Ryland has a big thing for fucking you with his fingers while testing your knowledge on all his nerdy science interests. If you get one wrong, he spanks your pretty pussy until you get it right.
Sometimes Ryland will run his mouth and piss you off. In these cases, he doesn't deserve anything better than this.
just Ryan munchin
This just gives driver vibes. The way hes so gentle and rubs the marshmallow on his cock, letting you suck on it.
This is just Leland. hes whiny
court punishing you. , fingering your tight pussy
grinding on lukes thigh after hes done performing on his bike. , eating you outttttt
do you think owner!colt would be the one to bring up pet play or do you think reader would approach him with it?
Sooo.. this is LOOONG. i am sooo mmfhhsh over owner colt.. alsooo.. ROOMMATE!OWNER!COLT FOR THIS..so i did make him... condescending as fuck and a lil mean dont tell me colt would never, THAT MAN KNOWWWSS WHAT HES DOINGG
The first time you notice Colt watching you a little too long, you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your knees. The TV flickers with some action movie he picked, but his eyes aren’t on the screen.
“You know there’s a whole couch behind you, right?” he asks, voice lazy, teasing.
You shrug, not really thinking about it. “The floor’s more comfortable. Feels… cozy.”
He hums, a low sound, and doesn’t push it. But you catch the way his gaze lingers, a flicker of something sharp and curious behind his easy grin.
It happens again a few days later. You sneeze—hard, sudden—and without thinking, you shake your head from side to side, the way a dog would after a wet nose. You catch yourself mid-shake and freeze, heat crawling up your neck. But Colt is already smirking from the kitchen doorway, a beer in his hand.
“That was cute,” he says, and the word cute feels heavier than it should.
You mumble something about allergies and disappear into your room, but the image of his smirk stays burned behind your eyelids.
He pats the spot beside him on the couch one night and you scramble over, settling at his feet in your normal criss-crossed manner instead. He doesn’t correct you. Instead, his hand drifts down, fingers threading through your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. You lean into the touch like a plant turning toward sun, and he chuckles, low and rough.
“Ohh? You like that?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because the truth is too humiliating—and too thrilling—to admit.
It’s a Saturday night. You’re on the floor again, cross-legged, scrolling through your phone while he watches some action flick. He’s been drinking—just two beers, but enough to lower the filter. He’s been watching you for the last hour, tracking your every movement: the way you yawned and shook your head at the end of it, the way your lips parted when you looked up at him with dumb curiosity and a head tilt.
He sets his beer down with a thunk that makes you startle.
“C’mere.”
The words are low, rough, and they land in your chest like a command. You blink at him. He jerks his chin toward the space between his knees on the couch.
“I said come here. Sit.”
You move before you think. Scramble to your knees, shuffle over to the couch, and settle in the V of his legs with your front to him. Your heart is hammering. He doesn’t touch you right away. He just breathes, slow and heavy, and you can feel the heat of his body radiating down your body.
Then his hand lands below your jaw, wrapping wround your throat that fits oh so much smaller.
Firm. Heavy. He squeezes, just shy of choking, and you instinctively drop your head forward, exposing the curve of your throat. He lets out a sound—a low, pleased rumble that comes from deep in his chest.
“You have any idea,” he says, voice gravelly, almost a whisper, “how long I’ve been watching you? How many nights I’ve had to fucking sit here and pretend I don’t see the way you shake your head after sneezing, the way you sit on this cold floor like you’re waiting for me to give you something?”
You try to speak. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He tightens his grip.
“I’m not asking you a question. I’m telling you. You want to be my puppy, don’t you? You want me to treat you like a dumb, needy doggy who just wants to please their owner?”
A shiver wracks through you. Your thighs press together, and you can feel the wet heat pooling between your legs. You nod, jerky and desperate.
“Words,” he stayes firm but plain. “Use your words, baby.”
“Yes.” Your voice cracks. “Yes, Colt. Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please treat me like—like your puppy. Like I’m yours. I want—I want to be good for you. I want you to—”
He cuts you off by grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging your head back. Your spine arches, throat bared, a gasp ripping from your lips. He leans down and bites the side of your neck—hard, teeth sinking into the sensitive skin until you cry out. Then he soothes it with a long, wet lick.
