【 ⠀ lemon-aid fever⠀ : ⠀ soccer players assistant ⠀ 】
tags ⸝⸝ 2.9k- soccer player! k, cute dynamic, gentle reader, light fluff, unprotected, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, pinning, back shots, cream pie.
x reader ⠀ | ⠀smut w plot ⠀ 〔+18〕
it was your first day on the job. hands still slightly shaking from the morning coffee and 3 cans of red bull. your bag slung over your shoulder hopelessly. your glasses sliding down your nose, smearing your perfectly set nose contour, bummer.
your socks pressed too tightly into your calves, hair tied loosely— just enough for the band to slip off without notice.
the headquarters was buzzing, the chaotic scramble between meetings, groups filling the lobby— tour guides explaining every stone in detail. the wide set statue that sat tacky just before the “employees only” area. cases on cases of gleaming gold trophies, medals that caught the light. shining like the proud earned trophies they were. posters, frames, and banners, all hung and pinned to the walls. team photos, photos with important figures. everything screamed big-name soccer corporation.
you finally sat in the empty room, one large desk, a gleaming name plate, bookshelves full of random crap that you swore were only for decoration.
you felt small, too small in the leather chair, too itchy around the neck, hands sweating profusely. the ac wasn’t broken; it was the built-up stress of a first day.
the beginning of the meeting passed with flying colors. the director was kind, gentle, understanding. he talked with a deep raspy tone that betrayed his kind manners. handing you piles of those useless books. on top of it all was a single sheet of paper. you stared at it until the words blurred, the lines faded. it was all the information for Japan’s top player.
“this must be wrong— i applied for a secretary position, “ this clearly says assistant…” he nodded, hands folded neatly.
Koga Yudai wasn’t just a soccer player. he was the kind of celebrity you’d find on every billboard. he had long lists of ambassadorships. he was the kind of famous where your nieces and nephews would beg you for his jerseys. you’d pick up a small egg carton, and his face would be plastered directly on top of it. a proud smile that looked too statuesque.
“the paper says a needed medical professional— i barely know how to check a pulse.”
yet your words were met with another gentle nod, this time a sigh— almost making you feel dumb for expecting this to go as planned.
“hence the first-aid books, see this is a position we’ve been in dire need to be filled.” he sits back, hands planted in his lap, spinning to face the large glass window behind him. the gestures all felt like they were being played by some big-time movie script. he wasn’t joking, no, his tone was serious— no twisted prank was being played on you.
“you start tomorrow, “ he paused, turning back to you, the sounds of his clothes rustling, the chair fighting to spin his frame around. “call the number at the top 30 minutes before arriving at the location listed beneath.” he pointed to an imaginary paper on the table, guiding your bewildered mind.
and with one hurried gesture, he kicks you out of the office.
arms shaking— the piles of books weighing down your disheveled spirit. in one long, drained slide, you hit the floor, back dragging along the pristine wood doors, cold marble pressing through your thin skirt. you stare blankly, eyes wide, skimming the long lists of information, side notes that felt mocking.
“be sure to grab an iced americano before every pick-up!” and a derpy smiley face scribbled next to it.
the first week was hectic— he was an interesting client, he didn’t talk much at first. fingers smashing away on his phone. tired sighs, low groans. melting into the back seat of your car.
he’d often walk out of the building 10 minutes after you had already parked. grey tank tops that fit loosely around his lean frame— to tight black compression shirts that enveloped his defined body. gym bag, large and heavy, knocking against his hip with every step.
the most words spoken were on the first day— you tried to make small talk. it was met with unambiguous silence. but you grew accustomed to his preferences. not minding the tranquil nature of his company.
following him around like a scared puppy, tail tucked between your legs. phone flooded with thousands of messages, calls, emails, you slumped over your laptop all day— tiding his schedule, organizing every single detail with maximum efficiency. your schedules merged, smooshed into a frankenstein routine of 3 hours of sleep max— if you got lucky.
nights wasted on articles, videos, classes on how to manage medical emergencies. you knew the time would come when he broke. where the training would crack first, the unneeded hours of extra workouts cracked deeper, everything chipped at him, and you’d need to be the one to clean the broken pieces.
you felt like you were going insane, meetings you sat through on your phone, reading articles on what not to do during a health crisis. tips on how to tend a dislocated shoulder, all while he tediously clicks his pen, mind never paying attention enough to the speeches— always having to nudge your knowledge into his empty thoughts.
time grew you two closer, the silence began to roughen around the edges, it started with light hums, gentle nods, his eyes that once neglected you glanced occasionally.
long track sessions, running around the park as you sat on a cold bench. bored out of your mind. watching the way he smiled, a genuine proud smile at you when he returned. “what’s my time?” he panted, hands planted to his knees, slightly bent over, trying to catch his breath. you babied him, grabbing him a sweat towel, a large water bottle that you fed to him like a kitten learning to eat. gentle hands that treated him like fragile bones.
