⚠: English isn’t my monther tongue. Blah blah blah mistakes, blah blah blah sorry. All that to say: if you read a sentence three times without understanding it, or if a word doesn’t seem to exist in English… the problem might be me, and there’s a good chance the word doesn’t exist either.
⚠: Not really a warning but I invented the word/tag BT3HR for :Been Translated, Hope it’s not too Heavy or Hard to Read. I'm pointing it out because I have no idea how easy or difficult these texts will be for readers to understand.
ⓘ: This user reserves the right to be awkward.
ⓘ: This “writer” reserves the right to be a little OOC at times.
I hate it when I can’t even be sure about a character’s name — like, is it their first or last name, or how it’s even spelled?!!!
Is it "Vivian" or "Vivien"? Since he’s French, I’d lean toward the second one. Also, how do you even know if "Vivien" or "Hugo" is his first name??
Honestly, I think the author was going for a little “Victor Hugo” reference (V.H), which would make it Vivien Hugo (V.H). Buuuut both can be used as first or last names. I’m leaning toward "Vivien", even though I so prefer "Hugo" as a first name.
Maybe it’s actually super obvious and I just missed something, but I keep seeing people calling him “Vivian” (or “Vivien”… same but different, hence my question about the right spelling). And then others call him “Hugo”.
If I remember right, his French teammates in the manga called him “Hugo”, and since people in France call each other by their first names, that would mean his given name is "Hugo", right?
Unless the author just didn’t pay attention and applied the Japanese politeness rules to the French dialogues...
Am I making sense or did I just lose everyone here?
Sae doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. No sticky, waxy, or oily textures. And definitely not the warm, slippery mess his girlfriend makes when she's turned on.
⚠️ Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual , fingering, Sae's... well, Sae, reader's a messy/very wet girl , anddd that's all I think
Pairing: bf!Itoshi Sae x fem!reader
Sae is extremely sensitive to textures—it borders on obsession. He can't stand rough fabrics, feeling moisture linger on his skin makes him wince, and he despises anything sticky.
That's why he always takes certain precautions. Hairspray instead of gel in his bathroom shelf, two pairs of absorbent long sleeves wait in his gym bag, so he never feels sweat sliding between his fingers, and he always keeps a rigid case filled with cotton pads soaked in a dermatological solution in his pocket—enough to clean his hands whenever they feel dirty.
In short, Sae avoids touching it as much as possible.
“Won't you take em off for once, Pretty Eyes?” you whine, your gaze pleading as you follow his movements.
The dull snap of the nightstand drawer sounds like a call to order. In his right hand, Pretty Eyes holds a fresh pair of gloves, still sealed in their plastic pouch. He tears it open with a quiet rip. The scent of new latex is clean, medical. Then he unfolds them slowly, turning each glove right-side out with deliberate fingers. Finally, he slides them on— one hand, then the other— pulling the material taut over his knuckles and smoothing it down each long finger.
“No.” He turns toward you. “Spread.”
You sigh but obey. It feels like some kind of gynecological roleplay. Always the same routine: he stands before you, hands gloved, sometimes one, sometimes both, wearing that dedicated pairs he's carefully selected. The nitrile snaps lightly as he adjusts them, a familiar sound that already announces no, he won't remove anything, even if you beg.
“I don't like sticky textures,” he'd explained the first time. As if that weren't insulting.
Fine, it's not you—or what comes out of you—that disgusts him. And everyone has their sensitivities. But how humiliating anyway! Every time a new box arrives, every time you stumble upon a pair of gloves while tidying up, or spot them at the bottom of the trash—the same bitter taste stings your lips.
Well, at least this way, you get to come.
In the center of the bed, you wait for him. Lying down, naked, heels anchored into the mattress. And since sparing your ego isn't among his priorities, he's still fully dressed, perched at the edge of the bed. He flexes his fingers once, twice, to loosen the gloves.
You spread your thighs and—
.
.
.
Nothing (yes, I love a dramatic pause).
Over your knees, you glance at what's keeping him, and you catch him staring at you. It's hard to describe what you read there—a mix of undeniable arousal and manic apprehension as his slightly dilated pupils trace your glistening folds.
“You're soaked.”
“I won't apologize for it," you reply, adamant.
Two of his gloved fingers tap against your entrance, “Wasn't about to ask you to,” he says.
The synthetic rubber tickles your lips. It's feel cold and impersonal. Reducing you to a vulgar specimen displayed beneath his fingers, an unhygienic inconvenience he's forced to deal with. His fingers part the plush edges of your pussy, revealing their pink color. Not a powdery pink, not even a demure pink. A purplish, obscene pink. Almost vicious in what it beckons. A hint of acid pricks the sides of his tongue; his jaw tightens. He swallows as saliva floods his mouth. A shade he knows looks so beautiful when it's painted pearl and dripping white. His knuckles settle beneath your slit to collect your wetness.
“What a waste,” he comments, his tone more gruffer than he intended. And finally his fingers settle where you've been waiting for them.
The waste is your pair of gloves, asshole!
You can't get over it, really can't. You've always driven boys wild with how messy and sticky you are. But Monsieur Pretty Eyes won't even touch your bare hands?
And you find yourself swallowing before he even asks.
You'll fight later. For now, you let out a guttural moan as he presses against that spongy curve, stroking it gently. It slides easily over your slick, the material catching none of your heat, refusing to absorb even a drop. His palm then rubs your clit, the rhythm slow and firm. Naturally, you chase the friction—small, erratic rolls of your hips to call his touch closer. Which dirty his wrist in the process. Right where the synthetic barrier ends. Without warning, his other hand snaps down. He pinches your clit hard between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it mercilessly. More pain than pleasure. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth: “Don't move.”
Tears of frustration prick your eyes. “Fuck! But Sae !!!”
Your pride is screaming at you to shove him away, to tell him to go fuck himself with those stupid gloves. But your body betrays you completely. Slutty walls flutter and clench around his fingers.
Oh, you're such a slut for Itoshi Sae! But he's just really good at this: angle, pressure, rhythm. He knows exactly when to curl, when to scissor, when to grind the heel of his palm against your cunt.
Your clit is still between his fingers, he's rolling it, lighter this time, while his other two digits fuck into you with steady strokes, pulling on both strings until you come.
When you do, he looks at his hands for a moment before telling you, in that composed tone so calm it's insulting:
“It’s hard to sound convincing when you come that hard.” He tilts his hand, looking at how your slick shines on the nitrile. “Next time, if you really want them off, try not enjoying it so much.”
Can't wait for that own goal in Blue Lock. Three whole yap chapters building up just for the clown to gift one, then celebrating like "That's the egoist philosophy! Watch the future n°1" before gettong dogpiled by his team at halftime.
⚠️ Warnings: Aged up Rin, +18, suggestive content, non-explicit, but suggestive
Pairing: Bf!Rin Itoshix fem!reader
The room is shrouded in darkness, lit only by the city lights. Silence hung in the air, broken only by the slow controlled rhythm of Rin’s breathing. Night training.
“Rin?” you searched for him from room to room. “Honey, where are you?”
With a deliberately feline stride, you stepped into the room. He was sitting on the floor in a black tank top with wide straps and loose sweatpants. Perfect seiza on a navy-blue mat, eyes closed, muscles taut. “Are you almost done?” You sank down behind him, “I need you.”
“Just started. I told you not to bother me.”
His tone was sharp enough to draw a pout to your lips. A pout he didn’t even see, his eyes remaining stubbornly closed. Like the tease you were, you crawled next to him, chest pressed against his back.
“I have a better program for you, for us. Promise it’ll make your muscles burn way better than this.”
“You know I don’t skip,” he replied flatly. “Wait. If not, deal with it yourself.”
Gna gna gna deal with it yourself. “What’s the matter of having a hot boyfriend if I handle it myself when I’m horny?!”
He called your name. “I said no.”
You straightened up, frustration bubbling. “You’re really choosing stretching over your girlfriend who’s literally aching for you right now?”
His jaw tightened, annoyed. Yet his posture didn’t budge. “It’s not choosing. It’s preparation. Next game is in four days. I’m not breaking routine for sex.”
