it wasnt me !

He’s so insistent on protecting you that he has to imprison you. You understand that don’t you? That it’s truly for your sake?? Not just from the desperate fan girls tormenting you but from himself all the same. Just having you around was putting you at risk but moving you into his apartment? What’s he supposed to do with himself when you look so cute sleeping on his bed?? How your pajama shorts give him such a terrible view if he dared look?? Don’t even get him started on the stunt you pulled at the lingerie shop (∩︵∩) Every minute is a ticking time bomb and he simply can’t gamble he can behave any longer! He’s got to protect you!

But is it really much protection if he’s so close? Fingertips passing the cold metal bars just to brush against your exposed thigh? You’re so warm and the way you have to lay to accommodate the space makes being ladylike sooo hard if you want to be comfortable. Your nipples are pebbled against that far too thin sweater from how cold the rough mat beneath you is, how the cold bites at every inch of your flesh leaving you to try and curl up for warmth. This is for your own safety, because if you weren’t in there, god knows he’d warm you up in all the wrong ways (^^ゞ. He just wants to take care of you, protect you from the outside world and the inside of his sick head ;( If he’s already slowly palming himself to the feeling of your pretty little thigh, to the sight of you so pitifully caved against yourself, it’d be worse if you weren’t protected by those icy bars!

This is for your safety. He swore he’d protect you, but god did not expect it to be dual torment. (˃ ⌑ ˂ഃ )

“Can’t believe you would show your face back here again.” You spat at him, wet saliva hitting the buzzing reddened skin of his cheek. 

He nodded, already feeling his breathing getting slower, harder, wetter. He could feel himself slipping away already.  

“Take your shoes and coat off, where the fuck do you think you are? Tracking mud and shit and blood onto my floor.” You hissed again, taking a seat in the upholstered wingback armchair you favored. 

Kishibe removed his jacket and hung it near the door, in the hook you kept open for him. He made sure to keep his eyes on the floor as he moved. 

“Shoes, too.” he heard the crackle of a freshly lit cigarette and felt his back tense with remembrance, he hurried off his shoes, setting them neatly by your door. 

“Stay down.” You instructed, your voice holding smoke. 

Kishibe froze in his crouched position, keeping his eyes locked on the pairs of shoes by the door. Your heels clicked toward him, devastatingly needle thin stilettos, black as oil, red bottoms pristine. These heels had never seen a sidewalk or city street, they were solely relegated to inside the walls of your office. The clicks stopped next to him, he could see the immaculate shine of the pointed toe, overhead lantern light warping in their reflection, making oblong amber blooms. 

“Hand.” 

He hesitated. 

“Kishibe put your goddamn hand on the floor.” Your voice was stern, unwavering, and positively filled with hate, “I won't ask again.”

The use of his name made him crumble, he put his left hand on the cool wood floor, spreading his fingers wide. You pressed the front sole of your shoe onto the back of his hand, not yet using the heel. Rolling his knuckles into the floor, feeling each bone in his hand individually, feeling the ligaments shift between bones and skin, the pressure of your foot growing harder. Kishibe clenched his jaw and tried not to let his eyes close, knowing what would come if they fluttered shut. But your pressure, rolling ligaments across the metacarpal muscles, made him hiss, and his eyes squeeze tight. It was precisely then that you drove the point of your heel into the groove of the back of his hand, between his middle and ring fingers. His eyes shot open, looking at the point driving into his skin, threatening to break the skin, break through the fine sinews of muscle, the fragile bones of his hand. He hissed as you stepped harder, his hand strained under your foot, fingers flexing off the floor, begging for mercy. But still you pressed harder, letting your weight drive the spike further into the gaps between his bones, waiting for him to yelp. But he did not, he knew better. He groaned and hissed and writhed, but took it. He gasped when you pulled off, the indention already abbrased and blooming red underneath his fine skin. 

You drug your heel down his long middle finger, feeling every groove and valley of the winkles of the skin that encased his fingers. Kishibe turned his face up to you, eyes trailing up your smooth, long legs, he just barely saw the hem of your skirt when he was slapped again, his face recoiling back down to the floor. 

“Don’t fucking look at me.” You pressed your heel into the back of his hand once again, right in the center, sharp and precise.  

This did make him grunt, not quite a yelp yet, but the surprise and the combined fury of your hand and foot at once making his mouth water and his vision go white. The harder you pressed, the more he was brought onto the floor, his knees slid out from under him, his chest and stomach meeting the floor along with his forehead. He pressed into the wood, as though it would take him and suck him into itself, alleviating the deliciously hot pain searing into his hand. It only made you press further, watching him writhe beneath you. You let up slightly, listening to him draw in a shaky breath. You moved your foot off of him, studying his body now prone on your floor. You caught him then, pressing his hips hard into the floor, trying to find some kind of friction, some kind of press to relieve the erection you knew had been awakened just from his walk over, and grew harder with every step you took. Your silence and lack of movement tipped him off right away, his hips stalled, and he squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating what would come next. But instead of moving right away, you let him sit in anticipation, taking a long, thoughtful drag of your cigarette, watching him fight to keep still. But the ache, the discomfort, was too much, you saw his hips shift again. Full, hard cock begging to be freed from between hard body and harder wood. You crouched next to him. 

