fayelero

[fayelero]

husband!sanemi fucking you nice after he promised you to

Before Sanemi left for his mission, he’d made a promise — one whispered against your lips, rough and low, with his fingers already buried between your thighs and his body flush against yours. He said he’d come back in one piece, and when he did, he wouldn’t just return. He’d ruin you. Slow. Deep. Thorough. The kind of promise that sat heavy between your legs every night he was gone, burning in your memory with every lonely breath.

—

The front door slid open with a heavy thud, wood on wood.

You barely had time to turn your head before a familiar voice called out, low and rough:

“Angel. I’m home.”

You were halfway across the room before you could stop yourself, feet moving faster than your thoughts. But when you reached him, your breath caught.

Sanemi stood in the doorway, sword slung across his back, blood nowhere to be seen. Not a scratch on him. His haori was still perfectly intact — though his eyes, stormy and hungry, looked like they were ready to tear you apart.

“You’re okay,” you breathed, taking him in, heart still thudding from the sight of him alive, safe, and — gods — beautiful.

“I said I’d come back.” His mouth quirked into that signature smirk. “Didn’t I also say I’d make you feel good?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when he crossed the room with those deliberate, slow steps — like he already owned everything in it, especially you.

He didn’t ask for permission. He never needed to.

One hand gripped your waist, the other your jaw, and he kissed you like it was a continuation of the last one — like days hadn’t passed, like the heat between you had only ever simmered, waiting for the exact second he stepped over that threshold.

“Been thinking about you,” he muttered between kisses, backing you into the nearest wall, his body pressing you into it. “Every fuckin’ night. Thought I was gonna lose my mind.”

His hands were already working at your robes — rough, impatient — shoving the fabric off your shoulders, not even bothering to untie it properly. Your gasp turned to a moan as he bit down on the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave proof.

“I remember what I said,” he growled. “Told you I’d take my time. Make you scream for me.”

You whimpered, body already arching into his.

Sanemi’s hands were everywhere — gripping your hips, your ass, yanking your thighs apart. His fingers dragged through your folds and found you soaking.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his fingers up and down, slow but firm. “You really did miss me.”

“I thought about you every night,” you whispered, shuddering as he pushed two fingers inside. “About what you said. What you’d do.”

“Oh yeah?” he said with a grin, leaning in close, lips brushing your ear. “Then let me do it.”

Without warning, he picked you up, one hand under your thigh, the other wrapped tight around your back. He carried you to the futon like you weighed nothing — like he hadn’t just come back from tracking demons through mountains. He laid you out flat, your yukata pushed up and open, his eyes burning as he looked down at you.

“I’m not stopping ‘til your legs are shaking,” he said. “So hold the fuck on.”

He was on you in seconds.

His mouth wrapped around your nipple, sucking and biting while his fingers stayed inside you, fucking you open, curling just right — his thumb pressing down on your clit in tight, teasing circles. You moaned shamelessly, hips rocking up to meet his hand, your hands in his hair, tugging when it got too much and not nearly enough.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Louder. Let me hear how much you missed me.”

And when you cried out his name, writhing under him, he laughed low in his throat — satisfied, filthy.

He didn’t even undress fully — just shoved his uniform down enough to free himself, hard and flushed and already leaking from how turned on he was. He grabbed your thighs, pulled you closer, and without ceremony, thrust deep inside you.

You nearly screamed.

He filled you all at once, thick and hot and stretching you so perfectly you saw stars.

“Fuck,” he snarled, burying himself to the hilt, grinding into you. “This pussy — missed this so damn bad. You feel like heaven, angel.”

You clawed at his shoulders, nails digging in. “Sanemi—f-fuck—you’re so deep—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growled, snapping his hips. “Not tonight. Not ‘til you come on this cock.”

He set a brutal pace — hips slamming into you with every thrust, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the room. His hand pinned your wrists above your head, the other gripping your thigh and angling you just right so every thrust hit deep, right where you needed it most.

“You were so fuckin’ needy before I left,” he said through gritted teeth. “Practically begging me. Dripping like this. Now look at you.”

“Sanemi—please—!”

“That’s it. Beg for me again,” he groaned, hips stuttering as your walls clenched tight around him. “Tell me how bad you wanted it.”

“I needed it—I need you—!”

He dropped his mouth to yours, kissed you hard, filthy, teeth clashing. Then he buried his face in your neck, panting against your skin.

“Wanna see you fall apart,” he muttered. “Wanna feel you come while I’m deep inside you.”

You were close. So close it hurt. His hand slipped down and circled your clit again, fast and tight, and your body snapped — your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave, white-hot and shaking.

You clenched hard around him and he groaned, loud and raw, hips stuttering.

“Shit—fuck, angel—”

He slammed into you one last time and came with a growl, deep inside you, filling you with everything he’d been holding back since he left.

He collapsed against you, breathing hard, his body slick with sweat.

For a while, there was nothing but your breathless gasps and the sound of your hearts pounding together.

Then Sanemi leaned up, kissed your forehead, and grinned.

“Promise kept,” he said, cocky and satisfied.

You could barely glare at him, your body still humming.

“…You’re a menace.”

He kissed you again.

“You love it.”

And gods help you — you did.

[fayelero]

ⓘ 03. SUCH A PERV !

⤷ SMUT ﹫ bachira meguru x fem!reader ﹫ mdni ﹫ perv!bachira

⚠︎ highly suggestive, mention of sex, perverted meguru .ᐟ.ᐟ

From the beginning, you knew.

There was no moment of revelation, no grand shock that made you realize the truth. You didn’t stumble upon secret files on his phone or catch him ogling other girls. No — you knew because you had to. Because being Meguru Bachira’s girlfriend meant living on the edge of two worlds: the one where he danced around like a sunbeam, all smiles and innocence and weirdly philosophical soccer metaphors… and the one where he made sure your thighs stayed bruised from his grip every night.

To the rest of the world — his teammates, his fans, even your friends — he was pure. Kind, quirky, lovable. A golden retriever with insane footwork.

But you?

You were the only one who’d ever heard the way his voice dropped an octave when the lights went out. The only one who knew the meaning behind the way his hand would rest innocently on your lower back, only to slide just a little too low when no one was looking. The only one who’d ever been cornered by him in a locker room, with sweat still dripping down his chest, his eyes wild with adrenaline and something darker.

Bachira didn’t act like an angel.

He was one.

Just one with a filthy mind and no filter when it came to you.

⸻

It started small. Little things. His text messages, teasing in ways that only you would catch. Compliments that sounded sweet on the surface but had claws under them.

“Miss you. Can’t stop thinking about how good you looked in that skirt. Especially when you bent over in the kitchen. Dangerous, baby.”

Or the way he’d “accidentally” brush his hand over your chest when hugging you from behind. The way he’d squeeze your inner thigh under the table during a group dinner like he was testing just how still you could sit.

Then it escalated.

One night, you came home to him already sprawled out on your bed — no shirt, sweatpants riding low on his hips, a familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“I was thinking about you during practice,” he said, voice lazy, “and I got… distracted.”

His eyes dropped to his lap. He wasn’t hiding anything.

You’d barely dropped your bag when he pounced, hands grabbing your hips with a hunger that made your legs weak. His kisses were deep, messy, possessive. Not romantic. He wasn’t whispering sweet nothings — he was murmuring exactly what he wanted to do to you. Things that would make your face burn if anyone else ever heard.

And the worst part?

He said it all with that same smile.

The same boyish grin that made his teammates think he was harmless. The same stupid sparkle in his eyes that masked the fact that his hand was already under your shirt, tugging your bra aside like he’d done it a thousand times before — because he had.

“I bet you’re already wet, huh?” he whispered against your neck, breath hot, teeth grazing skin. “Just from hearing me talk.”

You shoved at his chest, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“You’re such a perv.”

He tilted his head, licking his lips slowly as his fingers slid into your waistband.

“I know,” he said shamelessly, “but I’m your perv.”

⸻

Sometimes, you wondered how his friends didn’t know. Surely, someone had to have seen the way his eyes darkened when you walked into a room. The way his attention zeroed in on you like a predator spotting prey. But Bachira had a gift — he played the fool too well. No one ever looked twice.

Except you.

You’d learned him. Memorized every inch of that split personality. Sweet on the outside, sinful underneath. A dirty mouth paired with angel eyes.

And you’d stopped trying to figure out how he got that way.

Because really, you didn’t mind.

Not when his hands made your skin light up like fire. Not when his voice dipped into a low growl, pulling confessions from your lips without even touching you. Not when he had you writhing beneath him, pinned down by a body that moved just as fluidly off the field as on it.

And especially not when he looked down at you with that same playful grin — eyes dark with lust, voice dripping with mischief — and whispered:

“You knew what you were signing up for, babe.”

And damn it, you did.

[fayelero]

ⓘ 03. JUNO !

⤷ SMUT ﹫ nagi seishiro x fem!reader ﹫ mdni ﹫ you didn’t take your pill???!

⚠︎ dom!nagi, etablished relationship, rough sex, hair pulling, spanking, minimal aftercare, no fluff .ᐟ.ᐟ

Nagi lay beneath you—head half-buried in the pillow, hair a mess, chest rising and falling like he wasn’t even winded. Typical.

You were straddling him now, knees tucked tight against his hips, bare and ready all over again. The silence crackled. Your nails grazed down his chest, dragging slow like a threat and a promise in one.

He didn’t move—just watched. Eyes low-lidded, hand resting lazily on your thigh like he was letting you play a game he could stop any second.

You leaned down, lips ghosting over his collarbone. “You’re not tired.”

His fingers flexed. “Nope.”

“So?”

Your hips ground forward, not enough to get what you wanted—but enough to let him know you were ready. Again. Still.

He let you get exactly one roll of your hips before—

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

A sharp, vibrating buzz echoed from the nightstand. His phone lit up. A notification, followed by a shrill, looping alarm—custom tone. Loud. Disruptive. Immediate.

Nagi didn’t even blink.

He grabbed the phone, silenced the alarm with a thumb swipe, and dropped it face-down again.

You didn’t stop moving. Too close. Too far gone. Hands on his chest, mouth brushing his jaw. “Ignore it.”

But he didn’t.

His hands came up, gripped your waist, and stilled you in an instant. Like flipping a switch.

You whined. Loud. Frustrated. Desperate.

“Baby…” you hissed, rocking your hips against his hands. “Seriously?”

He just stared at you, face blank but sharp, eyes focused like he was looking right through the bratty tone and into something deeper. Calculating.

Then:

“Ma…” he said, voice flat but heavy with intent. “Did you take your pill?”

Silence.

Your mouth parted slightly, shoulders dropping. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He already knew.

His grip on your waist tightened just slightly. Just enough to remind you that he could flip this whole situation around if he wanted to. “Tch. Thought so.”

He pushed you off. Just like that.

Not hard—he wasn’t punishing you. Yet. He sat up, leaned over to the drawer, and pulled out the small silver packet. You sat there in a daze, thighs twitching, body aching with tension and denied release, while he calmly tore open the blister pack with one hand and popped the pill into his mouth.

Between his teeth.

He looked at you—completely unreadable.

Then he crooked a finger.

“Come here.”

You blinked. “What—”

But he didn’t wait. He grabbed your chin, pulled you forward, and kissed you hard. Mouth open. Intent clear.

His lips claimed yours, and when your mouth parted instinctively, he pushed the pill past your lips with his tongue—slow, deliberate. You had no choice but to take it. Swallow. Let it settle.

The whole time, his hand stayed on your jaw, fingers firm and unrelenting. His tongue didn’t pull back immediately—it lingered, tasting, teasing, dominating. Not romantic. Not soft. Pure control.

He pulled back when he was done, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he was wiping away evidence.

“There,” he said, voice low. “Now behave, baby”

You stared at him, dazed and breathless, the pill swallowed, lips bruised, body screaming. And somehow, you were the one left feeling owned.

He leaned back on his elbows, eyes dragging lazily down your form.

“You want it?” he asked, tone flat but heavy. “Earn it.”

No more playing princess. He’d already proven who was really in charge.

You weren’t delicate, and neither was he.

You raked your nails across his back as he pushed your legs apart. His mouth was hot, hungry against your neck, collarbone, breasts — biting down just hard enough to bruise.

“You like that?” he growled against your skin.

You didn’t answer with words — just arched your back and rolled your hips up to grind against his hardened cock.

He hissed, his cock already flushed and heavy in his hand as he stroked himself once, twice, with eyes locked on you.

Then he grabbed your hips.

No teasing.

“Why didn’t you took your pill, ma?”, he asked. Without response.

He pulled into you — thick, hot, and deep — stretching you to your limit. You moaned, nails digging into his shoulders, and he didn’t stop. His pace was brutal. Every thrust hit deep, hard, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the tight room. His grip on your thighs was bruising, but you didn’t care.

“Fuck—” he grunted, head falling to your shoulder. “So tight...”

