phone s*x with sae <3
female-bodied!reader, sae calls reader "mommy“, edging, down bad sae
≈ 2.2k, bow divider from @cursed-carmine !!
It feels unfair that a screen can still make your chest ache—that a thousand kilometres of airports, stadiums, and timezones can disappear the moment his eyes find yours.
His phone’s propped against the lamp on the nightstand, catching him in that low hotel glow. His hair’s still damp from the shower, dark amber strands falling across his forehead. He looks softer this way, less like the footballer the world thinks it knows and more like yours. Your Sae—the version of him quietly reserved for you, the one who lets himself be loved entirely.
Still, the shadows under his eyes tell a different story—drowsy hollows carved by a flight from Madrid, a full ninety on the pitch, and a walk through a foreign lobby to a room that smells like industrial detergent and someone else’s sleep.
“Missed your face,” he says; direct even when he’s being soft.
Your breath catches around a smile before you even realise you’re wearing one. He could’ve told you about the match first, the flight, about the hotel—he chose you. It’s a profound relief; even after everything the world asks of him, he still begins with you.
You’re in your own bed, the empty spot beside you meaningless now, because he feels near despite the fact he’s physically so far away. Distance means nothing when love can be stretched without ever becoming weak.
“Missed you, too. I watched you. That assist in the thirty-second—“
“Boring.” He shifts, and the camera catches the lean line of his collarbone where the hotel robe falls open. The fabric is white, standard issue, hanging loose off his shoulders. It’s only a hotel robe, but on him it falls like the first layer of folded wings, snow against warm skin, soft enough to make the room feel touched by heaven.
He blinks slowly, almost dazed. His jaw shifts, considering whether to say something. You watch the thought pass behind his eyes, quick and unguarded, before he decides against filtering himself.
“Tell me what you’re wearing.”
The laugh that leaves you is breathier than you meant. Even now, he asks for you like it’s the easiest thing in the world, never dressing his words in prettier words than they need. “Light pink. The one you like.”
Something flickers in his eyes—typically guarded teal going dark at the edges, pupils expanding even through the video feed. “Show me?”
You pull the phone up, panning down your body. The thin strap of the bralette cuts across your shoulder. The lace trim sits just above the curve of your breasts. The fabric cups you in a way that makes your nipples tighten against the mesh. His breath audibly catches—you hear it through the speaker; a sharp inhale, held, released slow.
“Fuck.” He says it like the air’s been knocked out of him—like he’s been holding that word in his chest all week.
“Long day?”
His jaw tightens. You watch the muscle jump under his skin. You know that look all too well. He carries exhaustion the same way he carries everything else—with his shoulders squared and his mouth set, determined to convince the world it weighs nothing at all.
“Long week. It gets repetitive.”
You wish distance could be folded into paper. That you could reach through the screen and smooth the fatigue from his face with your thumb, brush the damp hair away from his eyes, remind him he doesn’t always have to be remarkable. He already has somewhere he can simply exist—where he doesn’t have to be Itoshi Sae before he’s allowed to be just Sae.
“Wish I was there,” you say, though he knows you mean I’d carry it with you if I was there. Because you’re one in essence. His pain is your pain, and you’re selfless enough to accept it—to want it, even. To share both the good and the bad things, equally. You never really mean “I wish I was there.” You mean “I wish I could take care of you.” He always hears the difference.
“I took a cold shower,” he says suddenly, embarrassed, more by the fact than by admitting it—because he knows you’d never judge him.
“Yeah?” Your fingers idly trace the neckline of the bralette, dragging the pad of your thumb along the lace—a sinful invitation. “That’s what you do?”
“I try.” Even through a camera, his attention always feels tangible. It rests on you with a quiet certainty, patient and unwavering, as though the distance between you exists only for everyone else. “Doesn’t work.”
You watch him shift on the bed, the robe falling open wider. The movement pulls the fabric past his hip, past the jut of his pelvic bone, and the hard line of him against his stomach. His cock curves up, flushed at the tip, resting against the cut of his lower abdomen. A bead of pre-cum catches the hotel lamplight.
“Oh, Sae.”
His name in your mouth makes his throat bob and swallow.
Your voice pours through the speaker like warm honey, slow enough to cling to every corner of his thoughts. “Show me, baby.”
He adjusts the phone in hurried movements, leans back against the pillows, and lets the robe fall open completely. Your eyes trace the sharp line of his collarbones, the plane of his chest, the ridges of his stomach tightened from the way he’s holding his breath—down to the trail of dark hair below his navel. He looks delicious.
“Been like this for hours,” he whispers, quiet, as of saying it any louder would make the distance between you bigger.
“Look at you.” You let your voice go low, let it wrap around him through the speaker. “You’re so needy.”
His cock twitches on screen—an involuntary jump that you feel in your own thighs. “Yeah,” he breathes shakily.
“You just can’t help it, hm?”
His breath comes shallow, visible in the rise and fall of his chest. “No—Can’t help it.”
You slide your hand down your stomach, over the waistband of your underwear. The lace is already damp against your fingers, a sign of your own arousal. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want to touch myself. Want to have you watch.”
You smile, soft and honey-sweet. “Then do it.”
His hand wraps around himself and he groans—a sound low in his throat that goes straight between your legs, that makes you press your thighs together ashamedly. He strokes slow at first, dragging his palm over the head, spreading the slick in a wet shine along his shaft. His hips twitch into his fist, a small involuntary thrust.
