#bt3hr

Which one of you called this time? Ah, it hardly matters, now.

You despise each other; that much was certain. Every time you hear his harsh, abrasive accent, your entire body tense, and your eyes roll in their sockets. The least you can say is you don’t like Michael Kaiser.  And he reciprocates it fully—though with nuance. Unlike you, what the German feels isn’t outright aversion, but a pronounced antipathy. It stems from neither a bad encounter nor any rational judgment. No. The Bastard München striker had simply decided he couldn’t stand you, and that was enough for him. And yet, more and more often, you end up like this. The bed dips under your combined weight, silent witness and creaking stage to your impetuous encounters. On the floor lies a synthetic jersey in Germany’s colors. The number on the back is hidden by folds, but it’s easy enough to guess: 10. Your bra rests on the edge of the mattress. A few inches from its strap, your panties— half pulled down— hangs from your ankle, captive to the scene. 

Michael lies stretched across the large bed. His blond hair, streaked with azure, fanning around him like a majestic halo. His muscles are taut, light catching beautifully in the hollow of his shoulder. The upper curve of his chest is scattered with small plum and purple marks of suction. Your gaze settles on his face and that carnivorous smile.

What was there to dislike? He embodies everything you hate in celebrity: the oversized ego of the gifted, the outrageous narcissism of the adored, and the disdain of those in love with their own importance. Your lips press together as you rock your hips against him—almost as if to punish him for his flaws. The flesh of your outer thighs flushes white and pink as he presses you firmly against him. Almost to keep you from pulling away, as if you weren't already mindlessly entwined in each other. You lean forward, your hand pressed into the mattress next to his head.His eyes narrow slightly, shamelessly following the sway of your breasts. In a rushed motion, you wipe the sweat from your forehead. 

“Aah… !” His hand has found your bosom, grabbing it so hard enough to throw you off balance. “You’re rough!” you moan, without any real complaint. On the contrary. Both of you know well: you love it.

A long growl scrapes him. “S’fuckin’ tight…!” His hips roll, insistent. As if he couldn't—mustn't—surrender the reins to you for long. 

The air grows thick and hazy, laced with the hot, spicy notes of chili berries. Kaiser knows that scent well—your scent. Hints of Madagascan amber and candied cherry. He knows it even better when it mingles with your salty warmth. The sheets rumple beneath your twisted forms. You throw your head back, hair brushing down your spine. Everything blurs: the rocking of your hips, your breaths, the pulse pounding in the vein at his forehead. You know what's coming when his pelvis locks tight against yours— a muscular twitch the blond couldn't control. It isn’t the first time—and it won’t be the last. And it always ends the same way: you both reach that final shiver, before you’ve even caught your breath he pushes you off his hips. You go to the bathroom out of cautious habit, and when you return, he's already gone. End of story. Perfect. But as you’re already thinking about the rest of your afternoon, his voice cuts through. 

“Put ya hands on my neck and squeeze.”

You stop abruptly, —a stillness that frustrates the striker, “Wha’?!” 

His tongue clicks against his palate as he seizes your thighs again. “Hands on my throat. And squeeze,” he repeats.   

“Like… choke you?” You're not moving anymore, letting his grip set the rhythm. Well, Mr Kaiser, you’re starting to know him. 

Him and his perverse inclinations, sometimes crossing into outright deviance. You’ve been waiting for the day he mentions it. That, or some extreme form of bondage. And you were ready to refuse outright. 

“Now” But you'd never ever imagined that, in his twisted fantasy, he'd ask to be the one on the receiving end. 

“You’re sure?”The answer is nothing but a gesture: his hand clamps down on your thighs. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough for you to understand he doesn’t like repeating himself. 

You shrug, your hands traveling up along his groin, feeling every contraction beneath them. You brush his torso, his stomach tightening ridiculously fast. When you reach his chest, your eyes fall on the sinuous line of his tattoo. With a bitchy frown, you carefully steer your fingers away, making sure not to touch it. 

“I don’t like your tattoo,” you pointlessly say. “Well, I don’t like 'em in general. Kinda ugly.”

He stares at you before spitting, almost defensive, “Says the whore with spread thighs and filled cunt.” 

He doesn’t appreciate your criticism—doesn’t like you acting entitled to an opinion just because he lets you ride him. As if you were anything more than a disposable body he’s about to fill. You’ll still be holding him inside long after his mind has already left.  “I don’t see any icky flowers on that pretty dick.”