“You’re gonna be my good little mutt,” he mutters against your ear, breath hot and ragged. “You’re gonna get on your knees and open that mouth and let me fuck your throat until you drool. You’re gonna take my cock like a good pet, and when you whine for more, I’m gonna give it to you. But you don’t get to speak. You don’t get to think. You just get to be my dumb, poor little puppy.”
He tugs your hair harder, forcing you to look up at him. His eyes are blown, lips slick from where he bit you.
“Nod if you understand.”
You nod, trembling.
He lets go of your hair and shoves you forward, onto your hands and knees on the rug. You hear his belt unbuckle, the rasp of his zipper. A thick, heavy sound as his cock springs free.
“Open,” he says.
You don’t hesitate. You part your lips, tongue out, drool already starting to pool. He fists the base of his cock—long, thick, flushed dark—and taps it against your mouth.
“Aw. You listen so well.”
He pushes in, straight to the back of your throat, and you gag just a bit, eyes watering. He doesn’t stop. He grips your hair like a handle and starts to fuck your face, shallow and gentle at first, then deeper, each thrust hitting that spot that makes you borderline choke.
Drool spills down your chin. Strings of it drip onto your knees, onto the rug. He’s shuddering above you, filthy words falling from his lips between thrusts.
“Yeah, look at you. Look at that pretty little mouth. Taking it like an obedient thing.”
He pulls out just enough to let you breathe, and you gulp air, spit connecting your lips to his cock in a glistening strand. He smears the head of his cock across your cheek, your nose, your eyelids.
“Lick up your mess, c'mon honey....” he orders.
You lick the mess off his dick, tongue dragging from base to tip, and he groans, deep and animal.
“On your back for me, yeah?”
You lean back on the floor—propped on your forearms, legs splayed, hoodie bunched around your ribs. He sees you’re not wearing any shorts—just a pair of thin panties, soaked through with a dark patch of arousal. He hooks a thumb under the fabric and rips them off, not even bothering to pull them down.
He spends some time running his fingers through your cunt, gentle but firm on your clit. He watched the way your core drips and gets wetter with each touch, your body shaking and your throat emitting high pitched whines. He finally lines up his cock and pushes in, one brutal, slick thrust that seats him to the hilt.
Your body trembles violently and a choked gasp escapes you—a sharp, broken sound that dissolves into a moan. You’re so wet he slides in easily, but the stretch is still overwhelming, the girth of him splitting you open. He gives you a bit to adjust, then he starts moving.
Fast. Hard. Sloppy.
Every thrust makes a wet, sucking sound. He’s not aiming for slow. He’s fucking you like you’re a hole he needs to use despite his extreme adoration and massive stupid crush on you, his hips slapping against your thighs, his balls slapping your ass, the floor creaking with the force of him.
“That’s it,” he breathes, leaning down to mouth at your jaw. “Tha's my puppy. Feel how full you are? That’s where you belong. On your back, stuffed full of my dick, drooling on the floor.”
You can’t answer. You’re too lost—mouth open, eyes rolled back, moans spilling out in rhythmic gasps. He bites your lower lip, tugs it, and when you whimper, he shoves his tongue into your mouth.
He pulls out abruptly, flipping you onto your stomach. He yanks your hips up by the hem of your hoodie, and you’re on your knees again, ass in the air, face pressed into the rug. He opens his mouth and drools on you, a trail of saliva that drips down your cunt, and then he’s sliding back in from behind, deeper this time, hitting a spot that makes your vision white.
“Whose puppy are you?” his voice is gruff with something that sounds like a snarl, wrapping a hand around your throat from behind.
“Yours,” you gasp out. “Yours, yours, yours—”
“That’s right. And what do good puppies do?”
“They—they come when they’re called—”
He squeezes, making you dizzy and hot. “They come when they’re told. So you’re gonna come for me, baby. You’re gonna soak me, and then you’re gonna thank me for it. Understood?”
You try to nod, but his large hand prevents much movement. You just manage a strangled “Yes.”
