Pairing: Yandere!Gojo Satoru x Named Female Reader (Miyahara Asami)
Summary: Meeting him seemed like an honor but had Asami watched him closely she might have not found herself in such a situation.
Warnings: NON CON, Jealousy, Character Death, Implied Murder, Unconsensual Drugging.
Word Count: 2648
A/N: It's my first time writing yandere let me know what you think of it.
The first time pupils at Tokyo Jujutsu High acknowledged Miyahara Asami’s existence was when Gojo Satoru lingered beside her. His left hand gently resting on her shoulder while everyone on the sports field intently watched the struggle of Asami as she fought to hold back tears, only to succumb as they traced a path down her cheeks.
Upon discovering Asami's strained ankle, the P.E. teacher swiftly assigned Satoru the task of bringing her to the school nurse. Without any hesitation, Satoru slid his hands underneath her knees and supported her back. As whispers danced among her peers, Asami's realization washed over her — Satoru held her in his embrace. Sudden Asami became insecure. Does he find her heavy? Does he consider her a cry baby? Does he think she is disgusting for sweating?
Asami had never truly grasped the magnitude of Satoru's towering height until that moment. In his presence, she swore she was lifted closer to the celestial realm rather than grounded on earthly soil, an ethereal sensation that left her in awe.
That particular day etched itself into Satoru's memory as the moment he made a profound declaration to himself—a declaration of love, as he willingly embraced the truth that his heart had unequivocally fallen for her.
As the sun rose the next morning, Asami bid farewell to her grandparents and embarked on a painstaking journey towards the exit of the apartment building. Though the nurse had cautioned against walking, the absence of anyone to accompany her left her with no alternative but to defy the advice and tread slowly towards school. However, just as Asami set foot outside, her steps came to an astonished halt, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight that greeted her—Gojo Satoru, standing before her with a bicycle in hand. How had he discovered her place of residence?
"Good morning, Asami," he greeted her with a cheerful tone, her name rolled off his tongue so naturally. As he approached her, he closed the distance between them. Once he stood in front of her, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in his piercing blue eyes. "Good morning," she responded, reciprocating the greeting. Satoru's gaze fell upon the bandage wrapped around her swollen ankle, prompting him to remark, "You weren't planning to walk to school with a sprained ankle, were you?" Standing before her with a bike, he offered, "Let me take you to school."
Hesitance took over her. Eyes were drawn to the sleek and expensive-looking bicycle. “Thank you for the offer but there’s no need for that. I don’t want waste your time,” Asami politely declined. Firmly he insisted, “Don’t be stupid. You don’t want to prolong your ankle’s recovery.” Asami could not wait any longer and asked the question that lingered her mind since she saw Satoru standing: "How did you know where I lived?" Purposefully, Satoru brushed off her question, deeming it irrelevant. She does not have to know about the fact he followed her yesterday when she got picked up by her grandfather. All that mattered to him was that they were together again.
"Now, hop on before I drag you to school by your hair," he said while a gentle smile graced his lips. The way those words escaped his mouth left Asami feeling ambiguous. Wondering whether it was a genuine joke or a not.
From that pivotal moment onwards, Satoru made it a point to go the extra mile in his pursuit of Asami's company.
Satoru's heart grew heavy with the realization that he and Asami were not in the same academic year. As a second-year student, their schedules rarely aligned, leaving him longing for more moments with her at school. However, this obstacle did not deter Satoru from actively seeking her out during breaks, determined to steal precious snippets of time together.
One day, as they gathered during a break, a tall, slim boy with black hair approached them. "So this is the girl," he remarked, his gaze fixed on Asami. Politely bowing, she introduced herself, saying, "I am Miyahara Asami. It's a pleasure to meet you." Satoru, standing beside her, couldn't help but interject, his voice filled with affection, "Yeah, isn't she cute?" His gentle gesture of tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear underscored his fondness for her.
In no time, Asami found herself becoming acquainted with Satoru's circle of friends—Suguru, Shoko, Kento, and Yu. It was fortunate that she already shared a class with Yu and Kento, allowing a sense of familiarity to ease her into the newfound company.
Whenever Satoru greeted Asami, he had a big smile plastered on his face. Being in her presence again made him so happy. Spending the school breaks together was not enough. Without realizing it, Satoru started to play a bigger part in her life.
Every morning he picked her up from residence with his bike. Feeling her arms wrapped around his waist made him feel in control of her. Whenever the rain poured down, he would insist on sharing his transparent umbrella that clearly was designed for one person. The feeling of his shoulder touching hers made the butterflies in his stomach dance.
One day he felt bolder than usual and wrapped his arm around her waist. Asami froze up from the sudden action of the white-haired boy but she did not push his arm away.
On scorching afternoons, he would convince her to join him for ice cream after school. Giving him a great excuse to wipe the ice cream from her lips. When the biting cold of winter set in he would wrap his scarf around her neck. Ensuring her warmth and comfort.
In Satoru's mind, these gestures were evidence of a budding affection reciprocated by Asami. Her genuine cheer and unwavering support during his baseball matches further fueled his belief. And when fatigue plagued his shoulders it was her gentle hands that massaged away the tension, offering solace and care. In moments of wintry chill her warm palms would envelop his cold ones, providing an intimate connection that resonated deeply within him. Their bond seemed sealed when, on her birthday, he presented her with a necklace that adorned her neck. In gratitude she planted a tender kiss on his cheek.
Yet, the harsh truth of reality revealed that Asami's eyes had wandered elsewhere, drawn to the captivating presence of Yu Haibara. Despite Satoru's devoted efforts, his heartfelt gestures were unnoticed by the one he held dear.
"What?" Satoru's voice escaped his lips, a mix of confusion and surprise etched on his face as he witnessed a remorseful smile gracing Asami's delicate features. His mind raced, questioning her intentions — did he do something to upset her? "I am sorry, Sato, but I will not walk home with you today. I will see you tomorrow," she gently explained, swiftly gathering her schoolbag before making her way out of the classroom. Dissatisfied with her response, Satoru couldn't bear the thought of their cherished routine being disrupted. He trailed after her, his determination unwavering. "But we always walk home together," he pleaded, hoping to reignite their daily tradition, a ritual he held dear. "I know but not today. I promise, I will make it up to you," she reassured him and kissed his cheek before leaving him alone in the hallways, a bitter blend of anger and disappointment washing over him as he watched his Asami leave the school building. Refusing to accept her rejection, Satoru decided to follow Asami, driven by an overwhelming need to uncover the reasons behind her sudden disruption of their harmonious routine.
Maintaining a discreet distance he followed her to the park, his steps coming to an abrupt halt as he beheld the sight before him. Asami ran towards Yu, her excitement palpable. Satoru stood frozen, his eyes fixated on the scene unfolding before him. Time seemed to slow as he observed Asami's cheeks flush with a delicate shade of pink, a telltale sign of her nervousness. His heart clenched with a mix of anger and jealousy as Yu plucked a cherry blossom from her hair, a gesture laden with an intimacy that stung Satoru's soul. However, what truly ignited a firestorm within him was the sight of Asami’s school skirt. It was noticeably shortened, revealing a glimpse of her thighs as she sat beside Yu.
"Satoru, stop it!" Asami's voice erupted in a yell, urging the white-haired boy to release his grip from her. It had only been ten minutes since Satoru showed up unannounced at her apartment, bombarding her with relentless questions about her relationship with Yu. Yet, to Asami, the relentless repetition made it feel like an eternity. "Why are you behaving like this all of a sudden? I've already told you there is nothing between me and Yu," she reassured him, her hand gently resting on his chest, an attempt to calm his raging storm. But the anger etched across his face refused to dissipate, his heavy breaths filling the air.
"But you kissed him," he uttered, the accusation laced with hurt and disbelief. "It was just a peck... Sato, I swear, I'm not dating Yu," Asami pleaded, her voice tinged with both sincerity and frustration, hoping to break through the walls he had erected.
"Kiss me," he suddenly demanded, his voice carrying a mix of vulnerability and determination. Taken aback by his request, Asami looked at him with a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “I almost kiss you daily,” she reminded him but Satoru shook his head knowing what she is referring to. “A real kiss,” he said and looked at her with darkness in his eyes. Something she had never seen before. Something about it scared her. In no mood to prolong this pointless conversation, she nodded reluctantly and took a step closer to her friend. With a blend of nervousness and slight fear, she rose on her tiptoes, preparing to fulfill his request, unaware of the consequences that would unfold next.
The moment her soft lips touched his, his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer. Desperately he sucked and bite at her lower lip, begging her to open her mouth. Once Asami slightly opened her mouth, Satoru forced his tongue insider her mouth. Exploring every corner of her mouth and dominating her tongue.
The kiss was rough and sloppy. The way he bit her lips she could taste something metallic. Once Satoru was satisfied with the kiss he pulled away but he remained close to her. Still having a tight grip on her waist, he leaned closer and let his forehead rest against hers. A thin string of saliva connecting their lips.
As days melded into weeks, Satoru watched with a heavy heart as Asami slipped further and further away from his side. The vibrant thread that once bound them together began to unravel, the closeness they once shared slowly fading into distant memories. Their conversations became fleeting, their laughter growing scarce, and their moments together dwindled into mere fragments of what they used to be. It felt as though the very foundation of their bond was crumbling, leaving Satoru bewildered and consumed by a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.
The pain that gripped Satoru's heart was both relentless and overwhelming. Anger mingled with confusion, leaving him questioning what had changed. What had caused this gradual distance to grow between them? The countless hours he had devoted to their friendship, the unwavering support and understanding he had offered, seemed to have been disregarded, cast aside with such ease. It was a bitter pill to swallow, to witness the fading connection that had once felt unbreakable.
Satoru had been willing to tolerate the multitude of changes unfolding within Asami's life. However, the final blow that shattered his resilience came when he was at a party hosted by a classmate. Almost every student from Tokyo Jujutsu High was present at the gathering. While the loud music echoed through the entire house and people were getting drunk left and right, Satoru decided to look for Asami. He needed to talk to her. After searching the entire house for his favorite person, there was one place left to explore. Quietly he pushed a bedroom door open and immediately halted his tracks.
There she was laying on somebody’s bed with Yu between her legs. No words could adequately capture the depth of Satoru's emotions. Was he angry? Livid? Consumed by rage? None of these descriptors could fully encapsulate the turmoil coursing through his veins. On that day, a solemn oath took shape within Satoru's heart—he vowed to reclaim Asami, to restore what had been lost between them.
The next encounter between the two friends took place within the confines of Satoru's bedroom. Her tears staining the fabric of Satoru's shirt while he provided a steady source of comfort, his hand gently tracing soothing circles on her back. "I can't comprehend how someone could be so cruel," she whispered with trembling lips. The weight of Yu's passing weighed heavily on her heart, each thought of him was a painful reminder of the harsh realities of life. "The world can be so unfair sometimes," the blue-eyed boy murmured softly, his voice laced with understanding, as he reached out his hand to grab a glass of water and held the glass to her quivering lips, encouraging her to take a few sips.
As the minutes passed, fatigue enveloped Asami, her limbs growing heavy and her eyes struggling to stay open. Recognizing her growing exhaustion, she mustered the strength to voice: "I need to go home." Gently pushing herself away from Satoru's comforting embrace, she attempted to stand on her unsteady legs. But before she could fully find her balance, her body betrayed her. Collapsing to the wooden floor beneath her. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as pain coursed through her. Sensing her distress, Satoru swiftly moved into action, his arms instinctively reaching out to lift her delicate and small frame. With ease and tenderness, he carefully lifted her from the ground, cradling her in his arms, before gently placing her upon his bed.
"You know how I envision our future?" Satoru gently posed the question as he unbuttoned her blouse, his gaze fixed on her distant stare towards the ceiling, oblivious to his actions. Curious, she turned her gaze towards the white-haired boy. "Well?" she prompted, her eyes searching his face for an answer. Satoru's voice held a hint of longing as he painted the picture of their shared destiny. "I imagine us living together in a magnificent house nestled amidst the mountains," he revealed, throwing her blouse on the wooden floor as he admired her body. A wistful smile graced his lips as he indulged in his daydream. "The thought of returning home to find you patiently waiting for me fills my heart with joy," he confessed, having envisioned that scene countless times in his mind. When he did not get a response from Asami, he continued: “The idea of us sharing a bedroom gets me riled up.”
“Why” she asked. Totally unaware of Satoru slowly pulling down her underwear. “Think about it, Asami,” the white-haired boy said as he caged her with his body. Planting little kisses in her neck as he forces Asami to part her legs. “Sato I need to go home,” Asami said as she felt a warm hand between her legs. “My grandparents are waiting for me,” she said as she placed her hands on his bare chest and tried to push him away. Disappointment washed over as she realized that her effort were pointless.
“And now that Yu is out of the picture, that dream can turn into reality,” Satoru said as he massages her breast. “What? What do you mean?” Asami said drowsy. "Hush you do not have worry about it. He will not bother us anymore," Satoru said before planting a kiss on her forehead.
“I love you Asami” were the last words that Miyahara Asami heard before everything turned black.
One misstep in a mission led him into what could only be described as a more torturous cycle of love and abuse than he has ever felt before. Real smart of him to fall head over heels, quite literally, with someone hell-bent on locking him up. And maybe he'd be okay with that if you were the sheriff and he'd get to tease you before making some grandiose escape. But you had to be a bounty hunter—and an annoyingly good one at that.
You just don't give up. But neither does he.
He always manages to slip through your fingers, as your heart has evaded his. You'll get him this time or die trying.
He really could leave you in the dust with his trusty steed if he wanted, but it's cute how hard you try.
He pulls on the reins as he narrowly avoids another tree. Damn forests. Always growing those things.
He sneaks a look back at you so eagerly chasing after him, a deer after another one of its kind. How fortuitous.
He shouts at you, hoping to provoke your wrath, "Aye. What's the phrase? Seventh times the charm?"
He chuckles near lightheartedly, but you only hear a vicious cackle. With a single bullet from one of his twin Schofield revolvers, you feel your horse's legs buckle under you before you get a chance to respond. You swear this man can be in two places at once. By the time you have rolled off, not being able to spare a second to look for injuries, and stood up, Arthur is sitting on his high horse, quite literally, holding the revolver a couple feet from your head.
"Sorry, partner. Seems like you winnin' jus' wasn't in the cards."
You raise your hands from your sides, keeping your fists closed, your small backup slip joint knife in one.
"Seems like you're hiding somethin', darlin', or is this just another one of your tricks?"
You realize you haven't responded to him at all, almost frozen. Damn it. Fuck it all. It's not time for your 'instincts' to kick in. You become disturbingly aware of the metallic copper taste overwhelming your taste buds.
"Come on now!" He gets off his horse, yours having limped off, not rideable in its condition anyhow.
"The big bad bounty hunter who has taken in some of Colm's men gets all shy when in my presence." He gets closer. He seemingly walks with ease, but you can see the tenseness of his muscles, a strange mix of conflicting emotions in his weary eyes.
"Seems you're easier than I thought," his chapped lips murmur into your ear, innuendo woven throughout his tone—unashamed, almost.
Your body goes into the motions before your mind has time to make a calculated decision. You open your slipjoint knife to slit his jugular. A dead bounty is better than a dead bounty hunter. His hand wraps around your wrist, twisting it, causing you to drop the knife. You fall to your knees in pain as his grip tightens, no joy in his eyes from harming you.
"A-Ah, hah... fuck me," you breathily moan out, the adrenaline that's pumping into your veins becoming feckless.
You don't know how willing I am to take you up on that offer.
Arthur shoves you onto the dewy ground. Your knees buckle beneath you as your chest makes itself well acquainted with the dirt. He straddles your hips, the familiar sound of rope moving in his… his rugged hands.
The world threatens to turn black on you, but you stay conscious out of spite.
"You'll rot in hell, Arthur Morgan. Arrested or not," you spit out through gritted teeth, your blood seeping into the earth and the collar of your clothes.
Your body sits somewhere between alert and comatose, trying to find a split moment to make your escape before hogtied.
He chuckles.
"You ain't the first person to tell me that. You are the most attractive," he gruffly huffs out.
His thighs squeeze your sides tighter as he roughly ties your wrists and knots them together. He lingers for a moment, admiring you in this position. But he is a respectable man, well, somewhat respectable. So he keeps an 'appropriate,' appropriate for an outlaw grip, on you as he binds your ankles.
"If I was a worse man, I'd kill you." If I was a better man, I'd let you go.
He makes it a point to show the difference in strength as he connects the bindings of your hands and ankles together. His hands wander to various limbs, holding them down as you begin to struggle, frustrated by how long he's taking. How embarrassing this is.
"Kill me or let me go! You won't do it, though, will you? Inside of that twisted, fucked-up mind of yours, you like me. Maybe I remind you of the innocent souls you've tortured, you sick—"
Your voice is dampened by the sweaty bandana he stuffs in your mouth and ties around the back of your head. You still try to shout, albeit quite muffled, and you're getting light-headed again.
