・❥・smut mdni, it's hard to tell whether karasu loves or hates you when he's balls deep inside of you
you don't even remember how it started. doesn't matter. what matters is karasu's cock splitting you open from behind, one gloved hand pressed flat against your lower back like he's making a point. you're already so far gone you can barely hold yourself up on your elbows.
"pathetic," he breathes, it sounds almost fond. almost. "look at you."
you whimper. he thrusts deeper, hips snapping sharp and exact and the wet slap of skin fills the room like a second voice.
"can't even take it properly." he clicks his tongue, but his grip on your hip tightens, the leather of his glove cool against your flushed skin, possessive in a way that makes your stomach clench. "thought you could handle me. that's genuinely embarrassing."
"k-karasu—"
"shh." he leans over you, chest almost brushing your back, his mouth just behind your ear. "you were going to say something? go on. let's hear it."
you open your mouth and nothing coherent comes out. just a broken little sound, high and wet, because he rolls his hips at just the right angle and you see white.
"mhm." satisfied. smug. "that's what i thought."
but then his thumb finds your clit, pressing in slow circles and his voice drops. shifts. like there's another person underneath the sharp edges of him.
"you're doing well," he murmurs, barely audible. "so perfect f'me"
it hits you harder than the degradation. his praise always does, maybe because it's so rare, maybe because when karasu calls something good he actually means it. no empty compliments, just the truth from the mouth of someone who never bothers softening things.
"t-too good, it's— hah—" you stammer, trying to say something stupid about how it's too much, but he doesn't slow down. he speeds up.
"it's all you, baby," he says, clinical and cutting, fucking you through every word. "you're so tight around me."
you sob. actually sob. shoulders shaking, face half-buried in the pillow, tears and drool and the animal sounds you've stopped trying to muffle all whilst karasu watches. you can feel it even without looking, those blue eyes cataloguing every small collapse of your composure like he's reading the field from above.
"you're leaking," he observes, thumb circling faster. "everywhere. all over me. filthy slut." a pause, his cock grinding deep, stationary for one brutal moment that makes your thighs tremble. "my filthy, pretty slut."
"i can't— nghh— please—"
"please what. use your words."
"wanna— wanna come, please, karasu—"
he hums, considering, the bastard. like he hasn't already decided. like this is still up for debate.
"fine," he says. "since you asked nicely. you've been taking me so well." that last part delivered so quietly you almost miss it under the noise of your own breathing.
his thumb presses harder. his hips find a rhythm that's less calculated now, more desperate, the composed surface of him finally starting to crack at the seams and you can hear it in his breathing too. the catch, the roughness, the way he exhales your name once like he didn't mean to.
you come apart. messily, completely, clenching around him so hard he curses under his breath, something short and sharp. he follows suit, burying himself to the hilt with a stuttered thrust and going still.
a short moment passes before you feel him pull out slowly, hear the quiet sounds of him composing himself whilst you just lie there in the wreckage of it. thighs slick, sheets damp beneath you, cheek sticky against the pillow. your mascara is everywhere. you can feel it.
his gloved hand smooths up your spine. once. slow.
"you did well," he breaks the silencer, cupping your cheek with his hand
you turn your head enough to look at him. he's not looking at you, he's looking just past you, jaw set, mole under his eye catching the light, that careful expression he wears when something got too close to the real version of him.
"karasu."
"don't," he says. flat. but he doesn't move his hand.
you smile into the pillow. wrecked and dazed and entirely undone, and smiling, because he's still there. gloved hand on your back like an anchor. or maybe a confession.
・❥・2k words - smut mdni he's obsessed with you, you're his favourite streamer. and it seems you've taken quite the liking to him too
phone sex, surprisingly a lot of plot, maybe ooc phainon for a bit (very shy at the start), texts are indicated with italic (good luck trying to figure out who's who)
you'd been streaming for three hours when the donation popped up.
khaslana_xiv donated 200$: "you're literally so funny i can't breathe. peak once again."
your chat absolutely lost it. hundreds of messages rolling past, mostly emojis, mostly people calling him down bad. you laughed, genuine and a little surprised, leaning into your mic.
