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basoorexxiaa · 2 years ago

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THE WHITE RABBIT ┊ GOJO SATORU

synopsis: you’ve been instructed to begin making appearances at the pleasure district. choosing the right man to flaunt was imperative for your family's image, and who better to pick than the top courtesan?

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader (called ‘angel’ toward the end), strangers to lovers, courtesan gojo (no curses au), sex work, alcohol consumption, inspired by edo period japan, sexual tension, mutual attraction, reader is a customer from a well known family, feelings realisation, other characters present, fluff + angst, loss of virginity (reader), body worship, finger sucking, bathing, vaginal oral sex + fingering (reader receiving), unprotected vaginal sex (pull out method), hopeful ending

wc: 14k+

The dense woodland that lies between the main city and the Pleasure district appeared unearthly in the late evening. If you looked up toward the capillaries of the canopy, you’d find the trees would breathe even on a windless night. East and West, spindling arms of cedar seemed to reach for you.

It unsettled you. The atmosphere felt polarised, as if it were drawing your rickshaw in and manipulating your direction despite having entered willingly. You thought this might be what it’s like to cross from one plane to another, a coniferous bridge between worlds.

Such a description was befitting of your destination. The Pleasure district truly was another world in its entirety — a place wherein the rules of the mainland could not reach. A creature that laid its own law and shaped you to its own customs. You could no longer put it off. You were of an appropriate age, and it was your turn to enter the beast.

The maw is bright where the clearing breaks, illuminated by hues of orange and red. Carmine wood with slightly curved pillars, before you stands a grand archway nestled between two walls built to encase the district.

Large hand painted lanterns light up the wide open road as you are carried through the swelling crowds. Patrons part around your intrusion as they turn to stare, curious about who you might be. You knew that both the private escort pulling your rickshaw and the expensive fabric fashioned elegantly around your shoulders would be enough to display your family's social standing.

Still, the attention and judgement is stifling. You distract yourself with focus on the establishments lining either side of the street; the air is imbued with an amalgam of sweet scents, thick enough to feel it on the roof of your tongue as you breathe. People with delicately painted faces adorned in jewels call out to you from the balconies, the distinct and striking pluck of a shamisen ringing in your ears.

Logically this place was a place of business, yet the innocent, naive part of you felt guilt simply for ignoring their greetings. But you could not stop to contemplate their suitability or good looks, for your family had already arranged a banquet with the finest house in the district — the Michizane house.

As the rickshaw comes to a slow stop you feel tension return to your chest, wrung tight like cloth. The teahouse appears to be two stories high and quite large when compared to its neighbouring buildings. Decorating the outer walls are intricate patterns of wood lattice, the wide open entrance lit up with an inviting glow. Waiting by the door is the owner, a striking man by the name of Nanami Kento.

He steps forward and bows deeply in greeting, peering up from behind the thin frame of his glasses to where you are perched as he straightens. Not a blonde hair out of place. “It is a pleasure to meet you, and an honour to host your banquet at my establishment,” he says. His words are dipped in a rich timbre that settles warm in your bones.

Insecure of your inexperience, you try to steel yourself as you reply, “I’m grateful for your time, Nanami-san”.

If he senses your nervousness he doesn’t mention it, rather he extends his arm to assist you down from your seat. In doing so you take a moment to contemplate his garments — he wears a grey toned hakama over his pale blue kimono with a matching haori, embellished with the teahouse crest.

You take his open hand, habitually tugging the silk of your own kimono closer to your skin. Nanami casts his eyes toward the floor as you descend out of respect for your modesty, and while you felt it wasn’t required it was appreciated all the same.

“I’ll be waiting for your return,” your long employed escort, Norimitsu, lowers his head to bid you goodbye. Having known the man for most of your life, it comforted you that he wouldn’t stray too far.

Nanami remains stoic as he leads you into the teahouse. There are various open rooms housing guests of all class and background, conversation and laughter easily heard through paper thin walls. You are beckoned through a teal-dyed curtain, through which you find a large sliding door. He smoothly pulls it open for you, revealing a large parlour. You take note of the hearth built into the floor, and the small alcove of hanging scrolls that houses a single sword stand, displaying a katana. At the further end of the room, three screen doors have been tucked away to connect the space to a modest pond garden.

“I trust it is to your liking?”

You startle, glancing back at Nanami to find him at respectable distance. “It’s wonderful,” you answer at the end of an exhale, feeling like you had stepped into a dream. There are already a few attendants present, one knelt by your assigned seat on one side of the low tea table in preparation.

A delicate sound reverberates through the room, and your gaze is drawn to a young man draped in a green kimono so dark that it is almost black. There are subtle gold finishes along the square sleeves, and gold flowers embroidered into his obi. Laid out in front of him is a wooden koto.

“Please take your seat. These young men will tend to you as you wait for the Courtesan to arrive,” Nanami startles you out of your reverie, inclining his head forward as another gentle strum of music dances through the quiet. You overturn your hand to clutch the inside of your sleeve, embarrassed to have been distracted.

“Will they take long?” you ask.

Nanami’s expression shifts with his exasperation, nudging the frame of his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as it wrinkles. “Courtesans of The Michizane House are skilled. Their beauty is venerated and they are praised country wide for trysts with virtue and vice,” he regards you with an almost apologetic look, “what they do not excel in is punctuality”.

You can’t help but smile at his tone. It sounds like he knows them well, as if they are children he were lovingly admonishing. “You’re well acquainted with them?”

“Unfortunately,” he meets your eyes and when the light refracts in his irises, you notice they’re the colour of earth. “Though my personal relationship with them is no reflection on their ability to service you. They are regarded highly for a reason”.

“As is expected. In a place like this, personal and business affairs are kept separate for a reason,” you muse softly. A sudden blanket of exhaustion rests itself on your shoulders, reminded that you were here for duty and not pleasure. “I’ll take my seat. Thank you for your hospitality, Nanami-san”.

You take your seat in silence, knees sinking into the plush silk pillow as you greet the waiting attendant. On the opposite side of the table there are five other cushions lined up and equally distanced, indicating the number of Courtesan you would be meeting with. For a patron of high standing such as yourself, a banquet was custom. Money opened many doors and the House Managers knew that well — thus you were afforded much more freedom for choice, their top earners given to you on a silver platter.

But even so, the district was fickle for tradition and rules. During the banquet you weren’t to interact casually with the Courtesans, as it was their duty to appeal to you without bias. It could be through seduction, art, music and dance; each one given an equal chance to advertise themselves in whatever manner they saw fit.

After deciding your final pick you would meet with them a second time at the Michizane house, only in the company of their personal attendants. An opportunity to get to know one another better and cautiously test the waters. If the chosen Courtesan was not to your liking you would still be able to send for another and there would be no quarrel.

The third visit would be your consummation. Visiting with a Courtesan three times meant solidifying your relationship, and it would be forbidden to take another. You’d heard from many that taking a partner of the night was to be treated as seriously as a marriage, some even went as far as incorporating the exchange of nuptial cups. It was supposed to be romantic, if not slightly archaic. A beautiful lie.

You knew too well that you were not here for pleasure, but still you yearned for love, just as any other person does.

Behind you is the gentle sound of running water in the gardens, but you are taken by the koto player's song, and the fluency at which he plays it. Three ivy picks adorn his right hand, plucking with plectra on the thumb, middle and index fingers. His left hand presses and pulls the silk string behind the bridge, adding enchanting bends and vibrato to the melody.

“His name is Fushiguro Megumi,” the boy to your side murmurs, “here. This will help you relax”. You flinch as a ceramic sake cup is suddenly offered to you, reflexively taking it with a small bow that leaves your attendant bemused.

Bringing it towards your lips, you inhale the slightly sweet aroma before tipping the cup into your mouth, finding it a little dry on your palate. “Thank you,” you tell him. “And what is your name?”

There's a minute tilt to his head as he answers, one of confusion. With the movement, his dark hair curtains his cheek and somehow it makes him look even younger. “My name is Yoshino Junpei. I am a Courtesan in training at the Michizane House,” he replies.

“Oh?” you smile as his chest puffs with pride at your apparent surprise, “you must show a lot of promise then”.

“Thank you!” you think he might start to shake with excitement, a glimmer in his eyes that was not there before. He bows deeply, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his kimono. As his back straightens he continues, “But it is not just me. Fushiguro is also a Courtesan in training”.

You glance towards the trainee in question. He too is dark haired and pale skinned. If he sat still you thought he might look like a porcelain doll. His eyes remain closed as his fingers spin a saccharine harmony, though you can see there are smatterings of red across his cheeks. He must’ve overheard you.

“Then I would say The Michizane House has a keen eye,” you say. Junpei smiles, his mouth strained at the corners with careful hands reaching for your empty cup.

