💫Enhancement💫: An Anthology Series
Synopsis: Kishibe's life has been a neverending cycle of violence and hedonism. All that changes when he leaves devil-hunting behind for a painfully boring job as a CFO. Yet, what happens when he sees you rock the crowd on the dance floor in some dingy club?
Notes: The reader is BLACKKK, FEMMM/AFAB, and THICK/CHUBBY/CURVY.
Warnings: Depistions of addiction, fluff, ANGST, cursing, sick person in a coma, filthy, filthy sex (kissing, cunnilingus, doggy style, no protection besides birth control, dom/sub dynamics, neck grabbing, dirty talk, etc etc). [18+ ONLY: MINORS/NO AGE IN BIO=DO NOT INTERACT]
A/N: I know y'all been fiending for more fics, so here's a full course meal I've been working on. More stories to come ;)
“A virgin piña colada, please.”
Kishibe loosens his tie with a resigned exhale. After a tiresome day of supervising an accounting team full of nepo baby cunts, he can only hope a visit at some dingy back alley club will let off some steam. The strongest devil hunter in Public Safety history finally quit his job and reluctantly every vice that came with it at 51. He’s now three years in as a finance manager for some hot-shot company and even dropped his 30+ year-long drinking habit.
A normal person would condone such drastic changes, yet his new life feels like buying a fancy pen that runs out of ink at the first scribble. The only thing besides Kishibe’s “peace” that’s keeping him from relapsing is the constant revenue his current job flows in.
Kishibe thanks the bartender before taking a sip of his yellow beverage. His inability to enjoy the funky band music or the rowdy crowd makes his fingers fidget for how easily liquor drowned out unwanted noise. But that’s okay. He stayed sober long enough to ignore the relentless tremors.
The investor turns around in his seat to avoid the wall of alcohol bottles glaring down at him, and even observes how the band hypes up their audience to keep himself occupied.
The lead singer instructs the crowd to form a circle, and challenges the best dancer in the room to come forth. Kishibe expects some try-hard to embarrass themself in front of a hundred eyes.
“This’ll be good.” he chuckles ruefully before taking another sip.
He sees how your curvaceous body surrenders to the rhythm, how your hips gyrate to the beat, how your hands skim over your body, how the beaded fringes of your backless dress fly when you twirl, how the spotlight magnifies your glow. He can only imagine being in the center with you, envisioning how your softness would feel pressed against him, how you’d arch and melt beneath his curious hands. The band and crowd alike can’t be the only ones enraptured by you, because just for a moment, Kishibe forgets he’s holding his drink.
You needed to let off steam, too. You needed to forget about that petty fuss your boss made at the diner. You needed to forget having to ignore the sly microaggressions from coworkers. You needed to forget how the incessant catcalling amplifies your loneliness. You needed to forget your father’s medical bills.
So now you’re in this dingy back alley club, dancing like you’re not some waitress at a 24-hour diner. Dancing like your rent isn’t due next week. Dancing like you’re the most desired woman in the world, drinking up the screams and cheers from countless strangers surrounding you. A taste of happiness you can afford, even if it’s fake.
After the lead singer crowns you “dancing queen” of the club, you take a breather and head to the bar for a drink. You sit beside Kishibe, making sure there’s an extra stool between you both to keep a respectful distance. The businessman clocks how your cleavage rises and falls with heavy breaths, brown skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat.
When the bartender asks what you want, Kishibe doesn’t expect you to order ice water, despite how natural the request is.
“Who taught you to dance like that?” Kishibe says.
Your head whips to the source of a low and raspy voice and time eviscerates; a blonde-haired man—significantly older than you, with a scar connecting the left corner of his lip to his jaw, and clad in a crisp white button-down shirt with perfectly tailored trousers. You never expected a man of his senior to make ear piercings and stubble look so… sexy.
His gaze pierces through you like an x-ray, causing a wave of heat to disrupt your tummy, yet he’s just honoring eye contact. It isn’t until Kishibe cautiously waves his hand in front of your face that you finally snap out of the trance he casted you in.
“Oh! Uhhhh,” your catty eyes dart in every direction and Kishibe chuckles at the adorable sight.
“I was obsessed with MTV as a kid.” you admit.
Funny, considering the only childhood memories he recalls are being trained by government assassins.
“Yeah? M’surprised they haven’t hired you.” he praises.
You huff out a candied laugh at Kishibe’s flattery before taking a swig of your water.
“Nah. I’m just a waitress for the time being.”
The financier smirks at the image of you in a cute waiter uniform.
“How’s the food? I might come visit.” he teases.
“Pfft—don’t bother.” you jest.
Although it’s not like the food is bad, you just don’t want this handsome stranger seeing how your dignity gets tested on a daily basis.
“Alright.” Kishibe surrenders as he downs the rest of his piña colada.
“Enough about me.” you insist. “What do you do for a living?”
“…I’m a CFO.” he confesses.
Chief financial officer, huh?
You rest your chin on your palm, “And how’s that working out for ya?”
Kishibe clicks his tongue in thought, and the sound deepens the arch in your back.
“Makes my problems a lot smaller.”
This man’s unbothered bluntness makes your heels sway against the stool, quietly astonished by how his deep voice gives simple words so much weight.
The teasing lilt of your honeyed tone paired with that elegant smile brings flashbacks of all the debaucherous nights he spent with nameless women. Despite not knowing if he was going to live to see the next day, such insanity that came with surviving devil hunting…made sense to him. Reckless impulsivity was his native language, dysfunction was how he functioned.
Technically, he’s now the most successful he’s ever been. But he’s nauseous from repetition, heady with constant routine. He retches at the part of him that misses the days when he was closest to dying, yet even the thrill of self-cannibalism got boring. Boring enough for him to leave all things devil-related behind, and sit at this bar talking to a gorgeous woman who he knows is probably half his age.
“How old are you, by the way?”
“Thirty.” you don’t hesitate, immediately understanding his inquiry.
You try to hide your giggle when Kishibe sighs with relief.
Older than I suspected. Thank God.
“And what’s your age?” you ask.
The businessman notices your eyes widening in shocked amusement and holds his breath for impending disappointment.
“What, younger than you expected?” he presumes.