"khaslana! oh my god, thank you so much that's so sweet!" you were grinning. chat was feral. someone typed HE'S DOWN ABSOLUTELY BAD and another followed it with marry him.
you knew the name. hard not to. khaslana_xiv was in almost every single stream, always in the top of the leaderboard, always with donations that made your eyes go wide. he didn't spam chat or act like a creep. just showed up, consistent, tipped generously and occasionally said something earnest enough to make your whole face warm.
after the stream ended you sat in the dim blue glow of your monitor for a moment. pulled up the donation history just to look.
khaslana_xiv. two hundred tonight, one fifty last week, a hundred the week before that. comments always clean. always kind.
you chewed your lip.
then you sent him a discord request.
he accepted within four minutes.
hey, just wanted to say thank you properly, your donations are always so generous and i feel bad just thanking you on stream lol
the typing indicator appeared. disappeared. appeared again for a long time.
oh. hi. yeah, no, it's really okay, you don't have to. i mean i wanted to, i just really like your streams.
well i'm glad to have you around
you smiled at your screen.
how long have you been watching?
about eight months. i found you through a vod someone clipped and then i just. watched everything. all of it. i had a lot of free time
all of it? that's like 400 hours of content
i know
..phainon
that is genuinely insane
i know that too
you were laughing now, properly. he had this quality to his messages, this slightly shy sincerity. like he was saying the honest thing and immediately scared that he'd said it. it was endearing in a way that felt a little dangerous. you kept going anyway.
it didn't happen all at once. these things never do.
you texted back and forth for two hours that first night, about nothing in particular. he was funny in the quiet, dry way that sneaks up on you. he talked about a place he grew up, somewhere remote that sounded more like a myth than a real location. he had this streak of idealism running through everything he said, this absolute refusal to be cynical, and it made you want to poke at it, test the edges of it, see if it held.
it held.
by the third night you were texting him before bed. by the first week it was constant. comfortable in a way that felt surprising, like finding a door in a room you thought you knew.
then one evening he said, i keep thinking about the stream where you were eating that noodle cup at 2am and talking about having no one to talk to at night. you seemed lonely.
you stared at that message for a long time.
i was, you typed back.
me too, he said. still am, mostly. except for this.
the silence after that felt warm rather than empty. you sent a voice memo instead of typing, just a soft hi into the dark of your room. he replied with one too, and his voice was low and careful and a little rough at the edges, and something in your stomach went tight.
you have a nice voice, you typed.
so do you. obviously. i've listened to hundreds of hours of it
god, you really don't hold back do you
you asked
i did, you admitted. then, before you could think better of it: send me a photo
another long pause.
like of me?
no of your kitchen, yes of you
the typing indicator ran for almost a minute. then a photo came through.
you weren't prepared for that.
he was sitting in what looked like a bedroom, warm lamplight cutting across one side of his face. light hair, a little dishevelled. jaw that could cut glass. eyes that were light, almost golden in the photograph, wide and a little uncertain, like he wasn't sure what expression to make. he was wearing a plain dark shirt and one hand was raised towards the camera like he'd been about to lower the phone when he took it.
well, you typed.
is that okay?
khaslana. you're gorgeous. what the hell.
the longest pause yet.
oh.
really?
really really. why do you sound shocked
i don't know. i didn't think i'd be anything particularly…
stop, you said. you're hot as fuck. i'm looking at this photo and i'm being a little bit embarrassing about it actually
now i need to see a photo of you being embarrassing about it
and something shifted. you could feel it in the texture of the messages. the shy sincerity was still there but something else had slipped in underneath, something warmer and more deliberate.
you want me to be embarrassed?, you typed.
maybe a little, he said. is that bad?
no, you said. call me.
the call connected after one ring.
"hi." his voice was softer than the voice memo, a little breathless. like he'd been waiting for this and hadn't quite believed it would happen.
"hi," you said. you were already lying down, phone against your ear, room dark.
"this is surreal," he said. "you know that, right. this is surreal for me."
"good surreal or bad surreal?"
"good. very good." a pause. "you look exactly how i imagined you'd look when you were off camera."