“I just thought it important to let you know… as trainees we cannot be chosen to service you”.

You nod sagely. Of course you had known that before your arrival, yet as you process his words and the implication hung between them, you feel your composure slip. “Oh—! Junpei, I never intended to pursue either of you. I was only appreciating his music”.

Your voice is low, hushed as not to embarrass the other boy any further. Junpei’s eyes widened like a fawn faced with an arrow, the bottle of rice wine almost slipping from his grasp. “Forgive me, I misunderstood and spoke out of turn I— I understand if you’d like to request another—”

Irrespective of etiquette, you cover his hands with your own to still the trembling. “There is nothing to forgive. You were informing me so that I wouldn’t get hurt, were you not?”

He inhales deeply, the air bloating his lungs, exhaling the anxiety from his limbs. Junpei bows again once you release him. “You’re a truly kind person,” he rasps.

“As are you,” you offer him a gentle smile, hoping he wouldn’t see the fraying edges. Seeing him so frightened at the thought of displeasing you was unsettling. You knew that it could be difficult for those working in the district, but having been sheltered most of your life you never quite understood the consequences.

Realising the sudden silence, you meet Megumi’s pensive stare across the room. His arms are held in suspension, anticipating your anger. “I assure you everything is alright,” you steady your voice in hopes he’ll hear the sincerity, “please do continue”.

His eyes narrow in fleeting suspicion. Gradually the melody bleeds back into the room, and Junpei returns to serving your drinks. This song is different, you note. It is light and hopeful yet poignant.

Yes, to have these two young men punished for such meaningless offences would be abhorrent.

There is movement in your periphery, low humming voices behind the screen door. You see multiple silhouettes through the lattice frames as Nanami moves into view, the pinch in his mouth smoothing when he sees you’re watching.

“The Michizane House is at your service”.

You knew to expect something unearthly, yet nothing could prepare you for the picture the Courtesans painted as they entered the parlour.

The first is a kind faced man introduced as courtesan Okkotsu Yuta. His kimono is a gold silk with a pale obi, over top he wears a moss coloured uchikake made of tulle that has been painstakingly dotted with camellia blooms. His hair is dark and neatly parted to loosely frame his face; the only jewels he wears are around his wrists and neck. At first glance he seems young, but his eyes tell otherwise.

“Come, Rika,” he calls softly.

A small girl trails behind him, timid as she greets you but confident in her given task; once Yuta is seated she hastily kneels beside him to straighten the fabric pooling around him and makes quick work of pouring his drink.

As he introduces the next Courtesan — referred to as Choso, a name quite peculiar to you — Nanami is forced to move slightly back in order to make room for his frame. He’s broad, bigger than most men you had seen, though you could attribute that to the mountain of garments he wore. Light ripples on the sheen black kimono, glowing along the painted gold floral prints. Dotted across the fabric are embroidered chrysanthemum blooms; the obi is hefty where it is tied to his front, and you thought it looked as if he were holding a bouquet

You have no doubt his hair is long. It must’ve taken an impressive amount of time to comb and style it — parted into two sections and held either side of his crown with black cloth, ornamental hairpins with cascading red beads passing through each bun.

Forged from left cheek to right, curving seamlessly over the bridge of his nose, is a line of black paint. An innate part of you flares in alarm as he seeks out your furtive gaze in passing, like you were some sort of prey animal.

What fractures his stoic demeanour are the children at his side in simple black robes, identical in height and appearance. The only thing setting them apart was the elaborate lines painted on one of the boys' faces to match with his elder. They press their small hands flat to their obi’s and bow in a deep but clumsy manner.

“Hi, I’m Yuji! It’s nice to meet you!”

“I’m Sukuna, we’re honoured to join you”.

Their voices overlap yet their greetings are given out of sync. You clasp your sleeve against your palm to cover your mouth, repressing a grin as Sukuna’s eyes narrow towards his unassuming twin. Not wanting them to be scolded, you quickly incline your head forward.

“Thank you for being in attendance,” you reply. Choso visibly softens, immediately understanding your show of kindness, and extends both arms to cradle the back of their heads. In doing so he encourages them forward toward his seat.

It’s quite brotherly of him, you think. Children are sometimes abandoned or sold to houses in the district, so you wondered if he had mentored them himself. It would explain his fondness for them.

Finally, a man in a cascading layer of pale blue over pink. Gojo Satoru approaches gracefully and you are reminded of a crane. Fine silks hug his body and ripple as he moves, slender and beautiful, wading through pond water and rain. The ornaments tucked into his moon white hair sway with every step, creating hypnotic little sounds that announce his presence to the path he is walking on.

He regards you with bright mirth, as if he can hear your thoughts, and perches himself on the rouge cushion directly opposite. Again, you cannot help but compare him to a doll, held together by silk and string. You thought you might tap a finger to his porcelain cheek and find it hollow.

With the best earners now present, the banquet finally begins. An opulent spread of food is set along the tables and bottles are replenished. Lower ranking Geisha are in attendance to provide entertainment as you gauge one another. While his own attendant is tasked with providing music, Satoru beckons one of the smaller pink haired boys to his side. Yuji, you remember. You can tell that he is much more free spirited than his twin brother. There’s a youthful air about him that makes you want to pinch his cheeks.

Choso doesn’t seem angered by it, casting a glance toward the pair but making no move to rein him back to his side. With unspoken permission, Yuji shines under the responsibility of pouring Satoru’s drink. You can’t help but watch with an endeared smile as his tongue peaks out from the corner of his mouth in concentration, slowly tipping his elbow up to fill the cup.

Amused by the boy, you almost miss the palpable shift in atmosphere. Looking up, you find Satoru scrutinising your reactions, haunted eyes filled with unexpected curiosity. Even at this distance, you feel it on your face like spring.

Naturally, both in asking and in passing, you had heard much about Gojo Satoru. He was renowned for his services and heartbreak in the district, and permanently moored to the spot of best earned. Not only was he a perfect picture of decadence, he was also skilled in conversation and the arts — a beautiful man that wielded both sword and fan.

Your family had personally suggested him to you, while still offering their approval for any of the top three; and you were more than qualified to choose any of them. Yet being in their presence now, choosing Gojo felt daunting. Quixotic. As if, despite all his previous conquests, your inexperienced hands might finally be the ones to sully him.

Lost in thought, you have been staring back at him far too long. His lips are salmon pink, a reflective sheen to them. They curve into a pleased smirk, like you were a naive lamb leading itself into a wolf's mouth.

Your brows pinch then, eyes averted to Junpei’s pale hands where he steadily refills your drink. It is swallowed in full, the initial sting diffusing into a muted warmth throughout your body, and he doesn’t comment on the cup's emptiness only moments later.

In part, Satoru’s flagrant arrogance mystified you. It was difficult to tell whether he was peacocking to impress you, or if he really was confident that you’d pick him. Frustratingly, his assumptions weren’t baseless.

You’re aware the others are more than suitable. Okkotsu Yuta was known for being gentle and firm. Authoritative, but in a way that puts your mind at rest. For one night, his fantasy could cast off the things that plagued you, leaving you adrift and carried by the tide’s cupped hands. Thinking was not something you need worry about.

Informants spoke of his popularity with newcomers. First timers. You understood why they’d choose him — Yuta appeared to have an uncanny command over his expression, always kind, surrounded by an air of empathy. It is present even now, as he watches Rika perform her dance. Eyes fond, following the practised flicks of her fan as the melody clothes her.

Choso was venerated as something of a romantic, and adored by experienced customers. His large, oppressive demeanour played well into the guise of gentle giant. He was shamelessly attentive and passionate with his servicing. This kindness was different to that of Yuta’s. It was the type anyone could fall in love with, which admittedly frightened you.

The way Gojo Satoru carries himself is different from his peers. Selection banquets provided a short window in time to leave behind a lasting impression. Unable to yet get close, Courtesans played to the best of their strengths in the hopes of planting a seed into their clients' hearts.

Such intentions were clear when looking at Gojo. He is carefully carved porcelain. Everything about him has been curated to serve a purpose. It seemed to you that even his garments were worn not just because of their elegance, but because they were so distinctly reflections of his mouth and his eyes.

Highly experienced, widely recommended, and dutiful at maintaining professional lines. Satoru’s prestige allowed him more freedom than his fellow Courtesans. Having earned so much for the district, Gojo was able to reject clientele if he so wished, and he often ended relationships if they began to cross boundaries. Knowing he could outright refuse you — and at the very least, hold you accountable — without concern of backlash, eased some of your anxieties.