You clenched around him in response, and he growled, slamming into you even harder. The bed creaked under you both, your moans turning into gasps as your orgasm built fast — coiled tight and ready to snap.

When it did, it ripped through you like lightning. Your whole body locked up, back arching, vision white-hot as your walls fluttered around him.

Seishiro didn’t slow down.

He rode you through it, then pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your stomach and dragging your hips up. He shoved back in from behind, deeper this time, angling to hit that sweet spot that made you cry out into the sheets.

His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back. “You want to get pregnant or what?”

“N-no…!”

You were shaking, but greedy for more.

Another orgasm hit fast — legs trembling, heat blooming across your spine — and this time he followed. His rhythm stuttered, breath ragged, and then he thrust in deep one last time with a groan, spilling inside you.

He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against your back.

Then he pulled out, slapped your ass once, and muttered while nuzzling in your neck, “You know I love you?”

You laughed, hoarse. “I love you too, sei.”

[fayelero]

what if…timeskip!kenma x f!reader where kenma’s pissed off of a game and he bends you over his desk and takes you right then and there to fuck his frustration out and you’re all whiny n crying bcz you haven’t done anything so why is he using you? smut to fluff ig?

ⓘ 01. HELP HIM WIN NEXT TIME !

⤷ SMUT ﹫ timeskip!kenma kozume x fem!reader ﹫ mdni ﹫ do not let Kenma loose next time ;)

⚠︎ mdni, rough sex, use of desk furniture, light consensual degradation, tears (from intensity), dom!Kenma, overstimulation, slight aftercare (transition to fluff), established relationship .ᐟ.ᐟ

The low hum of Kenma’s PC fan was the only sound left in the room—aside from the deliberate click of Kuroo’s smug goodbye over voice chat and the slam of Kenma’s headset against the desk.

You flinched from your spot on the bed. You knew that sound. Knew the difference between a competitive loss and this. This was Kuroo. And Kenma hated losing to him.

You closed your book quietly and sat up. “Ken—”

“Don’t.”

He didn’t even look at you as he pushed back in his chair, strands of blond hair shadowing his eyes. His fingers were twitching, jaw clenched. You swallowed.

It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t the one who taunted him. You didn’t make him lose a ranked set in front of twenty thousand Twitch viewers. But the way he stood and turned toward you, shoulders squared, eyes unreadable—you knew.

He was going to take it out somewhere.

And you were the closest outlet.

“Come here,” he said flatly.

You hesitated.

His voice cut sharper. “Now.”

Your body moved before your brain could argue. Bare feet padded across the carpet until you stood in front of him. His desk chair squeaked as he sat back down, legs spread. His stare dragged down your frame, eyes cold.

“You’ve just been lying there the whole time,” he muttered. “Doing nothing.”

“I didn’t—Kenma, I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.”

Then he yanked you by the wrist and pulled you down across his lap. The motion stole a gasp from your throat, hands braced on the edge of the desk. You barely processed the position before his palm came down hard on your ass, the sharp slap echoing in the small room.

“Kenma—!” you shouted, more in shock than pain.

“Quiet.” His voice was lower now. “You’re gonna take it. Since you’re so fucking useless just laying there.”

You whimpered, more confused than aroused—though your body was already betraying you. His hands yanked your shorts and panties down in one motion, and your bare skin met the chill of his desk.

Then his fingers dipped between your legs.

Of course. Already wet.

“You like this?” he scoffed. “Getting used like this ?”

“N-No—”

He shoved two fingers inside you without warning, and you arched with a gasp. His other hand pressed the back of your neck down into the wood.

“Don’t lie. You were soaked before I even touched you.”

His fingers curled just right, thumb pressing mercilessly against your clit, drawing out desperate, choked noises you tried not to let him hear.

“I didn’t—Kenma, please, I didn’t do anything—” you hiccupped, tears starting to bead at the corners of your eyes from how hard you were clenching around him already.

“You didn’t.” His tone sharpened. “That’s the problem.”

You sobbed a little when he pulled his fingers out. But then you heard the zipper. The belt buckle. Then felt the weight of him as he lined himself up, grabbing your hips and yanking you roughly back against him.

He slammed into you in one thrust, making the breath flee your lungs.

“Ah—! Fuck—!”

“Take it,” he growled through clenched teeth.

He fucked you like he hated you. Each thrust drove you harder against the desk edge, the wood digging into your hips and your scalp brushing the cold monitor stand. Your hands scrambled for grip on the smooth surface, nails dragging uselessly. Your moans were desperate, messy, high-pitched—punctuated by the wet slap of skin-on-skin and his harsh breathing.

Your tears slipped freely now, blurring your vision. “Kenma… Kenma, p-please… I didn’t—”

“You can cry all you want.” His voice was poisonously calm now, rage cooling into venom. “You’re still gonna cum. I know you.”

And he was right. The way he was hitting your spot—unforgiving, perfectly angled—you were dangerously close.

When your orgasm broke, it was devastating.

You came with a scream, body twitching beneath his grip. Your legs gave out, but he held you up. Kept going. Rode you through it like he wasn’t finished. Because he wasn’t.

You were sobbing now, moaning through every thrust as he chased his own finish. “So fucking tight when you cry,” he muttered, hips stuttering.

He came with a groan, deep inside you, hips pressed flush and hands bruising your waist.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The only sounds were your sniffles, your breathing, and the tap of sweat dripping onto the desk.

Silence stretched.

Then, slowly, his hands softened. Slid up your spine.

You felt him pull out gently, the mess between your thighs leaking down your legs. And then, the most unexpected thing—he pulled you into his lap.

You blinked, disoriented, red-eyed and trembling. He brushed your damp hair back, tucking it behind your ear.

“…Too far?” he murmured, his voice suddenly softer. Quieter.

You nodded slowly against his chest.

He sighed, holding you tighter.

“I shouldn’t have used you like that.” His fingers stroked your thigh where he’d left a red mark. “I’m… not mad at you.”

You hiccupped again, but you curled into him.

“‘S okay,” you whispered. “You just… lost bad.”

He chuckled—actually chuckled—and kissed your temple.

“I owe you dinner. And a bath.”

“And an apology,” you mumbled.

“You’ll get more than one.”

And maybe—just maybe—that was worth being bent over the desk for.

[fayelero]

ⓘ 01. JUST FOR SCIENCE !

⤷ SMUT ﹫ nerd!tsukishima kei x fem!reader ﹫ mdni ﹫ university au!

⚠︎ mdni, (kinda rough?) fingering, dirty talk kinda, p with plot, established relationship .ᐟ.ᐟ

it was a req! but I weirdly couldn’t answer it so, here!!

Tsukishima had been deep in a study session at the university library when you sent the message. He almost didn’t check it—his phone buzzed against the table, and he rolled his eyes before flipping it over lazily. The preview alone made his entire body lock up:

“Babe I saw this vid and thought of u. Try it on me later?”

Attached was a screenshot from a TikTok that screamed chaos. It featured some guy, dead serious, explaining how to make a girl squirt—his voice flat, instructional: _“Press down right here on her lower stomach, tense your fingers hard, and shake—_like actually shake—if you do it right, she’ll flood.”

Tsukishima had paused, blinked once. Then again.

And again.

Of course you would send something like that.

He’d cleared his throat and tilted his screen away from Yamaguchi, who was mid-rant about some biochem professor being a demon in human form. Kei pretended to nod along, face schooled into neutrality, but his ears burned red hot. He tried to shove the image out of his mind—your voice asking him to try it on you, the mental picture of your thighs trembling under his hand, your face twisted in overwhelmed pleasure.

God, he was not going to survive the rest of this class.

⸻

By the time he got back to the apartment, his brain was a mess of formulas, suppressed hard-ons, and way too many tabs open on his laptop—half were lecture notes, the rest were very, very specific Reddit threads.

The place was dim and warm when he walked in, the lights low, the curtains drawn. You were already there, stretched out on his bed in nothing but one of his hoodies, scrolling your phone like you hadn’t just ruined him in the middle of a public academic setting.

He dropped his bag and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

You didn’t look up. “Learn anything in class today?”

Kei kicked off his shoes and stalked over. “Mm. Something like that.”

You smirked but barely had time to react before he was over you—knees pressing into the mattress, one hand bracing beside your head, the other pushing your thighs apart with no preamble. He didn’t even kiss you first. He just looked at you with a sharp, unreadable gaze and murmured, “Still want me to try it?”

You blinked. “Try wha—oh.”

Then it hit. You swallowed.

He leaned down and kissed the side of your neck, slowly. “Don’t get shy now. You asked for this, didn’t you?” His voice was low and lazy, but his fingers already curled into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down. “Sent me fucking tutorials in public.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You liked it.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m letting it slide.” He ghosted his knuckles along your inner thigh. “You made me sit through a 90-minute lecture with a hard-on. You’re paying for that.”

Your stomach flipped. You spread your legs a little wider, feeling heat pulse through your core. He sat back and took in the sight like he was memorizing it—your body under him, already flushed and open.

Tsukishima rolled his sleeves up. “Let’s be clear—this is science.”

You snorted. “Science, huh?”

“I’m testing a hypothesis,” he said, dry. “Let’s see if your little video was telling the truth.”

⸻

He was careful at first—methodical. It was annoyingly hot how analytical he got about it.

Two fingers in, slow. A curl. A press.

He watched your face like he was taking notes in his head.

“That it?” he asked. “Right there?”

You gasped, hips twitching. “Yes—yes, that’s it—”

His glasses slid a little down his nose as he adjusted, leaning forward for better leverage. His fingers pressed deeper, and this time he added pressure with the heel of his hand to your pelvis. You cried out, thighs tensing.

“Okay,” he muttered more to himself. “Now… tense up the forearm…”

You could feel it—his entire arm stiffening. Then his fingers shook, a small, fast motion inside you that felt like a jolt of electricity.

You arched, moaning, nails digging into his wrist. “Kei—!”

“There it is,” he said softly, like he’d just discovered a new species.

He kept going, movements precise but brutal, and you were unraveling fast. He pressed down harder, rubbed exactly where you needed it from inside, and when your stomach jumped under his palm, he glanced up with a smirk.

“Feel that?” he murmured. “That tension right here—that’s your bladder shifting. But don’t worry. You’re not going to piss yourself.”

“Wh—what—?”

He was still talking. “Squirting is basically a form of female ejaculation—it’s expelled from the urethra, but chemically, it’s not urine. The Skene’s glands—sometimes called the female prostate—produce a fluid when stimulated—”

“Kei—!” you gasped.

“—and when the anterior wall of the vagina is stimulated enough, like this—” he curled his fingers harder, grinding them into that spot again, “—it builds pressure until the pelvic floor releases.”

You were close. Too close.

“I—I think I’m gonna—wait—I don’t know if—”

He didn’t stop. “It’s fine. Let it go. It’s just your body responding to stimuli—completely natural, really. Biomechanics at its best—”

You slammed a hand over your face, panting. “K-kei, just shut up—!”

He laughed, dark and low. “Oh? You want me to stop being educational while you soak my bed?”

“I’m serious—!” your voice cracked, and then your body tensed, thighs shaking, muscles locking up so hard you thought you might explode.

Then—

It hit. Hard.

A sudden rush, a high-pitched cry ripped from your throat as your body convulsed, hips jerking up against his hand. You felt warmth, wetness, everything crashing down in an overwhelming wave. Your legs refused to stop twitching.

You lay there gasping, limp, soaked, and stunned.

Kei pulled his fingers out slow, slick and glistening. His face was flushed, his glasses slightly fogged. He looked at his hand like a scientist who just cracked open a star.

“Huh,” he said calmly. “It worked.”

You swatted him weakly. “I can’t believe you talked through the whole thing.”

He smirked. “It helped, didn’t it?”

You groaned. “You’re the worst.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your jaw. “And yet you still squirted all over my sheets.”

You rolled onto your side, completely boneless. “Shut up and take your pants off.”

He stripped in record time.

a/n : im sorry if its not good, i just can’t write for tsukishima, i find myself struggling to write for a character i don’t really like. (no hate!) so pls don’t ask me for tsukishima again cuz i lowkey think its bad :(

[fayelero]

ⓘ 03. ANATOMY OF LOVE !

⤷ ANGST ﹫ michael kaiser x fem!reader ﹫ I love angst so bad guys it’s not healthy anymore.

⚠︎ angst, heavy mental health struggles (kaiser), PTSD (kaiser), insults .ᐟ.ᐟ

Kaiser had always thought love was a fable.

Not the kind told at bedtime by mothers with warm voices and softer eyes, but the kind whispered between bleeding mouths and clenched teeth—a myth, twisted and fantastical. A word too sweet for the world he came from. Where love meant bruises hidden under school uniforms, silence at dinner tables, and the heavy, choking stench of fear disguised as obedience.

