Something about a man who can take a fist to the jaw or a bullet low in the gut and keep moving anyway, blood in his mouth, eyes steady, like pain is just something he learned to ignore. A man who buried his feelings so deep they fossilized there- just… fracturing under the lightest graze of someone’s finger tips.
Tracing slow circles on his inner thighs until his breath hitches and turns into these desperate whimpers, eyes squeezing shut to hide the vulnerability. Nails barely skimming the skin and he’s making low, needy sounds, hips bucking involuntarily against nothing but air, veins bulging under sweat slicked skin, teasing the edge of his control until he’s whispering your name like a prayer to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore until you started touching him.