contains consensual rough sex, psycho energy with obsessive undertones, dirty talk, semi-public, praise/degradation mix, light fearplay, mild blood, overstimulation, face touching, possessive behavior, sensual dominance, fucked-up tenderness
He’s been watching you.
Not in the way a predator watches prey. No.
Ryu Ishigori watches you the way a gourmand studies a seven-course meal: slow, savoring, curious.
His tongue glides across the inside of his cheek as he tracks your movements through the crumbling Sendai ruins, and when you finally face him, blood on your blade and a smirk tugging your lip, he smiles like a man who’s just read a perfect wine pairing.
“Well,” he says, brushing ash off his fur-lined sleeve. “Aren’t you just the most beautiful thing in this wasteland.”
You raise your blade. “You flirting or stalling?”
He laughs before tucking his hands into his coat and tilting his head like a polite aristocrat. “Why not both? Though if it’s worth anything, I’d rather take my time with you.”
Your cursed energy flares. So does his smile.
The fight is explosive but controlled. He doesn’t try to kill you. Not really. He tests your strength like a lover teasing your boundaries, slipping in close just to whisper compliments mid-duel.
“You parry like a dancer,” he purrs, dodging a slash. “Did you train under someone? Or are you just that talented?”
You grit your teeth. “Stop fucking talking.”
“Now, now. That’s no way to treat a man who’s enjoying himself.”
Eventually, he traps you. Not with brute force but precision. Your back hits concrete. His palm presses lightly—just lightly—to your throat. He leans in. His breath smells like smoke and something faintly sweet. “You’re not scared,” he murmurs.
“No.”
“You should be,” he says, and then, softly, so gently it makes your stomach twist, he brushes your hair behind your ear. “But I like that you’re not.”
You stare at him. His eyes are blown wide with obsession, and yet his touch is tender.
“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rich and calm, like he’s inviting you to dinner. “Not just your body. Your limit. Your spirit. The moment you crack under me—I want that.”
You blink. “You always talk this much before sex?”
He huffs a breathy laugh. “Only when I’m starving.”
You should say no. But when he leans in and kisses you slow and reverent, his thumb caressing your jaw, you let him.
He undresses you like he’s unwrapping something rare. Not rushed. Not rough. He watches every reaction, every inhale, every twitch, and smiles when you gasp as his fingers stroke between your legs.
“You’re already this wet,” he says, soft and delighted. “God, you’re perfect. May I?”
“…Yes,” you whisper.
He sighs, relieved. “Thank you.”
Then he devours you.
But even then, he’s careful. Skilled. He holds your hips firmly but doesn’t bruise until you ask. And when you tug his hair, grind into his face, and moan his name like it’s a spell, he pulls away just to look at you.
“You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says hoarsely. “I think you might be the only thing I’ll ever want again.”
He fucks you hard, yes—but also slow at first, deliberate. He whispers praise against your skin even as he slams into you harder, even as his teeth sink into your shoulder.
“Taking me so well. That brain of yours, so sharp and now look at you. Fucked dumb.”
You whimper. He grabs your face, thumb pressing into your cheek. “Still with me?”
“…Yes,” you breathe.
He kisses your temple. “Good girl.”
And then he ruins you.
By the time he’s done, your body is trembling, dripping, overstimulated and marked in places no one will see but him.
He holds you for a long time after. Presses his palm to your chest and listens to your heartbeat. “…Thank you,” he murmurs again. “You’ve given me something I didn’t think existed anymore.”
You barely speak, dazed. He pulls your clothes back on with eerie care. Straightens your collar. Kisses your knuckles. Then, with that same terrifying smile: “I’ll see you again, sweetheart. Don’t go dying on me. I’m not done with you.”
Your next mission was simple, track a C-grade curse nest, handle it alone, report back. You’d cleared the job quickly, efficiently. But something in your gut itched. A pressure.
Like you were being watched.
And then, like smoke curling at the edge of your vision—you feel it. That cursed energy. That slow, molten pulse. Familiar now. Like a matchstick struck against your skin.
You don’t bother turning around.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” you mutter, wiping blood off your blade.
