"It's frightening to know..."

Fae/He • 22 • Minors DNI • Asks always open • Submissions open • Mostly Fandom nsfw and selfship stuff

[foolclownery]

"...That there's no guarantee that I'll ever be loved."

Acorn | 22 | fae/he | nsfw/selfship acct

selfship with

- dazai (bsd)

- chuuya (bsd)

- kaiser (bllk)

- rin (bllk)

- nagi (bllk)

- akito (fruba)

- and more (multishipper even with myself)

more fandoms.... mlb, jrwi, sk8, alnst, tgcf, mdzs, vnc (more that i cant remember, rlly big on bllk and bsd rn)

[suodelic]

which one of my favs are you letting hit

?

suo (wbk)

sae (bllk)

shin (drhd)

toji (jjk)

dazai (bsd)

anaxa (hsr)

floyd (twst)

Voting ended onJul 11

[osamucide]

✦ ݁˖ ONE OF YOUR GIRLS

SAY WHAT YOU WANT AND I’LL KEEP IT A SECRET . . . ft. Sae Itoshi

wc: ~6.1k

cw: NSFW—MINORS + AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI. set post-canon/during 2026 World Cup; all characters depicted are 21+. m!reader (anatomy described as cock + hole), smut + angst, NDA, light drug + alcohol use, very lightly referenced internalized homophobia, spit and drool, spit as lube, oral sex (Sae receiving), hair pulling, throat fucking, face slapping, ass slapping, choking, anal fingering, anal sex, dirty talk + pet names (slut, whore, good boy), mean Sae, rough sex, doggy -> prone my beloved, speculative af, just a sad grindr hookup rly

r: thank u to my sweety silas for hatching this idea with me. dl sae is real to me and i will always want to put him in a situation

To say it’s a nice hotel room is a gross understatement.

Everything in the room shimmers mutedly, even the mundane belongings he’s brought with him—a crystalline bottle of cologne, a robe dangling from the hook on the bathroom door, the like—which is unsurprising because of who he is, and also the occasion for which he’s in the city. The midcentury modern chair you’re perched upon is much comfier than it looked—low to the ground, so you’re not sure if you should splay out or draw your knees up to you. But the sheer presence of him freezes you somewhat between, and you sit a little meekly, legs sort of half crossed under you at your ankles. You crack your knuckles subtly as he moves around unhurriedly. And you try not to stare, but he’s very pretty. 

Newport Beach glitters behind him. All the white terracotta is dusted deep blue and purple in the coastal evening; aquatic light from pools below dot the dimness (you consider, briefly, the irony of containing such an element in a place like this) along with fluorescent gemstones of windows, green and blue and mostly rectangles of yellow. Palms ruffle in the night air and the Pacific is only a suggestion by the jagged bit of coastline allowed to you from where the blackout curtain is pulled back; the further out you look, the more the lights dissolve, until the water is indistinguishable from the sky. 

It’s so beautiful it almost takes your breath away. You’ve never been up this high in Orange County, and you suppose a lot of people don’t ever get to be. 

It’s under relatively odd circumstances you find yourself up here, too. Also in yellow rectangles are your previously-sent messages, in which you played not too interested and yet not too detached, the way you do with every other guy on that godforsaken app—in your defense, you didn’t set out expecting to woo an international football star. It was just that his abs looked really good, and anything other than a blank profile insistently hitting you up with hey. pics? ass pic? hi. pic4pic? is a grail of its own kind. You don’t waste time tapping. Besides, his bio spelled it out—DL visiting looking for right now—and you also don’t like to waste time negotiating your pleasure. You could practically hear your friends chiding you for even entertaining those two letters—DL. Have some self-respect, they’d say, not quite half joking, but you’re not in the business of telling people how to live their lives. What went on in so-called straight dudes’ consciences after you fucked them wasn’t really your concern. Something was pleasing about such candidness, anyway, however incomplete and rooted in convenience—here’s my shame, have me anyway, even just for a second, if you can stomach it. Anyway, you weren’t looking for a life story, or even a love story—just an evening. 

It obviously wasn’t the first time he’s done this, either. You appreciated that he also didn’t seem like a time waster. The guidelines were clear from the first message after the one where he told you you’re cute: he doesn’t kiss, he doesn’t bottom, and—get this—he’s a high-profile athlete with a reputation to uphold. 

You had shaken your head a little, eyes narrow, smirking despite yourself. It was like that, huh? You’re not stupid; it’s Newport Beach during the World Cup. 

You tapped the link to a PDF: an NDA, which came immediately in the wake of a picture of a heavy bulge through athletic shorts. His hands were sexy, a little veiny, and the dark, wet dime-sized bead of precum against the gray material he held himself through made it evident he was touching himself already. 

But the twinge of excitement you felt, suspended in the momentary mystery of who he could be and which team he played for, was lightly subdued by such a procedural interruption. You’re maybe the last person on earth impersonality scares—it tends to pique your curiosity, if anything, you think—but filing intimacy into a digital cabinet before it could be enacted? That’s new. New to you; probably very ordinary to him. You had tilted your head at your phone a little as you considered the degree of piteousness you could feel for a man in a situation such as this.

Nonetheless, you scanned the document for what you could divulge to your friends later. The answer was, predictably, not much. But it was a short thorough read, and it didn’t look terribly suspicious, so you scribbled on it and sent it back over. 

After all, if it wasn’t going to be you, it’d certainly be someone else.

The reward for this was the stunning, angular face of Sae Itoshi, looking a bit up at you through his phone camera—shirtless, from an angle where you could see his shorts slung low on his thin waist. 

Not that you’re particularly well-versed in the world of soccer, but you’d have to live under a rock, especially in the SoCal area in the summer of 2026, not to have seen his face along with many others on more than a few promotional materials. He stood out, with his rosedust-colored hair and general aversion to smiling politely as his colleagues tended to. But even before all that ramped up, you’d scrolled past a few of his interviews on socials before; strange, that it would be him, you think. In the limelight, he seemed like he didn’t care about much. Funny how easily indifference passes for mystery when someone’s attractive enough. The internet had spent Sae Itoshi’s late teenage-into-early adulthood years sanding him down into archetypes; stoic prodigy, too cool for interviews, too talented to bother performing gratitude. What you sense is that no one ever seems to imagine that a person can look detached because they’re exhausted from keeping whole facets of their being hidden. And he’s not close to the first professional athlete your radar would ping, much less would strike you as one to go out of his way to keep it so strictly on the low. All just goes to show how dumb all that parasocial shit is. But it’s also not terribly shocking, either, you guess. Men’s sports are like that. Either way, it deflated you a little the longer you stared at him on your screen—his prominent collarbones, his toned abdomen, his biceps, the tent in the same gray shorts from the first photo. Anyway, how bummed could you really be if you were about to hook up with Real Madrid’s star midfielder? 

You tried not to think about it too hard all the way up until you slid quickly through the door into the line of his pressing, empty gaze and to the chair upon which you now sit as he saunters about, still shirtless, incredibly delicious but slow, like he’s trying to give some invisible audience the impression that he’s not overly eager about anything, especially not for what’s supposed to happen. And, again, you really do try not to stare at him—not because he’s difficult to look at or you don’t want to make him feel weird but because fame tends to trick you into thinking you’ve already seen someone. But sitting here, watching him, you get the feeling that the public version of Sae had never occupied three dimensions. Also, you’re a little bothered from his photos, a little impatient to get your hands on him, a little unsure of what to say—or if you should say anything at all—to a really handsome, really closeted athlete whose room you’re in solely and only to fuck him in a way that will probably never leave the cover of night and non-disclosure. You pretty much clarified everything over text. People had informed him before that his demeanor comes off rather cold, he told you. You got that, you had poked jokingly. Very funny, he’d replied. A brief moment of humorous gratitude passed between you when you said you didn’t mind; if anything, it made him sexier. But as you sit, it’s like you used up all the banter over the phone and now there wasn’t any left. That’s okay, though. The message where he said he’s into you, that it’d be a good time even if it didn’t necessarily show on his face, sticks to your ribs. You know asking him to show it might be asking for too much, but you don’t mind, really. 

“Do you care if I smoke?” 

But before you can nod no, that you don’t care (which you were going to, anyway), he’s already twisting the dropper off a sage-green vial with a label that proudly reads Product of California, USA and sticking it under his tongue to deposit a couple drops of what looks like olive oil. Of course, Sae Itoshi would never actually, literally smoke his marijuana, the same way he wouldn’t let you more than three steps past the door without requiring the removal of your shoes, or wouldn’t permit you entrance to his penthouse suite if there was anyone else in the hallway. Walk directly past my door if anyone else is around. Don’t even look at it and don’t turn back until you’re alone, one of the many blue chat bubbles you’d rescrolled through on your way here read. He doesn’t offer you any of the tincture. 

You shift a little as he throws something in a duffel bag here, checks something on his phone there, draws the blackout curtain forward a bit. Finally, he plops onto the foot of the big plush bed, kicking off a pair of expensive-looking house slippers as he does. A drawn-out sigh leaves him. He doesn’t look over at you, opting instead to lean back on his hands, and you quietly admire the slope of his torso as he breathes. Shoulders tense. His composure is very obviously manufactured, and you’re unsure if he lets you see this because he possesses a legally binding document ensuring you can’t expose such a thing to the public, or if he just doesn’t care. Maybe he thinks you’re too dumb to realize, or too much of a starfucker to care yourself.

Either way, the draw against Cape Verde in the first round was rough. You do not have to ask him personally about this or even be observing him right now in order to know that. You’ve seen the headlines, all the way up until this afternoon—Spain’s listless performance won't cut it against better teams at World Cup—after the win against Uruguay on an error. It gnaws at you a bit, that two shaky parts of his life are colliding in this room, and you’re here to watch. No, not watch—participate. 

