crashing out @ulurudelulu - Tumblr Blog

Oct 26, 2025

"LET'S GET OUT OF HERE."

SYNOPSIS: Five men. Five worlds. One line twisting into something new.

Featuring: CEO!Zayne, Idol!Rafayel, Criminal!Caleb, MobBoss!Sylus, Demon!Xavier

Content Warnings: MDNI, explicit smut, author is an AU/ world building ho3, power play, praise kink, pet play, pet names, biting, overstimulation, creampie, face-fucking, fingering, oral (receiving + giving), Xavier is a soft-spoken menace, mirror stuff, voyeuristic elements, rough/tender sex, cŭm play– like a lot of cŭm, I'm sorry...

A/n: I've gotten into the routine of practicing my smut writing with one prompt on all the guys, and I kinda ran with this one... This shit is like 10k words altogether so buckle up, keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times, and mind the puddle.

*places wet floor sign down*

Polish and restraint snap under fluorescent light, turning a boardroom obscene.

The conference room was a terrarium of power: filtered air, stone floors swallowing footsteps, a table so polished it reflected every move. Beyond the glass the city glimmered, traffic sliding between cranes under an evening sun. The projector hummed as the quarterly deck danced its charts; coffee smelled thin and bitter.

Zayne ruled the head of the table like gravity– jacket tastefully undone, cufflinks flashing, listening with the stillness of a blade. You sat one chair down, perfectly placed for “innocent” proximity. Your perfume threaded through the vents, citrus and skin. The pen in your hand looked harmless; the way you slid it between your lips did not.

He kept his eyes on a bar chart, but a muscle ticked in his jaw, pulse hammering under skin. The board droned about headwinds. You shifted, silk whispering, crossing your legs with slow grace, leaning forward so your blouse dipped, cleavage mirrored darkly in the lacquered table.

His fingers flattened on the armrest, then stilled. He sipped water he didn’t need. When Finance asked a question, he answered in that knife-edge calm that made men reconsider their forecasts. He didn’t look at you while he cut others with words. He didn’t look at the shine on your lip where the pen had been.

You traced figure-eights on your notepad; the motion travelled into the table and into him. He valued discipline because his body wanted riot. Your knee brushed his under the table– accident enough for plausible deniability, contact enough to burn.

After three heartbeats his hand found your wrist beneath the table and held it. Not a squeeze, a claim. Warm palm, thumb on your pulse like a signature. His gaze stayed on the slides as he said, “Show me the sensitivity if Q4 demand softens two points.” The room heard the words; you felt the pressure. He pressed once, then released.

You didn’t bother pretending your pen hadn’t become a mouthpiece. He didn’t pretend you hadn’t turned the air into solvent. Passing him a sheet, you let the edge graze his wrist. His skin flinched a fraction, but he still didn’t look at you.

You breathed, obscene in its volume because you knew what it did to him. He adjusted his tie– small, unforgivable– while asking a hyper-specific question that made a VP stumble. The sun bruised itself purple against the skyline; fluorescent light took over.

By the final slide, the room had learned to breathe again. Papers collected. Chairs exhaled. Zayne remained immaculate. No one knew about the ghost of your wrist under his palm, the heat of his restraint turned into a promise.

The projector clicked off. Silence reset. He didn’t dismiss them yet– not because he needed another number, but because he wanted a few more seconds pressing down on your skin. Head bowed over your notes, lips parted on a breath that tasted of ink and expectation, you felt his attention at the base of your skull.

The burn you’ve been laying down doesn’t just simmer. It coils. It thickens. By the end of that meeting, the air itself is slick with it. You feel it when the last page turns, when the last polite laugh dies, when the last chair scuffs back from the table.

The second the door clicks shut, he doesn’t dismiss you with words. He dismisses gravity.

His chair scraped back with force, and before you could even straighten your skirt his hand was on your wrist again, dragging you across the gleaming surface of the table. The impact rattled pens and knocked over a half-drained glass of water that spread into someone’s printouts.

You barely got out a gasp before his mouth was on yours– hot, bruising, desperate. Not the careful peck of a man with witnesses. The kiss of someone who’d been starving through an entire meeting, force-feeding himself numbers when all he wanted was you.

Buttons flew. Your blouse tore at the seam with a sound that made your heart leap, your bra tugged down so your breasts spilled into his hands. He groaned into your mouth like he was angry with himself for waiting.

“Thought you were clever,” he rasped against your throat, teeth scraping the delicate skin before biting down hard enough you knew it would bloom purple tomorrow. “Sitting there with that pen in your mouth, tits pressed together like you didn’t know I was watching.”

His mouth clamps down on one nipple, teeth dragging, while his hand slaps the other breast making it redden, squeezing hard enough you cry out against the room’s silence.

“Quiet,” he hisses, though the order is ruined by the ragged sound of his own breathing. “Do you want them to come back in and see you like this? Legs spread on my table, dripping all over quarterly revenue?”

You whimpered, high and needy. His hand slid down your thigh, pushing your skirt up in one rough shove until fabric bunched at your hips. He didn’t bother with finesse– panties ripped off, their scraps slipped in his pocket, cock freed with a low, vicious sound as his zipper hissed open.

“Think you can sit there– ” he snarls against your jaw, sliding himself through your slick, “– putting that pen to your mouth– ” his hand presses your jaw open, thumb sliding over your tongue, “– acting like you don’t know what it does to me?”

The first thrust stole your breath. He bottomed out in one brutal stroke, the slap of skin echoing in the glass box like a gunshot. Your head tipped back, cheek squeaking against the polished table, papers crumpling under your shoulders.

He set a pace that bordered on savage– hips snapping forward, every slam punctuated by the clatter of pens rolling, water dripping, quarterly revenue soaking through your blouse. His hand pressed flat between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, the other gripping your hair tight enough to sting.

“You wanted this?” he growled, fucking you so hard the table groaned. “Wanted me to ruin you where they all sat?”

Your reply was a cry muffled behind your palm, wet and obscene. He snarled, hips grinding deep as his thumb found your clit, circling with ruthless precision. “Answer me.”

“Yes!” you gasped, voice breaking. “Yes, Zayne– fuck– yes.”

He chuckled darkly, teeth dragging your ear. “Good girl.”

Your bra slid back in place and he yanked the whole thing low so your tits bounced freely with every thrust.

