Cute

Cute by Hestia

“Then Ryuichi just started to sing, Yuki. It was amazing. When I hear him singing so passionately, so inspired, I feel like I’m a little kid again listening in my bedroom wanting to be able to sing like that, to imitate this god of music. And then I realized, he likes me! We’re friends! It’s just so hard to wrap my head around the fact that someone like me could be his friend . . .”

Shuichi kept talking earnestly, his big purple eyes wide, his face humble and amazed. His bright pink hair was tussled, but he wasn’t moving much for him—no arm waiving, no jumping up and down. He sitting still on the big couch next to Yuki, trembling with his emotions, fluctuating between self-doubt, hero-worship, and a firm determination to outdo his personal music God, the great Ryuichi Sakama. They were sitting in Yuki’s living room in semi-darkness, dimly lit from the light shining in from the hall and the glow of the tv playing a dvd of Ryuichi’s latest appearance with Nittle Grasper. Yuki stubbed out his cigarette and forgot to pull out another, lost in looking at Shuichi’s face and hearing him spill out his heart so earnestly.

How many nights had they sat on this couch, and he had listened to the little brat talking and talking, with so much emotion and passion? Too many to count, and so many of them ended right here on the sofa or with a short walk to the bedroom. When Shuichi was vulnerable like this, so emotional, so adorable, what could Yuki do, but love him?

His hands reached out and cupped Shuichi’s face. “ . . . and he pulled out Kumagoro-kun—Yuki?” And Yuki just looked into those big violet eyes with his golden ones, letting his feelings show in his face. He didn’t have to say a word—Shuichi was his, completely his. Those eyes somehow got wider and blinked a little, his breathing intensified, and that pink mouth was silent and open. It amazed Yuki that even after being lovers for years, he could still render Shuichi speechless with desire with just a look.

“You look a little cute tonight, brat,” he said in low voice before pulling a passive Shuichi into his arms and letting his mouth dominate his lover’s. Shuichi’s hands fluttered and moved up on Yuki’s chest. One rubbed over Yuki’s nipple, which was as stiff as his cock, breaking the rhythm the blonde was setting as his tongue thrust and circled in Shuichi’s yielding mouth. With a growl, Yuki caught Shuichi’s hands and pulled them behind his back. He held them with one hand while the other jerked off the loose necktie around his neck that he’d not yet had a chance to remove after returning from his latest television interview. It took less than a minute to tie his pink-haired lover’s hands together behind his back.

This sent Shuichi into a state of frantic desire, for the singer loved bondage. He knew that sometimes he annoyed Yuki, and when the novelist would tie him up, he was free to let go. Bound, Shuichi could just let himself feel, move, and talk as he wished, or more precisely, he could try to do that, knowing that Yuki’s restraints and sometimes even his gags meant that Shuichi couldn’t offend or annoy no matter what he tried to do. And really all he wanted to do was please. Although the singer was more independent of Yuki now, all it took was desire filling Shuichi’s body, and that old pathetic, desperate, and masochistic craving for Yuki to love him overwhelmed the now rich and famous pop star.

But here, now, in the dark, with Shuichi’s mouth and tongue responding fervently, his arms struggling against the silk tie around his wrists, his legs curling around Yuki, they weren’t celebrities but simply two men in love.

Yuki lifted his head and smiled down at Shuichi as he pulled up the sexy little crop top his lover wore, exposing two tiny but erect nipples. As he lifted the smaller body in his arms and jerked down Shuichi’s underwear and shorts, he whispered, “No, a lot cute, ridiculously cute.” His words—god, no one responded to his words like Shuichi! Sure, people loved his novels and wrote him they changed his life and inspired them, but Shuichi didn’t love his words; he was transformed by them. Five or six words, and he was radiant with love—this was the Shuichi he’d written those lyrics about for Nittle Grasper, the Shuichi he always wanted to make him glow too, to give him that shining kiss that made him feel so alive, so warm.

“Shuichi,” he said sliding his fingers into that pretty pink mouth, needing them wet now, needing to put them inside this warm, feeling, pulsing being in his arms. And as soon as the saliva covered them, he was sliding one, then two fingers into that other pretty pink opening of Shuichi’s, his one and only fuckhole--that glorious tight thing that was Shuichi’s ass. God, he had a great ass! His mouth again descended and devoured the panting, passionate one of this squirming, shaking thing on his lap. Oh, but it was hard to focus on their kiss when that ass of his was squeezing tight around his fingers! God it was going to feel amazing—god, soon, soon, he had to feel Shuichi, he needed to be inside this warmth, inside this sparkling and shining thing.

“Yuki, I love you! I love you! Please! Yuki! Please!”

And that was it—he couldn’t do any more stretching, not when Shuichi begged in that special voice, the one that had that sexy edge that made it all sound so different from his usual tearful, whiny pleas for this or that.

And then his cockhead popped past that tight rosebud ring, and Shuichi threw back his head and let out a moaning scream that if it ever was recorded would make Bad Luck a fortune and have his fangirls passing out. It reminded Yuki a little of some of the simulated sex sounds that English singer made, that Plant guy in Led Zep. But Shuichi’s song of love, his throaty, moaning cries would never be recorded if Yuki had anything to say about it. This was a song just for him, for an audience of one.

He wasn’t being sensitive, being gentle, being nice—but that was what had made Shuichi fall for him in the first place. Barely lubricated and stretched, the singer was being fucked ruthlessly, and he was in heaven. Yuki thrust up hard and fast, using his grip on Shuichi’s bound hands to raise and then jerk down his lover, driving in as deep as he could, his face now snarling. Sweat was forming on his skin, making strands of his gold hair sticky. Shuichi was now at the stage where he was crying, laughing, and shouting—he wouldn’t last much longer.

“Mine!” growled Yuki, and that was all it took to send Shuichi into ecstasy without ever having his aroused organ touched. That cute little cock of his jerked and sprayed out cum, his tight ass convulsed around Yuki, his violet eyes shut, and--something the blonde loved—that famous mouth fell silent again. His orgasm, as usual, put Shuichi in that state of blissed out happiness that no one could see and not find completely adorable. It was, god, just unbearably cute—and looking down into that cuteness, Yuki needed only two more thrusts to cum himself.

He let out his own love song—a half grunt, half cry that burst from his mouth unbidden as the pleasure wracked his body. His arms wrapped tight around Shuichi, and his damp, sweaty head dropped to rest on one slender white shoulder. When his shuddering breath became merely heavy breathing, one hand reached down and undid the necktie around the singer’s delicate wrists. Ah, yes, that was perfect—those thin arms clung, and that pretty body pressed and snuggled up against him. Yuki pulled himself together and shifted, lying down on the couch with Shuichi half on top and half next to him. He needed another cigarette—soon. For now, he would enjoy the quiet of a satiated Shuichi and his own body’s fulfillment.

Soon Shuichi was lightly snoring, asleep. How annoying!

But cute, really, really cute.