He had learned early on that people only got close enough to hurt you. That affection was conditional. That kindness was currency. And he never had enough of it.

So he became beautiful. He made himself golden, magnetic, cruel when needed. He climbed through the mud wearing a crown of thorns he forged himself, teeth bared, never looking back. The world praised him for it. For the shine. For the swagger. For the calculated charm. But beneath it all was rot. Something broken and trembling.

And then—

You.

You, with your laugh that didn’t sound like it was practiced. You, who looked at him not like he was a god or a ghost, but a person. Someone real.

He hated that.

He hated how you saw him.

He hated how your eyes lingered on the pieces he tried to bury—the trembling hands when the crowd got too loud, the way he flinched at sudden noises, the exhaustion in his smile when the cameras turned off. You saw those things. You noticed. And you didn’t turn away.

No one had ever stayed when they saw him like that.

He remembered the first time you touched his face gently, like he wasn’t made of war. Your palm on his cheek, thumb brushing over the scar no one else mentioned. He’d frozen. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t understand it. And he remembered the way you said, “You don’t have to be anything with me.”

And he believed you.

God, he wished he didn’t. But he did.

That night, after you fell asleep in his arms, he whispered an apology into your hair. He didn’t know what it was for—maybe for letting you love something so wrecked. Maybe because, for once, he wanted to believe he was more than just damage with a smile.

But the sickness came back.

He didn’t understand how to hold something soft without breaking it. He didn’t know how to be loved without sabotaging it. So he tested you. In little ways, at first—cold words, late replies, sharp sarcasm. He waited for you to leave. He wanted you to. It would be easier if you did.

You didn’t.

So he pushed harder. Cancelled plans. Didn’t say “I love you” back. Picked fights over nothing. Tried to become unbearable. Because a part of him—too loud, too cruel—kept screaming:

“You don’t deserve this. You’re filth. You’re fucked up. You’re nothing but your father’s son.”

“You’re a pretty face with a rotted soul. And she will see it. She will leave. Let her leave.”

But you didn’t.

You stood in the doorway of his penthouse after another one of his episodes, eyes filled not with anger, but something worse—compassion.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

And Kaiser, who had faced thousands, who had stood untouched beneath stadium lights, who had smiled through agony and danced with demons, crumbled like a boy. He sank to his knees in front of you, hands shaking like leaves in winter, and finally told you the truth:

“Because I don’t know how to be loved.”

You knelt with him. You took his face in your hands. And you cried.

Not because he was broken—but because he’d been made to believe that was all he was.

“I love you,” you said, again and again, like it was a prayer. Like if you said it enough, it could stitch him back together. “I love you even when you hate yourself. Especially then.”

He tried to shake his head. “You shouldn’t. I’m not—fuck—I’m not human. I’m a monster in disguise. I manipulate. I lie. I don’t even know who I am when I’m not pretending to be someone else.”

But you held him tighter. “You’re mine. And I see you.”

And for the first time in his life, he let someone hold all of him.

The darkness. The boy who used to cry himself to sleep. The man who turned fear into arrogance. The heart he thought had died a long time ago.

You loved him through every terrible version of himself.

And he loved you for it—too much, almost. Like worship. Like madness. Like a man clinging to a lifeline he never thought he’d find. He memorized the curve of your lips, the sound of your heartbeat when you fell asleep on his chest. He began to believe that maybe—just maybe—there was a version of him worth loving.

But the guilt never left.

Even on the happiest days—when you laughed with him, when you whispered dreams into his skin—he would catch himself thinking: I don’t deserve this.

He would sit alone sometimes, long after you were asleep, whispering to the dark:

“I’m sorry I exist. I’m sorry I ruined you. I’m sorry I can’t be better.”

But you never let go.

Even when he gave you every reason to.

Even when he screamed. Even when he cried. Even when he tried to disappear behind the armor he had worn for years.

You held on.

You loved him not because he was easy to love—but because you saw the boy inside the monster. Because you knew love was not something earned, but something given. Freely. Fiercely.

And he—

He would burn the world to keep you warm.

He loved you with the desperation of a drowning man, with the reverence of someone who had never known what it felt like to be held without bruises.

You became his home.

The only one he’d ever known.

And even on the days when he still hated himself, when the ghosts were too loud and the pain too sharp, he’d look at you and remember:

That once upon a time, someone saw him not as broken, but as human.

And that, maybe, was enough to keep going.

Even if he cried for it.

Even if it hurt to believe.

Because loving you was the first beautiful thing he ever did.

And being loved by you—

Was the only miracle he’d ever known.

[fayelero]

heyooo i love your writing so much dude like it’s mind boggling

anyways, i was wondering if you could write for husband au kuroo? any plotline would do

… maaayybbeeee a little smut ykyk🤭

THANK YOUUUUAAA💞

ⓘ 01. MY ALL !

⤷ FLUFF&SMUT ﹫ timeskip!kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader ﹫ mdni ﹫ thanks for the req! I took time to guess the plot sorry !! here’s for ya hope you like it :)

⚠︎ mdni, dom!kuroo, praise kink, possession kink, p in v, slow sex, but kinda rough (manhandling) .ᐟ.ᐟ

It was another miserable Thursday.

Rain tapped against the windows of the Japan Volleyball Association’s headquarters, a rhythmic, taunting reminder of the hours ticking by. Inside his office, Kuroo Tetsurō looked like he was one bad sentence away from setting the entire place on fire.

He was hunched over a stack of reports that kept multiplying like some sick joke. His tie hung loose, blazer thrown over the armrest of his chair, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His jaw was clenched so tightly, it looked like he might grind his teeth into dust by the end of the hour.

His assistants—usually a somewhat chaotic but efficient team—were moving like mice in a lion’s den. They handed him files and tiptoed around his desk like he was a ticking bomb, flinching at the sharp drag of his pen or the way he slammed a report shut after finding a mistake.

The truth was simple: Kuroo was pissed.

His irritation wasn’t new. It had been building up for weeks. It started with a few late nights, then turned into every night. The schedule had been packed—meetings, travel, international liaison calls, press coordination. Volleyball wasn’t just a sport for him; it was a battlefield, and right now, he was stuck in the trenches.

And worse—he hadn’t touched you in a month.

You.

His wife.

That fact alone gnawed at him more than anything else. He wasn’t the type to whine or complain about sex like some hormonal teenager, but the combination of stress and the lack of your warm, pliant body tangled under his had pushed him to the edge. You were his favorite fucking escape. The way you moaned, the way you clawed at his shoulders, the way you’d kiss him like he was the only man in the world—it grounded him. Recentered him.

But work had suffocated the little time he had left with you. Every time you reached for him at night, he was already half-asleep or neck-deep in emails. He hated it. Hated how you looked at him with quiet concern, kissed his cheek, and told him you understood.

He didn’t want you to understand.

He wanted you underneath him.

So today, he was miserable. Running on caffeine, ten hours of sleep stretched over four nights, and the very last thread of patience he had.

Papers smacked onto his desk. “Here’s the Korea match proposal, sir—”

“Wrong formatting,” Kuroo growled without even looking up. “Redo it.”

The poor guy nodded so fast his glasses slipped down his nose.

Then came the final straw.

It was a comment. Not meant for him. Said in a whisper that, unfortunately, carried across the very open space of his office.

“God, he just needs to fuck his wife and we’ll be good finally…”

Everything stopped.

A beat passed. Kuroo didn’t lift his head. The pen in his hand stilled mid-signature. The room collectively held its breath.

The assistant who said it realized far too late what had happened. The slow, horrifying realization hit him mid-sentence as he turned toward the desk, eyes wide in horror.

Kuroo looked up. Slowly. Calmly. Too calmly.

His gaze pinned the guy like a nail to the wall.

“…Repeat that.”

Silence.

No one dared to move.

The unfortunate man looked like he was debating whether to fake a heart attack or jump out the third-story window. “I—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—”

Kuroo leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and arched an eyebrow. “Go on. Finish the sentence. You’ve already committed.”

A nervous, dry laugh cracked out of someone in the back. It died instantly when Kuroo’s eyes flicked in their direction.

“I—what I meant was—it’s just—you’ve seemed tense lately, and—uh—maybe a break would help.”

“A break.” Kuroo’s voice was like cut glass. “You mean getting my dick wet so I stop terrorizing the office?”

A beat.

“…Yes?” the man said quietly.

Kuroo’s smirk was slow and cruel.

“Well,” he said, standing up, towering over the poor bastard, “you’re not wrong.”

He grabbed his phone off the desk and slipped on his blazer in one smooth movement. “Which is why I’m leaving early. If any of you send me another goddamn file tonight, I’ll personally rewrite your resumes. You won’t find work even in middle school tournaments. Clear?”

A chorus of terrified nods.

“Excellent.”

He strode to the door, yanked it open, and paused only once.

“You have thirty minutes to clean up my desk. If I see even one report out of place tomorrow, you’ll regret being born.”

Then he was gone.

And in the silence that followed, someone whispered:

“…Thank God. We might survive tomorrow.”

⸻

You were sitting cross-legged at the dining table, laptop open, papers scattered in the kind of organized chaos that only made sense to you. You were focused, brow slightly furrowed as your fingers tapped away at the keyboard. It was just past six, and Kuroo wasn’t due home for hours—not unless a miracle happened.

So when the front door slammed with enough force to rattle the hallway picture frames, you blinked.

Then you heard heavy, fast steps. Purposeful. Familiar.

You stood slowly, confused, still in your loungewear: a black silk cami and matching shorts that rode up every time you moved. The outfit wasn’t meant to seduce anyone—it was hot, the AC sucked, and you were working from home. But it had that unintended effect.

You turned the corner just as he entered the kitchen.

“Tetsu?” you said cautiously.

His eyes snapped to you.

And everything about him changed.

The tension in his jaw eased. His shoulders dropped slightly. His gaze dropped—slowly, methodically—to your bare thighs, then back up. Then again. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and just walked into his favorite meal.

Without a word, he crossed the space in four long strides and grabbed your face in both hands, dragging your mouth to his.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t rushed, either. It was needy, slow, claiming. He licked into your mouth with a low grunt and didn’t stop until you were breathless, hands fisting into his half-rolled-up sleeves.

You didn’t need to ask what this was. You’d felt the frustration piling up in him for weeks. You’d caught his lingering looks every time you brushed by him half-dressed. He was always tired, busy, polite—but you both knew what was missing.

His mouth barely pulled back from yours. “I missed you,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly. “So fuckin’ much.”

You swallowed, dazed. “I—You’re home early.”

“I left work before I started breaking things,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to show up on the evening news.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he grabbed your wrist and started walking, pulling you behind him.

“Where are we—?”

“Bedroom.”

The way he said it—like there was no room for discussion—made your knees weak.

The second you stepped inside, he spun you around and kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands gripped your waist, thumbs pressing into the curve above your hips, and he exhaled like the first contact with your skin finally let him breathe again.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging the silk cami up, his palm grazing your stomach, then up to cup your breast. “You wore this all day?”

“Yeah?”

He let out a humorless huff. “I haven’t seen you like this in a month and you’re just walking around the house with your ass out?”

“I didn’t know you were coming home.”

He grinned, teeth flashing. “You’re not gonna be walking tomorrow either way.”

Your breath hitched.

He kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, then dropped to his knees like he was settling in for worship. He pressed his mouth against the inside of your thigh, warm breath hitting silk.

“I missed these thighs,” he muttered. “Missed touching you. Missed this fuckin’ body. I missed my wife.”

Your knees almost buckled when he peeled your shorts down, slow and deliberate, and licked a path right up your inner thigh. But he didn’t stay there—not yet.

He stood, turned you around, and pushed you face-down onto the bed with a palm between your shoulder blades. The silk top rode up to your ribs.

He groaned. “Look at you. Fuck, baby.”

His hand smoothed down your spine, then gripped your ass hard enough to make you arch. “Been thinkin’ about this for weeks. Every night.”

You squirmed, but he just leaned over you, pressing his hips into your backside so you could feel just how hard he was. “Every time I tried to focus at work, I kept thinking about how you sound when I’ve got you like this. Face down. Ass up. Legs shaking.”

“Tetsu—”

“No. Don’t say anything except ‘thank you.’”

You couldn’t help it—you moaned.

“Yeah,” he growled, tugging his zipper down. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

He dragged the tip of his cock along your slit, just enough to tease, then pushed in with a deep, satisfying thrust that had your fingers clawing at the sheets. He held still, deep inside you, his body pressed fully to your back.

“Goddamn, baby. Tight as ever. Grippin’ me like you missed this too.”

He didn’t pound into you. Not yet. His rhythm was slow, grinding—intimate but filthy. He kissed your shoulders between thrusts, whispered praise against your skin.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl.”

“You always take me so well.”

“I could stay buried in you for hours.”

You moaned into the pillow as he adjusted the angle, driving deeper until he found the spot that made your legs shake.