Arthur wants to say, 'God, you look good this way. The things you do to a poor man like me.' But refrains. 'I really am too much of a sick, ugly fuck to expect love from you.'
"You talk too much, dear. This ole' trick should shut you up for a while."
He hoists you up onto his horse, securing you to it. In a last-ditch effort, you try to use the leverage of the horse to nudge the cloth out of your mouth. You get it a little ways out and cause one more uproarious ruckus with your mouth.
"Or I could take your tongue, but I suspect you like it."
You can tell by his tone that he isn't joking. You stop and quiet yourself. You almost want to curl up into yourself, but don't.
"Good job, darling. Seems you're finally learning how to listen."
He talks to you sweeter than his horse. A shiver runs down your spine as your cheeks heat up, all involuntary, of course. As if it couldn't get any worse, he pats the top of your head, rubbing it as if you needed to be soothed like an animal in distress.
"We'll work on it. Together."
He mounts his filly, instructing her to start galloping. You don't know how long this ride will be or if you'll survive, although you suspect you will—and you'll have to play house or give in to whatever fucked-up fantasies are going on in that mind of his. You're too much of everything at this point. So you lie defeated, hogtied like some common criminal, on the back of the horse that belongs to one of the West's most notorious outlaws.
"I’m a poor, lonesome, cowboy."
"Poor, lonesome, cowboy."
"Poor, lonesome, cowboy."
"Taking my darling back to camp."
You hear Arthur's call echo as you ride your horse through the wooded path. You ignore him and continue your escape. Perhaps outlaw life wasn't your thing....
Hell, it seemed even Arthur thought that. He always thought you were too much in danger to be alone. Now with everything going on with Dutch... Arthur felt he needed to be an overwhelming presence in your life to protect you...
Meanwhile, you're starting to open your eyes to Dutch's lies.
"Just let me go, Arthur!" You call back, making your horse cut a corner to try and make more distance. "It's better this way, I'll disappear without a trace!"
"Like HELL you will!" Arthur yells, yet you can hear him cough a bit. "What has gotten into you!?"
"What has gotten into you!" You retort, trying to break line of sight. "Why should I stay so bad?"
"The gang needs you!" Arthur calls, "I'll miss you, what are you expecting to do alone? You have nowhere to go! You aren't thinking straight!"
"Bullshit!" You call back, making Arthur grimace at your language.
"Will you just LISTEN to me!?" Arthur calls, but you no longer humor him and go silent.
The sun had set a long time ago now. You should've expected Arthur to follow you like a hound. He'd never let you out of his sight.
The ride is silent for the most part except for Arthur's horse and yours. You keep trying to lose him, but like Dutch's precious hound, he doesn't lose your scent. He's a good tracker like much of the gang...
Even more so if it meant keeping you home.
When you're about to leave the wooded path, you feel something hit you. You aren't sure what it is, or what happened.... But next thing you know, your horse takes off and you're roughly pulled into the dirt road.
The thing around you tightens when you hit the ground. It restricts your arms, leaving you flailing on the ground. Upon closer inspection, once you regain your bearings, you notice it's a rope.
"Arthur!?" You call, seeing him stop his horse and dismount. Your blood runs cold when you see him holding the lasso in his hands. He'd go this far?
"Don’t struggle. This is for the best." Arthur responds coldly, approaching you before kneeling down to tie you properly. "You're acting like a damn child...."
You don't listen, of course, making Arthur have to roughly force you to the ground. You cry out in surprise and slight pain as he rolls you over. Your wrists and feet are tied as Arthur struggles with you.
"Arthur, please, I don't want to go back... Just let me go...!" You plea, fear now in your eyes upon realizing Arthur will stop at nothing to keep you in the gang.
Is it really to protect you...? Or is it for Dutch's agenda?
"Don’t be scared. I don’t want to hurt you." Arthur coos as he rolls you back over to sit you up. You're immediately cradled into Arthur's chest as he presses a firm kiss to your head. It seems loving... but you're shaking.
"You had me worried sick... running away like that... Could've gotten yourself hurt... or worse." Arthur reprimanded, cupping your face to gaze at you. You look like such a scared animal... just seeing the lengths he'd go for you is unnerving.
"Why? Why can't you let me go? I don't want to be in the gang anymore..." You whisper. It wasn't just Dutch's lies you wanted to flee from. It was Arthur himself, one of the most dangerous and loyal men in the gang.
The same one madly protective and attentive to you... willing to do anything to get you to stay... no matter how immoral.
"You might not understand now but you will thank me later." Arthur whispers, his tone soft as he holds you close. "You're just... not thinking right. It's the stress. Just let me help you."
"No, Arthur, come on—"
"The gang is your home." Arthur responds firmly as he picks you up, cradling you close. "The gang... I'd do anything to help you."
Arthur walks you over to his horse, sitting you in front of him so he can keep you close to his chest. You try struggling but he doesn't allow you to move much. His gaze his cold towards you...
You had a feeling you weren't ever going to be let out of his sight now.
"Let's get you home...." Arthur whispers, holding you close as he starts his horse back to camp.
"My horse—"
"You won't need a horse now." Arthur states. "You're staying at camp, if not, you're riding with me."
You're silent at that, the night sky twinkling above you as wolves howl. Arthur holds you tighter, as if to comfort you. All while you slowly realize escape was probably never possible... once part of the gang, always part of the gang.
Or at least... Always Arthur's.
"You're sleeping in my tent tonight." Arthur commands, making you give him a bewildered look.
"Why!?" You panic.
"Can't trust you. Need to know you won't run from me again." Arthur responds, kissing your scalp. "I'll be your bodyguard, sweetheart."
Arthur squeezes your waist, which only makes you dread going back more.
"You aren't going to run again..." Arthur murmurs, a possessive glint in his gaze.
"You're right where you belong... with me... so don't struggle now. We'll be home soon."
Jack marston (adult obviously + low honor) prompts 15, 21 by inuzkua
8/13
Shitty wifi will NOT stop me!!
-🧨
Oh God... Here's yet another Marston who can't take a hint. This takes place after the Epilogue in RDR1.
Prompts Here
Yandere! Low Honor! Jack Marston Prompts 15, 21
"You’ll come around sooner than you’ll think."
"I kinda like when you play hard to get."
Pairing: Romantic
Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Harassment, Jack is icky in this, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Kidnapping, Restraints, Swearing, Forced kissing, Forced "relationship".
It became a routine for Jack... watching you.
The man had once met you at the saloon you work at. He was getting a drink to revitalize himself after a long horse ride... only to find you. You caught his eye with your looks and innocent personality, tending to patrons with little care in the world.
Jack can't help but feel drawn to such innocence.
Look at you, some townie who hasn't seen what the world has to offer. You look as if you've never seen corruption. As if you've never seen an outlaw up close...
It's like he has to corrupt you at this point.
He's been making it a fantasy... a goal... to tear such innocence from you... to make you his.
But you've been difficult.
You've been denying Jack ever since he met you at that saloon. He's a regular at this point, a common face for you. You look at him like he's scum.
Each time Jack enters the saloon, he's searching for you. Be it at the bar itself or the saloon tables, he's hunting. Then... when he sees you... he corners you like weak prey.
Every word out of his mouth comes out as some odd flirtation. Anything from crude pick up lines, depraved comments, teasing touches.... Jack is a man who doesn't leave anything to the imagination on this path...
It frustrates him when you bat his hand away or curse him out of the saloon. It irritates him even more when he's tossed out of the saloon by folks on your side. You are a difficult catch...
Which just means you'll taste all the sweeter once he has you.
"I kinda like when you play hard to get." Jack purrs out one evening, leaning against the saloon wall as he watches you clean. You ignore him, which causes him to chuckle darkly. Oh you hated him... He knew it...
He loved it.
"Fuck off, Marston...." You spit, causing Jack to whistle in response.
"Ohhh, naughty mouth, dear..." Jack chuckles, eyes staring you down with a predatory grin. "I like that too... want me to clean it for you...?"
You grimace, continuing to do your job. It was typical of patrons to harass you as you work. That's the downside of working in a saloon.
However, Jack came here just to do that. He would spend hours in the saloon just to watch you. Sometimes, when he's merciful, he's just watching.
Other times... like now... He follows you around the saloon to try and court you. You're never receptive, especially with what words come out of his mouth. The worst part...?
Jack's sober during all of it... acting like some hormone charged disrespectful teenager the moment he sees you.
You were getting tired of him messing with you. You were even more tired of having to throw him out for getting into bar fights over you. Jack... wore you out.
But that was all when it came to him. He would just be a nuisance to you at work and that's all. The moment he's kicked out and you get back on your horse, things are fine.
Which is exactly how tonight was going to go it seems.
"Oi!" You call, making Jack grit his teeth. "He's back again!"
"Come on, doll...! I haven't even touched you this time!" Jack pouts, only to receive a glare in return.
"It doesn't matter... get out of my sight!" You spit, irritated by his past behavior. Jack looks irritated but raises his hands in defeat with a sigh.
"Sure, fine... whatever you say, sugar...." Jack surrenders, making you confused for a moment. "Want me gone? I'll go, sweetheart...."
His tone feels... suspicious to you. Jack leaving of his own accord? That doesn't sound like the Marston you know.
"I'll leave you alone tonight..." Jack murmurs, going to walk by you. "But I hope you know how much I want you, darlin'...."
Jack then kisses your cheek, the feeling wet and uncomfortable. A teasing lick is given to your skin before Jack pulls away and heads out of the bar. You stare blankly when he leaves... before quickly rubbing your cheek with your sleeve.
That's all you expected that night.
As suspicious as it was for Jack, you're just happy he's gone. Afterwards you were able to continue your work. Cleaning tables, serving drinks, making money...
Then you left to go home on your horse.
The air is crisp outside as night begins to settle on the town. The chirping of crickets and howling of wolves greet your ears as you make your way to your horse. You're exhausted and...
Your horse is gone.
Your heart drops to your stomach when you realize your ride could be stolen. You look around the area, concerned for where the animal went. Panic sets in as you aren't sure what to do... then you hear footsteps...
"You won't need a horse where you're going, sweetheart...."
You're roughly slammed into the back of the saloon's wall. You yelp, wanting to scream before feeling lips on your own. Facial hair tickles your skin as a wet warmth coats your lips.
You roughly push back, allowing you to part from the disgusting kiss. The man allows you to pull away with a grin, yet pins your hands above your head. Upon closer inspection... you see it's Jack...
No wonder he left so easily...
He was waiting for you.
"I was wondering how you'd taste..." Jack murmurs in a husky tone, licking his lips. "I hope I'll get more tastes like that when you're mine, darlin'...."
"No! Get off me!" You bark, only for Jack to chuckle.
"Aw... all bark no bite, puppy?" Jack teases, pulling something off his belt. "Come on... Don't be like that. You deserve a real man, know that?"
You struggle against his hold, yet it only accomplishes you two falling to the ground. This new position only aids Jack, who manages to pull his lasso off his belt to tie you. He starts with your wrists... then your ankles...
Then he picks you up like you weigh nothing.
"Pissy, are we? I thought you always wanted someone to sweep you off your feet like some romance story, dear?" Jack hums, seeing you struggle in his arms.
"Please! Let me go!" You plead, making Jack click his tongue and shake his head.
"Sorry, sugar, you made me wait long enough... You're mine now." Jack chuckles, whistling for his horse.
Jack notices you shake in his arms as he begins to stow you on the horse. He sighs with a chuckle, patting your back before mounting his horse. You are so cute when you cry...
"Now don't get all upset on me..." Jack soothes in his own twisted way. It's obvious he doesn't mean it as he rides off with you on his horse.
"You’ll come around sooner than you’ll think." Jack laughs, looking back at your bound and scared form
"Then you'll realize you like being mine... won't you, darlin'?"
My bad for accidentally posting and deleting the original draft/ask... Here's Jack with a bar singer darling.
Ask: "Jack marston (adult) with prompts "I actually went to see you last night… you didn't notice, but you looked so cute!", "Isn't it romantic~?" by L0s3r95 - 🧨"
Prompts here
Yandere! Jack Marston Prompts
"I actually went to see you last night… you didn't notice, but you looked so cute!"
"Isn't it romantic~?"
Pairing: Romantic
Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Stalking, Delusional behavior, Peeping tom Jack, Slight implications of intimacy/inappropriate thoughts, Kidnapping, Drinking, Forced relationship.
Jack never thought his life would turn up like this. He thought he'd never have to go into the outlaw life. His dreams, ever since he was a kid, was to be a writer if anything.
Then the death of his father occurred… Now suddenly his life's been turned upside down.
Jack wondered if life… was really worth something after that. After the death of his father Jack only ever wanted revenge. Once he killed that lawman who killed his father… Everything just went numb.
What else was there to do?
Since all of the tragedy Jack's been mostly a drifter. No mother, no father… just himself in a world who doesn't want him. His life felt empty now… no purpose in sight.
Bars became a common spot for him.
Alcohol often helped him cope with the feelings he couldn't handle alone. Bars helped him forget the fact he never belonged anywhere. He never belonged to anyone now… no family, no nothing.
Until he heard you.
Jack had come to a bar to forget how bleak his life had become. He wanted a whiskey and to space out in the corner. He wanted time to think of what to do next.
However as he tipped back his glass to let the alcohol coat his tongue and slide down his throat… He heard singing. Good singing too. Singing that made him turn his head.
There you were in fancy clothes singing your heart out. Your songs were bright and oddly captivating. It's a better distraction than the drink he had in his hand.
You're probably the brightest thing he's seen since becoming an adult.
Your songs became the perfect soundtrack for the runs to the bar Jack did. Whenever he came to forget the world… you often greeted his vision. Did he ever talk to you? No, not really.
But he never took his eyes off you.
How could he? You're attractive and around his age. How could he not find himself admiring you in the bar, drink in hand?
It started as a naive fascination. An innocent attraction to someone his age who happens to have the voice of an angel. Said attraction often led Jack to tracking down the bars you visited just so he could hear your voice again.
It soothes him… More than any song ever could.
Jack often found himself pulling out his journal as you sang. He can't help himself, he often just likes to write about you. You inspire him and he even finds himself sketching the outfits you wear.
It… wasn't quite an obsession in his eyes. Not to him, at least. He was just… captivated by you.
It's amazing how easily you grabbed his attention. All it took was your siren song to make him feel like his life was worth living. You gave his life meaning…
He couldn't help but follow you for that.
To Jack… he was your secret admirer. The man followed you to every bar you went to. He wrote down what you like, where you frequent, and your songs….
Eventually he even heard your voice coming from a hotel room and settled himself by the window in secret to listen.
Maybe it was an obsession after that…. Jack couldn't bring himself to care. Nothing else mattered in his life once he got his revenge. Now he had you… and damn, Jack knew he needed to do whatever it took to make you his.
Eventually trips to the bar never quite cut it. No, Jack needed to take his horse to carefully follow you whenever you went to buy a room anywhere. He never quite slept right if he didn't listen to you….
One night he couldn't help but watch you practice a song. You were no doubt preparing for another gig… voice still smooth as you picked an outfit for tomorrow. Jack knew he shouldn't be peeping… you deserve your privacy…
But you were always so adorable.
He knows he should've DEFINITELY left when you started preparing for bed. He KNEW he should've left when things took a more private turn. You deserved your privacy…
But your damn voice… Even when not in song… sounded heavenly.
Eventually it got to a point Jack couldn't help himself anymore. Months passed and he kept finding himself thinking of you. During times he lays in the rooms he rents… He finds himself feeling lonely.
He wishes he could take you home somewhere… Even if he's moved on from rancher life.
Jack brings himself to speak to you after some time. He's anxious, nervous like a schoolboy with a crush. Despite that… You offer him a drink and speak to him sweetly.
You're so friendly… so unaware that Jack's been watching you as though he'd collapse without you. You're completely oblivious to the fact Jack can't live without you. He needs you….
Needs like that tend to make a man desperate when they have nothing left to lose.
His confession towards you seems innocent at first. He's nervous yet giddy as he calls out to you after you leave the bar. You turn and give him a smile.
It's the sweetest thing he's ever seen… He wishes he could see it every day of his life.
"I actually went to see you last night… you didn't notice, but you looked so cute!" Jack finds himself confessing awkwardly, glancing away. You chuckle softly, flattered.
“Oh? That's so sweet…! Did you enjoy my show last night?” You ask innocently, yet Jack seems a bit anxious.
“Show…?” He asks quietly, his mind drifting to the night before. Yeah… he saw your show… but he saw another show too. A private one… one he liked to think was all for him. “Uh… Yeah! Yeah, I loved your show… Your voice is… amazing.”
Jack could practically feel his mouth go dry.
“Thanks! It takes a lot of practice….” You confess and Jack finds his face heating. Oh… he certainly knows it does….
“Yeah… Y'know, um… Have you ever felt lonely?” Jack pushes, memories of forbidden scenes flashing in his mind.
