video games 🕹
❯❯❯❯ F!Reader meets a rugged man in a dive bar and decides to rack up points with him to "win the game". F!Reader / Kishibe
4.4k~ words
inferred age-gap, drunk sex, female ejaculation
kishibe is a dunce and stone cold but man is he an eater!
NOTES: yes this is a lana del rey song yes im problematic yes i want kishibe so fucking bad bro its kILLING ME Support on AO3! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ
The man in the corner.
They’ve written poems about him, they’ve painted him, they’ve mimicked him in films. His likeness is immortalized in every media across every culture: the lonely, melancholic man lost in the reflection of his glass. It’s a riveting sight despite how utterly mundane it is. There’s a man stuffed in every corner; of their homes, of their workplaces, of the streets, and on gravesites.
Yet, this particular man, who is the very definition of wise beyond their years, sits like a gargoyle in the far depth of the dive bar. His beady, obsidian eyes are pushed into the rather handsome, deep sculpture of his face. Tawny and raven hair frames his sharp cheekbones, and under the flicker of a violet neon light, you spot the stitching on his left lip that draws into his earlobe.
He’s not just any man in a corner.
Without a second thought, you plop down across from him, hoping to draw attention away from his cognac and loaded fries.
You lean over, whispering conspiratorially, “I have this hidden talent where I can guess a stranger’s favorite band.”
“Uh huh.” Mission unsuccessful, so far.
“Can I take a crack at ya?”
He shrugs, but he at least notices your presence with the slightest tilt of his head.
“Hm, hm, hm…” You take your time assessing him; from his crumpled collar to the genuine leather coat littered with crackles. His ears are pierced, that’s cute! Not just one, but a few! Signs of a rebellious youth, and now an old man probably too tired to take them out.
Rebellious youth, dark colors, a muse of Yohji Yamamoto—-
“Judas Priest.”
He actually stops and stares. It’s frigid and edged with a warning. Instantly, you backtrack while your spine warms and your cheeks glow pink.
“Nah? Okay. Okay. Wait— wait, I’m getting the vibes oooooof Pink Floyd. And lemme guess, your favorite song is Time?”
He points and snaps a finger, yet his deadpan expression never budges. Still a bingo! Then he nods, and swallows his greasy food. “Fuckin’ Judas Priest, really?”
“What! A lot of men like Judas Priest. My dad loves them.”
Another icy stare, and you’re left to an embarrassed silence with nothing to fend yourself with. An agonizing few seconds pass, and you decide to go for the next best thing a man like him could want.
“Lemme buy you a drink.”
“You’re buying me a drink?”
You grin from ear to ear. “What’s wrong with that? A lady can’t buy a man a drink?”
“What are you expecting in return?” He wipes sauce from his lips and adds to the pile of scrunched up napkins in the center of the table, right next to the overflowing ash tray. Sexy.
“Nothing! Well, your time. Surely no one else has a slot this evening?”
He grunts. You think that was a ‘no’, so you’re going with that.
When a server who is as dingy and dank as the bar squeezes by, you quickly bark an order for more cognac and another fruity, syrupy concoction. Not a single flicker of interest comes from him, but your confidence (and maybe delusion) says he’s just a tough nut to crack. Some men in the corner are pistachios, some are walnuts. Clearly, he’s a walnut…
Actually, he even looks like one!
“I don’t mind pretty girls lookin’ at me unless they have a creepy grin like you do.”
Your smile instantly drops. “Creepy?! I wasn’t being creepy— I didn’t mean to be creepy! I just,” you fumble your words. “I’m just admiring a handsome man.”
He stares. And stares. And stares.
“Thanks.”
You feel relief but you don’t dare show it. Your drinks arrive, with a little spillage of course, and the man tastes a fry that was a victim of the fruity drink’s. His first reaction so far is the scrunch of his nose when it doesn’t taste good.
“So, what’s your name?” Good place to start, yeah.
“Kishibe.”
“Cute name.”
Kishibe shrugs. He doesn’t ask for your name but you give it up anyway. He also doesn’t say yours is cute; but hey, at least he said pretty earlier!
Rather than drag it along, Kishibe skips pretense and goes straight for the jugular. “I don’t like small talk. Cough it up, what do you want? You a new recruit?”
“A new recruit?” You repeat. For what? Is he in the military?
“If you’re not, then what’s your damage?”
You sip your drink, hoping that bitterness is enough of a boost to force the truth out. Kishibe’s older and rough around the edges. He certainly isn’t the type to play games, and won’t give a damn about batting eyelashes. The music is uncharacteristically soft for the environment, but just loud enough to fuel your nerves. You finally spill:
“Wanna go home with me?”
