thingwithasoul - Tumblr blog

thingwithasoul · 1 month

Text

And I'm Gonna Hurt You

Kishibe x Reader | 18+

C/W: Considerable age gap (reader in early 20s, Kishibe in mid-late 40s),Female bodied reader, Daddy kink, Oral (F receiving),Fingering, Edging

A/N: I haven't been on Tumblr in ages so if I missed any cw lemme know and I'll add. Word Count:3189 words Read Prologue & Epilogue here >> Lilies trilogy master-list

~You're like an angel, nothing can touch you~

You were fuming, eyes darting around to avoid his. Cheeks running red, mostly out of embarrassment. You felt exposed, skin and heart. More than the fact that you said what you said, what sent your vision swirling was the fact that he looked absolutely indifferent. Unmoved. Maybe even a tinge of annoyance flashing in between the crevices of his face. His stone-cold stature, almost a mockery of your visible agitation.

“So, what are we?” the words you uttered minutes ago still hung in the air, heavier than the heaving of your chest. The taste they left in your mouth started bittering by the second. You were on the brink of something, whether crying or punching him in the face, that was yet to be decided. To say that you felt stupid would be an understatement.

Kishibe was calculating the situation. When he walked in through your door, he expected it to be just like any other evening. Lecherous fucking and call it a night. But now, there he stood, rubbing his forehead and regretting dropping by. You were a mess, to say the least, exhibiting and alluding to such a mixture of emotions that it was almost alien to him at this age.

It did start like every other evening. He found himself leaning on your doorway, counting the loops in the pattern of your doormat. Twenty two, he knew it already. His fingers clutched around the flask a little tighter than usual as he took in the raw whiskey. He could feel the bullshit of the day slowly evaporating away while something rather depraved crept up in its place. Twenty-two, he knew it well.

He would always take his time before knocking (never the doorbell) and actively tried not to delve into the reason behind doing so. Once the vague pangs of conscience settled in, he would knock. By the time his knuckles hit the door a third time, you'd be standing on the other side. He could almost smell you.

He could, in fact, smell you. And every time, it made him wish that he had the ability to leave his nose at his job. Cause you smelt sickeningly sweet. Wild berries dipped in butter syrup, hardened with caramel. Gun powder icing, mercury glaze. It got to his veins faster than anything. And when you opened the door, standing in some old, worn-out t-shirt and underwear, he would feel his heart twist just the tiniest bit. Just enough for him to know this was becoming a habit. He would lean forward to meet your lips — the nastiest saccharine. Nauseating.

~You know my weakness, but you don't know what I'd do~

Pulsating. Warm. Blood rushing, frenzy, just under the skin. Already, by then, he would feel heat coagulating in his loins just at the mere taste of your lips. Plum jam and cinnamon poison. The softness of your mouth taunting the sharpness of his teeth.

And so it started, like any other evening. With his hands snaking down your belly.

But this evening, the script went a little off track when you pulled away and, almost comically, distanced yourself. Hips swaying in that devilish motion to the soft, blooming background beats. A genuine smile, to his dismay, formed as you gestured him towards your kitchen. The kitchen of your apartment is less of a kitchen and more of a space in the corner where you cook. In your shoddy studio apartment, everything was a bit too dangerously close to the other. He could already see the mess on the counter. You were up to something. Your smile, scorpion-like, stinging his skin, "I have something for you."

After his work, he didn't like unpredictability. He wanted things he could rely on. Booze, cunt, solitude. However, that fucking smile of yours was the most unpredictable factor in his life right now, and that fact both appalled and enthralled him.

He stood behind you, watching you move to the music, cutting into what seemed like pudding. The spoon trembling as you raised it to his chin, eyebrows wiggling, “Come on, try it.” As he bent down to take the spoon in his mouth, you flashed him the biggest grin - “How is it? I made it for you! You know my mom used to make it on my birthday, I thought you'd like it. Is it good?”

