18+ MINORS DNI — 3.7K
Warnings: daddy kink, afab (she/her) reader, established relationship, age gap (20s/40s), size kink undertones, dacryphilia (crying kink), oral fixation, face-fucking (consensual, rough use of mouth/throat), restraint/holding down (consensual), praise kink & light degradation, rough language/snapping, spit/tears/mess described in detail, aftercare, Catholic guilt undertones, power imbalance themes.
a/n: listen. Sonny + baseball + Catholic guilt = me spiralling into filth. This one is messy, mean, and soft all at once. I wanted the contrast of him ignoring you for the Yankees, snapping, then finding his way to shut you up. It’s porn with some emotional grime smeared over it. Shout out to 🐾 anon for the inspo.
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The game hums in the background, the familiar cadence of commentators weaving in and out of crowd noise. Sonny’s planted on the couch, tie discarded, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, the weight of the day still carved into the set of his jaw. A bottle sweats on the coffee table; one hand wrapped around the neck of it, while the other rubs slow at the line of tension in his forehead. He doesn’t even look over when you pad into the room, bare feet soft against hardwood, neediness practically written across your skin.
You linger by the armrest, fingers grazing fabric like you’re waiting for him to notice. He doesn’t, not at first. His eyes are locked on the screen, that blue-green intensity softened only by the flicker of the ball in play. You can tell by the rigid line of his shoulders, though, that he’s not really relaxed. He’s decompressing the only way he knows how – letting the noise of the Yankees drown out the cases he can’t stop carrying home with him.
When you finally murmur, “Baby…” it’s sugar-coated with need, a question wrapped in a plea.
His sigh is heavy, like he’s been holding it since morning. “Not tonight, sweetheart.” The words are gentle but edged, clipped Staten Island vowels that land like a door half-closed. He tips the bottle, takes a slow swallow, eyes still on the game. “Daddy’s had a long day.”
The dismissal stings more because it’s rare. He’s usually so quick to soften when you come to him, but tonight he’s rooted in the couch, in the game, in the weight pressing down on his broad back.
Your voice slips into the low hum of the room, careful, soft, almost swallowed by the commentary: “Are the Yankees… winning?” You ask with this air of earnest sweetness, head tilted, eyes wide, gesturing vaguely at the screen; even though the score glowing across the bottom of the screen makes it painfully obvious they’re not. You don’t understand the sport, not the innings, or the bases, or why Sonny tenses every time the camera cuts to the that weird bit of grass where pitchers warm up.
His head turns just enough to cut you a look, those blue-green eyes narrowed under furrowed brows, the kind of glance that makes you feel small and scolded even before he opens his mouth .
“They’re down by four in the ninth,” he says flat, voice gruff and roughened by exhaustion. He doesn’t bother to hide the disbelief, the corner of his mouth twitching like he can’t decide whether to laugh or lecture. “Sweetheart, that’s not winning. That’s the opposite’a winning.”
He drags a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. His focus is back on the screen before you can answer, but you can feel him simmering; tired, raw, trying to keep himself anchored in the game instead of in your need tugging at him from the couch’s edge.
You try to tuck yourself into the corner of the couch, knees pulled close, but your eyes keep drifting to him. He looks so big there, broad shoulders filling out his dress shirt even with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, silver-streaked hair mussed from the way he’s been dragging his hand through it . The glow of the television paints him in hard lines, green eyes glassy and fixed.
You know he’s tired, you can feel it in the room like static, but the silence eats at you. You want his attention the way a moth wants flame, reckless, needy, aching. So, you try again, voice soft, a tentative thread through the noise of the commentators.
“So… if the guy hits the ball all the way up into the stands, is that like… winning? Or, um, extra points?”
Sonny’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at you. His hand grips the neck of the bottle tighter, the glass squeaking faint under the pressure.
You swallow, undeterred. “Okay… so that’s a no… so… why do they all run at once sometimes, but other times just one guy runs? Is it, like, a strategy thing?”
That’s when he snaps. His head whips around, his expression thundercloud dark, and his voice cuts sharper than you’ve ever heard it with you.
“Jesus Christ, kid, enough!” The accent is thicker when he’s angry, Staten Island grit wrapping the words like barbed wire. “Ya don’ know the game, fine, but do ya gotta sit here playin’ twenty questions while I’m tryin’ to watch? I’ve been listenin’ to people yap all damn day, in the squad room, in court, on the street! And now? Now, I come home and it’s you too?”
The air goes heavy, the silence after thick and suffocating. On TV, the crowd roars at a clean hit, but the sound feels far away. His chest rises hard, nostrils flaring, fingers drumming restlessly on his thigh.
