. Kinda dark Brendon? Kinda fucked in the head Brendon? Idk. Reader knows she can safe word out at any time.
Your husband was a good husband. A great husband. No one has ever loved you quite like him. He provides, he protects, he adores. He’s so affectionate, kissing you constantly and hugging you ass much as your very, very clingy self needs. He lifts you up, and holds you down. He just had some… non traditional methods.
Pussy inspections. Whenever he felt they were necessary. Which was usually when you got home for the day. First off, it’s important to know how Brendon feels about panties. Which is unfavorable. When you’re home, he wants them off. So your inspection, and his feeling about it, depend a lot on how your inspection goes. Brendon doesn’t especially like you in pants, either. But he’s not a barbarian. You can wear whatever you want! He’s not crazy. If you’re in a skirt, like a good girl, your inspection starts one of two ways. Either A) you just got home, so he demands you take your panties off to give to him, or B) he confirms weather you were good already did so already. And why would you ever be bad for your daddy? He’d never catch you disappointing him, you’re his good girl. His best girl. If you’re in pants from being outside? Oh, you can just strip all the way down for him. That’s fine.
Either way. Once you pass the first step, you know how he wants you to present. Hands behind your back, legs shoulder length apart. Sometimes, usually, that’s not enough for him, and he’ll kick your legs apart with one of his feet. It’s deeply humiliating, the way it knocks you down.
He then bends you over with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades and no words. You know by now what he wants. And he’s not cruel, he usually does it over something go you to rest on. The table, the counter, the couch, rarely the bed or your dresser- but usually this happens on the first floor of your house.
Then he takes his time. Staring at your sensitive, fluttering little hole. Checking your reflex’s to made sure you respond to his touch right, stroking your lips, pinching your clit, expanding it and rubbing it to make you cry out and shake, begging your daddy. Pushing a finger in to make sure you’re tight, that no one else has been in his pussy. Pushing that wet finger against your little hole, to check, just incase. Sometimes he toys with you longer than you expected, you don’t question it. Let him pinch and stroke and fondle. But you know that this isn’t for your pleasure.
He doesn’t like bras at home, either. And daddy’s inspections are through, so usually he checks for tits too. But that’s just for your health, of corse. When he orders you to turn around so he can squeeze them, thumb your nipples. The way he states in your eyes as he gently tugs on your nipples at his leisure, groping the heavy weights on your chest.
Then comes your mouth. Ordering it open, and brushing his thumb over your teeth, ensuring your oral health. Ensuring your gag reflex is intact- after all, that exists for a reason, it’s important, baby.
And then he makes a distant sound of satisfaction, nodding that your inspection is over. He approves. You’ve been chaste, and kept yourself for your husband. You redress if you must like nothing happened, usually jumping to happily finally greet your hubby home from work, kissing his cheek and hugging him tight, or talking him though your mall haul. And he smiles in pure bliss. “I missed you too, kitten. Tell me everything about your day.”, he asked, carrying you over to the couch so you can snuggle up while you fill him in.
Inspections are a daily occurrence. You can set your clock to it. Even in those rare miserable instances Brendon travels for a conference, best believe he’ll have you on face time, stripped down and fallowing his orders to present to him.
Spankings. There were two kinds of spankings. Maintenance and punishment.
Maintenance was for your own good, he reminded you. They happened twice a week, before bed. You knew the routine by now. It had never changed. At 9 pm you stripped bare, and bent over Brendon’s knee where he sat on the edge of the bed. He started with his hand. He reminded you that he loved you more than all the stars in the sky, and that this was to remind you of that. That daddy was grounding you, helping you release your stress and anxiety through the pain.
First came his hand, alternating between each cheek. Some spanks soft and firm, some hard and fast. 10 to each cheek. And then, five to your pussy. And you were usually so good about it, lacking ego and shame as you opened your legs for him, allowing him access to the sensitive flesh even if it hurt, even if it humiliated you and stung.
Then he moved onto his paddle, a special one of wood and leather you’d picked out together, five hits to each cheek and one blow between your legs to finish you off for the night. Short and fast. And he’d be so proud of you when you were done.
Unless.
Unless you acted up.
Oh, then things are different. See, you know to take your spanking like a good girl. To stay calm on his knee, to breath in and out slowly and steady, you know to ask daddy for his other hand to hold if you’re feeling too overwhelmed (because he’ll always give you it, you’re his fucking wife, he loves you, of corse he’ll hold your hand. He’ll take a break to stroke your hair, to kiss your head and remind you he loves you and you’re a good girl.). You know how to be good and take it. And you know if you do, if you are, when he looks between your legs and sees you got wet like his perfect girl, he’ll reward you for taking it so well.
So because you know better, if you act up there’s consequences.
His spankings are so short. He’s too soft on you, really. So there’s no excuse for insolence.
But if you squirm, and wiggle, and jump away, and fight it? You will be punished.
Those soft and firm spanks from before are gone once he has to get mean with you. And when you’re acting up like this, you both know, it’s because you’re craving that firmer hand. You need the discipline and structure. So he’ll give it.
He holds your back down hard as he adds firm slaps to your ass. And breaks out his horse whip for your pussy. Usually on these nights he has to hold you down with one hand as he spanks you hard, has to force your legs open to abuse your little holes. He’s only satisfied once he breaks you back into being his good girl, tears and sobs and apologies for being bad. That’s when he knows he’s done his job, and he can pull you into his arms, shush and rock you as he insists it’s all okay, all forgiven, and daddy loves you. When you act out, he knows, maybe even subconsciously, you need extra to get the release and rebirth this gives you. Need him to break you down to build you back up.
Punishment spankings are different. Not just on Wednesday and Sunday nights, but when they’re needed. They’re not as soft as maintenance spankings are. They’re intense. There’s different paddles and rules.
Rule one. No moving. No asking daddy to hold your hand, no subtly rubbing against his leg and him pretending to ignore it. This isn’t for anyone pleasure. It’s a punishment. You don’t get the comfort of daddy’s lap for these.
They vary depending on how angry he is and his mood.
Of corse, he knows how to calm down. He wouldn’t actually risk really hurting you in a blond rage.
Brendon’s a good man. And a good husband. You know he’d never hit you anywhere but your bottom. He’s expressed his loud and firm disgust at the idea of any man raising his hand to their wife. He’d never lay a finger on your face that wasn’t gentle and full of adoration. He’d never hurt you. But spanking is different.
Punishment is necessary.
Sometimes he’ll tie your hands behind your back with one of his belts.
Sometimes he’ll tie you to the 4 corners of the bed if you’ve been really bad.
Sometimes he can just expect you to stay in place and take it, those sessions where you know you ere bad.
And your misdeeds vary. And they affect how you’re punished. As does your remorse.
Not wearing panties out of the house, lying by omission, back talk, not taking proper care of yourself, being unkind to him, being unkind to yourself, making bad decisions, forgetting your wedding ring at home. Teasing him at work, touching yourself without permission, pushing stupid fights because you’re hormonal or stressed. All these things have different punishments.
But punishment spankings are hard. They’re can involve his hand, far harsher than normal. They can involve one of his expensive leather belts, making clean lines across your rear. It can be your paddle, harder than usual. Your horse whip, focused on your ass instead of your pussy, painful and mean to the puckered hole.
