・❥・smut mdni you've been overstimulated all day... looks like sae's gonna loads of it off your shoulders ;)
(pretty boy gets overstimulated)
you'd been in a weird mood all day.
clingy. quieter than usual. following him around the apartment like a shadow, stealing his hoodie, sitting pressed up against his side on the couch with your chin on his shoulder. sae hadn't said anything about it. just let you hang off him, occasionally glancing down at you with those half-lidded teal eyes like he was trying to figure you out. like you were a puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve or just leave on the table.
at some point he'd pressed his lips to the top of your head. just once. hadn't acknowledged it. you'd pretended not to notice.
then you'd pushed him back onto the bed and dropped to your knees between his thighs and suddenly the mood made a lot more sense.
he'd been good about it, too. stayed mostly composed, one hand loose in your hair, hips barely moving, jaw tight. that's sae. controlled, even when you're working him over, even when his thighs are tensing under your palms and his breathing's gone ragged and uneven. he came with a rough exhale and a low grunt, his grip tightening once in your hair before releasing, head falling back against the pillow.
and then you didn't stop...
"hey." his voice, rough around the edges. "i finished."
you hummed against him. didn't even pause.
"…what are you doing."
not a question, really. more like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. you just wrapped your hand around the base of him, looked up through your lashes and kept going. slow, deliberate, like you had nowhere else to be.
"shit, stop," he breathes, but the hand in your hair doesn't push. just sits there, fingers tensing slowly, like they can't decide. "that's—" he cuts himself off, and you feel it, the way he's already twitching back to half-hard under your tongue. so sensitive it must be almost unbearable. "…sensitive."
yeah. you know.
you take your time. lick up the underside of him like you're tasting something you can't get enough of and you hear the quiet inhale he pulls through his nose. you take him in slow, working him back up inch by inch, your hand following your mouth in long strokes. he's getting there faster than before. his body remembers you, always does. and the soft sounds he's trying to suppress are leaking through anyway, little cracks in the composure.
"you're—" he starts, then stops. you can hear him thinking. "fuck amor—."
you pull back just far enough to acknowledge him with a mhmm and then you take him deeper.
"god." it comes out low. almost reverent.
you want all of him. you want him wrecked, specifically. the same way he wrecks you without even trying. all those cool dismissive looks and rare moments when something warm cracks through and destroys you worse than the arrogance ever could. that strange clingy ache that's been sitting in your chest all day has been building to exactly this. you just didn't know it until now.
his fingers curl into your hair, not pushing, not pulling, just holding. "you feel so good," he says, like it slips out before he can catch it. quieter than his normal voice. more honest. "so perfect—."
your eyes flick up to his face and there it is, that unfamiliar softness he usually keeps locked away behind the cool arrogance. he's watching you. really watching you, teal eyes darker than usual, lip caught between his teeth.
he makes a sound he'd probably deny later. a broken little hitch in his breath, the kind that means he's losing the thread of his composure. his hips stutter up without his permission and he swears under his breath, jaw clenching, like he's furious at himself.
"enough." his voice has lost its edge. barely.
you pull back just to say, "no," and go right back to it.
"hey." firmer now. his grip tightens in your hair, not yanking, but directing, tilting your head back so he can look at you properly. his chest is heaving. "look at me when i'm talking to you."
you look at him. hold his gaze and keep your mouth on him and watch something unravel behind his eyes.
"fuck." he exhales hard. his head tips back for just a second before he forces it back down, forces himself to keep watching you like this is something he needs to see. "your throats taking me so well," he says. not a question. "made for me, aren't ya?"
you hum in confirmation.
his thighs are shaking. actually shaking. and his eyes are wet at the corners now, glassy, the hand in your hair gone tight again like he doesn't know if he wants to push you away or keep you there forever. when you look up at him his expression is completely unfamiliar, stripped of everything, overwhelmed in a way you've never seen on his face before.
"i can't," he starts, voice fractured. "you need to— god, stop, i—"
he comes apart again. less controlled this time. more desperate, his whole body pulling taut, back arching just slightly off the mattress before he catches himself. a low broken sound tears out of him, and his grip in your hair is almost painful, and you take all of it, every last shudder, until he's gasping.
afterwards you finally pull away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and you don't give him a single second to recover. you push him back flat against the bed, swing your leg over his hips, settle your weight on him.
"what are you—" he starts.
you grab a fistful of his hair. tilt his head back.
he goes still. teal eyes staring up at you, wet at the lashes, chest still heaving. something complicated crossing his face. not submission, that's not in his vocabulary, but something like recognition. like he's recalibrating. his hands come up to your thighs slowly, grip settling there, heavy and warm.
you kiss him. not soft. he makes a muffled sound against your mouth and his hands move to your hips immediately, gripping hard, because sae does not just lie there, he never will, but his grip is unsteady in a way that tells you everything about how he's feeling.
you sink down onto him and watch his eyes flutter. watch his head press back against the pillow. watch the line of his throat work as he swallows.
"look at me," you tell him.
he does. barely. eyes glassy and dark and fixed on you like you're something he can't quite name.
you ride him slow. hands still in his hair, lips dragging along his jaw, his temple, the corner of his mouth. all those places you've wanted to map out all day, that's where the clinginess was going, it was building to this, to having him like this, under you and undone.
"there you go," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked, barely holding together, but there's something in it. approval. warmth. his hands guide your hips in that slow rolling rhythm, not controlling, just there. "that's it. just like that."
you press your face into his neck and shiver.
"good girl," he says, quieter. like he means it more than he wants to.
he thrusts up to meet you, still fighting for some foothold of control, still sae, but his breath is ragged and his fingers are digging into your skin hard enough to bruise and when you clench around him he actually groans, open and unguarded, the sound punched out of him.
