lskisms

sleepy and soft.

say he comes back to the hotel room and once he’s freshly showered, he’s got you in his arms, relaxed in bed and chatting about anything that comes to mind. the adrenaline, all that octane, has burned through him and smothered itself out, but still, he has this urgent need to feel you entirely. he kisses you soft and slow, pressing you back into the plush pillows. when he moves to kiss you neck, little fangs dragging lightning across your skin, you try to tell him he just showered, so he shouldn’t work up another sweat. he doesn’t listen to you, of course, just nips at the junction between your shoulder and neck, the soft skin pricking hotly, and whispers that he needs you.

and because you’ve always been weak to him, you let him shimmy you out of your pajamas and take you as he pleases. his hips roll against yours deliciously, agonizingly slow, but each press of his cock against that spot inside you that only he knows how to get to makes it worth it. his mouth is everywhere, muttering praises into your skin and swallowing up each noise of yours that dares to rise abovea soft moan. he makes sure you come first, as he always does, and his release follows just seconds after. his body eases into yours, skin against skin, breaths mingling between you. he refuses to pull out of you for quite sometime, but you don't complain (you never complain) because he fills you in ways undescribable, an otherworldly feeling of completion.

but he is thoroughly exhausted, sleepiness settling heavy into his very bones. he does get up eventually to clean you up and redress you, but each motion is slow-going, syrupy and languid and perfect. he takes you into his arms again the second he's back in bed, whispers of love confessions falling on deaf ears as you let the remnants of his warmth inside you lull you to sleep.

pent-up.

he doesn't bother to shed his clothes or shower first, doesn't even bother to kick off his shoes. the second he sees you in the hotel room, he's getting himself out of the offending mask and sealing you in a kiss that is all teeth and tongue and spit. it's a way you have him often, messy and fumbling, but that always drives the experience of letting him have you from perfect to life-altering.

he barely gets himself out of his boots, his pants, or even you out of your own clothes, soaked with the sweat of yourself and the people you'd been with in the pit that night, crushed against the barricade. he gets you on all fours on the bed and slips inside without much of a fight, his cock straining against the slick of your walls. the pace he sets is brutal and it has you keening loudly; you're certain you'll have a noise complaint before he's even halfway decided to be done using you tonight.

his hands press bruises into your skin, claws digging deep into the plush of everywhere he can reach. the bite of each pinprick has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, a delicious haze filling your head until all you can think of is his name and the earth-shattering way his hips drive into your ass. he pulls you up by the back of your neck, tongue sliding against the shell of your ear as he asks you who your body belongs to, who gets to use it as they please (it's yours, phantom. all yours, comes your reply, each syllable broken and stuttered). and when he's content with your answers, he pushes you down into the mattress, his hand pressing your back into a perfect arch just for him.

he overstimulates you, focused on nobody's pleasure, just on getting that livewire of energy out of himself. you're lucky he doesn't make you count how many times you come because you lose count after three. and when his rutting finally comes to an end, it's almost as agonizing to not have him inside of you as it is for him to keep fucking you. you're so limp and foggy that it makes him giggle hazily himself, proud to have been the progenitor of your undoing.