And satisfied last until he’s satisfied. He can count the amount of times on one hand, but you’ve bled. You’ve cried yourself horse. He’s done when he’s done, or you safe word. And you never have. He needs to be confident he’s broken the rebellious spirit.
He’ll take care of you after, of corse. Lotion and bandages and kisses better and honey green tea.
But only after you’ve gotten the message, and apologized for being a bad girl.
It’s not the only punishment you use. But it’s common.
Another rule in your home is that you sleep naked. It’s pretty obvious isn’t it? After your spankings, you generally went right into bed, so why would you re dress? You never wore pajamas. Maybe if you were traveling Brendon made exceptions, but not at home.
You took your shower, came out in your towel, and put it in the hamper before climbing into bed with your husband. At first the idea was intimidating and embarrassing. Now it was just normal.
Seldom a night goes by where you go to bed without having sex, anyway, so why would you waste the energy on clothes you don’t need?
Brendon bought you two the most amazing marital home. So you have the freedom and privacy for all these kinds of free displays of your body.
Besides from sleeping naked, you also are free to swaim in your swimming pool perfectly bare, too, with the massive trees surrounding your lawn. No tan lines for this girl.
Brendon fucking loves it, coming home to your nude form dozing by the pool tanning (soooo lucky he can see the high SPF beside you) or swimming laps the way god intended.
That privacy also means you two can do whatever you’d like in and beside that pool. And believe me. You have.
You have sex when and where and how Brendon wants. Free use. It’s a negotiated part of your relationship, one which always brings you a little rush. Becuase it’s so fucking nice to feel wanted, especially by your sexy husband. He just can’t keep his hands off of you. How lucky are you?
Brendon’s not greedy. It’s not like he’s interrupting your housework for a blowjob, or bending you over every surface. But sex happens on his terms. You’ve never even imagined having to initiate before. When you get horny before Brendon does, usually a desperate look and some fluttered eyelashes are enough to get him to take you.
Brendon sat on the couch, lazily reading though a case study when he watched you walk across the room in a little sundress. And he stopped you, making a beckoning gesture with his hand wordlessly, placing his iPad down. “What’s up, baby?” You asked, seeming innocent to the effect you were having on him. Heavy ties free in the dresses, nipples pushing the fabric. Skirt so short when you bent down to pick up a fallen piece of paper he saw your glistening folds. You realized quickly what he wanted, as he firmly held your waist, maneuvering you and man handling do you were now laying on the plush, large sectional couch. He pushed your dress up your hips and down your chest, straps falling down your arms to put your goodies on display for him. He unzipped his jeans, pulling out his rock hard cock. He brushed his fingers along your lips to see how wet you were, and of corse you were. You always got so worked up by his strength. He actually enjoyed foreplay a lot. Pleasing you. Making you cum on his fingers and tongue, playing with you. But you didn’t need that right now. He pushed in fast, enjoying the sounds you made in shock. You held your legs open for him before he took over, keeping you in a makeshift mating press. And he kissed as he fucked you, too. Always did, the romantic. Rubbed your clit softly, bringing you to peak before he emptied inside you. Watched his cum drip from you before he helped you up, righting your dress and slapping your ass as you walked away happy and mindless.
Half asleep, you felt his lips on your shoulder. “Sorry, Princess. I’ll be quick” he grunted. And then he was easing into you. You gasped, reaching behind you for him. You just went. And he needed you again. “Relax, relax. Good girl” he muttered. You fell asleep before you could see how the story ended. You woke up with Brendon still inside you.
You’ll settle into bed for the night, and Brendon will roll over to position himself on top of you, stroking your cheeks, saying how much he loves you, caressing and fondling and taking whatever he’d like. He’ll fuck you romantically like a good husband, rating you out, licking you clit, and fuck you steady, slow and deep.
And yes. Of corse, cliche as it is, bending you over the kitchen counter and taking.
And your ass belongs to him, too. Don’t try to fight it. Accept it. He’ll prep you, of corse, but if he wants your ass he’s gonna take it. Using lube to finger you while your bent over his knee, ignoring whines and moans and protests. Sometimes that’s all he wants, to play with your ass. Sometimes, he’ll full on fuck it. Or maybe put a toy in it. He likes to play with how wet you get while he’s in your ass.
Toys are for him, not you. He’ll use them however he wants. Harsh vibrators to make you cum over and over again until your sobbing pulling at the ropes that bind you desperately, but plugs nuzzled in your tiny little princess hole to keep you ready for him. He likes to make you suck on them before he puts them inside you.
Oh. And obviously he cums inside you. Every time. He’s your husband. That’s where his cum belongs, deep in his wife’s pussy. Sometimes he’ll shyly- a shock for Brendon- ask you to pretend you don want it. Only sometimes, rarely. He gets very into it. And so do you, because you love making him happy. “Please, please daddy don’t, don’t cum inside me, please. I don’t want it.” He knows what’s best for you. And what’s best for you it to carry his load every day.
There really isn’t any privacy between you two. Why would you need it?
Brendon loves your bathroom, and the crystal clear glass shower walls. Comes in just to watch you clean yourself sometimes. Often. Only joins on rare occasion. Usually he just likes the show. He tracks your location, all the time. For your safety of corse. Checks your phone. Watches you change. Come to all your doctors appointments. That’s all his right.
And the lack of “privacy”, or boundaries between you is actually a good thing. Seriously! It’s so helpful. For example, when you’re completely exhausted, Brendon can come into the shower, scrub you down, and carry you to bed like the princess you are. And when you get a flat tire, and are scared and lost, he knows exactly where to come save you. And a doctors ear at every appointment you admitted, and your doting husband advocating for you, is truly for the best.
Brendon fully sees you, and fully knows you, so he can always take the best care of you.
⚠︎ — 18+. fem!reader. reader is close to a meltdown (overstimulated by environment), oral (m receiving), slight dacryphilia
The lights are too bright, the noise is too chaotic, and the constant breach of your personal space is sending you into a downward spiral. Pots and pans echo, and fire from the burners makes you feel like you’re suffocating in your button up. Sweaty hands clench near your hips as you glance around the kitchen, and it takes Carmen all of one glance to realize you’re about to shrink to the floor. It’s too busy for a meltdown right now, so his only option is to intervene in the beginning stage of your escalating crisis.
“C’mon,” he’s ushering you into the small office, the click of the door behind you acting as a signal that you can drop to your knees. Everything feels like too much— the walls are closing in, papers skewed across the desk makes the space look cluttered, and the glistening sweat building on your brow bone makes you feel sticky. It’s a sensory nightmare. Carm reaches for his belt, dropping his pants in a fast manner. He’s gotta get you situated quickly if he wants to get back on the floor soon. The orders just keep coming in, and Tina is going to start yelling if he doesn’t come out soon. “Here, sweetheart, here.”
Carm discovered that putting something in your mouth calms you down by accident. In the middle of blubbering over a rude customer, he picked a piece of ice out of his drink cup and popped it in your mouth to regulate you. Ice turned to fingers, fingers turned to his cock… It was never supposed to get that far, but here you were, in your knees waiting for Carm’s cock to act as a soothing pacifier. Rumors of what you two get into circulate the restaurant, but the two of you have never confirmed this dynamic. He knows how you feel about this. The shame of it all. And he knows he shouldn’t be indulging you like this.