"sae—"
"i know." his hand slides up your spine, presses between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer against his chest. "i've got you."
and somehow that's the thing that undoes you. not the stretch of him or the heat or the slow grind, but those three words said in that ruined voice. you come apart on top of him, shaking, his name breaking in half on your tongue, and he holds you through every second of it, hips working up into you, murmuring something low against your hair that might be good girl again or might just be your name, you can't tell, you can barely hear anything.
he follows you over the edge again with his face pressed into your hair and both arms locked around you, his whole body going rigid before he shudders and stills.
when you finish the third time between you, he doesn't say anything.
you collapse beside him. the sheets are a wreck. the room smells like sweat and sex and you can feel the pulse in your own thighs like a second heartbeat. every muscle feels liquid and loose. your lips feel swollen and your scalp tingles where he had his hands.
sae lies there for a long moment, arm over his face, chest rising and falling slowly. you watch the wet tracks at the corners of his eyes, already drying. he'd hate that you saw that.
then slowly, without looking at you, he reaches over. finds your wrist in the dim light. wrapping his fingers around it, keeping you by his side.
he doesn't say anything. doesn't have to.
that ache in your chest from earlier, the one you couldn't name all day, finally settles quiet.
He’s watching you through the lens—you’re sure of it.
The model is in his element, posing while keeping his gaze forward. You bite your lip, feeling like his gaze pierces through the camera and directly locks onto yours. A teammate had to nudge your shoulder to snap you out of it. You pretend to focus on adjusting the settings to avoid staring.
Every pose is effortless, keeping all eyes on him. You’re in awe—even during outfit changes, you’re mindlessly fiddling with the camera lens, face warm and thoughts floating aimlessly. Should your teammates notice (they do), they keep it to themselves.
Aside from your emotional fumbles, the shoot went smoothly. While everyone else puts equipment away, you’re checking the photos, zeroed in on each one.
“You’re very talented,” Yukimiya’s voice appears by your ear, making you jump. You whip your head to find him next to you, leaning to peek over your shoulder. He grins sheepishly. “Ah, sorry. Just wanted to see the results.”
You were hugging the camera, you realize. Relaxing your shoulders, you hold the device between you, showing him the photos.
“The photographer did most of the work,” you comment shyly, mentally praying he can’t feel the heat radiating off your face.
The model hums, carrying his gaze to you with a soft smile. “Give yourself some credit. You and the others were on top of everything.”
When you turn to look up, Yukimiya’s already looking at you, his expression kind.
“You’re the assistant photographer, yes?” he asks.
You shake your head, face hot. “I just help with adjusting the lens. I’d like to move up soon, though I’m still working on my credentials and getting my portfolio ready—I don’t even know if I have the right to fully call myself an assistant, let alone photographer…”
It isn’t until your glance in his direction that you realize that you’ve been babbling, and you immediately cut yourself off. Your panic remains internal, as he stops you from apologizing with a simple chuckle.
“Well, for what it’s worth,” he adjusts his glasses, “I don’t mind helping out if you need more photos, even outside of this shoot.”
He speaks with such ease that you almost don’t realize what he’s talking about, like he isn’t offering you a door that’ll lead to better opportunities.
“A-Are you sure?” You stammer, clinging to the camera tighter. How it remains intact, no one knows, but your head department is giving you that look that tells you to get ready to get back to packing.
A slight shift in position and an easy smile from the model are all it takes for you to relax your shoulders and take his outstretched hand.
“I’d be happy to.”
Does this count as getting a cute boy’s number if it’s technically work-related? You’d like to think so. Especially since Yukimiya asked for yours in return, “in case he needs you first.” Think any deeper into it, and steam will float from your ears from your brain melting.
Still, while you were mentally battling with yourself over whether you should text first, your phone decided for you by notifying you of a text you received from a new number.
You’re already lying on your stomach on your bed to read the message, giddy over a mere reintroduction to the handsome model you got paid to ogle the other day. And to think he already wanted to make plans for a shoot with you without you responding with something cringe-worthy!
Well, you’re still working in a team—which is fine! Being alone with someone you shouldn’t have developed such an easy crush on may not be the best of plans. You’re just grateful for the opportunities.
Still, your stomach can’t help itself from dancing whenever Yukimiya would make small talk with you during breaks or compliment you after a long day. He’s polite, professional—you remind yourself that as not to get your hopes up. He knows how to play the game, and you’re honestly surprised an agency hasn’t snagged him yet.
“I know a place.”
You jolt at the sound, whipping your head to find the man who’s consumed your thoughts for the past few months. He offers you one of the coffee cups in his hold and you thank him, blinking in surprise upon the taste reaching your tongue. Either he got lucky, or he’s witnessed you putting too much sugar in your drink.
You hum at his words, peering up at him from the cup’s rim.
“I know an area for another shoot for us to do,” he says, taking a sip from his drink. “It’s quiet and small, but a good start if you wanna take charge.” He returns your gaze with his gentle one, his wavy hair framing his face in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through the strands (though the hair and makeup department would hate you for that). “I meant it when I said I wanted to help you.”
You turn your body to better face him, the icy breeze for an otherwise muddy autumn biting at your cheeks.
“It’s really fine—”
“I insist,” he copies your movements, his body turned to yours.
You look down at your cup, chest tightening as your thumb grazes the rim. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Your confession is quiet, and you don’t dare look at him. The pavement is a sad, mucky colour, freckled with dead leaves and a couple of cigarette butts. You count all of them, repeating the cycle until your eyes don’t burn with the promise of crying in front of someone you don’t want to let down.
“Let me show you that you do.”
You blink at him, your lips parting as if looking for a rebuttal. Yukimiya’s expression is serious, but not stern. He speaks like a wall refusing to be broken down, and the faith he has in you makes your eyes water. No, you won’t cry to him on your break, but you’ll try to believe him when he’s lending a hand to someone he’s only worked with.