He pulled out, dragging his cock along your slit, smearing your slick with his crown, then shoved back in, deeper, harder, groaning like he’d found home.

You clawed crescents into his forearms. He didn’t care. He hooked your leg over his shoulder and fucked you at a spot that made your scream tear straight from your chest. “That’s it,” he panted, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your neck. “You want me ruining you right here, don’t you? Let everyone know who you belong to.”

Your moan answers him. He grins, feral. “That’s what I thought.”

He doesn’t just fuck you; he rewrites you. Fingers pinning your thighs open, his rhythm merciless. His thumb circles your clit until you’re keening.

You came hard, thighs trembling, nails clawing at the lacquered surface. He didn’t stop. He chased you through it, hips still slamming, thumb relentless, dragging another orgasm out of you until your scream pitched so high it bounced back from the glass walls.

The city glittered outside, oblivious. Inside, you were a mess– sweat-slick, flushed, clothes bunched, papers sticking to your back.

He keeps going, keeps grinding into you, using the slick he’s pulled from you to pound harder, deeper, his teeth bared in something that’s not quite a smile.

When he comes, it’s violent– he buries himself to the hilt, groaning as he pumps you full. He pulls out watching it leak out of your cunt onto the polished table, then pushes two fingers inside to stuff it back in, his gaze sharp and feral.

“Messy girl,” he muttered, smearing slick up your folds. Then those same fingers pressed against your lips. “Clean it.”

You sucked them obediently, eyes watering, tasting salt and musk while his cock rubbed against your thigh, already hardening again.

He flipped you over, dragging you by the hips until your ass perched on the table’s edge. He drove into you at a new angle, so deep your vision blurred, his pace brutal, unrelenting. His tie swung against your throat as he bent low, biting and kissing, hips hammering until the table legs squealed against the floor.

You lost count of your orgasms. Each one bled into the next, a haze of overstimulation, his thumb on your clit, his cock bruising your insides, his growls against your skin. You were nothing but sound and sweat and cum dripping over the lacquer.

At last, when he’d wrung you out until you were trembling and soaked, he slowed. Pressed his forehead to yours. His hand enclosed your wrist again, gentler now, as if to remind you that the pulse there had belonged to him all night.

You could now hear the squeaky wheels from the janitor's cart in the hallway, as your heartbeat quieted.

"Come on," His voice was hoarse, ragged, but steady when he finally whispered the only words left in him:

“Let’s get out of here.”

Thousands of voices scream his name, but only one leaves him wrecked backstage.

The arena was a living engine. Forty thousand bodies surging, lights boiling across them like oceans of gold.

Rafayel prowled the stage like he owned every atom in the place. Confetti caught the spotlights and scattered them back like galaxies collapsing around him. His jacket hung half-off one arm, shirt plastered to his skin, eyeliner running in sharp streaks from sweat. He sang into the mic as if it were a vein he could bleed into.

He was everywhere at once. His face towered on the jumbotrons, a diety rendered in pixels. He spat champagne across the pit and it rained down in shining arcs; he let fans claw at his boots when he leaned down to the barricade.

And then– his eyes found you. Out of thousands, tens of thousands, in that boiling sea of mouths and hands– he pinned you. His gaze didn’t skip. It stayed. Every lyric bent crooked toward you. Every smirk pulled at your stomach like he was sliding a hook into it.

The crowd screamed his name.

But the way he looked at you felt like he’d just whispered it, privately, in your ear.

Then the lights cut. Darkness swallowed the stage, leaving only the echo of his name bouncing off steel beams. He bowed once, lazy and devastating, and slipped into the wings.

Backstage was a second storm. Roadies shouted into radios, cords coiled like serpents across the floor, stagehands rolled black cases bigger than coffins. The roar of the crowd still poured through the walls, a relentless ocean. Rafayel moved through it all untouched. Assistants clung to his orbit like satellites, one throwing a towel over his shoulders, another pressing a water bottle into his palm. He didn’t drink. He didn’t even look at them. His gaze was already searching, already burning toward where handlers were herding VIP fans into the lounge.

The velvet-roped room was a circus of its own. Branded cocktails sweating on trays, neon signage buzzing overhead, handlers pacing the carpet while fans clutched posters and albums like offerings. Rafayel played the part with merciless perfection. Every flash of the camera hit his good side, every hug draped with charismatic ease, every autograph signed like a blessing. They screamed when his lips brushed their cheeks. They sobbed when his arm curled around their shoulders.

But between flashes, between bodies pressed against him, his eyes kept sliding back to you in the line.

And when it was finally your turn, the entire act cracked.

He opened his arms, his smile dazzling, leather sleeve brushing your cheek as you folded into his chest. The flash popped. His hand settled at your waist. But your palm slid lower between you, cupping him through his pants.

He stuttered. Not visibly, not to anyone else– but you felt it. The twitch of his hips, the sharp inhale he buried in your hair. The camera caught only his grin. The handler barked for you to move on.

Instead, you tipped your lips to his ear, brushing the shell as though whispering something sweet for the photograph.

“Let’s get out of here.”

The flash popped again, freezing his fallen smirk. His jaw tightened. With a single, lazy flick of his hand, he waved off the handler. Gasps rippled through the line. Fans groaned in protest, thinking your luck was meant to be theirs.

Rafayel’s hand clamped at your waist, firm, insistent, pulling you past catering tables, dressing doors, flight cases scrawled with chalk. His stride was long, unbroken. Voices called his name behind you– handlers, security– but he didn’t turn.

You stumbled once. His grip only tightened, steering you through the warren of concrete until he shouldered a door open and dragged you inside.

The slam cut the world off.

The dressing room was bright and sterile, lined with mirror-bulbs buzzing faintly. Makeup kits cluttered the counters. Bouquets leaned wilted against the mirrored walls, water bottles lined in neat rows. The roar outside dulled here, a heartbeat you could still feel in the floor.

Rafayel stopped at the dressing table mirror. His chest heaved. Glitter still clung to his cheekbones, eyeliner streaking black down his cheeks, hair damp with sweat. For a moment he just stared at his reflection– the glitter, the smirk still ghosting his lips– then he sagged into the chair with a sharp exhale.

“Just... give me a minute.”

He grabbed a wipe. Dragged it down his cheek. Black smeared across pale skin. The star peeled away in streaks of silver and ash, and beneath it was something rawer, softer– a man carved into a god and left hollow after worship.