"and how's that?"
"softer," he said. "more real. i like it."
your breath came out slow. "khaslana."
"phainon," he said. "you can call me phainon. that's what people who know me call me."
"do many people know you?"
"no," he admitted. "not really."
"phainon," you said, testing it. he made a small sound at the other end. "you've been watching me for eight months."
"yes."
"and you've thought about me."
a pause. "yes."
"what did you think about?"
longer pause. his breathing changed, just slightly. "do you want me to actually answer that?"
"i'm asking, aren't i?"
"your voice mostly," he said, slow, like he was choosing each word. "the way you laugh at your own jokes before you finish them. the way you tuck your hair back when you're concentrating. and sometimes…" he stopped.
"sometimes?"
"sometimes i thought about what it would be like if you were talking to me. specifically. not the stream. just me."
"like now?"
"like now," he said quietly.
you shifted against your pillow. "and what do you want to do with me now that you have me?"
the silence was thick and hot. you could hear him breathe.
"i want to make you feel good," he said. and the shyness was dissolving, you could hear it going, like ice in warm water. "i've thought about it a lot actually. what you'd sound like."
"yeah?" your voice dropped low.
"yeah." his matched it. "are you in bed?"
"i am."
"what are you wearing?"
"not much," you admitted.
a soft exhale on his end. "okay," he said, almost to himself. like he was steadying something. "okay," he said again, but different this time. lower. like he'd made a decision. "touch yourself for me."
your breath caught.
"phainon—"
"you set this up," he said, and his voice had an edge now, this unexpected quiet certainty to it. "you called me. so let me make it worth it. touch yourself and tell me what you feel."
god.
you slid your hand down your stomach, slow, and the sound that came out of you was involuntary. "warm," you breathed. "i'm already—"
"already what?" he pressed.
"already wet."
a low sound from him, barely audible. "from talking to me?"
"from hearing your voice. from that photo." you pressed two fingers against yourself and bit your lip at the pressure. "phainon. what are you doing right now?"
"touching myself," he said plainly. "thinking about you."
"what are you thinking?"
"what you'd feel like around me," he said. "whether you'd be loud or quiet. i think you'd forget to be quiet."
"keep going," you managed.
"i think about laying you out and taking my time," he said, steadier now, unhurried, like something had unlocked. "i've thought about it so many times. watching you on stream, hearing you laugh and thinking about what you'd sound like if i had my mouth on you instead. if you were making those sounds for me."
"fuck," you whispered.
"are you touching yourself properly?"
"yes." you worked your fingers in slow circles, the pressure building already, humiliating how fast. "phainon—"
"i want you to push inside," he said. "two fingers. for me."
you did. the sound you made was embarrassingly wet and open and you heard him inhale sharply through the phone.
"yeah," he breathed. "like that. keep going."
"i can't believe you," you said, half-laughing, half-gasping. "for someone who came off so nervous—"
"you asked to see me and to call you at midnight," he said, and there was something almost warm in the edge of it, almost amused. "i think you knew what you were doing, sweetheart."
you had. obviously you had.
"how does it feel," he asked.
"good. so good. i keep thinking about your hands."
another low sound from him. his breathing was unsteady now too, the rhythm of it breaking up. "tell me," he said.
"they look big in the photo. i keep thinking about them on my hips." you curled your fingers and gasped. "phainon. what do you sound like when you—"
"you'll find out," he said, rough at the edges. "keep going. i'm close."
you worked yourself faster, the wet sounds of it audible through the phone, shameless now, past caring. his breathing was ragged on the other end. you could hear the slick rhythm of his hand.
"you're my absolute favourite," he said suddenly, through a breath, barely coherent. "you know that? eight months and you're still my favourite person and i don't even— fuck—"
"phainon," you gasped, "i'm gonna—"
"yeah," he said, urgent, "come on, let me hear you—"
you came with his name in your mouth, hips pressing into your own hand, thighs clenching around nothing. the sound that came out of you was broken and open and embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your bedroom. and then he made a sound too, low and rough and desperate, and that made you flutter all over again even as you came down.
silence.
then breathing. both of you, unsteady and warm.
