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backtocarousel · 3 months ago

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( skz reaction ) how he makes you cum .ᐟ

🖇️📂 how skz go through the trenches to make you cum

genre: smut, minors dni, warnings: unprotected sex, oral (male and female receiving), fingering, degradation, semi-public sex, car sex, somnophilia, overstimulation, sub!hyunjin, note: this was completely self indulgent, just wanted an excuse to write about how big changbin and jisung have gotten 😮‍💨

방찬. BANG CHAN

gets such a kick out of making you cum while simultaneously refusing to give you his dick - you can beg, plead, throw all the tantrums you want, he won’t give in. he just wants to see you get all cute and desperate and greedy for his cock before he gives you it. absolutely loves how easy it is to get you off when you’re in this state and will have you drooling on him like a bitch in heat in no time with simply just his fingers and pretty praises, curling deep against your snug walls while cooing down at you, “you’re already so fucked out honey, haven’t even given you a taste of cock yet. think you can handle it?” all you can manage is a stupid little nod and whimper, hips grinding down to meet the thrusts of his fingers, cunt hungrily sucking them in and he just wishes it was his dick instead. chan truly loves to take his sweet time with you and can’t help but think you look soso pretty after he’s fucked you dumb on his fingers, pussy all sticky and stretched and just begging for him to bully his fat cock in. but he can be a tad cruel sometimes and honestly thinks its the funniest thing ever to ignore your gasped begs, a mean grin on his otherwise gentle face as his digits continue to spread you open, hardly giving his neglected dick a second thought.

calls you all the pretty names in the book - angel, sweetheart, honey - and they all sound a little too sweet falling from his lips when he’s abusing your little nub. really enjoys watching you work for your orgasm too, its no fun if he’s just gonna hand it to you!! lays between your legs and rubs his fat cockhead up and down your folds, drenching it in your warmth before accidentally fucking it in just an inch then pulling back again, eating up all the frustrated whines you let slip. but god, when he finally does push in and rips one last orgasm out of you its so worth it, and you can barely find it in yourself to care about the way he tormented your poor pussy earlier when he’s stretching you out real good, cock pumping into you so deep it has you slack jawed and teary eyed. fucks you through your orgasm, the familiar heat in your body traveling down in warm spurts of slick cum coating his dick. and he just can’t stop running his mouth when you’re clamping down on him, “that’s it baby, cum on my cock��god, this tight little pussy will be the death of me,” and, “pretty girl, you did so well for me.” he’s so pussy whipped. might even get nasty with it and bury his face between your thighs after, lapping up the mess of cum and sweat pooling onto your thighs. good luck prying him away <333

리노. LEE MINHO

a true menace at heart. his favourite way to make you cum is when you’re not even aware that it’s happening - you’ll be knocked out cold and you still won’t be safe from this sick, sick man. you couldn’t even count the amount of times you’ve woken up to him pumping into your cunt in the dead of night, shushing you back to sleep cause, “you’re okay sweetheart, just couldn’t stop thinking about your pretty pussy all night. just go back to sleep.” just can’t help himself. especially when he wakes up before you and you’re beside him looking all vulnerable and cute wrapped up in his sheets, legs looking so empty without his head between them and what’s a man to do? doesn’t even give it a second thought before he’s working his mouth against your cunt, testing how many orgasms he can pull from you before you catch on and finally wake up. can only bury his face further into the messy heaven that is your pussy when your sleepy whimpers perk his ears, brows furrowing in pleasure and pretty face all screwed up, mind toting on the line between sleep and the slick tongue working you up. such a tease and will pull away just to watch in amusement as your back arches slightly off the bed, hips subconsciously rutting up to chase after his mouth, missing the warmth and practically begging him to fuck his tongue deeper into your inviting pussy. and he’s so fucking mean to you that he’ll fucking laugh to himself, mumbling something about how much of a cock whore you are even when you’re deep asleep.

minho is a messy eater, spit and drool mixed with your arousal dripping from his chin - not letting up his abuse until your nub is raw and pulsing against his tongue. he’s quick to rest a hand on your tummy when you start to come around, legs closing in around his head and eyes blinking sleepily down at him and he would’ve thought you were so cute if he wasn’t so busy making out with your pussy. doesn’t even give you a second to figure out what tf is going on before he’s trying to coax more of those adorable gasps out of you, teeth tugging on your folds and fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, keeping them spread wide open for him until you’re complaining that your muscles are sore and tired, but he still won’t let up - continuing to eat you out like a starved animal. likes when you just can’t help yourself from tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging his face even closer to your dripping cunt to the point all he can see, feel, taste is you. and you’re grinding down on him like a desperate little pup, nose bumping against your clit in the most delicious obscene way, all sloppy and messy with your cum and you’re just left wondering why your boyfriend is so mean to you at 8 in the goddamn morning. he won’t stop until you’re begging him to either, pussy left raw and swollen before he’s leaving one last spit fuelled kiss against it. forces you to kiss him after too, shoving his tongue down your throat so you can taste how sweet you really are.

“morning sweetheart.”

창빈. SEO CHANGBIN

likes showing off his strength to you, especially in public when you can do nothing but drool over him - his eyes going straight to the way you press your pretty thighs together when he wears a tight fitting shirt or has his arms on show and he can practically smell the arousal dripping off you. pretends to be surprised when he finally corners you into an empty dressing room, flipping up your skirt and getting a good look at your damp panties and you can hardly stand the embarrassed flush that takes over when he swipes a fat finger over the drenched fabric. makes some sarcastic quip like, “jesus baby, did watching me work out make you this wet? i haven’t even done anything yet.” and nearly loses his goddamn mind when he feels you gush even more at his words, wetness starting to drip past the seams and he can almost taste it. but you don’t even have time to apologise for being the cock hungry whore he always likes to tease you are before he’s nudging your stupid frilly underwear to the side and bumping his digits past your folds, pumping and stretching them so deep inside you it has your toes curling and nails breaking the skin of his biceps, looking for something, anything, to hold onto. and he’ll have you creaming on his cock in a matter of minutes, muscles tensing in his back and jaw straining as he fucks you full.

you best believe he’s gonna put those muscles to good use, he’s big and strong, strong enough to put you into any position he wants. loves seeing that dumb look on your cute little face the second he gets his hands on you. with the strength comes the stamina, he can go until you’ve completely milked him dry - having fucked you until you were empty headed hours ago but he’s still determined to force just one more out of you. as soon as he feels you go limp on him he’s all over you, tangling a hand in your hair to tug your head back, sweaty chest pressed tightly against your back as he pumps into you from behind, buried so deeply it’s no wonder he has you cumming on his dick again and again. loves the way you lazily clench around him despite tapping out long ago, his strong arms holding you to fuck up into you like you’re nothing more than a hole to him. istg one of the main factors this man works out so much is to see you lose your absolute mind the bigger he gets.