You didn’t say anything. You sank back into the low couch instead, tugged your skirt up, and spread your thighs wide. Your fingers found heat easily, stroking slow, slick already, the sound carrying in the quiet like a secret too loud.

He froze.

His gaze caught yours in the mirror. Wide-eyed. Breath shuddering.

Your fingers circled your clit, back arching, your eyes locked on him through the glass. His chest rose, fell. The wipe crumpled to the floor.

Slowly, like a man walking off a cliff, he stood. His steps were hesitant at first, then quicker, until he stood between your knees. His throat worked once, his voice hoarse, uncertain but hungry.

“...m-may I?”

The words were stripped of stage-slick confidence, more regular man than idol.

You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned back into the couch, legs spreading wider, fingers sliding down to show him how wet you already were.

His breath hitched. Then he dropped to his knees like prayer.

He dragged your thighs over his shoulders and buried his mouth between your legs. No hesitation now. Just hunger. His tongue was warm and wide, lapping you open, groaning like every taste was his first sip of water after fire. His nose pressed into your clit as he devoured you.

You gasped, one hand braced against the arm of the chair, the other in his damp hair. He moaned against your pussy, the sound vibrating through your cunt until you were grinding helplessly on his face.

“Mm–fuck, Rafayel,” you hissed, head tipping back.

The mirror caught everything– your flushed face, your spread thighs, his mouth working desperately at your pussy. You watched his eyes, wide and fever-bright, glancing up to catch your reflection as if to check you weren’t going to take this away from him.

You rolled your hips harder against him, riding his face. He groaned, arms banding tight around your thighs, pulling you down until you smothered him. His tongue shoved into you, his nose grinding your clit, your slick dripping down his chin. He choked on it, coughed, moaned again, louder this time, rutting against the floor like he was as desperate as you were.

Your orgasm tore through you, sharp and messy, thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, tongue relentless, sucking and swallowing until you were crying out, body shaking. He only broke away to gasp for air, face drenched, then dove back in with renewed hunger.

When you finally swatted at him, weak and overstimulated, he staggered back on his knees, panting. His lips glistened, chin dripping, slick streaked across his jaw. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and groaned, raw and wrecked:

“I'm sorry– fuck. You taste perfect.”

You didn’t need long to recover. You tugged him up by the collar, kissed him filthy, forced his slick tongue into your mouth so you tasted yourself. His moan vibrated against your lips.

By the time you pushed him back into the chair, he was shaking. His cock strained hard against his trousers, a dark wet patch spreading. He fumbled with his belt, his hands clumsy, and you slapped them away, freeing him yourself. His cock thudded heavily against his stomach, flushed red, precum dripping thick.

You straddled him, skirt bunched, rubbing your soaked cunt along his length until he was cursing into your mouth. Then you sank, inch by glorious inch, the stretch hot, his head rolling back with a groan that cracked the dressing room silence.

“Fuck—” his voice broke, his hands gripping your waist like he didn’t know whether to steady you or beg you to move.

You chose for him.

You rode him hard, bouncing on his cock, your ass smacking against his thighs, his moans spilling uncontrolled. He tried to keep quiet– mumbling something about handlers prowling the halls– but when you clenched around him, when your nails dug into his shoulders, he couldn’t help it. He gasped your name like a confession.

You used it as fuel to your drive, your tits bouncing free from your skimpy top, moaning at the way his cock disappeared into you again and again.

The knock came sharp on the door. “Rafayel! Interview in five!”

He broke on a groan, burying his face in your breasts. “Fuck off!” he snarled, voice hoarse, hips snapping against yours with punishing force. The handler hesitated, footsteps retreating.

Rafayel grinned against your throat, wild and messy. “All yours now.”

He fucked up into you like he was making sure the whole arena could feel it, his teeth on your shoulder, hands bruising your hips, both your moans harmonizing in his dressing room.

Your rhythm on his cock turned frantic. But Rafayel wasn’t just content to be ridden. Not anymore. Something broke loose in him– the awe, the hesitation– and what came out was hunger sharpened to possession.

In a blur, he stood, cock still buried deep, dragging you with him with ease. You yelped, legs attempting to lock around his hips as he carried you across the room, and somehow spun you to end up chest-first on the cluttered dressing table. Makeup jars rattled, brushes clattered to the floor, and bottles tipped and rolled.

His fist twisted into your hair, yanking your head back until your gaze met his in the mirror. Sweat streaking his forehead, eyes fever-bright. He tugged, hard, arching your spine so he could watch every inch of his cock disappear into you.

“Mmm, just look at you,” he snarled, hips slamming forward, driving into you over and over. “Fucking yourself stupid on my cock. Do you see it?”

You did. The sight of it undid you– his cock stretching you, your pussy swallowing him, your tits bouncing with the force of him. He yanked your hair again, teeth grazing your shoulder as his thrusts turned merciless, ramming so deep the glass shook in its frame.

You moaned wantonly and he let go of your hip long enough to smear his thumb against your clit, circling ruthlessly until your knees buckled.

“Stay up,” he growled, jerking your head back tighter. “I want you watching when you fall apart.”

As if on command, you came hard, cunt spasming around him. Rafayel’s eyes never left yours. He fucked you through it, hips jackhammering, the dressing table squealing against the floor.

His rhythm faltered– once, twice– then snapped. He buried himself to the hilt, cock swelling, and came with a groan so guttural you thought he was animal. Hot, thick spurts flooded you, his cum spilling past your folds, slicking your thighs and dripping onto the strewn choas below.

He held you there, bent over the table, his fist still curled in your hair, panting. His hips gave one last grind, spilling the last of his release into you.

Rafayel lifted his head from your neck, and looked at himself in the glass– eyeliner smeared, glitter stuck to his damp skin, lips swollen from kissing you. For the first time all night, the stage-god was gone. Only the man remained.

“Thousands screaming,” he rasped, voice hoarse, eyes fixed on yours in the mirror. “And not one of them knows me.”

He kissed your temple, tender where everything else had been brutal. His whisper burned like a confession.

“Only you.”

Blueprints fade, adrenaline burns. The only score that matters is you in his lap.

The museum never slept. Even in darkness it glowed faintly– marble floors polished to a sheen, skylights spilling the silver of a swollen moon, display cases lit from within like reliquaries. Silence wasn’t silence here; it was the low hum of security cameras pivoting, the occasional click of a laser sensor sweeping.

