paws and cotton tails ft. Sae Itoshi & Bunny inglesias
・❥・smut mdni time to spice things up in the relationship. hope you like costumes ;)
sae itoshi
the outfit was your idea, which means sae has exactly zero sympathy for you right now.
you'd bought it yourself. showed up at his door in that little black cat set, ears clipped into your hair, a thin collar with a bell sat at your throat and a tail plug already worked inside you before you even knocked. his expression didn't change. not really. but his eyes dragged down your body slow, that cold teal going just a few degrees warmer, and the pause before he spoke was longer than usual.
"you look ridiculous," he said. then he stepped aside and let you in.
he doesn't do soft with the cat thing. doesn't coo at you or call you precious or any of that nonsense. instead it's cruel and clinical and so fucking good. he'll grab the collar instead of your throat, just a two-fingered hook underneath the bell, and pull your face up to his. "sit," he says. flat. final. and he watches you do it. watches you lower yourself slowly, kneeling in front of him, and the corner of his mouth just barely moves.
he likes the tail most. likes knowing it's been inside you since before he even touched you. he'll reach around mid-fuck and tug it, not hard, just enough, and feel you clench around him immediately. "there," he'll say, like he solved a puzzle. like you're a puzzle. "that's what you needed."
he'll have you on all fours on the bed, face pressed into the sheets and ass tilted up, the little tail curled against your skin. he grips your hips and holds you exactly where he wants you and then he just takes his time lining up. doesn't rush. makes you feel every second of the wait. "you dressed up like this," he says, voice flat and contemptuous, "and you can't even hold still."
you whine. the bell on your collar chimes.
he's smirking hard. you feel it more than see it.
when he pushes in it's slow and thorough, every inch of him stretching you wide around the tail still seated inside you, the double fullness making your breath stutter and collapse in your chest. "s'too— hah—" you start. sae's hand comes down on the meat of your ass, not punishing, just sharp enough to make your whole body jolt. "i didn't ask," he says.
he fucks you like he plays. precise. economical even. every thrust landing exactly where he wants it, angle adjusted slightly until he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake and then he stays there over and over again grinding into it. "you're going to cum like that," he tells you. not a question. he reaches under you and finds your clit with two fingers, barely rubbing, just pressure, just enough. "since you went through all this trouble."
his dirty talk is mean in trademark quiet way. not theatrical, just true. "pathetic," he murmurs against the back of your neck when you start crying. "dressed up all pretty and begging already." he grabs the base of the tail and pulls it free, slow and the stretch of empty makes you sob, but you still feel just as stuffed with just his cock. the sounds you make aren't even words. it's just noise. just him, reducing you to noise.
when you cum he talks you through it like he's mildly inconvenienced. "there. go on. stop holding it." and you do. you fall apart completely, bell chiming softly as you shake, face wrecked against the mattress. sae doesn't stop. he keeps fucking you through it, into the oversensitivity and says nothing else until he finishes, buried deep and still, fingers gripping your hip so hard you'll have small bruises in the shape of him tomorrow.
he pulls out and looks at the mess. looks at you, ears askew, collar twisted, tail discarded on the sheet beside you. something in his face shifts, something that isn't quite soft but is the closest he gets. he fixes your ears. doesn't say anything. just straightens them, like that matters.
(he also takes a pic for future travels without you)
bunny iglesias
he bought the suit for you. that's the first thing you need to understand.
you didn't suggest it, didn't hint at it, didn't send a single screenshot to a single groupchat. you came over and found a box on his bed with a little bow on it and bunny sitting in the chair across the room, cap pulled low, that gentle smile already settled on his face. "try it on," he said, like he was suggesting you taste something he'd cooked.
the suit was white. a fluffy tail at the back, long ears on a headband, a corset-cut bodysuit that pushed your tits together and cut high on your hip, sheer white thigh-highs clipped to garters. you looked in the mirror and felt your face go hot.
when you came back out bunny's smile didn't get bigger. it just got slower.
"come here, conejita," he said. little bunny. and his voice was so gentle you almost didn't register what his hands were doing until they were already on you.
he's not cruel the way sae is. bunny's mean in this sweet, drifting way that gets under your skin differently. he'll cup your face and look at you like you're something wonderful and then say, "you look so dumb in this, you know that? so fucking dumb and pretty," and kiss your forehead before you can react.
he takes his time. always. bunny has this quality of being completely unhurried that should feel relaxing but instead builds something unbearable. he undresses himself while you kneel on the bed and he watches you watching him, and he smiles. "you're drooling," he says. you weren't (you were close to though). he tilts his head, all those light strands falling loose, the scars on his face catching the light. "actually… maybe i like that."
he fucks you on your back first. wants to see your face, he says. wants to watch the ears. he hooks your thigh up high and takes you apart slow and thorough, the fluff of the little tail pressing between you and the sheets, and he narrates it all in this quiet, conversational voice. "you feel that? that's all of me. you're taking it so well." a beat. "well. mostly well. your face is embarrassing, conejita."
"bunny, please—"
"please what." not a question. he knows. he just wants you to say it.
"please move, please, just—"
"just what? you're going to have to be specific." his hips roll, once, devastating, hitting deep, and you gasp and he watches you gasp with those big red eyes completely calm. "there? you wanted that?" he does it again. slower. "say yes."
"yes, yes, yes—"
"good girl." and then he actually moves and you feel it everywhere.
the dirty talk escalates as he gets closer. starts sweet and gets filthy, this gradual slide, like he can't help it. "you're so wet it's obscene," he murmurs. "such a mess. don't you have any shame, letting me do this to you?" he's bottoming out with every thrust now, the slap of skin loud and wet, your thighs shaking around him. "look at you," he breathes. "my little bunny. all stuffed full." he grabs the back of your knee and pushes it towards your chest, changing the angle and the sound you make makes his breath hitch for the first time. "oh," he says, softer. "there you are."
he comes undone quietly. you can feel it before you see it, the way his rhythm breaks slightly, the way his jaw tightens. he grabs your hip hard enough that it surprises both of you. "don't move," he says, and his voice has dropped a full octave and gone rough. "don't. move." he fucks into you deep and stays there, grinding, chasing it, and when he cums it's with his forehead dropped to your collarbone and a low, fractured sound that he clearly didn't mean to let out.
afterwards he just stays there. doesn't move for a long moment. breathes against your skin.
then he lifts his head and one of your bunny ears has fallen across your cheek and he looks at it and his face does something complicated. he reaches up and straightens it. and then his thumb brushes under your eye where your makeup has tracked down, slow and deliberate.
(he buys 10 more suits after this. one for each occassion)
・❥・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.
the only ball that matters ft. multiple blue lock men
・❥・sfw but a lil suggestive ;) no average person could win a 1v1 vs these football stars... luckily you're not average and got a few tricks up your sleeve
ft. sae, kaiser, bunny, shidou
sae itoshi
the first thing he does when you suggest a 1v1 is look at you like you've said something mildly offensive.
not mean. just. that specific sae look, the one where his teal eyes go flat and his mouth does almost nothing and somehow the combination communicates you can't be serious more efficiently than words ever could.
