Kishibe

The air in the Tokyo Public Safety headquarters always smelled the same: a cloying mixture of ozone, industrial floor cleaner, and the metallic tang of blood that never quite seemed to wash out of the floorboards. For Kishibe, there was a fourth scent that permeated his world—the peaty, burning scent of cheap scotch and the stale smoke of a life lived far past its expiration date.

He wasn't supposed to be this old. In this line of work, "old" was a miracle, a statistical anomaly that shouldn't exist. He remembered a time when he was younger, thinner, and possessed of a reckless arrogance that had earned him the moniker "Mad Dog Kishibe." Back then, he didn’t have the Glasgow Grin carved into his cheek, a jagged silver reminder of a devil’s claw that had tried to tear his head in half. Back then, he didn't need a flask permanently grafted to his palm just to keep his hands from shaking when the sun went down.

He had seen everything. He’d seen the best hunters of his generation chewed up and spat out by things that shouldn't exist in a sane world. He’d seen Division 1 decimated, and now, he found himself as the captain of Special Division 4—a collection of freaks, monsters, and kids with too much heart and too little sense.

Training Aki Hayakawa had been a grim necessity. Training Denji and Power had been a chaotic nightmare. But training you? That was a special kind of hell that Kishibe hadn't been prepared for.

When Makima had first introduced you, she’d done so with that unsettling, polite smile of hers—the one that never reached her cold, gold eyes. "A new asset, Kishibe," she had said, gesturing to the creature standing beside her. "A fiend with... unique temperament. I believe your particular brand of discipline is exactly what it needs."

Kishibe had looked you over, his eyes bleary but sharp. You were, in a word, disgusting. Not because of gore or horns, but because of how cute you were. You possessed a soft, disarming aesthetic that felt like a trap in a world of teeth and shadows. You looked like something that belonged on a pastel poster, not on the front lines of a bloodbath.

"I have three rules for my subordinates," Kishibe had grunted during that first meeting, taking a long pull from his flask before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn’t care for pleasantries. He didn’t care for names. "First: I’m a Devil Hunter from Division 1. Second: I get a real kick out of being called 'Master.' And third: I like booze, women, and killing devils. Anything else is a waste of my goddamn time."

You had blinked at him, tilted your head, and before you could even utter a sound, Kishibe’s hand had blurred. With the practiced ease of a man who had ended hundreds of lives, he reached out and snapped your neck.

The crack echoed in the training room. Your body hit the floor like a sack of wet grain.

"Lesson one," Kishibe muttered, looking down at your cooling corpse. "Don't let your guard down around humans, either. Get up. We’re just getting started."

He had expected fear. He had expected the same kind of wary, traumatized resentment he’d seen in Denji and Power. Instead, when you healed—your neck knitting back together with a series of wet, sickening pops—you didn't come at him with claws or screams. You came at him with a look of absolute, unadulterated adoration.

That was weeks ago. Since then, his life had become a repetitive cycle of violence and inexplicable, misplaced affection.

Every training session followed the same script. Kishibe would attempt to teach you footwork, or how to anticipate a devil’s reach, or how to use your environment to mask your presence. He would strike you, maim you, and "kill" you a dozen times an hour, trying to forge a weapon out of your soft edges. And every single time, you would use the opening not to counter-attack, but to get as close to him as possible.

You were like a parasite of affection. You would cling to his trench coat, burying your face in the worn leather. You would nuzzle against his scarred cheek while he was trying to put you in a chokehold. You were focused on him with a single-minded, primal intensity that had nothing to do with combat and everything to do with a desperate, localized heat.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

"You’re doing it again," Kishibe growled, his voice a low rumble of frustration.

They were in a private training hall, the afternoon sun casting long, orange bars across the floor. You weren't listening to his lecture on the lethal potential of a hidden blade. Instead, you were practically vibrating, your eyes wide and glazed, your breathing shallow and quick. You had lunged at him a moment ago, not to strike, but to wrap your arms around his waist and press your body against his.

He shoved you off, but you didn't stumble back. You arched your back, a soft, needy sound escaping your throat. You were trailing him like a dog in heat, your hands reaching out to brush against his arms, your fingers digging into the fabric of his suit.

"We are training," he said, his hand moving to the bridge of his nose. A headache was blooming behind his eyes, fueled by the lack of alcohol and the sheer absurdity of the situation. "You’ve made zero progress in fourteen days. You can’t parry, you can’t dodge, and you spend more time trying to smell my scent than you do looking for an opening. You’re a liability."