You surmised that he would be the safest option. In choosing Gojo Satoru, you might further elevate your family's standing without worry of developing unwanted feelings. Perhaps, in knowing the background you came from, he had already come to such a conclusion himself.

Still, his confidence grated on you.

The evening grows older, and along with it your own gusto. Limbs heavy, capillaries filled with wet sand. Alcohol has heated you from the inside out, just enough that it is a little easier to smile sincerely. Nanami returns during the late hour, as the banquet naturally comes to an end. You cannot deny it had been a success; food and sake always did taste better in company, twice as much when married with mellow ballads and delightful performances.

Custom dictates you should not exchange words directly before the second meeting. These men were products for you to choose from. Still, you make sure to hold their line of sight while bidding them a proper goodbye. One by one, their svelte bodies bend forward into a respectful bow, and you are reminded again of your place in this pocket of the world.

Nanami escorts you to your carriage, undereyes faintly darker than they had been earlier. You can respect that through his fatigue, the man maintains perfect posture and conduct. Norimitsu awaits by the entrance, having bided his time circling the district.

In leaving the teahouse that night with a dull ache in your knees, you continue to recall the delicate echo of Gojo’s hair ornament.

The days are long, longer than usual. You assist in the family business as always, but restlessness threads its way into your musculature, and you can’t seem to get anything done to completion. A letter confirming your choice of Courtesan had been sent the morning after your return, and you would attend a second meeting by the weeks end.

You endure their lighthearted teasing with a strained smile. “The men must’ve made quite an impression,” they said. “Especially that Gojo Satoru. I’ve heard he’s a sight to behold”.

You’d heard a lot, too. Plenty. Too much. The ornate bells had followed you all the way to your hometown. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo. Gaggles of women and men had approached you, hoping for details about him as if he were a creature tied to myth.

While it was tiresome, you couldn’t begrudge them. Gojo was not a man many could afford. Their best bet would be to attend a procession, if only to see him from afar. Untouchable. The thought weighs heavily as you watch the anxious curl of your fingers in your lap.

The Michizane House comes into view, your body rolling with the movement of the carriage as it cradles you. Taking up much of the forked road ahead, you think the building elegantly traditional in a way that the others aren’t. Yaga, the manager, is awaiting your arrival. Known for his philosophy of letting things speak for themselves, his property is clearly not exempt from such beliefs.

Lined with rouge lanterns, a dream of autumn-tide. It’s inviting and promises warmth, not at all salacious, almost palatial in appearance. Men and women draped in gorgeous raiment call out to passers by kindly, knelt behind iron bars, displayed for selection in latticed parlours.

Norimitsu is escorting you a second time. While still young, he’s tall and thick shouldered with a round belly. You knew him jovial, as something of an older brother, but to others he came across as the type of man you wouldn’t want to anger — hence why he was designated as your guard.

“Are you looking forward to seeing him?”

No more than you are looking forward to attending to your duties the next morning. Above all, this was work. Or so you tell yourself.

As if he’d read your thoughts, over the bustling crowds you hear, “I do hope you’ll at least try to enjoy your night”.

Presumptively, “I expect Gojo won’t make it so easy”.

Norimitsu chuckles as you come to a steady halt, then circling the rickshaw to assist you down. Tabi clad feet kick away any stray rocks in your path, and you step down with bated breath.

Your escort bows as Yaga announces his presence, stepping out into the road to formally greet you. It drew some attention — the manager of The Michizane House was not often seen by any average customer. “I’ll be waiting,” he tells you.

The pip of anxiety in your chest does take root, lissome branches curling around each individual rib. Yaga is not very personable; that’s your first lesson learnt. Rumour has it that he enjoys making dolls in his free hours. You suspect such gossip is only humorous due to the man’s rough exterior.

“We are honoured to service you at The Michizane House,” he politely recites. You nod shortly on the end of an exhale. Alongside his love of craft sits the love for his employees. At the very least, you knew that Yaga treated the Courtesan well.

The atmosphere changes the further into the maze you go. Tobacco, sake and sex permeates the air. Drunken laughter dissolves into quiet groans, sounds muffled behind cupped hands, a sharp slap of skin meeting skin. A fog follows — clientele chain smoking between rounds, faint grey clouds seeping beneath screen doors.

While the houses found success in abiding by their traditional values, some boundaries were a tangible, malleable concept in the district as long as money was involved. Desire could be stretched, moulded into whichever form you wanted. Here, within reason, you could do as you pleased. A mandated space to revel in your desires; scratch the itch away from the rigidity of civilised society.

In hindsight, choosing the Courtesan had been the easier part of the arrangement. While Gojo would be there to fill silences and guide the conversation, deftly covering for whatever social qualities you so clearly lacked, that would only be enough for tonight. You ought to decide upon your own itch.

Come the third meeting, how could Gojo Satoru sate your hunger?

“Satoru’s private quarters are just up ahead. He will be joining you shortly,” Yaga continues as he guides you out onto the veranda, where there is a beautiful garden; bamboo hedges and interwoven bushes, a winding road of pale sand lining a miniature pond. There are stones left hollow, dwarfed peach trees and azaleas. You inhale with relief as your lungs are cleared by the crisp night air.

Gradually, the awkward thud of your shoes against wood is overlapped by another’s more practised, commanding footsteps. Each step is accompanied by the quiet tinkling of a bell. A Geisha, presumably, that you’ve yet to meet walks out into your intended path, their presence overwhelming.

Yaga regards them cordially, “Maki”.

Long, regal fabrics that dance in lavish shades of indigo and gold. The very cosmos stitched into their clothing. Maki. They bow and the moonlight reflects around the crown of their head, highlighting a jewelled comb tucked neatly into a bun — a style common amongst well ranking women.

“Yaga-sama,” comes the formal reply. You stiffen when her golden eyes sweep over your form. She’s notably tall, and you felt she would still tower over you even in the absence of the Okobo strapped to her feet. Maki bows to you wordlessly, then returns to her pace. The small bell housed in the hollow of her shoes begins to sing. Thud, chime, thud, chime.

As she passes with a sidelong glance, a stream of moonlight illuminates her face. Handsomely pretty, you think. Her features are distinctive, angular. There is a fleeting thought that she reminds you of Megumi.

You remain close to Yaga’s heel as you enter another part of the house. The screen doors are painted entirely opaque, and there are less patrons here. While these quarters appeared to be far more private, still you hear the muffled, unmistakable, sound of sex from the end of the hall.

“Here,” Yaga’s voice snaps you out of your nervous reverie as his arm extends to open one of the rooms. It is atleast a good distance away from the other… occupants.

Sliding the screen across, a well sized room is revealed. Pale tatami flooring, dark knotted wood panelling. There is a low table and cushions set out beside the far alcove, where you might ponder the two decorative scrolls that hang there. At the foot is a small ceramic bowl, already cradling a lit stick of incense.

What truly demands your attention is the large wall mounted byobu, kept on the far side of the room over a large futon. It is a quiet depiction of nature, polychrome and laden with silk brocades. To the South are a small herd of rabbits, prancing through a mountainous valley adorned with blushing maple trees. North are a flock of cranes, wings spread as they glide across the skies.

You wondered how often Gojo would find himself looking at it. Did it provide comfort, or did it leave him wistful?

“Please be seated and make yourself comfortable. The attendants won’t be long,” Yaga gestures towards the tatami with calloused fingers, “rest assured, The Michizane House will accommodate you well”.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” you reply, the words rolling off the tongue with ease. Formality is what you know best. Chin tucked to sternum in a placid bow, you first rush to remove your geta before entering the room on socked feet.

The screen behind slides shut and you are left with silence. Suddenly your obi feels too constricting, and the silk of your kimono weighs heavily across your shoulders. Approaching the low table, you clutch at drapes of fabric as you kneel to be seated. This would be your final moment of respite for the remainder of the night, and yet all you can think of is how you are now set in motion towards inexorable change.

There is a restrained knock from the door. Giving your permission, it slides open with a soft hiss to reveal the young man that you know to be named Megumi. This time he adorns deep purple, a garden of peonies both red and pink sewn into his sleeves. Balanced atop one of his pale hands is a tray of cups and sake. He bows forward, a single amethyst peony hairpin tucked behind his ear.

Tucked at his side and falling short at the hip, is one of the twins. His kimono is slightly disheveled, as expected of a child his age, but it’s well hidden by the violet geometric pattern. Cheeks as pink as his hair, you’re presented with a wide beam.

“Hi!” he chirps. Yuji, then.

Megumi lightly knocks his knuckles atop the boy’s crown in admonishment. As Yuji reaches to protect his head from a second strike, the trail of his sleeves pool into the crook of his arms.

“That was mean!”

Lacking discretion, though not without trying, the older attendant mutters, “Don’t act so familiar with the customers. Greet them properly”.