You wipe your eyes with a sniffle before looking back at him, holding your cup out for him. His expression softens with a hint of pride, and he knocks his cup with yours in a silent agreement.
It’s only an hour after that day’s shoot that Yukimiya sends you the who, what, when, where, why, and how. It takes even less time for you two to schedule a time for you two to go along with the plan, your heart steadying for the night as you lie in bed.
It’s only for some headshots, but it’s a start. Yukimiya seems to have a friend of a friend who rents out studios for these kinds of things and managed to snatch a room for free. The time was less than ideal, but you were in no position to complain.
The model lets you in, already in attire plain enough for the focus to be on his face while still doing plenty to make your eyes shine as they follow him. You even brought some makeup for him, biting your lip when he praises you for coming prepared.
The studio is relatively smaller than the ones you’ve worked in with teams, though it seems fitting with tonight’s plans. With a white cloth for the background already set up, your main focus is getting the camera ready while Yukimiya patiently sits a few metres away on a stool, watching you. As much as you enjoy his attention, it does little to help you complete your tasks without looking like a fool.
You almost forget about the makeup application by the time the camera’s ready, and you hastily make your way to him with the products in hand.
This is the closest you’ve ever been to him, you realize. Applying the powder is simple enough, and you’re grateful that you aren’t doing anything editorial for tonight—with how he’s watching you trying not to mess up his perfect skin, perfect cheekbones, perfect smile, you doubt you’d have the focus to do anything properly.
You manage not to fuck up applying gloss to his lips before hastily putting everything away to return to the camera. If he notices your frantic behaviour, he keeps it to himself.
Taking the photos has been the easiest part of this entire process, not only because you get to hide behind the device, but also because your model has the experience to know what to do next. The few times you’d offer directions, you’d force yourself to project your voice, cringing when your voice wavered or cracked.
“Ever thought of being a model?”
You stop with your touch-ups, holding back the brush as you process Yukimiya’s question. His face is only a few inches away from yours, and you’re certain he can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks.
He continues, seemingly unbothered by the proximity. “I just think you’d be fun to take photos of, is all.”
You blink, your heart doing the same as you force yourself to take a step back in embarrassment.
“You’ve been plenty kind to me already,” you mumble, cupping your cheek to cool it down. “You don’t have to keep going.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, his gaze still on you. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and you can’t help but wonder how much he can actually see.
You bite the inside of your cheek. “...It’s crossed my mind, sure.”
“You’re very cute.”
Oh, now you’re about to erupt. You’re hastily put the products away before returning to the camera.
The rest of the session is fairly quiet, and neither of you speak again until it’s time to pack up.
“I mean what I said.” Yukimiya’s voice comes from behind you, making you jump. You shyly peer over your shoulder to face him. “I admire what you do, even if you don’t see it yourself.” After a few more moments of silence, the model’s expression turns sheepish. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable—”
“No!” You blurt out, fully turning to face him. The outburst catches him off-guard, and you clear your throat before stepping back for a moment. “Um, no. Sorry. I meant, you didn’t make me uncomfortable.” Your eyes are about to gaze elsewhere before you force them to meet his. Whether or not you get lost in them is not within your power. “It meant a lot. Thank you.”
Yukimiya’s shoulders relax, and that same kind smile that has your knees buckling returns to his handsome features.
He’s still close, even with your previous step back. You hope the studio’s room tone is loud enough to mask your hammering heart, but with how the model is slowly leaning in, you highly doubt it.
The kiss was soft enough to barely feel it and long enough for you to process it happening. Whether or not you kissed back, you aren’t sure, but your lips definitely followed his once he pulled back.
Your eyes flutter open–when they closed, you don’t recall–and you’re greeted by sunset eyes and curled lips.
“I’m glad.”
It’s been like this for a few more months, where Yukimiya would help you with your portfolio while occasionally stealing a kiss or two per session. You’re giddy, more confident in your skills, and even offering to teach him how to work your camera. (Whether or not it’s an excuse to have him near again, you won’t say.)
You figured it–whatever “it” was–would remain stagnant until he invited you over to his place for dinner.
You spent more time trying to figure out what to wear than the actual commute to his place. Not that it matters, since the sight before you after knocking on his door already made you feel underdressed.
Yukimiya's still sporting his usual smile when greeting you, a simple button-up and slacks doing plenty to accentuate his beauty. He even takes your coat for you, ever the gentleman. This is normal, right?
Of course, it is. You have to remind yourself to relax as you sit at the dinner table, twiddling your thumbs on your lap as he makes tea for you both. But that's easier said than done.
Not even five minutes in his home and you're meekly asking for directions to the bathroom, trying not to stumble down the hallway he kindly directed you to.
A mental pep talk did little to calm you down, but the cool water seemed to stop your hands from shaking. That's something, you guess.
He really has the patience of a saint, doesn't he? Months of knowing him and you still can't seem to behave like a functioning adult. He smiles through it all—it's like the ones customer service workers offer when they want nothing more than to clock out. He's just a hundred times prettier.
Your thoughts are still spiraling when you exit the bathroom and make the wrong turn. Had you been more aware, you would have continued your internal anxiety monologue back at the dinner table while drinking tea and not knowing what to say to him.
Instead, you find yourself in a bedroom far too tidy to belong to a young man. Though you suppose Yukimiya’s the exception once more as the freshness of a recently-opened window purifies the room, the sheets neatly made and the closest thing to a mess being an open journal on his desk.
The proximity to him just by being at his door seems to lure you in, your feet moving on their own as you relish in a room even cleaner than yours. Your guilt seems to take its time approaching your conscious as your gaze brushes the journal, his handwriting clear and his. Perfect. Precise. Practiced.
She'll be over tonight. Poor thing couldn't even look me in the eye when she said yes—it makes my heart soar every time.
