knavves - Tumblr blog

knavves · 7 months

Text

fire up the night, make me feel alive

il capitano x medic!fem!reader

minors dni! not proofread well

word count? (10.7k) hefty boy.

tw? kinda slow to start, porn with plot, size kink if you squint, praise kink, creampie, fingering, penetrative (f recieving), he keeps the mask on, unprotected sex, belly bulge, suggestive marathoning

this is my first time writing smut, but i hope it came out well. i kinda rushed it

edit: part 2! part 3!

transferring companies had been the best thing you’d ever done. moving from working under the second fatui harbinger, the doctor, to being a medic traveling under the command of the fourth fatui harbinger, the captain.

it was…admittedly intimidating at first. stories of the pure strength he possessed in battle and the frightening way he never took the helmet that covered his face off, how he held his duty to a righteous degree, but these rumors of his power were also mixed with smiles and happy members of his camp that praised him for being well-respected and magnificent. regardless of this, you were more than happy to serve as a medic while the company traversed the wintery environment towards the heated lands of natlan.

on this particular day, days after a tense meeting with mondstadt adventures, the company had met with stubborn treasure hoarders. it was funny at first, the band of thieves boasting that they could handle a few fatui and the company laughing, but they underestimated them. the skirmish was quickly ended, but not without several injured soldiers that were presented to the medical tent. which is where you come in.

the medical tent is bustling with other practitioners rushing around, digging through weatherproof crates for bandages and ointments. you were currently sitting at the bedside of a pyro slinger, carefully weaving a needle through the large gash across his back. pass, stitch, pull. pass, stitch, pull. a slow, methodical repetition as you concentrated on the work at hand.

“fuckin’ hoarders,” the pyro slinger grumbles, his head leaning on his arms. he stares at the tent opening watching the passing soldiers, carrying the spoils of their battle.

“stop moving,” you sigh. pass, stitch, pull… and finally tie. you grab for a pair of scissors and snip the thread before sitting back. archons, your hands ache. this must have been the fourth… no, fifth suture in the last three hours since the treasure hoarders.

“could you have worked any slower,” the pyro slingers says. he sits up and you pull a gauze from the table next to you, using tape to place it over the wound, anger rising the heat of your blood.

“make sure you keep that dry. if you pull any stitches, come back and i’ll fix you up again. Tomorrow wash around it and don’t…” the pyro slinger’s attention moves to behind you and he goes still. you watch his attention move elsewhere while you explained how to care for his wound. You snap your fingers in front of his face and scowl. “i was talking to—”

a shadow falls over you and the pyro slinger. you look at the impossibly long shadow, while the pyro slinger just looks up and up and up over your head. you pause and turn around to see what was so important and you suddenly feel cold.

for all the talk you’ve heard, you never realized just how large the fatui harbinger, il capitano, was. he must have been at least seven feet tall, bowing his head at how low the tent must have been for him. long black silky hair hung down over his coat, coming from the blacked out mask that shielded his face. he wore a thick white coat with the fatui symbol embroidered into the chest, black animal fur on the hood that laid on his shoulders and an expensive decorated shirt that’s collar rose up just under his chin. bits of armor were hidden beneath the coat, some shining in the bright white winter sun, it must have made him even broader than he already was.

the pyro slinger disregarded you and quickly rose to his feet, saluting the harbinger. il capitano lifted a gauntlet covered hand from his cloak and gestured for him to stop. he moved further into the tent and looked at each injured combatant, leaving you and the pyro slinger.

you narrowed your eyes on the slinger and pointed a sharp finger down for him to sit.

“as i was saying…” you re explain his aftercare and let him leave. you clean up your station quickly, wiping down blood and sanitizing tools when that very same shadow falls back over you. sitting the bloodied rag into a hot bucket, you turn around and look up, up, up at the harbinger, swallowing nervously.

archons, you think, where’d my fire go?

“il capitano, sir,” you give a slight bow. you’d salute but you’re hands are covered in blood and hot water, best to not get that in your eyes.

“have all the injured when taken care of?” his voice is deep, rumbling. it’s a thunderstorm in the distance, the deep resonating sound of a earthquake miles below the surface.

“Uh, yes. i mean, i believe so, sir,” you respond. archons! has your mouth always been this dry?

he hums and nods, crossing his arms under his cloak. “it would seem you and the rest of my medics have performed your duty, even in such extreme conditions. it's admirable and commendable. that shows good sense, fortitude, and dedication.”

“oh… thank you, sir, i’m sure everyone here has been doing their utmost,” you answer, appreciation sending a warmth through you. “is there anything the medical tent can do for you?”

“no. i’m just doing an inspection. i like to make sure all the soldiers are doing well and that the medics are taking care of them properly. if there is an issue, it is better that it is caught now and taken care of, rather than let things get bad when there aren't many options left to fix the mistakes,” il capitano says. your eyes go wide slowly and in the same breath, he continues. “it's the little things that can prevent larger problems later. that is why i make sure to check on everyone, to make sure everyone is operating at maximum efficiency. i need as many strong soldiers ready, just in case an emergency comes up. does that make sense to you?”

“uh, that’s rather considerate,” you say quietly. no fuckin’ wonder everyone respected him greatly, the man is a saint to his company. “i suppose i should give my thanks for giving the approval for my transfer. i didn’t get the chance to meet you before the mondstadt adventurers thing. so, thank you, sir!”

he regards you silently, your reflection shining back at you in his helm. it was a hefty reminder that your hands were still blooded and… were those dark circles, archons, you needed sleep. bad. after the moment passes, he speaks.

“you earned your position in my company. you may not have the combat experience of some of the others, but i am sure you have other valuable talents and skills that will prove valuable in your role as a medic. otherwise, you would not be here. you have earned the right to be here, and to prove yourself. so, in terms of thanking someone, thank yourself first.”

the hustle and bustle of the medic tent seems so far away as you look up, up, up at him. he’s right, you think, i spent years of my life studying and working under that doctor so that i could help to save the lives of my comrades instead of experimenting on them until they were monsters. had there ever been a moment when someone acknowledged that? no… you think. it was your job and everyone expected it, but would it ever kill someone to just thank you for saving their life? No!

“right…” you say mostly to yourself, but il capitano nods and pats you on the head with a large hand that seems to engulf your head. embarrassment spikes to your cheeks and you clear your throat stepping back. “i’ll leave you to it then, captain.”

you dismiss yourself and set off through the tent, body humming at the light praise of the captain’s words and embarrassed at the thoughts that cross your mind. he’s so big, everything about him is. presence, body, mind. what else was big about him?

you don’t talk to him after that encounter, but you do see him sometimes. coming into the medical tent to assess, walking through camp to spectate over training and ordering supplies to be moved here, here and here until he was satisfied. he didn’t eat in the mess tent with everyone, so you never gained the opportunity to see his face and while you had asked around, apparently no one else had seen it.

the gossip mill said he was half monster, that he was missing parts of his face, that he was so ugly he couldn’t stand look in the mirror, that he was insanely beautiful that people would throw themselves at his feet, that he was a renowned figure in a different country that was a spy for the tsaritsa. either way, the rumors you heard were of no help to your curiosity, only leading to more questions.

as the company travels to natlan, the weather warms and grass grows on the ground rather than hard packed ice and snow. the sun isn’t accompanied by snow so it doesn’t blind you as you travel, instead, the sun is warm and welcoming, but the weather is far too hot for the people of the company who had never ventured out of the icy wasteland of snezhnaya.

of course, il capitano’s company doesn’t travel with leisure, there are several bumps in the road, including fighting treasure hoarders and many of the local do-gooders that wanted to impede their advance. and while the fatui soldiers could handle treasure hoarders and some of the weaker enemies, there were a few times when the captain stepped in to make their advance even quicker. it worked, because who could stand straight up when the imposing giant that was a fatui harbinger, il capitano, stood in front of them with clawed gauntlets and a hidden face? no one.

and with the skirmishes came the injured once more, slow ebbing waves of broken bones and gashes that required tending, so you go back to working. for days, you work feverishly, making sure to be extra diligent in your tasks so that no one has to come back with torn stitches or re-sprained joints. but even as you push yourself harder, even as the work starts to tire you out and your body starts to need rest, your thoughts turn to the captain.

he’s a fierce and imposing man, and even at your height, you felt dwarfed next to him. it wasn’t… a bad feeling, but it did send a curl of something hot and strange down into your stomach each time you thought about it.

you shake your head as you walk back to your tent. while the morning had been busy, tonight was quiet, eerily so, but your fellow medical officers gave you the green light to leave early and rest. your body aches a bit from all of the work you've been doing hunched over backs and legs and arms and chest suturing them or resetting them back into place… but even with your body hurting a bit, you feel accomplished, like nothing can wipe off the satisfaction of a job well done. you know that you've done good work, and as you head into your tent, it gives you a little bit of pride to realize that all of that work has paid off.

as soon as you get into your tent, you can't help it. you can feel the pull to think about the captain. your body might be tired, but your mind is buzzing and as you lay in your tent, the memory of his gentleness still lives in your mind. you want to know more, and now you hope for his attention.

wait! he doesn’t even know my name, you think, but… maybe he could. will he even want to talk to you further? do you think you'll get another chance to speak with him? what would even lead to such a turn? how would it go?

you shake your head to clear the thoughts and sigh. he’s a harbinger and i’m just a no-name medic in his eyes, you think, why would he even care?

you need to get some rest. you snuff out the lamp in your tent and close your eyes, trying to get that much needed sleep, you know, the things you’ve been neglecting since the skirmishes and all the injured patients.

bugs buzz and chirp in the dark of the night and you sigh, rolling over onto your side to get comfortable.

chirp! il capitano…

your eyes are wide open and anger builds in your bones, steeping your blood in it. you grind your teeth and snatch a fresh pair of clothes up from your pack, throwing open the tent flap and stalking out. maybe a quick dip in the lake with soothe your nerves.

it’s rather lucky that the company settled where they did. through a small patch of trees is a glistening lake. the company fishes out of it for fresh meat, but they mostly use it to bathe and relax as the captain plots the next move through this unfamiliar territory.

it's a peaceful night, in contrast to the hustle and bustle of camp. if the peace is nice, and if your luck holds, you’ll are able to relax. you make your way through the trees slowly, taking in the night air. something about the air at night is always more soothing that during the day, maybe its because its cooler, but whatever it is, it makes the ball of stress that knots up and grows in your chest relax. the water of the lake is quiet and still through the trees, and the stars in the sky reflect off of the calm waters. as you make your way down the side of the camp, you hear some movement up ahead.

greeeeaaat. Someone beat me to a midnight dip.

there’s someone in the distance. from the tree, its hard to make out any details, but… could it be a spy? could it be some nosey ass treasure hoarders? fuck… if it’s a spy, maybe you can be stealthy and put a stop to them.

a little voice in the back of your head whispers mockingly, you’re a medic. what are you going to do, heal them to death?

as annoying as the voice is, it’s right. clubbing someone to death, isn’t exactly where your skills lie, but being quiet and calm is. you make your way carefully, hiding behind brush and tree trunks as the lake gets closer and closer.

as the lake comes into full view, it is clear that there is only one man, sitting by the water's edge on a boulder. he's alone, as far as you can see, and sits with his back turned to you. he's silent, not making a sound nor moving, except for every so often when he takes a deep breath. even from the hidden spot you watch from, you become increasingly more bored as he just… just stands there, doing nothing, saying nothing. after a few more brave steps forward, you get a better look at him. he has long hair that hangs down his shoulders and a blacked out helm covering his head. he’s shed the heavy cloak and instead wears a thin buttoned shirt that strains across his muscles as he breathes.

huh?

you step out of the shadows and announce your presence quietly. “capitano, sir?”

he stays still and silent as if he hasn't heard you, but after a few seconds, capitano’s head swivels around to the source of your voice. he rises to his feet and even from this distance, he's tall and imposing. just seeing him gives you a little shiver as his face turns to you, and your heart skips a beat at being seen by him.

“what is it?” there's a certain coldness to his tone, but as far as you can tell he's not angry… maybe. you did just interrupt his—well whatever he was doing. one thing you are sure of right now is that you have his full attention now. whether that’s a good thing or bad is still under debate, you think.

“sorry, sir.” better to start off with an apology, you’ve learned, especially when it comes to harbingers. “i didn’t mean to interrupt you, i wasn’t aware anyone else was here. i’ll take my leave.”

you turn and begin to pick your way back through the underbrush and even as you turn to leave, you still feel capitano’s presence at your back. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you like a hawk, even through the helm that obscures your view of them.

“... come back.” his words fill the stretch of distance between the two of you, strong and unmoving. his voice is deep and confidence and filled with a strange certainty that makes it clear this is not a choice.

the air is punched out of your lungs. you must obey the orders of a harbinger, this well-respected and gentle giant is not different, so you slowly turn back around, clutching your clothes in your hand. each step forward feels heavy and like they stretch miles and before you even realize it, he stands just a few feet away from you.

his arms are crossed over his broad chest, like he’s taking a moment to think. every second, makes your heart beat just a little faster and all you can think is that you should get your blood pressure checked soon. his helm bore down at you and in the dark, it’s much more terrifying. this must be what enemies see and feel when they face him.

archons, i think i’m gonna pass out. is this normal? are my hands sweating? i can’t fucking tell because everything is sweating.

the coldness from before is still in the air, but he seems patient, thinking, then finally he speaks. this tone is plain, as if he doesn’t have the time to embellish the word he says. it's clear that he likes things to be straight to the point and not to repeat himself.

“sit.”

the air is far too warm and with your heart beating like a drum in your ears, it’s hard to say if you heard him right. you stand there for a moment, staring at him from the respectful distance you’ve kept and blink in confusion. sit? where? does he…is he trying to make me sit at his fucking feet? what?

“i’m…i’m sorry?”

“sit,” he repeats, his tone soft. he gestures to the boulder he’d previously occupied and you go wide eyed and let out the breath you were holding. you want to laugh, because—archons!—what were you thinking!? i mean, shit, have i become a total pervert these days?

you cross the distance, your nervous shot to hell and back, and sit on the boulder, slowly looking up, up, up at his masked face. your heart still hasn’t slowed its panicked rhythm and, honestly, the darkness and the whole ‘sit’ things was kinda hot, if not completely stressful.

his words are soft and slow, like with each word he’s trying to carefully and purposefully choosing what he's going to say. his voice is deep and the words seem to come out easily with a quiet intensity that is hard to really understand unless one was him.

“you are very obedient…”

jaw dropping would not be an accurate way to describe the reaction you have, but it’s close enough. your eyes grow even wider and your clothes fall out of your hand, dropping into your lap and electricity shoots up your spine and heat pools in your belly and and and and…

“um,” you try to think of a way to respond, but nothing really comes to mind.

then, he begins to laugh and it's deep and hearty, but not in a mocking manner. he reaches a clawed gauntlet out in an offer of a hand. you can only stare at it, while confusion crosses your expression, but you take it and he helps you up to your feet. he withdraws his hand, but something about the way he does it seems…reluctant? maybe you were just projecting. yeah, that must be it.