“... why do you ask?” You murmur, suspicious of the man in front of you.
“Well… I've noticed some of your songs are… love related.” Jack confesses, “Yet I don't see you with any man….”
“How do you know I don't have a man?” You question and Jack thinks back to the many nights he's watched you. He knows for a fact you don't…
But the thought of you being with anyone else makes him feel a little… envious.
“It's a hunch, Darlin’...” Jack laughs softly, leaning closer. “I was just thinking… I could be that man for you. No more lonely nights at those hotels… You could have someone to hold at night… Someone to listen to that pretty voice of yours….”
“You're being strange….” You accuse, backing off. “How do you know I've been taking hotels?”
“I'm a big fan, sweetheart…” Jack smiles, stepping forward. "Isn't it romantic~?” Another step makes you back up again… something's wrong… “To know a man is infatuated with you… To the point he wants to know everything about you…?”
“Have… Have you been watching me?” You ask, feeling your blood run cold.
“Uh… admiring. I've just been… admiring you from afar. My life's been rather bleak until I heard your voice… ” Jack confesses, soon noticing you're backing up. “... after months… I finally feel like I found something to dedicate myself to. You.”
“... Stay away from me….” You warn, backing off. “I barely know you…!”
It's when you run away that Jack starts running on pure instinct. He barely registers what he's doing before he's grabbing his lasso from his hip. He tosses the rope with practiced precision then yanks it.
You end up tumbling to the ground with a scream. His heart pangs… even your scream is attractive. Everything about you is….
Hopefully you can squeal for more positive reasons later….
Jack tells himself this is wrong. He should let you go, should just accept you won't love him. But then he remembers how it felt before he met you…
That thought alone makes him whistle for his horse, a hand around your mouth as he pulls you onto his horse. Sure, this is wrong… yet he's capable of worse things without you. He needs you….
“I'm sorry… I can't let you go now that you're so close….” Jack whispers, still muffling your screams as he tries to use his bandana as a gag. “I promise to treat you right, songbird… Don't waste your voice, okay?”
It's then Jack begins to ride off, internally thinking of his plans. Now he has you… the one he's been thinking of courting all this time. He knows he can convince you to love him eventually… Yet there's still something on his mind as he rides away with you.
Two Birds One Stone [Yandere Gojo Satoru x Reader]
Title: Two Birds One Stone [Yandere Gojo x Reader[
Synopsis: Gojo Satoru follows you home. ‘Alone in the Dark’ follow-up.
Word count: 3000ish
notes: yandere, noncon sex, humiliation, misogyny against reader
No one in your family, no one on the spacious estate--from the rotating guests down to the most menial of servants--believes that you are truly ill. Yes, your family let you return home without too many questions, let you bundle yourself in your room and come out only for meals that you leave as soon as it’s polite to do so. They offer to fetch the physician, and only smile indulgently when you insist that it’s a passing bug, you’ll be fine soon.
They do all these things, while they know that you’re not really unwell.
At least they grant you the mercy of not saying it out loud, at least for now, which is something you can appreciate. There is very little that you appreciate nowadays.
There is a soft knock at the door. One of the maids, then. They were trained to knock politely.
“Yes?”
The door gently opens to reveal one of the newer hires. A modest girl with the ability to act demure and professional just as well as any of the seasoned women who were multi-generational hires, whose mothers-and-grandmothers-and-great-grandmothers had worked for your family.
“Miss, my lord and lady have sent me to inform you that you have a caller.”
You clear your throat.
“Ah, unfortunately, I’m not feeling very--”
It was her turn to clear her throat, interrupting you. It almost made you flinch. It was an unusual gesture, not one your parents would have allowed. It should have been trained out by now.
“My lord and lady have sent me with explicit instructions that you are to come to the parlor immediately, even if you are unwell.”
You bite back a sigh. It must have been someone from one of the other families, then. Maybe throwing out another potential marriage match for you--your mother had fretted, especially recently, that you should have already been married by now.
The thought of sitting in that damned parlor and pretending like you weren’t constantly about to throw up from stress and shock made you want to tear your hair out. You should tell the maid to go away, and bury yourself under your blankets, and scream and scream because Gojo Satoru made you do something awful and the world was unfair and you thought he was your friend and--
No.
People like you didn’t have that luxury. So you force down your bile and half-heartedly make yourself presentable in the mirror, and follow the maid who escorts you down the hallway, out of the intimate private family rooms and into the grand hall that leads down to the parlor.
She stops you before you reach the threshold of the open door, and you almost trip on your dainty house shoes. The maid looks back at you with an expression that is something in between demure and overwhelmed. The skin of her cheeks flushes pink. She leans in, as if you were friends, and whispers,
“Miss, it’s--it is Gojo Satoru who has called on you.”
The world seems to drop out entirely. Yet you only feel as if you are falling as you stand there, hand braced against the door frame, head spinning. All the while, the maid grins, unawares, no doubt impressed that her employer’s daughter has associations with someone so well-known.
Sound pushes and pulls around you, distorting in your shock, but it’s there, clear as day: his voice. And your parents’ voices, all elegant and honeyed.
From your vantage point against the door frame, you can hear the trickling edges of their conversation.
“They were smart enough to ask me for some tips, and, well, how could I say no?”
Your mother’s voice oohs-and-ahhs. “No wonder we have seen improvement with them lately. All thanks to your generous tutelage, no doubt!”
You can practically hear the grin in Gojo’s voice.
“Well, it certainly helps that I like their company so much. Very much, in fact.”
You can vividly imagine the look that your parents have probably just given one another even before you cross the threshold of the door and announce yourself, curtsying slightly to your parents, as you’ve been brought up to do.
Gojo stands when you enter. Oh, the fucker. All etiquette and primness. Your stomach churns. If he wasn’t buttering them up, if he was anywhere else, if he wasn’t doing this to mock you, he wouldn’t be standing with his hands behind his back and a polite smile on his face. He’d be picking at his ear or lounging on the fine upholstery like it was some ratty college couch.
Your mother is fluttering towards you in an instant, smoothing down the wrinkled bits of your clothing, fingers darting over your face, looking for blemishes, scratches, anything that needs to be hidden or fixed.
When she’s satisfied, she lightly clasps your hand and leads you over to where Gojo and your father are standing. Your father greets you with a warm nod--unusual for him, but there is company, after all--and Gojo. Well.
Gojo smiles. Softly. You think, if he had his way, he’d be grinning like a cat that caught the canary. But that would be too much, in front of your parents. Too uncouth. So instead, he smiles lightly and sweetly and it makes you want to bend over and expel breakfast on your mother’s expensive rug.
“I’m happy to see you’re up and about,” he says. And then he reaches out and touches your shoulder. You stiffen.
You look to your parents--surely this is improper, surely they will say something--but your mother only presses her hand delicately to her lips and smiles.
Your head turns, slowly, back to Gojo. His smile widens.
“Don’t worry. I’ve told them about our private courtship. We don’t have to hide it anymore.”
The world should fall out from underneath you, but it stays stubbornly flat.
Your lips open and you will say something to make him leave, you’ll tell your parents what he did or feign illness or--
His hands move to rest on your hips, and--you jolt. Fingers dig into the skin of your hips through your clothing. A painful pinch that tells you: hush.
“I think it’s appropriate for them to have a bit of privacy, don’t you?” Your mother asks coyly, looking at your father. He nods solemnly and takes your mother’s arm. You have never, in your life, wanted your parents to stay with you more than you do now.
But they walk away. As your mother shuts the door, she gives you something most rare: a look of approval. How can she not notice the widened worry in your eyes? The anxiety in your expression? The mere presence of Gojo Satoru shuts out everything but his golden glow, the promise of his connection with your family.
The sound of the door shutting is like nails on a chalkboard.
You take the opportunity to jerk yourself away from him--to your surprise, he lets you.
“What the hell are you doing here?” You hiss.
Gojo puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs easily.
“You weren’t around, so I came to you.”
You hate the way he looks too casual. As if you’d ghosted him after a bad study session and not--not….
“Of course I wasn’t around,” you say, almost spitting. “You…” But you don’t say it. Shame washes over you, hot and sticky.
The silence between you is just as warm, and you want to wash it off.
“Let’s go to your room for more privacy,” he offers.
“No.” Flat refusal is the only thing you can think to do now. Just say no, no, no, until he gives up and leaves.
Instead of leaving, he sighs, languid, and stretches his arms above his head. “Ah, your parents will be so disappointed that I left so early, after all that I talked you up.”
You hate him so much.
“C’mon,” he wheedles, when you don’t respond. “I just want to see where you grew up. Is that so bad?’
Show him your bedroom, make him leave. You cross your arms in front of your chest. “It’s nothing special. Just a room,” you mumble.
“Don’t say that!” Gojo reaches for you and ignores your flinch when he wraps his arm around your shoulder. “It’s your room, of course it’s special.”
Your stomach responds to his praise with a low roil, a remnant of how you might have responded to his compliments before all of this.
--
“There,” you say, voice tight and short, as you gesture towards your bedroom. You pointedly leave the door open but Gojo doesn’t protest.
It’s not the most impressive bedroom on the estate--that would be your parents’ room, followed by the siblings who managed successful sorcerer careers and have already had a few children.
But it’s cozy, and it's yours, and for you that’s enough. You just wish Gojo wouldn’t contaminate it with his presence. He looks at everything, smiling, humming. He goes to read a journal open on your dresser and you rush to slam it shut. He jumps back with an exaggerated grin and apologizes.
He doesn’t look and leave, like you hoped he would. Instead, he sits down on your bed and pats the space next to him.
“You said you just wanted to look.”
He pats the spot again. “I just want to ask about your training. Really quick.” The look you give him must be enough to kill, because he puts his hands in the air. “I promise, only a few questions about your training.”
Your legs tingle as you force them to move, one step at a time, to the bed. You sit next to him and the proximity makes you want to flee. But if you just do what he says and get this over with, he’ll leave. You can deal with your parents’ expectations about some courtship later.
He smiles when you sit.
“So, any progress? Better? Worse?” He looks down at you through his glasses. “Be honest.”
“I… I guess I have been getting better at concentrating,” you murmur. You’ve been forced to, really, since you didn’t want your parents to know about what happened.
“Aw, see? I knew it would help!”
It. Is that what he calls what he did to you? Your throat hurts.
“That’s not why you did it.”
Gojo has the audacity to quirk his head at you. It’s a gesture you know would make many women’s heart flutters. It just makes you want to close your eyes.
“No?”
You don’t respond, and after a moment, he gets up. It’s enough to make you sigh in relief. He’s leaving. He’ll be gone and you can figure out what to tell your parents and it will all be fine because--
But he doesn’t walk through the door.
Instead, he shuts it.
“Gojo--”
He gives you a look.
“No one will mind,” he tells you, voice light. “I’ll be quiet if you will.”
Your heart thuds, one, two, three.
“What do you mean?”
He looks at you as if you’ve asked him the stupidest question in the world. Maybe you did. Because he’s walking towards the bed now, forcing you to scoot backwards on it. You realize the vulnerability of your body in this position far too late, because before you know it, he’s crawling onto the bed with you.
“Wait--wait,” you sputter. “C-Can’t you just leave? Please?”
He leans over you and pins you down with the mere presence of his body.
“You’re so sweet, you know that?” He kisses your neck, and you crane it to the side, which only makes him kiss it more. “So cute. I’ve been thinking about you every day since then. Every hour. Every minute.” His kisses grow more numerous, on your shoulder, up your neck, your cheek, finally resting just above your lips.
“Gojo, stop.” He’s so close that your breath ghosts his skin, puffs against his lips.
“I’ve been thinking about the faces you made,” he says, voice dropping an octave. The words slink out of him like a snake. “How sweaty you got. What you looked like with your come all over that pretty face.”
If your cheeks get any hotter, you’ll get ill. You know it.
“Stop it,” you whisper, but your lips brush against his and he takes the opportunity to capture you in a kiss.
The distraction is enough to keep you from thinking about his hands, to keep you from being aware of his fingers unlacing the buttons of your blouse, of how he slides your arms out of the sleeves. You’re only wearing a thin morning camisole underneath, and the sound of it shredding breaks through the unwanted kiss.
“Gojo--” You say, or want to say, but all your words are muffled against him.
Saliva trails from his mouth--you want to gag--when he pulls away. “Satoru,” is all he says.
He’s taken off your shirt. He’s ripped your undershirt. You’re lying underneath him, ample chest bared, and he’s not going to get off you.
His fingers find your nipples and give them an unceremonious tweak.
“Don’t!”The word comes out too loud, too shrieky, and both of you still in the silence that follows.
You expect him to get off you now. You expect him to realize the danger of being found out and take the opportunity to leave; ego bruised, perhaps, but still--he would be gone.
Instead, he grins at you. “I thought you wouldn’t want anyone to come in and see us? Ah, but…” He rolls your nipples in between his fingers, and you jerk on the bed at the strange, electric feeling that shoots in between your legs. “Maybe you want to get caught?”
You press your lips firmly together--be quiet, you tell yourself, be quiet!--and shake your head.
He continues to roll your nipples, and your hips squirm against the feeling. “I think you do,” he muses. “You know, if someone did waltz in here while I’m balls deep in you, we’d have to get married.”
You practically choke on the unexpected sliminess of his words. But perhaps not so unexpected, considering what he was doing.
“Wh--What?” You hiss.
Gojo looks at you like you’re dumb--cute. But dumb. “I mean, your family is traditional, no? I don’t think they’ll let me deflower you and not make an honest woman out of you after that.” He spreads his fingers out and gropes the plump flesh of your breasts with his hands; his palms brushing against your hardening nipples makes you bite back a sigh.
“I mean--I meant--we’re not doing, I don’t want to do--”
He leans forward and rubs his nose against your cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you. I like foreplay.”
“Foreplay?” You ask, helplessly, naively.
“Fuck, that’s cute,” he sighs. He begins to rub at your nipples with his thumbs, and there’s a warm, prickling sensation in them that makes your toes begin to curl. “You know how many times I jerked off thinking about these tits?”
“Stop,” you say, breathy. It feels good, and you hate it, but it doesn’t hurt--it doesn’t hurt, at least. That’s what you tell yourself to keep your mouth from screaming.
He ignores your words and squishes your breasts together with his hand, making them balloon almost comically.
“They’re so big, you know?” He pushes and pulls them apart. “How do you even stand up with these things?”
Humiliation blooms in your throat.
“Don’t be mad,” he says. “I’m not trying to insult them.” He sighs, then, and goes back to rubbing your nipples with his fingers, eliciting a whimper from your lips. “They’re gorgeous. Nice and big…”
Another whimper, this one louder, making you press your palm against your mouth.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He leans down, peering over his glasses. “Feels good when my fingers play with your tits?”
It does. You shake your head. But it does.
Gojo tsks lightly. You feel one hand leave your breast and reach down, down--sliding underneath the waistband of your skirt. Your body lurches but he’s too heavy and strong and you can’t move, even as he swipes his fingers down your underwear. You can feel the way his digits meet some slickness, smearing it around on the other side of the fabric.
“Your mouth can lie, but down here… you’re leaking.”
Your heart lurches with the memory of your leaking cursed energy, with the memory of the hard floor--and with the knowledge that it’s happening again.
Without fanfare, he grabs the waistband of your skirt and begins to shimmy it down. You kick and struggle, little noises escaping your lips that surely aren’t loud enough to be heard outside the walls. But it doesn’t matter. He’s stronger than you.
Your underwear goes down next, and you cringe at the feeling of wetness clinging to the soft material as he peels them down your legs. With your clothes gone, it’s easy for him to grip your upper thighs and pull them apart, exposing you directly to him.
“Gojo--” Your throat is dry and your words hoarse.
“Your pussy is prettier than I remember,” he says, ignoring your protests, ignoring the way your legs squirm. “Look--did your clit just twitch? Is it saying hello?” He smiles up at you, stupidly, and some part of you wonders if he really thinks you’ll laugh at what he’s saying. All you can do is swallow against rising bile.
“I was going to eat you out until you squealed first,” he begins, voice low. “But I don’t think I can wait. Besides, you look wet enough.” He rubs his thumb against your clit and you slap your hand back against your mouth at the sudden jolt of pleasure.
You know what he’s doing, even if you don’t want to admit it. You know before he reaches down and shoves his pants down around his ankles. You know before his boxers come down next. You know before you see his cock, hard like the last time.
How in the world is that going to fit inside you? You think. You feel, dimly, your privates clench and twitch at nothing.
“Your body is eager,” he tells you, cooing. “Even if you pretend that you’re not.”
“I’m not,” you murmur. He doesn’t listen. Your fingers grip the sheets of your body and you think dimly about what you’ve heard about sex. All you know is that you weren’t supposed to have it with anyone but your husband, lest you produce unwanted bastards to soil your family’s good name. Your mother had taught you all about the value of your “flower,” the importance of being chaste and virtuous.
And here you are, splayed on your bed, with Gojo about to take it all away from you.