“Not at all.” you confirm with a knowing smile. “You look great for fifty-four.”
You can’t hold in your cackle, absolutely floored by his deadpan delivery. Such a flat tone from anyone else usually repels you, but he makes it charming in the funniest way. The sound of your unfiltered joy levitates his body to a high alcohol could never reach, failing to remember a time he laughed with similar abandon.
“You a trip, man.” you wipe some stray tears from the corner of your eye.
The financier feels a tiny smile creep onto his face, the mischievous glint in your gaze urging him to avert his own. Just for a moment.
No matter how attracted you are to this man, you give him an alias instead of your real name. For now at least. The CFO pulls out a card from his pocket and slides it toward you.
“Let’s stay in touch.” he says.
You take your time watching him grab his trench coat after leaving his bill by the empty glass. You silently marvel at his intimidating height when he finally stands from his seat, sliding his arms through the sleeves before shrugging on the luxury leather. He doesn’t look back, ready to pull out a cigarette as soon as he steps foot outside.
It’s been eight days since Kishibe’s been at the club, and you’re still on his mind like an itch he can’t scratch.
The businessman sits by his maple wood desk, double-checking income statements for his weekly financial report. Product’s been in high demand lately, so his boss wants him working overtime. But Kishibe ain’t giving up his free time for shit if it’s uncompensated. And the boss wouldn’t be a good boss if they didn’t know that.
But what difference would it make if he did work more hours? He avoids many hobbies like the plague—they’re just humiliation rituals waiting to happen. Of course he doesn’t want to rot in his office either. It’s been three years since he flipped his life upside down, and has yet to reap the benefits.
The ex-devil hunter slouches against his seat, watching his computer screen light up with emails from his secretary. He’s seconds away from dozing off until his phone vibrates beside his keyboard. He picks it up and glares at the unknown number, but answers it anyway.
You hold your breath on the other line, feeling his voice reverberate down your spine.
“Didn’t think you’d answer.” you confess.
The investor’s eyes widen with delight.
“Didn’t think you’d call.” he retorts amusedly.
You tug on the hem of your uniform skirt, slightly frustrated that your break is almost over.
“Yeah, well, I wanted to stay in touch.”
“How’ve you been?” Kishibe will say whatever it takes to savor this conversation. To savor you.
You would tell him the truth: that rent is steadily rising and you recently haven’t been visiting your sick father to keep a roof over your head. Hell, you’re even tempted to admit how much you miss this fine stranger, but your dignity has you on a tight leash.
“I’ve been alright.” you sigh. “Just getting my paper up and looking forward to my day off.”
“When’s your day off?” Kishibe pries.
You side-eye your phone, “Why do you ask?”
“Cause I wanna take you out.”
There goes that bluntness again, making your thighs press together before you can stop it. You nibble on your lip, hoping he doesn’t hear the smile in your cadence when you say:
On the day of your first date Kishibe offers to pick you up, but you decide to meet him at the destination–not yet comfortable with letting him know where you live. He agrees to your request, and waits for you at this popular botanical garden.
He stands by the entrance, reading a text from you that says you’re just around the corner. The financier tugs on his collar, burying the urge to smoke for your sake. And when he finally hears heels clacking against the pavement? He turns around and the sight almost undoes him.
You’re adorned in a long silk slip dress that hugs your curves in all the right places, some kitten heels to match, and light makeup that accentuates your features wondrously. Your sweet perfume awakens something salacious in him, but he keeps that to himself.
And Kishibe is nothing to sleep on: rocking a black shirt with the top three buttons undone, his sleeves are rolled up to show those deliciously veiny forearms, a pair of jeans tastefully framing the bulk of his thighs, and some classic Timbs to complete the look.
“Hey, handsome.” you greet, reminding yourself to act right when this man looks down at you with that smirk.
“Hey, gorgeous. Hope your journey here was smooth.”
Kishibe opens the entrance door for you, making sure you’re the first to witness the treat he’s got in store for you.
And a treat it is. Y’all aren’t traversing a simple garden. It’s decorated with a world of lights and intricate color patterns. Every tree, bush, plant, and artful landscape illuminate in stark contrast to the black canvas of the night sky. The financier grins at how you stop in your tracks, how your eyes sparkle mesmerically at the radiance surrounding you both.
Kishibe approaches to smoothly interlace his calloused fingers with your soft ones so he can guide you (and not stare at your ass for too long), making your chest bloom open with warmth at the gesture. Who knew a brute like him could be this daring?
“How did you find out about this place?” you query.
“Some colleagues of mine talked about visiting at least once a year. So I gave it a shot.”
You hum with giddy approval, “Is entry here free?”
“Nope.” he deadpans. “But don’t worry about that.”
He feels your thumb swipe the back of his worn knuckle before giving his hand a gentle squeeze, your silent way of showing gratitude. You both stroll about halfway through the garden and decide to sit at a bench, conversing to your heart’s content while enjoying the scenery.
“If I hadn’t met you at that club, nothing would’ve convinced me you were a clubber.” you confess.
Kishibe chuckles, “Not even my piercings?”
You pause at his inquiry, “…Maybe.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have taken you for a waitress.”
“Oh, I know.” you confirm with a proud grin.
Kishibe visually eats up your perfect posture and how elegantly you fold your legs. He wants to yank them open and rip that dress off until there’s nothing left to cover, but he keeps that to himself.
“Just shows how easy it is for people to assume.” you continue. “For example: why do we give so much meaning and power to virginity? It’s just a social construct—you can never truly tell who is and isn’t one.”
Your cute rambling reminds the CFO of that one time he killed the virginity devil. Yes, the virginity devil. And he made sure no one knew about it. Not even Makima’s crazy ass.
“It helps people feel in control of what they don’t understand.”
You go quiet at his insight, not expecting the comment to align so deeply with your own viewpoint. Which urges you to probe, even if lightheartedly.
“What—you a virgin, Kishibe?”
The businessman rests his arm behind you on the back of the bench, and his eyes pierce through you like they did when you first met.
Your eyes drop to your manicured nails, struggling to regulate your breath.
“That… that’s not something a virgin would say.”