He rubs the soft tip against your lips, his soft cock acting as a comforting object turning moments of overstimulation. With an open jaw, you take Carmy into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks around his shaft like his cock is a popsicle. Having a popsicle would probably be more appropriate in the workplace, but Carmen knows this tactic is reliable. It works, and why fix what’s not broken? “Look at me.”
You peer up at him through wet lashes, the tears pooling at your waterline as you try to focus on Carmen inside of your mouth. It’s pitiful the way you look, teary and a mouth full of his dick. Your wet eyes are his kryptonite. Fuck, he’d love to see the full blown meltdown, to rub one out to the thought of it later, but he has a business to run, and he doesn’t want everyone else to see you lose control like that. That’s for his eyes only. The feel of your wet mouth stimulates his nerves, his shaft hardening against your tongue, and your breathing begins to slow as his cock grows in your mouth. With your nose nearly pressed into his pubes, you back up on the growing length and focus on holding the first two inches against your tongue.
“That’s right,” Carmy massages your jaw with one hand, using the other to pet your hair. “Good girl. You gotta come get me before you get to this point. Can’t have you having a meltdown on the floor. You know I’m always willing to be your paci.”
⚠︎ — 18+. fem!reader. reader is close to a meltdown (overstimulated by environment), oral (m receiving), slight dacryphilia
The lights are too bright, the noise is too chaotic, and the constant breach of your personal space is sending you into a downward spiral. Pots and pans echo, and fire from the burners makes you feel like you’re suffocating in your button up. Sweaty hands clench near your hips as you glance around the kitchen, and it takes Carmen all of one glance to realize you’re about to shrink to the floor. It’s too busy for a meltdown right now, so his only option is to intervene in the beginning stage of your escalating crisis.
“C’mon,” he’s ushering you into the small office, the click of the door behind you acting as a signal that you can drop to your knees. Everything feels like too much— the walls are closing in, papers skewed across the desk makes the space look cluttered, and the glistening sweat building on your brow bone makes you feel sticky. It’s a sensory nightmare. Carm reaches for his belt, dropping his pants in a fast manner. He’s gotta get you situated quickly if he wants to get back on the floor soon. The orders just keep coming in, and Tina is going to start yelling if he doesn’t come out soon. “Here, sweetheart, here.”
Carm discovered that putting something in your mouth calms you down by accident. In the middle of blubbering over a rude customer, he picked a piece of ice out of his drink cup and popped it in your mouth to regulate you. Ice turned to fingers, fingers turned to his cock… It was never supposed to get that far, but here you were, in your knees waiting for Carm’s cock to act as a soothing pacifier. Rumors of what you two get into circulate the restaurant, but the two of you have never confirmed this dynamic. He knows how you feel about this. The shame of it all. And he knows he shouldn’t be indulging you like this.
He rubs the soft tip against your lips, his soft cock acting as a comforting object turning moments of overstimulation. With an open jaw, you take Carmy into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks around his shaft like his cock is a popsicle. Having a popsicle would probably be more appropriate in the workplace, but Carmen knows this tactic is reliable. It works, and why fix what’s not broken? “Look at me.”
You peer up at him through wet lashes, the tears pooling at your waterline as you try to focus on Carmen inside of your mouth. It’s pitiful the way you look, teary and a mouth full of his dick. Your wet eyes are his kryptonite. Fuck, he’d love to see the full blown meltdown, to rub one out to the thought of it later, but he has a business to run, and he doesn’t want everyone else to see you lose control like that. That’s for his eyes only. The feel of your wet mouth stimulates his nerves, his shaft hardening against your tongue, and your breathing begins to slow as his cock grows in your mouth. With your nose nearly pressed into his pubes, you back up on the growing length and focus on holding the first two inches against your tongue.
“That’s right,” Carmy massages your jaw with one hand, using the other to pet your hair. “Good girl. You gotta come get me before you get to this point. Can’t have you having a meltdown on the floor. You know I’m always willing to be your paci.”
How do you feel about a loser!ogilvie request? Weirdo who stares at you and doesn’t make a move (but maybe steals your hoodie underwear to bring home?) Maybe you catch him and he cries 🫣 who knows not me
I feel like this is very fitting for some reason 🙂↕️
To add on to what you said, when he gets caught he cries, sniffling and lips wobbling as he apologizes. But you both know that he doesn’t really mean it.
You basically agree to let him pity fuck you and the whole time he’s mumbling thank yous and sorry excuses, still keeping up his little act.
andrew cody, even at his most dominant with you, hates hearing you beg. with every past girlfriend he'd loved it. wanted to make them squirm and cry and wait. but as soon as you say "please" for anything, it makes his gut twist around itself like a knife. the idea of his pretty girl being denied anything, ever, makes him fucking sick. he never allows you to doubt if you're going to get what you want, whether it's his cock or something from a high shelf or a new tennis bracelet. he borderline growls when you have to ask one of his brothers for something twice in a row because they didn't hear or ignored you the first time.
If I had a nickel for every actor I had a crush on, and didn't find out until later that they were in Gilmore Girls, I'd have two nickels! It's not a lot, but weird it happened twice right?? Started crushing on them long before I knew they were in there...
Summary: Everyone knows that Pope Cody's girlfriend is a real sweetheart. What they don't know is that, behind closed doors, you're a real fuckin' freak, too.
Warnings: +18 explicit content MDNI, porn without plot, established relationship, shy!reader, unspecified age gap, size difference, pope teaches you how to shoot a gun and touches you at the same time, face slapping, face fucking, reader has hair that can be styled, messy blowjob, reader helps complete a job, praise, car sex, reader makes out with pope over a mask so masked sex, restrained hands, creampie, overstimulation kinda, only barely lightly edited
Note: take that p w/o plot tag seriously cause uh....yeah. this is just me wanting to fuck pope cody bad
WC: 2.3k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Everyone thought Andrew Cody was a pervert.
And, really, how could they not?
They see him; all big and brooding, with wrinkles around his eyes and rough hands. And beside him stands you; soft and innocent, all shy smiles and quiet words. A sweetheart by every definition of the word.
He's older than you. Bigger than you. Meaner than you. All it takes is one glance at your manicured fingers around his broad bicep and your cheek pressed to his shoulder to know that, yeah. He's probably (definitely) taking advantage of you.
A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.
What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?
But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.
They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.
His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."
You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.
The gun clicks.
"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."
Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.
It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.
You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.
He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.
But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."
And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.
Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.
He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.
Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.
Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.
His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.
"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."
Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.
"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."
You've even got Smurf fooled.
They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.
While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.
Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.
And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."
Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."
"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."
His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.
In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.
But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."
It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.
The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.
They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.
You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.
Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.
And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.
The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.
And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.
He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.
Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.
"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."
He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.
Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.
"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.
"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."
You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."
He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.
He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.
"Wait."
Andrew freezes.
At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.
His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.
He's a monster. He's a fucking—
And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.
You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.
Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.
Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.
Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.
And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.
It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.
Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.
But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.
The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.
And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.
He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.
Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.
He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.
It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.
"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.
You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"
He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.
It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.
Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.
He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.
You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."
Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'
And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.
Pope will let them keep on believing you're just a sweetheart.
summary: during your period, eridians, Rocky, and his mate, Adrian, fuss over you! eridians purr. and rocky getting mad ragebaited at the idea of human 'engineering' (part of da 'saturday cuddles' universe!)
yaps!: thank you so much @saturnhas274moons for recommending this idea to me!! mhwamhwa, hope u like this..hehe..ook enough of angst (for now), for my next fic, what would u guys want?? more fluff or ANGST..lmk! listened to "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last, and "And The Winner is" while making this!