It wasn't anything extraordinary. You weren't the greatest cook. And truth be told, it could use some more sugar. But something about this whole ordeal made his stomach turn. Just the mere view of this dislocated image of a normal household, to come home to someone, to have someone who makes you their birthday pudding, made him jittery. He never had anything like this, he never knew he’d even like something like this. Unbecoming. Sacrilegious.

In that moment, for the first time in a long time he felt the need to have. To possess. To have this for the rest of his wretched life. He couldn't even begin to comprehend how selfish all of it was. How utterly inhumane. And how terribly human.

And just like that, his palm was wrapped under your jaw and the other one up your t-shirt, tongue desperate against yours. When he bit your lower lip, it was with need. Soon, he turned you around, pressed against the counter, his nose buried in your nape. He took in your scent like a man derived of air, fingers etching patterns over your panties.

“God, you're the prettiest little thing,” he almost huffed in your ears., licking the delicate lobe. Saliva trails all over your neck, he wanted to take in even the salt of your sweat. “So fucking beautiful, you got me fucked up.”

“You like it?” you mewled. Your knees barely holding your weight up as his fingertips swayed, pressing dense, deep.

“Every inch. Every goddamn inch. I'd do anything for you”, with that, his hands were sliding up your sides, fabric bunched up in his grip. Kisses up your spine, “Anything you want.” You were clutching the counters for a semblance of balance, “just wann- make ya feel good,” mouth hardly closing enough for clear utterances, “be yo- favorite girl.”

“God, you already do,” he was pressed firm against your back, hard against your supple flesh, “You are. You are my only girl.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, all motion in the room came to a halt. He pulled himself away, and when you turned around to see his face, it was unreadable. Blank. You felt anxiety kick in the back of your ribs, you didn’t know what you were supposed to be feeling. You desperately wanted to know what he was feeling. And before you could say anything, he spoke, words ice cold - “I didn't mean it like that.”

“You meant it like what?” the words doing little to convey the amount of hurt you felt, “So, What are we?”

~Tell me I'm no one else's but yours~

“Look, kid..” he sat down on the edge of your bed, cigarette hanging from the edge of his lips.

“Don’t you dare call me that,” voice trembling, the rage taking hold of you.

“You are young, and you should be with…” he trailed off, patting around his body, looking for his lighter.

“Oh, so now I’m too young for you, but 5 mins ago, I was old enough to stick your dick inside of,” your tone was dripping with scorn.

A subtle tch. His lighter left lying on his work desk.

Kishibe continued as if you didn’t even mutter a word, “With someone of your age, who will love you and treat you good. Give you a good life.”

“And what if I love you?’ Blasphemous. Profane.

“You don’t love me,” he said factually, no missed beats, “it's just infatuation, happens at your age,” certain.

“You don’t get to tell me how I fucking feel,” you practically hissed, palpably rattled.

Kishibe sighed in response. He could tell you can not be reasoned with. He knew precisely what was about to come out of your mouth by the way your lips swelled up, and he was contemplating just walking out when you blurted it out,

“Do you love me?”

“You don’t want to do this,” apathetic, stone-cold, the cut-line on his face as harsh as his tone.

“Yes or no. I didn’t ask for anything else.”

Kishibe was silent. His gaze was indecipherable, still, fixed on you. As indifferent as ever, but you could tell there was an indiscernible trace of something else in his eyes.

“Say no, and I’ll let you be forever. Say no and walk away, and don’t ever look back,” you were pushing him dangerously and he knew it.

His mouth was pressed in a line. He knew what to say. He knew what he should have done. It was as simple as that, you were giving him an out that he was looking for ever since you smiled at him differently that terrible, fervent, rueful night. Yet…yet…

“I don’t think I have the right to love you,” the words bittered his mouth as they came out. He was sobering up, badly.

A chill ran through your shoulders. Warmth behind your ears. The ringing in your head suddenly stopped, and you could almost taste the sharpness in the air. When you spoke, it was clear. Measured. Repulsed.