Footsteps crunch slowly over gravel.
“I’m not?” The voice is calm. Smooth as lacquered wood. “How rude of me. I didn’t know this forest was yours.”
You exhale through your nose. “Ishigori.”
“Still using my full name?” he chuckles, finally stepping into your periphery. “After how close we got?”
You glance at him.
He’s dressed cleaner than any man has a right to be in cursed territory—charcoal pants, a pressed shirt under an open coat, as if he just walked out of a high-end restaurant. He’s even wearing gloves.
“You’re not my target,” you mutter.
“Nor are you mine.” He spreads his arms slightly, grinning. “A rare moment of peace, don’t you think?”
You don’t move. You don’t lower your weapon.
He steps closer. “I heard you were in the area. Took a detour.”
You raise a brow. “Heard from who?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he stops right in front of you, eyes raking over your frame—subtle, hungry, but restrained. You can feel the tension he’s holding under that gentleman mask. The need to touch. To taste. To own.
But he doesn’t. Not yet.
“You look well,” he murmurs. “Still strong. Sharp-eyed.” His gaze flicks to your throat. “No new marks.”
You bristle. “You expecting someone else to leave them?”
He smiles wider. “I was hoping you’d let me do it again.” Silence stretches. Then, softly, almost conspiratorially—he steps even closer and says: “Do you think about it?”
Your pulse spikes. His gloved fingers skim along your wrist. Barely a touch. “That night,” he murmurs. “Your body. My hands. The way you trembled.”
You tighten your jaw. “You’re not here to fight. Don’t push your luck.”
His eyes flash. “No fighting. Just indulging.”
He moves behind you, slow and controlled, like a chef circling a rare cut of meat. His breath kisses your ear as he leans down.
“You remember what I said, don’t you?” he whispers. “You’re not a habit. You’re the main course.”
You step forward quickly, putting distance between you, trying to catch your breath.
He doesn’t chase. He just watches. Calm. Collected. Starving.
“I won’t touch you,” he says. “Not unless you ask.”
“…Why are you really here?”
He shrugs, brushing imaginary lint off his coat. “Because you made me feel something. I’ve killed a hundred sorcerers, but I only remember you.”
Your throat tightens. “You’re insane.”
“I’m honest,” he says, voice smooth. “You’re just not used to being wanted like this.”
You hate how true that feels. You hate that your fingers twitch with memory—the silk sheets, his mouth, the bruises he kissed afterward.
Ryu steps closer again. “Let me make you dinner.”
You blink. “What?”
He grins. “No games. No missions. Just us. Food. Wine. Conversation. I want to see what you’re like when you’re not bleeding.”
“And if I say no?“
He pauses. Then in a tone so sincere it stabs through your armor, he says: “Then I’ll leave. I won’t follow. Not tonight.”
You study him. There’s madness in his eyes. Hunger. But also patience. Focus. Like he’s waited his whole life for something to deserve craving. “…Where?”
He smiles. And it’s devastating. “I’ll send the coordinates.” And then, true to his word—he turns and walks away.
No fight. No threats.
But as he vanishes into the trees, you swear you hear him whisper to himself: “God, she’s perfect.”
The place he sends you isn‘t a restaurant.
It’s a private villa, remote, clean, designed. Tucked into the hillside like a secret, with lights that glow gold through polished windows. There’s soft jazz playing inside. Wine breathing on the counter.
And the scent of seared garlic and roasted something hangs in the air like an invitation.
You step through the door slowly. He doesn’t greet you.
He’s already in the kitchen, back to you, shirtless, barefoot, wearing slacks low on his hips. A towel’s draped around his neck, and his hair.
It makes you stop. You’d never seen it like this before.
Usually he tucks it into a rolled style, twisted and clean, like a man who prides himself on presentation. You assumed it barely reached his jaw.
But now? It’s undone. Damp from the shower. Tousled. Soft waves curling around his temples and brushing the edges of his cheekbones.
He turns, sensing you.
“Ah.” His smile curls slowly. “Early.”
Your eyes flick to his hair.
His grin sharpens. “Didn’t know I had that much, did you?”