You are curled into a tight ball on the "bed"—that massive, reinforced platform layered with every soft textile and scrap of insulating foam salvaged from the Hail Mary. Every few minutes, a sharp, white-hot wave of pain rolls through your abdomen, a familiar monthly visitor that feels particularly cruel when you’re light-years away from a pharmacy.
Under your shirt, the jagged line of your "Rocky Scar"—the mark left behind when your Eridian friend saved your life—pulses in sympathy-like with the cramps. It’s a reminder of survival, but right now, you just feel like a mess of malfunctioning nerves and a waste of carbon.
A heavy, metallic thump-clack echoes across the floor. You don't have to look up to know it’s Rocky. His five-legged structure is as familiar to you as your own mind. Beside him, the lighter, more melodic tapping of Adrian’s claws follows.
"Question?" Rocky’s synthesizer voice rings out from the nightstand, clear and inquisitive. "Why is Human Y/N still in the insulation pile? The 'sun' has cycled twice. Teaching time is soon. Grace confused. I also confused."
You groan into your pillow, a sound that translates to the Eridians as a low-frequency distress signal. Adrian moves closer, her form rotating with concern. She reaches out a warm, stone-like limb, hovering it just inches from your back.
“Temperature is high,” Adrian’s whistles and clicks are translated by the small device clipped to her harness. “You are leaking heat. Is there a hull breach in your biology? Is human dying!? Please do not die! It would be very inconvenient and sad.”
"I'm not dying, Adrian," you wheeze out, squeezing your eyes shut as another cramp ripples through you. "It’s just... a human thing. My body is resetting. It hurts. A lot."
Ryland wanders in then, looking disheveled, holding a mug of chamomile tea the Eridians replicated. He sees the three of you huddled together and immediately softens. He knows the look in your eyes; he’s seen you power through lab accidents and alien microbes, but he knows this particular brand of misery is one that requires total surrender.
"They're worried about you," Ryland says softly, sitting on the edge of the platform and placing a hand on your shoulder. "Rocky thinks you’re melting because your core temp jumped a degree. I tried to explain human reproductive cycles to him, but he just got offended that your body 'destroys its own systems' once a month. He thinks it’s bad engineering."
“It IS bad engineering!” Rocky interjects, his claws clicking rapidly against the floor. “Why break the internal walls? Just keep the walls! If I built a ship that melted its floor every thirty days, Grace yell at me!”
"He's not wrong," you mutter, pressing your face into Ryland's thigh. "Ryland, tell them I'm okay. I just need to be a potato for about four days."
Adrian tilts her head, her 'eye' focusing on where you are clutching your stomach. “You are in pain. Pain is for when predators bite. There are no predators in the dome. Except maybe the vacuum, but the dome is strong. If you are in pain, we must fix.”
"You can't fix it, Adrian," Ryland says, stroking your hair. "It just has to happen. Heat helps, though."
The word heat seems to trigger something in the Eridian pair. On a planet where the surface temperature could melt lead, "heat" is their specialty. They are technically biological furnaces, their carapaces radiating a steady, dry warmth that far exceeds any electric heating pad.
Rocky steps up onto the platform. The bed groans under his weight, but it’s sturdy. “I am heat, statement.” he declares with a flourish of his limbs. “I very good at being hot. I am the best heater on Erid. Adrian is also a good heater. We will insulate the problem.”
Before you can protest, Rocky moves with surprising gentleness. He doesn't crowd you; instead, he maneuvers his heavy, five-sided body so that he is braced against your back, his warm carapace pressing firmly against your spine. The heat is immediate and intense, sinking through your shirt and into your aching muscles. It’s a dry, deep warmth that seems to vibrate.
Adrian doesn't want to be left out. She climbs onto the other side, tucking her limbs in and resting her front-side near your abdomen, being careful not to put her full weight on you. She feels like a living stone warmed by a desert sun.
Ryland watches them with a look of pure, unadulterated affection, full of care. "I think you've been secured by the Eridian Heating Company," he jokes. He crawls into the middle of the pile, slotting himself behind Rocky so he can still reach over and hold your hand.
"This is... actually amazing," you whisper. The crushing weight of the Eridians combined with their radiating heat acts like a full-body pressure therapy. The sharp stabs in your stomach begin to dull into a heavy, manageable ache.
Then, the sound starts.
It begins as a low-frequency hum, so deep you feel it in your teeth before you hear it. It’s a rhythmic, pulsing vibration coming from both Rocky and Adrian. It isn't the musical whistling of their speech; it’s more primal, a steady thrum-thrum-thrum that echoes the beat of your own heart.
"Are they... purring?" you ask, your eyes fluttering shut as the tension finally drains from your shoulders.
"Yeah," Ryland whispers, his voice thick with sleepiness. "Rocky told me about this once. When they have 'pebbles'—their young—they communal-sleep. They produce a resonance in their carapaces. It’s meant to stabilize the heart rates of the young and keep them calm while they grow. It’s a biological lullaby."
“You are small,” Rocky’s translator chirps, though his voice is lower now, hushed. “You are un-harmonic. You are pebble today. We vibrate buzz pain away. Sleep now, statement. Grace, sleep. You are noisy when worry.”
Ryland chuckles, his fingers interlacing with yours. "Copy that, Rock'. Sleeping now."
The dome is silent save for that incredible, ancient purring. It’s a sound that has existed on Erid for millions of years, a song of protection and kinship. Nestled between the two aliens and the man who traveled across the stars with you, the pain in your body feels insignificant.
You feel the scar on your side—the one that matches the one on Ryland's arm. It feels warm, almost glowing against the heat of Rocky's shell. You aren't just a human in a dome anymore; you are part of their kin, a family that doesn't care about biology or species, only about the fact that one of their own is hurting.
The lavender and apricot light of the artificial sunset fades into a deep, restful indigo. As the Eridian purring synchronizes, your breathing slows. Ryland’s head drops onto your shoulder, his breath hitching in a soft, rhythmic snore. Adrian shifts her weight, her claws making a tiny, comforting tink against the bed frame.
The last thing you feel before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep is the overwhelming sensation of being loved—not just by a man, but by a planet. You are tucked into the safest place in the universe: a cuddle pile at the edge of the galaxy, guarded by two biological furnaces who think you’re a very poorly engineered, but very dear, friend.
Outside, the Eridian winds howl and bash against the glass, but inside, there is only the warmth, the purring, and the steady, unbreakable bond of home.
yippee, WHAT DO WE THINK GAIS.....once again, many thanks to @/saturnhas274moons and friends for proof-reading/inspiration! much love, Aντίο, atsisveikink, paalam, and adiós! thanks 4 reading!1! 💚🤞 next fic might be ry n u meeting rocky and adrians pebbles EHEHEHEHE....👀
CW: smut, pet play, name calling (stupid, useless, pathetic), condescension, p in v, unprotected sex, fingering, discussion of safe words
I've been such a good girl, can we go for a ride? I'm on a real short leash, but I like it tight
_____________________
Ryland found you there on the rug with your collar already fastened around your neck. He smiled down at you, soft for a moment, before turning into something sharper.
“This what we doing tonight, honey?”
You had lifted your chin, trying to look less eager than you felt.
He takes a step closer, before another.
