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lost-in-thoughts03 · 1 month ago

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EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE || FRONTMAN

Previous part || Final part

" Oh, can't you see, you belong to me?"

Summary: After the fifth game, the Frontman leaves you under The Officer's surveillance, but it appears that he is not amused to see you with his own worker.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, DARK, heavy smut, heavy angst, explicit content, coercion, choking, using of vibrating collar, erotic, power imbalance, manipulation, threats, violence, jealousy, heavy tension, major character death, betrayal, stockholm syndrome, toxic relationship, matured language, mentioned of VIPs, obsession, possessive, ownership, older man x younger woman (legal), yandere behavior, soft-dom! In-ho, submissive! Reader, praising, worshipping, oral (F receiving), hard and rough sex, PiV, unprotected, overstimulation, riding, and markings

Words: 6.4k

The weight of the onyx mask pressed against your face like a second skin—cool, suffocating, final.

Your steps felt hollow as you followed him back through the dim corridors lit only by flickering red panels.

His presence was silent now, just a tall shadow moving ahead of you, once known as Young-il…now a stranger cloaked in secrets and the blood of your past.

The distant sounds of the VIP lounge grew louder—laughter, clinking glasses, animalistic grunts of excitement as the next game played out on massive screens.

It was as if nothing had happened.

No one had died.

No one had betrayed.

No one had been used.

When you both reentered the lounge, the heat of the room and the stench of cigar smoke wrapped around you like a foul welcome. The other VIPs barely turned their heads—too absorbed in the carnage flashing across the monitors to notice your absence.

“ Ah, finally.” One of them drawled lazily.

“ We thought you ran off with your little plaything for good.”

The Frontman gave a slight nod, voice calm, composed again. “ She was attending to errands, as instructed.”

A lie.

Clean.

Undisputed.

You stood still beside him, mask hiding the storm inside your eyes as your heart pounded beneath your robe. You were once again the doll they thought you were—silent, pretty, disposable.

But you knew.

You knew who he really was.

And he knew that now, you were dangerous.

He leaned in close, so quietly only you could hear, his voice a ghost under the mask:

“ Don’t try to turn them against me. They’ll believe me before they believe you.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you agreed—but because every fiber of your being was now at war. Part of you still remembered the calm Young-il in the bunk beds beside you, who once whispered survival strategies through the bars when the guards were asleep.

Another part of you was still reeling from the way he had touched you just minutes ago—how he made you beg for him even while hiding behind a thousand lies.

And another—darker—part of you burned with something cold and sharp.

You weren’t going to forgive this.

“ Next round begins in five minutes.” Another VIP barked, raising a glass.

“ Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.”

The screens shifted—new players, new horror. You watched as the camera panned across Gi-hun’s face on the feed.

He looked older now. Angrier. And painfully unaware that the man orchestrating the whole thing was someone he had once called comrade.

You clenched your fists beneath the folds of your robe. The Frontman took a step forward.

“ Come.” He ordered, just loud enough for you to hear.

“ Stand beside me. Don’t forget your place.”

But you had remembered your place.

And it wasn’t at his side anymore.

It was at his throat.

And when the time came…

You would be the one holding the real mask.

...

The fifth game ended in a flood of screams and silence. Another body. Another life erased under the roar of applause and the shifting weight of money.

You didn’t move.

You stood beside the Frontman like a perfect, polished shadow—silent, masked, untouched on the outside. But your muscles ache beneath the layers of silk and shame, and the dull throb between your thighs was a cruel reminder of what had happened behind those locked doors.

The room swirled with noise.

The VIPs clinked glasses again.

Some laughed. Others groaned over lost bets.

And some were too busy ogling the footage on replay.

You? You felt…disconnected.

Not broken.

But watching yourself from outside your body.

Your fingers were curled gently at your sides, posture graceful, controlled. You weren’t allowed to fidget. He’d taught you that well. Obedience wasn’t just for the bedroom.

It was for survival.

The Frontman turned toward you briefly. His gaze—hidden behind that expressionless, angular mask—lingered just long enough.

“ Be good.” He said, tone calm but unmistakably laced with a command.

“ I have to attend to our guests.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t have to. The silence between you had grown into its own language.

He nodded toward one of the guards standing nearby. Not just any guard. The officer.

Dressed in black, the square symbol stamped on his mask—a rank that answered directly to the Frontman.

Quiet.

Watchful.

Always too still.

“ She stays here.” The Frontman ordered.

“ You’ll make sure she does.”

The officer gave a short nod, stepping closer.

“ Understood, sir.”

You caught the faint tension in the way his hand hovered near his sidearm—not threatening, but a reminder. You weren’t alone. You weren’t free.

You gave a small nod of acknowledgment, still silent.

The Frontman turned without another word, walking back toward the cluster of velvet seats and swirling smoke where the VIPs lounged like bored gods.

And you…

You sat down slowly, perching on the edge of a chaise lounge near the back of the room.

The officer didn’t speak. He just stood a few steps away, arms behind his back, unmoving.

Time crawled.

The voices of the VIPs were distant now—like a murmur behind glass. You stared at the monitor, watching the blood-soaked remnants of the fifth game being cleared. Gi-hun’s face flashed across the screen again.

His eyes…

They were starting to look like yours.

Tired.

Haunted.

Angry.

You wondered if he would even recognize you now. Masked. Owned. Used. A far cry from the girl who once laughed with him during stolen moments in the dorms. The one Jun-bae had once shielded during the first vote.

Jun-bae.

Your stomach turned. His face flickered like a broken slide in your memory, warm and teasing one moment, lifeless the next.

Killed.

By the same man who kissed your trembling lips just an hour ago.

Your hands clenched.

You didn’t cry.

You wouldn’t—not here, not while being watched. But something inside you was hardening. You weren’t planning on staying with his obedient girl for long. And soon, when the final game ended and the masks began to fall—

One of you wouldn’t walk away.

You didn’t know if it would be you.

But it wouldn’t be him without blood on his hands.

And next time…it just might be his.

The room had settled into a quiet lull, the kind that comes before a final act. The VIPs had retreated into their luxuries, sipping their drinks and placing their final bets in hushed tones while the footage of the last remaining players looped endlessly on screen.

You remained seated, arms folded delicately across your lap, the mask hiding the fatigue in your eyes—but not the weight in your chest.

And then…he spoke.

“ You’re quieter than I expected.”

The officer’s voice cut through the haze—low, smooth, calculated. You turned your head slightly to find him stepping forward, his figure blocking out the overhead light as he stood above you.

A shadow in crimson.

“ I saw what happened.” He added, not bothering to lower his voice.

“ In the private chamber.”

You froze.

His tone wasn’t mocking. If anything…it was curious. Amused.

“ Loud little thing, aren’t you?” He said with a hint of a grin beneath the mask.

“ No wonder he’s obsessed.” He tilted his head, studying you like you were an exposed nerve.

“ You’re off-limits. That much is obvious. Marked. Owned. But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious.”

“ You taste as sweet as you sound?”

Your breath hitched, eyes narrowing behind your mask. But before you could respond, he leaned in slowly—his breath grazing the edge of your face as he whispered something into your ear.

Something filthy.

Something bold.

Something that made your heart skip—not from arousal, but from shock.

Your eyes widened beneath the mask.

He laughed quietly.

“ I’d take you out of here.” He murmured.

“ If you asked me to. But you’d have to pay the price, sweetheart. One I think you’re too afraid to name.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch—only watched him.

“ I’ve served that bastard long enough to know what he hides.” He continued, his fingers suddenly under your chin.

He tilted your head up toward him. “ And I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

His voice dropped to a murmur. “ You’re his weakness.”

That word rang in your ears like a gunshot.

“ He wasn’t always the Frontman. He was something else before…someone. And you?” He said.

“ You’re the only one left who could make him fall.”

Then, footsteps.

Fast. Heavy. Purposeful.

The air shifted.

Before either of you could turn, a hand snatched your wrist and yanked you to your feet—away from the officer, away from that hushed threat wrapped in temptation.

“ That’s far enough.”

The Frontman.

His voice was ice, absolute, and his revolver was already raised—pointed straight at the officer’s chest.

The room fell dead silent.

You felt his grip tighten around your wrist—not rough, but possessive. His masked face never left the officer, but you could sense the fury radiating off him like heat.

The officer raised his hands slowly. “ Just keeping her company.” He said coolly.

“ She looked a little...untended.”

The Frontman didn’t move.

“ Leave.” He growled.

A pause.

Then the officer slowly nodded, stepping back without another word. But before he disappeared through the lounge door, he glanced at you one last time and said:

“ When you’re ready to break him…you know where to find me.”

The doors shut behind him.

Silence returned.

The Frontman finally turned to you, his body tense beneath the tailored black. Still gripping your wrist, he pulled you in close—not gently, not violently…but like he needed to feel you again. To make sure you were still his.

“ Did he touch you?”

You didn’t answer. Because you knew the question wasn’t really about the officer.

It was about control.

And for the first time…

It wasn’t entirely his anymore.

The silence between you and the Frontman stretched like wire—tight, strained, dangerously thin. His hand was still wrapped around your wrist, his grip unforgiving.

Not enough to hurt…but enough to remind you who you belonged to.

Or rather…who he thought you did.

His masked face tilted toward yours, and though you couldn’t see his expression beneath the geometric edges, you felt his eyes—burning into you.

“ You’re quiet again.” He said lowly.

“ Still dazed from earlier?”

You didn’t answer.

Not yet.

He took a step closer. “ Or are you trying to forget what happened in the chamber?” His voice dropped an octave—silk laced with threat.

“ Do you need me to remind you?”

You tried to shift back, but he pulled you closer, his gloved fingers ghosting down your side, just enough to make your breath catch.

“ No one else touches you like I do.” He whispered against the edge of your mask.

“ No one else breaks you the way I do.”

Your stomach twisted—not from fear, but from the chaos of your own emotions. Shame. Confusion. Hunger. Rage.

You were his.

But you weren’t.

Not fully.

Not anymore.

“ Maybe.” He said, fingers grazing your waist.

“ I should show you again. Make sure that mouth only moans my name.”

You clenched your jaw beneath the mask.

Then his tone shifted. Still sharp—but colder.

“ What did he say to you?”

You looked up at him.

His body was rigid, controlled, but barely. You could feel it in the way his fingers tightened. He didn’t like what he didn’t know. The idea that someone else had whispered in your ear and made your eyes widen like that.

“ Tell me…” He ordered.

“ Now.”

You hesitated.

And that hesitation said everything.

His grip tightened just slightly, and you felt his breath near your cheek again—hot, angry, possessive.

“ He touched your chin. Get close to your mouth.”

“ Did he offer you freedom?” He said with a humorless chuckle.

“ Did he promise to save you from me?”

You didn’t speak. And that silence struck him harder than any answer.

“ I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.” He muttered.

Then, quieter…darker:

“ You are mine. Every sound, every breath, every bruise I leave—mine. He thinks he knows me?” A scoff.

“ Then he should know what happens when someone touches what’s already claimed.”

He stepped back just enough to look you up and down—slowly.

