I Have A Memory - Kishibe X F!reader

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.

The two-year-old girl sits curled up on one side of the sofa, sobs escaping her trembling lips and runs the long sleeve of her t-shirt under her nose as she waits for her father to accept the call.

𝗦𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘂 doesn't take long and, as is his wont, answers with a cheerful tone and a smile that vanishes almost immediately upon seeing his princess crying.

“ Whats wrong angel? Why are you crying? Where's mama?” he asks worriedly; and the little girl hearing the word mama bursts into tears again and looks towards you standing a few steps away from her, with a tired expression.

“ Mama” the little one tries to explain something but her crying doesn't allow her to continue and she moves from her position when she sees you approaching her.

𝗦𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘂 on the other hand is worried and calls your name hoping you will answer.

“ Bad mama.” the child says and slaps your hand as you try to take the phone back.

𝗦𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘂 understanding the situation, continues talking to the child until she calms down and you leave them alone going to another room to clear your head. It is not easy to raise a child who is literally the mini version of your husband; if he can sometimes give himself a break, she cannot: not until she has achieved what she wants.

About twenty minutes pass and the bedroom door opens slowly and your daughter's snow-white head emerges, looking at you with her blue eyes swollen with tears.

In her little hands she has the phone and immediately reaches for you, placing the electronic device on your lap.

“ Sowy mama.” she tells you in her little voice and brings her tiny fingers to her earlobes, tilting her head to the side moving her two pigtails.

You take her in your arms and reassure her that everything is fine, looking towards the doorway where 𝗦𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘂 watches you with a smile.

“ Can I join in with my two princesses?” 𝗦𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘂 asks with outstretched arms before running towards the two of you.

leave your love on my lips ෆ also known as, gojo satoru knows exactly how to get you off and fuck you right.

eighteen+ content ⭑ minors, do not interact. fem! reader, fem! pet names. we ride that man like we’re being chased by the sheriff, Himself! praise kink HEAVY. that’s literally all this is, actually. some very minor pussyjob action and dick analysis too. cute ending bcos i must do what gege can’t. based off of this video ( n!sfw twt link ) soph sent me, rest in peace, dilly!! you were never gonna make it out of that one!! ( 1.2k wc )

“good girl… yeah, just like that.” gojo blubbers sweetness into the curve of your neck, your forehead pressed against his clavicle as his cock reaches the furthest anything’s ever been in your walls.

with your tits pressed against his chest, he loses his mind at how hot and how close your bodies are— connected, his hands grip at every part of you he can’t see.

it started with your hips, fingertips digging into flesh the moment you took hold of his shaft. teasing his head between your lips, he gets a taste of your clit as pre-cum drools all over it, “fuckkkk baby, that wet for me already? ya like cock that much? mmm, ’s so cute…”

his favorite noise is the way your pussy sounds when you’re with him— sloppily fucking yourself like he’s your favorite toy to use! grinding against his shaft, a quick pussyjob always gets him moaning at the way he’s so close to your sobbing hole but never quite filling it the way he should. “haaa- shut up, satoru.”

“do you like teasing me that much?” murmuring, a hand leaves your hips and rises to your breasts. flicking a nipple, satoru plays with your body— finding just what it takes to push you over the edge. only looking for enough to make you want him all, “yeah angel? i do too.”

it makes you arch your back like a shock of cold water hitting you, “a-aah, i wanna last ‘toru! i can’t” a hitched breath chops up your sentences as his smile reaches his ears, “c-can’t when you-” with your whining, he finds it harder to get his hands off of you now that he’s started— but it’s enough. clouding your mind and your judgement, he praises sweetly once more, “put it in and you’ll do great sweet girl, c’mon… you got it.”

defeated, you can’t help but clench around nothing when he speaks to you that way. it’s almost painful being so empty but satoru’s so good at fucking you— it’s just as bad as you both cumming within ten minutes of getting into bed.

though, what’s more is that you always seem to listen to his every word anyway!

halting your thrusts just above the tip of his head, it’s like your cunt drools at the sight of him— because as you lift your hips, sticky slick ribbons are what keep you two together even as you’re apart.