And Caleb moved through it like it was his second skin.

Black gloves tight on his hands, shirt rolled just enough to show veins at his forearms, harness hugging his chest. His smile was the only reckless thing about him. He glided, each step calculated, each pause deliberate.

He wasn’t supposed to have company.

Yet here you were– crouched behind a pillar. He caught your eye and grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dark, the kind of grin that promised trouble but also that he’s already thought ten steps ahead of it.

“Keep up,” he mouthed.

You did. Through halls lined with oil paintings of dead men, past pedestals where vases older than modernity glittered under pale light. He slipped through the red lattice of laser sensors like water, then reached back a hand for you. His fingers closed around your wrist, tugging you after him with unshakable certainty.

The vault was a beast. Steel thicker than walls, keypad glowing. Caleb cracked it with a hum under his breath, not even breaking stride. The door groaned open, revealing rows of glittering jewels and fat stacks of cash that smelled faintly of ink and sin.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” His voice was a purr now, low and playful, as you both bagged what you could. “But I’ve got my eye on something better.”

His eyes flicked to you.

That was when the alarms started.

Red light strobed the corridor, sirens tearing the night apart. Caleb didn’t flinch. He just laughed, reckless and alive, and grabbed your hand again. His harness creaked as he pulled you against him, body heat slamming into yours, his mouth brushing your ear as he shouted over the wail:

“Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

The sprint through the museum blurred– marble flashing underfoot, alarms blaring, his grip iron around your wrist. You stumbled once, almost slipping, and his arm cinched your waist, dragging you flush to him as you kept running. He was laughing, sharp and breathless, like this was the best game in the world.

Out through a side exit, down a staircase that stank of bleach and old stone. Sirens wailed somewhere above, but Caleb’s grip never loosened on your wrist, tugging you faster.

You burst into the alley– moonlight slicing across dumpsters, the getaway car crouched behind them like a predator. He yanked the door open, shoved you and the loot bags inside, and slid in after. Tires screamed as he dropped the clutch, the car fishtailing once before he tore down a narrow street.

The city fell away behind you. Sirens blurred into nothing, red and blue dying out in the rearview. Caleb drove with one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting against the gearshift, black gloves gleaming faintly in the dash lights. His grin never quite faded, toothy and satisfied, like the whole night had bent the way he wanted it to.

When the car finally rolled into the safehouse garage– an unmarked warehouse with metal shutters and shadows thick as velvet– he killed the engine. Silence dropped, broken only by the tick of the cooling hood. For a moment, you both just breathed.

Inside, the space was cluttered but lived-in: maps pinned to walls, empty mugs, clothing piles and coiled rope stacked like mismatched trophies. Caleb peeled off his gloves with his teeth, tossing them aside as he sat down at the scarred wooden table. He was already reaching for a notebook, flipping it open to scrawl figures and notes– the next move forming in real time under his pen.

The shift was seamless: thief to tactician, adrenaline to calculation. That was Caleb.

You watched him for a moment, the way his jaw flexed when he chewed the end of the pen, the way his hair fell across his brow, sweat still drying on his temples. He was already talking, low and practical:

“If we stash half in the north lockup and fence the rest through the usual channel, we can–”

You crossed the room before he finished. Sliding onto his lap, your weight sinking against his thighs, cutting off his train of thought.

His pen stilled. His hand, still holding the notebook, hovered midair.

“We can… do this and this,” you murmured, your lips brushing his jaw as you traced kisses along the sharp line of it.

His throat bobbed. He tried for composure, muttering, “I'm trying to work, love,” but the words broke on a groan when you nipped his neck.

The notebook slid forgotten to the table. His hands finally came to life, gripping your waist, tugging you closer until you straddled him fully. You kissed along his jaw, his cheek, his mouth– slow at first, then deeper when his groan turned into a growl.

Caleb kissed you back like he stole, tongue hot and insistent, his teeth catching your lip as if he couldn’t help himself. His hand slid up under your shirt, palm warm against your skin.

“Really?” he teased, voice rough, lips brushing your ear. “Can’t even let me finish my figures?”

You rocked against him harder, slick soaking through his pants, catching on the muscle of his thigh. His grin curved wickedly.

“–Fuck, I guess not.”

You kissed him again, swallowing his laugh, your fingers dragging down to unbuckle his belt. He caught your wrists halfway, eyes glinting. “Patience, sweetheart. You know a job’s no fun if you skip the setup.”

He caught your chin, kissed you deeply, and slid his fingers between your thighs.

"Fuck– no panties?"

"Pfft– you've stolen them all."

"Oh yeah...remind me to buy you more to steal."

He kissed you sweetly before his fingers found you again, teasing. He didn’t rush, even with your soft whimpered pleas. He dragged his knuckles along your slick folds first, slow circles that made you tremble, a thief testing the tumblers before he tries the key. He pressed against your clit just hard enough to make you gasp, then drew back, then pressed again, watching your mouth fall open.

“Easy,” he murmured against your lips. “Let me feel you first.”

He stroked you until your hips rolled on their own, circling your clit with his thumb while he teased your entrance with two fingers, sliding them just a little way in, pulling them out slick, dragging them up to rub you again. Only when you whined did he finally sink them in properly, curling them up, slow and sure, coaxing your body to open around him. He thumbed your clit in lazy, perfect circles while his fingers scissored inside you, stretching, stroking until you were shaking and clutching his shoulders.

“Yeah…” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth as you broke. “Just like that. Open for me, sweetheart.”

You came sharp and wet around his fingers, hips jerking, slick dripping down his wrist. He pulled his fingers free, sucked them clean with a grin, and murmured: “Perfect score.”

By then his cock was heavy against his stomach. You straddled him, guiding him to your entrance, and for a heartbeat you just held him there, tip nudging your slick folds, both of you panting. He cupped the back of your neck, eyes locked on yours.

“Breathe with me,” he said softly.

You sank down slow, inch by thick inch, until you were filled to the hilt. The stretch stole your breath. He exhaled a low hum, almost a moan, watching himself disappear inside you. His hands slid to your hips, thumbs drawing slow circles, his head tipping back as he groaned.

“Look at you…” he murmured, voice reverent now, not teasing. “Taking all of me. Fuck.”