“ He saw you…but I’m the one who owns you.” Then he leaned in again, brushing his masked mouth against the side of your jaw.

“ So tell me…” He whispered.

“ Do you want me to remind you of what you really are?” His gloved hand skimmed down your thigh.

“ Or would you rather go running to him…just to see if he fucks you as well as I do?”

A line had been drawn.

And now…

He was daring you to cross it.

...

The moment the lounge doors shut behind you, the world went silent.

You didn’t even have time to speak before his grip on your wrist tightened and he dragged you down the corridor.

Each step echoed with authority, boots striking the concrete like a war drum, his long coat trailing behind him. His pace was unforgiving—like he was walking off fury before it spilled into something worse.

You knew where you were going.

Back to the private chamber.

Back to the lion’s den, but this time—not for seduction.

This was punishment.

A test.

A reminder.

The heavy door slammed shut behind you, and he locked it with a sharp click. He turned to you slowly, mask still on. That cold, obsidian thing staring down at you like a god ready to strike.

“ You hesitated.” He said simply. No rage in his tone—just cool disappointment.

“ When I asked what he said. When I asked what you felt.” He stepped forward. You instinctively stepped back—your spine brushing the cold edge of the wall.

“ You think silence protects you?” He asked.

“ No. Silence tempts me.”

He reached into a drawer beneath the shelf and pulled out something gleaming—metal.

A sleek black remote.

Connected to a collar.

Leather.

Clean.

Sharp-edged.

“ Let’s play a game.” He said, voice low and sharp.

“ One question. One answer. You hesitate or lie—” He raised the collar and clicked the control. A soft buzz responded.

“ You wear this. And I make you beg for forgiveness until you forget who tempted you in the first place.”

Your breath caught.

He crossed the room with slow purpose, grabbed the back of your neck gently—but firmly—and slid the collar around your throat. He didn’t buckle it yet. Just held it there, his eyes watching your face for any sign of resistance.

“ Take off the mask.” He whispered.

“ I want to see your face when you answer me.”

With trembling fingers, you removed it. Your lips parted with shallow breath, your gaze meeting the dark void behind his mask.

“ Good girl.”

He fastened the collar—tight, but not choking. Just enough to remind you. Then, the first question.

“ Did you want him to kiss you?”

You hesitated. He clicked the remote—buzz. The vibration against your throat made you gasp, your knees wobbling.

“ Wrong answer.” He murmured, stepping in behind you, crowding you against the wall.

His gloved hand slid around your waist, down between your legs, cupping you roughly over the fabric. “ Your body says otherwise.”

“ Again…” He whispered, pressing harder.

“ Did. You. Want. Him?”

“ No.” You gasped.

He paused. Silent. Then slowly dragged his fingers up your inner thigh.

“ Good.” He growled.

“ Because if you did—I’d make you scream so loud the whole floor would hear who really owns this mouth.”

Without warning, he spun you around and pushed you against the wall—hands braced high, chest heaving.

“ Now the real game begins.” He said.

He clicked the remote again—this time, a deep vibration that pulsed through your throat and straight between your legs. The collar was wired in ways you hadn’t imagined. Your body buckled as heat bloomed instantly, dizzying and involuntary.

“ You want a taste of what he doesn’t get to have?” He whispered darkly, dragging his masked face down your neck, over the collar.

“ Then earn it.”

He pulled your hips back against him, already hard beneath the layers. His hand moved to your front again—slow, calculated, as the vibration deepened with each second.

“ No lies.” He warned.

“ No hesitation.”

And then—he slid two fingers inside you, rough, making you cry out.

“ Answer every question I ask.” He growled.

“ Or I ruin you without letting you finish.”

And with the remote in one hand, his fingers inside you, and your voice already faltering—

You knew this wasn’t just about lust anymore.

It was a war.

A twisted, hungry war between punishment and possession. And you were caught in the center—bare, trembling, and burning.

Exactly where he wanted you. And exactly where you hated to need to be.

Your breath stuttered against the wall, palms splayed flat on the cold surface as the Frontman pressed against your back—his presence a storm wrapped in tailored black and authority.

Every inch of your body was on fire, not just from the harsh vibrations rippling from the collar down your spine, but from him. From the game.

You were soaked.

Trembling.

But still standing.

“ You’re already shaking.” He murmured, fingers pumping slow and deep inside you.

“ And we’ve only just started.”

He curled his fingers and you cried out, your knees nearly giving way—caught only by his other hand braced at your waist.

Then, the vibrations stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

You gasped at the loss, blinking hard, heart pounding in your ears.

“ Do you want more?” He asked coolly.

You swallowed hard, teeth clenching as your body twitched from the denial.

“ Y-Yes…”

A click. The collar buzzed sharply again, just long enough to make you flinch.

“ Wrong answer.” He said, lips against your ear.

“ Say it properly.”

You bit your lip, but the ache was spreading. Desire, humiliation, tension all wrapped into one unbearable coil.

“ P-Please…I want more.” You whispered.

“ Please…”

His fingers moved again, rougher this time—faster. The sudden pace left you gasping.

“ That’s better.” He murmured.

“ But not good enough.”

He yanked your hips back and shoved your chest forward, arching your body into a perfect line for him—forcing you to take it deeper. His fingers scissored inside you, soaked with the mess he’d already drawn from you earlier.

“ Do you think I didn’t notice how you looked at him?” He hissed.

“ Like you forgot whose name made you scream first?”

“ I didn’t—” You tried, but the vibration buzzed again, punishing and sharp. You sobbed.

“ Another lie.” He said, voice like ice.

“ You don’t speak unless it’s truth. Or moaning.”

He pulled his fingers out and shoved them into your mouth without warning.

“ Taste what he’ll never have.”

You gagged slightly, eyes watering as you obeyed, tongue swirling around his gloved digits. He pulled them out slowly, watching your lips part for more.

“ You’re going to ride me again.” He said then, stepping back and dragging you to the center of the room.

“ But you won’t come. Not until I say.”

You barely had time to find balance before he was lowering himself into the velvet armchair, legs spread, cock already out and throbbing, dripping at the tip.

“ Now.” He said, tapping his thigh.

“ On my lap. Face me. Let me watch how desperate you look when you disobey.”

You climbed on, your body still trembling, still soaked, your thighs shaking as you sank down slowly onto him—every inch stretching you open again.

You both groaned.

He gripped your hips, holding you still.

“ Don’t move yet.” He warned.

“ I ask. You answer.”

You nodded quickly, barely able to breathe.

“ Do you want to be mine?” He asked.

Your mouth opened.

Click.

The vibration sparked again. You cried out.

“ Answer.”

“ Yes! Yes, I’m yours—”

“ Then prove it.” He growled, pulling you down harder, his hips thrusting up once, sharply.

“ Ride me like you’d never let another man touch you. Not even in your dreams.”

And you did.

You rode him with everything—desire, guilt, rage, and submission bleeding together. Your moans filled the chamber again, raw and unrestrained.

His hands roamed your body with punishing precision. The collar buzzed when you slowed, or when you hesitated—forcing you to obey, to earn every second of pleasure.

“ You’re mine.” He said again, one hand gripping your throat just above the collar.

“ And I’ll break you again and again until even the thought of someone else makes you burn with shame.”

And as your body clenched around him, right on the edge, right where he wanted you—

He leaned in close and whispered:

“ Now beg me to let you come.”

And you did.

Because you had to.

Because you were his.

And because deep down…

Part of you wanted to be ruined all over again.

Your entire body trembled as you straddled him—legs quivering from exertion, soaked from being edged and commanded and teased into desperate need.

The vibrations in your collar had become unbearable, lighting every nerve in your body with want, and the way he filled you—deep, unforgiving, perfect—made it impossible to think, let alone breathe.

He sat below you like a throne you were chained to—hands gripping your waist as you rode him, every bounce, every grind a test of how far he could push you before you shattered.

“ Please…” You gasped, tears threatening to spill.

“ Please—let me come—”

His hand snapped up to your throat, just above the collar, holding you still as your hips stuttered and your lips trembled.

“ No.”

You whimpered.

“ Not yet.” He said darkly, eyes locked on your face.

“ You want to cum? Then you earn it.”

He leaned in, his masked face just inches from yours. The low flicker of light gleamed across the geometric edges like a blade in the dark.

“ Say my name.”

Your breath hitched.

“ Y-Your name…?”

He was silent. The chamber, the world, the game paused in that moment.

Then, a whisper:

“ In-ho.”

The name.

A real name.

His name.

It struck you harder than any command.

Your lips parted, breath faltering. You stared at him, not the mask—through it. Because now, something cracked. You weren’t just his plaything. Not just his good girl in silk and ruin. You were the only one he gave truth to. The only one who now held something real.

“ Say it.” He growled, his voice unsteady, almost desperate.

“ Say it like you mean it.”

Your lips trembled. Tears gathered in your lashes—not just from pleasure, not just from pain, but from the storm of everything he'd done and everything you still felt.

“ In-ho…” You whispered, your voice breaking.

He sucked in a sharp breath. Your hips moved again, this time not for obedience—but need.

“ Again.”

“ In-ho…” You gasped louder, riding him harder now.

“ Please, In-ho, I need—please—”

“ That’s it.” He hissed, thrusting up into you, matching your rhythm.

“ Only you get to say that name. Only you.”

You were unraveling.

The vibration kicked again.

His grip tightened.

And your orgasm hit like a violent wave—pulling a scream from your throat, your nails digging into his chest, your entire body breaking as you moaned his name again and again, like it was the only thing anchoring you to this world.

“ In-ho—!”

He groaned your name back, his mask pressing to your neck as he buried himself deep one final time—spilling into you as your body shook in his arms.

He didn’t move.

Not for a long moment.

Just held you. Inside and out. Breathing like a man who had just confessed something far more dangerous than a name.

And as the silence wrapped around you once again, he whispered near your ear—this time without a command, or cruelty.

Only the truth.

“ Now you know who I am.”

And somehow, that made everything far more terrifying. Because now…you couldn’t forget him even if you tried.

Your body was still trembling, collapsed against his chest, your breath ragged and shallow, skin damp with sweat and the ghost of everything he’d just drawn out of you. The collar still pulsed faintly against your throat—like it, too, refused to let go of you.

But none of that compared to the heaviness of the name you’d spoken.

The name he gave you.

In-ho.

Not the Frontman.

Not the mask.

Not the myth.

Just In-ho—raw, unguarded, and his.

You laid your head against his shoulder, lips parted, silent now as reality slowly crept back in. His arms were still wrapped around you, tight and steady, as if your body grounded him.

As if your voice—saying his name—had undone something he wasn’t ready to confront.

“ You said I’m the only one who gets to say it.” You murmured softly, your voice scratchy.

“ Why?”

There was a long pause. He didn’t answer right away. His gloved hand slowly moved up your spine, dragging across your skin with quiet care.

Not lust.

Not power.

Something different.

“ Because the others don’t matter.” He said finally, voice rough, low.

“ They only see the mask. You see what’s beneath it.”

You raised your head slowly, your mask still resting beside the chair, forgotten.