He already looks guilty for saying it; you can see it in the way his eyes flick down, the muscle jumping in his jaw – but he’s too wrung out to take it back, too drained to soften it. His voice lowers, rough around the edges, but no less sharp:
“Jus’…please. Stop talkin’ for five minutes. That’s all I’m askin’.”
The words come out of you in a trembling rush, like if you don’t say them now you’ll choke on them. “I’m just trying to learn, Daddy.”
The silence that follows is jagged, dangerous. The crowd on the television cheers like static in your ears, the bright numbers of the scoreboard ticker glowing against the bottom of the ESPN broadcast in the dark, but all you can feel is the weight of him turning toward you.
His eyes cut through you, that blue-green glare sharp as broken glass. He looks older like this – forty-odd years heavy in the furrow of his brow, silver catching in the light. He should be tired, should be soft after the kind of day he’s had, but instead there’s a muscle working in his jaw, steady and merciless, a ticking clock counting down to an explosion.
“Don’t.” His voice drops, thick and full of grit, low enough to scrape down your spine. He points one finger at you, the same way he might at a hostile witness, hand trembling just enough to betray that you’ve hit a nerve. “Don’t you pull that word outta your mouth right now. Not when you’re just lookin’ to yank me away from the game.”
You flinch, but your lip wobbles anyway, and the tears you’ve been swallowing burn your waterline. “I just…” your voice breaks, thin as tissue paper, “I just wanted your attention.” The word Daddy still clings to your tongue like honey turned bitter.
His breath leaves him in a hiss, both hands dragging down his face, palms rasping over the day-old stubble. He tips his head back against the couch, eyes closing like he’s praying for patience. The bottle on the table rattles when he sets it down too hard, knuckles white, veins corded up his forearm.
“You don’t get to weaponize that word,” he growls, softer now but no less dangerous, each syllable deliberate. “Not just ‘cause you’re bored. Not just ‘cause you want me lookin’ at you instead’a the damn Yankees. You think I don’t know what you’re doin’? Huh? Sweetheart, you don’t play me like that. Don’t you dare.”
When he finally flicks his gaze from the game, the sight of you curled small at the far end of the couch; eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, chest rising in quick shivers – something twists behind his gaze. That guilty Catholic weight he carries, the one that always follows sharp words, is already there, sinking into his shoulders.
You stay quiet for a beat, the roar of the crowd filling the room while Sonny tries to bury himself back in the game. His profile is hard in the glow of the TV, jaw locked, bottle resting heavy in his hand.
But the quiet doesn’t last. It never does with you.
“Uhh, so… what happens if they don’t hit the ball at all? Do they still get a turn?” you ask softly, voice pitched careful, like you’re testing the edges of his patience on purpose.
His head doesn’t move, but you see the twitch in his temple.
“Also why do they keep spitting? Is it, like, a tradition? Or are they–”
“Enough!” His voice cracks through the air like a gunshot, so loud you flinch. He slams the bottle down on the table, glass clinking against wood, and then he’s on you – towering, looming, silver hair shadowed in the TV light, blue-green eyes lit with something dangerous. “For Christ’s sake, you don’t know when to shut that pretty mouth, do you?”
The tears spill before you can stop them, fat drops that blur your vision and sting hot down your cheeks. Your throat works around a broken sob, chest trembling, and that’s when you see it – that flicker in his gaze. Not guilt this time. Not exactly. Something darker, something that makes his breath hitch.
“You cryin’ now?” Sonny’s voice drops, low and rough, the snap gone, replaced by a heat that makes your stomach flip. He cups your jaw in his big palm, thumb smearing a tear across your skin. “Christ, look at you. My stupid little cry-baby.”
You sniffle, lips wobbling, breath catching. He huffs a humourless laugh through his nose, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself, but his cock is already straining against his slacks.
“Alright,” he mutters, thumb dragging down to tug at your bottom lip. “You want attention? You want me t’teach you how to keep that mouth busy?”
Before you can answer, he’s unzipping, pulling his cock free – thick, heavy, flushed – pulling you off the couch to your knees in front of him and guiding your face down, fingers laced tightly in your hair. The first press of him against your lips makes your tears spill harder, and he groans, the sound torn from deep in his chest.
“Open up, sweetheart,” Sonny orders, voice all gravel and hunger. “Go on, lemme hear those pretty cries around Daddy’s cock. That’ll shut the questions right up.”
Your sob catches in your throat just as the blunt head of his cock presses to your lips. Sonny’s hand is firm under your chin, tilting your face up so you can’t avoid him, thumb swiping across the wet shine on your cheek. His blue-green eyes are locked on yours, heavy-lidded, hungry, voice a low rasp.
“C’mon, open that mouth. Don’t make Daddy ask you again. Show me what it’s good for.”