You sat there together, chests pressed, his cock pulsing inside you, the world outside the safehouse gone for a moment. Just heat and skin and breath. A swollen pause in the chaos.

Then you rolled your hips. His grip tightened, both of you moaning into each other’s mouths. He kissed you like forever, tongue sliding deep, hands gripping your ass to help you start to ride him.

“Mine,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You and me– every job, every haul, every fucking thing. Together, yeah?”

“Together,” you gasped, hips bouncing in full force now, your cunt milking him.

The table rattled behind you, maps sliding, stolen jewels glinting in piles. His thrusts got rougher, snapping up into you until your screams filled the safehouse. You clung to him, sweat and slick everywhere, and when you both came it was messy, desperate– his cock pumping you full, your release spilling hot down his thighs.

The room went silent but for your breathing. His arms stayed tight around you, his grin softer now, almost reverent. “Forever,” he whispered, kissing your temple.

You were still trembling around him, his cock starting to soften inside you when the door slammed open.

Red-and-blue lights stuttered across the room. Flashlights blinded you, guns loaded. Shouted voices filled the air: “Police! Don’t move!”

Caleb groaned, still buried inside you, still holding you close. His laugh was sharp and breathless against your ear.

“Timing’s perfect, boys,” he muttered, then kissed you again anyway– deep, filthy, like even the cops couldn’t take this from him.

Your world dissolves into chaos. Leash pulled tight, he takes what’s his.

The ring was never clean. Concrete floor sticky with old blood, cages rattling with every punch, smoke curling so thick it blurred the lights overhead. The crowd roared around it: gold chains flashing, fur coats brushing, thick hands gripping leash chains where women knelt in their masters’ laps. Pets, toys, ornaments– the underground bosses displayed them like jewelry, and bet on them like currency. A way to show dominance among the heads of syndicates.

You were one of them.

Tonight, you were fighting.

Your collar gleamed under the spotlights as your boss tugged your leash and shoved you toward the ring. You knew the rules: no refusal, no mercy. You fought because they told you to fight. You fought because losing meant worse.

Across the ring, Sylus’s pet was already waiting. Pretty thing, trained and broken in all the right ways, her body trembling under the weight of expectation. Sylus leaned on the cage wall, shirt open and streaked with someone else’s blood, silver hair falling into his smirk. His eyes cut across the pit to you, and you felt it: the measuring, the weighing.

The bell rang.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t supposed to be. You fought like survival, teeth bared, nails and fists and knees. His girl lasted longer than she should have, but when she finally crumpled under your heel, gasping, Sylus was already on his feet.

The crowd went feral. Bets changed hands, bills slapped against palms, voices shouting. Sylus vaulted the cage wall in one easy swing, crouched over his broken pet with a smile that was all teeth. He stroked her hair once– almost tender– before looking up at your boss.

“Compensation,” he drawled, voice carrying over the roar. “You let your doll put mine into early retirement. I want a trade.”

Your boss laughed, ugly and sharp. “And what do you propose?”

Sylus’s eyes flicked to you again, then back. “I want her.”

The crowd hissed. Your boss’s grip on your leash tightened, yanking you hard enough you stumbled to your knees. “Not a chance,” he snarled. “She’s our pride. Our crown. You think we’d hand over our toy because you can’t keep yours in one piece?”

Sylus’s smile widened. It wasn’t mirth. It was promise. He stood up, cracking his knuckles, “Then I’ll take her.”

The fight wasn’t sanctioned, but no one tried to stop it. They all knew better. Bosses shouted, guns half-raised, but Sylus was already moving.

Your boss swung first, heavy and brutal.

Sylus ducked, laughed, slamming an elbow into his ribs. They crashed into the cage, rattling metal, the crowd scattering back in shouts and curses. Blood sprayed. Glass shattered. The music cut, leaving only the grunts of the fight to fill the room.

Your boss went down hard, gasping, his hand scrabbling at the leash chain still tethered to your collar. Sylus kicked him once, sharp, and the hand fell limp.

Silence swallowed the pit. The only sound was your pulse hammering in your ears.

Sylus bent, plucked the chain from your boss’s slack grip, and gave it a testing tug. Your throat bobbed against the collar.

He turned toward the exit, leash chain wrapped casually in his fist, and you scrambled to follow. The crowd parted without being told, eyes averted, the stink of fear rising like smoke.

At the curb, a black limo idled, engine purring low. The driver jumped at the sight of Sylus, hurried to open the door. Sylus gave him that same lazy smirk, silver hair damp with sweat, knuckles split and bleeding.

“Let’s get out of here.”

The door thudded shut behind you, cutting off the chaos outside. Inside the limo it was velvet quiet– leather seats swallowing sound, tinted glass closing out the ring’s smoke and noise. The hum of the engine vibrated faintly under your thighs as the car rolled into motion.

Sylus lounged against the seat like he owned the night. His shirt hung open, collar torn, blood streaking across his chest and forearms in dark smears. He looked wrecked and radiant, the kind of man who wore violence like cologne.

The leash chain was still in his hand. He didn’t tug it. The weight of it on your collar was enough– a reminder that you were tethered, chosen, claimed in front of everyone.

His eyes roamed slow. Down your throat where the collar bit. Across your bare knees where you sat prim and trembling. To your hands, clenched in your lap like you might steady yourself if you held tight enough.

He didn’t speak. He just watched.

The silence pressed heavier than any command. You shifted once, thighs rubbing together. His mouth twitched into a smirk. Still, he said nothing.

The longer he stared, the hotter your skin burned. You could feel yourself squirming, arching your back a little, tugging faintly at the chain in his fist without meaning to. Your breath picked up, shallow, obvious in the quiet.

Finally, he leaned forward. The leather creaked under his weight. His knuckles brushed your jaw– split skin, sticky with drying blood. He tilted your face toward his, making you look at him.

“Pretty little thing,” he murmured, voice low, rough with amusement. “Not used to being stared at, huh?”

His thumb dragged across your lip, smearing a faint streak of someone else’s blood. His grin widened. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna look at you a lot.”

He leaned back again, leash still loose in his fist, smirk settled like a blade between you. The ride stretched on, heavy with his gaze, every second turning the air thicker, your body hotter, until you weren’t sure if you wanted to crawl into his lap or bolt for the door.

Then he tapped his thigh with two fingers. “C’mere.”