"you didn't tell me you were going to be like that," you said finally.
"like what?"
"confident. once you got going."
"you told me i was hot," he said simply. "i believed you."
you stared up at the ceiling of your dark room, chest still rising and falling too fast, thighs damp, the ghost of the orgasm still humming through your legs. outside, the world was quiet. your monitor had gone to sleep. somewhere through the phone you could hear him shifting, settling and it was somehow the most domestic and intimate thing imaginable given what had just happened.
"i meant it," you said softly.
"i know," he said. "i know you did. that's the thing about you. you say what you mean." a pause. "i've always liked that about you. even just watching. you never pretend."
your eyes prickled, which was absurd, which was so out of proportion to what this was supposed to be. but there it was.
"stay on the phone," you said. "just for a bit longer."
"i wasn't planning on going anywhere," phainon said, his voice was warm and low and quiet, the sound of someone who had been lonely a long time and had just, finally, found somewhere to put it down.
fwb!itoshi sae loves making you cry during sex because it’s the only way to convince himself that he’s not the overexposed one.
you can’t see the love his eyes have because of the tears, so he fucks you harder until your vision is blurry just to love you properly from the shadows.
・❥・smut mdni no one can say no to sex on the beach. especially sae. especially when you're basically begging for it
the beach was empty. nobody for miles, just white sand and black water and a sky full of stars that didn't care about either of you.
you'd pushed him first. some dumb remark about his footwork, teasing him in that way you knew got under his skin, and he'd gone so quiet and still beside you that you almost felt the air change temperature. you knew that quiet. it wasn't calm. it was the two seconds before a storm decides what it's going to destroy.
he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down onto the sand without a word.
"sae—"
"shut up."
not angry, exactly. just done.
his hands were at your shorts before you could say anything else, yanking the waistband down with the kind of efficiency that came from zero patience and zero interest in drawing this out slowly. the night air hit the inside of your thighs and you shivered, and he watched you do it with those flat teal eyes that gave nothing away.
"cold?" he asked.
"no."
"good." he pushed your thighs apart and looked at you. just looked, for a long moment, the way he assessed a pitch. clinical. bored. like you were a problem he was about to solve very easily. "you talk so much shit," he said, almost to himself. "let's see how much noise you make now."
his fingers found your pussy and you were already wet, embarrassingly so and the sound he made wasn't quite a laugh. more like acknowledgment. like you'd just confirmed something he already knew.
"there it is." his thumb dragged over your clit, slow and deliberate. "you're soaked. been running your mouth all night just to get here, haven't you."
"don't flatter yourself."
one finger pushed inside you and the word you'd been forming dissolved into nothing, just a soft broken sound at the back of your throat.
"say that again." he added a second finger, curling them in a way that made your hips jerk up off the sand. "go on."
you couldn't. you gripped his forearm and he let you, didn't move it away, just kept working his fingers into you with that same measured rhythm he did everything else. no wasted movement. no fumbling. just precise and relentless and god, it felt good. your thighs started shaking and he pulled his hand away.
just. gone.
"sae." your voice came out embarrassingly desperate.
"i know." he was already pulling his swim shorts down, cock hard and thick and you swallowed because you never really got used to the sight of him, the weight of it, even after all this time. he positioned himself between your legs and looked down at you spread out on the sand beneath him, hair tangled, chest heaving.
something crossed his face. gone before you could name it.
"hands above your head," he said.
you obey, obviously.
he pushed in.
slow, at first. letting you feel every inch of it, that stretch that made your toes curl and your mouth fall open. he watched your face the entire time like he was cataloguing your reactions. "that's it," he said, low. "take it." and then he was all the way in, hips flush against yours, and you could feel your pulse everywhere.
then he started moving and thinking became optional.
he fucked you hard, the kind of hard that made the sound of skin meeting skin embarrassingly loud in the open air, his cock driving into you at an angle that hit something deep every single time, and you were already making noise you couldn't control, little choked-off cries that the waves kept swallowing up.
"god, listen to you." he dropped his forearm beside your head to brace himself, face close to yours now, breath warm. "all that attitude. where'd it go, hm?"