slow long tears ripped into the tension, he’d now laugh louder, make simple gestures, comments that reassured you he was listening. It led to a friendship that blossomed. every pickup was an exchange: his usual coffee for a small gift he’d bought you, or extra items from deals. most gifts were his leftover PR packages— the kind of luxury brands that were once a distant, unattainable dream, now laid in your very lap. like a small, delicate chocolate box, slowly unraveling the bow, then lifting the lid, to your now sweet friendship that felt right. too right.
the fights you sat through— sitting in the corner, fingers rubbing your temples as your head tried to burrow itself into your chest. the insults that flew without second thought, cursing that put justification into washing their mouths with soap. all after a failed game, even the outbursts that erupted during winning games were headaches. pushing and shoving, yelling that rang in your head all the way home— just barely fading when finally you fall asleep. the car rides home were quiet after, your hands nervously gripping the leather steering wheel. scared to poke the bear, huffing and puffing, deep sighs that carried a heavyweight in your backseat. disappointment and frustration bitter on his tongue. fights that were a one-sided free-for-all. victim — yudai. teammates would spit and shout, coaches pointing their fingers everywhere but at the real problem. all to belittle him. jealousy indeed gets to you; everyone wants what they don’t have.
most schedules were private, meetings, photoshoots, filming— everything was supposed to be a small group of workers. yet you had countless times where fighting off obsessive fans felt more like your job than anything. having to double as an assistant and a bodyguard. escorting him through large crowds of fans, shouting that left a dull throbbing inside your head. pressure against your back that never left, faintly remembering every push and shove. everything was rushing you out of your once steady comfort zone. you were in front of the thousands of fan-sites now, never that the attention was on you, but the experience itself was enough to make you queasy.
after the game ended, you quickly rushed to yudai. his knees were bloodied, head was pounding. practically collapsing beneath you. a blooming pain across his shin, you watched his face tense— pain that painted a rough picture. his body was limp, dissolving into the cold, hard bench beneath him. his jersey was covered in mud— smeared from his legs to his waist. long streaks of dried grass dried into it. he groan— pained wails that ripped through his throat. your hands act quickly, too quickly. anxiously fumbling the towel, his water bottle dumping across his lap, the water mixing into the dirt, seeping into the rich blue shorts. he could barely speak, hands shaky, knuckles tightening as his mistakes replay in his head. your hands fumble the bandages one last time, wiping the alcohol patch over the scratches. staring up at him, watching the way his head leans back, his legs spread in front of you. your eyes wandered, too far. lost in the glistening sweat glazing his neck, his sleeves rolled just above his elbows. forearms flexing under the beating white lights. veins poking out, running under the pale skin.
you didn’t notice it at first, your eyes were too lost in his illusion, his hair sticking to his forehead, his hands fumbling at his thighs, tugging the deep blue shorts in agony.
and then it snapped— what felt like forever of daydreaming— you realize how deeply you stared at his beautiful frame, his soft face, delicate features that never quite fit the image of a top soccer player in japan. his gentle frame that made your heart sink, sinking deeper into your lungs— breath hitching with every glance. you watched him scan your face, eyelids heavy, lips parted as his whiny pants filled the room. “can you hurry?” he spat, hands fisting the fabric deeper in his shorts. “oh— sorry…” you broke, darting back to patching his wound, wiping deep into the surface-level scratches. your head buried in shame, returning to your attempts at being invisible. he wasn’t always this rude— something must’ve broken out on the field. and now you had to pay the price for it.
a neighboring medic rushed over, slightly pushing you away from your post. “do you even know what you’re doing?!” their voice cut like a knife, clean and sharp. it sank, deep, it twisted. it broke you. you really had no idea what you were doing, you tried. you really did. but you were never trained for this, thrown into a burning house with a water bottle and bandages— told “you’ll figure it out eventually.” it was all bull shit. they were just waiting for you to break.
you moved quickly, thoughts running, mouth running faster. fingers pointed, feet moved, a small crowd circled you two. yelling, screaming, worried questions, whispers, everything turns black. memory faded into a distant dream, head ring— followed by silence. the sound of water running, steam blowing past your face. it all snapped in one shocking wave. it wasn’t that you passed out, no, you were standing, everything still attached. you just completely blanked— everything was a blurred memory before you now stood in front of the shower room. your head turned, back and forth. trying to find out exactly what you were doing. we’re you standing guard? or did you have an objective you needed to complete? it was all one big question mark now. replaying the stuffy, crowded locker room. you caved in, needing answers.