현진. HWANG HYUNJIN

despite being such a brat, he knows how much you get off on having him sub for you. so he might just let you take control now and then if you’re being extra good for him. and he expects you to take full advantage of the opportunity cause he can go back to being a brat in a matter of seconds if you’re not careful. nothing quite gets you going like reducing this man to a blubbering mess of cute tears and whimpers, cock all swollen and neglected and just itching to finally sink into your inviting pussy. he sometimes hates how nasty you can get when he’s in such a state, edging him towards orgasm again and again and he can’t miss the way your pussy dampens at the sounds of his whiney groans. tries to hold himself back a lot for your sake, veins in his neck almost popping while his fingers twist and curl into the bedsheets, resisting the urge to fuck his hips up when you’re smothering his dick with your glossy lips. nearly loses all sense of control when you take his fat tip between them, tongue pressing down around him and he can hardly focus on anything but the mess of drool and precum slipping down your chin, it’s such a pretty sight. he’s so fucked out that he almost misses the way your fingers dip into your pussy, fucking your fingers into your hot cunt in time with the bobs of your head and he has half a mind to force you off him and replace them with his cock.

hyunjin swears he wants to be good for you, he really does, but he’s so greedy and soso close to cumming that he can’t help but think with his dick and buck his hips up slightly to force himself further down your throat, the lewd sounds of your choked gasps only spiralling him closer. he can only let out a series of pathetic apologies that don’t really mean anything cause he’s still humping your mouth like a dog. post nut regret is real cause as soon as he empties himself down your throat he’s letting out a series of excuses, “but baby, you just feel so good!! how am i meant to help myself 🥺” and nearly crashes tf out when you don’t buy it for a single second - he can only beg, hope, pray you’ll go easy on him. but then you’re grabbing his jaw in your hand, spitting something vile about how much of a selfish bastard he is, sinking your slippery pussy down onto his softening cock and sitting all pretty. making him watch as you get yourself off over and over without offering him the slightest bit of relief - he almost believes your biting words that he’s good for nothing but a dick for you to pleasure yourself with, trying to ignore the fact that deep, deep down he loves when you use him like this.

한. HAN JISUNG

sometimes he likes not giving you what you want. he’s normally all over you to the point it was pathetic, not able to keep his hands to himself for even a second and you just love teasing him about how well trained and pussy-whipped you have him. he hates it. so now and again he likes to remind you how much you relay on him to keep you sane by dicking you down almost daily. makes you suffer for a few days just to see you slowly lose your mind, and he thrives on how desperate you are to have him buried inside you. he knows you’re apprehensive, especially when he starts making up some excuse you clearly don’t buy when you reach for his underwear, or when he pushes you away and whispers “later baby” when you grind down onto his cock but later never comes, and whenever you finally do coax him to fuck you he’ll pull out just as you’re about to cum, claiming he was just too tired. he’ll have to keep himself busy, late nights in the studio so he doesn’t have time to think about how much he’d rather be buried balls deep in your warm pussy, canceling your plans to spend it at the dorms just begging to some god, whatever god, that you’ll finally break and just force him to fuck you. and when you finally do, it’ll almost be worth blue balling himself the whole week.

jisung just knows you’re planning something when you so sweetly offer him a ride when he’s running late to practice, your doe eyes hiding a mean glint and the obnoxiously tiny skirt you’re donning not fooling him in the slightest. doesn’t even question it when five minutes into the ride you take a wrong turn into an empty street, stalling the engine and clambering into his lap from where he sat in the passenger seat - so desperate that you don’t waste any time, nudging your flimsy panties to the side to sink down onto his fat dick, he has to hold everything inside of himself back from busting a load just from the feeling alone. and he’s been so pussy depraved the past week that he can do nothing but give in, letting you ride him like he was nothing more than a cock for you to use. he just HAS to keep his mouth busy when he’s fucking up into you, anything to keep him from losing himself in the hold your cunt has on him. “you’re so needy, you know that baby? almost worse than me. what? you don’t like being told the truth? you were losing your mind without my dick inside you, it was cute.” and he just can’t ignore the way you seem to wrap even tighter around him, he didn’t even know it was possible with how you were suffocating his cock already. he gets you there in seconds, the stench of sex and sweat fogging up the windows and he swears your cum has never tasted sweeter than when he has you reduced to the mess you are now.

필릭스. LEE FELIX

felix is usually so sweet and gentle with you during sex, spoiling you with pretty praises and the stretch of his cock fucking you so lovingly it’d make you feel embarrassed sometimes. but he just can’t stand it when you take advantage of that and act like a brat, it makes him want to bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you in front of everyone whenever you give him the slightest bit of lip in public, forcing you to apologise on his dick for being such a little bitch. he won’t go that far though. no, he’ll just sit back and watch as you get yourself off, every passing second making your need for his cock even more obvious - might not be your favourite way to get off, but its definitely his. ignores your meek apologies when you know you’ve went too far, deep voice cutting you off and telling you to strip as he sits comfortably against your headboard, hands undoing his belt and you’re practically dripping in arousal - foolishly thinking he’s gonna give in and fuck the attitude out of you. but he can be so nasty when he wants to be, cock leaking and red and you suddenly feel so empty looking at it. fucking laughs at how eager you are when you rush to sit on his lap and just when you’re about to sink down onto him he’s stopping you, a mean glint in his pretty eyes. “grind on it.” loves wiping that hopeful look on your face and if you even think for a second about complaining he’ll just make you sit in the corner and watch as he gets himself off over and over again.

he likes to see you work for it, leaning his head back and gazing at your through bored eyes, acting like the warmth of your pussy dragging against the length of his cock wasn’t driving him absolutely insane. he’ll try his hardest to not give in, at least until he sees those cute tears line your lashes. and you never thought your sweet little boyfriend could be so mean with how he just refuses to fuck you. normally he’s wrapped around you pretty little finger, and god do you know it. deliberately bumping your pussy against his tip with every rut of your hips, hands clawing at his chest just begging for even an ounce of pity. but he wants to watch you make a mess out of yourself for just a bit longer, your whines going straight to his cock as spurts of warm precum spill out of his swollen tip, nudging it just an inch past your pussy to rub his stickiness against you. probably cums along with you when you finally do, and it’s so unsatisfying that you’re sobbing and sniffling into his chest, gasping out how much you need him inside you and he’s so proud you’ve finally let go of that bratty attitude of yours.