“huhghh shit.” there’s a sort of tremble in his voice: one that says satoru can’t admit how much this makes his cock ache— salivating as you hold him in your hands, groaning as he stretches you out and watching it disappear between your folds.

and the further he fills you, the more air escapes your lungs by just taking him in, “w-why’re you so fuckin’ big… ‘toru’s s’ big… i can’t-” but you’ve already made it this far. if you could only pick up your head, you’d see satoru is nothing but a fiend when he’s inside your pussy.

“so, so good for me, baby.” his hands caress your waist, eyes rolled so far back and his jaw gone slack, his drool could spill, “god, you’re so fucking good to me…”

slowly, an arm curls around your body, where satoru kisses the warm skin of your shoulder and the tender of your chest. he rests a big hand behind your head just before tucking you under his chin for comfort.

soft, the way he looks out for you in this state of mind. and by pressing one more kiss to your head, he grows weak and falls down on his back, the unoccupied hand resting by his head, “how’s it feel?” you hear his heartbeat racing, thumping against his chest.

“this cock you love to fuck,” you squeeze and he twitches, “i know it’s your favorite.” it’s a playful tease, chuckling with a raspy voice of need. it makes you lift your head off his body, craving a small peek as he pulls his arm away and leaves both resting by his head.

“you know why it’s my favorite, baby.” you match the same hazy smile on his face. dazed out of your minds, you clasp your fingers around his wrists, keeping you steady as your hips rock you back and forth.

clenching his hands into fists, satoru bites his lip when your cunt squelches the faster you begin slapping your thighs against his, “ha fuck- fuckkk, ride that dick, sweet girl— the way you know how.”

and you can’t say he’s the thickest— no.

satoru’s cock is just so long, so pretty with an added curve to his veiny shaft and his uncut head— he makes up for it, clearly— as you can barely lift your hips up high enough to sit back down on it properly. you’ve learned to give up and simply grind on it instead.

“god, it’s not fair- ‘toru,” it’s been six minutes at most, if you’re being generous at that— but your thighs feel like they’ve been set on fire and his cock keeps nudging at that puffy spot inside you, “f-fuck me. fuck meeee.”

he can barely hear your words from the light tingling feeling along his ears, but can you blame him? with this view: his angel, sitting up, head raised and arms holding onto his knees, fucking him with pretty tits bouncing as a response, who’s to say he’s not in heaven? “you’re doing amazing— so tight, that pretty pussy… i fuckin’ love her.” he brings his hands to your thighs then to your hips, caressing, “keep goin’ sweet girl, we’re so close.”

“huuugh, god. gooood. satoru,” it’s like he’s messing with your insides, fucking straight through everything and forming his own mold of himself inside your cunt, “i wanna cum. please, please, please.”

“hgh, yeah? yeah baby…” he agrees as you place your hands on his chest, rocking your hips faster, harder makes his cock graze further deep inside you harshly— “tell me why i’m your favorite, mmm baby? c’mon, please? hurryyy- need’ya t’ say it.” his words slurred.

you can’t contain the way he makes you scream anymore, the way satoru grabs your sides and forcefully grinds your pussy all over him, his cock, all at his own pace— the answer is painfully obvious. “satoru! oh my god-” his cockhead feels so hot, twitching when you feel oozing wet, your body sticky with sweat— you just can’t think.

you can’t think but you don’t need to— the answer comes naturally like it was sewed into you sometime, someplace before birth, “love you-” his grip tightens, “love you s’much,” he twitches at the thought of— “‘m cumming, cum’ng fuckkk, i love you, satoruuuu.” then, he’s cumming inside you too.

clinging onto your arms, he holds you down in a way that stops you from getting off and squirming away from him. collecting every drop he’s fucked into you, he won’t let that go to waste— “yesss, good job angel.” you droop your way back underneath his chin, safe in his chest, exhausted.

and while breathing heavily, satoru lays his hand behind your back, fingers doodling all across your spine, “my beautiful girl did so well.” he feels your smile form at that.

but he craves one more thing— one more thing and it’ll be perfect— “my beautiful girl,” he says, sitting you both back up with a hand by your nape and the other at the end of your back.

it holds you together for a moment but a moment is all he needs to press kisses over every curve of your face— your temple, your brow bone, your nose. “i love you more.” and one on the plump of your lips for good luck!

dilly don’t be cheesy challenge!!!! failed ❌ i’d like to formally blame @soumies + @shotorus for ruining my life and making this piece come true . . pussy was writing, not me!!!