“You don’t have the right to love me, huh…So, I was just another girl you were fucking casually? Did I get that right?”

At this point Kishibe himself was confused as well. He thought he made that abundantly clear, to begin with. Sure, he would call you up every other night. And started sleeping over instead of leaving right after sex. And he would buy you things and sometimes even have dinners in fancy restaurants. But none of that really meant anything, right? The way your witty jokes made him chuckle, the soft skin of your palm against his calloused knuckles; it's just ordinary stuff. Yes, he never did all of that for any of the other women he had been fucking. And he was trying really hard now to recall which other women he had been fucking recently other than you. At this point, he was starting to blame his age for this memory lapse. There must have been other women. Has he really been that drunk all this time?

You were pretty much shaking in place by this point. Kishibe realized he should say something before you… and you did.

Your eyes were welling up. Lips quivering, red plum. There you were, begging to be loved like you were a child again. You loathed him in this moment, such a brute. And before he could even think of saying anything, the intensity of your rage got the best of you. You stormed over to the bed, hand acting on its own. A loud slap landed on his cheek faster than you could even process what was happening.

You basically spitted at his face — words stressed, vile, livid.

“You sick, old fuck. You don’t have the right to love me, but sure, let's fuck this tight, fresh pussy, yeah? You fucking pervert. Absolute disgusting freak.”

He didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the fact that someone managed to land a hit on him after god knows how long, let alone a regular woman or maybe because it was the first time he was seeing you like this, verbalizing word to word how he felt inside. Slimly. Sleazy. Throbbing.

It roused something in him. Something foreign yet familiar. An ineffable, forbidden alchemy of acute guilt and unbridled desire. He pitied himself. Almost to the point he could laugh out loud. How pathetic has he become that it's stirring him to see you like this? Eyes red with anger, glassy with tears. He was loving the fact that you hated him. And that you needed him at the same time. It was dizzying. Intoxicating.

Tears started streaming down your flushed cheeks, “Am I not good enough for you?”

You were sobbing. Uncontrollably. If he could describe what he felt at this sight, it was like someone was twisting a knife inside his heart and jerking him off at the same time.

"Come here, sweet thing."

Before you could protest, he had grabbed you by your hips, pulling you closer. Face buried in your lower belly, he was taking your scent in. Golden skin, milk powder. Then he was looking up at you, bloodshot, drunk eyes.

Glimmering like an angel, towering over his figure. He thought of how such a delicate thing could exist in a world like this. He knew sooner or later this world would not allow such an anomaly. And he was afraid that he was a mere agent of that fate. The joke was all on him.

“So you’re telling me you love this old pervert, is that so, Angel?”

He could feel the anger boiling up again inside you, lava hot, warm tangerine. But he had different intentions, so he pulled you down on his lap. He hovered his lips on your collarbone, “You know, sweet, sweet girls like you should stay away from sick fucks like me?”, words fluttering on your skin, voice husky, soaked with lust. His hand was caressing your thighs, the insides of them. In a fraction of a second, the heat from your head shot straight to your core. That stupid easy, you couldn’t really help yourself.

“I might develop a habit…” he felt the truth slither in his throat; love is not made for people like him, but “You do burn better than whiskey.”

Habit? He was strung out on you, higher and longer than he himself knew.

"Tell Daddy what you want, baby."

He was thumbing your lips. Touch fleecy, then crude, feeling the sharpness of your teeth from over your lips. You could only whimper in response, thoughts slowly starting to melt away.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” a command, not a request.

“I want you,” your tongue traced the words on his fingertips, now brushing against your incisors.

“You already have me, girl,” he pulled his fingers out, eyes set straight into yours, sordid stare.

“No...no like that,” words were evading you, “I want to be with you, like, like a thing.” Like you were in high school again, confessing to your crush. Nothing more humiliating than longing to be loved, “I need this to mean as much to you as it does to me,” yearning to be adored.