You expected a raise of the brows, a smirk, maybe toss in a shake of the head, too. You expected a reprimand about the sizable age difference, or a perverted reply. Instead, you received another thousand-yard stare and a question in his signature deadpan tone.
“How drunk are you?”
You couldn’t tell whether he’s testing something, or insulting you; or, himself?
“Not… very? I’m buzzed. Why?”
Kishibe whips out a lighter and reaches for the soggy box of cigarettes on the table. “You’re giggly, blushing, acting like a real schoolgirl in here. Sober up, and ask me that question again.”
Shame smacks you first, then regret, then rage, then—
“Oh.” That’s all you manage at first. You turn and look around as if there’s a camera to say, ‘Is this for real?’, instead you swivel back around. “I’d still be asking sober.”
Kishibe doesn’t reply. He swirls his drink and mentally exits this dimension if the glaze on his face is anything to go by.
Unsure of what else you could possibly say, you pick up your things and shuffle away from the table. You guzzle the rest of your cocktail like it’s water and your eye twitches. What a dumb old bastard! What does that even mean? Sober up, and ask him again? Who does he think he is!
You could drink a cocktail or two and flirt with another stupid relic in the bar! There’s plenty to go around. And yet, none of them are quite as charming as him. Bastard, yes, but he’s very delicious. You have no idea what brand of cologne a guy like him would wear, or if it’s just him, but it’s musky, smoky, leathery— and there’s a faint hint of a dollar store soap and shampoo, and somehow, it’s utterly addicting.
So, you do whatever a sensible woman does. You order fried cheesecake and taiyaki with a third cocktail. It’s a dirty one, too, extra strong. And when you lock eyes with the sparkling cleavage of a 2D girl on a pinball machine, Kishibe is momentarily forgotten.
The machine sits close to the bar, but remains dusty from lack of use. Beside it are two gumball machines that haven’t been touched or refilled since like, 1945.
“God, I haven’t played in forever!” You beeline for it, a bead of custard stuck to your lip and your breath heavy with liquor.
A girl riding a spaceship and her many cute alien friends decorate the machine. Bright UFO’s and tentacle monsters are your obstacles. Entranced, you insert a coin and you travel through painted galaxies with a tiny metal ball as your guide.
Unfortunately, you don't last long, and you're shown a blinking list of the current high scores.
PRTYBY — 4050832562
“A billion points?! Who the fuck is party boy?”
“It’s pretty boy.”
You hear Kishibe before you see him. His chest nudges your back, causing you to whip around. You’re face to face yet he pays you no mind. A cigarette dangles from his dry lips and he puffs smoke with every word. And you blurt the first thing that pops into your head, uncensored thanks to vodka.
“You look like Ichi the Killer.”
Kishibe glitches and nearly drops his cigarette, and you inwardly celebrate catching him off guard.
“He’s that guy—”
“Yeah, I know who he is. From some manga or something,” Kishibe sighs, “Couple boys told me about it.”
Half-empty pint in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Kishibe regains his former glory in front of the pinball machine. You step back, and end up holding said pint and cig like a flag girl while he works his magic.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹Bing, bing, bing—-clink, clink—ᝰ.ᐟ doo-da-doo-da-doo-da—♬⋆.˚
“It’s hot. Your scar, I mean. How’d ya get it?”
Kishibe glances at you but remains solid, as always. “Workplace accident.”
“Wow. What did you say you do for a living?”
“I kill things. Torture ‘em.”
You gasp; not because it’s truly frightening, but to be dramatic. Kishibe snorts. The walnut is cracking! You can hear it!
“That was a joke.”
“I knew that,” you whisper. “Wasn’t very funny.”
Kishibe rolls his eyes. God, you wanna ride that man like a bouncy castle.
“Anyway, who’s pretty boy?”
If his fingers moving at lightning speed and expertly bouncing the pinball, the machine beeping over the music wasn’t enough of an answer, Kishibe tells you the obvious.
“Me.”
You burst into giggles. “You? You called yourself pretty boy?!”
Kishibe grumbles, “It was from a long time ago. I was 20-something, fresh and bright-eyed, and a womanizer. I thought I was hot shit.”
As corny as it is, you can’t help but say, “I still think you’re hot shit, but I wouldn’t say you’re pretty.”
Kishibe finally hits the end of the road when a blaring ‘YOU LOST!’ splays across the screen. He wasn’t close to his personal high score, but he definitely beat yours. “You’re really laying it on thick, dollface.”
“Apparently not thick enough,” You retort.
