Lately i've had on my mind Lev (haikyuu). I would love to read a model Lev x male actor reader, they met on a photshoot for a brand like ck and reader caught Lev attention (if it's possible smut and you can add your own plot to get to that part, with lev as the top) sorry if a made mistakes, english is not my first lenguage
♡ Characters: Model!Lev Haiba x Male Actor!Reader
♡ Warnings: NSFW (18+), oral (receiving), rough sex, praise, voice kink, size kink, hair pulling, public risk (semi-public), dirty talk (some in Russian), possessive!Lev, handjobs, top!Lev, bottom!male reader, marking (light), slightly dom/sub vibes, aftercare, reader lowkey losing his mind over how hot Lev is (mood), slow burn into very fast burn, use of [Y/N]
♡ WC: ~4.2k
♡ Notes: Thank you for the prompt—it absolutely devoured me. This is my first Haikyuu fic on this blog, and also my first ever mxm smut, so please be gentle lol. I only meant to write a cheeky little one-shot but then I got carried away and now we’re 4.2k deep and sweating lmao. Russian cameos included because Lev forgets what language he’s speaking when he’s turned on :3 Hope you enjoy this fever dream of hot lights, tension, and absolutely unhinged chemistry.
The studio buzzed with the kind of controlled chaos you’d grown used to—assistants darting around like caffeinated wasps, lights humming as they flickered to life, and the sharp clack of a makeup artist’s brush hitting the counter.
You leaned against a prop table, arms crossed, the crisp white button-up you’d worn to the gig still hanging loose over your frame.
Today was a big one: a Calvin Klein-inspired underwear campaign, all sleek lines and bare skin, the kind of shoot that’d plaster your face—and a hell of a lot more—across billboards from Tokyo to Times Square.
You’d done shirtless before. Hell, you’d done nude for that one artsy indie flick last year. Cameras didn’t faze you. People did.
The call sheet had warned you about a co-star, some model fresh off a European runway, but you hadn’t recognized the name until the door swung open fifteen minutes late, and in he strode—Lev Haiba, all six-foot-six of him, a walking skyscraper with silver hair that caught the light like a damn halo.
He was late, sure, but the way he moved—long legs eating up the floor, shoulders rolling with that lazy, model-off-duty swagger—made it clear he didn’t give a shit.
A black hoodie hung off his frame, unzipped to show a sliver of pale, chiseled abs, and those green eyes, sharp as cut glass, flicked around the room before landing square on you.
“Fuck me,” you muttered under your breath, gripping the table’s edge a little tighter. “God, please don’t make me pose with him shirtless.”
The photographer—a wiry guy named Kenji with a permanent vape cloud around his head—clapped his hands, voice cutting through the hum.
“Wardrobe’s ready. Let’s get you stripped and styled.”
Your stomach dropped as an assistant rolled a rack toward you, black briefs dangling from hangers like a minimalist’s wet dream.
Matching sets, of course—low-rise briefs with a waistband that’d sit just below your hips, paired with a cropped jacket that’d leave your torso bare. Tasteful, sure, but a thirst trap all the same.
You glanced at Lev, who was already peeling off his hoodie, revealing a chest so sculpted it looked like he’d been carved out of marble.
He caught your eye mid-motion, smirking—a quick, lopsided flash of teeth—and you turned away fast, heat prickling up your neck.
Wardrobe was a blur. You shed your shirt, stepped into the briefs, and shrugged on the jacket, the fabric cool against your skin. The mirror showed a guy who knew how to work a lens—sharp jaw, mussed hair, a body honed from years of fight choreography and late-night gym runs.
“Positions!” Kenji barked, and you stepped onto the set—a stark white backdrop, lights blazing, the air thick with the scent of hairspray and hot metal.
Lev was already there, towering beside you, his own jacket slung open, briefs clinging to his hips like they were painted on. His skin was pale, almost luminescent under the lights, and those long, lean muscles flexed as he shifted, finding his mark.
“Closer,” Kenji directed, waving a hand. “Chest to chest, let’s feel the heat.”
You swallowed hard, stepping in.
Lev’s shadow fell over you, his height forcing you to tilt your chin just to meet his gaze. He smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper—maybe mint?—and his body heat rolled off him in waves, brushing your bare chest as you pressed closer.
Your hands hovered, unsure where to land, until Kenji snapped, “Lev, hands on his waist. [Y/N], arms loose around his neck. Sell it.”