“that’s it pretty girl, let it all out.”

승민. KIM SEUNGMIN

when he’s so pussy whipped that he’s completely consumed by you. the only thing he can think, taste, feel is you. to the point that nothing else matters and his only goal is to make you cum. nothing quite gets you off like it. he notices it first when he’s fucking you like he usually does, like he hates your guts, the stretch of his cock almost painful with how deep he was pumping into you, sweat dripping from his hairline and his pretty lips tainted with vile words. but the moment you hear a little pathetic whine leaving them instead you’re clamping down around him so snugly it has him letting a few more out without even thinking. he’ll try to ignore it, tells you to shut the fuck up or he’ll stop. but he won’t be able to shake the feeling of you spilling onto him in floods the second you registered the noise and the slight stutter of his hips, his usual harsh demeanour slipping for just a second. he’ll lose himself in the feeling of your warm cunt just see how you’d react, being a little pathetic in the way he talks you through it, mean words turning to pretty begs and he loves the way you gush around him from the complete 180. sometimes, only when you’ve been extra good for him, he’ll let you use his cock until you’ve completely milked him dry, just to coax more of those pretty whimpers out of him but he’ll genuinely break up with you if you dare bring it up to anyone. LOVES eating you out when he’s in this space, stuffing his face so far between your thighs he’s almost being suffocated with your pussy, letting out the greediest little moans just from the taste alone, making you cum again and again until he’s covered and dripping in your cum.

seungmin eats you out like a man starved, spit lubing up your cunt and your sore nub relentlessly abused by his tongue - nose nudging your clit a few times, only adding to the sloppy way he was kissing your pussy. but you just don’t have the heart to tell him to back off when he’s subtly humping the bed for some kind of release and his eyes are rolling into the back of his head, wet groans of, “tell me how good i’m making you feel, please,” being breathed out against your cunt everytime he reluctantly pulls away for a gulp of air, almost as if he’d be happier dying with his mouth on your cunt right then and there instead of pulling away. he’ll make himself cum just from eating you out, his name falling off your lips like it’s a prayer and back arching to fuck your pussy up into his mouth has his heavy cock twitching, warm spurts of cum leaking past his tip and leaving a sticky, wet patch on the bedsheets. has to overcompensate when the post-nut regret hits him though and will probably push your head into it, telling you to clean it up or some shit. gets soso cocky when you can’t get enough and start feeling up his softened cock, tutting something about, “just made you cum, you really are a greedy girl.” acting as if he hasn’t just spent the last hour eating you out like a animal.

아이엔. YANG JEONGIN

likes to get you off by riling you up. he just thinks it’s so funny - especially when he’s performing. he’ll play into it when he knows you’re backstage watching on one of the monitors, just itching to get your hands on him and fuck the tease out of him. loves the thought of you drenching through your panties while watching him work the crowd, sweat dripping down his body and smiling all cocky when the audience goes wild for him, just knowing you’re right there along with them. he’ll make you wait a bit when he finally meets you in his dressing room, claiming he’s too tired but really he just wants to see you beg a little. and as soon as everyone clears out and it’s just you and him, you’re on him in instant - wanting so desperately to slap that smug grin on his face when your hands reach for his belt but also needing nothing more than to feel his thick cock breaking you open. and before you know it he has you bent over the armrest of the little shitty sofa he shares with the members, nails breaking the skin of your hips and ass as he loses himself in the snug walls of your fluttering pussy.

jeongin loves being needed, and he especially loves when you tell him how much you need him. but he doesn’t necessarily appreciate when you’re moaning like a whore with his members standing right outside the door. constantly hisses through clenched teeth for you to be quiet, slowing the grind of his cock down until he’s completely still inside you, hips snug against your ass and chest pressed tightly against your back to whisper in your ear, “you better shut the fuck up baby, what are you gonna do if chan hyung walks in and sees you getting railed like the little slut you are?” and he really can’t bring himself to ignore the way you clench around him at the thought, almost laughing at how much of cock whore you really are if he wasn’t so focused on filling you up with his cum until you could practically taste it. he’ll settle for a hand muffling your sounds, cause you just seem to get even louder the second he slams his dick back inside you, muffling your slutty whimpers when he hears faint voices carry through the thin walls. and he’s so desperate to make you cum before someone walks in, telling you to take it like a good girl when he’s filling you up and before you know you’re making a mess of the sofa and his cock. he’s so mean to you that he’ll make you explain to his hyungs what the weird stain left on the couch was just to embarrass you even more.

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backtocarousel · 3 months ago

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Chan's NSFW Alphabet

Content Warning: This piece contains explicit sexual content, suggestive themes, and mature language.

[7.9k words]

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A=Aftercare; what they’re like after sex?

He’s soft in the aftermath, softer than you ever expect. As intense as he can be in the moment, after, it’s like he’s rewired for gentleness. His first instinct is always to pull you close, arms wrapping around you as if he needs to feel your heartbeat against his to come down, to remind himself you’re real, that you’re here. His hands slow, smoothing over your skin like he’s memorizing you all over again. Kissing you wherever his lips can reach—your forehead, your jaw, your shoulder. It’s instinct. Care. Protection. He holds you like he’s afraid the world could take you away if he lets go too soon.

He’s the type to guide you gently to the bathroom, turning on the shower and making sure the water’s just right before pulling you in with him. His hands roam, but they’re softer now—more reverent than hungry. He’ll wash your hair, fingers massaging your scalp, and the way his thumbs brush against your temples feels like a silent apology for every rough moment that left you breathless. His hands on your body are slow, tender, tracing over marks he left behind with a mixture of pride and guilt. Too much? he’ll murmur, eyes searching yours, needing to know you’re okay, that you wanted all of it as much as he did. And when you tell him you’re fine, that you loved it, the relief in his eyes is always soft and a little shy.

But it’s not just about you. Aftercare is his grounding, too. He needs to feel safe in it, in you. Sometimes you’ll catch him quieter than usual, thoughtful, his fingers brushing over your skin like he’s reminding himself you’re still with him. Because for him, sex is never just physical—it’s emotional, consuming. He gives so much of himself, and sometimes afterward, he needs you to hold him just as much as he holds you. He needs that reassurance. The kisses. The softness. The slow heartbeat of comfort between you.