“ Is this still a game to you?” You asked, your tone no longer obedient—just…tired.

“ Am I just another player you can control?”

He didn’t flinch. But he also didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted one hand and reached for the edge of his own mask.

And for the first time…he removed it.

You blinked, stunned.

No shadows.

No pretense.

Just a man—exhausted, older than he once was, but still him. Eyes dark, searching. The same eyes that once met yours across the barracks of the dorms when you were both just trying to survive.

His name had changed.

His role had evolved.

But his guilt had never left.

“ I didn’t plan for this.” In-ho said, voice quieter now.

“ I didn’t plan for you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding—not from fear anymore, but confusion. Emotion. Danger.

“ Then what is this?” You asked.

He reached out and took your chin between his fingers—not rough, not demanding.

Just real.

“ Something I can’t afford.” He whispered.

“ But something I’ll destroy anyone else for trying to take.”

And just like that… the Frontman was gone.

There was only In-ho.

And you weren’t sure if that made him more terrifying—

Or more human.

The air was thick with something unnamed—no longer lust, no longer just power. As you straddled him in the velvet chair, the weight of In-ho’s gaze without the mask pierced deeper than any command he’d ever given you.

He wasn’t hiding now.

Not behind titles.

Not behind threats.

Not behind that cold, jagged mask.

Just him.

And that was more dangerous than any gun he’d ever held to someone else’s head.

You didn’t move—afraid that if you did, whatever moment this was would shatter under your fingertips. Your hand moved on its own, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead. He didn’t stop you.

“ So much blood.” You whispered, searching his face.

“ So many lives…”

His jaw clenched.

“ Don’t.” He said lowly.

“ Not when I finally let you see me.”

But you needed to say it. You had to.

“ You killed Jun-bae.”

He flinched. It was subtle, but it was there. You felt it ripple through him like a crack in stone. His hands fell from your hips. His eyes dropped for the first time.

“ He was going to talk.” He muttered, as if trying to convince himself all over again.

“ I warned him.”

“ He trusted you.” You replied.

“ We all did.”

Silence.

And then—

“ I didn’t want you to become part of this.” He said, voice tight.

“ I thought if I stayed distant, if I left you alone after the first round…you’d be eliminated. You’d be safe.”

You almost laughed. Bitter. Quiet.

“ So your plan was to let me die?”

“ No!” He snapped.

Then softer: “ It was to keep you from becoming something I couldn’t control.”

That stopped you cold. He looked back up at you, and this time, there was no wall in his eyes.

Only fear.

Not of you hurting him.

But of you leaving.

“ You’re the only part of this world that I didn’t build.” He confessed.

“ The only thing that slipped through the cracks.”

“ Then why use me?” You whispered.

“ Why fuck me like a possession? Why break me just to glue me back together again?”

His hand reached up again, thumb grazing the underside of your jaw.

“ Because I don’t know how to love anymore.” He said.

“ Only how to keep.”

The words hit harder than any moan, any order.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a game.

It felt like two broken people—both survivors of the same hell—staring at each other in the aftermath, holding shards of who they used to be.

He leaned forward slowly, this time not hungry, not demanding. Just…tentative.

And when his lips met yours, there was no mask between you.

Only the truth.

Only silence.

And the terrifying possibility that whatever this was… wasn’t over. But maybe—just maybe—it was becoming something real.

...

The silence after chaos was always the most deafening. Your body was limp, boneless against him, your forehead resting on his bare shoulder as the last echoes of what just happened still pulsed faintly in your skin.

Your thighs trembled from exertion, your breath ragged, your heartbeat slowly settling—though the emotional storm inside you had only just begun.

And then…he moved.

Gently.

Without a word, In-ho reached behind your neck and unclasped the collar. The soft buzz that had long since blurred into background heat finally ceased. You let out a faint breath as he slid it away, placing it down carefully as if it were fragile glass.

“ Too much?” He asked quietly.

You blinked, surprised at the softness in his voice.

You nodded faintly.

Then paused.

Then nodded again.

He didn’t scold you for your answer.

Instead, he leaned in and placed a single kiss at your temple—barely a touch—and then gathered you carefully into his arms.

No commands.

No harsh grip.

Just care.

His strength was effortless as he lifted you from the chair, cradling you against his chest. You buried your face against his skin—warm, real, unfamiliar now in this vulnerable stillness.

He carried you across the room to the bed tucked behind a curtain of dark velvet. You hadn’t even noticed it before.

He laid you down gently, and the mattress welcomed you like a cloud. The softest thing you’d felt in weeks.

“ Don’t move.” He said.

“ Just rest.”

You watched him disappear into the adjoining washroom. Moments later, he returned with a basin of warm water, a towel, and the same care he once reserved only for manipulation.

This time…it was different.

He sat at the edge of the bed and began to clean you—starting with your thighs, slow, deliberate strokes, never too firm, never too cold. His gloved hands were gone now.

Skin on skin.

Real.

Human.

You flinched once, but he immediately paused.

“ Sorry…” He said.

“ I didn’t mean to…”

You reached out, lightly touching his wrist. A silent reassurance.

He resumed, gentler now. And when he was done, he cleaned himself quickly, then returned and slipped into the bed beside you.

For a while, neither of you said anything. Just the steady rhythm of your breathing, the weight of the dark silk sheets, and the warmth of his body pressed lightly against your back as he spooned you from behind.

One arm wrapped around your waist—tight enough to hold, loose enough to let you go if you shifted. But you didn’t. Because even if you should hate him for everything—

Right now, in this quiet moment, he was no longer the Frontman.

Just In-ho.

And he was holding you like he’d feared losing you all along.

His lips brushed your shoulder as he whispered, “ You’re still here.”

A statement.

A question.

A quiet kind of hope.

And you—half-asleep, sore, emotionally frayed—murmured the only answer that made sense.

“ For now.”

And for the first time…

That was enough.

You lay still beneath the soft silk sheets, your sore body curled against his. For the first time since entering this nightmare, you felt warmth not tied to power or pain—but presence.

His. The one person you never expected to find again…and certainly not like this.

In-ho’s breath was steady behind you, chest rising and falling with a quiet rhythm that almost lulled you to sleep.

Until he spoke.

“ No matter what happens…in the final game.” He said, voice low and unguarded.

“ I want you to know—I'm glad I found you in this hell.”

You blinked, eyes adjusting to the dim room. He was still holding your hand, fingers lightly tracing the lines in your palm as if memorizing the path back to you.

“ I never expected anyone to slip past the walls I built.” He murmured, voice bitter with memory.

“ Those walls were made to survive. To protect what was left of me. But then…you wrecked them.”

He smiled faintly, you could feel it in the way his lips grazed your shoulder. But his tone wavered, soft and hollow—filled with something deeper than guilt.

It was longing.

“ Somehow, in all of this blood and silence, you made me remember I’m still a man. That I still feel. That maybe…”

“ Maybe I still believe there's hope. Even if I’ve shown it the wrong way.”

You turned to face him slightly, enough to meet his eyes. There was no mask now. No armor. Just In-ho—raw, tired, and human.

“ I didn’t think there’d be anything left after this storm.” He continued, brushing your hair away from your face.

“ But then you…you were like a rainbow after the downpour. Unannounced. Unexplainable.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he gently shook his head and reached for your hand again.

“ Listen to me…” He said, his voice suddenly steadier. Urgent.

“ In the next hour…things may fall apart. This game—it’s not just a show anymore. It’s a fuse about to burn out. I might not make it.”

Your stomach twisted.

A lump formed in your throat.

“ But you…” He said, tightening his hold.

“ You will. I’ll make sure of it. You’re getting out of here, alive. You have to.”

His gaze burned into you—pleading, commanding, loving.

“ Promise me you’ll stay alive. No matter what. Live. Because you deserve that.”

You nodded, the tears already brimming.

“ You’ll find Gi-hun.” He added.

“ If he’s still standing—help him. Finish what he started. Take it all down, piece by piece. For Jun-bae. For everyone who died thinking this place was their only option.”

You wanted to break, but he held you together with those words, like they were bricks and he was building something new.

“ If I make it out…” His voice cracked slightly.

“ I’ll find you. I swear. Wherever you are in this fucked-up world—I’ll come.”

He pulled your joined hands to his lips and pressed a long, lingering kiss to the top of yours.

“ And if I don’t…”

“ I’ll wait on the other side.”

“ Until the day you come to me.”

You looked at him through the blur of tears. His face. His real face. His trembling smile that tried to hide fear. His fingers tangled in yours like a lifeline he refused to let go.

“ In-ho…” You whispered.

“ Promise me...” He said again.

“ You’ll live.”

You nodded, voice cracking.

“ I promise.”

And for a moment, there was no game.

No blood.

No masks.

No chains.

Only two souls, clutching each other in the eye of a storm—hoping to find one another again if the winds ever stopped.

...

The heat of the flames reached even across the water. You sat beside Gi-hun in the small, weathered boat, drifting slowly away from the hell that had consumed so many.

Behind you, the island burned—red and gold, like the eye of some forgotten god finally closing.

The sound of distant explosions and collapsing structures echoed across the ocean like the final gasps of something ancient dying.

Your eyes never left it.

Neither did your heart.

He had kept his promise.

You had kept yours.

But he—In-ho—was gone.

At least…as far as you knew.

Your fists clenched tighter on your lap as the wind whipped past, tasting of salt, smoke, and unfinished business.

“ I thought you died.” Gi-hun’s voice broke through, quiet, haunted.

“ Back in the rebellion…I saw those bastards drag your body.”

You didn’t look at him, but you gave him a faint nod. You weren’t ready to speak. Not about what really happened. Not about the nights.

The truth.

The name you spoke was like a prayer and a curse.

Gi-hun was staring ahead at the burning island, his jaw tight. His hair was wind-tossed, face pale but alive—barely. He’d won. But like you, he didn’t feel like a survivor.

Just…left behind.

“ Only two of our team made it.” He murmured.

“ You...”

“ You and me.”

You glanced at him. He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And then—he looked to the man sitting across the small boat, silent, isolated by choice.

Jun-ho.

His face was cold and unreadable, eyes locked on the island as if trying to see through the fire for someone who never returned.

“ That’s Jun-ho.” Gi-hun said bitterly, lowering his voice.

“ He’s the detective who helped get me back here. He’s the one who leaked everything to the authorities.”

You finally turned toward Jun-ho fully. He didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Just watched the island burn like a man watching a piece of his soul go with it.

“ He’s also…” Gi-hun scoffed, bitterness creeping in.

“ The Frontman’s brother.”

Your breath caught.

You already knew.

But hearing it from Gi-hun’s mouth, so casually, so wounded—it carved a new bruise into your chest.

“ Or Young-il. Or whatever name he lied to us with.” Gi-hun muttered, fists clenched on his knees.

“ He knew. He knew all along. And said nothing.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you couldn’t.

Not yet.

Jun-ho finally looked at you. His eyes were sharp, deep, mourning. Maybe not for you—but for the man behind the mask.

His brother.

His blood.

You met his gaze—and in the brief silence between the three of you, something unspoken passed. A shared grief. A guilt none of you could outrun.