Lev’s hands settled on your hips, fingers splayed, warm and firm, and you looped your arms around his neck, fingertips brushing the soft silver hair at his nape. His grip tightened—just a fraction—and you felt the jolt of it low in your gut.
The camera clicked, but all you could focus on was the way his breath hitched, barely audible, as your bodies pressed flush.
“Good, good,” Kenji muttered, circling with the lens. “Lev, tilt your head down. [Y/N], look up—eyes locked.”
You obeyed, lifting your gaze, and fuck—those green eyes were closer than you’d braced for, sharp and piercing, like he was peeling you apart layer by layer.
His lips parted slightly, a faint flush creeping up his neck, and then—then—he glanced down. Quick, deliberate, straight to your mouth.
Your breath caught, and his fingers twitched against your waist, digging in like he was fighting the urge to pull you tighter.
“Perfect,” Kenji called, oblivious to the tension coiling between you. “Hold that—give me longing, give me want.”
Lev’s eyes flicked back to yours, and there it was—want, raw and unfiltered, simmering in that green stare.
His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip, and you felt your pulse kick hard, heat pooling somewhere dangerous. You shifted, just enough to brush your chest against his, and his breath stuttered again, louder this time, a soft sound that made your skin prickle.
“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he murmured, so low only you could hear, his voice rougher than it’d been when he’d apologized for being late earlier.
His thumbs traced slow circles against your hips, and you had to bite back a sound of your own.
“Years of practice,” you shot back, keeping your tone light, but your hands tightened at his nape, fingers threading deeper into his hair.
He leaned in—barely an inch, but enough that his nose brushed yours—and the camera clicked again, freezing the moment.
“Alright, break!” Kenji yelled, and the spell snapped.
Lev’s hands lingered a beat too long before dropping, and you stepped back, chest tight, trying to shake off the electric hum buzzing through you.
He didn’t move, just stood there, watching you with that same damn look—half-flustered, half-predatory, like he was already imagining what came next.
You turned away, grabbing a water bottle from the table, but you could feel his eyes on you still, burning a hole through your back.
The shoot wasn’t over, but the real tension? That was just getting started.
The studio’s pulse didn’t slow, even as the main shoot wrapped. Assistants scurried, dismantling lights and coiling cables, while Kenji barked at someone about lens filters.
The air was still thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made every breath feel heavy.
You stood under the harsh glare of a lingering spotlight, jacket slung over one shoulder, the black briefs still hugging your hips. Your chest glistened faintly from the sheen of sweat the shoot had worked up, and you were itching to hit the dressing room, peel off the wardrobe, and call it a day. But Kenji had other plans.
“Oi, you two!” he called, waving you and Lev back to the set with that manic grin he got when inspiration struck. “One more setup—something softer, intimate. Think lovers, not strangers. Can you sell that?”
You shot Lev a sidelong glance, expecting a quip or at least a smirk, but he just nodded, those green eyes flicking to you for a heartbeat before he looked away.
His silver hair was mussed now, strands falling into his face, and his jacket hung open, showing off the long, lean lines of his torso. He looked like he’d stepped out of a fever dream, and it was doing things to your focus you didn’t want to admit.
“Fine,” you said, tossing your jacket to an assistant and stepping back onto the set.
The backdrop had shifted—less stark white, more moody gray, with a low bench draped in black velvet. Kenji gestured wildly, explaining the pose like it was high art.
“[Y/N], you’re half on his lap—Lev, one hand on their waist, other arm braced behind. Close, like you’re stealing a moment.”
Your stomach flipped, but you played it cool, smirking as you straddled the bench, one knee brushing Lev’s thigh as you settled in. He slid into place behind you, his hand finding your waist with a touch that was too warm, too deliberate. His fingers splayed wide, thumb grazing the bare skin just above your briefs, and you felt the heat of his chest radiating against your back.
You leaned in, almost in his lap now, your shoulder pressed to his collarbone, and draped one arm lazily around his neck, fingers teasing the soft hair at his nape.
“Closer,” Kenji muttered, circling with the camera. “Lev, tilt your head toward them. [Y/N], turn your face—cheek to cheek.”
You shifted, your jaw brushing Lev’s, his breath warm against your ear. The stubble on his cheek grazed your skin, a faint rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. His hand tightened on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough to make you hyper-aware of every point of contact—his thigh against yours, his chest rising and falling, the faint cedar-mint scent of him wrapping around you like a vice.
“You’re shaking,” Lev whispered, so low it barely carried, his lips close enough that you felt the words more than heard them.