He runs a hand through the fringe he keeps pushed back when he plays; right now, it sweeps across his forehead. You know enough to know that no one ever really sees him like that. He’s obviously somewhere between pissed and defeated, and putting forth an artifice of indifference. There are too many things lingering in the room to appear indifferent about, in your opinion, but it’s another thing you’ll just have to not to think about too deeply. He’ll be fine. If he wanted you to therapize him, he’d have said that, but he didn’t, and he doesn’t. He just wants to fuck. However this goes, you remind yourself, he’s making a fat wad of cash either way. 

People would kill for this life. It seems almost insulting to imagine someone could be lonely in a suite this expensive. You’re reading too far into the ephemerality, surely; after all, everything in a hotel room counts on guests leaving before there is a chance for an impression to be made. The mattress won’t remember the shape of one body before the next inhabits it, and the stocked minibar will never run empty. You wonder if he’s a drinker. It doesn’t look like it, but he’s only been here for less than a day. You make a mental note to help yourself later. A liminal space has never made you itch so terribly. 

And the least you can do is treat him like a human being. 

“You waiting for something?” he murmurs over his shoulder at you, cutting through your thoughts. It’s not bitey, but it is impatient. He doesn’t cast his sidelong glance at you as much as he does the wall. 

You rise and make your way to him—one, two, three, four, five, six intentional steps until you’re turning to stand before him, one hand playing at the hem of your shirt, the other dangling limply. 

Sae looks through you in your pause, sultry, unamused green eyes tired as they lift up to yours. They flit down once, toward the floor, and then back up to you. You understand this as your cue to drop to your knees. 

As you sink onto the shag carpet you momentarily imagine yourself from a third perspective. And from this perspective, you speculate further about what Sae’s type in women might be; you imagine your own hair, but long and in a cute, athletic ponytail. While you shuffle closer to him, trailing semi-confident fingertips up his thighs to his waistband, you envision a set of understated French-tipped nails doing so instead. It’d be easier all around—tidier for the tabloids if anyone ever found out; star footballer spotted with mystery girl. His PR team would grit their teeth, a couple new sponsors would pop out, fans would speculate for a week or two, and then the world would move on. Sae is the kind of man who could build a life out of things like that, if he wanted; he has the face for it, the money, the path paved before him. But he hasn’t, and you’re here, tugging his shorts off his hips, down his muscular thighs, down his calves, looking up at him with want. 

He kicks his shorts aside and places a firm hand on your jaw, peering down at you from behind the prettiest lashes you think you’ve ever seen on someone as you wet your lips and wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. The third perspective is gone—was never there to begin with. Just you and him in this room, like so many rooms he keeps returning to, where everything must disappear by the light of day. 

The thought should flatter you, really, that in all the possibilities available to him, he chose you. But the longer you spend in his orbit—and it’s not even been two hours—that thing that’s been sticking to your ribs drifts down toward your stomach, where you know it will settle like a rock. It’s not really you he's choosing, anyway; rather, a version of desire that isn't real enough to him to threaten the rest of his life. 

You push this unsavory line of thinking back out to sea again as you loll your tongue out. 

Sae’s fingers skirt from your face into your hair. It’s hardly perceptible how he pushes you toward him, especially with you leaning into the motion so you can hold him to your mouth and lave the flat of your tongue over his frenulum. The closed-mouth sigh he breathes makes his chest flutter. You wonder if he’d let you touch it. And then you hold still and swipe him against you, slowly, arching closer to put better pressure on him, looking up into his striking face to watch his brows stitch together. When you ball up a mouthful of spit onto his tip so you can stroke him fully, once, then twice as you feel his warm, neutral precum mix with it on your tongue, his pretty lips fall open as he draws in a deep, controlled breath and lets it out just so. Laser-focused on you. You, laser-focused on him. If he’s going to battle with this internally, you at least want to make it good. Yes, there is conflict in his gorgeous ocean-colored eyes, and it fills you with the unmistakable urge to be good for him. 

When you wrap your lips around his tip and swirl your tongue in honeyed circles, a deep rumble rises from his chest; it makes your stomach and your eyelids flutter in tandem, and you nod against him, suctioning and releasing to make more circles and draw more precum out of him, switching back and forth until his fingers in your hair tighten up. The longer you bob your head, the quicker he wants you, and the fuller his groans come. 

And then he pushes. You figured he’d want it rough—a lot of DL guys seem to; it’s a dominance thing—so you move your hand off him and brace yourself against his inner thighs, which flex and twitch lightly as you take more of him in your mouth. Fuck, he breathes headily when you’re halfway down him, I wanna use this mouth; he’s not asking for permission, but you moan around him eagerly, nodding still, to mean yes anyway, just as much as you mean to make him feel good. 

So his other hand knots up in your hair, too; you suck in air through your nose, ready—ready for him to guide you down until he’s prodding the back of your throat. You dig your nails into his thighs before slipping a hand down and beneath your own waistband; when you touch yourself, you’re unsurprised to feel yourself leaking and throbbing as he works into you. 

Sae’s fingers interlock at the back of your skull, and you know this is where you resign yourself for a bit—you stop nodding, stop bobbing as he thrusts you down once, twice, and three times until you’re buried in the sparse patch of hair at his pelvis. He smells so good, you think, tastes so good, fills you up so good—and he holds you there as you gag around him, shoulders beginning to tremble; if you were looking at him, you could see him throw his soft head of rosy hair back before he lifts you so far up just to slam you back down. 

And he makes good on his word. What he does is definitely use you, with no regard for how your scalp burns as he manipulates you up and down his length, uncaring for the pathetic gurgling sounds his cockhead forces out of the corners of your mouth each time he strikes your windpipe. You screw your eyes shut when the tears come—they blur everything anyway—and you falter as you rub yourself, no less content to listen to him grunt and sigh than if he was fucking you in a hole that felt good for you, too. 

But his hips are restless even as you let him maneuver you. Sae returns the thrusts to himself double, going from passive to actively fucking into you, and you grasp onto him, squirming backward; you feel his form overtake yours—but Sae holds you, doesn’t let you falter from him as he stands to leverage his hips against your head until he’s standing, knees bent, unwilling to leave your mouth. 

Instead of moving you along his cock, he clutches you still in his hold and fucks your face with fervor—balls slapping your chin while you sit like a good boy and take him, clawing at him like you want him to stop but you’re certain you both know you mean the opposite. He mutters something you can’t quite make out over the feeling of him wrenching your jaw open wider and wider to accommodate his relentless thrusts; you feel spools of drool collecting, sticking to your chin. You’re lightheaded. You’re letting up on his thighs as he growls above you; you catch good fucking hole as he batters into you and your eyes are rolling back and he’s trapping you between his knees. Fucking your face, holding you close like he needs you. You want to see him from that third perspective again, becoming a pretty, sweaty mess above you. 

Just when you wonder if he’ll cum down your throat, he pulls out of you, punching the air back into your lungs. 

And before you can breathe in fully, he’s slapping you hard. 

You like the way your ears start to ring when your gasp gets caught in the shock of it; you like the way he doesn’t let go, just to shove himself back down your throat to the hilt again, deliver a few more bruising thrusts to the back of your throat, before he does it all over again. 

He pulls out. He slaps you hard. He readjusts your head in front of him to choke you a few more times on his cock, and he repeats this a few times—again, again, again—until you can’t hear anything but your own ragged breathing wearing into rough gags and sobs. 

Your senses come back to you after he drops you, and he really does drop you; your palms hit the shag rug as you heave, willing oxygen back to your brain with everything in you. You’re vaguely aware of him settling himself back down on the edge of the bed, but you can’t yet move to see what he wants next. You know what he wants next. You’re hard and leaking all over the carpet, too, and as soon as you can stand to get yourself on the bed next to him, you’ll gladly give it to him. 

You’ve done enough psychoanalyzing him, anyway. How about how flushed and needy your cock is after being used so brutally? Why do you crave things like this from men like Sae—men who conflate distance and strength? 

Through wet eyes you look up at Sae from the floor, his stone-carved chest and shoulders rising and falling, his cock slick and twitching, and you understand there are some distances no amount of reaching can close. Distance between two people is survivable, navigable—but the distance between a man and himself is an unscalable mountain. And you, you know, are unequipped to give a man like Sae the tools to begin. 

Besides, you know why you do this, and it’s much simpler than why he does. You like sex. You’re young and hot and live in LA. You’re a huge sadomasochist—yes, that’s it. Maybe, you think innocuously, as if you have never thought this before (you have): you just like seeing something in men like Sae break. And you also like it when broken men break you a little bit. 

And that doesn’t make you better or worse than him. You don’t even need that line of thinking. If anything, all that does is make you hurt more for him. The big difference between you and Sae is you’re into something, and he’s into something he can’t admit. 

It’s really, truly whatever, you think as you push yourself up off the floor. You cough and it aches and you wipe drool and tears from your face with the back of your hand and stand on feet that tingle badly, and he looks bored with a barely-there twinge of dark satisfaction at watching you pull yourself together, and you like it. You bite back a watery grin as you stumble toward him and his open legs; he catches you by the hem of your shirt and slips it up until you raise your arms and let him tear it away. 

Brow still furrowed, bangs sweaty, he suddenly tucks his arms back at his sides—like he’s caught himself doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. 

But he looks at you. Drinks you in, even if he wants to act like he doesn’t, and the rock drops into your stomach so you let your grin break out fully now, growing like a flame before you wrangle it back. 

Still breathless, Sae flicks his sea-colored eyes up to bore into you. “Pants off.” 

You oblige, and he continues to gaze at you as you do. You don’t look away from him either, following his eyes as you step out of your boxers; he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth as your cock bobs, and you stand, bare, waiting for him to move.