“You wanna fuck the floor?” You blew smoke out into his face, filling the gap between his neck and floor, he stayed still as he could, eyes fixed on the floor, following your instruction not to look directly at you. 

He shook his head. 

“Out loud, pleeeeease,” You hissed out the last word, “I can’t hear you when you mumble like that.” 

“No.” 

“No, what?” You leaned close to his ear, the black piercings mirroring your own face, stretched out and distorted, back to you. 

“No, I don’t want to fuck the floor.” He spoke through gritted teeth, both palms on the floor sweating, making it harder to keep a steady grip. 

“Hmmm.” You thought for a moment, taking another drag. 

You leaned in to him, using your cigarette free hand to guide his chin to face you, “I don’t believe you. And since you want it so bad that you can’t even help yourself, I think I’ll let you. Just this once.” 

Kishibe cringed at the humiliating thought, “…please don't make me..”

“Fuck the floor Kishibe. Now.” You stood up. 

Kishibe groaned at not being able to see you anymore, he should have looked harder, but he was too distracted, he didn’t appreciate what he had when he had it. He never did. That’s why he was so unhappy in the first place, he could never appreciate a good thing in the moment, only wishing for it to come back after it had been stolen from him. 

“Now.” You commanded again, clicking your heel hard on the ground, “while I'm still feeling nice.” 

Kishibe steadied his grip on the floor, pushing down the rising feelings inside of him, and pressed his hips into the floor of your entryway. It was a sweet shame, digging his covered cock into the hardwood again and again. Grinding himself against it, wishing it was your pussy instead. Praying that if he did well enough you might let him inside. So he fucked himself into your floor, listening to that nasty voice in his head that reminded him how badly he wanted this. How sick he was for needing this. How far gone he really must be if he craved this treatment over and over again. 

You watched him pump his hips into the floor, groaning when his cock would snag or press too hard.

 He really could be so sensitive. 

“You like that?” You mocked him with a little laugh, inhaling your cigarette’s offerings once more. 

“Yes.” He couldn’t help the moan that colored his words. 

You only smiled because you knew he couldn’t see you, furrowed brow and tight shut eyes, “say thank you.” 

“Thank you.” He nodded, pushing his hips harder, breathless and desperate. 

You circled around to his head, listening to the sweet sounds of exertion and humiliation filling your space. He began to fuck faster, his hips moving in a semi circle slide that let him drag the length of his cock along the floor, rather than have it mashed into the hard surface over and over. You slid the point of your toe against where his forehead met the floor, and he lifted his face to you. Eyes big, mouth open and wet and panting. 

“Open your mouth,” You pressed into his bottom lip, moving your shoe into his mouth. 

He was quick to slide his tongue across the patent leather of the front of your shoe. His dark eyes rolled back, you watched him lick your shoe, his fat tongue flopping out but careful not to touch your skin, staying against the sole and the toe of the heel. You hummed, you had trained him so well. Or you thought you had, until his hips stalled. He let himself become distracted. Too busy tasting your shoe, inching too close to the skin of your foot for your liking.

 That wouldn’t do. 

You pulled your foot back quickly, letting the heel drag on the floor loudly, letting him know that you caught him. 

“No, please, I'm sorry. I’m sorry.” He sputtered out, trying to resume his grinding to show you how good he could be. 

You step hard on his hip, killing his momentum, keeping him from moving further. 

“Uh-uh.” You pressed harder, letting your full weight press on his lower back, “I gave you an order. And you couldn’t even do that.” 

He winced as you stepped up and onto his back, letting your heels drive into his pressure points.  

“What kind of soldier can’t take orders? Huh?” you shifted your weight, letting your right foot press harder. 

“Agh!”, he cried out, no longer holding his voice behind clenched teeth. 

“What kind of dog,” You squatted down over him, moving your center of gravity closer to your feet, to his aching, pin struck back, “doesn't obey its master, huh?” 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll be good.” Kishibe’s hands were balled fists by his head, the muscles in his back were straining against your weight, making you shift and sway. 

He’s begging now, a pathetic, stomach churning sound. You stand, making him wince and whimper again as you step off and back onto the floor. He pants under you for a moment, trying to savor the sweet relief of relentless pressure giving way to trembling, buzzing skin now.   

You watch him for a moment, enjoying the sight of a killer of his stature whimpering at your feet, “Stand up, old dog.” 