His voice wasn’t teasing—it was too intimate, too raw, like he’d noticed something you hadn’t even seen yourself.
You forced a laugh, tilting your head to meet his gaze, your noses almost touching.
“Cold in here,” you lied, keeping it light, but your voice came out rougher than you meant.
His eyes didn’t buy it. They locked onto yours, green and piercing, stripping away the banter like it was tissue paper. His thumb traced another slow circle against your skin, and you swore he leaned in—just a fraction, just enough to make your pulse spike.
“Bullshit,” he murmured, lips twitching into a faint, knowing smile, and you felt your face heat up, the cocky actor mask slipping under the weight of that stare.
“Got it!” Kenji shouted, shattering the moment.
“That’s a wrap—great work, both of you.”
The crew erupted into motion, but Lev’s hand lingered, sliding off your waist with a reluctance you could feel.
You stood, breaking the spell, and grabbed your water bottle, chugging it to drown the buzz in your veins. Lev stayed on the bench a beat longer, watching you, his expression unreadable but heavy with something that made your skin prickle.
The dressing room was a cramped, fluorescent-lit box at the back of the studio, all concrete walls and chipped mirrors.
You pushed through the door, Lev right behind you, his presence filling the space like he was twice his size. The air was cooler here, but it didn’t do shit to cut the tension.
Your clothes were piled on a chair—jeans, a worn tee, your usual comfort gear—but you didn’t move for them yet. Instead, you leaned against the counter, catching your reflection in the mirror.
You looked flushed, a little wild-eyed, and it pissed you off how much he’d gotten under your skin.
Lev stripped off his jacket, tossing it onto a rack, and started unbuttoning the spare shirt he’d been handed for the last shot. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he knew you were watching.
You caught his eyes in the mirror, and there it was again—that stare, green and unrelenting, raking over you like he was memorizing every inch.
“You keep looking,” you said, turning to face him, arms crossed, voice sharp to cover the way your heart was hammering. “What’s the deal?”
He paused, shirt half-open, a sliver of pale chest peeking through. His lips parted, then closed, like he was weighing his words.
“Can’t help it,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges.
He stepped closer, closing the gap until he was right in front of you, so tall you had to tilt your head back to hold his gaze.
You raised a brow, leaning into the challenge.
“That your line for everyone?”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just stood there, eyes darkening, his breath coming a little faster.
“No,” he said, and the word hit like a punch, simple and heavy, no room for bullshit.
The air crackled, the space between you shrinking until it felt like gravity was pulling you together. You could see the pulse jumping in his throat, the faint flush creeping down his neck. Your hands itched to do something—push him away, pull him closer, anything to break this fucking stalemate.
“Stop looking, then,” you said, voice dropping, stepping right into his space, your chest brushing his. “And do something.”
Lev’s eyes widened for a split second, like he hadn’t expected you to call his bluff. Then something snapped. He moved—fast, no hesitation—his hands grabbing your face, long fingers curling against your jaw as he kissed you. Hard. Hungry. His lips crashed into yours, all heat and desperation, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he pressed himself closer, his body a wall of lean muscle pinning you to the counter.
You kissed him back, just as fierce, one hand fisting in his open shirt, yanking him down to your level. He groaned into your mouth, a low, broken sound that sent heat pooling low in your gut. His hands slid down, gripping your hips, lifting you onto the counter with a strength that made your head spin.
Your legs parted instinctively, and he stepped between them, kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that was filthy and perfect.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours.
His hands were everywhere—your waist, your thighs, tugging you closer like he couldn’t stand the inch of space between you.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been—fuck, you’re unreal.”
You grinned, breathless, and grabbed his collar, pulling him back in.
“Show me, then,” you said, voice rough with want, and that was all it took for the last of his restraint to burn away.
Lev’s lips were a furnace against yours, all heat and hunger, his tongue plunging into your mouth with a ferocity that made your head spin.
The dressing room counter dug into your lower back as he pressed himself closer, his massive frame caging you in, his hands—fuck, those hands—roaming like he couldn’t decide where to start.
One gripped your hip, fingers bruising, while the other slid up your chest, shoving the cropped jacket aside to splay across your bare skin. His touch was electric, rough and warm, and you arched into it, grinding your hips against his, the friction of his briefs against yours sparking a low groan from deep in his throat.
“Боже, ты такой горячий,” God, you're so hot, he muttered between kisses, the Russian rolling off his tongue like liquid sin, rough and guttural.