He fucks you harder, deeper, his rhythm turning jagged and desperate. He reaches around and rubs your clit with two rough fingers, and the combination of pressure and fullness and the sheer filth of it all sends you over the edge. You come sobbing into the rug, your whole body shuddering, waves of pleasure crashing through you so hard you forget your own name.
He follows a second later, buried to the hilt, hot and thick inside you. He stays there, grinding, pumping his cum deeper, and when he finally pulls out, it drips down your thigh in a thick white trail.
He collapses onto his knees behind you, breath ragged, and pats your ass.
His hands rub up and down your thighs to your ass and trail up your back, thick hands rubbing into your skin with affection.
"S'good pet..good job...y–y'okay? didnt hurt you too much?" his voice is thick with heavy breathing and exhaustion.
When you whimper out a little "Perfect..feel...fuzzy."
he lets out a boyish, soft, laugh—moving to sit next to you and stroke your hair.
"C'mon, lemme carry you, i'll take care of you all you need."
I actually need this right now. I need him to tie me up. Use my aching cunt for his enjoyment.
Dex x Reader
Dex's apartment reeked of stale takeout and the sharp tang of gun oil, the kind that clung to his skin no matter how many times he scrubbed. He paced the narrow living room, fingers twitching at his sides, counting the steps—seven to the kitchenette, seven back. Seven was good. Safe. But nothing felt safe since he'd first seen you. You, with your soft laugh echoing from that coffee shop window, your fingers twisting a napkin into anxious knots. He'd watched for weeks. Cataloged your routines: the way you lingered at the library on Tuesdays, the precise order of your grocery list, the exact shade of your lipstick when you bit it during phone calls. Obsession wasn't a word for it. It was a compulsion, a looping circuit in his brain that demanded he have you. Close. His. The voices in his head—the fractured echoes of Matt Murdock's morality plays, Fisk's cold calculations—whispered that you were the fix. The one thing to quiet the chaos.
He'd planned it meticulously. Black van parked three blocks from your walk-up. Chloroform-soaked rag, measured to the gram so it wouldn't kill you. The drive back here, blindfolded and bound, your muffled whimpers music against the hum of tires on asphalt. Now you were in his bedroom, wrists zip-tied to the iron headboard, ankles secured with duct tape to the posts. The mattress dipped under your slight struggles, the bedsprings creaking rhythmically—creak, pause, creak—like a metronome he couldn't silence. Dex inhaled deeply, scenting the sharp spike of your fear-sweat mingling with the faint vanilla of your shampoo. It hardened his cock instantly, a thick pulse against the zipper of his jeans.
You yanked against the restraints, plastic biting into your skin, the rough weave of the ties scraping your wrists raw. Heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else, you stared at the hulking shadow in the doorway. Dex. The man from the street corner, the one whose eyes followed you like a predator's, day after day. You'd changed routes, installed deadbolts, even called the cops once—but they dismissed it as paranoia. Now here he was, real and monstrous, his broad frame filling the space, blond hair disheveled, that jagged scar twisting his cheek into a perpetual snarl. "Please," you whispered, voice cracking, throat dry as sandpaper from the rag's chemical burn. "Let me go. I won't tell anyone. I swear."
He stepped closer, boots thudding heavy on the warped floorboards. The air shifted with his movement, carrying the musk of unwashed male and something metallic, like blood. Dex's lips curled, not quite a smile—more a baring of teeth. He liked the tremor in your voice, the way it vibrated through the room and into his bones. It fed the mania bubbling under his skin, the electric itch that had him grinding his molars until they ached. "Tell anyone?" he rasped, voice low and gravelly, laced with that unstable edge. He loomed over the bed, one knee sinking the mattress near your hip, the heat of him radiating through the thin sheet you'd been dumped under. "You're mine now. Been mine since I first heard you breathing on that street. Fast. Scared. Perfect."