You blink once. “You hide it.”
“I contain it,” he replies smoothly, walking toward you. “Control is elegance.”
He’s holding a wine glass. Not in a rush to give it to you, just offering it slowly, as if sharing is a gift you’ve earned.
You take it. He watches the way your fingers curl around the stem. “That’s a 2010 Clos de Tart,” he says. “Pairing it with duck tonight.”
You take a sip. It’s too smooth, too expensive.
He watches you drink. “You’re tense,” he notes. “Still expecting me to throw you over the table?”
“You said no knives.”
“I did,” he nods, stepping just a little closer. “But I never said I wouldn’t touch you.”
You raise a brow. “Are we doing dinner or posturing?”
“Both,” he replies, amused. “Sit.”
You do. Against your better judgment.
The meal is simple. Ridiculously well-cooked. Perfect portions, garnishes, plating. The man probably used tweezers.
And yet—he doesn’t eat much. He just watches. Elbows on the table, chin resting on one hand, damp strands of hair curling against his temple.
“You always look at people this intensely?” you mutter.
“No,” he says. “Just you.”
Your skin prickles.
He rises to clear the table without asking. Moves like someone who’s practiced this, not because he serves people, but because he likes the control.
You shift in your seat. “What do you do when you’re not trying to seduce someone?”
“I don’t try,” he says from the kitchen. “I choose.”
And when he returns—you feel it again: That gaze. Focused. Electric. He stops in front of you. “I told you I wouldn’t touch you unless you asked.”
You stand slowly. “I didn’t ask.”
He steps into your space. Close. Steady. “You’re going to.” His voice is low. Confident. Unhurried. The kind of calm that’s more dangerous than any threat.
You lift a hand, fingertips grazing through the hair at his temple. It’s soft. Still damp at the roots.
“So this is what you hide,” you murmur.
“Only from people who don’t deserve it,” he replies, tilting his face into your touch.
Your heart’s racing. He looks down at you like you’re dessert and wine and destruction all at once. “Tell me you want me.”
You exhale. “I do.”
His hand finds your hip. His other lifts to cup your jaw, slow and precise. And he kisses you. Not like the wild first time. No. This is measured. Claimed. Lips dragging, thumb brushing under your ear, every part of him pulling you into his pace.
He hums against your mouth.
“Still the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he whispers. Then his forehead presses to yours. “Let me undress you properly this time.”
You’re not sure how you got to his bedroom.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way his hand slid to the back of your neck during the kiss. Maybe it was that voice—that calm, composed voice saying “Let me undress you properly this time.”
Now you stand in front of him. His hands are on your hips. His hair is still curled slightly around his jaw, framing a face that’s too beautiful for the things he’s done.
You stare at him. Then you say it. “Why are you like this?”
He tilts his head, eyes soft. “Like what?”
“I thought you were going to kill me. Back in Sendai, when I saw your cursed energy—” your voice drops, raw, “I thought I was going to die.”
He brushes a hand over your side, slow, gentle. “You didn’t.”
“Right. Because you decided to fuck me instead?”
He laughs low, clean and delighted. “No,” he murmurs. “Because I decided you were rare.” His hand slides up to your ribcage. His thumb strokes your skin like he’s checking for cracks. “I’m not soft,” he continues. “I’m precise. I don’t waste effort on what doesn’t deserve it.”
You shiver under his touch.
He lowers his mouth to your collarbone, presses a kiss there—then whispers: “And I don’t damage what I want to keep coming back to.”
You should pull away.
Instead, your fingers find his waistband.
“You keep acting like you’re some refined gentleman,” you breathe, “but I saw you tear through a man’s ribcage with your bare hands.”
He smiles against your skin. “I washed them before I cooked.”
“Fucking psycho.”
His teeth graze your skin. “Maybe.”
He lifts your shirt, slowly, watching your face the whole time. “Arms up.”
You obey. Without thinking. Without fighting.
And that—that—makes him sigh.
“Good girl.”
You freeze. He notices.
“You like that,” he murmurs. “Even if you don’t know it yet.”