He loves those moments in bed when you curl into him, legs tangled, your head tucked beneath his chin. When his hand is resting on your hip, fingers tracing slow circles against your skin. When you whisper soft things, simple things, that make him smile against your hair. He loves feeling like this is the safest place either of you could be. Because it's not just about soothing sore muscles or soft kisses—it’s about being seen, wanted. Being cared for. And needing you to know that he would do anything to make sure you feel that, every time.

B=Body part; their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s.

He's always been proud of his arms. Maybe it's vanity, or maybe it’s just the satisfaction of seeing the results of all those hours in the gym. The way his muscles flex when he lifts, when he holds himself up, when he holds you up. There’s strength there, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s the way you look at them. The way your eyes drag over his skin when his sleeves are rolled up, the way your hands instinctively find their way to his biceps when you kiss him, like you need something solid to anchor yourself. And when he's got you pressed against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, your back arching as he pushes deeper—he feels it then. The way you cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, trusting him to hold you there, to keep you steady, trust messes with his head. Makes him want to hold you tighter, lift you higher, fuck you harder. He wonders if you notice how his grip gets firmer when you moan, when you beg him not to stop. He wonders if you know how much power you have over him in those moments.

But it's your hips that ruin him. Always has been. The shape of them, the softness of skin beneath his hands. The way they curve under his touch, perfect, made to fit his grip. He loves how they feel when you straddle him, how they rock against him slow and teasing, driving him insane until he’s gripping too hard, holding you still so he can thrust up into you, deep and rough. Loves the way they look when you're bent over, jeans hugging you tight, shirt riding up just enough to tease him with a glimpse of skin. It makes him want to drag you back against him, hands gripping your waist, pulling you close until you can feel exactly what you're doing to him. And when you’re bare, nothing between his skin and yours, and his hands slide over your hips, thumbs dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, he feels like he could lose his mind. Like he wants to.

There’s something addictive about the way your body moves under his hands. The way you react when his fingers grip tighter, when his teeth graze your skin. How you arch into him when he presses closer, how you whisper his name when his hands slip lower. And when you catch him staring, when you smirk and ask him what he's thinking, he never knows how to answer. Because the truth is, he's always thinking about you. About your skin, your hips, the heat of you beneath his palms. About all the ways he wants to touch you, mark you, claim you. It's constant. And you know it.

C=Cum; anything to do with cum, basically.

He's not particular about where he finishes, but the first time he came inside of you? That was different, unforgettable. The way you gasped as he pushed deeper, filling you completely, the slow drag of his cock as he spilled inside you, thick and warm. The way you moaned, soft but wrecked, like you could feel every drop. And when he pulled back, watching it drip from you, sliding down your thighs, soaking the sheets—it did something to him. Something primal. It wasn’t just about the release, it was about the claim. The fact that it was him, that he was the only one you'd let do this, ruin you like this, mark you from the inside out. The thought of it made his head swim, made his hands grip tighter, hips stutter harder, made him groan low and rough because it was messy, intimate, his.

It’s the possessiveness that undoes him the most. The knowledge that when you walk the next day, you’ll still feel it, still feel him. That you’re carrying the proof of how deep he was inside you, how hard he came for you. And it makes him want to do it again. Want to keep filling you until you’re too full, too sensitive, until you're begging him to stop but still pressing closer, still asking for more. It’s a dangerous game, the way it messes with his head, how much he craves it, how much he craves you.

And when you cum around him, it’s almost worse. Better, but worse, because feeling you fall apart like that—tight, pulsing, clenching so hard around him it makes his vision blur—it's addictive. It makes him chase it every time, makes him desperate to feel it again. He’ll work you with his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anything to pull those sounds from you. The ones that tell him you’re close, the ones that tell him you trust him enough to let go. He remembers how you told him you liked it, how you liked his fingers circling your clit just like this, how you liked the stretch of him filling you slow, deep, until you couldn't take it anymore.

And when it happens—when you cum so hard your whole body trembles, when you bury your face into his neck and moan his name like it’s the only thing you know—he doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, slow and deep, wanting to feel every second of it, wanting to draw it out. And later, when he pulls his fingers from you, slick and wet, he won’t be able to resist tasting you. His tongue dragging over his skin, slow and possessive, before he presses it to your lips. He loves when you kiss him after, when you taste yourself on his tongue, when you look at him like you know exactly what he’s done and exactly what it means. Like you know you're his, and you're not running.

D=Dirty Secret; pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs.

He touched himself to the thought of you way more than you think when you first started seeing each other. More than he'd ever admit. It wasn’t even about the things you'd done—because back then, there wasn’t much to go off of—it was about the things he imagined. The way you laughed, the way your lips curled when you teased him, the way you’d glance at him with eyes that made him wonder what it’d be like if you looked at him like that in bed.

It was the accidental brushes of skin that haunted him the most. Your hand on his arm when you laughed too hard, the way your thigh pressed against his when you sat too close, the scent of your perfume lingering on his hoodie after you borrowed it one night. Those small moments would burn into his thoughts long after you’d left, the ghost of your touch lingering like a temptation he couldn’t shake. He’d close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to have you under him, gasping his name, fingers tangled in his hair. He wondered how you'd sound, how you'd move, how you'd fall apart for him.

There were nights when he couldn’t sleep, thinking about you. Nights when he'd give in, fingers tight around himself, groaning your name under his breath, imagining it was your hands, your mouth, your body pressing him to the edge. And sometimes, it wasn’t even about the sex. Sometimes it was the thought of you smiling at him, soft and sweet, the thought of your lips brushing his, slow and hesitant, until it wasn’t. Until it was deeper, messier, until you were pulling him closer and begging for more. Those were the moments that undid him the fastest.

And now? Now that he knows how you sound when you fall apart, now that he knows how you taste, how you feel, how you look when you're bare and breathless beneath him—those thoughts still haunt him. Because no matter how many times he has you, the memory of wanting you like that, aching for you in secret, lingers, and maybe that's the dirtiest part of it. That even now, when you’re his, he still remembers how it felt to crave you in silence.

E=Experience; how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?

He's experienced, but not in the careless, shallow way that comes from chasing numbers or meaningless encounters. His experience is deeper, layered with intention. It's not about how many bodies he’s touched, but about how deeply he’s learned to understand them. He pays attention—not just to the obvious reactions, but to the subtleties most people overlook. The sharp inhale when fingers trace too close to a sensitive spot, the way your breath catches when he kisses somewhere unexpected, the tension that curls in your body when you’re holding back a sound you don’t want to let slip. He’s learned to listen, to read bodies like language, every sigh and shiver telling him a story. For him, it’s about presence. About being there in every second, in every movement, watching, learning, adapting. He doesn’t rush, never assumes, every encounter is a slow conversation, and he’s fluent in the language of skin and breath, touch and pause.

