Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11180259.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Persona_5
  Relationship:
      Kitagawa_Yusuke/Madarame_Ichiryusai
  Character:
      Kitagawa_Yusuke, Madarame_Ichiryusai
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Unhealthy_Relationships, Teacher-Student_Relationship,
      Praise_Kink, Hand_Jobs, Intercrural_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-06-12 Words: 5385
****** a heart stuck in a skeleton of greed ******
by derogatory
Summary
     "Don't misunderstand," Madarame cautions him and Yusuke won't, he
     can't, he understands Sensei completely, to the very fiber of his
     being. "I'm only doing this because you are my most treasured
     student." His heart and cock give a guilty throb.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Yusuke takes this sort of modeling session very seriously. His master doesn't
request this lightly; in fact, Yusuke can only count on one hand the students
that had been given such an opportunity. Yusuke also understands the task is
demanding. Any layman who thinks modeling is just standing around in various
poses is gravely mistaken. Posing for figure drawing isn't some tawdry
afternoon activity; it's an honor to let yourself be captured in a medium, to
allow your essence to be conveyed through charcoal or graphite. Even the most
beginner of artists could catch a glimmer of a model's true nature, could
capture something in one of the many poses. To pose for a master like Madarame;
it would the highest honor. Sensei could draw out a model's true potential in a
turn of the mouth, sketch the innermost desires from the curve of an elbow, the
deepest hopes and dreams from the distribution of weight. Modeling for Sensei
meant putting yourself on the canvas, laid bare in more ways than nudity.
Of course, nudity was a requirement for Sensei's modeling. Commoners might
giggle at the thought of nude modeling, but in the art world there's nothing
more natural. It shows the body as close to birth as mankind can get. Naked as
the moment man is born ("What a day that was," Sensei had mused. "How happy
your mother was when she brought you into the world. Truly you were her most
prized creation." Tell me more, Yusuke had said. What else can you tell me
about that day, what other creations did my mother make, please show me. "No,
Yusuke. It's too sad.")
Obviously Yusuke has no issue with posing nude for Sensei. Master Madarame has
known him since he was a boy; there was no space for shame and secrets between
them. He wouldn't deign to assume that Madarame shared anything with Yusuke he
wouldn't with his other students (although Yusuke hopes he's more special than
the others, yearns so deep into his bones it would surely seep onto the paper.)
He has nothing to hide from his teacher. Being asked to model nude for Sensei
was another brick in the foundation of his love and trust for his master.
Between poses, Yusuke has to force the muscles of his face to relax, to compose
his mouth from a giddy smile. It would be unsightly to have such a shameless
expression in a portrait. He wills his face to remain neutral, heart pounding
loudly in his ears. Modeling for Sensei, modeling for Sensei. Of the few dreams
he allows himself, this was surely one of the loftiest; to be a muse for the
greatest artist in all of Japan.
It doesn't take long for the smiles to fade, for the doubt to creep into
Yusuke's posture. Madarame makes more demands than most; turn this way, sit
there, stand up, lift your arm that way, no, not like that. Yusuke's pulse
continues to race, but no longer with the wild, childlike exuberance it had
when he first entered the studio. Surely there was a reason for Sensei to make
him change positions so frequently. The speed at which he sketches must be
astounding, Yusuke thinks, comforts himself in the usual praise for his master.
He's making good use of our time, he thinks desperately as Madarame corrects
him again, sounding impatient. Sensei is a busy man, he needs things to be done
perfectly from the start, with no room for error and with each frustrated
exhale, with every pointed command from Madarame, Yusuke feels his confidence
whittle away bit by bit. He wants to sink to the wood floors, bury his head in
his knees. What a worthless model I am! Yusuke mourns, I can't even pose
properly for someone who knows me, for someone who has seen all parts of me
since the day I was born.
"Why are you getting upset, Yusuke?"
Ah, just like his master! To know when despondency grips Yusuke's heart.
"My apologies, Sensei," Yusuke forces the words from his mouth. "I'm not taking
your directions well." Madarame sighs. Yusuke's soul plummets through the
floor, into the dim basement, the muddied topsoil and deeper still, into the
sediment, towards the molten heat of the center of the earth.