After handing back his beer and cancer stick, you gently touch his knuckles, noting the thick skin and callouses, and lean into him without looking up. “Listen, I’m a no-strings-attached kind of gal. I don’t need love, I just want a fun night with a man like you.”
“A man like me, huh?” Kishibe flicks his cig toward an ash tray and misses. He doesn’t move away from your touch. As dark and unreadable as his gaze is, you suspect the walnut is about open.
“C’mon then.”
It’s all he has to say. Maybe you’re a bit of a slut, a man’s best friend with how you’re hot on his heels. He tugs an invisible leash and you follow him right out the door. You’re tipsier than you thought, and you struggle down the crooked steps of the dive bar. Kishibe says nothing but shocks you by picking you up and tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You squeal, placing your hands on his lower back as your hair dangles in your face.
“What the fuck!” You giggle. His sturdy shoulder digs into your stomach, making you nauseous.
“We’re going to my place.” No room for argument, not that you mind anyway.
Kishibe casually strolls through tight alleyways with half your ass on display. Luckily, hardly anyone is around except for drunk salarymen who are too busy eating pavement. When you attempt to cover yourself, he smacks his hand over your scrunched up miniskirt. Oh, what a gentleman.
Kishibe’s apartment is nestled in a high rise building, lacking front door decor unlike his neighbors and his tag doesn’t read his name, only gibberish and a crossed-out middle finger; probably drawn in permanent marker.
The inside is spacious with a breathtaking view of the skyline, except half of it is obscured by a towering lazy boy chair topped with discarded jackets. It reeks of nicotine and SOEMTHIBG ELSE. There’s hardly a trace of personalization but the clutter is distinctly him. The pot on the stove has dried ramen and half an egg stuck to it.
You prop up higher to see more of his humble abode, until Kishibe makes a sharp left and bumps your head against a door.
“Ow, you stupid bastard!” You giggle.
Kishibe apologizes in the form of a grumble, and slings you onto a bed. You roll around in black sheets, and realize there’s no fitted, just multiple loose sheets tucked into each other. It’s a nest of him and that cheap, sweet scent, and you nestle the pillows. They’re plush, and even better quality than your own.
Vertigo slaps you when you look upward too fast, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut.
“You aren’t tired, are ya?” Kishibe peels off his jacket and folds it, just to toss it on a chair too.
“No, just dizzy.” Dizzy, and horny.
With your eyes still shut, you wrangle your clothes; kicking your skirt and flapping your arms to throw your sweater off. One boot joins the piles on the floor, then another. Now, only your panties remain. You hum a nonsensical tune, adding his name in: “Kishibe—Kishibebe—Kishibaby—”
You flip onto your stomach and raise your ass, knees spread. While he’s watching, you run your hand over your asscheek and squeeze your thigh, then inch back up to touch yourself. Your panties, not exactly lacy but at least cute with a coquette pattern, are dampened and you outline your pussy with your finger.
When you open your eyes, Kishibe is standing next to the bed in tight black boxers and tasting a flask. He clears his throat and says in the lightest tone you’ve heard, “What are ya doin’?”
“Waiting for you,” You sing.
“Is that so?”
The bed dents under his weight. Next, you feel his face press against your ass, and his lips kiss your wet spot. His sharp inhale is sexier than you’d admit. His tongue flattens over your mound and up your cheek.
“You’re a dirty old man,” You purr.
It sounds like Kishibe sighs disappointedly— but whatever grievances he has on having the best cake around and eating it too, dies down the same way your panties are yanked.
“Isn’t that the truth.”
He dives in to taste you. No warning, no warm up, just his lips kissing yours and his scruff scratching your thighs. He spreads you apart, digging deep and suckling noisily. You gasp and clench the sheets, widening your knees as if you could open up any further. His whole tongue penetrates your pussy, wiggling inside. A shiver runs up your spine, and the jiggle you can't suppress is cut short by him literally holding you in place. Your face is smushed against his pillows; sandalwood, spice, and ash flavors your moans. On the other end, Kishibe tastes salt and pink flesh. It’s not sugary, of course, and it’s enough of a high to keep him drinking.
His bottom teeth graze your clit, and your hips snap in retaliation, your bottom puckering.
Kishibe pulls away, staring at the string of your essence dangling from your lips. Meanwhile, you whine over the loss of contact. Then you end up crying out when he snaps the panties off in one swoop.
"Oh my god!" Well, it was a cheap pair, anyway.
This man continues to surprise you by sliding in underneath you, and pulling you to him. It's a cue to sit on his face, and you gladly do so.
