cw ⌇ sex ◞ sae loves to mark you
He never said it out loud, but you could tell. Sae was obsessed. Not with the curve of your waist or the sway of your hips (though he admired those too), but with the canvas of your chest, your throat, your collarbones. That soft stretch of skin he marked again and again, always in the same way.
You’d tease him sometimes, whispering between kisses, “What, you hate the idea of finishing inside me?”
His lips would brush your ear, voice flat but firm, “No. This is better.”
He never let you push further than that. Sae Itoshi, the genius, the cold prodigy, reduced to something raw and unflinching when it came to you. It was ritualistic, the way he’d pull out at the last second, fist tight around his cock as his jaw clenched, the heavy breaths breaking his perfect composure. And then warmth, thick and hot, spilling onto you in heavy ropes.
He watched it every time. The way it painted your collarbones, slid down your sternum, streaked your throat until it dripped lower, lower. His eyes burned into you, dark teal catching the mess like he was memorizing a masterpiece only he was allowed to make.
You learned quickly that he hated when you wiped it away too soon. The first time, you’d giggled and reached for tissues and he’d grabbed your wrist mid-air. “Don’t.” his voice was sharp. “Leave it.”
You had swallowed thickly, cheeks flushed and let it dry sticky on your skin. His gaze softened then and that was the closest Sae ever came to saying please. So you let him. Let him have you the way he wanted. Sometimes he’d push you back against the headboard, hands spreading your thighs wide as he thrust into you slow, controlled, every stroke calculated to make you tremble. He never lost focus, not even when you whimpered his name into his skin.
His endgame wasn’t just the orgasm. It was the mark he left after. The heat of him spilling across your chest became something you craved too. Because Sae didn’t just release on you, he worshipped the sight. His thumb would drag through the mess, smearing it up to your throat, pressing it into your pulse point to mark and claim.
“Look at you,” he murmured once, uncharacteristically hushed, his breath warm against your ear as he shifted his cock against your folds again, already hard. “My pretty canvas.”
Your thighs had quivered at the words, his possessive obsession seeping into your bones. He grew worse about it over time. Sometimes after training, still buzzing with sharp adrenaline, he’d shove you up against the mirror in your bedroom. His clothes half-off, your shirt pushed down, and he’d fuck you fast, desperate. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was pulling out, groaning as he spilled thick white across your reflection. You, smeared in his release, glowing under the mirror lights, he’d hold your chin up, make you look at it.
“No one else gets to see you like this,” he said, tone cold but eyes dark with hunger. “Just me.”
Other nights, he took his time. On those nights, you swore he was an artist. His strokes deep but measured, his body angled so that when he came, he could spread it exactly where he wanted. Sometimes across the swell of your breasts, sometimes high enough to catch your throat so it dripped down over your collarbones.
And when you asked him why, soft and breathless in the quiet aftermath, Sae only tilted his head, teal gaze piercing.
“Because it’s mine,” he said simply. “This. You.”
You shivered under the weight of it. Not just his words, but the certainty in them. Even when your thighs ached and your body begged for the fullness of him inside, you let him have his way. Because the look in his eyes when he painted you in his release was something you’d never seen in anyone else. Reverence, possession, a hunger so deep it scared you a little. But you never told him to stop and maybe that was what made you his masterpiece.