"Let me try something," Sensei says, suddenly beside him. In his despair,
Yusuke missed his approach. Madarame reaches out with a benevolent hand,
closing around the bare skin of Yusuke's hip. His fingertips are calloused from
decades of holding the brush, no doubt. Yusuke is infinitesimally small under
them, under that lavish attention.
"Like this," his teacher says kindly, and positions Yusuke to a different, more
dynamic pose. Yes, of course! Sensei can shape him like clay in his hands. He's
the muse to which Sensei can use as he likes, to bestow greatness and
motivation with a turn of his wrist, with the smallest word. Relief ripples
through Yusuke as Madarame settles back into his seat, resumes sketching with a
renewed sense of vigor. Sensei is a genius and we are all so lucky to bask in
the radiance of his talent, like the sun, like the moon on a cloudless night,
glinting off the calmest pond in the stillest garden—
"Yusuke." Yusuke's shoulders gather, tense. His teacher's voice is stern. "You
need to focus."
His mind races. He is focusing. Isn't he? Perhaps he is too focused. Did he get
carried away with his thoughts again, moved by the spirit of his kind teacher,
so talented and wise. So strong in his convictions, in his vision for art and
where it would take him, take Yusuke and the rest of the undeserving public
carried with the ebb and flow of the current that is Madarame's raw, innate
talent.
"Where are you today?" Sensei asks, a note of amusement in his voice. Yusuke
smiles limply, heart slamming into his chest. I'm here, here with you, in this
moment that you're benevolent enough to share with me. Where else would I be?
What else can I do? How mortifying this is, Yusuke's inability to move in ways
that please Sensei. He ought to be ashamed of himself.
Sensei rests his chin in his hand, appraisingly. The air in the studio is very
thin. "Maybe this won't work out."
"No," Yusuke cries, foolishly. "Put me into place again." His voice is a flock
of birds flying past his lips, diving through the wind. "I'll be better. I can
do it. Please."
The pause where Madarame considers this proposal seems very long. Yusuke grows
old and dies a thousand times over in that silence. Eventually, graciously, his
teacher stands, the chair scraping against the wooden floorboards. He strides
to Yusuke in slow, purposeful steps. Relief courses through his veins, an
indebted sigh shuddering through every muscle.
"Thank you, Sensei."
Madarame's hand slides over his waist, fingertips gracing against Yusuke's
lower back. Yusuke makes himself loose and limbless, dutifully turning with
Sensei's movements. Up close Madarame's scent fills Yusuke's senses; a mature,
musky smell of worn linen and tart aftershave. It's rich and overwhelming and
Yusuke's throat is tight.
Sensei's hands find their way to his shoulders, thumbs hooking into the divots
of his bones. "Loosen your shoulders," he commands. Yusuke reflexively leans
into the touch, desperately arching towards his master. Madarame's fingers
tighten just slightly, trying to hold Yusuke in place before his hands skirt
down Yusuke's bare arms, glancing past his wrists. They cross over to the front
of Yusuke's thighs, and the contact on sensitive parts of him makes every nerve
in Yusuke light up, his shoulders immediately bunching at his ears. Sensei's
thumbs trace small, warm patterns against his legs, hands cupped around
Yusuke's thighs. They rub into the skin there and Yusuke swallows very hard at
the coiling anticipation in his stomach, and lower.
Obviously Master isn't doing that on purpose. What an unsightly thing to think,
how shameful. Yusuke's face burns hot.
He glances down when Sensei removes his hand; there's a smudge of graphite on
his thigh. He wanders back up Yusuke's body, trailing a loose path over
Yusuke's collarbone, along his throat. His pulse thunders under Madarame's
fingers as the man pauses, touch landing just under Yusuke's chin. He presses
his fingertips to the underside of Yusuke's jaw, angles Yusuke's face up so
their eyes are locked. The world around them is drained of color, or life
beyond his teacher's face, cool and considering, gaze locked on Yusuke's
unworthy, untrained eyes.
Madarame runs his thumb over Yusuke's lips, slow and deliberate. "Beautiful."
And with that his master is gone, back to his seat across the room, engrossed
in his sketching. Yusuke wavers on the spot, off kilter and unsure. He takes a
long, steadying pause as he holds the position Sensei left him in.