He’s quick to his feet, his inhuman recovery assisting him even now. For the first time since his arrival tonight his full height is on display for you. He really does tower over you, all 195 cm or so giving him a clean head and shoulders above you. But still he cowards before you, keeping his dark eyes turned down, along with his face. There is no killer’s confidence to be seen here, there is only a man. A very damaged man who needs you. He needs your help. He needs to be put in his place by someone, that’s why he comes to you. You hold all the power here, he needs that.

 He needs to have someone treat him like every bit of the disgusting dog he is and always has been. He has given everything to killing devils; his body, his youth, his life, innumerable years, all his friendships began and ended within the parameters of devil hunting. There is nothing more to him than that. And that is nothing to hold dear. It's only pain, it's only hurt, it's only blood on his hands and dead friends and loneliness. And rot, then endless, unending rot of his soul and his self. 

You studied him as he stood before you, deep, humid breaths leaving his wet, defiled mouth. Your cigarette was far past its end, far past the point of hissing on the filter, fully extinguished. You flicked it at him, it fell at his feet, and you moved back to your chair, crossing your legs in front of him. 

“Take your shirt off.” You cocked your head at him, resting it on your fist. 

Kishibe undoes his tie, dropping it beside his feet. He begins buttoning his shirt, pain shaking fingers scrambling, rushing down the column of buttons. 

“Take a breath.” You ordered. 

He does, deep, trying to keep his head on straight.  

“Now go.” 

He resumes his unbuttoning, hands sturdier, moving one button at a time. He reveals his chest to you slowly, scarred and flushed. You were familiar with the map of his body, the visible muscles that age did not seem to yet touch. The carved abs, the v of his hips, the decades cultivated pectorals. You enjoyed his hard, weathered body. He really was beautiful; the soft, dark hair under his navel leading into his pants, the one nipple ring a memory from another time, the scars on his sides from swipes that just barely reached, and the ones that made it much deeper. You enjoyed inspecting him, and the way he shifted under your gaze. For a man as beautiful as him to be this cautious being admired was curious to you. His shirt joined his tie beside his feet. 

“Turn.” you drew out another cigarette and lit it. 

He turned for you, letting you look him up and down. Facing away from you, he felt the heat rise in his face. Even in the dim light of your office, and with a body like his, he still felt uncomfortable being studied so closely. You approached him from behind, he heard you click against the floor, and felt you inch toward him. He could feel the heat of your body, the energy radiating off you, the sultry sweet smell of your skin, the sickly stuffy smoke cloud that followed.   

“You think you deserve to still be here?” he felt your breath on his neck and shivered.

“Answer me.” You barked at him. 

“No.” he answered, turning his face to try and see you. 

“Then what the fuck are you still doing standing?” You hit the back of his knee making him kneel, knees thunking to the harder wood in a horrible sound. 

The pain shoots up to his hips, but he swallows the agonized groan. The momentum makes his head fall back, finally able to see you fully. You were so beautiful, so vicious, looking at him with so much disgust, so much sickening pity and disgust. He felt his cock twitch at your distain. His mouth fell open, only desire pulling his jaw downward. You grabbed it, holding it hard in your hand. 

“You want a kiss?” You cocked your head once more. 

He nodded, lips starting to quiver. 

You slapped him hard once again, not letting him recoil, catching his cheeks again. 

“You think I want to kiss you?”  You leaned in to him, keeping his eyes locked on yours, he could see the rotating firelight behind them. 

Kishibe’s brows furrowed, he didn’t have an answer. You pressed your body against him, moving a hand down his bare chest, enjoying the peaks and valleys of his chest and stomach. You reach the waistline of his pants, not touching the prominent bulge in the front, but gripping him by the belt. You let him rest his head against your breasts, allowing him to indulge for just a moment. You leaned down to his ear, letting your tongue slide across the shell. He moaned at the feeling, wanting to grip you tighter, wanting to pull you closer, wanting to move you onto your back and take you right there on the floor, to have you entirely at his mercy. His body begs for you. But his mouth stays quiet. 

“You think I want your old cock anywhere near me?” You hissed right in his ear between nasty, wet licks. 

Kishibe whimpered, his face scrunching in shame and pleasure at once, “..no.” 

“That’s right.” You spit on his cheek, “I don’t need your dirty fucking cock. You’re so used up and desperate for it, you’ll come all the way here just to pay someone to touch your nasty shriveled dick.”

Kishibe watches as you move around him to the front, keeling to face him. He feels your saliva drip down his cheek, his jaw, his neck. 

“You were made to be used. But you’re not even good for that anymore, are you, huh?”

Kishibe nodded, shying away from your look. He didn’t see when you reeled back and slapped him once again. 

“Fucking, answer me.” 

“No!” Kishibe stayed turned to the side where your slap had directed his face. 

“That’s right, Kishibe. Nobody wants you. These girls you go after, you think they want an old man like you?” 

“No.” Kishibe shakes his head, you were giving him exactly what he needed, what he knew. 

You grabbed the back of his neck, tilting it back, “No. That’s right. You’re only good enough to take my spit.” 