Kishibe’s boisterous cackle jolts you out of your flustered head. You’ve never heard him laugh like that before. You want to make him do it again. Honestly, Kishibe feels like he’s enjoying you too much. You palpitate his heart in all the ways that make him want to risk it, even if that risk may be too great for you both. But what does he know? He’s just out on a date for the first time in decades.
So he settles in this quiet moment you both share, watching you study the wildflowers sprouted behind the bench.
“Just look at them.” you mumble. “They’re so beautiful.”
You close your eyes and fail to repress a smitten smile, feeling like a schoolgirl from his effortless praise.
“Shut up.” you demand meekly.
“You’re more than welcome to make me, sweetheart.”
You sigh in defeat, while also registering your tummy grumble with hunger. You rise from your seat and make a big stretch.
“Let’s see through this garden so I can order takeout.”
“I’ll pay for it.” he offers.
You scoff under your breath with a smile.
“I’d appreciate that, thanks.”
You finally make it to the end of the main attraction, reflecting on all the beauty you’ve absorbed, and all the fun banter you shared. As you both stand outside the entrance, Kishibe watches you ogling down at your painted toes with giddiness. Cute.
“It’s late.” he reasons. “I’ll order you a ride home.”
You take a few steps toward him, close enough to smell his woody eucalyptus cologne and feel his heat. You look up to meet his gaze, seconds away from wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him tight. But you don’t.
“Okay.” Your content smile makes Kishibe want to squish your cheeks until your lips pucker up.
“Thank you for tonight. I needed this.”
Your simple gratitude is enough to briefly short-circuit all thought, a feeling so foreign it locks his jaw with trepidation. No harm is being done, yet your shameless vulnerability awakens what he thought he killed off ages ago.
What kind of danger is this?
“I should be thanking you.” he insists. “Text me when you make it home?”
After that fateful night, you two went on a few more dates: to the movies, a museum, even a local carnival. Going to festivals is quite rare for Kishibe, and when he had attended some it’d only be to scout for devils and ensure public safety. This is the first event where he solely went for fun, where he went with you. Carnival games weren’t even in his mental orbit until he met you, with your competitive streak and petty ambition to win. You both played a target game called Balloon Darts. Of course Kishibe popped every balloon with effortless accuracy while you missed almost every target. When you tried sabotaging his aim with a petulant nudge, the financier had to hold his stomach from how hard he wheezed with laughter. And despite being the sore loser that you were, he still won you a red panda plushie to take home.
And now, Kishibe can’t remember being this playful in a way that didn’t involve mass destruction of some form. He can’t remember having fun with stakes that didn't have to be high. After steadily enmeshing your respective schedules, he’s getting used to your presence in a way he cannot simply undo. You’re texting more often—at a respectful pace, but it feels so natural. It's gotten to the point where you send him shitpost memes in the middle of the night, not knowing that he privately giggles at your absurd knack for humor. Every moment he’s not working, he’s thinking of all the ways he’d have you to himself. Of course it embarrasses him, but he craves you too much to care.
It’s 10:15 pm, and Kishibe can finally leave his company headquarters. He just finished an agonizingly uneventful board meeting on profitability improvement after a long day of analyzing data. At this point, he just wants a cigarette and some coffee. Maybe even a slice of pie.
So where does he go? To the nearest 24-hour diner he can find. He steps foot in the restaurant, quietly relieved it’s practically devoid of customers. He sits at a cushioned bench, some cozy booth in the corner, shrugging off his trench coat until a waiter approaches.
Once a coworker announces the new customer, you grab the nearest menu and make your way to the dining space. You wear your brightest smile and prepare your voice for social interaction.
“Good evening! What can I g—“
You almost drop the menu in your hand at the sight before you: Kishibe sitting prim and proper with his hands folded. His eyes widen, mirroring your speechless shock. You look even cuter than he imagined with your waiter apron and matching cap. He even notices your name tag, which definitely doesn’t match the name you gave him.
You quickly recalibrate yourself and hand Kishibe the menu.
You clear your throat, “Would—would you like a drink?”
“Coffee. Black.” the CFO deadpans.
“Coming right up.” you nod and spin your heel to escape your mortification.
As soon as you reach the kitchen, your back hits the closed doors—anything to support your weight against the oppressive gravity.
How the fuck did he find this place?
Did he already know where I work?!
A coworker snaps you out of your panic.
“Uhh—black coffee.” you stammer.
You dread the moment you’ll have to walk back out there and give him his drink. It’s not like you’re ashamed of your job, you just… thought you could hide this side of you a bit longer. But you’re a big girl, so you leave the kitchen with that coffee mug in hand.
Kishibe watches you approach him with his hot cup before carefully setting it on the table. You pull out a pen and notepad from your apron.
“Have you tried the pecan pie?” Kishibe queries while scanning the menu.
“Yes, actually. It’s good.” you affirm.
“Then I’ll have that.” he decides.
He watches you scribbling on your little paper, looking all productive and shit.
Your eyes flicker up to meet his, the question already letting you know he’s dead-ass.
The investor rests his back against the seat, carrying a preemptive resolve that you get home safely tonight.
“Guess I’ll enjoy that pie till then.” he smirks knowingly.
You wordlessly turn your heel again, shoving the notepad in your apron before submitting his order to the chef.
You sit in the locker room while waiting for the server signal, trying to wrap your spinning head around this peculiar situation. Your beloved coworker, Kim, shuts her locker door and turns around to take you in.
“You know that dude or something?” she pries.
You avoid her gaze. “What dude?”
“C’mon.” she scoffs. “The hot GILF drinking coffee.”
You snort at her choice of wording. But she’s already clocked your unusual behavior, so there’s no point in hiding now.
“He’s a guy I’m dating.” you confess.
Kim gasps in exaggerated delight. “Luckyyyyyy.”
She sits beside you, further studying your face and hunched posture.
“You don’t seem too happy about it.” she gently challenges.
You rub on your eye bag with a sigh. “Of course I’m happy to see him.”
Kim stays silent to make space for your thoughts.
“But what if he sees me differently now?”
You lift your head to meet Kim’s concerned gaze, hoping to find an answer in it.
“Well…seeing you differently might not even be that bad.”
You raise an eyebrow, beckoning your coworker to elaborate.