You were squirming under his gaze, flustered by your brash declarations. Even now, he was baffled by your sincerity, and it drove him insane. To be wanted, no, needed like this.

He could never in a thousand years come up with an explanation as to why you would even want that, let alone cry for it. He wanted to ask what exactly you saw in him. But he knew better than to hurt you anymore now. So he decided to hurt you later, only delaying the inevitable. Even as he was saying it, he knew it was wrong, “How can I deny such a pretty little thing?”, It was beyond anything he should ever give you, “My sweet girl.” Wrong. Bound to go up in flames. Destined to break that porcelain heart of yours.

“Show daddy how much you want him. Let me have all you got”. Greedy. Cruel.

His tongue was inside you, and hands gripping your hip into place. Legs over his shoulder, your head was drowning in the clouds. Back arched off the bed, you could barely take enough air in, heart beating like a prey caught, magnificently helpless.

He had you exactly where it would get your veins run magma in a coil, nose nudging you just at the right angle. Your legs closed tighter round his head with every demanding lap, every sinful suck.

“You are gonna be the death of me, sugar, if you keep this up,” he said, pushing your thighs open, burning bite marks on the flimsy skin. Your complaints rolled out in whines and fell on deaf ears. “Eager, are we?”

And then he was climbing on top of you, viper eyes, jaw clenched, stubble wet with your fluids. Piercing purple rings along his tedious way. Hard nipple between his teeth, his fingers circled your opening, stretching, mean, almost careless. Three digits in, aching, you were pulsating against his knuckles. And before you could whine some more, he pushed the other ones down your mouth, probing your warm, silky insides. The pleases you choked up, craving for more of him, were barely audible, saliva running down the sides of your mouth. Tongue rolled around his fingers, deep enough to touch your throat.

Just when your limbs spasmed with impending ecstasy, he pulled his fingers out, leaving you gaping, hollow on either end. You looked up, frustrated, to see him licking his fingers clean with a filthy smirk. He was taste-testing you, his turn to test you, sloppily. Annoying. Tease.

“Fuck. you.” Impatient. Reeling.

“Well then, better beg, love,” he said leaning forward, fiddling with his belt buckle, messy. When you reached out to palm him, he stopped you in your tracks. “Think I asked you to do something, babe,” pinning both your wrists over your head with ease. You were raw with need, and at that point, nothing but a hole, wanting and waiting to be filled.

He pulled your bottom lip with his teeth, drawing a pained moan out of the pit of your stomach. His thumb and index pressed into the underside of your jaw, forcing your mouth open; you were at his mercy. “Don't make me wait now, be a good sport and ask for it. prettily.”

And beg, you did. Eyes hungry, words delirious, writhing in a frenzy. Pleases in ardent pleads, in fervid prayers. Pining for the elusive, torturous release that only he knows the rites to. What a wondrous thing to be hunted down, euphoric misery. So you begged, clawing at his chest, “Please, Daddy, I need you inside of me, fuck me, please,” a hymn, an offering, please, please, please.

“That’s more like it,” a sneer, he was eyeing you down, then a flicker of intense intent, a kiss, feather-light yet doused in gasoline, undeniable love, certain devotion, “Good girl.”

Your hair in his fist, he was thrusting in, invasive, like a dagger through your depth, the line between pain and pleasure blurred into heat waves beneath the skin. You were melting on him, underneath him, into him.

“Who do you belong to?” he groaned in your ears. A touch too sincere.

“You”

“Name!” he grunted. Fist tighter, pace rougher. Brazen, claiming.

“You, Kishibe. I belong to you.” Full of him, filled with bliss to the brim, paradise smelt of flesh, like sweat and liquor. Base and carnal, beyond divine.

“That right. So good for me.”

When you came, he murmured in your ears, “Angel, I won’t be good enough for you even if I were born a hundred times over.”