There's a heavy weight on his lip where Sensei touched, as if it left a smudge
like the one on his thigh. Yusuke forces his focus on that heaviness, the dull
reminiscence of pressure. He builds on the memory of it, creativity holding him
in the moment, keeping him from fidgeting or behaving in a way unbecoming of
Sensei's presence. He imagines taking Madarame's thumb in his mouth, sealing
his lips around it. Sensei's other fingers would slide past his lips, invading
his mouth as well, as Yusuke obediently took what he was offered, laving his
tongue between them. He could wrap his own fingers around Sensei's wrist, feel
his own drool drip down the length of Madarame's arm as he thrust into Yusuke's
mouth—
"Yusuke."
Suddenly Yusuke comes back from the daydream, to Sensei's voice. Madarame isn't
looking at the easel, he's looking at Yusuke, at a point below his waist. Oh.
Yusuke's vision goes watery. He hurriedly lifts his gaze to the ceiling and
blinks hard, staring at the damp and decaying framework by the window. This
house, so humble and honest. This house that holds a genius artist and a cadre
of talented artists and a filthy, miserable child like himself. A petty monster
that thinks of such debauched things in front of his Master, who has the gall
to become excited over such disgusting things. Yusuke barely remembers to
breathe, doing so only in short gasps.
"I," he starts and slams his mouth shut.
His voice is nowhere close to even, his nerves raw and still unnecessarily
excited. Curse this physical form, Yusuke rages, tears stinging at the corners
of his eyes. His body has betrayed him with this shameful reaction. He doesn't
deserve the privilege of serving Madarame. Yusuke has turned something as pure
and magnificent as modeling into something cheap. He'll leave the house at
once, or disembowel himself in the ritual fashion of disgraced gentlemen.
"You need to relax," Madarame says.
Yusuke's not sure what to do with this information. Relaxation is the last
thing on his mind. Why would Sensei offer him this? It would be better to
revoke his scholarship, rescind his offer of patronage. What right does Yusuke
have to take a moment's respite when he's been so lewd and thoughtless?
"Would you like me to help you?" Sensei is so benevolent and kind and wonderful
and Yusuke is disgusting, undeserving and keening at the very suggestion of
such a thing. "Come here."
Something outrageous clatters through Yusuke. He feels pressed flat, a leaf
between wooden blocks of overwhelming, conflicting feelings. He takes the steps
between him and Sensei carefully, like a man condemned.
"It's all right," Madarame adds, an edge of humor in his voice. It is quite far
from all right, Yusuke wants to argue, but there's no air left in his body to
do so. "Sit here in my lap."
Impossible! Yusuke internal monologue cries. He's too heavy, he'll break Master
Madarame's hip. Artists are like glass, their time on this cruel earth brief
and fleeting. Yusuke doesn't want his lust to be responsible for depriving the
world of its greatest artist.
Sensei doesn't give him much time to argue. His grip is sudden and imposing
over Yusuke's hip, guiding him to a seat over his thighs. The chair groans and
Yusuke along with it. This was a mistake. He doesn't need any help; the terror
left him half-softened already. Although with Sensei's hand at his side, the
closeness of his heartbeat, the warmth of his breath on Yusuke's neck; these
are all things that claw arousal through Yusuke's nerves, passion boiling in
his stomach like hot oil.
Yusuke almost struggles against Madarame's first stroke, before he remembers
his place. This is Madarame, master artist, your beloved father figure. His
hands on you are a gift, a blessing and Yusuke jolts with it. Sensei begins his
work like a brush's first line, cutting through the virgin whiteness of the
canvas. Yusuke's abdominal muscles clench as Madarame's thumb smears wetness
from the tip down Yusuke's dick. Pressure gathers at the base of his spine and
Madarame pumps his fist around Yusuke's cock, wrenching unfathomable feelings
from him. Yusuke stares, transfixed. Madarame's touch is thorough and
businesslike as Yusuke thrusts helplessly into his broad palm.
Yusuke hears his voice without recognizing it, the undignified noises that slip
past his lips. Sensei watches him with fascination, like a blank sheet of
paper, ready for creation. Yusuke writhes under that intense study, hips
rutting weakly into the strokes.
"Don't misunderstand," Madarame cautions him and Yusuke won't, he can't, he
understands Sensei completely, to the very fiber of his being. "I'm only doing
this because you are my most treasured student." His heart and cock give a
guilty throb.