"f-fuck you—"
"yeah." his hips snapped forward, harder. "that's what's happening."
your nails dug into the sand. your back arched up to meet him and you hated how good it felt, how completely your body just surrendered to him, like it knew something your pride didn't. he could feel it too, the way you kept clenching around him, desperate and involuntary, and he made a rough sound low in his chest.
"you're close already." not a question. "pathetic."
"don't—" your voice broke. "don't stop—"
"wasn't planning to."
he reached between you and pressed his thumb to your clit and the world came apart. you came hard, hips grinding up against him, thighs locking around his waist and the sound that tore out of you was ugly and nothing like you intended. he kept moving through it, kept fucking you through every aftershock, his rhythm going rougher and less controlled until he buried himself deep and came with his face pressed against your neck, a harsh breath, almost silent.
after.
the waves were still there. still indifferent.
you lay with sand in your hair and his weight half on top of you and the stars blurring a little overhead. every muscle felt soft and wrecked. your thighs were still trembling faintly, that deep satisfying ache already settling in and you could feel him still inside you, the wet sticky evidence of all of it, and you should have said something clever. something that restored the balance.
you didn't.
sae lifted his head and looked at you. really looked, the way he almost never did, something almost unguarded in those teal eyes before his expression settled back into its usual cool blankness. he reached up, without saying a word, brushed a piece of sand off your cheek. slowly. like it mattered.
"next time," he said, quiet, "skip the commentary."
and somehow that was worse than all the mean things. because it meant there was a next time, already assumed, already certain and neither of you were going to do a bloody thing about it.
I looooveeeeeer your writhing sm! I just wanted to know if you could please do a rin!dilf x fem!reader? Pls…? I’ve been craving this for so long now. Thank you!
・❥・2.3k words - smut mdni. dilf!rin, major daddy kink. his daughter loves you, turns out it runs in the family
an: mannn i love this. i always prefer my longer fics but im so damn lazy to write them </3 anyways i hope everyone likes this as much as i did
rin itoshi at thirty-two looks nothing like you expected a father to look. you'd built up this image in your head, something soft and tired and domestic, the kind of man who wears sensible shoes and talks about mortgage rates. instead he opens the door in a grey training shirt with the sleeves cut off and you forget what your own name is for a solid three seconds. taller than you remembered. leaner but with weight to him now, muscle that sits differently on a grown man than it does on a boy. his daughter maya is already pulling you inside by the wrist before you've even said hello and rin just watches from the doorway with those quiet teal eyes, that same curtain of dark hair falling across his face. "thanks for coming," he says. flat. polite. nothing. and yet you feel it somewhere low in your stomach, an ache that has absolutely no business being there.
maya adopts you immediately and without your consent. she's six, loud, obsessed with football like her father and convinced that you are, in her own words, "the prettiest person i've ever seen ever." rin watches her drag you to her room to show you her sticker collection and you glance back over your shoulder at him. his expression is doing something complicated. not quite a smile. close, though. you'll spend the next three weeks trying to figure out what it means.
you start coming round twice a week. your mum asks rin to sort out some paperwork for you, something to do with contracts and agents and the administrative chaos of the football world your family has always orbited. it's an excuse, mostly. you both know it. maya is the official reason. maya, who requests you by name, who taught you her favourite card game, who falls asleep against your shoulder on the sofa while some animated film plays quietly on the television. and rin sits across from you in the armchair, looking at the two of you with an expression you aren't supposed to see and you pretend you're watching the screen.
the first time you notice him noticing you, you're in the kitchen looking for a glass. you've reached up into the cabinet, shirt riding up your back and you hear him stop in the doorway. just stop. you take your time finding the glass. you hear him breathe. then he moves again and says "second shelf on the left" in a completely normal voice and pours himself a coffee and you think maybe you imagined it. you didn't. you didn't imagine it at all.
maya calls you "pretty rin" once, by accident, a confused combination of your names and it makes rin set his jaw so hard you can see it from across the room. later, after she's in bed, he says "she talks about you constantly" without looking at you, like it's a warning. "i know," you say. and then, because you're shameless: "do you?" he looks at you then. properly. and the silence stretches out longer than it should before he says, "go home." not unkindly. but firmly. like he's talking himself into it as much as you.