"you'll lose in thirty seconds," he says.
"so what," you say back. "i want to try."
he considers this. then he places the ball on the grass between you and takes two steps back and that's that, apparently. no warm-up. no instruction. just sae, looking bored, waiting.
you last longer than thirty seconds. you last maybe forty-five, which feels like an achievement until you realise he was genuinely going slow. the way he moves is so controlled, no wasted motion, the ball always exactly where he intends it. you lunge for it twice and he sidesteps both times with this infuriating economy of movement. not even looking at your feet, just looking at your eyes, reading you before you know you've decided anything.
you're starting to sweat. he's not.
and that's when you get the idea.
it's a terrible idea. you know it's a terrible idea. but he's standing close now, having let you herd him slightly toward the edge of the makeshift boundary, you're breathing hard and he's waiting for your next move with that same flat patience and something in you decides that if you can't beat him with your feet you'll try something else entirely.
you close the distance between you in one step.
he doesn't move back. sae would never back down (from you at least), he doesn't flinch, just watches you come with those calm calculating eyes. and you go up on your toes and kiss him. quick. one second, maybe less. just enough to be real.
his breath stills.
you break away, spin, and kick the ball.
it rolls about three metres before sae's foot stops it from behind without him even seeming to move properly. and when you turn around he's standing there with the ball under his boot and his expression has shifted into something you cannot read, something between annoyed and not-annoyed, and there's a faint colour at the top of his cheekbones that has absolutely nothing to do with exertion.
"that's a foul," he says.
"there's no referee."
silence. he looks at you. really looks, the kind of look that doesn't miss anything.
"again," he says quietly. and it is absolutely not clear whether he means the 1v1 or the kiss.
probably both.
michael kaiser
kaiser makes everything into a performance. even this.
he'd agreed to practice with you because you'd asked and because somewhere underneath all the theatre of him he's secretly twiling his little rat tail, he likes being the one someone turns to when they're trying to get better. he'd never say that. but he'd said yes, hadn't he.
he's been talking the entire time. not rudely, actually. he's surprisingly good at explaining things when he wants to be, precise in the way that people who've thought deeply about their craft can be and you've learned more in the last twenty minutes than in any amount of watching from the sidelines.
the problem is he's also been absolutely insufferable about how easily he takes the ball from you.
"see, that's the error," he says, for the fourth time, having just dispossessed you so smoothly it felt choreographed. "you commit before you're certain. i can read you before you move. you telegraph everything."
"right," you say, pushing your hair back. "yes. very helpful."
he grins. it's the kind of grin that knows it's beautiful and has long since stopped pretending otherwise. his light blue eyes catch the afternoon light and his blond hair with its blue-streaked ends shifts in the breeze and god, he is genuinely annoying.
"want to go again?" he asks. sweetly. infuriatingly.
"i want to win at least once before i die," you say, "and i'm starting to feel creative about my methods."
that gets an eyebrow raise. "oh?"
you reset. the ball between you. and this time when you move toward it you don't look at your feet or his feet or the ball. you look at him. his eyes. and you step in close, faster than he expects, and you press your mouth against his.
it's the slightest thing. barely a breath of contact.
but kaiser. kaiser makes a sound. low and startled and immediately suppressed. and in that half-second of him being genuinely, actually caught off-guard you duck sideways and get your foot to the ball and push it forward.
you make it four steps.
then his arm hooks around your waist from behind and he pulls you back against him and you feel him laughing, actually laughing, his chest moving against your back, his chin near your temple.
"you," he says, voice warm and amused and something else underneath, "are cheating."
"i learned from watching you," you tell him.
his arm doesn't move. the ball sits four steps away, unclaimed by either of you.
"clever," he murmurs, still close and the word has nothing to do with football anymore.
bunny iglesias
bunny doesn't take football seriously enough to make you feel bad about losing. that is, strangely, the most disarming thing about him.
he'd found a patch of grass near the hotel, nowhere special and he'd just started doing things with the ball and then looked at you with those big red eyes and tilted his head slightly as if to say well? and somehow you were just. playing. no formal start. no scorekeeping.
he moves like water, which sounds like a cliché but watching him you can't think of anything else, it's the only honest description. no angles, no hard stops. just continuous motion, the ball following him like it's attached by invisible string. when he jumps, even casually, even just stepping over the ball as it rolls, there's a half-second where gravity seems to forget about him.
you've been chasing that ball for twenty minutes.
"you're fast," he offers, conversationally. he's not being patronising. it sounds like he means it, which is somehow worse.
"you're faster," you pant.
he hums. glances at you with that soft, slightly elsewhere expression he always has. "you're trying to think your way through it," he says. "football isn't really a thinking sport. it's a feeling sport."
"is there a difference?"
"yes," he says simply.
and then he passes you the ball. gently. you stop it, look up at him. he's just standing there in the afternoon light with his lavender hair and his scarred face and that gentle perpetual half-smile, hands in his pockets, not in a defensive stance at all.
"go on," he says.
you approach. careful. he watches with those red eyes, not moving, and something about being watched that calmly makes you nervous in a way that fast opponents don't. you fake left. he doesn't bite. you step over the ball, try to cut inside. he shifts one foot, just one, positioning himself without urgency.
and then you stop. and you lean in. and you press a soft, quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
he goes very still.
you move for the ball.
and he lets you have it. just. lets you take it and run, and you make it all the way to the makeshift goal before you look back and he's still standing where you left him, not turned around, touching the corner of his mouth with two fingers. when he does look up his expression is complicated in a way that you can't name. something between surprised and something older and quieter.
"that was kind," he says finally. like kind is a word he doesn't encounter very often and isn't entirely sure what to do with.
"did it work?" you ask.
"…yes," he admits. and he looks at you for a moment longer, and something about the quality of his attention has shifted, like he's seeing you properly now, which maybe he wasn't before. "it worked."
ryusei shidou
the thing about shidou is that he is already a problem before you even touch the ball.
he hadn't so much agreed to a 1v1 as simply started one, appearing beside you on the pitch and flicking the ball from your feet before you'd finished the sentence, already grinning that sharp-toothed grin of his, those cat-slit pink eyes bright with amusement.
"try and take it back," he says.
"that's not how you ask someone to practice," you tell him.
"don't care," he says cheerfully.
and that's shidou for you. entirely self-contained. no preamble. no rules. he moves with this aggressive erratic energy that's somehow also efficient, his body occupying space in ways that shouldn't work, dribbling sideways and backward and diagonal. you lunge for the ball twice and his hip checks you aside both times without him even looking at you, like you're furniture he's navigating around.
"you're not even trying," he says. not unkindly. just factually, a bit bored, which is somehow the worse insult.