“Been thinking about you all day,” he says, voice rough, fraying at the edges. “Your voice, your hands. Miss you so much.”
“Yeah? I miss you, too.”
He whimpers, hand faltering for a moment. “Every time I scored, I thought about calling you.” His hand speeds up, wet sounds loud enough to be picked up by the phone. “Wanted you to be proud.”
His honesty always arrives without decoration. He never has to perform vulnerability; he simply places it in your hands and trusts you’ll know what to do with it.
“I am proud. So incredibly proud of you, baby.”
You push your underwear down, kicking them off your ankle. The ruined fabric lands somewhere on the floor, and the cool air hits your wet skin.
“I’m touching myself now. Watching you.”
He tracks the movement—the way your hand dipped below the screen. He’s watching you, not his hand, and the weight of that focus makes your breath hitch.
“I want to see.”
You angle the phone between your thighs, and he makes a sound like he’s been punched—a sharp exhale, a bitten-off curse. “Fuck. You’re so wet.”
“Because of you.” You slide your fingers through your slick, gathering it, circling your clit in slow, deliberate pressure.
“Tell me what you’re doing,” he begs.
“Two fingers.” You demonstrate, sliding them through the wet heat, pressing against yourself. “Thinking about what you’d do if you were here.”
“Eat you out,” he answers immediately. He’s breathless, words coming between ragged exhales. “Make you cum on my tongue.”
You push a finger inside yourself, and your hips roll into, seeking more pleasure. “You’d like that?”
“Fuck, yes.”
You watch him intensely—the way his chest heaves, his thighs tensing and releasing, his jaw slack. His hand is a rhythm now, steady and desperate. Known tell signs that he’s close.
“You gonna cum?”
“Close.” His voice is strained.
“Stop.”
His hand stops mid-stroke. The sound he makes is wrecked—a whine from the depth of his chest, that others would think has no business coming from him. Someone who steps onto the pitch and makes grown men afraid. His cock pulses furiously against his stomach, untouched, and you see the way his whole body strains from denial.
“Look at me, Sae.”
He does—eyes hooded, pupils blown so wide the teal is barely a ring, lips parted on a breath that won’t settle.
“You’re so pretty like this. You might make me cum.”
His hand hovers over himself, not touching. “I wanna see you cum.”
“Not yet.”
You pull your hand away from your own heat. The loss makes you ache—a hollow throb between your thighs—but the look on his face makes it so worth it. The desperate flash of frustration that melts into something akin to worship.
“You’re cruel,” he says, but there’s no bite to it; it’s rather reverent, devout.
“I’m patient.”
He laughs—a broken thing, more air than sound. “Well, I’m not.”
You smile. “I know.”
He keeps his hand where it is—close, but not touching. Every few seconds his hips give a small instinctive twitch, searching for friction he won’t give and allow himself.
“Touch yourself again.”
His hand wraps around himself so fast you could almost laugh. The groan he lets out is deep, relieved. He strokes himself in long, languid pulls, and the camera shakes a little from where it’s propped up on the night stand.
You slide your fingers back where they belong, curling, matching his rhythm. The slick sound of your own hand echoes in your quiet room.
“Mommy,” he says, and his voice cracks. “Please. Can’t take it anymore. Wanna cum for you.”
The word hangs in the air—mocking, you know so by the little curl of his lips. But his expression gives him away. The way he searches your own through the screen. He needs you to tell him yes.
“Yeah? You wanna cum for mommy?”
“Mhm. So badly.”
“Then keep going. Don’t stop until I say.”
He nods obediently. His hand is a blur now, pre-cum making the glide wet and obscene. His thighs shake profusely.
“I’m close. I’m really, really close, mommy.”
“Cum with me.”
“Together?”
“Yeah. You can do that, right?”
“Yes, yes. I can do that.”
His breath hitches, eyes glued to the screen. The sounds he’s making are falling apart—gasps, half-words, your name caught in his throat.
“Mfghh—Baby. I’m gonna cum.”
You’re right there—right on the edge. Your fingers press hard against your clit, hips rolling desperately into your palm.
“You gonna cum all over yourself?”
He whines in response—a sound high in his throat, broken open.
“Answer me.”
“Yeah.” The word punches out of him. “M’gonna cum all over myself.”
“Cum for me, then. You’ve been so good.”
You come apart together. He moans your name—low and wrecked—and you watch him spill all over his fist, hot streaks of cum spurting across his stomach, his chest heaving, abs tensing through it. His mouth falls open on a soundless moan, eyes fluttering. He’s the most beautiful you’ve ever seen him.
Your own orgasm crashes through you—waves of heat radiating from your core, your thighs clenching, back arching off the mattress. You ride it out on his name, on the sight of him falling apart for you, and for a long moment there’s nothing but heavy breaths.
He collapses back against the pillows, arm thrown over his eyes. His chest is glistens with sweat, still rising and falling too fast, refusing to settle. Cum pools in the hollow of his stomach, catching the low lights.
When he finally looks at the camera, there’s a tiny smile tugging his lips.
“You still there?” he asks.
“Still here,” you whisper back.
He laughs, soft, open, all yours. The sound carries the same quiet relief as stepping through the front door after weeks away. Home has never been a place for either of you—it learned to take the shape of a person. “I hate that you’re good at that.”
“Liar.”
His smile deepens. “You caught me.”
