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Mori x reader || quiet love

You’re loud, he’s quiet. It might not make sense to his friends, but you’re ok with that.

everyone expects you to be intimidating.

you walk into the host club smiling too wide, laughing too loud, waving at the twins like you have known them forever. your voice fills the room. tamaki blinks. kyoya pauses his typing. honey stares for half a second before grinning and immediately liking you.

and then there is mori.

standing behind honey, arms crossed, unreadable as ever.

people glance between the two of you and do a double take.

#mori x reader #takashi morinozuka x reader #mori morinozuka x reader #ouran x reader #ouran high school host club

Nsfw

Day 30, Sadism-Masochism! Just one more day until Halloween! Yes, there is always room for improvement in writing, but please enjoy.

Kinktober master list

Warnings: smut, sadomasochism, scalpel play, bondage, spanking, blood mention (not gore), orgasm control, twisted aftercare, other sexual acts.

Summary: In Mori’s hands, pain isn’t chaos — it’s art. A scalpel’s kiss, a measured strike, the slow tightening of leather restraints until you can do nothing but surrender.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

Mori bright you to his private quarters: warm lighting, a faint trace of incense, a small table, shelves lined with neat rows of books and oddities. It almost felt civilized, like a doctor’s study. On the low table between you sat a slim leather case. Mori opened it with practiced grace, gloved fingers steady as he revealed the polished steel inside. Scalpels, gleaming under the lamplight, their edges so fine you almost didn’t see them until he tilted the tray.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” His voice was smooth, measured, as if he were discussing fine art instead of blades. He lifted one delicately, holding it up as though to show you the way the light caught on the metal. “People are too quick to call them cruel. I prefer to think of them as honest. They reveal what lies beneath… every layer.”

Your breath caught. You weren’t tied down, not this time. That was somehow worse. Mori hadn’t asked you to sit in his chair or bound your wrists in leather cuffs. He simply expected you to stay and you knew better than to test what would happen if you didn’t. He turned the scalpel between his fingers, inspecting it, then looked back at you with a smile that never reached his eyes. “Tonight,” he said softly, “we’ll find out just how still you can be.”

He stepped closer, the blade balanced perfectly in his hand. You felt the weight of his gaze more than the steel. He hadn’t touched you yet, but every second stretched, heavy with the promise that when he did, there would be no room for flinching.

The scalpel’s edge never rushed. Mori didn’t need to. He let the tip hover at your collarbone, so close the cool kiss of steel brushed your skin without breaking it. Your pulse thudded beneath the blade, traitorous in its eagerness, and his smile curved as though he could hear it as clearly as you did. “Do you feel that?” His voice was quiet, clinical. He tilted his head, studying you like a specimen pinned under glass. “Your heartbeat betrays you. It’s racing.”

You swallowed, forcing yourself not to move, not to shift against the promise of pain balanced above your chest. He liked that. He wanted you trembling, barely breathing, offering yourself up with the obedience of someone who already knew there was no escape. The first cut was shallow. Barely a whisper of a sting, a bead of heat blooming just under your collarbone. You gasped, and Mori’s eyes lit with something sharp and hungry. He pressed his thumb just beneath the cut, smearing the tiny line of red as if testing the flow.

“Exquisite.” He leaned in close, his breath ghosting your ear. “It only takes the slightest pressure to peel you open. And you give so beautifully when I do.” Every new line was deliberate. A flick of his wrist here, a drag there. Not deep, never reckless. He painted you in crimson brushstrokes, marking skin he’d already claimed long before tonight. With each sting you felt the heat coil lower, the pain winding itself into pleasure until you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Mori noticed. He always noticed. His free hand slid over your thigh, squeezing just hard enough to bruise. “You like this,” he murmured, almost indulgent, as if he were rewarding a patient for being honest. “Such a perfect little masochist. My scalpel sings against you, and you shiver like it’s a lover’s touch.” The blade skimmed dangerously close to your ribs, and you held your breath. He chuckled softly, amused at your restraint. “Don’t move. One slip, and it won’t just be pleasure.” His tone made it sound less like a warning and more like a promise he wouldn’t mind fulfilling.

You were trembling now not from fear, well not entirely. Every shallow sting bled into heat, every line of red another tether binding you tighter to him. Mori drank it in, his sadism elegant and precise, a symphony of steel and skin where he was both conductor and audience. When at last he pulled back, he wasn’t finished. He pressed his lips to one of the fresh cuts, a mockery of tenderness, and whispered against your raw skin. “You’ll remember every line I’ve written on you tonight. And when they heal, I’ll carve new ones. Again, and again, until your body is nothing but a record of how much you were willing to endure for me.”

You tried to stay still. You wanted to. But when the scalpel kissed just above your ribs, the sting sharper than the last, your hips twitched back from the blade on instinct. Mori stilled immediately. The air went cold. His gloved hand caught your chin, forcing your gaze up into his. That smile of his hadn’t slipped, but the gleam behind it was dangerous now. “Mm,” he hummed, scalpel resting carelessly at his side. “Did I tell you to move?”

Your lips parted, desperate to form an excuse, but he was already pulling you forward. The scalpel clattered onto the table as he bent you over the edge, pressing you down with clinical force. His palm cracked across your ass before you could catch your breath, the sharp smack sending heat blooming through your skin. “One.” His voice was soft, patient, like he was tallying in a medical chart.

The second blow landed harder, making you jerk forward against the table’s edge. Mori clucked his tongue. “Two. Still moving. You’ll make me believe you want restraints.”

Each strike was measured, deliberate, not wild or careless. He wanted you to feel every ounce of control in the swing of his hand, every shiver of humiliation in the way he made you arch for him. The sting turned to heat, then throbbed with each echoing smack until your eyes watered and your thighs trembled. When you squirmed again, a sharp gasp escaping you, Mori’s laughter brushed the back of your neck. He leaned down, lips grazing your ear. His hand lingered on your ass, rubbing the burn he’d just inflicted. “One more slip, and I’ll have no choice but to tie you down. And once I do…” His breath was hot against your skin, wickedly sweet. “You won’t move again until I decide to let you.”

The scalpel was waiting. So were the restraints he’d already hinted at. The only question now was whether you’d manage obedience or whether you’d give him every excuse to bind you completely. “I’m trying,” you gasped, cheek pressed to the table, skin burning where his hand had landed. “I’m trying to be good.”

Mori’s chuckle was warm, indulgent, but laced with mockery. “Oh, I know you are. But good intentions rarely keep hands still, do they?” He straightened, brushing a gloved hand down your spine. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll help you.”

You barely had time to blink before he was guiding you toward the bed. The leather straps waited there, fixed to the heavy frame. Mori positioned you with practiced ease, laying you on your back, spreading your arms and legs. He tightened each restraint slowly, deliberately, watching your face with clinical fascination as the buckles clicked shut. “There,” he said softly, standing back to admire his work. “Now you won’t have to worry about disobedience. You can focus entirely on… sensation.” The scalpel gleamed in his hand again. He leaned over you, blade poised at your stomach this time. “And I can focus on precision.”

The first cut was sharper than before, a neat, shallow line just below your ribs. You flinched, but the restraints held you firm, leather biting against your wrists. Mori’s smile widened. “Better. Much better.” He dragged the edge lower, drawing a second line parallel to the first. “See how easy it is when I take choice away? You can’t move. You can’t resist. You can only accept what I give you.”

Each stroke of steel burned, each bead of blood a mark he claimed like an artist signing a canvas. Mori’s free hand stroked along your thigh, steadying you, teasing you, blurring the line between cruelty and care. “Your body tells me everything I need to know,” he murmured. “The way your breath hitches, the way your muscles tighten. You’re not afraid, not really. You’re… delighted.” He leaned close, scalpel grazing your skin just above your hip. “A perfect masochist in my hands.”

When he drew the blade up toward your chest, you arched against the restraints, heat flooding every nerve. Mori pressed his lips to your ear, whisper-soft. “Now, you’ll stay still no matter how much it hurts. And when I’m finished, you’ll thank me for every mark I’ve written into you.”

The scalpel bit again, elegant and merciless, and bound as you were, there was nothing left to do but surrender. Every shiver, every gasp, every trembling whimper echoing in the silence of Mori’s private room as he carved you into his masterpiece. Mori watched you unravel with clinical delight. His free hand slid lower, fingers pressing between your thighs, dragging across you with the same precision as his blade. You moaned, half-choked, your body betraying you with slick heat. “Your body blooms under pain. Each cut…” He drew the scalpel across your hip, shallow but stinging, “…makes you wetter.” His thumb pressed harder, circling, testing. “You can’t hide it.”

You bucked against the restraints, pleasure and pain tangled until you couldn’t tell them apart. His gloved hand kept you pinned, his blade kept you trembling, and when he finally pushed his fingers inside you, the relief was blinding. Every thrust sent fire through you, each shallow sting of the scalpel another spark until your whole body writhed in contradiction. Bound, punished, and undone all at once. “Do you feel it?” Mori’s voice was silk and steel, calm even as he worked you mercilessly. “How the pain heightens the pleasure? How your body begs for both?”

You cried out, arching as the orgasm tore through you, violent and helpless, your vision splintering as every nerve lit at once. The restraints bit into your wrists as you strained against them, sobbing his name as the scalpel traced lazy, cruel circles over your stomach. Mori didn’t stop. He worked you through the waves, coaxing every last tremor until you lay trembling, spent, skin marked with blood and heat. He withdrew his fingers, holding them up so you could see the glisten of your own release coating the black leather. His smile was sharp, satisfied. “Tell me, then.” He leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as the scalpel rested lightly against your throat. “Are you my little masochist?”

Your throat closed, the word sticking but there was no choice. Not with his blade so close, not with your body still aching, needy even in the aftermath. “Y-yes,” you whispered, broken and true. “Yes.”

Mori hummed in approval, lips curving against your skin. “Good girl.” He kissed the shallow cut on your collarbone, tasting the salt of blood and sweat. “Admitting it is the first step. Now I can give you exactly what you crave.”

The scalpel clinked back into its case, the sound sharp in the quiet. Your chest rose and fell raggedly, wrists still bound to the bedframe, skin slick with sweat and marked in delicate red lines. None of them were deep. Mori had never intended to truly harm you. No, he’d cut just enough to make you burn, to make you need. He peeled off his gloves one finger at a time. His hands, bare now, were unexpectedly warm as they brushed along your ribs, over each shallow slice. His expression softened, almost tender, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

“Mm. Not deep enough for bandages,” he mused, fingertips gliding through the faint streaks of blood, smearing them as if they were ink. “But still… it wouldn’t do to leave you untended.” He retrieved a clean cloth and a bottle of antiseptic from his nightstand. The sting of it made you hiss when he dabbed it onto the fresh cuts, and Mori’s lips curved in quiet amusement. “Still so sensitive. Even in the aftermath, your body craves sensation.” You whimpered, turning your face away, but he caught your chin with gentle fingers and forced your gaze back to him. “Don’t hide. Every sound you make is proof of how perfectly you were made for this.”