Dramatically in love with you.

Toji x reader

genre: flufffff fluff fluff i need more Toji fluff

warnings: none, a tiny little bit suggestive at the end.

notes: hi, this is my first ever fic, i've never really written anything like this, so I hope you like it. let me know in the comments. no i will not apologize for the cringe title. oh yah the reader is a bit oc (ok just me) but i hope it's still relatable. hope you enjoy lovelies

Toji swears he loves you. He loves you so much he puts up with your weird domestic habits. He puts up with the fact that you leave cupboard doors open after you’ve used them as if it doesn’t even occur to you to close them as your mind is already focusing on your next task. He puts up with the fact that he’s bonked his head more than once on those damn things when he steps into the kitchen. He doesn’t say a word when you leave clumps of your hair on the shower walls. He only curses inwardly when steps on yet another fucking bobby pin. He doesn’t consider himself a neat freak; he’s lived, slept, ate and shat in a whole lot worse, so he puts up with a bruise here and a sore toe there. He deals with your high-pitched screams and the fact that he is yet again on jar-duty as he chases a spider through your shared apartment.

Domesticity the way you present it is something foreign to him. While your warm personality sharply contrasts his stoic demeanor, your brazenness is something you two have in common. You don’t hold back on who you are, and he doesn’t really mind the fact that you piss with the bathroom door open sometimes, while continuing some inane story about your day, or that you don’t bother going outside to fart. He honestly loves you and your little quirks and the fact that he gets to call you home. His cute little girlfriend who broke down his walls and managed to sledgehammer through them with your bold moves, your kind eyes, your sharp tongue always followed by a loud laugh, the strokes of your fingers on his calloused hands and his scar-littered body, the morning kisses and the daily effort you put into making sure he feels loved and cared for as well. He swears he will love you until the day he gets dragged into death by the ankles. And beyond that.

He's reminding himself of all these things while fighting the urge to groan, roll his eyes, and throw a pillow at the TV that’s currently displaying a drama series you’re rewatching for the umpteenth time, and with one sharp look from you he’s reminded that he lost that fight.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” you pout at Toji.

“Ya know before ya got here I used to watch actual good shit, right? Something that’s actually fucking interesting. Not this yappy supernatural cry fest.”

“Okay, grandpa. I bet those horse races were real titillating.” You spit back sarcastically.

Toji tsk’s as a response and kicks your feet off the coffee table and reaches for his beer. It never ceases to make you laugh how your 6 feet tall tank of a boyfriend can throw tiny temper tantrums like these. You pause the show and go to retrieve your pillow.

“If it bothers you so much, I can watch it on my laptop, and you can watch the news or some old people program like bingo or some-“

“It’ just..” he interrupts you “I don’t get why she kept that information from him when she knew she was pregnant at the time.” He lectures while pointing his beer at the TV.

“I- what?”

“The chick from the show! I get that he’s an asshole, but you’d think she’d get off ‘er fucking high horse an’ tell him about the pregnancy, definitely knowing she’s cursed or some shit, wasn’t that her? The one who got cursed last season? Or was that the evil twin sister or something? I can’t fucking listen for one more second about how- what?”

You can’t control your giggles as you hop into a squat on the couch next to him and poke his cheek.

“The fuck you laughing at, brat?” he warns.

Your giggles die down a bit before you crawl over to him and he instinctively places his hands around your waist and pulls you into his lap.

“You’re such a cute hypocrite, Toji. My big strong scary man who supposedly only likes serious content” you chuckle.

“ ‘s not my fault you put this shit on every day, it gets in my head”

“Yeah okay. ‘s not like you're actually invested” you grin at him.

He snorts at that. “You’re a fucking headache, y’know that, sweetheart” he sighs while kissing the top of your head.