Yuji looks at you, visibly mustering up a sense of professionalism. He forces his mouth thin, and an unsettlingly placid sheen coats his once bright eyes. His head bows forward, still gracelessly. “Good evening. We are hon— honoured to serve you”.

You become aware of the dead weight of your robes around your shoulders. A prickling of discomfort under your skin. He’s just a baby, after all.

Kindly, you answer, “I’m honoured to be here”.

In return, you are given a toothy grin. The two step further into the room and begin their preparations without instruction. Megumi sets the tray down on the low table, so careful that it barely makes a sound. Yuji rearranges the remaining cushions, one moved suspiciously close and the others appropriately spaced.

Whenever Satoru arrives, a bright spark follows. There’s something different about him this time. His exuberance tempered, but still crisp; again, you are reminded of the breaking of spring. It rolls into the ambiance, and you find yourself irritatingly giddy.

“You’re here,” he says. Tonight he’s wearing a simple, light blue kimono dotted with little white rabbits. It drapes effortlessly on his frame, loose around his shoulders and partially open at the chest to reveal a toned expanse of pale skin.

Yuji and Megumi scramble to his attendance, while you are struck by just how relaxed he is. You can’t look away from him. There is a clink to your left, the neck of a small sake bottle meeting the rim of your cup. “…I am here,” comes your careful reply. “Thank you for accepting my letter, and for joining me”.

He smiles at that. It is unexpected and entirely genuine. Satoru actually looks at home here. There’s still a professional air to him as he settles beside you, tactile in his touch and deliberate with his words; you parse through them but find no smarm, only that he feels warmer.

Stilted conversation is not a thing of this world. Where words fail you, he is there to pick up the slack, peeling back the layers of your life with unassuming questions. The year you were born and the zodiac that comes with it, where you grew up, what business your family dabbled in, if you had siblings to care for — you, pleasantly light from the sake, breathing in tones of sandalwood, answer a little too freely.

Satoru hums as though he were feigning thought. “I have no blood siblings, but I’d say that our precious Megumi here—” he reaches out to the boy with lithe fingers and tousles Megumi’s hair out of place “—is quite like a little brother to me”.

The younger man cringes away from his touch looking suitably disgruntled. His features are sharp, but still soft in a way that betrays his youth. Yuji laughs.

“I’ve been wondering, why is it that the other attendants make an effort to match clothing with their Courtesans, but you and Megumi don’t?” you ask, absentmindedly toying with the sleeve of your kimono.

Satoru observes you for a moment, guileful eyes dragging from the nervous tick to your own, searching for something unbeknownst to you. You fear you might’ve offended him, but then, “Megumi dislikes the things I wear. He calls them ostentatious”.

Satoru’s mouth twists into a childish pout as he pointedly glares at the boy in question, and for a short breath the faultless mask is gone, “He doesn’t even know what that word means”.

Megumi snorts and quickly schools his expression, blank faced when he meets Satoru’s gaze, “I’d like to see you spell it”.

“Oh? Trying to embarrass me infront of a customer?” If he’s attempting to scold his attendant, then he’s failing spectacularly. Voice saccharine, cloying in his throat as he tries not to laugh, Satoru says, “Yaga will have you out on the street”.

“I wish he would”.

You watch their interactions from behind the lip of your sake cup. The taste is sweet, fitting for the moment. Skin warming, it sits well in your stomach and has a pleasant buzz thrumming through your veins. “Are they always like this?” you whisper. Yuji nods with his whole body.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Satoru smiles down at the two of you, his big hand reaching to cradle Megumi’s head once again. His attendant’s glare visibly softens and allows it. “We squabble like any other family”.

The word ‘family’ stands out in your mind like a stray thread. You pick at it, tentatively, “Is it possible you have blood relatives here? I saw another Geisha here who looked quite like you, Megumi”.

“You must’ve met Maki-san,” the younger man replies. There’s an obvious glimmer of respect at mention of her and for reasons you can’t place, it saddens you. “We share descendants. She is a distant cousin”.

“Curious that you both ended up at the same house”.

Satoru quietly sips his sake, licking at the inner corner of his mouth as he looks to Megumi, seeking permission to speak. Even more curious for a high ranking courtesan. Megumi nods in silent acquiescence, and you still as their collective attention turns on you.

As your cup is refilled, Satoru weaves a sullen tale of a small dark haired boy born to a wanted man and a runaway Geisha. Though riddled with illness and partly malnourished from her time in the district, his stouthearted mother carried him fully to term before passing after childbirth. Left with an infant, his lover's debt and a target on his back, the man snuck his son into the district where he wouldn’t be touched and sold him to the Michizane house.

“That boy was our Megumi. I saw his potential and took him under my wing. The rest you can guess,” he concludes fondly, though there is a tightness by his eyes. You wonder whether Satoru struggles to balance his gratitude and his guilt.

Incognisant of the troubled atmosphere, Yuji claps his chubby hands together. Appled cheeks strain where his grin stretches wide. “It’s just like me and Sukuna-nii!”

Megumi huffs and reaches over to pinch the swell between his fingers. The sleeve of his yukata hangs over the low table, slipping up his forearm to reveal a pale sleuth of skin. “Worm. Our stories are nothing alike”.

“No,” Satoru hums thoughtfully. “Yuji and Sukuna were left outside in a rice sack like a couple of drowned kittens”.

Megumi shakes his cheek, and it draws the younger boy's lip up to reveal his pink gums before letting go. You listen, horrified, as Yuji giggles. “S’cause they thought Sukuna-nii was cursed. But he’s just really cranky!”

“Is that right?” you faltered. Satoru takes your unease as a sign to lean in closer, shoulders brushing.

“Yeah. But it’s okay, ‘cause he’s my cool big brother. Choso too! He looks a bit scary, but he takes real good care of us”.

“You really love your brothers, don’t you?”

“Choso plays temari with us in the gardens when he doesn’t have customers,” Yuji flashes the charming gap between his front teeth as he rubs at his sore cheek, earthen eyes squinted with happiness. “If you spent the night with him, I bet he would play temari with you too!”

Satoru’s hand crosses your line of sight as he reaches out to poke at the young boy's waist, dainty bangles slipping down his wrist. “What’s this, kid? I didn’t invite you here so your brother could gain favour with my customer,” he bemoans, pinching and prodding at baby fat beneath the fabric.

Yuji stutters into peals of laughter at his theatrics, his arms folded close to protect his stomach. It’s obvious that Satoru does it to prevent Yuji from worrying — to let him act out, as a child should. The sound is so joyful it’s contagious, and the corners of your mouth curve into a helpless smile.

None of this had been what you expected. The many whispers you’d heard before tonight tell you clearly that this second meeting is an unconventional one. You figured the younger ones were invited to set your mind to rest; not once did Satoru make a pass in their presence. As the evening wore on you felt your inhibitions slip further, anxieties along with them, and enjoyed yourself as though you were in the company of good — albeit, touchy — friends.

Eventually, the attendants are given leave. Megumi bows deeply, Yuji mirroring him, but then you are thrown an easy wave before the shoji doors slide shut. With no boisterousness to fill the silence, you and Satoru sit quietly and listen as their light footfalls gradually disappear.

Then, Satoru reaches for your sake cup. Stifling heat flushes through you in anticipation of what he might do. Your tongue peeks out to wet your bottom lip as he brings it to your mouth. “Here,” he murmurs. “Let me”.

Hand poised by your cheek, you hold the decorative beads pinned behind your ear back while you bend to take a sip. The weight of his stare is unnerving, and inexplicably tempting. You release a pleased little noise at the woody aroma. It’s not unlike the sandalwood incense permeating the room.

He leans into your space and you hear a shallow intake of breath. After a beat, he confides, “It’s my favourite”.

You’re immediately disappointed, then you squash it. “Well. Thank you for sharing it with me,” your reflection stares dolefully at you from the bottom of the cup. “For sharing all of this with me. It was unexpectedly… fun”.

He pouts, and doesn’t miss the way your eyes fall to his mouth. ”I’m not at the top without reason”.

Sensing Satoru’s mischief, you hasten to deflect from your obvious slip up. “It’s a compliment! I just meant that this was different from what I was expecting”.

“In a good way?” he coaxed.

“Yes,” comes your ginger reply. You spare him an equally cautious glance. “I appreciate you letting them stay so long. I’m aware you didn’t have to”.

After a long silence, Satoru sighs. “Admittedly this isn’t how I usually do things. But I knew I needed to take a different approach tonight”.

“And what approach is that?”

“To be myself,” his eyes sweep over your form. “Can I touch you?”

You startle. “That—! We aren’t supposed to be intimate until the third meeting”.

