wolf hybrid agrees to be the free use knotting toy of a whole den of bunnies for room, board, and rut care.
he's expecting a line of submissive bunnies with their tails raised and puffy cunts out waiting for him to fuck them hard and fast until their tummies are full of cum.
The pumping bass of the music in the bar is nothing compared to the low groans from Sylus a mere inches from your ear.
"So... Beautiful..." His hands — usually so polite in the presence of strangers — roam up and down your sides. There isn't an inch of your body he doesn't want to touch, especially with the few glasses of whiskey he was sipping while you danced.
You're captivating. Sylus always thinks that, but while watching you beckon to him with a wobbly, crooked finger, he can't resist how his body naturally gravitates towards you. Like a magnet finding it's other half.
"Sylus," you sigh, eyes half-lidded and staring up at the strobe lights like shooting stars streaking across your vision.
The honey tone of your voice, slightly slurred but completely addicted to his large palms holding you tight, sends Sylus into a spiral. He growls, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against him. "That's it." His words drip with intoxicating allure. "Say it again, doll."
He's slurring as well, his broad shoulders shaking as he kisses along the column of your throat. This dress is dangerous, but it hurts even better when he knows you swiped his card without a care in the world. He hadn't even been able to see the dress until tonight, and Sylus is so close to unwrapping you like a present.
The back of your head rests against the wall, and it's the only thing you can feel besides Sylus' muscular chest against yours. "Sylus," you whisper, harshly pulling him back to your mouth with your fingers threaded through his hair.
The alcohol has made your lips numb, and you can't feel how warm his mouth is, nor the hot tip of his tongue tracing your bottom lip. It's like neither of you care about being discovered in this small crevice of the bar, hidden partially by a wall but still vulnerable to peering eyes.
A small string of saliva connects your lips when he pulls back to admire you, one hand flat against the wall beside your head while the other lands on the small of your back. You're both drunk on alcohol, but also each other. The way Sylus' cheeks are flushed, his pupils wide as he stares at you. The way your smile curls lazily at your lips, and the shivering trace of your index finger between his shoulder blades.
Sylus dives in for another kiss, feeling your hand muse his hair into fantastical strands that he will surely be teased about from Luke, Kieran and Mephisto. He doesn't care. Not when you feel so good against him, and your whispers of his name are better tasting than any alcohol he could consume.
"Let's..." You moan into his mouth when he holds you tighter, his strength sending shivers through your body. "Let's... Get out– of here."
It doesn't take long for Sylus to break the kiss with a smile, a somewhat dorky and teasing smile. "Gladly," he mumbles, kissing your spit-slicked lips once more before tilting his head in the direction of the exit. "Lead the way, beautiful."
highkey want a boy who wears glasses and is taller than me and and is strong enough to lift me and carry me when I'm tired and is intelligent and can carry smart conversations and calls me beautiful and isnt afraid to show affection publicly and kisses me all day long
「 paradise, war zone 」
with #xavier // 3.8k // 🔞
featuring: pillow purposes × ✌️ing × 🔙💥 🤭
(huge thank you to @mayiholdu for inspiring this one!)
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You’d think Xavier was made out of Velcro, the way he adheres himself to you in your spare time together.
Not that you’re opposed to it. Sometimes it’s like having your own personal weighted blanket. You wake up bleary-eyed to the taunting ring of your alarm and he coils more tightly around you, refusing to budge. Or you settle in for the night with dim lights and an endless scroll of videos on your phone, and he buries his face in your neck, tickling it with his hair and the curious hums asking what you’re laughing at. Or sometimes it’s the other way around: he pulls you on top of him, tangles your bodies impossibly close and locks his arms around your waist. Makes it a point, with his fingers trailing down your spine, that you won’t be going anywhere. Makes sure you wake up like that the next morning, your knee hooked over his hip and your face buried between his shoulder blades.
(Really, where would you go? To work?)
Of course you don’t mind. Secretly, it’s what you’ve always wanted: the comfort of someone secure enough to drape their body over yours and find bliss in that alone. But hasn’t it gotten to the point where you’re starting to wonder what the other half of the bed is for? Is it just for convenience’s sake—simply to know that it’s there and do nothing with it at all? Or is it for his own peace of mind? He did mention, after all, how claustrophobic he gets in smaller beds or sleeping spaces. Reminds him of the pods, he said.
(He doesn’t want to remember the pods. You don’t think you blame him.)
Tonight, when Xavier notices you laughing, he lifts his head just enough to catch your phone charging on the nightstand. He gives you a quizzical look, a wrinkle in his brow and a quirk on his lips. “What?” he says. “What’s so funny?”
You catch him, out of the corner of your eye, as you glance toward the pillow beside you and give it a sympathetic pat, a loving scratch like a cat behind the ears. “Don’t you feel bad for this guy?” you tell him. “It probably spent its whole life waiting to comfort someone, and it doesn’t even get to do that because of how we sleep.” Lazily, you run your nails down the nape of his neck, down his spine; the soft hum in his chest isn’t lost on you for a second. “What did we even get it for? So that the one we do use doesn’t get lonely during the day?”
Xavier delicately rests his chin on your chest. His gaze follow where yours once was, and he gives the pillow beside you a thoughtful look. There’s a shift in the shade of his eyes. Scheming simmering under the surface. You know this expression well, remember it all too clearly from his birthday, the night he conjured the meteor shower.
“I can think of another reason,” he says. “Can’t you?”
“You can?” You narrow your eyes. “Tell me, then.”
He gives it a moment before he unravels himself from you, just barely. He pushes himself up on his hands, readjusts his weight, still so comfortable between your legs. “Why would I tell you,” he says, tilting his head, stealing some of the light away from the bedside lamp, “when I could show you instead?”
Xavier’s kisses always feel like homecoming. Taste like it, too. The soft warmth of sweaters and spices and crisp fall air. The soothing reminder that you’re never really leaving no matter how far you go. His mouth is languid in its movements, so easy against your own; it tells you he’s missed you far better than words ever could; it works in tandem with the hand scaling down the length of your body, so tenderly squeezing your thigh.
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