But he doesn’t, you do. He doesn’t touch you and you don’t expect him to. You slink to him again, reaching for him somewhere in the space between his throat and his pecs, just to see what he’ll do, and he doesn’t disappoint; before you can sling yourself across his lap, his scowl deepens—he grabs your forearms, swinging you to the side of him onto the bed. You hit it and it feels like a cloud, the crazy threadcount sheets and pillowy mattress; one of his thighs wedges between yours as he wrestles you onto your back. 

“Uh-uh,” he scolds you before you can link your legs around his waist, shoving you off him before he grabs you hard by the middle and, in a moment of feeling weightless, flips you onto your stomach. You splay out like a bug on impact, wriggling to right yourself, but you’re nowhere near quick enough; Sae and his strong grasp push and pull you around once more, taking you by the hips and yanking your ass up into the air. You yelp while he tells you, “Gonna let me do it like this.” 

And you do, folding your arms up by your chest to brace yourself as he arches you down with one forceful hand. Cheek pressed to the bed, you gasp when you feel his cock heavy against your thigh. His other hand palms your ass, spreading you apart for him, and his thumb, coated with what must be his spit, circles your hole. 

You flinch as he presses in. He smacks your ass for this. 

“Sae,” you whimper. 

He drops a glob of spit from above; you flinch at this, too, not because you’re a slow learner but because you know the sting will contrast the chill nicely, and you’re right—he lands another hard smack to your ass, and your breath gets caught between a sigh and a groan and then cut off when he sinks his thumb further into you. 

You push back into him just for him to take his thumb out, smack your ass again, mutter slut underneath his breath. “So fuckin’ desperate for it.” 

“I want it,” you tell him, truthfully—he pulls your ass apart again, with both anxious hands this time, and watches it recoil before he lands a few more smacks to it, and you whine into each one. “P—please, Sae.”

He leaves one palm firmly on your asscheek, fingertips digging indents into the fat of it as he gives you his index finger. You can’t help the moan that falls from your mouth, and you don’t fall back because you want his cock and now would be a moment to display the fact that you are a quick learner, but regardless, you’re confident he won’t tease you all that much more. You both have things you can’t think about too long. You can’t speak for him, but you just want him in you. 

“I can take more,” you tell him, and his middle finger inches into you just like you anticipated because this is surely one of the parts he wouldn’t want to prolong if he wasn’t enjoying it, right? If you weren’t just a hole? You find this undulating obsession with having him admit it troubling. You don’t need that from him like he needs it from himself. It’s certainly not your responsibility to draw it out. Stop thinking like that, you tell yourself. 

But he spends another minute or so stretching you out good, scissoring his fingers a bit in your ass to work you open. “Stay still,” he instructs you when you hump into nothing, and you bite the sheet and dig your nails in while your cock twitches with each upward curl of his fingers. 

And you whine petulantly when he pulls them out. 

“Greedy fuckin’ whore,” he calls you as he aligns his tip with your hole. Another smack, another glob of spit, another smudging of it across you. You have yeses spilling from you as he thrusts himself in in a way that would’ve undoubtedly hurt badly if he didn’t spend that extra bit of time opening you up. 

And a full-bodied moan leaves your chest when he bottoms out. You cut it short so you can hear his before you start babbling things to get him moving—fuck, you’re so big, I’m so full, feels so good—but he smacks your ass again and tells you to shut up. 

So you do. You clamp your mouth shut and hum moans as he works up a steady pace until you can’t keep it closed anymore and your jaw falls slack against the sheet. 

You want to look at him. You have to see him. 

So you twist the best you can, trying to glimpse him over your shoulder. In your peripheral, he looks wrecked—hypnotized as he watches himself disappear into you. His hips clap off yours in an obscene notation of rhythm and you feel his blunt nails in your asscheeks, keeping you open for him to ogle with his tongue pressed to the side of the inside of his mouth and pretty, breathy grunts and hisses leaving his lips. God, the sounds he makes are so hot. His abs flex when he hits deep inside you, his biceps, taut and sculpted, keep you in place, and his hair sways dazzlingly; he’s gorgeous behind you, and your moans get louder at the sight. 

But he catches you watching him and one coveted hand flies down to shove your face into the bed. He props a leg up and in one vicious swoop, thrusts into you hard and stays there, knocking a shriek out of you that gets muffled hotly against your face; after this, not only does he pick up the speed, but the depth at which he pounds your insides. Suddenly every moan is a scream, every thrust is a punishment, and his hand is wound tight in your hair again, pushing you down and away from him this time instead of towards him and you want to just go limp and feel used. He’s using you. And you’re using him, and the word used echoes around your brain, making your cock jump erratically as Sae begins to grunt. It’s such a pretty sound. 

You start to collapse under the force of him until you’re flat against the bed, your sensitive cock jostling against it with each harsh clash of his hips into you. It starts to hurt so good. All the stimulation begins to accumulate in your gut, blanketing that rock from before until it grows so warm and sweet and overwhelming you can’t remember the rock was ever there to begin with. Sae’s fucking your brain out of you, going to leave it leaking out of your spent hole, and you feel the tears again, wet and hot between you and the fabric as he drops to his elbows and cages you in. 

You cum hard and loud, shaking and arching and jolting against him and the mattress and he doesn’t care. He’s relentless, splitting you open as the stickiness of your release soils the sheets. He fucks you at that pace until he can’t contain his voice anymore—tells you to fucking take it through open-mouthed moans until he pulls out fast enough to give you whiplash. You whimper all over again as you feel him cum across your ass in hot spurts. It’s like he cums forever and yet at the same time, it’s over too fast. But either way, as you lay there and wait for him to be done, you clench around nothing and wish, in your cockdrunk daze, that he would’ve cum inside you. 

And he pushes himself off you to stand and disappear from your field of touch. His heat signature, too far from you. Most DL guys don’t cuddle after, and you didn’t expect him to be any different.

He just tosses a towel onto the bed in your line of sight, next to your unfurling fist, putting a fluffy gray splotch over the bit of window you were gazing out of as he used you until he didn’t need you anymore. You hear his footsteps, light and slow, before the bathroom door clicks shut and the shower turns on. 

And you get up quivering all over. After wiping yourself as clean as you can, you retrieve your clothes; you shimmy back into them, feeling uncomfortably damp and dumbly wondering if you can expect to see him before you leave. It’s likely you won’t, you think. Wordless works well for men like Sae, in and out of public life. 

It’s funnily appropriate, you think, the isolation he leaves you in. It’s one he knows well, you assume. Less than twelve hours ago, after all, he was tearing across countless television screens internationally, scoring the only Spanish goal of the tournament so far—the prodigal son of Japanese soccer, dull and burning and stunning like a star beginning to die. A spectacle. You’ve always wondered how athletes, or actors, or people with any sort of celebrity status maintain their humanity among the artificial intimacy that colors their lives. Loved by so many, known by none at all. It’s cruel and sad. 

You like to think, in the quiet of the penthouse, that you do know some things about Sae Itoshi. But it’s no good, really—of no worth, because you can’t tell anybody, and even if you could, you wouldn’t want to because it wouldn’t be their business. Except it’s Sae’s business—but he, too, turns away from it. You know his body, which is a logistic in the eyes of the world, is going back to being just that under a hot stream of shower water as you reluctantly curl yourself up on a corner of the bed. It is with resignation that you understand he sees himself as national property. 

But sadder than that—what makes you shrivel into the corner of the bed you’re going to be expected to abandon very soon—is what he really is, which is, of course, nobody’s at all. Not the public’s, not his country’s or another’s, and most certainly not yours. The loneliness of men like Sae Itoshi doesn’t start or end in stadium tunnels or hotel rooms or on the pitch; it begins somewhere so incredibly private, somewhere he keeps boarded shut with insistence and devotion close to fanatically religious. Sae is the kind of man you could reach for forever and still barely grasp the traces of the self he puts forward as player, competitor, genius, performer. 

And the saddest thing isn’t even that Sae can’t be yours—it’s that he can’t bear to belong even to himself. 

You pat your pockets for your keys, your wallet, your phone. And you remember the minibar. You sit in its call for a moment and listen to the water and look at the mess on the bed and at the tincture bottle and the cologne and the towel and his slippers and you scrunch your nose up a bit before you make your way over to the display of smoked glass bottles and pellucid whiskey cups. One, two, three, four, you count in your brain as you pour out the rest of the Ciroc Ten Year—looks like he does drink, but only the bougie shit. You roll your eyes as you down it, not counting, breath held. It burns and you like it.

Emptily glancing around the room, like something or someone in it is still waiting for you, you leave the glass on the cart before padding over to slip your shoes on and reach for the door handle. Funny, the room is already forgetting you. Another day and housekeeping will strip the bed, bring him fresh towels. In a week or two some other rich man might order a bottle of wine up here, looking out the big window over these same lonely ribbons of freeway and not suspecting Europe’s best midfielder stood there shirtless and silent and trying to look like he wanted nothing at all in this world. It’ll be like you were never even here. That’s the point of all this, anyway.

The next time you will see Sae Itoshi will be on a television screen, versus Austria at SoFi Stadium. And you will not know anything about him, and it will be a gross understatement for the next guy to say it’s a nice hotel room. 

When you get home and mix yourself a vodka soda with Smirnoff No. 21, you find that you smell like him. You wonder who you can tell.

[foolclownery]

@flower-blossoms654

[ninfadora7]

Fashonably late but

✨HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHUUYA✨

[maple-salad]

op says we can repost

[vintricles]

free my girl she did all that and that’s what makes her such a compellingly complex character. that’s her essence

[tired-fandom-ndn]

Sometimes "rarepair" means "you are literally the only person who posts about this on tumblr dot com" and you have to learn to be okay with that.

[quietwingsinthesky]

you should come within biting range. no reason

[originalartblog]

.⛓️🥀.