“you okay in there?” you gently knock the door, hearing water pause, ruffling— thick ruffling of his plush towel, wet padded foot steps that reached the door, slow— gentle— cautious. the door crack, a singular eye stares back at you. a deep, long unspoken period that made everything around you feel big— too big, like it was all squeezing you into one tiny box.
he tilted his head, an innocent expression plastered on his face— slow, long creaking that felt too intentional. then it stopped, a dead radio silence that filled your brain with heavy static. he stood, tall, his frame fixed, the dirt washed away from his body. hair wet, dripping slowly to his shoulders, water that ran along his perfect collarbones.
all that was left was a glistening, damp heat that stuck to him. outlining every curve and vein, your eyes followed. why wouldn’t they? gaze wandering over every muscle. every inch of his body looked like it was hand-carved, far too perfect for the yudai you knew. for a player who sat in loose tank tops and compression shirts, they clearly did no justice to what was laid underneath. in a swift, head-spinning pull, he yanks you into the bathroom with him. it was hot, steamy, humid. the walls were consistent white tiles that felt too repetitive, covering the ceiling to the floor. a lone shower head mounted to the wall, still dripping excess water. small dribbles that disturbed every thought running through your mind. everything was silent, an unspoken silence that built steady, thick, suffocating tension. your body tensed, muscles tighten, face scrunching. your arms dart to cross, an anxious habit you had. face to face, both your expressions blank. not an eyebrow lift, no fluttering eyelashes, lips that stuttered. just a requited stillness that never dares to be tested. the thick fog makes your legs feel like jelly, a wobbly stance that looks like a fawn learning to stand.
you felt it, the electricity that sparked through the air with his unwavering gaze; it all spun you around— including his hands, twirling you around, bending you over the lone sink. small, a white ceramic pushing a chilling press to your torso. your hands rummage— finding their footing on the sides of the bowl. “yudai—?” shaky, a little whine, confusion sealing the message. “hm?” his response was mind-boggling, confused as to why exactly you thought his actions were unnecessary. tone so gentle, so delicate in your ear.
you froze, mouth gaped, mind buffering before accepting your fate. his fingers toy with your skirt, rolling it just above your ass.
his rough hands palm your soft hips, the lace of your panties slowly being nudged to the side by the large head of his cock, slick.
the veins nearly popped as his pre cum covered your folds.
gently grinding his hips against you, viscously playing with the sensitive surface of your ass. biting his bottom lip to deafen the deep groans escaping his throat.
the muffled chatter from the outside locker, your hands reach for yudai’s towel— stuffing it in your mouth. hands gripping the small sink, he bent you over it.
it wasn’t likely that anyone would hear you, but if they listened closely, they’d surely make out the situation. in the end, it wasn’t worth the risk of getting caught.
without a warning, he suddenly thrust his dick into you, your knees buckling with a pained howl.
his hands gripping hard enough to keep you standing. nails scrapping into the sink, eyes tearing from his massive twitching cock. the fabric of the handkerchief, mumbling your distressed yelps.
you weren’t a virgin, but never have you imagined someone to be this big.
without giving you time to adjust, his hips sink deeper into you, one hand on your ass, the other pressing against your stomach; it only intensified the swelling stretch of your walls. his large cock bulges through your stomach.
his thrusts are almost selfishly harsh, the thick veins of his dick cramming into the squishy layer. his plump head pushes your cervix to its limits.
the heat of the room now echoed the wet noises, followed by the sweat dripping behind your knees. both his hands now claw at your stomach, pressing your soft flesh deeper onto his cock.
his brain foggy, his low-parted lips growl, your walls tightening as a response. his eyes heavy, a dark, sinful glare as he watched your ass bounce on him.
with a deep, long roll, he pushes his length deeper, his deep voice nipping at the coldness of your earlobes. the motion of his thick cock pushing you past your limits knocks the air from your lungs, panting against the cold porcelain. towel slipping— fighting to flee the heated bite. it evade. all that was left was your one hand covering your swollen lips.
his hands forcing your body weight onto your stomach. your knees buckled, legs stiff as his pace quickened. his hips now lazily snapping into you, the knot in his stomach growing tighter,
“are you okay? it doesn’t hurt too much, does it?” his whiny voice tickled, one hand leaving your stomach— now gently massaging your shoulder.
you nod, weak whimpers that broke through your lips. thrusts that blurred your vision, deep rough pounds that made you feel as if you were paying for every mistake, every slip-up. your back arched higher, feeling every jerk hit right where you needed him. the way his hands pressed against your bare skin, marking it like they were trying to claim you.
it all clashed, with every breath, you felt your consciousness fade. the heat from his hands groping your sensitive skin. hot fog still covered the mirror. watching the blurred silhouette of him through it. steam wrapped your body like ties, deep, pressing into your forehead, neck, and lower back. everything felt too tight, too hot, too sticky.
it snapped. a long sensitive wave of pleasure, rushing over your head, washing down to your knees, feeling your body go limp, back arch.
a deep moan uncovered itself, loud, a wail that echoed through the hollow room.
feeling his cock twitch, a long, deep push burying him right into you, chest hitting your moist back. long ropes of cum spilling out of you, trickling down your shaky thighs, his hands losing their grip on your stomach, letting the pressure on your stomach bulge gradually die down.
wanyangii, 2026 © These works are original creations and exclusively uploaded to Tumblr. No part of these writings may be copied, translated, edited, redistributed, or modified in any form.
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