He kisses your stomach. One hand moving to your back, unfastening your bra with practiced ease.
“Let me look at you.”
He steps back.
You’re standing in nothing but your underwear now—exposed, vulnerable. But his gaze doesn’t leer. It catalogs. Like he’s building a memory of you in pieces. He walks around you once. Slow. One finger trailing down your spine. You hate how your breath stutters.
He stops behind you. Mouth to your ear. “I wanted to ruin you the first time,” he says. “But now I want to remember you.”
You whisper, hoarse, “This is insane.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
“No.“
He turns you, gently, and kisses you again. This time his hands are reverent, sliding down your arms, over your sides. He kneels in front of you without a word, fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear. “You’re still tense,” he murmurs. “Let me help.”
Your voice cracks. “You’re the reason I’m tense.”
“And the reason you’re aroused.”
He pulls the fabric down slowly. Then he looks up at you, hair falling over one eye, mouth already parted as he breathes against your skin. “You still think I’m soft?”
You don’t answer.
Because then he licks up your thigh and your knees nearly give out. His mouth is barely inches from your core—tongue flicking out, teasing, savoring. His fingers spread your thighs with the same reverence he used slicing his steak at dinner.
But before he can go further, you stop him. Your fingers curl tight in his hair.
He pauses. “…Something wrong?” he asks, voice low, breath hot against your inner thigh.
You lean down slowly, gripping his chin, tilting his face up to look at you. “Yeah,” you say, smirking. “I’m bored of being dessert.”
Then you tug him up by his hair, fast, hard. His breath catches.
You don’t wait. You pushed him down onto the mattress, crawl over him like a threat, straddling his hips and pinning him with your thighs.
Ryu blinks up at you, hair a mess now, lips wet, hands still frozen mid-air. And then? He grins. “Oh. Okay,” he laughs breathlessly. “That’s how you want to play?”
You grind down once, slow and dangerous. His cock twitches through his slacks. You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Stage is all mine, psycho killer.”
He exhales a sharp breath, arms going lax above his head. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost laughing. “I’m so fucking turned on right now.”
“Shut up,” you murmur, fingers dragging down his chest, nails leaving light scratches. “Your turn.”
You undo his pants with one hand, keeping your weight on him. His pupils dilate. His jaw clenches. He lifts his hips just enough for you to yank his slacks down. He’s already hard, of course he is and the second you wrap your hand around his cock, he groans. “Oh, fuck—”
You stroke once. Slow. Tight. He grips the sheets. You meet his eyes. “So responsive,” you say mockingly. “Didn’t take much to make you break, huh?”
“I’m not breaking,” he breathes. “You’re just—fuck—good.”
You smirk.
Then you slide down his body, never breaking eye contact, until your mouth is hovering just above his tip.
Ryu hisses when your breath ghosts over it. One of his hands shoots out to grip the headboard. You press a kiss to the side of his shaft. He twitches. “You said you liked detail,” you murmur.
“I—shit—yeah—”
“Good. Watch closely.”
And then you swallow him. All the way down. His eyes roll back. His hips jerk. You push him flat with your palm.
“No moving.”
You bob your head slowly at first—just enough to make him lose his goddamn mind. His legs tremble. His throat works hard as he swallows, breath shaking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he groans.
Your lips drag up his cock with purpose, tongue teasing every vein. You hollow your cheeks. His abs flex.
“You’re gonna make me—fuck, you’re gonna make me come if you don’t—”
You pull off with a wet pop. “Beg.”
He blinks at you, stunned. “What?”
“You heard me. Beg.”
He stares. And then he grins like a man at gunpoint who’s never been harder. “…Please,” he rasps. “Please let me come. Fuck—do whatever you want to me.”
You crawl back up his chest, straddling his waist again. “You’re lucky I like the way you beg.”
You sink down on him in one motion. Both of you moan. Ryu’s hands shoot to your waist, but you grab them and shove them back down. “Uh-uh.”
He growls.
“You’re obsessed.”
“You’re not wrong.”
You ride him slow, grinding, forcing him to feel everything.