“Not like that,” he reassures, the corners of his mouth slightly downturned as he fights a smirk. “Though it’s interesting that you would immediately assume something dirty”.

“We’re in a pleasure district. What else would I assume?” you argued, directing a glare to your lap, “I just didn’t want to overstep house rules”.

Satoru clicks his tongue, and the sound ricochets throughout your chest. If you had feathers they might’ve been on end, inflamed and splayed out in defense.

“Are you determined to make this difficult for yourself?” his tone lowers, a warm and playful lilt to it that pulls the breath from your lungs; As if he was actually enjoying his time with you, despite how intransigent you were being about it all. The back and forth was unexpectedly natural, and you think, in part, that is what startled you. “I’m supposed to be seducing you, you know”.

Satoru moves impossibly closer, thighs pressing together. You pull your kimono tighter, feeling exposed under his scrutiny, “And you plan on doing that by aggravating me?”

“No,” he draws the word out, ducking forward to meet your eyes. “You’re skittish. I thought I might hold you, that’s all”.

“You want to… hug me?”

“Hold,” he emphasises. “There’s not a romantic bone in your body, is there?”

Nettled, you lift your chin to glare at him, “I was under the impression you didn’t have any either”.

“You wound me,” he seems all too pleased by your sudden childishness. “Come here, then. Let me show you the difference”.

You hesitate as his body turns toward you, arms raised a fraction and waiting for your consent. His kimono has loosened further, revealing the defined planes of his stomach.

Closing the distance, you are pulled into his depths. Tense still, but as promised, Satoru does nothing besides embrace you. Heat seeps through silk garments, an arm secure and branding around your waist while a hand brushes reassuring strokes along your back. Tucked against his chest, soft redolence of floral spice coils around your nose and fills your throat like air.

With eyes closed, you listen to the pitter patter behind his ribs. His pulse is unexpectedly quick.

“Are you nervous?”

It’s surprising that you would be the one to ask. He hums pleasantly. “I wouldn’t call it nervous,” one by one, lissome fingers ascend the length of your spine, “if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the body is always honest”.

Satoru’s words are flint struck against steel, blood warm and rushing to fill the capillaries as you suppress a shudder. He cradles you securely and gently, as one might hold something precious to them, and your body is alight with it. Lured into a false sense of safety, surrounded by free spirited little white rabbits lovingly sewn into cloth.

You think you might be one of them now, too. Prey. Lured into the jaws of a man that has eaten his fill many times before — you taste good, but you’re no different. You’re just a rabbit.

He laughs at your awkwardness and it reverberates, tapering off into a long hum, “Breathe. Stop being so stubborn and let yourself enjoy this”.

Exhaling at his instruction, you grimace through the obvious quiver and peer up at him. His features are sharper from this angle, cut deep by the shadows. He’s beautiful. A paste of clays moulded into porcelain with smithsonite irises. It isn’t a wonder why people flock to purchase his time — he’s a spectacle.

“Can I ask you something?”

Then his eyes smile, wrinkling at the corners. It reminds you that he is human. “You don’t need my permission,” he assured.

I do, you think.

“Do you believe in love?”

You ache when he laughs again. This particular grin looks brittle up close, and there is a pervading sense of loneliness in it that you can’t shake. “Love is what I sell. Does that answer your question?”

“Is it?” you ask, lips pressing into a flat line. You were bored of being spoon fed fairytales. “What you sell is short-lived desire”.

He quietens, regarding you for a moment with dim eyes and you worry that you’ve been cruel. Amidst the silence you think he might be asking you the same thing — is it?

“Well, there’s no shortage of desire,” he says, though mostly to himself. The comment is wary, as if he’d fought something and lost, but his self assured veil is fixed. “They come here to fulfil a dream, one that I can give them. Same as you”.

Just another rabbit. You weren’t sure whether it was his lack of flaw or the idea of him treating you as any other customer that left such an unpleasant taste in your mouth.

“I think you’ve mistaken me,” you reply curtly.

“I don’t think I have,” he murmurs, reaching down to smooth over the curve of your cheek, speaking with amused cadence, “you only loathe that choosing me makes you exactly like everyone else”.

“Gods. You are so—!”

Satoru intrudes into your space until his nose bumps precariously against the skin beneath your eye, practically gleaming with expectant amusement, “—Loveable?”

Your fingers curl tight into his kimono, lest they find themselves around the pale column of his throat. “Irritating,” you fumed, reflexively pouting.

“Yet here you are”. The pad of his index finger then presses to your jutted lower lip. He hums, seemingly incognisant of the way your entire body has frozen. “I think you like it,” he says, his voice warm and amused. “I think you like me”.

“I don’t,” you reply. Too quickly.

He laughs, “Then I’ll get you to like me over time. Think of it like slowly boiling a frog”.

“That’s an awful idiom to use. What happened to supposedly trying to seduce me?”

Slowly, his finger skims over your cheek to the shell of your ear. You hold your breath. Close enough to count each white eyelash, to see the individual shadows they cast. He follows the curve with lidded eyes. Over the lobe to your jaw, down to the small gland in your throat, pulse quickening under his touch.

“Hm, I don’t know,” he plucks your wrist from your lap and brings it to his lips. “It seems to me that it’s working”.

Rocked by the intimacy, your tight fisted hand unfurls. Satoru watches intently. He begins at your inner wrist with a feather light peck, his lips softer than your imagination allowed, leaving behind a warm impression on your skin.

He carries on over to your heel, then another, deliberate where he kisses your heart line. You remind yourself to breathe and the exhale comes like a tremor as he nuzzles into the shallow of your palm. Pink lips drag along your thumb, pressing a kiss to the pad with a fleeting dip of tongue, searing against the whorls and lines.

The air is electric. Satoru repeats the motions for every one of your fingers, his gaze never wavering from yours. There’s heat spreading down your neck, prickling along your spine, pooling in your belly. His mouth quirks, equal parts knowing and amused.

“What do you think?” he speaks with warm, alluring cadence. There’s a desperate lilt to it that you like. It sounds as though he were just as affected by this as you. “Will you choose me again?”

That evening with Satoru left you feeling like a convalescent child. Fatigued, indulging in familiar home comforts. It wasn’t anything he did; not delivering gentle touches, nor his well practised whispers. More it was your own reactions — jittery and diffident as a newborn foal — that plagued you on sleepless nights.

You realise that at some point a subconscious part of your being began to seek his approval in some way. To experience his pleasure, aside from yours. Not only in spite of proving yourself worthy company, but because you—

A long groan builds in your chest, heels pressed harshly into your eye sockets. This is the exact opposite of what you thought would happen.

—You truly did come to like him. Selfish as it may be, you wanted him to think of you while you were away, just as you thought of him.

Gojo Satoru had crawled into your skin; made a home between your fourth and fifth rib. Your family are ecstatic, enthused by the arrival of a letter with his name inscribed on paper in heavy strokes. You tuck it away into your sleeve and read it later in the privacy of your room.

He asks that you visit again. He makes a promise to kiss more than just your hand, if you permit it. You swallow thickly at the thought, the ink trembling in your grip where you hold it a few inches over open flame. How is it he beguiled you this easily? What had happened to your steadfast resolve? Diminished in a single meeting.

You tuck the letter under your pillow with a sigh and write back.

That fateful night begins with an awe inspiring procession stretched many metres down the main road. Your family had insisted on commissioning the event. Hand picked Michizane House attendants, all dressed to mirror one another, walk forward slowly wearing stoic expressions. Lantern bearers, apprentices and servants followed close at the Courtesan's side.

There in the centre is Gojo Satoru, breathtakingly beautiful. His feet swooped outward in his approach and glided forward with trained precision, standing proud, tall and regal despite the many colourful, heavy robes and accessories swallowing his body.

You stand by the shop in wonder, surrounded by the crowds reverential whispers. The passing mention of your name encourages you to stand taller, to show the same dignity and grace that Satoru has shown. His eyes stare right ahead — right at you, vivid blue and divine in the lamplight. Under all the cloth and jewellery you see vestiges of boyish excitement. He looks happy that you’re here.

The onlookers seem to hold their breath as he closes in. Your heart beats wildly in the back of your throat, incognisant of the gentle pitter pattering rain from above. You’ve never seen anything like it. Waterfalls of red, gold, green spilling from his front. The geta on his feet are scuffed, scratch marks stark against the black. You cannot imagine the hours put into perfecting such a precise walk.

Norimitsu hurriedly produces an umbrella and holds it above you. Shoulders already damp with rain, you didn’t mind it. Satoru peers down at you through wispy, dove feather eyelashes, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in ovation.

You are ushered into the shop.