Now he stands over you, and you hate how quickly your whole body responds to it. How the simple angle of him above you makes your brain go warm and quiet. Your fingers curl against your thighs because you know better than to reach without permission.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Sitting there like you’re being good.”
Your face heats.
“I am being good.”
His eyebrows lift.
“You are? That’s interesting. Because good puppies usually greet me at the door.”
You swallow.
“I was waiting.”
“Mm.” He steps closer, the toe of his shoe nearly touching your knee. “That sounds like an excuse.”
“It’s not.”
“No?” His voice stays gentle, almost conversational, which somehow makes it worse. “You put the collar on all by yourself, sat in here looking cute, and then decided I should be the one to come find you.”
You glare up at him, but it has no real force behind it, causing him to tilt his head.
“Careful,” he says softly.
Your stomach flips.
He crouches in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw despite shaving this morning. His fingers hook lightly under the ring at the front of your collar—not pulling, just reminding you of where you belong. Or rather, who you belong to.
“There you are,” he says, quieter. “Hi, puppy.”
Something inside you melts so fast it’s humiliating.
“Hi,” you whisper.
Ryland’s mouth curves.
“Oh, that was sweet.” His thumb brushes the edge of the collar. “See? You can be polite when you try.”
You make a small, offended noise.
He laughs under his breath. “I know, I know. Very mean of me to notice.”
“You’re mean.”
“Not really.” His eyes soften for half a second. “You know I’m not.”
You do, that’s why this works.
Ryland would stop at the first wrong breath. One look, one word, and the whole tone would vanish. He checks in with you before and after, awkwardly earnest and careful in a way that makes your heart ache.
Yet in the middle of it he can be just condescending enough to make you squirm.
His fingers slip from your collar to your chin, tilting your face up.
“What do good puppies do when I get home?” he asks.
You know the answer, although it doesn't make saying it easier as your cheeks burn.
“They greet you.”
“Mhm.” His thumb moves once along your jaw. “And?”
You look away.
Ryland clicks his tongue softly, causing your eyes to snap back to his so instinctively.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “Don’t get shy now. You were bold enough to put yourself on the floor before I even walked in.”
Your thighs press together. His gaze flicks down, then back up. The corner of his mouth twitches.
“That’s what this is, isn't it?”
“Huh?”
“You wanted me to find you like this.” His voice warms, sweet and patronizing. “Poor thing. Just waiting here, hoping I’d know what to do with you.”
You hate the noise that leaves you.
Ryland’s hand stills under your chin.
His eyes search your face for one second, making sure. The moment he sees what he needs, his expression eases back into that fond, terrible amusement.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s it.”
He stands.
You have to tilt your head back to keep looking at him.
“Come here,” he says.
You start to rise when his eyebrow lifts.
You stop.
Oh.
Your face flames.
Ryland waits, patient and insufferable.
“You can do better than that,” he points lazily toward the space in front of him, “Come here, puppy.”
It should be embarrassing, it is embarrassing.
This does not stop you from moving, however.
You crawl the short distance to him, heart racing and all of your skin feeling his eyes on you. He watches, looking as though he cannot look away.
You finally reach him and sit back on your knees.
The first stroke of his hand through your hair is gentle, your eyes flutter despite yourself.
“There,” he murmurs. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
You want to complain. You really do.
Instead, you lean into his hand.
Ryland’s breath catches faintly.
He covers it quickly, but you hear it.
You smile.
His fingers tighten lightly in your hair.
“Don’t look smug,” he says. “You’re the one on the floor.”
Your smile dies instantly.
He laughs, soft and delighted. “That’s what I thought.”
“Ryland.”
“Careful,” he says again, but there is affection threaded through every syllable. “You remember your color?”
You nod. “Green.”
“And if you need me to slow down?”
“Yellow.”
“And stop?”
“Red.”
“Good puppy.”
The praise hits low and hot, which he sees too.
“Wow,” he says, almost wonderingly. “You are easy tonight.”
You groan, covering your face with both hands.
He gently catches your wrists and pulls them down.
“No hiding.” His voice is quieter now. “I like seeing what I do to you.”
You bite your lip.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
For a second, the room changes.
Then Ryland crouches again, bringing himself closer to your level. He holds your wrists loosely, thumbs brushing over your pulse points.
“Can I kiss my puppy?” he asks.
The tenderness of it knocks the breath out of you.
You nod, which causes him to give you a look.
“Yes,” you say quickly. “Please.”
“That’s better.”
He kisses you softly at first, almost sweetly enough to make you forget the game entirely. Almost. Then he tugs lightly at your collar and you gasp against his mouth.
Ryland hums.
“There it is,” he says.
You chase him when he pulls back.
He leans away just enough to make you miss.
“No,” you complain.
“No?” His eyes brighten. “That’s not very polite.”
“Please kiss me.”
Ryland pretends to consider it, which is honestly cruel.
Then he smiles.
“Since you asked so nicely.”
The second kiss is deeper. Warmer. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers curling around the collar, and the little pressure of it makes your head go pleasantly empty. You rise onto your knees, pressing closer.
Ryland lets you.
…For a moment.
Then he pulls back and taps your nose with one finger.
“Greedy.”
You glare, making him utterly delighted.
“Very greedy,” he corrects. “I give you one kiss, and suddenly you’re climbing all over me.”
“You gave me two kisses.”
“Oh, excuse me.” He strokes your hair again, patronizing and sweet. “Clearly I’ve spoiled you.”
He guides you backwards till you are once again seated, and then moves away towards the bed. You see him seat himself at the end of the bed, spreading his legs and placing his hands on his knees. Sweet and carefree, like he has plenty of time to break you down.
He pats his thigh.
“Come on.”
You hesitate for exactly one second, and his eyes narrow slightly.
“Don’t make me ask twice.”
Your body moves before your pride can object.
You crawl towards him and find yourself between his knees. His hand moves again into your hair, stroking slowly and surely, and you relax into his leg, giving off a gentle sigh.
Ryland’s expression shifts.
The condescension softens around the edges, becoming something aching and fond.
“There’s my sweet puppy,” he murmurs. “You just needed attention, don’t you?”
You press your cheek against his thigh, too far gone to pretend otherwise.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he echoes, amused. “Sure.”
You pinch his leg lightly.
He catches your hand immediately.
“Ah.” His voice drops. “No biting.”
“I didn’t bite.”
“No, but you were thinking about it.”
You look up at him.
Ryland smiles.
“I know that face.”
“You do not.”
“I absolutely do. That is your ‘I want to be difficult so Ryland will do something about it’ face.”
Your mouth falls open.
“That is not a face.”
“It is. Very specific. Very cute.”
“It hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” His hand cups your cheek. “You’re practically wagging your tail.”
The noise you make is mortifying.
Ryland’s thumb drags over your lower lip.
His voice lowers. “Oh, puppy liked that one.”
You couldn't deny it if you tried.
He leans down until his mouth is near your ear.
“My sweet puppy,” he murmurs. “So smart all day. So sharp. Arguing with everyone, correcting my math, terrifying interns.”
You shiver.
“And then you come home and get all soft for me.”
Your eyes close while his fingers stroke under your chin.
“Look at me.”
You do.
His face is unbearably gentle, thumb pressing lightly at your mouth.
Not forcing, but waiting.
Your lips part.
Ryland’s breath catches again, less hidden this time.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Very good.”