A sly, cruel smile spreads across your face as your hand reaches his throat. It makes you flinch: you could insult his father all you want without him reacting, but for that blue rose he wears like a coat of arms? He’s already calling you a whore.  

“Choke me.”

Ah, you always knew something was seriously wrong with him. Still, you start pressing into his throat with your thumbs. Under your clumsy grip, the air grows scarce. Can you believe that the pretty arm necklace around his neck belongs to you? You don’t recognize your own hands. A strange heat crawls up your spine — part fear, part something darker you refuse to name. Still, you press.

“Don’t go soft!”, he exclaims. The strain in his voice is unmistakable.

It catches against the tight folds of his windpipe, breaks against his glottis, and echoes off his palate. You bite your lip, perfectly masking your nervousness. Each time his Adam’s apple bumps against your trembling thumbs, you immediately look at him, alert to the smallest signal he might send. 

“Like this?” you ask, though you understood exactly what he wantes.Not a playful game, not a symbolic act. And certainly not a safe one.His pale face is already turning a deep red, a muscular roughness rising beneath your hold. The young man swallows thickly but struggles to do so properly. With him it’s always all or nothing. Merciless or pitiful. Oppressed or oppressor. Slave or king. Extremes. Seriously, is there anything else that draws him? 

“Don’t fucking stop until I say.” Michael barks again. It almost makes you want to press harder to shut him up. Almost. 

 A strangled sound escapes him and it makes you jerk. “It’s dangerous.”

The palms that’ve been on your high hips slide over yours, forcing you to press with more force. “Watch yourself then,” he smiles. Too serene for someone demanding enough pressure to feel himself die—without loosening his grip on life. 

You let out a small “But…” even if you let yourself be led. His index fingers correct your grip, lifting your thumbs from his trachea while the rest of his fingers press against the sides of his own throat.

“Like this! Y-aah, Ha’der.... ! ”,  he thrusts his hips up against yours—a push that invites you more deeply inside yourself. He's so hard. “Keep riding.”

Your body takes up the rhythm again, a languid dance that awakens shivers. The final surge of your desire, because your legs can barely hold you anymore. Soon you settle fully onto his length, moving in slow circles. Perfect for chasing that ecstatic friction. That exquisite bundle of nerves. Your fever spreads—a halo across the surface of disturbed water. Soft at first, then pulsing. It seizes your muscles, tightens the damp threads of your hands. Everything grows erratic, beyond your control.

“About to cum?” a mocking little laugh escapes you, “How pathetic.” Almost instantly, you feel the base of his pelvis throbbing. His blue irises are swallowed by black. A silent exhalation left him. 

“Dont ..stop, ”.

As if you had any intention of stopping—you had gotten caught up in it, captivated by the sight: Michael Kaiser, the condescending prodigy, writhing in pleasure beneath your carnal vise. His eyelids flutter, a wet cough resonates. Before you realize it, you lean on him to press down harder on his throat, poised beyond his climax. His release finally hits, flooding you with every hot, pulsing wave. His light lashes tremble over eyes that no longer truly see you, gaze slipping away in fits and starts. Every gulp costs him. You'd swear he’s about to cry. And looking closely… Oh! He is!

You can’t help the smirk curling at your lips. Your teeth nibble at your lower lip as you are tracking the path of his tiny droplets of water.  They gather at the corners of his eyes and fall when he closes them. Isn’t it twisted, how much you savor this? But it’s so pathetic— a stifled orgasm. Coming so hard because you’re choking him. Heat rises to your cheeks. Not from any burdensome feeling: you reach your own peak in turn.

“Mmm, you could almost be beautiful like this.” It’s only when the grip on your wrists slacken and his gaze rolls back do you release his neck. A harsh, broken cough tears from his throat as he turns his head to the side, eyes still unfocused. It’s at that very moment you realize that if he died… you would certainly be to blame.  But the thought of headlines like “World Football Left Breathless: German Prodigy Michael Kaiser Dies Suddenly” Paid off. Totally paid off. 

All because he needs that to have a really intense orgasm. 

“I hope you know how damaged your brain is.” you say, tying up your hair. 

