As a well-known high fashion photographer in Tokyo, Sakusa Kiyoomi only shot for elite magazines and clients; all the top shops wanted to hire him.
It was only a little odd that he hadn’t been paired up with the most sought after male model, Miya Atsumu, yet. When they were finally booked together, their first magazine spread session proved to be eventful. Not because any one thing in particular happened. No, it was just Atsumu himself. The whole shoot threw Kiyoomi into a mental spiral because of how much he hated it. It was Atsumu’s smug face, how bossy he was to the staff, and how full of himself he got. Somehow, Kiyoomi also left with a terrible nickname to boot?
Even worse, Kiyoomi was outraged by how good Atsumu looked when he edited the photos and how he ended up staring at them long after he was done. He fucking loathed Miya Atsumu and his pretty fucking face and how it was all he could think about after that shoot.
After that first shoot resulted in mouthwatering photos and product flying off the shelves, clients scheduled them to shoot together more. And not just once. They asked for more magazine spreads, then runways and billboards. They even wanted him to direct a commercial starring that pompous asshole. How could he say no? The more they worked together, the more he despised how well they worked together, how Atsumu -- despite talking about how great he made the clothes look -- took direction from him so smoothly and made the shoots practically effortless.
After a while, Kiyoomi resented how anyone else took pictures of Atsumu -- mainly, the injustice it did to his pretty fucking face. When he’d see a spread of his model that was taken by someone else, he’d get this weird feeling… something hot and uncomfortable in his stomach like a turbulent storm brewing inside him. It grew to be so unbearable that he felt compelled to do something about it.
By pulling a few strings, he was able to get the talent agency to assign them to more projects together, even with new clients who needed little convincing that the hottest face in Tokyo was right for their campaign. It wasn’t that hard really; a few gifts here, some favors owed there, and his schedule filled right up.
Whether that was actually a good idea was to be seen.
Soon after the calls were made, Atsumu cornered Kiyoomi at an industry after-party for Tokyo Fashion Week, drunkenly slurring, “Omi-kun, I know wha’ ya did” with a smirk on his face.
Kiyoomi wanted to punch him for that look alone. Instead, his dark eyes stared at him and blinked, expression unchanging.
“Oh, come on Omi Omi! I like workin’ wit’ ya too. I don’t mind,” then he leaned in and whispered, “But if ya wanted me all to yer self, ya shoulda said sumthin.” He winked and then he walked away, leaving Kiyoomi’s face heating. That bastard. Now he really wanted to show him who was boss, who was in control here.
Fuck. What was he going to do during their next shoot? Atsumu knows now -- he has the upper hand. But what does he really know? That I got him assigned to more jobs with me? Calm down. Kiyoomi thought to himself. But he couldn’t calm down. It was this that made him spiral into a hole of what-ifs and oh-fucks, exacerbating his anxiety. He needed to take back control one way or another.
That evening, Kiyoomi went through a rigorous deep cleaning of his apartment. That was the only way he knew how to destress, by controlling his surroundings and removing all the impurities in his life and immediate surroundings (like that would actually remove the problems he’s created for himself). This cathartic release allowed him to finally be able to sleep, having also purged his mind of toxic thoughts. He arrived at work feeling somewhat refreshed… that was until he saw Atsumu.
Standing in dark boxer briefs which contrasted perfectly against his tan skin, the model had one of the makeup assistants slathering oil all over his skin, giving it an extra shine. He turned and she was pouring it over his abs -- abs which drew Kiyoomi’s eyes like a magnet, causing him to then slowly trace over the rest of Atsumu’s skin, lingering over his birthmarks on his shoulder, before being drawn into the freckles on his face. Being enraptured with every little imperfection in his skin almost annoyed him more than losing control of his studio.
Not knowing whether it was the distraction of his body or the anger at his loss of control, Kiyoomi felt his face heat and seethed, “Miya, what are you doing?”
“Omi Omi! I thought I’d make yer job a lil easier. Since I’m gonna be makin this underwear look its best today, I thought why not show off my skin ?” His eyes glimmered and he flexed for added effect.
Kiyoomi grabbed the bridge of his nose and sighed sternly, “Yachi, stop.” The small, blonde makeup assistant looked up at him, hands covered in oil, nervous. “Can you please leave us for a moment?” She vigorously nodded and scurried off, as the room cleared.
Kiyoomi walked closer as Atsumu flashed a mischievous smile, “What, Omi-kun? You don’t like it?”