You lean into him and smile into his broad tobacco scented chest.

“Yeah right back at ya, dollface”.

Oh, he swears he’s going to wipe that smile off your face later that night when he gets his payback in the bedroom. Or the dinner table. Or the couch after just one more episode. So, for now, however..

“Put the damn show back on, so I can at least know how this shit plays out."

You stifle a laugh as you shuffle in his lap so you’re facing the TV and you press play.

He swears he hates these things, he really does. He’s not invested. He’s putting up with your weird habits. Because god, does he love you. And maybe your dumb little drama series as well.

always for the first time

c/w: 1.2k wc, reader is deep in her head, gojo is stupidly in love & wants nothing more than to be the best boyfriend on planet earth, sickeningly sweet, disgustingly self indulgent, inspired by andré breton's poem, wrote this in like 10 minutes, reader discretion advised: you'll drown in fluff

Satoru is a keen observer.

He has to be, not only to watch his back every now and again but also to pick up on more subtle things that could escape a less trained eye. You are one of those things.

Satoru is also a good learner, although he wasn’t ready for what you had in store for him. He can be too much, always has been too much, people have told him. Too strong, too loud, too obnoxious, too dumb. He didn’t know how to juggle his worst traits and keep them under control around you, has never wanted not to scare someone away so bad.

However, life has been brutal in teaching him the consequences of not picking up on things in time and with that now comes the anxiety of missing out on hints, small details, imperceptible signals.

He has studied you, mapped out every twitch of your lips or crease between eyebrows, he has memorized the heaviness of your sighs and which limits it’s best not to push. He knows you need your space and that some people don’t appreciate how overwhelming his interest in them can be. Because what if his insistence ends up crushing them? What if he cares so much you eventually drift away?

So Satoru knows when to keep quiet, when to leave you be or wrap his arms around your waist to bury a gentle kiss in your hair. You have taught him that he doesn’t have to prove his presence all the time, a broken record of I’m here, don’t you know that I’m here for you?

You know. His presence is embedded in every aspect of your life, in every soft thought crossing your mind. He’s there when he lies on top of you in bed, infinity turned off for good measure, cheek pressed to your stomach and arms wrapped around your frame in a petulant attempt to convince you to stay five more minutes. He’s there when he gets back early from a mission and you come home to the tall, familiar figure making a mess of your kitchen. I had half an hour to spare and I thought you’d like soup.

Satoru sees the flow of individual atoms that make you, you. Which means that he knows when you’re in pain, feels your sadness creeping up into his very bones, only experiences true fear the first time you bury your face into his chest and your body shakes in his arms, consumed by the terror of not seeing him again. Satoru is not scared because he thinks the thought of something happening to him is even remotely rational, it’s the thought of leaving you without him for a second too long that petrifies him.

He’s there when he looks at you and sees everything there’s to see, the good and so much of the bad. Satoru has eyes that grant him extraordinary perception and cause a constant, exhausting influx of information. But he can now see you as well as he sees cursed energy: the flux of excitement, sadness, rage or embarrassment. He sees how big your heart is and yet deems it not nearly large enough to contain the love you have for him and for others, threatening to bubble over at all times.

He sees your shame and insecurities and how desperately you attempt to keep those from him. Sometimes he forces himself to respect it, other times it’s hard not to at least attempt to work his charm.

You could get mad but he can’t risk skipping the chance of reminding you once more that he’s there. Just in case. He’s there.

“What’s up?” he asks nonchalantly, nose still buried in that book you couldn’t stop talking about for an entire week.

“Nothing’s up. If something was up, you’d know first” your grin is charming although a little forced and when you go back to the cooking show you’re watching on television, Satoru lets a few seconds pass.

“I think something’s up”

You sigh. He’s not even looking at you but you feel the wary concern vibrating in his voice.

“I’m okay” your own pitch gets softer, a gentle reminder that there’s nothing to really worry about. It’s just that your mind can get very loud at times, but that’s not to become another one of his battles. He has enough of those already.

But that’s when he puts the novel down, a bunch of dried lavender twigs used as a makeshift bookmark.