[magicalastronomies]

well if MY girlfriend put me in a timeloop because she was clingy and didn't want to lose me I would be delighted and flattered and would love her even more

[nonexistent-triangle]

the irredeemable pervert is generally well regarded among their friends for their insightful thoughts and all around pleasant demeanour

[foolclownery]

akito, post story, pre another: yeah so he slept with my mom, but its okay because i kinda deserved it

fruba!me, akitos loyal knight and servant: your highness shall i impale him on my sword

[scaredpigeons]

A debt, recurrent.

A sequel to A debt, repaid.

BSD Ogai Mori x fem!reader

NSFW 18+ MDNI

Authors Note: I had previously skirted around the idea of writing something that directly involved Elise, just because her existence is like— one of the major icky points of this character, but I had a request to do like a nanny!reader x mori, and I was like “how can I do this in cannon universe while making it make sense while also making sure it isn’t gross.” And this is what popped out. In this story, it is implied in this that Mori does not actively use Elise in any sexual activities, even though I have no idea if that’s been confirmed or denied in the manga/show. I just prefer the thought that he hasn’t. Makes me sleep better at night. That being said, I still don’t condone any actions associated with this character/the entire Lolita-loving trope, but being able to interact with things that have caused me trauma in the past in a Safe space makes me very horny happy. and I am so uncomfortably horny for this old man.

Word count: 5k

Synopsis: Mori needs to go to a meeting, and needs someone trustworthy to watch Elise. She chose you, much to your displeasure, and you spend the evening catering to her every whim. Mori returns home to find you in a vulnerable state, and who is he to refuse such a gift?

PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING! DARK CONTENT WARNING! READ RESPONSIBLY!

CW: technically non-con somnophilia.(sexual actions while one party is asleep) Reader is into it, even though she tries to deny the fact that she is at first. Mori has very dark and possessive thoughts towards reader, reader doesn’t wake up until Mori is actively (p in v) fucking her. Touching, oral (fem receiving) fingering, very little vaginal prep, creampie, dirty talk. Mild aftercare, though it’s implied that he’s not actually done. ELISE IS NOT INVOLVED IN ANY NSFW CONTEXT, AND IS ACTIVELY TAKEN AWAY AND TUCKED INTO HER OWN BED BEFORE MORI DOES ANYTHING TO READER

You flinched at the sound of the door to the lounge swinging open, and very light footsteps accompanied by heavier, slower ones. 

You were just trying to have lunch with your coworkers, and you certainly weren’t expecting to interact with the boss today, or his… ability.

”hmm…” the little girl seemed to tap her foot in thought, and you kept your head down, though if you looked up and to the side, you could see her shoes in the corner of your vision. You could see his shoes too, standing directly behind her. 

“I want to play with… that one!” She said with a demanding tone that really grated your nerves. It’s not that you disliked children, you just despised spoiled brats, and Elise was notorious for being just so, which was exactly what Mori wanted from her, the sick bastard.

”Are you sure, my dear? That one has a bit of an attitude, I don’t know if she’d make the best playmate for you tonight.” 

Your heart sank into your stomach. There were only two women in the lounge today, yourself and another young recruit who was well known for keeping her nose down and following orders without question. 

Is it too late to throw yourself out a window? You're only on the fourth floor, it should be fine, right? 

“I said I want that one!” The girl, if you can even call her that, stomped her foot with furious impatience. “Did you not tell me I could have whatever I wanted today, Rintaro?” 

The boss of the port mafia sighed, the smile reading through his voice— you could hear it in his tone, though you refused to look up, still staring blankly at your sandwich as if you could disappear into it if you tried hard enough. 

“Yes, that I did, my darling.”

Mori called your name, making everyone in the lounge snap their gaze to you. 

If you weren’t so pissed off, you might’ve felt your cheeks heating up. 

You stood, setting your sandwich to the side as you made your way to stand in front of your boss, back straight and eyes forward. 

“Yes, boss.” 

“Come with me, I have an assignment for you today.” 

The entire walk to his office was silent, save for Elise whining about not wanting to see another tailor for another year. The girl seemed adamant about having enough dresses to last the rest of Mori’s life, and even threatened to cut that life short if he pushed her any further. 

Could she even do that? Could an ability kill its user? You almost hoped she would actually try it. 

When inside Mori’s office, he sat, gesturing for you to take the seat in front of his desk—which was strange, as most of the time his underlings would just stand to receive their orders. 

Elise just wandered off, sitting in the corner with her pencils and paper. 

“I’m going to be out for the rest of the day, well into the evening, and I need you to entertain Elise for me while I’m gone.” 

You knew this was coming, but it still felt like a lead brick was sitting in your stomach. 

“Why can’t you take her with you?” You hissed. 

“I’m going to neutral ground for a very important meeting, where the usage of abilities will be prohibited.” Mori rested his head on his folded hands, his dark eyes flickering between yours, face unreadable. 

“Then why can’t you just send her away?” You said, eyes flitting to the side as you kept your voice low, not wanting her to throw a fit because you were talking shit. “Just… release the ability, or whatever?” 

Mori smiled, his head tilting to the side. He reminded you of a venomous snake. Beautiful to look at, dangerous to let close. 

“It takes a lot of energy to reform her once she’s gone, you know. I have to be at peak condition in case of emergencies. Why else do you think I keep her around, give her a room on my floor of the building, and take her with me wherever I go?” 

Because you’re a fucking pervert. 

“Because you’re sick in the head, Rintaro!” Elise voiced your thoughts aloud, chucking a crayon across the room that smacked your boss directly in the side of his head with an audible thwack. 

Huh. Maybe the kid wasn’t so bad after all. 

He merely smiled, as if he was as happy as he could possibly be. 

“So you see, I need someone to watch over her, someone trustworthy, and entertaining.” He said, looking at you from beneath his long lashes. “And she just so happened to choose you.” 

“You think I know how to keep a kid occupied? I’m probably the least entertaining person on the fucking planet.” You hissed, white knuckling the arms of the chair. 

“I don't know,” he said, voice low and teasing. “I find you very entertaining.”

You certainly felt your face warm that time, and you couldn’t necessarily blame it on anger. You were pissed, sure, but it couldn’t be that hard, could it? 

“Fine.” You said, crossing your arms across your chest. “But you owe me.” 

He raises a sleek brow at you, as if surprised by your words. 

“I owe you?” He said, voice light and airy. Deceptive, poised. Ready to strike. “What makes you say that? Am I not your employer? Do you not take your orders from me, from those above you in rank, little one?” 

“Babysitting isn’t in my fuckin’ job description, asshole.” You hissed, somehow not afraid of the consequences. “So you owe me one.” 

What, do you think he’ll give you special treatment because you let him fuck you? 

Surprisingly, that almost seemed to be the case, as he merely relaxed back into his chair and smiled, his tired eyes roaming your body without a care in the world, as if you weren’t paying attention. 

“Very well. If I’m satisfied with Elises care, I’ll owe you one.” He said. 

Suddenly, his eyes turned very dark, his smile a tad more menacing. A snake in the grass, showing its colors. 

“However, if she is displeased with your performance, I’ll have to implement some kind of corrective action, yes?” 

You glanced off to the side, looking at where Elise was sat, scribbling on the paper in front of her like it wronged her somehow. 

“Deal.” You said. 

How hard can it be?

————————————

Mori must've said something to the staff on his level, because once he left, Elise dragged you to a floor of the base that you’d only ever been to once before, and all the guards simply ignored your presence entirely. 

They opened doors for you and the girl, closing them behind you, but otherwise there was no acknowledgment that you might’ve been somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Completely unlike the last time you snuck in here, having to wait until the guards were switching shifts to sneak in unnoticed. 

Elise was bratty, demanding, borderline unbearable. But you squared your shoulders and muscled through, just like you would any other job. 

After dragging you around aimlessly for what felt like hours— she wanted a tea party, but you had to follow the dress code to enter, as per her rules. Which means you had to drag her all the way down to your apartment so you could bring that stupid fucking dress you’d bought upstairs, changing into it in one of the many bathrooms lining the halls. 

Elise seemed satisfied though, and spent time putting little clips and bows in your hair, lining your wrists with bracelets and your neck with a couple little necklaces. 

She requested sweets, and real tea, though you weren’t entirely sure if you brewed it properly, but she didn’t complain, only sipped it from her pink tea set and poured her gigantic teddy bear another cup. 

“Do you really have to keep up the act even when he’s gone?” You asked, though you kept your voice small, as not to offend her. 

“I am what he desires me to be.” She simply said, eyes closed, prim and proper as she sipped her tea, like a little girl pretending to be a princess. 

“Were you always like this?” You asked, cringing a little. 

“No.” She said, huffing. “People change, but Rintaro’s always had a few screws loose, so it only makes sense.” Hearing her speak such words in such a tiny little voice almost made you giggle. 

”I suppose he’s lucky he has you, or he’d probably be in prison.” You rolled your eyes, then realized what you said, finally laughing a bit. “You know, for things besides being the boss of the port mafia.”

To your surprise, she let out a snort, sitting down her teacup as she giggled a bit. 

“I’d like to see him locked up.” She said, “He wouldn’t last a day in there without me!” 

That made you snort too, picturing your boss without all the luxuries of his rank was certainly amusing. 

Your sick curiosity got the better of you, and you weren’t sure if she would answer, but you really wanted a reason to hate Mori, to get over the strange, twisted feelings that had been brewing in the pit of your stomach, so you tried to ask anyway. 

“Has he ever…” 

Her eyes thinned, and it didn’t look entirely like anger, but she certainly wasn’t giggling anymore. 

“If your ability conjured the perfect knife to cut up strawberries for cake, would you turn around and try to use it to brush your hair?” She asked.

Your brow furrowed, trying to wrap your head around what she was saying. 