"i'm absolutely trying," you say.
"try harder then." he juggles the ball once, catches it on his knee, grins at you. "i'll even let you get close."
let you. you want to kick him.
and then a genuis idea strikes.
you approach again. he bounces slightly on his heels, ball at his feet, watching you with those luminous pink eyes all lit up and ready. you get close. properly close. close enough that he tilts his head slightly, reading you, something flickering in his expression that might be interest.
and you take his face in your hands and you kiss him. not quick and tactical. actually kiss him. one full, deliberate second of mouth-to-mouth contact.
he makes an absolutely unhinged noise.
it's not a bad noise. it's the noise of someone who has been genuinely, comprehensively short-circuited. you feel his hands come up automatically, grip your arms, not pushing you away, just. gripping. and you spin out of it, break contact and kick the ball as hard as you can toward the opposite end.
when you turn back he's standing there and his face is. not composed. his chest is rising a bit faster and his cat eyes are dark and his grin has gone sideways into something less playful and more focused, like a switch has been thrown somewhere.
"that was dirty," he says. and his voice has dropped a register.
"you told me to try harder."
his tongue touches his lower lip. briefly. "do it again and i'm not letting you take the ball."
a beat. he tilts his head.
"i'm not letting you take the ball anyway," he adds. "but there are other things i'd let you take."
and you point at him and say "football," very firmly, because you know exactly where this is going and he laughs, loudly, and the ball sits forgotten between you and neither of you go for it immediately, and his eyes on you are still that switched-on shade of too-bright and too-warm.
he'll let the game go, just for a moment.
just for this.
an: not even gonna lie fluff is really fun to write i might be cooked. anyways thank for the req <3
・❥・smut mdni poor sae looks so stressed in the shower, luckily for him you know just how to help
the shower is already running when you slip in behind him.
sae doesn't flinch. doesn't turn around. just stands there with his head bowed forward, both hands braced against the tile, letting the water beat down on the back of his neck like it owes him something. steam fills the stall thick and slow. you can see the tension in his shoulders from here, the way they sit too high, too tight, the line of his spine rigid under the hot spray.
you press your chest to his back.
he exhales. just barely. but you feel it.
"rough day?" you murmur against his shoulder blade.
"don't." his voice is low, flat.
you don't push it. you just… stay there. let your palms slide up over his stomach first, feeling the muscle contract under your hands, water-slick and warm. he's beautiful like this, stripped down and quiet, nothing to perform. your fingers trace up his chest, slow, deliberate, no rush at all.
his head dips a little lower.
you press a kiss to the back of his shoulder. then another. then you drag your lips up the curve where his neck meets his shoulder and you feel him go still, that particular kind of still that isn't indifference, it's the opposite.
"i've got you," you say quietly. only for him.
"i know," he says. low. like it costs him something to admit.
your hand slides down.
you wrap your fingers around him slowly, and he's already half-hard, already responding to you before your hand even tightens and you feel the faintest hitch in his chest against your back. you start slow. long, easy strokes from base to tip, thumb tracing the head on the upstroke, and sae's jaw tightens. you watch the tendons in his neck pull taut.
"f…" he starts, swallows it back down.
"let me hear you," you say, right against his spine.
"keep going." rougher now. not a request, not quite. "just like that."
you tighten your grip and he drops his chin to his chest, a quiet sound escaping him before he can stop it. you pick up the pace, just a little, the hot water running over both of you, over your joined hands, and the sounds it makes are wet and obscene and you feel heat coiling low in your own stomach just from the way he's starting to breathe.
his hips shift. barely perceptible. a tiny roll forward into your fist, like he couldn't help it.
"you like that?" you whisper.
"good girl." the words fall out of him quiet and certain, like he's been holding them in his mouth. "you always know exactly what i need."
your breath catches. he feels it, the way your body reacts and something in the line of his back shifts with satisfaction.
you slide your free hand up his chest and press your palm flat over his heart and you feel it, the way it's actually hammering under all that composure, all that cold control he wears everywhere. here. just here, in the steam and the noise of the water, you have all of him.
you work him properly now, rhythm steady, grip firm, and sae's breathing comes apart at the seams. little broken exhales he's clearly trying to suppress, the tension in his body caught between wanting to hold it together and not being able to. his head drops back and rests against yours for just a moment, heavy.
"that's it," he breathes. "right there. don't you dare stop."
you press your lips to his jaw. you would never stop.
"so good to me," he mutters, half to himself, like the words are slipping out past whatever wall he usually keeps up. his voice is wrecked, barely above a rasp. "always so good to me."
something in you melts completely.
his hand comes down and covers yours. not to stop you. just to feel it. his long fingers wrap over your knuckles as you move and he guides the pace, just slightly, pressing your grip tighter, controlling it from underneath, and that undoes you more than anything else he could have done.
his hips are moving with you now, chasing the friction, chasing the heat. you can hear him coming apart in the way his breath fragments into short punched-out sounds, quiet but real. his knuckles go white where he's still braced against the tile with his other hand.
"close?" you breathe.
"yeah." rough. honest. explicit. then, just above a whisper, "don't stop. don't you stop."
you press tighter against his back, your whole body against his, your mouth on his shoulder and you feel the moment it tips. the way his stomach pulls in hard and his thighs go rigid and he comes with a low, muffled sound that he buries into the air in front of him, shuddering back against you, hips stuttering through it. your name, barely shaped, falls out of him on the exhale. you work him through every second, slow and thorough, until his breathing starts to soften and his weight settles back into you properly.
for a while neither of you says anything.
the water runs over you both and the steam sits heavy and the whole world outside this tiled box doesn't exist.
then sae reaches back and his wet hand finds your hip. holds it. doesn't say anything, doesn't look at you, just keeps you there against him. fingers pressing in, certain and deliberate, the way he handles things he intends to keep.
you rest your cheek against the back of his shoulder and close your eyes.
the tension is gone. the line of his spine has finally, finally released. he breathes slow and even now and you breathe with him, matching it. the water runs warm and the steam thickens and sae just stands there holding you in place with one hand like you might otherwise drift away.
if you score, you can have it ft. multiple blue lock men
・❥・smut mdni he wanted a kiss for a goal, but you know he deserves far more than that ;)
ft. shidou, kaiser, karasu, bunny
there's a particular kind of chaos that comes with dating a footballer whose ego is already astronomical before they've even laced their boots.
it starts the way it always does. pregame. him stretching, half-dressed, shooting you that look across the room like he's already decided how the night ends. and you, sitting there with your legs crossed and a coffee going cold in your hand, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
"if i score today," he says, casual as breathing, "i want a kiss."
you don't even look up. "cute."
"i'm serious."
"i know." you take a sip. "the answer's still no."
a beat. he shifts closer. you can feel him watching you now, that particular brand of attention that's more pressure than patience.
"what do i have to do, then."
not a question. more like he's already negotiating terms, already assuming there are terms. you set your cup down, finally look at him, and let the silence stretch just long enough that he starts to think you might actually shut him down completely.