But with you, it feels different. You strip away his confidence in ways that are as thrilling as they are terrifying. No matter how much he knows, how much he’s learned, you still manage to undo him. There's a hunger in him when it comes to you, but it's not reckless, it's patient, intense. It’s the kind of hunger that makes him want to learn you in ways that don’t stop at the surface. To figure out how your body responds to the slowest kind of teasing, how it breaks when he pushes you just a little harder. He’s observant, but with you, it’s more. He craves knowing every inch of you, every weakness, every trigger. He wants to figure out the exact pressure it takes to make you arch into him, the exact pace that makes you lose your breath, the words that make you tremble and fall apart.

And the best part? You're still a puzzle he hasn't quite solved. He loves that. Loves the thrill of discovery, how there’s always something new to learn about you, something he missed, something he could try again, slower, deeper. Like the way you gasp when his lips find that one spot behind your ear, how your fingers clutch at his shoulders when his hands stray lower, how your hips roll up when he takes his time kissing across your stomach. He loves that you keep him on his toes, that you're not easy to figure out, how every time he thinks he knows you, you shift beneath him, tease him with another secret he's desperate to uncover.

And maybe that’s what keeps his desire for you sharp, burning. It’s not just about the physical—it’s about the connection, about knowing you on a level that feels like more than just touch. Like emotion, like trust, like you’re letting him peel you open slowly, layer by layer, and find something new every time. And God, the way that keeps him wanting. The way it makes him crave you, again and again, like it’s the first time, every time.

F=Favorite position; this goes without saying.

There’s something about you straddling him that undoes him completely. The way you settle over his hips, confident but still soft beneath his hands. He loves how your body feels beneath his fingertips, the way your skin warms under his touch as his hands roam your thighs, your waist, gripping just enough to feel you shiver. The view from beneath you is one that stays with him—how you move, how your head tips back when he thrusts up into you, how your fingers press into his chest or clutch at his shoulders when the pleasure spikes. And when you lean forward, lips brushing his ear, whispering what you want, it’s like setting fire to him. He’ll groan low, hands tightening, hips pushing up to meet yours, chasing every sound you make. He loves how you take control but still melt for him, how you ride him slow until he can’t stand it and flips you over, mouth hungry, hands rough.

But there’s a part of him that craves the other side of it too. The rougher edge. The way it feels to bend you over, to grip your hips tight and fuck you hard, just how you like it. Kitchen counter, edge of the bed, a wall he’s pressed you against too fast to think—anywhere. There’s something primal about it, how his hands grip, how your body yields to him. He loves the way you lose yourself in it, the way you moan his name when he’s deeper than you can handle. When you reach back, your fingers brushing against his arms, scraping down his thighs—it’s an unspoken plea for more, for harder, and he’s helpless against it. The sound of your gasps, the way you tremble, the heat of your body pressing back into him—it all sticks with him, stays under his skin, replaying in his mind for days after.

But more than anything, it’s the way you look when you're lost in it that he can't shake. He loves watching your face shift when pleasure hits, seeing your eyes darken as you fall apart for him, loves when you're beneath him, legs parted, taking him deep while your hands clutch his shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you grounded. He loves holding your hips steady, fingers biting into your skin just enough to leave marks you'll feel the next day, a reminder of him long after he's gone. And when he’s got you from behind, one hand gripping your waist, the other tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, it drives him to the edge. You like when I fuck you like this, yeah? he'll ask, voice low, rough, and the way you whimper, body trembling under his, is enough to break him.

But it’s not always rough. Sometimes it's slow. Sometimes it's you on top, moving at your own pace, guiding him with the roll of your hips and the press of your hands. He’ll just lie back, eyes locked on yours, worshiping every sound you make, every flush of your skin. His hands will rest heavy on your hips, grounding you, guiding you, letting you take him exactly how you want. And when you fall apart for him like that—when he feels it in the shake of your thighs, sees it in the way your head tilts back, lips parted—it’s like nothing else. That’s when he feels it the most. That hunger, that need. That’s his favorite. Watching you fall apart because of him.

G=Goofy; are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc?

He’s not always serious. There are moments where he’ll break the tension with a smirk, a teasing comment. Like when you're so breathless you can barely speak, and he leans down, lips brushing your ear to murmur something that makes you laugh, even if you're gasping for air. Didn’t know I could make you sound like that,he’ll tease, grinning against your skin.

But his humor is never careless. It's light, intimate, a way of easing you deeper into comfort. A way to remind you that even when things are intense, it’s still him. The man who worships you, who wants to make you feel good, who wants you to laugh in his arms as much as you moan.

I=Intimacy; how are they during the moment, romantic aspect.

For him, intimacy isn’t just about sex. It’s about the moments before and after. The lingering touches, the way his hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlaced as he kisses your temple. It's about the silence that feels comfortable, like you’re speaking without words, it's about brushing your hair out of your face, or kissing the crease between your brows when you frown. It’s about whispering, it's okay, even if you didn’t realize you needed to hear it.

During the act, he’s all about connection. His eyes on yours, his hands exploring every inch of skin like it’s the first time. His voice, low and soft, murmuring, fuck, baby... 's so good, as though it’s still a surprise to him. Because with you, it always feels new. Always feels deeper.

J=Jack Off; masturbation headcanon.

He thinks about you when he touches himself. Always. Even when you're not there, even when it's been days since he last saw you, it's still your name on his lips, still your face behind his eyes. It's the way you look when you're beneath him, flushed and gasping, your lips parted and body trembling. It's the memory of your skin, how it feels under his hands—soft, warm, responsive. He imagines the curve of your back when you arch into him, the sound you make when he thrusts just right, the way your nails dig into his skin when you're close. Sometimes, he closes his eyes and pictures the exact way your mouth feels on his, the heat of your breath, the desperation in your kiss. Other times, it’s less about the physical and more about the ache of missing you. About wanting, needing, about how empty his hands feel compared to the feel of your body.