“But I'm horny!” You whine again. Could this fucking guy be normal for once?
“You'll survive.”
“No, I won’t!”
“Stop being dramatic and let me finish.” he growled.
“But, Rin—”
“Full stop.” His eyes still closed.
“That’s your final word?”
“Full. Stop.” he repeats.
Silence swallowed the room again. He was gone, lost behind whatever mental wall he built during these sessions. As if you weren’t even there, standing in your cutest, coquettish pale pink lingerie, barely hidden beneath your open bathrobe.
“Fine,” You proceeded to phase two of the operation, untying your bathrobe and letting it slip from your shoulders to pool at your feet, the delicate beaded strands faintly clicking against the floor. “I’ll handle it myself, then.”
Underneath, you wore only a tiny blush-pink nightgown. The lace hugging your waist and dipping low at your chest. The hem was barely brushing the tops of your thighs. Head held high, you walked toward his room.
Rin opened one eye to look at what was hanging off his shoulder, he scoffed. Pink panties with nothing but twin strands of white pearls at the hips. a small drop of three orbs hanging at the front. You must have thrown it there on your way out.
“Pff.” He flicked it off with two fingers.
As if such a cheap trick would work on him. He was Rin Itoshi. Disciplined to the core. Never missed a single training session. And it wasn’t about to start with you.
Concentration. Discipline. Goal.
Every inhale was deliberate. As he had mentioned two minutes ago, he had a match coming up. He never skipped a night. Not once. And it wasn’t going to start tonight. Every exhale was precise. Not for anyone. Not even you.
Wait. Wasn’t it from the set he had gifted you? No wonder it looked familiar.
He hadn’t properly looked at you earlier, but if his memory was accurate—and it was— the back was especially eye-catching. Backless design, with thin straps crossing in an X shape, embroidered with pearls. On the thigh, a chain of glossy beads blends into the lace, three larger ones and two smaller ones. It was the first time he’d ever bought you lingerie. Your idea, obviously. You’d pushed and teased until he gave in, choosing something deceptively soft. Something that wouldn’t look nearly as innocent once it was on you.
Discipline. Four days.
After that, he'll have all the time in the world to focus on you. He'll take his time once he's finished. Later. But at that very moment, he—
Was that a moan he’d just heard?!
His teal eyes snapped open. So you weren’t bluffing or teasing him just to mess with his head—you were actually doing it. Dealing with it yourself. In his room, on his bed, in his lingerie. Dealing with it yourself. Dealing... yourself.
Days. Four discipline.
He shifted position, settling into a cross-legged seat— back still perfectly straight, shoulders relaxed, breaths deep and controlled.
Another little sound. Breathier this time. Needier. Then the quiet creak of the bed.
Before he could talk himself out if it, Rin was in his feet. Didn’t he train extra this morning anyway? He could make up for it tomorrow. Or, or the day after. Or even later tonight. He didn’t give a single fuck right now.
He could already picture your delighted, triumphant little expression before he even reached the door. That alone would be enough to make him turn back. Mmm, nah.
With more force than necessary, he opened the door. You were lying upside down on his bed, feet planted against the wall, head hanging off the edge. Your hair spilled toward the floor like silk. The tiny pale pink nightgown had ridden all the way up to your waist. And your left hand, naughty accomplice, was moving between your spread thighs, right where those pearl-trimmed panties had been only minutes ago.
“ Took you long enough, Itoshi.”
Your man didn’t answer with words, he simply crawled onto the bed, caught your wrist, and replaced your fingers with his own. His mouth crashing down on yours like he’d been starving for you the entire time he pretended not to care.
Rin pulled back just enough to bite your bottom lip, eyes dark with heat.
If Sae Itoshi ever developed feelings for a girl, he wouldn’t act on them. He wouldn’t approach her, wouldn’t try to get closer. From his perspective, there would be no point.
He wouldn’t feel jealousy either. If she got close to, dated, or chose someone else, it wouldn’t matter. He knows he has no claim, no position to justify that kind of reaction.
And since he does nothing—no effort, no interaction— there’s nothing to sustain those feelings in the first place. Without anything concrete to hold onto or reinforce them, they’re left to weaken on their own. So they fade. Naturally.
Isagi loves soccer. Everyone knows that. It’s simple: anything within kicking distance turns into a ball he has to kick.
⚠️ Warnings: none.
Pairing: bf!Isagi Yoichi x fem!reader
It’s a calm, cosy evening. The living room is lit by LEDs, the blanket raped over your knees, the bowl of chips sitting next to the popcorn's one and bags of sour candy. Today, you’re insatiable: you’re under the influence of the CDs.
“The CDs? Yoichi repeats, his finger sliding over the laptop trackpad. “I… didn’t know there was a CD version,” he says, a little thrown off. “I thought we’d watch it on Netflix. Since we have Netflix. And no CD player. If that’s your thing, I can order one.”
“What?” you ask, mouth full of paprika chips.
“You said you have CDs.”
A small laugh escapes you. “Nahhh, the CDs. It’s the name I gave to the pre-menstrual period where a woman only craves stuff that gives you Cholesterol and Diabetes: CDs.”
Well, he wasn’t expecting that. “I see. I mean, not really, but I believe you.”
“What's cool is that it also works for Cravings & Destructions.” You're proud of your little invention. Especially since your friends have fully integrated it into their vocabulary.
Isagi smiles too, turning toward you, “...of your summer body?” Does he think he's funny or what? He backtracks immediately when he sees your expression. “Forget it. That didn’t land.”
You keep staring at him for a moment. “I’m going to the bathroom. You stop being an idiot and get the movie ready.” you say, getting up from the couch, tugging at the hem of your T-shirt. "Start, I'll be done in two minutes."
Oh, that was it!
The backache. The sensitive nipples. The insatiable hunger. The somewhat alarming urge to end all surrounding forms of life.
“No kidding...!” you mutter, seeing the ‘period imminent’ notification pop up on your phone. Then you glance again at the small reddish stain at the bottom of your underwear.
You slip into Yoichi's room to grab a fresh pair. Since you've started crashing at his place, a few of your clothes are already scattered in his closets. Unfortunately, since you've started crashing at his place, all you've got here is lingerie or cute little panties that would be a crime to ruin.
“Damn it.” you sigh, grabbing a mustard-yellow boxer with pretty lace on the sides.
“You coming?!”
“One sec!” Alright, a good layer of pads assembled like Tetris should do the trick, right?
In your toiletry, you take out a pack of sanitary pads. The plastic seal gradually loses its color between your nails as you stretch it to open it. Of course, for narrative purposes, the attempt fails. Still for the sake of this senario, the pack is going to slip from your hands and roll a few feet away from you.
“Damn it!!!”
In the living room, your man is getting impatient: two minutes, two minutes… He grabs a handful of popcorn and wolfs it down in one go. “What the hell is she doin’?!” he pauses the film, he complains, getting up from the couch.
“What are you doing?! asks Isagi, eyes narrowed, when he spots you crouched next to the dresser.
A small rustle catches his attention. Something rolls on the floor, stopping a few centimetres from his right foot. Foot… Ball. With the tip of his foot, he rolls the ball left to right, then right to left.
“Sorry, I took a bit longer. Gimme the—
“And Isagi Yoichi intercepts the ball!” he announces in full commentator mode.
— What? No, no.
But the silly thing just starts running around the big room.
“Thirty seconds left on the clock, the score is tied, and Isagi has the ball at his feet!” His voice rises, epic and breathless. “This could be the goal that sends him into legend.” He starts dribbling. Little touches, quick feet, the pack bouncing between his socks. “What a first touch—absolutely sublime!
You bend down in a hurry to reach for it, “Yoichi, give it back: I need it!”
“And the opposition is putting up a fight—desperate tackle coming in hot! But Isagi refuses to be denied! ” He spins, fakes left, pulls it back with the sole of his foot.
... And you miss by centimetres, nearly face-planting into the carpet. Completely unfazed, your boyfriend keeps playing. Nudging your precious forward, then drags it back, keeping it just within control. The plastic crinkles loudly with every contact.