"score," you say, "and you can hit it from behind."
whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. something shifts in his expression, sharpens. the pregame adrenaline that was already simmering in him finds a new target.
"yeah?"
"yeah." you pick your cup back up. "if."
the emphasis on that word does something to him you'll feel later.
he scores.
of course he does.
ryusei shidou
he texts you from the pitch. while the game is still going. second half, 73rd minute, one goal up, and your phone buzzes with a message that just reads told u with three of those stupid cat-face emojis.
by the time the final whistle blows he's already abandoned his teammates mid-celebration to find you.
you're barely through the tunnel before his hand wraps around your wrist, that sneaky grin stretched across his face, slitted pink eyes lit up like something feral got fed. he smells like sweat and grass and he doesn't care even a little bit. neither do you, though you'd die before admitting it.
"locker room." not a suggestion.
"ryusei, the others are still—"
"don't care." he's already pulling you. "made a deal."
the locker room is half-empty, a few guys filtering out, and he walks you past all of them like they're furniture, like there's only one thing in his field of vision right now and it has your face. someone wolf-whistles. he flips them off without turning around.
he pushes you into the back corner, tiles cold against your front, and his body against your back is the opposite. hot. solid. built like he was designed to be difficult to escape from, which, honestly.
"scored twice, by the way," he murmurs into your ear, breath warm, voice dropped to something rougher than his usual sharp-edged energy. "so technically i get it twice."
"that's not how the deal—"
"shhh." his hands find your hips, grip them, fingers pressing in hard enough that you'll feel it tomorrow. "made the deal. scored the goals. now be good and let me collect."
he gets your pants down quick and efficient like he's done this a thousand times in his head already, which, he has (but thats not the point). he doesn't tease. teasing requires patience and patience is somewhere else's problem. he just lines himself up, kicks your feet a little wider apart, and pushes in.
"hah—" the sound comes out of you before you can swallow it, fingers scrambling against the tile. he's thick and he doesn't ease into it, just fills you in one slow drag that makes your legs want to buckle and then he laughs, quiet and delighted, at the sound you made.
"there it is." he presses his mouth to the back of your neck. "that's what i wanted."
he fucks you like he plays. instinctive, aggressive, no wasted movement. each thrust snaps your hips forward against the wall, the tile cold on your palms, his hands keeping you exactly where he wants you, one gripping your hip and the other sliding around your front to press flat against your stomach, keeping you pinned against him on the pull-back.
"feels good, yeah?" he's grinning, you can hear it. "say it feels good."
"you're so annoy— fuck—"
"that's not what i asked." he angles up, hits something that makes your knees genuinely try to give out, and catches you. holds you up. like he's done this before, like he knew exactly what was going to happen when he pushed there. "try again."
"it feels— god, it feels—"
"say my name," he murmurs against the back of your neck, grinding in deep, grinding the words into you. "ryusei. when i'm inside you."
you say it. you say it twice. his grip tightens like a reward.
he comes with his face pressed into your shoulder and both hands locked around your hips so hard the bruises will last a week, jerking into you through it, making this low rough sound that you'll be thinking about at the most inconvenient possible times for the foreseeable future. you follow him down not long after, shaking against the tile, completely wrung out.
he stays pressed against your back afterward, breathing hard, and then, very casually, says: "gonna score a hat trick next game."
you laugh despite yourself. he feels it and grins against your skin.
michael kaiser
he doesn't text you. he doesn't need to. you were in the box seats and you watched him score, watched him turn to the camera right after with those light blue eyes and that insufferable golden smirk like the goal was addressed personally to you.
and then he winked.
the man actually winked at a camera in a professional stadium because he knew you were watching.
by the time you reach him in the tunnel he's already separated from the post-match cluster, leaning against the wall with his arms loose at his sides, wet-haired from a quick rinse, rose tattoo dark against his skin. he looks like he was put together specifically to be impossible to look away from. he knows this. intimately.
"i scored," he says, simple, like he's remarking on the weather.
"i saw."
"so." he pushes off the wall, tips your chin up with two fingers. "you know what that means."
he takes you to the car. his car, which is obscene and he drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh just above the knee the entire way, not moving it higher, just keeping it there. possessive and patient. the patience is the worst part because his patience has teeth.
the parking garage of his building is quiet. he turns the engine off and doesn't move, and neither do you, and then he says: "climb over."
you know what he means. you move to the back seat, he follows, and the confined space makes everything immediate, makes his height and the breadth of his shoulders suddenly pressing.
he takes your wrists in one hand, pins them behind your back, and uses the other to get you arranged exactly how he wants you. face down, knees on the leather, his chest against your spine.
"i want to hear you say i earned it," he says into your ear, voice smooth as cut glass, quiet in the way that's somehow louder than shouting.
"michael—"
"say it." the correction is patient. territorial.
"you…" you swallow. "you earned it."
"good girl." he rewards that with his hand sliding between your thighs and you stop thinking about much else.
he fingers you open slowly, deliberately, like he has nowhere else to be and nothing to prove, two fingers curled and working until you're trembling and he has extracted several sounds from you that you're choosing not to reflect on. then and only then does he pull his hand back, and you hear him, the breath, the shift of fabric.
when he pushes inside you it's a long, controlled slide that feels intentional in a way that none of your exes could manage. he means every inch of it. means the grip on your wrists and the tilt of his hips and the way he pulls back just far enough before driving back in, making each thrust land with enough force that your breath stutters.
"you feel that?" he asks, not rhetorically. he actually wants an answer.
"yes, god, yes—"
"good." satisfied. almost academic about it. "so do i."
he fucks you with a kind of deliberate precision that should be clinical but isn't, because underneath the control there's something genuinely hungry, something that surfaces in the way his grip tightens every time you make a sound, in the way his composure develops cracks around the edges the longer this goes on.
"mine," he says, near the end. not loud. just factual.
you come with your cheek against cold leather, his name dragged out of you and he follows with his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, breathing hard for the first time all night, the composure finally, entirely, gone.
he keeps you close after. doesn't say anything. just keeps one hand curled around your hip like he's not ready to let the moment dissolve yet, fingers tracing absently over the jut of bone.
possessive even in the quiet. maybe especially in the quiet.
tabito karasu
karasu, predictably, acts like the deal was already a foregone conclusion.
he'd told you before the game, with the particular flat certainty he uses for things he considers obvious, that the opposing team's left defender had a weak right ankle and would be over-compensating by the 30th minute and that he'd exploit it for an assist by the second half. what he didn't tell you was that he'd also time the actual goal himself, sliding into the box at precisely the moment nobody was watching him.
tactical. infuriating. completely him.
he finds you after, still in his kit, gloves still on, and he has that look on his face that he gets when something goes exactly according to his calculations. not smug, exactly. more like… vindicated.
"i scored," he says.