You let out a whimper when he leans forward and rubs the tip of his cock in your folds. It’s thick and warm.
“Gojo,” you say, voice tight.
“Satoru,” he chides, sweetly. “I’m about to fuck you, honey, you can call me Satoru.”
You press your lips together and tighten your fingers on the sheets as he finally moves his hips forward, pressing his cock inside you, slowly.
It hurts. Enough that tears prick at the edges of your eyes, and you let out a soft, pained keen.
Gojo’s there, kissing you, as soon as it leaves your lips. His fingers brush away your tears even as he pushes forward, filling you up more, stretching you. The ache deepens, there’s a sting with it--you wonder if you’ll bleed, like your sister says she did, on her wedding night.
It doesn’t stop once he’s inside you. He pulls his hips back--there’s a brief relief from the feeling when he’s mostly out--before he pushes back in, and the ache reignites, making you jolt and whimper against his lips.
“Shh,” he tells you. One of his hands trails down your stomach, down your thigh, to rest against the top of your sex. His thumb begins to rub out slow circles, and an unwanted aching pleasure begins to build there.
It doesn’t make the pain go away. It doesn’t make the humiliation go away. All it does is introduce a sick sort of pleasure that makes you feel worse about yourself. How could you like this? It should be impossible, for your body to begin to feel a low, rolling pleasure that cuts through the pain–cuts through the horror–of what’s happening to you.
You whimper, bubbling out a little cry, and Gojo presses sweet kisses to your cheeks.
“That’s it, that’s my girl, you like that, don’t you?” The sweetness of his words is underscored by the wet sound of his cock thrusting inside you, by a faint slapping sensation against you every time he does.
But you do like it. Or your body does, and you’re not sure what the difference is, splayed on your bed, all warmth and sweat and aches. Gojo’s thumb presses deeper and your mouth opens–you gasp and he swallows your noises in a kiss, not letting up until his thumb is rubbing hard enough that your body arches and there’s a coil snapping inside you.
You grunt, animal-like, into his mouth. He grunts right back and shame curls over you, even as your body spasms in forced bliss. You can feel yourself clenching around him, as if you wanted him, as if you were trying to make the sex better for him.
He doesn’t pull away until you’re done clenching around him, and you shut your eyes for a moment to avoid looking at the almost dopey, pleased expression on his face.
The realizations hit you like slaps in the wake of your orgasm.
He made you orgasm. It felt good. You liked it, you hated it. You want more, you never want it again.
You just lost your virginity--still losing it, he’s not done–the precious commodity that your mother told you to guard well--on your bed. Before marriage. Before you were even in love. Before anything.
How could it be any other way, with Gojo Satoru? He takes, takes, takes. Takes what he wants because he can, because he knows it belongs to him, if he wants it. You, included.
There’s a gentle pat on your cheek and you realize Gojo is patting you, tapping you like he might a dazed sorcerer whose head met the rough end of concrete during a fight.
“Don’t get lost on me, now. Look at me… hey, you still here?”
“Yes,” you whisper, although it comes out more stuttered than you’d like with the shake of your body as he thrusts.
He plants a sloppy kiss on your mouth and moves faster. It hurts, still, but some of the more pressing sting is gone. Instead it’s an uncomfortable, new ache.
“You look so good like this, y’know?” His hands go from your cheeks to your breasts, and he squeezes them. “All ready to be filled up.”
His words take a moment to make any sense--and even then, you’re still not quite sure.
“Fill me… up?”
His thrusts get faster, and you hear your own breath stuttering stupidly as he fucks you. “Like I said--” His words are half-panting, but you get the feeling that they needn’t be; he only wants to seem undone, you think. “Want to fuck you. Want to breed you.” His hands squeeze your breasts, kneading at the flesh. “You’ll get real big, won’t you? With a baby in your stomach, just one at first, but--” He starts to speed up now, and you see a faint redness on his cheeks. “Fuck, who knows how many we’ll have.”
Cold fear clenches your stomach tight, and you resist the primal urge to gag.
“My-my parents,” you plead. Your parents would never let this happen, would they? Not if you told them the truth?
Gojo leans above you, looking down at you with a lascivious expression as he begins to thrust faster, making your breasts wobble with the motion.
“Your parents already approve. They feel honored, and they should, that I want to marry you. Have kids with you. Merge our bloodlines. Might have to fudge the due date, if this takes, but…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, his head veers down towards yours, and his lips practically crash into your mouth as he kisses you and presses himself deep inside you. He groans into your mouth and a warm, gooey feeling blossoms inside you at the same time. He came–inside you. You knew enough to know that was a bad thing, as far as potential pregnancies went.
When he pulls back from the kiss, he pulls back his hips, and something warm trickles out with his cock. It’s an awful feeling. The soreness, the wetness. The feeling of being used.
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, voice tinged with something warm and breathy. “Did you like that? Making me come?”
You don’t answer.
Gojo doesn’t seem to mind. He flops down next to you and catches his breath.
“We should go back out there pretty soon,” he says airily. “They’ll be expecting us. Your parents, that is.”
Your voice is a croak. “What do you mean?”
Gojo leans up on his elbows and gives you a cheeky grin. “Oh, I forgot to tell you! I told your parents I was staying for dinner. Figured I’d work up an appetite in here… plus we can tell them all about our engagement over dessert. Two birds, one stone?”
You don’t answer. Instead, you stare up at the ceiling, with its ornamented paintings. Pretty flowers and trees that your mother picked out when you were a baby. You had no input in it, just like you have no say in anything now.
No birds on the ceiling.
There are only the stones in the pit of your stomach, waiting to be retched up.
Synopsis: You’re training alone and Gojo has some… ideas for how to improve on your training.
Word Count: 6000ish
notes: noncon blowjob, noncon cunnilingus (done on reader), degradation/humiliation, some misogyny, mentions of reader childbearing, Gojo being a nasty creep
There was no place in the world of sorcerers for someone like you. You were too kind, too sweet--too soft.
That’s what everyone (or almost everyone) told you, almost for as long as you can remember. Yes, you can remember being a child and hearing adults tut-tut at the way you served others before yourself; at the way you made everyone stop so that a group of ducklings could cross the road; at the way you fretted over your brother when he came home black and blue and scratched-red from fighting curses.
It was bad, they said, for you to focus so much on caring for others and not enough on developing the strong skills to do what is necessary. Even when what is necessary might not be what is just or kind or thoughtful.
If you were to lament about these frustrations to the average non-sorcerer, you imagine they might widen their eyes, put their hand to their heart, or maybe even rest a hand on your shoulder. You poor thing! They might say. How cruel.
Was it cruel? You weren’t sure. You didn’t have anything else to compare it with--this was how most generations-long sorcerer families raised their children. You had to excel, you had to be strong, there was no room for weakness.
Kindness, it seems, was a weakness.
But… maybe your sweet personality wasn’t a complete weakness. Because your family didn’t throw you out, as some families did with the weaker leaks in their formidable chains. Instead, they pivoted.
If you weren’t going to be a stony-hearted sorcerer who could take down curses with their eyes closed (no pun intended, they would say, if they had a sense of humor) you would serve the family in another way.
You must still be strong, yes, but you could keep your tendency to dote and devote yourself to others if you were to take on another role: a wife. More than that--a mother. Marry a strong sorcerer, have lots of children, continue the line until your body could no longer stand having children.
And so you grew up learning duties of a different kind. How to manage a household--from the servants you would be expected to order around to keeping track of linens and pantries; how to sew, because while servants would no doubt do any heavy lifting, you could at least be expected to fix your husband’s garments or embroider a family crest on them; how to dote in the right way, acquiescing to your husband while doing your best to maintain the honor and reputation of your old and new families. How to raise children--the right way, so they hopefully don’t end up like you, needing to be delicately placed into a niche.
All this, while strengthening your jujutsu, while practicing harnessing your cursed energy, while knowing that you were not what your family wanted but you weren’t entirely useless, and you had to make the best of that.
Now that you’re an adult of marriageable age, it’s only a matter of time before they find a suitable husband for you. He must be from one of the great families, of course. You were too important to marry off to some low-level sorcerer without a stellar reputation. Not only that, but marrying someone from a prominent family (a strong family) would increase the chances that your children would be strong.
Strong children--strong sorcerers. More sorcerers--more soldiers in the ongoing battle against curses.
And if you wanted to do your duty, then you needed to be strong enough to perform it. No sorcerer wanted a weak little thing for a wife, did they? Of course not.
That’s what brought you here, alone, isolated and tired but so damn determined to improve yourself. It was your idea to come here, which seemed to please your parents. Your cursed energy has been running a little too wild lately, seeping out of you, escaping in little trickles.
It’s your own fault. Admitting this also seemed to please your parents, though it made a low pit form in your stomach, and you didn’t dare divulge into why it was your fault that cursed energy was streaking out of you like a stubborn dripping faucet.
You have too much self-doubt. You’re too worried about letting people down. You’re not confident enough, strong enough, and if you aren’t strong enough then you aren’t good enough regardless of how well you might perform on the wifely front in front of the increasingly judgemental matchmaker your parents brought in to monitor your progress.
But, no, you couldn’t say any of this to your parents. It’s not that they wouldn’t understand. It’s that they wouldn’t care. Self-doubt? No room for that here. Get rid of it. No confidence? How could you lack confidence, given your heritage? Change. No no, to be more precise, they would say: shut up, deal with it, then change.
The only person you did explain any of this to was Satoru Gojo, a friend (or colleague? Or friend-colleague? Or colleague-friend? You were never entirely sure where you stood with him) who would at least listen without completely dismissing you. Not that he did much more than cluck at you condescendingly and offer to marry you--in jest--to get your folks off your back.
You’d laughed and swatted him in the shoulder (which he didn’t mind you doing, leading you to think friend-first-then-colleague is the more appropriate moniker) and asked him for advice.
Which is what has led you here to train, alone and hard. But training was meant to be hard, so you couldn’t complain. And training alone would give you the focus you needed to actually improve.
And you would improve. You had to--not just for your family but for yourself, and your future. The wife of a sorcerer (you tried not to think too far beyond that, to what your parents had been grooming you for: to become a matriarch in the continuing line of your family’s clan) still had to be strong enough not to let cursed energy seep from her so easily.
With the right training, you were going to get better.
Right?
Right.
--
This is what you needed: time alone.
Because although you plan to be here for much longer, you can already tell that you’re sewing up those weaknesses within you, preventing cursed energy from sneaking out like it had been doing so readily for the past few months.
Confidence was key, after all. Your family had never been wrong on that front. You just needed to get away from the stresses of life to regain that confidence.
You sigh through your nose. The air down here is stale, but it’s not surprising. It’s not like there was anyone down here but you and the darkness and--
“Hey!”
You and the darkness and… Gojo Satoru.
“How are your leaks?!” His voice rings out cheerfully in the empty space, almost echoing.
For a moment, you fracture, and you can feel something trickle out of you. But you hold your breath and regain your senses, forcing yourself to regrip the focus you’d been maintaining for hours now.
Breathe in.
It’s just Gojo.
Breathe out.
Coming to check on you. Which means he cares, in his own way, which is more than you can say for a lot of people. But you wish he’d told you that he intended on coming. It’s a bit jarring, and a whisper of embarrassment begins to build in your chest. He was, as he didn’t mind saying (it could not rightfully be called bragging)-- “the best.”
You hear his footsteps before you see him in the dim lighting. His slow, aimless walk might have even seemed a bit creepy, if you weren’t already used to it. Or if he hadn’t called out beforehand.
He grins when he comes into view, hands in the pockets of his trousers. He’s wearing his sunglasses today, his hair down and loose. He gives a short wave, and you bite back a sigh. You don’t want to stand up--you’re still training--so you merely straighten your back a little and wave back.
“Ah, Gojo. Have I really been down here that long?” You wonder if anyone in your family has bothered to wonder where you were or took the time to track you down.
“Ah, Satoru,” he says, idly. “Oh, it’s only been a few hours.”
Just like that, there’s a sting in your chest. A few hours? Why would he check on you so early? Did he think you were that weak? Were you that weak? No--you shake the thought away, willing yourself to maintain focus, maintain the layer that keeps your cursed energy from releasing.
No, he was just… concerned about you. This would be the first time you’ve done something like this, after all. And he was always telling you that he’d be happy to give you advice, and he didn’t have the same sarcastic twang in his voice reserved for people he didn’t care for.
“So…” Gojo crouches down, getting close to your eye level. “You think you’re doing well?”
You let a smile show. A shy little smile, the kind you gave when you were feeling genuinely proud. Those smiles were few and far between when it came to your family, but you didn’t mind them in front of people like Gojo.
“Mm-hmm. I think coming here is helping me regain a sense of…” Your eyebrows furrow as he stands up and begins walking around you in slow, lazy circles. “Purpose?” Your head follows him, but he doesn’t stop or acknowledge what he’s doing. “Or um, confidence.”
He stops only when he’s right in front of you, but instead of crouching he merely leans down and gets right up in your face, a smile with a hint of teeth showing. The proximity brings heat to your face, and you lean back. He follows your motion, blue eyes behind his glasses peering at you in an almost uncharacteristically serious manner.
After a few moments, he speaks--
“I’d like to conduct a test.”
You fidget in your seated position.
“A test?”
Your heart beats a little faster--one, two, three. But you’re not worried. It’s more like you can feel the first creepy-crawlies of self doubt making their way back up your spine. Why does Gojo want to test you? He’s smarter and stronger and there’s a reason he’s consulted so much on teaching others, so… so…
You swallow that “so” while you wait for him to answer.
He taps his chin in a dramatic way, and it makes you feel better. At least, until he starts talking and seemingly confirms those creepy-crawlies. Not intentionally, though--he wouldn’t do that.
“Yes, a test! A truly great jujutsu sorcerer must be able to maintain control in all situations, no?” He waves his hands around at the surrounding space, the emptiness except for you and him. “Not in isolation. You won’t be fighting curses in isolation, will you? You won’t be fighting curse users in isolation, will you?” He asks these last two questions slowly, kindly. It makes you feel younger and more stupid, and you make a note to talk to him later about that, since he wouldn’t knowingly hurt your feelings.
“I…” You lick your lips. You brought a case of water, but you haven’t yet opened it, and your mouth is dry. Too dry. But that’s not important. What’s important is that Gojo has presented you with a very realistic, all-too-true conundrum.
You shake your head too slowly for your own liking. “No, I… I guess I won’t be.”
“You guess?” He asks, voice taking on an almost sing-song tone at the end that plucks at one of your fraying nerves.
Your heart pounds just a little harder, you feel a trickle of sweat on your forehead that you don’t wipe away. You force your breathing to even, your muscles to relax.
“I won’t be,” you reaffirm, removing all traces of doubt in your face. “I know I won’t be.”
He already started the test, you think, he just didn’t tell you. You might be mad but you’re not, not really. It’s just like Gojo to pluck out your weaknesses so he can help you better them, isn’t it? That’s what he’s here for, what he’s always been here for. To help you improve. To help you.
And you? You can do this. You were born and raised, literally, to do this. To be the best sorcerer you could be, and if you need someone like Gojo to help you, who were you to reject him? Nobody.
And so, when Gojo hums happily and plops himself down in front of you, crossing his legs to mimic your own position, you take a breath and remind yourself how lucky you are to have someone like him ready to help instead of quietly watching you fail, waiting for your downfall and wondering if it would help boost their own family’s status to knock you down a peg.
Gojo wouldn’t do that, not to you.
You take another breath, and Gojo stares at you, blinks--once, twice.
“Ready?”
You smile a little, sigh a little, and nod.
“Let’s do this.”
It takes your brain a few moments to process what happens, because it’s like there is a disconnect between your brain and your body and your soul and you don’t know how to tether them altogether again.
Gojo kisses you.
Not a chaste peck, either, but warm and wet, his tongue sliding over your lips; a slimy feeling you’ve never experienced before.
You jerk back before you know you do it, your eyes wide, knuckles pressed to your mouth.
“What--G-Gojo--”
Gojo doesn’t move from his spot on the floor. He doesn’t even seem bothered by your reaction or anything at all.
“What’s the matter?” He asks, eyeing you through his glasses. He looks above you, around you. “You’re leaking again.”
Your chest seizes. He’s right--when he kissed you, what control you’ve been confidently rebuilding was completely lost.
“I… I don’t understand how this is a test,” you get out. The words are slow and you feel stupid for saying them.
“Oh!” Gojo grins, then. “Sorry. Guess I should have explained, huh? I bet you never had training like this. Ah…” He leans forward, leaning his elbow on his knee and resting his chin lazily on his hand. “You have to be able to control your cursed energy in any situation, right?”
He waits for you to nod, so you do.
“And curses or curse users don’t always play fair. They may do something you don’t expect.”
“They won’t kiss me,” you say, but as soon as you say it, Gojo’s expression makes you question yourself. “Will… they?”
Gojo sighs, and moves to stand up.
“I guess I was wrong about you.”
Your chest hurts.