“He’s not giving an inch—watch this!”. He’s gliding past invisible defenders, feint to the left, “You can’t teach that!”
“Yocchiiii~ Give it baaaack!!!!”
As he could hear you with the crowd screaming and cheering.
With a perfect fake, he sets the ball up and plants his foot. “He centers it perfectly. Plants his foot. Can he do it?” a cocky I’m about to score the winner smirk appears on his lips, “Oh, you better believe it! This is Isagi we’re talking about! He shoots, and—” The pack is launched full speed into the wall. “GOOOOOAAL!”.
He drops into the most theatrical knee-slide in history, sliding across the carpet like he’s just won the World Cup final in the 90th minute. “YEAHHHHH!!” he roars, pumping his fists in the air. “THE EGOIST STRIKER DOES IT AGAIN! HISTORY IS MADE TODAY, FOLKS! WHAT A GOAL! WHAT A LEGEND! THE CROWD IS GOING WILD—ISAGI! ISAGI! ISAGI!”
He's fully lost in the celebration, chanting his own name like the stadium is doing it with him. Then he opens his eyes. Neat little wrapped purple rectangles. Everywhere. Under the bed. On the carpet. One even stuck comically to the side of his desk lamp.
And you, standing there, arms hanging, deadpan expression. Rest in peace your current underwear. Yoichi slowly lowers his hands. He looks at you. Then at the pads.
“…Oh. ”
You grab one, “And red card for Isagi.” and lightly tap the rectangle against his head.
“World Football Left Breathless: German Prodigy Michael Kaiser Dies Suddenly”
⚠️ Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content (non-graphic language), haters with benefis (does that name even exist?)/ hate sex dynamic, power play, choking kink, slight degrading , objectifying / demeaning language, subtle assumption that reader is famous, annnnnnd awkward dialogue (me aculpa).
Pairing: Michael Kaiser x fem!reader
You had never done this before. It's not a practice that appealed to you. It's not so much because of the violence or the domination—no, you can enjoy that. It was this, the throat itself. That fragile skin. The absurd certainty that a little movement, an overly eager impulse, could have made everything tip over. Besides, what could be so intoxicating about feeling the air slowly diminish beneath your fingers, about seeing tears and intertwining danger and pleasure? And get choked? Nah! Not a chance. Well, anyway, that's absolutely not what he asked for.
“Put ya hands on my neck and squeeze.”
Which one of you called this time? Ah, it hardly matters, now.
You despise each other; that much was certain. Every time you hear his harsh, abrasive accent, your entire body tense, and your eyes roll in their sockets. The least you can say is you don’t like Michael Kaiser. And he reciprocates it fully—though with nuance. Unlike you, what the German feels isn’t outright aversion, but a pronounced antipathy. It stems from neither a bad encounter nor any rational judgment. No. The Bastard München striker had simply decided he couldn’t stand you, and that was enough for him. And yet, more and more often, you end up like this. The bed dips under your combined weight, silent witness and creaking stage to your impetuous encounters. On the floor lies a synthetic jersey in Germany’s colors. The number on the back is hidden by folds, but it’s easy enough to guess: 10. Your bra rests on the edge of the mattress. A few inches from its strap, your panties— half pulled down— hangs from your ankle, captive to the scene.
Michael lies stretched across the large bed. His blond hair, streaked with azure, fanning around him like a majestic halo. His muscles are taut, light catching beautifully in the hollow of his shoulder. The upper curve of his chest is scattered with small plum and purple marks of suction. Your gaze settles on his face and that carnivorous smile.
What was there to dislike? He embodies everything you hate in celebrity: the oversized ego of the gifted, the outrageous narcissism of the adored, and the disdain of those in love with their own importance. Your lips press together as you rock your hips against him—almost as if to punish him for his flaws. The flesh of your outer thighs flushes white and pink as he presses you firmly against him. Almost to keep you from pulling away, as if you weren't already mindlessly entwined in each other. You lean forward, your hand pressed into the mattress next to his head.His eyes narrow slightly, shamelessly following the sway of your breasts. In a rushed motion, you wipe the sweat from your forehead.
“Aah… !” His hand has found your bosom, grabbing it so hard enough to throw you off balance. “You’re rough!” you moan, without any real complaint. On the contrary. Both of you know well: you love it.
A long growl scrapes him. “S’fuckin’ tight…!” His hips roll, insistent. As if he couldn't—mustn't—surrender the reins to you for long.
The air grows thick and hazy, laced with the hot, spicy notes of chili berries. Kaiser knows that scent well—your scent. Hints of Madagascan amber and candied cherry. He knows it even better when it mingles with your salty warmth. The sheets rumple beneath your twisted forms. You throw your head back, hair brushing down your spine. Everything blurs: the rocking of your hips, your breaths, the pulse pounding in the vein at his forehead. You know what's coming when his pelvis locks tight against yours— a muscular twitch the blond couldn't control. It isn’t the first time—and it won’t be the last. And it always ends the same way: you both reach that final shiver, before you’ve even caught your breath he pushes you off his hips. You go to the bathroom out of cautious habit, and when you return, he's already gone. End of story. Perfect. But as you’re already thinking about the rest of your afternoon, his voice cuts through.
“Put ya hands on my neck and squeeze.”
You stop abruptly, —a stillness that frustrates the striker, “Wha’?!”
His tongue clicks against his palate as he seizes your thighs again. “Hands on my throat. And squeeze,” he repeats.
“Like… choke you?” You're not moving anymore, letting his grip set the rhythm. Well, Mr Kaiser, you’re starting to know him.
Him and his perverse inclinations, sometimes crossing into outright deviance. You’ve been waiting for the day he mentions it. That, or some extreme form of bondage. And you were ready to refuse outright.
“Now” But you'd never ever imagined that, in his twisted fantasy, he'd ask to be the one on the receiving end.
“You’re sure?”The answer is nothing but a gesture: his hand clamps down on your thighs. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough for you to understand he doesn’t like repeating himself.
You shrug, your hands traveling up along his groin, feeling every contraction beneath them. You brush his torso, his stomach tightening ridiculously fast. When you reach his chest, your eyes fall on the sinuous line of his tattoo. With a bitchy frown, you carefully steer your fingers away, making sure not to touch it.
“I don’t like your tattoo,” you pointlessly say. “Well, I don’t like 'em in general. Kinda ugly.”
He stares at you before spitting, almost defensive, “Says the whore with spread thighs and filled cunt.”
He doesn’t appreciate your criticism—doesn’t like you acting entitled to an opinion just because he lets you ride him. As if you were anything more than a disposable body he’s about to fill. You’ll still be holding him inside long after his mind has already left. “I don’t see any icky flowers on that pretty dick.”
A sly, cruel smile spreads across your face as your hand reaches his throat. It makes you flinch: you could insult his father all you want without him reacting, but for that blue rose he wears like a coat of arms? He’s already calling you a whore.
“Choke me.”
Ah, you always knew something was seriously wrong with him. Still, you start pressing into his throat with your thumbs. Under your clumsy grip, the air grows scarce. Can you believe that the pretty arm necklace around his neck belongs to you? You don’t recognize your own hands. A strange heat crawls up your spine — part fear, part something darker you refuse to name. Still, you press.
“Don’t go soft!”, he exclaims. The strain in his voice is unmistakable.
It catches against the tight folds of his windpipe, breaks against his glottis, and echoes off his palate. You bite your lip, perfectly masking your nervousness. Each time his Adam’s apple bumps against your trembling thumbs, you immediately look at him, alert to the smallest signal he might send.
“Like this?” you ask, though you understood exactly what he wantes.Not a playful game, not a symbolic act. And certainly not a safe one.His pale face is already turning a deep red, a muscular roughness rising beneath your hold. The young man swallows thickly but struggles to do so properly. With him it’s always all or nothing. Merciless or pitiful. Oppressed or oppressor. Slave or king. Extremes. Seriously, is there anything else that draws him?
“Don’t fucking stop until I say.” Michael barks again. It almost makes you want to press harder to shut him up. Almost.
A strangled sound escapes him and it makes you jerk. “It’s dangerous.”