Pulling his head back, his mouth falls open, tongue falling out, reaching for you. You gathered spit in your mouth and shot it right onto his tongue. He draws it into his mouth, savoring the smoke latent flavor, letting the tobacco sting on his tongue. It burned at the taste, his cheek burned from the slap, his hand still stung, echoed in his throbbing back, his knees were growing pained. Every inch of him hummed and simmered with your abuse, your pain. His cock was weeping, precum seeping into the fabric of his pants. His mind felt fuzzy, the whole evening making him feel lost, the room around him dissolving. Every hit reminded him where he was, what he was, and exactly where he deserved to be. 

You sucked in more smoke watching him shiver at your taste, his body starting to sway. You brought the cigarette to his lips, making him take a reluctant drag, the smoke covering your taste he had worked so hard for. He whined, his eyes downturned as they met yours, showing you how sad he was to lose it, but he accepted, taking a large puff, mourning the spit he swallowed and the taste that left him. 

“Kishibe.” You pulled him from his dizzy, pleasure and pain filled mind, “Kishibe.”

“Mhm.” He made eye contact with you, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears.  

“More?” You put a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady. 

Kishibe caught his breath, despite its shaking. He looked at you, your neutral face, not gentle but not chiding either. He looked at the shape of your lips, the lipstick atop it, the way your eyes studied him. He nodded. 

“Yes?” You raised your eyebrows. 

“Yes.” Kishibe nodded. 

“Okay.” You nodded, releasing his shoulder, letting him hold himself up again, “Then get on your back.” 

Kishibe feels his body electrify, this was what he had been waiting for. He slides his legs forward, laying his back against the floor. He felt something round and metal clunk against the back of his head. He forgot. He slid his body down, eyes tracking you as you moved to the chest of drawers along the opposite side of the room. He watched your body. Its smooth and confident movements, nothing unnecessary and so enticing, hypnotizing him. When you pulled forth the thick leather bands, buckles on either loop he put his hands up, on either side of the floor secured metal ring that sat above him. You turned back to him, grinning wickedly. 

“Eager today. You must have done something very bad.” You straddled his lap, just above his hips, above his groaning, aching dick. Sitting prettily on his lower stomach, your skirt hiking up further on your thighs, showing him the soft, plushy flesh of your hips and thighs, not enough to see the cleft of your pussy, the sacred meeting place of your long, torturous legs. But he could feel her warmth, the damp heat that transferred onto his skin. 

Kishibe nodded, not shy about how badly he wanted you. He loved you. Closest he had come to loving anything, probably. And he knew you liked it when he showed you how much he wanted you. How good he could be, only for you. 

You leaned over his body, not caring about how lucky he was to have your breasts so near to his face. On other occasions you would have made him close his eyes, or blindfolded him, to limit his indulgence, but hell, you could throw your dog a bone now and again. Tits in his face, you looped his wrists into their leather straps, tightening them until you saw the skin pinch and heard him hiss. Bone aside, a tight leash makes for less accidents. The o-ring slotted perfectly into the shackle on your floor, sturdy and unmoving, it was attached to the foundation, even a man as superhumanly strong as Kishibe couldn’t pry up the floor. You had learned this was the only form of restraint that would work on him. After the first session where he ripped two different hooks from your ceiling, you had it installed, all under his billing, obviously. And he looked better on the floor, anyway. 

“Pull.” You finished your binding. 

He pulled his arms hard, veins emerging from his arms, biceps rounding and straining. Not even a creek. Perfect. Kishibe couldn’t even contain his delight, a sick smile cracking across his face, his scar creating a second, sidelong smile. You let your hands slide down his arms, feeling the skin, the muscle, the joints, the bones, the soft hair of his forearms, the coarser collections under his armpits, feeling your way down to his chest. His breath hitched, his hips jolted upward, but your body above them, pushed him back down. 

“So sensitive.” You rolled your eyes at the way his long lashes fluttered as you touched him, at how  his nipples perked up as your hands grew close, at the gooseflesh your fingers left in their wake, “So desperate for someone to touch you.”

He nods along with your mocking. 

You lean closer forward, letting your hair fall against his face, your chest press against his, letting your body weight press him further and further against the floor, still not letting your hips slip down to meet his. 

“You just want someone to touch you, you don’t even care if they're using you.” You let your lips fall towards his, inching closer. 

Kishibe’s eyes scan over every inch of your face, praying that this is the time that you won't pull away, “No, I don’t.” 

“No.” You shook your head, mirroring him, “you don’t care.” 

“No.” he repeats. 

You let your lips just barely brush his as you speak, “You’re pathetic.” and pull away just as his chin inches upward to try and close the gap.