The time between stepping into the genkan and being taken to Satoru’s quarters is a rush. Your new partner is taken elsewhere for assistance with removing his heavy garb. A young girl you’ve never met offers you a clean dry towel and leaves you idly waiting.

Patting at the damp skin around your collar, you take in the surroundings. It is undoubtedly Satoru’s room, now lit only by lamplight. Golden, flickering shadows veil the space, creating a close and intimate ambiance. There is a luxurious futon in place of the low table covered in fresh bedding and pillows. You swallow at the sight of it.

“This won’t do”.

You yelp, covering your mouth to muffle the noise. Satoru stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, hand still holding open the screen. He steps forward and slides it closed with a quiet hiss. You take in his state of undress; a thin pale robe draped around broad shoulders, tied loosely to emphasise a tapered waist, open at the front to expose his chest. Gone are the delicate ornaments and grand fabrics spilling forth from his obi. Brought back down to earth — back to you.

Lost in your appraisal of him, you almost miss the pinch in his brow. He cups your throat with featherlight pressure, rubbing his fingers together as he pulls away. “You’re wet,” his frown deepens briefly. You witness the moment that his thoughts connect to sex, only to smother them in favour of keeping you comfortable.

“You can say it, you know,” you offer wryly. He blinks, and the discontent melts to give way for mirth as he realises what it is you’re referring to.

“Well I can’t now. It loses all impact”.

Satoru takes the towel from your grasp. He hooks a finger into the fold of your kimono and you exhale, feeling knuckles brush over your breasts. “I’ll have Megumi draw you a bath. I can’t have you getting sick on our wedding night”.

Right, you think. His geniality and carefree air made it so easy to forget that this was little more than a transaction. “Please. Don’t tell me you got us nuptial cups”.

“Okay,” he chimes, flattening his palm against your chest to iron out the creases he’d left. “I won’t tell you”.

You clutch at his wrists, swimming in the loose fabric of his sleeves, “Satoru—!”

“A hot bath should help you relax. We don’t need to jump right in,” he murmurs firmly. Voice low and quiet, a pleasant hum in your ears. His hands are splayed over your hips now, stroking in small circular motions. “I’ll be gentle. Soften you up until you’re ready for me”.

Your nerves lessen steadily into a simmer. Amusement curls in the corner of your mouth, “A slow boil?”

Satoru grins; small, affectionate and sincere as he leans in, brushing his nose along the underside of your jaw. You feel a warm breath ghost over your skin. “Yeah,” he says. “Like a slow boil”.

The Michizane house was prized for more than just sex. You are pointed to a darkened, private bathroom and overwhelmed by the scent of eucalyptus. There is flora carved into the walls, topped with extravagant vermillion gables. Megumi rises from his knees, a sash drawn across his chest to keep his sleeves back, his silhouette blurred by steam. He nods as he greets you and sets a small stool over the grate. Rigid, you take in the large, kiln shaped tub.

Megumi bows, staring over your shoulder when he rises. It reminds you of the man standing patiently at your heel, maintaining a short distance as you acclimate to reality. You thank Megumi and he stoops beneath the curtains to leave.

Anxious as you were, the bath is calling to you. Tendrils of white dance on the water's surface. Wordlessly, you start to undress, loosening your obi until the neck gapes open and pools at your shoulders. The careful press of Satoru’s hands does not startle you. He helps slide the damp material over your shoulders while you untie the cotton belt around your waist.

Your kimono flowers open. Exhilaration frissons through your body and heat gathers under his fingers. All that’s left are your thin underclothing. You tremble as you reach back to undo the final knot. Satoru peels the layer back, stripping you bare. The temperature is pleasant on your exposed skin. Bumps arise over your arms and breasts, nipples perked up, senses sharpened. You can feel his sinuous movement in the air behind you, fingertips brushing the small of your back.

“Get in,” he quietly instructs.

The water is perfect. You dip your toes in first. Knee bending to climb in, your thighs part as you go; Satoru takes a sharp intake of breath that sparks like flint in your belly. Slowly, you sink into the depths, muscles bled of their rigidity. You sigh and tip back to rest your head on the edge.

“Better?”

You peek at him from beneath half lidded eyes. Satoru has taken up station by the bathtub. He looks comically large on the small stool. His arms are folded by your head, and he lowers into the cradle, cheek turned to watch your face closely. Lazily, you reach to curl a stray strand of white, gossamer hair around your index finger, saturating it with water until it holds a curl.

“A lot better,” you admit. It’s surprising how little you care that he’s seeing you naked. Maybe it was his commitment to honouring your boundaries that made this so much easier. A supposed sexual being, an ethereal creature of the night, so deliberately keeping his gaze above your collarbones. Picture perfect obeisance. “Will you just sit there?”

Mischief returns to his eyes. “Oh? Were you expecting something?”

“Don’t tease me,” you mumble. This is all so new to you. “I just thought you might…”

When your voice weakens with uncertainty, he presses. “Might?”

“Bathe me”.

You see his expression light up in the dim shadows. Satoru deigns to respond, rather, he turns to grab a bowl smaller than his palm. Inside it is a bar of perfumed soap and a cloth. He scoots closer with the cloth between long fingers, disturbing the water as he soaks it. You observe, hazy, as he lathers it with soap and moves to run it over your bicep. You lift your arm out of the water in synchrony, swallowing the swell of emotion in your throat as he covers your hand and gives a deliberate squeeze.

“Did you enjoy the parade?” he asks. The question echoes in the otherwise silent room, almost as quiet as the rippling water. You nod, too lost in the delicious pressure of his hands as he washed over your shoulders in practised, comforting motions. He huffed a laugh under his breath and continued down the planes of your back as you sat forward.

The words are cloying on your tongue. “You looked beautiful,” you tell him. “Just watching made my feet ache. How many years did it take to learn that?”

“That’s what you were thinking about?” he needled. You shudder at the innocent pass beneath your breasts, barely hearing him. “You were supposed to be enchanted by me. Not worrying about my ankles”.

“I was,” you insist, voice slightly slurred. The loss of tension has left you loose lipped. “You were so incredible. I could hardly believe you were walking in my direction. I can hardly believe you’re at my side now, bathing me”.

There’s a wealth of emotion in his eyes that you aren’t privy to. Satoru hums amusedly and bends to kiss your wet shoulder. He takes a copper jug from the shelf and fills it with water, shielding your face when he pours it over you to rinse away the bubbles. Eventually, he whispers for you to get up.

“Best get out before you prune,” he smirks. Satoru snakes an arm around your waist as you stand. Uncaring of how wet his robe would get, he balances you against his broad chest, leaving behind the wet impression of your hand. You feel something warm pressed to your temple. It is only when you are dry, wrapped in a thin robe of your own, that you realise it was another kiss.

You’re perched on your knees in the centre of his futon. Legs numb under your body, skittish heart jumping behind your ribs. You feel more naked than ever before. Somehow the suggestion of nudity is far more overwhelming than the latter.

Satoru sets a tray of sake cups on a tray, setting it beside the futon. You are awash with relief to see that they are the house’s regular cups. He must notice, because he chuckles.

Pouring you a shallow cup, he asks, “Have you ever bedded a man?”

There’s a tremor in your hands when you receive the sake from him. Between sips you reply, “No”.

“Are you scared?”

There is something in his voice, in the way his demeanour shifts, in how his face softens; it alleviates the panic. The waves become bearable. You can’t find it in yourself to fear what he might think of you now, not when he’s looking at you like he loves you.

“I’m not scared,” and it’s the truth.

You like it when he smiles. When he finds you funny and the bridge of his nose wrinkles. It’s no wonder some guests are dragged out kicking and screaming come morning.

“Why didn’t you choose Yuta?” Satoru splays out beside you. He lay on his hip, legs angled toward you, elbow propped up to rest his head. There is little left to the imagination. His belt hangs low, showing the firm plains of his abdomen. Your sights linger on the fair hair leading from his navel, growing thicker below the confines of his robe.

“Yuta?” you echo.

He nods, reaching across your lap to pick up his own cup. The sake leaves behind a sheen on his lips. You track the swipe of his tongue, leaning into his heat.

“Yuta is widely known to be a favourite amongst newcomers. Virgins especially,” he says. Had it not been for his neutral tone, you might’ve rushed to defensiveness. Empty drink set aside, his hand waves dismissively, “Apparently I’m too intimidating”.

“I can see why people might think that. You are sort of… otherworldly, at first glance”.

“Then why did you pick me?”

After your third night together the relationship would be sealed. You would be forbidden from accompanying another Courtesan. While it was not a traditional relationship, it still spoke of a high level of commitment and dedication to one another. Pride reared its lion head and you struggled to find the right words. Telling the truth would expose your feelings like a shorn nerve. Lying wouldn’t sit right with you.