“Miya, what are you doing? You’ve never tried to take creative direction away from me.”
“I thought you’d like it,” he pouted. This was the Miya that the other photographers saw -- the one who wasn’t as effortless, who often threw tantrums, who always got what he wanted.
“It won’t fit with the vision we have for the brand,” Kiyoomi reprimanded. “Don’t pull this shit again. Get that oil rubbed in, so we can get started.”
“You don’t wanna rub it in for me?” He smirked.
Was he flirting? Did he do this to everyone? He’d never particularly acted this way before… Was it since he found out I wanted more jobs with him? Was this payback?
He glared at him, turned on his heels, and exited the studio. Calling to the dressing room on his way out, “Yachi, you’re needed!”
“Ah, Omi-kun! Come back!” Miya called after him dejectedly.
Flatly he responded without turning around, “I’ll be back when you stop wasting my time.”
Kiyoomi found his model looking more moisturized, but not shiny, when Yachi indicated Atsumu was ready. That and he looked dejected.
His gloomy disposition radiated from him as he started the shoot. He began with a soft look away from the camera, then with a forward lean. The soft look carried pain in his eyes and the lean was not as polished and angelic as it normally would be. Kiyoomi could see the weight in Atsumu’s shoulders and stress in his neck.
He had to direct the model a lot more than usual, and even then, he would barely move. His movements weren’t as fluid as usual either. Upon one supposedly easy direction, Atsumu whispered, “Why was I even born?” lolling his head back instead, looking tired.
The majority he had taken in the past hour were terrible because of how Atsumu was carrying himself. “You look like you’re a corpse modeling underwear, Miya. Could you be a little less dead and a little more undead? Zombies are a look I can make work. Channel that energy into your poses.”
Atsumu responded with a big sigh, as he flopped on the studio’s chaise lounge, looking deflated.
“Fine, we can do some seated shots,” Kiyoomi said through gritted teeth. The rest of the people in the studio -- make up artists, wardrobe, etc. -- looked like they could all feel the tension between the two of them.
After a couple of photos, Atsumu finally just stopped moving to his direction prompting Kiyoomi to physically move him into his next pose.
For how bothered he was, the photographer’s handling of the model was light and careful. His hands ran across the other’s forearm, lifting and tucking it behind his head to show off his bicep. He gingerly took the other arm and placed it so it lazily crossed his washboard abs, paying extra attention to where he set the hand.
Cradling Atsumu’s palm in his own caused a quiet breath to escape its owner. Kiyoomi arranged Atsumu’s fingers over the edge of the designer underwear, slipping his thumb inside the elastic. The shiver that wrested from deep within Atsumu as his underwear was lifted rippled over his body. With this, Atsumu perked up, his face heating to a light pink. Kiyoomi pretended not to notice.
He moved backwards, “Hold that,” and snapped photos of the pose he created. “Good,” he purred.
“Now, can you just do this next pose for me?” He let his camera drop to his chest, as it hung on its straps, and imitated the pose he wanted -- both arms above his head -- but he asked for a certain look this time. He wanted seduction, both in the photographs and outside of them, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
Atsumu stared, the pink in his face darkening. Kiyoomi blinked back, “Well?” Atsumu nodded and finally did it.
Through a combination of physically putting him into poses and showing him what he wanted, Kiyoomi somewhat pulled him out of his foul mood, little-by-little, into one where he’s just sort of quiet, but pliable. He’s still not up to being his usual loud, egotistical jerk of a self, but the photos turned out better; some were at least captivating and emotional.
After being able to capture some usable content, Kiyoomi said, “Alright, we’re done for the day. I’ve got all I think I can get with this ,” gesturing to Atsumu who got up and stormed out of the studio to the changing room.
Kiyoomi began viewing the photos on his laptop from the center of the room where his computer and equipment sat on a small table, as everyone around him cleaned up. All he could see was sadness in Atsumu’s eyes in the photos, even if he knew others wouldn’t.
He didn’t notice as everyone left, leaving him to review the rest of the footage in the empty studio. Eventually, Atsumu emerged from the changing room, catching them both off-guard.
“Oh, I thought everyone woulda left by now,” the model had his hands in the pockets of his designer sweatpants as he looked to the corner of the room, not making eye contact with Kiyoomi.
Through his black curls, the photographer stared, “What was up with you today?”