He cruses in frustration, an angry, heated cry that makes his voice break. You watch, face unmoving as his arms try to pull at the restraint, almost out of his control, tugging hard, making the skin of his wrists pinch and pull as he does. Your face is stone, unfettered and unfazed by his upset, he so desperately wants to reach for you, to touch you, to kiss you, to be kissed by you, so much time has passed in anticipation he feels dizzy again. He’s been denied too many times. He feels delirious. He feels drunk. He feels high. He feels sick. He needs relief. 

“Fuck!” He tried the restraints again, knowing they are immovable, “Yes, fuck, yes, I’m pathetic, I’m sick, I need you to use me. Use me, please, please, fucking use me, please.” 

Another hard crack on his scarred cheek shuts his babbling, pleading mouth. You grip his face hard in your fingers. 

“You wanna be used?” You bark at him.

Kishibe stays silent, delirium has spread to his brain, no longer to think about anything except your fingers pinching his face. His eyes roll back at the harsh touch, his hips buck up once more, rocking your forward this time. You may have really broken him this time.   

“Huh?” You snap again, jerking his face closer to yours, his upper back coming off the floor, arms bending unnaturally behind his head.

“Yes!” Kishibe’s voice may have found him, but his mind, his ego were long gone, “Yes, fuck, please use me. I’m pathetic and disgusting please. Fuck me, baby please. Fuck me, mommy, please.” 

Oooooooh, yes. The magic word. 

So beautiful in your ears, you nearly cum right then and there, right onto his stomach. Sick fuck would probably love that too. He may even cry in joy, or in envy. His sputtering, breaking voice, begging you, pleading with you to use him. Use him solely for your pleasure, and he can lap at whatever remains. Begging for his mommy to help him. Oh, how perfect. 

“Shut the fuck up!” You shout at him, letting his head fall hard back onto the floor, the crack it makes against the wood is no concern of either of you. 

You move off his lap, and his begging starts again, even more pathetic somehow. As though he had some untapped miserable pleading reserves locked away that even he didn’t know he could access. 

“Please! Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry mommy, I’ll be good. I won't argue anymore, I’m sorry, Please touch me, Please. I’m a dirty dog that doesn't deserve your touch, I know. Please, Please. Pl-” The least please falls from him unfinished as he feels a single tear starting to sting the outside of his eye. 

You watch his heaving chest, tension taut stomach buckle at the revelation that he had begun to cry. Crying did not happen easily for Kishibe. It usually took a lot longer than this, and a lot meaner treatment, sometimes hours worth of degradation. Poor bastard must have really had a hell of a day. 

Writhing against his restrained arms, he whimpers in defeat, resigning himself to the idea that this very well may be one of those sessions. The sessions where you bring him to an agonizing edge without any release. You round his body to his legs, finding his belt and undoing it. He pants as the tight leather is removed from his hips, even the only mental relief, is still enough to make him moan. You weren’t shy with your nails on his hips, letting them dig angry red lines into his skin as you removed his belt and undo his pants just enough to reveal his wet, buldged  underwear. 

“Such a fucking mess.” You hiss at him, shaking your head disapprovingly, hoping it will cover the way your mouth waters already, “fucking filithy.”

You don't even get his pants all the way off before you stand over him again. Letting his cock flop out from the zipper of his pants, not caring if the metal teeth bite at his hard, desperate shaft. This would be the quick, desperate, only for your pleasure fuck that he needed. You reach under your skirt and pull your panties off, sliding them down your legs, the black lace bunching as you did so. Kishibe can't stop watching, mouth drooling, getting whiplash from being stripped and now trying his hardest to see even a glimpse of your perfect pussy. 

“Yes, use me.--agh fuck-- Use me. Use me. Ple--” You shove your panties into his mouth shutting him up. 

“I’m so fucking tired of hearing you talk.” You straddle his stomach again, letting the wetness from your pussy only be felt by the hair on his lower stomach. 

He keens back, the sudden drop of your body on him and your hand pushing lace further into his mouth sending him reeling. He can taste your wetness, the way it's collected in the fabric, sunk in and saturated into the dripping lace and cotton. His tongue works over every inch, trying to suck out every last drop of your pussy slick that he can. 

Grinding against his body, you let your clit drag along his happy trail, you can feel the heat of his cock against your ass, making sure to remind you that it is ready and waiting for you. Begging, more like. The sweet sting of his hair against you, prickling at your most sensitive organ, the organ of your body used solely for pleasure, its only purpose to feed you, make you feel good. Just like the man under you. Serving no purpose other than to make you cum. You cock your head down at him, watching him struggle to keep his eyes from closing, hard arms struggle against their binds, gasping breaths leave his mouth through flimsy, wet fabric as you inch closer and closer to his quivering pelvis. Without warning, without prep, without fear, you mount him, letting his desperate, already leaking cock inside of you. You feel him slide through your muscles, slip into the tight rings that you know are so covetous. 