Madarame swipes his thumb against the sensitive head of his cock and Yusuke's
legs kick out without his permission. He's a man possessed under these
ministrations and Yusuke struggles with the words in his mouth, the hiccupping
wet half apologies. He brazenly clenches his fingers around Sensei's arm,
clinging on through this torturous ride.
As he unconsciously moves to meet each stroke, Yusuke thinks, deliriously,
Sensei is good at this. Good at something like sex. But then of course he is,
Sensei is good at all things. There's no area where Madarame wouldn't be an
expert, after all. He's a genius at all art forms, at all measured movements of
these talented hands. Sex is just another layer of human nature that Sensei
captures in his art. He would be good at that, good at touching Yusuke just
like he needs and doesn't deserve, not one tiny bit.
Yusuke is painfully hard as he jerks into his teacher's hand. And maybe, just
for a moment, he can feel something else that's hard against the small of his
back.
That's all it takes, the mere suggestion Madarame might feel a similar desire
from this before Yusuke comes. Yusuke hurriedly curls with the force of it, the
shock of pleasure shooting up his spine and lighting up a dark and perverted
corner of his brain. In the afterglow, his vision swims with relief. Panting,
he feels more relaxed, more at peace than any other moment before.
"So beautiful," Madarame says, voice husky. "Beautiful and inspiring, Yusuke."
Yusuke moans weakly, rubbed raw and overspent but his cock shuddering back to
life under the praise. He doesn't deserve this, yet Sensei lavishes such gifts
upon him. He is so lucky, so incredibly fortunate to be living with such a
master.
"Kneel down," Sensei says and Yusuke does, gladly. He's not sure his legs would
hold him if he tried to stand. His thighs wobble uncertainly; the floor is cold
under his knees. He's stumbling through a dream, gratefully letting Sensei move
his body into place. He casts an adoring look to Madarame, who beams down at
him like the sun.
And Sensei's hand is firm under his chin, his come hot as it splashes across
Yusuke's face.


===============================================================================


Obviously, they had to reschedule the modeling session. Yusuke was relaxed, but
he was undone too completely to be any real use for posing at that point.
Madarame was gracious enough to name another time he would be available to draw
Yusuke, and even if it was Yusuke's fault the afternoon fell apart, Sensei said
he would forgive him.
"I live only to help my students," Sensei had murmured, pushing slick hair off
Yusuke's brow. "I can't blame you for taking advantage of my kindness."
The evening, Yusuke had sank into the bath after the older students,
unsatisfied in the heat of the water. He was a disgrace to the art world, to
this commune. He had used Sensei for his most abject desires. He hardly
deserved a second chance.
Yusuke had wrapped his arms around his knees and sunk further into the water,
until it slipped past his ears. He'd listened to the eerie hum of life through
the bathroom walls, the submerged quality of his own heartbeat. He had resolved
to be better in the future, to be more worthwhile of Madarame's faith in him.
Sensei would allow him another chance to model and this time he would not let
his juvenile desires ruin it. However, that might require certain amendments to
his behavior.
When preparing for the second modeling session, Yusuke had requested he be able
to pose lying on a futon. This would be infinitely better. After all, if there
was another… unsightly reaction, lying down would allow him to hide it from
Sensei's gaze. It would be best if his inappropriate behavior, should it make a
disgraceful return, wasn't noticed by his teacher. He couldn't bear the heat of
Madarame's gaze a second time, the resigned formality of his hand on Yusuke's
cock. Taking advantage of Sensei's kindness; Yusuke's heart broke for that a
thousand times over. What sort of monster was he, manipulating his teacher into
some kind of perverted plaything? Yusuke would never think of such lewd things
again, wouldn't dare allow for another session that ended in his teacher's
debasement.
(Never mind the nights between the last modelling session and now, where Yusuke
had thrust weakly into his own palm, other hand in his mouth to muffle the
desperate moans of Sensei, Sensei, oh—)
"Thank you for agreeing to model for me again," Sensei says with a serene
smile. Yusuke hates himself completely. He nods once, numbly.