You didn’t know what it meant—didn’t need to. The way he said it, voice wrecked and desperate, was enough to make your cock twitch against the thin fabric separating you.
You pushed back, trying to keep the upper hand, one hand fisting in his open shirt to yank him down harder, the other sliding up his neck to tangle in that silver hair. But Lev wasn’t playing your game—he was rewriting it.
His kisses turned sloppy, teeth scraping your bottom lip, his breath hot and ragged as he pressed his chest flush to yours, his heartbeat hammering through the thin layers of skin and cloth.
Your shirt—or what was left of it—rode up, bunched under your arms, and Lev’s hand slipped beneath, palm flat against your stomach, tracing the lines of muscle like he was mapping you out. His fingers were long, calloused from God-knows-what, and they dipped lower, teasing the waistband of your briefs, making your breath hitch.
“Fuck, Lev—” you gasped, breaking the kiss, but he didn’t stop, just chased your mouth with his, swallowing the sound like it was fuel.
“Ты даже не представляешь,” You have no idea, he rasped pulling back just enough to look at you, green eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide.
His lips were swollen, glistening with spit—yours, his, who fucking cared—and that cocky little smirk was starting to creep back, cutting through the haze of want. You were losing it, slipping under the sheer size and heat of him, and it pissed you off how much you liked it.
Grinding harder, you rocked your hips into his, feeling the thick outline of his cock straining against his briefs, and he groaned again, louder, head tipping back for a split second before he snapped forward, kissing you so deep it felt like he was trying to crawl inside you.
The counter wasn’t cutting it anymore.
You shoved at his chest, and he stumbled back a step, just enough for you to slide off and spin him around, pushing him against the wall instead.
The concrete was cool against your palms as you pinned him there, his back hitting it with a soft thud, and he let out a breathy laugh—half-surprised, half-turned-on—that made your blood burn.
“Oh, you’re feisty,” he said, voice low, but his hands were back on you in an instant, one sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you tight against him, the other tugging at your briefs like he was two seconds from ripping them off.
You didn’t give him the chance. Hooking a leg around his thigh, you ground into him again, slow and deliberate, watching his eyes flutter shut, his mouth parting on a shaky exhale.
His shirt hung open, a useless scrap of fabric framing that pale, sculpted chest, and you dragged your hands down it, nails catching on his skin just enough to leave faint red lines. He hissed, hips bucking into yours, and you could feel him—hard, throbbing, fucking desperate—and it was unraveling you faster than you’d admit. But then Lev shifted, and the dynamic flipped.
He grabbed your wrists, spinning you both until your back slammed against the wall, the impact knocking a grunt out of you.
He loomed over you, all height and heat, and before you could catch your breath, he dropped—slow, deliberate, sinking to his knees like a fucking predator playing at submission.
His hands slid down your thighs as he went, gripping hard, and he kept his eyes locked on yours the whole way down, that green stare burning with something dark and filthy. You’d expected shy—some pretty-boy hesitation from a guy who looked like he’d been sculpted for magazine covers.
Lev’s fingers hooked into your briefs, yanking them down in one smooth pull, the cool air hitting your cock before his breath did, warm and teasing as he leaned in close.
“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice rough, almost reverent, and then his mouth was on you—lips wrapping around the tip, tongue flicking slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for it.
Your head hit the wall, a low moan tearing out of you as he took you deeper, no hesitation, no warmup—just straight to the back of his throat, his nose brushing your skin.
His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in, spreading you wider as he bobbed his head, slow at first, then faster, wet and messy.
The sounds were obscene—slick, sloppy, the faint gag when he pushed too far—and you couldn’t stop the way your hips jerked, fucking into his mouth as he groaned around you, the vibration shooting straight up your spine.
“Lev—shit—” His name spilled out of you, ragged and needy, and he pulled off just enough to look up, spit dripping down his chin, lips red and wrecked.
“You sound better than the cameras,” he said, breathless, grinning like a bastard before diving back in, sucking harder, one hand sliding up to cup your balls, rolling them gently while his tongue did things that made your vision blur.
Your hands found his hair, tugging hard, and he moaned around you, loud and shameless, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls.
He was relentless—throat tight, lips slick, eyes flicking up to watch you fall apart—and you were, piece by fucking piece, every thrust of his mouth dragging you closer to the edge.
“Fuck, Lev—don’t stop—” you gasped, and he didn’t, just hummed in response, the vibration pushing you right to the brink.
His tongue swirled, lips sucked, and those long fingers gripped your thighs so hard you’d have marks tomorrow.