You part your lips on a shudder, and he pushes in slow, thick girth spreading you wide. Your tears spill faster, dripping down onto his hand, and the noise you make; half-gag, half-whimper – has his hips jerking like he’s fighting to stay in control.
“That’s it,” he groans, thumb smearing spit and tears together at the corner of your mouth. “Cry all you want, sweetheart. Makes me harder knowin’ you’re takin’ me while those pretty tears fall.”
You latch onto him greedily, tongue flattening, sucking like you’ve been waiting all night for this. The weight of him fills your mouth, stretches your jaw, the ache hitting that place in your brain that makes your body light up. The feral ache for him hums through you like a need being fed, your lips sliding wet down his shaft, throat working to swallow around the thickness.
Sonny’s hand fists tighter in your hair, guiding you, controlling the pace. He pulls you down until the tip nudges the back of your throat, your eyes fluttering shut as another sob breaks free. He watches a tear slide straight down to your chin and moans low.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, dragging you back up so he can see your messy, wet face. “My little cry-baby, my little cock-sucking whore. Every whimper, every tear, all mine.”
You whine around him, desperate, sucking harder. Your nails dig into his thigh as he pushes you deeper, gagging lightly but clinging to the fullness. He groans, hips flexing, thrusting deeper into the hot, tight, wet clutch of your mouth.
“Yeah, that’s it. Keep cryin’ on me. That mouth was made for this. You love it, don’t ya? Love bein’ stuffed full, love givin’ Daddy what he needs.” His words are rough, panting between clenched teeth, but his hand is steady, stroking your damp cheek with a kind of reverence even as he uses you.
Your tears blur everything, mascara running down your cheeks, throat tightening around him, but the ache turns sweet when he grinds his cock deeper again, when he holds you right there, your tongue pressed flat and your lungs burning. He pulls back just before you tap out, dragging free with a filthy, wet pop that has spit and tears stringing between you.
The sound he makes at the sight; feral, guttural, enough to have you diving back down, lips wrapped around him like you’ll starve without it. The need to have him in your mouth is fed and then some, the stretch of your jaw, the salt of him heavy on your tongue, the way your whimpers earn you a groan every single time.
“Good girl,” he pants, hips rocking now, each thrust making you choke and sob around him. His voice is ragged, half-growl, half-praise. “You keep cryin’ and Daddy’s gonna fill that pretty mouth. And you’ll take every fuckin’ drop, baby. You don’t waste a thing.”
Your throat is already raw, spit and tears sliding down your chin, your whimpers muffled by the thick weight of him filling your mouth. Sonny’s chest heaves, his hand still tight in your hair, looking down at you with that mix of hunger and irritation that always makes your stomach twist.
“Christ,” he mutters, voice shredded, “you never stop makin’ noise, do ya?”
You let out another muffled sob around his cock, gagging as your throat flutters, and that’s when he loses patience. His other palm slides from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers splaying wide, and he pushes you down hard with both hands, burying himself deep until your lips are pressed to the base of him.
“Shut. Up.” The command grinds out between clenched teeth, rough and sharp. “You wanna cry? Fine. But you’re gonna do it nice and quiet, with Daddy’s cock down your throat.”
Your eyes flood fresh, tears spilling hot and fast as your gag reflex flares, but your body melts under the weight of his control, the way he pins you there has your pulse, and pussy, thrumming with heat.
His grip doesn’t relent, holding you flush, your throat stretched around him, the ache a perfect counterpoint to the comfort of being used exactly how he wants. You whimper low, vibrations rippling up his shaft, and he groans, head tipping back.
“That’s better,” Sonny pants, hips rocking shallow against your lips. “No more questions, no more whining. Just you. Chokin’ on me, takin’ it like my good little cry-baby. My good little whore. That’s the only sound I wanna hear.”
Both hands are braced heavy on the back of your head, holding you perfectly still; then, he starts to move. Not slow anymore, not careful. He fucks your mouth in hard, controlled thrusts, hips snapping against your lips with wet, obscene sounds.
Your throat opens and closes around him, gagging softly with each push, tears stream unchecked, dripping from your chin joining your spit in staining your shirt. Your nails claw at his thigh; not in protest but in desperation, holding on, grounding yourself as he uses you like the best toy he owns.
“Quiet,” Sonny growls, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Not one goddamn sound but me hittin’ the back of that throat. You got it?”
You whimper, a high muffled sound, and he pushes deeper in answer, forcing you to swallow around his cock until your cry breaks into silence. His groan rips out of him, guttural, hungry. “That’s it. Good girl. Just like that. Mouth open, eyes cryin’, throat full.”
“So pretty when ya cry f’me,” he groans flicking his eyes back over to the game.