“I can see that” he knows the punchline will always make you roll your eyes with fondness, especially if he has his blindfold on “your limbs are still attached, your hair looks pretty, skin is fairly hydrated” you huff out a laugh as he crawls over you only to slump his long, inconveniently heavy body on top of yours.

“But something’s wrong” he whispers it into your skin, hopes that it’s easier to get you to open up if you can’t see him and think he can see less of you. His lips are pressed to your neck and snowy hair tickles your chin, so you attempt to comb some of it back with a light scoff.

“You currently obstructing my airways?”

He lightly pinches your side and you squirm underneath his weight with an airy giggle.

“Stop doing that”

“Doing what?” you flick his forehead but he doesn’t even flinch.

“Deflecting. Something’s wrong, I can feel it”

Satoru wishes he didn’t sound every bit as pathetic as he did. But he’s made peace with the fact that this is what love does to him a long time ago. He’s in love, and pathetic, and simply prays it’s one of the times he’s lucky enough you’ll give him the green light to make a breach in the walls.

“You can feel it?” you muse “what are you, obsessed with me or somethin’?”

“I am” he lightly nips at your jaw and draws a gasp “what a stupid question”

As obsessed as an invincible man can be, one that spends each day hoping he’ll be allowed to gain yet another victory over the ache throbbing in your ribcage. What good is being the strongest if he’s barely allowed to shield you from yourself?  

“I’m just tired” you articulate the words slowly, attentively, and your heart swells in your chest when he instantly stills his movements “it’s a tiring day. I’ll be fine”

And Gojo hums against the warmth of your skin, tightens his arms around you. Of course you’ll be fine, he’ll be there to make sure you will be. Not that you need him to fight your battles, you never needed him in the first place.

“Thank you” for making this one of the moments I’m allowed to climb over those walls, even if just to take a small peek.

“You’re so silly” you smile and don’t even understand how the hell someone could get so lucky.

“S’why you love me”

“Wrong, I love you because of your pretty face and remarkable abs”

“I’m more than a nice piece of ass, y’know?”

Another silent laugh fills the air, now lighter, and you can already feel his smile as you gently pull his blindfold down. Satoru lets you, lifts his face to make your job a little easier and when his eyes slowly flutter open there’s nothing but sincere adoration swirling in them. There’s trust, and love, and you can’t help but force them shut again as you gently press your lips to both his eyeslids.

To tell him that you love him with just as much fierceness, with every fragment of your flawed, human body.

To thank him for seeing you with such earth shattering clarity, always for the first time.

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧

Satoru started leaving things at your place at two months. You never seem to mind it because you did get him his own pair of house slippers (which was too small because you didn't want to tolerate the possible bad jokes had you asked his shoe size) when he first visited, followed by a toothbrush when he began to spend the night more frequently.

His clothes were the first to find their way into your hamper, where you'd wash along with your laundry, fold neatly and tuck away into a drawer you emptied out for him. When you'd both go grocery shopping together to make dinner一he always covers the cost of course, because that means the bunch of snacks and sweets would always be available to him in your pantry for movie nights. And when appliances in your kitchen break like your kettle, he lends you one from his apartment but it's yours to keep. You even tease him that he smells like you now because he borrows your products when you both shower together, but what's not to love about your scent when it's so familiar and comforting to him.

Your heart nearly skips a beat when Satoru suddenly calls your place his home too. "I can't wait to come home to you," he confesses over the phone since he’s been sent on a week long mission. When you look around your space you're reminded of the little remnants that he leaves behind. The silly Gojo doodle wishing you a great day and to not miss him too much (but please actually do) stuck on your fridge by a magnet, his extra pair of sunglasses next to your keys that you keep on the table by the front door, and when you glance down you hadn’t realized you were wearing his shirt as your way of feeling close to him when he’s away.

So when the words, "Why don't we move in together?" finally reaches him when you're both sweetly cuddling in bed after he returns to you safe and sound, you can see the excitement behind his eyes as they burn brightly. He’s been waiting and waiting despite all his not so subtle hints for you to consider the idea since he’s ready to take that step only when you are.