he’s the kind of man who sniffs your panties when you’re away.
you’re gone for a week, family stuff out of town, and he’s restless. the apartment feels wrong without you. too quiet, too clean, too still. he can’t sleep. the sheets still smell faintly like you, but it’s fading, and it drives him insane. so he goes to your drawer, hesitates for half a second, and gives in. he presses the lace to his face, breathes you I, perfume, warmth, sweat, you. it’s pathetic, he knows, but it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded.
he’s the kind of man who leaves work the second you text him.
doesn’t matter what it says — miss you, what are you doing, even a picture of your lunch. he’s gone. his coworkers roll their eyes when he packs up early again, but he doesn’t care. he’d rather sit across from you for ten minutes than spend the whole day pretending anything else matters.
he’s the kind of man who knows you know more than you let on.
you’re clever — that’s what drew him in. but it also scares him. sometimes you look at him too long, ask questions too carefully, and he feels that flicker of panic in his chest. maybe you’ve noticed the bruised knuckles. maybe you’ve pieced together that every guy who disrespected you somehow ended up bloodied or missing a tooth. maybe you don’t say anything because part of you understands. part of you likes it.
he’s the kind of man who reads you like a book.
“shit,” he mutters when he sees that look — the one where your brows furrow, where you’re trying to figure out what he’s hiding. he told you he cancelled lunch because of a work emergency. truth was, he was cleaning himself up after teaching your ex a lesson he won’t forget. you assumed he didn’t want to see you. in reality, he didn’t want you to see the blood on his knuckles.
he’s the kind of man who’s protective to a fault.
“baby, i’m fine, i promise. just lunch with my mom,” you smile before hanging up and continuing your conversation with your mom, he’s already nearby, making sure you're really safe. the waiter laughs a little too loud at your joke, leans in too close, and his whole body tenses. he grips his glass so hard it nearly cracks. he tells himself to breathe, to stay seated, to not make a scene. but if that guy touches you again, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself.
he’s the kind of man who loves quiet domesticity.
mornings with you are his favorite thing, coffee brewing, sunlight spilling over the counter, you in one of his shirts. he’ll read the news while you hum to yourself, sometimes reaching over just to touch you, just to remind himself you’re real. he likes pretending this is all he’s ever wanted, a home, a routine, a life where love isn’t a battlefield.
he’s the kind of man who's aftercare crazy.
when it’s over, when the storm of you settles, he’s gentle, tracing patterns on your skin, pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder, whispering, “i don’t deserve you.” you fall asleep in his arms, and he stays awake just to watch. in the dim light, you look untouchable, like something he could never earn but will spend his whole life protecting anyway.
he’s the kind of man who loves watching you read, especially after sex.
you curl up beside him, one of the books he recommended open in your hands, hair still messy from his fingers. he can’t look away. the sight of you, calm, safe, content, makes something in him ache. and in that moment, he convinces himself this is love. not obsession, not control. love. the kind that justifies everything he’s done, everything he’s still willing to do, as long as it means keeping you his.
he’s the kind of man who’s obsessively attentive..
every sound you make, every breath, every tiny shift in your body, he notices. he memorizes. he knows how to make you shiver, how to pull a sigh from your lips, how to make you melt. he studies you like scripture, repeats what works like ritual. you are the only thing that quiets the chaos in his head.
he's the kind of man who eats you out like it's his life goal.
watching you writhe beneath him, chest heaving, your fingers tangled in his hair as you whisper breathless praises. he loves helping you calm down, making sure the stress of the day doesn't follow you to sleep.
"baby, I can't right now. i need to finish that... tha- thing." you loose your trail of thought as he makes you lay down on the bed, your skirt now around your hips. "that's tomorrow's problem sweetheart."
he's the kind of older!man who looses his mind at how experienced you are.
"sweetheart... you know you don't have to if you don't want to, right?" he looks down at you with dilated pupils as you get on your knees, you're already licking your lips as you unbuckle his pants. he knows you're not inexperienced per se but he doesn't know how much you love wrapping your plump lips around his cock, and he soon realises how much he loves it too.
sooner or later, he looses control and begins to fuck himself down your throat, you're taking him so well, his eyes are rolling to the back of his head and he feels this overwhelming sense of pride in you.