The palms that’ve been on your high hips slide over yours, forcing you to press with more force. “Watch yourself then,” he smiles. Too serene for someone demanding enough pressure to feel himself die—without loosening his grip on life.
You let out a small “But…” even if you let yourself be led. His index fingers correct your grip, lifting your thumbs from his trachea while the rest of his fingers press against the sides of his own throat.
“Like this! Y-aah, Ha’der.... ! ”, he thrusts his hips up against yours—a push that invites you more deeply inside yourself. He's so hard. “Keep riding.”
Your body takes up the rhythm again, a languid dance that awakens shivers. The final surge of your desire, because your legs can barely hold you anymore. Soon you settle fully onto his length, moving in slow circles. Perfect for chasing that ecstatic friction. That exquisite bundle of nerves. Your fever spreads—a halo across the surface of disturbed water. Soft at first, then pulsing. It seizes your muscles, tightens the damp threads of your hands. Everything grows erratic, beyond your control.
“About to cum?” a mocking little laugh escapes you, “How pathetic.” Almost instantly, you feel the base of his pelvis throbbing. His blue irises are swallowed by black. A silent exhalation left him.
“Dont ..stop, ”.
As if you had any intention of stopping—you had gotten caught up in it, captivated by the sight: Michael Kaiser, the condescending prodigy, writhing in pleasure beneath your carnal vise. His eyelids flutter, a wet cough resonates. Before you realize it, you lean on him to press down harder on his throat, poised beyond his climax. His release finally hits, flooding you with every hot, pulsing wave. His light lashes tremble over eyes that no longer truly see you, gaze slipping away in fits and starts. Every gulp costs him. You'd swear he’s about to cry. And looking closely… Oh! He is!
You can’t help the smirk curling at your lips. Your teeth nibble at your lower lip as you are tracking the path of his tiny droplets of water. They gather at the corners of his eyes and fall when he closes them. Isn’t it twisted, how much you savor this? But it’s so pathetic— a stifled orgasm. Coming so hard because you’re choking him. Heat rises to your cheeks. Not from any burdensome feeling: you reach your own peak in turn.
“Mmm, you could almost be beautiful like this.” It’s only when the grip on your wrists slacken and his gaze rolls back do you release his neck. A harsh, broken cough tears from his throat as he turns his head to the side, eyes still unfocused. It’s at that very moment you realize that if he died… you would certainly be to blame. But the thought of headlines like “World Football Left Breathless: German Prodigy Michael Kaiser Dies Suddenly” Paid off. Totally paid off.
All because he needs that to have a really intense orgasm.
“I hope you know how damaged your brain is.” you say, tying up your hair.
Kaiser straightens up, facing your sarcastic face. The wet edges of his eyelids almost soften you—you’ll be nothing but a pile of dust before you even admit how addictive his sharp little look is. With an angry motion, he shoves you aside. Your head thuds against the wall. With no further… interaction, he gets up and leaves the room. He's moving slower than usual, one hand brushing absently at his bruised throat. The familiar creak of the bathroom door sounds, followed by the whistle of the shower curtain. You rub your hand over the sore crown of your head, spitting a “Bastard!”.
The moment you stand, a viscous liquid seeps down your thighs, something you recognize and ignore. You bend forward, a little dizzy, and take his jersey. With it, you wipe your wet thighs—the sides, then the inner folds.
“What the hell are you doin’ ?!” interrupts Kaiser’s raspy voice. He’s back. Bare-chested, standing in the doorframe, shrouded in the steam escaping from the bathroom. His ridiculously thin eyebrows knit together in a suspicious look.
“Me?” Light glints off his neck, where faint bluish streaks have surfaced. A lateral scarlet spot has settled in the whites of his eyes. “Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar,” you reply calmly, tossing the garment to him, neutral expression. He catches it and handles it with cautious slowness. “Damn I must have choked you really hard, did't I ? It’s just a shirt, you know.”
He looks away from you for a moment to glance at it out of the corner of his eyes. Something in your stance leaves him doubtful. “Mm.” In a quick motion, he puts it on before leaving.
Later, you sit on the edge of the bathtub, staring at your hands. The skin of your fingers still remembers the heat of his throat, the firm column of his windpipe pulsing under your thumbs. It would be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy it. Because you did—more than a little. And that only makes you despise it all the more.
Somewhere in the world, not long after, Michael Kaiser discovers the ivory-white residue—his own cum, now half-dried and coagulated—smeared deep into the fibers of his precious Germany jersey.
“Ah… so that’s why the dirty looks.” A slow, dangerous smirk spreads across his face. Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar. “Bitch.”
➤: I’ve read it so many times, over and over again, that it’s starting to make me sick. I’m going to post it and read it again tomorrow or the day after. Sorry for any inconsistencies or spelling mistakes.…
⚠️In real life, real breathplay is dangerous. Also, this text is classified BT3HR — Been Translated; Hope it’s not too Heavy or Hard to Read. Open to thoughts and feedback if you have any.
I’m lowkey OBSESSED with the idea of Sae moving to Spain at 13, not understanding Spanish at all. Like, he’s struggling with everything— the sounds, the rhythm, people talking too fast, words blending together… it just sounds like noise to him.
I don’t even know if it’s realistic, football-wise, that he’d get interviewed or anything after joining Real Madrid, but I LOVE the idea of old clips of him just staring at the reporter like, “what the hell is she even saying to me?”
Then with time, he starts answering in Spanish, even if it’s a bit broken. And later on, he's getting more comfortable, more fluent. Okay, okay! He doesn’t sound native, probably never gonna, but his accent is subtle. I just KNOW there’d be YouTube comps like “Sae Itoshi’s Spanish accent evolution” (I would be watching those videos). Comment section be like “he's so good” or “Caliente 🔥🔥🔥”. And of course, the Great debate that always comes up when a celebrity speaks a language that isn’t their own: “bro I can’t understand anything he’s saying” vs “as a native speaker, his pronunciation is actually really good”.
Sae takes a spoonful of ice cream, “I haven’t even spoken yet.”
“No, I mean... you've got the voice of a villain.”
The weather was nice, and you had gone out to wander around. That was probably the last comment he was expecting. “Elaborate,” he demands.
You slip off your hill and tuck your leg under your butt, “Elaborate what? You’ve got a villain voice. Full stop.”
Sae looks at you, squinting because of the sun.
He doesn't talk much. When he does, it’s quiet, precise— debatable, debatable...— never a wasted syllable. You, on the other hand, seem to say every single thought that crosses your mind. And know that I keep most of it in my head ', you tell him sometimes. Which both fascinates and mildly worries him.
Anyway, let's go back to that little comment. “Don’t get me wrong. I love your voice—your Spanish, your cute little English accent, and your Japanese. But… it gives off villain energy.”
“If you try to bring up my way of communicating again, I—” you cut him off.
“Naaaaa. I just think your voice would suit this very specific type of villain. The one who set the ideals, you know? He was the moral compass. And one day life hits him with an existential crisis, and he realises humanity was the problem all along. And BIM! We go from ‘let's protect the weak speeches™ ’ to ‘guess I’ll commit a morally questionable genocide but make it philosophical. The kind people get way too attached to.” you ramble, like it makes perfect sense. “Was someone’s best friend, maybe even a rival at first. Bro just needs therapy.” you finish, scraping the bottom of the tub.
Sae’s phone screen goes dark in his hand. He blinks once, slowly. “…Did they spike your ice cream with rum again?”
“I'm not drunk!” a sigh, typical of the misunderstood, accompanies your protest. “Never mind.”
You take the lead and ride Sae...but your thighs aren't keeping up.
⚠️ Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual , riding, reverse cowgirl, reader is a loser, Sae uses you to cum, perfectly respectable talk, not crude at aaaaall ( ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
Pairing: bf!Itoshi Sae x fem!reader
You two were about to change your position when you said, “Lemme be on top”.
Sae runs a hand through his hair, clearing his forehead, before falling onto the mattress. He’s lying there, damp with sweat, cock throbbing, eyes fixed on you. A faint smile plays on your lips as you move. In one smooth motion, you settle astride him, your back to him.