The leash clinked as you moved, knees sinking into the leather between his spread legs. His blood-smudged hand gripped your jaw, thumb dragging over your bottom lip until it gave, until your mouth opened for him.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said, low, amused.

His cock was already thick in his hand, flushed dark, the head leaking. He smeared precum across your parted lips before sliding in slowly, watching your mouth stretch. His groan was a deep, satisfied sound.

“Mm. Better already,” he muttered, thumb stroking your cheek as you hollowed it. “She never took me this sweet. Always too much teeth. But you—fuck.”

He fed himself deeper, the weight of him pressing the back of your throat. His other hand threaded into your hair, guiding you down until your nose brushed his abdomen. He held you there for a beat, savoring the tight squeeze of your throat, then pulled you up with a wet gasp.

“Look at that,” he praised, grinning down at the spit slicking your lips, the string of drool stretching to your chin. “Taking me like you were made for it.”

He pushed your head back down and you moaned around him, swallowing, and he chuckled, hips rolling sharper. The rhythm built fast– from testing thrusts to something rougher, urgent. Soon it was less you sucking him than him using your mouth, fucking into your throat with a growl as the chain rattled in his fist.

“Good girl,” he rasped, voice ragged. “Better than my last bitch ever was. She screamed too much. You just–fuck–” He groaned, shoving deep until your vision spotted. “–you sing for me.”

Your throat convulsed around him, drool spilling onto your chest, and he groaned louder, hips stuttering. But just when the heat sharpened, when his cock twitched heavy against your tongue, his grip tightened in your hair and yanked you off with a wet, brutal pop.

His cock slapped against your chin, smeared with spit and precum. He tipped your head back, thumb rubbing your swollen lips, his grin feral.

“Not yet.” His voice was velvet over gravel. “We’re home.”

The limo rolled to a stop. He tucked himself back into his pants with unhurried calm, then leaned down, pressing his mouth to your ear.

“Inside,” he murmured, tugging your leash just enough to make your heart lurch. “Then I’ll really break you in.”

The driver opened the door, head bowed. Sylus stepped out first, tugging your chain so you followed. The weight of his hand on the leash was enough to guide you across marble steps, through the carved double doors, into a space that smelled faintly of leather and cedar.

The house was opulent– gold fixtures catching low light, velvet drapes spilling across floor-to-ceiling windows, art on the walls that you knew had been stolen. None of it mattered. His gaze was still on you, the leash slack in his hand but the collar heavy at your throat.

“Bathroom,” he said simply, tugging you down a hall.

The bathroom was a cathedral of stone and glass. Mirrors tall enough to swallow you whole, a shower with rainfall heads that glittered under recessed light.

He let the chain slip free, then peeled your clothes off with surprising gentleness, each piece folded into a careless heap. You waited for roughness– the same blood-slick man who’d claimed you in the ring– but instead he guided you under the steaming spray, hands steady on your hips.

Water sheeted down your body. Sylus stepped in after you, his own clothes discarded, his scars and scratches streaked clean under the cascade. His palms dragged slow over your skin, washing away grime and sweat with soap and patience. He scrubbed your shoulders, your arms, even your legs, down to your calves, pausing to press kisses against clean skin as though he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, lathering your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp until you leaned into it. “I take care of what’s mine.”

The blood was gone. The grit washed down the drain. By the time he wrapped you in a thick towel, you were trembling for reasons that had nothing to do with cold.

He scooped you up easily, carrying you through the halls into a bedroom that could’ve belonged to royalty. Heavy curtains, silk sheets, candles flickering in gold sconces. He laid you in the center of the bed, towel falling open around you, then climbed over you on his knees.

No audience now. No cage. No roar of the crowd. Just Sylus– his hair damp, his grin softer, calling you sweet things as he kissed your throat and pressed his cock against your slick folds.

The push in wasn’t feral. It was slow, measured, his hand stroking down your side as he eased in. He groaned into your neck, breath shuddering, then whispered:

“Sing for me, kitten. Let me hear you.”

His thrusts were unhurried. Each one sank in a little deeper, his palms sliding over your hips to keep you spread open under him. The collar lay cool against your throat, the leash trailing off the bed like a forgotten ribbon. He kissed your mouth between strokes, tongue slow, a low rumble in his chest.

“Good kitten,” he murmured, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “That’s it… stay soft for me.”

You arched beneath him, thighs falling wider, letting him rock into you until the pace blurred into something hypnotic. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes hooded, whispering praise every time you whimpered: sweet girl… mine now… perfect little kitten.

When you came it was a quiet shudder, your nails curling against his shoulders, his cock still moving inside you as he coaxed the tremors out with gentle rolls of his hips. He held you through it, one hand stroking the back of your neck, the other rubbing circles on your hip.

Then he pulled out, slick and hard, and slid down the bed. His hands gripped your thighs and pushed them open until your knees framed his shoulders. He didn’t rush. He nosed along your inner thigh, tongue flicking up the edge of the towel, and then finally pressed his mouth to your swollen folds.

He ate you like he was learning you– long, slow strokes of his tongue, a soft growl when you gasped, thumbs stroking your hips in time with his mouth. Every time you tried to squirm away he pinned you back down, murmuring, “Easy, kitten. Stay right here.”

You melted under him, pliant, obedient, your thighs trembling. It made him groan into you, his hunger growing as he tasted how docile you’d become. “That’s it,” he breathed against your clit. “Such a good little pet for me…” He lapped harder, nose pressed to your mound, drinking you down until your hips jerked and you came on his tongue, whimpering his name.

When you finally blinked up at him, dazed, his gaze was almost adoring. His wet chin glistened in the candlelight. Sylus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then hooked a finger under the collar at your throat and tugged you up the bed.

“Now,” he said, voice gone rougher, “you’re ready for your master.”

He flipped you onto your hands and knees in one smooth motion, leash chain gathered in his fist. This time his movements were claiming. He bent over your back, kissed the nape of your neck, then dragged his cock along your slit and pushed in with a groan.

“Mine,” he growled, rolling his hips until you gasped. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you whispered, shaking under him.

“Good kitten,” he said.

The leash tightened in his fist, arching your spine perfectly for him. Each thrust landed deeper, sharper, the slap of skin echoing in the velvet hush of his room. His breath broke in low growls against your shoulder, hips grinding until the bed creaked beneath you.