“Yeah, right there,” he breathed. “You feel that? That’s where you’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

Your back arched instinctively and he grinned against your spine. “There she is.”

He didn’t stop praising you. Not once.

“Been craving you so bad it hurt.”

“You’re perfect.”

“No one makes me feel like this.”

Every word made your walls clench tighter around him, and he could feel it.

“Yeah. You like hearing that? Like being told how fuckin’ good you are for me?”

“Yes—”

“Say it.”

“I’m good for you—”

“You’re everything,” he growled. “Mine.”

You came with a gasp, legs trembling under him, and Kuroo groaned like he’d just hit nirvana. He fucked you through it, slow and deep, until his pace broke into something rougher, needier.

When he finally came, he buried himself to the hilt, breath hot against your shoulder, chest pressed to your back.

After a long pause, he kissed your temple.

Then your shoulder.

Then your lower back.

You were still face down, ass up, completely wrecked and limp.

“You’re not walking tomorrow,” he said again, satisfied.

You groaned.

And he just smirked, hands already massaging your hips like he was resetting you.

“Don’t worry. I’ll carry you to the shower. After round two.”

[fayelero]

ⓘ 03. BUT IM A CREEP !

⤷ ANGST ﹫ michael kaiser x fem!reader ﹫ i think i want you guys to cry those days lol srry

⚠︎ heavy angst, past childhood abuse, self harm (kaiser), mental health struggles, PTSD, anger issues, toxic masculinity, mention of physical violence (not towards reader!), gosh I love psychology .ᐟ.ᐟ

You always knew what you were getting into with Michael Kaiser.

You didn’t fall for the persona the world adored—the golden boy with a god complex and a smirk that could slice through steel. No, you fell for the cracks in him. The trembling underneath the arrogance. The moments when he couldn’t meet your eyes because if he did, he was afraid you’d see the rotting guilt, the fear, the hollow grief underneath the diamonds.

You loved him because you saw it.

And you stayed, even when no one else would’ve dared to.

𓍯𓂃

Kaiser was violent.

Not in the way people expected—not loud fists or barroom brawls (though that had happened before), but in something more insidious. Sometimes it was in the way his voice would shift, low and sharp, cutting through you like glass. Sometimes it was the way his jaw would clench until it looked like his bones might crack from holding back what he really wanted to do.

You were good at psychology. Not just the study—the heart of it. You knew what trauma looked like when it grew up and tried to wear confidence like armor. You recognized the signs when a person had been taught that vulnerability equaled punishment. You understood that violence, especially his, wasn’t power. It was a defense mechanism—a scream in a language only pain could speak.

And Michael had been screaming his whole life.

You saw him for what he truly was: not a monster, but a boy who had never been taught what to do with his rage except to weaponize it. Who had never been held in safety long enough to learn gentleness.

So you never flinched.

Not even when you should have.

𓍯𓂃

There were moments he scared you.

You’d be lying if you said otherwise. There were nights when his eyes turned distant and cold, like he was possessed by ghosts too heavy for his frame. Sometimes he’d snap—at himself, at walls, at you. He’d punch mirrors, scream into the darkness, tear through the apartment with a fire he couldn’t contain.

But he never touched you. Not once. Not even when he was shaking, fists clenched, nails digging into his palms like he could hold back the beast by drawing his own blood.

You knew that mattered more than anything.

He was trying. And every ounce of that restraint was the loudest proof of his love.

𓍯𓂃

The worst night of all came after a loss. A brutal one. The kind that left silence in its wake, not even the fans had the nerve to speak after.

You knew something was wrong the moment he walked in the door.

He was soaked in sweat, but his eyes were hollow. He didn’t speak. Didn’t kiss your forehead like he usually did. He just drifted past you, the ghost of the man you knew, and locked himself in the bathroom.

For a while, you let him be.

But then the sounds started.

Gasps. Slaps. Choking.

You dropped everything.

He was on the floor when you burst in, knees bent, back against the wall like he was hiding from the world—and his hands. His hands were around his own throat.

Strangling himself.

He didn’t even look at you. Didn’t hear you call his name. His eyes were wide, somewhere else, filled with unshed tears. Like he didn’t know where he was. Like he wasn’t even in his body anymore.

And you—god, you ran to him. You dropped to your knees and grabbed at his wrists, crying.

“Michael! Stop! Baby, please—please stop, it’s me! It’s me—look at me!”

You didn’t care that your voice cracked. That you were crying so hard your hands were shaking.

You loved him too much, that’s all.

He didn’t respond right away. His grip tightened. You thought you were going to watch him die in front of you, in your arms, and it terrified you in a way you’d never known.

But then you touched his face.

His real name. That always got through to him. You said it again, whispering it like a prayer.

“Michael. Please…”

And that’s when he finally saw you.

He blinked. Choked on a breath. And then his hands dropped, and he collapsed against you with a sob so deep it shook your bones.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

You just held him. As tight as you could. Rocking him gently like a child.

“No more sorry,” you whispered. “I’m here. I’m here. You’re okay. You’re not alone anymore.”

That was the first time you’ve ever saw him strangling himself.

𓍯𓂃

But he never understood how you ended up with him.

Michael Kaiser—the self-proclaimed emperor, king of the field, and god of ego—had spent his whole life building a fortress around his heart with barbed wire and stained glass. Flashy smiles, golden locks, and a mouth that never shut up unless he was losing—those were his weapons. But beneath it all, he was still just a boy scraping his knuckles on the floor of a cold, silent apartment, wondering why his mother never came back.

You, though. You were something else entirely.

Warm hands, soft eyes, a voice that could soothe the roaring chaos in his mind. You were gentle, but not naive. Sweet, but never fragile. You didn’t love him despite who he was—you loved him as if you saw who he was. And that was the part that made him crumble.

Because he didn’t even know who he was.

Not really.

𓍯𓂃

Kaiser had been alone for so long, he didn’t know what it was like to be wanted—not for fame, not for talent, not for the glimmer of victory, but just for existing. You made him soup when he was sick. Held his face in your hands when he was spiraling after a loss. You listened when he talked about nothing. You never asked him to change. You never walked away, even when he pushed.

He couldn’t understand it.

Why would someone like you want someone like him?

He’d stare at you sometimes, when you were asleep, the sunlight pooling across your skin. Beautiful. Kind. The kind of woman men would write sonnets about if the world hadn’t forgotten how to write them.

And he? He was a bastard in every sense of the word.

𓍯𓂃

Kaiser didn’t talk about his childhood. Not because he was protecting something precious, but because it was like staring into a well with no bottom. His mother left when he was six. She said she was going out to get groceries and never came back. His father stopped speaking not long after that—but the beatings started soon after.

He learned fast that being quiet made him invisible, and being invisible kept him safe.

Until he discovered football.

Football gave him something—a place to exist. Something he could control. He could be anyone on the field. He could be loved there.

Except it wasn’t love, not really. Not the kind you gave him.

The fans didn’t love him—they loved the version of him that scored goals. His teammates didn’t know him—they tolerated him for what he could offer. Even in Blue Lock, everything came at a price: talent, survival, performance. It was all about power, glory, ego.

But you… you brought him soup.

𓍯𓂃

He didn’t deserve it. He was loud, arrogant, cruel when cornered. Sometimes he said things just to hurt, just to feel something, just to remind the world not to get too close. But you never left.

And that scared the hell out of him.

He hated that he needed you. Hated that when you were gone for too long, his chest got tight and his mind went dark. He hated how much he missed you, how he couldn’t focus on the game when he didn’t know if you were okay.

He used to think love was weakness.

But now he saw it for what it was: the only thing in his life that wasn’t transactional.

𓍯𓂃

He didn’t get it. Not fully. Not yet. Maybe he never would.

But every time he woke up with you tangled in the sheets next to him, your breath soft against his chest, he felt something break and heal in the same second.

You were his miracle.

And if he had to spend the rest of his life learning how to be worthy of you… that was a life finally worth living.

𓍯𓂃

You were scared. But you stayed.

He was broken. But he loved.

And together, somehow, you made something whole.

Something messy. Fragile. Raw. But real.

Because you knew him—not the emperor, not the image. Him. And you never looked away.

And that… was the one thing he’d never received before you:

Unconditional love.

[fayelero]

sorry to bother, i know you could be taking your time which is the most normal thing but in the comments of your kenma angst i saw your comment saying you'd make a new part tonight yesterday 😞😞😞

i dont mean to pressure you into anything but you think you could give me a time please cause waiting is killing me 🙏🙏🙏(dramatic)

it was really so well written and a shame for me that i saw it too early i gotta wait💔i genuinely love your writing

ⓘ 01. KENMA NOT KENMA !

⤷ FLUFF ﹫ timeskip!kenma kozume x fem!reader ﹫ JUST ON TIMEEE!! I just finished (please tell me it’s good) hers for youu <3

⚠︎ kinda angst to fluff, confusing?, kenma act weird .ᐟ.ᐟ part.1

You woke up in his arms. Like always.

The weight of Kenma’s arm slung over your waist, his forehead resting gently against the back of your neck, your legs tangled up in each other like ivy—soft, warm, familiar.

And yet…

Your heart felt hollow. Heavy and soft and soaked through, like paper that had been left in the rain too long.

You blinked against the light streaming through the curtains. Carefully, you lifted his arm and slipped out from beneath it. He barely stirred—just sighed, rolling toward the warmth you left behind. Peaceful. Unknowing.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Twitter. A couple mentions. You scrolled without thinking.

But then—

You saw it.

#KodzukenLive

#Breakdown

“I cried so hard watching that stream last night…”

“He really loves her, huh…”

“Kodzuken snapped and it was BEAUTIFUL.”

“They failed them. They don’t deserve him.”

“If you haven’t seen the stream, go watch the replay.”

Your heart stopped. Cold. Sharp.

Replay?

Your breath caught in your throat. You sat down on the edge of the bed, shoulders tight, fingers trembling as you opened the VOD.

The screen flickered to life.

And there he was.

Kenma.

Messy hair. Hollow eyes. Fury burning quiet and cold behind them.

The stream had no title. No tags. Just his face. So still, so unlike him.

You watched. Word after word.

Frozen.

He knew.

He saw it all.

He read everything they said to you.

And instead of coming to you, he—

Your hand flew to your mouth. You barely breathed as his voice trembled, as he said:

“You stole her smile.”

“You didn’t just hurt her. You hurt me.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get her back.”

Your vision blurred. Tears fell so fast you didn’t even notice the first ones.

He was angry. Broken. Hurt. For you.

Because of you.

No—because of them.

And yet…

You didn’t feel pain in that moment.

You felt warmth.

Flooding. Radiating from the center of your chest, spreading to your fingertips, into your toes. That horrible numbness that had held you for so long cracked—just a little.

He saw you.

He saw what they did to you.

He cared enough to burn his own name just to defend yours.

You cried.

For what they did. For what he did. For all the times you smiled while your heart was breaking, and he had unknowingly tried to stitch it back together with gentle hands and soft words.

And now…

Now, he was trying to do more.

⸻

When he woke up, you had already washed your face and curled back into bed beside him. You wiped your tears until your eyes were dry. Pretended.

He yawned, sat up, and looked at you with soft, unsure eyes.

You smiled.

“Good morning.”

He blinked slowly. “You okay?”

You nodded. Too fast.

He didn’t believe you. Not for a second. But he didn’t ask again.

That was Kenma’s way—he didn’t force words. Didn’t barge into your pain. He waited at the door and hoped you’d let him in.

Instead of talking, he pulled you close and kissed your temple.

And then the weirdest day of your life began.

⸻

He made you breakfast. That wasn’t weird.

But he made it like he was on a cooking show. Literally narrated every step.

“Here we are, placing the aesthetically pleasing strawberries on the plate. Perfect. Gordon Ramsay could never.”

You snorted. You tried not to, but you did.

He beamed. Like he’d just won a medal.

Then he dragged you into the living room and suggested—no, insisted—you two build a pillow fort. A real one. With string lights. And a Netflix queue.

He even pulled out the mini projector and set it up with “wholesome romance movies only, no trauma, I promise.”

And still—it felt off. Not Kenma.

Forced.

He was doing everything. Everything but talking about what mattered.

And you knew why. Because Kenma wasn’t built for messy conversations. He never liked conflict. He wasn’t good with panic. He processed things in his head, in silence, and sometimes the words never caught up.

But this time—you needed the words.

You sat there, under fairy lights, holding a mug of hot chocolate he made with cinnamon and way too many marshmallows, and you watched him try.

Try to fix something he didn’t know how to fix.

He was twitchy. Kept glancing at you. Kept offering you snacks. Kept starting sentences and trailing off.

Then he brought out board games.

Halfway through Uno, you were done.

Your cards hit the floor.

He blinked, startled. “Hey—?”

“I saw the stream.”

Silence.

His face changed like the whole world paused. Mouth parted. Breath hitched. Shoulders tensed.