“ You knew, didn’t you?” Jun-ho asked softly.

You said nothing.

You didn’t deny it either.

The island behind you groaned one last time—another explosion rippling through the smoke and embers. What was left of the facility crumbled into itself, vanishing beneath the flame-lit sky.

The Games were over.

But your war wasn’t.

You weren’t done.

Not yet.

“ There’s still more…” You whispered finally, voice low but steady.

“ This doesn’t end with fire.”

Gi-hun looked at you, brows furrowed. “ What do you mean?”

You didn’t look back at him. You kept your eyes forward—on the sea. On the smoke. On the memory of In-ho’s hands in yours, and the promise that still echoed in your chest like a bell:

“ If I survive, I’ll find you. If I don’t…I’ll wait.”

Somehow, in the depths of your soul, you knew—

This wasn’t the end.

Not for him.

Not for you.

And not for the ghosts still hiding behind the masks of the world.

Author's Note:

Here's the continuation of Or Nah, which some of you requested—so here it is. This would be the final part. You can consider the previous chapter to be an ending, but this chapter can also be considered an ending—it all depends on your preferences or what makes you happy.

It's a little heartbreaking, but Squid Game doesn't have a happy ending either, so why should this story deserve one? Just kidding.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading. Don't forget the warnings I mentioned previously.

Read with responsibility.

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dragonagecinema · 6 months ago

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What Veilguard Could Have Been

Very saddened to hear the news about Bioware. As much as I was disappointed with Dragon Age The Veilguard, it was a fun game and I did not wish for the series to end. That being said, for those of you who haven't seen the artbook, I want to share the initial ideas and concepts of the team behind the game. Here's what Veilguard could have and should have been.

Characters from Previous Games

Morrigan, Dorian and Isabela were supposed to be our advisors. They also had better outfits.

Sten, Cole and Shale were some other characters featured in the artbook. An early idea for Cole was to act as a compassionate voice to Solas.

The Divine was supposed to make an appearance, sending out ships to hunt Solas in the hopes that his capture will restore peace to Thedas.

We were supposed to receive assignments from the Inquisitor.

Another idea was for us to return to the Fade and rescue whoever was left behind in Inquisition.

Solas as a True Leader

Elves from all over Thedas were supposed to answer Solas' call, as presented in the ending screens of Inquisition.

Solas' appearance was supposed to be more of a surprise.

Solas was supposed to return like a regal figure out of the distant past.

Game Mechanics

The game was focused more on espionage and sneaking around. We were supposed to go on cool missions, like infiltrating the Archon's throne room.

Another idea was for us to ride adult griffons, hunting dragons.

Or to go on secret missions in Tevinter, accurately depicted here with slaves and slavers.

Story and Setting

The dwarves were supposed to be fleeing the underground by the thousands. Cause is left unknown.

We were supposed to go to Par Vollen, the home of the Qunari.

Companions had the option to betray us.

We were supposed to go in disguise to a ball in the Necropolis.

Another idea was for Solas to interrupt our mission, wiping half of our team off the board and forcing us to make an unlikely alliance.

Solas was supposed to summon a Titan in the final battle.

We were supposed to get a happy ending with our love interests.

Headquarters

And last but not least, our base was first supposed to be a ship, sailing to all the places we would visit.

We would have a war table room, similar to Inquisition.

The ship could get stolen and we would have to get it back.

However, thematically, boats don't line up with the spy theme. They're too easy to spot and attack. So the ship was transformed into a submarine.

The submarine was already named The Dumat, after an Archdemon.

These are just the parts I found most interesting from the artbook, which has more than 200 pages. I wonder who saw all these ideas and went nah, let's scrap them. I guess we'll never know.

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nenoname · 8 months ago

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It's still interesting that TBoB called more attention to Stan's control over his mindscape (And if you go with the interpretation that the lost pages are partial truths that are heavily influenced by Bill, then he's the one insisting that only someone with training should be able to have that much control over the mind.)

Meanwhile we have a memory!Stan. Someone who apparently knows too much and is rather aware for being a simple memory.

From the Wheel of Shame, we know Bill was able dig up all kinds of dirt on Stan but... that wasn't why he was there in the first place, was it?

Bill couldn't find the code immediately despite a memory of Stan opening the safe being a few hours old at most and decided to have Mabel try find it for him (The original concept of the ep had it far more hidden but this was likely cut because of time constraints)

Ford did experiments on Stan's mind which likely meant using Project Mentem and actually looking around his mindscape, and his only reaction was to comment on his jokes-- despite what little we the audience know being enough to render us sobbing wrecks

(yes I refuse to shut up about this part cos the book's intro is extremely underrated)

Stan was able to replace his memories of Ford with the swingset instead and managed to hide Ford in his Bar Mitzvah memory. And that's not even mentioning the lack of visible Portal and Stan o' War which noticeably show up in Ford's dreamscape (the broken swingset manifesting anyway pains me tho)

He subconsciously has misdirects for his secrets that are both silly and manages to disturb everyone too

And while Bill-as-Soos being bored by the vending machine memory is a joke that's basically the crew's way of going "hey remember the thing way back in the first ep that's going to show up in the next one?" and in-universe appears to be Stan slipping up, it's interesting that they had Stan input the wrong code when it's consistent literally every other time its inputted (especially when it shows up correctly in the very next episode)

It's even possible that the safe code that Bill found could have been a misdirect too but we'll never know since the safe got blown open by dynamite.

Stan was able to buy time by making his mind blank despite being genuinely terrified when Bill enters his mind (to the point that he breaks character and uses his own voice to yell), and could conjure up his living room (in colour opposed to his mind's regular greyscale) to make sure Bill didn't have enough room to flee, slamming the door in his face before the effects of the memory gun kicked in.

(EDIT: Random door analysis here)

And maybe the twins eventually told him that Bill had already been inside his mind after their W3 reunion, but all we know was that his conscious self was left in the dark for ages and wasn't really aware of Bill until Weirdmageddon.

TBoB showing McGucket's dreamscape also brings up the idea of the effects of the memory gun manifesting differently to each person. To Stan's mindscape, the memory wipe manifests as blue flames which immediately brings to mind Bill's powers but it's a far lighter shade (maybe to more closely match the memory gun and its eventual fade to white?)

The end of TBoB and the website poem also firmly reminds us about Stan's connection to fire but there's also the question if Stan himself is actually aware of it...

#but also j3 having ford read dipper's entries post dd&md but not having him know about the kids' encounters with bill is so kashdskahd #cos that implies he immediately skipped the pages that mentioned stan 😭and didn't read mabel's entries #oh for him to actually react to dipper's observations about stan's mindscape....#stan pines #stanley pines #bill cipher #gravity falls #gf meta #yes of course my brain is still going ' same coin theory ooooo' at this #cos i doubt that j1 has any mention of the mindscape and it's not like stan would have studied this stuff #imagine iconic hippy hater actually mediating on purpose #i'm still waving my arms about stan potentially seeing the reader's version of tbob tho #but even if that ain't the case bill having a breakdown from him reading him like a book is still iconic #dunno if this is coherent and i'm pretty sure all this stuff is things most folks know but idk some people didn't read the journal #some folks don't know about the poem!!!! truly the biggest tragedy

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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 30 days ago

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The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Two

Part One

The air was thick with the smell of mud, gasoline, and tension.

Smoke crouched near the edge of the swamp, one hand resting on the rusted hood of the Ford truck stacked with crates of illegal whiskey. The wood was still damp from its time hidden beneath floorboards in a dry preacher’s shed two counties over. Now, it was headed to a juke in Helena run by a man with gold teeth and too many enemies.

Moonlight shimmered off the bayou. Mosquitoes buzzed. Fireflies gleamed. Cypress trees stood like sentinels in the dark. Stack wasn’t with him this time. He’d taken a different route—diversion. If anyone was watching, they’d trail Stack’s decoy load and leave Smoke to move the real cargo quiet and clean.

He lit a cigarette, took a slow drag, then puffed it out through his nose.

Bootlegging in the Delta wasn’t for loudmouths. It was for men who could ride the edge of blood and silence, and Smoke was the best at it. He wasn’t just muscle. He was methodical, deadly when necessary, and trusted by the wrong kinds of powerful men.

As he drove down the narrow dirt road through the trees, wheels kicking up mud and stones, he kept his pistol close. A sawed-off sat under the seat. A blade tucked behind the brake lever.

By the time he reached the turnoff toward the dock, two headlights appeared behind him.

Too close.

Too fast.

He cursed under his breath, flipped the lights off, and turned into the trees.

An ambush.

They thought they had him cornered. Had him outsmarted. Two trucks boxed him in.

But Smoke didn’t panic.

He reached for the sawed-off, climbed out the side of the cab, and disappeared into the trees like a ghost. By the time the two men stepped out with rifles and cocky grins, Smoke was behind them. He took the first one down clean—barrel to the back of the skull. No sound but the crunch of bone. The second tried to run. Smoke caught him by the collar and shoved the shotgun into his gut.

“You workin’ for Silas ‘Shine’ DuBose?” he asked low.

The man stammered, “We—we just got told to—”

BOOM!

He didn’t let him finish.

Smoke never left loose ends.

He loaded the whiskey back up, blood on his knuckles, sweat dripping from his brow.

When he pulled up to the drop site an hour later, the man with gold teeth handed him a fat envelope.

“You always deliver, young blood. Can always count on you to come through.”

Smoke lit another cigarette.

Didn’t smile.

He spoke to himself, “Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop my route but death. And even then, you better check twice.”

This job would pay for more supplies at The Blackline. It would keep him and Stack in power. And when he walked through the red door the next night, dusty, armed, and silent, he still hadn’t noticed the girl behind the curtain.

But she noticed him.

He’d just come off the job.

Boots still dirty from the swamp road. Hands scabbed from a scuffle. Chest humming with the kind of quiet that followed violence. A calm earned by taking care of unfinished business. The Blackline was warm that night. Velvet air. Laughter soft. Jazz slow. He walked in like always with a cigar in his mouth, hat low, shoulders square, dragging a heat behind him that made men straighten and women stare.

He was headed for his usual booth.

Didn’t glance around. Didn’t speak. Didn’t acknowledge a pretty eye or a pretty smile.

But then…he felt it.

A pull. A tether.

Not sharp, but deep. Low. Like a string tugging at the base of his spine.

He turned his head slow.

And saw her.

She wasn’t working.

Not like the others.

She sat behind a thin curtain, legs tucked under her, body half-shadowed by lamplight. A ribbon tied around her neck. A short slip hugging hips that didn’t move. Hair pinned up loose with curly tendrils falling around her cheeks.

She wasn’t trying to be seen, which made her impossible to look away from. Her skin glowed like candle-warmed honey, and her lips looked soft, untouched and parted slightly when their eyes locked.

Smoke’s removed his cigar from between his full lips slowly.

His whole chest tightened.

He didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Didn’t believe in fairytales or fate.

But something about the girl behind the curtain hit him like a ghost recognizing home.

Violet saw the shift in him.

The pause.

The narrowing of his gaze.

And her breath caught because she could feel it too.