he's not a man who touches carelessly. you figure that out fast. everything rin does is deliberate, even stillness, even restraint. so when his hand catches your elbow in the hallway one evening, just steadying you after you stumble on the rug and he holds it a beat longer than necessary, you feel it everywhere. his thumb sitting against the inside of your arm. not moving. just there. "careful," he says quietly. and you look up at him and you're close, closer than you've been, and his jaw does that tight thing again and he lets go.
you make the move on a wednesday, actually. not that the day matters.
maya is with her grandmother for the week. you know this. you showed up anyway with some file your mum asked you to drop off, which is transparent even by your standards and rin lets you in with a look that says he knows exactly what you're doing.
you put the folder on the kitchen table.
he leans against the counter with his arms crossed.
"she's not here," he says.
"i know."
a beat.
"you should go home."
"you keep saying that."
"because i keep meaning it."
"do you?"
he exhales hard through his nose, head dropping forward slightly, like he's having an argument with himself. you take a step toward him. then another. and when you stop, you're close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him and he's looking down at you with those careful, restrained teal eyes and his whole body is rigid with the effort of not moving.
"i'm not doing this," he says. barely. his voice has dropped.
"rin."
"you're my mate's daughter."
"i know."
"this is a bad idea."
"i know that too."
his hand comes up and cups your jaw so suddenly you gasp, tilting your face up. his thumb rests against the corner of your mouth. not kissing you. just holding you there, looking at you like you're the worst thing that's ever happened to him.
"tell me to stop," he says. rough and quiet.
you don't. you couldn't anyways.
his mouth comes down on yours and it's nothing like soft. it's the kiss of a man who's been practising restraint for weeks and finally stopped. his hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back further and he kisses you until you make a small broken sound against his mouth and your hands fist in the front of his shirt just to stay upright.
when he pulls back his breathing is unsteady. he rests his forehead against yours.
"i've been trying," he says. almost to himself.
"i know," you say for the third time and you kiss him again before he can reconsider.
he carries you to his room with the same quiet efficiency he does everything, your legs wrapped round his waist, his hands braced under your thighs. he sets you on the bed like he's still trying to be careful with you and you can see the effort it's costing him. the way his hands shake slightly when he reaches for the hem of your shirt.
"rin," you say softly.
"give me a second." he closes his eyes briefly. breathes. opens them. "i'm trying not to—"
"don't try so hard."
his expression breaks open just slightly. and then he strips your shirt over your head in one motion and looks at you and something in him comes loose.
"god," he says, low. his hands slide up your ribcage, thumbs pressing just under your bra, tracing the shape of you. "how long have you been doing this to me."
not a question. more like a confession.
he reaches round and unclasps your bra with steady fingers and when it falls away he just looks at you for a long moment before he leans in and presses his mouth to the top of your breast, your collarbone, the side of your throat. slow. deliberate. like he's memorising the route.
you're already aching. already embarrassingly wet from just that, from the weight of him above you and his mouth on your skin and the weeks of restraint finally snapping.
"please," you say.
"please what." his lips brush the shell of your ear. "use your words."
"rin, please, i need—"
"daddy." his voice has gone somewhere dark and quiet and your whole body clenches. "you call me that, yeah? tonight you do."
oh.
"daddy," you breathe, barely sound, "please—"
he makes a low sound against your throat like you've undone him, and his hand slides down your stomach and under the waistband of your jeans and you gasp, back arching up off the mattress. his fingers find you through the thin fabric of your underwear and press, feeling how soaked you are and he pulls back to look at you with his expression doing something wrecked and wanting.
"this is for me?" he murmurs. pressing again. watching you squirm. "all of this?"
"yes, yes, daddy, please just—"
he pulls your jeans and underwear off in the same movement. no ceremony. and then he's looking at you spread out on his bed and he makes a noise low in his chest and his composure does something irreversible.
he strokes through your folds slowly, carefully, parting you with two fingers and circling your clit with his thumb in small deliberate circles until you're writhing and gripping the sheets and making sounds you've never made before. he's watching your face the whole time. taking notes.