“You take me so well,” he rasped, cock sliding wet and thick inside you. “Perfect little cunt. Made to be filled.”

Your body answered in shakes and whimpers, every nerve strung taut under his control. He held you steady by the collar, tugging when your arms trembled, forcing you to stay open for him. His other hand rubbed ruthless circles on your clit, pushing you closer, closer– until you shattered, screaming into the mattress, cunt clamping tight around him.

He didn’t slow. If anything, your orgasm lit him on fire. He fucked you through it, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his spine. “That’s it, kitten… milk me. Show me who you belong to.”

Your body convulsed with aftershocks, but he kept pounding, the leash biting just enough to make your walls spasm around his cock. His thrusts grew erratic, harsher, until he buried himself to the hilt and let out a guttural roar. Heat spilled inside you, thick pulses flooding your cunt, his hips grinding to push it deeper.

He stayed there, locked inside you, chest pressed to your back, panting against your ear. His hand loosened on the leash, stroking your hair now, voice a wrecked purr.

“Good kitten,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “You’re mine now. Every drop is for you.”

When he finally pulled back, his cock slid out slowly, your cunt clenching around the loss. He watched his spend leak down your thighs, then dragged two fingers up through the mess and pressed them back inside you with a groan.

“Hold it for me,” he murmured, tucking you against his chest as he rolled you onto your side. “We’ll go again later. For now– just let it stay where it belongs.”

The bass drops. His gaze pins. When he moves, the crowd parts– and you’re not walking out the same.

The club wasn’t built for just mortals. It was built for appetite.

Strobe lights cut the dark into jagged frames, each flash catching the sweat on moving bodies, the gleam of sequins, the spill of cocktails left to swelter on glass ledges. The bass lived in the floorboards, thumping up through heels and calves until every dancer moved as one organism, hips rolling, mouths open, until the air itself tasted decadent.

Xavier sat apart, perched on a high stool at the edge of the dance floor, drink untouched at his elbow. He looked perfectly carved for this environment– dark suit, silver chain catching the occasional pulse of light in every strobe. But it wasn’t human beauty that marked him. It was the weight in the air around him. People drifted away without realizing, their bodies making room as though the gravity near him pushed too hard. You felt him before you saw him, like a storm front pressing down on your skin.

And you danced in the middle of it: back arched, skirt clinging, head tossed just enough to be deemed carefree. Every sway of your hips was an invitation you didn’t extend to anyone else. You knew where his gaze burned; you could feel it tracing over your spine like heat, sliding down to the place your thighs brushed.

The DJ shifted tracks, bassline diving low, and someone slid up behind you, hands brushing your waist. You could tell it wasn't him, but you didn’t pull away immediately. You let them rest there, just long enough for Xavier to see it.

The stranger’s hands slid higher, fingertips grazing the edge of your ribs. The crowd pressed closer, sweaty bodies grinding to the drop. You rolled your hips, not for him, but for the weight of Xavier’s eyes across the room.

You didn’t see him stand, but you felt it.

Like pressure changing before a storm.

The stranger froze, confused, then disappeared– slipping sideways into the crowd without knowing why. The people nearest you shifted too, their dancing blurring, their laughter thinning. Something bigger was walking through them.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Xavier’s gaze burned across the floor like a spotlight.

Every strobe cut him into sharper relief: jaw clenched, tie loosened. Each step was silent, but you swore you felt the bass skip when his shoes hit the floorboards. People didn’t move out of his way so much as fold back, suddenly remembering they had other places to be. No one saw him for what he was, but they felt him. Predators are always recognized, even in denial.

By the time he reached you, the music might as well have stopped. His hand closed around your wrist, not bruising but absolute, his thumb pressing once into your pulse like a lock snapping shut.

He leaned down, voice low, hot against your ear, vibrating through your bones louder than the bass.

“Let’s get out of here.”

His grip was iron, but his pace unhurried, and you followed because there was no world in which you wouldn’t.

The crowd parted without knowing why. Bodies still swayed, drinks still spilled, but where he moved, space opened. No one looked directly at him, but every set of shoulders tensed until he had passed.

He pulled you through a door tucked behind a curtain, the kind you’d never have noticed if he hadn’t chosen it. The sound changed instantly– music dulled, laughter strangled, only the muffled pulse of bass bleeding through concrete. The air smelled different here: smoke ground into plaster, damp stone, the faint tang of iron.

The corridor was narrow, unfinished, lit by a single flickering bulb that cast long, sharp shadows across cinderblock walls.

He pressed you back into the cold surface before the door had even shut fully, the slam rattling its hinges. His body caged yours, heat radiating through his suit, the brush of leather and something else against your skin.

His hand still circled your wrist, pinning it to the wall beside your head. The other traced upward, dragging from the dip of your waist to the swell of your breast, slow enough to feel every tremor in your ribs.

He let his mouth hover, an inch from your throat, the heat of his breath prickling your skin. His tongue flicked out once, not even touching, just close enough you felt the phantom of it.

You shifted, arching toward him, but his body only pressed closer without giving what you wanted. His voice came as a murmur, low and dangerous:

“Look at you squirming. Biting that lip like you know what I am...”

He turned your chin with two fingers, forcing your confused gaze up into his. In the dim light his pupils burned gold, catching the bulb’s flicker until it seemed like the shadows bent toward him.

He smirked at your parted lips, at the tension in your thighs, and deliberately looked down the length of you– blouse damp with sweat, skirt clinging to your hips, the pulse fluttering at your throat.

“You wanted my eyes on you,” he murmured, thumb dragging across your bottom lip until you shuddered. “Now you’ve got them.”

He pressed his mouth to your ear, exhaling hot, the tip of his tongue tracing the shell while his hand slid beneath your skirt. His fingers caught the edge of your panties, tugging them down an inch, just enough to expose the heat he already knew was there. He inhaled like he was scenting you, growling faintly as his teeth that felt too sharp scraped your earlobe.

You whimpered and he laughed softly, the sound curling into your skin.

“Hungry little thing,” he said, voice silk over steel. “Maybe I’ll take my time.”

His hand slid higher under your skirt, tracing the inside of your thigh, until his fingers pressed against the damp heat between your legs. He froze.

“So wet already,” he murmured, dragging a fingertip up your slit and watching your body jolt. “Have you been dripping for me this whole time?”