Your fingers graze the page as you bite your bottom lip, your stomach doing somersaults for different reasons now.
I wished she’d let me pick her up, but she seemed insistent that she came here herself. I'm thinking of making her favourite as an apology. It's the least I can do to make an even better impression. I'm sure lighting a candle or two will set the mood, but I just want a better look at her pretty face.
You should stop. It’s doing wonders to your confidence, but you’re still going through something that doesn’t belong to you.
She’s too cute for her own good. I could feel her lips quiver every time I’d kiss her—it only made me want to kiss her more. Hold her closer, though I wouldn’t want to scare her away. She’d probably be just as cute like that, too, like a little deer taking her first steps.
I can’t stop staring at her lips. I’m lucky enough that she can barely look me in the eye. I can wait, but I can’t stop myself from just imagining. She makes the cutest sounds when I get near.
I need to taste her.
Your gaze remains on those five words, as if refraining themselves from going any further.
In every sense. I need to know what sounds she makes so I can swallow it all up or make them even louder. I need to feel her skin on mine, see with my own two eyes what she’d look like beneath me, panting and crying. I need her to see me the way I see her until she refuses to look anywhere else.
Despite the churn in your chest and stomach, your eyes don’t stop.
I can’t stop touching myself. I used to have better self-control, and maybe it’s still there and I’m just refusing to try anymore. A whiff of her perfume when she walks by is enough for my pants to grow tighter. I feel like some pathetic teenager. The worst part is, I don’t hate it. I chase it, chase her. And I don’t even know if I’d be able to do anything besides that tonight.
“Never took you for someone so nosy.”
You whip your head around to find Yukimiya standing at his dressing room door, two mugs in his hand. Despite his words, his tone carries no disappointment, nor does his expression. If anything, he appears pleased, and he walks in to place the cups down on his desk. You freeze, stumbling back when his shoulder brushes yours. Words fail you, your body shrinking in shame of being caught, while your brain almost forgets everything it saw.
Even with your eyes on him, you don’t fully register him stepping towards you, his aura eerily calm. The back of your knees hit the edge of his bed, forcing you to a halt as you scramble to find something to say.
The model beats you to it. “I can’t say I wasn’t completely counting on it, though.”
You don’t process him having thrown you over his lap until he flips your skirt up to reveal your sage green panties. But you finally react when his hand swings down to smack the apex of your thigh.
“I can’t just let you get away with this, you know,” Yukimiya chides, rubbing at the stinging area. “You understand, don’t you, dear?”
Your eyes burn as tears peek from your waterline, and you sniffle. The athlete hums, then grabs the back of your underwear and tugs. You cry out, the cotton pressing between your folds and brushing your clit.
You whimper. “Yes… I’m sorry.”
He coos, letting go of the garment. It snaps back onto your behind, and he resumes massaging the area he previously hit.
“I know you are,” he comforts. You sniffle again, the tears finally falling as you struggle to press your thighs together. It doesn’t take long for Yukimiya to notice the wet patch on the crotch of your underwear, and his voice remains gentle as he smiles thoughtfully. His fingers reach to graze against the area, and you suck in a large breath. “Look at you…”
SMACK!
Another slap against your skin, this time on your rear. You shriek, your body jolting against his lap. More follow seconds after, alternating between each cheek while occasionally rubbing the raw flesh.
“As much as it pains me to do this,” the model sighs, though you don’t hear any remorse in his tone, “I can’t have you just doing whatever you want. Where did my good girl go?”
You can’t respond, the sobs and hiccups clawing out from your sore throat. Your grip on the sheets tightens as he gives you the final few strikes, and you can finally exhale properly. Yukimiya palms the stinging areas, shushing you like he was putting a child to sleep.
“You did so well for me, angel,” he coos before leaning closer to your ear. “Next time, I’ll make you count each hit.”
You flinch, whimpering as he helps you sit up, but it hurts too much to do so. Still, not wanting to upset him any further, you ignore the throbbing that bleeds throughout your rear.
Yukimiya’s hands are warm against your cheeks as he cups your face, his thumbs lightly wiping away any stray tears. Your vision is glassy enough not to recognize him.
“You’re so cute,” he sighs, kissing the tip of your nose. Then your temple, down your cheek and to your jaw. He starts unbuttoning your blouse when his lips meet your neck, and he continues his journey down your body as he shrugs the article of clothing off your shoulders. His teeth gently graze your collarbone, and you shiver when you feel his warm breath on your skin. You almost miss his hands when they reach your thighs, caressing them through your skirt before reaching for its hem. “Take these off for me, will you, angel?”
You almost don’t hear him, a light ringing in your left ear as you feel him rise from the bed, taking your hands and pulling you up to do the same. Your tears are long gone, their dried paths across your face the only evidence of their existence. When you look up at the model, he’s already got his gaze on you, soft and adoring.
You finally speak. “Yukki…”
“Kenyu,” he corrects, his smile growing wider. “No need to be so formal.”
He trails off, taking your hands and leading them to the waistband of your skirt. And with how he’s looking at you–like he’s witnessing sakura petals raining from their trees–your hands move on their own. The article of clothing drops at your feet, leaving you in a cotton matching set. You try to refrain from hugging your waist and curling into yourself, but your gaze can’t help but trail elsewhere, anywhere.
“There she is,” he croons, stepping closer to cup your face. His eyelids droop, pensive, and the sunset you’d admire in his irises has passed the horizon—it makes you want to cry again. “There’s so much I want to do with you.”
Despite the warmth from his hands, his gaze makes you shudder. Yukimiya lightly presses his lips against yours before leading you back onto the bed, with him leaning against the headboard and you, with your back to his chest. His body heat makes you shiver again, goosebumps decorating your arms.
“Just follow my lead,” he instructs softly, leaning his chin on your shoulder. You subconsciously suck in a large breath when his arms slither around your waist, but it doesn’t stop the athlete from pulling you even closer.