"you assisted twice and then snuck in a tap-in."
"still counts."
you laugh before you can stop yourself. he watches you do it with something shifting in his expression, something quieter underneath the usual sharpness. you've learned to notice that thing. it doesn't come out often.
"car," he says. then, after a pause: "please." the word sounds like it costs him something. you take it anyway.
his car is less flashy than his personality suggests, which is very him. clean interior, no nonsense. he drives you back to his apartment without discussion, because there was never really any question.
he gets you upstairs, gets the door locked behind you and then doesn't rush. stands in the hallway for a moment just looking at you with those blue eyes doing that thing where they're taking inventory, cataloguing, noticing everything.
"you look pleased with yourself," you say.
"i am." he peels one glove off. then the other. sets them down carefully. "you look flustered."
"i'm not—"
"you are." he steps close, tilts his head slightly. "but i can work with flustered."
he gets you to the bedroom with minimal theatrics, which is also very him. no posturing, no extended performance. he just knows what he wants and moves toward it with the same economy he applies to everything. he turns you around, unhooks, unzips, works through each piece of clothing like a problem being solved. by the time you're face-down on the bed with a pillow pulled under your hips you feel like you've been systematically taken apart and laid out.
"you're going to tell me when it's good," he says and it's not bossiness, exactly. more like he's establishing terms. collecting data. even now.
"tabito—" and something about saying his name like that, easy and familiar, makes something in his jaw shift.
when he enters you it pulls a broken exhale out of both of you, his breath stuttering just once, barely audible, before he steadies. starts to move. his hands are precise and attentive, one on your hip and one flat between your shoulder blades, adjusting the angle by small degrees until you make a specific sound, and then he keeps it exactly there, relentless and measured.
"there," he says, mostly to himself. "that's the one."
he's quiet during, mostly, which makes the sounds he does make matter more. a rough exhale when you clench. a low, involuntary sound he immediately tries to suppress when you reach back and find his hand. he lets you hold it. threads his fingers through yours.
you come first, undone by the precision of him, the way he never stops paying attention, and he follows close behind with his face in your hair and that quiet, controlled exterior finally, briefly, completely unraveled.
afterward he lies beside you and doesn't speak for a long moment. then: "your reaction time for goal number two was better than i expected."
you turn your head to stare at him.
"the pun," he clarifies, and his mouth does that almost-smile thing.
you throw his pillow at his face.
he catches it. still almost-smiling.
bunny inglesias
he doesn't tell you before the game that he's going to score. he just does.
and afterward, in the slow drift of the post-match hour, he finds you in one of the corridor spaces outside the locker room and he's wearing that gentle closed-mouth smile and his cap with the rabbit face, hair loose and a little damp, and he says, very softly:
"i scored."
"i know."
"so." the smile stays exactly where it is. "you said."
"i know what i said."
"okay." he tilts his head. "are you going to make me ask, amor?"
the thing about him is that he's calm in a way that doesn't read as passive. there's something underneath it, something attentive and patient and quietly certain. he's not demanding. he's not performing. he's just… waiting, with the full confidence of someone who already knows the answer and is giving you the courtesy of arriving at it yourself.
you take him back to the apartment. his. it has very little in it, which you've noticed before and never quite asked about. clean lines. practical. like someone who hasn't decided yet whether they're staying.
he takes off his cap, sets it on the table, and looks at you across the small space.
"how do you want me?" he asks.
which is not what you expected. you blink. he laughs, soft and brief, the most unguarded sound he makes.
"i'm asking," he says, stepping closer, "because i want to do it right."
he's gentle in a way that feels considered rather than careful, if that distinction makes sense. like gentleness is something he chooses rather than something that's just the absence of roughness. his hands move over you slowly, unhurried, taking stock, and when you finally get horizontal his body settles over yours like he was measuring the exact weight to apply.
he flips you over, easy and unhurried, your cheek finding the pillow, and he presses a single kiss to the back of your neck before he lines himself up.
when he pushes in he goes slow, slow enough that you feel every increment of the stretch, slow enough to hear his breath change, and you exhale the tension out of your spine all at once.
"okay?" he asks.
"yeah," you breathe. "yeah, it's—"
"good." he starts to move.
he rolls his hips with a rhythm that builds and doesn't rush, deep and patient, and he keeps his weight on one forearm beside your head with his other hand finding yours and pressing your palm to the mattress with his over it. not pinning. just covering. it's unbearably tender for something supposed to be a reward.
his mouth finds the curve of your neck, your shoulder, the soft place behind your ear. he doesn't say much, he rarely does, but once, quiet enough that you almost miss it: "you're so warm."
you don't know what to do with that. you hold it anyway.
he builds you up slowly, methodically, like he's reading something in your breathing and adjusting, and when you finally come it's with his name muffled into the pillow and his hand tightening over yours, lacing your fingers together. he follows with his face pressed to the back of your neck, a long shuddering breath, his whole body going still and then carefully, slowly, soft.
he doesn't move right away. stays draped over you, heavy and warm, and the room is very quiet.
then: "next game i'll score two."
you're so wrecked you barely process it. "bunny…"
"just letting you know," he says, and you can hear the smile in it, small and private and pointed entirely at you, "what you have to look forward to."
・❥・smut mdni god forbid a girl get some early morning cardio... especially when your mans looking a bit too fine to be asleep ;p
you don't mean to.
that's what you tell yourself, anyway.
it's early, the kind of early where the light through the curtains is still grey and soft, and the whole room smells like him, like warmth and sleep and something faintly cologne-sweet. sae is still out, breathing slow and even beside you, one arm thrown above his head, lashes resting dark against his cheeks. he looks almost approachable like this. almost soft.
and then your eyes drop.
his sleep shorts have ridden up just enough. his thighs are right there, and god, they're unfair. lean and athletic, dusted with a faint tan line, the muscle of them visible even relaxed. you know how strong they are. you've seen them on the pitch. you've been between them.
you shift a little. just to get comfortable. that's all.
except comfortable ends up with your thigh slotted over his and your hips doing this slow, half-conscious roll, chasing the friction before your brain has fully agreed to it.
the first press of his thigh between your legs makes you exhale quietly through your nose.
okay.
you can't stop now.
you move again, slow and careful, not wanting to wake him yet, riding the firm muscle of his thigh with the thin fabric of your underwear the only thing between you. the pressure is good. it's really good. you bite your lip and let your hips find a rhythm, small and shallow, hands braced soft against the sheets.
a tiny sound slips out. barely anything. a little breathy exhale.
sae's breathing changes.
you freeze.
"…" nothing. he's still.
you wait three full seconds, then keep going.
the friction builds and your hips roll a little deeper, chasing it, and another sound rises in your throat, this one less controlled, a soft whimper that you try to muffle against your own shoulder. the warmth is pooling low in your stomach and you're wet now, genuinely, the thin cotton of your underwear useless.