"Thank you for having me." His throat feels like sandpaper. He undresses, eyes
pointedly averted from his teacher, and settles down on his stomach over the
futon. He imagines the millions of models who posed similarly for masters of
art in the past. He was nothing compared to their talent, their beauty, while
Madarame was leagues ahead of even the most accomplished of renaissance men.
Yusuke would be a poor imitation, a cheap copy posturing through the art world.
Thankfully, indulgent self-loathing grips his heart like a vice quartered too
tight and so far doesn't allow Yusuke to feel anything untowards.
As the sounds of Sensei's pencil against paper fill the room, Yusuke stares at
a point on the wall, a half dusted cobweb. He tries to focus on the mundane
detail of it, of the half-hearted cleaning Shimoi must've done in this room the
other day. How embarrassing. Some of the students here have no idea how lucky
they are to be granted Sensei's attention. Yusuke was grateful to his bones,
gratitude oozing from his pores.
After all, Sensei had called Yusuke his most treasured student, hadn't he?
That's a detail about the last modeling session Yusuke can't forget, not even
when the rest of the encounter was a haze of hormones and Sensei's generosity.
Most treasured student, Yusuke thinks, and the words are neon lights flashing
through his mind, their intensity bleeding into any other thought. Sensei
respects him above the other students in the commune. And why shouldn't he?
This minor indiscretion of arousal aside, Yusuke's proven himself an adept
pupil time and time again. And Madarame has lavished more attention on Yusuke
than the other students in recent years. It was surely something beyond
preferential treatment, beyond the nepotism that Madarame had sternly informed
him would not be available if Yusuke pursued his passion for art. He would have
to earn a seat with Madarame's other students. Sensei had come to treasure
Yusuke almost in spite of their father-son relationship, had come to view
Yusuke as more than just a diligent ward, but as a man and an artist, treasured
above all other students! Pride swells high in Yusuke's chest. To have one's
talent acknowledged by Sensei; truly there is no higher honor. Although he's
not sure it was honor that he felt during the last modeling session, with
Sensei's eyes roaming over his naked body.
Yusuke's hips wriggle against the futon and an awful and familiar satisfaction
begins to build between his legs.
No! How terrible. How awful! He let himself become distracted by recollections
of Sensei's accolades. Yusuke bites his lip hard, crossing his arms and
squeezing his skin white under his fingernails. This was all wrong; he was
supposed to think of innocuous things. Banal observations about the room. Lists
of art supplies he needed to order. Yusuke ought to have been thinking of such
things, not dwelling on Sensei's relationship with him, blossoming from
guardian to mentor, to teacher and treasured student. It's too much, too
intimate and with a mournful sigh Yusuke can tell his teenage shame has risen
between his legs.
He shifts his weight to try and assuage some of the torment, but the rubbing
only makes it worse. Much, much worse. Yusuke's tongue slips and his meager
noise is deafening in the quiet studio.
Sensei's pencil stops.
Yusuke buries his face in his arms and dreams of better days, days before the
throes puberty and hormonal urges sullied his relationship with the greatest
artist of this generation.
"What are you hiding?"
All at once two firm hands close around Yusuke's waist, pulling him back,
lifting Yusuke up onto his knees. Yusuke hurriedly tries to reposition himself,
to squirm back to the safety of the blankets, where he can see a small wet spot
left behind from his already leaking cock. No, Sensei can't see that! Yusuke
will ruin everything again with his disgusting habits!
Madarame makes a quiet sound at the back of his throat. An appraising sound.
Yusuke's heart is going fast.
"I see," Madarame says, inconceivably. Yusuke burns under his teacher's hands,
hands that wander along the small of his back, the slope of his thighs, the
curve of his—
At that touch, all the air rushes out of Yusuke in a weak, plaintive sound. He
rocks back into the hand over his ass. He knows better than this. He shouldn't
be doing this, something so simple and savage. He shouldn't take advantage of
how kind his master is. Yusuke doesn't deserve Madarame's attention, doesn't
deserve his hands mapping his body, laying him bare and raw and disgustingly
wanting.
Sensei's fingers dig into his cheeks, alarmingly tight. Yusuke hears himself
eke out another furtive groan.
"You've distracted me again, Yusuke." Sensei's voice is nothing Yusuke has ever
heard before. It's quiet but deafening in its closeness, in the way it
accompanies his teacher's fingers kneading at him. There's an electric charge
between them Yusuke can't explain, a strange atmosphere he's never encountered
in his years with the commune. How could I have let things get like this,
Yusuke mourns. With all this immature desire he's changed their relationship
and now Sensei will punish him for it.