And sometimes, it's not even about release. Sometimes, it's about remembering. About trying to trace the shape of you with his fingers, to mimic the way your hands move on him, slow and teasing. To recall the rhythm of your hips, the way you guide him inside you with a breathless gasp. It’s about holding onto that feeling, keeping you close even when you're miles away. There are nights when he’ll lay there, hand moving slow, not for the rush of it, but just to think of you. To keep you in his body, to feel you in some small, fleeting way. There’s a frustration in it too, in knowing it’ll never be enough. That no matter how tight his grip, no matter how good he imagines it, it’s nothing compared to you.

And he’s not ashamed to admit it. If anything, he wants you to know. Wants to say it low, rough, right against your ear. I thought about you last night, he'll whisper, voice heavy and dark. had my hand around my cock, but it wasn’t enough. ’s never enough when it’s not you. And there’s a look in his eyes when he says it, one that makes it impossible to ignore the pull between you. The hunger. Because when you hear that, when you know he's been aching for you, craving you, it’s impossible not to feel the same heat curl low in your stomach, to not want to be the answer to his need, the thing that undoes him completely.

K=Kink; one or more of their kinks.

He likes control, but it’s deeper than just holding you down or pinning your wrists. It’s about understanding you, about knowing you so well that he can read every shift in your breath, every tremor in your body. He loves figuring out what makes you tick—what makes your pulse race, what makes your back arch, what makes you gasp his name like it’s the only word you know. He loves edging you close, pulling you back, drawing out every second of your pleasure until you’re trembling and begging for more. It’s not cruelty, it's worship. It's about showing you how good it can feel to give in to him, to let him take control of your body, your pleasure, until you're coming apart in his hands.

And it’s not just physical restraint, either. It’s the way he looks at you when you're already falling, that sharp, heated gaze that makes your skin feel too tight. It's the soft commands, the hold still, or don't cum yet, hold it for me, baby said with a voice so low and certain that you can't help but obey. It’s the way he loves tying your hands, not to restrict you, but to intensify everything. To make every kiss, every brush of his fingers, feel like it's lighting you on fire. When you can't touch him back, when you're left to feel every single sensation without distraction, it hits harder, deeper. And he loves watching you lose control beneath him, trusting him to take you apart, trusting him to know exactly how to piece you back together. That trust is sacred to him. It’s what makes it all feel so raw, so intimate.

And marks. God, does he love marking you. It's almost a ritual. The way his teeth sink into the soft curve of your shoulder, the way his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises that bloom the next morning. There's something about knowing his hands were there, that his mouth left its claim, that drives him insane. The marks are for him, but they're also for you, a silent promise, a lingering touch that stays long after he’s gone. Sometimes, he’ll catch you off guard, slipping his fingers under the hem of your shirt just to feel the faint outline of a bruise. His thumb brushing over it gently. And when he kisses them, it’s soft, reverent. A murmur of mine pressed against your skin like a prayer, a vow.

It’s possessive, yes—but not in a way that cages you. It’s deeper than that. It’s about connection, about knowing that you chose him, that you trust him enough to let him leave pieces of himself on your skin. It’s about the quiet intimacy of carrying his touch with you, even when he’s not there. And it’s about you knowing exactly who you belong to when you catch a glimpse of that mark in the mirror and feel your stomach twist with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice. Because every mark is a reminder. That you’re his, that he’s yours.

L=Location; favorite places to do the do?

Anywhere with a door that locks. That’s his baseline. It’s not about the thrill of getting caught—it’s about the freedom of knowing you’re his, completely, without interruption. The privacy of a locked door gives him the space to be selfish with you, to take his time or take you fast, depending on the moment. Dressing rooms, dimly lit and narrow, where he can press you up against the mirror, his hand firm over your mouth, muffling every gasp. The backseat of the car, windows fogged, his hands spreading your thighs wide while you arch into him, gasping as the engine hums beneath you. And hotel rooms... there’s something about that anonymity. A different bed in a different city, where it feels like you can be reckless, where he can press you against cold windows overlooking dark streets, where he can pull you into the bathroom and have you against the counter with the mirror watching every move. The urgency of it is intoxicating. The rush of getting lost in you somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere that doesn’t belong to either of you, makes it feel sharper, hungrier. Like something forbidden, something stolen.

But nothing compares to his bed. His sheets, his scent on the pillows, the way the walls feel like they know every secret you’ve whispered to each other. It’s not about the location. It’s about what it means. His bed is where he can worship you without distraction, without hurry. Where he can take his time pressing kisses along your skin, learning the way you breathe when his tongue traces down your stomach, the way your fingers curl into the sheets when he slides inside you slow, deep. There’s a quiet intimacy there, the kind that feels almost sacred. The way he can feel you fall apart beneath him, trembling, breathless, soft. The way he can lay you back and touch you until you're shaking, until you're saying his name like it’s a prayer. That’s his favorite, because it’s not just sex there. It’s something deeper, closer. It’s knowing he can take you apart and hold you after, gather you into his arms and press a kiss to your temple, feeling you safe and warm against him. And nothing—no car, no hotel, no shadowed corner—compares to that.

M=Motivation; what turns them on, gets them going?

You. Always, endlessly, you. It doesn’t take much, not with you. Sometimes it’s just the way you look at him—like you know exactly how you affect him, like you're already imagining the things you want him to do to you. The way your gaze lingers on his mouth, the way your breath catches when he touches you, when his fingers trail along your waist or his thumb brushes against the soft skin of your neck. The sound of his name on your lips, soft and wanting, is enough to set his pulse racing. And when you tease him—when you sit just a little too close, your leg brushing his beneath the table, when your fingers trace slow, meaningless patterns on his arm, when you look at him like you’re daring him to do something about it—that's all it takes. Suddenly, he’s picturing your legs wrapped around his waist, picturing his mouth on your skin, picturing you gasping his name into his ear. It’s fast, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

But sometimes it’s the simplest things that hit the hardest. The way you laugh, bright and careless, and the curve of your mouth when you smile at him like he's the only one who matters. The way you bite your lip when you're nervous, soft and hesitant, and all he can think about is ruining that lip, making it swollen and sensitive beneath his teeth. Sometimes it’s the curve of your hip beneath your shirt, or the way you stretch, unaware of how much skin you’re showing. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or the way you glance at him when you think he isn’t looking. It’s the smallest, quietest moments that undo him completely. And once the thought is there, it sticks. Suddenly, he’s craving you, needing to touch you, needing to hear you gasp his name. Needing to see you fall apart beneath his hands, his mouth, his body. And you? You never even realize the effect you have. That’s what makes it worse, or better, depending on how long he can stand waiting.

N = NO; something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs.