She rolled her eyes, scoffing at your confusion. “I am a weapon. Whatever form I take is irrelevant to my use. You would want your knife to suit your own personal ideals, would you not?” 

She didn’t outright answer the question, but you think you get the point. Considering your strange and mixed feelings towards your boss, it's probably best if the answer to that question remains an inferred ‘no.’ 

Such complex thoughts coming from such a tiny looking girl kind of made you laugh again though. 

“Enough talking!” She suddenly stood up, stomping her foot. “I want to watch a movie!” 

It turns out, she didn't want to watch a movie in her own room, or the living room, but instead demanded that you watch the movie with her in Mori’s room, which apparently had the “big big TV.” 

The sun was setting, and you were exhausted from following her every whim all afternoon and evening, so instead of getting flustered and trying to convince her the living room was a better idea, you just gave up, stripping off that stupid dress and chunky jewelry and crawling into the bed with her in your shorts and undershirt. 

You felt embarrassed crawling into his bed after what you’d done here weeks ago, but the sheets were different, and the blankets smelled fresh, so you could delude yourself into thinking it was an entirely different bed. 

She picked Spirited Away, saying she liked the ‘no face guy’, and how hungry he was. She giggled and said that the parents deserved to get turned into gross pigs for being so stupid in the first place, and that might’ve disturbed you if you weren’t so tired. 

The last thing you remember is the feeling of Elises head falling on your shoulder, and wondering what you did to get on her good side. She’s a nightmare. She actively terrorizes the other members of the Port mafia just for her own amusement, and she’s just falling asleep on your shoulder? Do abilities even need sleep? But sure enough, her breathing was even, and her eyes were closed. 

You smiled, realizing you can’t have done too shitty of a job if she was so relaxed. 

———————————

When Mori peeks his head into Elise’s room and doesn’t see her sleeping form in her frilly pink bed, he worries a little. 

Not much, maybe mostly for you, in fear that she’d have you strung upside down and dangling from the roof somewhere in some midnight game to amuse her, but he’d told her to behave, so he hoped all was well. 

Mori thought that perhaps he should get out of this ridiculous suit and change before he goes looking for Elise, that meeting had been far too stifling, so he at least needs to hang up his jackets and get more comfortable before he can go on any longer. 

When he steps into his room, the first thing he notices is that his TV is on, its large screen illuminated with the ending credits of some cartoon, and then he looks into his bed, and his heart stops. 

Elise is cuddled up right next to you, snuggled in with your arm wrapping comfortably around her little waist as you both sleep peacefully beneath his luxurious blankets. 

The soft part of him wants to coo and take pictures to torment Elise with later. Another darker, more urgent part of him is eyeing you, your tiny, tiny shirt riding up your waist, your hair sprawled out on his pillows, a few stray bow clips still caught within, your arm around such a treasured piece of him— like you valued it just as much as he did. 

He eyes that frilly little number you wore for him those few weeks prior, just sprawled out, lying on his floor; and surmises that Elise must have demanded some kind of dress up game, the little tease. She probably did it just to annoy you, not thinking you’d actually have something to suit her criteria. 

He rounds to the side of the bed that Elise is on, carefully and slowly prying her from your hold. He very gently takes her down the halls to her own room, tucking her into bed. Any other night, he might have stayed, maybe woken her up to talk with her about her day, tease her a little about how good she must’ve been today, but he had far more pressing things to focus on, like the little one he’d left still sleeping away in his bed. 

After all, if you’d done a good enough job that Elise fell asleep comfortably in your arms, then he owed you one, didn’t he? 

Keeping his steps light, he made his way back to his bedroom, standing at the side of the bed to observe you once more. 

Your brow was soft, face passive and serene, so unlike your waking moments where all you seemed to do was stare ahead with that tortured look on your face— like you hated everything and everyone around you. 

How he craved to see you lost in yourself again, falling apart at his touch and untroubled by the burdens of your life. Having that kind of power over you sends his mind reeling, and ever since that last evening in this very room— his fingertips twitched at the mere mention of your name. 

The crushing desire to claim, to take and mold you into a perfect little doll, just for him— it was overwhelming.

But he resisted.

After all, it was that fiery spark that drew him to you in the first place. If he were to break you of it completely, that would ruin the entire appeal. 

Perhaps just in these private moments then, he’ll train you to let go slowly, but give you enough leash that you may still keep that delicious fight in you.

He saw the way your eyes trailed over him whenever he was in your presence, no doubt remembering the way he pulled you apart and pieced you back together over and over again that night. He knew you hadn’t been going to any of your little friends anymore, your evenings spent alone in your apartment, or so his people tell him. You still wanted him, that much was evident. 

So surely you wouldn’t mind if he helped himself? You seemed to be begging for it, placing yourself so sweetly on this silver platter of silk sheets, sweet and ripe for his taking. 

He removed his jackets and scarf, setting them on the desk chair before unbuttoning his dress shirt and crawling slowly into the bed behind you. 

You stirred slightly, making him pause, but you simply rolled onto your back, hand twitching against his pillow. 

“Heavy sleeper?” He whispered, a grin spreading like a wildfire in a dry field. “Or did my little darling just tire you out?” 

He lay on his side, still observing you like a hawk, watching for any change of breath or movements that may indicate your return to consciousness. 

He allowed himself to indulge a bit, dragging a fingertip up the soft skin of your stomach, raising your little shirt even further until it was tucked underneath your perfect breasts. He swirled the pad of his index finger along the center of your torso, watching the goosebumps raise as he circled around your navel softly. 

He dipped lower, toying with the hemline of those itty bitty shorts you were wearing, the spandex clinging to your form deliciously. 

He pushed the blankets down just a bit further, below your knees, not wanting the change in temperature to startle you awake if he removed it completely. 

He watched your eyebrows twitch ever so slightly as he ran his fingertips along your covered core, just a tease of a touch, simply for his own amusement. 

Then he pressed a bit harder, enjoying the little groan you let out. 

“Even in your sleep, you’re still so responsive.” He whispered, licking his lips. 

He brought his hand up to toy with the hemline of those shorts again, watching your stomach dip at the touch of his fingers slipping beneath. 

“I wonder if you’ll let me slip these off, hmm?” 

He slowly rose to kneel beside you, hooking his fingers into the sides of the spandex, shimmying them down slightly to gauge your reaction. 

You were as still as stone, breaths even and eyes closed, save the occasional twitch of your fingers. 

“So good for me,” he mused. 

He continued sliding them down your thighs, exposing you fully as he realized— much to his satisfaction— that you wore no panties underneath. 

He grinned at the slight glisten to your folds, stopping the pull of your shorts right above your knees to admire the sight for a moment. 

Still, you slept, completely unaware and unbothered. He slipped your legs free from the blankets, fairly certain that he could be a little less cautious than before, and pulled your shorts off completely. 

He sat your legs back down, a little more spread than before, and kneeled between them to admire you closer. He ran his hands up your delicious thighs, loving the way your skin prickled as he went. 

He saw the way your nipples perked beneath your shirt, smirking to himself as he pushed the little scrap of fabric further up your chest, exposing your breasts to him completely. 

“A little cold, are we darling?” He whispered, running a finger along one pert nipple. 

As much as he desired to toy with your breasts a bit further, he did not know how long this glorious window of uninterrupted play would last, and wanted to enjoy himself to the fullest while he was able. 

Pushing your thighs to spread completely for him, he laid down on his stomach to watch up close as he spread your folds, using his thumbs to pull you apart and gaze at the glistening treasure you kept so guarded from him. 

He gingerly lapped a firm strike from bottom to top, eyes watching your face for any changes as he savored your taste. 

“You taste just as delectable as I remember, little one.” He whispered against your clit, flicking it with the tip of his tongue and enjoying the sleepy little whines that poured from your throat, still lost in the throes of slumber. 

He indulged himself further, licking and suckling along your core and pressing his tongue shallowly into your little hole until you were absolutely dripping for him, his cock twitching at the way you whined softly in your sleep. 

He removed his gloves and tossed them aside, gingerly easing an index finger into your waiting hole, your juices easing the slide. 

In your sleep, you were so soft, so pliant. Your walls gave a little clench at the intrusion, but he was very amused at how unrestrained you were. He added a second finger, marveling at how easily they slid in, your walls so accommodating, so plush. 

“You know, darling,” he whispered, pulling back to kneel up and work his belt open, uncaring of the wetness along his fingers. “Like this, I don’t even think I need to work you open for me.” 

Unbuttoning his pants, he finally pulled his aching cock free of its confines, having been neglected from the very beginning in favor of the mental satisfaction of such activities. 

“I think you could take me just like this,” he said, stroking himself as he watched your chest rise and fall, unfettered, head resting beautifully on his pillows. 

He pulled a spare pillow from the opposite side of the bed, gently pulling up your lower half to place it under your ass, hoisting you up to a proper height. 

You squirmed, mumbled a bit as your eyes rolled beneath their lids, your hands twitching and thighs shifting. 

He paused for a moment, almost worried you’d wake before he got to the best part, but it really didn’t matter when you woke up, you’d be taking his cock so sweetly for him either way.

After you settled back down, he thumbed over your clit once more, enjoying the way your sex clenched and glistened for him. Stroking himself a moment longer, he finally gave in and leaned forward, rubbing the head of his cock along your folds, reveling in the way your wetness coated him. 

With one hand supporting himself in the bed beside your waist, and the other guiding his cock, he finally, finally pushed against your entrance, groaning at the warmth parting so deliciously for him, wrapping him in your hot and pliant embrace. 

He was right, your walls graciously sucked him in, still snug, but the lack of preparation didn’t seem to matter. As he pushed further into your welcoming softness, he shifted, placing his hands beside your head to lean down and press open mouth kisses along your neck, sucking marks in plain sight, where everyone could see. 