“I mean—“ Kim sighs, lightly scratching her knee.
“Seeing you at work could expand how he already views you. In a good way.”
Her words urge you to look down at the floor, pondering on how not to think the worst of this predicament. How not to think the worst of Kishibe.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” you promise, gently bumping your shoulder with hers.
The server bell rings, so you stand up from the bench and head to the kitchen for that pie.
You place Kishibe’s plate on his table, and he almost drools at how the whipped cream on top seals the baked dessert.
“Enjoy.” you shoot him a crooked grin that he mentally snapshots for later.
Your shift is finally over. After changing out of your work uniform, you bid Kim a good night and head straight for the entrance doors.
The first thing in your line of sight is Kishibe’s back facing you, a cigarette held between his fingers. After exhaling a cloud of smoke, he turns to face you and clocks your fit: a crop top, denim mini-skirt, a matching jacket, and some sneakers. He hasn’t seen this much of your legs since that dress you wore at the club, and they’re delectable on the eyes. But he keeps that to himself.
He drops the cigarette bud and steps on it when you walk up to stand beside him. He towers over you in a way you’ll never get used to.
“I didn’t know you work here.” Kishibe assures. “Just needed a place to unwind.”
You nod appreciatively. “I believe you.”
You watch him look up at the sky, wishing you could properly see how the moonlight reflects off his grey irises.
“Your real name is beautiful.” he praises. “Suits you better than that alias.”
You thank him with a bashful chuckle. And Kishibe doesn’t blame you for the fake name, he’d do it too in your shoes.
The financier looks down at you, secretly pleased and vibrating with delight at your request.
Wordlessly, he leads you to his car. You ogle at its ridiculous sleekness.
“Okay, Mr. Porsche!” you tease.
Kishibe opens the door for you, making sure his passenger princess gets inside without hitting her head.
During the ride, you’re enveloped by that same woody coolness of Kishibe’s eucalyptus cologne. You’ve grown quietly addicted to the minty scent. You don’t exchange many words, besides him describing how delicious that pie was. Overall, the quiet between you is peaceful, natural even. You’ve both had long days, so your social batteries are understandably low.
When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, you let out a dramatic sigh.
“Home sweet home.” you mumble tiredly.
You turn to face the businessman, and he gives you a look that you can’t instantly identify. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s longing. Regardless, you struggle to look away. You know there’s danger behind those eyes, even when he’s been so good to you.
“Do…” you take a deep breath. “Do you see me differently now?”
Your thick thighs press together at the sincerity beneath his hoarseness, and he notices. He notices everything when it comes to you. Kishibe is terrifying himself right now, his every pore igniting with the primal urge to retreat. He wasn’t even this tender toward his first love.
Time slows when you lean in and place a hand on the side of his neck, gently anchoring him so you can press a chaste kiss on his hollow cheek. You do it leisurely too, enjoying how his stubble lightly pricks at your plush lips. Your soft skin and sweet warmth pressed against him, sinking into him, is enough to make his dick jump in his pants.
Despite Kishibe’s painful erection, a part of him is grateful when you pull back to unbuckle your seat belt. Because deep down he knows if you had indulged his mouth, he would’ve fucked you right in his backseat. And he just can’t rush that. He won’t take more than you give.
“Thanks for the ride.” you grab your bag and open the door. “See ya later.”
When you shut the door, Kishibe runs a hand over his face, not driving until he sees you step inside the building.
A few days after that beautiful night, you’re all giddy—itching for the next time to see Kishibe. You’re even comfortable enough with sharing your excitement with Kim, relishing in the mutuality of your new relationship.
You sent him a text or three, and he didn’t answer. But that’s okay. You know how busy he is, so you lean into that trust by focusing on work. When you finally get your day off, you decide to sleep in and cook yourself a hearty breakfast. With more time on your hands than anticipated, your curiosity peaks regarding what your businessman is up to.
You give him a call, squirming in your seat at the dial ringing in your phone. That is until it goes straight to voicemail. Your shoulders sink, along with your hope that he’d be available. When the beep commences, you record that voicemail.
“Wassup, stranger?” you tease. “Work must really be on your ass, huh?”
You stab your food with a fork. “When you find some time, hit me up cause I’m off the clock today. …Later.”
You end the voicemail and put away your phone with a pout.
A couple weeks go by and you hear absolutely nothing from the CFO. You miss him more than anything, but restrain from contacting him any further. Not until he reaches out. Multiple fears begin ambushing you at once.
And if so, is he avoiding me?
Was I asking for too much?
Every passing day he leaves you unanswered makes every question snowball into an avalanche of dread and wounded pride. Every time you’re on your phone, no matter the reason, you’re constantly reminded of the one man you want to hear from the most. You feel like a helpless little infant who’s been robbed of her candy. You don’t even bother mentioning him to Kim anymore, refusing to expose what his negligence is doing to your confidence.
So you continue living your life and act like everything is fine.
A month goes by, and so does your faith in Kishibe. No texts or calls from him, just pure absence. You can’t even distract yourself from the heartbreak. And what’s worse is that you promised yourself you’d never let anyone have this much power over you—let alone a fucking man. But there’s no other one you’ve met prior like Kishibe. He made you feel truly special.
Today, you give your father a visit at the hospital. After paying the annual premium for his life insurance, you just need to see his face.
You walk down the fluorescent hallways, reluctantly taking in the sterile air and nurses passing by. You make it to your dad’s room, your trembling hand on the door. You close your eyes and take a breath before sliding it open.
There he is: sleeping, bed-ridden, and attached to medical tech. You slide the door closed and take tentative strides toward him. You sit beside him on the stiff mattress and take his wrinkled hand.
“Hi, Papa!” you coo, smiling as if he’s seeing your face.
“I missed you so much.” you gently squeeze his hand, tracing the veins with your fingers.
He looks so at peace. But you remember exactly what your father told you to do when he could no longer function in a way that maintained his freedom. That conversation still haunts you.
“I know it’s been a while, m’sorry it took so long to visit.”
You know he’d never hold it against you, which pierces the guilt in your chest anyway.
“Life has been such a rollercoaster lately, y’know?”
Flashes of Kishibe claim your vision, and you blink them away.