When the last line was cleaned, he laid the cloth aside and leaned down, pressing his mouth to your collarbone, lips ghosting over a tender sting. The kiss was delicate, reverent — a mockery of tenderness that still made your chest ache. “There now,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low, intimate. “All neat, all clean.” His hand stroked down your side, pausing on your hip where another shallow cut glowed faintly. “You’ll bruise, you’ll sting when you move, and every throb will remind you of me. Isn’t that beautiful?”

You shuddered, restrained leather still tight against your wrists. Mori noticed but made no move to free you yet. He only smiled, brushing stray hair from your face. “I’ll release you soon. But don’t mistake this for mercy.” His tone turned silken, dangerous. “I tend to you because I want you intact. So I can mark you again. And again. Until every inch of you tells my story.”

He kissed you once more, sweet as poison, then straightened, wiping his hands clean as though you were just another patient he’d finished with. But the restraints still held, and his promise hung heavier than the cuts across your skin. This was not the end, only a pause before the next incision.

Master list

#bungo stray dogs smut #bungo stray dogs #bsd mori #mori x reader smut #mori x reader #kinktober 2025 #kinktober

Nsfw

Day 25, Risky / Semi-Public

Kinktober master list

Warnings: smut, semi-public/risky play, power imbalance, orgasm denial, fingering, other sexual acts.

Summary: Mori runs his meetings with perfect composure. Unfortunately for you, he expects the same—even when his hand is buried beneath your skirt.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

The Port Mafia meeting drags on, heavy with reports and strategic updates. You sit a few chairs down the long polished table, listening while Mori presides at the head. His voice is calm, clinical, as he assigns tasks and adjusts timelines, his expression unreadable. When one subordinate stumbles over a detail, you can’t help yourself, you interject. “Actually, that shipment never made it past customs. They’ll need a new route.”

The room goes still. Heads turn your way, wary. Mori’s gaze lifts, sharp and precise, pinning you with a flicker of amusement. He steeples his gloved fingers, silence stretching just a fraction too long before he speaks. “Is that so?” His tone is velvet smooth, carrying both approval and warning. Then, as if the decision is inevitable, he crooks two fingers toward the empty chair at his side. “Come sit next to me. If you insist on contributing, you’ll do so where I can keep a closer eye on you.”

The subordinates drop their gazes instantly, muttering acknowledgments, but you feel every stare on your back as you rise and cross the room. The scrape of your chair echoes in the hush. By the time you reach Mori’s side, he’s already shifted slightly to make space, the corner of his mouth hinting at something that isn’t quite a smile.

You settle into the chair at his side, smoothing your hands over your lap as though that can disguise the heat creeping into your face. Mori doesn’t look at you right away. He continues speaking to the table in that calm, clinical cadence, outlining shipments and deadlines. To anyone else, you’re just another subordinate seated near the Boss.

But you feel the shift immediately. His hand rests on the table between you, gloved fingers drumming once… then brushing lightly against your sleeve as though by accident. A subtle reminder. A quiet warning. When the next report begins, his voice drops a fraction lower, velvet and deliberate. Beneath the cover of paperwork, you feel his knee angle toward yours until it nearly touches. He doesn’t press; he simply leaves the space humming with tension, daring you to notice.

“Continue,” he instructs the speaker, though his eyes flick toward you for the barest second. It’s gone before anyone else can catch it, but the message lingers: you are his focus, even in a room full of others. The subordinates scribble notes, oblivious. Mori’s gloved hand shifts again — this time his thumb grazes just over your knee under the table, hidden from sight. He never falters in his lecture, but you feel the weight of his control in every unhurried movement.

You try to keep your eyes on the reports, but it’s impossible to ignore him. Every small movement feels intentional. The faint graze of his glove when he turns a page, the warmth of his knee brushing yours beneath the table. At first it’s fleeting, almost deniable. A brush of his thigh against yours when he shifts in his chair. A brief pressure of his arm along the backrest, close enough that the edge of his sleeve skims your shoulder.

Then it lingers. His knee presses into yours, steady and firm, holding the contact as though anchoring you there. The touch is hidden well beneath the table’s edge, but it steals your breath all the same. He continues the meeting without pause, voice steady, his eyes sweeping across the room like nothing is amiss. His hand rests casually on the tabletop but beneath it, you feel the faintest glide of his other hand across your thigh, cloaked by the drape of the tablecloth. A slow, deliberate stroke, nothing overt enough to draw attention, but just enough to leave your pulse hammering.

“Make sure the deadline is moved forward by two days,” he instructs smoothly, as though he isn’t tracing idle circles against your leg. “Failure is unacceptable.” The subordinates bow their heads in acknowledgment, none the wiser. Only you feel the ghost of his touch, a secret pressed between the two of you in plain sight.

Mori’s voice is smooth, even as his fingers continue their subtle circles against your thigh. Then, with the same ease as if he were commenting on the weather, he closes the folder in front of him. “We’ll take ten minutes. Stretch your legs, clear your heads.”

Chairs scrape back immediately, the room shifting into quiet chatter as subordinates rise to obey. You make a move to stand too, but the instant you shift your weight, his hand clamps down. Gloved fingers tighten, pinning your leg in place under the table with deceptively casual strength. You glance at him, startled, but his expression doesn’t flicker. He’s still the composed Boss, posture perfect, eyes lazily following the room as though dismissing his men is all he’s thinking about.

Then he tilts his head the slightest degree, leaning just close enough for you to catch his words meant only for you. His voice is velvet over steel. “You’d better be able to keep a straight face,” he murmurs, his grip firming for emphasis. “Or everyone will know.”

To the others, it looks like nothing — the Boss lingering at his chair while they filter out. But you can feel the iron precision in his touch, the weight of his demand curling low in your stomach. You shift under his hold, your voice low, nearly swallowed by the shuffle of footsteps and idle chatter as the others file toward the door. “This is a bad idea,” you whisper, breath hitching. “We shouldn’t… not here. What if someone notices?”

Mori doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain on the room, calm, clinical, as though he’s only monitoring his men. But his hand on your thigh tightens, the leather of his glove biting lightly into your skin. “They’ll only notice,” he murmurs, smooth and unhurried, “if you can’t keep a straight face.”

The words settle like a trap snapping shut. He doesn’t need to glance at you to make his point. His composure is the leash, his voice the chain. To anyone else, the Boss is silent, waiting for the room to clear. But to you, the weight of his control is inescapable, pressing down with every heartbeat. “Understand?” he adds softly, the faintest ghost of amusement threading his tone.

You don’t get a chance to agree or keep arguing. Mori’s hand started its ascent. Unhurried, deliberate, sliding from the safe press of your knee up along the curve of your thigh. The leather is cool against your skin, every inch stolen with clinical precision. You grip the edge of your chair, breath caught in your throat, when the door creaks open again. Footsteps echo as a few subordinates trickle back inside, earlier than expected. Papers rustle, voices murmur, chairs scrape against the floor.

Mori doesn’t stop. His expression remains placid, unreadable, as if nothing at all is happening beneath the desk. His eyes track the men returning to their seats, and he issues a casual nod, as if he’d expected them right on time. But his hand climbs higher still, brushing the hem of your skirt, slipping just beneath it. The leather of his glove glides over bare skin, hidden perfectly from view. To them, you’re just sitting quietly at the Boss’s side. To you, every second feels like a knife’s edge. “Focus,” he murmurs low enough only you can hear, his thumb pressing lightly against your inner thigh. “If you falter now, you’ll give us away.”

The others resume their places, shuffling papers and waiting for the meeting to continue. None of them dare look at you directly. None of them notice the trap you’re caught in. Only you feel it, the danger, the heat. The exquisite pressure of Mori’s control beneath the table, tightening with every word. The shuffle of chairs fades into silence as the subordinates settle back into their seats. Reports begin again, voices steady but cautious, each man acutely aware of Mori’s watchful presence.

On the surface, he looks as composed as ever — posture straight, gloved hand resting casually on the table, eyes fixed on the speaker across from him. To them, he is the picture of discipline. But beneath the desk, his other hand pushes higher, past the edge of your skirt, gliding over the soft heat of your inner thigh. You flinch, barely, when his fingers find the edge of your underwear. The leather brushes the thin fabric, tracing deliberately along the line, testing your control.

Then, with quiet certainty, he slips past the barrier. The glove presses against you, unhurried, claiming space no one else can see. You choke back a sound, disguising it as a careful breath. Your knuckles whiten on the armrest, every muscle taut with the effort of stillness. Mori’s voice does not waver. “Tell me more about your report,” he says smoothly, as though his hand isn’t inside your underwear, stroking with clinical precision.

To the others, the Boss is composed, attentive. To you, he is merciless, forcing you to sit in silence, to breathe evenly. To maintain a mask of composure while he plays you like a secret experiment. And when he leans ever so slightly closer, his whisper ghosts over your ear. “Straight face… remember?”

Mori’s face is calm, a mask of perfect professionalism, but his gloved hand shifts with clinical purpose. The tease ends abruptly when his fingers push deeper — slipping past every barrier until he’s inside you. The intrusion is sudden, overwhelming, and it takes every ounce of discipline not to jolt in your chair.

Your breath catches, a sound dangerously close to betraying you. A few heads lift, but Mori smoothly fills the silence with his own voice, commanding attention back to him. “Go on,” he instructs the speaker, tone steady, velvet-wrapped steel. His hand moves again, deliberate thrusts of his fingers, slow and exact.

You clutch the edge of the chair, nails biting into the wood as heat coils in your stomach. He doesn’t relent. Each stroke is measured, paced to the rhythm of his words, as though you’re nothing more than another part of his schedule to manage. The room continues, papers shuffling, voices droning. No one notices.

But you feel every second of it, the clinical violation, the impossible demand. The thrill of being undone where no one else can see. His fingers work inside you with an unhurried rhythm, every thrust a calculated movement. Not too fast, not too deep — just enough to keep you hovering, caught in that unbearable place between need and restraint.

Your thighs tremble under the table, and you fight to keep your breathing steady. A bead of sweat trickles down your spine, betraying how close you are to unraveling. Mori doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay fixed on the men across the table, listening intently to their reports. He even nods once, as though agreeing with a point, while his gloved fingers curl inside you, dragging another silent whimper from your throat.

When your walls clench around him, so close to release you could shatter, his hand stills. The absence of motion is brutal. You nearly choke on the frustration, your nails digging into your palm beneath the table. He lets the silence stretch before he finally speaks again, voice low, the words for you alone. “Not yet.”

The meeting drones on, unaware. His fingers rest inside you as a reminder of who’s in control, but he refuses to give you that last push. Every time you start to steady yourself, he moves again. Just enough to pull you back to the edge, just enough to keep you burning. By the time the last report finishes, you’re trembling with the effort of keeping your face calm, your body screaming for release. Mori finally withdraws his hand, slow and deliberate, gloved fingers sliding free as though he’s completing nothing more scandalous than adjusting his sleeve.

He straightens a stack of papers with surgical precision, his voice smooth, composed. “That will be all. Dismissed.”

The others stand and bow, leaving one by one. Only when the last door shuts does Mori finally glance at you. A small, knowing smile curving his mouth, the kind of smile that promises your torment has only just begun. The heavy door clicks shut behind the last subordinate. Silence falls, thick and suffocating, broken only by the sound of your own uneven breathing.