“not very brave though!”

you blink at his hand that raises up and crosses over his chest, then to the lake water that laps just a few inches shy of his boots. clearly, this was just a test or just something, but more than anything you were embarrassed. who in their right mind just obeys so quickly? you, that’s who apparently. archons, you feel like an idiot as you blush deeply and refuse to look at capitano, speaking slowly, “i’m still working on it, sir.”

he hums and it sounds like it was done so with a smile, but its really hard to tell with that helm covering. “that's fine—bravery is not always about your physical strength. often, bravery is about having the will to do something even if you're afraid. Sometimes you must do things that scare you, and in those times, it's important to have a strong will, even if you're not very brave. so I suppose if you're not brave yet…” He pauses, thinking for a moment, then he tilts his head down, catching your attention again. you look up and he nods as if to himself. “...at least be strong-willed.”

the lake is so quiet except for the light sounds of waves hitting the sand and the bugs that watched from the trees, chirping and buzzing. the stars above twinkle down and if it weren’t for the rather strange and awkward circumstances, it might even be romantic in a sense and that thought alone makes your mind run wild.

he watches you think, watches you try to take in his words and in the silence between the two of you, he exudes a wisdom that's almost impossible to put your finger on. his cold presence is still there, you can feel it—he has not lost any of his intensity, but this time, he uses these traits for something different. this time, as he uses that intensity instead of putting you in your place as most other harbingers might have, he’s using it to build you up.

you're being praised, you're being supported and recognized... and it feels good. good enough to send a pleased shiver down your spine and bring a small smile to your face.

he tilts his head and his gaze feels intimidating, yet it doesn’t frighten you anymore. despite the terror you started this off with, you begin to feel comfortable in his presence and it's a strange, oddly comforting thing to realize.

“you had the willpower to do something you were afraid of, and you did a good job…”

the praise is one thing that makes your stomach flutter, but the fact that it’s from the well-respected capitano is another reaction altogether. your heart skips and your breathing hitches and your hands sweat and your mind goes staticy with euphoria from him praising you. a harbinger praising anyone below them is enough to be considered honorable, but this takes the cake, because it isn’t just any harbinger, it’s il capitano.

you nod and he just stands there, giving you that same sense of calmness and comfort that the stars give off before he sighs and speaks quietly again, “enjoy the lake, there might not be much time to relax in the coming days.” then he steps passed you and steps through the trees. for such a large man, there is not a single sound of snapping branches or rustling foliage, but you can see his silhouette growing smaller and smaller as he leaves fully.

you stand dazed for a while, watching the trees, before you smile to yourself and decide that you should take advantage of being alone, relaxing and floating in the cool waters of the lake, replaying the conversation and praise from capitano over and over in your head.

in the following days, in light of il capitano’s warning, there are plenty of fights that break out. hoarders and locals and wild animals that deter the advancement of the camp once more. despite all of this, you do see capitano around the camp more, still doing the work he did before, but now he seems to mill about with some unknown reason behind it. since most of your time is spent taking care of ungrateful assholes, you don’t receive much thanks or praise from anyone around you, but the thought, the very memory of il capitano acknowledging you, makes you strive for more.

the praise from capitano becomes a strong motivation for you; it's something you can't help but work hard towards achieving. every day that goes by, you push yourself more and more, all in the hopes that he'll notice and give you more praise. hope he gives you that little bit of satisfaction that comes from being told you're doing a good job, that its well worth staying around, well worth doing. the motivation and encouragement is something that you feel deep down in your bones, so you put in plenty of hours treating patients and keeping watch over everyone while the other medics take time to eat and get some sleep. you don’t want baseless praise, you want to earn it, so you work yourself to the bone, leaving just enough energy to drag yourself to your tent when you get off and sleep the rest of your extra time away.

you keep working hard, and as you do, you keep catching yourself looking up, hoping for a moment to catch a glimpse of the captain, hoping he'll come and give you more encouragement, give you what your crave. you pause each time, stunned with yourself and confused; you’ve come to a realization that you've never felt this way before. you've always been dedicated to your work of course, always dedicated to being a good medic and a good fatui, but this... this is something different. his praise was something that you can't help but want more of, can’t help but yearn for, can’t help but find yourself craving his approval, his praise.

ha! maybe i need to take a break, this can’t be healthy…

but you never do. work, work, work, like a good little fatui footsoldier. you heal, you work, you sleep, rinse repeat. every hour of every day.

the camp doesn’t move forward, stuck in the same place beside the lake, but it’s not all bad. the workload lessens after capitano descends on the skirmishers that prevent the company from moving on, clearing the way. the camp doesn’t pack up in the aftermath, but stay in place via the command il capitano issued stating his soldiers need rest and to heal. the reaction of the collective camp was more a cheer and sigh of relief. and finally with the issued order, you now have time to yourself. sure, it’s not a whole lot of time, but it’s enough to sleep more than three hours a night and enjoy the cool waters of the lake once more after all the stress of the last few days.

you choose a secluded corner of the lake to bathe, to enjoy the water and let the tension seep out into the lake to be washed away. the sun is hot overhead, beating down ruthlessly, but you can’t bring yourself to care much because, archons it’s so nice! not far from your little corner, you can hear the laughing and splashing of the rest of the company playing around and enjoying the day off from duties and it brings a smile to your face to hear them letting go of the stoic, hardened persona they usually portray to the rest of the world. after all, the fatui are human too, and you are all just children that grew up quickly in search of ways to help their families.

in the peace you relish in, something—someone— is there. you can feel eyes on you, watching with an intensity that makes the hair on your body rise and your skin crawl with warning. you open your eyes quickly, still and cautious. if you turn suddenly, the intruder might run and you’d never get to see who is peeping in on you, so you try your best to use your other senses. there’s no sounds of movement, no sounds of breathing, nothing. just utter silence, but you can feel the eyes. then, out of the corner of your eye, you see movement. before you can even think about turning to look at the person, a looming shadow falls over you and a deep voice speaks up right behind you.

“are you enjoying yourself?”

you tilt your head back, looking up and up and up. somehow, the fatui harbinger, il capitano, had snuck up behind you without so much as a sound. and he seemed keenly aware of this fact because despite the masked helm over his face, he was wearing a smug air around him, like this was a sort of game, a sort of payback for you sneaking up on him several nights before.

you flush with embarrassment at your predicament. fully naked in the water; water that was crystal clear, but luckily distorted with your movement. you sink further into the water until the only thing above water is your head and you quickly cover your chest with your arms and curl your legs up to at least save face in the presence of the captain.

“um, y—yes, sir,” you mutter. you turn your eyes away from his masked face, but can’t keep your gaze away for long. he’d managed to sneak up on you without you knowing, he could probably leave just the same.

capitano's mask stares at you unwaveringly. you can feel the intense energy he usually carries with him, like the presence of the cold winter wind. you might not be able to see his eyes, but it’s clear he’s focused on you, taking in your nakedness, your shame, your surprise and it makes you want to wither under the feeling of eyes. he's watching you, and you can feel his eyes moving across your body.

you flush darker at the realization and clear your throat, trying to be brave and strong-willed, because while this is definitely wet dream material, this is real, this is your waking life and it’s unnerving just a little. “sir. do…do you need a medic right now?”

he shakes his head and his clawed gauntlet hands that hang by his side flex into fists slowly before he notices you watching them and stops. “would it bother you if i watch?”

gone. you are gone. lights are on, but nobody's home. shock, bewilderment…curiosity maybe, just maybe, is clear across your expression. a terrible curling heat stirs in your belly; terrible in the sense that you might like that, but you can’t show that. this is your superior many times over and that would be disrespectful in ways that can’t even begin to cross your mind at the moment. perhaps this is his way of abusing his position, but if that was the case rumors of him doing this would be swarming with the women of the company, swarming through the women of the whole fatui.

and in the time all these thoughts have shot through your head, it’s only been moments of your silent shock. you try to manage your expression into something professional, but despite your efforts, the deep blush on your skin seems to counter you. the masked harbinger tilts his head like he’s waiting to hear your answer.

“s—sir, i do not, um, think that’s appropriate.”

“oh? do i make you uncomfortable?” his voice is quiet, but powerful. he expects honesty and he wants an answer no matter what it might be.

in general, you do not feel uncomfortable with him, but at the moment? just a little. it’s not a situation anyone would truly be okay with in terms of their superior watching, but the spike of something in your belly and feeling of heat curling in your pussy tells of something different.

you look down at the water ahead of you and swallow, trying not to stumble over your words as you explain, “that’s…that’s not it, sir. i just…don’t think it’s…professionally appropriate or acceptable. if i, uh, let you watch, the company might assume i’m trying to seduce you for my own gains and if they see you watching me, the company might think you're using your position to be…inappropriate with me. it’s not a good outcome for either of us, sir.”

he’s quiet for a pregnant pause, then he hums as if he’s come to the perfect answer. “so if it weren't for the company…would you think it was fine?” everything about him seems to be so calculating, so deliberate, you can't help but be transfixed by his presence. then adds something quickly. “assuming it was just you and me, of course.”

you can still hear the horseplaying from the other fatui just on the other side of the sandbank and it is nerve wracking. just feet from them, their superior is revealing himself to be a peeping tom and they are none the wiser, but…but…

but what if they see, whispers that tiny rational voice in the back of your mind.

“well?”

you look back up to his masked face and he clearly finds this amusing, especially with the smug way he holds himself now and if that isn’t killer already, then the fact that he’s looming over you roving his eyes over whatever body parts are still exposed is. a little part of you wants to rise out of the water and let him see the rest, but the more prominent part of you sinks her claws deep and screams, what if they see?! what about your position!

“i think the answer to that is clear, sir,” you say, meeting a happy medium between both sides of your hormonal brain.

he seems satisfied with the answer and lowers into a crouch which doesn’t make much of a difference in height because even with lowering himself down, he still seems to tower over you. he reaches a clawed, covered finger out and tilts your chin up, your reflection showing in his mask and holy shit, i look fucking desperate.

“i see. so if we were alone, you’d show me more?”

you can’t look away, forced to look into a face that you can’t see, but that can see yours. you slowly nod, and whisper out, “yes.”

his whole structure shudders, behind the helm, his breathing catches, and air feels charged, electric, volatile. it’s enough to make you regret saying no before. what could he do to you? would he be gentle? would he be rough? would he take his time stretching you out before sheathing his cock into you? archons, how big was he?

his finger slides down from your chin, tracing the column of your neck, the sharp point turning to run thin raised lines over your collarbone before abruptly pulling away. he rises and stands tall, looking down at you and it sends a sick rush through you.

“tonight. i’ll need medical care,” then the hulking man turns and leaves you breathless and in awe, like he didn’t just do the single hottest thing you’d ever experienced, like he didn’t just almost send you bursting into flames from his touch alone. you watch him leave and just like before he’s completely silent as he vanishes into the trees, back to the camp.

are you sunburned? yeah, that must be why you’re so red. no other reason.

you quickly finish up with your bath and climb up onto the beach to pull clothes onto your soaking body, uncaring if they stick to your skin. you stumble through the tree and set off to find something to distract you from your nasty thoughts. it doesn’t work, but hey, you tried. that has to count for something, right?

the day passes painfully for you, your mind replaying to feeling of his finger trailing your skin, the feeling of how your pussy fluttered thinking about where else those fingers could be. you feel a mix of excitement and anxiety, not knowing what to expect… but archons, isn’t that the best part? not knowing? the anticipation, the heart beating like a drum, the blood pumping through your body? but for now, at least, you have to wait for tonight to find out what kind of man lurks under the mask and armor.

you try and try to distract yourself, but it's no good all you can seem to think about it making time speed up so you can go to his tent. he’s like a brain leaching parasite, trapped in your skull wandering around and prodding at every thought, infecting it, changing it into something about him. you can't get him out of your head, and the conversation on the lake keeps running through your mind a thousand times over.

tonight tonight tonight tonight…

from the rosy orange hues of the setting sun and the night reaching its star covered fingers up to cage the land in darkness, the night falls slowly. your nerves are getting the better of you as you watch with rapt attention as patrols start their nightly rounds, passing with torches through the darkened routes of the camp, keeping an eye out for any intruders. but you aren’t an intruder, you are one of them, but the thought of getting caught leaving your tent for an unexpected visit to the harbingers tent is terrifying, thrilling. it’s gut wrenching.

you don’t really have much to worry about though. you know the patrolling route and when they move through each circle of tents, so braving yourself, you wait for the patrolling officer to pass then you dart out. each step closer makes your heart pound, makes slick collect in your underwear, makes your head rush. you weave through the tents until the largest of them all becomes visible.

the tent is made of heavy material, blocking light from entering and to keep the noise of whatever fatui harbinger information stays inside. it’s tall, made to accommodate the man it houses, but you don’t give it much more attention as you take notice that the usual two guards that stay stationed outside are…missing from their post. either you’re very lucky or capitano planned this before patrols went out.

you push the tent flaps open and slip inside, head still rushing, heart still beating like you ran a mile.

inside the tent, the lanterns are dim, but let out enough light that you're able to make out the presence of someone inside. they're standing perfectly still, and at first you're not sure, but as you move closer you can make out the figure of capitano: his tall, well-built body leaning back against the tent pole. he’s not wearing his full armor, instead he’s done to a dark shirt, his arms covered by his gauntlets and the pants he usually does, his arms crossed over his chest. he turns his masked helm towards your intrusion, like he was waiting, waiting for you.

he watches you, letting his silence linger in the air of the tent for a moment, as if he's waiting for you to make the first move. Finally he speaks, his tone soft, but there's a heat to his voice. this heated voice sends a shock down to your pussy and you swallow as you look over him one more time, taking in the stretch of his clothes, the sharp shine of his gauntlets, and how imposing and large he is.

“come on, follow me.” with that, he turns and walks deeper into the tent.

you take a hesitant step forwards. if you didn’t want this, you wouldn’t have come here and he would know that you were wary. but you’re here and now is not the time to back down. besides, his commands are not easily disobeyed with the intensity and strength he holds in his voice.

he leads the way, moving through another thick, thick sheet separating his office area from the rest of his tent. he’s silent as he moves with slow and deliberate steps, disappearing behind the sheet and as you follow him, you take note that he doesn’t seem to be messy with his area, of course, it helps that his company is always on the move, but still. he's not the type of man to be sloppy.

you pass through the sheet and come to a stand still. his living quarters are meticulous and clean. his armor hangs on a mannequin, he has a table near you with a single chair for himself, and his bed… which is honestly the most shocking things so far because why didn’t you have a bed, why didn’t anyone else have a bed instead of a rollup sleeping bag, then the answer rings through your head, a reminder: he’s a harbinger, and as such, he can have a bed if he god damn well pleases. his bed is huge and contains a single large pillow and layers of blankets. it looks like heaven, looks like eight full hours of sleep and a pep in your step.

he stands a little ways from you, hands flexing slowly by his side and his masked helm turned towards you, silent, intense, calculating. capitano takes a step towards the bed and stops short of it when he notices you aren’t following. the darkness of the mask looks back at you and it makes you feel like he's seeing through you, makes you shimmer below the skin. what really sets you off are his next words.

“sit down.”

you don’t need to be told twice with the quiet, yet powerful command of his tone and with really wanting to lay down on that bed, you don’t hesitate this time. you cross the distance, sliding passed his hulking mass and sitting on the bed, scooching to sit while your hands hold onto the material of your pants. looking up at him would be too much for you right now, you don’t want to see yourself reflected back, so you focus on his broad chest and his moving hands.

capitano unbuckles the gauntlets and slides them off. the skin revealed below is scarred and rough, but otherwise normal. not the reptilian scales people gossip about, but they are big hands. thick, long fingers that you can’t help but think are perfect for splitting open your cunt. while in your thoughts, he tosses the gauntlets down where they clang together with a metallic pitch and it’s like the opening gunshot for a race. your eyes dart back to him as he approaches and reaches his hand out, tracing his fingers down your cheeks, down your throat, down to your covered collarbone and then he pauses as he hooks his finger on the collar of your shirt.