He wanted to own you. He technically did— given his rank compared to yours, but he wanted more. He wanted to consume you entirely. 

He didn’t care anymore, in fact, he wanted you to wake now, to wake to the feeling of him inside you, fucking into you like you were his to do with as he pleased. 

With a rough snap of his hips and a nibble beneath your ear, he finally pushed in fully, his hips slapping against yours. 

You gasped, eyes finally popping open as your head rose from the pillow, a rough moan ripping from your throat as he started a rough and steady pace. 

“There she is,” he groaned in your ear. “How nice of you to finally join us.” 

Your walls clenched tight around him, your eyes wide as you pressed against his shoulders in a half hearted attempt to push him away. 

“B-boss?!” You stuttered, your brow furrowing in confusion, in worry. “What are you— Mori!” 

You moaned as he grabbed your thighs, pressing them into your chest as he threw your calves over his shoulders. The motion left your little white socked feet dangling uselessly behind his head as he brutally angled each thrust against your g-spot. 

Your hands moved to grip at the loose shirt hanging by his collarbones, fingernails digging in but not hitting his pale skin. He almost wanted to shift positions to remove his shirt, maybe let you rake those blunt nails down his back so he too could wear marks of this moment. 

But the way your eyes rolled back and you pushed your head to the side was too good, it was like you were trying to hide from him, hide how much you loved this. 

“Where are you trying to run, little darling?” He breathed, a wicked smile ghosting along your cheek as you flinched, biting back moans that made your lips bruise. 

“I… why are you—“ you couldn’t form proper words, let alone a sentence, and he shuddered at how far gone you already were, your mind still blurry from your slumber, body reacting to him so beautifully. 

“You were so pretty in my bed, laid out for me like a little treat.” He bit at the sensitive flesh of your throat, groaning when you squeezed around him. “I simply am just taking a bite of what’s mine.” 

You cried out at that, squirming under him as he felt your walls twitch and tremble, your slick forming a ring around the base of his cock, the filthy, slick sounds making his head spin. 

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” He said, bringing a hand to your face to force you to look up at him, your big doe eyes wide and wet with unshed tears. “That's what you desire to be? Mine?” 

You bit your lip, and he could feel you tense, trying to stave off your orgasm, as if he would ever not succeed in making you cum. 

“Say it,” he hissed, thumbing your bottom lip from between your teeth. “Tell me what you are, hmm?” 

His hips continued to slam into you, and he could feel himself nearing his own limit, but he knew you were right there— right at the precipice. 

You were so stubborn, and oh how he loved that about you. How he throbbed when you shook your head, refusing to speak even though you clung so tightly to him, even though he could feel your walls pulsing with the need to release. 

“Tell me.” He nearly growled, his pace never faltering despite the burn of his own orgasm being held back. “Who do you belong to?” 

You looked like you were going to deny him once more, but he saw that sparkle of need in your eyes, so he wrapped his hand around your throat, applying delicious pressure at the sides, restricting the blood flow to your pretty little head. 

He was reminded of how small you were like this. How easy it would be to snap your little neck if you were an adversary. Instead he was delighted when your eyes rolled back once more as he growled down at you. 

“Who do you belong to?” 

He released his hold, and you gasped as your walls fluttered, your release crashing into you like a train, moaning and babbling up at him in your pleasure. 

“Mori! I’m yours! I’m yours— I wanna be yours, I wanna belong to you—!” 

He groaned, letting himself go as you continued your babbling, feeling his cock twitch against your still fluttering walls, the pressure of you squeezing him so tightly was almost unbearable. 

“That’s it,” he moaned. “Mine, all mine.” 

He felt himself tip over the edge and leaned down to bite at your throat again. 

“Now take what I give you, take it all.” 

You cried out as he spilled into you, his hips finally stuttering with each pulse of his hot cum into your cunt. You gripped him tightly, keening as he panted in your ear. 

When he was finally done, you fell back, arms spread wide as you stared lazily up at the ceiling. 

“Did you enjoy your evening?” He grinned, pulling his softening cock from your leaking core, enjoying the way a little dollop of his cum oozed at your entrance. 

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. 

He tucked himself back into his pants as he chuckled. 

“After all that you still have the energy to be so acrimonious?” He teased, getting up to retrieve a cloth from the en suite. 

“You’d be pissed off too if someone woke you up by shoving their cock in you!” You shouted from your place on the bed, clearly spoiled rotten from the last time he fucked you, knowing full well that he intends to clean you up before letting you sleep. 

He rolled his eyes to the side as he made his way back to you, waving his hand dismissively to tease you. “I wouldn’t be pissed, per se. Perhaps a bit startled, maybe murderous, maybe indulgent. Depends on how nice the cock is.” 

He grinned as he watched you get flustered, tugging your shirt down and crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Salacious, depraved, idiot old man.” You grumbled, and he laughed. 

“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy yourself, little one?” he leaned down to wipe the sweat and juices between your thighs, and watched with keen eyes as you relaxed, letting his cum pool out of you and onto the waiting cloth. 

His spent cock twitched in interest, and he flashed his eyes back to your face, gauging your reactions. 

You were red, still indignantly looking at the ceiling as he cleaned you up. 

“I’m not saying that, don’t put words in my mouth.” You said, pouting like a spoiled rotten child.

Oh, how he enjoyed you. He was going to soak in every second of your time. He wouldn’t let you run away again and pretend like this wasn’t happening, like you didn’t want him. No, you were stuck this time. 

His cock swelled again, watching you grumble and pout. 

“You’re right, darling.” He said, pulling away to undo his pants once more, reveling in the way you chewed on your swollen lips, your thighs clenching together. “I have better things I can put in your mouth.” 

—————————————————

[scaredpigeons]

A debt, repaid.

If you’d like, please read the sequel, A debt, recurrent.

BSD Ogai Mori x fem!reader

NSFW 18+ MDNI

Authors note: I do not under any circumstances condone the actions of this character. But I’ve realized that being able to interact with things that have caused me trauma in a fictional and safe space makes me incredibly horny. He’s so icky. And I’m so uncomfortably horny for him.

Word count: 2k

Synopsis: after he saves your life, you decide to offer the boss of the port mafia something he can’t refuse.

CW: consensual seggs, reader wears Lolita style outfit—but thats as far as I take it with that. Calls Mori a pervert a bunch. Oral over the panties, heavy on the dirty talk, groping. Reader is described as smaller than Mori, use of nicknames (darling, little one, pet.) pussyjob, cumming on the v and panties, just general nasty shit. Please read responsibly.

The leader of the port mafia doesn’t often enter his bedroom to find surprises. He prefers things to be well within his control, and you were far beyond it, much to his simultaneous pleasure and displeasure. 

“I—“ he starts, not expecting you to be sitting in his bed, not expecting you to be wearing… that. 

“Before you even start,” you cut him off. “If you take this too far, say some nasty perverted shit like I know you want to, I’ll leave immediately, but not before kicking you in the balls for good measure, boss or not.” 

He looks at you, dressed in a puffy pink dress— far too short with many frills and bows. His eyes wandered to your legs, tucked up under you and squeezed into stockings that ended at mid thigh, the lace white and delicate. Your hair was— oh your hair was in pigtails, with pretty pink bows and he knew exactly what you were trying to do. 

“What is it you’re doing, exactly?” He asks anyway, teasing you. 

You had the gall to look embarrassed, and he found himself thinking that you would look rather innocent and demure if it weren’t for that mouth of yours. 

“You… I hate owing favors to people, and I still haven’t repaid you for saving my life.” You looked down at your hands, twiddling with a frill on your dress, and oh, how he wanted to ruin you. 

“But what do you give the man who has everything when you have nothing?” You said, a bit smaller than before. You were shrinking. It seemed you thought he was displeased. 

“Yes, what do you give the man who has everything?” He stepped closer to the bed, removing his coat before throwing it on the chair beside him. “You decided on offering up… yourself?” 

You flinched, shrinking in on yourself once more and balling your hands into little fists. 

“Listen, I know I’m a little old for your preferences, you fucking pervert, but this is all I could—“ 

He cuts you off with a hand to your chin, and he marvels at how your eyes glisten, wide with confusion as he smiles down at you. 

“Assumptions, assumptions.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth at you, shaking his head. His thumb trails up against your bottom lip, loving the smear of the gloss you applied there. 

“Such fire for such a tiny little thing. Even in the face of exorbitant danger, you’re still letting such filthy words spill from such a pretty little mouth.” 

He tilted your head up, making the curve of your throat available to his gaze. 

“Yes. This will do very nicely, how thoughtful of you to cater to my perversion.” 

He’s mocking you, and from the sight of your face reddening, you’re very aware of that fact. 

“Well? What did you have planned, pet?” He asks, tilting his head with a devilish smile. 

You mumbled, unable to meet his gaze. Oh, how he loved how shy you were getting now that your actions were finally catching up to you. 

“Hmm? Speak up, little one.” 

“I was going to offer to… suck you off. I guess.” You said, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“How impersonal, darling. And here I thought you wanted to repay me?” 

You gawked, trying to rip your head from his grasp. 

“Listen, asshole. I think that’s more than enough to—“ you yelped as he tackled you to the bed, pulling you on top of him and making you straddle his chest in what felt like one smooth motion. 

You squeaked, flushing even darker as he ran his hands up your thighs, pushing up the dress and smoothing his hands around your waist as he squeezed, smiling up at you. 

“M-mori, I—“ 

“Do humor a perverted old man, won't you?” He leans forwards, making you squirm as he brings his face to the apex of your thighs, taking a deep inhale against the lace covering your core. “Ah, how I love the look of lace on your skin, little one.” 

He licks along the fabric, making you bite down on your lip to silence yourself as he fondled you. You’d come into this expecting to get him off and leave, owing him nothing. 

But this? 

“B-boss.” 