Mori doesn’t speak at first. He simply places his gloves neatly on the desk, fingers methodical as ever. Then he turns to you, eyes gleaming with clinical amusement. “You did well,” he says smoothly, though his tone makes it sound less like praise and more like a diagnostic observation. “Barely.”

Before you can answer, his hand is on your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His lips brush yours in a fleeting kiss, not tender, but claiming. Then he pulls you to your feet with a surgeon’s precision, guiding you back until your hips hit the table. He steps between your legs, and this time there’s no restraint. His fingers push back into you, quick and ruthless now, making up for every second of denial. The control is still there — clinical, exact — but it’s sharpened into something merciless. “You thought you’d come undone in front of them, didn’t you?” he murmurs, his pace unrelenting. “Pathetic. And yet… you held on.”

Your hands scramble for purchase on the polished table, your body bowing forward as waves of pleasure finally crash over you. The release is sharp, devastating, made all the more intense by how long he held you back.

Mori watches, studying every tremor, every gasp, as though committing your reactions to memory. When it’s over, he leans in, whispering against your ear while his fingers still lazily curl inside you. “Next time… I may not let you wait. Or I may make you wait even longer.” He finally withdraws his hand, retrieving a clean cloth from his pocket, as though tidying up after an experiment. His eyes flick to yours, calm and sharp. “Either way, you’ll endure. Because I decide when you break.”

Master list

#bungo stray dogs smut #bungo stray dogs #mori x reader smut #bsd mori #mori x reader #kinktober 2025 #kinktober

Nsfw

Day 22, roleplay! I’m posting this a few hours early but oh well, enjoy!

Kinktober master list

Warnings: smut, doctor/patient roleplay, restraints, dirty talk, forced climax, other sexual acts.

Summary: You thought it was just a game. But once Mori straps you to his table, gag in place and gloves on, the check-up turns into something far more invasive.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

The Port Mafia’s boss had insisted on a “check-up.” You hadn’t thought much of it until you walked into his private office to find Mori already dressed in a pristine white lab coat, gloves snapped neatly over his hands, a stethoscope glinting against his chest.

“Ah, you made it.” His smile is too practiced, too sharp. He gestures to the chair across from his desk as if you’ve stepped into an actual clinic instead of a dimly lit Mafia office. “Sit. We’ll begin with your intake.”

A clipboard slides toward you. The form looks real enough, though the questions quickly make your skin prickle:

• How often do you experience… heightened heart rate in my presence?

• Any recurring weakness in your knees when touched unexpectedly?

• Have you been following orders to rest and obey without question?

You glance up. Mori’s gaze is fixed on you, eyes shining with mock-clinical detachment, though the curl of his lips betrays amusement. “Please answer honestly. Accuracy is very important in my line of work.”

When you hand it back, he leans close to skim the answers, his gloved fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Good,” he murmurs, though it’s unclear whether he’s praising your cooperation or savoring the tension building between you. “Now,” he says, snapping the stethoscope into place with a flourish. “Let’s proceed with your examination. Try to relax, my dear patient. I’ll take excellent care of you.”

“Deep breaths,” Mori instructs, sliding the cold stethoscope across your chest. His voice is smooth, steady, but the faint twitch of his lips gives him away. “Your heartbeat is… elevated. Curious. Nervous, perhaps?”

His gloved hand lingers just beneath your collarbone a beat too long. The latex drags slightly against your skin as he adjusts the scope lower, deliberately brushing the swell of your chest. He hums thoughtfully, as though committing your quickened pulse to memory. “Mm. Reflexes next.”

He picks up a small rubber hammer, the kind used to test knees. When he taps, your leg jolts obediently. His smile sharpens. “Good. Responsive.” Another tap, slower this time, his hand steadying your thigh. “Very responsive.” His thumb presses into the inside of your knee, sliding higher before withdrawing at the last possible second.

The gloves squeak faintly as he pulls them tighter against his wrists. “I’ll need to check for any hidden injuries.” His hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt with practiced ease, palms flat against your stomach, skimming upward in a way that has nothing to do with medicine. “Still… no obvious damage. But I’ll need to be thorough.”

Every word drips with mock-clinical detachment, but the intensity in his gaze betrays something else entirely. He leans in close enough for you to feel his breath at your ear. “Tell me if it hurts,” Mori whispers, the perfect imitation of a doctor’s concern—except his smirk makes it clear he’s hoping it does. “Hmm… I’ll need a closer look,” he says, voice calm, almost tender. “Up on the table, please.”

You hesitate, and that seems to amuse him more. In one smooth motion, his hand closes around your wrist, guiding you onto the exam table that looks far too prepared for this moment. Leather straps wait at either side, innocently disguised as restraints. “Don’t worry,” he assures you, cinching one strap tight around your wrist until the leather bites into your skin. “This is only for stability. Can’t have you squirming, now can we?” The second restraint clicks into place, and he hums in approval. “Perfect. Secure.”

His gloved fingers trail along your arm, down your ribs, then lower still. Each touch is accompanied by his maddeningly calm narration, like he’s dictating notes for a file. “Elevated pulse.” His fingers stroke the inside of your thigh.

“Labored breathing.” A sharp tug at your underwear, snapping the band.

“Patient shows… extreme sensitivity.” He smirks as you shiver under his touch.

Mori tilts his head, studying your reactions like data points. “Your body is very informative, you know. Every twitch, every gasp… all symptoms to record.” When his hand finally slides between your thighs, the pressure is deliberate, controlled. He strokes with maddening precision, then pulls away the moment your hips arch. “Ah, ah—don’t move. If you can’t stay still, I’ll have to… administer discipline.”

You beg without meaning to, words spilling out, but Mori only chuckles. “Denial is a useful test of stamina. We’ll see how long you can endure.” His voice dips lower, cruel and coaxing at once. “But don’t worry, my dear patient. I’ll decide when your release is medically appropriate.”

The examination stretches on, every second of restraint and denial tightening his control until you’re trembling, strung taut under his clinical touch. And Mori? He looks entirely in his element. Smiling like this is the most fascinating case he’s ever studied. The leather straps creak as you instinctively test them, your wrists tugging against the restraints. Mori notices instantly, his smile curving with satisfaction. “Ah, excellent. Struggle confirms circulation is intact. Strong reflex response,” he murmurs, jotting an imaginary note in the air with one finger before bringing his hand back to your skin.

He drags a gloved fingertip over the sensitive inside of your arm, then across your stomach, mapping your body as if charting nerves and pressure points. “So reactive,” he says softly, pressing down just above your hip until you jolt. “Every touch produces such vivid results. You’re quite the fascinating subject.”

His hand slips lower, sliding between your thighs again, but instead of giving you the pressure you’re desperate for, he traces circles along the edge of your underwear. Just enough to make you arch. When you do, he clicks his tongue. “Tsk. Patients should lie still during examinations. Disobedience may skew my results.”

You whimper, the sound muffled in your throat, and Mori leans down until his lips brush your ear. “Shh. Don’t be embarrassed. This is all part of your treatment.” His fingers finally press against your clothed heat, slow and deliberate, applying just enough friction to make your back bow against the table. And then he stops. Pulls away entirely. “Interesting. Lubrication levels rising without direct stimulation,” he says clinically, stripping off one glove and snapping on a fresh one, as if changing instruments mid-procedure. “Your body is cooperating far better than your mouth.”

He strokes again, this time under the fabric, two fingers sliding through your slick folds but never giving you the rhythm you crave. He alternates between feather-light touches and cruel pauses, watching every twitch and gasp. “Hmm. Overstimulated already, and I haven’t even begun invasive testing. Your stamina is… disappointing.” The words sting, even more so when he smirks and adds, “Don’t worry, I’ll train you into a more resilient patient. We’ll extend your tolerance little by little.”

Your hips jerk against his hand, seeking friction, but the straps hold you in place. Mori tsks again and presses down on your thigh to pin you. “Impatience is not conducive to proper care. You’ll wait until I approve. Understood?” He punctuates the command with one sharp stroke over your clit—enough to rip a cry from your throat—before withdrawing entirely, leaving you trembling in the silence he creates.

Mori straightens, tugging his gloves tighter again. His eyes gleam behind his glasses. “Yes… I think further restraint may be required. We can’t have you contaminating my results.” Mori hums softly as though deep in thought, then reaches for the foot of the exam table. Metal clasps glint faintly in the low light. “Yes… further restraint will guarantee accuracy,” he muses, almost to himself. “Your body keeps giving involuntary responses. I’ll need to limit interference.”

Before you can protest, his hands, precise, practiced, push your legs apart. Strapping each ankle into place. The leather bites firm against your skin, locking you wide open under his gaze. You feel completely exposed, pinned, with no possibility of wriggling free. “Perfect,” he says, stepping back to admire his work. “Immobilized. Vulnerability at its purest. Exactly the kind of condition I can work with.” His voice is warm, almost affectionate, which only makes the clinical cruelty of the setup sting sharper.

He slips off one glove, flexing his bare hand, and traces it slowly down your inner thigh. “Muscle tension is high. Spasms, almost.” His fingers skim over your wetness again, but just as you arch toward him, he withdraws. “Still too restless. Hm. Another corrective measure, then.”

He produces a strip of white cloth—clean, clinical, like gauze. His smile is disarmingly kind as he folds it. “Open,” he says gently, like a doctor about to check your throat. When you hesitate, he chuckles and presses it between your lips himself, tying it snug behind your head. “Good patient. That’s better. Less noise, fewer distractions.”

The gag muffles your protest, and Mori seems delighted by it. He leans down, his breath brushing your cheek. “Mm. Such expressive eyes. I can still read every plea without a word. You’ll make an excellent case study.” His hand returns to your slick folds, this time sliding two fingers inside with maddening slowness. He curls them, searching deliberately, and when you jolt around him, he smiles like he’s just confirmed a hypothesis. “Ah… found the tender spot. Remarkably sensitive. But if I stimulate it too long, you’ll break far too soon. That would be… poor endurance.”

He pulls out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing, tears of frustration prickling your eyes. Mori scribbles something imaginary in the air again. “Note: subject shows extreme impatience, difficulty complying with denial protocols. Will require additional training.” He places his gloved thumb against your clit, applying steady, clinical pressure—but never enough friction for release. Each time your body thrums on the edge, he eases back, watching your hips strain helplessly against the restraints.

“Shh,” he coos, almost soothing, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. “Your release is not medically indicated yet. I’ll decide when your body has earned that privilege. Until then…” His fingers circle languidly, teasing you to the brink again before retreating. “You’ll stay right where I want you. Helpless, open, and waiting.” And strapped down beneath his gaze, gagged and trembling, you realize there’s no way out of this examination until Mori says it’s complete.

Mori taps his chin thoughtfully, watching you writhe against the restraints. “Your stamina is failing,” he murmurs. “Pulse rate erratic, respiration uneven, muscles quivering. If I continue the denial protocol much longer, you’ll collapse before yielding usable data.” He sighs, feigning disappointment, though the sharp glint in his eyes betrays how much he’s enjoying your desperation. “Very well. We’ll move on to a climax trial. Let’s observe your body’s limits when pushed past threshold.”