You don’t penetratively fuck all of your clientele, but Kishibe, oh Kishibe, you can’t deny him anything. He’s too raw, too honest, too damaged. You know it cliche, to want to fix a man who is broken beyond all reason to repair. But you can’t help yourself. Feeling him fill you completely, and then some, his long, thick, angry cock pushing into the deepest, most untapped parts of your body. Short of killing you with his own hands, you two could never be closer. You wondered how the devils and men he killed felt in that final moment. If they could ever comprehend the reality that laid before you now. The man who destroyed their lives writhing beneath a woman like you, begging for comfort, begging for pleasure, begging to be useful. 

You sank your hips down completely to meet his, your ass clapping down onto his still clothed legs. Both of you couldn’t help but keen back. The perfect meeting of two. Wet and whole and succulent and slippery and snug and dangerous. The breath in the room was recycled, hot and humid and laced with smoke and spit. You would need a respirator to take a clean breath in a room like this. One rife with sex and thick with yearning as this. When your hips pull away and meet again you both reel back in its decadence, feeling the weight of your previous dance pull you further together. Despite your best efforts to remain detached, you can’t help but paw at his chest, digging not your nails but your fingertips in, feeling his skin, his muscles, his bone, his heart underneath, as though you could pull it outward to feast upon if you wanted. You wonder if he would let you devour him. Only until you remember that he would. He would let you in a moment, in a second, were you to ask him. 

You raise your hips again, feeling him exit you to the edge of the head of his cock, before sliding back down, your hands at his chest giving you the leverage to rise and fall completely. WIth this new found leverage you can set a perfect, nasty pace. Driving yourself up and down on him again and again, a brutal, lip gnawing, back arching pace. You are using him, just as he begged so prettily for. Using him for your own pleasure, using him to reach the high you deserved. Putting so much work into his own release, which you recognize was the reason he came back to you, you still deserved your own victory for your efforts. 

“Agh--yes, fuck, baby, uhhh” Kishibe couldn’t stop his messy mouth, begging you for kindness, begging you for softness only to be met with your fingers shoving your panties further into his mouth, muffling his pleas. 

“Shut up shutupshutup.” You hissed through clenched teeth, moving your hips faster and faster, pushing your fingers in further to his mouth, relishing the feeling of the lace between his tongue and your fingers. 

Kishibe’s eyes rolled back, the whites showing themselves to you before they closed completely, resigning himself to the hardwood with a sturdy clunk of his skull. Drooly mouth and flushing chest, helpless beneath you with his arm stuck behind him. His hips can only thrust upward, hoping to meet your messy, sloppy thrusts back down upon him. Rarely does he match your rhythm, his thrusts erratic and unsynced to your own. A reminder that as good as it feels to be joined together, you are not some kind of divine set of missing pieces. You are not destined, nor ordained together, you are simply joined together in circumstance, that any divinity or godliness would abhor. You are doing nothing for the believers of fate or soul mates. Neither one of you would ever be anyone’s soulmate, nor would you find your missing piece in the arms of another. You were both missing things too large, too hearty to be completed simply by the union with another. It wasn’t that simple. Life wasn’t that simple. Nothing was. But you both knew that. 

And riding him now, you didn’t know a thing. Except the sweet sting of him stretching you open, the harsh push of his cock head at your g spot, the hissing, nasty roughness of your clit against the tuft of pubic hair at the base of his pelvis. You could only watch the show he was putting on for you, writhing body, sweating face, struggling arms and hands clasping around nothing, wishing they could pull your hips against his, pull you closer, have you tighter, feeling you everywhere. You pulled your top off, letting your pressed, heightened, pushed up tits fall free in his face. Letting them flop openly up and down as you rode him. He let out a disgruntled, restricted noise of yearning. The crack of his throat letting you know just how badly he wanted to feel the bouncy fat of your tits in his palms, against his face, along his tongue. 

“You wanna feel, Old dog? Huh” You teased him, feeling yourself up, cupping your tits, pinching your nipples in front of him. 

Muffled by your panties in his mouth, grinding his teeth hard enough to rip the flimsy fabric you could barely make out the “mhm” but you could see the feverish, delirious nod. 

“Yeah, baby?” You pressed forward, letting your freed chest hang in front of him, putting one hand behind his head. 

He spit your panties to the side, tongue reaching for your sweat, soft skin. 

You slotted two fingers into his mouth instead, which he was quick to curl his tongue around. 

“You’re so fucking dirty.” You reminded him, stealing back your spit soaked fingers and using them to circle your hungry, aching clit. 

“I--I I’m gonna..” Kishibe couldn’t take the sight of you, bare before him, touching yourself on top of his cock. 

You slapped him hard once more, spit and slick soaked fingers leaving his cheek sticky, “Not yet, don’t you dare cum.” You moved your hips harder, faster, nastier, dirtier. 