“But don’t worry. When I stack enough bread, I’ll quit that job and finally do what I was always meant to.”
The returning silence threatens the burn behind your eyes, but you swallow it down as best you can.
“I uhh.” you look up at the ceiling when your vision goes blurry.
“I met this man. He… he’s a real trip y’know?”
You can’t believe you’re talking about the bastard to your dad, but you need it off your chest.
“I think you’d really like him.” you chuckle incredulously.
“He lacks your whimsy, but he’s rough around the edges like you.”
Even though you’re oblivious to Kishibe’s past, your father carried danger too. But he wielded that danger honorably, and is why he’s been your rock for so long. A kind of rock that taught you how to become your own.
“I’m… sure you’d want to meet him.” your voice cracks with grief.
You shut your eyes and sniffle, letting the inevitable tears fall on his skin.
“But—but I can’t make that happen until you wake up, Papa.”
Your shoulders shake with quiet sobs, pressing his hand against your face—anything to stay tethered to his draining warmth. You carefully crawl on the bed and hook his limp arm over your shoulder. You lay beside him and rest your head on his chest, snuggling closer until you hear his weak heartbeat.
Kishibe knows he fucked up with you.
And the universe knows he’s used to fuck-ups, but this time it’s not even funny anymore. In this past month, every wrong thing happened all at once in a way he couldn’t stop: his company’s stock dropped to an all time low. Of course he structured a backup plan for worst-case scenarios, but the hit they took was destabilizing at best.
He practically lived at HQ, no time for anything but monitoring whatever cash flow they had left, advising senior management, accompanying his boss to however many chaotic board meetings it took to get corporate life back on track. They couldn’t even hire anyone until profits equilibrated.
And to top it all off, Kishibe killed a devil. A powerful one.
It’s not that he wanted to. If he hadn’t done it, then someone would have died. Usually he wouldn’t think twice about it. But after three years of zero assassinations or interactions with devils, Kishibe has no idea what this means for him now. Devils hold grudges. Will another find out what he did?
Will this affect his current livelihood?
Will this affect his connection to you?
Not that he deserves any access to you. Maybe he never did. Yet the thought of never seeing you again makes him want to down a bottle of gin. He hasn’t been this close to relapsing since his first day of sobriety.
He hates himself for not reaching out to you after all this time. But his new therapist—yes, his new therapist, challenged his habit of emotional self-flagellation. Whatever the fuck that means. So he finally sends you texts, trying to reclaim his place in your life. But none of them go through. He calls you a few times, but his phone always goes to voicemail.
That’s when he realizes: you blocked him.
And you had to, he gets that.
It’s the morning after he pulled another all-nighter in his office. Best believe he’s getting at least a week off after enduring that month-long economic crisis. He needs to see you, but you won’t talk to him anymore. All he needs is an inch.
So he does the unthinkable and pulls up in front of your apartment. Once he notices a resident unlocking the entrance gate, he steps out of his Porsche and follows them in. Every step he takes toward your door claws at his back, but he keeps ascending.
You sit at your dining counter, sipping on some cheap grocery store wine. You usually drink socially, but you’re at your wits end right now. You grab your bottle to pour more into the glass until a few knocks snatch your attention. You glare at the front door, approaching it with caution.
Looking through the peep-hole, your eyes widen in disbelief at the silhouette on the other side. Just to make sure your mind isn’t playing tricks, you unlock your door and open it.
Before you is Kishibe, a bouquet of roses in one hand and a box of your favorite chocolate brand in the other. He sees you too, clad in a sky-blue satin nightgown and matching robe.
You let out a weak, resigned laugh and the sound stakes through his chest. You’ve laughed with him. You’ve even laughed because of him. But this is the first time you truly laugh at him, and he takes it like an overdue punishment.
“Oh, okay.” you huff out a scoff at the shameful glint in his sunken gaze.
If he thought trying new hobbies were humiliation rituals, then he was never going to be prepared for how you’re leering at him now.
“I see what the fuck’s going on here:” you mock, waving an accusatory finger at him.
“Look, I’m sorry for disappearing on you but I can explain.” the financier pleads.
“Oh I’m sure you can.” you fold your arms. “But the million dollar question is: why should I give a shit?”
“Because you deserve to know the truth.”
You shake your head in disbelief, lips curling into a tight line at his reasoning. He’d rather you scream at him than deal with this cold, unresponsive version of you. But he’ll take what he can get.
The pure strain and exhausted rage in your unforgiving tone renders him speechless, for there’s nothing else he can say that could make this better. Everything is in your hands. You could slam the door in his face right now, and this mess would finally cease.
But you step aside anyway, wordlessly letting him in because if you’re gonna get anything out of this shit show, it will be closure. Kishibe closes his eyes with a sigh, feeling all that pent up terror decompress. He carefully kicks off his leather Cap Toe dress shoes before placing the bouquet in his right arm to pick them up.
He steps foot inside your domain and places his shoes by your rack beside the door. You snatch the box of chocolates from his grasp and leave him to hang up his trench coat. After tucking the treats in a freezer, you return to your seat at the dining counter.
Kishibe approaches you with caution, taking in the way you pour your second glass of wine. He sits across from you, quietly cringing at how noticeable your eye bags have become.
Your low command snaps him out of his trance and he clears his throat.
“I almost went jobless.” he begins. “The company lost a lot of money and we nearly shut down for good.”
You’re listening but give him no eye contact.
“I’ve only ever known how to deal with a crisis alone, and I had a hunch you’d be worried if I told you.”
“Cut the shit. That don’t explain why you ghosted me.” you deadpan.
Kishibe scratches his nape as the cortisol starts to spike. He so badly wishes he could tell you about the devil. About his true identity. But he signed a contract, and he’ll be damned if he risks your safety just to feel better about himself.
“I was raised a killer. A professional killer.”
Your eyes flicker up to meet his own at the weight of his confession, and you almost gasp because you can tell he’s not lying. You always knew he was dangerous. But not this lethal.
“I never knew my parents.” he continues.
“The government made sure of that so they could mold me into the perfect soldier.”
You place your glass back on the marble counter, feeling your brows furrow with fright. Not at him, but at the unspeakable pain he had to endure.
