I need Ryland or Six or Driver to just fuck me silly, pounded, cock drunk and forget your own name style, forget about everything and get the stress fucked out of me 😩

-🦋

ALL THREE CUZ IM A SLUT!! LMAOOOO

RYLAND:

His hands find your waist first—gentle, tentative, like he's asking permission. Ryland turns you slowly, those blue eyes soft in the dim light of your apartment.

"You okay?" he murmurs, thumb tracing your cheekbone.

You nod, and he smiles—that crooked, boyish smile that makes him seem so harmless. So sweet.

His kiss starts tender. Lips brushing yours, tasting slowly, savoring. His fingers thread into your hair, cradling your head like you're something precious. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"I've been thinking about this all day since you texted me you were feeling like crap," he breathes. "Just... holding you."

His hands slide down your back, pressing you closer. The embrace is warm, safe. He nuzzles into your neck, placing soft kisses along your pulse point.

But then his teeth graze your skin—barely a hint of pressure—and you feel his breath quicken.

"Ryland..."

"Shh." His voice drops lower. "Let me take care of you."

He guides you to your room, laying you down with aching tenderness. His lips trace a path down your throat, your collarbone, your chest. Each kiss unhurried. Worshipful.

But his hands—his hands are trembling. Not from nerves. From restraint.

When he finally pushes your legs apart, his fingers find your cunt already wet. He groans against your skin.

"Awh, Baby...look at you. Soaked for me already."

The sweetness doesn't vanish—it twists. He strokes your clit with agonizing gentleness, watching your face as you squirm. Two fingers slide inside you, slow and deep.

"Feel good, baby?"

You gasp yes, and he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision blur.

But then he pulls them out. Brings them to his mouth. Sucks them clean while holding your gaze.

"Alway taste so good."

He positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He pushes in—inch by inch—filling you completely. His forehead drops to yours.

"God... you feel..."

He starts moving. Slow at first. Rocking into you with deep, measured strokes that have you clinging to his shoulders.

But his hips start stuttering. His rhythm breaks.

"Ry—"

"I know." His voice is ragged. "I know, I'm sorry, I just—"

He pulls out almost entirely, then slams back in. The first real fuck of the night. His composure cracks.

"You have no idea," he grunts, driving into you harder, "what you do to me."

The gentle man is gone, replaced by something hungrier. He grips your hips, fingers digging into flesh as he pounds into you. Each thrust is rough, desperate, filthy.

"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."

His mouth finds yours but it's not a kiss anymore—it's teeth and tongue and growling. He fucks you through the mattress, grunting obscenities against your lips.

"Cum for me," he demands. "Now."

And when you do, when your walls clench around him, he buries himself deep and follows, his release hot and thick inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it.

He collapses on top of you, spent, breathless. After a long moment, he lifts his head, and that soft smile is back.

"...Still okay?"

COURTLAND:

He finds you curled on the couch, and without a word, he sits beside you. His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest.

"Long week?" he asks, voice low and warm.

You nod against him, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"I've got you."

His hand rubs slow circles on your back. Comforting. Grounding. He doesn't rush—just holds you while you breathe, while the tension slowly unwinds from your shoulders.

"I missed you," he says quietly.

When you tilt your face up, he kisses you. Gentle. Lingering. His thumb strokes your jaw like he needs to remember the shape of you.

He helps you stand, leads you to the bedroom. He undresses you piece by piece, kissing each inch of skin as it's revealed. Your shoulders. Your breasts. Your stomach. The inside of your thighs.

"Lie down," he whispers. "Let me make you feel good."

He settles between your legs, and his mouth finds your clit with devastating tenderness. He licks slowly, teasingly, building you up with soft circles of his tongue. His fingers slide into you, curling, beckoning.

You're trembling when he pulls away, and he crawls up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

"Want you," you manage.

"I know, sweetheart." He lines himself up, pushes in gently. "I've got you."

He fucks you slow at first. Deep and deliberate, his hips rolling against yours with practiced precision. His mouth finds your neck, your ear.

"Feel that? Feel how good we fit together?"

But his grip tightens. His thrusts grow harder. The rhythm turns rougher, more demanding.

"You're gonna make me lose control," he warns, but there's no stopping it now.

He flips you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, and drives into you from behind. The new angle punches the air from your lungs.

"This what you needed?" He rubs and gropes at your ass. "Tell me."

"Yes—fuck, yes—"

"Yeah?" His hands rub the stress from your body. "Need me to fuck your brain quiet?"

He does. He rails into you with single-minded intensity, his balls slapping against your clit with every brutal thrust. He reaches around, fingers finding your swollen nub, rubbing in fast, tight circles.

"C'mon, Honey, let that stress melt away for me."

You shatter, and he follows a heartbeat later, groaning your name as he spills inside you.

He pulls out slowly, collapses beside you, and drags you into his arms.

"Told you I'd take care of you."

DRIVER:

He appears in the doorway of his apartment where you stand, drained as all hell. His eyes—pale, piercing—find yours. He crosses the room in four long strides.

His hand cups your face. Thumb brushes your lower lip. And then he kisses you.

It's soft. Sweet. His lips move against yours, telling you everything with words.

He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down your neck. His hands find the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly. He pauses, meets your eyes, asking permission.

You nod.

He undresses you with reverence. Each garment removed like an offering. When you're bare before him, he just looks—drinking you in, his expression unreadable but intense.

He picks you up. Carries you to the bed. Lays you down like you're made of glass.

His clothes come off in silence. When he settles over you, skin to skin, he lets out a shaky breath. His forehead grazing yours.

Then he pushes inside you.

The first few thrusts are gentle, almost tentative. His hips roll with controlled precision, hitting deep but soft. He watches your face, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of pleasure.

But his breathing gets ragged. His pace grows needy.

He pulls out, flips you onto your stomach, and pushes back in.

Now he fucks you. No gentleness. No restraint. He grips your hips, pounds into you with brutal, relentless force. The only sounds are skin slapping against skin, his harsh breathing, your moans muffled by the pillow.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back. His mouth finds your ear.

"Look at you," he rasps—his first words. "Handling me sooo good. Taking all of me."

His other hand snakes beneath you, finds your clit. He rubs in time with his thrusts—hard, fast, merciless.

"C-cum for me—please sweetheart—ohplease—"

You do. He follows, burying himself deep, spilling hot and thick into you.

He stays there for a moment, breathing hard. Then he pulls out, rolls you over, and wraps himself around you.

He doesn't speak again. He knows you got what you needed.

But his lips press against your forehead, soft and lingering.