“Fuck”, he groans when his tip, soaked in pre-cum and your fluids, brushes against your lips.
No extra help is needed for it to slide into your soggy walls. And here you go again, doing what you do best.
It begins fast—almost frantic: the rebounds of your butt on his thighs, the swinging of your plump chest with each impulse. He moans, his focus drifting between the curve of your spine, the mole on your shoulder blade, and the slick grip of your cunt. The tension rises, veins beating against your walls.
“I'm close,” he groans through clenched teeth.
You pick up the pace. Faster now, paying little attention to the slight tremors of your muscles. Six, seven fiery thrusts, frenzied back-and-forth of his angry red tip at its quivering base. His head digs into the pillow, looking at the ceiling, and— everything stops.
Not controlled. Not intentional. Just a complete stop.
“Sorry…,” you giggle, kissing his knee.
The man takes a deep breath. His hips jerk forward by reflex. But he ends up saying, “It’s okay, keep goin’…”
You nod and shift back into position, rocking from one knee to the other. Then you lean forward, parting the cleft of your buttocks to reveal the little rim he's been eyeing for a while.
Nothing feels as sharp as before—the fatigue is catching up with you. Your stomach contracts strongly, your heart beats fast. The pleasure is still there, but it’s dulled now. Blurred by the effort it takes to keep going. This time, his climax comes faster. “Don’t stop. 'm—, 'm close,”
The wet slaps quicken, doubling in pace. The curve of his cock slams into all the right spots that make you moan shamelessly. You love feeling his length throb, hearing his jerky breathing. So you ignore the burn in your thighs, pushing through it. When you can’t lift your little pussy anymore, you keep it full, teasing him with her contractions. She tightens around him, wanting to clamp, wanting to grip him tighter. Each little squeeze makes your boyfriend’s eyes roll with pleasure. “Don’t stop,” he repeats.
You promise yourself not to. Just a little more effort. A tiny bit. “Sae, I c-can’t,” you whisper, “my thighs are….”
“Fuck, bellita!” he yells. Now, annoyance is sharpening his features, cock pulsing within your heat, denied release twice. He’s not angry, he just wants to cum. His balls are heavy, desperate to spill.
When you lunge for the third time, the ache that’s been tugging at your thighs sharpens. Every flex ignites a new sting. Every contraction makes it worse. Until it pins you to the couch. Two hands settle around your waist—a subtle proof that he’s fighting not to turn you around and take what you’re denying him. Even unintentionally.
It’s almost funny to watch. You’re moaning a lot—more from the effort than the pleasure. Sure, your pussy feels good around him, but now it’s not enough. The lackluster performance of yours isn’t enough to make him come. And it’s holding back your own climax. The rhythm slows… if you can even call it a rhythm. It’s jerky, made up of pathetic pushes and failed attempts to lift your hips. “Cannooot!” you whine.
Sae’s patience is wearing thin. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs. Enough is fucking enough!
Now, he's taking over, insisting that you finish your motions. His hips bucking into yours relentlessly, each thrust hard and selfish.
“I-It hurts!!” you protest, with teary eyes.
Nah, he doesn’t care. He bends his knees, which spread your legs even wider, your hole all his. “I’ll kiss it better.”
He’s not thinking about you. Not even a tiny thought for your poor swollen clit. Technically, you’re on top. In practice, he’s fucking you. So fast that your juices don’t even have time to drip onto him. That egoistic bastard is after one thing only: orgasm. His own.
When he reaches it, his whole body goes slack.
“lemme be on tooop,” he squeaks, mimicking you in a high-pitched voice. You say nothing. You have nothing to say .“Gonna put ya through my training sessions. Between this n your cardio.”
“I have great cardio!” you protest immediately. “You just keep comparing it to yours. Which is obviously more optimized than mine. But that’s normal. Your job is to run after a ba-ba—”
“Yeah, yeah. Get up.” he says.
You hate giving him the satisfaction of being right but— “I can't move. Nothing’s responding.” you whisper.
“For sure, after such a performance. ” he smirks, biceps flexing again as he lifts you and sets you on the side.
In France for his career, Rin gets close to a young lady— a little French charm included.
⚠️ Warnings: I'm drawing inspiration from real French habits, with a little touch of clichés.
Pairing: Rin Itoshix fem!reader
“Sorry, I'm late.” You say, as you enter the café. “Traffic.” you smile, hanging your purse on the chair before leaning toward him.
Rin froze.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he snapped, instinctively pressing himself back against his chair, his expression tightening in immediate discomfort.
You pull back just as quickly. “Bah...the bise. You know, mwa mwa.” you explain, tuning your head slightly from one side to the other.
“Can't we greet like normal people ?”
“We do greet like this in France. You say, “Okay, less since COVID, but still. With friends, family, relatives, sometimes coworkers.”
“We're none of those.”
Yikes. That was rude.
You’re left speechless for a moment, praying no one saw or heard that remark—no, that biting storm—you just got hit with. You should have expected that. After all, la bise isn’t for everyone. And Rin, on top of not being familiar with the custom, is the exact opposite of a tactile person.
"Fair enough,” you admitted, more embarrassed than you already were. “Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. For me, it's a habit.”
Despite that cringe-worthy start, the date went well. Not that the conversation was balanced— you probably accounted for ninety-five percent of the talking while he sticks to his usual silence. But he watched. A lot. Watched the way your hands move when you speak, the coquettish flutter of your eyelashes, your glowing skin, your quiet confidence.
You’re not just beautiful—you’re elegant. Poised. Annoyingly so. Everything about you is designed to captivate: from the small silk scarf tied around your neck—Hermès, most likely— to your English, shaped by French phrasing.
He shouldn't have agreed to see you again.
But he did.
Are you persuasive, or just persistent? Either way, Itoshi Rin ends up letting you initiate him to that greeting. Does it still bother him? Mmmmm, yeah. Personal space is sacred to him. A family thing, apparently. And the whole concept of la bise still makes no sense to him.
And yet, he’s here. Rigid on the sofa, not leaning against the backrest or the mustard yellow cushions.
“Naaaaaahh,” you wave it off. “You have to make the sound. Or it's cringe.”
“It is cringe.” He shoots back.
Even with the sound." He shoots back.
Your eyebrow arches, a suspicious look on your face, “Why’d you ask me to show you, then?”
His back straightens even more.
“ ...Just tell me how to do it.”
You’d love to tease him, but you’re still figuring out how. Just enough to get his attention, without pushing him to shut down even more. Or he’ll be harder to open up than a tightly sealed pistachio.
“Lips in ass-of-chicken shape. Then—”
He turned his head so fast it was almost aggressive. “Lips in what?!”
“Ass-of-the-chicken shape. Or heu, maybe butt-of-a-chicken shape. This.” You pucker your lips.
“Work on your English.” he exhales. “It’s ‘pouting lips.’ Or ‘duck face’. Not..why do you even call it that?”
You frown, unapologetic. “It's look like a chicken butt."
“Uh-hum.”
“What do you call it in Japanese?” You don’t care, you just want to hear what he sounds like speaking Japanese.
“…アヒル口. Literally duck mouth.”
Oh... You’re going to just devour him.
“Cute. He raises an eyebrow, and you go on. “So, la bise: pouting lips, suck inward—mwa! In Paris,” of course, you drop the ‘s.’, “you start on the right. If you're uncomfortable— which you obviously are, you can only do one. People aren't strict anymore about the number.”
Pff! As if there were a chance he’d actually do it. He’s never gonna mwa mwa someone's cheeks… except yours. Occasionally. Rarely. Maybe.
“The number isn’t the same everywhere?”
“A pertinent question,” You snap your fingers like a lecturer. “And the short answer is no. The French wouldn’t be The French if they were simple.”
You don’t know how much you’re taking the words right out of his mouth. “Show me again.”
You widen your eyes, but don’t tease. In a swift, catlike motion, your body lunges forward, near to his. When he shifts back a little because your knees touch, you lean in even closer, as if he were making more room for you. Now, your hands are brushing against each other, too.