Kaiser straightens up, facing your sarcastic face. The wet edges of his eyelids almost soften you—you’ll be nothing but a pile of dust before you even admit how addictive his sharp little look is. With an angry motion, he shoves you aside. Your head thuds against the wall. With no further… interaction, he gets up and leaves the room. He's moving slower than usual, one hand brushing absently at his bruised throat.  The familiar creak of the bathroom door sounds, followed by the whistle of the shower curtain.  You rub your hand over the sore crown of your head, spitting a “Bastard!”.

The moment you stand, a viscous liquid seeps down your thighs, something you recognize and ignore. You bend forward, a little dizzy, and take his jersey. With it, you wipe your wet thighs—the sides, then the inner folds. 

“What the hell are you doin’ ?!” interrupts Kaiser’s raspy voice. He’s back. Bare-chested, standing in the doorframe, shrouded in the steam escaping from the bathroom. His ridiculously thin eyebrows knit together in a suspicious look. 

“Me?” Light glints off his neck, where faint bluish streaks have surfaced. A lateral scarlet spot has settled in the whites of his eyes. “Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar,” you reply calmly, tossing the garment to him, neutral expression. He catches it and handles it with cautious slowness. “Damn I must have choked you really hard, did't I ? It’s just a shirt, you know.” 

He looks away from you for a moment to glance at it out of the corner of his eyes. Something in your stance leaves him doubtful.  “Mm.” In a quick motion, he puts it on before leaving.

Later, you sit on the edge of the bathtub, staring at your hands. The skin of your fingers still remembers the heat of his throat, the firm column of his windpipe pulsing under your thumbs. It would be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy it. Because you did—more than a little. And that only makes you despise it all the more.

Somewhere in the world, not long after, Michael Kaiser discovers the ivory-white residue—his own cum, now half-dried and coagulated—smeared deep into the fibers of his precious Germany jersey.

“Ah… so that’s why the dirty looks.” A slow, dangerous smirk spreads across his face. Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar. “Bitch.”

©𝓮𝓷𝒕𝓮𝓷𝒅𝓼𝓶𝒂𝓻𝒂𝓰𝓮

𓂃✍︎ : 𝐗𝐗𝐈. 𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐌𝐌𝐗𝐗𝐕, 𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝓴

➤: I’ve read it so many times, over and over again, that it’s starting to make me sick. I’m going to post it and read it again tomorrow or the day after. Sorry for any inconsistencies or spelling mistakes.…

⚠️In real life, real breathplay is dangerous. Also, this text is classified BT3HR — Been Translated; Hope it’s not too Heavy or Hard to Read. Open to thoughts and feedback if you have any.

Blue Lock

Isagi Yoichi:

𓂃✍︎: Silly Yocchi (25/04/2026)

𓂃✍︎: Mr. Cowlick! (12/05/2026)

Itoshi Rin:

𓂃✍︎: You're croissant baguette (25/03/2026)

𓂃✍︎ : Cause we love to imagie Rin can’t resist us—it boosts our ego (01/05/2026)

Itoshi Sae:

𓂃✍︎: Teasing him about his voice (09/04/2026)

𓂃✍︎: Still searching for a title (01/04/2026)

𓂃✍︎: Gloves (27/02/2026)

Kaiser Michael:

𓂃✍︎: Michael teaches you how to say his last name (09/02/2025)

𓂃✍︎: Wanna ride him...but also choke him (18/04/2025)

Jujutsu Kaisen:

Zenin Megumi:

𓂃✍︎: The Quiet Nook (04/03/2026)

𓂃✍︎: Hand kink (19/03/2026)

𓂃✍︎: SFW

𓂃✍︎: NSFW (minor DNI, +18 warning, blah blah blah)

⚠: English isn’t my monther tongue. Blah blah blah mistakes, blah blah blah sorry. All that to say: if you read a sentence three times without understanding it, or if a word doesn’t seem to exist in English… the problem might be me, and there’s a good chance the word doesn’t exist either.

⚠: Not really a warning but I invented the word/tag BT3HR for :Been Translated, Hope it’s not too Heavy or Hard to Read. I'm pointing it out because I have no idea how easy or difficult these texts will be for readers to understand.

ⓘ: This user reserves the right to be awkward.

ⓘ: This “writer” reserves the right to be a little OOC at times.

