A Bit Suggestive! Thinking About Bf!kirishima Who Loves To Mark You But Is So Shy And Embarrassed Seeing

a bit suggestive! thinking about bf!kirishima who loves to mark you but is so shy and embarrassed seeing the after-effects.

boyfriend!kirishima is the type of man to be completely, hopelessly pussywhipped by you. So much so that the moment things get even remotely physical—whether it’s a slow, lazy makeout on the couch or something rougher and hungrier—he loses all coherent thought. His brain just shuts off, replaced by a single, overwhelming instinct: you.

He’s so consumed by you, so high off your taste and touch, that he leaves a trail of bite marks along your skin—his sharp teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm, just enough to draw out those soft little yelps he lives for. He trails his mouth down your collarbone, pressing wet, messy kisses into your skin, each one louder and sloppier than the last. Between every kiss, he murmurs praise like a prayer, over and over again, his voice muffled against your flesh:

“Perfect girl… mine… my wife… mine, mine, mine.”

You’re not his wife. Not yet. But in Kirishima’s eyes, you already are. And he wants you to know it. He fully intends to put a heavy, glimmering diamond on your finger—one that catches the light just like your eyes do. Until then, he marks you the only way he knows how: with his mouth, his hands, his love.

Your skin—so soft and warm and his—ends up coated in blooming bruises and faint indents from his teeth. Each one a love letter scrawled in violet and rose. And later, when the haze lifts and he catches sight of your body in the soft light of morning, painted in proof of his hunger, he goes all shy and flustered.

“Oh… shit, babe,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes trail over the marks. “I got carried away again, huh?”

He’ll tug one of his oversized shirts over your head, fumbling with the fabric like maybe if he covers them up, it’ll make his embarrassment disappear. But you just grin, shrugging it off, wearing each mark like it’s something sacred. Because to you, it is.

And he melts—his face going red as he buries it in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping around you tight as if he could somehow shield you from the sight of the love he’s already left behind. He might get embarrassed every time, but he’ll never stop. He’ll keep coating you in his adoration, over and over, because loving you is instinct. Loving you is need.

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