Your hips bucked, chasing the edge, and he groaned around you, the sound raw and filthy, vibrating through your cock until your knees nearly gave out.
“Fuck—Lev—” you gasped, voice breaking, and he pulled off with a wet pop, green eyes glinting up at you, spit-slicked lips curling into a grin that was equal parts cocky and wrecked.
“Какой ты вкусный…” You taste so fucking good he rasped, voice hoarse, wiping his chin with the back of his hand as he stood, towering over you again.
His chest heaved, shirt still hanging open, and his briefs were tented obscenely, the outline of his cock straining against the fabric.
You didn’t have time to catch your breath—he grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the makeup table in the corner, its surface cluttered with brushes and half-empty water bottles.
“Here,” he said, voice low and urgent, spinning you around so your chest hit the edge, hands bracing against the chipped wood.
You barely registered the semi-privacy of it—the dressing room door was shut, sure, but the studio beyond still hummed with distant voices, the faint clatter of equipment being packed up.
Lev didn’t care, and neither did you, not when his hands were on you again, yanking your briefs down to your ankles, leaving you bare and exposed. The cool air hit your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his palms as he pressed himself against your back, his cock—still trapped in his briefs—grinding against your ass.
He started gentle, like he was testing the waters, one hand sliding up your spine to grip your shoulder, the other guiding himself as he freed his cock with a rustle of fabric.
You felt it—thick, hot, the tip slick with precum—nudging against you, and he paused, breath ragged in your ear.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, a faint echo of that earlier softness, but then you moaned—low, involuntary, desperate—and it flipped something in him.
“Fuck,” he growled, and gentle went out the window.
He pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open with a burn that made your jaw clench, but then you moaned again, louder, and he lost it.
His hips snapped forward, burying himself deep, and you cried out, hands scrabbling at the table, knocking a bottle to the floor with a plastic clatter.
“You looked so confident all day,” he panted, voice rough against your neck as he thrust again, harder, the table creaking under the force. “Now look at you—fuck, look at you.”
Your elbows buckled, dropping you to all fours across the table, ass up, chest pressed to the cool wood as he fucked into you, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.
His hands gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet him, and the wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, loud and shameless.
“If I’d known you were like this,” he said, breath hitching as he leaned over you, lips brushing your ear, “I would’ve kissed you on set—fucked you right there in front of everyone.”
You tried to stay quiet—bit your lip, muffled the sounds—but Lev wasn’t having it. One hand slid around, wrapping around your cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and you couldn’t hold back the moan that tore out of you, high and broken.
“I want them to hear you,” he growled, voice dark, possessive, and he thrust harder, deeper, the table rocking with every move. “Let ‘em know who’s wrecking you.”
Your vision blurred, pleasure coiling tight in your gut, and his hand sped up, slick with your precum, thumb swiping over the tip until you were shaking, gasping his name.
He groaned at that, a guttural sound, and his rhythm faltered, thrusts turning sloppy as he chased his own edge.
“Shit—gonna—” he choked out, and then he was cuming, hot and thick inside you, his hips stuttering as he rode it out, hand still working you until you followed, spilling over his fingers with a cry that echoed off the concrete walls.
He didn’t pull away immediately.
His chest pressed to your back, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. Slowly, he eased out, a low hiss escaping him as he did, and you felt the drip of him—warm, messy—sliding down your thigh.
He grabbed a stray towel from the table, wiping you down with a gentleness that felt almost absurd after what he’d just done, his hands steady now where they’d been frantic.
“Ты в порядке, да?” he murmured, Russian soft and lilting, his lips brushing your shoulder as he pulled you upright, turning you to face him.
You nodded, still catching your breath, and he smiled—soft, sheepish, the feral edge gone, replaced by something warm and disarming. His fingers brushed your jaw, then your sweat-damp hair, smoothing it back as he muttered more quiet words you didn’t understand.
“Так красиво, черт возьми,” So fucking beautiful his voice a low hum that settled something deep in your chest.
You slumped against the table, legs shaky, and he didn’t let go, just held you there, one arm looped around your waist like he was afraid you’d bolt.
After a beat, you smirked, tilting your head to meet his gaze.
“Next shoot,” you said, voice rough but steady, “we’re faking the chemistry a lot less.”
Lev laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that cut through the haze, and leaned in to kiss you—slow, lazy, tasting of sweat and satisfaction.
“Deal,” he said against your lips, and you knew he wasn’t going anywhere unless you told him to.