He lets you mouth at his thumb for only a second before pulling it away, leaving you dazed and wanting. He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s done.
“Patience,” he says.
You whine, causing you to cover your face again, but he catches your wrists before you can hide properly.
“No, no.” His eyes are dark now, but still warm. “Don’t be embarrassed. That was adorable.”
“Ryland.”
“It was.” He kisses your forehead. “A little pathetic, maybe.”
You squirm.
His smile sharpens.
“There we go.” He sounds far too pleased with himself. “You like pathetic.”
“I do not.”
“No?” He trails his fingers down the side of your neck, brushing the collar. “So if I said you were being a needy little thing right now, that wouldn’t do anything for you?”
You say nothing, his smile grows.
“I love you like this. All sweet and needy on the floor, pretending you’re not desperate for me to tell you what to do.”
The emotion in your chest drops straight back into heat.
“Ryland,” you breathe.
He hums. “There it is.”
His fingers brush under your collar to draw you slightly nearer to him.
And now when you go into his arms, he allows you to climb onto his lap. And his hands hold on to you right away; one of them grips your back while the other grabs your waist, keeping you near while you hide your face in his neck.
You can smell the aroma of coffee and laundry coming from him.
For some time, he strokes you in silence. Gentle strokes on your hair, words of endearment almost inaudible.
“So good for me.”
“My sweet thing.”
“Look at you, getting all quiet now.”
“Poor puppy. Big brain finally turned off?”
A low noise falls out of your throat as he kisses you and he laughs before kissing you again; this time, he doesn’t pull away from you when you chase after him.
He lets you continue.
Lets you kiss him roughly, lets the noises fall from your lips as you kiss him roughly. You try to grind against him when his hand holds you still.
His lips are flushed. His glasses askew. His eyes warm and dark with pleasure.
“Ah,” he says softly. “There it is.”
You blink at him, breathless. “What?”
“You were being so good.” His thumb rubs a small circle at your waist. “Then you got greedy.”
Your face burns. “I didn’t.”
“No?”
“No.”
Ryland tilts his head. “So that wasn’t you trying to rub yourself on me like a needy little puppy?”
Your stomach drops in the best, worst way.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Ryland’s smile turns devastatingly gentle.
“Oh,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”
You hide your face in his neck with a groan.
He laughs softly, fingers combing through your hair.
“No, no. Don’t hide now. You were brave enough to do it.”
“Ryland.”
“Mm?”
“You’re being mean.”
“Am I?” His hand slides slowly up your back, soothing even as his voice stays patronizing. “I think I’m being very nice. I noticed what my puppy wanted, didn’t I?”
You shiver, before nodding.
“Good puppy.”
The words go through you like a spark.
You try to press closer again, but his hand holds you still.
“Uh-uh.”
You whine before you can stop yourself.
His eyes darken.
“There’s that sound again,” he murmurs. “You’re getting very comfortable with that.”
“I hate you.”
His mouth brushes your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the place just below your ear that makes your fingers tighten in his shirt.
“You want attention,” he says against your skin. “That’s all. Poor thing came to me so wound up and needy, and now you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
You swallow hard.
“I don’t know what to do with myself.”
He exhales slowly, like the answer pleases him almost too much.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I know what to do with you.”
Your whole body goes soft.
Ryland notices that too. His smile fades into something tender for half a second, and he kisses you once, gentle enough to ground you.
Then he pats your hip.
“On the bed.”
You move too quickly, because his eyebrows lift.
You stop halfway up.
He laughs softly.
“Excited?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
You crawl back onto the bed anyway, and he watches every second of it with an attentive eye. It makes you feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.
“Sit,” he says.
You sit near the pillows, legs tucked under you.
Ryland stands, stretching just enough that his shirt pulls tight across his chest. You hate him for that. A little. He catches you staring and smiles.
“Really subtle.”
“Shut up.”
His eyes sharpen.
You realize your mistake instantly.
Ryland goes still, staring at you amused. Oh no.
“Oh,” he says.
You swallow.
He takes one slow step toward the bed. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, I heard something.” Another step. “Sounded like my sweet puppy forgot how to behave.”
Your pulse jumps.
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t tell me to shut up?”
You stare at the blanket.
Ryland sits on the edge of the bed, close but not touching you.
“Look at me.”
You do.
His expression is calm. Almost gentle.
“That mouth is getting you in trouble tonight.”
You bite your lip.
His gaze drops.
“Don’t do that unless you want me to do something about it.”
You release your lip.
Ryland’s smile flickers.
“Good choice.”
Now the air is too hot, too dense. The collar rests comfortably around your neck. You feel Ryland’s eyes drift down toward it compulsively.
He reaches out and grabs hold of the leash resting on the bedside table, clipping it to the ring on your collar.
He gives the leash the gentlest tug, barely enough to move you.
“Come here.”
Your instincts draw you towards him and you crawl forward on the bed until you're near enough for him to grab hold.
"That’s better," he lifts your chin with two fingers. "You see how nice it is when you listen?"
Your body melts all over again when he kisses you.
The leash dangles loosely in his other hand, but the mere weight of it causes your head to feel light. The control you've handed him in knowing that he'll take care of you.
The warmth of Ryland's mouth grows hotter as you feel his tongue move against your own. One hand finds its way around your waist, pulling you close until you find yourself straggling him, the chain of your collar yanking lightly when your hands tip into his hair.
As you try to grind against him, he tightens the leash slightly.
He pulls back, tutting, “Greedy puppy.”
He touches your body gently, taking his time. From your waist. Your back. Your thighs, as he settles you in his lap once more. His hands do not tighten around the leash he holds, keeping it in his grasp but always loose enough that you cannot help but drift off into dreams.
“You’re quiet now,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You nod.
“Big difference from earlier.”
You hide your face against his shoulder.
He chuckles. “Oh, that embarrassed you?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He strokes down your back. “It’s sweet. I like when you get quiet.”
You mumble something into his shirt.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.” He scratches lightly at the nape of your neck, just beneath the collar. Your eyes almost roll back. “Poor puppy. Too gone to argue properly.”
You make a small sound.
His arm tightens around you.
“There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”
It should feel humiliating, being read this easily. It should make you defensive. It would, with anyone else. But it’s Ryland.
“You want to lie down?”
You nod against him.
“Words.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
You pull back enough to look at him, face hot.
“Yes, sir.”
Ryland’s smile is slow and devastating.
“Good puppy.”
He eases you down onto the bed with ridiculous care, like you are made of glass and also somehow the most tempting thing he has ever seen. You settle back against the pillows, the leash trailing from your collar to his hand.
Eventually, you find yourself with your shirt bunched up above your rib cage, Ryland moving his mouth at a leisurely pace over your belly that is now exposed to him.
As you bring your hand up to your face, the leash tightens slightly, but not hard enough to hurt.
“No hiding.”
You lower your hand.
He kisses just below your ribs, smiling against your skin. “There’s my brave puppy.”
You’re shaking now from the praise—the teasing and the unbearable patience of him. He keeps you balanced there, right on the edge of too much, watching every breath like he’s collecting data.
“My good puppy,” he murmurs. “I knew you could behave.”
He says it like he’s proud.
Like the entire night was just one big test to confirm what he already knew, that under all your efficiency and edginess lies something tender and desirous, softening the moment he drops his tone.
“You’re thinking too much again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His mouth drifts higher, brushing beneath your jaw. “I can practically hear it. Very loud in there.”
