#alexander dane

A – Aftercare

Alexander isn’t fussy, but he’s thoughtful. He’ll help you dress again—meticulously—like you’re Juliet and he’s about to send you out onto the Verona streets. There’s brushing of hair from your forehead, a muttered Shakespearean quote you don’t quite catch, and then a dry, half-smirked: “You appear thoroughly undone. I do hope I was the cause.”

B – Body Part (Favorite)

Of yours? Your neck. Not just the skin, but the way you tilt your head when he speaks low—entranced, almost reverent. He finds it exquisite. Bite-worthy. Monologue-worthy

Of his? His voice. It’s not pride—it’s fact. That baritone has seduced audiences for decades. If it can make an audience weep, it can damn well make you come.

C – Cum

Proper. Controlled. Deliberate. He likes to finish inside you—slowly, with a groan in your ear and a hand on your hip. But if he spills on your skin, it’s always with a muttered apology and a towel ready. “I may play an alien, but I do draw the line at behaving like a feral beast.”

D – Dirty Talk

Articulate filth. Think soliloquies of sin. Words like “divine,” “debauchery,” and “blasphemous pleasure” make appearances. He describes your body like he’s studying it for a monograph: “Do you feel that? The way you clench when I press there? Marvellous. We should document it. Recreate it. Forever.”

E – Experience

Years. Decades. Lovers in dressing rooms, hotels, and velvet-curtained theatres. Alexander has learned more from hands and mouths than from directors. He’s not interested in novelty—he’s interested in mastery.

F – Favorite Position

Spooning. From behind. Slow, deep, intimate—his mouth by your ear, voice low, words spilling like honey. But occasionally? He’ll pin you to the floor like Macbeth to his guilt and fuck you with the kind of passion that wins Tonys.

G – Groaning

Rare, but devastating. When it escapes, it’s deep and involuntary—a rumble dragged from the chest of a man who once played kings. And when you hear him growl your name in that raw baritone? You’ll understand why audiences stood for curtain calls.

H – Hair

Neatly trimmed everywhere. His body is lightly dusted with dark hair—elegant, never unruly. His head? Maintained. Styled, even post-coitus. He’ll pause mid-session to fix a stray strand if necessary. “I am not some television extra. I have standards.”

I – Intimacy

He resists it—at first. Too vulnerable. Too close. But when he finally lets it in, it’s blinding. His touch becomes reverent. His sarcasm softens. And just once, he whispers something like:

“You make me believe I’m more than a costume.”

J – Jacking Off

Only when absolutely necessary. Always in private. Often with a script still on his lap. One hand gripping himself, the other flipping pages—until he’s moaning your name somewhere between Act II and climax. Literally.

K – Kinks

- Praise kink (with sonnets)

- Voice kink (you reacting to his)

- Intellectual dominance (“Beg. But use iambic pentameter.”)

- Power play (he plays directors well—dominant, intense, exacting)

- Light bondage with silk scarves and theatrical flourish

- Costume kink (“You want the full Lazarus regalia, don’t you?”)

L – Location

Backstage. After the crowd has left. On the chaise longue in his dressing room. He likes spaces with velvet, low lighting, and the lingering scent of applause.

Also: his kitchen table, surprisingly.

Something about feeding you and then fucking you. Shakespeare would approve.

M – Marking

Not aggressive, but present. Bite marks at your collarbone, faint scratches on your hips—just enough to remind you the alien doctor is still a man underneath. “You bruise beautifully,” he murmurs, admiring the evidence.

N – Nudes

Would never send one. But if you receive a candid, it’ll be a tasteful, black-and-white photo of him shirtless at his dressing table, captioned:

“Lazarus prepares. Are you ready, my dear?”

O – Oral

Loves giving. Deeply. Worshipfully. You could script an opera around the way his tongue moves—slow, expressive, devastating. He moans into you like it’s the opening night of Macbeth. Receiving? He keeps one hand on your head and one gripping the desk behind him. “God—yes. Don’t you dare stop.”

P – Pace

Controlled. Calculated. Like he’s conducting an orchestra. He starts slow—builds you, breaks you, rebuilds. And when he sees you trembling? He ruins you. On purpose. With intent.

“You’re exquisite when you beg.”

Q – Quickies

Rare, but memorable. In the wings. Between rehearsals. Once, in a sci-fi convention green room with you still in cosplay. He fucked you hard against a wall and whispered, “By Grabthar’s hammer, I will make you scream.”

He meant it.

R – Risk

He pretends to hate it. Rolls his eyes. Mutters things like “We’ll get arrested.”

But he never stops you.

Especially not when you straddle him in the back of a limo after a gala and ask, “Still think I should’ve worn the longer gown?”

S – Stamina

Shocking. You assume he’s the one-and-done, wine-and-bed type. He’s not. He’ll go all night—pausing only for water and critique. “You’re panting, my love. Would you like me to slow down? Or shall I finish delivering Act V inside you?”

T – Toys

Elegant. Sleek. Velvet-lined cases. Nothing cheap. A few polished plugs. A remote-controlled vibe he only uses when you’re both at awards shows. “You’re glowing,” he whispers. “Should I turn it up before your speech?”

U – Unfair

Cruel, theatrical edging. He’ll stop mid-thrust to monologue. Will lick your clit for ten seconds and then retreat, saying, “That’s quite enough for now.”

And when you sob?

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” he’ll smirk. “That’s my job.”

V – Volume

A low purr most of the time. But when he’s close? A guttural moan that sounds like it was torn from the back of a throne room.

You live for it.

And he knows it.

W – Wildest Fantasy

You—nude except for theatrical gold paint—posed like a Grecian statue on a pedestal. He walks in, robes flowing, and recites Shakespeare while circling you, touching, tasting, claiming.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s night? No. I’ll make you scream through it.”

X – X-Ray

Average in length, above average in thickness. Veiny, flushed, slightly curved. Uncut. He keeps it clean, proud, and devastatingly effective. When he drops his trousers, he says nothing. Just lets you stare.

“…Speechless? How refreshing.”

Y – Yearning

He misses you in silence. Stares at your photo in the mirror. Rehearses your name into his pillow. But the moment you’re near, he turns insufferably aloof. Until you kiss him. Then he’s yours—all desperate hands, whispered need, and undone formality.

Z – ZZZ (Sleep)

Sleeps like a man who’s earned it. Fully sprawled, sheets tangled, one arm over your chest. If you leave the bed, he stirs—grumbling, half-awake.

“…Where are you going? I’m not finished with you.”

bonus:

AA – Acting

Oh, he acts. Not because he’s faking—but because performance is in his bones.

He moans like he’s on stage at the Globe. Growls like Macbeth in the final act. Sometimes, when your nails dig into his back and you're sobbing beneath him, he’ll murmur—

“Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war…”

And fuck, does he.

He’ll play roles if you ask—professor, villain, even Dr. Lazarus if you really beg. But even at his most primal, his most desperate, his most undone—there’s control. Craft. Timing. A master class in pleasure.

“You do realize,” he’ll whisper against your throat, voice wrecked but steady, “this is my finest performance in years.”

And if you can still speak?

You’ll agree.

Curtain call comes when you’re limp beneath him, marked, dazed, and thoroughly wrecked—his masterpiece, sprawled across the sheets.