His gloves snap off with a flick, discarded in favor of his bare hands. The sudden heat of his skin against your slick folds makes you jolt, muffled noises spilling past the gag. He shushes you, pressing two fingers deep inside with calculated precision. “Quiet, patient. This is for science.” He curls just right, stroking over that tender spot with relentless accuracy, his thumb grinding firm circles over your clit. Each movement is measured, efficient—clinical in its cruelty. “Yes… muscle contractions increasing. Wetness excessive. You’re nearly there.”

Your body thrashes against the leather, pulling at the restraints, but Mori pins you effortlessly with his other hand pressed flat to your abdomen. “No escape. I told you, you’ll break on my terms, not yours.” His voice drops lower, velvet over steel. “I want every tremor, every spasm, every cry locked under my observation.” The pressure builds too fast, unbearable under his relentless rhythm. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t tease away this time. He keeps you locked in his grip until the tension snaps, your climax tearing through you violently, your muffled cry echoing against the gag.

Mori doesn’t stop right away. His fingers keep moving, milking every aftershock, his eyes fixed hungrily on your trembling form. “Perfect. Strong involuntary spasms. Duration… adequate. Intensity… remarkable.” He finally withdraws, leaving you wrecked, shaking against the restraints, your thighs damp and trembling. Leaning close, he presses his lips almost sweetly to your ear. “Test successful. You did very well for me, my dear patient.” His fingers brush your cheek, tender despite the cruelty of minutes before. “But of course… for accurate results, I’ll need to repeat the test. Several times… not today unfortunately.”

Your body sags against the leather straps, trembling, sweat cooling on your skin. The gag muffles your shallow breaths, but Mori is already moving with calm efficiency, untying it as though he were simply finishing a routine check-up. “Easy,” he murmurs, voice warm, coaxing the cloth free from your mouth. He brushes damp hair away from your face, his touch unexpectedly gentle. “There we go. You did wonderfully.” His tone could almost pass as praise—if not for the satisfied glimmer in his eyes that tells you he enjoyed every desperate second.

One by one, he loosens the straps binding your wrists and ankles. Each release is accompanied by a soothing stroke over the red marks left behind. “No permanent damage,” he observes, tracing the indentations with a feather-light touch. “But I’ll prescribe rest, hydration… and, of course, continued obedience.” He lifts you easily, cradling you against his chest with surprising care. On the nearby desk, he scribbles on a notepad, tearing off a sheet with deliberate flourish. He holds it out with a smile that’s far too pleased with itself.

Your “prescription” reads:

• Return for further testing within 48 hours.

• Refrain from climaxing without doctor’s approval.

• Absolute compliance required.

He tucks the note into your hand, bending to press a deceptively tender kiss to your temple. “Follow the treatment plan, and you’ll recover beautifully. Ignore it…” His voice dips, a dangerous purr. “And I’ll be forced to enforce stricter methods.” Mori lays you back gently, smoothing the wrinkles in your clothes as though preserving the illusion of professionalism. His smile is serene, his tone honey-sweet. “Schedule your next appointment soon, my dear patient. Your body still has so many tests to complete.”

And with that, the examination concludes. Though his promise of more leaves you trembling, uncertain whether you’re relieved it’s over or already aching for the next “session.”

Master list

#bungo stray dogs smut #bungo stray dogs #mori x reader smut #bsd mori #mori x reader #kinktober 2025 #kinktober

Nsfw

Day 16, temperature play!

Kinktober

Warnings: smut, temperature play (ice + wax), sensory teasing, restraint, dom/sub, edging, overstimulation, praise, other sexual acts.

Summary: when you complain the ice is too cold, Mori takes it as an invitation to test your limits. Wax and ice, fire and frost—he toys with your body like an experiment, drawing out every gasp until you finally break and beg.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

The sheets beneath you are cool, faintly smelling of Mori’s cologne and the faint smoke of candle wax. He has you stretched out across his bed, wrists pinned in silken restraints to the headboard, but the atmosphere is softer than the sterile chill of his clinic. Here, the shadows are warm, the air laced with the scent of him, and his gaze is less doctor, more lover. Though no less precise. Mori sits beside you, a bowl in his hand. Inside, cubes of ice clink faintly, catching the light. He dips slender fingers into the bowl, lifts a single cube, and rolls it between thumb and forefinger as though weighing its worth.

“Your body reacts so beautifully to contrast,” he murmurs, his voice low, indulgent, intimate. “Let’s start with something simple.”

The first touch is tentative, a cold line drawn down the curve of your throat. You gasp, the shock immediate, your back arching against the restraints. Mori’s lips twitch with satisfaction as he follows the melting trail with his eyes, cataloguing every goosebump rising in its wake.

The cube glides lower, slipping over your collarbone, pausing at the dip just above your sternum. He lingers there, pressing lightly, until a droplet escapes and slides downward toward your breast. The cold makes you writhe, but the silk binds keep you in place, only letting you tremble beneath his touch. But there’s a fondness in his smile as he leans down, tongue darting out to lap at the water before it disappears. The warmth of his mouth against the icy trail steals another gasp from you.

He continues with unhurried strokes: tracing over the swell of your breast, circling but never quite touching the nipple, sliding down your ribcage. The cube melts fast under the heat of your skin, water dripping onto the sheets as Mori trails it toward your hip.

Then, almost cruelly, he shifts lower, pressing the fresh edge of the cube against the inside of your thigh. The jolt of cold makes you choke on a moan, legs instinctively trying to close, but his free hand is already there, spreading you open with calm authority. “Don’t shy away,” he says softly, brushing his knuckles over your thigh to soothe the shiver. “Every reaction you give me is mine. Let me have them.”

The cube drags upward, slow, torturous, stopping just short of where you burn for him. The shock leaves you trembling, needy, and Mori watches with sharp eyes, storing every reaction like data—yet his thumb strokes your skin, a gentle promise of more to come. You squirm as the cube glides dangerously close, the cold burrowing into your muscles until you can’t hold back the shiver that wracks your body. “Mori—” your voice breaks on a gasp. “It’s too cold. Stop—”

He pauses, tilts his head as though you’ve just given him the most curious answer in the world. The ice cube drips between his fingers, melting fast now. His smile sharpens, warm but sly. “Too cold?” he echoes softly, as if testing the words on his tongue. He leans down, brushing a kiss against your jaw, deceptively gentle. “Then perhaps… we should heat things up.”

The ice slips from his hand, discarded in the bowl. You hardly have time to breathe before he’s reaching for the candle burning on the bedside table, its golden light flickering over his features. He tips it carefully, letting you see the wax gather at the lip. Your pulse stutters. “Mori—”

“Shh,” he soothes, stroking your thigh with his other hand. “You asked me to stop the cold. I always listen.”

The first drop lands just below your navel. It’s sharp, searing, a sting that makes your breath catch. Then it spreads into warmth, soaking into your skin until the ache dulls into heat. You writhe against the restraints, torn between escape and leaning into the sensation.

Mori hums in approval. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, his tone like velvet. He tips the candle again, letting another drop fall just beside the first, then another, painting a slow pattern across your stomach. Each sting earns you a soothing brush of his fingertips, or sometimes the warm press of his lips where the wax doesn’t touch. He balances pain with care, as if composing a melody with your body as the instrument.

When he moves lower—hovering the candle above the slope of your hip—you tremble, anticipation clenching inside you. A drop falls, against sensitive skin, and you cry out, tugging at the binds. He chuckles softly, indulgent. “See how quickly you warm up for me?” Mori’s voice is smug, affectionate in its cruelty. He tips the candle again, watching intently as another drop strikes, your gasp filling the air. “I’ll mark you in fire and ice both. Until you can’t decide which you crave more.”

The candle tips, another bead of molten wax landing on your hip. You hiss through your teeth, arching instinctively away from the sting—only for Mori’s hand to press you flat against the bed, pinning you with effortless authority. “You don’t want cold,” he muses, almost kindly, “but you don’t want hot, either. Then… perhaps you’ll learn to appreciate both.”

Before you can argue, his free hand dips back into the bowl, fishing out another ice cube. The contrast is dizzying, still-fevered skin now shocked by freezing cold as he presses the cube over a fresh welt of wax. The sudden chill bites, water hisses against heat, and you thrash, gasping out his name.

“Ah, beautiful,” Mori croons, his tone indulgent as he watches you writhe. “Your body doesn’t know whether to run or to beg for more. Look at you.”

The cube drags down the inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of shivers in its wake. You jerk your hips, trying to close your legs, but the silk restraints keep you helplessly spread. The next second—wax falls on the opposite thigh, burning bright, and your cry breaks into a whimper.

Mori smiles, calm as ever, as if cataloging reactions. He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Do you feel how alive I make you?”

You tug at the binds, struggling, whining, but the movement only makes him chuckle. He presses the cube directly above your clit—never touching, just close enough that the meltwater runs down in an icy stream. Your whole body bucks against the restraint, only to be caught again by another sharp sting of wax across your belly. The clash of sensations breaks you apart, every nerve in your body set alight, until you can’t tell which torment is worse or better.

“Stop struggling,” Mori warns softly, though his voice holds no real anger just the smug patience of a man who knows you’ll obey soon enough. He presses the cube more firmly, chasing the next drip of wax with the sting of cold water. “You asked me to stop the cold… and so I’ll give you both, until you beg me properly.”

He keeps alternating: wax dripping on one side of your ribs, ice sliding down the other; a cube melting against your throat, followed by a drop of wax over your sternum. You’re caught between moans and whimpers, your body trembling violently under the push-pull of temperature.

Finally, when you thrash too hard, he simply catches your chin in his gloved hand, forcing your gaze up to him. His eyes glitter in the dim light, calm and predatory all at once. “Struggle if you like,” Mori murmurs, smiling faintly. “It only proves how perfectly I own your every reaction.” The cube in his fingers shrinks as he rolls it deliberately over your stomach, across the heated welts of wax. Then he slides lower, letting meltwater trickle down between your folds. Never quite touching where you need him, though the cold rivulets make you buck helplessly against the restraints. “Your body’s so eager,” Mori muses, voice honey-smooth. “Every twitch, every gasp—it tells me exactly what you crave. But we’re not rushing this, are we?”

He lifts the cube and presses it directly to your clit. The shock steals your breath in a choked cry, hips jerking violently. Ice bites into the bundle of nerves until you’re trembling uncontrollably, thighs straining against the bonds.

And just when you think you’ll break, he pulls the cube away. A low, satisfied hum escapes him as he tips the candle instead, letting hot wax drip slowly onto your nipples. The sharp burn makes you arch off the mattress, chest heaving, a cry escaping before you can stifle it. “Perfect contrast,” Mori says with quiet delight. “Cold to sharpen your nerves… heat to mark them.” His thumb brushes your skin lightly, soothing after each sting, only to leave you gasping when the next drop follows.

The cycle repeats: ice pressed cruelly against your clit until your vision blurs, then searing drops of wax falling onto your nipples. He watches every reaction, cataloguing you as though you’re the most fascinating subject he’s ever studied.

You’re thrashing now, body strung taut between extremes, desperate for something more than this torment. The silk binds bite into your wrists, but Mori only chuckles softly at your futile struggle. Leaning close, his lips grazing your ear. “Fire, ice… pain, pleasure… me.”