You huff, but it comes out weak.
Ryland lifts his head. “Poor thing.”
Your eyes narrow.
He smiles and taps one finger lightly against your temple. “Big, brilliant brain. Always working. Always trying to stay in charge.”
You swallow. His hand slides to your collar, thumb hooking beneath the edge.
“And then I do this.”
A tiny tug, and your eyelashes flutter.
“And suddenly there’s nothing going on up there at all.”
You practically whimper.
The second time he kisses you, there is no pretending that you aren’t starving for this kiss. You wrap yourself around him and sigh softly in response to his kisses while he sets the rhythm and control with a mere pressure on the leash and the gentle touch on your waist.
After some time, he pulls back and positions himself on the headboard, taking you along and resting you against his chest while you are positioned with your back facing him. He holds you gently in his arms, and the leash hangs loosely across your collarbone.
He kisses the side of your head. “You’re very quiet now.”
You hum.
His mouth brushes your ear. “Too much?”
You shake your head.
He accepts it, but his hand smooths over your stomach anyway, grounding and warm.
“Just gone?”
You nod.
His lips curve against your temple. “Yeah. I can tell.”
You should be embarrassed, yet you feel so happy right where you are.
For a while, he just holds you. One hand strokes slow patterns against your side, the other touching the collar now and then, like he still can’t quite believe you trust him with it.
“My spoiled puppy,” he says, the edge returning. “Getting held. Getting kissed. Getting praised. You’d let me keep you here all night, wouldn’t you? Soft and needy and useless in my lap.”
His legs spread yours apart. One hand moves down your stomach, slipping beneath the edge of your shorts, past your underwear.
“Gonna get you ready,” he says against your ear, low and certain. “Then I’m going to bend you over and fill you up. Gonna take my stupid, useless puppy and make sure she remembers what she’s good for.”
You can’t answer. You can only sit there in his lap, legs held open by his, collar snug around your throat, leash loose across your chest while his hand rests exactly where you need it.
“Poor puppy,” he says softly. “I say one mean thing and you just disappear on me.”
You whine,and his fingers press enough to make your hips twitch.
“Shh.” His other hand tightens around the leash. “No. You don’t get to squirm around and make a mess of yourself already.”
His fingers keep working you open with humiliating patience, slow enough that you want to sob, steady enough that you can’t help melting into it. You try to move your hips, just a little, just enough to get more.
Ryland stops immediately.
“No.”
You make a broken sound.
“No,” he repeats. “Greedy puppies don’t get to take. They get what they’re given.”
“Please.”
“Oh, now you remember that word.” His voice is sweet enough to sting. “Convenient.”
“Ryland, please.”
His breath catches.
Only for a second.
Then his mouth is at your jaw, kissing you there like a reward he didn’t mean to give.
“You’re lucky you sound cute when you beg.”
You barely hear yourself answer. “I can be good.”
Ryland stills.
Then he laughs softly into your skin.
“Oh, puppy. That was almost convincing.”
His hand slips out of your shorts, leaving you empty and aching. You whine at the loss.
You twist toward him, desperate, but the leash tightens.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to stop you.
“Stay.”
You stop.
Instantly.
Ryland’s eyes darken.
The silence is hot and thick and unbearable.
He looks at you like he’s discovered something wonderful.
“There,” he whispers. “That’s what you’re good for.”
You shiver so hard his arm tightens around your waist.
“Listening,” he says, almost tenderly. “Obeying. Letting me make you feel good because you’re too needy and sweet to do it properly yourself.”
Your face feels far too hot, and you double down in the embarrassment with a nod of your head. Ryland’s mouth parts slightly, for a moment, the control slips. Just a crack, enough for you to see how badly he wants this, how much restraint he’s burning through to keep his hands gentle and his voice steady.
Then he pulls himself together.
“On your knees.”
You move too fast, scrambling out of his lap and onto the bed, turning over on your hands and knees before he can tell you twice. Your pulse pounds. The collar shifts against your throat. The leash drags over the sheets.
Behind you, Ryland goes silent.
You look back.
He’s staring.
Glasses crooked. Hair mussed from your fingers. Mouth slightly open.
Wrecked.
The satisfaction that sparks in you lasts about one second before his eyes lift to yours.
“Proud of yourself?” he asks softly.
You freeze.
His mouth curves. “Oh, you are. That’s cute.”
He comes closer, kneeling behind you, and winds the leash once around his hand.
“Eyes forward.”
You obey.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Acting like you weren’t just falling apart in my lap.”
You press your forehead into the sheets.
“No hiding.” A tug.
You lift your head again, breath shaky.
“Good puppy.”
You melt.
Ryland laughs under his breath. “That’s all it takes now? Two words?”
You don’t answer.
He leans over you, chest pressing to your back, mouth near your ear.
“Poor thing,” he whispers. “You really are gone.”
You nod before you can stop yourself.
His hand tightens on your hip.
“Yeah,” he says, rougher. “I know.”
Your waist, your thighs – anywhere where your shirt has risen to – his fingertips travel. He kisses first the space between your shoulder blades, then your neck, then finally the leather of your collar once more.
When he finally manages to get your shorts off your legs, you’re trembling.
He stops, his palm splayed on your back.
“So pretty,” he says, too soft for the role and too honest to take back.
Your throat tightens.
Then, as if realizing he has been kind for too long, his fingers curl around the leash.
“Ask.”
“Please,” you whisper.
“Please what?”
“Please use me.”
Ryland goes utterly still.
Then finally, finally, he gives you what you asked for.
He pushes into you slowly, one hand tight on your hip, the other holding the leash with careful control. The stretch makes your mouth fall open. Your arms shake. A helpless sound tears out of you, and Ryland stops halfway with a curse under his breath.
You try to push back.
His grip tightens.
“No,” he says, voice rough. “You take what I give you.”
Your head drops.
He tugs the leash once, gentle but firm.
“Up.”
You lift yourself, trembling.
“There.” His voice is wrecked now, but still controlled. “Good puppy. You can do that much.”
Deeper and deeper he presses, careful enough to let you feel everything and making the world consist of just his hands, his voice, and the collar around your neck. When he bottoms out, he holds himself there.
Then he lets his hand travel up your back, a gesture that looks like reverence.
“There you go,” he whispers. “Look at you taking me.”
You make a small, broken sound.
His hips draw back.
Then forward.
Slow.
Deep.
Controlled.
Your whole body jolts.
Ryland groans.
“Yeah,” he says, low and mean again. “That’s what you needed.”
Answering is impossible. All you can do is cling to the bed covers while you endure him as he begins to thrust, every thrust deliberate and destructive. One hand remains on the lead, but it is only used to direct you, to ensure your head is kept raised.
“You were impossible all day,” he murmurs. “Mouthy. Sharp. So sure of yourself.”
His hips snap forward harder.
You cry out.
“And now?” he asks. “Now look at you.”
You whimper.
“Can’t even talk back.”
You shake your head.
“No, you can’t.” He sounds pleased. Wrecked and pleased. “My poor stupid puppy. Finally found something to do with that mouth besides argue.”
A strangled moan leaves you.
Ryland’s rhythm falters.
“Holy-” He cuts himself off with a breathless laugh. “You liked that.”
You nod into the sheets, shameless now.
He leans over you, chest pressing to your back, thrusts slower but deeper.