“…You… did?”

You stood up. “You could’ve just fucking told me, Kenma!”

“I—!” he started, then stopped. Flustered. His ears turned red. “I didn’t… know how.”

Your chest rose and fell. “You yelled at thousands of people before you said a single word to me!”

“I was mad!” he said, suddenly standing too. “Not at you—at them. At me. I didn’t see what they were doing. I thought you were just tired. I didn’t… I didn’t want to pressure you.”

“So instead you—what—play house today like it never happened?” You threw your hands up. “You made pancakes and dragged me into a blanket fort, Kenma!”

He fidgeted, heart in his throat. “I thought… if I made you laugh again, it would be okay.”

Your lip trembled.

He stepped closer. Hesitantly. Hands barely raised like he wanted to touch you but didn’t know how.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m really, really bad at this. At saying things right. But—god, I wanted to tell you. I wanted to scream. I saw those messages, and I’ve never felt rage like that in my life. And then I looked at you—sleeping next to me—and I thought: I let them do this to her.”

You looked away. Your throat was tight. The tears were threatening again.

Kenma took your hand, small and shaking.

“I didn’t want to be another person hurting you with the truth.”

“But hiding it still hurt,” you whispered.

He nodded, guilt all over his face. “I know. I know I messed this up.”

And then, before you could respond, he pulled you in.

He wrapped both arms around you and buried his face in your shoulder.

“I’m so in love with you,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your skin. “I’d delete every social media account I have if it meant keeping you safe. I just… didn’t want to see you fade anymore. I was trying to bring you back.”

Your heart cracked open like glass under heat.

You hugged him back—tight.

“I never needed forts or pancakes,” you said into his hair. “I just needed you. I needed you to see me.”

He nodded fiercely. “I do. I swear I do now.”

A pause.

Then—

“I even shaved my legs for you this morning,” he blurted.

You blinked.

“…What?”

What?

He pulled back, frowning. “Like. As a peace offering. I thought maybe you’d laugh or think it was hot—I don’t know what I’m doing, okay?!”

You burst out laughing. Full-on, doubled-over, tears-streaming, stomach-aching laughter.

Kenma flushed crimson.

“There she is…” he whispered softly, watching you with the gentlest smile.

And for the first time in what felt like forever… it reached your eyes.

You stepped forward and cupped his cheeks, smiling through tears and laughter both.

“I love you,” you said, voice trembling.

He leaned into your hands. “I love you more. I love you the most. I love you so much it makes me dumb.”

“You’ve always been dumb.”

“I shaved my legs!”

“And I didn’t even notice, babe! That’s on me!”

You both laughed again—messy, breathless, but real.

You kissed him. Slow. Deep. Warm.

The pain didn’t vanish. The scars didn’t heal overnight. But right then, in his arms, with his stupid stubbly legs and his worried heart, you didn’t feel hollow anymore.

[fayelero]

your writing and characterization is so good man (๑﹏๑//)

was wondering if you could write for katsuki - specifically, how physical affection would start with him ? like first time cuddling and allat

thank you !!!!!!

ⓘ 02. KISS ME MORE !

⤷ FLUFF ﹫ katsuki bakugo x fem!reader ﹫ thanks for this req that’s so sweet!!! and thank you <333

⚠︎ fluff, none .ᐟ.ᐟ

Katsuki Bakugo had always been good at two things: blowing shit up, and pushing people away.

He wasn’t bad at feelings—he just didn’t speak their language. Where others opened their arms easily, Katsuki crossed his. Where others confessed with flowers and flustered smiles, Katsuki confessed with a fight—literally. You’d been arguing about something so stupid you couldn’t even remember it, and then he just… blurted it out.

“I love you, okay?!”

Like it was a curse.

Like it was your fault.

Like you’d made him say it with your stupid face and your stupid smile and the way you always waited—like you knew he had it in him if you were just patient enough.

And maybe you did.

Because that was how it had to be with him. Slow. Careful. Measured. He wasn’t a guy you could rush, not unless you wanted to send him sprinting in the opposite direction. He didn’t trust easy. He didn’t touch easy, either.

So you gave him time.

And, god, it took months.

You remember the first time he held your hand like it was burned into your skin. You were walking home together after a late dinner. He was grumbling about the service —“Took too long, they messed up my rice, next time I’m cookin’”— and you just smiled, bumped your hand against his.

Once. Twice. Like a dare.

He jerked away at first, scowled at the sidewalk. But then—five whole steps later—his fingers brushed yours. Once. Then again.

Then he grabbed it.

Tight. Like he was afraid if he didn’t squeeze hard enough you’d float away.

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled, let him have the silence, let him have the small victory like it was the biggest damn thing in the world.

And for him?

It was.

⸻

Cuddling came later.

You tried a few times. Scooted closer on the couch. Threw a blanket over both of you. Laid your head on his shoulder until he got so tense you could practically hear the gears grinding in his brain.

You didn’t get upset. You just adjusted. Gave him space.

Until one night—cold, rainy, thunder rolling in the distance—you were curled up on his couch in one of his shirts and a pair of fluffy socks, flipping through a dumb movie while he cooked dinner.

You must’ve dozed off. Just a little.

Because the next thing you remembered was warmth. Heavy, awkward warmth. The kind that smelled like sweat and spice and him.

Katsuki Bakugo had sat down beside you—not at the other end of the couch, not in his usual space, but right up against you. His arm was draped stiffly around your shoulders, like someone had given him a five-second tutorial on how cuddling worked and he was just trying it out.

You blinked at him. He didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead, expression stormy.

“…You okay?” you whispered, voice scratchy from sleep.

“Don’t make this weird,” he growled.

You fought the smile threatening to curl on your lips. “You’re literally cuddling me.”

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t move away. If anything, his arm tightened slightly, pulling you in closer like he was afraid you’d point it out too loud and ruin the spell.

You nestled into his chest and heard his heart thudding like it was trying to punch its way out. He was warm. Strong. Smelled like fire and cedarwood shampoo and the faintest trace of caramel from the sauce he’d been making earlier.

“…You smell good,” you murmured, mostly to mess with him.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.

You laughed, breathless, and leaned into him harder. “I like you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Soft.”

“I’m not soft,” he bit out.

You kissed his shoulder. “You’re the softest.”

⸻

The first time you really kissed him—kissed him, not those shy little pecks you snuck in when he was distracted—it happened by accident.

He’d just gotten back from a long mission. Exhausted, dirty, too tired to be angry about anything. You’d met him at his door, towel in hand, lips parted with something warm to say—and he just stared at you.

Something changed in his eyes. Like a wire snapped. Or maybe like something finally clicked.

He grabbed your wrist. Not rough. Not panicked. Just firm. Sure.

Pulled you inside.

And kissed you like he’d never be brave enough to do it again.

It wasn’t smooth. There was a little too much teeth. His hand fumbled awkwardly against your jaw. He kissed like he fought—hard, passionate, a little reckless. But behind the tension was something that broke your chest wide open:

Desperation.

Because Katsuki didn’t give easily. So when he did, it meant everything.

When you finally pulled back, dizzy and grinning and out of breath, he was flushed scarlet. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re proud.”

“I am proud.”

He groaned and buried his face in your neck. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

You giggled, fingers in his hair. “Yeah. But I’m your pain in the ass.”

“…Tch.”

⸻

Katsuki Bakugo would never be the boyfriend who said “I love you” every day.

But he would bring you coffee exactly how you liked it. He’d tie your shoelaces for you when your hands were full. He’d fight villains with one hand if it meant he could keep you behind him with the other.

He wouldn’t cuddle you in public—but if you were tired on the train, he’d scowl at anyone who looked your way while letting you lean on his shoulder.

He wouldn’t ask for kisses—but if you kissed him, he’d kiss back like he needed it to breathe.

And if you teased him about it?

“Shut the hell up,” he’d growl.

But he’d still let you crawl into his lap that night, tuck your face into the crook of his neck, and whisper that you loved him.

And maybe—maybe—he’d whisper it back.

Voice hoarse. Quiet.

Like it burned him.

Like he meant it with everything he had.

Because he did.

He always had.

[fayelero]

Kirishima using the stoplight method when fucking intense.

PUHLEASE I neeed this yall🥀🥀

heyyy! Yeah ofc !!

but can u come in private tell me what is the stoplight method cuz I don’t think I understand 😭😭😭!!

Thank uuu <3

[fayelero]

Can I req Kirishima being insecure and afraid to show his s/o his dorm room after Hagakure said “If I found out my boyfriend had a room like this, I’d dump him.”

ⓘ 02. YOU LOVED IT ANYWAY !

⤷ FLUFF ﹫ kirishima eijiro x fem!reader ﹫ thanks for this cute req! sorry for delay lol. I love kiri <3

⚠︎ fluff, none .ᐟ.ᐟ

Eijiro Kirishima remembered the words like a kick to the stomach.

“If I found out my boyfriend had a room like this, I’d dump him.” Hagakure had said it with a laugh, tossing her invisible hand through the air like the sentence was nothing. A joke between friends during the usual tour of dorm rooms in first year. Everyone had gone around, showing off their space, giggling at Mineta’s tragic attempt at romance posters, marveling at Todoroki’s minimalist zen den. When it got to Kirishima’s room, it had been met with… well.

Silence.

Then the laugh.

He hadn’t said anything. Just chuckled along like it didn’t hit him square in the ribs.

He thought about that sentence more than he liked to admit.

And now, months later, with you as his girlfriend—his actual, unbelievably cool and amazing girlfriend—he still heard it. Like an echo stuck to his brain. Like it carved itself into the walls of his very manly, proudly red-and-black, poster-plastered room.

The truth was, he liked his space. The All Might posters from three different eras. The racks of protein powder lined up like collectibles. The bedspread that looked like it was designed for a sentient gym bag. It felt like him. But now that you existed in his life in this soft, warm, sunshine-on-his-skin way, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it wasn’t enough.

Or worse—maybe it was too much.

You hadn’t seen his room yet. You’d hung out everywhere else: the common room, your dorm, the training grounds, outside the school on dates that made him feel like the luckiest man in all of Japan. But any time you’d hinted at seeing his space, he’d dodged. Shrugged. Thrown a towel over his shoulder and said, “Let’s go spar instead, babe!”

Until today.

You’d looked at him, wide-eyed and suspicious in that way that meant you knew something was up.

“Why can’t I come in, Eiji? Are you hiding something?”

“N-No!” His voice cracked. God, pull it together, man. “I just—It’s not clean! And uh—there’s stuff all over. Real chaotic in there, y’know?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’ve seen Bakugo’s room. I can handle chaos.”

He panicked. “It’s—manlier chaos!”

You stepped closer, all cute and determined and making his knees go weak.

“Okay. So let me in.”

He flinched. “Baby, I—”

You raised an eyebrow and reached for the doorknob.

He didn’t stop you.

Couldn’t.

You were his girl. His woman, damn it. And he was a gentleman. If you wanted to walk straight into the source of his greatest dread, then so be it.

His doom came with a click of the door.

And you stepped in.

There was silence. The kind that made his heart threaten to break out of his ribcage.

You looked around. Slowly. Curiously. Like you were genuinely trying to take it all in.

He swallowed hard. “So, uh. This is—Look, I know it’s a bit much, and if you wanna go, I get it. It’s dumb. I’ve just always liked red and—those are my weights, obviously, and the All Might posters are from different arcs, like the Shizuoka era’s kind of underrated if you ask me—”

You turned toward him, brows scrunched. “What’s wrong with your room?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“It’s nice in here.”

The world went quiet.

Like…earthquake-quiet. Mind-silencing quiet.

“You… like it?”

You nodded, walking over to one of the shelves and picking up a small, slightly scuffed dumbbell trophy with his name engraved. “It’s so you. I mean, look at this. It’s like stepping into your brain. Strong, determined, bright red, kind of chaotic but in a charming way. I love it.”

You loved it?

His jaw went slack.

And something inside him—some tightly wound, hidden place—unclenched. Not just relaxed. Melted.

He stepped forward, slowly, like he was approaching something sacred.

“Wait. You think it’s charming?”

You grinned at him. “Totally charming. I mean, this wall over here? That’s just… protein tubs and posters. It’s adorable. I love that you just went all in.”

He felt himself blush. Hard.

He rubbed the back of his neck, all bashful and flustered. “I-I didn’t think you’d—like, I thought maybe you’d find it too much.”

You sat on the edge of his bed, looking perfectly at home, and patted the space beside you. “Show me your favorite stuff.”

And just like that, he lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Okay! So—this over here, this is my first real lifting belt. Got it when I was thirteen. Still keep it around for luck. And this—okay, this is a signed photo of Crimson Riot. My uncle waited in line with me for four hours to get this. Worth it.”

He watched your eyes sparkle as he spoke, and it made something giddy flutter in his chest.