Your whimper breaks into words before you realize it. “M-Mori… please…”

He stills, candle poised above your skin, ice cube melting between his fingers. His smile sharpens. “Please what?” he prompts, deceptively gentle. “Please stop? Please more? You’ll have to be specific, my dear.”

Another cube trails icy circles around your clit, and wax hisses against your nipples again. You sob, caught between begging and moaning, and Mori hums low in his throat. Content to drag you through the storm until you break properly. Every nerve in your body screams with the need for release, but Mori never lets you have it. Each time your muscles tighten, each time your breath catches with the rhythm of impending climax, he pulls back, replacing cold with searing wax.

Your nipples sting, your clit aches, your wrists tremble against the silk restraints. You can’t tell if you’re burning or freezing anymore. Only that you’re on fire for him, every inch of your skin raw and begging. “Mori—!” your voice cracks, desperate, pleading. “Please, I can’t—please, I— I wanna come—”

The candle tilts, another drop sizzling against your breast, and Mori’s smile is all teeth. He presses the half-melted cube harder against your clit, holding you down with his other hand as you arch violently against the bed. “There it is,” he murmurs, satisfied. “Begging so sweetly… That’s all I wanted.”

His hand moves at last—fingers sliding down, replacing ice with the warm, practiced pressure of his touch. He rubs in slow, perfect circles, relentless in his precision, while the last of the ice melts into your folds, sending jolts of sensation through every nerve. You’re writhing now, lost to the rhythm of his fingers, the sting of wax still burning faintly on your skin. He doesn’t stop—he won’t stop—until your cries rise higher, breaking into sobs of need. “Come for me,” Mori orders softly, his voice a velvet command. “Let me see you burn and freeze at once.”

The final push is brutal—fingers curling just right inside you as another stream of cold water runs down your clit, chased by a fresh sting of wax dripping onto your chest. The clash of sensations tears you apart. You shatter with a scream, back bowing, every muscle locking as the orgasm rips through you. It’s overwhelming, fire and ice crashing in waves until you can’t think, can’t breathe, only feel. Your body convulses under him, spilling out your release in a trembling, helpless flood.

Mori holds you through it, fingers working you relentlessly until your climax wrings every last shudder from your body. Only then does he ease, soothing your skin with a gloved hand, brushing away the water and wax with almost tender care.

“Perfect,” he whispers against your ear, lips brushing the shell. “You endured beautifully. My masterpiece.”

Your body slumps, spent, trembling, every nerve still raw from the storm. He sets the candle aside. Your body is still quaking when he eases his hand away, the world reduced to the thunder of your heartbeat and the lingering sting of fire and frost. The sheets beneath you are damp with meltwater, spotted with hardened wax, your wrists red from struggling against the silk ties.

Mori takes his time undoing the restraints, each knot loosened with deliberate care. When your arms fall limp against the bed, he catches them, massaging the rawness from your wrists with a gentleness that almost undoes you more than his cruelty did. “There,” he murmurs, tone softened, coaxing you to relax. “You were exquisite… I didn’t push to far, did I?”

You can’t form words—just a breathless whimper—but his smile is warm, indulgent. He sets the candle aside, the bowl of ice forgotten, and instead retrieves a warm, damp cloth. With unhurried strokes, he wipes away the streaks of wax on your chest and stomach, the coolness of the cloth soothing against tender skin.

Each touch is patient, almost reverent. He tends to every mark he left, smoothing lotion into your hips, your ribs, even down to your thighs where the cold water left you trembling. The clinical detachment is gone now; this is intimate, personal. Mori presses soft kisses along your collarbone and shoulders as he works, praising in a low murmur. “You endured beautifully… such a strong, perfect body for me to study. For me to cherish.”

When he finishes, he slides into bed beside you, drawing you into his arms. The contrast is startling—your tormentor now your blanket, his chest warm against your cheek, his hand stroking your hair until the tremors in your muscles ease. His voice is a lullaby, low and steady. “Rest. You’ve given me everything tonight. Let me hold you while you come back to yourself.”

You breathe him in, the scent of candle smoke and medicine clinging faintly to him, and let the weight of his arms and the steady beat of his heart anchor you. For the first time tonight, there’s no experiment, no test—only Mori’s embrace, soft and secure, until your eyelids grow heavy.

Master list

#bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs smut #bsd mori #mori x reader smut #mori x reader #kinktober 2025 #kinktober

Nsfw

Welcome to day 4, Dom-Sub. Check out my Kinktober line up!

Warnings: smut, dom/sub dynamic, humiliation, degradation, praise, nipple play, orgasm denial/edging, cum play, overstimulation, other sexual acts.

Summary: You should have known better than to test your boss’s patience. Mori’s lessons in obedience are slow, thorough, and devastatingly effective— and tonight, he intends to ruin you completely.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

You knew better than to keep Mori waiting. Or… at least, you should have.

The silence in his office was suffocating, interrupted only by the soft tick of a grandfather clock against the wall. You stood stiffly in front of his desk, head bowed, waiting for the inevitable reprimand. “Five minutes late.” Mori’s voice was deceptively light, almost gentle, yet it slid over your skin like a scalpel.

“I—” You swallowed hard. “It won’t happen again.”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes sliding over you with clinical precision. The soft smile he wore didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know it won’t. Because I’m going to make sure you… learn.”

Your breath hitched. His tone was the same one he used with subordinates before he punished them, cold and inescapable, but there was an intimacy to it now. One that made your stomach twist with nervous anticipation. Mori rose from his chair with slow, measured steps, the faint sound of his shoes against the floor echoing in the quiet. He circled you like a predator assessing prey, and the heat of his presence against your back sent a shiver through you.

“You like testing me, don’t you?” His voice was low, coaxing, the silk of it curling around your spine.

“N-no, I—”

A gloved hand brushed your shoulder, firm enough to make you straighten. “You do. I can see it. And if I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to be caught… so I could correct you.”

Your pulse leapt at the phrasing, and he chuckled softly under his breath, clearly catching it. His fingers ghosted down your arm, deliberately slow, until they wrapped lightly around your wrist.

“Here’s what will happen,” he murmured against your ear. “You’re going to kneel for me, and we’re going to make sure this lesson sticks. No words, no excuses. Only obedience.”

Your knees sank into the plush rug in front of Mori’s desk, the carpet soft against your skin. He didn’t move right away, letting the silence stretch until you could hear your own heartbeat. “Better,” he said at last, voice soft but heavy with authority. “You look so much prettier on your knees for me.”

A shiver ran through you as he stepped closer. His gloved fingers tilted your chin up until your eyes met his, and the faintest curl of his lips told you he could see everything, your hesitation, your excitement, your need.

“You like this,” he said, not as a question but as a fact. “Being under me. Waiting for me to decide what happens next.”

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat.

“Speak.” His tone sharpened, cutting like a scalpel.

“Yes, Master…” you whispered, heat flushing your face.

“Good girl,” he murmured, stroking your cheek with his thumb in mock affection. “Then you’ll listen carefully.”

He circled behind you, and you felt the ghost of his coat brush against your shoulders. His presence alone made your spine straighten. He leaned down, voice low against your ear, his words laced with that calm, clinical cruelty only he could wield. “You disobeyed me today. That was… careless. And I don’t tolerate carelessness.” His fingers brushed down your arm, trailing along the curve of your waist before slipping lightly under your chin again to make you face forward. “So I’ll remind you who you belong to.”

Mori didn’t rush, he crouched down to your level, his face inches from yours. He reached up and traced his thumb across your lower lip. “Open.”

You obeyed instantly.

He slid his thumb just past your lips, pressing against your tongue. His gaze didn’t waver as he murmured, “Taste me. Show me you know your place.” When you did, he hummed in approval and withdrew his thumb with a glint in his eye. His hand drifted down, cupping you over your clothes, a cruelly light touch.

“See?” he said softly. “Your body responds to me whether you want it to or not.” He leaned in close enough for his lips to brush your ear. “And I haven’t even really touched you yet.”

Mori’s hand lingered between your thighs, a featherlight touch that had your muscles tightening in anticipation. He never gave you enough to satisfy. Only enough to remind you who was in control. “Already trembling,” he murmured, his tone amused and almost fond. “Pathetic little thing. Are you really that desperate for my attention?”

You swallowed hard, heat blooming in your chest. “Y-yes, Master…”

“Good girl,” he said, and then his hand suddenly pressed firmer, making you gasp. “So honest when you’re on your knees.”

He slowly straightened, towering over you, and walked a slow circle like a predator deciding which part of its prey to savor first. When he stopped behind you again, you could feel his presence before you felt his hands. Sliding up your sides, cupping your breasts through your clothes, thumbs brushing over your nipples in lazy, taunting circles. “Sensitive,” he noted in a quiet hum. “I can feel you reacting already. Do you know what I do to disobedient girls like you?”

“N-no, Master…” you whispered, and he chuckled softly.

“You beg for me. And I decide if you get what you want.” He leaned over your shoulder, his lips ghosting the edge of your ear. “Take off your top. Slowly.”

Your hands shook as you obeyed, slipping your clothes over your head until the cool air brushed your bare skin. Mori hummed his approval, kneeling behind you to let his hands slide over your now-exposed chest, groping and teasing with a calculated precision that made your back arch.

“Look at you… flushed and trembling for me.” He rolled your nipples between his fingers, not gently, pulling a whimper from your throat. “Do you think you’ve earned more than this?”

“I… I don’t know…”

“Hmm. Honesty again. Good girl.” His praise was soft but laced with power, making you ache for it as much as his touch. “But not good enough yet.” He shifted you effortlessly, guiding you forward until your hands rested on the plush rug, your back arched, your ass up for his inspection. He knelt behind you, fingers sliding along the edge of your panties. “You know the rules,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Ask for it.”

“Please, Master… touch me…”

“Better,” he said, and finally slipped a hand beneath the fabric, fingers gliding over your wet heat. You shuddered, helpless, as he toyed with you—drawing soft circles, never quite giving you what you craved. “That’s it,” he murmured. “So easy to control… my perfect little pet.”

When you whined at the teasing, he laughed softly and gave your ass a sharp slap that made you gasp. “Ah-ah. No whining. You want more? Beg properly.”

You did, voice breaking with every plea until he finally rewarded you with two fingers sliding inside, his other hand coming up to twist at your nipples. He worked you slowly, expertly, drawing out every shiver and moan, until your legs trembled and your release built hot and desperate in your belly. “Are you close?” he asked, voice as calm as ever.

“Yes, Master—please—”

He pulled away. You whimpered, clenching around nothing, your body on fire. Mori hummed, pleased with himself, and leaned close enough for his words to sink into your skin.

“Lesson one,” he whispered, letting his hand ghost over your thigh, “You come when I say you can. Not before.” He spent the next hour toying with you in cycles of denial and reward. Forcing you to the edge, whispering soft humiliations and sweet praises, pulling back until you begged for mercy. By the time he finally allowed you to fall apart under his hand, you were a sobbing, trembling mess, and Mori was smiling like the calm, collected devil he was. “Perfect,” he said, lifting your chin so you met his gaze. “Now you understand what it means to belong to me.”