“you’re wearing too many clothes.”

no words can escape past your tongue so you only nod, turning your eyes up to his masked helm. capitano moves slow as his touch skims down your shirt and he lifts the hem, pulling it up and over your arms and head. his breathing shudders at the sight of your braless chest and pert nipples. his hands cup your tits and engulf them, kneading the flesh and rubbing his thumbs over the hardened buds. you push your chest into capitano’s hands and your breathing gets heavy as he squeezes them.

something about his presence is overwhelming now, an intensity that was previously unknown to you or anyone, but it doesn’t bring your fear, it just makes you rub your thighs together, letting out a light moan as he pinches your nipples. the heat in the air rises and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s so close or if it’s because his hands are kneadings your tits, but you do know one thing. your underwear is a mess already and you haven’t even started.

his touch recedes from your skin and it’s devastating, but it doesn’t take much for you to feel his hands pushing you to lay back on the bed. his chest is heaving like he’s feeling the heat of the room too, feeling the strain of his cock in his pants and it strikes a tinge of pride in your chest. you did this to him.

capitano seems to take in the view of you, taking in every part of you that he can see and slick dampens your thighs. he finally moves, his hands moving down your stomach, touching and squeezing your sides as he down until he reaches your pants.

“take it off. all of it,” capitano’s voice is labored, like the act of restraining himself is causing him great pain, and maybe it is, so you quickly struggle to unbutton your pants with shaky fingers, hooking your thumbs down and pulling both underwear and pants off in one fell swoop. your eyes fall to his own pants and archons, how the fuck is that supposed to fit if that’s just the outline?

“good,” he groans, standing at the foot of the bed. his black mask points straight at you, and the heat in the air has become almost unbearable now. is it the room or is it you? he gives you a slight nod, as if he's telling you that you're doing what he ordered you to do, performing it perfectly and the rush that hits your mind pushes out any embarrassment that might have tried to rise. he seems perfectly calm and unhurried, but the strain of his body, the coil of muscles in his arms and hands tells you a different story.

capitano takes a moment to look at you, and then slowly, deliberately, he leans toward you. every inch that he gets closer, every shake of his hands sends a shiver down your spine. his masked helm is mere inches away from yours as he leans over you and in the moment, you can smell his scent which smells of the wild, of the tang of sweat and of life. he reaches out and strokes your cheek again, down your neck, his finger tracing and teasing against your skin. his touch is cold and gentle yet it sends a wave of heat and electricity through you as he familiarizes his way around your body, your curves, the softness of your skin and the plushness of your tits, the jut of your hips, the thickness of your thighs. his hands pause as he leans forward, moving his head to your neck.

“...beautiful.”

you pant out and a soft moan rises out of your lips, escaping into the air. capitano’s hands pause for an infinitesimal second before a chuckle bleeds through the buzzing of your head. your skin burns as his path continues downward, slowly moving his hands even lower, below even your hips now. capitano’s touch lingers for a moment before sliding further down, his hands cup the backs of your thighs, spreading your legs open and smoothing his scarred hands down the sides. his fingers dig into the flesh, gripping and feeling every inch. capitano moves closer, positioning his body between your thighs to keep them open, pushing his rock hard bulge against your slicked cunt.

the whine that pierces the air only makes the room hotter, only makes capitano’s grip tighten, only makes him rock against you harder, a promise of what’s to come.

he seems to know what he's doing, that’s for sure. the way he touches, the way he goes to the most sensitive places makes you believe he’s completely aware of what you're thinking and what you want. his hands smooth over the tops of your thighs, his thumbs spreading the lips of your pussy and shuddering at the amount of slick that shines on your skin. the sudden cool air has you hissing as he runs a finger down your slit, smearing your juices up to your clits. just the brief feeling of his touch against the bundle of nerves sends a jolt through your body, tensing your muscles, hoping he moves his knuckle just a little lower, hoping he puts just a little more pressure, hoping, hoping, hoping.

“fuck…” you whisper hoarsely, your eyes squeezing closed and your fingers digging into the sheets underneath. capitano’s finger slides back down over your slit, his touch light and teasing. his finger slows, hovering over your entrance.

you open your eyes and see capitano’s masked helm is turned up to you, waiting. when your eyes fully land on him, he pushes a finger in, slow and methodical, curving it up and immediately finding your g-spot. your eyes roll back and you drop your head back onto the bed, moaning. the wet squelch of his finger stretching you out is lewd, the sounds alone bring a blush deeper than before and you moan as he fingers you. in some attempt to stay quiet, you press your mouth into your hand to try and hide your whines and moans but it quickly becomes apparent you're losing the battle.

your body arches up as he begins to relentlessly attack the squishy spot inside you. it’s not that he’s being rough with you… yet, but in this moment, it’s like he realized he doesn't have to hold back. His movements are precise, hard, as if he's studied you in his mind and knows every little detail about you so well that he can push you exactly the way he wants. as if one wasn’t enough to make your head spine, the abrupt and quick addition of his middle finger into the mix takes you closer and closer to the shining white precipice of bliss.

capitano’s fingers squelch and his pace that started off slow, begins to pick up, just that much harder, that much deeper, that much faster. he's using his strength, he's using his power... and he's using it all on you. through the ringing bliss, through your pitched moans, through his quiet groans, it’s like he’s getting lost in you... he's losing himself in the moment, in your body, in your precious cunt that’s swallowing his fingers and sucking them deeper.

“so good f’me…” capitano groans, his thumb pressing down on your clit, the pressure a threat to fling you over the edge and he lets out a sigh before his thumb jerks in shaky, tight circles, watching through the masked helm. the pressure is earth shattering, the heat overwhelming, and it all builds and builds and builds and just when it can't get any more intense, it hits. your hips rise up and a muffled series of moans gets lost into the palm of your hand as you’re hurdle into your first orgasm of the night.

but he doesn’t stop pushing his fingers in and out, in and out, pushing them as deep as possible, crooking them up to rub your g-spot, he doesn’t stop, not for even a single moment, working you through your orgasm and then some. capitano keeps going, letting the squelching of your come become music to his ears as he moves onto a faster, more powerful pace, trying to build you up again.

“w—wait! i’m—!” your hand shoots down from your mouth and grabs at his wrist, but still, he doesn’t stop, in fact, it seems to spur him on as he looks from your creamy cunt to your dazed, panting face. he watches you grab at his wrist, watches as you can’t contain your moans anymore and tilts his head.

“w—what?” he mocks and then he pushes a third finger in without letting up the relentless pace and you feel the build of a second climax coming fast. your grip on his wrist tightens and your hips rise, trying to get away because, archons, it hurts! but it feels so good!

capitano uses his hand gripping your waist and holds you down as your eyes go wide and your head hits the bed, a stretched out loud moan ripping through you. Oh fuck! your second climax comes rushing to meet you, his fingers stretch your pussy open, making room where there was none. before you can warn him it hits. your eyes roll back and you gush all over his finger and hand.

he takes in the entire view, the sounds, the moment as you let out a scream. he seems to be enjoying himself immensely, the smugness of his posture, of the strain of his cock in his pants. only then does he slow down for a moment, to watch your second orgasm break you apart. you feel his pleasure in every move, in every touch. heat blankets the two of you, like he's burning with a passion as hot as the heat you feel through your climax, like he's burning with the desire to feel you, want you, lose himself in your cunt.

“Captain! Cap—! Captain! Captain! Captain! Sooooo good, sooo good! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

then he stops, going completely still. like he’s listening, like he’s relishing in the sound of his own title, like he’s drinking up every moan, every word, every gasp of pleasure and with each second that flits by, the heat of the room rises to a greater, smothering degree. the fire, the intensity of his presence reignites, burning through you. capitano’s fingers plunge into you with more vigor, with more urgency this time.

“that’s it, keep cumming f’me,” capitano grumbles. he pulls one of your legs up to rest of his shoulder and prods his fingers against the soft spot inside you, insistently. there’s definitely a smile on his face, one hidden from you, but it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t have the masked helm on, because the white spots in your eyes are looking like stars and the rolling waves of your orgasm are blinding.

“please! please! please!” honestly, you don’t even know what you’re begging for but your tongue is loose and babbling. your chants are almost incomprehensible, but one thing is clear, capitano’s not done. “oh archons!”

he chuckles like he knows exactly what you're begging for and in a soft, low, hoarse whisper that's dripping with passion, he whispers, “beg for me, good girl.”

the request doesn't exactly make sense because you don’t know what to beg for, but he wants to hear you beg, he wants to know that you want this, that you need this, no matter what happens. he wants to hear you beg for him.

you roll your head to the side, trying to get the stars to go away so you can drink up the large form of him, so you can see him, so you can see what he does when you do beg. “need you! need you so bad! pl—hah!—please!”

he rolls his hip, pressing his clothed cock against your ass as a reminder and his body shudders like it’s taking everything in him not to rip his clothes of and fuck you with everything he has in him. his breathing is heavy, but he manages to speak through it, “tell me what you want. tell me what you need.”

and this time, this request absolutely makes sense.

“in! need you inside! have to have you in me, please, capitano, please!” you plead, hands tightening around his slowing wrist. his head tips back and a groan rumbles from his throat before he’s pulling his cum covered fingers from your wrecked pussy. it’s ungodly how his fingers shine in the dim lantern light of the room. he begins to unbuckle his belt slowly, masked helm watching you writhing in anticipation and the slowly calming waves of your pleasure. when he pulls his pants and underwear down to his thighs, your eyes go wide as his dick springs free from its confines and archons, is that going to fit?

the tip is a deep red, aching and leaking thick rivets of pre that smear over the slit. in his hand it looks like a normal size, but to you, it’s a weapon. a thick vein runs from tip to base and as he runs a hand up and down, using your cum as a lube, you see him twitching, his cock jumping at his touch. he squeezes his fist around the base, pulling upwards until he reaches the tip, pushing for pre through the slit.

he groans when he releases himself, stepping forward and grabbing your ankles, pulling you to the edge of the bed until your ass is just barely hanging on. you push yourself onto your elbows, eyes glazed over and thighs wet, as you stare at him. he guides your legs around his waist and then holds himself, hot and heavy, putting the tip to your cunt.

capitano watches you through the masked helm as your breathing hitches and he slowly pushes himself into your pussy. your elbows aren’t enough to hold you up as you throw your head back and cover your face with your hands. it’s pain. it’s agony, it’s pleasure. it’s better than your previous imagination. and as your moans grow in pitch and turn into sobs, it’s all worth it. euphoria crawls up your spine, crawling into your skin and leaving no room for anything else.

every inch is torture, every inch is a delight. you can feel your very blood burning with every slow second, every slow inch, like capitano’s every touch is fire itself. his every move is like a flame consuming you, eating you up. every motion is building to a peak, every motion... every breath... every inch... a wave of pain and pleasure, consuming you, sweeping you away.

“c—capitano! too big! too big!”

he doesn’t stop until all of him is in all of you, until he’s bottomed out in your fluttering cunt, until he pauses to take a deep breath. his hands slid along your body, squeezing, pinching, pulling at your skin before he smooths them to your belly, hovering over your skin.

“you took all of me,” he says, amazement in his words. “fuck…” then he presses on the outline of him in your stomach and you arch, squeezing around his cock and gasping out. “so good f’me.”

his hand slides from your belly and both run down to grasp at your hips. his grip is strong and firm, his touch soft and blisteringly hot.

capitano’s first thrust is slow, but strong, meeting your hips with a bruising force and that’s the last time he’s slow. each squelch of your cunt stretching around him, taking him down to the base, sucking him back in drives him to do more, give more, take more. it hurts, he’s so big, too big, but the force of his every movement sends wave after wave after wave of the most incredible pleasure through you. it's all consuming, it's like a tide, a push and pull of heat and passion and pleasure so overwhelming you can barely speak a word, and the words you can are hardly coherent, just the babblings of an already fucked out cocksleeve.

there are no thoughts in your head, only the feelings of him stretching you out and filling you up and pleasure like nothing known before. between the sensual touches at the start and his fingers before, this leaves you brainless and dumb.

already there’s a building of pleasure in your belly, building up up up up with each hard, strong thrust of capitano’s cock into you, pummeling you, abusing you. your moans reverberate through the room, picking up as he bullies his cock into you, like he knows you're getting close again. his pace speeds up ever so slightly and his grip gets even stronger, fingers holding you in place with bruising strength.

“so tight, so perfect,” he groans, dropping his head a little, panting. “made f’me. this pussy was molded for me!”

“fuck, fuck! i’m…i’m—”

he gives a particularly hard thrust, choking you up and he chuckles darkly at the noises you make, his own personal orchestra. he shakes his head and pulls you more flush against him, his hands start to roam, plucking at your tight nipples, squeezing at the flesh of your tits. his touch moves up to your neck, soft, restrained like he wants to wrap his hands around your throat and feel you tighten around him, but his hands return to your hips as he looks down to see your pussy swallowing him up and your belly poking out with each slam of his hips against yours.

“such a good girl. ah… fuck,” he breathes, his body solid and heavy. His thumb moves down to press at your clit, rubbing quick circles on the nerves, trying to throw you into another orgasm, craving to feel you clench down around him and pulse.

“capitano! i’m gonna—i’m gonna…!”

“let go, my good girl. cum f’me,” capitano growls out putting more pressure behind his thrusts, behind his rubbing thumb.

every move he exacts is making the building pressure turn into something incredible, building to a height you didn’t know existed, building to a high. and for the third time this night, you hit the wall of pleasure and arch up into him, biting down on your hand and screaming as your climax sweeps through you.

“capitano! i’m cumming!”

he throws his head back as your cunt grips him, and stills your hips against his. you feel the heavy warm twitches of him reach his peak, letting his cum coat your walls in the same moment as you and it’s euphoric, devastating, mind blowing. you stay still, body flushed in sweat and eyes glazed over, heart jackrabbiting in your chest and voice still letting out light moans as he heaves.

when capitano finally moves, he pulls himself free from the suction of your body, his masked helm pointed to where you’re bodies connect. he watches as his still hard cock pops out and cum leaks down your legs, sliding down the curve of your ass, spoiling the sheets below. he hums and presses his hand down on your belly, pushing down and enjoying the way you tense and moan as more of his cum spills out in thick milky globs.

“you shouldn’t waste gifts, darling,” his voice is guttural and heavy with desire. a tone that lets you know he's not done. a tone that lets you know he's thinking of other ways to fill you up and make you feel pleasure.

you pause and rise shakily to your elbows looking at him and noting he’s still hard.. Is it shock? Is it horror in a good way? He wants… more?!

“i…i don’t… i can’t feel my legs, sir. and you want… to keep going?”

capitano leans his body towards you, his posture screaming that he’s dead serious and in fact the fire around him seems to grow hotter. he seems to radiate more heat now as he nods slowly. “Yes…” his voice is deep, calm, strong, and intense. he has a certain determination to him. this isn't an ask, isn’t a request. this is a declaration of want and he wants more from you and he's going to get it.

you swallow and look into the black helm visor. a fucked out expression greets you, sweat slicking your hair and theres a little bit of drool on the corner of your mouth. you feel a heat pool in your belly again and slowly nod. this is an opportunity you aren’t going to miss out on.

capitano’s body radiates something. is it prideful? is it amusement? is it something else? whatever it may be, it's clear that it's the feeling of a man who's going to get what he wants. he leans back and seems to be looking you over one last time, as if he's taking one last look at you, taking in your beauty and your body and the sweat and your bliss.

“turn over.”

#HELLO!?!?#this was sk yummy shdhddjjd #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #capitano smut

2K notes · View notes

knavves · 7 months

Text

GLASS TABLE GIRL ! ～ BLADE . ❛ i just wanna be one of your girls tonight.