Before you could answer, he shoved two fingers inside, the stretch sudden, curling them up until your knees buckled. His other hand caught your throat, pinning you against the wall while he worked your wet walls with slow, devastating precision. Every drag was angled to make you see stars, every twist calculated.

His eyes burned brighter at the wet, lewd noise your pussy made, his lips curling into a sharp smile as your breath broke into whimpers. He pumped faster, thumb pressing cruel circles over your clit until your body seized, orgasm crashing over you so hard the wall dug bruises into your spine.

He pulled his fingers free, slick glistening in the flicker of the bulb. He lifted them to his mouth without hesitation, sucking them clean, groaning like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. His head tipped back, eyes closing, and he muttered, almost angry:

“Dammit. You taste so sweet.”

Then his mouth was on yours, fingers gripping your jaw, kissing you hard enough to bruise. His tongue shoved between your lips, forcing you to taste yourself, his growl rumbling in your chest as he bit your bottom lip and licked the tang off it.

He dropped to his knees, hands dragging your skirt up, dragging your panties down. His mouth found you instantly, tongue broad and relentless, lapping at your soaked cunt like a starving thing. He devoured, tongue rolling your clit before it speared into you.

Your hands clutched at his hair, and his growls vibrated through your core. He spread you wider, his tongue sliding lower, hot and wet against the tight ring of your ass. You choked on a gasp as he licked you there too, obscene, unashamed, alternating between your pussy and your ass until you were writhing, crying out, another orgasm hitting sharp and messy across his tongue.

He groaned against you, drinking it down, his jaw slick with your release. He lapped until you trembled, until you had to shove at his shoulders weakly just to breathe.

When he finally rose, his shadow seemed to swell with him, stretching up the wall until it was no longer just a man standing there.

His wings– vast, skeletal, unmistakable– unfurled with a snap, filling the narrow corridor, their span blotting out the weak light. Shadows writhed, the walls groaned as if straining to hold him. His pupils burned gold, and when he looked down at you, sweat-slick and trembling, he smirked like the devil himself.

“Now you’re ready.”

His belt hit the floor. His cock was demon-thick, veined, and flushed dark, slapping heavily against your thigh. He shoved your wrists above your head, pinned there by one now clawed hand, while the other notched himself at your entrance.

The bite came first– sharp teeth sinking into your shoulder, cruel but claiming, the sting blooming heat through your whole body. Then he drove into you, one ferocious thrust that buried him to the hilt.

Your scream bounced off the walls. His wings flexed, claws digging into your thighs to hold you open as he fucked you, hard, relentless, every stroke deeper than you thought possible. Blood, sweat, and slick smeared between your bodies, his growls punctuating every thrust, his bite still throbbing on your skin.

His cock stretched you open to breaking, every inch thick, ridged, burning hot like iron fresh from the forge. The wall scraped your back as he drove you up against it, thrust after thrust bruising so deep you felt him in your lungs.

Your moans pitched high again, but his mouth swallowed them, his tongue forcing yours down as he bit and kissed you in the same breath. The taste of your slick was still heavy on his lips, salty-sweet, mixed with the copper tang of blood from his bite that marked you.

Claws raked lightly along your thighs, leaving stinging trails that made you jolt against him, your cunt tightening around his cock until he groaned against your mouth.

“Look at you,” he rasped, breaking the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours. “Dripping down my cock, begging for more, like you were made for this.”

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb grinding brutishly over your clit. You sobbed, arching, legs quaking as the next orgasm ripped through you, sharp and violent, your nails clawing his shoulders. He fucked you through it without slowing, wings flexing, hips snapping forward until your body convulsed helplessly around him.

“Too much?” he growled, though the glint in his eyes told you he knew you’d shake your head. And when you choked out a broken “no,” his grin turned feral.

He shifted your wrists into one hand, pinning them harder above your head, while the other spread your ass open. He thrust deeper, grinding against that spot inside you that made your whole body seize. His pace turned inhumane, punishing, your slick smeared down your thighs and dripping onto the floor.

Then he pulled nearly all the way out, leaving you gaping and empty, before slamming back in so hard your vision whited. Again. And again. Until your moans turned ragged, until your cunt spasmed around him in another shattering climax that left your throat raw.

You felt it before he said a word– the way his cock swelled, the way his growl turned beastly, the way his wings curled around you like a cage. He buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you with a guttural snarl, pumping so much heat into you it overflowed instantly, dripping down, slick and messy over the insides of your legs.

“Mmm good girl, took me so well,” he purred, still grinding inside you, his cock refusing to soften. “But we’re not finished.”

He pulled out slowly, the sound an obscene wet pop, cum rivulets running down your thighs. Before you could catch your breath, he dropped to his knees again, wings hunched around you like a cloak, and lapped at the mess he’d made. His cock twitched against your leg, still straining, even as his tongue pushed into you, devouring his own release mixed with yours, his growls vibrating through your cunt until you were shaking, crying out, pushed past every limit into overstimulation so sharp it bordered on pain.

You came again, harder, hips jerking against his mouth as he tongued your ass and pussy with equal hunger, drinking you until you were boneless against the wall. Only when you sobbed did he finally rise, his chin slick, his smirk ruinous.

He dragged you away from the wall and bent you over a stack of crates before slamming back into you from behind. Your moan echoed off the cinderblock, his claws gripping your hips so tight they drew blood. His wings spread wide now, the full span filling the corridor, and when he bent low to bite your neck again, you screamed so loud the bass in the club faltered under it.

“Your soul bends with your body,” he snarled against your skin, cock pounding deep enough to bruise your womb. “Swear it– who claims you?"

“I am yours,” you cried, voice broken and obedient.

That was his breaking point. He slammed in one final time, flooding you again, his seed spilling hot and endless, his wings cocooning you both in shadow. You collapsed forward onto the crates, shaking, cum dripping everywhere, your whole body trembling with overstimulation.

Xavier leaned over you, pressing his lips to the bite on your neck, voice low and wrecked.

“Perfect little human,” he murmured. “I think I'll take you with me.”

Thanks for reading <3

✦ STRWBRRY'S BULLETS

dividers(pink) by @uzmacchiato, pics by me

ulurudelulu

me @ this entire thing bc holy wow this is SCRUMPTIOUS

#lads smut #mdni #strwbrrymoonwrites #xavier lads #zayne x reader #sylus smut #xavier’s a freak and i fw it #idol rafayel save me!!!

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