“Right first, mwa” you murmur, “Then left, mwa.”
The black haired guy doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Your face is just there. The sweetness of your perfume makes his nose scrunch. And that carmin on your lips is—
“…Annoyin',” he comments.
Before he can overthink it, he leans forward. Stiffer than a toothpick. Your cheeks brush. And just when you least expected it, the shyest, most hesitant “mwa” echoes. A little hiccup escapes you, quickly turning into a soft chuckle. Having Rin make that sound… It’s both hilarious and cute.
He frowns. “Stop…!” Your hand flies to your mouth .“I forbid you.” He starts sulking.
Twenty-two years old. Six foot one. And he’s sulking. The same guy who curses his opponents for ten generations during games.
“Sorriii! It was just so cute.”
Rin pulled back instantly, jaw tight. “'m not cute." You press your lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile.
A brief silence settles. He looks away. You study him for a second—the slight roundness of his cheek in profile, the pink tips of his ears, that little-sibling vibe he’s giving off right now.
“…We’re only doing one.”
“That goes without saying”. Once again, that flirty mocking tone of yours.
Definitely cute. You don’t say it, of course. You value your life.
may I ask why did you disable reblogs from your posts? it's okay if you don't want to answer it 💗
Sure, no problem:
Even though it can boost visibility, I’m not really comfortable with the "permanence" it implies. I prefer to keep "full control" over the visibility of my posts. With reblogs, I lose that control—if I delete something, I want it gone, but it can still remain on other people’s blogs.
⚠️ Warnings: Aged up Megumi, 18+, explicit (slightlyyyy) sexual content, aged-up character, hand kink, fingers sucking, awkward end to be honest..
Pairing: bf!Megumi Zenin x fem!reader
"Ngumi? Can I ask you something? But I warn ya, it's a bit weird."
You’ve always had a thing for hands. They’re beautiful, elegant, and incredibly sensual. Megumi only pushed that a little further, until it became a full-blown kink.
"Mm."
Truth be told, it doesn’t take any particular attraction to hands to end up liking his. They have everything it takes to become impossible to ignore: beauty and dexterity.
Oh, dexterity.
The dark-haired man knows how to do all sorts of things with his hands. Simple things, like slicing an onion into thin, even pieces. Technical things, like summoning living shadows. And then there are those exquisite movements that melt away every last one of your higher brain functions.
Right now, all he’s doing is playing with your hair, but every touch makes you more aware. Now and then, the tips of his nails graze your scalp. The slightest brush sharpens your awareness of every texture, turning the innocence of the gesture into something more. A small mewl slips from your lips, and your eyelids grow heavy at once. Every sensation feels heightened. It’s late. The hairs on your arms and legs stand on end. The shell of your ear is teased by the rustle of his caresses. Everything draws toward the same idea, a lingering curiosity, and, in the end, a desire not quite owned.
"Can I suck your finger..s?"
He stares at you for a long moment, his face unreadable. There’s nothing truly critical in his gaze, but the strangeness of your request makes you think otherwise.
"Why?"
“Don't ask why! Just answer.”
“It’s just that it's a bit harsh without context.”
You shrug. “…You’ve got pretty hands, okay?”
Pretty hands? Yeah, it’s not the first time he hears you say that. He’s also noticed that you really enjoy his touch—not just what he does with it, no—but the touch itself. “…So, yes or no?”
Without a word, he sets his phone aside, his hand sliding from your earlobe to your chin. Two fingers—index and middle—hold out like an offering. Why deny you, after all? Your request isn’t as unusual as it seems. Not exactly convenient, for sure, but far from unacceptable. “They’re clean.”
You’re so caught up in his gesture that you don’t respond. The calluses at the base of his fingers hold back your words. His striped nails are neither short nor long. Clean, as always. Your small hands wrap around his wrist. How many lives have they saved? Sometimes it feels unbelievable.
With a protective softness, you kiss his fingertip. Your lips part slightly, out of shyness or focus, and wrap around his finger. The index first. It stays there, warm against your gums, standing before the barrier of your teeth. As if reluctance tugs gently at your sleeve. Not for long, because the tip of your tongue is already teasing his skin, tracing his fingerprint. Then your mouth coils around it. To which Megumi tenses, his full attention on you.
Contrary to what you thought, his skin has no particular taste —just the salt of him. But, as you knew it would be, his finger is cold. Go figure: his hands always are.
You straighten on your knees to better take his fingers. You lick the pad of his finger before sucking it back in. This time, you add the middle finger. Your thighs clench at the sensation, swallowing more of his phalanges. The way they press your tongue as they fill you makes your eyes roll. When you feel a whimper forming at the edge of your lips, you stop immediately, forbidding yourself from making a sound over so little. You make sure to avoid his gaze, afraid he might guess how much you enjoy the protrusion of his knuckles and the folds on the backs of his fingers.
It wasn’t meant to be suggestive.
But your sucking is enough to stir his mind. And the devotion you put into it only fans the rest. His thoughts drift then toward something far less subtle.
“hnngh.”
Ah! You just moaned.
And you keep insisting to yourself that it’s only more intense than expected. Like savoring a sour lollipop. The instant relief probably due to the shitty day you’ve had. Yet, you know it: your little bud is pulsing, just two fingers away from seeking friction against the mattress.
“Eyes on me.” he orders, his voice trying so hard to stay controlled that it comes out hoarse.
Damn, couldn’t you have stuck to light sucking and little nibbles? No—you have to drench him in your saliva, take him fully into your mouth, all the way to the bone. But you’re doing it on purpose—there’s no other explanation. Not when you guide his wrist even further, chin wet—and he’s pretty sure that’s not the only thing of yours that is.
The contradiction he senses at the back of your tongue, this clumsy little reflex, makes him growl. Breaking his restraint as well. His fingers sink in willingly, scraping the passage. No hint of remorse crosses his lustful eyes. Oh, please—you’re practically begging him to do it with that little deep-throat trick.
It’s impressive, what a look can awaken. You look like a needy little thing: glassy-eyed, fixed on his gaze, mouth full, mind in a haze. Your free hand rests on his bent knee, just inches from the bulge. He knows where it wants to go. And he very much wants to let it. The scene shifts: it’s no longer just imagining your lips stretched elsewhere, but realizing it only takes his hand. The exorcist already knows how his fingers can fuck you dumb… but he hadn’t imagined it this way. What could he possibly have done to deserve such a dirty girlfriend ?
Out of pure mischief, he pulls his hand away, his fingers still connected to your lips, satin-soft and glistening with a thin line of saliva. The panting that follows is pathetic. If he weren’t so hard at this precise moment, he’d toy with you, pretending to stay unmoved in the face of the intensity. He watches you through his field of vision, scrolling on his phone. Waiting for one thing—your tiny, adorable pleas, your so-innocent way of whining, “Honiiiii.”
“An oral fixation on top of that?” he says. It’s a degrading comment—not only the meaning, but in the tone
“Why? You want me to suck something else?”He chuckles softly, tugging slightly at his pants.
“Acting all high and mighty when you’re such a mess?” With a quick motion, he brushes the back of your hand before it reaches your chin. “Don’t bother wiping it.”
ꨄ︎Megumiꨄ︎, his needy girlfriend (you), the library's nook, and an irresistible urge to kiss him.
⚠️ Warnings: Aged up Megumi. The original text is a bit 'elaborate'… but since I'm not fluent in Shakespearean English, I can’t really tell if that tone has been preserved in the translation. I hope it doesn’t feel too dense or difficult to read.
Pairing: bf!Megumi Zenin x fem!reader
Over the past few weeks, the weather had grown unkind. The forecast heralded the coming of woollen caps, seasonal despondency, and stinging chapped skin. By the end of the week, winter’s pallid veil would fall upon the whole city, mantling roofs, streets, and cars alike. This evening in particular, December cries out, glacial. Its wind lashes the frosted panes of the great library. Dogged, it worms its way through the fissures of ill-latched windows, the seams of wooden casements, the joints of ancient doors. Yet for all its striving, nestled within the walls of this rustic edifice, warmth plays at being.