Heat.

Recognition.

Danger.

Need.

Smoke took a step forward.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Just stared like she was something he couldn’t name but already missed. And in that moment, under velvet light and saxophone moans, a man like Smoke noticed a girl like Violet, and everything started to unravel.

The Blackline hummed around them with low laughter, glasses clinking, piano weeping under the weight of a blues tune. Smoke had barely stepped inside when Stack appeared at his shoulder, tugging him toward the back, behind the curtain where the light dimmed and the shadows got honest. They stood near the back hallway, a worn fan rattling overhead, paint peeling on the wall.

“Big Brotha. Job go smooth?” Stack asked, lighting a cigarette with one hand, leaning against the doorframe.

Smoke rolled his shoulders, jaw clenched, “Ran into trouble near the canal. Two sent by Shine.”

“That so?”

“Handled.”

Stack nodded, “Figures.”

A pause passed. Long enough for Smoke to glance back through the curtain and towards the floor.

Toward her.

Stack noticed the look but didn’t press it.

Instead, he exhaled smoke slow and said, “Things been movin’ here while you were gone. We took in two new girls. One’s already makin’ her money.”

“…And the other?”

Stack smirked.

“That one,” He jerked his chin toward the soft drape near the corner booth, “Name’s Violet. Gullah blood, I think. Quiet. Real sweet lookin’, but icy. Ain’t opened up to no one. Still got her flower too, far as I can tell.”

Smoke didn’t respond. Just kept staring.

Stack watched his brother’s profile. The way his jaw ticked and his mouth set.

“Ain’t initiated her yet,” Stack added casually, “But I planned to ease her in. Once she soften.”

Smoke’s voice cut in low.

“Don’t.”

Stack arched an eyebrow, “…Don’t?”

Smoke turned to him now, finally, eyes hard.

“Hold off. Not sayin’ I’m stoppin’ you. Just…don’t rush her.”

Stack leaned back slightly, measuring with a mischievous smirk, “You interested?”

Smoke looked away, back toward the drape.

“I just want a feel…she different…and I wanna know why.”

Stack grinned faintly, dragging his cigarette.

“Well, well. Ain’t often you speak first on a girl.”

Smoke didn’t flinch, “I ain’t speakin’. I’m studyin’.”

And with that, he pushed off the wall and walked back into the room, steps slow, eyes never leaving Violet.

It was late now.

That kind of late where everything turns honest. Voices lower, movements looser, touches less disguised. The scent of sweat, bourbon, tobacco, and sex wove through the air like a sensual fog caught in lace. A girl moaned in the back room. Laughter burst at the poker table. A piano crooned something low and tired in the corner.

Smoke hadn’t moved from his booth.

Hadn’t touched his drink in nearly twenty minutes.

Because she was stepping out.

Violet.

For the first time all night, she peeled back the sheer drape and moved out into view.

Not for a man.

Not for money.

Just to breathe.

But even from across the room, Smoke saw it. The way her eyes scanned carefully, the way her shoulders rounded slightly inward, like her body had learned how to make itself smaller when it needed to.

She walked slow.

Barefoot.

In a short silk slip the color of wet bone, the thin straps slipping down the curve of one shoulder, the hem hitting just above the soft part of her thighs.

Her ribbon was still tied.

Smoke’s eyes dragged down her figure—the roundness of her hips, the narrow slope of her waist, the high curve of her small, perky breasts beneath the silk.

But it wasn’t just her body.

It was how she carried it.

Careful. Quiet. Measured.

She wasn’t used to being seen.

Not like that.

And now she was. By him.

He watched the way her fingers brushed her own wrist absentmindedly, a soft nervous tic. The way her chin stayed tilted downward, even though she tried to glance up. The way she paused at the edge of the light, just short of where the men gathered, hovering between the safety of shadows and the threat of being chosen.

And still…

She felt his stare.

He saw it in the way she shifted her weight.

The way her hand lifted to her ribbon like it gave her armor.

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

His cigar burned down to the nub in the ashtray. He sat forward, just slightly, and let his eyes take her in like a man thirsting in the desert.

This girl was untouched.

This girl was hiding.

And this girl had no idea that the man in the shadows had already started claiming pieces of her just by watching.

He didn’t approach.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

And in that stretch of air between them, the room changed.

Everything else faded.

All he could hear was her breath.

All he could see was her legs.

And all he could think about was how she was already in his mouth, in his hands, in his thoughts, and she didn’t even know his name yet.

Violet felt it.

Not like the way men usually looked at her all hungry, obvious, leaning too far forward. This was different.

His gaze didn’t lurch toward her.

It crawled.

Wrapped.

Rooted itself.

And it didn’t let go.

She turned slightly, pretending to adjust her ribbon, pretending not to notice how heavy her breath had become. But her hands trembled against the silk.

Smoke Moore was watching her.

The quiet one. The twin with shadow in his shoulders and heat behind his eyes. The one who hadn’t said a single word to her since she arrived. Not even a hello.

And yet…

He was staring like he knew every secret she was trying to keep.

Her cheeks burned.

Her thighs clenched.

And her skin buzzed like it’d been read.

She couldn’t take it.

Not yet.

She turned slowly and slipped back behind the drape, her posture softer, her steps smaller, her breath caught just behind her lips.

She didn’t look back.

But Smoke…

He never stopped looking.

He waited just waited.

Gave her a minute.

Let her sit in the heat of what just passed between them—no words, no touch, no promises. Just pressure.

Then he stood.

Slowly. Like smoke rising off a fire that didn’t go out when the logs burned down. He adjusted his cuffs, reached for the bottle on the table, and poured two fingers of bourbon. But he didn’t sit again, instead he started walking. Not toward her.

Just…near.

To the bar.

Which just happened to be along the wall beside her curtained corner. His boots echoed soft on the floorboards. His coat moved around his hips like liquid shadow. And every pair of eyes in the room followed him out of instinct.

But Violet?

She felt him coming.

Like a raging storm rolling in.

Her body tensed even behind the curtain. She could feel the way the air changed. How the room shifted around his presence. Smoke stood at the bar, one hand resting on the wood, eyes on the row of bottles like he was deciding what to drink.

But in reality? He was listening to her breath.

Sensing the tremble behind the curtain. Reading the way her silence now said more than any voice in that house. He didn’t speak to her, didn’t look at her. But she could feel the back of his coat inches from the silk veil.

And Smoke?

He was close enough now to smell her skin.

And he didn’t even need to touch.

The music in The Blackline rolled slow and dirty like honeyed drag through a throat full of smoke. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone moaned behind a closed door. A card game roared to life across the floor.

But Violet couldn’t hear any of it.

All she could hear was his boots near the edge of her world. Smoke was just outside the curtain now, standing at the bar, pouring bourbon like he hadn’t just shaken her to her core. His presence radiated like heat through floorboards, like thunder behind silence.

She sat on the edge of the velvet cushion, hands clasped, her chest rising and falling too fast.

Then…

She leaned forward.

Just slightly.

And slipped two fingers into the edge of the drape, parting it a whisper.

She peeked.

He was there.

So close.

Back turned, coat draped over broad shoulders, shirt tight across a back and chest shaped by violence and long days on the road. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins thick across the backs of his hands. His knuckles were scarred. His boots scuffed. His holster dark with wear.

He didn’t fidget.

Didn’t glance around.

He just stood there like the world wasn’t allowed to move without him giving it permission. And yet, there was no tension in him. No vanity.

Only gravity.

A presence that said…

I’ve done worse than you think.

And better than I deserved.

And I’m still standing.

Violet’s lips parted.

Her thighs pressed together.

She didn’t understand it, this pulse that bloomed between her legs just from looking. But she couldn’t stop. She studied the line of his jaw, the angle of his nose, the glint of sweat on the back of his neck. And for a moment, he moved.

Not toward her.

Not away.

Just shifted.

And somehow, she swore he knew. He knew she was watching. And he was letting her.

Violet let the curtain fall.

Her heart was still racing. Her breath shaky.

She tried to sit still again, tucking her legs beneath her and staring at the candle flickering on the table like it might hold the answer to why she suddenly felt like her skin didn’t fit right anymore.

She could still feel him out there.

That man.

That stare.

That heat like a hand around her throat.

The drape shifted again behind her.

And then a voice slid in, low, slow, honey-slick and sharp.

“Mm. So that’s who you watchin’.”

Violet flinched.

Cordelia stepped into the little curtained corner like smoke curling under a door. She smelled like jasmine and rum. Her silk robe was open at the thigh, and her eyes gleamed like a cat that already caught the mouse. She sat without asking, legs crossed, one arm draped over the back of the chair.

Violet tried to say nothing.

But Cordelia smirked.

“Girl, you act like I ain’t seen the way your breath left your body the second he walked by.”

“I wasn’t—” Violet started.

“Don’t lie to me now,” Cordelia said, laughing soft, “You look like somebody plucked your ribbon loose just by lookin’ at you.”

Violet dropped her gaze, cheeks burning.

Cordelia leaned in close.

“Let me tell you somethin’, baby…you ain’t the first girl to sit behind this curtain and melt for a man like Smoke Moore.”

Violet blinked, “what’s his real name?”

Cordelia smiled wider, “mm. Now she wanna know names,” She tapped her nail against the glass on the table, “His name’s Elijah, but we all call him Smoke. The quiet twin. The one who don’t look at much. But when he do look,” she snapped her fingers, “you best believe he seein’ every inch of you.”

Violet shifted in her seat, flustered.

Cordelia leaned closer, voice softer now, “He done killed men with those hands, baby. And still…he touches a woman like she was made of glass. You think a man like that ain’t dangerous?”

Violet swallowed then licked her lips, “I ain’t never had nobody look at me like that.”

Cordelia nodded slowly, “No, you haven’t. And you ain’t ready for what it means when he don’t just look…But comes back.”

She stood then, smoothed her robe, and before slipping out, gave Violet one last glance.

“You better start askin’ yourself one thing, baby girl…Do you wanna be safe? Or do you wanna be seen?”

And with that, Cordelia disappeared into the curtain fold, heels clicking softly.

The curtain was still swaying when Violet sat forward.

Cordelia’s words throbbed in her chest.

Do you wanna be safe?

Or do you wanna be seen?

She didn’t know the answer. But her body moved like it did.She uncrossed her legs slowly and adjusted the tie of her ribbon with quiet grace. Instead of retreating, she shifted closer to the edge of the booth, to the space where the curtain parted just enough to let the world in. And for the first time…She let herself be looked at.

Smoke was back at the bar.

Same place. Same stance.

Only now he turned.

Not fully.

Just enough to lean against the bar with his elbow propped, bourbon in one hand, and his gaze fixed on the sliver of light where Violet now sat, half-shadowed, half-glowing, waiting. He could see her now. Not all of her just the outline. A bare thigh, one strap slipped from her shoulder, the delicate slope of her neck. Her curls had loosened slightly. Her lips were parted, soft and unsure.

But her eyes?

They were different.

Still shy. Still wide.

But no longer retreating.

Now she was inviting.