Ryu’s biting his lip now, neck arched, flushed to the chest, eyes desperate. “I’m gonna come, I’m—fuck, I can’t hold it, you feel so good—”
“Then come.”
And when he finally does, when his hips snap up and he spills into you with a broken moan and clenched fists—you lean down and whisper: “Who’s soft now?”
He laughs breathlessly, body twitching under yours. “…You should marry me,” he mutters.
You blink. “What?”
He looks up at you, eyes hazy, pupils blown. “I’m serious,” he pants. “You’re gonna be the death of me and I want it.”
His body’s still twitching beneath you. Chest rising and falling. Hair stuck to his forehead. Cum leaking down your thighs.
He looks fucking wrecked.
And you? You’re still on top of him. Breathless. Smirking.
You tilt your head, drag your fingers down his sweat-slicked chest, and murmur—“Big words for a tough guy…”
Your hips grind forward just slightly—slow, cruel, enough to make his legs tremble.
“…when I didn’t even come.”
Ryu’s breath catches. He blinks up at you. Then his eyes darken. Not in anger. In complete, feral awe. “Oh my god—” he breathes, eyes wide. “You’re unreal.”
You chuckle, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You really came that fast, huh?”
“I—fuck off—you sucked me like it was a fucking death sentence,” he pants. “I saw God. I met my end.”
You laugh into his neck. But then—he flips. Literally. In one sharp, unexpected movement, he rolls you underneath him, arms caging you in, breathing heavy against your face.
“You didn’t come,” he whispers, voice shaking.
You blink. “Yeah. I know. I just said it.”
“I came inside you, and you didn’t fucking come—”
His hands are already moving, desperate, reverent—sliding down your stomach, between your thighs, two fingers slipping through his own cum leaking out of you.
He groans. Actually groans. “I made this mess,” he mutters, tracing the slick around your folds. “You took it—so fucking perfect—and you still… didn’t…”
He looks up. You freeze. His pupils are blown. Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Hair sticking to his cheekbone.
He looks insane. And then—calmly, sweetly, terrifyingly: “…Let me make it up to you.”
You barely manage to speak before he’s sinking down again.
But this time it’s different. There’s no swagger. No smirk. No games.
Just slow, obsessive reverence.
He spreads your thighs and kisses the inside like he’s praying. His hands shake as he lifts your hips to his mouth.
“I’m gonna make you come until you forget your own name.”
A kiss to your clit.
“I’m gonna taste you until I can’t remember food.”
A slow drag of his tongue. You shudder, head falling back.
“Ishigori—”
“No, no,” he murmurs, mouth against you, voice drunk. “Don’t say my name like that unless you mean it.”
Your legs jerk as his tongue swirls, slow at first, then focused. Intent. His nose presses into you. He groans into your pussy like he’s already addicted.
You fist the sheets. “Shit—fuck—”
He lifts his head, lips soaked, pupils nearly gone. “You like that?” he whispers, completely fixated. “I can do this all night. I’ll live here.”
You pull his hair. He moans. And then he goes back in with everything—tongue flicking, sucking, devouring you until your thighs shake.
You cry out as you finally come, grinding into his mouth, and he just keeps licking, arms locked around your thighs like he’ll never let you go.
Only when your body’s twitching does he pull back—face wrecked, lips shining, chest heaving.
He stares at you, like you just destroyed something inside him.
“I think I’m in love with you,” he says.
You blink.
“What?”
He climbs back up your body, grabs your face with both hands, and kisses you deep—messy, almost desperate.
“I said what I said.”
You’re still panting, limp against his chest, skin damp and trembling. He’s straddling your thigh, still hard, still flushed, staring at you like you’re the answer to every hunger he’s ever had.
You blink. Then—you laugh. Not mean. Not cruel. Just breathless and surprised and a little overwhelmed. “You’re such a fucking psycho,” you manage to say, giggling into your arm.
He smiles. Like he loves that answer. “God,” he murmurs, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re so fucking perfect. You don’t even know.”
You hum, tugging his towel off your pillow. “You’re insane. Like actually. You taste me once and suddenly you’re reciting vows?”
He shifts closer, grabs your face again—gentle, reverent.