ℰℳℛ

Woven into the ceiling, LED lamps cast the amber glow of a hearth fire. Their halos stretch, one by one, along the rows of tables. At this hour, the place is largely empty. The staff, living elements of the decor, watch time pass with impatience; closing time is fast approaching. Most of the tables lie bare. A few open books linger, forgotten. Others pile up and jostle upon the weathered shelves. Their mylar covers and dog-eared bindings rarely aligned, often askew. Students who had come here have nearly all departed. Followed by devoted readers and the merely curious once fatigue set in. Later still, the solitary figures rose in turn. Only a handful of calm enthusiasts and novel lovers remain, along with those too absorbed, or those whom no one awaits.

They linger, caught in the familiar scent of sandalwood and nutmeg. Flecked with subtle notes of cardamom and melted wax, it drifts here and there. Above the cold wood of chairs still askew, it caresses the rosette moldings of the bookcases, winds along the metallic arabesques of the spiral stair railing. A mystical breath that brushes the brass armillary spheres and bows the dark screens of the computers.

Like many city dwellers, you love this library— the oldest in town. Renovated a few years ago, it has been expanded and modernized, yet never lost its period charm.You come here to read, of course. But also for the architecture.The ancient ladders, the deep red curtains matched to those that muffle the creaks of the staircases, the faux leather of the armchairs, and the steady swing of the large mechanical clock mounted on the wall. And for all the secrets these walls seem to whisper every time. Megumi, for his part, has been a regular visitor since the very beginning. An eternal pragmatist with a taste for factual literature, he values this old-fashioned library above all for the quality and relevance of its collections. The gentle lethargy that suspends time is but a subtle charm added to the experience.

He always takes the same route, ignores the coquettish glances of the beautiful librarian, ascends to the upper floor, and, with silent steps, reaches the end of the gallery. There, half-hidden behind two tall bookcases laden with volumes, the room is quieter, and below, the world seems far away. It was in that quiet nook poorly reached by the heaters, that you had joined him. Your table. Sheltered over by the glow of a wrought-iron wall sconce.

Standing on its front legs, your chair wobbles. You’d surely fall without your boyfriend’s hand.

“Don’t move…” he grumbles between kisses. “You’re goin' to fal—”

You aren’t listening. You never do. You press your chest more firmly against his side, further upsetting the fragile balance of your poor chair.“I’d be better off on your lap.”

“uh-hmm. Behave — we’re outside.” Over your close faces, he scans the surroundings. If he agreed to this round of kisses, it’s because he feels confident about prying eyes. Still, that doesn’t stop him from checking now and then.

Meanwhile, you have only one obsession—the bittersweet taste of coffee that lingers at the tip of his lips. Despite your sugared cheeks and ragged breath, you lean in again, offering your left side. It earns you a low growl pressed against your mouth. Yet another call for restraint you deliberately ignore. His hands, clamps around your waist, hold you against him. Under no circumstances must you fall. You might hurt yourself, yes— but more importantly, the noise would draw attention.The distance torments you, however slight. So, with a quick movement, you leave your chair to join him. Carefully stashing your reserve back in the pocket of your handbag. With the tip of his foot, Megumi catches your chair before it hits the floor. The wood creaks as your legs frame his hips.

“No! N—no, n—” the young man protests at once, though he doesn’t break the kiss. Your breaths mingle, punctuated by gasps.

“But there’s no one!” you retort, his lower lip trapped between your incisors. It’s hardly fair of you to tease the grain of his skin like that. Deliberately.

Your eyes shine as you gaze into his. Two precious velvet orbs you make no effort to look away from. Without further delay, you swoop onto his lips, brushing them gently before slipping into the gap of his mouth. The dark-haired young man closes his eyes halfway as you draw in his lip with a fervor he cannot miss. A tantalizing sigh escapes him in the rough embrace of your tongues. You never stop seeking him. Again and again. The impatience of your gestures, the ardor of your advances, your fervent demand at the expense of your lungs— it pleases him.

And the young exorcist even begins to toy with you. Responding to your hunger with a slow, languorous pace, punctuated by gentle bites. It only stokes you further. Your palms dig into the edge of his sweater. And like a capricious child, you wriggle against him. Each movement consumes a little more of your already ragged breath. And yet pulling away to steady would take only an instant. But no, you obstinately, childishly, persist in pushing your limits.

“Hey, breathe.” With his thumb, Megumi traces little circles on your back.