Plump lips shadow above your skin, and you can feel his warm breath tickling your neck. A quiet mewl squeaks from your throat, your eyes screwed shut as Yukimiya’s hands explore your torso.
“Such a pretty colour,” he mumbles against your shoulder before kissing back up your neck. You feel his fingertips ghost over the cup of your bra while his other hand swirls the waistband of your panties around his index finger. “Did you wear this knowing what would happen?”
You can only whine in response, and he takes it as a sign to slip his hand into your underwear, his digits brushing against short, coarse hair before he feels the stickiness he got a peek of earlier. He hums; a discovery.
“You’re like a little doll,” Yukimiya continues, brushing against your clit while sneaking the other hand under your bra. “I get a lot of clothes from modelling gigs—I can get you some of the prettiest outfits.” Your breathing stutters when his middle finger drags across your slit, and you feel his smile on your neck. “Anything you want; you’d always look amazing, anyway. It’s like playing dress-up—oh! And we can match, too! Wouldn’t you like that?”
He plunges his finger into your hole before you can even think of a response. You gasp, head thrown back onto his shoulder.
“Yu—Ken…” you finally try to speak, and the model rewards you by flicking your nipple from under your bra, his hand sinking into your breast.
“There she is,” he praises, taking his time pumping his digit inside you; memorizing you from the inside out. “You’re so,” he pauses, then chuckles to himself, “Sorry, I keep calling you cute. I can’t help it if it’s true. I just want to squeeze you tight and never let you go. Though I’m sure you know that by now.”
A second finger joins the middle one, stretching you out in a way foreign to you. It stings, and you hiss. Yukimiya whispers sweet nothings in your ear, easing you into the unfamiliar.
“I can’t move if you keep squeezing me like that, darling,” he chides jokingly while shimmying your bra above your breasts. He’s quick to knead them, easier for him to alternate between the two and grip them tighter. You yelp, and he snickers at your reaction before his voice drops to a more serious tone. “You’ve never done this to yourself before?”
Too flustered to respond, you can only offer a pathetic whine while digging your nails into his forearms. Yukimiya chuckles upon seeing your hips buck involuntarily and rewards you by picking up the pace, curling his fingers just right. You throw your head back onto his shoulder with a cry, and he takes the opportunity to kiss you deeply. He’s everywhere: his warm chest against your back, his fingers squeezing your breasts and caressing your walls, his erection poking at your lower back through his slacks, his tongue swirling around yours—he’s even found his way into your lungs, bleeding into your insides and becoming your oxygen.
The athlete eventually pulls back, a string of saliva connecting you two by your lips. Your panting synchronizes, his warm breath tickling your skin as your eyes grow glassy. Yet, even through your hazy vision, you can’t miss the pure adoration as he looks at you. A look so soft, you almost forget his touch’s juxtaposition.
“K-Kenyu…” you say his name like you had something to say—what it is, you aren’t sure. He supposedly did, though, and he peppers light kisses along your jaw.
“Are you close, beautiful?” he hums, his voice buzzing against your skin. You nod rapidly, and that was more than enough for him to reach deeper, his palm hitting your clit. The heat pooling in your belly spreads, your legs instinctively snapping closed. Yukimiya tuts, his voice gentle yet scolding. “No, no. None of that, now.”
With how he carries himself–all gentle smiles and a graceful posture–you forget the absolute strength that comes with him. You forget until he hooks his legs over yours, separating them and keeping you open for him.
“I’m sorry…” You hiccup, bottom lip wobbling. What you’re apologizing for, you can’t quite put your finger on it.
“I know, angel,” Yukimiya sighs, slipping his fingers out of your pussy momentarily to spank your inner thigh a few times, making you jolt with a squeak. His digits return inside you as fast as they left, and his pace and force increase tenfold. Your shallow breaths quicken, chest heaving and hammering heart beats that you’re certain he can feel through his rough grip on your breast.
And just when that coil is about to snap, he pulls out again.
The sob you let out even surprised you, his hand leaving your chest being replaced with heaviness in your diaphragm and ribs that are just barely holding on.
The model’s hold on you loosens ever so slightly, if not to let you catch your breath. He brings his fingers to his mouth, licking your taste with a satisfied hum. You witness this with a tearful gaze, and the act only fuels the emptiness he’s left behind.
“Y-You,” you croak, inhaling sharply while gripping onto his forearms, “w-why did—”
“I couldn’t let you think you were completely off the hook,” is Yukimiya’s answer, his clean hand rubbing soothing circles on your stomach. “Consider it a warning for the next time you decide to misbehave, yeah? You’ve been so good to me before.”
He speaks like he’s discussing the weather, and he finally lets you go, carefully laying you before dismounting the bed. Your legs immediately go to press together, desperate to soothe the ache he caused. The sound of faint ruffling reaches your ears through your pathetic sobs, but it isn’t until you feel the mattress dip next to you that you see the brunet left in nothing but his boxers. He smiles, slowly crawling between your legs.
“You taste even better than I imagined,” he says, spreading your legs before shifting closer, “if I didn’t stop now, I probably never would.” He tugs his waistband low enough to reveal his cock; hard, pale, and pretty. You catch sight of a beauty mark near the apex of his thigh before he starts stroking himself, his expression relaxing. “But that’s okay,” he aims his pink tip at your entrance, brushing against your clit, “we have all the time in the world to try everything we want to.”
The initial stretch makes you choke, his tip barely passing through before you clench tightly at the foreign feeling.
“I can’t,” you shake your head frantically, your nails digging into his biceps. “I-I can’t I can’t—”
Yukimiya’s lips silence your cries, his tongue practically licking the inside of your mouth and making your eyes roll back. He only pulls back once your cries retreat to whimpers, and you find yourself subconsciously chasing after his kiss.