He’s open-minded, always willing to explore, but some lines are absolute. Anything that risks hurting you beyond what’s safe, anything that lingers longer than pleasure allows, is off the table. He’s protective by nature, sometimes to a fault, and the idea of pushing too far, of leaving marks you don’t want or doing anything that makes you hesitate, sits heavy in his chest. He doesn’t want you flinching when you remember his touch. He doesn’t want you pulling away from him, even in your mind. Pain, discomfort, fear—those things don’t belong in the space he’s created for you, for both of you. And if something feels like it could risk that, he stops. Without question, without hesitation.

But it’s deeper than just the physical. It's about trust. It's about knowing that you feel safe with him. That no matter how dark or intense things get, you trust him to take care of you. And if he senses even the slightest doubt—if your body tenses, if you hesitate for even a second—he notices. His hands still, his eyes searching yours. Is this okay? he’ll murmur, voice low and soft, his breath ghosting against your skin. He’ll ask as many times as it takes, because more than his own desire, what he wants most is for you to feel safe. To know, with absolute certainty, that you can say no and it will be heard, respected, accepted without question.

Because t’s not just about pleasure, but connection. About building something that feels unshakable, where you're free to fall apart but never expected to hold more than you can. Where you can trust that every mark is one you want, that every boundary is one he’ll honor. And if there’s ever a line you don't want to cross, it won’t even be a conversation. It’ll be understood. For him, the only thing worse than not having you is hurting you, and he’ll never let it come to that.

O=Oral; preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.

He loves giving more than receiving, loves it in the way a man loves knowing he’s unraveling you with his mouth. There’s something about the intimacy of it, the rawness. The way he can feel you shake against his tongue, the way your thighs clench when his mouth is relentless, and the sound of his name gasped in the dark. That’s worship to him. That’s where he feels most connected.

And he doesn’t do it just for the sake of it, he does it to ruin you. Slow, deliberate, patient. He loves making you wait, pulling you back from the edge until you’re begging, until you’re panting his name, eyes wide and glassy. And when you cum, trembling under his hands, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping, pushing at his shoulders because it’s too much, too good. That’s when he finally looks up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark. And he always kisses you after. Lets you taste yourself on his tongue, because he wants you to know what you do to him.

Receiving? He loves it, but it’s not a need. It’s a reward when you want to give it. When you sink to your knees and look up at him like you want to worship him the same way he worships you, and when you do, he let's you know how it feels. Low groans, whispered curses, his hands threading into your hair, he’ll tell you how good you feel, how perfect your mouth is, how close you’re driving him to losing control.

P=Pace; are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?

He can be slow, excruciatingly slow. The kind of slow that drives you mad, that has you gasping and begging for more. He loves that, stretching out the moment until you’re trembling. Until every stroke feels deeper, heavier, until you're so desperate you’d say anything for him to speed up. He likes hearing you beg, your voice soft and wrecked, like it’s breaking you apart.

But when he’s rough, he’s relentless. Hard, fast, like he can’t get enough of you. Like he needs to feel you clench around him, needs to hear you cry out his name with every thrust. There’s something about that pace that feels like losing himself completely, letting his desire take over until neither of you can think, and when he’s in that mood, he holds nothing back—hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll feel it the next day, teeth biting at your neck, words rough and ragged in your ear.

But it’s never just one or the other. Sometimes he starts slow, teasing, making you feel every inch of him. And then, when you’re already on the edge, when your nails are clawing down his back, he speeds up, brutal, until you’re falling apart beneath him.

Q=Quickie. their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.

He loves them. The way they ignite a spark inside him, making everything feel more intense, more urgent. It’s like every touch, every glance, is a silent command to get closer, to not waste another second. Quickies are thrilling, a kind of madness that he can’t get enough of. Whether it’s in the dressing room at the mall, your body pressed up against the cool tiles of the wall with his hand slipping under your skirt, his lips hot against your neck as he whispers your name, or at his place, when the door barely closes behind you and he’s already got you pinned against it, tugging at your clothes in a frenzy. It’s fast, desperate, as if you’ve both been waiting far too long for this moment, and it can’t wait any longer.

There’s a rush to it, a sense of danger, of living in the now. Every time feels like a stolen moment—like you’re grabbing time by the throat, demanding it not slip away too soon. It’s reckless in a way, but it never loses its sense of purpose. He never lets it be careless, never just rushing through it without thinking. Even in the heat of the moment, he still wants you to feel the weight of his desire for you. He wants you to unravel for him, to let go in his arms even if there’s no time to savor it. He wants to hear you gasp his name, even if it’s muffled against his shoulder, your hands clutching at him desperately as the world around you fades away.

But afterward, no matter how rushed, there’s always a moment of softness. It’s like the calm after the storm. He’ll pull you close, his lips tender on yours as he deepens the kiss, as if trying to remind you that the rush was only a small part of what he feels for you. His hand will brush over your hair, or gently cup your face, his thumb softly tracing your skin as he murmurs, you okay? It’s not just about the physical; it’s about making sure you feel wanted, needed, cherished. Even when it’s messy and wild, even when it’s quick and urgent, he wants you to know that you’re always his priority, that no matter the speed of it, you’re never just a moment. You’re everything to him, and he needs you to feel that.

R=Risk; are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc?

He’s not reckless, but there’s an undeniable thrill he gets from pushing boundaries. It’s not about throwing caution to the wind; it’s about exploring the edges, testing the limits of what you can handle, and what you’re willing to give. He loves the idea of pulling you deeper into his world, showing you new sides of himself—and of you—that you didn’t even know existed. There’s an intensity in it, an almost magnetic pull that drives him to keep finding those lines, those sweet spots where desire and fear blur together. Every time he asks have you ever thought about this? his grin is teasing, playful, but also laced with something far deeper. Something that says he’s serious about this exploration, about what’s possible between the two of you.

And when you respond, when you say yes, it’s like an unspoken agreement between you both, a silent promise to dive headfirst into whatever it is he’s suggesting. It could be a new position, a new place, or even a new way to touch each other. His mind starts racing with ideas, with ways to make it happen, to give you the experience you didn’t know you craved but can’t wait to try. But he doesn’t rush, not when it comes to this. If there’s hesitation in your voice, a flicker of doubt in your eyes, he slows down. He talks you through it, taking the time to ensure that you’re comfortable, that you feel safe in every sense. His words are gentle, calming, designed to reassure you that no matter what, he’ll be there, guiding you through every moment. And when you’re ready, when he knows you’re ready, he takes you to the edge.

