#lee chaolan

𝒥𝐼𝒩 𝒦𝒜𝒵𝒜𝑀𝒜!

the lighting of fate’s got a taste for more things than one. to start off, it's absolutely thighs. jin’s whole personality is about control, nonchalance and repression; so of course he’s obsessed with the one part of you he can pretend he’s not staring at. he loves the way they look wrapped around his tapered waist, how they tremble when he’s fucking into you ever so slowly, the way you squeeze down then around him whenever you’re close. he’s always cupping the soft underside of your full thighs, squeezing just a bit too long. and when he’s kneeling between your legs, face hovering over your inner leg? he looks just about ready to make you cry on his mouth and press those thighs around his head.  

there’s another particular . . interest of his, one that he’d never openly admit. jin swears he’s above it, tries to convince himself he’s disciplined, focused—  but the second you walk in with even a hint of cleavage, his dark eyes drop before he can stop them, and he feels the shame hit heavy like a blow to the chest. he’s helplessly drawn to the softness, the round warmth, the comfort he’s never known, and when he finally gets to touch you, he turns ravenous; kissing down your supple chest like he’s starving, sucking your pert nipples with quiet, shaking breaths, kneading the swell of your breasts like he’s trying to memorize their weight in his warm palms. any position where he can watch them bounce wrecks him completely; you riding him has him burying his face between your tits to hide the way he whimpers. in missionary, when you pull him in by the hair, fingers threaded into dark unruly spikes, he breaks right there above you. clutching at your waist and thrusting desperately, whispering “don’t let go.” and when he tilts his hips upwards to finish on your chest, watching it drip down your smooth warmed skin, he looks dazed, licking it off his fingers and dipping low to clean your chest with the slow drag of his tongue. 

𝒦𝒜𝒵𝒰𝒴𝒜 𝑀𝐼𝒮𝐻𝐼𝑀𝒜!

kazuya is an ass man to the coreee! in fact, he’s disrespectfully fixated and won’t pretend otherwise. he loves how the weight of it fills his palms, the way it gives in under his relentless grip, the wave of ripples when he slaps it. he’s mesmerized by the curve of it when you’re bent over, that perfect arch that makes his breath hitch. his crimson eyes glower and narrow like he’s about to ruin something expensive. he’s obsessed with the spread of it too, the way your thighs part when he makes you hold yourself open, the way he can drag his thumbs over the softest part and watch you shiver. and god, how responsive it is, you are, to him— how it jiggles when he smacks it and drags you back onto his cock, how the fat of your cheeks ripple when he’s pounding into you so relentlessly. he kneads it, bites it, marks it, lifts it, uses it. and when he finally fucks you from behind, hand locked around your nape, the other gripping your hip so hard you know you’ll see fingerprints later. he revels in the echoing slap of skin, watches you takes every thrust like you were made for him.

𝐻𝒲𝒪𝒜𝑅𝒜𝒩𝒢!

loudly and proudly, ass and thighs. he wants the wholeee bottom half. what else do you expect from the master of taekwondo? that man is a menace behind a motorcycle and an absolute problem in bed; it’s honestly a miracle if he keeps his hands to himself for more than ten seconds. hwoarang slaps it like he’s testing the recoil on a new weapon, grabs it with both hands like he owns it, lifts you by it just to hear you gasp and cling to him. doggy-style is practically his religion. he loves the ripple when he snaps his hips forward, that perfect aftershock that makes him groan through his teeth; he’ll yank you back by the waist just to see it bounce again, biting his lip like he’s watching his favorite sin. when you walk past him, what follows is a sharp smack and a stupidly smug grin. whenever you bend over? there goes his grumbly involuntary groan. and when you sit on his lap, he’s instantly hard, grinding up into you like he can’t help it. when he finally gets you alone, hwoarang spreads you with calloused thumbs, pressing into the small divots of your back, breath hot at your ear with his bulge to your perked butt. 

𝐿𝒜𝑅𝒮 𝒜𝐿𝐸𝒳𝒜𝒩𝒟𝐸𝑅𝒮𝒮𝒪𝒩!

hips. he’s a gentleman; direct, polite, strategic. and he is obsessed with the gradual, elegant curve of your hips. his palms settle there almost automatically, guiding you into his firm lap, pulling you closer, squeezing gently like he’s appreciating fine art. he loves grinding you against him, loves the soft dip where your waist meets your hips. he guides you onto his thighs with that controlled strength of his, pulling you close, grinding you down against the thick weight straining his pants, murmuring a low, breathy, “just like that . . . perfect.” he loves the silhouette you make when you arch for him, loves how your hips tilt when he drags his hands along them. he ruts into you from behind with a hand circling that curve as he groans into your skin, his chestnut-brown hair grazing your shoulder, “these hips were made for my hands.” 

𝐿𝐸𝐸 𝒞𝐻𝒜𝒪𝐿𝒜𝒩!

lee is a man of luxury; he indulges, he savors, he worships. so of course he’s a titties man through and through! he massages your breasts with warm squeezes and slow rubs, like he’s performing the best skincare. he moans into them, nestles his face between them, and loves nothing more than falling asleep there like it’s his personal pillow. he loves having you on top, bouncing prettily in the soft light of his grand rose-petaled room while his large hands grip your waist and his eyes stay locked on your chest, following every perfect bounce and sway. and hen he gets that mouth of his on you? he sucks your nipples slowly, decadently, tongue dragging warm circles while you tug on his perfectly styled lilac hair. that’s when he purrs— actually purrs— into your skin, "you look marvelous, my love," vibrating against your chest like you’re his sweetest indulgence.