Your body still trembled from the first orgasm he allowed, your breathing ragged as you knelt on the rug, flushed and dazed. Mori, on the other hand, looked immaculate. His coat perfectly in place, his gloves spotless, his smile calm and satisfied.

“Hmm,” he murmured, tilting his head to study you. “I think you’ve learned… a little. But I want to see how far that obedience goes.” He crouched in front of you, gloved fingers sliding under your chin to lift your head. His eyes glittered with that sharp, predatory amusement. “Take the rest off,” he said softly. “Everything. Slowly. I want to watch you strip for me.”

Your heart hammered, but you obeyed. Shaky fingers slid down to the waistband of your panties, hesitating only for a second. Mori’s voice cut the air, calm but carrying weight. “Eyes on me.”

You met his gaze, and he watched every movement as you slid your panties down your legs, leaving you completely bare under his scrutiny. He hummed, a low sound of approval.“Good girl… My obedient little pet. You’re learning.”

His gloved hands finally touched your naked thighs, smoothing up to your hips, tracing the curve of your ass as he walked around you in a slow circle. The faint pressure of his fingers and the heat of his gaze made you ache all over again.“Do you know what you look like right now?” he murmured, leaning down behind you, his breath warm on your shoulder. “Completely vulnerable. Waiting for me to decide what happens next. It’s perfect.”

You whimpered, heat pooling between your legs again. “On your hands and knees,” he ordered, voice silk over steel. “Arch your back. Show me how badly you want to please me.”

You obeyed without hesitation, your body trembling as you presented yourself. Mori hummed in approval again, his fingers gliding over your slick folds in a teasing stroke that made your hips twitch. “So wet,” he said, almost mockingly. “You really are mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Master…”

“Say it louder.”

“I’m yours, Master!”

“Good girl.” His praise was soft, almost affectionate, but his fingers slid away again, leaving you empty and wanting. “Now, let’s see how many times I can break you tonight.”

He spent the next stretch of time pushing you through cycles of exquisite torture. Slow strokes of his fingers, the teasing edge of his tongue, his thumb circling your clit just enough to make you whine and shake, always pulling away before you could come. Each time you begged, he’d lean down to whisper in your ear:

“Are you going to cry for me?”

“Tell me what you are.”

“My desperate little toy… so easy to ruin.”

By the time he finally slid his fingers back inside, curling just right as his other hand rolled your sensitive nipples, your body was so overstimulated and desperate that your second orgasm hit like a wave, leaving you shaking and gasping against the rug. Mori didn’t let up. He worked you through it, humming in satisfaction as he coaxed every aftershock out of you, leaving your body limp and your voice hoarse from pleading.

“Perfect,” he murmured, brushing your sweat-damp hair off your face. “Completely ruined… just the way I like you.” You were limp against the rug, body trembling, skin slick with sweat and oversensitive from the relentless teasing. Your mind floated somewhere between pleasure and haze, but Mori wasn’t finished. He crouched beside you, perfectly composed, and tilted your chin up with one gloved finger.

“Look at you,” he said softly, voice laced with smug satisfaction. “You can barely sit up, and we’re not done. I told you tonight was a lesson… and I intend to make it stick.”

His gloved thumb traced your lips, pressing lightly against your tongue when you opened without thinking. A quiet hum escaped him. “Good girl. Always so eager to obey once I break you down. But you needed to be reminded…” He leaned closer, letting his lips ghost over your ear. “…who you belong to.”

Your throat was dry, your voice a broken whisper. “Y-you, Master…”

“Exactly.”

He guided you onto your back, his gloved hand pressing lightly against your sternum to keep you still. His eyes traveled over your naked, flushed body—your heaving chest, your quivering thighs. Slowly, deliberately, he traced a line down your torso, pausing to pinch and twist your tender nipples, drawing a high-pitched whimper from your throat. “So sensitive now… I could make you come just from this.” He punctuated his words with a cruel tug on one nipple, watching the way you arched off the rug. “Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll ruin you again without ever touching that greedy little pussy.”

You trembled, half-pleading, half-wanting.

He smirked, reading your mind. “Oh, you want it. I can see it in your eyes. You want to beg, don’t you? Go on… beg me for your next lesson.”

“Please, Master…” you gasped. “Please make me come…”

“Better.” His praise was soft but laced with amusement. “But we’re going to do it my way.”

He slid his coat off finally, unbuttoning just enough for his cock to spring free, thick and hard. He let it rest against your stomach as he leaned over you, deliberately smearing precum across your skin. He pressed his cock between your slick thighs. The slow, deliberate thrusts sent jolts of arousal through you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, setting a rhythm. “My perfect little toy. All mine. No one else will ever see you like this.”

He alternated between praise and degradation, pushing you to the edge with words as much as touch:

“Good girl… so tight for me…”

“Look at you, letting me use you like this…”

“Are you going to cry for your Master? Hm?”

You whimpered, tears welling as the overstimulation sent your body into another spiral. Mori pinched your nipples, rolling them harshly while thrusting faster, until you were moaning incoherently under him.

“Lesson learned?” he asked, breath still calm as ever.

“Yes, Master!”

“Say it again. Tell me whose you are.”

“I’m yours, Master! Only yours!”

“Perfect.”

His release came hot and sudden, he pulled out, spilling across your chest and neck, dripping down over your breasts. He didn’t hesitate to smear it in with his gloved hands, rubbing it over your swollen, sensitive nipples until you squirmed and gasped. “Such a good little mess,” he murmured, leaning down to make you lick his fingers clean. “Cry for me… there we go. My beautiful, ruined girl.”

When he finally allowed you to collapse back against the rug, trembling and whimpering, he cupped your face with surprising gentleness. “Lesson complete,” he said with a quiet smirk. “But you’ll need regular reminders to be on time… won’t you?”

Master list

#bungo stray dogs smut #bungo stray dogs #bsd mori #mori x reader smut #mori x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2025 #dom/sub

Hiiii girl, how are u? Hope you're okay, first I really really love your work and also you! (Platonic+Cause you're so cute) you're such a wonderful person💕 (please give me some of your energy to write!!! I have a writing block for more than 6 months! Waaaahhhh, help meeee! Uh um...like I give you mony you give me some of your energy! Deal? *preparing the mony*)

Soo, is it okay to have part two of mori (the doctor discipline's), like a continuation? cause I really love it! And I'm thinking about it none stop (that's unhealthy, I'm too obsessed with mori...he is the first character in all the anime I have watched in my life that I loved this much...I need a doctor...💔😍) and stay safe, drink a lot of water, don't overthink or overwork yourself, okay? *saying it like a mother who check on her kids* luv u~

The Breaking Point

Nsfw

Here you are~ part two of the doctors discipline

Warnings: smut, dom/sub dynamics, medical play, restraint, gagging, forced positioning, spanking, edging

Summary: After one brutal reminder, the lessons begin in earnest. Mori will rewrite your instincts, with straps, probes, and denial until obedience is reflex. There is no relief; there is only training.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

The day after you punishment with Mori, the Port Mafia hummed with its usual rhythm — orders carried down, subordinates scurrying, Chuuya already buried in reports. You moved through it like a ghost. Every bow you offered, every clipped “Yes, sir” or “Understood” fell from your lips flawlessly, and no one would have guessed the way your skin still burned from Mori’s hand. No one but him.

When the summons came, you didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. The secretary’s words, “The Boss will see you now”, locked around your throat like a chain. You left your desk, your steps perfectly measured, and pushed open the infirmary door.

Mori was already there, coat draped over his chair, gloves folded neatly on the tray beside him. His eyes lifted to you, calm, assessing, like a doctor inspecting a returning patient. “You came quickly,” he observed. His voice wasn’t praise. It was fact, cool and sharp as glass.

You bowed. “Of course, Boss.”

“Of course,” he echoed softly, as though testing the shape of your words on his tongue. Then, “Close the door.”

The click of it shutting seemed louder than it should have. Silence thickened, broken only by the faint hum of the overhead light. Mori leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Yesterday,” he began, “was a beginning. You understand that?”

Your stomach tightened. “Yes, Boss.”

“Good.” His gaze lingered, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “I want to see how well you remember.” He gestured, a single flick of his hand. “Stand there. By the table.”

You obeyed, every muscle taut. The table’s cold metal edge pressed against the side of your thigh, an echo of yesterday’s humiliation. “Hands behind your back,” he said. His tone was smooth, patient, the way he might instruct a nurse, or a child.

The moment you clasped your hands, he rose. His steps were deliberate, measured, circling you slowly. You felt the weight of his gaze trace down the lines of your body. “You were reckless, once. Lively.” His voice was quiet, almost conversational. “Spain carved that out of you. And yet…” His fingers brushed your chin, tilting your face up. “Chuuya can still find the cracks. He still makes you smile.”

Your breath caught.

The faintest pressure of his hand forced your gaze to hold his. “Do you think I don’t notice? That you can give to him what you deny me?” The words hit harder than any strike. Shame flushed hot through your chest. “That,” Mori murmured, thumb ghosting over your bottom lip, “is what we will correct.”

He stepped back, satisfaction flickering across his face at your silence, your trembling restraint. Then, casually, he pulled on his gloves. “This is not yesterday’s punishment,” he said softly. “This is the reminder.”

The words hung in the air as Mori slipped each glove snugly over his hands, the snap of the latex punctuating the silence. He didn’t rush. He never did. Precision was his weapon. “Turn.”

You obeyed, pivoting so your back faced him, chin tucked. The seconds stretched as he gathered what he needed from the tray. When the cold bite of leather brushed your wrist, you stiffened. “Relax,” he murmured, as though it were kindness. It wasn’t. The strap cinched tight, binding your wrist to the steel ring at the table’s edge. The second followed quickly, leaving your arms pulled taut behind you. Vulnerable. “Still,” Mori instructed as he crouched, fastening the same restraints around your ankles. The chains clinked softly, each sound a note in his symphony of control. When he rose, you were fixed in place — body angled slightly forward, caught between standing and bowing. Exactly where he wanted you.

He circled, studying you as though you were nothing more than a specimen under glass. His gloved hand trailed down your side, across your hip, over the curve of your thigh. The touch was clinical, impersonal. That made it worse. “You carry yourself like a soldier now,” Mori observed, voice cool. “Straight spine. Perfect posture. Discipline carved into every movement.” He leaned close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you forget who you belong to.”

The hand left your thigh. The silence after it was almost a relief until the sudden, sharp crack of his palm against your backside shattered it. The blow echoed, hot and searing through the thin barrier of fabric. You bit back the sound rising in your throat, jaw tight. “Count,” Mori said simply.

Your voice wavered. “One.”

“Good.” His tone was steady, patient, as if marking progress in a medical chart. He drew back his hand. The next strike landed lower, sharper.

“Two.”

Mori exhaled, almost like a sigh of satisfaction. “Better. Already you remember.”

He stepped in front of you, tilting your chin up again with gloved fingers. Your eyes burned, but you didn’t look away. “This is not cruelty,” he whispered. “It is correction. A reminder of who shapes you, who decides when you bow, when you smile.” His thumb pressed lightly at your trembling bottom lip. “And who you obey.”