"you're actually unbelievable."
you jolt.
sae's voice is low and rough with sleep, not angry, not amused exactly, just deeply, terribly aware. his eyes are open, watching you with that half-lidded look that does nothing good for your composure. he hasn't moved. he's just looking at you, jaw ticking once.
"i was sleeping," he says.
"i know," you say, a little breathless.
"and you're humping my thigh."
"i'm not humping—"
he moves his thigh, a slow deliberate press upward, and the sound that comes out of you is mortifying. his expression shifts, something tightening behind his eyes, a muscle in his throat working.
you feel it before you see it. the way his jaw sets. the decision being made.
"mhmm," he says, quiet, almost to himself.
then his hands find your hips and he flips you, pressing you back into the mattress with his thigh slotted firmly between your legs, his body warm and solid over yours. morning-rumpled and unhurried, he looks down at you with those teal eyes slightly dark.
"keep going," he murmurs.
"what?"
"you started something." his thumb traces your hip bone. "finish it."
your face goes hot. "sae…"
"grind on my thigh," he says, perfectly even, like he's telling you to drink water. "go on."
and somehow that's worse than if he'd said it mean. it's the patience in it. the control. sae watching you with those sleep-soft eyes while you roll your hips against him, shameless now because you've been caught and there's no point pretending, and the friction is so much better with him pressed close, with his hands guiding your rhythm, his thigh flexing deliberately under you.
"s'good," you breathe, fingers curling into his shirt.
"yeah?" a low sound in his chest, not quite a groan. barely.
you can feel him getting hard against your hip. feel the way his grip on you tightens just slightly, the rhythm you're keeping pushing against his control in a way he won't admit out loud. his jaw is tight. his breathing has gone careful in a way that means he's working to keep it even.
"sae," you gasp softly, the tension winding up fast.
"i know." his voice has dropped an octave.
and then his hand slides from your hip down between your bodies, his fingers pressing against your underwear right where you're soaked through, and the sound you make is nothing like the careful quiet noises from before. it's loud and genuine and a little broken.
"christ," he mutters under his breath.
he pulls the fabric aside and his fingers find you properly and then you're gone, genuinely gone, grinding and shaking and coming apart with his name falling out of your mouth in pieces while he works you through it with a patience that should be illegal, watching your face like he's cataloguing every second.
you're still shaking when he finally stills his hand.
the room is quiet. grey-lit and warm. outside a bird starts up somewhere distant.
sae doesn't say anything for a long moment. then he presses his lips to your temple, brief and almost careless, his hand resting flat and warm on your stomach.
"next time," he says quietly, mouth still close to your ear, "wake me up."
a pause.
"properly."
you can feel his heartbeat against your side, faster than he'd ever admit. the sheets are a wreck. your thighs are still trembling. and sae settles back against the pillow with his arm around your waist like he didn't just completely unravel you before seven in the morning, already closing his eyes again.
like he's going back to sleep.
like you're supposed to just lie here, wet and wrecked and wanting more, in the ruin of what started as a quiet little moment that you absolutely, definitely did not mean to start.
・❥・nsfw mdni your dear friend sae gets you soaked 24/7. if only he knew the impact he had on you... he might even help out
the issue started three weeks ago. maybe four. you'd stopped counting because counting meant admitting it was a problem and you were not ready to do that.
it started small. sae walking through the front door of his flat after training, hair damp and loose around his jaw, jersey stuck to every line of his chest and you'd looked up from where you were sitting cross-legged on his sofa and felt something short-circuit behind your sternum. heat. low and immediate. the kind that embarrassed you.
you'd excused yourself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on your face for four minutes.
it happened again two weeks later. he'd been sitting across from you at the kitchen island, eating silently, teal eyes dragging over something on his phone and the light caught the line of his jaw and you'd pressed your thighs together under the counter and convinced yourself it meant nothing.
the third time, you'd just left.
grabbed your jacket mid-sentence, said something about an appointment you'd definitely forgotten to mention and practically bolted. sae had watched you go with that flat, unreadable expression he wore for everything. like nothing surprised him. like you were mildly irritating at best.
you'd gone home and taken care of it yourself, which helped for about two days.
so now you were doing the only rational thing available to you: avoiding him completely.
texts went unanswered for half a day at a time. when he called, you picked up but kept the conversations short, clipped, full of excuses. you're busy. you're tired. you've got to go. he didn't push. that was the thing about sae, he never pushed and somehow that made it worse.
three days of successful avoidance. then four.
you told yourself it was fine.
then he showed up at your door on a thursday evening with no warning, which was very on-brand for him, wearing a plain grey shirt and grey sweats with his hair pulled half-back. you opened the door and immediately felt your stomach drop straight through the floor.
"you've been weird," he said. not a question.
"i've been busy."
"no you haven't." he tilted his head slightly, teal eyes moving over your face with that quiet, surgical focus he usually reserved for reading a pitch. it was extremely unfair. "let me in."
"sae—"
"let me in."
you stepped back. because of course you did.
he came in and stood in the centre of your living room and looked at you and you looked anywhere but directly at him, which was its own problem because every angle of him was the problem.
"what's going on with you."
"nothing."
"you left my flat mid-conversation two weeks ago."
"i told you, i had—"
"you didn't have anything." flat. certain. "you're lying."
the silence stretched. you crossed your arms over your chest, a stupid defensive reflex and his eyes dropped to the motion and came back up. you wanted to sink into the floor and disappear forever.
"i'm fine. i just needed some space."
"from me."
"from… my situation?"
something shifted in his expression. not much. sae's face never gave him away completely. but his chin dipped slightly, eyes narrowing and you watched him file that sentence away and take it apart.
"what situation."
oh, you hated him.
"nothing. drop it."
he didn't drop it. he stepped closer. not crowding you, just… closer, one deliberate move that cut the distance in half and you felt your breath do something pathetic and uncoordinated.
"tell me."
"sae, i swear to god—"
"tell me."
and the way he said it the second time, quiet and low and with that absolute certainty that you would, something in your chest caved in.
"you're…" you pressed your lips together. hated the words before they were even out. "you're really difficult to be around sometimes. okay? you're… it's distracting. you're distracting. and i needed to not be distracted."
the silence after that was horrible.
then sae said, very quietly, "distracting."
"don't."
"how."
"sae."
"how am i distracting you."
your face was burning. he was looking at you with something that wasn't quite amusement but was adjacent to it, the faintest softening at the corners of that cold, pretty mouth and that was exactly the problem. that was the whole problem. you were staring at his mouth right now and your thighs were pressing together without your permission and you absolutely could not say any of this out loud.
except your face said it for you.
he went very still. then he stepped closer again. close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to hold his gaze, close enough that you could smell him, that specific warmth of clean skin and something underneath it that you'd catalogued against your will over the past month.
"you've been avoiding me," he said slowly, "because you're attracted to me."
"i hate you."
"that's not a no."
his hand came up and your heart lurched sideways, but he only tucked a piece of your hair back from your face. slow. deliberate. his fingers barely grazed your cheek and you felt it everywhere.