You didn't seem to care. You took a step forward, your face flushed, your pupils dilated until the color of your eyes was nearly swallowed by black. You were drooling—just a little—the sight of it making Kishibe’s lip curl in distaste.

"Shut up," he snapped. He grabbed you by the collar and threw you across the room. You hit the padded wall with a dull thud, but you were up in seconds, scrambling back toward him on all fours with a terrifying, pathetic eagerness.

He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of his years. He realized then that traditional methods—knives, guns, broken bones—weren't working. You viewed his violence as a form of intimacy. To a creature like you, a broken neck was just a rough caress. If he wanted to break you into a proper hunter, he had to address the "distraction" at its source.

"Fine," he muttered. "You want to be a dog? I’ll treat you like one."

He walked over to the worn leather couch in the corner of the hall—a piece of furniture he usually used for passing out between shifts. He sat down heavily, the springs groaning under his weight. He didn't look at you as he reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He unscrewed the cap, took a long, burning swallow, and then set the bottle down on the small side table.

"Come here," he commanded.

You didn't hesitate. You were at his knees in an instant, your hands resting on his thighs, your head tilted back to look up at him. You were radiant with a sickening kind of joy, your body trembling with anticipation.

Kishibe didn't move to embrace you. He didn't even look down at your face. He stared straight ahead at the empty training hall, his expression as cold and immovable as a tombstone. One hand stayed on the armrest, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat.

"You’re a mess," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Look at you. You’re supposed to be a hunter. You’re supposed to be feared. Instead, you’re just... leaking."

He could feel the heat radiating off you. You had climbed up, straddling one of his legs, your weight shifting as you began to grind your hips against his sturdy thigh. It was shameless. The friction was audible in the quiet room, the fabric of your slacks dampening with a visible, dark heat. You were seeking friction, seeking release, seeking anything from the man who had spent the last month trying to kill you.

Kishibe let out a short, dry chuckle. It wasn't a sound of amusement; it was a sound of mockery. He felt the pressure of your body, the desperate, rhythmic movement of your hips as you tried to coax a reaction out of him. He remained a statue.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice low. "You think if you rub yourself raw against me, I’ll give you what you’re looking for? You think I’m going to fuck the madness out of you?"

You whimpered, your hands clutching at his vest, your head lolling back as you worked yourself against him. You were a domestic animal in the skin of a monster, completely undone by your own biology.

Suddenly, Kishibe’s hand moved. It wasn't a caress. His large, calloused palm came down hard against your backside—a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the room.

You gasped, your body jolting, but you didn't pull away. If anything, you pressed harder, a frantic moan catching in your throat.

He didn't stop there. He reached down, his hand gripping the flesh of your hip with bruising force, his fingers digging in as he manually forced you to grind down harder against the unyielding muscle of his thigh. He was controlling the tempo now, turning your own arousal into a forced exercise in endurance.

"You need to be neutered," he growled, his eyes finally dropping to meet yours. There was no lust in his gaze—only a cold, professional disdain. "Or maybe just broken. A hunter who can’t control their own urges is just a corpse waiting to happen. You're a weapon, and right now, the safety is stuck because you're too busy being a brat."

He watched your face—the way your lips parted, the way your eyes rolled back. You were so far gone it was pathetic.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You struggled to focus, your gaze fluttering up to his. The scar on his face looked jagged and angry in the dimming light.

"You aren't getting a damn thing from me," he said, his voice flat. "Not a touch, not a kind word, and certainly not the fuck you’re begging for. You’re going to sit here, and you’re going to rut it out of your system until you’re empty. Or you’re going to learn to reject the temptation entirely. Either way, I’m just the wall you’re hitting yourself against."

He leaned back, his free hand reaching for his scotch again. He took a slow sip, the amber liquid catching the light, while his other hand remained clamped on your hip, anchor-heavy and punishing. He didn't move his leg to help you. He didn't shift to give you a better angle. He simply sat there, a bored spectator to your desperation.

"You're a pain in the ass," he muttered into the rim of his glass. "Makima gave me a broken toy. But I’ve fixed worse things than you."

The sound of your heavy breathing and the rhythmic friction of cloth against cloth filled the space. Kishibe ignored it, his mind already drifting to the next mission, the next devil, the next drink. He let you struggle against his thigh, let you exhaust yourself in your own heat, treating the entire display with the same clinical detachment he would use to clean a gun.

"Do it," he spurred you on, his voice a rasp of sandpaper. "Get it over with. Be the animal you are. Then, maybe tomorrow, we can actually start acting like Hunters. But if you touch me outside of this room, I’ll take your hands. Do you understand, fiend?"