Of course your hard treatment spills him over completely, filling you, painting your walls white. Spurt after spurt of hot, thick, pent up cum into you. You can feel him twitching inside of you, and even if you couldn’t you can see the way the veins in his neck make themselves known, emerging one after the other in his strain. The way his mouth falls open, into a full capital O, against his wishes, against his better judgement, against his knowledge of what will come after. He simply can't help himself. You’re too tight, too wet, too hot around him. He needs to fill you, he needs to spill himself free. The hour of torment leading up to this moment, the slaps, the floor, the abuse, the disgust, the way you had worked him up so much before even laying your hands on him. He needed you before he even got to the door. He needed you before he even knew you.  He needed you before he even knew what he was missing. 

“Oh, kishibe…”You shook your head, slowing your hips only slightly, just enough to let him catch his breath. 

“I’m sorry, i’m sorry ---agh, i--”Kishibe’s head rocked back, still against the floor, barely able to find new ground to traverse behind him. 

But only to just catch his breath, because you sped up once again, not caring for his overstimulation as he panted and pleaded. His chest grew red, the drool from before dried and migrated to his tear ducts, starting to well at your devious, devastating hips. You weren’t done yet, you dropped down on him again and again, circling your clit with a renewed fervor, desperate to join him. Kishibe couldn’t form words anymore, barely able to keep his eyes open, the sight of you too much when combined with the feeling of your trembling walls closing around his cock. The white circle of creamy, hot cum on his cock that peeked back at him every time you rose your hips before slotting them back down. He thought he might die. And of all the devils that had threatened his life thus far, you didn’t scare him in the slightest. He knew death at your touch would be right, maybe just even. 

“You think you can cum in me without my say so? Huh?” You smacked one of his thighs hard, making his drooping eyes snap open. 

Before he could speak again you pulled off him, sliding your cum leaking, oozing push across his bare chest. 

“Huh?” You shouted again. 

He shook his head, not willing to risk the words that would only anger you further. 

“That’s right. And sense you made the mess. You’ll clean it up.” 

That was the last thing he heard before you straddled his face, plopping right down onto his mouth. The positioning wasn’t graceful by any means, your knees were pressing his arms further against the floor hard, painfully so. But his tongue went to work anyway, burrowing itself into your hole, pulling out the globs of sticky spent that he had left there so carelessly. So selfishly. He couldn’t breathe, nose and mouth both covered completely by your pleasure swollen lips. He didn’t deserve to still draw breath. 

Your hands pulled at his hair, the natural silver and the bleached strands cording through your fingers, exposing the darkened roots. The dark underneath him. You tugged harder, wanting to guide his hungry tongue up to your clit. But the bastard was too focused on your previous instruction, sucking his load out of you like he could render you completely untouched once more if he just worked hard enough. Realizing your tugging was useless, you rocked your hips against him, feeling the hard bridge of his nose grind against your clit, all while he licked at every inch of your vulva, from cleft of pussy lip down to the tight rim of your asshole. Finally, finally, you were feeling the build to the climax you had worked so hard for. You gasped up into the humid air, your back curving, pushing against his tongue harder. You can just barely hear him groaning underneath you, between hungry slurps. 

The moans grow faster, louder, higher, you can’t stop the way your hips ride his face, you can only tug for support at his hair, and hold yourself upright as you finally tip over into your orgasm. 

He feels it too, the quivering of your pussy against his tongue, the way your hips can’t move anymore, your thighs shaking against his arms. Even with his ears covered, he can hear the sweet break of your moans, the delicious honey dipped sounds of you in ecstasy. He feels his chest warm with pride, his body relax, his sensitive, over used, abused cock even twitches with interest. 

Kishibe still slides his tongue gently under you, cleaning your release in real time. Every swipe of his hot tongue makes your body twitch. The glimmering euphoria falling blissfully away. Letting the dimly lit room around come back into your purview. You cast a look down to the man below you, and see his droopy, exhausted eyes. You stand slowly, Kishibe takes his first full breath in dangerously long, letting his lungs fill completely. Already mourning the loss of your weight above him. He licks his lips clean, letting his eyes close, righting his mind, and letting himself lay in his own bliss for a moment. It’s over, he knows that, so like the last, perfectly constructed bite of any meal, he savours fully. 

You stepped away from him, studying his breaths, watching as his lungs and stomach expanded completely without hindrance. He was fine. The bruises would heal in a few days, there would be no lasting damage. He really wanted it harder and harder each time, you were starting to worry it would take a toll on him eventually. You don’t want to truncate his already stolen life. No matter how badly he may want you to. You pull on a robe, soft satin that cools your fevered skin, letting out a sigh at the feeling of your muscles relaxing and growing sore from your exertions. You turn back to Kishibe on the floor, he has not moved, still in his closed-eye bliss, savoring the end of your session. You kneel next to him, sliding your kinds, kindly this time, up his arms and undoing his binds. He moans a bit at your touch, he really is so sensitive. Your fingers are soft over the indentions in his wrists, massaging the angry, reddened skin. He opens his eyes now, starting to sit up and you help him, offering support that is more energetic than it is physical, moving on hand down his back, feeling where your heels had pressed in hard, still not bounced back to smoothness completely. He breathes heavily, the move to sitting making his head spin slightly. 