Another strike followed. Harder. Unrelenting. And this time, your voice broke when you counted.

The third strike left a heat blooming beneath your skin, sharp enough to sting, deep enough to throb. The sound of your own voice naming it still lingered in the air when Mori stepped away.

You thought, foolishly, it might be over.

Instead, he moved to the tray. Metal whispered against metal as he lifted instruments — the faint clatter of a stethoscope, the click of a penlight. He set them down one by one in deliberate order.

“Still,” he reminded, though the chains had already guaranteed it. He peeled back the hem of your shirt, dragging it slowly upward until the chill of the infirmary air kissed your bare back. The thin fabric bunched at your ribs, leaving you half-exposed. Gloved fingers pressed firmly against your side, tracing the slope of bone and muscle with a physician’s detachment. “Your body is leaner,” he observed clinically. “The work in Spain carved away what softness you had left. Efficient, but…” His hand slid lower, to the curve of your hip, then between your thighs with a cruel, lingering pause. “Not untouched.”

Your breath hitched. His grip tightened.

“Do not flinch.”

The order cut through your chest like a blade. You stilled, even as he shifted, sliding the stethoscope’s cold disk against your bare skin. The chill made you jerk, but the restraints held. Mori hummed as though amused. “Heartbeat elevated. Of course.” He listened, lingering over your chest, each placement more intimate than the last. Then he withdrew, coiling the instrument neatly again. “Punishment and inspection are not separate things,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “They are one and the same. Your body learns obedience as much as your mind does.”

Before you could form a thought, the next strike landed. Harder. Aimed precisely where the previous ones had left you tender. You gasped, the sound breaking loose despite yourself. “Three,” Mori prompted.

You choked the number out, cheeks burning. His hand smoothed over the reddened skin as though soothing but then he delivered another, the sting layered atop the ache. He repeated the rhythm mercilessly: pain, count, fleeting touch. By the time you reached seven, your voice had thinned to a trembling whisper, sweat prickling your hairline. “Good,” Mori murmured, stepping around to face you.

Mori’s gaze lingered on the sight of you bound, trembling then he slid a gloved hand between your thighs again. This time, his touch was slow, exploratory, humiliatingly precise. “Even now,” he said softly, “your body betrays you. Responding when I have given you nothing to deserve it.” His fingers withdrew, and he wiped them against the edge of his glove as though cleaning a tool. “This is why reminders are necessary.”

He circled back, producing something from the tray smooth, slender, stainless steel. A medical probe. He held it up to the light briefly, as if examining its edge. The chill of metal against your inner thigh made you jolt, chains rattling. Mori’s hand clamped down at your hip. “Still.”

The instrument traced lazily upward, cold against heated skin, never quite reaching where you dreaded, or craved, contact. Over and over, he edged the boundary, close enough to make your body strain, never enough to release. Your muffled whimper catches his attention. Mori leaned close to your ear. “Do you see how quickly discipline unravels? Yesterday’s lesson already fading, your body already rebelling.” His voice darkened. “You will learn again. And again. Until obedience is instinct.”

The probe withdrew at last. Relief almost made you sag, until the next strike landed, sharp and punishing across skin already sore. You cried out into the gag, the sound swallowed by leather. Mori’s gloved hand caught your chin, forcing your tear-bright eyes up to meet his. His smile was faint, measured. “Better. You’re remembering now.”

He delivered one final strike, harder than all the rest, then smoothed his hand over the heat as though closing a wound. When he finally unbuckled the gag and released the restraints, you nearly collapsed forward, legs unsteady. Mori steadied you with a single hand, guiding you upright with unnerving gentleness.

Mori’s hands move with the same clinical calm as he re-positions you, guiding your shoulders until you are forced to arch hips tipped, chest exposed, jaw lifted until your throat is bared. The examination chair becomes a lecture bench; every strap he fastens educates your body in a language you’re only beginning to speak. He secures your wrists above your head, then crosses your legs and cinches them so there is no shifting, no leverage, no small rebellions left to offer.

He returns to the tray with an unsettling serenity: stethoscope, a smooth vibrator, the cold probe. Each object glints under the lamp as if to read the lines of your shame before he touches you. “Obedience is a habit,” he says, voice low. “Instinct is something we can teach.” His gloved hand finds the pulse at your throat for a heartbeat, then slides down, warm where his skin contacts the thin of your collarbone. “We’ll rewrite what answers first.”

The gag is next. Leather straps pull around your mouth, buckling tight at the back of your head. The bit forces your jaw open, stretches the corners of your lips; the humiliation of it. The way it renders your voice into a raw, animal sound cuts deeper than any strike. Muffled noises leak past the leather as he tests the fit, and the sight of you silenced is a study in control that steals your breath.

He edges you with clinical irritation and precise cruelty. The vibrator never rests long enough to let the crest form; it teases, hovers, then withdraws. The probe cools against the inner fold of your thigh, tracing a line that promises everything and delivers nothing. Each touch charts how you respond: your skin’s quick lift, the way your hips betray a search for contact, the way your breath stumbles.

“Do you understand?” he asks once, and his question is quieter than the instruments. He waits, letting the silence press. There is no chance to answer in words; your body answers for you before you can frame a refusal. Your hips jerk toward the toy. Your fingers claw at the straps. Your cheeks flush with hot, helpless need. The realization hits like a physical thing: your body does not belong to just your will. It belongs to memory, to conditioning, to the touch that shapes you. Mori watches the dawning comprehension cross your face with an almost tender cruelty.

He tightens the rhythm then: spank, probe, vibration. A mathematical combination designed to break pattern recognition and build new reflexes. The pain and the electrical ache of denied release conspire until your counting becomes ragged, until numbers smear into breath and a single repeated syllable of sound that the gag swallows. He times the strikes to the pulse of the vibrator and his smacks, orchestrating a cadence that teaches your nerves to respond on cue.

“See?” he murmurs, leaning in so close the heat of his breath fogs your ear. “You fight with your head, but your body remembers the lesson faster.” His gloved thumb brushes the corner of your eye, wiping a tear as if inspecting a wound. The touch is not kind; it’s proprietary. “It answers me, whether you want it to.” The words lodge in you like an accusation and a verdict.

When you begin to fracture, when the edges of sensation blur into something hungry and raw, when your hands tremble and your hips quake even against the straps, he lets you believe for a heartbeat that release might come. The toy hums at a pace that makes your vision white at the edges; you feel the lift of it, the sense of an approaching cliff. Then he pulls the device away and the drop hits like a physical hollowing. Breath leaves you in a ragged sound; your body convulses with betrayed need. The gag muffles the noise into a small, pathetic animal plea.

He does not stop. He climbs the ladder of intensity again and again until you cannot chart the ascent. Each denial is a lesson; each allowed inch is snatched away to be re-denied. He keeps you hovering on the brink long enough that the concept of consent and instinct both recompose in the ruin he carves: your reflexes recalibrating to obey before you’ve decided. Finally, when your limbs shake, when your voice is raw and the skin of your backside and thighs bloom with the map of his hands, he lets a single, controlled crest through. It is not mercy. It is demonstration: see how easily you break when I permit it, see how thoroughly I can take and withhold. The wave is violent and brief, a clean, surgical unmaking, and he cuts it away at the top so that you are left hovering in an aftertaste of incapacity.

You sag in the chair, breath torn into heap after heap. Tears wet the leather where they fall. Your muscles hum with that aching emptiness that follows a ledge you were allowed to touch and then abandoned. You are exhausted in every fiber, emptied of protest and of provoked pleasure alike.

Mori removes the gag with a few efficient motions, his hands cool and steady as if closing a case file. He helps you up with a hand at your waist, not gentle, not harsh, a practiced steadiness. His face is composed, unreadable, but his eyes trail over you with the same clinical proprietorship he’s shown all night. “Training is ongoing,” he says softly, as he steadies you for the stumble that follows. “Obedience is not a lesson learned in a day. It is practiced. It is enforced. It is repeated.” His voice is quiet enough that it could almost be comfort were it any softer, but the content of it is law.

You nod because you can do nothing else. Relief does not come; only a hollow, shame-laced clarity that you are altered, that your instincts have been nudged, shaped, and will be called on again. The ache is both proof and promise.

When he releases you back into the world, back into the humming halls where Chuuya bends over paper and life pretends continuity, you walk like someone newly remade. Each step is heavy. Each breath is an echo. You carry the imprint of his hands beneath your skin and the memory of his voice in your head: training ongoing. Not over. Not by a long shot.

Master list

#bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs smut #bsd mori #mori x reader smut #mori x reader

Hiii! So, would you be able to write a Bottom!Mori x Top!Female!Reader. So like, really submissive/kinda pathetic Mori finally getting a chance to have sex with reader and he's eating her out or smth, but make no mistake, she is 100% in charge. Probably orgasm denial, humiliation, degradation. (possibly impact play? Your choice). THANK YOU SO MUCH IN ADVANCE?

A Boss Undone

Nsfw

I don’t write bottom men much, hope this is to your liking! (Also there’s not a whole lot of Mori GIFs?? Sorry they are going to get repetitive 😭)

Warnings: smut dom/sub, orgasm denial, humiliation, degradation, impact play, oral, tears, begging, cruel dom

Summary: Mori Ougai may be the infamous boss of the Port Mafia, but in your hands he’s nothing more than a trembling, desperate toy. Stripped of his power, reduced to obedience, he learns what it means to beg, to be denied, and to be broken apart for your pleasure.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

He looks almost pitiful standing there, hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. For a man who commands the entire Port Mafia, Mori is useless when it comes to you — wide-eyed, lips parted, every inch of his body humming with nervous anticipation. “Strip,” you tell him flatly, folding your arms across your chest. The order hits him like a jolt of electricity. He fumbles with his coat, his gloves, his buttons — rushing too much, making a mess of it until you click your tongue in irritation. “Pathetic. Slow down. I didn’t say flail like a child, did I?”

His cheeks flush. “N-no, you didn’t.”

You lean back against the chair, legs crossing, deliberately watching the panic in his movements slow into shaky obedience. Piece by piece, he undresses himself, folding the clothes carefully as if that might win him some kind of approval. By the time he’s down to nothing, his cock is already hard and twitching, but you don’t let him cover himself. “Hands at your sides,” you remind him.

He obeys instantly, standing naked before you, his erection jutting forward shamefully. You let your eyes trail over him — not with hunger, but with cool detachment, like you’re appraising an object. The way his cock twitches under that gaze makes him whimper. “Look at you,” you murmur, shaking your head. “A grown man, Mafia boss, trembling just because I told you to strip. You really are pathetic, aren’t you?”

His breath hitches. “…Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’m pathetic for you.”

That earns him a cruel smile. You spread your thighs slowly, tugging your skirt up to bare yourself to him. His eyes dart between your legs and your face, hungry, desperate, but too afraid to move without permission. You can practically feel his restraint vibrating in the air between you. “Do you want a taste?” you ask, voice dripping with mock sweetness.

“Yes, please, I—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard, forcing himself to meet your gaze. “Please let me taste you. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” You drag your fingers lazily over your folds, smearing slickness across your skin while his mouth falls open. “That’s a big promise, Doctor. You’d better hope you’re as good with your tongue as you are with a scalpel.” He lets out a strangled noise, half a whine, half a moan. “Get on your knees.”