“Sure, you can,” he responds, adoration glimmering in his gaze. “You just need to relax for me. You can do that, can’t you?”
His soothing words act as a lullaby, your mind following wherever he leads it. You take a few deep breaths, trying not to be so stiff. The athlete above you rubs your thighs, cooing as he eventually slips in more easily. Every inch makes your grip on his arms tighter, and you wonder if he feels any pain, what with his loving expression piercing your very being.
“That’s my good girl,” he hums, his hips soon meeting your own. You shift in discomfort, your insides feeling like they’re being torn apart. Your bottom lip wobbles, and you feel your eyes burn from upcoming tears. Yukimiya shushes you, kissing up your torso, past the valley of your breasts, and your neck, welcoming your lips with a gentle kiss. “I’m going to start moving now.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs like an alarm, your eyes begging for mercy. Your legs are unable to stay still, desperate to find a position that’ll make the pain more bearable.
“Kenyu,” you whisper against his lips. “Just gimme a minu—”
“I’ll go slow,” he insists, his nose gently nudging yours as a silent agreement. And when his hips reel back ever so slightly, you gasp. He’s mostly grinding against you, offering some mercy as you adapt to the new feeling. The model only decides to pick up the pace once your laboured breathing sounds less painful. “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”
With everything happening right now, your stomach can’t help but churn upon hearing him curse, clashing with the warmth seeping into your lower belly.
But then his careful movements pick up momentum. No longer are his hips grazing yours, but are now pulling all the way back until it’s only his tip inside you, and he reenters while reaching even deeper than before.
“W-Wait,” you pant, your hand weakly pawing at his chest.
The sunset in his eyes has long set as Yukimiya wraps his arms around your thighs to keep you in place.
“You take me so well, angel,” he groans, his head momentarily thrown back in pleasure. “I knew you would, ever since I saw you.” The way his cock grazes against the area that has your toes curling distracts you from fully listening. The athlete laughs breathily, pressing his forehead against yours. The new angle makes your eyes roll back, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.
“Slow down,” you whimper.
“I get a lot of free clothing thanks to my gigs,” he continues as if you never spoke, “think of all the matching outfits we can wear out together, dressing up for dates.”
He ruts into you faster, moaning as he sits up again. You gasp at the change of pace, reaching out for him like you were expecting comfort. Instead, you hiss as his hold on your legs tightens.
The athlete continues, vermillion dusting his cheeks. “In fact, you could model with me, too.”
His grip on you disappears for a moment as his strokes fall softer, making your eyes flutter. When your vision clears, you find him aiming his phone at you.
“What are you doing?” you panic, quick to cover yourself to the best of your abilities.
“Don’t be like that,” he chides, momentarily lowering the device to gently yet firmly move your arms. “I just want you to see what I see.” His thrusts return in strength before he aims the lens at you once more. “Let’s switch our roles for once.”
You barely register the clicks as his hips continue their abuse, tears brimming on your waterline as he bullies your g-spot. Your moans sync with your whimpers and hiccups, and while you want to look away, you find your head turning back to the model above you.
Meanwhile, Yukimiya murmurs praise as he captures your vulnerability; from “beautiful” to “perfection,” his focus never leaves your trembling form. He only pauses to remove his glasses, his ministrations causing them to fog. You catch your breath in the few seconds he places his eyewear on the nightstand before he resumes.
“I may not have your eye,” he grunts, slamming his hips against yours, “but it shouldn’t be hard with you beneath me.”
The clicking continues as you feel that honeyed fire in the pit of your belly, the one he snatched away from you earlier. Your grip on the sheets tightens as you look up at him pleadingly.
“Kenyu,” you babble. “P-Please, I’m gonna—”
“I know, angel,” he exhales. “Go on, let go for me.”
Mere seconds later, and hot white pleasure soars through your body, a strained cry leaving your lips. Your cunt squeezes as your back arches off the mattress, your toes curling from the intensity. You might have said his name; you might have thanked him.
Yukimiya follows soon after, pulling out last second to finish on your chest and stomach. Even through his soft groans, you hear faint clicking, though you can’t find it in you to care anymore. You can only shudder at the stickiness clinging to your skin, your lungs greedily taking in air as you feel his weight disappear.
Soft lips press against your temple as your eyes flutter shut, and your first instinct is to curl into yourself. The mattress dips beside you, followed by a hand gently stroking your cheek.
“There you go,” the model whispers, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. You shudder despite welcoming his affection.
Your eyes reopen once his touch disappears, and you find him going through his phone next to you. His glasses sit atop the bridge of his nose, fog lingering on the edge of his lenses.
Yukimiya catches your gaze and smiles. “Hey, you.”
You groan softly, sluggishly lifting yourself to sit up beside him awkwardly. Your muscles are sore, and you feel like you can only fix what little clothing you’re wearing and twiddle your thumbs. Anything but look at him any longer.
“I didn’t mean to read your journal,” you manage to say, your voice somewhat hoarse. Your brows furrow as you curse yourself for not being able to say anything else.
The athlete wraps an arm around your waist, not minding the mess he made on your skin as he pulls you closer to his side. Your posture stiffens, yet the warmth of his body raises goosebumps along your arms. You only fully come to when you catch what he’s looking at.
“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” he hums thoughtfully, going through his camera roll to show each photo he snapped, each one more lewd than the last. Your eyes widen, something he notices. “No need to worry. I plan on keeping these for myself.” He kisses your temple reassuringly. “Though I wasn’t kidding about you making a perfect model.”
You don’t look away from the photos until Yukimiya gently holds your chin to kiss you, a soft sigh leaving his body as he physically relaxes.
You flinch, pulling back abruptly. “Ken—”
He kisses you again, hugging you closer as he licks your bottom lip. You’re lulled back into a false sense of comfort, closing your eyes as he completely takes over.