~There is nothing that I want but you Tell me, can I be seen through?~

#chainsaw man #csm #csm kishibe #kishibe x reader #chainsaw man kishibe #kishibe x y/n #kishibe smut #kishibe x you #csm smut #chainsaw man smut

21 notes · View notes

thingwithasoul · 1 month

Text

You're Such an Angel

Kishibe × Reader

C/W: Considerable age gap (reader in early 20s, Kishibe in mid-late 40s)

word count: 692 words Read Corpus & Epilogue here >> Lilies trilogy master-list

~You're like an angel, I can't come close to you~

He would see you almost every day in the convenience store outside of the Public Safety HQ. If he went to buy cigarettes for the night, at around 8:35, you’d be there, buying a sandwich. By the way you dressed, he could tell you were in Uni. Always a little bit shuffled, hair in a messy bun, lush eyes dark with exhaustion. But what would rouse his interest, borderline instinctual, was your serene, languid demeanor. Something inexplicably attractive in the way you moved, almost liquid-like. The way your feet grazed the slippery floors, indecisive gaze into the sandwich shelves. Always taking your sweet time, existing in your totality, something he hadn’t come across in a long time.

He knew better then to keep his distance, only stealing glances from the corner of his eyes. Nothing sexual, rather curious. A slight, harmless voyeuristic pleasure; the object: your form. He never really wanted anything out of this, he had plenty of other women for that. In fact, he consciously avoided speaking to you whenever your eyes met his, and you would flash a pressed, polite smile. After all, you were far too normal and, let’s be honest here, young for him. Yes, there was something intrinsically inviting about you, undeniably unadulterated too. And it was nothing he should ever even touch at this point in his life, especially at that point in your life. So he was content with just observing your little gestures, never wondering about anything beyond that. He could never really tell if he started going there regularly looking for you or if you just ended up there at the same time as him, only on weekdays, of course.

But fate, a tormentor, would never allow him an existence of such saintliness. Dirty dogs and damned devils, his way of life could never escape him. And it had no place for a belle like you. Yet, that day, when you walked in, soaked to the bone and shivering like a fawn, he felt his resolve teetering. The dark skies outside poured down equal dark. With your hair down and your dress dripping, for the first time you looked somewhat distraught, vulnerable even. Enough for his will to finally give in. He hated the idea of you like this out there, susceptible to whatever godforsaken thing nature can conjure. So, he took out that whiskey flask and took a swig before walking over to you. When your eyes met his, your lips were in a frown, a near pout.

“Do you want a ride home?” he was a man known to get straight to the point.

Your brows were furrowed up, marginally ironical, a skittish blend between hesitance and confusion at his sudden approach. His eyes never left yours, never wandering down. “No sign of the rain stopping anytime soon,” he was intense, coarse, his presence, with intent. You paused for a while, eyeing him, and after decades, he found himself praying…that you would say no.

“Sure, lemme grab a sandwich first,” and you smiled, impish. Tch.

That whole ride to your place, neither of you really said anything. There was a strange calmness to your being, a bizarre familiarity that deeply unsettled Kishibe. It was as if he already knew you, for years, and it was just another ordinary occurrence. You were running your palms up and down your arms for warmth. Soft, skin in goosebumps, your nape and the strands of hair sticking to it like riverbeds. With you sitting in the passenger side, there was no denying it now. Your scent tantalizing, wet allure.

He knew exactly at that point, he would end up in your bed.

When you got out of the car, he was staring straight ahead. Drizzle dancing in neon-lit roadside pools. “You should not get into cars with strangers, ya know”, he said, exhaling faint smoke.

“Are you warning me about yourself?”, a soft chuckle. He looked out to see your playful, sly grin. A subtle shift in your figure, a frivolous indication.

What he didn’t know then, what he could never have seen coming, is where you would end up in his head.

~Wedding doves and leather gloves and all the things you're made up of What a wondrous thing to be in love~

#chainsaw man #csm #csm kishibe #kishibe x reader #chainsaw man kishibe #kishibe smut #kishibe x you #chainsaw man smut

12 notes · View notes