˖ ⁺ ⫾  SHOW NOTES fem!reader ❱ guitarist!blade ❱ groping ❱ reader is a groupie ❱ PWP!!! ❱ (reader is intoxicated so technically) dubcon ❱ spanking ❱ degradation ❱ clit n nipple slapping ❱ ig ooc!blade but who cares ❱ choking/asphyxiation ❱ size kink ❱ dacryphilia ❱ outdoor/public sex ❱ exhibitionism ❱ spit ❱ face-fucking ❱ dirty talk ❱ reader has 0 self respect ❱ name calling ❱ overstimulation ❱ creampie & unprotected sex (stay safe) ❱ clit pinching ❱ hair pulling ❱ multiple orgasms ❱ cumplay(?) ❱ no aftercare ❱ minors & dc antis do not interact.

˖ ⁺ ⫾  CREDITS i have not written a fic in so effing long nd i was high writing this so excuse my rustiness :c but i have risen from my grave so let’s rejoice nonetheless ! !blade is on my mind 24/7 n i just want to be used n abused by him omfg turn me OWT! i listened to one of the girls by the weeknd literally the entire time i wrote this sooo feel free to listen while reading ^_^ i was js writing as i went so ts is very pwp sorryyy . . i’m gonna try to be more active on here i js need time to write so in the meantime pls show that my works would be appreciated here =( likes & reblogs are so GREATLY APPRECIATED ! ! ! if u don’t like, pls scroll cs comm guidelines r so mean to creators T_T

˖ ⁺ ⫾  RUN TIME 7.5k+ words . (of pure filth)

IF SOMEBODY ASKED you who your favorite artist was, you would say Ren—known by his moniker: BLADE. There was nothing you didn't like about this man; everything about him fundamentally and ultimately was the object of a girlish obsession. You knew all of his songs front to back, followed his social media on every single platform, and never missed a single piece of media uploaded about him. Your life was built around his style: dark and mysterious and enigmatic. He was your number one, unmatched and unchanged.

He was a hard man to come by. He frequently held small shows, with no more than twenty-thousand people on the high end. It was impossible to go, and every time you tried, your chance miserably passed you up. But this time, June twenty-third, twenty-twenty-three, you were right there, in the middle of the pit, only mere feet away from Blade. It was your first time seeing him in person by the grace of your best friend who surprisingly snagged tickets, and you’d never been more grateful in your life.

Blade was ethereal. The concert videos you’d seen over the years did not compare to the image in front of your face. It was dark, the main lights being spotlights shone on his pearly, perspiring, black, skin-tight silk-clothed skin, and dim red LED lights on the set behind him. His fingers ran effortlessly across his guitar, an inexplicably attractive riff and tone singing from the instrument. You felt like you were in Heaven, your eyes never leaving the show before your eyes. It was hot and uncomfortable in the pit but it was worth it. So worth it because he looked at you: taking you in with an unfaltering stare. His lip slipped between his teeth, and he shook his head, throwing stray locks to the back, and God, you felt as though you needed to be bolted to the ground with the way you wanted to jump on the stage. He walks up to the microphone, the most gut-wrenchingly hot vocals sliding off of his tongue. His eyes were closed, smudged eyeliner emphasizing his fluttering, long lashes, and his lips were spit-slicked, parting and pursing with each sultry lyric leaving. They were plump and rosy as if they were asking to be kissed—it was a sight to behold.

You sang your heart out, dragging your hand from waving in the air down a curvy path on your body, going from your shoulder to your chest to below where Blade’s sight would reach. You turned to your friend and recited the lyrics with a big smile and following giggle, all to turn your attention back to the stage and lock eyes with him. Your thighs clamped together just at the narrowed and burning gaze he delivered. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted a man more than you do right now.

Your friend found a way closer to the stage and you wedged your way between the crowd, finding yourself so close that the speakers were banging on your eardrums. You could feel the music in your bones, and all you could think of to describe it was hot and heavy. Maybe it was all of the pregaming you and your friend did before the concert, or the condensed heat and gyrating bodies, but you were so hot. You wipe your sweaty skin as you sway to the beginning of the next song, taking out your phone to begin recording.

Blade leans into the mic, muttering lowly, “I want you all to sing.” He pulls the microphone out of the stand, letting his guitar hang off of his shoulder from the strap. And that’s when he makes his way to where you stand, muttering small “yeah”’s and “good job”’s into the mic as the crowd collectively sings. He kneels right before you, “Sing.” he says into the mic.

You go wide-eyed—cute, he thinks—but you start singing. You grab an open portion of the microphone, leaning in as close as possible and reciting the lyrics of the song just as you were told. All eyes and cameras were on you, and that included Blade, who held an intense gaze on you the entire verse. When you finish the crowd erupts in cheers and screams, and he pulls away, finishing the song. You turned to your friend and screamed about your main character moment, dancing and singing even happier into her recording phone. This was the best night of your life.

For the rest of the concert, you had the time of your life. Blade ends the show with a final guitar solo, the entire audience silent as he wrecks the strings and pours his heart into his vocals. He briefly spoke to his fans, thanking everyone for coming out and heading backstage as everyone began to clear out. And all he could think about was that girl who his eyes couldn't help but wander toward, and to whom his thoughts dedicated his innuendos. He remembers the sign you held at the beginning of the show: “BLADE ♡WNS M(Y)E (HEART) ♡”. Your eyes honed filth that your natural disposition didn’t and he longed for it. He held bated breath as he informed his security about you, requesting you be located and brought to him and they replied with “We’ll try our best, sir.”

It was an after-concert tradition for Blade to hit up a local club, especially in situations like this where it was his last stop. He hoped he’d find you there, but he knew you would, especially if you were as big of a fan as you looked.

“Yukong, just thirty minutes! Please!!” you pleaded, trying to pull your friend into your opinion. She shook her head no, “I can’t! I have to go home! I’m so tired and you know…” you stop your friend there, not wanting to hear about her boyfriend.

“Fine. I’m still going though, text me when you get home.” you didn’t want Yukong to go home. But arguing was pointless, and only time was being put to the test, not her stubbornness. You knew from your years as a Blade fan that he always went to the club after a concert to meet fans, and some rumors even suggested ulterior motives, so you wanted to go. Yukong frowned at your flat expression but still hugged you, waving at you as she got in her car to go home. You’d be flying solo, but you had faith in yourself.

So you make your way over to the nearest club via taxi, praying that this is the one that Blade would visit. You weren’t all too familiar with the place, its name, Starskiff Haven, only being one you’ve heard in passing. Regardless, your thoughts were assured by the abundance of fighting and pushing bodies to get in the door—and when your phone lit up, a Twitter notification from a Blade Updates page noting his location, Starskiff Haven, you smiled widely, making your way to the line.

It was way too long and you weren’t interested in waiting all night—you had to meet Blade. A time like this is when Yukong comes into hand with her very stern persuasion, something that’s near impossible to deny. But she left, and you’d have to figure out a way in. And a thought immediately came to mind.

You walked to the front of the line, breathing in deeply and psyching yourself up for how incredibly you were about to embarrass yourself. When you exhale, you book it, beelining straight into the club, right past security. You immediately shift your demeanor, blending into the crowd seamlessly as security guards rush in, looking around for you. Hiding behind the most cluelessly drunk girl, you make your way to the bar, immediately ordering a sidecar. It packed a punch and the combination of how many shots you had earlier, it’d be just enough to get you through whatever you were about to do.

You turn around in the swivel stool, taking in the atmosphere and coasting the area for any sighting of Blade. The club was darker than the concert but heavily illuminated with hazy, colorful LEDS and much, much louder, filled to the brim with chatter and deafening bass-boosted music. Your drink was brought to you moments later, and with a big sip, you raked your eyes over the club once again. You could see bodies grinding on the main floor, the DJ bopping his head as his hands moved diligently across his DJ controller, couples making out and slipping into cornered areas, and friend groups recording and taking pictures. It was a lively environment, sure, and from the strength that beat on your tongue, established by incredibly skilled bartenders—but you weren’t looking for a new clubbing spot, you were looking for Blade.

And Blade was looking for you. Swimming through the unforgivingly hot crowd for you. He wasn’t itching to have you, he was itching to take you. Every time he closed his eyes he was brought back to his time on stage and how you danced in the audience. How your lips pushed out his lyrics and how your hands couldn’t stop waving in the air and running on your skin. How you swiped off sweat from your forehead and fanned yourself with your sign. And how you couldn’t keep your star-filled eyes off of him. Every light reflection off of your eyes showed desperation and neediness. You were begging to be picked without ever uttering a word, and he was not one to ignore indulgence. You needed him and he wanted you—so where are you?

Perched on that blue-velvet cushioned swivel stool. Sipping whatever remaining contents of your sidecar. And when he saw you, you saw him. You locked eyes and each plastered ill-intended smirks across your faces. And while you had his attention, you brought the glass to your lips, smacking them open and running your tongue along the sugar rim, collecting the sweetness on your tongue. You sucked on your tongue, rolling your eyes and he swears the “Ahh” leaving your lips is audible from his distance. He stayed still even as you slapped down your money on the counter, hopping down and disappearing into the crowd.

You make your way to him quickly, holding onto your rapidly rising chest and laughing at yourself. You were on a roll of unbelievable behavior, but it seemed to be a clean stroke because you were yet to meet a roadblock. And in a very blurry couple of minutes, the goal you’d been working toward was in the palm of your hand—literally.

You danced your way to Blade when you were finally close to him, sliding up against his body sweetly. He was tall and so sturdy against you, but he was smooth like butter as he synced to your movements and danced behind you. His hands were on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he pushed up against you. Your exchange was wordless but it spoke volumes. It felt like a dream, entirely too good to be true but you indulged anyway, grinding against him. A gasp escapes your mouth as his left hand unabashedly grapes your tit, squeezing roughly and experimentally. His other hand trails dangerously on the band of your shorts and you let your head fall back on his shoulder, “I'm your biggest fan…”

He laughs at your declaration, leaning to press his lips feather-lightly at the shell of your ear, “Are you now?” you nod immediately, pressing into him. “‘Blade owns me’.” he mocks your sign, and laughs when he feels you slightly tense under his touch.

“I picked you,” and again, he leans down to your ear, “Are you happy, slut?” The word is so mean but it sounds so good from him. You nearly moan, nodding eagerly, as if complying with his word came with a medal. You were a slut, so willing to give it up as soon as he laid eyes on you. And you weren’t afraid to go low to get his attention, doing just about anything to be his for the night.

Fangirls like you are nothing new to Blade and as a man who looks like he does, it comes with the territory. He can read you like a damn book, cover to cover with ease because despite how enigmatic and indifferent to the norm you may try to appear, you wear your whole being on your sleeve. You do everything in your power to be somebody you're not. Your life revolves around who you think you should be and not who you are. A lot of girls are born with “it”: an innate ability to be the one wanted and desired, but you? Your “it” is manufactured, the blueprint drawn out by girls who are it. You're stuck in a limbo created by your age: too old to not be settling down, but too young to not live your life, and you try to make a box for yourself, being the exception to a path laid out for you. You're lost in the life you lead, and with the way you're dancing so shamelessly and needily on him, Blade knows you. You’re the type of girl who sees getting used as a flex, and despite signing an NDA or promising to never say anything, you’ll tell this person and that person that you got to sleep with the Blade; that the Blade picked you. Women like you are a cancer in the industry. Pests that are incessant and damn near impossible to get rid of. He knows you won't be any different than those before you, but there’s a desire to take you that he cannot ignore.

It’s his natural instinct as a man—or he’s just a shitty person. Perhaps a combination of both, because all he can think about is putting you to use. You’re making it so easy, moaning into the air under the thick remixed song the DJ is spinning, grinding against him, and holding his hand on your tit—you want him, and you’re giving yourself to him on a silver platter. You have a clear lack of respect for yourself, but luckily for you, that’s Blade’s type in women.

The atmosphere seems to be getting heavier, and it feels like time is getting slow and choppy. Now your arms are around Blade’s neck and his large hands are holding onto your ass, and you’re so close, you can feel your chests brushing with each breath you take. The world around you is nothing but background. It doesn’t exist to you, it doesn't matter to you. Not when you have Blade, the literal man of your dreams, right in your palm, and all he's looking at is you.

You feel so special. So wanted and so desired. You feel all eyes on you like you're the main attraction and everybody can’t help but watch and weep, wishing to be you. Your ego is skyrocketed and every embarrassing thing you’ve done tonight doesn't matter to you anymore because it paid off. Your eyes locked and the space between you closed. Your heart synced with the booming beat of the current song playing. You lean in, pressing your hands at the back of his neck and pulling him in. And you kiss him. You kiss Blade.

Blade kisses you back. He tightens the grip on your ass and you moan into his mouth, letting him infiltrate your mouth. He sucks on your tongue, smiling against you when he feels you push up on your tippy toes and hears you whimper into his mouth. He kisses you back. He pulls your bottom lip between his teeth, pecking your lips once more before moving to your cheek, then to your jaw, then to your neck. His hands are groping at you, roughly grabbing your ass, then your waist, then your breasts. “Are you wet?”

He says it so only you can hear it. You nod. “How wet?” He moves back up to your jaw, placing another kiss. You flutter your lashes, meeting his gaze, “So wet. All for you.”

At your response, he groans, pulling off of you. He chuckles when you pout at him. You’re just what he needs for this night. He grabs your chin, holding your face and leaning down, your lips brushing against his own. “I'm going to go smoke.” and he tells you this for a reason.

You watch with the biggest smile on your face as he sifts through the crowd, heading out of a side door. It was now or never.

Quickly, you rush to the bathroom to freshen up. You fix your hair, digging into your pocket and fishing out your lipgloss, reapplying, and you fan yourself, cooling down to not look a flustered mess. And just as quick as you ran in, you ran out toward the side door, immediately looking both ways for Blade. You smell smoke distantly and turn right, and a few paces down he stood, leaning against the brick wall of the neighboring restaurant. He's next to stacks of old wood and crates and you smile, thinking about whatever was about to go down between you.

You step in front of him and he smiles, taking you in once again. He blows his smoke in your face, tapping the ash off the cigarette before smashing the butt into the wall behind him. “Hi,” you say. He says nothing back, just slides his hand to the back of your neck and pulls you in. The kiss you share this time is messy and he now asserts control, nipping your bottom lip when he feels you go weak and pulls back.

He rakes his eyes up and down your body as you stand for him. This is the first time all night he’s seen you properly, in moderately okay lighting. Your jean mini-skirt is tight to you, accentuating the curve and fullness of your ass, and teases what’s beneath with your plump thighs poking out and how it rides up slightly. Your skin-tight baby tank is seemingly one with your figure, bringing out the best in you and making him smile with the “I ♡ BLADE” print across your chest. Your thigh-high boots did nothing when you were near him—he was looming and caging. He was intimidating and arousing, and with the lustful gaze you shared, the climax of your day was steadily approaching.

“Take it off.” He looks down at your chest and you get the memo; immediately grabbing the hem of your tank top and pulling it over your head. “Slow. Take your time…” And you listen, letting your body swivel as you remove the shirt. You unhook the clasp of your bra, and before your boobs could spill out of the confines, he grabs you and wedged you between him and the wall he previously leaned on.

The front of your body is slapped on the cold brick, but you’re swallowed in warmth as he presses against you, grinding his hard-on against your ass. One hand grabs your wrists, and the other turns you around. You look at him innocently, shivering at the breeze that blows down the alley. You can smell him: woody, smokey, and expensive. Yet here he was, pressing you up against a brick wall in a random alley. “You’re such an easy slut, y’know.”