"you could've just said something," he said.
"sure. extremely easy thing to just say."
"it is."
"for you maybe. some of us have normal human feelings and get embarrassed."
something flickered through his expression. not quite a smile. but close. his hand stayed near your jaw, thumb just barely resting at the corner of your cheek.
"i've been waiting," he said, "for a while."
the bottom dropped out of your stomach. "you've been—"
"waiting." his thumb dragged slowly, just once, across your cheekbone. "for you to stop being so lukewarm about it."
you laughed before you could stop it, a short startled thing. "you're such an arse."
"yeah." he tilted your chin up. "come here."
he kissed like he did everything else. precise. purposeful. like he'd already decided exactly what he wanted and was taking it without apology. no fumbling, no hesitation, just his hand cupped around your jaw and his mouth on yours and the immediate, bone-deep relief of something you'd been tensed against for weeks finally letting go.
you grabbed his shirt.
he made a low sound against your mouth and walked you backward until the backs of your knees hit the sofa, then guided you down onto it, settling between your thighs with a composed ease that made you want to scream. he was still so collected. still him. meanwhile your hands were shaking slightly where they gripped his shoulders.
"sae—"
"i know." he pulled back just enough to look at you, teal eyes dragging down the length of you with that same quiet precision. whatever he saw made him dip back in, mouth at your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.
you pulled at his shirt. he helped you get it off.
and then you stopped thinking coherently for a while.
his hands were methodical and devastating, peeling your clothes off with a patience that was its own kind of cruelty, touching every inch of skin he uncovered like he was filing it away. you were already embarrassingly wet by the time he got your underwear off. he noticed and he didn't comment, just pressed two fingers against you and watched your face react.
"how long," he said.
"sae—"
"how long have you been like this." not asking, really. just taking inventory.
"weeks," you admitted, hips rolling without permission into his hand. "god, weeks."
he pressed his fingers in slowly, crooking them and your back arched off the sofa. "weeks," he repeated, like the word meant something. he worked you open with those two fingers, unhurried, watching every shift in your expression with that focused, unblinking attention he gave to things he actually cared about. the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet of the room. your thighs kept trying to close around his wrist and he kept you spread open with the flat of his forearm, not even looking down, just watching your face come undone.
"please," you managed. "sae, please, just—"
"just what."
"you know what."
he absolutely knew.
he pushed in slow and measured. you felt every inch of it, the thick stretch of him pressing you open, your fingers dug into his back and your breath came out broken and ragged. he stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, watching you.
"okay?"
one word. quiet. that was the warmth he kept mostly buried, surfacing just briefly.
"yeah," you breathed. "yeah, move, please—"
who was he to deny such a simple request?
not gentle. not rough either, just relentless, that same focused precision, every stroke deep and deliberate like he was trying to make a point. you cried out and he swallowed the sound, mouth at yours, hips rolling into you again and again at a pace that built and built and never gave you anything to brace against. the slap of skin. the creak of the sofa beneath you. the low, controlled sound he made in the back of his throat when you clenched around him.
"s'been killing me," you gasped, "looking at you, every time i—"
"i know." he pulled back and drove forward and you choked on air. "i know."
he got a hand between you, thumb finding your clit and that was it. that was the end of coherent thought entirely. you said his name three times in a row like it was the only word left in you and came apart around him, thighs shaking on either side of his hips and he worked you through it without slowing, dragging it out until you were whimpering and overstimulated and clinging to his shoulders with your nails leaving little crescents in his skin. he followed not long after, pressing deep and going still with a quiet, ragged exhale into your hair.
catching your breath, you sink into the sofa next to the man who just unravelled you completely. you lay with your head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow. the living room was dim, your clothes somewhere on the floor, the sofa cushion half hanging off the edge. a mess. very unlike him.
his hand was moving through your hair. slow, absent. like he didn't realise he was doing it.
"you could've just told me," he said eventually. still calm. a little insufferable.
"you could've said something first," you pointed out.
a pause. "fair."
you tilted your head up to look at him. his teal eyes met yours, and that expression was there again, the one that wasn't quite a smile. the one that was maybe better than a smile, because it was real and it was rare and it was pointed entirely at you.
"for the record," he said quietly, "the avoidance was annoying."
"for the record," you said, "so are you."
an: in all honesty this came from a request about baby fever but idk writing about the thought of wanting to squeeze a child out of my vagina isn't really something i can say i enjoy. i tried switching it up a bit but idk. either way more sae smut YIPPIE
・❥・smut mdni the bunny you grew up with was so cute, tiny and oh so easy to tease. jokes on you, this 6'3 menace hasn't forgotten one bit
you remember when he was small.
god, that's the funniest part of all this. you remember when bunny iglesias came up to your shoulder. maybe your collarbone if he really stretched. little kid with scruffled hair that stuck up weird in the back and these huge red eyes that blinked at you like a baby deer every time you teased him about it.
"you're so tiny," you'd tell him, and you'd put your hand flat on top of his head to measure, making a big dramatic show of the height difference. "how are you even real? you're like a little toy person."
and he'd just look up at you with that soft, open expression he had back then. not angry. not embarrassed, really. just… watching you. those red irises tracking your face with a patience that felt strange on a kid his age.
"i'll be taller than you someday," he said once, very simply.
you laughed. you actually laughed.
"sure you will, bunny."
he didn't say anything after that. just kept looking at you with those big eyes, and something in them you couldn't name. you were too busy being seventeen and tall and certain of yourself to pay attention to the thing settling quietly behind his expression.
you stopped seeing him regularly when you went to college. life moved. you heard things secondhand, the way you do with people who drift to the edges of your world. heard he made a youth team. heard he made the team. saw his name on sports sites you weren't even looking for. bunny iglesias. 191 centimeters. FC Barcha. twelve goals mid-season.
twelve goals.
you thought about that flat hand on the top of his head and felt something strange move through your stomach.
you didn't go looking for trouble when you ran into him at a mutual friend's thing. seriously. you were just there for the free drinks and to catch up with someone you actually liked.
but then there he was.
and listen. you knew, objectively, from the articles, from the photos. you knew he'd gotten tall. but knowing it and standing in front of it are two categorically different experiences.
he was across the room when you spotted him. talking to someone, head tilted slightly, that same unhurried stillness he'd had as a kid, that same patience, except now it was wrapped around a frame that made the guy next to him look like he was standing in a different scale. lavender hair, a black cap with a rabbit's face on it, scars on his face that you hadn't seen before, vertical line down his right eye, a horizontal one crossing his cheek and nose.
the scars made something tighten in your chest, but you didn't look away.
he turned before you got the chance to decide what to do. like he already knew where you were standing.
those red eyes found you across the room and his mouth curved into that soft, gentle smile. quiet. easy. like nothing in the world.
