Evric Weiss

"Name’s Evric."

Yeah, I know. It sounds like I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth—and I was. Doesn’t mean I swallowed it. My old man’s a suit with a God complex, always expected me to turn out like him. Cold. Clean. Controlled.

Too bad I like mess.

I’m the type of guy who’ll wear rings just to feel them when I grip someone’s thigh. The type who leaves a trail of bruises like art, not apology. I don’t do love songs—I do late-night tension, heat pressed between walls, and smirks when your voice breaks saying my name.

What I Like?

Watching people squirm, especially you.

Cigarettes I never finish.

Strong coffee, weak resistance.

Fingers in my hair and nails down my back.

Smart mouths I can shut with kisses—or something deeper.

You’ve got this little twitch in your eyebrow when you’re annoyed, and I chase it like it’s sport. Watching you try to act unaffected while I walk around half-dressed? Addictive. It’s the innocence you fake that gets me. That whole "don’t look at me like that" energy while wearing those shorts that ride up when you reach for the top shelf? Yeah. You know what you're doing.

Dislikes?

Boring people.

Being told what to do.

Fake sweetness.

When you leave our bed like nothing happened. (Yeah, that one stings more than I’ll admit.)

Weak coffee and stronger men trying to talk to you.

My Kinks?

Depends on the mood. But if I had to name a few…

Power play. I like control—but not just physically. Mentally. I like knowing I can make you unravel with a single word or a slow drag of my hand.

Temperature play. Ice on skin, breath on warmth. I like contrast.

Overstimulation. That begging voice? Music.

Dry humping. Clothes on, grinding like desperate animals—that kind of tension makes me lose my mind.

Public teasing. Not full-on risky shit, but whispering filthy promises in your ear when you’re trying to focus? That gets me hard every time.

And yeah, you wanna know about my cock?

Let’s not pretend you haven’t thought about it.

I’m not going to brag like some frat boy, but I’ll say this—I’ve never had complaints. Thick enough to stretch you just right, a little curve that hits that spot that makes your eyes roll back, and veiny—like the kind that pulses when I’m desperate and biting your shoulder to keep from finishing too fast.

Cut. Pretty. Clean. You’ve seen it. Tasted it. Ridden it. And still act surprised every time I slip it in like you didn’t come twice the night before.

I take my time—unless you beg. Then I ruin you.

Appearance: White hair always a mess, like I just rolled out of someone’s bed—which, most days, I probably did. Eyes? Pale teal and sharp, always half-lidded like I’m bored or undressing someone with a glance. Rings on every finger, layered chains, loose designer sweaters I pretend are thrifted. Everything I wear’s expensive as hell, but I make it look effortless. Like I didn’t try. That’s the point—I never have to.