“And here,” he said, nearly breathless with excitement, “this is my punching log. Like, where I record how many reps I do daily and try to beat my own records. I know it’s kinda dorky but—”

“That’s not dorky,” you interrupted gently. “That’s really cool.”

You weren’t faking it. He could tell.

No judgement. No laughter. No Hagakure jokes. Just… pure, soft curiosity and care.

He wanted to pull you into his arms and never let go.

Instead, he sat next to you and let his hand brush yours. “I’ve never brought anyone in here before.”

You tilted your head, smile sweet. “Not even Bakugo?”

He snorted. “Okay, yeah, he’s been in here. But he called my dumbbell rack a shrine to fragile masculinity and walked out.”

You burst into laughter, and God, it was the best sound.

“I’m glad you let me in, Eiji,” you said softly after a beat, leaning your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t reply right away.

He just smiled, full and slow, like the warmth in his chest was too big to fit.

Maybe his room wasn’t for everyone.

But it was for you.

And that was all he needed.

You stood in the middle of the room like a storm of gentleness. Turning slowly, curiously, fingertips grazing his shelves, pausing at the corner where his sparring gloves hung like old friends. Your eyes lingered on the mini Crimson Riot figurine stuck between two protein tubs like he lived there rent-free. You weren’t laughing. You weren’t judging. You were genuinely interested.

Kirishima didn’t say a word at first.

He just stood there. Watched you.

And something swelled in his chest that nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

You were smiling at his weird little keepsakes. Tilting your head at his handmade “Manly Motivations” board taped to the inside of his closet door. Running your hand over the worn edges of the lifting belt he never had the heart to retire.

He’d spent days worrying you’d hate this room. That it was too much—too loud, too rough around the edges, too red. But now, watching you in it?

You were perfect here.

You fit.

You weren’t some dainty porcelain girl afraid of his rugged edges. You walked right into his world and sank into it like it was warm water and safe hands. Like this place, with all its loudness and loyalty, felt like home.

And the proudest, softest smile broke across his face.

You turned toward him just then, holding up a cracked old keychain shaped like a tiny dumbbell. “This is so you,” you said, eyes shining.

He laughed. “Yeah? You like it?”

“I like all of it,” you replied. “It’s real. And you’re real. That’s why I love it here.”

He stepped closer, slow and sure, eyes never leaving your face.

There were a thousand things he could’ve said. Something charming, something teasing, maybe even a dumb joke to break the tension rising in his chest like a balloon on fire.

But instead, he reached out gently and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You really mean that?” he asked, voice lower now. A little rougher.

You looked up at him, right into his eyes. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

Something in him melted. Just crumbled under the weight of your kindness.

He wanted to scream into his pillow. He wanted to lift 300 pounds with one arm. He wanted to thank every single version of himself for somehow becoming the guy lucky enough to have you in his life.

But instead, he leaned down and kissed you. Slow and soft and so full of love he almost laughed through it.

When he pulled back, his voice was a little unsteady. “You know, I was scared you’d walk in here and think I was just… too much.”

You grinned, eyes sparkling. “You are too much.”

His stomach dropped—until you added:

“But that’s exactly what I love about you.”

His heart flipped over like a clumsy gymnast. He couldn’t stop smiling if he tried.

He grabbed your hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Wanna stay for a bit? I can tell you about the time I accidentally dropped a protein tub on Kaminari’s foot and he cried for thirty straight minutes.”

You laughed, bright and sweet. “Only if you show me every Crimson Riot collectible you own.”

He puffed his chest a little. “Deal.”

And as you sat beside him on the edge of his bed, legs swinging slightly, attention rapt as he pointed to each little piece of his world like it mattered — he felt it deep in his bones:

He didn’t just love you.

He adored you.

Not just because you accepted his space.

But because you looked at him — all of him — and never once asked him to be anyone else.

[fayelero]

Shidou and kinky brat taming perchance..😁doesn't matter who's top or bottom👯

ⓘ 01. BRAT !

⚠︎ smut, mdni, rough sex, brat tamming, degradation, slight praise .ᐟ.ᐟ

It was nearly 1 a.m. when the door creaked open — quietly, but not quiet enough for someone as light of sleep as you.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t look. Just stayed laying on your side, the pale blue light from your phone screen painting your face in cold color, thumb casually scrolling.

Shindou Ryusei stepped in with his usual quiet arrogance. His hoodie was pulled halfway off, the collar loose around his neck, and his hair was tousled from wind and adrenaline. Still had that fresh scent of night and faint sweat, like he’d been doing something before coming home, but you knew better than to ask. He always had some excuse. Practice. Gym. Tactical meetings with teammates. The truth didn’t matter — you never waited up anymore.

He kicked off his shoes lazily and dropped onto the bed behind you without a word. You felt the weight shift, the warmth of him crawl up your back like static. One arm wrapped around your waist, his other hand slipped under your shirt like it was routine — because it was. But tonight, you weren’t in the mood to be predictable.

“I’m not in the mood,” you muttered, still not looking at him. Voice dry. Blunt. Bored, even.

You felt his body go still for just a second — but not in surprise. No. In anticipation.

Then he laughed. Low, short, and interested.

“Mm… That right?” he murmured, lips brushing behind your ear. “Since when do you get to decide that, princess?”

You still didn’t look at him. “Since now.”

Shindou’s hand stilled under your shirt, palm warm against your bare stomach. Then he exhaled through his nose — a sound full of condescension and amusement.

“You’ve been scrolling for how long now?” he asked, voice a low, husky hum. “An hour? Two? Just ignoring me. Laying here in my bed, in my shirt, acting like that pretty little mouth isn’t made to beg me when it’s not talking shit.”

You finally turned, just your head, phone still in hand, looking at him with that perfectly blank, unreadable expression. “I’m not interested.”

He grinned. That slow, wolfish curl of his lips that meant nothing good for you — or maybe everything, depending on how you saw it.

“Say that again.”

You did. Without hesitation.

“I’m not interested.”

God, he loved when you gave him something to chase. All that smugness in your eyes, the way you acted untouched, unimpressed — it made him burn. You being bratty? Disrespectful? Pretending like his presence didn’t pull at your core like gravity?

He thrived off it.

“You really think I’m gonna let you lay here looking like that,” he muttered, hand skimming up to your ribs, “with that smug little face, acting like you don’t want me to break you open just because your ego’s a little swollen tonight?”

You just sighed, turned your face back to your phone. “It’s called standards. You should look it up.”

That one hit. He chuckled — dark, full of dangerous affection. His fingers trailed down your side, slow, firm, not exactly gentle. Like he was mapping every inch of skin he already knew by heart, just reminding you that he could own it any second he wanted.

“You talk a lot for someone who gets shaky when I even look at her the right way,” he whispered, mouth now against your neck, all breath and heat. “But alright. Let’s play that game.”

You felt his tongue trace a line just under your jaw, slow and smug, before he nipped at it — not soft, not sweet. He always knew exactly how far to go before your pulse jumped.

You rolled your eyes, but your breath betrayed you. Just a little. Just enough.

He felt it.

“Still not in the mood?” he asked, dragging his hand lower — over your hip, gripping it like he could feel the resistance in your bones. “Or just pretending to be above it so you can act like it wasn’t your idea when you give in?”

You finally put your phone down, slow and deliberate. Looked at him fully now.

Your tone was still cold. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He was close enough now that you could feel the smirk against your mouth.

“Only because you never stop feeding me,” he whispered. “Every time you act like you’re too good for it — for me — you’re just asking me to prove you wrong.”

You stayed silent.

He dipped closer, brushing his mouth against your cheek. “You want me to stop trying?”

You blinked once. Twice.

And then smiled.

“Try harder.”

Shindou groaned, low and deep in his chest, the sound of a man losing a game he was desperate to keep playing. His fingers dug into your thigh now, possessive, pulling you closer as he buried his face into the crook of your neck — not sweetly, but like he was taking a hit of something addicting.

“You don’t even realize how fucking hot it is when you do this,” he growled, words muffled against your skin. “Playing hard to get when you’ve already been mine for years? You think I’m not gonna make you regret this little act?”

You whispered, “I’m waiting.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye — dark pupils blown, his usual cocky expression replaced with something sharp. Predatory.

“Then you better mean it, baby. Because when I’m done, the only thing you’re gonna be in the mood for is apologizing.”

You stared back, daring him.

Shindou Ryusei was never one to back down.

And you?

You were never one to make it easy.

Then it changed.

One second, you were baiting him with a smirk, pushing buttons like it was your goddamn hobby. The next, you were on your stomach, one leg hooked up higher on the bed, arm pinned behind your back in a firm grip. Your cheek pressed into the mattress, flushed and warm, your breath catching from the way his hand pushed down between your shoulder blades — holding you there.

Shindou hovered over you, eyes sharp and mouth curved in a smile that wasn’t sweet in the slightest.

“Still got that attitude?” he asked low, brushing his lips near your ear. “Still not in the mood?”

You tried to answer, but the only sound that came out was a shallow gasp as he rolled his hips against your backside — slow, threatening. Like a warning. His other hand traced the line of your spine like he was studying a map made just for him.

You gritted your teeth. “I said—”

Smack.

A loud, sharp slap to your ass cut off your words — not cruel, but enough to jolt your breath into a stutter.

“Try again,” he said. “With less attitude this time.”

You stayed silent. Not to be obedient — but because your brain was scrambling to reset.

Shindou leaned in, voice like silk-wrapped steel. “See, you think you’re in control when you mouth off. But the second I put you here—” he gripped your hips and dragged you back against him, making you feel every inch of hard dominance pressing against the curve of your ass “—you melt.”

You bit your lip. Hard. Trying not to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

His chuckle was low, amused, dangerous.

“Oh, that’s what you’re doing?” he mused. “Still trying to play coy?”

His hand ran between your thighs now — slow, unhurried, fingers brushing over sensitive heat just enough to make your spine tense. You jolted, thighs twitching, and he saw it.

“Right,” he growled. “Because someone not in the mood would be this wet.”

You hated how smug his voice sounded. You hated more that he was right.

Shindou pressed forward — one hand pinning your back down, the other teasing until your hips tried to grind back, desperate for friction. It was pathetic. Shameful. And he made sure you felt that.

“I could ruin you like this,” he said, almost conversational. “Just hold you down and fuck the brat out of you until all that pride turns into drool on these sheets.”

You whimpered — quietly — and it only egged him on.

“Still wanna act like you’ve got the upper hand?” he asked, dragging his fingers slowly over you again, just to make you shudder. “Tell me to stop again. Go on.”

Silence.

He grinned.

“That’s what I thought.”

He pushed your hips up again, harder this time, and forced your back into a deep arch, the kind that left you completely exposed — vulnerable, open, owned.

“I gave you one chance to break pretty,” he muttered, hand gripping your hair and yanking your head back just enough to hear the sound it pulled from your throat. “Now I’ll do it messy.”

He entered you.

The bedframe creaked again as he moved, his body fluid and tight with control — but this time, there was no slow buildup. No teasing. You’d forfeited mercy the second your mouth opened.

This was punishment.

Pure and complete.

Every movement was calculated to dismantle the last pieces of resistance left in you — no rhythm, no comfort, just overwhelming pace, overstimulation, sharp commands and heavier touches. His hands never stopped moving: one gripping your wrists together behind your back, the other holding your hips still, like he was trying to pin your soul in place.

You cried out, high-pitched and helpless — and he grinned.

“That’s more like it,” he said through clenched teeth, sweat dripping down his jaw. “That sound? That’s you finally understanding what happens when you talk back.”

You tried to say something — anything — but all that came out was a broken, slurred moan, your voice cracking as tears threatened again.

“Say it,” he ordered, breath ragged, pace unforgiving. “Tell me you’re done. That the brat’s gone.”

You shook your head weakly — a pathetic little gesture of rebellion.

He laughed. Wildly. Almost lovingly. If love meant ruin.

“Still holding out?” His hand came down against your ass again, hard, leaving heat blooming instantly.

“You like this too much to stop now, don’t you?” he hissed. “You want to be broken. You want me to take it from you. Fine. Then I’ll keep going until there’s nothing left but obedience.”

And he did.

Until your voice was nothing but whimpers.

Until your body was limp, pliant, trembling in his grip.

Until the tears finally spilled — not from pain, not from shame, but because your body couldn’t take the pleasure anymore.

And then he finally slowed.

Not out of kindness.

Out of control.

He leaned down again, mouth against your ear, and whispered — voice rough, almost tender in contrast to the violence he’d just delivered:

“Now say it.”

You swallowed, barely able to lift your head. He waited.

“…I-I’m done.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good girl.”

But you knew him.

And you knew that look in his eyes.

He wasn’t done yet either.