“It’s… nothing.” He moved to walk past Kiyoomi, who stood to block his way.
“It’s clearly something or you wouldn’t have acted this way. We work together a lot. We can’t have your shitty attitude fucking up our shoots.”
“ My shitty attitude? That’s fresh comin’ from ya,” he bit out, taking a step forward, getting in Kiyoomi’s face. With confrontation in his voice, he asked, “Why do ya wanna work so badly wit’ me anyway?”
Kiyoomi’s normally calm demeanor changed as if he snapped and now he seemed heated, pushing Atsumu back as he answered him. “We worked effortlessly together,” and then he pushed again, but this time he followed him, “until today when you made me so fucking annoyed,” another push with Atsumu taking a few steps backward and holding up his hands, “throwing tantrums,” another push, “taking control of my studio,” another push, “and telling my makeup artists what to do,” another push and Atsumu found himself against the wall next to the changing room, “but you’re so fucking pretty I don’t want to work with anyone else but you, damn it.”
Atsumu’s breath hitched, “You think I’m pretty, Omi-kun?” He bit his lip as he stared into dark, challenging eyes.
“You’re a model, you idiot.” Kiyoomi provided no inflection in his statement and just continued to stare at him as if this was the most obvious answer. Kiyoomi knew that it wasn’t though, to him Atsumu was more attractive than anyone else in the industry, but he’d be damned if he was going to spill any more than he already inadvertently had through his uncharacteristic outburst.
He turned to go, but Atsumu caught his right wrist and pulled him back, closer than before, breathing out, “Tell me again.”
Kiyoomi rested his left hand against the wall next to Atsumu’s head, leaned in, pressing his knee between Atsumu’s legs and whispered into his ear, “No.”
“Please, Omi Omi,” the pretty boy whined, pressing into the leg against him.
Kiyoomi’s hand from the wall snaked its way into Atsumu’s hair. “You know, Miya,” he said as he pulled the dirty blonde hair tangled in his fingers, jerking his head back, “I don’t like being told what to do.” But I love telling you what to do.
He twisted his trapped wrist, freeing it, and grabbing Atsumu’s in return. He pinned it against the wall with his unsuspecting strength, eliciting a whimper. An erection tenting the sweatpants of the model in front of him gave him cause to smirk, as he felt hips begin to grind against his leg.
“Someone’s needy,” Kiyoomi breathed hotly in his ear, drawing out a groan. He clearly wanted even more -- Atsumu went so far as to grab Kiyoomi’s waist to try to pull him closer. “Who said you could touch me?” He began pulling away, but before he could, Atsumu removed his hand and pressed it flat against the wall. “Good, boy.”
The photographer released the hand he had pinned to the wall, certain that it’d fall into place like the other. His assumption was correct. Good, he could reward him, just a little. He shifted the angle he had on his head so they were looking more eye-to-eye and traced his finger along the chiseled jaw of the pretty face he so admired. As he had hoped, that mouth parted as if craving more from him. He took the opportunity to provide it.
Kiyoomi rubbed his thumb slowly across the rosy lips in front of him feeling warm breath speed up with every stroke in anticipation. He finally plunged his thumb into Atsumu’s mouth where it was greedily sucked, licked and nibbled until it was removed with a pop! leaving the pretty boy’s eyes burning with lust.
Spit dribbled down Atsumu’s chin, which Kiyoomi swiped with his fingers to match his soaking thumb. As he did so he said, “This will help with your reward… if you’ve been a good boy. Tell me, Miya. Have you been a good boy?” He looked through his wavy locks with his jet-black, piercing eyes looking for answers on his face.
“Y-Ya? Ya.” He said with hesitation at first like he didn’t know the answer on a pop quiz, but his second response held a certain amount of desire and eagerness in it.
“You don’t sound so sure. In fact, today you were a very bad boy. You barely listened to anything I said.” He pulled at the hair in his grip to emphasize his point causing Atsumu’s cock to twitch through his sweatpants.
Knowing he would lose this battle, Atsumu acquiesced, “Yer right! Yer right. I was a bad boy,” he pouted, “How can I make it up ta ya? How can I become yer good boy?” He bit his bottom lip as he looked up through his long eyelashes.
That did something to Kiyoomi -- a fluttering feeling swept through his chest like leaves dropping on a fall day, causing him to nearly let go of the hair twisted between his fingers.
You’re fucked. Get yourself back under control.