“You aren’t ready for this type of training.” He’s almost talking to himself now, getting ready to stand. “Maybe in a few years. Or, ah, maybe your family would rather you get married and your husband can decide if he wants you to reach your full potential. Maybe they won’t care, if you have enough kids…”
You try to clamp down on a stream of energy steadily making its way out of you. It’s like soured milk, bitterness, self-doubt, all clawing their way up your spine and out of you.
“Wait--” You reach for him and grip his sleeve. “I-I am ready, it’s just, I wasn’t expecting… that. I’m sorry. Please train me.” If Gojo won’t train you, won’t help you, then no one will.
Gojo tilts his head at you, considering. Then he slowly sits back down.
“Ooo-ookay. But you have to let me do my job, okay? I know what I’m doing.” He pokes you above your chest, on a clavicle showing above your shirt. The touch makes you jump. Almost makes you forget the lingering warmth on your lips… almost.
“Control your energy,” Gojo says casually. “No matter what, okay?”
You nod. And you wonder if he’ll kiss you again, but no, he’ll do something else. Try to attack you without warning or bring up something strange or maybe even try to dig under your skin with some sort of verbal spitfire.
He doesn’t do any of that.
Instead, he grips the bottom of your shirt and begins peeling it upwards with such quickness and strength that your arms go flying up with the fabric.
A noise escapes you, something like an undignified squawk, but you’re too unprepared and Gojo pulls the shirt up and over your head before you can protest or even try to stop him.
You do, however, regain your reaction time when your shirt is tossed to the side and quickly cross your arms over your bare chest. You didn’t even wear a bra, wanting to keep yourself to as few layers as possible, although it was more uncomfortable to go without because of your larger breasts.
Your cheeks burn terribly hot and you don’t know what you want to say. You just know
“S-Stop, this is, that is--this isn’t…”
This isn’t training, is it? A kiss, okay, okay, that’s something Gojo might do to tease you. Even if he went too far. But your clothes? No, no, no--
Gojo doesn’t stop smiling. You want him to stop smiling, to apologize, and to leave. But you don’t get what you want.
“This isn’t what?” He asks. There’s a stickiness to his voice that is like a filmy layer growing in your gut.
He doesn’t wait for you to respond. Instead, he reaches out and grabs your wrists, pulling them down so you can’t keep them crossed over your chest. You gasp but he keeps them held down while he leers down at your bared breasts.
He’s faster than you, and his hands are underneath your breasts, pushing them up and jiggling them before you can blink.
“These are pretty bouncy, huh?” He murmurs, to himself or maybe you, you’re not sure which would make you feel worse. Your face burns hot and your feeble attempts at batting his hands away get you nowhere. “But you’re always hiding them…” He continues to bounce your ample breasts up and down.
You can’t take it. Your skin feels like it’s on fire and you’re being touched in a way you’ve never been touched, and it’s Gojo, he shouldn’t be, he couldn’t be, doing this.
“St-stop,” you spit out, finally getting the presence of mind to jerk your body away. Amidst the embarrassment and shock is a thready bit of indignity. You aren’t some… some floozy, you’re part of a highly respected sorcerer family. He can’t just--
“This--this isn’t training! You’re just being perv--”
He presses a finger to your lips, and you hush stupidly with it. He takes it away and regards you with an expression you’ve seen him use with particularly stubborn would-be sorcerers.
“Aren’t I stronger than you?”
“Yes,” you say, helplessly. “But--”
Your hands go to cover your breast, and he bats them away.
“Don’t I know more than you?”
“Yes, but--”
“Then let me help you,” he says, taking and squeezing your hands with such earnestness that it throws your mind off balance.
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” you admit, voice mumbling and stumbling. Your eyes widen and you feel hot tears working their way to the corners of your eyes. He shouldn’t touch you… he shouldn’t!
Gojo merely uses his grip on your hands to clap them together.
“But it’s working, isn’t it? The more distracted you are, the more likely you are to leak energy. And that’s bad, right?”
While he speaks, his fingers release yours, only to slither down to the waistband of your skirt. Your breath hitches.
“Y-Yes,” you mutter.
“What is it?” he asks, fingers latching onto your waistband and tugging it down. You squirm, but he persists.
His question only dimly registers until he yanks down your skirt, pulling it down your seated legs.
“B-Bad?” You should tell him to stop. You should leave. But he’s… Gojo… and you’re just--
“And if you can control yourself, that’s…” He drawls out these words,, placing a finger on your clothed pussy and dragging it down the middle.
“Good,” you squeak, voice tight and tinny.
“Right.” He grins, all praises.
Your legs do kick then, and you try to scoot backwards, away, away, away. But he presses one hand down on your bare thigh, and you’re stuck.
“This isn’t training,” you plead, mouth opening and closing like a fish, shocked and stupid.
He peers down at you from behind his glasses.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
Your heart lurches. It aches.
“I d-d-do,” you spit out, jaw trembling as much as your body. “But…”
He gives your thigh a good squeeze.
“Th-th-then just let me do this for you, okay?”
The growing knot in your stomach twists and pulls terribly.
“How is this for me?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Instead he grips your inner thighs and pulls your legs apart. You’re aware, suddenly, of how physically strong he is--stronger than you, certainly, enough that what feeble attempts at struggling you’re still giving do nothing at all.
“I’m helping you,” he says, pulling out the word so that it’s almost a whine. “You help people all the time. I just want to return the favor. Now try to focus, okay?” As he speaks, he finally pulls at the waistband of your underwear, pulling it down your legs that have begun to feel like jelly.
“Wow.” He pulls his glasses down his nose and stares directly at your naked sex. “You have a really pretty pussy. I bet it tastes just as nice, huh?”
If your cheeks got any hotter, they might be on fire. Sweat beads at the back of your neck, your arms, your forehead.
“D-Don’t,” you say, wishing you had the guts to shut your legs and leave. But you can’t, or you won’t, you’re not sure which.
“Shhh,” he says, kneeling until he’s sprawled on the floor in between your legs. You couldn’t close them now if you had the strength. “Try to focus. That’s why I’m helping you train, right?”
The teasing glint in his tone only makes you feel worse, but it’s nothing compared to the first puff of his breath you feel against your sex.
You make a sound almost like a squeak and Gojo lets out another puff of air, on purpose this time, murmuring something happily when you keep making those noises.
“St--” You don’t get to finish the word before his mouth is on you, not bothering with any tentative licks but sloppily eating you out.
It’s an entirely foreign sensation, wet and warm, uncomfortable and strange. The fact that he keeps making positively lascivious noises only makes you feel more incapable of ignoring the reality. You shake your head and dig your nails into your palm, trying to process what’s happening as an uncomfortable heat builds between your legs.
Before long, he pulls away, and there’s a sick sensation in your stomach when you see that his lips are glossy with... with… you.
“You’re leaking down here,” he says, with the utmost of seriousness. “But I guess you can’t clamp down on that kind of leak, huh?”
You press your lips together and refuse to acknowledge him with a response.
He shrugs and goes back down between your legs, lapping at your clit with short licks of his tongue. The direct stimulation is different--tighter and more intense, and the sounds you can’t help but make are wholly undignified, short gasps and high-pitched grunts.
“Has anyone ever done this before?” He asks, pulling himself away by a fraction of an inch.
“Of course not!” Your cheeks burn at the audacity of the question. “I-I don’t, I’m not supposed to do… that before marriage.” Why you can’t seem to explicitly talk about sex to the man who is currently devouring your pussy, you don’t know.
“Ohhhh,” he says. The words are practically spoken into your twitching clit. “That makes sense… well.” He looks up at you, and flashes a smile. “Maybe we’ll get married. Can’t say I haven’t heard that rumor before.”
Before you can utter any sort of response, he leans forward and pushes you onto your back. With his body in between your legs, your legs fold over at the knee awkwardly, almost making it look like you’re displaying yourself for him.
“S-Satoru,” you say, voice hoarse, “I want to leave now.”
He shakes his head and holds up a finger.
“No way! We’re not done with training yet. Look at all that energy just seeping out of you. Tsk-tsk.” He puts the finger on his chin. “But don’t worry. I have another technique that should help… remember to focus!”
You don’t know exactly what he means until you watch warily as he lowers his finger and presses it against your wet entrance.
“No--”
But he doesn’t wait. He pushes his finger inside of you and your breath is taken away at the sudden intrusion. There’s pain and ache and the unusual foreign sensation of something inside you. You can’t help it, you clench around his finger and he coos appreciatively.
“I appreciate it,” he tells you, all honey, “but save that for my cock.”
“S-Satoru!” You whimper the words out, squirming, wiggling your legs in the air like it might actually stop him. You can feel cursed energy seeping out through you, like there’s a hole you can’t quite patch up. You fight between acknowledging what Satoru is doing--pushing his finger in and out now, sliding inside you, it hurts and feels weird but there’s a warmth, too--and keeping your cursed energy inside.
“Don’t worry,” he teases. “Not today. Don’t got the time…”
You squeeze your eyes shut, hating the hot tears that leak out, and stare up at the ceiling. Focus… focus… focus. You do focus, then, on keeping your energy from leaking out. Not because this is training--it’s not, you’re naive, not stupid--but because maybe it’s easier to bear all of this if you keep part of your mind elsewhere.
“That’s it,” he praises. “Keep concentrating… gee, you’re doing great.” The snicker in his voice makes your stomach lurch. You wish he would stop pretending this was training. It only makes it worse.
And then suddenly there’s another sensation of intrusion, and you look down to realize that he’s pushed another finger inside you.
“Hmm,” he muses. “You know, I wonder…”
Your jaw trembles as he pushes his fingers in further and wiggles them around, almost like he’s feeling for something. And then--
You shriek, your body jolts upward, and you sit fully up and instinctively grab his wrists.
“That’s the spot!” He grins, laughing, and pulls his fingers out only to bat your hands away. Then he gently pushes you back down onto the ground. Your thighs are trembling and you can feel wetness trickling out of you, slow and uncomfortable.
“I bet you’ve never been able to reach this far with your little fingers. Don’t worry, I’ll help you…”
You push yourself up on your elbows and shake your head.
“No… you, you don’t have to. You don’t need to, I’m--”
He interrupts your pitiful pleads by pushing his fingers back inside, and your breath hitches at the sensation.
“’Course I do! Gotta teach you everything. What kind of sorcerer would I be if I left you in the dust?” He watches you intently over his glasses, the blue in them agonizingly beautiful, and he finds that spot again.
But this time, he doesn't graze it in curiosity. Instead, he presses down and strokes it and it’s like an immediate shock to the system. A burst of almost painful pleasure, causing your legs to aimlessly kick and shudder without you controlling them and you let out a primal groan, not words exactly, just mumbled pleas. You feel something squirt out of you and hear Gojo’s surprised sound, a little pleased exclamation.
He doesn’t stop, though, but keeps going. The white-hot pleasure is like being touched in all the right places in all the wrong ways, and you can’t stop your thighs from quaking.
“Too much too much too much!” You get the words out, just barely, drool dribbling down your lips.
Mercifully, he pulls his finger out. You can see him look down at them through his tears, and he tsks lightly.
“You know, for such an innocent girl, you're soaking. Or is that why you’re so wet? Because I’m the first one to touch you?” He leans in and presses an almost chaste kiss to your lips. You can taste something on them, salty and almost earthy. Yourself.
“I hope I’m the last, too.”
When he pulls away, you eventually sit back up and, arms shaking, reach over for your underwear.
At this, Gojo tilts his head.
“What are you doing?”
It’s your turn to tilt your head, though you can’t tell if you’re mirroring him intentionally or not.
“My… clothes,” you say, slowly. “I’m putting them on.” Because this is over, right? He’s had his fun and you can leave and never talk to him again.
“We’re not done yet, silly.” He grabs your underwear and shoves them into his pocket, then stands up and stretches his arms casually.
You stare up at him, naked, warm wetness between your legs. Feeling dazed and spent and tired.
You’re about to ask what he means when he simply unbuttons his pants and pulls them down, boxers and all, without a word or a warning.
He grins, like he’s just shown you a present. What he’s shown you is his erect cock, glistening at the end with a wetness of its own. You’ve never actually seen a man naked before, a few photos in a pilfered naughty magazine that you snuck out of a friend’s house notwithstanding. It’s fleshy and slick, thick.
“Now,” Gojo says, looking down at you in more ways than one. “Here’s the real test!”
His name comes out of your mouth pitifully, but he just pushes a finger to your lips and smiles.
“C’mon. You’re sweet, aren’t you? Always helping everyone else. I helped you just now, so now you return the favor. Easy.”
Your face screws up in a grimace. You can feel hot tears still pricking at your eyes, threatening to fall again. Then you look up at his face and down at his cock and then back at his face.
You’re not entirely ignorant of what he wants you to do--you just know that seeing a picture or reading about it in a spicy novel is far different than experiencing it for real. Especially like this. Especially with him.
“I don’t… I’ve never…”
He pats the top of your head gently, but strangely, keeps his palm on the back of your head afterward.
“I know, I know. But I’ll teach you. Besides,” and there’s that awful grin in this tone again, “it’s not enough to control your energy while things are being done to you. You have to control it while you do things to others, right?”
He shifts forward and his cock is right in front of your face. You can’t really look away. You can smell him, even, a musky smell. Not wholly unpleasant but like the taste on your lips from his own, there’s an earthiness to it. A primal sense.
You want to run. You should. Others would in this situation, wouldn’t they? But he’ll just bring you back, if you do. Or worse, let you go and… who knows what he might say to others? At least if you do what he wants, he can’t do anything worse than this.
You hope.
“What do I do?” You whisper.
He releases his grip on your head only to clap his hands twice.
“There’s my girl! You’ve got the right spirit.” He beams down at you and you hate how the blue of his eye peeks through the top of his glasses and the way his smile should make you feel good, but only makes you squirm.
He shifts forward again until his cock brushes up against your cheek. You gasp and lean backward, only to find that his hand is back against your head, keeping you in please.
“Open your mouth,” he says, almost sweetly.
And you don’t want that thing on your face anymore so you do, opening just a little.
“Wider. Like you’re at the dentist. Watch your teeth.” He sounds more serious. Like he’s instructing you--and he is, isn’t he? you think, sickly.
You open wide, feeling stupid, feeling sick, as he guides his cock into your mouth. He lets out a sigh of appreciation as he pushes inside, and you instinctively make a muffled noise of protest--this isn’t right, this isn’t right. In front of you are his naked hips, the base of his cock, a smattering of pubic hair.
The taste of him is vaguely salty and warm, but it’s the sensation of having something--having him--filling your mouth that makes you back your head up, wanting him out. But the hand on the back of your head keeps you in place, pushing. His cock hits the back of your throat and you gag. Tears stream down your cheeks from reflex and the realization of what’s happening.
He snickers, but pulls back a little.
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be more gentle.”
He begins to move, then. Slowly at first. You don’t do anything but keep your mouth open, keep your tongue pressed flat to avoid touching his cock, though you soon find this to be an impossible task. You can’t help but gag a little when he pushes, but at least he seems to be trying to avoid doing it on purpose.
It’s a small mercy, you think, though what counts for “mercy” right now is highly debatable.
Your cheeks are hot like fire as you begin to taste more of him, feel more of him. He’s inside you, all flesh and warmth, an extension of himself that he’s using to--to what? Tease you? Use you? Something else?
He begins to move faster, and you gag, trying to mumble his name in plea around his cock. He groans and the hand on your head grips harder.
“Oh, fuck, don’t do that. I won’t be able to control myself.”
You want to sob but you’re afraid of moving your mouth so much. The tears fall down your face, regardless.
“Good girl, you’re being so good… you were born for this, weren’t you?”
When you look up, Satoru is looking down at you the way you think someone might look at a nice collectible figurine. A precious item to be touched and dusted at whim.
“Born to be a good sorcerer’s wife,” he continues, and it’s almost as if he’s talking more to himself than to you. “That’s what we’re doing now, aren’t we? Practicing that? There’s all sorts of training for sorcerers, you know…” His thrusts begin to get less controlled, quicker. “Practicing controlling energy… controlling techniques… all those little nuances of life as a sorcerer. Like this.” The thrusts are so quick that you start making helpless noises around them, little grunts. “You’d be a good wife, m-maybe--” His breath hitches, the first time you’ve heard him lose control. “Even a good mother, after a while.”
You make a sound of protest--it’s the last thing you want to be thinking of right now--but he shushes you and starts thrusting sloppily, clearly lost in his thoughts. “You’ve even got nice big tits, don’t you? Perfect for breastfeeding or, fuck, holding onto while we fuck…” He sighs, languid. “I’ll try that next time, okay? Gotta be patient.”
His words seep into you like cursed energy, confusing (it is true, you were raised to be a wife, raised to have children,--but this?) and hurtful and twisting in your stomach.
Suddenly he pulls himself out of your mouth. Your lips make a wet plop and you open them to start to ask what he’s doing, but you don’t have the time to ask, because there’s suddenly something warm and thick all over your face. Something lands on your lashes and you blink, feeling a salty sting on your eye.