CLICK
You blink, pulling back to find him holding his phone a foot away from you two, a photo of your shared kiss captured on the screen. He smiles like he’s guilty, but not sorry.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, tapping at his device. “I figured this would make a great lock screen.” He leans in to whisper, like he’s sharing a secret. “One of the other ones can be my home screen.”
You look at him in awe, in terror, you don’t know.
english is not my first language. please excuse any mistakes.
“Hop, hop, little bunny, hop, hop.”
You sang your made-up song and clapped, waiting for the shorter boy who looked at you with tears in his eyes to do what the lyrics said. “I said hop!”
The boy visibly flinched at how loud you shouted at him, then he slowly crouched down. Seeing that, you started to sing again.
“Hop, hop, little bunny, hop, hop.”
The boy hopped.
His name was Bunny Iglesias, and he used to be the smallest boy in your class. Looking at him now, it’d never been clearer that the word ‘small’ couldn’t describe the boy you used to bully anymore. In fact, at the age of nineteen, he was already taller than most of the people in this fancy-ass night club.
You wished you hadn’t come. What were the chances of meeting a school friend whom you hadn’t met in thirteen years again? Possible, but not likely, you reckoned. So when a big group of men entered your zone and you saw a familiar face there, your brain short-circuited for a second.
And it had to be him, didn’t it?
One could never forget a face like that—red, wide eyes with that pale lavender hair, and an x-shaped scar on his right cheek. The vertical cut ran across his eye while the horizontal went across the bridge of his nose. You used to tease him about it, making his bright eyes lose the light within when you said it made him look like a freak. It was this exact same scar that lived in your head rent-free for years even after its owner was gone.
You were both six years old when you met in primary school, and by seven, Bunny left. He used to love basketball, always staying late to use the school’s court. The first time you saw him on TV playing football, you stopped whatever you were doing and stared until the camera cut to another player—stunned.
“Aren’t basketball players supposed to be tall?” You asked mockingly, your thumbs hooked on your backpack straps, standing on the sideline talking to the only person using the court. “If you’re short, you gotta jump higher.”
There was no reaction from Bunny, and that made you want to provoke him more.
“Well, your name is already Bunny. Go on. Jump,” you said. “Jump like a little bunny.”
Bunny’s eyes turned to you, and you instantly snapped out of your childhood memory.
“I’m going to go get some air.” You told one of your friends, didn’t wait for an answer and just walked. You needed to get out of here. Passing through the crowd of people, you headed towards where you knew would lead to the exit. When you saw the door, you walked faster. Just a few steps away, you thought.
Suddenly, your wrist was grabbed, and the door was no longer in sight. You were pulled into what looked like a short hallway. There was another door at the end, but there was a belt barrier in front of it, telling you there would be no one coming in to possibly rescue you from whatever situation you were about to be in.
Of course it was Bunny standing in front of you. The club’s low light fell on one side of his face, and you knew. It was the scar; it couldn’t be someone else. If you thought he was tall before, he was imposing now face-to-face. Gone was the scrawny little kid whose dream was to be a basketball player. Now, he was the Bunny Iglesias of FC Barcha, one of the most promising players in the football world right now.
“Do you remember me?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Your voice was hoarse, but you knew he heard you because the music wasn’t that loud here. “Of course.”
“And you didn’t think to say hi,” he said with a blank stare. “That was rude of you.”
Confused, you said, “Hi.”
That made him laugh, but it was dry and mirthless. Then his eyes scanned you, roving along your body from your feet up, making you fidget and suddenly uncomfortable in your skimpy spaghetti-strap dress.
“You’re so,” he paused to ponder, “small”
Oh, you knew he still hated you, alright. Thirteen years and still hadn’t forgotten what you said to him and made him do. Now he spat it back in your face, and he wasn’t wrong. Having to crane your neck just to take a look at his face, you were sure he was at least 6’3. Huge and fit, very athletic.
And very scary. Considering that you used to bully him verbally and physically, it wasn’t that unreasonable to think he might want some payback.
But you were six years old, for crying out loud. Kids did things they didn’t mean all the time. You wanted to say, but you also knew he had the right to be mad. You hid his basketball, called him a little bunny and made him hop like one. You made fun of his dream. After the teacher made everyone stand up and tell their classmates their dreams, you told him his would never come true, that it was stupid and he should give it up.
You were the reason he moved schools the following year.
His parents made sure everyone knew, all the teachers and parents, resulting in your classmates distancing themselves from you. After he was gone, you became the next freak no one wanted to talk to. There was no way you wouldn’t remember him. He left quite an impression, too.
“You should come to my game,” he said, giving you a soft smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Next Saturday.”
“I’m busy,” you answered a bit too quickly, and he squinted. “College stuff.”
“You owe me an apology.” He finally addressed the elephant in the room. “It’s the least you could do.”
It was that moment you noticed his hand was still on you, his thumb caressing the inside of your wrist gently. It did nothing to ease your mind, though. Deep down, you knew this was a bad idea, but because of what he said, you promised you would go. Just like he said—it was the least you could do.
—
Hop, hop, little bunny, hop, hop.
You thought of that silly song as you watched Bunny jump unrealistically high and kick the ball mid-air, scoring another goal for his team. At this point where there were only two minutes left, there was no way the other team would take the lead, not unless they could score two goals in succession or one to at least tie so the game would go to extra time. That would give them another chance to try to score a winning goal, but from the look of it, you didn’t think it was going to happen.
Bunny’s play was incredible. He was fast, powerful, and precise. And his jump… it was damn insane. You felt a pang of shame in your heart every time he did it, thinking back to the times you used to watch him jump under the basketball hoop, one hand reaching up trying to get close to the rim. He could’ve definitely been a basketball player. It was you who didn’t see the vision and acted like a dick.