“You don’t get it.” His voice is softer now, a little cracked. “I’ve had everything. Fought everything. Killed things people don’t even have words for. And none of them felt like this. You’re not just good. You’re—everything.”
His lips are at your throat again, but now it’s slower. Lingering. His hand on your waist tightens possessively, like he can feel you slipping out of his grasp already.
“You’re not leaving,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Not until I figure out how many times it takes to make you stay.”
But before you can respond—before you can mock him again, or kiss him, or tease—Something shifts. Like the air drops ten degrees.
That soft flicker of cursed energy—not his, not yours—foreign.
You feel it on your skin. A buzz. A static wrongness.
Your heart skips. Ryu goes still. His lips stop moving. His hands pause mid-stroke along your waist. He lifts his head slightly, like a predator catching scent.
You whisper, “Did you feel—”
He’s already moving. Quiet. Controlled. Like you flipped a switch.
He rises from the bed, muscles coiled and poised, no wasted motion. He walks across the room without rushing. He’s not frantic. He’s focused.
Before anything else, he reaches for his boxers on the floor. Slides them on with precision. No shame. No fluster. Just calm, unnerving intention. He doesn’t speak until he’s halfway to the balcony. “They followed you.”
His voice is quiet. Flat. Deadly.
You pull the sheet tighter around you. “I didn’t tell anyone—”
“I know.”
He says it like fact. Like gravity.
He stands at the glass door now, bare chest rising and falling, hands loose at his sides. His eyes scan the dark treeline, that chin-length hair still slightly damp, curling at his temples.
Then he hums. Soft. Like a man admiring the scent of wine. “They’re close.”
You sit up. “Ryu—”
“I’m not mad at you.” He turns toward you slowly. “But I’m going to erase them.”
Your throat dries. “…It could be a cursed spirit—”
“It’s not.”
His fingers twitch at his sides. Not clenched. Flexed. Like he’s warming up. Like his body is eager.
You swallow. “You’re not even putting on pants?”
He finally smiles. Crooked. Chilling. “I’m only going to need about 30 seconds.” He walks to the side table, picks up his zipper, shrugs it on over bare skin and boxers like it’s nothing. Like that’s just what he wears to kill. “I give them one chance to leave.”
“And if they don’t?”
He glances at you over his shoulder. That slow grin spreads again. Something unhinged underneath it. “I’ll bring you back their eyes in a bowl.”
Then he slides the glass door open and steps barefoot into the cold, night-drenched woods—not even slamming it.
The second he left, the room felt wrong.
Empty. Charged. Buzzing. You pulled one of his shirts from the dresser—black, oversized, warm from his body. Threw it over your head like armor. Then you sat back on the edge of the bed, trying to breathe through the silence.
Fifteen minutes. That’s how long he’s gone.
You don’t move.
Not when the cursed energy outside evaporates. Not when the forest goes still. Not even when the hum in the walls quiets like a held breath.
You’re afraid to look out the window. Because you know. You felt what he did. And then—The door opens. Slow.
You look up.
And your stomach drops straight through the floor.
He walks in without a sound. Not fast. Not angry.
But completely drenched.
His zipper jacket is open—unzipped halfway, stuck with something too dark to be water. His chest, his neck, his arms, slick with blood. Dried. Fresh. Splattered like he walked through a rainstorm of flesh.
His hands hang loose at his sides. Red down to the knuckles.
There’s blood on his throat. Blood in his hair. A streak smeared across one cheekbone like war paint.
And his eyes.
His eyes are the worst part. They’re bright. Wide. Excited.
He looks like he just fucked someone to death and liked it.
And then—he smiles. Like he’s happy to see you. “Problem’s solved.” His voice is low. Calm. Like it always is.
You don’t respond. You can’t. He steps further in. Leaves footprints.
Wet ones.
You blink once, eyes locked on the dark red trail behind him. His chest rises and falls slowly—like he took a walk, not carved someone apart.
“Are you okay?” he asks, head tilting slightly.
You still can’t speak. He looks down at his hands. Then shrugs, almost sheepishly. “I got a little carried away.”