Your pussy clenches and you don’t know why.
As you sit there, shocked, dazed, you hear a click.
Oh.
He took a picture.
You wipe at your eye, cringing at the feeling of something wet and globby on your hands, and look at him with wide, teary eyes.
“Just for safekeeping,” he says, tucking the phone into his pocket. “Wouldn’t want this to get out, would you? Would definitely put a damper on your marriage prospects…”
There’s no reason you shouldn’t sob, now, without Gojo in your mouth. So you do. Your face crumples and everything that just happened hits you all at once, until you’re weeping pitifully in front of him.
You’re dimly aware of him leaning down before he pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his cum off your face like he’s wiping at a bit of stubborn dirt. He wipes at your tears with his fingers, at least.
“Don’t be so glum! You did great!”
He presses a kiss to your cheek and straightens up.
“I’ll be sure to tell your father about your improvements in cursed energy control. He’ll be happy, don’t you think?”
You don’t answer, because you don’t have words anymore.
He leaves, his footsteps receding loud. You don’t watch him go. Instead you sit there in the same position, naked, wet, feeling sticky and used.
And like that, you’re alone again.
You don’t try to dampen down the energy that leaks from you this time.
Kento Nanami’s last words were painful to utter — both from the serious injuries he sustained and from holding back tears that threatened to fall down his cheeks.
He didn’t mind dying, as he was exhausted. Beyond tired.
But he would never see you again, and he would never get a chance to say goodbye.
He couldn’t think about that right now, though.
If he did, he would cry.
And with Mahito’s chilling hand pressed against his bare back, he didn’t know how much time he had left to speak to his traumatized student.
“I have a wife, Itadori. I love her so, so much.” Nanami smiled sadly — as much as he could with his half-burned face. “Her name is Y/N. F/N L/N. Find her and my daughter. Tell them I love them, okay? Say it over and over again . . . so they won’t forget it. Make sure they aren’t too sad. Keep them safe. Y/N . . . she oversleeps a lot and forgets to take her medicine. She’s very clumsy too, so just . . . watch over her for me. She won’t buy her favorite snacks unless she thinks I’ll eat them with her, so try to share them with her when I’m gone. She hates watching her favorite shows alone . . . and going to the mechanic . . . she hates being alone, Itadori. Please don’t leave her alone. My kid’s young — she won’t remember me in a few years — so when you tell her about me, just tell her that daddy loves her, okay?”
“I-“
“Itadori,” Nanami interrupted sternly, yet tiredly. His grin softened. He imagined the beautiful faces of his wife and daughter one last time. “You’ve got it from here.”
As Nanami exploded from Mahito’s horrific technique, he died with the hope that someday, he would see you and his sweet girl again.
(Hiromi Higuruma, pining away for you, his coworker. Except he's kind of a pervert about it.)
Hiromi Higuruma who always listens to your professional opinion, and makes sure to credit you to coworkers and higher ups.
Hiromi Higuruma who becomes your lunchtime venting buddy early on. Sometimes you’ll catch each other's eyes and he’ll give you that look that lets you know he has some shit he needs to say RIGHT now so it’s time to take a break.
Hiromi Higuruma who is happy to help you out off the clock because at least you give him something to look forward to during his stressful days. He really does want to support you in your career growth (among other things).
Hiromi Higuruma who takes turns with you buying each other lunch, then dinner when you have to order takeout for overtime. He knows your go-to order from every place that delivers to your office.
Hiromi Higuruma who looks ten times more stressed when you get back from any time off. His jokes get increasingly more serious about how you “can’t just leave me on my own like that” even when you aren’t working on the same things so your presence makes no difference. Except it does. To him. He feels like his head is going to explode from dealing with work all day without those little moments of relief from being around you.
Hiromi Higuruma who glares at anyone making jokes about him being your “work husband” because it’s unprofessional and “two people can just get along without there being something to it.”
Hiromi Higuruma who knows there absolutely is something to it because he’s so, so bad at not thinking indecent things about you all day long. He doesn’t even know if you’re flirting with him or if it's all in his head. What he does know is he can't bring himself to show restraint over how much time he spends with you in the office.
NSFW/18+ ONLY UNDER THE CUT
Hiromi Higuruma who, when you eventually bring up adding him on social media, takes weeks to add you back because he knows he can’t be trusted with access to a collection of pictures of you. He was already battling guilt over jerking off to the picture of you on your LinkedIn. It was so posed and styled that it barely looked like your day to day self but it was all he had outside of his imagination for months.
Hiromi Higuruma who feels like a disgusting fucking pervert when he makes a whole folder of saved pics that make his dick twitch after clicking through every single picture. Innocuous things like a photo of you sitting down, looking up at whoever was taking it with a twinkle in your eye - ammo enough for him to picture you looking like that on your knees in front of him. God help him if he finds a picture of you in a swimsuit, or anything more revealing than your work attire. He knows it's scumbag behaviour, and he knows it's risky having them on his phone because he'd look like a crazy person if someone ever saw him with a hidden collection of seemingly innocent pictures of you, but after months and months of pining he sometimes finds he has to lock himself in the bathrooms at work to stroke his cock looking at them. Especially if you've shown up wearing those heels.
Hiromi Higuruma who so helpfully accepts your request to house sit for you when you’re going to be gone for a week. All he needs to do is pop in to water some plants, maybe feed a cat or some fish, just generally check everything was in order. He knows from the second you leave your key with him that he will be an absolute freak about it too. The first time he goes over he finds himself looking in your dirty clothes hamper, heartbroken to find it empty. He doesn’t even finish the actual job he’d come there to do because he feels that fucking guilty for being a creep.
Hiromi Higuruma who, a day later, comes back, waters your plants, and settles for stealing a pair of clean panties to spend the rest of the week jerking off into. He’ll return them washed, right back where he’d found them, the day before you come home. And he'll miss them just as much as he hates himself for doing any of it in the first place.
Hiromi Higuruma who makes you second guess if he really liked you as much as you thought when he starts asking when you’re going on vacation next. It’s not that he doesn’t miss you while you’re gone… it’s that he can’t stop kicking himself for not rifling through your drawers to see what sex toys you use on yourself.
Naoya who’s secretly in love with his wife but he’s always a little mean to her so he knocks her up to secure their marriage👀
& yes i am horny
cw manipulative naoya, reproductive coercion
he would never said.
not even with a gun to his head, he will never reveal his deepest secret. the enjoyment he had in the little 30 minutes he had pinned you down on the bed. nose buried in your head, hands palming your bare chest, listening to weak, soft whimpers as his hip slammed harsh against your own. cock prodding the thin resistance of your cervix, the aching feeling of a bruise forming almost a bliss more than pain to you. you were used to it. it was the only moment he could be true to you without exposing himself. confusing your head with the softness of his lips against your skin while raking your sensitive walls. every whimpers of his name rolling out of your tongue begging for him to slow down were only making his cock twitched.
he could only tell you how much he loved you when his cock is molded around your cunt.
deep in the corner of his heart, he felt bad. trying to reason his mistakes with an excuse of he was just doing it for you. you were too innocent for the world. there were just too many bad, manipulative men in the world he would rather it be him than any one else. he knew how much doses of the fertility herbs he could coax you to drink in a day as disguise of a simple plain tea. watching intently as you swallowed the bitter tea down, threatening punishment if a drop ever spilt. his eyes stared down on your throat, watching you swallowed it down before squeezing your cheeks apart. tingles down his spine as your tongue rolled out to present your empty mouth. he inched his lips closed to your ears, warm breath tickling it.
“that’s a good girl.”
your body shuddered.
switching your birth control with a constant stream of placebos were easy. you though you got the long end of the stick; naoya made it happened. only he and the housekeepers had access to the pills. what do the housekeepers know about pills anyway; they all looked the same. the faux safeness you felt as you swallowed the pills down eyes burned on him almost made him laugh.
“you’re foolish. you’re just a pretty little lamb. numb, dumb the moment my cock entered your little hole.”
it was hard to reply, your head thoughts of all these snarky remarks but your throat could only gargled strings of slurred moans with his palm around the column of your neck. he wanted to see you, tossing you on the bed before crawling over you. your legs held apart by his own, cock slipping through the soaking slit so easily. god, how he loves the way your face contorted in pleasure. he hated how vocal a woman is on bed, the begs and moans sounded like a shrill to his ears but from you, it was all melodious. he wants to know how good he making you feel, how begging will only make him obeyed your requests better. he swallowed the lump in his throat as he inched closer to his edge.
you don’t know how much power you have over him.
“nao-” you choked, eyes widened as his lips laid agains your own. his kiss were different. your fingers dug into his shoulder, crescents shaped dents bound to left its mark on his back. he wore his scars with pride, sparring half naked with a fresh nail marks all over his back were something you couldn’t put a reason to why you found it hot. maybe you were as insane as him. who would ever love someone as annoying as him?
you would.
“keep it all in,” he grunted, “not a fucking spill.”
you nodded. his threats were green in your head as you nodded pathetically, eyes glinting in excitement as your own knots started to tense. “what? i can’t hear you, did my cock make you dumb already?” he scoffed, clenching your jaws in a hard grip.
“y-yes naoya, please.”
naoya promised, he did feel an ounce of guilt. partially wasn’t because you did beg for it. how can he not filled up his pretty little wife when she begs for his cum? leaning against the bathroom door arms around his chest. you couldn’t move, glued to the floor, eyes staring down on the pee soaked stick. it was your third, all showing a positive mark. you shook your head. this can’t be happening.
“what did you do?” your voice trembled.
“nothing you’ll understand,” he voiced sternly. he knew what he was doing. you are forever his before and now, it sealed it. you’ll learn to love the baby just like how he had learned to love you. even if it takes years, he will wait.
cw: brief mention of violence and threat (not graphic), consumption of alcohol/cigarettes, explicit sexual content (oral sex f! receiving, fingering, hand jobs, vaginal sex) - NSFW, MDNI
word count: 8.9k
a/n: thinking about how young cocky annoying kishibe showed up for 3 panels and changed the trajectory of my life forever ... so here's 9k words of kinda-sorta-enemies slash annoying colleagues to lovers .... with a tiny splash of angst too for good measure? i just love this man and think he's a secret softie so here's him successfully pulling for once <3
___
“You’d really say no to a smoke?”
Kishibe’s question sounds disbelieving as he holds out the box of cigarettes in your direction. Instead of answering, you choose to wave away his offer dismissively. Still shocked, he continues, “you’re not even a little tempted?”
You roll your eyes. You’re one of few devil hunters in the Public Safety Division that rarely, if ever, smokes; a fact that makes you somewhat of an oddity to people like Kishibe, your partner, who seems to keep the tobacco industry afloat through his wages alone.
“Nope,” you reply simply. “They taste bad.”
Your replies are clipped and borderline rude but you can’t bring yourself to care - not when he’s dragged you to this place yet again, at this godforsaken hour of the morning, to “look over your case files” even though he never seems to actually care enough to read them.
The place in question is a dingy old café on the outskirts of town, one that Kishibe insists on coming to even though there’s a fancy new artisanal coffee shop just down the road. His loyalty to this dump baffles you.
In theory, you don’t object to meeting up this early - you usually prefer to grab a hot drink at this time anyway, just to keep your hands warm, and Kishibe always needs to take a smoke break, so better to get it out of the way before the day kicks off - but you hate how he never seems to take these meetings seriously. It feels like wasted hours you could have spent sleeping.
Adding to your resentment is the fact that you have to sit outside in the freezing cold just so he can grab a smoke. He doesn’t like walking and smoking at the same time; it distracts him too much, apparently.
You hate it out here. As grim as it is on the inside of the café, the exterior is far worse; grey, miserable concrete floors and walls, no decoration of any sort, and just one solitary table for outdoor dining.
And at that lonely table, there is only one chair - the chair which you’re currently sitting on. Thankfully, Kishibe knew better than to fight you for it since it’s his smoking habit that’s keeping you outside.
He’s leaning against the wall next to you, peering down curiously as you sip your drink with a poorly-concealed grimace.
“You really sure you don’t want one?” he asks again.
“Shut up and smoke the damn cigarette. It’s fucking freezing.”
Kishibe lets out a short huff of amusement, finally fishing a cigarette out of the box and bringing it to his lips. He slips the box back into his shirt pocket and then pulls out his rusty old lighter, soft strands of black hair falling into his eyes as he lights the cigarette. His lips purse around the tightly-rolled tobacco, his cheekbones stained pink from the cold.
You don’t know why your eyes linger on the sight. To distract yourself, you open up a copy of the report sitting on the table in front of you.
Kishibe takes a long drag before exhaling with a pleasured sigh, eyes closed with bliss.
“Doesn’t taste too bad to me.”
“Well, that’s you,” you mutter, scanning over the paper on the table. You’ve just picked it up from the captain of your division - he left it a little late to brief you both, considering the mission starts today - and you want to have at least a passable knowledge of what you’re up against before setting out.
You’ve worked a few jobs with Kishibe since being assigned as his partner and generally, you tolerate him fine. He doesn’t try to ruin your day (you don’t think, anyway). You even share a few laughs every now and then, once you grew to understand his strange and overconfident sense of humour. He’s manageable.
But at times like this, times when you should be focusing on the job that’s been assigned to you instead of just fucking around, smoking cigarettes and taunting each other …
At times like this, he can really get on your nerves.
He’s far from a bad hunter, you know that. His strength and skill have given him quite the reputation even though he’s still in the early stages of his career, and he approaches every fight with the sort of stoic level-headedness you could only aspire to.
He’s good. Too good, almost, and it scares you how he manages it all without even breaking a sweat.
That’s the real reason he gets under your skin so often. It's all too easy for him, and it’s a humbling reminder of your own mortality. He may not need to do this much preparation and research in order to stay alive, but you certainly do. You can’t take any chances.
That, coupled with the fact that you can’t even enjoy your morning cup of coffee indoors anymore …
“You sure it’s just the taste you don’t like?” he pipes up as if on cue, prompting you to give him a withering look over the top of the report. “You’re not scared of them, are ya? Cos we’re not gonna live long enough to worry about the side effects of smoking, if that’s what’s actually bothering you.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t smoke,” you reply, unimpressed. “I’d rather spend what little time I have left doing things that I actually enjoy.” You gesture dismissively at the cigarette dangling between his lips. “And those things taste like shit, so I don’t bother wasting my time or money on them.”
He raises his eyebrows when he takes his next drag, whisps of grey smoke spilling out into the frosty air as he exhales. “I could get offended here, y’know?”
“Why would you be offended?” you say disinterestedly, your eyes lingering on the part of the report that details the previous fatalities of the devil in question.
“Are you saying that I taste like shit, then?”
“Maybe you do,” you say, setting the paper back down in front of you with a yawn. “I don’t care.”
Kishibe’s grinning down at you now. He has that kind of smile that always reaches his eyes, and you’d almost find it charming were it not always associated with him trying to tease you.
You’ve read enough of the report at this point - it sounds awful, but all the death and destruction and suffering starts to blur together after enough time - and so fold the paper in half and slip it into your jacket pocket, trying as best as you can to ignore the grin spreading across Kishibe’s face.
“I don’t taste like shit, y’know,” he elaborates, even though you didn’t ask him to.
“You’re a freak.”
Your comment does nothing to halt his attempt at conversation.
“Well, I have these breath mints, y’know - y’know those ones you can pick up at the counter in drug stores? They’re pretty good, cancels out the taste. So I make sure I don’t taste bad.”
He finishes his sentence by stubbing his cigarette out on the ashtray and opening the little tin of mints that he keeps in the same pocket as his lighter. He pops a mint into his mouth and stays looking smug, so smug you could slap the expression right off his face.
You are in no mood to entertain him any further, so just fire off an agreement in the hope of shutting him up.
“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”
But you should have known it wouldn’t be that easy, because not a second later he asks, practically beaming …
“Do you wanna find out?”
You get up from your chair abruptly, shoving him with your shoulder as you pass him on the way out of the café. He gasps in feigned indignation and is just about to speak up again before you call out a question of your own.
“Has a line like that ever worked on anyone?”
He laughs, though it ends in a cough. You turn to leave but still hear his answer from over your shoulder.
“Nope.”
______
The job is a tough one, even by the standards of devil hunters.
Kishibe has your back and you have his, but it’s not enough to save the many casualties who you had hoped to keep out of harm’s way. Collateral damage is a given in your line of work, but this … this was a particularly bad day.
You and Kishibe travel home in silence. He doesn’t say anything to draw a reaction out of you, and in turn, you don’t make a comment when he pulls his box of cigarettes from his now blood-stained shirt pocket.
It’s a mutual understanding, and you’re grateful for it.
_____
The next day, once you’ve had the closest thing to a full night’s sleep you could hope for given your line of work, you’re awoken by the sound of Kishibe knocking on your door.
You know the sound all too well. He gives three loud raps against the doorframe, all in quick succession; he might pretend otherwise, but he’s a creature of habit. You don’t even have to look through the peephole to know that it’s him.