Terror clawed up your spine, cold and slick, making your nipples pebble against the damp cotton of your bra. You twisted away, but the ties held firm, the headboard rattling against the wall. His hand shot out, massive palm clamping your jaw—not hard enough to bruise, but unyielding, fingers digging into the soft flesh under your chin. The calluses scraped like sandpaper, and you gagged on the intrusion, tasting salt from his skin. "You think I don't know what you need?" Dex murmured, thumb stroking your lower lip, forcing it open. His breath washed hot over your face, stale coffee and mint gum. Inside, his mind raced—looping images of you naked, bound, screaming his name. The BPD storm raged: you'd leave him if he didn't lock you down. No one else could have you. Ever. "I've watched you. Every twitch. Every fucking panic attack when you check the locks five times. Six. Seven. You're like me. Broken. But I'll fix us."
You shook your head as much as his grip allowed, tears spilling hot down your cheeks, soaking into his fingers. "No—stop. You're crazy. Get off me!" But your body betrayed the fear, thighs clenching instinctively as his free hand dragged the sheet down, exposing your tank top and panties. The cool air kissed your skin, raising gooseflesh, while his gaze raked over you like a physical touch.
"Crazy?" He laughed, a jagged sound that echoed off the peeling wallpaper. The mania peaked, his pulse thundering in his ears, cock straining painfully now, pre-cum dampening his boxers. He released your jaw only to shove your thighs apart with his knee, the denim rough against your inner skin, friction sparking unwanted heat low in your belly. "Yeah. Obsessed. Can't stop thinking about this pussy. Wet for me already? Bet it is. Fear makes you drip." His fingers hooked into your panties, yanking them aside with a rip of fabric, the elastic snapping against your hip. Exposed air hit your folds, and you whimpered, mortified as his thick digits probed, parting slick lips despite your thrashing.
"Please—don't—" The plea dissolved into a gasp as he sank one finger inside, knuckle-deep, the intrusion stretching you with a wet squelch. Your walls clenched involuntarily around the invasion, the texture of his callused pad dragging along sensitive ridges. He groaned, low and guttural, pumping slowly, thumb circling your clit in lazy loops that built pressure against your will. The scent of your arousal bloomed, musky and sharp, mixing with his sweat. Dex leaned in, nose brushing your neck, inhaling like a drug. "Fuck, yes. Terrified little cunt squeezing me so tight. You hate me, but this? This wants it."
His obsession fractured his control—the OCD demanding he count thrusts (one, two, three...), the BPD screaming she'd run if he stopped. He added a second finger, scissoring roughly, the burn making you arch off the bed, headboard banging. Saliva flooded your mouth, panic and unwanted sparks colliding. "No—Dex, stop!" But he didn't, unzipping his jeans with his free hand, cock springing free—heavy, veined, the flushed head already weeping. The mattress groaned as he shifted, yanking your hips toward him, ties stretching your arms taut.
"Shh," he growled, lining up, the blunt tip nudging your entrance, hot and insistent. The first push breached you, inch by thick inch, your pussy yielding with a lewd slide, juices coating his shaft. The stretch burned, full and overwhelming, his girth splitting you open while the coarse hair at his base scratched your mound. He bottomed out with a grunt, balls slapping your ass, the impact wet and obscene. Held you there, pinned, his weight crushing the air from your lungs. "Mine. Say it."
You couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the fullness, the way he throbbed inside you, veins pulsing against your walls. Terror warred with the traitorous coil tightening low—his hips snapped, shallow at first, building rhythm. Each thrust dragged his cock along your depths, the friction pulling slick sounds from your joined bodies, mingled with your choked sobs and his ragged breaths. Sweat dripped from his brow onto your collarbone, salty trails cooling on your skin. "Fuck—tight. Perfect. Cry for me, yeah? Makes me so hard."
He fucked harder, mania driving him relentless—one manic loop demanding he claim every inch, every gasp. Your clit ground against his pubic bone with each brutal drive, sparks igniting despite the horror. The room filled with flesh smacking flesh, your tits bouncing under the tank top, nipples chafing fabric. He ripped the top down, mouth latching onto one peak, teeth grazing the hard bud while suction pulled a moan from your throat you couldn't suppress. Tongue rasped rough, tasting soap and salt, as his pace fractured—short, punishing jabs chasing the edge.
Inside, Dex's mind splintered: you're terrified, good, stay scared, bind you forever. His hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back, exposing throat for his bites—sharp nips drawing pinpricks of blood, copper tang on his tongue. "Come on my cock," he snarled against your pulse, hips pistoning, balls drawing tight. The pressure shattered you first, unwanted orgasm ripping through, pussy spasming, milking him in rhythmic squeezes that dragged a bellow from his chest. He followed, flooding you hot and thick, ropes painting your walls as he ground deep, shuddering.