“Bet you been thinking about this; daydreaming about your favorite artist pinning you and trashing you like the fucking whore you are.” he presses against your front, nipping at your jaw. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

You whimper, “Fuck me. Take me. Make me yours.”

“Tell me.” He growls - your answer not sufficing. “Want you to break me,”

“Always fantasized…wanting you to shove your dick down my throat and use it mindlessly and mercilessly.” He begins to kiss down your throat again, licking the tender skin. He smirks when you stop talking, your breath hitching and your head craning backward to open the expanse of your neck. He starts biting on your newfound sweet spot when you begin again, “Spit in my mouth and force me to swallow it with your cum,”

He gets to your chest, immediately taking a nipple between his teeth. He listens to you wince and whine as he does, pushing your chest into his face. “And make me beg you to fuck me. Teasing me…fuck—pinching me, pulling my hair until I'm teary-eyed and begging…”

“...And then you fuck me like you hate me; choking me, slapping me, degrading me all while I thank you stupidly.”

“You’re just fucking disgusting,” he mumbles around your nipple. He lets your hands go, palming your free tit immediately. His eyes are narrow as you whine when he twinges the bud roughly. “Put so much thought into this…you’re a weirdo slut.”

You shake your head, breathing out heavily to refute his claim, “Nuh-uh—your biggest fan.” you correct.

He laughs at you. You’re much more fun than he thought, and a lot less shameless, too. You're throwing all of your big cards out; this is your go-big or go-home moment, and while you have him here, you’ll bare yourself wholly because if not now, then not ever. Blade has to commend your patience though. You're letting him toy around, graze around your unknown territory and feel you out. You’re needy but obedient. Tired of waiting but understanding. Absolutely fucking shameful and proud, but eager to be good—so maybe he was wrong about you. You do have an “it”: an innate ability to be the perfect fucktoy.

When he lets you go, he immediately instructs you to get on your knees. And you listen immediately. The cold gravel digs into your bare knees and it's incredibly uncomfortable, yet you don’t utter a word. Your nipples are hard and pebbled and are probably so sensitive, yet you say nothing. You only sit before him, fingers dancing on the exposed thigh as you look up at him, waiting to be put to use.

So he slaps you. As you told him to—he slaps you, and his hand is heavy coming against your skin. It sounds off for what felt like possibly hundreds of miles, and your face doesn’t sting, but it hurts. The skin is heating up from the impact and your head turns to the side, hair falling against your face, yet you don’t utter a word. He grabs the back of your head, forcing you to look at him and dangerously smiling when your teary eyes look up at him wide and thankfully. “Pull my cock out,” he instructs, letting you go and standing up straight.

You get to work on his belt, undoing it swiftly, and then you unbutton his pants. You tease yourself: slowly pulling the zipper down, and when pulling his pants down to his ankles, you palm him softly, gently patting his throbbing cock and staring at the growing wet spot in his underwear. You kiss the wet spot, and then you kiss it again, and again until you suck lightly on it while making eye contact with him. You moan at the very faint taste, fluttering your eyes shut, and finally sliding your hand under the band of his underwear, holding his dick.

Blade hisses at your touch, bucking slightly into your hold at the initial contact. Usually, he’d curse you out at this point for going so slow, but he’s letting it slide this time; allowing you to take control and show him how worth it and nasty you really are.

He’s big. He’s thick—your hand can just barely wrap around the entire shaft, and as you lift him to unsheath him from his boxers, you feel how heavy he is. And hard. So fucking hard.

You gawk at his cock like a kid in a candy store, staring at his leaking slit intensely—almost as if you're waiting. “Go ahead; show me how big of a fan you are.”

You kiss his tip, the bead of precum smearing on your lips. Smacking your lips apart suggestively, you wrap your right hand around the base, applying tightness and pressure as you find the right grip, and when you do, you finally lick a clean stripe across the head. Your tongue sweeps up the new milky droplet spilling out, and you contently hum at the taste, making him groan in response. You lick from the angry tip all the way to his trimmed base, then back up again until you’ve teased every side of him and located his sensitive vein.

If anybody would have told you that all you dreamed about would be coming to fruition—all by mere luck and chance—you wouldn’t believe it. And you still don't; even as you spit a thick bead of your saliva on his cock and then massage it in with your tongue, swirling all around the sensitive head. But it’s real because he moans out for you as you finally take him in, the throb getting heavier as he sits on your tongue and your lips hug him tight.

You begin your ministrations: toying with his balls lightly as you bob up and down, going as far as you could. You tried your best to take him all in. You stretched your mouth wide around him until it felt like your mouth was going to rip at the corners and until it felt like all you could do was sputter and leak drool around him. Tears brimmed in your eyes and each time you blinked them back, keeping a pretty smile on your face every time you came up for air. Your lipgloss was mixed in with spit, and clear tear streaks had already begun to run their course with your base makeup, but you didn't stop. You were moaning incessantly, suffocating his dick in your intense vibrations that had him moaning and grunting.

When you come up from your nth deepthroat attempt, it's not for air, but to breathlessly huff out “Fuck my face…please,” And since you asked so nicely…

“Blink twice if it gets to be too much.” You open your mouth as wide as you could, sticking your tongue out. He pulls your hair back for you, yanking your head back and spitting on your tongue. His eyes tell you not to move, so you don’t, keeping eye contact with him as he wraps his other hand around your own, guiding your smaller hands up and down his shaft. He shudders, “F-fuck…’m so fuckin’ hard…”

And then he slides onto your tongue, not wasting any time before bottoming out in your mouth. Your eyes widen in surprise, and your unprepared gags speak volumes to your shock. But that doesn't deter you from wrapping your lips around him. And from there, he pulls out, pulling your head back and then pushing you back down as he thrusts his hips forward. He curses under his breath before picking up his pace, thrusting so hard that his grip tightens on your hair to hold you properly in place, fucking roughly into your face. You can only choke and sputter, having already taken your hands from around his dick and digging crescent nail shapes into his thighs. The sounds eliciting from the two of you are so nasty and filthy. His balls slap at your chin, your voice rings out from around his girth, and his moans echo around the world. You can’t take it but you’re doing a great job of trying. He slaps your face again, pulling out and hitting his tip on your tongue. “Keep your fucking eyes on me,”

“If you can do that, I'll cum all down your throat and all over your pretty fucking face, okay?” You nod eagerly, and as an incredibly degrading action of praise and acceptance, he slaps his spit-slicked dick against your cheek a few times. “Good girl.” Butterflies swarm in your stomach at his praise.

When Blade slides in, he smacks against your face. He goes to the very hilt, pushing his way to the depths of your throat roughly. Your nose is pressed up against his pelvis, and your cheeks are catching stray tears. But this is consistent as he begins thrusting, using you per your request. He grunts out each time his tip hits the back of your throat, thrusting so roughly and meanly into you. Again, you feel like all you can do is choke and gag, spilling slobber and precum mix back down his length. It’s fucking filthy and the loud squelching and impact noises hit your ears nastily, yet you can’t help but squirm and attempt to grind for friction to subdue the need throbbing in your clit.

Above you, the man is falling apart. His hips stutter every now and then and his voice is fucking endless. His long hair sticks to his sweaty forehead and sides of his neck, and it looks damn near intentionally placed from how beautiful he looks. The outdoor lights are like distant illuminators; glowing behind him softly—almost angelically. His eyebrows are knitted together and he struggles to keep his eyes every time he reaches the back of your throat and you start gagging. It’s beyond pleasurable. Blade isn't sure if it’s because of all the tension the two of you have built up, or if it's because he hasn't had any action in the last 3 weeks because of his neverending schedule, or if it’s because your mouth is fucking amazing, but he can't keep himself together. His chest starts heaving faster as he comes close to his high, his knees beginning to buckle, and his stomach caving.

You flick your tongue on the underside of his cock as much as you can and glue your eyes to his, seeing his release breaking him down inch by inch. “Fuck! I'm gonna fucking cum!” He announces, throwing his head back.

He stills in your mouth and you take the opportunity to suck harshly on his tip, swirling your tongue around it like it’s the sweetest lolly you’ve ever tasted. He pulls out of your mouth, and you vigorously stroke his cock, so focused and determined to milk him dry. He leans forward, slapping his palm against the wall behind you for stability as he cums. He moans so prettily as he paints your face, the warm ropes making you hum contently. You give him no break, sucking his tip one last time to make sure you get the most out of what he’s given you.

Blade catches his breath, standing up straight soon after and condescendingly cooing at the mess made on your face. He picks up a glob as he sweeps his thumb over your cheek, sliding the digit in your mouth. He presses on your tongue, finding pleasure in how you swallow your sounds under a layer of gagging, but how you never tear your eyes off of him. He does this until you’ve cleaned off your face—but he's not done with you.

You're finally allowed off of your aching knees. You're sure the gravel will leave an indent from how long you were down there. He pinches your pebbled nipples, smirking as you yelp. “What was it that was next? Making you beg..making you earn my cock in you?” you nod rapidly, backing into the wall for stability as he toys with your very sensitive tits. “Show me how you beg then.”

You put your hands on his shoulders to help you stand up, feeling so weak all of a sudden. Your voice cracks as you try to speak, meek little whimpers flowing out as he works your body expertly—like he knows what gets you going. “Please…fuck–Please fuck me, I need you so bad…!”

A shrill yelp is chased out of your throat when his palm cracks against one of your boobs, “Is that all you got? Try again.”

So you do. “Need you to fuck me, Blade. I wanna be used by you, broken–please, I'll do anything!”

“Not good enough. Again.”

“Please fuck me like the slut I am! I need to be full of you, need to have you fuck me ragged and dumb so all I think of is you!” you pitch up your voice, breathing it all out in one breath.

Pitiful. Another smack. “Again.”

“I'm so needy for you, please! It hurts–I need you so much, it hurts! Please…”

And he's heard enough. His right hand slides up to your neck, forcing you against the wall. His grip is tight, fingers pressing into the sides and you have to fight for your eyes to not roll to the back of your head. “You must not want me as bad as you acted like you did…”

“I do! I do!” You interject, but your voice is weak and small—nothing in comparison to his deep and lust-saturated tone. “Then act like you do. Beg.”

He runs his other hand up your thigh, cupping your cunt. Your panties are soaked, and he can feel the heat radiating off of you. He pushes the fabric to the side, running two fingers through your folds and you swear you almost fell out then and there. You'd gone teased and untouched all night—you were beyond ready.

“Pussy is fucking soaked…” he mumbles, letting his index and middle finger twirl through your folds, getting closer and closer to your clit. “You want me here? To fuck your sloppy pussy until you're cumming your brains out?”

Your eyes start to roll and he can feel the pulse intensify in your cunt. That's exactly what you wanted. “Say it. Say ‘I want my sloppy pussy fucked until I'm cumming my brains out, Blade’. Say it,”

You part your lips, and he slightly loosens the grip on your throat, “Wan–want…I want my sloppy pussy…” You get shy with your words, and he delivers a slap to your clit. The stimulation has you buckling over. You feel like his hands on you are going to be the death of you. “Say it.”

With the courage finally built up, “I want my sloppy pussy fucked until I'm cumming my brains out, Blade! Please, I need it s’bad…feel like I'm gonna fucking die!” leaves your lips easily like spreading butter on toast. His lips that you never got enough of tasting quirk up into his signature smirk. He lets you go, pushing you against the wooden crates and flipping up your jean skirt.

“There you go; atta-fucking-girl.” he practically rips your panties off of you, slapping your pussy just for the hell of it. He cringes at the sound it makes and laughs cruelly at your whimpering. He presses up against you, his semi-hard dick pressed against your ass, and he wraps his arm around you and shows you the coat of your arousal that paints his fingers. “Spit.”

With your spit and abundance of slick collected on his fingers, Blade strokes his cock, going until he’s near painfully hard. The sounds he elicits make your pussy clench around nothing, needing to be satiated so desperately. “Are you ready? There’s no going back.”

This is somehow the sweetest moment for you. Your heart swells and you can only sheepishly nod, wiggling your hips eagerly. “Never been more sure about anything in my life. Ruin me.”

Ask once more, and you shall receive once more. His cock is swiped through your folds and collects a considerable amount of your arousal. He lines up at your entrance, watching you brace yourself with a smile ingrained into his face. He pushes in with a sharp inhale, biting his tongue at the feel of your tightness. Your pussy sucks him right in and—fuck. Warm and soft and tight, he could cum right now.

Your face crinkles up and you grip tightly onto the wooden crates in front of you. You’ve dreamt of this for so long—touched yourself at night to the thought and it's finally happening. He's inside of you, stretching you out, sinking in and in and in, inch by inch until he buries himself deep in your guts, until his tight and heavy balls are touching your folds. You're so sensitive you feel like you're ready to cream already, and you need it, need him, and need more. You grind your hips back on him, exhaling thickly as you rest your head against your forearm. “So fucking ready for me…”

His hand cracks down on your ass. It hurts so well and you wince, arching your back further. He sighs, kneading your skin softly. Then he pulls out, inching out until only the tip sits idly in you. You turn around to look at him, and doing that ignites his fire.

Your face is pathetic and fucked out already. Eyebrows knitted together and your eyes heavy, hardly staying open. Your lips are parted yet folded into a small frown, and perspiration rests at your hairline. You egg him on to slam into you, and he watches your frown drop into a wide ‘o’ shape, your eyes fluttering. So he does it again. And your lip now slips between your teeth. And again. And you drop your head back onto your arms.

And so Blade keeps up this pace, gradually going faster as the pit in his stomach urges him to do so. Your sounds are now uncontrollable—they fly out of you like a skipping record, incoherent babbles, and sinful moans. Each collision of your bodies elicits a visceral, wet slap that echoes off the walls of the alleyway. People around the world could probably hear what you're doing, and you're not sure if that bothers you…if the thought of a curious passerby walking down this alley naïvely would be an issue. If anything, it makes you get louder, your throat not getting to rest.

He hits you again, groaning when your pussy clenches around him. “You’re so fucking loud– you want somebody to find us?” Yes, that is what you want to say. But you moan out louder, shaking your head no. He hits you again. “Don’t lie to me,”

“You’re a fucking painslut,” he spits at you. He wraps his arm to reach your clit, immediately finding the bud and pinching it. Your knees go weak and he stabilizes you against him by pushing you further into the crates in front of you. You sniffle and whimper, presumably spilling tears down your filthy fucking face but doing nothing but asking for more. You've gotten so wet, dripping everywhere messily and Blade only cringes his face up with each wet collision. You're so nasty, so filthy, letting a stranger who you parasocial bonded yourself to defile you in public. He's feeding into your crazed delusions, but he’d honestly rather be doing nothing else. When he pinches your clit again your body shakes. Your knees buckle again and from the waist up you're basically limp. He feels you tighten around him and he sucks his teeth, parting your ass to peer at the milky ring forming around the base of his cock. “Did you just fucking cum?” Yes, you did. And you felt like Heaven doing it.

“You came ‘cause I pinched your clit…” he does it again and you jolt up, whining for him to stop. “So if I slap it…” he slaps it, eyeing you for your reaction. “Or rub on it like I love you…” his fingers run circles on your bud, feeling you get impossibly tighter around him. “So fucking easy.”

He resumes his thrusts like he never stopped—slamming into you unapologetically and now additionally, rubbing on your cute, abused clit. He's not going to last long at this rate. Your pussy gushes around him like a running river and the noises have gotten even nastier. Squelching and the occasional puffs of air escaping…you’re a mess.