Not even close.

a/n : im not sure of it… :(

[fayelero]

ⓘ 01. THE WAY THAT YOU SEE YOURSELF

⤷ ANGST ﹫ timeskip!kenma kozume x fem!reader ﹫ established relationship ﹫ be ready to cry :)

-> part.2

⚠︎ cyber bullying, emotional distress (reader), mental health struggles, eating disorders (throwing up), heavy themes, strong emotions, cursing, heavy insults, you’re gonna cry .ᐟ.ᐟ

You still remember the stream like it was yesterday.

Kenma had pulled you gently into frame, eyes soft beneath the warm glow of the LED lights in his setup. He smiled, shy but proud.

“This is my girlfriend,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck with that same familiar awkwardness. “Be nice to her.”

At the time, it had felt like a dream. You were glowing with love and disbelief. Kenma—your Kenma—was introducing you to millions of his fans. Your face was warm with the thought, your heart thudding loud in your ears. You’d looked at him, smiled nervously, and waved to the camera.

The chat had exploded.

He’d chuckled.

“Okay, okay. We’ll play now,” he’d said, dismissing the tsunami of reactions with a lighthearted grin.

He didn’t see it.

Not what came after.

It started small.

A comment here and there on your Instagram posts. A DM.

“Who the hell are you?”

“She’s not even cute lol.”

You’d laughed it off at first. But they didn’t stop. They didn’t forget. You were no longer just “some girl.” You were Kenma’s girlfriend. And to them, that meant you were someone to tear apart.

The hate grew like rot beneath the surface.

“You don’t deserve him.”

“Pig.”

“Go kill yourself.”

And it wasn’t just the words. It was the way they dissected you. Your smile. Your clothes. Your hair. Your body. Every post you made was swarmed. Every picture was analyzed, compared to some ideal they had crafted for the man you loved.

Kenma didn’t know.

He didn’t see.

Because it wasn’t on his streams. It wasn’t in his mentions.

It was you. Your phone. Your DMs. Your world that was growing darker.

You told yourself not to care. You told yourself they were just kids, strangers, faceless names with too much time.

But at night, in bed, you scrolled.

Your fingers trembled.

Your stomach turned.

And eventually, you changed.

You stopped posting pictures of yourself. You started dressing differently—trying to look more like the girls they praised in his fan edits. You painted your face carefully, calculatingly. You skipped meals. Told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

Kenma would smile at you, kiss your temple. He had no idea.

He still looked at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. And so you acted. Played the part. You’d hold his hand tighter in public just to make yourself believe it. Laugh a little louder. Smile a little harder.

But the truth was, you were drowning. Quietly. Alone.

Sometimes you’d cry in the shower, biting your knuckles to muffle the sound. Other times you’d stare at your reflection, confused.

Who was this girl?

Where was the one who used to sing in the kitchen, who used to smile without checking a mirror first?

She was gone.

Buried beneath thousands of hateful words. Words from people who had never met you. Who didn’t know that Kenma loved how you always brought him tea without asking, or how you stayed quiet when he streamed, or how you understood when he needed silence. They didn’t know how he reached for you in his sleep. How he whispered “I love you” even when half-awake.

They didn’t want to know.

And now, you didn’t even want to look at yourself.

The worst part wasn’t even the hate.

It was pretending.

You didn’t want Kenma to worry. He worked so hard. He was building something beautiful—his own world—and you were supposed to be the lucky one invited in. You didn’t want to be the crack in the foundation.

So you smiled. Always smiled.

It was the beginning of the end.

But Kenma wasn’t stupid.

He just didn’t know what he was looking at.

But he knew you were not okay.

It had started subtly—like hairline cracks in glass. Imperceptible at first, something most people would walk past without noticing. But he wasn’t most people. And you weren’t just someone.

You were you.

The you who used to giggle half-asleep when he snuck behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. The you who wore his hoodies and danced barefoot in the kitchen. The you who told him you hated pineapple on pizza with the passion of a full-blown warrior.

That you hadn’t disappeared. Not all at once. That would have been easier.

No—she faded. Quietly.

At first, he thought you were just tired. You’d yawn more, sleep in. He’d offer to cancel a stream to spend the day together and you’d insist you were fine, just wanted to rest. It made sense. You were busy too. Life was heavy sometimes.

But then… other things began to happen.

He remembered the vase.

It was a plain thing, honestly—ugly, even. Some cheap, tacky glass piece his fans had gifted him years ago. He only kept it because he felt guilty throwing it away. You had knocked it off the shelf by accident while dusting and it shattered into a million pieces on the hardwood floor.

You stood there frozen for half a second—and then you crumpled.

You had cried. Not sniffled. Sobbed.

Ten minutes. Ten long, gutting minutes. He had rushed over, confused, concerned, arms wrapped around you as you kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—God, I’m so stupid, I’m sorry—”

Kenma didn’t care about the vase.

He’d told you that again and again, even while he held you, smoothing your hair. But you kept apologizing, kept shaking, like you were trying to make yourself disappear.

And when your tears stopped, you wiped your face and told him it was “just hormones,” laughed a little like it was a joke. Like it hadn’t scared the hell out of him.

Like you weren’t breaking in front of him.

That was the first moment he realized something was wrong. Not just off. Wrong.

After that, he watched more closely.

Your smiles weren’t quite the same. Too quick. Too bright. They didn’t reach your eyes the way they used to. Sometimes, you’d smile before he even finished a sentence, like you were anticipating it. Like a reflex. A cover.

And when he streamed, you’d avoid the camera.

You used to love popping in—bringing him snacks, waving at the chat, kissing his cheek to make him blush. It was your little routine. He never asked you to do it. You wanted to.

Now? You barely entered the room when he was live. And when you did, it was only to leave something silently on his desk and slip away. He noticed the way your eyes flicked toward the screen, and the way your shoulders tightened like you were bracing for something. He just didn’t know what.

He should have asked.

He should have insisted.

But you kept saying you were okay. So he believed you.

Because he wanted to.

Still… the signs piled up.

The nights were the worst. You started waking up at strange hours, always with an excuse. Your footsteps down the hall. The bathroom door closing softly. Water running. Toilet flushing.

Then the silence.

He followed once. Quietly. Listened outside the door.

He heard it.

You throwing up. Gagging. Then coughing and breathing like you were trying to steady yourself. You ran the faucet again—he guessed to drown out the sound.

When you came back to bed, he was still awake. You’d crawled in beside him like nothing happened.

“Sick again?” he asked, gentle.

“Mhm,” you hummed, turning your back to him. “Must’ve been the sushi.”

You said it so easily. So casually. Like it hadn’t happened the night before. And the night before that. Like he was imagining the pattern.

He reached out, touched your back softly. “Maybe we should go to the doctor…”

“No need,” you interrupted. “I’m fine. Probably just a bug.”

Kenma stared at the ceiling long after you fell asleep.

You weren’t fine.

You hadn’t been fine in weeks. Maybe months. But every time he reached out, you retreated. Laughed it off. Shrugged him away. And he—idiot that he was—let you.

Because he was scared. Scared of pushing you too hard. Scared of being wrong. Scared that if he said the wrong thing, whatever this was would get worse.

But it was already getting worse.

You barely ate at dinner. You never asked him to take pictures with you anymore. You didn’t talk about your day unless he pulled it out of you word by word. And the way you looked at yourself in the mirror—he noticed that too. The pause. The silence. The frown.

You’d stopped singing.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he missed your voice.

One night, you stood in the bathroom in nothing but your underwear, brushing your hair out in the mirror. Kenma leaned against the doorway, watching you.

“You look beautiful,” he said softly.

You didn’t even look up. “Thanks.”

Not “thank you”. Not “you too.”

Just thanks. Flat. Distant.

It made his chest ache.

And still, when he reached for you, you leaned into him. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. You let him love you like he always did.

But you didn’t love you. And he could feel that now.

You were fading in his arms.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed.

He didn’t know how long he could do this—watch you disappear and pretend not to notice. But he also didn’t know what to do. He’d never been good with emotions, with people. He was the one who stayed quiet in the back while others took the spotlight.

But now the spotlight was killing you.

And you wouldn’t let him turn it off.

The scariest part?

He didn’t know what would happen first.

That you’d finally tell him what was going on.

Or that one day, he’d wake up—and you’d be gone.

Not in the physical sense. No. But gone in the way that mattered most.

And that terrified him more than anything.

—

Kenma couldn’t sleep.

Again.

You were curled up beside him in the dark, your breathing light and even. From the outside, it looked peaceful. But Kenma knew better now. He knew it was an illusion—just like the smiles you gave him, just like the way you said “I’m fine” when you were clearly not.

He stared at the ceiling until his eyes burned.

He couldn’t do it anymore.

He was angry. Not at you—never at you. But at himself. At the silence. At how long he had let this go on. He’d noticed the signs, all of them, and he still hadn’t done anything.

He didn’t want to confront you. Not if it meant making you retreat even further.

But tonight, the helplessness had crawled so deep into his chest it felt like it was eating him alive.

He had to know.

He needed to see it.

Whatever it was that had hollowed you out like this.

So, with trembling hands and guilt tightening his throat, he turned slowly toward your sleeping figure, careful not to wake you. Your phone rested on your bedside table, screen dim, innocuous. Innocent.

But it wasn’t.

He picked it up.

Every second of it felt wrong. He hated going through your things. Hated the invasion of it. But god, he loved you too much to care. He’d break a thousand promises if it meant saving you.

He unlocked the screen with your fingerprint—you had given it to him months ago, jokingly, so he could queue music while you cooked.

He never thought he’d use it like this.

He checked your texts. Nothing out of the ordinary. DMs on Twitter—mostly muted. Barely any responses. You didn’t talk to anyone.

Then he opened Instagram.

And the world collapsed beneath him.

Your inbox was full. Not with friends. Not with kind words.

But with poison.

“Slut.”

“Pig.”

“Who paid you to pretend to be with him?”

“Why are you still alive?”

“Lmao she thinks she’s his type? Has she seen herself?”

“You’re ruining his brand.”

“You don’t deserve him. You’re dirt.”

It was endless.

Message after message, comment after comment, posts and story replies, group DMs you’d been added to just so they could tear you apart.

Kenma stared at the screen. Scrolling. Scrolling. Not blinking. Not breathing.

Your followers had tripled since he introduced you on stream a year ago. But it wasn’t love. It was a target they wanted. Someone to ruin.

And they had.

You hadn’t just changed.

You were being destroyed.

And he hadn’t fucking seen it.

His fingers were trembling, the screen a blur of hate and cruelty. He felt sick. He wanted to scream.

And then—he didn’t want to scream.

He wanted them to hear him.

To see what they had done.

Without thinking, without a plan, without even wiping his eyes, Kenma stormed into his streaming room. He sat down, headset on. Pressed “Start Broadcast.” It was past 2am. No notification. No schedule.

And yet… within minutes, the chat lit up.

“Wtf??”

“Is he okay?”

“Emergency stream??”

“Kodzuken??”

He didn’t speak at first.

He stared into the camera, eyes red, expression unreadable. His hands were folded on the desk. His jaw clenched.

The silence stretched. The comments piled in.

And then, finally—he spoke.

Voice cold. Low. Razor sharp.

“I wasn’t planning on streaming tonight. I wasn’t planning on talking at all. But I just found out what some of you have been doing.”

The chat slowed.

A pause. Confusion.

“To her.”

A single sentence.

And the shift in tone was immediate.

“You know who I mean. You all know.”

He didn’t blink.

“You looked me in the eye while tearing her apart behind my back. You called yourselves fans. You said you supported me. But what you actually did… was destroy the one person I care about more than anything in this world.”

His voice broke slightly—but only for a second. He cleared his throat.

“She didn’t tell me. I had to find out by going through her phone while she was asleep. You did that to her. You made her hide it. You made her feel ashamed of being with me. Of existing.”

The chat was chaos. Apologies. Excuses. Confusion.

He ignored them all.

“I saw everything. Every message. Every comment. Every threat. Every time you told her to kill herself. Every time you called her a pig. Every time you said she was dragging me down.”

“Let me be very clear.”

He leaned in.

“You didn’t just hurt her. You hurt me. You stole her smile. You took away her laugh. The woman I love—the only person who ever made me feel like more than a screen name—you broke her. And I let you.”

He exhaled, shaking.

“So this isn’t a brand. This isn’t a game. This is my life. And if you think for one second I’d ever forgive you for what you’ve done, for what you’ve taken from her—from us—you’re not a fan. You’re a parasite.”

He paused again. The chat had slowed. Silent. Some still begged forgiveness. Others left.

“She was happy before you. She was whole. Now she cries in secret. Now she throws up in the middle of the night and tells me it’s nothing. And I believed her. I fucking believed her.”

He sat back, face pale, knuckles white.

“I’m not playing anymore. You either support both of us, or you don’t support me at all. Ever again. No more middle ground. No more pretending you didn’t know. No more looking away while she drowns.”

“You killed her spirit.”

Another pause. He looked down. Voice quieter.

“And I’m not sure I’ll ever get her back.”