He leaned in and whispered, “Are you sure, Miya? You were a really bad boy. It might be a high price to pay.” Then he swiped his wet finger across Atsumu’s lip, who shivered.
“I’m sure,” he whispered back.
Kiyoomi knew that if he started kissing the man, he wouldn’t be able to get himself back under control anytime soon. So instead, he used the grip he still had on his head to push him down to his knees and then released him, as his eyes were blown wide with the foresight and longing for what would happen next. He tried not to look too excited -- this was supposed to be punishment after all -- but he was practically buzzing.
Taking his dry hand, Kiyoomi pulled his cock out of his blank denim pants, slicking it with the other covered in spit from his facial encounter with Atsumu to get him fully hard as he stared at the man on his knees in front of him. He couldn’t wait to fuck his face and release all that pent up venom that’s been coursing through him for months on end now.
He grabbed the model’s hair again and found that he didn’t need to guide him towards his cock; before he knew it, his dick was warm and wet. Atsumu licked and devoured it with fervor.
When an unexpected moan escaped Kiyoomi, Atsumu groaned too -- he took it as approval of his good job, the smallest amount of praise that he’d ever get, and it made him continue to work even harder.
It almost made Kiyoomi annoyed at how good Atsumu was at sucking his cock, but with each new stroke, those feelings washed away with new ones building and pooling in his stomach.
He was so close, but he wanted to finish this on his terms; so, he grabbed the bleach blonde hair in front of him and thrust into his mouth, seeing tears forming at the edges of his eyes, as he reached his peak and came.
Atsumu looked up at him and swallowed, then wiped off his mouth, “Was that good, Omi? Was I good for you?”
Kiyoomi put his dick back in his pants and carded his fingers through Atsumu’s hair, “You were such a good boy, Atsumu. Stand up. I think you should be rewarded for that.” The use of his given name didn’t go unnoticed; his eyes grew large and a huge smile spread across his face.
Atsumu followed directions and leaned back up against the wall, waiting in anticipation to be touched. Having experienced his sweet release, Kiyoomi could barely keep his composure. He saw Atsumu’s neck beckoning to him, and trailed his nose along the edge of it up towards the ear, hearing ragged breath hitch. He smiled as he bit into the lobe evoking a gasp. He marked kisses and nips along his jawline, ending on soft, wanting lips.
Atsumu was just as ravenous and made no effort to hide it. When Kyoomi pulled Atsumu’s bottom lip with his teeth, Atsumu moaned and laced his hand into Kiyoomi’s hair.
Kiyoomi otherwise might have stopped kissing and reprimanded him, but he couldn’t stop himself, still riding the high left from his orgasm, kissing this man who drove him crazy in so many different ways. Kiyoomi didn’t pull their lips apart, but untangled the fingers from his hair and forced the hand against the wall. He used the opportunity to deepen their kiss, pushing his tongue further in to show him who was in charge. At least that’s what he told himself. He was still in charge here.
With his other hand, he rubbed Atsumu’s bulge outside of his pants, extracting tiny whimpers around their kisses.
Finally getting to the real reward, he put his hand down Atsumu’s sweatpants, garnering a groan. The look on his face was pure bliss until the door on the other side of the studio swung open. Atsumu skittishly jumped and peered around Kiyoomi, whose only reaction was to slowly remove his hands from all parts of Atsumu. In order to provide at least some coverage for their misconduct, however, he stayed facing Atsumu and put his arm on the wall next to him as if they were having a very intimate conversation.
He gazed over his shoulder, making eye contact with Yachi who stopped dead in her tracks, having finally seen them, after making it several steps into the studio.
“Uh, I- I’m sorry!” she choked out, trying to hide her face. As quickly as she could, she ran through her explanation, “I left some makeup brushes in the changing room, but I can, uh, come back another time. Bye!” Then she turned on her heel and made a break for the door before either of her coworkers could respond.
“Well, that might be awkward next week,” Kiyoomi said almost boredly as he turned his head back to face his conquest whose blush gave new meaning to being caught red-handed. Cocking his head, he grabbed Atsumu’s chin, asking a question that sounded more like a command than a request, “Why don’t we get out of here before anyone else stops by? You still need your reward.”
All Atsumu could do was nod, tuck his hard dick into his waistband making sure his t-shirt covered any trace of excitement, and follow his photographer out of the studio. He had no intention of doing anything other than what Kiyoomi told him to for the rest of the afternoon, if not much longer.