“Love this fucking cunt,” he praises while pinching your clit. His free hand that rested on the small of your back is now holding onto your neck, forcing you to stand upright against him. Blade is lean but muscular. His arms flex and you feel his abs every time your bodies get close enough. His strong thighs touch yours and it's like you feel his entire body weight every time he pushes into you. “So good, ‘s so fucking good, Blade!”

The man laughs at your outburst. He angles his hips differently, trying so hard to find your sweet spot to get you creaming again. “Yeah?” he asks, tightening his grip on your throat. “Mhm-!” you concur.

“Where?” He’s sure he's found it, and he drives his hips up, groaning happily once he feels your gummy walls contract around him. “Here?”

Your head nods rapidly. “Yes, yes, yes–fuck! Right there, oh my fucking God!”

Neither of you are going to last. Blade’s balls are so tight and the way your pussy hugs him is even tighter. You suck him in like you never want him to leave, but your over-stimulated squeals and shaking thighs suggest otherwise. He’s found your sweet spot and is recklessly abusing it, going all or nothing. The way he toyed with your clit like a kitten pawing at a toy was too much—it started to hurt, to throb endlessly as your stomach knotted and your hole drooled. His grip on your neck was the icing on the cake. You felt like you could no longer breathe — like his thrusts were knocking the wind out of you and him choking you was keeping it out. Every little thing he did pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

He was even more merciless than before. Blade fucked into you harder, rougher, and faster than before, and you chalked that up to his orgasm catching up to him. You listen to his songs on repeat all the time but never have you heard him sing more beautifully than now as he digs your pussy out. You were really blessed with this night, and now it is coming to a very eventful end.

“‘M gonna fucking cum–!” You announce, and Blade nods his head in agreement. He slaps your cunt one last time, his fingers covered in your juices now tweaking at one of your nipples. “Me…me too, fuck.”

He leans into your ear, “Make me cum in this fucking pussy,” a throaty moan breaks his sentence, and you moan back, feeling it coming. “So close, so close…!”

It's this contraction that has Blade falling apart. He thrusts into you one last time, his eyes shooting wide open as he cums deep in you. He moans gutturally and shakily, feeling you clench tighter as you orgasm as well. His hips stutter in you and your hips ride back onto him as you both come down from your highs. The alley is now deafeningly silent and you flush in embarrassment from how loud you must have been. He lets your neck and tit go, using one hand to now spread your ass and pull out his cock. Your pussy is puffy and shiny, and when he’s out, he watches with a burning gaze as your mixture of cum starts to slightly spill out.

He groans, slapping your ass one last time. You two finally separate, and you turn around to look at him. You're sure he doesn't look as fucked up as you do, but even so disheveled and fucked out and sweaty as he is, you can’t help but feel your heart flutter. He pulls up his boxers and pants, fixing his shirt before he looks over at your mostly naked frame. He comes over to you, pulling down your skirt, and his doing this makes you feel less like a one-night stand, and more like one of his girls.

Being so close to you, he breathes you in. You smell like sex, but beneath that is a layer of whatever fruity perfume you sprayed on you, and it's delectable; so he kisses you. It's something he doesn't usually do, and he wouldn't have done it for you, but you entrance him. Perhaps it's because you're what he likes— he's met his match.

But you kiss each other passionately like you were trying to reignite the flame you just spent God knows how long fucking out. Your tongues are well acquainted with one another, swirling and bumping and riding past one another knowingly. He pulls away from you, looking in your eyes as he lets spit fall onto your tongue once again. You smile happily as you swallow it—God, you could do this forever. “Come back with me,”

You didn't expect him to say that. You blink your eyes a few times in disbelief. This night can't be any more unreal. He notices your confusion and smiles, “Is that a no–”

“–No! I'll come with you!” you don't know where he’s taking you, or what it means to go with him. You do know that you’ll have a lot to tell Yukong, NDA or not, and that you’ll never forget this day.

Smiling again, this time devilishly, Blade pulls away from you, pinching your cheek. “Good girl.”

#HOLY SHIT #giggling rolling around n shit wtf #blade smut #hsr smut #blade x reader smut

2K notes · View notes

knavves · 10 months

Text

— Kaiser Michael

Masterlist.

Of course Kaiser would be the first to win, and he won’t let you forget it.

Warnings: 18+, dubcon, spanking, no prep, unprotected sex, creampie, one use of the word shit in German (I’m sorry).

Pairing: Kaiser Michael x f!reader.

Word Count: 1.8k.

Some men know the power they wield and harness it to their advantage. It’s the same reason why Kaiser now looks down at your quivering form like a ravenous lion ready to slaughter, to feast. Hungry eyes ready to devour you as he prepares to play with his kill.

“Cute,” He tsks at the lingerie you wear. The colours an ode to the Blue Lock programme, the navy lace compliments your skin tone as he lets the back of his hand run across your clavicle, “So this is what the fuss was all about?”

Kaiser would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t try that much harder this last match, narrowly avoiding a foul by leaving the dirty work to Ness as he captured the ball from Isagi and forcing it into the top left corner of the net. The looks of deflation from the other men on the field was enough satisfaction, knowing that it meant he’d won the grand prize.

Tilting your chin up to look at him as he stands above you, his cock already tenting against his sweatpants as he leans towards you. Warm breath fans against your face as he pressed his lips to yours in a demanding kiss.

“You caused quite the stir in that little video, sweetheart.” His large palm cups your cheek and you can’t help but lean into his touch, savouring the warmth as he looks down at you with deceptively soft eyes, “I’m certain this won’t be the last time we meet.”

Just the sight of you, the smell of you in front of him had Kaiser picturing his next win. Focusing on that next goal which would place him back in front of you, and he hadn’t even had a taste of you..

“You’re so pretty,” He coos, letting his fingers brush against the soft lace, “Is this all for me?”

He already knows the answer. He knows it is. He’d scored the winning goal that secured his place here with you, even if he should be thanking Ness for that. The man would do anything for Kaiser, and apparently Kaiser would have done anything to get you.

“Yes,” You mumble, and it’s all it takes to have him groaning low and deep in his throat.

Keep reading

#the way it slipped into my hand 😹😹#OMFGGDDGD #bllk smut #michael kaiser smut

700 notes · View notes

knavves · 10 months

Text

i have a memory - kishibe x f!reader

cw: brief mention of violence and threat (not graphic), consumption of alcohol/cigarettes, explicit sexual content (oral sex f! receiving, fingering, hand jobs, vaginal sex) - NSFW, MDNI

word count: 8.9k

a/n: thinking about how young cocky annoying kishibe showed up for 3 panels and changed the trajectory of my life forever ... so here's 9k words of kinda-sorta-enemies slash annoying colleagues to lovers .... with a tiny splash of angst too for good measure? i just love this man and think he's a secret softie so here's him successfully pulling for once <3

___

“You’d really say no to a smoke?”

Kishibe’s question sounds disbelieving as he holds out the box of cigarettes in your direction. Instead of answering, you choose to wave away his offer dismissively. Still shocked, he continues, “you’re not even a little tempted?”

You roll your eyes. You’re one of few devil hunters in the Public Safety Division that rarely, if ever, smokes; a fact that makes you somewhat of an oddity to people like Kishibe, your partner, who seems to keep the tobacco industry afloat through his wages alone.

“Nope,” you reply simply. “They taste bad.”

Your replies are clipped and borderline rude but you can’t bring yourself to care - not when he’s dragged you to this place yet again, at this godforsaken hour of the morning, to “look over your case files” even though he never seems to actually care enough to read them.

The place in question is a dingy old café on the outskirts of town, one that Kishibe insists on coming to even though there’s a fancy new artisanal coffee shop just down the road. His loyalty to this dump baffles you.

In theory, you don’t object to meeting up this early - you usually prefer to grab a hot drink at this time anyway, just to keep your hands warm, and Kishibe always needs to take a smoke break, so better to get it out of the way before the day kicks off - but you hate how he never seems to take these meetings seriously. It feels like wasted hours you could have spent sleeping.

Adding to your resentment is the fact that you have to sit outside in the freezing cold just so he can grab a smoke. He doesn’t like walking and smoking at the same time; it distracts him too much, apparently.

You hate it out here. As grim as it is on the inside of the café, the exterior is far worse; grey, miserable concrete floors and walls, no decoration of any sort, and just one solitary table for outdoor dining.

And at that lonely table, there is only one chair - the chair which you’re currently sitting on. Thankfully, Kishibe knew better than to fight you for it since it’s his smoking habit that’s keeping you outside.

He’s leaning against the wall next to you, peering down curiously as you sip your drink with a poorly-concealed grimace.

“You really sure you don’t want one?” he asks again.

“Shut up and smoke the damn cigarette. It’s fucking freezing.”

Kishibe lets out a short huff of amusement, finally fishing a cigarette out of the box and bringing it to his lips. He slips the box back into his shirt pocket and then pulls out his rusty old lighter, soft strands of black hair falling into his eyes as he lights the cigarette. His lips purse around the tightly-rolled tobacco, his cheekbones stained pink from the cold.

You don’t know why your eyes linger on the sight. To distract yourself, you open up a copy of the report sitting on the table in front of you.

Kishibe takes a long drag before exhaling with a pleasured sigh, eyes closed with bliss.

“Doesn’t taste too bad to me.”

“Well, that’s you,” you mutter, scanning over the paper on the table. You’ve just picked it up from the captain of your division - he left it a little late to brief you both, considering the mission starts today - and you want to have at least a passable knowledge of what you’re up against before setting out.

You’ve worked a few jobs with Kishibe since being assigned as his partner and generally, you tolerate him fine. He doesn’t try to ruin your day (you don’t think, anyway). You even share a few laughs every now and then, once you grew to understand his strange and overconfident sense of humour. He’s manageable.

But at times like this, times when you should be focusing on the job that’s been assigned to you instead of just fucking around, smoking cigarettes and taunting each other …

At times like this, he can really get on your nerves.

He’s far from a bad hunter, you know that. His strength and skill have given him quite the reputation even though he’s still in the early stages of his career, and he approaches every fight with the sort of stoic level-headedness you could only aspire to.

He’s good. Too good, almost, and it scares you how he manages it all without even breaking a sweat.

That’s the real reason he gets under your skin so often. It's all too easy for him, and it’s a humbling reminder of your own mortality. He may not need to do this much preparation and research in order to stay alive, but you certainly do. You can’t take any chances.

That, coupled with the fact that you can’t even enjoy your morning cup of coffee indoors anymore …

“You sure it’s just the taste you don’t like?” he pipes up as if on cue, prompting you to give him a withering look over the top of the report. “You’re not scared of them, are ya? Cos we’re not gonna live long enough to worry about the side effects of smoking, if that’s what’s actually bothering you.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t smoke,” you reply, unimpressed. “I’d rather spend what little time I have left doing things that I actually enjoy.” You gesture dismissively at the cigarette dangling between his lips. “And those things taste like shit, so I don’t bother wasting my time or money on them.”

He raises his eyebrows when he takes his next drag, whisps of grey smoke spilling out into the frosty air as he exhales. “I could get offended here, y’know?”

“Why would you be offended?” you say disinterestedly, your eyes lingering on the part of the report that details the previous fatalities of the devil in question.

“Are you saying that I taste like shit, then?”

“Maybe you do,” you say, setting the paper back down in front of you with a yawn. “I don’t care.”

Kishibe’s grinning down at you now. He has that kind of smile that always reaches his eyes, and you’d almost find it charming were it not always associated with him trying to tease you.

You’ve read enough of the report at this point - it sounds awful, but all the death and destruction and suffering starts to blur together after enough time - and so fold the paper in half and slip it into your jacket pocket, trying as best as you can to ignore the grin spreading across Kishibe’s face.

“I don’t taste like shit, y’know,” he elaborates, even though you didn’t ask him to.

“You’re a freak.”

Your comment does nothing to halt his attempt at conversation.

“Well, I have these breath mints, y’know - y’know those ones you can pick up at the counter in drug stores? They’re pretty good, cancels out the taste. So I make sure I don’t taste bad.”

He finishes his sentence by stubbing his cigarette out on the ashtray and opening the little tin of mints that he keeps in the same pocket as his lighter. He pops a mint into his mouth and stays looking smug, so smug you could slap the expression right off his face.

You are in no mood to entertain him any further, so just fire off an agreement in the hope of shutting him up.

“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”

But you should have known it wouldn’t be that easy, because not a second later he asks, practically beaming …

“Do you wanna find out?”

You get up from your chair abruptly, shoving him with your shoulder as you pass him on the way out of the café. He gasps in feigned indignation and is just about to speak up again before you call out a question of your own.

“Has a line like that ever worked on anyone?”

He laughs, though it ends in a cough. You turn to leave but still hear his answer from over your shoulder.

“Nope.”

______

The job is a tough one, even by the standards of devil hunters.

Kishibe has your back and you have his, but it’s not enough to save the many casualties who you had hoped to keep out of harm’s way. Collateral damage is a given in your line of work, but this … this was a particularly bad day.

You and Kishibe travel home in silence. He doesn’t say anything to draw a reaction out of you, and in turn, you don’t make a comment when he pulls his box of cigarettes from his now blood-stained shirt pocket.

It’s a mutual understanding, and you’re grateful for it.

_____

The next day, once you’ve had the closest thing to a full night’s sleep you could hope for given your line of work, you’re awoken by the sound of Kishibe knocking on your door.

You know the sound all too well. He gives three loud raps against the doorframe, all in quick succession; he might pretend otherwise, but he’s a creature of habit. You don’t even have to look through the peephole to know that it’s him.

“I have a question,” he announces the moment you open the door, without so much as a greeting. “Just a quick one.”

“... go ahead.”

You’ve worked with him for long enough to know that it’s better to let him tell his piece first, and then you can ask for elaboration later. You don’t try to slow him down with a ‘good morning’. It wouldn’t be helpful for either of you.

“A few friends in another division are going out for drinks tonight. Same place as usual. Shitty beer, but it’s cheap and the other division’s buying a few rounds, so they’ll get us drunk as hell. Wanna go?”

“You couldn’t have just called me with this question?” you ask, head still a little groggy. It’s well into the afternoon, but had Kishibe not come for this unexpected visit, you’d likely still be in bed.

“Nope, because then it’d be easier for you to come up with an excuse to blow us off,” he replies quickly - too quickly, almost as if he’d prepared this little speech beforehand. “So if you really don’t wanna go, that’s fine, no complaints here. All I ask is that you don’t say no out of instinct. I think it’d be good, y’know, to get some space? Perspective, and shit like that? You’ll get to see a few people from other divisions, too. I know you’re probably tired of looking at my face every day, handsome as it may be.”

He’s looking at you directly, presenting his case in such a typically Kishibe way; straightforward, reasoned, calm, logical. And still just a little bit annoying.

Part of you is still a little resentful as to how he can bounce back so quickly and appear so unaffected by all of this. He’s still so unperturbed by it all.

But a bigger part of you appreciates that he gives enough of a damn to come out here and check up on you after a particularly difficult mission. You know of plenty of hunters who get stuck with partners who couldn’t care less whether they lived or died, let alone bothered to check on their mental well-being.

For all his faults, he’s a good guy. Irritating at times and a bit too sure of himself, but a good guy nonetheless. He’s trying to cheer you up and, try as you might, you can’t think of a valid reason to turn down his request.

“Fine, I’ll go.”

His shoulders relax ever-so-slightly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s almost relieved.

“See you there at around eight o clock, so?” he inquires, though it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Sure thing.”

His smile turns mischievous, a transformation you see far too often.

“Want me to wear something nice? I have a nice red lacy number you might like-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence before you close the door in his face.