“You like being my stupid puppy?”
“Yes.”
His mouth brushes your ear.
“Say it.”
Your face burns hotter than it has all night, but you’re too far gone to refuse.
“I’m your stupid puppy.”
Ryland’s groan is filthy and helpless.
“That’s right,” he whispers. “Mine.”
The word makes you clench around him.
He curses, hand tightening on your hip.
“Oh, that did it.” His laugh is breathless and unsteady. “That’s the one, huh? Mine?”
“Yours,” you gasp. “Yours, yours-”
“Yeah.” His voice drops into something possessive and tender all at once. “You are.”
He fucks you harder then, still careful, still reading every sound, but with the neat edge of his control finally cracking. The bed shifts beneath you. Your thoughts break apart into heat and pressure and Ryland’s voice in your ear.
“Good puppy.”
“So good.”
“Taking it so well.”
“That’s what you’re good for tonight, isn’t it?”
“Just letting me use you.”
You cry into your pillow, and Ryland lets out a pained sound from behind you. His movements feel as though he’s trying to make sure your entire body serves as evidence of how well he knows you. The leash remains in his grip, slack yet there, pulling on you each time you lower your head.
“Up.”
You lift your head.
“Good puppy.”
Your eyes roll back.
“Jesus,” he breathes, half laughing. “You’re so easy.”
You shake your head weakly, because some tiny, ruined part of you still insists on arguing.
Ryland sees it.
Of course he does.
His hand slips around to your front, fingers pressing low against your stomach as he pulls you back against him.
“No?” he murmurs. “You’re not easy?”
You can’t think.
“Then why do you do exactly what I tell you?”
Your mouth falls open.
“Why do you melt every time I praise you?” His hips snap forward, sharper now. “Why did you crawl across the floor for me before I even touched you?”
You whimper, shaking beneath him.
Ryland’s voice lowers.
“Because you’re easy for me.”
The words land like a hand around your throat.
Not touching.
Not choking.
Just claiming the air.
You nod helplessly.
His laugh breaks into a groan.
“There it is.” He kisses your shoulder. “At least you know.”
You try to push back again, greedy and desperate, and his hand instantly tightens on the leash.
You freeze.
Ryland clicks his tongue.
“Did I say you could do that?”
“No,” you breathe.
“No,” he agrees, almost gentle. “You don’t get to take. You don’t get to decide. You don’t get to make yourself come on me like some spoiled little thing who thinks she’s in charge.”
You make a broken sound.
He presses closer, hips stilling just enough to make you ache.
“You come when I tell you to.”
Your fingers curl hard in the sheets.
His hand strokes down your back once.
Then he grips your hips and starts moving again, harder than before.
You cry out.
“There we go,” he pants. “That’s my good puppy.”
The words ruin you.
His stride isn’t clinical anymore. His stride isn’t patient anymore. He’s still being cautious, still paying attention, but that caution has been stripped down to desperation. He pulls on the lead to make sure that you’re right where he wants you, never hurting, always guiding you until your hands start to shake and your voice breaks.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Take it.”
You do.
Because he told you to.
Because his hands are firm and his voice is in your ear and your brain has gone syrup-thick and obedient.
“My useless puppy,” he says, panting now. “Can’t even keep still.”
You nod frantically.
“Can’t even answer properly.”
“No,” you sob.
“No,” he echoes, pleased. “Just made to be held down and fucked stupid.”
The sound you make is embarrassing.
Ryland groans, hips stuttering for the first time.
“God, you like that too.” His voice is almost accusing. “Of course you do. Of course my brilliant, insufferable, terrifying girl wants to be called stupid while she’s taking me.”
Your thoughts scatter completely.
His hand slides beneath you again, fingers finding you with devastating accuracy.
You nearly collapse.
He catches you by the leash.
“Up.”
“I can’t-”
“You can.” His voice turns stern, and your body obeys before your mind can. “Come on. Don’t get lazy now.”
You lift yourself on shaking arms.
Ryland makes a pleased sound.
“That’s better. You can fall apart when I say.”
His fingers move against you in time with his thrusts, and the pressure is sudden, exact, unbearable.
“Ryland- sir- please-”
“Oh, listen to that.” His mouth is at your ear again. “Now she has manners.”
“Please,” you gasp. “Please, please-”
“Please what?”
You sob, too far gone to be embarrassed.
“Please let me come.”
Ryland’s rhythm falters.
For a second, he just breathes against you.
Then he kisses the side of your head, almost unbearably tender.
“Good puppy,” he whispers. “Since you asked so nicely.”
His hand tightens on your hip.
“Come.”
You break.
It hits so hard your arms give out, pleasure tearing through you bright and blank. You hear yourself cry out, feel Ryland hold you through it with one arm locked around your waist and the leash loose in his other hand.
He doesn’t stop.
Maybe he slows.
Maybe not.
You can’t tell.
Everything is heat and skin and his voice.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go. Good. Good puppy. Take it.”
You’re useless beneath him now.
Actually useless.
Boneless, shaking, whimpering into the sheets while he fucks you through the aftershocks, his own control fraying with every second.
Ryland gives up his final clean edge as your name leaves his lips, thrusting hard and holding you firmly as he comes undone in back of you. The entire body shakes above yours, hot and weighty and thoroughly human, and for an instant he ceases being condescending.
He remains with you still buried, chest pressed into your back and one hand moving from the reigns to grasp your waist as if he cannot bear to hold any semblance of control anymore. His forehead rests between your shoulder blades.
Neither of you speak for quite a while.
Then, softly, still panting, Ryland says, “Holy moly.”
You laugh.
It comes out ruined and weak and delirious.
He laughs too, breathless against your skin.
“Don’t laugh,” he mutters. “I think I saw God.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re the one who crawled on the floor.”
You groan into the sheets.
There is a pause.
Then his voice returns, quieter.
“You okay?”
You nod, still floating.
Ryland kisses your shoulder.
“Words, sweetheart.”
Your chest warms at the shift.
“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Really.”
His hand smooths up your side, gentle now. Reverent.
“Good.” Another kiss, softer. “I’m going to move, okay?”
You nod.
He pulls away from you very delicately and says an apology to you softly when you hiss. He unclips the leash first, and you feel as if something inside your chest loosens at the clink of its disengagement.
After a moment’s disappearance, he returns and wipes the area very delicately that tears in your eyes once again.
“Don’t,” he says immediately, panicked. “Oh no. Did I hurt you? Was I too mean? I knew I was too mean. I got carried away with the-”
“Ryland.”
He freezes.
You look up at him, exhausted and glowing and fond.
“I liked it.”
His mouth opens.
Then closes.
Then he pushes his glasses up with the heel of his hand, looking adorably, catastrophically overwhelmed.
“Okay,” he says. “Good. Great. Excellent. Love that. Big fan.”
You smile.
After that, he helps you out of your shirt, tucking you beneath the blankets, then crawling into bed with you. And before you even know it, he pulls you into his embrace.
For what feels like forever, he simply holds you close. Just the rhythm of Ryland’s heartbeat against your ears, the movement of his hands up and down your back.
His hand rests at the nape of your neck.
Then, softer, so soft you almost miss it, he whispers, “Mine.”
You smile against his chest.
“Yours.”
_____________________
Note: i watched the backrooms today can we put ryan gosling in there thanks i ended up cutting this down soooo many words im glad though it was bulky i hope its good frowny face
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