uncle!kishibe whose age and relation don’t stop him from trying to get in your pants, fuck with your head. hand brushing up against yours any chance he gets, oops! didn’t see a pretty little thing there.
uncle kishibe whose occupation bodes the illest fate. maybe that’s why he acts out like this, like he can afford to lose it all. cornering you every holiday gathering to cop a feel that he always gets. last time i saw you, you were this big—like his hands aren’t gauging the dip of your waist. he’s an intimidating man, with hoops in his ears and a scar that makes his jawline an arrowhead, but his touch is coaxing in a way.
eventually, he’s following you to the bathroom… cornering you the way you imagine a hunter preys on a devil. it’s handjobs and blowjobs for years on end until he’s suppressed himself well past his limit. one second you’re nursing him in your hot mouth and the next he wants to release in a different hole. he’ll make your first time extra special and yet seriously undistinguished. it’s the way that he doesn’t look you in the eye but fucks you hard enough to scream bloody murder. it’s the cold tile floor glistening with the thick, slick betrayal that pools beneath you.
there’s no going back once you’re leaking his seed.
cw. gn!reader, noncon, incest, degradation, brief impact play
kiyoomi can’t stand good-for-nothing brats like you. he can’t believe his ears when your parents tell him that you never got into the habit of picking up after yourself and tidying your room, even in your adult years—that you’d rather tap away on your phone or sneak out of the house like a spoiled, ill-mannered child.
not on his watch.
he’ll make sure to instill some goddamn discipline into that soft head of yours, drill it into as many holes as he possibly can. the standard corporal punishments are obviously not enough to bring you down a peg, but he’s never been one to shy away from more unorthodox methods.
“filthy bitch,” he sneers as you buckle under his weight, the kitchen countertop the only support available as you hold on for dear life. he smacks your ass when you fail to respond, unamused at your unresponsiveness—something he’s always taken for insolence. “i’m starting to think that you’re a dirty slut who actually wants this.”
“not a slut,” you breathe between muffled whimpers, one hand over your mouth as you pray your family hasn’t tired from the blare of the TV yet. you’re just about ready to give out, dull ache overtaking your limp body, now wracked with abuse and cold sweat.
“then fucking act like it,” he says, breaths ragged and quickening. “that’s so not convincing from a stubborn whore who needs a punishment every other day.”
“i’ll listen this time, so please…” you turn your head as far back as you can, fingers shot with fatigue when you arch your back. your efforts are for naught; he’s quick to shoot his sharpest glare, narrowed eyes riddled with disbelief.
he clicks his tongue in response.
“i always finish what i started.” his hips keep their pace until he deems his justice administered, white ejaculate encased in rubber—who knows what kinds of diseases you harbor—for you to toss when you take the garbage out. next time, he says, you’ll be scrubbing his seed from your skin.
synopsis. in which you vie for your big brother’s attention.
Being Toge’s little sister meant always getting left behind in the dust.
You didn’t inherit the Inumaki Family’s cursed technique, but your big brother did, just as expected. Just as standard procedure called for. And if he was the standard, then what exactly did that make you?
Being Toge’s little sister meant always watching him get hurt.
Seeing fresh blood spill from his lips, spotting new cuts and bruises as they bloomed from under the collar and sleeves of his uniform. If you thought hard enough, you could conjure up vague memories of even crying over it. But it seemed like crying was the extent of what you could do.
Being Toge’s little sister meant always getting hurt.
Especially with his words, or at times, the complete lack thereof.
Because there was a time when he still spoke freely, the same way any other person does, in sentences that are full and concrete and clear. But he couldn’t control his ability around you, not when you were little kids, too young and defenseless to keep up with his rapid growth. He’s hardly spoken a word outside of his own made-up language since, and it makes you feel like dead weight.
He’s hurting you even now, balls snug against the curve of your ass as the flared edge of his cockhead grazes that sensitive, spongy spot in your core—but he’s not making a single movement. You won’t be moving any time soon, either, not with the last order he gave you:
“Be good, sit still.”
You’re trapped.
Minutes later, the honeyed words still hang in the air like music to your ears. It’s not so much their content as the fact that he’s using his cursed speech on you, that he’s daring to cross that line once more. But it’s left you stuck atop of him in an uncomfortable straddle, legs forced wide open as your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at the surge of need coursing through you. You feel it burn in your pelvis and sting in your hardened nipples, and with the way your walls haven’t loosened one bit, your chest flush against his, you’re sure that he can feel it, too.
Goddamn, you’re itching for a little give. An involuntary whimper falls from your lips when you realize the command isn’t wearing off any time soon, and Toge all but acknowledges it. Sure, the prospect of entertaining his baby sister is tempting, but as a graduate of Jujutsu High he finds himself undoubtedly busier than ever.
Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours as the rim of your cunt struggles with his size, the stretch a little too much for you to handle. It’d be one thing if his attention was divided, but Toge somehow seems completely unfazed by the way you’re strung across his lap, split open for him and only him. He could do this all day long, whereas you can feel yourself approaching your wits’ end—funny how you feel neglected even when you’re sitting in the middle of your nii-chan’s lap.
But the cursed energy wears off eventually, and soon enough the feeling returns to your arms and legs, slowly but surely. Neither of you quite realize it at first; that is, until you find yourself grinding your hips into his, chasing after friction by absentminded instinct, only partially aware of the inconvenience you’re causing your dear Toge-nii.
He grunts in response, eyes skittering away from the pile of curse profiles and latching onto yours. The expression on his face is clearly one of distaste—you can tell even with his zipped-up collar, from the ridges on the bridge of his nose to the tell-tale furrowing of his brow—but he’s finally paying you some mind and that’s all that really matters to you.
You’re such a brat, he mouths in silence as he tugs the zipper down, half a mind to get you to behave again.
“Your brat,” you correct him, “Toge-nii.” You try to bury the bitterness in your voice with a sing-song lilt, threading your hands in his hair in a silent plea for more, clit rubbing against his abdomen as you rock yourself as fast as you dare.
“Shake, ikura, mentaiko.” His words come out a half-sigh, but his pupils are all blown to hell and you know you have him wrapped around your finger, if only for a few minutes longer. He’s guiding you with one hand now, has you bouncing on his dick at his own whim. It reminds you of the time he taught you how to use your fingers, curling them inside you as if beckoning you to come closer. And you did, clung to him like it was all you knew how, and even year after year of family obligations tearing you apart, it feels like you still are.
You kiss up his neck, chaste little kitten kisses that say don’t stop, don’t leave me, don’t ignore me again. Shuddering, he thrusts into you in retaliation, the thin thread of his composure snapping in half when you arch your back in ecstasy. You’re fluttering for him, one step away from creaming and convulsing all over his swollen cock and he’d just love to cum with you and see what kind of sloppy mess your juices would make all mixed together with his own—but his mind does a double take and suddenly he thinks he’s already spoiled you enough, thinks he can’t always let you have your way.
“Finish me off with your mouth,” he says, and your jaw goes slack at the unexpected command. Your needy whine doesn’t stop him from sliding out of your aching cunt, but it isn’t long before you’re kissing up his dick and swallowing it whole—something else he taught you, too. He wonders how it tastes, drowning in your own scent, glistering in your own arousal, and secretly, you think it tastes like raw disappointment.
what if yuuta-nii is the only one who knows how to braid your hair the proper way, and each and every time, without fail, it has you swinging your legs from sheer excitement and all he can think about is how you’re wiggling your cute lil butt in his lap