“See you later!” he calls out, voice muffled on the other side of the door. You hear his footsteps as they traipse down the hallway of your apartment building, and then he’s gone.

This is fine. You can stomach a few short hours of socialising with the other divisions. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it? You know a few of them already and you have Kishibe there to back you up if any of them get too messy. Your partner is a big drinker, but he can hold it well. Better than most people, actually (yet another frustrating thing about him).

As you start to walk back to your kitchen to make the first of many coffees, you start to notice something. It’s subtle, and you can’t quite place what it is until you’ve finished preparing your drink.

You groan out loud once you realise what you've noticed.

Even with the earthy aroma of the freshly-ground coffee beans filling your kitchen, you can still smell Kishibe’s aftershave.

It feels like … like it’s on you, or something. It feels like it’s all over your body.

You’re not complaining about the aftershave itself, obviously. It actually smells pretty nice - you’d never say it to his face, but the man has good taste.

You’re just annoyed because it’s yet another reminder that Kishibe is everywhere.

Whether it’s through these impromptu visits, through his frequent texts and emails, or just in the course of your work, he’s absolutely everywhere. He’s there when you wake up, he’s there while you work, he’s even there whenever you try to get some peace and quiet at the café or in bars after work.

And after last night, he seems to be in your dreams, too, but you won’t dwell on that any further. Not if you have any hope of catching a break from him.

You don't let yourself panic. You reason that dreams are just the mind’s way of processing what it experiences throughout the day. It means nothing. Having a dream involving a colleague, of him taking you in his arms, holding you close, touching you where you need to be touched …

… it’s just a sign that you spend way too much time together.

You clutch your favourite mug in your hands, feeling the heat warm your palms. It’s a standard mug, plain white porcelain with “World’s Best Boss” printed on the side; a gift from your former partner.

You think about what happened to her, and feel a lump form in your throat.

No. Can’t get too close.

___

When you arrive at the bar later that night, you find it to be so packed with hunters that the place is flooded with cigarette smoke. The air is so dense it’s almost a fog, the haze of it obscuring your vision slightly. You can see where you’re going but it’s difficult to make out faces.

You can only hope that you don’t walk up to someone, mistake them for Kishibe, and call them a fucking idiot out of instinct. He’d never let you live it down if he found out.

You cough to clear your throat as you make your way to the booths in search of your partner, trying to dodge the people pushing past with arms full of beer glasses.

It’s not long before you spot him - or rather, hear him.

“Hey!” he shouts to you from over your shoulder, and you spin around to see him standing right behind you. His speech is muffled by the cigarette between his lips, his tie is loose and the top buttons of his shirt are undone, and you see the pale-pink border of scar decorating his chest that would usually be hidden by his jacket. He’s holding a beer in one hand and so places the other on your shoulder with uncharacteristic gentleness, guiding you over to the booth on the furthest left-hand side of the room. “You’re an honorary smoker now!”

Any other day you’d slap his hand away, interpreting the gesture as being just typical Kishibe trying to irritate you with overfamiliarity. However, after the mission the two of you just had, you choose to let it slide.

It might be time to start giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe, if you tried, you could even grow to like him.

… but that thought doesn’t seem right. No, not right at all; because you didn’t have to try. Maybe you already do like him, and it happened without you even realising.

You take a sip from the glass of whiskey that someone’s just shoved into your hand and you feel the warmth spread down your throat and through your chest.

God, need to be careful.

The realisation hits you like a brick wall; you absolutely and unequivocally must not get too attached to Kishibe. You can’t. You won’t.

Getting personally involved with someone in your line of work is one of the most reckless things a person can do. If luck is on his side and he isn’t killed or seriously injured at some point in the near future, then you definitely will be the one to die instead. Your chances of passing away from natural causes are slim to none.

There’s no real hope for a nice, happy, white-picket-fence future; you gave that up long ago. To indulge in the new and silly feelings you’re experiencing for the man whose hand is still clasped on your shoulder … it would be foolish.

Your best hope at happiness is to be fond of Kishibe from a distance. To tolerate him as a partner and respect him as a colleague, and leave it at that. No more, no less.

Once you’ve arrived at the booth - his touch still so noticeable on the exposed skin near your neck - he introduces you to three devil hunters. You greet the two men who you recognise as being from another division, along with a woman with an eye patch and striking white hair. From word of mouth, you’d assume this is Quanxi, the famous former partner Kishibe had worked with for a couple of years before being reassigned.

You take a seat next to her while your partner sits across from you next to the two men, and even as you settle into conversation with the rest of the group, it takes a surprising amount of effort to try and ignore that you miss having him within touching distance.

You need a distraction and, thankfully, you grow to like Quanxi very quickly. She’s blunt and straightforward but makes good conversation. She tells you enough embarrassing stories about Kishibe to last you a lifetime and has a similar outlook on life as you do; she’s practical but not emotionless, reserved but still dedicated to her work.

Unfortunately for you, she’s also very observant.

“You don’t drink much?” she asks out of the blue as Kishibe gets up to fetch another round. “Kishibe told me you don’t smoke, but from the look of your glass … you’re still on your first beer, whereas those two,” she adds, pointing dismissively at the other two hunters, “are nearly finished with their fourth.”

“ ... I had a whiskey before I sat down.”

“Even still,” Quanxi counters, holding up her empty whiskey glass for emphasis - she must have finished the bottle by now.

You shrug, unsure as to what your answer would even be. “Tonight’s just an off night for me, I guess.”

“Why?”

“I just have a lot on my mind,” you admit. It’s uncharacteristically candid of you considering you’ve only just met, but Quanxi seems trustworthy. “I’m scared that drinking will make it … a bit harder to deal with.”

Luckily, Quanxi doesn’t seem too eager to push the topic. “Fair enough. As long as it’s not because you think it … tastes bad, or something.”

You see her glance over to Kishibe for a split second, so quick it’s almost not noticeable. She grins, then, and you know for sure that he’s been talking about you.

Kishibe, you swear to yourself. If the devils don’t kill him then you will.

___

A couple of hours pass before you excuse yourself to step outside for some fresh air. It’s not an excuse - you really do need some air, as even the heaviest smokers in the bar have started to complain about how stuffy it’s become. You don’t feel too guilty about needing a break.

The night air is cold but fresh and crisp and so you welcome it, inhaling deeply into your lungs as you round the corner to the quiet alley next to the bar. Once there, you rest your back against the cool stone of the wall. You’re wearing only a skirt and a silk blouse, your jacket hanging up inside the bar, but you don’t shiver.

You look up to the sky to try and see some stars, only to find them shielded by a thick covering of dark clouds.

It could rain at any moment, you think to yourself. You really hope it doesn’t.

“Quanxi scare you off?” a familiar voice calls out from the corner, attracting your attention. “Anything she told you about me is a lie, promise. Unless it’s good, then it’s extremely true.”

You chuckle softly. “No, just needed some air.”

“Same here,” Kishibe says cordially, walking over to you with his hands in his pockets. “Too warm in there.”

You watch him approach you with a soft smile and see that his walk is steady. He’s either not drunk at all or he’s very good at hiding it.

Your curiosity gets the better of you and so you point it out.

“Kishibe, you’re not drinking as much as usual.”

He chuckles. He’s reached where you’re standing and decides to follow your lead, resting his back against the wall and tilting his head upwards to see what you were looking at before. The two of you stay there, looking at the blank night sky.

He clears his throat, voice still conversational and relaxed when he starts speaking.

“Between the drinking and the smoking … you’re awful concerned about my health recently, aren’t ya?”

“Just being nosy, I guess,” you say, writing it off as plain old curiosity. You can’t think of any other reason for noticing it.

“But you’re right, I’m taking it easy tonight,” he continues. “Not in the mood.”

“Weren’t you the one who wanted to come here to get shitfaced?”

He shrugs. “No fun getting shitfaced by yourself, though, is it?”

“Ouch,” you chuckle, clutching your chest for dramatic effect. “I know I’m kinda quiet tonight, but-“

“Nah, I didn’t mean it like that,” he grins with a roll of his eyes. “I just don’t know the guys in there all that well, and the ones that I do know are fucking idiots when they’re wasted. Quanxi holds her liquor too well to even get tipsy, and you’re barely drinking, so I’m following your lead.”

Now it’s your turn to feel surprised. You thought you were the more observant of the two of you, but it turns out Kishibe notices the same things.

“I’m a good influence, then.”

Kishibe snorts at that, but somehow the sound is endearing. “Don’t go that far. We’re both still in this shitty job, so you can’t be all that sensible.”

“Oh, I’m not,” you agree, laughing too. “I’m good enough at wasting our pitiful little paycheck.”

“On what?”

He’s still grinning but looks genuinely curious, and huh, you have to stop and think on that one. You don’t really have any major vices (that you can think of), and you’re not a compulsive shopper, but you still manage to spend your money every month.

It’s not worth feeling guilty over, though; you just like surrounding yourself with little pleasures to distract from the grim nature of your work.

You like getting nice furniture for your apartment, and this certain fancy brand of coffee. You like going to a local gallery and being able to buy any painting you want …

… and, as you said earlier, you like things that taste good.

“I spend a lot of money on coffee,” you start. “Too much money. More than you spend on cigarettes, probably.”

“That’s-”

“A lot, I know,” you roll your eyes before continuing. “I also buy paint, canvases, brushes … things like that.”

“You paint?”

“A little. When I get the chance.”

He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. Seems you’ve genuinely surprised him for once.

You keep going - now that you’ve remembered your little shopping list, it’s hard to stop the thoughts from flowing out.

“And I got this green couch for my apartment. Ridiculously expensive, but I’ve wanted it for ages. I sometimes buy old books, too, and I always get this overpriced lip balm that tastes like apples.”

You pause then, to show you’re finished recalling your expenses. You have to laugh at the bemused expression on Kishibe’s face.

“That it?” he asks, but he sounds suitably impressed. Like you’ve finally opened up to him in a way he can appreciate.

“That’s it, I think.”

He’s so close to you now that you’re practically shoulder-to-shoulder. You’re both just resting against the wall having a friendly chat, but the closeness feels … it feels both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. You’re used to having him always there, but never within touching distance. Never so casual and easy and enjoyable.

He clears his throat.

“So all that … that’s what you’re wasting all your money on? I’ll remember that next time I foot the bill for lunch.”

”I forgot my wallet one time,” you answer, shoving his shoulder with yours, “one time ever. Surely you’ve financially recovered by now.”

You’re not sure what possesses you, but as you’re still standing side-by-side, you lean your head down to rest it against his shoulder. It feels natural, like something you don't even have to think about. Kishibe was close, he was right there, and you wanted him closer.

His voice doesn’t betray any surprise at your actions, but the way the muscles in his arm tense as you nestle against him shows that he wasn’t expecting it.

But the fact that he doesn’t give you any shit for it or shrug you off means that he doesn’t object.

“I guess we can go to yours for coffee from now on,” he points out. “Since you’re apparently a coffee snob, and I’m clearly torturing you with the shit excuse for a beverage they serve at the café.”

“True,” you agree, “though maybe we can try to have a cup indoors for once. Just for the novelty of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d like to see if it tastes any better when I’m not freezing my ass off while you have a smoke.”

“We could go now, if you want?” he asks then, and you feel everything slow down around you.

You’re grateful to be resting against his shoulder because it means he misses your perplexed expression, your eyes widening as he finishes his question.

What does he mean by ‘go now’? Go where? The café closes just after lunch. You never go there unless you’re on a case. It’s the middle of the night, there are no other cafes even open nearby …

As if reading your mind, he elaborates.

“No, not go to the café,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. It’s deep now, almost gravelly, instead of that usual ‘so smug it’s almost chirpy’ tone he utilises when he’s trying to annoy you on missions. His voice sounds nice - so nice that an inconvenient tingle spreads in your chest as you hear it. “I meant we could go back to yours. For some of that ridiculously expensive coffee, I mean.”

Is he trying to mess with you? It almost feels like a game, like he’s trying to trick you into saying something that will only make life more inconvenient for the both of you.

“You want coffee at midnight?” you ask, slowly.

“Sure do,” he answers without hesitation. “If you’ll be so kind as to host.”

You draw your head back and look at him quizzically. You know exactly how he acts when he’s messing with you and this isn’t it. He’s not smirking when he speaks; instead, he’s looking at you with an uncharacteristic softness in his eyes. It throws you off in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant, and so you say,

“Sure, let’s head back to mine.”

___

You grab your jacket from inside the bar as Kishibe hails a cab, and before you know it, the two of you are standing at your doorstep, just as you were earlier today when he invited you out. You feel different now, though; adrenaline coursing through your veins for no discernable reason.

This all feels surreal. You and Kishibe here, alone, after hours, without the convenience of a mission to keep you distracted. And yet, you don’t dwell on it.

You’re moving as if possessed, desperately avoiding any overthinking of your actions as you take him by the hand and guide him through the door to your hallway, through to the kitchen then. Neither of you says anything as you walk. You only let go of his hand when you arrive at the countertop where you keep the coffee, resting a hand against the surface to ground yourself.

The kitchen is dark since you didn't bother the turn on the lights. Only the glow of the streetlamps illuminates the room, casting a glow over the two of you.

You blink up at him. He stays looking at you pensively.

You’re still not sure how literally he was speaking when he mentioned wanting coffee. Would he laugh at you if you started to brew some? You want to touch him again, want to feel him ever closer than he was before, but … have you misinterpreted the situation entirely?

Kishibe clears things up for you. He steps in your direction, shoulders set and expression difficult to place. He’s not touching you yet but he’s so gotten so close now … closer than colleagues or partners or even friends tend to go, only inches away from your body.

He’s so close you can feel whisps of his hair tickling your forehead, you can see the crinkles in his shirt and the outline of the lighter in his jacket pocket.

He stop then, hesitating, eyes scanning your face.

“You okay?” he asks, smiling at you - a kind smile, not brass or cocky.

You nod, the movement shallow and jerky and perhaps a bit too quick.

“Yeah, just … my head’s all over the place.”

“Nothing has to happen,” he replies quietly. “We can just have coffee, if you’d prefer.”

“So you really want coffee?” you ask, eyebrow raised. “We’re sticking with that story?”

“Doesn’t have to be coffee,” he counters. “Tea, water, I don’t care. I just … I like spending time with you.”

You return his smile just as genuinely. “You’re being so … nice.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, I am,” you say emphatically. “Did I accidentally bring someone else’s partner home?”

He laughs, a nice sound, and your heart hammers against your ribcage.

“Nope. Stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

His answer is conversational and friendly, but the look in his eyes betrays him. You know he means it.

You know it’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense, because he’s your partner, and you’re supposed to be objective, and it goes against every rational thought in your brain.

But the idea of being stuck with him sounds so appealing ... you can’t pay much attention to your rational side.

It’s not Kishibe who closes the distance between the two of you; instead, you step closer, fisting your hands into the fabric of his shirt, and then press your lips to his.

It’s not a slow kiss. It starts intense and it only builds from there, teeth almost clacking together as you tangle your hands in his hair. It’s clumsy, almost; he’s pawing your thighs, lower back, waist, as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch first. You take a gentle grip on his hair, marvelling at how soft it feels in your hands, the silky tresses just so tuggable.

You’ll park that thought for later.

Kishibe deepens the kiss, running his tongue against your lips and then pushing into your mouth, not letting go of your body the whole time.

It’s funny; a part of you thought that he would be as confident and dominant in these circumstances as he is in his professional life -

(Yes, you’ve thought about it before … it’s not as though the thought of sleeping with him has never crossed your mind. You’re stubborn, but not blind.)