“I never talked things out, I fought it out. I drank it out, fucked it out. Not knowing I dug a bigger, deeper hole cause I kept running away.”
Kishibe ran toward chaos because that was easy. But he ran away from you because facing an ugly truth through your eyes is next to impossible. He scoffs at himself, at how weak he really is.
“I…I don’t want someone like you seeing me struggle. Seeing me at my lowest.”
You’re touched by his implication, touched enough to reach for his hand. Kishibe lifts his head at your touch.
“But that’s not how relationships work.” you gently reason.
“Partners don’t just support each other when they need it the least, then isolate when they need it the most. That’s not sustainable.”
You, too, know what it’s like to self-isolate. You know what it’s like to make mistakes big enough to scare you away from connection, from vulnerability. But you also know exactly what that cost you.
You roll your eyes at what you’re about to ask, at the door you’re about to re-open.
“This is your last chance, Kishibe. Do you want to be my man?”
“Yes.” he doesn’t miss a beat.
“Then we must carry each other through our highs and lows. Are you willing to do that?”
“Yes, baby.” he places a hand on top of yours.
Kishibe has never been more sure about anything else in his life. And you’ve never seen the CFO this soft for you, it forms a reluctant smile on your face. But that same sliver of happiness dies as quickly as it arrived when you remember today’s hospital visit.
You pull back without realizing, so Kishibe secures his grip, interlocking his fingers with yours.
“What is it?” he pries. “Talk to me, please.”
“I—I…” you nibble on your lip, inwardly begging yourself to take the same advice you gave Kishibe.
“…Rent keeps rising and my father’s getting sicker.” you whisper.
Your man stares at you, utterly stunned by the way your eyes gloss over. You look like you’re about to collapse.
“I need to pay off his medical bills, but I also need a roof over my head.”
You attempt to pull away again, but Kishibe doesn’t budge. You gag away the urge to sob, but tears are already streaming down your cheeks.
“…I’m not ready to be homeless.” your voice rises desperately in pitch.
“I’m—I’m not ready to bury him yet.”
Kishibe can truly take no more, and releases your hand. He rises from his seat, walks around the counter and steadily wraps his arms around you. Your shoulders tremble at the all-encompassing warmth of his firm embrace. You grab onto his shirt as your body shakes with sobs.
Kishibe sighs, hot anguish gnawing at his gut at the realization that you’ve been carrying this devastation since before he met you.
“I’ll cover your rent. And I’m not changing my mind.” he calmly declares.
“You just focus on being there for your dad, okay?”
You give him a wordless nod, fearing your voice will betray you again. You’re the best thing to ever happen to Kishibe in years and he knows it. He refuses to let you suffer another second more than you ever should.
“Wanna watch a movie?” he suggests apprehensively.
“…yeah.” you whimper, face buried in his woody scent.
You cuddle together on your living room couch, watching your childhood favorite: Kill Bill.
You wanted to track Kishibe’s reactions to the film, but crying that hard can make anyone sleepy. You rest your head on his bulky thigh, and he silently revels at the privilege of being your makeshift pillow.
His hand hovers over the side of your head before gently brushing your hair back. He touches you like fine porcelain, praying that he doesn’t interrupt your nap.
A couple hours pass by and your bladder calls. Your eyes reluctantly crack open and you feel something wet on the side of your mouth. You sit up with a quickness and stare in mortification at the tiny puddle of saliva on Kishibe’s slacks. He glances at the stain and catches onto your embarrassment with a giddy smirk.
“Slept like a baby, huh?” he chuckles endearingly.
“M’sorry.” you whine, wiping the wet patch with your sleeve.
Kishibe waves off your worry. “S’just drool, honey. I’ll be fine.”
You get up from the couch and take a big stretch.
“Watch whatever you want.” you mumble before padding to the bathroom.
Kishibe does just that, scrolling through your subscriptions while you take a piss.
When you come back, he sees you without your robe—drinking up the sight of your bare shoulders and dainty collarbones. You sit beside him and snuggle close, tucking your head in the crook of his shoulder with your legs resting over his knee.
“Did you enjoy Kill Bill?” you query.
“Sure did.” Kishibe tries and fails to ignore how pressed against him you are.
“What’d you like about it?” you trace your toes over the curve of his calf.
“Those animated scenes were killer.” he continues scrolling—distracting himself from your hot breath fanning his neck.
You rest a hand on his chest.
“Who’s your favorite character?” your sultry voice so close to his ear sends a shock of goosebumps straight through his body.
But he gives away no sign that he’s affected. Which you have every intention of ruining.
“Probably O-Ren.” he supposes.
“Mmm, and why’s that?” your hand trails down his stomach, massaging the print of his abs to get a sense of how toned he really is.
You’re so caught up in toying with your man that you don’t even notice him turning off the TV or placing your remote down.
When your fingers descend to the top of his belt, Kishibe wraps his fingers around your throat with a quickness that makes you yelp.
Even though he’s gentle, the slight pressure on your jugular, on top of the way he looks down at you—like a predator who’s finally caught his prey, makes your body buzz with need.
“Unless you wanna get fucked open on this couch, relax.” His low warning makes your pussy cry.
You shoot him a grin drunk with lust. “Now why would I do that?”
Kishibe pulls you in and crashes your mouths together, groaning at the lavish texture of your lips. He kisses you with a rough sloppiness that makes you moan, so you hold onto his wrist to cope.
It’s just a make out session and you already feel like you’re being devoured, especially when he slips his hot tongue past your teeth. Kishibe halts when you suck on it, feeling his dick leak when you match his nastiness.
Kishibe breaks the kiss and slowly pushes your back against the couch’s headrest. He releases your neck but his hand lingers, palm dragging down the valley of your breasts, waiting for the green light.
“Go ahead, baby.” you coo, returning his hungry stare with a wink.
He hooks his fingers over each strap and pulls until the nightgown completely slips off. Kishibe blows a low whistle at the sight: your skin glowing with the daily care you give it, the weight of your brown tits sprawl out on each side, your soft tummy rising and falling with heavy breaths, and a lacy black thong hugging the pudge of your hips.
The financier parts your knees for more access and lowers his head to press searing kisses across your neck. His hands skim up your thighs as his lips leave a trail over your sternum.