Madarame's hands are no doubt leaving more graphite smudges on Yusuke's very
private places. But somehow, it doesn't feel like punishment.
"Such a distraction." Madarame clicks his tongue. "As if I could draw with your
perfect ass in the air."
"Sensei!" Yusuke gasps. It's not like his master to speak in such base terms.
The lewdness of the statement makes him dizzy. All the blood rushes from his
head when Sensei's touch dips between Yusuke's legs, takes hold of something
unspeakable. Again.
Yusuke digs his fingers into the bedclothes.
"Do you need my help with this again?" Madarame asks. Only it's not so much a
question this time, as it's an observation, a command, and a delirious sort of
happiness settles over Yusuke.
"Yes," he says, voice thick in his throat. During those nights alone,
shamefully thinking of Sensei's hand on his cock, Yusuke had been so frustrated
with how unsatisfying his own touch was. It was nothing to the feel of it now,
of Madarame's talented hands around him, coaxing these lustful responses from
an undeserving student.
"All right," Madarame says, and his cool acquiesce is a compress on a feverish
head, a sip of water in the desert. It's a comfort even when Sensei lets Yusuke
go and his body, a sick, unconscious thing, arches after the touch. "Say thank
you, Yusuke."
"Thank you, Sensei," Yusuke shoots Madarame a wet, obedient smile over his
shoulder and freezes. The sight that awaits him is like blow to the chest;
Madarame, his hand between his own legs, cock hard and freed from his opened
robes. Madarame catches Yusuke's gaze and holds it too, stroking himself with
steady pumps of his hand. Yusuke is at the edge of a high summit, watching his
teacher fuck slowly into his own hand, like Yusuke had done all those nights,
thinking of Sensei.
Yusuke turns his face away in a hurry, refocuses on those cobwebs, on shopping
lists, on anything and everything but the quiet uncapping of a bottle behind
him. Yusuke's shock sways his entire body, and his dazed vision goes blurry.
Sensei has a bottle of something. He must have kept it in his pocket, brought
it to the modelling session. That's odd, isn't? a distant, dangerous part of
Yusuke thinks. Madarame is acting like this turn of events is entirely your
doing, but he prepared such a thing in advance. Doesn't that seem wrong to you?
Yusuke shuns those rebellious thoughts. What does it matter if Sensei was
prepared for this outcome? He knows Yusuke better than anyone else; Yusuke has
no confidant greater than his master. It would be logical Sensei would predict
these kind of awful reactions in his student. And just because Sensei brought
such a thing, it doesn't change the wrongness of Yusuke's lust. Regardless of
preparation, surely Madarame thinks of Yusuke's simpering needs as a burden. It
isn't possible that his master could have been thinking of Yusuke in such
lecherous ways as well. Right?
A hand slides between Yusuke's thighs, and the feeling it leaves on his skin is
unnaturally slick. As suspected, the bottle was some type of lubrication,
likely used for the sole purpose of copulation. For sex. Sensei and sex. Sensei
and sex with him. Yusuke groans, cock aching.
"Don't expect me to spoil you," Sensei says, some strange inexplicable warning.
"I won't," Yusuke says, voice wavering. He's not sure what that means. "I-
I don't." His treatment from Sensei has already been beyond kind, more than he
could deserve. He would never want his master to think he had become greedy.
Madarame pushes Yusuke's legs together with a knee as he settles on the futon.
His hands close around Yusuke's waist, and Yusuke's about to cast another
curious look over his shoulder when he feels it. Something nudging between his
thighs.
Sensei is an artist with outstanding pace, whose numerous accomplishments are
precise in their beauty, where every stroke of his brush is thoughtful and
calculated. There's no reason Yusuke should be surprised Sensei approaches
intercourse the same way. Madarame's hands tighten at his waist, his teacher
exhaling on a thin hiss as he fucks into Yusuke's thighs.