“I have a question,” he announces the moment you open the door, without so much as a greeting. “Just a quick one.”
“... go ahead.”
You’ve worked with him for long enough to know that it’s better to let him tell his piece first, and then you can ask for elaboration later. You don’t try to slow him down with a ‘good morning’. It wouldn’t be helpful for either of you.
“A few friends in another division are going out for drinks tonight. Same place as usual. Shitty beer, but it’s cheap and the other division’s buying a few rounds, so they’ll get us drunk as hell. Wanna go?”
“You couldn’t have just called me with this question?” you ask, head still a little groggy. It’s well into the afternoon, but had Kishibe not come for this unexpected visit, you’d likely still be in bed.
“Nope, because then it’d be easier for you to come up with an excuse to blow us off,” he replies quickly - too quickly, almost as if he’d prepared this little speech beforehand. “So if you really don’t wanna go, that’s fine, no complaints here. All I ask is that you don’t say no out of instinct. I think it’d be good, y’know, to get some space? Perspective, and shit like that? You’ll get to see a few people from other divisions, too. I know you’re probably tired of looking at my face every day, handsome as it may be.”
He’s looking at you directly, presenting his case in such a typically Kishibe way; straightforward, reasoned, calm, logical. And still just a little bit annoying.
Part of you is still a little resentful as to how he can bounce back so quickly and appear so unaffected by all of this. He’s still so unperturbed by it all.
But a bigger part of you appreciates that he gives enough of a damn to come out here and check up on you after a particularly difficult mission. You know of plenty of hunters who get stuck with partners who couldn’t care less whether they lived or died, let alone bothered to check on their mental well-being.
For all his faults, he’s a good guy. Irritating at times and a bit too sure of himself, but a good guy nonetheless. He’s trying to cheer you up and, try as you might, you can’t think of a valid reason to turn down his request.
“Fine, I’ll go.”
His shoulders relax ever-so-slightly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s almost relieved.
“See you there at around eight o clock, so?” he inquires, though it’s more of a statement than a question.
“Sure thing.”
His smile turns mischievous, a transformation you see far too often.
“Want me to wear something nice? I have a nice red lacy number you might like-”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence before you close the door in his face.
“See you later!” he calls out, voice muffled on the other side of the door. You hear his footsteps as they traipse down the hallway of your apartment building, and then he’s gone.
This is fine. You can stomach a few short hours of socialising with the other divisions. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it? You know a few of them already and you have Kishibe there to back you up if any of them get too messy. Your partner is a big drinker, but he can hold it well. Better than most people, actually (yet another frustrating thing about him).
As you start to walk back to your kitchen to make the first of many coffees, you start to notice something. It’s subtle, and you can’t quite place what it is until you’ve finished preparing your drink.
You groan out loud once you realise what you've noticed.
Even with the earthy aroma of the freshly-ground coffee beans filling your kitchen, you can still smell Kishibe’s aftershave.
It feels like … like it’s on you, or something. It feels like it’s all over your body.
You’re not complaining about the aftershave itself, obviously. It actually smells pretty nice - you’d never say it to his face, but the man has good taste.
You’re just annoyed because it’s yet another reminder that Kishibe is everywhere.
Whether it’s through these impromptu visits, through his frequent texts and emails, or just in the course of your work, he’s absolutely everywhere. He’s there when you wake up, he’s there while you work, he’s even there whenever you try to get some peace and quiet at the café or in bars after work.
And after last night, he seems to be in your dreams, too, but you won’t dwell on that any further. Not if you have any hope of catching a break from him.
You don't let yourself panic. You reason that dreams are just the mind’s way of processing what it experiences throughout the day. It means nothing. Having a dream involving a colleague, of him taking you in his arms, holding you close, touching you where you need to be touched …
… it’s just a sign that you spend way too much time together.
You clutch your favourite mug in your hands, feeling the heat warm your palms. It’s a standard mug, plain white porcelain with “World’s Best Boss” printed on the side; a gift from your former partner.
You think about what happened to her, and feel a lump form in your throat.
No. Can’t get too close.
___
When you arrive at the bar later that night, you find it to be so packed with hunters that the place is flooded with cigarette smoke. The air is so dense it’s almost a fog, the haze of it obscuring your vision slightly. You can see where you’re going but it’s difficult to make out faces.
You can only hope that you don’t walk up to someone, mistake them for Kishibe, and call them a fucking idiot out of instinct. He’d never let you live it down if he found out.
You cough to clear your throat as you make your way to the booths in search of your partner, trying to dodge the people pushing past with arms full of beer glasses.
It’s not long before you spot him - or rather, hear him.
“Hey!” he shouts to you from over your shoulder, and you spin around to see him standing right behind you. His speech is muffled by the cigarette between his lips, his tie is loose and the top buttons of his shirt are undone, and you see the pale-pink border of scar decorating his chest that would usually be hidden by his jacket. He’s holding a beer in one hand and so places the other on your shoulder with uncharacteristic gentleness, guiding you over to the booth on the furthest left-hand side of the room. “You’re an honorary smoker now!”
Any other day you’d slap his hand away, interpreting the gesture as being just typical Kishibe trying to irritate you with overfamiliarity. However, after the mission the two of you just had, you choose to let it slide.
It might be time to start giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Maybe, if you tried, you could even grow to like him.
… but that thought doesn’t seem right. No, not right at all; because you didn’t have to try. Maybe you already do like him, and it happened without you even realising.
You take a sip from the glass of whiskey that someone’s just shoved into your hand and you feel the warmth spread down your throat and through your chest.
God, need to be careful.
The realisation hits you like a brick wall; you absolutely and unequivocally must not get too attached to Kishibe. You can’t. You won’t.
Getting personally involved with someone in your line of work is one of the most reckless things a person can do. If luck is on his side and he isn’t killed or seriously injured at some point in the near future, then you definitely will be the one to die instead. Your chances of passing away from natural causes are slim to none.
There’s no real hope for a nice, happy, white-picket-fence future; you gave that up long ago. To indulge in the new and silly feelings you’re experiencing for the man whose hand is still clasped on your shoulder … it would be foolish.
Your best hope at happiness is to be fond of Kishibe from a distance. To tolerate him as a partner and respect him as a colleague, and leave it at that. No more, no less.
Once you’ve arrived at the booth - his touch still so noticeable on the exposed skin near your neck - he introduces you to three devil hunters. You greet the two men who you recognise as being from another division, along with a woman with an eye patch and striking white hair. From word of mouth, you’d assume this is Quanxi, the famous former partner Kishibe had worked with for a couple of years before being reassigned.
You take a seat next to her while your partner sits across from you next to the two men, and even as you settle into conversation with the rest of the group, it takes a surprising amount of effort to try and ignore that you miss having him within touching distance.
You need a distraction and, thankfully, you grow to like Quanxi very quickly. She’s blunt and straightforward but makes good conversation. She tells you enough embarrassing stories about Kishibe to last you a lifetime and has a similar outlook on life as you do; she’s practical but not emotionless, reserved but still dedicated to her work.
Unfortunately for you, she’s also very observant.
“You don’t drink much?” she asks out of the blue as Kishibe gets up to fetch another round. “Kishibe told me you don’t smoke, but from the look of your glass … you’re still on your first beer, whereas those two,” she adds, pointing dismissively at the other two hunters, “are nearly finished with their fourth.”
“ ... I had a whiskey before I sat down.”
“Even still,” Quanxi counters, holding up her empty whiskey glass for emphasis - she must have finished the bottle by now.
You shrug, unsure as to what your answer would even be. “Tonight’s just an off night for me, I guess.”
“Why?”
“I just have a lot on my mind,” you admit. It’s uncharacteristically candid of you considering you’ve only just met, but Quanxi seems trustworthy. “I’m scared that drinking will make it … a bit harder to deal with.”
Luckily, Quanxi doesn’t seem too eager to push the topic. “Fair enough. As long as it’s not because you think it … tastes bad, or something.”
You see her glance over to Kishibe for a split second, so quick it’s almost not noticeable. She grins, then, and you know for sure that he’s been talking about you.
Kishibe, you swear to yourself. If the devils don’t kill him then you will.
___
A couple of hours pass before you excuse yourself to step outside for some fresh air. It’s not an excuse - you really do need some air, as even the heaviest smokers in the bar have started to complain about how stuffy it’s become. You don’t feel too guilty about needing a break.
The night air is cold but fresh and crisp and so you welcome it, inhaling deeply into your lungs as you round the corner to the quiet alley next to the bar. Once there, you rest your back against the cool stone of the wall. You’re wearing only a skirt and a silk blouse, your jacket hanging up inside the bar, but you don’t shiver.
You look up to the sky to try and see some stars, only to find them shielded by a thick covering of dark clouds.
It could rain at any moment, you think to yourself. You really hope it doesn’t.
“Quanxi scare you off?” a familiar voice calls out from the corner, attracting your attention. “Anything she told you about me is a lie, promise. Unless it’s good, then it’s extremely true.”
You chuckle softly. “No, just needed some air.”
“Same here,” Kishibe says cordially, walking over to you with his hands in his pockets. “Too warm in there.”
You watch him approach you with a soft smile and see that his walk is steady. He’s either not drunk at all or he’s very good at hiding it.
Your curiosity gets the better of you and so you point it out.
“Kishibe, you’re not drinking as much as usual.”
He chuckles. He’s reached where you’re standing and decides to follow your lead, resting his back against the wall and tilting his head upwards to see what you were looking at before. The two of you stay there, looking at the blank night sky.
He clears his throat, voice still conversational and relaxed when he starts speaking.
“Between the drinking and the smoking … you’re awful concerned about my health recently, aren’t ya?”
“Just being nosy, I guess,” you say, writing it off as plain old curiosity. You can’t think of any other reason for noticing it.
“But you’re right, I’m taking it easy tonight,” he continues. “Not in the mood.”
“Weren’t you the one who wanted to come here to get shitfaced?”
He shrugs. “No fun getting shitfaced by yourself, though, is it?”
“Ouch,” you chuckle, clutching your chest for dramatic effect. “I know I’m kinda quiet tonight, but-“
“Nah, I didn’t mean it like that,” he grins with a roll of his eyes. “I just don’t know the guys in there all that well, and the ones that I do know are fucking idiots when they’re wasted. Quanxi holds her liquor too well to even get tipsy, and you’re barely drinking, so I’m following your lead.”
Now it’s your turn to feel surprised. You thought you were the more observant of the two of you, but it turns out Kishibe notices the same things.
“I’m a good influence, then.”
Kishibe snorts at that, but somehow the sound is endearing. “Don’t go that far. We’re both still in this shitty job, so you can’t be all that sensible.”
“Oh, I’m not,” you agree, laughing too. “I’m good enough at wasting our pitiful little paycheck.”
“On what?”
He’s still grinning but looks genuinely curious, and huh, you have to stop and think on that one. You don’t really have any major vices (that you can think of), and you’re not a compulsive shopper, but you still manage to spend your money every month.
It’s not worth feeling guilty over, though; you just like surrounding yourself with little pleasures to distract from the grim nature of your work.
You like getting nice furniture for your apartment, and this certain fancy brand of coffee. You like going to a local gallery and being able to buy any painting you want …
… and, as you said earlier, you like things that taste good.
“I spend a lot of money on coffee,” you start. “Too much money. More than you spend on cigarettes, probably.”
“That’s-”
“A lot, I know,” you roll your eyes before continuing. “I also buy paint, canvases, brushes … things like that.”
“You paint?”
“A little. When I get the chance.”
He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. Seems you’ve genuinely surprised him for once.
You keep going - now that you’ve remembered your little shopping list, it’s hard to stop the thoughts from flowing out.
“And I got this green couch for my apartment. Ridiculously expensive, but I’ve wanted it for ages. I sometimes buy old books, too, and I always get this overpriced lip balm that tastes like apples.”
You pause then, to show you’re finished recalling your expenses. You have to laugh at the bemused expression on Kishibe’s face.
“That it?” he asks, but he sounds suitably impressed. Like you’ve finally opened up to him in a way he can appreciate.
“That’s it, I think.”
He’s so close to you now that you’re practically shoulder-to-shoulder. You’re both just resting against the wall having a friendly chat, but the closeness feels … it feels both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. You’re used to having him always there, but never within touching distance. Never so casual and easy and enjoyable.
He clears his throat.
“So all that … that’s what you’re wasting all your money on? I’ll remember that next time I foot the bill for lunch.”
”I forgot my wallet one time,” you answer, shoving his shoulder with yours, “one time ever. Surely you’ve financially recovered by now.”
You’re not sure what possesses you, but as you’re still standing side-by-side, you lean your head down to rest it against his shoulder. It feels natural, like something you don't even have to think about. Kishibe was close, he was right there, and you wanted him closer.
His voice doesn’t betray any surprise at your actions, but the way the muscles in his arm tense as you nestle against him shows that he wasn’t expecting it.
But the fact that he doesn’t give you any shit for it or shrug you off means that he doesn’t object.
“I guess we can go to yours for coffee from now on,” he points out. “Since you’re apparently a coffee snob, and I’m clearly torturing you with the shit excuse for a beverage they serve at the café.”
“True,” you agree, “though maybe we can try to have a cup indoors for once. Just for the novelty of it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’d like to see if it tastes any better when I’m not freezing my ass off while you have a smoke.”
“We could go now, if you want?” he asks then, and you feel everything slow down around you.
You’re grateful to be resting against his shoulder because it means he misses your perplexed expression, your eyes widening as he finishes his question.
What does he mean by ‘go now’? Go where? The café closes just after lunch. You never go there unless you’re on a case. It’s the middle of the night, there are no other cafes even open nearby …
As if reading your mind, he elaborates.
“No, not go to the café,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. It’s deep now, almost gravelly, instead of that usual ‘so smug it’s almost chirpy’ tone he utilises when he’s trying to annoy you on missions. His voice sounds nice - so nice that an inconvenient tingle spreads in your chest as you hear it. “I meant we could go back to yours. For some of that ridiculously expensive coffee, I mean.”
Is he trying to mess with you? It almost feels like a game, like he’s trying to trick you into saying something that will only make life more inconvenient for the both of you.
“You want coffee at midnight?” you ask, slowly.
“Sure do,” he answers without hesitation. “If you’ll be so kind as to host.”
You draw your head back and look at him quizzically. You know exactly how he acts when he’s messing with you and this isn’t it. He’s not smirking when he speaks; instead, he’s looking at you with an uncharacteristic softness in his eyes. It throws you off in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant, and so you say,
“Sure, let’s head back to mine.”
___
You grab your jacket from inside the bar as Kishibe hails a cab, and before you know it, the two of you are standing at your doorstep, just as you were earlier today when he invited you out. You feel different now, though; adrenaline coursing through your veins for no discernable reason.
This all feels surreal. You and Kishibe here, alone, after hours, without the convenience of a mission to keep you distracted. And yet, you don’t dwell on it.
You’re moving as if possessed, desperately avoiding any overthinking of your actions as you take him by the hand and guide him through the door to your hallway, through to the kitchen then. Neither of you says anything as you walk. You only let go of his hand when you arrive at the countertop where you keep the coffee, resting a hand against the surface to ground yourself.
The kitchen is dark since you didn't bother the turn on the lights. Only the glow of the streetlamps illuminates the room, casting a glow over the two of you.
You blink up at him. He stays looking at you pensively.
You’re still not sure how literally he was speaking when he mentioned wanting coffee. Would he laugh at you if you started to brew some? You want to touch him again, want to feel him ever closer than he was before, but … have you misinterpreted the situation entirely?
Kishibe clears things up for you. He steps in your direction, shoulders set and expression difficult to place. He’s not touching you yet but he’s so gotten so close now … closer than colleagues or partners or even friends tend to go, only inches away from your body.
He’s so close you can feel whisps of his hair tickling your forehead, you can see the crinkles in his shirt and the outline of the lighter in his jacket pocket.
He stop then, hesitating, eyes scanning your face.
“You okay?” he asks, smiling at you - a kind smile, not brass or cocky.
You nod, the movement shallow and jerky and perhaps a bit too quick.
“Yeah, just … my head’s all over the place.”
“Nothing has to happen,” he replies quietly. “We can just have coffee, if you’d prefer.”
“So you really want coffee?” you ask, eyebrow raised. “We’re sticking with that story?”
“Doesn’t have to be coffee,” he counters. “Tea, water, I don’t care. I just … I like spending time with you.”
You return his smile just as genuinely. “You’re being so … nice.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, I am,” you say emphatically. “Did I accidentally bring someone else’s partner home?”
He laughs, a nice sound, and your heart hammers against your ribcage.
“Nope. Stuck with me, I’m afraid.”
His answer is conversational and friendly, but the look in his eyes betrays him. You know he means it.
You know it’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense, because he’s your partner, and you’re supposed to be objective, and it goes against every rational thought in your brain.