You hold his neck, not pressing hard to guide him, but holding firm to support him were he to topple forward or back. 

“Kishibe.” You pose softly. 

He hums in response, moving to tuck his flaccid cock back into his pants. 

“You’re okay? Does it hurt too much anywhere?” 

Kishibe lets out a sigh before looking at you. His wall hasn’t completely gone up yet, his black eyes have not yet become still and unmoving, they are instead unending and fluid, as though they could draw you in further and further, in perpetuity into the universe. 

“No, baby. I’m okay.” He gives a small smile, or at least one edge of his mouth does. 

“Okay.” You nod, giving a soft smile back, and stand to retrieve the water glasses. 

“Got anything stronger?” He raises his eyebrows a bit, but accepts. 

“I’ll fill your flask, but drink that first.” You sip your own, happy to see his personality is unbruised. 

He sips, watching you as you dig in his coat pocket and find the silver flask he always carries. You look so much softer when you aren’t working on him. You cheeks fuller, your figure plusher, like he could rest on any part of your body and sleep sounder than he had in decades. He wondered what your bed felt like, if it smelled like your perfume, or if it had a scent completely unknown to him, its own atmosphere untouched by clientele, completely your own.

“So, long day today?” You asked, filling his flask with the bottle of whiskey you kept on hand for sessions, but was exclusively reserved for your current company. 

Kishibes soothed his thumb over each wrist, sipping the water down again, and hummed in affirmation again. 

“Lotta devils, not a lot of hunters, same old story.” He shrugged. 

You nodded, you would never know all of the complexities of his work, but you knew enough to count yourself lucky for that. You didn’t want to know the horrors of the place you called home, as long as you knew he was out there watching your block, you considered yourself safe enough. You screwed on the top of the flask, tipping it once to make sure it was sealed. And you poured two glasses over ice, the flask would be for his trip home. You brought it to him, alongside a warm, wet towel. He accepted the drink gratefully, swallowing the last drops of his water before indulging. 

“Want me to, or you want to?” You offered him the rag. 

“You.” Kishibe put his hand around yours and pressed the rag to his chest, your hand in between.

 Your hands together cleaned any lingering bits of filth from his chest, his stomach, his hips, his face. You worked carefully over his cheeks, it’s long scar getting reverent attention. Kishibe let you wash his face yourself, but watched you closely. Feeling his breath return, the aches setting in to his muscles, his joints, his jaw had started to ache, his back would need some time to heal. You ran the damp cloth of his bottom lip, seeing where he had bitten it raw, giving a tender dab of warm water. 

“I’m sure the whiskey will keep it clean, huh?” You hoped he would laugh. 

He didn’t but he smiled. Kishibe was more focused on how your eyes had changed. Full and big and soft and wet, the sharp analytical gaze that you kept during your session had faded completely. You really were so beautiful. He touched your wrist softly, stilling your hand on his cheek. Your lips part briefly, two sets of eyes meeting. THe collar of your robe has slipped from your shoulder, his chest was still bare. Your hand with the rag falls off his face, landing between your bodies. Kishibe’s other hand cups your soft cheek, running his thumb on the plump skin under your eye. 

“May I?” He asks, a secret. 

You nod just barely, not wanting to break the line of gaze between you. He leans in, letting his hand round your face to the back of your neck and pull you to meet him. Kishibe kisses you, soft at first. Just lips touching, then pressing enough to feel the teeth held behind. Your hands find his shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him, he moves you to the side, one hand holding your back, the other keeping your head in place for him to kiss you again, this time daring to open his mouth, wet tongue sliding against yours, waiting for your say so to progress. You give it, opening your mouth and letting him inside. Your tongues move together, old lovers desperate to meet one another once more. He holds you close against his body, you keep your hands on his shoulders, his neck, wanting to keep him here with you as long as you can. He moves you back to your original seated position, letting his lips break from yours with a soft peck. 

You feel butterflies looking at him afterward, even now his kisses still surprise you. How tender he can be, how passionate he is. Kishibe really is unpredictable, you can never quite place what he is thinking. But when he kisses you, you at least know how he feels about you. He kisses you like he loves you, and for that one moment he may. You may love him right back. 

“Kishibe, do you want to st---?” You hadn’t thought about the words before you spoke them.    

“Same appointment next week?” He interrupts you, his wall has gone back up, you lost him. 

You knew better than to ask for more. You were a professional, and you wouldn't lose out on one of your best customers just because of the occasional incredible kiss. This was enough. Having him here, giving him the release and the security he needed, only for an hour or two at a time was enough. 

“Of course. Next week, same rate. Page me if you need anything specific.” You nodded. 

Kishibe kissed the side of your head, “Sure. Thank you.”

He stood, finding his shirt on the floor and began to dress himself. You sipped your own drink, watching him.