- but he’s taking as much as he’s giving, getting as much satisfaction from your reaction as he does from anything else. He moves with you, noting what you like as the moments pass, gauging your reaction from your whimpers and moans and the way you’re not-so-subtly rubbing against his thigh.

He kisses your neck, lingering on your pulse point, leaving a mark that you’re sure will be visible tomorrow. The thought is strangely thrilling; the idea of you and Kishibe working a case together, with marks all over your skin just begging to be noticed. Marks that show he wanted you all to himself and needed everyone to know it.

When you push your hips into his, feeling the bulge in his suit pants pressing against you, you tighten your grip on his hair. He notices and responds eagerly, grabbing your ass over the thin fabric of your skirt and pressing you flush against him. The heat of his body makes your mind go numb.

You can smell his aftershave again, all over your body as he kisses and rubs and touches, but you have no complaints this time.

He leans in as if to kiss you again but stops just short, lips brushing against yours as he speaks.

“You have no idea how badly I want this,” he murmurs. “How badly I’ve wanted it. But … it might make things just a little bit complicated.”

“I’m okay with it if you are,” you whisper, looking into his eyes to show your confidence in your answer. You’re too far gone to back out now. You haven’t felt touch like this in so long, having kept yourself so guarded and withdrawn for years. Kishibe understands; he knows the risks of this job, and he knows how lonely it gets. He knows you so well. Knows what you need.

“I’m okay with it,” he says, lips quirked upwards. He’s still pressed against you, his thigh spreading your legs open slightly. “Want me to show you how much?”

His eyes flicker down your body past your chest, and you know exactly what he’s thinking about doing. Every inch of your skin feels hot. Your clit pulses at the very idea of what he’s suggesting - it seems like his confidence might pay off.

“I want you,” you reply. You think about finishing the sentence with something a bit more articulate, but Kishibe’s eyes darken at your earnest response, pupils blown out and expression ravenous.

He places a large hand on your thigh, the exposed skin tingling under his touch. He slides it up slowly, so slowly, grazing up to the seam of your underwear. He runs a finger over your clothed core and you gasp, hips almost bucking into his touch. His thumb circles your clit then returns to stroking the damp fabric between your legs, so impossibly close to where you need him.

He’s so close to it. So close - if he just angled his fingers a little more, he could plunge two inside you, wringing orgasm after orgasm from you as you melt underneath him.

“Please-“ you choke, the pleasure almost becoming an ache. “I … I need-“

“What do you need, baby?” he whispers into the shell of your ear, teeth giving a gentle tug on your lobe when he finishes his question. “What do you need from me?”

“More, please. More.“

He doesn’t ask you to elaborate any further. Instead, he guides you to the countertop, pressing you against it at first, unable to keep from connecting his mouth to some part of you for too long (this time, it’s the swell of your breasts over the neckline of your blouse).

Once he pulls back, lips leaving your cleavage with a wet ‘pop’, he helps you up onto the countertop. Once you’re sitting comfortably on the edge, he slides his hands up your thighs again. You feel the cool marble on the underside of your legs, pleasantly contrasting the heat of his hands.

He tugs at the waistband of your underwear and you lift your hips to allow him to pull them down, feeling the cold air against your exposed skin as he does so. You’re so wet and he notices immediately. His tongue swipes over his lower lip, a pink flush having settled across his cheekbones.

He’s annoyingly pretty like this, looking up at you from between your legs.

You want to make him feel good with your mouth too. The thought of it makes your head swim; between the tenting in his pants and the look on his face …

He cuts off your thoughts with a brush of his lips over your inner thigh. He kisses you again, leaving no inch of skin untouched as he gets closer and closer to your core.

When he reaches the divot at the very top of your thighs, he loses his control just a bit, pressing wet and sloppy kisses, the obscene sound of which would make you embarrassed in any other circumstances.

You let out a desperate, uncharacteristic mewl, but you don’t feel any embarrassment. This side of Kishibe - whose only aim is to make you come undone - you know that he won’t make fun of you. The only reaction he’s trying to get from you now is one of pure and mindless pleasure.

You gasp out loud as you finally get the contact you have been seeking; Kishibe presses a gentle closed-mouth kiss to your clit that makes your entire body shudder. With barely any contact he already has you quivering, goosebumps forming all over. The press of his mouth against your pussy is careful, explorative; lips and tongue tracing all over your slick flesh.

The first proper lick stokes a fire in your core, burning hot and desperate as you tighten your thighs around his face. His hands grip your legs and pull them apart further, allowing better access for what he wants to do.

Long, slow strokes up your folds and circles around your clit, all combining to make you feel pliant and boneless.

“Please … please … please …” you beg over and over, though you don’t want him to change anything, you just don’t want him to stop. You feel like crying at the thought of it being taken away for even a second, for him to stop the perfect movement of his tongue against your aching cunt. “Please keep going.”

He hums his approval and moves to start suckling your clit with just enough pressure to make your vision go white behind your now-shut eyes. You feel the slightest pressure against your entrance as he presses a finger hesitantly - you throw your head back with a desperate cry of “yes!”, and he pushes it in in one fluid motion.

You feel a bit conflicted about closing your eyes because the image in front of you is so enticing; a few strands of his dark hair are stuck to his forehead with the faint sheen of sweat that’s building as he fucks you with his fingers, his eyes looking up at you beseechingly through dark lashes with a particularly firm flick of his tongue …

You want to keep looking at him, you do, but you can’t. It’s too much. The sensation is building quicker than you can react to it, and so you lay back on the counter, your back arching as he keeps up his perfect pace.

The pleasure is low and warm and unending, deep inside you, and for a brief moment, it scares you that Kishibe is the one doing this to you.

Kishibe, your annoying coworker who you’re supposed to be keeping at arm’s length - he's the one making you scream and cry out his name as if it’s the only word you can remember.

Kishibe is the one who’s making your eyes roll back into your head, the one who’s taking you apart with just his mouth and fingers (now, two of them).

You’re surrendering yourself to him, and yet, you don’t have the slightest urge to halt any of it.

Heat starts collecting in your core, a ball of warm pleasure starting to grow and grow until you couldn’t contain it even if you wanted to. He can feel you tighten around his fingers and speeds up without altering the pressure, just giving you more of what you need. Your incoherent babbling only spurs him on.

When you tip over the edge and quiver desperately underneath him, coming apart entirely, it takes you by surprise; there was no build-up because it was all too overwhelming, too blinding, to be able to determine at what point exactly your pleasure started to crest.

It just takes over.

When you come down from it, you decide to take just a minute to collect yourself as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. You close your eyes again, blinking back the tears that collected against your waterline.

It’s a little strange. You haven’t had a sexual experience like that since … well, ever.

Thinking about things rationally, you come up with a few reasons for your very enthusiastic response. First and foremost, you haven’t had sex in a long time, not since joining the agency, not since dating became too messy. You’ve been a bit stressed, too, a bit pent up. You needed some relief. You haven’t had any … alone time in a while, either.

But as you noted earlier, you’re not listening to the rational part of your brain tonight. Not one of those reasons explains the effect Kishibe just had on you.

And the most confusing part is that even after making you come harder than you have in years, you want him even more intensely now.

Sitting up on the counter, you drag him in for another kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. You run your hands up his chest, fingers grazing off the tell-tale outline of the cigarette box in his pocket. You move to rest your hands against his nape, feeling the prickliness of his undercut against your fingertips.

His pants are still on but you can feel he’s painfully hard, straining against his zipper as he clings to you.

He starts unbuttoning your shirt and you do the same to his, taking in the view of his sharply-cut torso as he sheds his clothes.

It’s all lean muscle, thin white-lined scars covering his chest, a few freckles here and there. A painful-looking blue-black bruise sits above his hip and you frown upon noticing it. He pries your hand away from his shirt buttons, bringing your index finger to his lips and kissing it softly.

“I’m fine,” he reassures you. “Don’t worry about it.”

You want to press further but relent at the last moment, going back to finish your task of unbuttoning his shirt. You can be concerned later; now, he needs you as much as you need him.

“Where do you want to -?” he asks, trailing off at the end.

You widen your eyes suggestively, glancing down at the countertop beneath you.

He scoffs. “... here?”

You shrug, smirking coyly. “Why not? Curtains are shut. And even if they weren't, it's not like we haven't disgraced ourselves enough already.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he says with a grin, eyes flicking down to catch a glimpse of your chest.

You hop down from the counter and kiss him again, hastily unzipping his pants and taking him out of his underwear. Thick and heavy in your hand - the overconfidence comes from somewhere, obviously - you feel him throb against your touch.

A few gentle strokes and he’s groaning, eyes shut and head tilted back, beads of precum gathering at the tip. Your mouth waters at the sight; Kishibe, having just opened his eyes, snaps when he sees the effect this is having on you. He spins you around and bends you over the counter, tugging your skirt up above your hips. You’re standing here so exposed - no shirt, no underwear, only the thin fabric of your skirt shielding your naked form - but you trust him now, just as much as you do when your life is in his hands.

He drags the tip of his cock against your pussy and you gasp.

You’re not sure how, but you feel empty without him inside, even though you haven’t even felt it yet.

You spread your legs for him, wet and stretched enough to take whatever he has to give you.

As the head of his cock pushes inside you, Kishibe is the one to moan then, deep and low.

“Oh baby,” he breathes. “Oh, sweetheart, you feel so good already, my love. You’re squeezing right around me, fuck,” he stills against you, hands on your hips preventing you from sliding back against him. “I … I need a second.”

“Done already?” you tease, looking back at him over your shoulder, your shaking legs barely supporting you. You grip the countertop more firmly to steady yourself. “Surely not?”

“Can you wait a few minutes to give me shit?” he retorts, and you feel his smile as he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Usually I’d say you’d have every right, but I don’t think you want to get into that right now.” He pushes in further then, inch by inch. “Or do you?”

“You’re right,” you laugh airily, “you’re right, just … keep doing that, please.”

He slides in further, almost to the hilt now. He grips your hips with both hands as he seats himself fully inside you.

You knew it would be a stretch, but this - the feeling of being so impossibly and blissfully full - takes you by surprise nonetheless. He stays there for just another moment as you adjust to him and you feel his thumb stroke slow, soothing circles along your lower back as you inhale slow and deep.

You push back against him when you’re ready for him to start moving, and he doesn’t hesitate. Pulling his hips back, he thrusts back inside you with a groan, the slap of skin against skin echoing around the kitchen. He sets a strong, steady pace; hips snapping against yours as you rest your forehead on the counter, chest bouncing as he fucks into you as though he’s thought about doing this for years.

Kishibe reaches over and grabs your hands from the counter, crossing them behind your back and holding them in place with his own. This position means you arch further, allowing him to thrust deeper inside you, reaching spots you never thought anyone could hit.

His grip on your wrists is tight but it never hurts; he’s handling you with such care, far more thoughtfully than you would have expected. That being said, he’s not treating you like you’re fragile or breakable - you wouldn’t like it if he did - rather, he’s touching you like your enjoyment is by far the most important aspect of this. He’s treating you like a partner.

You turn your head so your cheek is resting on the surface. You just want to angle yourself so you can look back and see him. You need to see him, you need to know if he’s as fucked out as you are, reduced to utter desperation, unable to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re so tight and drenched and messy around him.

When you see him, your breath hitches. Your guess wasn’t too far off.

Kishibe’s flushed now, pink tinting his face and neck, and his chest rises with short, shallow, primal pants. He’s biting down hard on his lower lip, so much so you think it might bleed, and he’s looking right at you, meeting your gaze head-on. His brows are knit tightly together, jaw pulled tight as he keeps his focus on you. He looks to be as close as you are.

When neither of you look away, unable to tear your eyes off eachother, he speeds up his thrusts. He’s chasing his end now; his pace is frenetic, and he lets out a throaty groan when his cock slips out at one point, the speed of his movements and the wetness between your legs making everything a messy, perfect blur.

“You’re so beautiful, I can’t fucking stand it,” he says, punctuating his sentence with a disbelieving chuckle, “I should have said it sooner. Fuck, you’re so, so beautiful, it drives me insane.”

He lets go of one of your hands, keeping the other pinned behind your back, and you quickly bring it between your legs and trace circles around your clit with your fingers. You’re so wet - both from his mouth and from the way he’s fucking into you now - that you can hear your fingers moving, which means Kishibe can too.

He leans down and moves his free hand to join yours, collecting some of the wetness between your legs and rubbing your clit in tandem with your movements. You shift your position to allow him to touch you as he wants to, the weight of him against your back and the warmth of his breaths hitting your damp skin wringing a carnal moan from you.

“So pretty for me, aren’t you?” he says, almost reverent. “So pretty like this. I could do this for hours - could hear you make those noises for the rest of my life, fuck, you’re doing so, so well, my love.”

You feel it build so quickly that you gasp his name in surprise, the word almost sounding like a question. He understands, keeping the pace of both his thrusts and the circling of his fingers consistent.

It washes over you like a tidal wave; pulses of explosive pleasure rippling through your muscles, making your legs shake and your eyes squeeze shut. Your breath catches in your chest, only a shaky, weak-sounding moan escaping your lips - you can’t even think of any words right now, let alone speak them.

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

You feel his cock pulse inside you, his hand releasing the arm that’s still behind your back as he grips your hips instead, grinding into you as deeply as he can. A few more shallow thrusts follow, aftershocks making your cunt flutter around him, and then he stills again, the sound of both your heavy breathing filling the room.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He straightens you up a little, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your neck and rubbing up and down your arm. It feels nice; you feel so serenely calm at that point, you could almost fall asleep resting against him.

He straightens up fully once both of your heart-rates return to normal and the sweat on your skin starts to cool, and then he pulls out, grabbing a tissue from the counter to clean for you.

You fumble with your skirt to pull it further down your thighs - not to hide anything from him, but to provide the tiniest bit of warmth now that Kishibe’s body heat is no longer distracting from the cold.

He picks up his jacket from the floor and walks behind you to rest it on your shoulders. You smile gratefully, letting silence settle between you. He stays there, wrapping an arm around you from behind.

“Do you want me to head away?” he asks, and you can tell from his tone that he wouldn’t be upset if you did.

You shake your head.

You don’t want him to go yet. Not just yet, not when you’re still processing all that’s just happened.

“I know it could get complicated,” you begin, trying to reason with him and yourself. “But ... no. I don't want you to go. I ... you can stay over. If that's something you'd like to do.”

“I would."

You let out a short chuckle, half-relief and half-bemusement. “Then I think we shouldn’t talk about complications anymore. For a while, anyway."

“I agree completely,” he mumbles against the crook of your neck.

“First time for everything.”

“You wound me,” he whispers, feigning offence but kissing your hairline anyway. “So does this mean I get a tour of your apartment now?”

Taking the hand that’s wrapped out you, you tug him in the direction of your bedroom. He makes a few characteristic comments on your furniture choices and you elbow him without any malice, pointing out some of your favourite pieces as you make your way through your apartment.

It feels strangely normal; you crossed this boundary together, but the world hasn’t fallen down around you.

He’s still the same, you’re still the same … mostly.

You know there’ll be a conversation tomorrow. It can’t go unaddressed considering you spend your working day together, but there’s no use spoiling the serene temporary escape the two of you have carved out for yourselves.

You reach your bedroom and he follows you into bed wordlessly, draping an arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest. You interlock his fingers with yours.

Nestled in the sheets with him, you fall asleep more quickly that you have done in recent memory.

After your entire adult life spent on death’s door, you allow yourself to feel an emotion you barely even recognise anymore.

You feel safe.

#GODDAMNN #kishibe x reader #kishibe smut #csm smut

3K notes · View notes