“This isn’t one sided,” you tell him instead. “You could’ve turned me away. You chose me too. Why?”

“Because I wanted you,” he says plainly. Then, Satoru, far braver than you, takes your face into his hands, sweeping over your cheeks. You can taste his breath, sweet from the sake. “My world is all about desire and I’m no different. I want you”.

Satoru wears the warm lamp light well. Painted in strokes over every muscle and curve, it softens him. You let him take your weight, gently guiding you as you recline against the futon; thick and plush beneath, you are ensconced with his body heat as he presses chest to chest. Your thighs part naturally to make room, hooking lazily at either side of his waist.

His lips brush your own in a whisper of a kiss. “Wait,” you gasp, instinctively gripping his shoulders. Satoru doesn’t pull away nor does he push. As you asked, he waits. “What if I’m terrible at it?”

Blinking slow, he rubs his nose along your cheek. Eyelashes tickle you like a moth's wing. “Sex isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present,” your fingers slide up the back of his neck, curling into his hair. Your eyes fall closed as he tilts to kiss each eyelid. “It’s about doing what feels good and letting go. Let me take care of you”.

Satoru’s mouth is hot and softer than any silk you’ve worn. He takes his time with you. The kiss begins tenderly — unexpectedly chaste, but never parting for long.

It touches something deep within you. The feeling intensifies as he parts the seam of your lips with his clever tongue, and when your fingers tighten at the back of his skull, he moans. You shudder under him, thighs reflexively clenching.

His hand comes up to cradle your crown as he gently coaxes your tongue into his mouth to suck on it, the other cascading the length of your bare calf to your thigh and kneading. Squeezing. Appreciating every inch of you. Satoru slips beneath the hem of your robe. You whine, trying to follow his lead.

“Yours first,” you pant, pawing at his clothes. Hair mussed from your hands, Satoru looms above you with kiss bitten lips pulled into a grin. You stare as he opens his robe, letting it slide naturally over his shoulders and casting it aside.

Your hands find smooth milky skin. He settles with his arms braced either side of your head and lets you touch. Fingertips trace the lines and divots of his stomach, feeling his muscles flinch under your touch. He’s a marvel to look at. But what you like best are the noises he makes — each part of his body is a new string to pluck.

The white hair around his cock is trim and surprisingly soft. He’s pale with a subtle curve, the tip blushing dark pink. Of course his cock would be pretty, too. He’s big. You think he is. You wouldn’t know, not really, but long enough for you to worry.

With newfound curiosity, you trail a finger from root to crown, spreading the prespend around his slit. You wrap yourself around his length and smile when he twitches, hips involuntarily bucking into your fist. Exhaling a shaken breath, “Can I touch you, too?”

“…Okay,” you hold his gaze and let him see the need there. A part of you wanted to be looked upon as an equal, rather than a fledgling; such thoughts you know to be ridiculous. Surely the power imbalance should lie with you, and yet.

You turn your cheek to the pillow while he parts the robe. It’s different here. Hugged by a dewy orange hue, the darkness makes the room smaller and casts your body in another light. You’re relaxed, laid flat. A shadow curves around the soft, lower part of your stomach. Your breasts lay slightly uneven, no longer held in place by a bust belt. Your legs are spread and draped around his waist, cushiony next to what looks to be cut straight from porcelain.

“Gods. You are divine”.

Satoru sits back on his calves, palming at your own. The oil lamplight flickers in his crystalline eyes and he looks ravenous. He’s looking at you.

“Satoru…” You ignore the urge to cover your face as he lifts your legs to hook one over his shoulder. You are already breathing heavily and he hasn’t touched you yet. He must know.

With reverence, Satoru turns and presses a kiss to the arch of your foot, smiling when you reflexively kick. “Ticklish?” he murmurs. The next is pressed to your ankle, drawn out and warm, holding your gaze as he does it. “How cute”.

Your hands twist in the sheets. He continues up your calf to your knee, then further, forging a path of lascivious words between your thighs. A shudder wracks through your body at the ghost of his breath over your sex. And when he blows lightly, purposefully, you can feel how wet you are.

“Fuck,” he breathes. So quiet it might not have been for your ears. Heat spreads under your skin. You’re equally frustrated and aroused as he continues on, abdomen flexing where he brushes a kiss to your navel. “You’re so beautiful”.

Satoru rubs his cheek over your stomach and takes a deep, contented breath. His hands smooth along your waist, kneading and squeezing at the flesh but never enough to bruise. Your heart jumps as he cups your breasts, mouthing the valley between, gently pushing them together to flick his tongue over each nipple. Wet with spit, he blows again, smiling as your skin pebbles as though it were reaching for him.

“You’re perfect,” he continues, returning to his place over you. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, now. The kind a man gets when he’s hungry. “I love how reactive you are. Look at you”.

“Satoru,” your voice echoes, desperate and barely recognisable. His face is warm in your hands — there’s a ruddiness to his cheeks that is unmistakably a blush. You’ve never felt so desired. His eyes watch as you wet your lips, and you try to pull him closer. “Kiss me again”.

“Another?” He sounds so breathless. Even so, Satoru barely yields, holding rigid over your wanting mouth. “Where, angel? Here?” He kisses the skin below your eye. “…Here?” His lips press to the line of your jaw.

You whine. Strengthening your grip, you force him to align with you, “Here”.

And he does, licking into your mouth in teasing, practised motions. He tastes like his favourite sake. Teeth sink into the fat of your bottom lip, pulling gently and letting go, connected by a thin string of spit. Half lidded eyes fall to the laboured rise and fall of your breasts, his fingertip circling around your pert nipple.

“Talk to me,” he pinches the nub between his fingers. Exhaling a short moan, you push up into the touch. “I want to hear all your sweet little noises. Will you do that for me?”

“Feels embarrassing,” you confess thickly. The vulnerability is overwhelming; your body continues to betray your true feelings with glaring clarity, all while his own remains hidden. “It’s— it’s a lot. I want you to feel good, too”.

“Good?” A fair brow arches. Satoru rolls his hips down in one smooth motion. He slides through your folds, weighty and hot. The head of his cock bumps against your clit and you both groan in synchrony. “This is what you do to me”.

“Me?”

“You,” he answers easily. The thick baritone of his voice quakes through you. Your pulse throbs as he reaches down to cup your pussy. “I wanna kiss you here, too. Can I?”

The heel of his hand alleviates the ache. Your hips instinctively grind against him, pleasure gathering low in your belly. “Yes,” you nod frantically, wanting more. “Please”.

“So well mannered,” he teases, thumbing your lower lip. The playful air has you opening your mouth, tongue pressed to skin. You feel his cock twitch. His fingers shift where they’re splayed across your cheek and he taps your jaw. “Get these nice and wet for me”.

Satoru smooths the pad of his thumb over your tongue, learning the grooves of your teeth. Heat flushes through you. The soft wet sounds of spit pooling into your cheeks rings in your ears as he pulls back, only to slide in another. Two, his middle and index, splitting them so they frame your tongue and stretch your mouth.

“You really are gorgeous”.

Embarrassment floods through you, yet somehow, his earnest praise only feeds your arousal. You buck against the hand that has slowly begun to grind against your pussy. Sex is about feeling good, he’d said. It’s about letting go.

You meet his eyes and steel your resolve. Cutting free of shame you wrap your lips around his knuckles and suck unabashedly. His lashes flutter, jaw slacking with a drawn out groan. “There you are,” he murmurs, retracting his fingers. They’re coated in saliva, glistening.

Before you can mourn the loss they’re sliding over your clit and the complaint dies in your throat. He spreads you open. Pupils dilated and gleaming, he descends your torso and rolls his tongue forward obscenely to flick the bud of your clit between the V of his fingers.

Your hands take root in his hair. He is undeterred by the clench of your legs either side of his head. He leans forward to consume you completely, eyes falling shut in a show of pure indulgence. Covetous, he verbalises his satisfaction with a rumbling in his chest and it vibrates against your sex.

The beat of your heart ricochets through your stomach. Satoru’s tongue glides over you, languid and soft. Wherever a pleasured sound falls past your lips he maintains rhythm and pace. “Fuck, Satoru. That’s—” you keen when he gently sucks your clit between his lips, finger hooked and pressed to your entrance.

Satoru’s sinks into you, a careful back and forth, relaxing the tension with his tongue as he works his way in. It's foreign. He’s bigger, longer than yours. Not unlike the reverential way he treated your mouth, he pulls out when you’re comfortable and pushes in another.

“Does it hurt?” he asks. You blink through the warm haze. There’s a sheen of spit and arousal covering his chin.

You shake your head no, “Feels… feels really good”.