He looks up at you, eyes twinkling in the moonlight streaming through the curtains. You thought he looked more youthful in this moment, something was brighter in his eyes. It scared and aroused you at the same time. 

But then his smirk was back, and the lines around his eyes grew more prominent, and you were once again reminded that this man was likely old enough to have fathered you. 

“Say my name again, pet. Not my title. I thought we decided to take a more personal approach?”” 

“M-mori.” You whimpered as he ran his nose along the fabric covering your clit. This fucker was hitting every sensitive spot without giving them the attention they were crying out for, and you were afraid that you were going to soak through your panties and embarrass yourself. 

He licks the fabric then, making you keen and writhe in his grasp. He lets you suffer with the muted stimulation and pushes deeper, tonging along your covered core with vigor. 

You squirm, grabbing at his wrists in an attempt to steady yourself, but he just flips you over, now hovering above you. 

He wraps his hands gently around your throat, not squeezing, but it's a jarring reminder of just who this man is, what he’s capable of. 

“Shall I continue, little one?” He smirks, so cocky, so egotistical you want to kick him. 

But god, if you aren’t wet. 

You nod, unable to meet his eyes. 

He squeezes his hands slightly, leaning more of his weight into them. 

“Say it.” He demands, still smiling. 

You feel like you want to deny him, want to kick and scream and tell him to fuck off, but you can’t. Strangely, you’re enjoying this, enjoying being under him, enjoying the look in his eyes. 

He saved your life, you owed him, but this suddenly felt like much more than the repaying of a life debt. 

“Please,” you whispered as you met his eyes. “Keep… keep going.” 

“And spoken so politely, too.” Mori said, taking his hands away from your throat. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were enjoying yourself.” 

You grumbled, folding your arms across your chest. 

“Keep pouting like that and I’ll find better use for those lips.” He said, sounding stern enough to have a tinge of fear course down your spine. 

He pulled your arms away, leaning down over you to pull on the bodice of your dress, mouthing at your neck. 

“So obedient,” he said, moving to your collarbones, tugging the dress down further to expose the swell of your breasts. “So charming. You make such a good pet. So entertaining for me.” 

You squirmed as your breasts popped free from the offending fabric, and his hot mouth came to claim them. 

He continued to tease you as he suckled on your taut nipples, making you moan and writhe in his hands. 

“You know, I’m glad I was the one who found you, who killed those men who were holding you captive.” He said between nibbles and sucks. “I got to see the satisfaction in your eyes as my scalpel cut into their throats.”

“Boss, please—“ 

He moved lower, kissing over the fabric of your pretty little dress. Over your stomach, down to your thighs, kissing the skin that was popping out from those tight, tight stockings. 

“And I hate to think how wasted your kindness would be if it were one of my subordinates who saved you,” he smirked, licking the hemline of your lace panties as he stared up at you, holding your gaze. “Would you have repaid them the same way? If it were Chuuya? What about Akutagawa? What about the lower ranking scraps of the mafia? Would you be so kind to them, too?” 

“No!” You shook your head, finally, finally starting to fall into the headspace he had been pushing you towards. He could see the tears forming in your eyes and he so desperately wanted to lick them up. “No, no. It’s just…” 

“Just… just what?” He hovered over your core, eyeing you darkly, watching you slip and fall. 

“Just… just you, just for you, sir.” 

He smiled, exhaling deeply against you. “Just for me.” 

He pulled back suddenly, making you whine as he unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it off the bed. 

“What is it, darling? What do you need from me?” He teased, wanting to see how far you’d go. 

Much to his pleasure, you lifted your dress further, your thighs squirming and rubbing together so lusciously that he caught himself licking his lips like an animal. 

“Please… sir. Please touch me.” You sounded so small, so broken with desire and it stoked the fire burning inside him. 

He unbuckled his belt, watching your eyes follow the movement as he pulled himself free, stroking along his length as he watched you.

“I’ll give you what you want, darling. Don’t worry.” 

You squeaked as he brought a hand down to lift your panties, shifting forward to run his cock along your folds as he let the fabric fall back down to cover the both of you, though with his size, it only really covered part of him. 

He threw his head back a bit as he thrusted himself along you, feeling your wetness coat the bottom of him, while the lace of your panties rubbed against the rest. 

You moaned so unabashedly as he pushed the hot head of his cock through your folds, running delicious pressure against your clit. 

“There you go,” he breathed. “Such a good girl for me. So soft.” 

You squirmed, but he could tell you were doing your best to stay as still as possible. He hoisted your legs up, still fucking along the outside of you without reservation, thoroughly enjoying himself despite not being inside you yet. 

“M-Mori- its,” you choked, eyes blowing wide. “I’m gonna—“

“So pent up that you’re already there, pet?” He smirked, watching your eyes roll back as he kept the pressure, kept running his thick cock against you. 

And you came, oh did you ever cum. He watched as your body twitched and writhed, and he had to hold your legs tighter to keep you from slipping away. 

You moaned without shame now, crying out to him in your pleasure as he just kept going. 

“Good girl, so good. Keep taking it.” He could feel himself getting closer, the dual sensations of your slick folds and the lace panties were just too much, the visuals of you beneath him like this were too much. 

“Look at you,” he said rather breathlessly. Your hair was mussed, dress bunched below your tits and above your stomach, the white lace doing nothing against the wetness the both of you had created. You looked good enough to devour. 

“I’m going to cum all over this little pussy, all over these pretty little panties, and you’re going to sit in them while I decide what else I’m going to do with you.” 

You whined as his thrusts stuttered. 

“Oh yes. I'm far from done with you,” he breathed, leaning closer as he neared the edge. “So fucking good, so good for me.” 

You keened, another smaller, duller orgasm overtaking your shaking frame. That was what threw him over the edge, and he pulled back, lifting up the lace to stroke himself all over your wet folds, painting them in white. 

You twitched as he finished, body jolting in the aftershocks as he placed the panties back down over you, smearing his mess along the lace. 

“Wait here a moment, darling.” He said, pulling his belt free and tucking himself back into his pants. “I’ll go get us some water.” 

“You’re… not gonna get a cloth?” You mumbled, still in a daze. 

“Whatever for?” He said, standing from the bed. 

“To, you know, clean me up?” 

He smiled brightly, tilting his head and closing his eyes in what was surely a mocking gesture. 

“Certainly not. I told you, you’re going to sit there while I decide what comes next.” 

——————————————————————

The sequel piece, A debt, recurrent is now available. Dark content warning. Enjoy!

[foolclownery]

this is acornzai to me... rottiecorn is sooo fucking done with this bandaged freak <3

[suodelic]

nothing just thinking about sweaty Ness again (ꈍᴗꈍ)

wc: ~2.6k

cw: NSFW—MINORS+AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. gn!reader, messy bj, facefucking, sweat/scent kink, dirty talk, cute sweet beautiful teasing soft sweet switchy dom alexis, plurilingualism because german is a sexy language fucking sue me about it, if you ain't gonna imagine this in his cute lil accent get the fuck up out my traphouse, jk always enjoy how you want, this doesn't have a title because it was going to be 600 words max but here we are

reid: your kinktober crumbs my liege

You love how Ness smells after practice. Or a game. Or a run. Or after he lifts. Like, to an absurd degree. And he knows this. And to say he kind of adores it is an understatement. 

He adores all of it—the way you’re on him before he even shuts the door behind him, the way you’re throwing your arms around him and balling up your fists in his shirt, the way you don’t even pull him down to kiss him; instead, you tuck yourself in the crook of his neck to inhale deep. 

“Ich vermisste dich, schatz.” He’s chuckling as he clutches you close like he didn’t just see you a few hours ago; you trail your lips giddily up his neck, across his jaw. Your smile is low like the twilight when you pull back to look him in the eyes. 

“I missed you, too,” you hum. Your fingers creep around his waist to feel the cool, damp skin of the small of his back beneath the hoodie he threw over himself for the bus ride home; you’re already planning to steal it and tuck it away and refuse to let him wash it until he absolutely needs it.

Alexis always kisses you so sweetly when he knows you want something from him. No tongue, no teeth—just a coy smile and his lips, undermined by the way you dip beneath his shorts to dig your palms and fingertips into both of his sculpted asscheeks; he grabs you by the forearms and pulls you away like he wants to call you vulgar, but his expression mirrors yours. 

Still, he teases you. “You’re bad,” he accuses, regarding your face with mock disapproval—only for you to fall back into him, grinning like he’s just told you you’re beautiful.

Alexis’s pulse beats steadily against your kisses; his hands, large and calloused from lifting, clutch your waist, keep you close enough that you can’t drop to your knees—not yet—but not close enough that you can’t think about it, squirm about it. His skin runs hot beneath the cold sheen of drying sweat; his hair is mussed, mulberry ends dampened dark, still wet enough that it leaves a line of chill on your forehead where you nuzzle into him, and he doesn’t try to hide how much he likes it when your tongue flicks across his temple to catch a stray bead, undoubtedly reinvigorated by your eager attention and insistent whispers—love you, missed you, you smell so good. 

Your enamored utterances gradually loosen his snug hold on you in permission to let you fold to the floor in front of him; your touch is all over his thighs, his hips, pushing up the hem of his hoodie—squeezing, clawing, massaging. After a few kitten licks-turned long, sweeping stripes of your tongue over his defined stomach, your next line of attack is the taut cut of muscle disappearing beneath his shorts; your spit leaves a burning trail as you work your way into the path of his groin, inhaling as you go. Alexis gasps when you do. 

You love, too, feeling the seam of his shorts start to dampen with anything but sweat. His cock, still mostly soft but already heavy, twitches against your cheek, and the scent of him—strong, warm, ambrosial—makes your head swim. You hope whoever invented the polyester blend power-mesh fabric trapping his own scent against him is doing well for themselves—you’re certainly benefiting from it, you think, as you let your nose run up and down the length of him. You make a delighted noise that sounds most like a whine, and he pretends to scoff at it; in reality, it only makes him stand taller, cockier—his face flushing pink despite it, looking at you with corrupted fondness in his eyes as he pets your hair cutely. 