You gasp when he squishes your tits together, licking a fat stripe up the supple mounds. He sucks the hardened nipples into his mouth and you run your fingers through his hair to show appreciation.
He pulls back at a teasingly slow pace and looks into your eyes the entire time, releasing the sensitive skin from his lips with a wet ‘pop.’ He continues kissing down until he reaches your fupa, leaving light bite marks on any area of softness he can reach, hands squeezing at the nearest curves and rolls.
He buries his nose in your cunt, sniffing it through your flimsy underwear like the perv he always was. But he’s your perv now, and that’s all that matters.
“Lift your hips, gorgeous.”
You do it on command, feeling your hairs raise when he slips off the last article of clothing on you. Kishibe sits on his haunches while you lean on your elbows, feeling the urge to shrink from his piercing stare.
“Before we do anything, I’m prepping you, got it?”
Your legs fall open at his effortless authority.
“But I’m so wet already.” you pout. “See?”
And he does see: your coarse pubic hair, your puffy clit, sticky folds glistening with arousal, sopping little hole begging to be filled. Which is precisely why he refuses to rush to intercouse.
“Nice try.” he commends matter-of-factly. “But I ain’t fuckin’ you till you’re prepped.”
You slouch against the headrest with a petulant groan before holding the back of your knees, granting him the easiest access. The investor hums at your compliance.
“Good girl.” he purrs, rolling up his sleeves and rearranging his sitting position for peak comfort.
Kishibe massages the back of your thighs, coaxing your muscles to melt under his touch.
“You’ll thank me later.” he promises, prying your lips apart with his thumbs.
Your jaw drops open when he licks a wide stripe from the entrance of your pussy to the top of your vulva. He does it again, except his tongue coils against your clit and you gush instantly. He slurps up your wetness and as soon as he swallows a taste of your nectar, his eyes roll to the back of his head with a low moan.
Your toes curl as he sways his head, dragging his tongue between your folds at a languid rhythm. Your trembling hands loosen their hold on your legs, so you have to consciously make sure they don’t fall forward.
Kishibe looks up to meet your half-lidded gaze, and the shameless mischief in his eyes makes your breath stutter. He gives you light, spontaneous flicks until your clit swells against his tongue, and it pulls a sharp cry out of you—the helpless sound going straight to his cock.
That’s right, stop hiding.
He sees your thighs wobbling, your hips bucking into his mouth. Your hands get tired so you release the back of your knees, but keep your legs nice and spread so nothing interrupts Kishibe’s onslaught of pleasure. And he doesn’t stop, especially when your arousal starts dribbling down his chin.
The CFO roams his rough palms up your soft tummy and cups your boobs, the pads of his fingers fondling the sensitive flesh.
“Feelin’ good, sweetheart?”
You fail to answer his check-in, utterly hypnotized by the wet heat and pressure erupting in your cunt. But he doesn’t care how fucked out you are, he needs you present.
Kishibe pinches both of your nipples at once, jolting your entire body until you howl.
“Y-Yes, baby—fuck!” you wail, grabbing onto the armrest beneath you, and by extension, your dwindling sanity.
Your man pulls one hand from your chest and decides to reward you. His index and middle fingers curiously prod at your silky entrance before slowly slipping them inside your cunt. A stream of wanton moans and gibberish pour from your mouth at the smooth intrusion, your brows knotted up and glossy eyes glued to his audacious movements.
He curls the fingers up toward his tongue as it circles your clit, relishing the squelching noises he produces from fucking you with just his hand. He can feel every tiny twitch inside you, and it’s the most wonderful place in the universe to be. You squirm and thrash uncontrollably, feeling that familiarly hot coil threaten to implode and snap your brain in two.
And when he inserts a third finger?
You squirt directly into his mouth with a keen, singing Kishibe’s name like a song he’ll replay long after this night. And he finally understands why memories of his past partners come to a blurry void. They just aren’t you.
When you can truly take no more, the investor stays close as he drifts away from your pussy. He kisses his way up your tummy and chest before pressing his soaked fingers against your lips. You open and suck on them, moaning at your taste as you ride out the aftershocks.
Now that he’s got you in the exact state he intended, Kishibe unbuttons his shirt before shrugging it off. Your eyes crack open as you take a breather, watching your man unbuckle his belt. You literally just came and you’re already clenching at the sight of his chiseled abs, V-line, and scarred skin. Once he fully strips, you witness the rest of his muscular physique.
And when your eyes trail down to that cock…
The sight of those veins, the thickness, those heavy balls, how that flushed and leaking tip reaches his belly button—there are no jokes or slights that can match what you’re beholding. Kishibe can’t help but chuckle at your stupefied face.
Your first time together is too sacred to be had on a couch, but he also doesn’t want you wasting energy on walking.
“Can I carry you to your bed?”
You’re super grateful for his offer, knowing your legs feel like jelly. But you have to talk some shit regardless.
“Sure you can handle it, old man?” you raise a brow, unable to hide your crooked grin.
He gives you a bored stare and sighs. “Keep playin’ with me.”
You giggle at successfully fucking with him, watching him crouch down to slide one arm under your knees and the other under your upper back. He hoists you up like it’s nothing and starts walking to your bedroom.
“Thank you, honey.” you purr while stroking his cheek with your hand.
“Yeah, yeah.” Kishibe rolls his eyes, but he’s melting inside.
When he makes it to your room, your free hand turns the knob and pushes the door open. He carefully places you on the edge of your queen-sized mattress before turning on a couple of your lamps. He has enough taste to avoid overhead lights at all costs. He even takes in the personalized femininity of your space: that sweet aroma in the air, posters of your favorite artists, that red panda plushie sitting by your vanity mirror, purple furniture—
“C’monnnn.” you whine on all fours, shaking your ass impatiently.
The businessman swats your cheek with a quickness, making you gasp at the sharp sting. He massages the handprint on your skin to assuage the burn and you lean into his touch.
“Just like this.” you assure.
“You on the pill?” he checks.
Your refusal to hide your desperation makes Kishibe snort. The comforter dips under the weight of his knees as he positions them outside of yours for maximum security. He deepens the arch in your back before groping at your hips.