Because you were a kid.
He told you to wait for him after the game, but you weren’t going to. Coming here today was you paying for your sins, but you refused to be gaslit into believing you had to give anything more.
And so you left, only to meet him again a week later in the same club, ending up in the same hallway, but this time, on your knees with his cock down your throat.
He was angry you left. Your phone was bombarded with texts from him that day after the game asking where you’d gone, but you left them unread and quickly muted the chat. You didn’t want to give him your number, but you had to because he said he’d text you the details on where to get the ticket and stuff.
It should’ve been enough, going to his game to acknowledge how great he had become, but Bunny didn’t share the same sentiment. For him, you didn’t deserve to be let off so easily. It was unfortunate that one of his friends befriended one of yours, and that your friend happened to tell that new friend they were going to be here tonight. That was how Bunny knew; he thought he would find you here, and he did.
Breathing through your nose was the only thing that kept you conscious, considering how blocked your mouth was. Bunny fucked your face hard, mercilessly, with both of his hands on the back of your head, shoving you down to take him in as much as you could.
The first couple of times he made you deepthroat him, you gagged, not used to the deep invasion. But he was surprisingly patient for someone who told you frankly he was angry with you before hauling your ass away from the dance floor to suck cock in a place where people could see if they were nosy or drunk enough to stray in.
“Relax your throat. More, angel, more. Just like that. Fuck.”
It felt like your jaw was going to fall off. It took him forever to come, but when he did, you realized you weren’t quite ready for it. The whole load was blown down your throat, and you had no choice but to swallow, drinking his cum as if it were a drink served directly and exclusively to you. It might as well have been, seeing that it made you a little drunk.
Bunny slapped your face with his cock teasingly before tucking himself in, smiling sweetly all the while. Under the influence of his cum, it looked almost genuine.
From then on, you didn’t dare ignore his texts again.
—
His pull-out game was atrociously weak, and most of the time, he didn’t even try. Who would’ve thought Bunny would have a breeding kink? Not you. He didn’t seem like the type to risk doing this with anyone. In fact, he didn’t seem like the type to be interested in sex at all. He just… looked bored all the time. Even with the permanent cold smile etched on his face, you weren’t fooled. This man was so dead inside and pessimistic to the core. You didn’t see that bright-eyed kid anymore when you looked at him.
The fact that he seemed to genuinely enjoy doing something for once, even if that something involved filling your pussy up with his cum and telling you he’d get you round with his kids so you could never leave, surprised you to no end.
When confronted with the observation and the plea for him to be more careful, because even if you were on the pill, it wasn’t foolproof, he simply said,
“You ruined my life. I ruined yours. Isn’t that fair?”
“Fair? I was six years old!”
“And yet, you still managed to destroy the dream of another six-year-old so carelessly,” he said, calm and collected. “I lost the one thing I enjoyed, and then I gained another. Fair.”
He didn’t have to tell you what that one thing was; you knew immediately he was talking about basketball, and you as its replacement. Absolutely bonkers.
Then he unzipped his jeans. “Now, hop on my cock.”
And hop on it you did. You were glad he didn’t make you sing the song, vengeful as he was; that would’ve made you wish you hadn’t been born. His full length slid into your pussy without a hitch, and in no time, you were bouncing on it. It didn’t take you long to feel an orgasm creeping in. After months of fucking, Bunny already knew your body like the back of his hand.
Bunny pulled you down against his chest and wrapped both arms completely around you then bucked his hips up fast, fucking you dumb. You wished you still had some fight left in you, just like the first few months when you used to make things hard for him. It was almost too easy now, and at times, you felt ashamed of yourself.
The feeling of his cum spurting inside was inexplicably intimate; it was like being marked—a property of Bunny Iglesias. And perhaps, you were. He even introduced you to his teammates, just a few weeks back, telling everyone you used to have a big crush on him, and that was why you were a little mean to him as a kid. He didn’t go into details, didn’t tell anyone you crushed his dream, but his eyes told you he would if you wouldn’t shut up and play along.
“Cute story, isn’t it?” Bunny said to his footballer friends, his big hand placed on your waist proprietarily. He brought you down to the field after the game for some photos, and if nobody noticed you wearing a number 19 jersey before, they definitely did now. “Now her wish is fulfilled. Never give up, right?”
People laughed, and you laughed with them. And when Bunny kissed you, you did your best not to pull back too soon and even kissed him back, once on the lips and once on his scar. Immediately, the fake glee on his face was replaced with something darker. His eyes were clouded by a look that read, ‘You will get fucked until you cry tonight,’ but you didn’t care.
contrary to popular belief, i don’t think kaiser would be the type to be into degradation or rough sex. i don’t think he’d be the type to link violence or any type of cruelty in his love life. matter of fact, i think he would touch you and handle you with the most care he’s ever given to anything or anyone else ☹️☹️☹️ his hands probably shake the first time you let him touch you
synopsis. ꨄ︎ asking your bllk boyfriend to send you a video of him planking until failure (insp by this trend. please open at ur convenience. i’m not kidding when i added they WHIMPER)
includes. ꨄ︎ NSFW/SUGGESTIVE!!!! cursing, pet names, joking violence, mention of pegging (kaiser), bunny's (and maybe hugo's) might be ooc (sorry guys i can't get a grasp of his full personality off like 5 panels), implied that reader is shorter than bunny
notes. ꨄ︎ i apologize if this is corny. i'm only good at crack and being mean to the bllk men </3
♪ track. ꨄ︎ n/a
end notes. ꨄ︎ mb to the aiku stans for bullying him twice :p
Does anyone else feel weirdly attracted to Abel after Hear My Hope? I don’t know if it’s his squishable face, him growing a backbone, or it’s just Patrick Stump’s voice, but I feel a certain way about him.
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
2087
pixelskylines
dededos
prguitarman