“Pervert,” he says with no real bite in it.

You roll your eyes up at him; he wants you to do exactly what you’re doing—mouthing at the elastic, rolling your tongue across increasingly straining fabric, nipping at the crease where his hip meets his thigh. It’s so cute, you think, how playing with him through his clothes always gets him worked up. He always shudders, even if he pretends not to; what he’s not subtle about is shifting his weight back as your hands trace meandering lines up and down his legs, leaning himself to stabilize against your apartment door while you nudge his feet apart with your knees. 

“Can I?” you almost plead, looking up, already shuffling his waistband down. The quiet mischief in his gaze betrays any innocence he could hope to put forward; you’re torn, hypnotized between the pretty happy trail emerging from beneath his shorts and the barely-controlled anticipation on his handsome face. Your eyelids flutter shut when he threads his hand gently into your hair, grazing the shell of your ear with his pinky.

“Was willst du machen?” he asks, tilting your chin up from the back of your skull, watching as your bottom lip catches lewdly to drag along his bulge; your tongue flicks out to soak up the faint tang of him you’re granted from over his shorts, but you’re more inclined to show rather than tell.

You tug his waistband down further, just enough—and your grin is wicked when something wrecked flashes through his eyes as his cock springs out to bob against your chin. 

You coil your fingers around him, harder, more flushed; your nose follows your tight, wandering grasp, your cheek settling in the juncture of his hip only after you drool spit onto him to let your strokes come landguidly. 

Alexis hisses out a curse as you trail into a steady pace, jerking him off, curled against him like there’s nowhere you’d rather be. The hoodie curtains over your shoulder, warm and smelling like him, and you can’t help yourself, surrounded; you bite at his groin, just once and just sharp enough that he lets out an adorable yelp before you lave your tongue over the spot in apology. 

“Love how you smell, Lexis,” you whimper from beneath him like it justifies the bite, eyes shut, brows furrowed while you sink into the moment like you need it. As if to prove your point, you lift your head, smear his shaft over your face like it marks you as his. “Love when y’r all sweaty n’ gross for me.” 

“I know, baby,” he breathes out, choppy and needy. “S’all for you, schatz, alles für dich.” 

He tries and fails to keep his hips from bucking when you suck one of his balls into your warm, waiting mouth and swirl your tongue around it; you moan like you’re the one receiving pleasure from it, and it forces Alexis to echo you, biting his lip between his teeth while the suction sends his head flying back against the door. 

Upon popping it out of your mouth, you sigh out a heady giggle, handling him in a rhythm that makes his gorgeous abs clench; you push the hem of the hoodie up to see more of him, but he takes it from you, tucks it between his teeth, and you’re quick to protest—soft no, no, nos leave you, your hand flying off him torturously, which he’s quick to raise complaint about, too—it’s such a sexy sight, but you want to hear him, too, and he wants you back to circling his tip with your thumb before rubbing down the underside of his cock again immediaitely, so the solution you both come to in this quick interlude is that the hoodie has to go; you shove it up toward his shoulders and in one swift movement it comes falling to the ground beside you, forgotten, before you’re wrapped around him again, squeezing and letting up a few times, flicking over his ultra-sensitive frenulum to get those noises you so urgently want to hear, and he indulges you.

“Fu—uhhh, baby.” With Alexis’ mouth shaping around low moans, you get back to work, at a quicker pace, now, as you steal glances up at him, naked and panting; a few more hasty, messy twirls of your wrist and you’re licking your lips, replacing your hand, cupped around his throbbing head, with your willing mouth. 

It’s so throaty and full-bodied when you finally let him sink into your throat; your fingers, restless, steal away to his balls, then the tender patch of skin leading to his hot, twitching hole. When you press two fingerpads to it, he mewls your name, eyes screwed shut, fingers knotted against your scalp again. Pure heaven for Alexis Ness is the sloppy, wet noises escaping the corners of your mouth as you nod your head along his cock, tongue spiraling over him, drinking in everything he can give you—scent, taste, sound, adoration. 

He’s so lucky, he thinks; he’s a star midfielder for one of the top football clubs in Europe, and he gets to come home to his pretty partner lapping up the evidence of all his hard work like a cute little puppy. It’s rare Alexis lets himself feel self-important, but it’s something purely arrogant and a little antagonistic that has him gripping the sides of your face to push your head all the way down his length in one motion, battering the back of your throat; the desperate streams of air that come puffing through your nose and the whines dying against the tip of his cock are like drugs to him. He shoves you down, over, over, groans low in his chest as your fingernails fix in his flexing quads—and you deepthroat him like you were meant for it; he knows you love it, burying your nose in his thick, musky bush while you let him use your mouth to get off. 

When he fucks your face, he gets talkative. 

“Th—this mouth’s so good to me.” He’s ceased moving your head for you, now opting to tower over you and thrust his hips into your skull. Alexis hunches to watch you—watch your cute face disappear into his crotch with each steady gag. “Such a good, messy little cocksucker for me.”

You whine and hum around him; you’re strapped for air but what you do intake is the sweet pheromones he radiates and the salty taste of him, of which the severity is toned down by your saliva as you suck him diligently. He’s rough, but not careless—while his palm cradles the back of your head, cushioning the impact of collision after collision of his hips, his other hand shifts to frame your jaw between thumb and forefinger, feeling your hollowed cheeks in his grasp. 

“Ngh—schatzi—” He’s greedy for more of you, and you’re never shy when it comes to giving him all of you, lips stretched around him, eyes wet, nose running; Alexis loves your tears, and he chokes out something about kissing them off you once he’s done with you. “So pretty, so pretty, so—so good for me.”

You flick your gaze up impossibly as you milk him with your throat; he’s all blurry, but you feel every reaction of his body—he tenses against you, his balls jumping against your clumsy fondling and squeezing, the taste of pre-cum leaking out of him, jostled around your mouth and tongue with the flavor of what is so significantly just Alexis. With brows drawn up in a combination of distress and desire, you brace yourself against him as he pulses between your lips; your hazy brain feels full to the brim with his moans—those sharp, ruined noises that shoot straight between your own legs. God, you’re humping the air like a bitch in heat—he’s just so beautiful and perfect, taking what he wants from you, giving you exactly what you want in the process. 

“Wanna swallow it?” he grunts brokenly, balls smacking your chin, your drool reaching for the floor in thin, wobbly spindles while you take it. “Or you want me to pull out and paint your pretty face?” 

You hum frantically, slapping at his thighs; his hips stutter, and he pulls out completely, punching the wind back into your lungs in an instant as he fists himself with practiced desperation over your face. You know what to do; you push your tongue out and arch your back, still clawing at him, connected to him by cobwebs of spit, begging him to spill all over you. “Please,” you rasp, watching hungrily as he throbs visibly for you. “Please, Lexis, cum for me.” 

“Fuck, baby—” He doesn’t need to announce it as the first spurt splatters across the bridge of your nose, but he does, shattered and relieved, watching as your big, watery eyes beg him for it. “Cumming—’m fucking cumming.” 

Alexis’ harsh, uneven groans trail off into long, electric sighs; you can’t help but smile as your lashes flutter, feeling each last rope of his sticky cum land upon your face—first across your nose, then over your eyes (the way you flinch forces one more wave out of him, he could swear—you only regret that you miss the way his jaw falls slack as he whimpers out your name), then, in the final strokes he gives himself, atop your obedient, waiting tongue. 

You’re already dutifully swallowing what you’ve caught when Alexis is thumbing his spend away from your eyes so you can look up at him, smiling sloppily; for a moment it’s just heavy breathing, your tongue out and dripping, his eyes glazed and soft and so full of satisfaction you giggle again. You lick the corners of your mouth. Before you can lean to rest on his thigh, he folds forward to press his lips to your forehead, followed by his own. 

“Fuck,” he sighs again—like he wants to be reverent, but can only be redundant. 

“Yeah?” you say, hoarse, proud, playful. You note the way he trembles; it makes you clench around nothing when he stays bent to kiss you, humming and nodding as his nose bumps yours. 

But when he stands back up to full height, you’re clung to him like you don’t already have him. He’s not the only one glowing in the aftermath of his climax; you’re looking up at him like you haven’t even begun to have your fill yet, and the way you rub your thighs together—he couldn’t just leave you waiting while he does something as silly as taking a shower, could he? It’d be cruel—you just took such good care of him. It’d only be right for him to return the favor. 

“Come here, cutie,” he coos, prying you off him to stand on legs like baby deer’s. He’ll tend to your sore knees later; you’re obviously not done, and neither is he. With a greedy arm around your waist, he pulls you to him, where you feel his cock already springing back to life at the mere sight of how needy you are after being away from him for so little time; he peppers sugary-sweet smooches all over your face—kissing away tears like he promised, licking the rest of his cum off you, too. Only once he’s got you clean, blushing, laughing, and writhing against him with your fingers pawing at his shoulders does he kick his shorts the rest of the way off and spin you around to lead you down the hall to your bedroom. All his clothes abandoned at the door, he’s determined to get you out of yours next; you stumble in front of him, pulling him with you as he beams at you in the way he always does before he destroys you. 

“Wanna smell you, now—” He catches up with you for one second to kiss your hair. “Know you’ve been wet and needy for me all day, too.”

[bojackbaby]

i think all age gap fics should be a little raunchy. like yeah you lowkey see him as a father figure and he calls you "kid" and you get special attention because "you deserve it" and he's your authority in some capacity and he also wants to fuck your brains out.....

[kittyclownreblog]

@osamucide @foolclownery