Woven into the ceiling, LED lamps cast the amber glow of a hearth fire. Their halos stretch, one by one, along the rows of tables. At this hour, the place is largely empty. The staff, living elements of the decor, watch time pass with impatience; closing time is fast approaching. Most of the tables lie bare. A few open books linger, forgotten. Others pile up and jostle upon the weathered shelves. Their mylar covers and dog-eared bindings rarely aligned, often askew. Students who had come here have nearly all departed. Followed by devoted readers and the merely curious once fatigue set in. Later still, the solitary figures rose in turn. Only a handful of calm enthusiasts and novel lovers remain, along with those too absorbed, or those whom no one awaits.
They linger, caught in the familiar scent of sandalwood and nutmeg. Flecked with subtle notes of cardamom and melted wax, it drifts here and there. Above the cold wood of chairs still askew, it caresses the rosette moldings of the bookcases, winds along the metallic arabesques of the spiral stair railing. A mystical breath that brushes the brass armillary spheres and bows the dark screens of the computers.
Like many city dwellers, you love this library— the oldest in town. Renovated a few years ago, it has been expanded and modernized, yet never lost its period charm.You come here to read, of course. But also for the architecture.The ancient ladders, the deep red curtains matched to those that muffle the creaks of the staircases, the faux leather of the armchairs, and the steady swing of the large mechanical clock mounted on the wall. And for all the secrets these walls seem to whisper every time. Megumi, for his part, has been a regular visitor since the very beginning. An eternal pragmatist with a taste for factual literature, he values this old-fashioned library above all for the quality and relevance of its collections. The gentle lethargy that suspends time is but a subtle charm added to the experience.
He always takes the same route, ignores the coquettish glances of the beautiful librarian, ascends to the upper floor, and, with silent steps, reaches the end of the gallery. There, half-hidden behind two tall bookcases laden with volumes, the room is quieter, and below, the world seems far away. It was in that quiet nook poorly reached by the heaters, that you had joined him. Your table. Sheltered over by the glow of a wrought-iron wall sconce.
Standing on its front legs, your chair wobbles. You’d surely fall without your boyfriend’s hand.
“Don’t move…” he grumbles between kisses. “You’re goin' to fal—”
You aren’t listening. You never do. You press your chest more firmly against his side, further upsetting the fragile balance of your poor chair.“I’d be better off on your lap.”
“uh-hmm. Behave — we’re outside.” Over your close faces, he scans the surroundings. If he agreed to this round of kisses, it’s because he feels confident about prying eyes. Still, that doesn’t stop him from checking now and then.
Meanwhile, you have only one obsession—the bittersweet taste of coffee that lingers at the tip of his lips. Despite your sugared cheeks and ragged breath, you lean in again, offering your left side. It earns you a low growl pressed against your mouth. Yet another call for restraint you deliberately ignore. His hands, clamps around your waist, hold you against him. Under no circumstances must you fall. You might hurt yourself, yes— but more importantly, the noise would draw attention.The distance torments you, however slight. So, with a quick movement, you leave your chair to join him. Carefully stashing your reserve back in the pocket of your handbag. With the tip of his foot, Megumi catches your chair before it hits the floor. The wood creaks as your legs frame his hips.
“No! N—no, n—” the young man protests at once, though he doesn’t break the kiss. Your breaths mingle, punctuated by gasps.
“But there’s no one!” you retort, his lower lip trapped between your incisors. It’s hardly fair of you to tease the grain of his skin like that. Deliberately.
Your eyes shine as you gaze into his. Two precious velvet orbs you make no effort to look away from. Without further delay, you swoop onto his lips, brushing them gently before slipping into the gap of his mouth. The dark-haired young man closes his eyes halfway as you draw in his lip with a fervor he cannot miss. A tantalizing sigh escapes him in the rough embrace of your tongues. You never stop seeking him. Again and again. The impatience of your gestures, the ardor of your advances, your fervent demand at the expense of your lungs— it pleases him.
And the young exorcist even begins to toy with you. Responding to your hunger with a slow, languorous pace, punctuated by gentle bites. It only stokes you further. Your palms dig into the edge of his sweater. And like a capricious child, you wriggle against him. Each movement consumes a little more of your already ragged breath. And yet pulling away to steady would take only an instant. But no, you obstinately, childishly, persist in pushing your limits.
“Hey, breathe.” With his thumb, Megumi traces little circles on your back.
Between you floats the drumbeat of your chests. You take a gulp of air before annihilating the small space left between you. A petty answer. A greedy kiss that only rivals the previous ones in its intensity. With all your strength, you merge with his touch; your teeth clash. As though you feared he might pull away, as if that need to touch him might never be fully satisfied. It lasts only a few seconds— barely, until a gentle burn begins to stir in your lungs.Reasonable, because you don’t seem inclined to be, Megumi imposes a little distance. And from that, he admires you. Your cherry lips parted, slightly swollen from these kisses— at times languid, at times swift, that you stole from him.
“Strictly for the record, I wasn’t planning on disappearing,” he teases, wearing that rare, roguish smile, that one that melts you every single time.
A flood of little replies comes to mind. Teasing jabs, shameless assertions, or simply a well-placed “shut up.” Instead, you rest your head on his shoulder, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. The crimson glow of the setting sun paints his face beautifully. His irises lighten, their natural shade shifting toward a jade green laced with gold. You envy his eyes. And the thick lashes framing them, naturally darkening the edges of his eyelids. Megumi is neither a loud lover nor a flawless partner. Grand surges of passion do not truly define you— your complicity is still forming, and you have never been one to grow attached quickly. And yet.
And yet, Megumi.
You, who never move forward except cautiously in a new relationship, of any kind, found yourself mired in this one without grasping the when, the how, or the why. You know you ought to be wary. Isn’t it dangerous to love? Slowly, you sit up, your attention fixed on the same spot. Ah, his mouth— the cool oasis in your desert.
“Again?” he says, clicking his tongue. “You’re needy today.”
Doubt holds you for a moment before you catch the perfectly hidden spark of mischief. Your boyfriend’s dry humor was disarming at first, but you’re far from sensitive. It’s actually quite refreshing to be able to express your sharp wit fully without immediately having to clarify that you’re joking. Still, there are times when his expression remains impassively neutral, leaving you a little confused.
You frown, mock-offended. “Could you smile a little? Just so I’m sure you’re laughing.”
His gaze softens. And as if to make amends, he leans in and plants a quick kiss on your pursed lips. “We should get going; it’ll be dark soon.”
Leaning forward, your torsos press together. You watch him close one book, then another. “You didn’t answer.”
“You didn’t ask a question,” he says calmly, readjusting the decorative inkwell and parchment on the edge of the desk.
“Well, I’ll ask you one: why do you never kiss me?”
“Haven’t I just given you back all your kisses?”
“Exactly, you give them back. But you never start them.”
It’s true. More often than not, you take the initiative. Of course he responds willingly, far from complaining. But the fact remains— it’s you who makes the first move. You’re not reproaching him; it’s just an observation.
“You do it enough for the both of us,” he says, still tidying a table that isn’t really that messy. Your silence makes him pause, and he continues. “In the sense that you don’t give me time to do it myself.”
And that makes you cross your arms. “Yeah, say I kiss you too much, actually.”
“That’s what I’m saying. But it’s far from a bad thing. I adore kissing you.” Surprisingly simple, unexpectedly honest. The simplicity of his words, his admission, catches you off guard. He wraps his scarf around his face. “Ready? Shall we go, Doll?”
You nod and slide off his lap. His words linger in your mind as you generously apply balm to your lips. I adore kissing you. It’s maddening how such a simple truth unsettles you. But when it comes from him, it feels different. With a mechanical motion, you put your chair away while Megumi pulls up your zipper. You recognize the cool, elegant hand of his as it takes yours. You melt at the tenderness when he slips your hand into his pocket. As if your skin isn’t warm against his own. After a brief hesitation, he tilts his head slightly and presses a fleeting kiss to your lips— almost a caress. And yet, it makes you shiver. Anyone watching you would think you're both foolish for blushing over mere skin, after the storm you’ve just shared.You moisten your lips, questioning him with your gaze.