"hey," he said, when he drifted over, because of course he came to you first, of course he did. his voice was lower than you remembered. "it's been a while."
"yeah," you said. "it really has."
you had to look up at him.
you didn't know what to do with that.
"you got tall," you said, because you're an idiot apparently and his smile didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. something warm and slow and patient, like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that.
"you told me i would," he said.
you don't actually remember who suggested leaving. maybe it was mutual. the details blurred together in the specific way that details do when something is already inevitable and your brain knows it before your mouth catches up. what you remember is the ride over, the easy quiet of it, the way he sat with his arm resting in the open window and didn't fill the silence with anything.
you remember thinking that the innocent spark was gone. not cruelly. just gone, grown over with something else, something quieter and more knowing and entirely more dangerous.
you remember the door closing behind you and him turning around in your apartment, taking in the space with that same unhurried attention he gave everything, and then looking at you.
"so," you started.
"you used to put your hand on my head," he said.
just like that. no preamble. and you felt heat crawl up your neck.
"bunny…"
"to show how much shorter i was." he stepped toward you, easy and slow, like he had all the time in the world, because he did, because he always did. "you thought it was funny."
"it was, like… playful. i wasn't trying to be mean."
"i know," he said. he was so close now and you were doing something embarrassing with your breathing. "i know you weren't."
he lifted his hand and set it flat on top of your head.
the warmth of his palm. the gentle, deliberate pressure. the way he held it there for just a second, easy and certain, while you stood under it and felt the bottom drop out of your stomach.
"look at that," he said softly.
and without warning he kissed you.
it wasn't rough. not at all. it was slow and careful and somehow that was so much worse, the way his mouth moved against yours with that total patience, one big hand cradling the back of your head like you were something he'd been thinking about putting down for a very long time.
you made a small sound against him and he swallowed it without urgency.
"bunny," you managed, when he pulled back just enough, "you're…"
"i know," he said quietly.
he walked you back until your knees hit the bed and when you sat down the height difference hit you all over again. he was still standing and you were looking up at him. something about that made heat pool directly between your legs, embarrassingly fast.
he took his cap off, set it aside. looked down at you with those soft red eyes.
"can i?" he asked.
"yeah," you breathed. "yeah, obviously. come here."
he was so careful undressing you that it almost made things worse. hands finding buttons, fabric, his fingers warm and unhurried, like he was studying each new thing. when he got your shirt off he looked at you for a moment without touching, just looking, with an expression you couldn't fully parse. not hunger exactly. something deeper than that. something that had been waiting.
"you're staring," you said.
"i know," he agreed, like it wasn't an accusation.
his hands moved to your hips and he laid you back, settled over you and then you understood it properly. the size of him. the way he blocked out the ceiling. he held himself up on one forearm. his free hand moved down between you, fingers pressing through the fabric of your underwear.
"oh," you breathed.
"yeah?" he said softly.
"yes, yeah, bunny, god…"
he pressed harder, slow circles, watching your face the whole time with that gentle focused attention, like you were interesting to him, like your reactions were something he was cataloguing. you squirmed under his hand and he let you, patient and unhurried while you got wet and desperate against his fingers.
"please," you finally said.
"please what?"
"you know what."
his mouth curved into that soft, quiet smile. "i want to hear you say it."
you exhaled. "please, bunny. please, i want you to…"
he moved your underwear aside and slid two fingers into you, steady and certain, your back arching off the bed.
"fuck," you choked out.
"there you go," he said, like you'd done something right.
he worked you open slowly, curling his fingers in a way that made your thighs shake, mouth dropping to your neck, your collarbone, your chest, pressing soft careful kisses while you fell apart on his hand. no urgency. complete patience. the most infuriating patience you'd ever experienced.
"bunny i swear to god if you don't…"
"if i don't what?" another curl of his fingers. you made a sound that embarrassed you.
"please," you said again. "please, i need you, please."
"as you wish," he said simply.
he took his time with that too. lining himself up, pressing forward slowly. you felt every inch of it, the stretch of him filling you open and the low broken sound that came out of your mouth you absolutely couldn't help. he was so big, not just tall, and the pressure of it was overwhelming in the best possible way.
"s'too… hah… a lot," you gasped out.
"you can take it," he said, low and quiet against your temple. not a command. a fact. stated with complete certainty. "you can take it."
he was right. god help you, he has to be right.
when he finally bottomed out he held still, letting you adjust, you could feel your pulse everywhere. your hands gripping his shoulders, his skin warm and solid under your fingers. he pressed a kiss to the side of your face, unhurried.
"okay?" he murmured.
"move," you managed. "please, move."
and so he did.
long slow rolls of his hips at first that pushed the air out of you each time, the pressure building steady and relentless. you found yourself arching up to meet him, chasing it. his breathing was controlled, measured, because of course it was, while yours was already ragged. the sounds of it, wet and rhythmic, filled the room and your face went hot with it, hotter still when he shifted his angle and found something that made your vision blur.
"there," you gasped out. "bunny, there, don't stop…"
"yeah," he said softly. "i've got you, princesa."
the pace built gradually, like everything he did, slow becoming something steadier, something that had weight to it, each thrust pushing you up the bed slightly, the headboard meeting the wall in a dull rhythm. you were talking, you realised distantly, broken syllables that weren't quite words, yesyesyes and please and his name spilling out of you with no real control. he watched your face the whole time. those red eyes, soft and focused and patient. the scars on his face catching the low light.
"you're close," he said.
"yes," you managed. "bunny, yes, please…"
he reached between you, thumb finding your clit, pressing in slow circles while he kept that steady rolling pace and you completely lost the thread of yourself. the orgasm built in your legs first, tightened through your core and when it broke it broke hard. your thighs clamping around him, your voice cracking on his name, your whole body shuddering through it while he fucked you through every second of it without stopping.
when you came down you were shaking. he kept moving, slower now, easier, his breath finally uneven against your shoulder.
"i'm gonna…" he started.
"yeah," you breathed. "yeah."
he pressed deep when he came, held there, a low quiet exhale against your neck. everything still.
the room smelled like sex and warm skin. the sheets were a disaster. your thighs were still trembling faintly if you paid attention.
he was on his back beside you, that same unhurried stillness, one arm behind his head, red eyes on the ceiling. you lay there trying to remember how breathing worked as a normal automatic function.
the silence sat between you, not uncomfortable. just full.
"bunny," you said eventually, staring up at nothing.
"mm."
"i missed you."
a pause. he turned his head to look at you, and his expression was that same soft, unreadable thing, the thing you hadn't been able to name back then and still couldn't quite name now.
"i missed you too," he said.
then he reached over and set his hand flat on the top of your head. slow. deliberate. warm.
held it there.
and you felt it go all the way through you, the quiet weight of it, the patience in it, something that had been waiting years to mean exactly this, that gentle pressure that said i told you so without a single word, that said look at that, that said now you know, and underneath it all, something that sounded almost like mine and almost like finally and entirely like him.