𝒮𝐸𝑅𝒢𝐸𝐼 𝒟𝑅𝒜𝒢𝒰𝒩𝒪𝑉!

neck & collarbone, because sergei’s tastes have always been rather niche. mister soldier is a peculiarly different kind of man. dragunov is feral about you, but through that all-consuming silence of his. he’s obsessed with the delicate, vulnerable parts of you; probably because they’re the only soft thing he’s allowed to touch. he licks your throat long and slow in one devastating stroke, bites the slope of your shoulder hard enough to make you gasp, nips at your jugular with a low grunt that feels like a blaring warning. whenever he sinks into your pulsing center, he leans in and buries his nose in the warm hollow where your neck meets your collarbone, breathing you in like he’s starving. he pins your wrists above your head with one large hand, unshakably steady, while the other drags down your sternum as he marks you in sharp lines of teeth. he’s possessive, yet methodical in the most animalistic way. he doesn’t say shit; never does. he just breathes against your skin, hot and heavy, eyes half-lidded and hungry, watching the way you melt underneath his broad, immovable frame.

𝒞𝐿𝒜𝒰𝒟𝐼𝒪 𝒮𝐸𝑅𝒜𝐹𝐼𝒩𝒪!

claudio my angelll! i feel like he’d be into thighs & tits, but in this guilt-shrouded holy shame. claudio is a sinner with a complex, a walking contradiction wrapped in italian silks and timeless scripture. he tries so hard to be above it, to keep his eyes lifted toward heaven— but the second your warm, soft thighs wrap around his head? he forgets the choir, forgets the doctrine, forgets God. he sucks bruises into the softest parts of your inner thigh, resolve crumbling once he encircles your throbbing little clit with his eager tongue. he tastes of you, grows drunk on the sweetness in a way wine could never do to him, and spouts weak excuses. eats you out and says that he shouldn’t, but he’s lying through his teeth. you feel it in the way he groans. and your boobs? he stares too long, palms them too gently, loses his place mid-prayer when they brush his arm. when claudio finally gives in, he ruins your sanctity and himself right along with you; fucking into you like salvation and damnation are the same thing.

𝒮𝐻𝒜𝐻𝐸𝐸𝒩!

this prince adores your waist / stomach with a devotion so breathtaking. he’s ridiculously tender about it too, a man of steel hands yet light touches. shaheen loves the softness beneath his palms when he lifts your shirt slowly, savoring the warmth settling in his palms. loves kissing just above your navel. loves when you arch into him and he can feel your breath stutter by the seizing tremble at your torso. if shaheen’s on top, he’ll hold your waist and guide you down on his cock, gripping tight as though he’s safeguarding gold. when you ride him, he strokes your stomach with careful fingertips, the most beautiful reverence. he worships gently, his stubble grazing your skin as he murmurs sweet praises against your throat.  

𝒮𝒯𝐸𝒱𝐸 𝐹𝒪𝒳!

undeniably ass. boxer behavior, through and through. he grabs a handful every time he pulls you into a kiss, smacking it playfully just to watch it bounce with eager storm-blue eyes. he loves how your ass moves when he grinds you down on him, loves pinning your hips just to see the recoil when you try to wiggle free. reverse cowgirl is his personal heaven; the man loses his entire mind. head thrown back, throat bobbing, messy blond hair plastered to his temples as you slam down on him and make a complete fucking mess out of the man. his fight-worn hands squeeze your cheeks like he’s molding them, breath breaking into rough, needy groans that shake his whole chest.

𝐹𝒜𝐻𝒦𝒰𝑀𝑅𝒜𝑀!

fahkumran is tit-obsessed, but in the sweetest way. big man, big hands, and an even bigger love for softness. he loves pressing your chest against him during missionary, loves cupping your breasts in gigantic tattooed palms even though his hands swallow them whole. he nuzzles into them when he leans halfway down to hug you, sighs into them when he’s tired, groans against them when he’s hard. he can lift you like it’s absolutely nothing; one huge veined arm holding your ass, the other gripping your tit as he sucks your nipple until you’re whining and clinging to him.

𝑀𝒜𝑅𝒮𝐻𝒜𝐿𝐿  𝐿𝒜𝒲!

law’s mischievous, energetic, playful to no literal end. of course he’s an ass man. he smacks it when you’re cooking, grabs it when you’re hugging, uses it to derail arguments by squeezing it mid-sentence. in bed, he’ll have you bent over in a heartbeat, hands spreading you open so he can watch every tiny twitch, every clench. he’ll spank you just to watch your recoiling flesh bloom red, laughing at how cutely you squirm. 

𝒫𝒜𝒰𝐿 𝑃𝐻𝒪𝐸𝒩𝐼𝒳!

paul loves tits like it’s his only life purpose outside the iron fist tournament. just unserious and absolutely shameless. a well-aged himbo, if you will. he lays his face on your chest like a human cat, just sprawls there. he sleeps there, talks there, drifts off there while absentmindedly squishing them during tv shows as you’re raking through his long blonde tresses. he holds your breasts steadily, squeezes them just right, kisses them like good luck charms. but riding paul? oh, you’re gonna break him. you lean forward, offer him your chest, and he goes feral— blue eyes rolling back, huge hands squeezing you closer, his voice turning deep and wrecked as he grunts against your skin.