“What’s your safe word, darlin’?” he strokes his cock and aligns it with your entrance.
“Uhh—pineapple.” you decide.
Your vision falters when he rolls his tip over your clit for good measure.
He slowly pushes through your slit and your eyes bulge out of your sockets from the stretch. You manage to swallow his head in one smooth movement, but the arresting impact it has on your body forces you to hyperventilate. Kishibe senses your panic and runs a loving hand up your spine to keep you tethered.
“Breathe, baby.” he orders gently.
So you do, taking deep inhales until your tummy expands. One particular exhale relaxes the tension in your muscles, allowing Kishibe to slide in more length. The minor consequence of this escalation is that you’re already mewling.
“I know, sweetheart.” He pauses so you can continue adjusting.
Your man hisses at the feel of you sucking him in, your pussy’s grip is simply merciless. He massages your waist and leans down to kiss the back of your shoulders. You relish how he touches on you, which stabilizes your breathing enough to alert Kishibe. He acts accordingly and gives you a couple more inches until your thighs start to tremble. You feel so fucking full and he’s only halfway in.
“Talk to me.” he ceases movement and waits for a response.
“S’alot.” you slur as your eyes threaten to burn with tears. “B—But I’m okay.”
“Good.” he praises, remaining stagnant until he knows you can handle more.
The longer you sit with the stretch, the less foreign it feels. You both sit in silence, taking the time necessary to get used to this new layer of connection. The weight and stretch of him feels heavenly, but you’re scared of pushing your body past her limit. Ultimately, you test the waters and carefully push back to receive more length.
The investor catches on and drives forward until his pelvis collides with your ass. A sound of pure devastation rips through your throat, feeling a bulge form in your lower tummy.
“You in pain?” he queries, slightly guilty from seeing you struggle so much.
“No.” you whisper, deeply appreciative of his hands steadying you.
Your arms start to wobble as they continue to keep you upright in your doggy position. So you use whatever strength that’s left to grind against your man.
“Look at you.” Kishibe cheers, beyond eager to meet you halfway.
He secures his grip and drives his hips forward, giving you slow and deep strokes. He’s only using a fraction of his power and you’re already loud.
“Kishibe—fuckkk.” you bawl, feeling your arms collapse on the comforter.
Every unhurried thrust paralyzes your body with a disastrous pleasure, fucking high-pitched moans out of you. Yet the same man taking you apart is the same man holding you together.
“I hear you, honey.” Kishibe coos, but he doesn’t stop—too fixated on your ass jiggling from the momentum.
Your cunt gives him a special squeeze and he throws his head back with a drawn-out groan, feeling his balls tighten from the pressure. He can only imagine what your face looks like paired with that pretty voice wailing for him. You’re in shambles right now but he knows he can take you deeper. He knows his baby could handle more of him—all of him even.
Carefully, Kishibe bends forward and lifts your upper body until you’re flush against his chest. One arm’s wrapped securely around your torso, and his other hand gently holds your throat. He spreads his knees to lower his stance, listening to your cute little sniffles.
“Ya ready?” he coos menacingly beside your ear.
You already suspect he’s about to wreck you, so you take a deep breath and swallow some spit.
Kishibe’s dick twitches at your command.
He retracts his hips until just the tip prods at your entrance, before slamming back into you with a force that pushes all the air out of your chest. He fucks you with a speed and vigor that repeatedly rocks the bed against the wall. He fucks you so hard your tits bounce, his balls repeatedly slapping your clit, and all those sensations make your voice go hoarse from the debauched sobbing. And your man holds you close through every second of it.
Kishibe licks up the tears streaming down your cheek like the madman you’ve made of him. He looks between your bodies and catches the ring of cream forming on his shaft—the sight pushing him dangerously to the edge. You’re grabbing onto his arm to brace yourself.
You can’t even warn him when you cum, your vision spotting and stomach tightening as you spray all over his cock. Your climax tips him over and he finishes with a guttural shout, rope after rope of semen painting your velvet walls. If there is a God, Kishibe can only fall to his knees in gratitude—for he can’t believe he almost didn’t have this union with you.
You both ride out your highs to a gradual stop, the only thing filling the air are your heavy breaths. With time, Kishibe regains the clarity to pull out before lowering you on the comforter. He lets you rest and opens your bedroom door, intending to get a towel so he can wipe you clean.
“Wait.” you mumble tiredly.
Your man pauses and turns to face you. “Hmm?”
Kishibe smiles at your request. “Alright.”
So he heads to your bathroom and turns on the shower head. You follow shortly after, and he cackles when watching you limp toward him.
“Shuddup!” you whine, petulantly tucking your hair in a satin bonnet.
You prepare him a wash rag and dry towel while he prepares the water’s temperature.
“I don’t have men’s body wash, so you’re gonna smell like coconuts and vanilla after showering.”
The CFO huffs out a chuckle. “Fine by me.”
You step inside the shower first, shuddering at the hot water droplets hitting your skin. Kishibe follows inside, and you feel his presence towering behind you. While bathing, you two help each other out; scrubbing your backs and any other places that are hard to reach. Very few words are exchanged, but that’s natural between you.
After some much needed exfoliating, you rinse off whatever’s left and turn to face your man. He looks down at you with a fondness you can finally identify, and it unfolds that familiar warmth in your chest. You grip the back of his neck and pull him toward you. Your lips interlock at an idle pace. He wraps his arms around your waist and you stand on your toes to deepen the kiss.
After finishing your respective grooming rituals, you lend Kishibe a robe with the least feminine color in your closet: teal green. You giggle at how pampered he looks, but he’s too sleepy to bite back.
You both lay down in your bed, snuggling under the comforter and sheets. You rest the side of your head on his chest with a leg draped over his. The investor is seconds from dozing off until he hears you mutter his name.
“Thank you for paying my rent.”
Your voice is light with lethargy, but Kishibe hears the sincerity behind it.
“It’s the least I can do.” he insists while rubbing your hip endearingly.
“Now get some rest. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
And you do just that, letting your eyelids surrender to the heaviness of slumber.
This work belongs solely to ©️ blimbosworlddd. Do not plagiarize, steal, copy or repost. I worked very hard on this; reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated.