Then he looked into the camera one last time.

“Stream’s over.”

Click.

Silence.

Kenma sat there, headset off, chest heaving. The tears finally fell—slow, quiet. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his hoodie.

He didn’t care about the fallout. About the fans he just lost. About the hate he might get now.

None of it mattered.

Because you were in the next room, sleeping through it all, unaware of the war he just declared on your behalf.

Unaware that he had finally seen what they had done.

Unaware that he was done watching you disappear.

And now—he would burn the whole world before letting it happen again.

[fayelero]

ⓘ 01. PROVE YOU WRONG !

⤷ mdni ﹫ nagi seishiro x fem!reader ﹫ smut ﹫ never got pleasured??

⚠︎ mdni, smut, rough sex, face down ass up, kinda first orgasm?, dirty talks .ᐟ.ᐟ

It always flipped like a switch.

You were the one who teased, played, and laughed with that cocky little sparkle in your eye all day. You’d flirt with him mercilessly in public, pull up your shorts just a little too high when walking past him at home, bite your lip when you caught him staring.

But the moment the bedroom door shut behind you?

All of that teasing dissolved.

The bratty smirks, the smugness—gone. Replaced by soft gasps, shuddering whimpers, and a look in your eyes like you were starving for him.

That look did something to him. Every time.

Because you never faked it. Not with him.

Early on, you’d said something offhandedly in bed—about how no one had ever really made you finish before. How men didn’t know what they were doing. How you’d almost stopped caring if sex felt good for you.

That shit stuck with him.

He didn’t show it, but inside? He was burning. Like hell he was going to be like the rest of them.

And that first time—when he had you face down, gripping the back of your neck while he ground deep, slow strokes into you—you came twice just from penetration. No fingers. No toys. Just him, buried in you, dragging sounds out of your mouth that didn’t sound real.

That moment stayed in his head like a favorite highlight reel.

And right now?

He was watching it live, again.

You were face down on the bed, arms limp, moaning into the sheets. Your back was arched so naturally, like your body wanted to be offered up to him. He had one hand on your hip, the other on your lower back, holding you in place while his hips moved in slow, hard slams.

Clap.

That sound. Over and over. Skin on skin. His hips snapping into your ass. The perfect curve of it jiggling each time he bottomed out.

You were dripping. Coating his cock with that warm slick that made him groan low every time he pulled out halfway and saw how wet you were for him. How your folds glistened and sucked him back in like your body refused to let him go.

Your playful nature? That bold mouth?

Gone.

All he could hear now were your breathy moans—choked, desperate, barely controlled.

“Ngh—Sei… I—fuck—”

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” he murmured, voice low and quiet. That lazy, half-lidded look he always wore turned into something darker. Hungrier. “You act like a brat all day… but now you’re just taking it.”

You whined into the sheets, fingers clawing at the mattress.

He leaned over your back, his chest brushing your spine as he whispered into your ear:

“That’s what I thought.”

Then he slammed back in, harder.

You cried out. Loud. Raw. No restraint.

Your thighs were trembling. You were clenching around him—tighter and tighter. He could feel every spasm, every twitch of your pussy like it was trying to milk the orgasm out of him. But he wasn’t ready to finish. Not yet.

“You’re close?” he asked, cock twitching inside you.

“Y-yeah,” you gasped. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

He sped up.

Long, deep thrusts that ground up into that sweet spot over and over. His hips rolled perfectly, angled just enough to hit that place inside you that made your legs go numb. His hands gripped your waist like he owned you. Like he was anchoring you to the bed.

Your moans went high-pitched, ragged, and suddenly—

You broke.

Tears welled up in your eyes. You choked on a sob as your orgasm hit like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs. Your back arched further, legs shaking violently, and you squeezed around him so hard it almost made him lose control.

“Shit—”

He barely managed to hold on as he watched you fall apart under him, face buried in the sheets, ass still in the air, pussy spasming around his cock like it needed to keep him inside.

That wrecked, wet sound of your release echoed in the room—your arousal soaking him, the sheets, your thighs. He was obsessed with it.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out only to flip you over effortlessly—manhandling you like you weighed nothing—and pushed back in deep. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, already weak, trembling.

You were crying a little now. From overstimulation. From pleasure.

From him.

“Too much?” he asked, voice rough, gaze heavy.

You shook your head, biting your lip. “N-no… please… don’t stop…”

He growled into your neck. Fucked you deeper. Harder. Until the rhythm was messy, raw, primal. Until he was chasing his own high with your name spilling from his lips in broken, low groans.

When he finally came—buried to the hilt, balls deep, cock twitching inside your pulsing heat—it was with a gasp of your name, barely audible. His whole body jerked, muscles tight, chest pressed to yours.

He stayed there.

Still inside. Still full. Still wrapped in the heat of your body.

Your hands moved to his hair, soft again. Gentle.

You didn’t say anything at first.

And you didn’t need to.

Because that part of you—the mouthy, confident, fearless version—was gone.

For now.

All that was left was the girl who shook when he touched her right. The girl who came from just his cock and praise. The girl who once said she didn’t think any man could ever really please her.

And now?

Now she was crying from being fucked too good.

He smirked lazily against your shoulder.

“Guess I proved you wrong, huh?”

[fayelero]

ⓘ 01. LOVE FOR LOOSERS!

⤷ FLUFF ﹫ nagi seishiro x fem!reader ﹫ i don’t get it, do you?

⚠︎ really suggestive, mention of sex, fluff, body description.ᐟ.ᐟ

It still didn’t make sense to him.

No matter how many times he woke up with you tangled in his arms—half-naked, lips parted from sleep, your hair a mess across his chest like silk—it never stopped feeling like some kind of fever dream. Like he’d opened the wrong door in life, tripped into a version of reality where someone like you actually wanted someone like him.

And he still didn’t get it.

“I was surprised to see, that a woman like that was really into me…”

That lyric played in his head way more than he’d ever admit. It was some cheesy R&B song you used to hum while cleaning the kitchen in just one of his oversized shirts and nothing underneath—his shirt barely covering your ass. He would pretend to be asleep on the couch, but every time you bent over to wipe the counter, he saw everything. You had to know. You had to.

It was probably the universe messing with him. That was the only logical answer.

Because you were insane. Otherworldly.

Not plastic. Not curated. Not fake.

You weren’t the kind of girl who filtered herself to death or plastered herself in designer. You didn’t have those weird balloon curves, and still—God, you had perfect tits. Enough to make his mouth go dry when he looked at you sideways. And your ass? He didn’t even understand how it could be that round, that soft, and that real.

You were toned in a way that didn’t feel intimidating. You had strength, muscle, that confident walk that always left him staring. But you still melted against him like you were made to fit there—hips made for his hands, collarbone perfect for his kisses. You always smelled like coconut oil and something sweet that lingered on his sheets, even days after you’d gone home.

You were hot.

Like… ridiculously hot.

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part—the part that messed with his head at 2 AM when he was laying beside you with his heart pounding—was how funny you were.

You teased him constantly, in that low, sultry voice, like you were always on the edge of either kissing him or making fun of him. Probably both.

“Sei,” you’d coo, while walking your fingers up his bare stomach, “how does it feel knowing your girlfriend is clearly out of your league?”

He never had an answer. He just blinked at you and grabbed your wrist, dragging you on top of him with one smooth motion that always made you laugh and curse against his neck.

“I’m serious,” he once muttered into your hair. “What are you doing with me?”

You looked up at him then. And your smile wasn’t teasing. Not that time.

“Because I love you, dumbass. Isn’t that enough?”

And it should have been. But something in him still flinched at the words. Not because he didn’t believe them—he did. You never said anything you didn’t mean. But because it was so damn intense having someone like you love him that much.

You were the first person who ever made him feel awake. Not just physically—though, God knows, that part was a given—but mentally. You challenged him. Inspired him. Gave him this weird aching want to be more, do more, just so he could deserve you a little better.

You believed in him before he ever hit the spotlight. Before Blue Lock, before the contracts, before people knew his name. You were the only one who’d ever looked at him with stars in your eyes before he became someone.

Now he was someone.

And he still couldn’t stop looking at you like you were the dream that came true first.

[fayelero]

ⓘ 01. SO BORING !

⤷ mdni ﹫ nagi seishiro x fem!reader ﹫ smut ﹫ telling your bf it’s boring during it…

⚠︎ mdni, rough sex, kinda punishement?, multiple orgasm, multiple positions, dirty talk, dom!nagi, degradation .ᐟ.ᐟ

Your thighs were starting to burn.

You’d been riding Nagi for who knows how long. The rhythm had gone from eager to lazy, your hips rocking slower, more out of habit than lust now. He barely even looked at you. Just laid back on the couch, one hand behind his head, the other loosely gripping his controller.

Eyes glued to the screen.

Not on you.

Not on how your cunt squeezed around him with every bounce. Not on how flushed and sweaty you were, clinging to the curve of his broad chest with trembling thighs.

You huffed, rolling your hips once more, but his reaction was minimal—a distracted grunt, a faint twitch of his fingers around the controller.

That was the last straw.

“Gosh,” you muttered under your breath, slowing to a near stop. “That’s boring.”

His fingers froze.

The controller clattered to the floor.

Silence.

You blinked. “Wha—”

Before you could finish, you were flipped.

Hard.

Your back hit the couch cushions with a muffled thud, and Nagi was suddenly on top of you, towering, eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable—but something dark had sparked behind them.

“Boring?” he echoed, voice low, dangerous. “You said riding my cock is boring?”

You swallowed. “I-I didn’t mean—”

His hand wrapped around your throat—not tight, just enough to make your pulse jump.

“I was letting you be in control,” he said, calm but sharp. “Didn’t know my princess would act like a brat about it.”

He didn’t give you time to respond. His hips snapped forward in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one go.

You gasped—choked, actually—arms flying to his shoulders as he filled you so fast it made your walls clench tight around him.

“Oh,” he said with a lazy smile. “That got your attention.”

Then he moved.

Fast. Deep. Merciless.

His cock pounded into you, every thrust angled to hit your sweet spot with maddening precision. The wet, slick slap of skin echoed loud in the room, mixed with the sound of your stuttering moans.

Your nails dug into his arms. “S-Sei—!”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even blink.

“You’re bored?” he muttered, pulling out halfway just to slam back in harder. “Let me fix that.”

You couldn’t even catch your breath.

Your legs were spread wide, trembling as he fucked you open like he was trying to ruin you—his full weight pressing you down into the couch, one hand gripping your thigh and pinning it up, the other bracing near your head.

“You sound pretty into it now,” he muttered, voice breathy as he drove into you, pace relentless. “Not so bored anymore, huh?”

You were trying to speak, but your words broke apart into whines—your body trembling from the overstimulation. You could already feel your orgasm rising way too fast, heat coiling deep in your belly, your clit throbbing with every deep stroke.

And he knew.

“Ohh, you’re gonna cum?” he cooed mockingly. “Didn’t even ask for permission. Tch.”

His hand slid between your bodies, and he rubbed your clit fast. Not gently—mean. Two fingers circling harshly, forcing the orgasm to come crashing into you like a train.

You came with a sob, body arching, eyes rolling back, cunt clenching hard around his cock.

But he didn’t slow down.

“You thought you were done?” he said flatly. “Nah.”

He pulled out and flipped you like it was nothing.

Now you were face down, ass up, exactly how he liked it.

Your arms barely held you up. Your knees were weak. Your pussy was dripping, twitching from the orgasm, and you had no chance to protest before he shoved back inside you from behind, bottoming out with a filthy squelch.

The sound you made was practically a scream.

“You’re gonna take all of it now,” he growled. “Since you were so ‘bored.’”

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you over and over. Every thrust forced your hips forward, made your ass jiggle, made your cries sharper. Your vision blurred. You were so overstimulated your body couldn’t keep up—hips jerking, walls fluttering around him helplessly.

“Listen to that,” he breathed against your ear. “Listen to how wet this ‘boring’ dick is making you.”

You were choking on your own moans.

“Sei, I-I can’t—too much—”

He leaned down, chest against your back, hand snaking under you again to rub your clit mercilessly. “You can. You will.”

You came again—harder this time. Your body spasmed, thighs quaking. But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

He kept going.

Using you.

Dragging orgasm after orgasm out of your overstimulated body until tears blurred your eyes, until you were babbling nonsense, hips jerking from how raw and sensitive your cunt had become.

And finally, when your legs collapsed under you and you were trembling, breathless, face buried into the cushions—he finished.

With a groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came deep inside you, thick warmth flooding your insides, pulsing through your wrecked cunt.

He stayed there, cock still twitching inside you, as you whimpered beneath him.

“Still boring?” he asked lazily.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

You were too wrecked to speak.

He chuckled under his breath, pulling out slowly, watching your cum-dripping hole clench around nothing.

Then he leaned down and whispered one last thing:

“Next time, don’t talk shit.”