Smoke’s throat tightened. His grip on the glass flexed. She was sitting still but everything about her screamed movement. The curve of her hip pressed into velvet. The dip of her collarbone catching firelight. Her chest rising in a soft, unsure rhythm.

She hadn’t spoken.

Hadn’t smiled.

Hadn’t even glanced directly at him.

But she was waiting.

For him.

And he felt it like a thread wrapped around his ribs. She wanted to be seen now. Not by everyone.

Just him.

He raised his glass slowly and took a sip, didn’t look away.

And Violet?

She stayed right where she was, trembling, blooming, letting herself be devoured.

No more hiding.

Just heat.

The curtain fell closed again.

She hadn’t moved but everything inside her was shifting. Violet sat still in the quiet hush of the velvet nook, hands resting in her lap, heart drumming like a hummingbird’s wings against her ribs.

She could still feel it.

Him and that gaze and that weight. The pull of it like silk wrapped around her waist, tightening with every glance. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just nerves. It was something older, something deeper. Something unnamed. Her thighs were slick and tense and her lips dry. Her mouth unable to remember how to form a word. She reached for the edge of the table for something to ground her and exhaled slowly, as if trying to breathe the heat out of her blood.

Why’d he look at her like that?

Like she was the last quiet in a room full of noise. Like he could taste her without touching. Like he’d already chosen her and she ain’t even spoke his name.

She closed her eyes.

Violet tried to remember how it felt to be invisible. Tried to remind herself that she wasn’t made for a man like him.

Men like that didn’t look at girls like her.

But he did.

And that look made her body buzz like the string of a plucked violin—tight, thin, and trembling.

She touched the ribbon at her throat, fingers grazing the knot.

Her voice caught.

Her skin burned.

And somewhere behind the curtain, she could still hear the faint clink of a glass. The sound of a man drinking slow, like he had time. Like he had already decided.

What if he speaks to me?

The question rang in her chest like a bell.

And still…she didn’t run.

She smoothed her thighs. Straightened her spine.

Let herself bloom in the dark.

She wasn’t ready.

But she wasn’t hiding anymore.

Violet waited until the noise swelled just enough to carry her movement. A crescendo in the music. A burst of laughter near the bar. The groan of wood shifting beneath dancers’ feet. That’s when Violet rose slow and smooth. A breath exhaled into motion.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t push back the curtain with drama.

She let it part like the petals of a flower at dusk—quiet and deliberate. And when she stepped out, the silk of her slip whispered against her skin, catching the light in places that made every inch of her look soft and secret.

The room was darker now.

Oil lamps turned low. Smoke coiled above heads like lazy ghosts. The scent of musk, pipe tobacco, sweat, and sweet perfume hung thick.

And there she was.

Barefoot. Ribbon still knotted at her throat. Shoulders bare. Back straight. Face calm but burning.

Smoke saw her immediately.

He was still at the bar, leaning with his drink in hand, but his whole body shifted like gravity itself had tilted in her direction. He didn’t move but his gaze locked on her with the kind of stillness that carried weight like he was memorizing her. Violet walked slowly along the edge of the floor, trailing one hand along the wall, not toward anyone in particular, just out into the open. Her hips swayed gently with the rhythm of the piano. Her thighs brushed, and the hem of her dress floated just above the softest part of them.

She passed two men.

One looked.

One said something.

She didn’t hear it.

Because she could feel him behind her.

That gaze. Heavy as a hand.

She turned ever so slightly and glanced over her shoulder.

Her eyes met Smoke’s.

And there it was again. That low-burning tension between them, thick as sticky glide. A pull. A knowing. And this time, she didn’t look away. Her body stayed open, her lips stayed parted. Violet let him look. Let him feel the weight of the woman she was becoming—the woman who was no longer hiding.

Violet walked past the bar.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t sway too much. She held her chin up just enough to look composed, her fingertips grazing the edge of the wall, the slip of her dress brushing the inside of her thighs. She was trying—trying to own her steps, to hold the quiet fire Cordelia lit in her chest. Her breath still fluttered, but she kept moving.

Behind her…she heard nothing.

But she could feel it.

That weight.

That energy like coiled thunder.

She didn’t have to look back to know he was moving.

Smoke Moore.

He was following.

Not loud.

Not rushed.

Just present. Like the slow drag of stormclouds across a summer sky—you don’t hear it right away, but you know the air’s about to change. She turned the corner near the back hallway, just beyond the glow of the main room. A curtained doorway behind her, a stack of crates ahead. Dim. Quiet. Close. She paused, pretending to smooth the ribbon at her throat.

And that’s when she felt him.

Close.

So close the heat from his chest kissed her back.

And then…

His voice.

Low. Velvet-wrapped gravel.

Southern Smoke.

“…You walk like you tryna convince yourself you ain’t afraid.”

Her breath caught. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But she could feel him—just inches away, his energy wrapping around her like silk ropes.

“…You that scared of me, baby girl?”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her hands tightened at her sides, the edge of her dress clenched between her fingers.

“No,” she whispered timidly.

He leaned in closer. His heat consuming her from behind. Still not touching. Just air, heat, and hunger.

“…Say that again,” He spoke with a hushed tone.

Her breath hitched. She tried to sound steady.

“…No.”

Smoke exhaled slowly near her ear, his mouth barely a whisper from her skin.

“You tremblin’. I ain’t even laid a hand on you yet.”

She felt a shiver ripple down her spine. Her knees wanted to give. Her voice betrayed her body.

And still…she stayed.

Quiet.

Soft.

Open.

He could smell her now. Skin warm, breath sweet, the faintest scent of fear laced with something deeper.

Want.

“You run now, I’ll let you go,” he murmured, pausing for effect, “But you stay?” He tilted his head dangerously close, “You mine to learn.”

And she stayed.

Trembling.

Timid.

But not moving.

She didn’t dare move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe right.

Smoke was right there with his breath still warming her shoulder, his voice still curling around her spine like smoke through cracks in a door. Her body was betraying her—softening, aching, silently begging.

She didn’t need his hands to feel claimed.

She already did.

But then…

He stepped back.

Just a half-inch or less. And somehow, the loss of him, of his warmth, his weight, his watchfulness, hit her harder than the press of his body ever could have.

She blinked.

Her fingers curled against her thighs.

And then she felt it…

The tension between them stretch like silk soaked in heat.

He hadn’t touched her once. But she felt more bare in that moment than she ever had undressed. He watched her for a breath longer—just watched. Then his voice came, quiet. Steady.

“…You don’t even know what you doin’, do you?”

She shook her head. Slowly.

Smoke hummed, “Didn’t think so.”

Another pause. The air thick between them.

“…But I do.”

And then?

He turned.

Walked away slow. Boots low and heavy on the floor.

Didn’t touch her.

Didn’t speak again.

Just left her standing there in the soft light, alone with the ache he placed between her thighs without ever laying a finger on her.

The room was still.

Only the faint hum of music bleeding through the walls, the occasional moan from the back hallway, the creak of footsteps overhead.

Violet sat alone on her narrow bed behind the curtain, legs curled beneath her, slip still clinging to her thighs like a second skin.

Her breath was slow. But her chest rose too fast.

She could still feel him.

The heat of his body. The gravel of his voice. The way he whispered like he could taste her fear and loved the flavor.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t even touched her.

He didn’t have to.

She slid her hand to her chest.

Just above the ribbon.

Her fingers trembled slightly, tracing the bow. Then lower—over the curve of her breast, down the dip between her ribs.

She thought of his voice in her ear.

You tremblin’. I ain’t even laid a hand on you yet…

A whimper caught in her throat.

She lay back, the pillow cool beneath her, eyes half-lidded.

Her knees parted.

The silk slipped higher.

And with a breath she didn’t know she was holding, her hand slid lower.

Between the heat.

Through the ache.

Right where he left her wanting.

She touched her pussy like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to—soft, tentative, gasping.

But the more she remembered his voice…

But you stay? You mine to learn.

…the deeper her fingers sank.

Violet stroked her clit gently, like she was afraid of what her body would do if she pressed down harder. Her hips twitched faintly. She shut her eyes, drifting back to the way his body felt behind her, a heat so intense. She could hear how soaked her folds are. The sound deafening. Violet opened wider, whimpering. Moaning soft and faint. Barely above a whisper.

She came quickly, shaking, the sound muffled against her wrist as her body clenched and opened around nothing—but the memory of him. When it passed, she lay there breathless, thighs damp, skin burning. He hadn’t touched her.

But Smoke Moore already owned her breath.

The ache between her legs and the exhaustion of her strong climax had Violet slipping into sleep like a drop falling into warm syrup. She was still wet between her thighs. Still flushed from the touch she gave herself.

But what lingered most wasn’t her own fingers.

It was him.

Smoke.

His breath.

His voice.

His presence like thunder waiting to break.

And now…he was in her dream.

She wasn’t sure where she was. The walls didn’t matter. The light was soft and gold. She was bare, thighs parted, laid out like a sacrament on fresh sheets.

And he was standing there.

Smoke Moore.

No coat. No holster. Just skin and shadow and slow breath.

He didn’t say a word. He just stepped forward and stared at her like she was already split open for him.

She felt no fear.

Only ache.

Only longing.

If he had touched me…

He knelt between her legs, eyes locked to hers as his hand grazed her inner thigh.

Not rushed.

Not rough.

Just…inevitable.

“Did you cum thinkin’ about me?” he asked in her dream, voice low as river water.

She couldn’t speak.

He smirked.

“You wet in your sleep. That ain’t just a dream. That’s your body rememberin’ what it never had.”

She gasped when he touched her there—just once—and it was enough to make her cry out.

He didn’t stop. He dragged his tongue along her thigh, slow, teeth grazing her skin. Her hips lifted on instinct.

His voice came again—dark and thick.

“You want me to eat it, baby?”

She nodded.

Eyes wide. Lips parted.

He smiled against her inner thigh.

“Then keep your legs open, and let me feast.”

And when he did?

She broke.

Soft cries. Trembling thighs. A climax that rolled through her like waves licking the shore of some secret island.

She woke gasping.

Sweating.

Empty.

And aching all over again.

Don’t hide from me, girl. I see you. And what’s mine don’t got to shrink…

Come here. Bring all that fear, all that want. Bring it to me. I got you…

Next time you touch yourself thinkin’ ’bout me, you better come find me instead. I wanna see it. Hear it. Taste it…

Violet hadn’t slept much.

The morning light pressed in low through the gauzy curtain, soft gold and dust-flecked. She’d stirred on and off—waking breathless, thighs damp, her dream replaying in vivid, pulsing fragments. Now she sat at the small vanity tucked in the corner of her sleeping space, brushing her hair in slow, gentle strokes.

Her eyes were unfocused.

Her thighs still pressed together.

Her body hummed with memory.

His mouth.

His hands.

That voice—low and knowing—telling her to stay open and let him feast.

She swallowed.

Her ribbon was untied. Hung loose down her chest like a thread of silk she no longer needed to hide behind.

She glanced at herself in the mirror.

Her cheeks were warm. Her lips slightly swollen from biting them in sleep. She looked kissed. Touched. Marked. But it had only been a dream.

And still…

Her body didn’t care.