The moisture stuck to his lips and your damp thighs squish together when you rest your weight on him. He's a big boy, he can handle it. You gently rock your hips, sliding against tongue and soft lips, scruff that chafes your skin but feels delicious on your clit.
You maintain this rhythm with him; it's amazing, but it's not enough. It's a repetitive, pleasurable but dull sensation. The bubbling noises of Kishibe humming and groaning while he eats you out is what keeps you riding him. It's not the destination, it's the journey, right? Isn't that how the saying goes?
Such ministrations go on for longer than you'd think, longer than you'd bother counting. You grip Kishibe's coarse, blond hair and he grabs your breasts, squeezing with every lick he gives your cunt.
Eventually, you're tossed to the side, nearly falling over the edge of the bed until he catches you. Kishibe flips you around like a pillow, touching your cold backside. You're in the same position as earlier, except now Kishibe positions his hard cock right at the entrance of your hole. Firm skin touches your outer ring, and pushes in with a tiny smidge of pain.
You gasp, your inhale slowly morphing into a drawn out moan as Kishibe rams into you. Romance is absent, and what exists now in his dingy bedroom is two people fucking like rabbits. The mattress squeaks like prey, matching your high-pitched whines.
Kishibe doesn't whisper dirty nothings, and he doesn't smack your ass with the machismo of a cowboy. Instead, he drills endlessly, making your pussy slobber on his dick. You're too wet, actually, and he exits briefly to run his length over your ass, wiping off excess so he can return to his favorite place without slipping around.
"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck— Daddy—"
"Nah, none of that shit," Kishibe puffs out smoke (you had no idea he was smoking, when did he even reach for it?), "I ain't your daddy, and I know your real daddy never fucked you like this."
You get whiplash, but it dissipates as quick as it came. He was fucking you too good for you to even clutch your pearls, or to curse him over "ruining the mood". You held no chips in this game.
Just to spite you, Kishibe grabs your wrists and pulls your arms toward him, forcing you to arch your back. The upright angle his cock now hits has stars bursting behind your fluttering eyelids. His head nudges that little almond inside your pussy's wall, and coaxes a steady stream down your legs. The sheets are soaked through in mere seconds.
"Call me King, or Master," Kishibe rasps close to your ear.
Instantly, you abide: "Master, oh, Master!"
The pet name is clumsy on your tongue due to the vibration of Kishibe's thrusting. Your whole body bounces, your ass jiggling on his thighs from sheer passion.
The darkness of his bedroom is disorienting; worsened by when he abruptly lets go of you to hike your leg up against his shoulder. Warmth spreads everytime you and him touch, your skin mashed together with wet slaps. You call him Master, you call him by his name, and at some point, you might call him a bastard and a tease.
And at some point, you pass out—
The Sun greets you before Kishibe does. In fact, he's snoring like a man who probably needs one of those loud-ass machines, blissfully unaware that you both are sleeping in dried puddles of cum.
You stare up at the ceiling, nose scrunching at the smell of nicotine and dick. Well, it was a lot sexier hours ago…
With sore thighs and stiff arms, you waddle to the connected bathroom. you ignore the streaks of dried jizz on your legs. There's a dollop on your stomach too. That's real sexy. You heave a sigh as you use the toilet.
It takes you two minutes to figure out his shower dial, and you crank it as hot as it'll go. The pipes inside the wall jitter from it, and you ignore that too. You use his body wash, a bottle with a water-torn label, and his shampoo, some 'Donki' variety that smells like chestnuts.
Clean and free of stains, you exit the shower to find Kishibe still knocked out cold. Dripping wet, you search his drawers and his closet, eventually succeeding with an oversized black T that's been the victim of stray bleach. Next to his five leather coats of slightly different black hues, you also find where a man like Kishibe truly spends his money.
You pick up the delicate bottle. It's plain, but it's allowed to be. It can be, frankly, with a name like Tom Fordattached to it. You spritz it once on your collarbones and put it back. But you decide the room itself needs a spritz, then you put it back.
By the time you're dressed and have your hair twirled up in a towel like a gothic ice cream cone, Kishibe wakes up in a daze. He rises from his makeshift sarcophagus, groaning, creaking, yawning— and hardly sees you when he walks to the bathroom, scratching his hip. While he relieves himself, you travel to the living room, digesting everything, or the lack thereof. You're not the type to start crackin' eggs and toasting bread because a man blew your back in. He looks like the type to eat aspirin and coffee for breakfast, anyhow.
Kishibe finally appears without a shirt and his limp, big dick swinging in his sweatpants. Just as you expected, he snatches a bottle of aspirin off the counter and chews a few. He glances approvingly at your choice of clothes, and especially so at the fact you went commando under that frayed hemline.