Were he to answer, he’d look elsewhere, pretending it’s merely a precaution against the cold.
➤: I was supposed to post it by December 22, but if I knew how to stick to my plans, I wouldn't be where I am in my life. Open to thoughts and feedback if you have any.
Reposting this since the first one vanished from the blog.
Since I didn’t think to mention it in the first post, here is the context:
I) ‘Kaiser’ is pronounced ‘Kaizah’ in German.
II) Assume that the reader always calls him Kaiser.
III) The soft ‘ch’ is a german sound somewhere between ‘ch’ and ‘h’
Hey guys, did you know that ‘Kaiser’ is actually pronounced ‘Kaizer’? 'cause I didn't. By the way, this is my first proper written post on Tumblr (not some silly posts) and there are still quite a lot I need to rework and improve.
⚠️ Warnings: Finally, English isn’t my mother tongue— excuse any eye-bleeding mistake.
Pairing: bf!Michael Kaiser x fem!reader
“It’s Kaizer,” he says, correcting you with that easily annoyed look of his.
“… That's what I said.”
Michael pops open the can you just brought him, shaking his head from side to side.
“Nah, you say Kaiser. It’s pronounced Kaizer, even though it’s spelled with an 's.”
Oh, really?
“Oh, really?” You tilt your head slightly, suddenly self-conscious at the thought of mispronouncing his last name all this time. “You should’ve told me earlier,” you stammer. “Kaizer. Got it.”
But he keeps staring at you.
You feel it, the intensity of his cerulean eyes. Arrogant, proud— maybe even tinged with a hint of disdain. That’s usually how you find them. And yet, never completely without warmth. You might even dare to claim there’s a hint of affection there.
“Just about every language says Kaizer”, he continues, dead serious. “English. French. Italian. Russian. Even Japanese.” He’s practically giving you a lecture.
“Oh, come on. I'm not exactly committing blasphemy here.”
He shrugs. “Not far off.”
“I didn’t even know the word Kaiser, if you want to know. I didn’t know it was a title, let alone a last name.” Can you believe he actually takes offense at that? You don’t know whether it’s justified, narcissistic, or just downright childish. “Do you want me to write a letter of contrition, oh, Mighty KaiZer?”
He doesn’t answer, clearly mulling over your ironic offer. That makes you sigh. Then you go back to what you were doing— nothing. Your thumb scolls across the screen. A cat video, a revolitionary blush technique, and motorcycles... ?
“And anyway” he starts again, “why do you keep callin' me Kaiser? You do know my first name is Michael, don't you?” He smirks. That predatory smile that twists his lips far too often. “Or do I need to tell you that too?”
You roll your eyes. That biting teasing again. Good thing you're receptive to it.
“I prefer Kaiser. It's more original. And prettier. Too much for you. Then you add, “And I don’t know how to say MiCHael…In German I mean.”
His thin eyebrows shoot up. “So you call me by my last name, because you cannot pronounce the German version of Michael?” On his lips, it sounds even sillier.
“And mostly because Kaiser— sorry, Kaizer— sounds prettier.”
Michael always assumes the world is severely lacking in intelligence— a rule he conveniently exempts himself from. And right now? You've just handed him a golden opportunity to question your intelligence.
“First, it's completely stupid. Second, it's moot 'cause even Kaiser you say wrong. And third, there's absolutely nothing complicated about Michael.”
Ah, that oh-so-famous German ''ch''. A sound far too adorable for a language with such a brutal accent.
You'll never ever tell him that you'd spent hours watching YouTube videos, countless shorts explaining how to pronounce the German-style Michael. With such subtle nuances that they almost contradicted each other: clench your teeth but don't let them touch; let the air pass, but maintain control; don't force it while keeping some pressure. An absurd balance that made you feel like you were losing all control over your vocal system.
You even found yourself repeating it, in the middle of the night, a kind of incantatory mantra: mich, michh,...MiCHael! Like a fanatic trying to summon him into your bedroom at three in the morning. Him, or a demon straight out of Hell. Your eyes drift down to the poor can on the floor, crushed, utterly wrecked by his grip. Unnecessarily destroyed.
Yeah... one doesn’t necessarily exclude the other.
“Say it.” he orders.
“No, I'm not gonn-
“Say it." He can be so stubborn!
“Michael.”
As expected, a tiny mocking sound: a nasal little laugh, halfway between a strangled snicker and a contemptuous exhale.
“No, not Michael, Michael. Nothing in common. ”
You look at him, already upset. A small slip, a grammar mistake, a misuse of a word— nobody really likes being corrected. But more than anyone else, you hate it when Kaiser corrects you. His condescension never fails to push your buttons.
“That's exactly what I said.”
The blond turns fully toward you, hand raised to gesture to his face. He tilts his head. “No, listen carefully” he says, pretentiously calm, falsely patient, unbearable! “Mi..ch..ael.”
He pronounces it slowly, exaggeratedly. As if speaking to a child— a very dumb one, or someone particularly limited. His gaze never leaves yours, clinging with an intensity utterly unnecessary for a simple linguistic demonstration.
“Try again. It's not that hard. Stretch your lips without clenching your teeth.”
You already feel like slapping him.
“You always have to look down on everyone, huh?”
“Obviously. I'm the best.” He lifts his chin. “Now, try again.”
You hesitate, before finally saying “Michael. Mich..chh, damn, Michael.”
“Stop, stop. Every time you say that twisted ch, I wouldn’t be surprised if an actual German dies somewhere in the world.”
Why are you smiling?!
“Uh-uh. You got me worked up, deal with it now.”
And at that very moment, who did you really condemn?
.
.
.
.
.
CALP!
His back slams hard against the couch. His knuckles go white as he literally twists his face between his clenched fingers. Another long, helpless sigh echoes between you.
“Damn! I don't get how you can't do it! It's fucking simple: Bücher. Kücher. Mädchen. Richtig. Glücklich.”
“And I don't get how you don't get that I can't do it! And seriously, never be a coach! You fucking suck at explaining things! Not useful instruction at all!”
Silence. Point for you.
“I told you:” he didn't, “the tip of your tongue goes...ch, ch...behind your lower front teeth. And the back of your tongue almost touches the roof of your mouth. Like you're trying to say a k.”
“It's basically a mix between an almost k and and the sh-sound?”
He nods. “Nearly, yeah. Same position, but further back. And instead of stopping the air, you let it squeeze through. You keep the shape and just breathe out.”
“Can't you say this from the beginning?!” you tsk. “Mich- chael?” And for the first time in what felt like an eternity— fifteen minutes— he smiles.
“Kinda sexy.” A compliment. From Michael Kaiser. How rare! Even for you.
“Really?!”You bat your lashes as he bites his lower lip.
“Totally. Felt like you were cleaning a window with your tongue.”
“Kaiiiserrrrrrr!” You smack his shoulder, bursting into a laughter. “Seriously, how was it?”
He makes a slight pout, opens his phone’s selfie mode. That’s it: he’s moved on. A sign that, somewhere along the way, you succeeded— at least, more or less.
And you know you won’t get a better compliment than that.
“Why did you even make up that sound, seriously?” He smiles at his own reflection. Eyed glancing at the corners, fingers running through his colored hair. The tip of his tongue slides over his white teeth. “Kaiser?”
“I dunno! I wasn't here at the German phonology summit!”
“You're cracking jokes, now? Are you even listening to me?” You whisper before grabbing his phone to pull it down. “I'm talking to you, Michael Kaiser.”
Later that evening, you’re sprawled on the couch. A movie is playing on TV, but you’re not really watching it. Too busy replaying the little phonology session in your head. He’s not patient. Really not.
Then, out of nowhere, with no warning, with barely any context, you blurt out:
➤: The longest step wasn’t the writing, nor even the translation, but definitely the layout! Banners, dividers, and all that… it’s a whole damn world! I never thought it would be so complicated just to get something halfway presentable, lol. Sure, I’m nowhere near the pros, but hey… I’m proud of my grandma-level interface. I’m probably going to have to pull out a few more hair and binge a bunch of tutorials