She picked up a small notebook from the drawer—just pages she sometimes jotted thoughts in when the silence got too loud. She didn’t write much. Just a line.

Her hand trembled as she spelled it:

He hasn’t touched me.

But I feel like I belong to him.

She closed the book softly.

Set it down.

And then went to draw her bath, knees still aching from how hard they had clenched the night before.

The Blackline was quieter in the morning.

But not silent.

The house never slept fully. It shifted. Stretched like a cat in the sun, its sounds softer but still alive. Footsteps on creaking floorboards, water boiling on the stove, a distant radio playing slow Delta blues on the back porch. The sun leaked in through the stained-glass windows—coloring the wooden floors in fragments of amber, rose, and wine.

Curtains hung loose.

Smoke from someone’s cigarette curled lazily through a shaft of light in the parlor. The girls were up and moving—some in robes, hair pinned, faces bare. Others already dressed, painting their mouths red in shared mirrors, laughing soft between swigs of morning bourbon. There was perfume in the air, powder and orange blossom, musky oils, sweat sweetened by heat.

Stockings were hung over chairs to dry.

Heels lined the baseboards like soldiers.

Some girls cleaned their rooms. Others climbed into each other’s beds for warmth or gossip or comfort. Someone was ironing lingerie in the kitchen. Someone else was bent over a basin, washing blood from silk with careful fingers and a hymn on her tongue.

Stack was around, but easy.

He was seated at the long table near the front room, counting money from the weekend, cigar between his teeth. His suspenders hung loose over a rumpled shirt. Every so often, he’d pause, lean back, and scratch the side of his face while listening to the radio.

“We need more rye,” he muttered to no one, “And more ice.”

No one answered.

He didn’t care.

He just kept flipping bills.

Violet moved differently.

Not slower. Not faster.

Just…more aware.

She’d bathed early. Combed her curly hair back into a bun. She wore a soft green slip today, thin at the shoulders, hugging her hips.

Violet didn’t talk much. Just lingered in doorways. Sat near open windows. Swept when asked. Watched.

Always watched.

Her eyes traced the curls of smoke rising from Cordelia’s cigarette…the shape of a dancer’s back as she stretched in the hall…the gold necklace one girl wore backwards so it draped down the small of her back like a secret.

But her thoughts weren’t on the house.

They were on him.

Smoke.

His voice still echoed in her.

His breath still lived in the bend of her neck. Every step she took, every time her thighs brushed together under silk, she remembered.

You mine to learn.

She didn’t know what she wanted.

But she knew what her body remembered as she walked the halls of The Blackline with his gaze still burned into her skin.

Not to long after, Violet was folding linen napkins in the side parlor, the morning light slanting across her bare feet. She didn’t speak much that day. Just moved with her usual softness, her hair pinned loose, her green slip fluttering just above her knees.

Her body still felt tender.

Sensitive in places she didn’t dare touch again just yet.

She’d just finished setting the last napkin down when Cordelia passed by with her robe open, heels clicking, cigarette trailing a ribbon of smoke.

She paused at the archway and looked back at Violet with that same cat-glint smile.

“Smoke’s back from town.”

Violet looked up.

“Oh?”

Cordelia nodded, walking over to the tea tray on the buffet.

“He asked for coffee. But he don’t really drink it. Likes it warm, though. Something bitter in the mouth, sweet in the aftertaste…”

She poured a black cup, added a drizzle of cane syrup, then held it out to Violet.

“You bring it to him.”

Violet’s hands froze.

Cordelia’s smile widened just slightly.

“He’s out back, takin’ off his boots.”

“Why me?” Violet asked softly, eyes lowered.

Cordelia leaned in, voice low and lazy.

“Because he didn’t ask for it from nobody else.”

She pressed the handle of the cup into Violet’s palm.

“Go on. He won’t bite…Not yet.”

Cordelia sauntered off, leaving Violet with a task. A task that left her heart thumping beneath her ribs. She stared down at the cup, then exhaled a rattled breath. She took a moment to gather her thoughts before facing the man that she thought of while playing with her pussy. Dreaming of almost every night since she’d laid eyes on him.

Violet walked down the hall slow, cup trembling slightly in her hand.

Each step felt louder than it should.

The back door was open, light pouring in golden against the floorboards.

She could smell him before she saw him—leather, pine, dust, tobacco. The scent curled around her like haze and made her thighs press together. He was seated on the edge of the porch, shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled up, one boot off, the other halfway unlaced.

He didn’t look up when she approached.

“Heard you comin’,” he said, voice rough from the road.

Violet paused just behind him, heart pounding.

“…Cordelia said you wanted coffee.”

“Mmm.”

She stepped beside him, carefully placing the cup on the small table near his hand.

He finally looked up.

Right at her.

His eyes dragged over her face. Her lips. Her collarbone.

“You bring it ‘cause she asked you to?”

Her breath hitched.

“Yes.” She replied with a small voice.

He reached for the cup, sipped once, then leaned back.

“And you stayin’ now ‘cause she told you to?”

Violet said nothing.

Smoke’s lips curled faintly at the edges, “Didn’t think so.”

He looked out over the trees again.

“You smell like rosewater. That yours?”

She nodded.

“Don’t wear too much of it,” he murmured, “Makes a man wanna follow you ‘til he finds where it’s comin’ from.”

Violet swallowed hard.

“I’ll…I’ll remember that.”

He didn’t look at her again. But his voice was low enough she felt it in her stomach.

“Good girl.”

The words followed her like heat.

Good girl.

Two little syllables—barely more than breath—but they landed like a hand pressed between her thighs.

Violet didn’t reply.

Didn’t dare look at him again.

She turned.

Careful. Quiet. Controlled.

And walked back inside with the empty tray still trembling in her fingers.

Her knees felt soft.

Her core hummed.

The ribbon at her throat suddenly felt like too much and not enough all at once. She moved through the hallway like a girl floating—dazed, raw, skin warm from within. In the mirror of the front parlor, she caught her reflection.

Cheeks flushed.

Eyes wide.

Lips parted.

And she whispered it once—not for anyone else to hear.

“Good girl.”

Her thighs clenched hard.

Her breath hitched.

And she didn’t sit for a long time after that.

Because the ache between her legs was too tender.

Too fresh.

And that voice—his voice—was still buried in her bones.

It was Cordelia again.

Mid-afternoon, warm light spilling through the windows, the house quieter now—girls resting, Stack gone off with a bottle and a deck of cards. Cordelia found Violet in the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

“Smoke’s washin’ up out back,” she said, casual, like she wasn’t smirking behind her cigarette, “He asked for a fresh shirt. You know where the clean ones are. Go on and take it to him.”

Violet didn’t ask why.

She just nodded.

And tried not to let her hands shake when she folded the crisp white fabric over her arm.

Smoke was on the porch again.

Hair freshly slicked, combed back with a deep side part by Stack’s hand, glinting beneath the low sun. He wore only his trousers now—bare from the waist up, his back to her as he dried his hands with a cloth. His skin was the color of wet earth and iron, all tanned deeply from the heat of the South. Broad back, ridged muscle. Scars. One long one across his shoulder blade like he’d been cut once and never talked about it.

He turned when he heard her.

Didn’t speak at first.

Just looked.

“You bring that for me?” he asked, voice thick as velvet syrup

She nodded, holding out the shirt for him to take.

“You wanna help?” he said low.

Not teasing.

Just offering.

She hesitated.

Then stepped closer.

Violet unfolded the shirt in shaking hands. His body radiated heat. He smelled like soap, cedar, and something underneath—raw and masculine and animal. He bent his arms slightly and she slid the fabric over one first, then the other, brushing her fingers along his forearm to pull the sleeve through.

Her hands trembled against his skin.

When she reached up to guide the shirt over his back and onto his shoulders, her palm skimmed the top of his chest.

He was watching her the whole time.

Quiet.

Steady.

Hungry.

“You always this careful,” he murmured, “or is it just me?”

She couldn’t speak.

Her fingers hovered at the buttons.

Smoke leaned forward slightly.

“Start at the top, baby. I like it slow.”

She obeyed.

One button.

Then the next.

Each one closer to his heart.

Violet’s fingers brushed the top button.

The white cotton was still warm from his skin, soft from wear but clinging in places where his chest curved and swelled—solid and unyielding. She pressed the first button through the hole slowly, careful not to tremble too much.

Smoke didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

He just watched her.

His head tilted slightly, eyes locked on her mouth as she worked her way down.

Each button brought her closer to the center of him.

Her knuckles brushed his sternum.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, like if he breathed too deep he might lose the self-restraint he wore better than his clothes. By the third button, she could feel the beat of his heart beneath the cotton.

Not fast.

But heavy.

Her hands moved lower, guiding the fabric closed over his ribs, over the slight dip above his navel.

She could feel his heat through it.

Could smell the mix of soap and sweat and skin.

And even though he hadn’t touched her…

She felt him everywhere.

His voice came, low and gritty, just as she reached the last button.

“You always this gentle?”

She didn’t look up.

Didn’t trust herself to.

Her fingers slowed at the last button. Held it there.

“I…I don’t know,” she whispered.

Smoke leaned forward just slightly.

“That mean I’m your first?”

She blinked hard.

Her lips parted.

But her answer—whatever it might’ve been—caught in her throat.

She finished the button.

Pulled her hands away.

Tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

He stared at her.

A full breath.

Two.

Then stepped back.

Not far. Just enough for the air to grow colder between them.

His shirt was buttoned now.

His body clothed.

But the tension?

Still naked.

“You done real careful,” he said finally, “Almost too careful.”

He turned before she could reply. Smoke reached for his hat, smoothed it on top of that slicked-back part, and stepped off the porch.

No touch.

No praise.

No smile.

Just the soft clink of his belt, the low creak of the stairs…

And the sound of Violet’s breath shaking in the absence of everything she wanted.

As Smoke stepped off the porch, the screen door whispered closed behind him. He didn’t light a cigarette right away.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t curse.

He just kept walking—down the back path, past the chicken wire fence, past the empty rain barrel, boots scuffing dirt as if the earth itself needed to feel how tense he was.

His hands flexed at his sides.

Jaw tight.

Chest tight.

He could still feel her fingers—soft, unsure, adoring—moving down his shirt one slow button at a time like she was afraid touching him might make her burn.

Hell, it just about burned him.

Good girl.

He’d said it without thinking.

But the sound of it on his tongue felt too damn natural.

Too right.

He made it to the old toolshed behind the fig tree and leaned against the frame, the wood creaking under the weight of him.

He rolled his neck once.

Twice.

Then finally lit a match.

The tobacco sparked. Smoke curled.

But the fire in his blood?

It didn’t cool.

She didn’t know what she was doing to him.

She couldn’t.

That little ribbon at her throat, the way her lashes fluttered when he spoke, the way her thighs brushed with every step like they ached even when she didn’t move.

She didn’t even smell like the other girls.

She smelled…quiet. Like rosewater and something softer underneath. Something only he’d find if he buried his face deep enough to taste it.

And that tremble in her hands?

God.