For him, the risk isn’t about danger. It’s not about throwing yourself into the unknown without a safety net. No, it’s about trust. It’s about the two of you discovering new facets of pleasure together, creating new experiences that bring you closer. He loves the challenge of learning what you need, how to push you just enough to make you surrender to him, to make you fall apart beneath him in a way that feels new every single time. It’s the dance of knowing when to push and when to pull back, and how to make every moment feel like a deep exploration into uncharted territory.

S=Stamina; how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last?

He can go for hours if you let him, no question. He’s not in any rush—slow and steady, or hard and relentless—he’s built for both. But what really gets him going is the challenge of endurance, the intoxicating repetition of taking you to the edge, over and over again, until you're trembling beneath him, spent and gasping for breath. He loves the power of it, the way your body reacts to him, how your need builds with each round. He’ll push you until you think you can’t go any longer, only to start again when you’re just beginning to catch your breath, ready for more. The stamina is a game to him—one he loves to win, even if it means making you beg for him, make you ache in the best way possible.

It’s not just the physical stamina that drives him, though. It’s the emotional aspect too, the way you cling to him, the way the connection between you both deepens with every touch. His hands caress you in ways that speak volumes, his lips trailing soft praises as your bodies sync, becoming one in a way that has nothing to do with time. For him, it’s about the journey—the buildup, the moments in between when he whispers your name into your skin, when he kisses you slow and deep, making sure every single second counts.

U=Unfair; how much they like to tease?

He’s a tease, the kind who knows just how to get under your skin. He loves making you want, loves seeing the way your body reacts to the smallest touch, the way your breath hitches when he’s close but not quite close enough. His hands will skim over your skin, just enough to make you ache, but never enough to truly give you what you need. His fingers will trace the waistband of your underwear, dipping into places that make your pulse race—but he’ll stop just before you beg for more. It’s maddening, but that’s exactly what he thrives on—the sound of you, desperate for him, the way you gasp his name when the tension in your body hits a breaking point.

But he’s not cruel. When he’s teased you enough, when he sees the way your body trembles and your mind loses control, he gives in. And when he does, it’s like a release, a reward for your patience. When he finally pushes you to that edge and lets you fall, it’s worth every second. Because by then, you’re already undone, and he’s the one who made it happen. He loves knowing that, loves that he’s the one who can bring you to that point of no return and hold you there, just long enough to make you ache for him even more.

V=Volume; how loud they are, what sounds they make?

He’s vocal, and not just a little. There’s a rawness to him that comes out when he’s with you, a deep, guttural groan that escapes him every time you clench around him, every time he pushes you closer to the edge. His breathing is ragged, shallow, and each time he moves inside of you, each thrust is met with a soft curse—words that spill from his lips like a prayer, praising you in ways that make your head spin. He tells you how good you feel, how perfect you are beneath him, how much he needs you. He doesn’t care who hears—he wants you to know exactly what you do to him, how you make him feel.

But when you fall apart, when you’re gasping for air and your body trembles with release, he wants you to hear him too. His breath hitches in his chest, his groan turning into a low, broken sound, like it’s being ripped from deep within him. It’s like an echo of your pleasure, a conversation between your bodies—a back and forth of moans, gasps, and soft words exchanged in the heat of the moment. With him, sex isn’t something silent, something to be hidden. It’s a loud, messy exchange of sound and feeling, a testament to the way you both fit together in every sense.

X=X-Ray; let’s see what’s going on in those pants;

He knows exactly what he’s working with—and he knows the effect it has on you. There's a quiet confidence in the way he moves, the way his eyes meet yours when you catch him looking, when he's half-dressed and you can't help but stare. It’s not cocky, it’s just knowing. He’s thick and heavy, the kind that makes your legs shake just from the thought of him, and he relishes in that power. There’s a sense of satisfaction in the way he watches your breath hitch when he presses against you, just to feel you squirm. And when you reach for him, his hand catching yours before you can go any further, he’ll warn, low and dark, you know what that does to me, his voice rough with desire.

But it’s not just about the size. It’s about the effect he has on you. The way you react to him, the way your body responds to his every movement. He can tell when you’re thinking about him, imagining the way he feels inside of you, the way your body trembles just from the thought of him. And when he slides his hand down, brushing over the outline of his cock in his jeans, he sees the way you bite your lip, the way your fingers twitch, wanting to touch him. He knows exactly what you want, and he knows how to tease you until you can't think about anything else but him.

Y=Yearning; how high is their sex drive?

His sex drive is high, but it’s not just the physical need that drives him—it’s the need. The deep, emotional desire to feel you close, to have your body pressed against his until neither of you knows where one ends and the other begins. It’s not about quick satisfaction; it’s about the craving for closeness, for intimacy that goes beyond just skin on skin. He wants to make you feel wanted, needed, cherished. His desire for you is insatiable, not because he needs release, but because he needs you. Every part of you—your body, your voice, the way you make him feel like he’s the only one who could bring you to that point.

And when he’s away from you, when distance stretches between you, it gnaws at him. He craves your touch, your warmth, the taste of your skin against his lips. Late-night calls become whispered confessions, teasing words shared in the dark, thoughts of what he would do to you if he were there, what he wants to do to you. When he's not around, the need for you only intensifies. And sometimes, he sends you a picture—damp from the gym, a shirtless tease, sweat glistening on his skin, sweatpants hanging low, and nothing else. Miss me?, he’ll ask, voice low, knowing full well the answer. Because he knows you do. And he can't wait to come home and make you show him just how much.

Z=zZz; how quickly they fall asleep afterwards?

Afterward, he never falls asleep right away. He needs to soak in the afterglow, to hold you close, to breathe you in and remind himself that you’re real, that this moment is his, that you’re his. His fingers trace slow, lazy circles across your back, his lips grazing over your shoulder, your forehead, wherever he can reach. He’s not distant; he’s there, grounding himself in the softness of you, in the way your body rests against his. It’s a quiet connection, a moment of peace after the storm, and he savors it.

And in those moments, when the room is dark and the only sound is your breathing, he’ll murmur things into your skin—soft words, whispered like secrets, things he doesn’t always say aloud. Can't believe you're mine, you know this?, or I could stay here forever, his voice low and warm, like a soft, tender promise. It’s his way of letting you know that even in the quiet aftermath, he’s still there. He’s still with you, and he always will be. Only when he knows you’re settled, safe, warm, and content in his arms, does sleep finally claim him. But even then, he’s not far—his body curled around yours, his arms wrapped around you like a promise that he’ll never let go, even in his dreams.

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