The way he drops — fast, obedient, like his body’s been waiting all this time just to fold for you — sends a thrill through you. He looks up at you from the floor, already panting, eyes glassy with devotion. You spread wider, one hand tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him flinch. “You’re going to prove yourself tonight. And if you disappoint me…” You tug harder, forcing his face closer until his lips hover just shy of your heat. “…then you won’t get another chance.”

“Yes,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Please, let me serve you.”

You smirk, tugging his hair tighter. “Good boy. Now beg properly.”

You don’t let him dive in right away. No — that would be too merciful. Instead, you keep him hovering there, lips so close to your cunt that his breath fans hot against your skin. His shoulders tremble, his hands ball into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t move an inch without permission. “You really are well-trained,” you murmur, tilting your head as you watch him squirm. “Most men would’ve already tried to sneak a taste by now. But not you. You’re too desperate to please me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathes, voice shaky. “I only want to please you.”

You smile, cruel and sharp, and tug his hair forward, finally pressing his lips where he’s been aching to be. He moans against you, the sound vibrating through your folds, before his tongue licks a trembling stripe up your slit. “Good boy,” you sigh, settling back into the chair as if you’re the one being entertained. “Don’t stop. Show me how badly you want this.”

He obeys instantly, licking, sucking, messy and eager. He doesn’t have the refined control you’d expect from him in any other setting — he’s sloppy, frantic, desperate to cover every inch of you with his tongue. You tug his hair tighter, grinding against his mouth until his nose bumps your clit, making you gasp. “That’s it. Don’t you dare slow down.”

His moans turn needier, muffled between your thighs, like he’s getting off on the humiliation of being used this way. You glance down — his cock is leaking against his stomach, twitching every time you pull his hair, but he hasn’t dared to touch himself. “Pathetic,” you murmur, rocking against his mouth. “You’re so hard just from this. You like being treated like a toy, don’t you?” He whines against your cunt, and you tug his hair back hard enough to pull his mouth away. His lips are wet, his chin slick with your arousal, and he looks ruined already. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” he gasps, licking his lips. “I love it. Please, don’t stop using me.”

You smirk, dragging your thumb over his swollen bottom lip before shoving his face back between your thighs. “Then earn it.”

His tongue works frantically, his moans vibrating through you until your stomach coils, pleasure building fast. You tighten your grip in his hair, grinding harder against his face, so close— And then you yank him back again.

He makes a broken sound, eyes wide and pleading, mouth still slick with your taste. “Please—why did you stop—?”

“Did you really think I’d let you make me cum that easily?” you sneer. “You don’t get to decide when I finish. That’s my choice. You’re just a mouth.” His cock jerks visibly, as if your cruelty alone gets him off. “Say it,” you command.

“I’m just a mouth,” he repeats hoarsely, shame and arousal dripping from every word.

You smirk, shoving him back down again, letting him work feverishly even as you know you’ll rip it away before release. Because watching him crumble under denial, humiliation, and your control is better than any orgasm. Your thighs tremble, slick coating his mouth, but you yank his head back again before he can push you over the edge. His tongue lolls against his lips, desperate to chase the taste, but you hold him firm by the hair. “You thought I’d let you finish me again, didn’t you?” Your voice is low, mocking. “Pathetic. You’re nothing but a begging dog at my feet.”

His chest heaves, his cock leaking down his thigh. “Please… please, I’ll do better—”

Slap. The sound cracks across the room as your palm connects with his cheek. His eyes go wide, pupils dilating, but he doesn’t flinch away. If anything, his hips twitch forward like the sting went straight to his cock. “You don’t get to bargain with me,” you snarl, slapping him again on the other cheek, watching his face flush red beneath your handprint. “You take what I give you. Nothing more.”

“Yes,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “Yes, I’m yours—”

“Good boy.” You release his hair just long enough to let him collapse forward, his forehead pressing to your thigh like he’s bowing. Then you shove him back down between your legs. “Now eat.”

He obeys instantly, moaning as he licks you again, messy and frantic. Every time you feel the pleasure crest, you drag him away by his hair, ignoring his muffled whines. “Count for me,” you order, gripping his jaw tight enough to force his lips apart. “Every time I stop you, you’re going to thank me. Understood?”

His pupils blow wide. “Y-yes.”

You shove him back down, let him get you close, then rip him away. He gasps, lips wet, chest heaving.

“One,” he chokes out, his voice cracking. “Thank you.”

The way his cock jerks makes you laugh cruelly. Again. You grind against his mouth until you’re seconds from release, then pull him away. “Two—thank you,” he whimpers, tears beading at the corners of his eyes.

You smack his face again, hard enough to leave another pink mark. “Louder.”

“Two!” he cries, trembling. “T-thank you!”

You can feel his desperation unraveling. His thighs tremble, his cock leaking down his stomach, and yet he doesn’t move his hands from his sides. He knows one wrong twitch and you’ll stop completely. By the third denial, he’s shaking so hard you wonder if he might collapse. His voice breaks on the number, lips wet and swollen, face streaked with spit and tears. And you’ve never seen him look more ruined. You drag your thumb across his lip, smearing the slick. “You want me to let you make me cum, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he whispers desperately. “Please. I need it—I need you—”

You slap him again, harder this time, and his moan breaks into a sob. “You’ll get what I decide,” you hiss. “Until then, you’ll take your punishment like the pathetic little slut you are.”

By now his face is a mess — cheeks flushed from your slaps, lips swollen and wet, chin shining with your slick. His chest rises and falls in ragged gasps, his cock straining painfully against his stomach. He looks ruined, broken down to exactly what you wanted: nothing but a toy waiting for your command. You tangle your fingers in his hair again, yanking his head back so he has no choice but to look up at you. His eyes are glassy, rimmed with tears, and his mouth hangs open like he’s waiting to be fed. “Tell me what you are,” you order.

“I’m—” His voice cracks, desperate. “I’m your toy. Your slut. Please—please just use me—”

You smile, sharp and cruel, and shove him back down between your thighs. “Good boy. Then open that mouth and take it.”

He moans into you as you grind against his face, riding him hard, forcing his tongue and lips to keep up. Every movement from him is frantic, sloppy, like he’s terrified of failing. You tug his hair, pulling him tighter against you, smothering him in your heat. “That’s it,” you groan, grinding down on him. “Don’t you dare stop. If you want me to cum, you’re going to earn it.”

His muffled whines vibrate against your clit, pushing you closer, closer—until finally, your body arches, and the orgasm rips through you. You cry out, shoving his face harder against you, grinding until your thighs quake. When you finally release him, he collapses back, gasping, lips glossy with your release. His cock jerks helplessly, aching for even the barest touch, but you plant your foot against his chest and push him flat to the floor. “Don’t you dare touch yourself,” you snap.

He freezes, trembling, eyes blown wide. “P-please, I—”

“You think you’ve earned it?” You sneer down at him, still catching your own breath. “You think making me cum once means you deserve release?”

He shakes his head quickly, eyes darting down in shame. “N-no. I don’t deserve it. Please, don’t leave me—”

You crouch over him, grabbing his chin between your fingers, forcing his gaze back up to yours. “That’s right. You don’t get to cum. You don’t get anything unless I decide. All you get to do is beg, and serve, and hope you’re good enough for me to use again.” His cock twitches at your words, leaking onto his stomach. He looks wrecked, pathetic, desperate beyond measure. And you can’t help but laugh, low and cruel. “Look at you. The great Port Mafia boss, reduced to nothing but my crying little slut. Tell me you love it.”

“I love it,” he gasps, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I love being your slut. Please… don’t stop using me.”

You drag your thumb across his lip, smearing the wetness again, before standing over him like you’re considering whether he’s worth keeping. “Maybe,” you murmur. “If you’re lucky, I’ll let you prove yourself again next time.”

Mori’s body is trembling, spent from the effort of worshipping you, but his cock still twitches helplessly against his stomach. He looks up at you with tear-streaked cheeks and ruined lips, so desperate you can practically taste it in the air. “Please,” he whispers hoarsely. “Just once. Let me—”

“Shut up.” Your voice cuts him off like a blade, and his mouth snaps shut instantly. You crouch down, letting your fingers trace the angry red marks on his cheeks from earlier slaps. He leans into your touch like it’s mercy. You laugh. “Pathetic. You’ll take anything from me, won’t you? Even pain. Especially pain.”

His breath stutters. He doesn’t deny it.

You trail your hand down his chest, stopping just shy of his cock. He jerks his hips up, instinctive, and you immediately slap his thigh hard enough to make him cry out. “Did I say you could move?”

“N-no,” he gasps, trembling.

“That’s right. And because you forgot yourself, now you get nothing.” The broken whine that falls from his throat makes you smile. He’s hard, dripping, straining so painfully that every twitch looks like agony — and you have no intention of giving him relief.

You stand, adjusting your clothes, utterly unbothered by the ruined man on the floor at your feet. His eyes follow every movement, wide and pleading, like a dog watching its master walk away with the leash still dangling. “Clean yourself up,” you order coldly. “And if I ever catch you touching without my permission, you’ll regret it.”

He shudders, shame burning across his face, but he nods obediently. “Y-yes. I understand.”

You smirk, stepping past him, deliberately leaving him naked, hard, and humiliated on the floor. “Good boy,” you toss over your shoulder, voice dripping with cruel amusement. “Maybe next time I’ll let you cum. If you’ve earned it.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and the great Mori Ougai — Port Mafia boss, feared doctor — is left alone, cock aching, body marked, face wet with tears and your release. Nothing more than your desperate, pathetic toy.

An hour later, you return to your room. The door creaks open to reveal Mori exactly where you left him: naked on the floor, back against the wall, his cock soft now but still sticky with dried precum. His eyes lift to you immediately, raw and glassy, like he hasn’t moved for fear of breaking the rules. “Pathetic,” you murmur, stepping inside. “Did you really stay here the whole time?”

“Yes,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “You told me not to touch, so I didn’t. I waited.”

You kneel in front of him, tilting his chin up to study the marks on his face — the fading pink handprints, the tear tracks. His lips tremble under your gaze, but he doesn’t look away.

“Good boy,” you whisper this time, softer. You lean in, kissing his swollen mouth slowly, deliberately, until his entire body sags in relief.

He makes a broken sound in his throat and clutches at your arms, desperate for the closeness. You hush him, running your fingers through his hair. “Shhh. You did so well for me. You were perfect.”

He buries his face in your shoulder, shaking, and you let him. You hold him close, stroking down his back, murmuring praise in his ear until the tension finally bleeds out of him. When his breathing evens, you pull back just enough to look him in the eye. “You’re mine. Do you understand? You belong to me. And I’ll take care of what’s mine.”

His eyes brim with tears again, but this time they’re soft, grateful. “Yes… I belong to you.”

You smile, pulling him gently to his feet. “Come on. Bath, water, bed. I’ll let you rest against me tonight. You’ve earned that much.”

He follows obediently, clinging to you like a lifeline. The mighty boss of the Mafia, reduced to nothing but your needy little toy and, in this quiet hour, your most cherished pet.

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