The pace builds, relentless, his balls slapping against your chin, spit frothing at the corners of your mouth. Each thrust drives his cock deeper, each withdrawal a slick drag that has you dizzy with the ache in your jaw, the perfect satisfaction of both his and your needs. Your lips are stretched wide, your throat raw, but your body is alight with the heat of it, with the weight of being filled, silenced, owned.
He barely watches the Yankees now, eyes burning with desire, chest heaving as sweat beads at his temples. The brief sight of you crying around him, messy and ruined, pushes him closer to the edge than he wants to admit. His hips stutter, a harsh grunt tearing out of him.
“Fuck – gonna – yeah, that’s it. You’re takin’ it, baby, you’re takin’ it all.” His grip on your hair tightens, holding you down hard as he buries himself deep, the thick head pressed into the back of your throat.
The first hot pulse hits, thick ropes spilling straight down your throat, and he holds you there, groaning low as he empties into you. “C’mon be Daddy’s good girl and hold it there… I know ya gaggin’ baby, I know” Sonny smiles sweetly, moving one hand to caress your cheek with his thumb in complete juxtaposition to the way he had just fucked your throat raw.
You choke and swallow, tears spilling harder as you struggle to keep up, but he doesn’t let go, not until the last twitch has faded and your lips are swollen around him.
When he finally pulls you back, your mouth drags wet and messy off his cock with a lewd pop. Spit and cum string from your lips to his tip, your face streaked with tears, your chest heaving.
Sonny looks down at you, wrecked and triumphant, his thumb brushing over your wet cheek. “That’s my girl,” he rasps, voice raw. “All quiet now, huh? Daddy found the perfect way to shut you up.”
Your knees ache on the rug, jaw sore, throat raw, but before you can sink back into yourself Sonny’s hauling you up into his lap. His arms wrap around you tight, iron and warmth, pulling you against the steady thud of his chest. He kisses your temple like it’s the only place he can breathe, lips lingering, breath ragged.
He tips your face up with two fingers under your chin, makes you meet his gaze even though your lashes are wet and clumped, cheeks streaked, lips swollen and glistening. His thumb strokes your bottom lip, smearing the mess there, and he groans like the sight of you breaks something open in his chest.
“Beautiful,” he says low, reverent. “My messy, perfect girl. Could watch you cry on my cock forever.”
His mouth finds your cheek, kissing the tear tracks, then your temple again, holding you so close it feels like he’s trying to press you under his skin. The game on the TV momentarily forgotten; the only thing in his world for now is you, trembling in his arms, every drop of your wrecked devotion laid out for him to claim.
Sonny slumps deeper into the couch, the cushions groaning under his weight as he pulls you tighter into his side. His chest is damp with your tears, his shirt wrinkled where your fists had balled it up, but he doesn’t care. He kisses your temple again, lips dragging slow, voice gravel-soft with that rough Staten Island burr.
“You jus’ make Daddy so proud, honey. Look at ya…” His thumb smears a glistening trail from the corner of your mouth down your chin. “All that spit, all those tears… every bit jus’ f’me.”
Your cheeks flame hotter under the praise, eyes glassy, lips parting in a pout that betrays the restless ache still buzzing in your chest. He catches it immediately. His eyes narrow with a smirk, head tilting. “Can’t go a second without somethin’ in that mouth, huh? You’re somethin’ else.”
He presses his thumb to your lower lip, nudging until you open obediently, then slides it inside. The pad rests heavy on your tongue, filling the emptiness, and you whimper softly as you wrap your lips around him. You suck greedily, salt and whiskey clinging to his skin, drool already pooling at the corner of your mouth again.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, low and smug, the corner of his mouth twitching as he watches your cheeks hollow. “Good girl. Quiet girl. That’s all I wanted.”
Your lashes flutter as you relax against him, cheek pressed to his chest, thumb locked between your lips while you hum faintly around it. Every soft suck makes his cock twitch with remembered heat, but the weight of the day drags at him, and for once he lets himself have both – you messy and needy in his lap, and his Yankees still flickering across the screen.
He shifts just enough to grab the bottle off the table with his free hand, takes a long swallow, then sets it down again, never pulling his thumb from your mouth, caging you against his chest broad.
The crowd on TV roars at another hit, and Sonny huffs under his breath. “Still losin’,” he mutters, eyes narrowing at the screen, but there’s no real bite in his voice now. He strokes your hair absently, grounding you while his team falls apart.
You stay quiet, sucking soft and steady on his thumb, the noise drowned under the commentary. Sonny smirks faintly at the sight of your damp lashes and swollen lips around his hand, then turns back fully to the game; calm now, content, his little cry-baby kept happy and silent right where he wants her.