You’re still sitting there. One of his shirts falling off your shoulder. Legs bare. Your skin still smells like sex and sweat and him.
But everything in your body is screaming something different now. He walks closer. You flinch. He notices. Freezes. A long, too-long pause. And then his smile softens just slightly. His eyes drop to the hem of his blood-streaked jacket.
“I’ll shower,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Don’t worry.”
He turns toward the bathroom, footsteps still wet. You don’t say a word. Because for the first time since you met him—you’re not turned on.
You’re not amused. You’re not even confused.
You’re scared.
Your pulse is thudding too hard in your throat.
And it hits you. All at once.
Not just a psycho. Not just obsessed. Not just dangerous.
A/n: Jane Juliet, my beloved. I just finished season 3 of JJK, and I'd say my favourite characters are definitely Ishigori and Higuruma so far. So, since Rekino already made a post for Higuruma, I figured I'd make one for my GOAT Ryu. I'm not sure if Ryu is a unisex name or not, so feel free to let me know. I hope you all enjoy!
Fem!Ryu Ishigori x male reader
Credit to twitter user @ w4kuw4kusuru for the art on the right.
You lean against the front wall of a restaurant, scrolling through social media on your phone. You had plans to meet with your girlfriend here for a date, but she was currently running late. You would have chalked this up to her simply not knowing how to use the phone you got for her to set an alarm on it, what with her being a four hundred year old sorcerer and all, had she not sent you a text just a few minutes earlier saying she was behind schedule.
Letting out a sigh, you continue your mindless scrolling, when a sudden clicking noise moves your attention a few feet to your right. You look over to see a man in a ski mask pointing a gun at you.
"Hand over the phone! And your wallet!"
You give the man a blank stare.
"Are you serious?"
"...What?"
Even despite his mask, you can tell the man is confused by your complete lack of panic just from the tone of his voice.
"A ski mask? Really? Isn't that a little cliché?"
"A-Are you seriously insulting me right now? I'm about to shoot you!"
"No, you're not going to shoot me."
"And how do you know that?!"
You point a finger over the man's shoulder. Before he can even follow your gaze, a sharp pain suddenly shoots through his leg. He falls onto his side, cradling his leg against his chest and howling in pain. You look down at the man to see a small, circular hole cut through his leg. You ignore his yelping to give a stern look at the person approaching, your girlfriend.
"You sure took your time, Ishigori."
"Sorry for the wait, babe. My hair really didn't wanna cooperate today...What's with the face?"
"What have I told you about using your technique on non-sorcerers?"
"C'mon, I barely put any power into it. It's the least that bastard deserves. Besides, it's a small price for scum like him to pay to look at my beautiful boyfriend's face."
Even if you want to stay mad at her, you can't help but blush at her compliment.
"You're lucky you're so pretty..."
She gives you a flirty smirk.
"No, I'm just lucky to have you."
She gives you a kiss on the cheek and wraps her arm around your shoulder as you both prepare to head inside.
"I-I'm not finished, you bastard!"
The mugger stands back up with a limp. He takes off his mask to get more air into his lungs. Your girlfriend grins and pulls her arm away from you to punch her fists together.
"Still not done? Good, 'cause I'm far from full!"
The man charges at your girlfriend with all the speed he can muster. She easily blocks the attack with her right hand and slams her fist into his gut with her left, knocking the man flat on his ass as he falls onto his back. Your girlfriend's grin quickly fades.
"That's it? Forget dessert, that was barely a starter!"
You put a comforting hand on her back.
"Forget about it, Ishigori. Let's just go eat."
Ishigori looks at you, and smirks even wider than her last one while pulling you close.
"Alright, I guess I'll just have to pay a visit to my favourite high-end dessert shop later to make up for it."
Just like with her smirk, you blush even deeper than you did before.
"I-Ishigori!"
"You don't mind, right, babe? Just consider it a reward for your gorgeous girlfriend coming to your rescue."
You stutter for a moment before finally giving in with a small nod. She smirks once more and plants a soft kiss on your lips. With that, you finally head into the restaurant to enjoy your meal together, while making sure to save room for "dessert" later.