'Fuck' is such a crude word for it. Yusuke is lightheaded at the thought of
something so vulgar. There must be other words for it, for the way Madarame's
probing thrusts ghost against spots where Yusuke wants to be touched. There may
be words, but none Yusuke's in a state to use. His tongue is too numb to speak,
only capable of uttering low, hurt noises each time the tip of Madarame's dick
brushes his balls. It's maddening. Sensei had offered Yusuke his help, said he
wasn't going to spoil Yusuke. And Yusuke had agreed to that, but he didn't
know, he didn't expect this kind of intimate contact. He wonders if actual sex
could possibly be filthier than this, if that's even possible. That's too much.
This is too much. Sensei is spoiling him and Yusuke thinks he might choke on
it.
The lubrication between them echoes, the slap of skin unearthly loud in their
humble space. Sensei's pace is relentless, pounding into Yusuke's thighs while
Yusuke struggles to steady himself. He's faint from so much gasping, from the
way Sensei's hand splayed over his ribs presses down unnecessarily hard, like
he thinks Yusuke plans on slipping away. He would never; where else would he
go? What better place is there for him than by Sensei's side? Maybe on his
knees, but nowhere else.
Yusuke's face is warm to the point of burning and he hides it in the cool
sheets. Sensei draws his hips closer, leaning over Yusuke in a graceful bow. He
gasps harsh against Yusuke's spine, breathing labored and uneven.
"Good," Madarame says between pants. Yusuke's heart sings with the praise and
he shyly rocks back into the thrusts. "Ah, very—very good, Yusuke." In response
to Yusuke, Sensei's movements become more erratic; rash and unfettered. It must
feel good for him. Yusuke's chest is blown wide open from pleasing his master.
It's so satisfying to be praised, to be useful, and to be loved. "Perfect, just
like that."
Madarame hands scrabble at Yusuke's sides, rearranging him roughly. Yusuke's
chin is dragged against the blankets as the older man hefts him further
backwards, his cock working in and out of Yusuke's tightly closed legs.
Yusuke's knees are starting to ache but it's nothing to the pulse of desire
between his legs, to Yusuke's bobbing cock, aching for friction. He has to get
a hold of himself. He has to wrangle in this base desire, this humiliating
wanton moan that slips past his lips.
Madarame's hips stutter and his voice is nothing but babbling praise, painting
a lush scenery of Yusuke as a dutiful student, Yusuke as a good boy, so
beautiful and tight. His admiration reaches an agonizing pitch when Sensei
stiffens, leaving a hot splash against the back of Yusuke's thighs. Madarame
collapses forward, breathing ragged, face scratching against Yusuke's back as
he nuzzles close. Yusuke is slick with sweat, so it can't be comfortable, and
when Sensei's regained his composure, he straightens up, moves away.
Yusuke feels broken, like hundreds of snapped brushes, like dried out palettes
of color that have to be chipped from the plastic. He's incomplete without
Sensei's hands on him, and cold, and so, so, so desperate.
He whimpers, a soft noise Sensei must pity him for, because he slides a hand
under Yusuke's chest and turns him over.
"Sensei." Yusuke's voice catches in his throat. He can feel the come drying on
his legs.
"Tell me what you want, boy," Madarame says, he demands. The words splinter
something inside of Yusuke, the last vestiges of control.
"Touch me," he whimpers. "Please." Begging; how unsightly. But dignity is a far
away concept now, something that exists only in Yusuke's most distant
imagining, where he's not squirming under the Sensei's stare.
Madarame runs a finger up the underside of Yusuke's cock, tortuously slow.
Yusuke cries out, a short bird-like noise before he claps a hand over his
mouth. His shakes so hard with each feather-soft stroke Yusuke is sure he'll
fall apart from it. There's a wetness on his cheeks and he realizes he's been
crying, pent up and demanding.
Gracious, perfect, genius Sensei wraps his fingers around his dick and Yusuke
convulses into it, rocking into his fist. He sees stars behind his eyelids when
he comes over his chest and face. Yusuke sobs with the force of it, Madarame's
attention to his treasured student.
When he comes back to breathing, Yusuke opens his eyes and Sensei is standing
over him.
"Well done." He smiles and Yusuke's dick gives a weak twitch.
He can't wait to model for Sensei again.
End Notes
     to my buddy in filth!! so happy we get to share another fandom with
     problematic ships. You're too good to me and I'm so grateful to write
     something for you finally! Thanks again dudeee
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