He collapsed half atop you, cock softening inside, plugging his cum. Still buried, he nuzzled your neck, fingers tracing your tied wrists obsessively—checking knots, counting loops. "Not done," he whispered, voice cracking with aftershocks of mania. "Never done. You're staying." Your sobs quieted to shivers, body limp, the wet slide of his spend leaking down your thighs as reality sank in. He liked it. Your fear. It was just the start.
WELL NOW YOU GOTTA ELABORATE ON PEGGIBG HOLLAND OMG!
Oh his butt is so nice wow
Pegging Holland March RAHHHH
- He's a complete brat about the prep
Holland whines the second you pull out the harness. He's already on his back on the bed, legs spread, but he's squirming like a kid who doesn't want his vegetables. "Do we have to?" he asks, pouting up at you. "It's… ugh, it's cold." You lube up your fingers and he flinches when the first one presses into him, letting out a long, pathetic groan. "Shh," you coo, working him open slowly. He bucks into your hand despite himself, his cock already half-hard and leaking against his stomach. "You're so mean," he gasps, but his hips are rocking back against your fingers like he's starving for it.
- His noises are obscene and nonstop
The second the silicone tip presses against his hole, Holland lets out a strangled little cry. "Wait, wait, it's, ah fuck." You push in an inch and his whole body shudders. He's babbling: "Oh god, oh god, that's so Mmhh it's too much, it's” and then you sink deeper and his words dissolve into a high, keening moan. He throws his head back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, and every thrust punches a different sound out of him, gasps, yelps, little sobs. He's not quiet about anything. You could hear him three rooms over.
- He talks way too much while you fuck him
Holland can't stop rambling. "Is it in? It's in, right? Oh my god, I can feel it. that's so weird, that's so, fuck." You bottom out and he lets out a breathless, surprised laugh. "That's your, that's you? That's the,” You start to thrust and he groans, "Okay, okay, okay, that's, that's something." Every sentence ends in a gasp or a moan. He tells you it feels good, then immediately contradicts himself and says it's too much, then begs you not to stop. You learn to just ignore the chatter and pound into him harder; he'll thank you later with a hoarse voice and a fucked-out smile.
- He's a mess when you hit his prostate
You angle your hips just right and Holland's whole body convulses. His hands, which were gripping the bedsheets, fly to his face as he lets out a raw, broken cry. "Right there, fuck, please, right there” His legs start to shake. You hammer that spot and he degenerates into a sobbing wreck, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. "I'm gonna, f-fuck I'm gonna cum” He's leaking pre-cum small droplets along his stomach. He doesn't even need to touch himself, he just lies there, taking it, whimpering with every thrust until his orgasm rips through him, hot and messy, and his hole clenches around the dildo like a vice.
- Bent over a table is his worst position (and your favorite)
His hands scramble for purchase on the polished wood, knuckles white. He's bent at the waist, ass pushed back, face pressed against the cool surface. You slide into him and he howls. "Oh god, I can't, I'm gonna slip” His shoes scuff against the floor. Every thrust rocks him forward, his hips sliding against the table edge. He's loudest like this, vulnerable, exposed, unable to control anything. He starts begging: "Please, please go slow. no, don't slow down, please. which one do you want?" You grab his hips and give him exactly what he needs: deep, punishing strokes that make him gasp with every word he tries to say.
- Aftercare is mandatory (he's emotionally raw)
When you pull out, Holland collapses onto the floor or the bed, limp and trembling. He's still whimpering, but softer now. He reaches for you blindly, face buried against your shoulder. "That was so much," he murmurs, voice wrecked. You hold him, stroke his hair, kiss the sweat from his temples. He's clingy and vulnerable, whispering about how good he felt, how scary it was, how much he loves you. And if you tease him about how loud he was, he'll slap your chest weakly and mumble, "Shut up." But he's got that dopey, satisfied smile on his face, and you know he'll be asking for it again by tomorrow.