You're unsure what to say, but the deafening silence is beginning to bother you. There's no hum of a heater, no singing birds, not even the static of a TV.
"So, what do you really do, Mr. Kishibe?"
Kishibe clears his throat but the hoarseness remains. "I'm a devil hunter. The best there is."
"I figured. I thought you were a detective or something similar since I saw a gun in your drawer."
Kishibe cocks an eyebrow. "You were snoopin'?"
"Snooping sounds rude. I was only curious."
Kishibe drops it. He doesn't really care, in fact, he expected it. You're a hyper gal after all, and a bored mind equals bored activities. If this was your house, he'd have snooped too; he would just be a lot subtler about it.
"So, like, you kill devils," You lean on the counter, thinking aloud, "With guns, with your bare hands… You use a sword?"
"Knives."
You nod, digesting this. "Show me."
"You want me to pull a knife on you?"
"No, silly! Show me one of your moves— prove to me you're the best."
What his own colleagues don't understand, is that at his core, Kishibe is still that spring chicken who will flex his biceps and pose for the camera. He knows he's the best; it's been proven with citations and sources, so anyone else in his position would tell this little girl to go find her own dancing monkey.
"C'mere."
You excitedly skip into the empty space of his living room. Right in front of him, you bounce on your heels, waiting for the grand showing. Kishibe is flat, expressionless as usual—
The monochrome of Kishibe's world spins in a black blur as you're flipped upside down. You cackle as you realize Kishibe is now holding you like a prized kingfish, his one hand wrapped around both of your ankles. You flail for fun despite the blood rushing to your head. Thank fuck you're not hungover or else his kinda nice floors would be painted with vomit.
The oversized T-shirt you stole bunches up at your chin which Kishibe admires without a single shred of shame.
"Okay, lemme down," You huff, "I'm getting dizzy again."
Kishibe gently lowers his flapping dolphin on the floor. You sit up, regaining your bearings, and gaze up at him with a giddy smile. You swear there's a whisper of a smile returned, but Kishibe turns away to make coffee.
"Is it true you guys make contracts with devils? What kind are you bound to? Did you actually write up an agreement and sign in blood?"
Kishibe snorts while fetching two coffee cups: a plain one, and a faded mug with a teddy bear design on it. You can't help another giddy smile as you pad over to it.
"Yes, not answering, and close enough."
"Cool!"
Kishibe shrugs, then hands you a mug of straight black.
"Do you have cream or sugar?"
He gestures to the fridge, to which you open and find bottles of sake, a bottle of tequila, cheap vodka, sweet chili sauce, a half-empty bottled water, and a carton of milk. You try to sneakily check the expiration date on the milk so as not to be rude, but the second you unscrew the cap, you don't even need to look.
Without a word, Kishibe takes it from you and pours it down the drain. You use the collar of your T to cover your nose from the assault of sour cream.
"I guess plain is fine."
"Sorry sweetheart, I don't have syrups and cold foams, or whatever." Kishibe sure didn't sound sorry!
"It's fine, really! Besides, you're sweet enough."
The corniness of your joke on top of it being an absolute lie lands awkwardly, yet his bold eyeroll only turns you on.
"Sweet enough, huh? Sure." Kishibe deadpans. Time for cigarette number two— or three? Talk about predictable.
And just as well, you figure this was strictly a night of fun, and nothing more. You're not expecting cuddles on the couch, or a lovey-dovey brunch together.
After a couple sips of oddly thick black coffee, you rip the bandaid off. "I'll gather my things after this cup, if that's alright." Not that you have much to gather. Your cute panties are gone, now that you remember.
Kishibe grunts.
"You mind changing the sheets first, since you pissed on them?"
You scoff at his audacity, "I—I didn't pee on your sheets, and I'm not—"
"I was kidding," Kishibe glances at you, free of a smile. "I don't care. Actually, I wouldn't mind doing it again."
"I can 'piss' on your other things, if you want, or even on you, so other gals don't come around. You know, assert dominance and all that."
Kishibe chuckles. He laughed! And clearly, he isn't used to it because he starts coughing up a lung.
"Lay off the sticks, old man. Cough too hard and you might pull a muscle. I'd say you stroke out, but look at you— taking your lil' aspirin every morning! Gotta keep that blood thin so you can still get it up—"
You trail off when Kishibe fixes you with a predatory aura, his eyes pools of ink. You giggle despite the skip in your heartbeat. In seconds, you dart into his bedroom for safety as he chases after you. Your obnoxious, maniacal laughter and the ensuing rapidfire mattress squeaks are heard in the floors above and below his apartment.