Between you floats the drumbeat of your chests. You take a gulp of air before annihilating the small space left between you. A petty answer. A greedy kiss that only rivals the previous ones in its intensity. With all your strength, you merge with his touch; your teeth clash. As though you feared he might pull away, as if that need to touch him might never be fully satisfied. It lasts only a few seconds— barely, until a gentle burn begins to stir in your lungs.Reasonable, because you don’t seem inclined to be, Megumi imposes a little distance. And from that, he admires you. Your cherry lips parted, slightly swollen from these kisses— at times languid, at times swift, that you stole from him.

“Strictly for the record, I wasn’t planning on disappearing,” he teases, wearing that rare, roguish smile, that one that melts you every single time.

A flood of little replies comes to mind. Teasing jabs, shameless assertions, or simply a well-placed “shut up.” Instead, you rest your head on his shoulder, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. The crimson glow of the setting sun paints his face beautifully. His irises lighten, their natural shade shifting toward a jade green laced with gold. You envy his eyes. And the thick lashes framing them, naturally darkening the edges of his eyelids. Megumi is neither a loud lover nor a flawless partner. Grand surges of passion do not truly define you— your complicity is still forming, and you have never been one to grow attached quickly. And yet.

And yet, Megumi.

You, who never move forward except cautiously in a new relationship, of any kind, found yourself mired in this one without grasping the when, the how, or the why. You know you ought to be wary. Isn’t it dangerous to love? Slowly, you sit up, your attention fixed on the same spot. Ah, his mouth— the cool oasis in your desert.

“Again?” he says, clicking his tongue. “You’re needy today.”

Doubt holds you for a moment before you catch the perfectly hidden spark of mischief. Your boyfriend’s dry humor was disarming at first, but you’re far from sensitive. It’s actually quite refreshing to be able to express your sharp wit fully without immediately having to clarify that you’re joking. Still, there are times when his expression remains impassively neutral, leaving you a little confused.

You frown, mock-offended. “Could you smile a little? Just so I’m sure you’re laughing.”

His gaze softens. And as if to make amends, he leans in and plants a quick kiss on your pursed lips. “We should get going; it’ll be dark soon.”

Leaning forward, your torsos press together. You watch him close one book, then another. “You didn’t answer.”

“You didn’t ask a question,” he says calmly, readjusting the decorative inkwell and parchment on the edge of the desk.

“Well, I’ll ask you one: why do you never kiss me?”

“Haven’t I just given you back all your kisses?”

“Exactly, you give them back. But you never start them.”

It’s true. More often than not, you take the initiative. Of course he responds willingly, far from complaining. But the fact remains— it’s you who makes the first move. You’re not reproaching him; it’s just an observation.

“You do it enough for the both of us,” he says, still tidying a table that isn’t really that messy. Your silence makes him pause, and he continues. “In the sense that you don’t give me time to do it myself.”

And that makes you cross your arms. “Yeah, say I kiss you too much, actually.”

“That’s what I’m saying. But it’s far from a bad thing. I adore kissing you.” Surprisingly simple, unexpectedly honest. The simplicity of his words, his admission, catches you off guard. He wraps his scarf around his face. “Ready? Shall we go, Doll?”

You nod and slide off his lap. His words linger in your mind as you generously apply balm to your lips. I adore kissing you. It’s maddening how such a simple truth unsettles you. But when it comes from him, it feels different. With a mechanical motion, you put your chair away while Megumi pulls up your zipper. You recognize the cool, elegant hand of his as it takes yours. You melt at the tenderness when he slips your hand into his pocket. As if your skin isn’t warm against his own. After a brief hesitation, he tilts his head slightly and presses a fleeting kiss to your lips— almost a caress. And yet, it makes you shiver. Anyone watching you would think you're both foolish for blushing over mere skin, after the storm you’ve just shared.You moisten your lips, questioning him with your gaze.

Were he to answer, he’d look elsewhere, pretending it’s merely a precaution against the cold.

©𝓮𝓷𝒕𝓮𝓷𝒅𝓼𝓶𝒂𝓻𝒂𝓰𝓮

𓂃✍︎ : 𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐌𝐌𝐗𝐗𝐕, 𝐈. 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈𝓴

➤: I was supposed to post it by December 22, but if I knew how to stick to my plans, I wouldn't be where I am in my life. Open to thoughts and feedback if you have any.