"that's it," he says quietly, working you in slow steady spirals, "there you go. let me hear you."
"daddy, please, i need more—"
two fingers push inside you without warning and you cry out, walls clenching hard around them. he's still wearing his clothes. you think it might actually kill you.
"so tight," he says, something rough in his voice now, the gentleness fraying at the edges. "christ." he curls his fingers, finding the spot inside you that makes your vision blur and fucks them into you slow and deep while his thumb never stops on your clit. your thighs are shaking. your whole body is shaking.
"daddy, daddy, i'm gonna—"
"i know," he says, low, "i've got you, come on."
you fall apart in his hands with his name breaking out of you in fragments, hands fisted in the sheets, back off the mattress, and he works you through every second of it with the focused patience of a man who has been waiting a very long time.
you're still catching your breath when you hear his belt.
"you okay?" he asks, and there it is, the effort to be gentle. to check.
"i want you," you manage. "rin, i want you right now, please don't make me wait—"
"daddy." a reminder. he sounds strained.
"daddy," you say, soft and wanting, and that's all it takes.
he pushes inside you in one long slow slide that steals every word you have. the stretch of it. the fullness. he's thick enough that your mouth falls open and nothing comes out at first, just a wrecked exhale and he stops halfway and grits out "you with me?" through his teeth.
"yes, yes, don't stop—"
he sinks the rest of the way in and you both go still for a moment. his forehead drops to your temple. his breathing is rough. your walls are fluttering around him, adjusting, and he makes a tight broken sound that you feel more than hear.
"you feel…" he starts, doesn't finish.
he pulls back and pushes forward, slow. then again. finding a rhythm that's controlled and deep and absolutely devastating, hitting somewhere inside you that makes you keen on every thrust, legs wrapping round his waist, trying to pull him closer, deeper.
"yeah?" he murmurs, watching your face. "that good?"
"s'so good, daddy, please, please don't stop—"
his rhythm stutters. just slightly.
"don't say that if you want me to take care of you," he says, strained.
but you say it again anyway. because you want to watch him come apart.
and he does.
the gentleness goes. his hips snap forward hard and you cry out and he does it again, gripping your thigh, hauling it higher up his waist, changing the angle so he's hitting deeper with every thrust and the sound in the room becomes obscene, wet and slapping and your breathless mewling and his low grunts when he bottoms out. no more careful pacing. just rin itoshi finally not holding back, fucking into you with the single-minded intensity he brings to everything, and you are completely wrecked by it.
"god, you're perfect," he grits, "you feel perfect, you've been driving me fucking insane—"
"daddy—"
"say it again."
"daddy, daddy, please, i can't—"
"yes you can." he reaches between you and finds your clit and your whole body seizes up. "you're gonna come for me again. go on."
it hits you like a wave breaking, violent and sudden, and you sob through it with your face pressed into his shoulder, his name falling apart in your mouth, your nails dragging down his back without meaning to. he doesn't stop. he fucks you through both your orgasms and then chases his own with three, four, five hard decisive thrusts before he buries himself deep and groans into your hair, hips shuddering, everything going still.
he takes the empty space next to you on his bed. your thighs are ruined. the sheets are ruined. his careful, quiet bedroom looks nothing like it did an hour ago. he's on his back beside you, arm over his face, his chest rising and falling like he's just finished a match.
you lie there feeling completely unmade. thighs aching, body still buzzing, his warmth seeping into your side.
eventually rin moves his arm. turns his head to look at you. his hair is a mess, those teal eyes tired and dark and something else you can't quite name.
he reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair away from your face. slow. deliberate. the way he does everything.
"maya likes you," he says quietly.
"i know."
"i won't half ass this." he holds your gaze. steady, even now. "if this is something, it's something serious. that's what i'm telling you."
you look at him, this serious, restrained, completely undone man, and something warm settles in your chest alongside the ache.
"okay," you say softly.
and outside his bedroom window, the neighbourhood is quiet, and his sheets smell like both of you, and rin keeps his hand resting against your cheek long after he has any reason to.
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