But the idea of being stuck with him sounds so appealing ... you can’t pay much attention to your rational side.
It’s not Kishibe who closes the distance between the two of you; instead, you step closer, fisting your hands into the fabric of his shirt, and then press your lips to his.
It’s not a slow kiss. It starts intense and it only builds from there, teeth almost clacking together as you tangle your hands in his hair. It’s clumsy, almost; he’s pawing your thighs, lower back, waist, as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch first. You take a gentle grip on his hair, marvelling at how soft it feels in your hands, the silky tresses just so tuggable.
You’ll park that thought for later.
Kishibe deepens the kiss, running his tongue against your lips and then pushing into your mouth, not letting go of your body the whole time.
It’s funny; a part of you thought that he would be as confident and dominant in these circumstances as he is in his professional life -
(Yes, you’ve thought about it before … it’s not as though the thought of sleeping with him has never crossed your mind. You’re stubborn, but not blind.)
- but he’s taking as much as he’s giving, getting as much satisfaction from your reaction as he does from anything else. He moves with you, noting what you like as the moments pass, gauging your reaction from your whimpers and moans and the way you’re not-so-subtly rubbing against his thigh.
He kisses your neck, lingering on your pulse point, leaving a mark that you’re sure will be visible tomorrow. The thought is strangely thrilling; the idea of you and Kishibe working a case together, with marks all over your skin just begging to be noticed. Marks that show he wanted you all to himself and needed everyone to know it.
When you push your hips into his, feeling the bulge in his suit pants pressing against you, you tighten your grip on his hair. He notices and responds eagerly, grabbing your ass over the thin fabric of your skirt and pressing you flush against him. The heat of his body makes your mind go numb.
You can smell his aftershave again, all over your body as he kisses and rubs and touches, but you have no complaints this time.
He leans in as if to kiss you again but stops just short, lips brushing against yours as he speaks.
“You have no idea how badly I want this,” he murmurs. “How badly I’ve wanted it. But … it might make things just a little bit complicated.”
“I’m okay with it if you are,” you whisper, looking into his eyes to show your confidence in your answer. You’re too far gone to back out now. You haven’t felt touch like this in so long, having kept yourself so guarded and withdrawn for years. Kishibe understands; he knows the risks of this job, and he knows how lonely it gets. He knows you so well. Knows what you need.
“I’m okay with it,” he says, lips quirked upwards. He’s still pressed against you, his thigh spreading your legs open slightly. “Want me to show you how much?”
His eyes flicker down your body past your chest, and you know exactly what he’s thinking about doing. Every inch of your skin feels hot. Your clit pulses at the very idea of what he’s suggesting - it seems like his confidence might pay off.
“I want you,” you reply. You think about finishing the sentence with something a bit more articulate, but Kishibe’s eyes darken at your earnest response, pupils blown out and expression ravenous.
He places a large hand on your thigh, the exposed skin tingling under his touch. He slides it up slowly, so slowly, grazing up to the seam of your underwear. He runs a finger over your clothed core and you gasp, hips almost bucking into his touch. His thumb circles your clit then returns to stroking the damp fabric between your legs, so impossibly close to where you need him.
He’s so close to it. So close - if he just angled his fingers a little more, he could plunge two inside you, wringing orgasm after orgasm from you as you melt underneath him.
“Please-“ you choke, the pleasure almost becoming an ache. “I … I need-“
“What do you need, baby?” he whispers into the shell of your ear, teeth giving a gentle tug on your lobe when he finishes his question. “What do you need from me?”
“More, please. More.“
He doesn’t ask you to elaborate any further. Instead, he guides you to the countertop, pressing you against it at first, unable to keep from connecting his mouth to some part of you for too long (this time, it’s the swell of your breasts over the neckline of your blouse).
Once he pulls back, lips leaving your cleavage with a wet ‘pop’, he helps you up onto the countertop. Once you’re sitting comfortably on the edge, he slides his hands up your thighs again. You feel the cool marble on the underside of your legs, pleasantly contrasting the heat of his hands.
He tugs at the waistband of your underwear and you lift your hips to allow him to pull them down, feeling the cold air against your exposed skin as he does so. You’re so wet and he notices immediately. His tongue swipes over his lower lip, a pink flush having settled across his cheekbones.
He’s annoyingly pretty like this, looking up at you from between your legs.
You want to make him feel good with your mouth too. The thought of it makes your head swim; between the tenting in his pants and the look on his face …
He cuts off your thoughts with a brush of his lips over your inner thigh. He kisses you again, leaving no inch of skin untouched as he gets closer and closer to your core.
When he reaches the divot at the very top of your thighs, he loses his control just a bit, pressing wet and sloppy kisses, the obscene sound of which would make you embarrassed in any other circumstances.
You let out a desperate, uncharacteristic mewl, but you don’t feel any embarrassment. This side of Kishibe - whose only aim is to make you come undone - you know that he won’t make fun of you. The only reaction he’s trying to get from you now is one of pure and mindless pleasure.
You gasp out loud as you finally get the contact you have been seeking; Kishibe presses a gentle closed-mouth kiss to your clit that makes your entire body shudder. With barely any contact he already has you quivering, goosebumps forming all over. The press of his mouth against your pussy is careful, explorative; lips and tongue tracing all over your slick flesh.
The first proper lick stokes a fire in your core, burning hot and desperate as you tighten your thighs around his face. His hands grip your legs and pull them apart further, allowing better access for what he wants to do.
Long, slow strokes up your folds and circles around your clit, all combining to make you feel pliant and boneless.
“Please … please … please …” you beg over and over, though you don’t want him to change anything, you just don’t want him to stop. You feel like crying at the thought of it being taken away for even a second, for him to stop the perfect movement of his tongue against your aching cunt. “Please keep going.”
He hums his approval and moves to start suckling your clit with just enough pressure to make your vision go white behind your now-shut eyes. You feel the slightest pressure against your entrance as he presses a finger hesitantly - you throw your head back with a desperate cry of “yes!”, and he pushes it in in one fluid motion.
You feel a bit conflicted about closing your eyes because the image in front of you is so enticing; a few strands of his dark hair are stuck to his forehead with the faint sheen of sweat that’s building as he fucks you with his fingers, his eyes looking up at you beseechingly through dark lashes with a particularly firm flick of his tongue …
You want to keep looking at him, you do, but you can’t. It’s too much. The sensation is building quicker than you can react to it, and so you lay back on the counter, your back arching as he keeps up his perfect pace.
The pleasure is low and warm and unending, deep inside you, and for a brief moment, it scares you that Kishibe is the one doing this to you.
Kishibe, your annoying coworker who you’re supposed to be keeping at arm’s length - he's the one making you scream and cry out his name as if it’s the only word you can remember.
Kishibe is the one who’s making your eyes roll back into your head, the one who’s taking you apart with just his mouth and fingers (now, two of them).
You’re surrendering yourself to him, and yet, you don’t have the slightest urge to halt any of it.
Heat starts collecting in your core, a ball of warm pleasure starting to grow and grow until you couldn’t contain it even if you wanted to. He can feel you tighten around his fingers and speeds up without altering the pressure, just giving you more of what you need. Your incoherent babbling only spurs him on.
When you tip over the edge and quiver desperately underneath him, coming apart entirely, it takes you by surprise; there was no build-up because it was all too overwhelming, too blinding, to be able to determine at what point exactly your pleasure started to crest.
It just takes over.
When you come down from it, you decide to take just a minute to collect yourself as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. You close your eyes again, blinking back the tears that collected against your waterline.
It’s a little strange. You haven’t had a sexual experience like that since … well, ever.
Thinking about things rationally, you come up with a few reasons for your very enthusiastic response. First and foremost, you haven’t had sex in a long time, not since joining the agency, not since dating became too messy. You’ve been a bit stressed, too, a bit pent up. You needed some relief. You haven’t had any … alone time in a while, either.
But as you noted earlier, you’re not listening to the rational part of your brain tonight. Not one of those reasons explains the effect Kishibe just had on you.
And the most confusing part is that even after making you come harder than you have in years, you want him even more intensely now.
Sitting up on the counter, you drag him in for another kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. You run your hands up his chest, fingers grazing off the tell-tale outline of the cigarette box in his pocket. You move to rest your hands against his nape, feeling the prickliness of his undercut against your fingertips.
His pants are still on but you can feel he’s painfully hard, straining against his zipper as he clings to you.
He starts unbuttoning your shirt and you do the same to his, taking in the view of his sharply-cut torso as he sheds his clothes.
It’s all lean muscle, thin white-lined scars covering his chest, a few freckles here and there. A painful-looking blue-black bruise sits above his hip and you frown upon noticing it. He pries your hand away from his shirt buttons, bringing your index finger to his lips and kissing it softly.
“I’m fine,” he reassures you. “Don’t worry about it.”
You want to press further but relent at the last moment, going back to finish your task of unbuttoning his shirt. You can be concerned later; now, he needs you as much as you need him.
“Where do you want to -?” he asks, trailing off at the end.
You widen your eyes suggestively, glancing down at the countertop beneath you.
He scoffs. “... here?”
You shrug, smirking coyly. “Why not? Curtains are shut. And even if they weren't, it's not like we haven't disgraced ourselves enough already.”
“Can’t argue with that,” he says with a grin, eyes flicking down to catch a glimpse of your chest.
You hop down from the counter and kiss him again, hastily unzipping his pants and taking him out of his underwear. Thick and heavy in your hand - the overconfidence comes from somewhere, obviously - you feel him throb against your touch.
A few gentle strokes and he’s groaning, eyes shut and head tilted back, beads of precum gathering at the tip. Your mouth waters at the sight; Kishibe, having just opened his eyes, snaps when he sees the effect this is having on you. He spins you around and bends you over the counter, tugging your skirt up above your hips. You’re standing here so exposed - no shirt, no underwear, only the thin fabric of your skirt shielding your naked form - but you trust him now, just as much as you do when your life is in his hands.
He drags the tip of his cock against your pussy and you gasp.
You’re not sure how, but you feel empty without him inside, even though you haven’t even felt it yet.
You spread your legs for him, wet and stretched enough to take whatever he has to give you.
As the head of his cock pushes inside you, Kishibe is the one to moan then, deep and low.
“Oh baby,” he breathes. “Oh, sweetheart, you feel so good already, my love. You’re squeezing right around me, fuck,” he stills against you, hands on your hips preventing you from sliding back against him. “I … I need a second.”
“Done already?” you tease, looking back at him over your shoulder, your shaking legs barely supporting you. You grip the countertop more firmly to steady yourself. “Surely not?”
“Can you wait a few minutes to give me shit?” he retorts, and you feel his smile as he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Usually I’d say you’d have every right, but I don’t think you want to get into that right now.” He pushes in further then, inch by inch. “Or do you?”
“You’re right,” you laugh airily, “you’re right, just … keep doing that, please.”
He slides in further, almost to the hilt now. He grips your hips with both hands as he seats himself fully inside you.
You knew it would be a stretch, but this - the feeling of being so impossibly and blissfully full - takes you by surprise nonetheless. He stays there for just another moment as you adjust to him and you feel his thumb stroke slow, soothing circles along your lower back as you inhale slow and deep.
You push back against him when you’re ready for him to start moving, and he doesn’t hesitate. Pulling his hips back, he thrusts back inside you with a groan, the slap of skin against skin echoing around the kitchen. He sets a strong, steady pace; hips snapping against yours as you rest your forehead on the counter, chest bouncing as he fucks into you as though he’s thought about doing this for years.
Kishibe reaches over and grabs your hands from the counter, crossing them behind your back and holding them in place with his own. This position means you arch further, allowing him to thrust deeper inside you, reaching spots you never thought anyone could hit.
His grip on your wrists is tight but it never hurts; he’s handling you with such care, far more thoughtfully than you would have expected. That being said, he’s not treating you like you’re fragile or breakable - you wouldn’t like it if he did - rather, he’s touching you like your enjoyment is by far the most important aspect of this. He’s treating you like a partner.
You turn your head so your cheek is resting on the surface. You just want to angle yourself so you can look back and see him. You need to see him, you need to know if he’s as fucked out as you are, reduced to utter desperation, unable to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re so tight and drenched and messy around him.
When you see him, your breath hitches. Your guess wasn’t too far off.
Kishibe’s flushed now, pink tinting his face and neck, and his chest rises with short, shallow, primal pants. He’s biting down hard on his lower lip, so much so you think it might bleed, and he’s looking right at you, meeting your gaze head-on. His brows are knit tightly together, jaw pulled tight as he keeps his focus on you. He looks to be as close as you are.
When neither of you look away, unable to tear your eyes off eachother, he speeds up his thrusts. He’s chasing his end now; his pace is frenetic, and he lets out a throaty groan when his cock slips out at one point, the speed of his movements and the wetness between your legs making everything a messy, perfect blur.
“You’re so beautiful, I can’t fucking stand it,” he says, punctuating his sentence with a disbelieving chuckle, “I should have said it sooner. Fuck, you’re so, so beautiful, it drives me insane.”
He lets go of one of your hands, keeping the other pinned behind your back, and you quickly bring it between your legs and trace circles around your clit with your fingers. You’re so wet - both from his mouth and from the way he’s fucking into you now - that you can hear your fingers moving, which means Kishibe can too.
He leans down and moves his free hand to join yours, collecting some of the wetness between your legs and rubbing your clit in tandem with your movements. You shift your position to allow him to touch you as he wants to, the weight of him against your back and the warmth of his breaths hitting your damp skin wringing a carnal moan from you.
“So pretty for me, aren’t you?” he says, almost reverent. “So pretty like this. I could do this for hours - could hear you make those noises for the rest of my life, fuck, you’re doing so, so well, my love.”
You feel it build so quickly that you gasp his name in surprise, the word almost sounding like a question. He understands, keeping the pace of both his thrusts and the circling of his fingers consistent.
It washes over you like a tidal wave; pulses of explosive pleasure rippling through your muscles, making your legs shake and your eyes squeeze shut. Your breath catches in your chest, only a shaky, weak-sounding moan escaping your lips - you can’t even think of any words right now, let alone speak them.
You feel his cock pulse inside you, his hand releasing the arm that’s still behind your back as he grips your hips instead, grinding into you as deeply as he can. A few more shallow thrusts follow, aftershocks making your cunt flutter around him, and then he stills again, the sound of both your heavy breathing filling the room.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He straightens you up a little, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your neck and rubbing up and down your arm. It feels nice; you feel so serenely calm at that point, you could almost fall asleep resting against him.
He straightens up fully once both of your heart-rates return to normal and the sweat on your skin starts to cool, and then he pulls out, grabbing a tissue from the counter to clean for you.
You fumble with your skirt to pull it further down your thighs - not to hide anything from him, but to provide the tiniest bit of warmth now that Kishibe’s body heat is no longer distracting from the cold.
He picks up his jacket from the floor and walks behind you to rest it on your shoulders. You smile gratefully, letting silence settle between you. He stays there, wrapping an arm around you from behind.
“Do you want me to head away?” he asks, and you can tell from his tone that he wouldn’t be upset if you did.
You shake your head.
You don’t want him to go yet. Not just yet, not when you’re still processing all that’s just happened.
“I know it could get complicated,” you begin, trying to reason with him and yourself. “But ... no. I don't want you to go. I ... you can stay over. If that's something you'd like to do.”
“I would."
You let out a short chuckle, half-relief and half-bemusement. “Then I think we shouldn’t talk about complications anymore. For a while, anyway."
“I agree completely,” he mumbles against the crook of your neck.
“First time for everything.”
“You wound me,” he whispers, feigning offence but kissing your hairline anyway. “So does this mean I get a tour of your apartment now?”
Taking the hand that’s wrapped out you, you tug him in the direction of your bedroom. He makes a few characteristic comments on your furniture choices and you elbow him without any malice, pointing out some of your favourite pieces as you make your way through your apartment.
It feels strangely normal; you crossed this boundary together, but the world hasn’t fallen down around you.
He’s still the same, you’re still the same … mostly.
You know there’ll be a conversation tomorrow. It can’t go unaddressed considering you spend your working day together, but there’s no use spoiling the serene temporary escape the two of you have carved out for yourselves.
You reach your bedroom and he follows you into bed wordlessly, draping an arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest. You interlock his fingers with yours.
Nestled in the sheets with him, you fall asleep more quickly that you have done in recent memory.
After your entire adult life spent on death’s door, you allow yourself to feel an emotion you barely even recognise anymore.
A god like Naoya is about to see how his little mortal is hiding a true gift.
REQUEST. deity au + virgin sacrifice for naoya + reader with worship kink
CONTENT/WARNINGS. virginity loss, naoya isn’t nice, mentions of blood, murder, abduction, praise kink, slight degradation, fingering, overstimulation, slight breeding kink, creampie, orgasm denial, mentions of slavery, face fucking, reader is willingly consenting to pain, reader is a masochist, naoya is a sadist
NOTES. ah…it feels so natural to write naoya…also can someone send me some good erotic hentai panels, yay <3