“It’ll feel even better soon,” he promises, maintaining a delicious rhythm. Fingers curl upwards inside of you, a come hither motion towards your belly. That intense feeling tightens and your body coils in on itself, thighs flexing against his ears with hips bucking into his hand.

“Oh—!” He angles his head to unrelentingly flicker his tongue over your clit and your heels dig into his back. “Satoru!”

The breath is caught in your throat. From your fingers to your toes, something all consuming forces your muscles rigid and your spine arches upward like a bow as you crest. Then the air is pushed from your lungs. All at once, the sensation lessens, diffuses, and warms your body from the inside out in gentle pulses.

You hear the fond intonation of your name. It sounds so natural in his mouth. You’re awash with afterglow. Was sex always like this? You felt as though you were floating. Releasing a satisfied sound, you slump into the futon. Satoru laughs and the room glows a little brighter.

“Done already?” he asks, massaging your calf. There is a hint of pride in his voice. “We have all night together, you know”.

“No,” you mumble, teeth worrying your lip as you push up onto your elbows. He’s hard, you notice. Hung heavily between your bodies. You want that power at your disposal — to render him as useless as you. “I want you to cum, too”.

There’s a pinch in his brow. Satoru shifts with you and squeezes at the fat around your hips, “You don’t need to push yourself”.

You try and fail to articulate it, stringing together a breathless request, “No I—I want you to cum because of me”.

Satoru laughs and the sound dwindles into a light groan as he squeezes himself. “Angel. All of this is because of you”.

“Then fuck me,” you say. “Properly”.

The lamplight flickers, moving the shadows on his face. He’s gazing at you from above, big, hungry. Exhilaration frissons down your spine. Satoru manoeuvres your hips, dragging your lower half unceremoniously into his lap and slipping a spare pillow beneath you.

When the head of his cock catches, you instinctively clench. “Breathe for me,” he coaches tenderly, and you let the tension go. The stretch is unfamiliar and uncomfortable, but as you exhale the sting lessens until there is no pain at all. Skin to skin, Satoru lingers patiently in the cradle of your hips, letting you adjust to his length.

“Move,” you rasp. “Please”.

He pulls out with an indelible pace. You’re still sensitive, but it feels good in an odd way. Melting into the sheets to savour the drag of his cock. Your breasts shake with every rock of his hips, blue eyes enraptured and following the movement. Bending to cage you in, Satoru captures your lips in a deep kiss, groaning loud into your mouth with his hand laid flat and pressing to your belly.

“Taking me so well,” he rumbles. “I knew you would. Wanted you the second I saw you”.

That sensation returns. It begins like a trickle, the heady pleasure slowly seeping and growing in intensity until it’s an enormous wave. He indulges, and you arch into his touch as he continues to transverse the length of your body to tuck into the crook of your neck.

“Fuck. Feel that?” the words press against your jugular. His hips rear back for emphasis, “You keep sucking me back in”.

Inhibitions lost, you tether yourself to him, nails embedded in the pinked skin of his shoulders. You stutter out a warning, “Fuck, Satoru. I think— I’m going to—!”

“There you go,” he punctuates the demand with a firm thrust. Eyes squeezing shut, your arms lock around the expanse of his back, toes curling as your legs seize forcefully around his waist. More overwhelming than the first, you clench down on his cock as you’re tipped over the crest.

Satoru carries you through it with the languid undulation of his hips, peppering kisses to your cheek. His own broken whines are hot against your skin. Your arms are limp, still clinging enough to keep him close. You don’t want to let go.

That thought passes just as his breath hitches and he abruptly pushes up from your chest. Gripping the base of his cock he pulls out, he fucks desperately into his fist and cums over your bare stomach. Satoru exhales a long moan and the sound tapers into a sigh.

Regaining his bearings, Satoru murmurs your name again. You watch dazedly as he lifts his head. The corner of his mouth curls up into a satiated smile as he notices you’re already looking back at him. Leaning to press a kiss to your forehead, the room falls unnaturally quiet. The dregs of afterglow slowly dissipate, and reality creeps into the forefront of your mind.

“Are you in pain?”

There’s urgency in his expression and you realise he has sensed your change in mood. “Not…” you wriggle slightly beneath him. “Wow. No pain. I’m just a little sore”.

“You felt incredible,” his face softens with relief and glances to where your bor bodies once connected. You grimace as he drags a finger through the cum on your belly. “Rest here. I’ll fetch something to clean us both up with and have Megumi bring some water to drink”.

What follows is akin to a lovesick haze. A memory before you can even register it. You awake to the brilliant ochre of the morning, swaddled in thick blankets and laid next to a warm body. Satoru has you cradled to his naked chest, rising and falling with shallow breath, sleeping soundly.

The sunlight has flooded into the room and that is enough to conclude that it is long after dawn. Your ears prick at the sound of movement in the rooms around you, and the events of last night flash unbidden through your mind. Noises like that are commonplace in a pleasure house — still, you hope nobody heard you.

Cautious as not to wake him, you lift your head to survey your surroundings. The atmosphere is so starkly different during the day. All the allure and taboo is gone. It is just a man's bedroom. The only space that truly belonged to Satoru.

It tasted bitter in your mouth.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Satoru had roused so easily. You wonder if he always slept so light. “I was thinking that…” you pause, giving your next words some thought. “I think you don’t… belong in this place”.

Satoru readjusts himself and meets your gaze from above, bracing over your body with one arm. His head tilts, lazing against his shoulder as he watches you, tracing a lithe finger over the swell of your cheek.

“Oh? What will you do?” his voice is tired, lilted as if he were mocking you. But he’s smiling, too, and it is unlike the others — soft and sad. His vulnerability leaked through the crescent-shaped indentations you’d left behind. “Will you buy my freedom and deprive my other loyal customers of their fulfilment?”

“I don’t care about their fulfilment,” you mutter, eyes falling to the space beneath the linens where your legs are still entangled with his. He laughs.

“You’re more selfish than I thought,” his fingertips smooth along your jaw, gently tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him. “And then what? You’ll keep me all for yourself?”

It reveals a lot, you think, that his first assumption is you’d still expect him to serve you somehow. All Satoru has ever done in his life is give, give, give. He was beautiful, strong and skilled, and such gifts from the Gods were obligated to be shared.

But as he said, you are selfish. When his thumb skims along the bow of your lips, they stretch into a promising smile. “No,” you tell him. “You can go anywhere you like”.

It’s a pleasure to watch his expression wane, the push and pull of hope and disbelief. Now, his eyes are brighter than you’ve ever seen them. “Anywhere?” he breathes.

“Anywhere,” turning into his palm, you kiss the heel and feel a tremor rush through him. “Be whoever you want. Just Satoru”.

A brief silence stretches thin. And then he laughs again, an abrupt sound. Satoru dips to press your foreheads together; close enough that you can see the dreamer's expression on your face reflected in his own pupils, and individually count the striking white lashes along his waterline.

“Selfish and cruel,” he murmurs fondly. Instead of warmth, you suddenly feel cold. “Even if that were possible, I have responsibilities here. Megumi, Yuji and the others are here”.

“But—!”

“—I have influence. High ranking customers. I keep those kids safe here, and I bring in enough money that they can enjoy their youth before they’re made to work,” he continues. As it goes on, his voice is steadily harder; the cradle along your jaw firmer.

Brows pinched, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed forward. Your nose bumps against his cheek, lips awkwardly aligned — you let him kiss you. It’s too quick, and almost punishing.

Pulling back, he rasps, “It is my job to sell dreams. Not yours”.

That’s right. How could you forget?

He cups your face again, as though he didn’t want to let go. The pad of his thumb strokes over your cheek, tracing a shallow crescent shape beneath your eye. You’ve never felt so helpless.

You leave the Michizane house soon after with a smile painted on your face. It will not slip, not until later in the night. You cannot allow Yaga to question Satoru’s treatment of you. A courtesan’s duty is to appease. Norimitsu scans your body, entirely lacking subtlety, and steps forward to assist you into the rickshaw without a word. You’re thankful for it.

When you do not return to the shop, a letter arrives. The parchment is perfumed with a comfortingly familiar scent. Satoru inscribes his longing onto the page. He’s asking if you’ll visit with him again, and in the bottom corner he has cleverly convinced Megumi and Yuji to sign their names alongside his own. Your chest tightens.

Weak, you reach for your ink stone and brush.

Satoru sold dreams — and yours had been to be loved. You wondered if that was his dream, too.

904 notes · View notes

basoorexxiaa · 2 years ago

Text

i have a memory - kishibe x f!reader

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.

“Baby, baby, baby,” Kishibe mutters repeatedly, “oh, fuck, that’s it.”

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.

You feel safe.

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