He wanted to hold her wrists and make them tremble harder. He wanted to hear what her breath sounded like when it broke. He wanted her on his lap, in his bed, under his weight, whisperin’ his name like a sin she’d learned to love.

But he didn’t touch her.

Because if he did?

I wouldn’t stop. And I ain’t ready to let her see that part of me…Not yet.

He took another drag from the cigarette.

Felt the ache in his dick throb hard beneath his belt. He wouldn’t jerk off. Wouldn’t give himself that release.

Not for her.

Not yet.

He’d wait.

And when she came to him—when she begged?

He’d give her everything he’d been holding back.

And she’d finally understand why he kept walking away.

The next few days passed like molasses poured over flame. The air in The Blackline stayed thick—sweet in the morning, sultry at dusk, dangerous by night.

Smoke and Violet never said much.

But everything between them spoke loud as thunder.

Every morning, she brought him his coffee.

Same way: hot, bitter, with a thread of cane syrup stirred slow.

She never asked if he wanted it.

She just brought it.

And he always took it from her hand, brushing her fingers like an accident he meant.

She watched him when he cleaned his pistols. He’d sit out back with a rag over his lap, gunmetal gleaming, sunlight sliding down the ridges of his forearms. She’d pretend to be folding laundry near the open window—but her eyes always found him.

And Smoke?

He let her watch.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Just dragged a slow cloth over the barrel like he was teaching her how he handled things that got out of line. When Stack came by, they sat close at the porch table, talking in low tones over the hiss of liquor being poured into tin cups.

Business.

Bootlegging routes. Threats. Names.

Violet couldn’t hear it all. But she saw how they leaned in close—twin shadows, born from something brutal, bound tighter than blood.

And even then…

Smoke would glance at her.

Every time she passed, every time she walked near.

He noticed.

By nightfall When the house came alive, Violet floated. Soft slip. Ribbon back around her throat. Mouth painted the color of crushed berries.

Men watched her like moths.

Some tried to talk sweet.

Some talked slick.

She smiled. Laughed. Gave lap dances but never let them touch too much.

And always, Smoke watched.

Sometimes from the booth near the back. Sometimes from the bar. Sometimes while he cleaned a blade behind the curtain.

Until one night.

A man—drunk, swollen with coin and frustration—grabbed her arm too tight.

“I done spent two whole nights feedin’ you drinks, girl,” he slurred, spit thick in his throat, “You ain’t gon’ keep teasin’ me like that.”

She pulled back, “let go of me—”

He grabbed harder.

Her ribbon pulled loose.

“Lemme see what I paid for,” he snapped.

Smoke moved like a shadow with teeth.

No warning.

No shout.

Just there—sudden, solid, deadly.

Hand at the man’s collar. Gun drawn. Cold steel pressed against his cheekbone. Violet flinched, stepping back as she watched with wide eyes.

“You touch her again,” Smoke growled, voice like thunder in a cellar, “and I’ma put a hole in your face so clean they’ll bury you in silk.”

The whole room stilled.

Girls froze.

Men backed up.

Even Stack sat up straighter.

The man stammered. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Empty your pockets.”

“What—?”

“Every dollar. Every coin. Give it to her.”

The man looked at Violet.

Then at Smoke.

Then started dumping crumpled bills and coins into Violet’s palm.

Smoke’s voice dropped lower, but heavier. He raised the end of his pistol and cracked the man on the side of the face. Sharp. Bloody.

“You step foot back in this house…I’m killin’ you where you stand.”

Then he shoved him back hard—sent him stumbling towards the front by Stack’s bodyguards, half-drunk and humiliated, clutching the side of his face as blood seeped through his fingers. They shoved him out the front door. Left him stumbling into the night with his pride bleeding and Smoke’s threat still ringing in his ears.

The man was officially gone.

And just like that, everyone knew.

Violet wasn’t just pretty.

Wasn’t just new.

She belonged to someone.

Even if he hadn’t said it yet.

The room had started breathing again—slow, nervous, pulsing like something had just been broken and patched back together.

But Violet…she hadn’t moved.

She stood near the back wall, breath shallow, one hand curled around the ribbon at her throat, the other hanging limp at her side.

Smoke stepped toward her.

“You alright?”

His voice was low, but she felt it in her chest like it pushed past her bones.

Her eyes lifted to meet his, then they dropped, dragging slowly down the front of him.

The crisp lines of his buttoned shirt.

The shadow of muscle straining beneath cotton.

The dark holster vest at his chest and the way his gun disappeared into it like it had always belonged there. He shifted his arm and the fabric clung tight across his biceps.

Violet nodded faintly.

But her eyes… they were wide. Glossy. Shaken.

Smoke moved closer.

Suddenly.

His hand came up, rough fingers catching her wrist before she could tuck it behind her back.

She flinched.

“Lemme see,” he murmured.

His thumb pressed into the skin just above her pulse.

There was a faint red mark where the man had grabbed her.

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

That was when Stack stepped in.

“What the hell happened?”

His voice hit the room like a hammer.

He looked between them.

Saw the look on Smoke’s face.

Saw the way Violet’s body shook.

“He hurt her?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack turned to Violet, eyes gentler, “You alright, baby girl?”

She nodded. Still quiet.

Stack looked at Smoke again, voice lower. Sharper.

“If we catch that son of a bitch,” He stepped closer, “We kill him. Don’t nobody hurt my girls. You hear me?”

Smoke gave a slow nod.

Stack squeezed Violet’s shoulder and walked off, muttering something to one of the other men.

When they were alone again, Violet looked up.

“…Thank you.”

Her voice cracked.

Her eyes still glossy.

Smoke met her gaze, calm and steady.

“You ain’t got no worry,” he said, “Me and my brother? We’ll kill any man that tries to put hurt on a woman in this house.”

His thumb brushed over the mark on her wrist once more.

Gentle. Intentional.

“That’s a promise.”

Then he let her go.

Turned.

And walked back into the dark—the weight of his words curling in the air like gun smoke.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

#nahimjustfeelingit-writes #elijah smokes #elijah smoke moore #elias smokes x black!oc #elijah smokes x black!oc #elias stack #elias stack moore #stack sinners #smokestacktwins #smoke sinners #sinnersfanfiction #sinners fic #sinners fanfiction #sinners smut #sinners 2025

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n1k0laa5 · 8 days ago

Text

HOW NIKOLAS MANIFESTS

aka: god in the war room.

aka: god in a short skirt and a threat in his mouth.

aka: divinity dressed like obsession.

aka: i don’t hope. i bend.

nikolas, being I.

here’s my short story: i am a very obsessive manifestor, and yet this is coming from someone who’s manifested the following: multiple reality shifts, getting back a lot of SPs, a house, getting people out of my life, money, appearance changes, life changes, etc.

i don’t say that shit lightly.

i’m not here giving a bullet list like a success story post.

this isn’t a “teehee look what i got :)” this is a declaration of violence. this is me saying: you don’t understand how hard i go. you don’t understand what it means when i say “it’s mine.”

because when i say it? it gets scared.

SELF CONCEPT AS A FUCKING FLAMETHROWER.

i’ve built my self concept using robotic affirming and rampages, specifically those that make you think like God.

and by God, i don’t mean some floating choir boy with light beams and flowing robes. i mean the source. the fucking code. the absolute.

i built it on rage.

i built it on desire.

i built it on “you’re not gonna fucking stop me.”

i’m not trying to “heal” my self concept. i dragged my self concept out of its grave and injected it with every affirmation i could find until it started to breathe fire.

MY MIND IS A WAR ROOM.

every thought.

every reaction.

every what if.

tracked.

monitored.

obliterated.

when my stomach flips, when doubt creeps in, when reality tries to bitchslap me into “normal”…

what do i do?

i starve the doubt.

i suffocate it with imagery so saturated and so viscerally intense that the doubt chokes on it.

“but what if he never comes back?”

“actually? he’s already back. he’s obsessed with me. want me to replay it in 4K? let me rerun the moan he made when he saw my thighs again, bitch.”

i don’t negotiate. i don’t plead.

i overtake.

i don’t argue with the 3D. i render the 4D louder, hotter, and more emotionally charged than any fear can ever hope to be. i throw glitter on it. i make it vulgar. i make it undeniable. i throw it in doubt’s face and dare it to survive.

THE SECRET IS SATURATION.

not just repeating affirmations like a drone.

but inhabiting the role so fully that even doubt starts to question itself.

you ever delude so hard your fear starts shaking? you ever affirm so loud the walls look different? that’s what the fuck i mean. i don’t say “i hope” or “i believe.” i say “i am,” and the world goes silent.

i don’t do half-belief.

i don’t just script once and walk away.

i become it.

i don’t think. i know.

i don’t want. i own.

i don’t “try.” i live.

DEATH TO THE OLD SELF.

i even do deliberate identity deaths which is something extremely important for me.

i kill the version of myself that’s a beggar if i have to.

i’ll delete every app that forces me to check what my SP is doing.

any hint of my old identity and whatever is holding me back is gonna be thrown away, i don’t care.

i’ve blocked people mid-manifestation because their presence felt like a leash. i’ve stopped entire conversations and said “no. this version of me is dead now.” i’ve rewritten myself so hard the mirror had to stutter.

and i don’t mourn those versions. i bury them under gold and move the fuck on.

I’M NOT JUST ONE METHOD. I’M THE WHOLE FUCKING POKÉDEX.

and i’m not just a one method manifestor, i do everything.

i gotta try everything once.

so yes, i do change my method six times.

yes, i do save techniques like pokémon.

but guess what? they all fucking work because i said so.

yes i SATS. yes i affirm. yes i script. yes i loop. yes i embody. yes i rage-cry into a pillow while rampaging.

and guess what? every single fucking one of those moments still manifested something. because the moment i say it’s mine, the universe doesn’t ask for a signature. it moves.

I’M UNREALISTIC. I’M LUNATIC. I’M CORRECT.

and i’m not afraid of being “unrealistic” either, i have desires bigger than the universe and i fully believe that they’re possible—no, not even that, that they’re already here.

that yacht? parked.

that man? obsessed.

that face? flawless.

that timeline? done.

that reality? mine.

that version? alive.

you don’t have to convince people when you’re the one writing the script.

THE LIE BECOMES THE TRUTH.

same with the identity death, i act like i have my desire boldly to others.

i talk about my SP.

i talk about my DR experiences.

i talk about my new appearance.

there’s no “lying” in manifestation, the lie becomes the truth and that is a fact.

(billie jean is not my lover!!!! someone plz get the ref lmao)

you call it delusion? i call it installing a new world.

YES, I DO HAVE DOUBTS. AND YES, I STILL WIN.

yes, i do have doubts. so much that i have to reread my own posts.

yes, i constantly check the 3D. but i twist it. i remind myself of my other successes. i twist the narrative, so even when i’m looking at my SP’s new post?

“he’s still obsessed with me.”

that’s it.

twist it.

to however you want.

who’s gonna stop you?

who’s gonna get into your head and tell you it’s wrong if it isn’t you?

you are the voice in your head. so fucking speak like it.

i’ve cried while manifesting and still got what i want. i’ve spiraled into a whole meltdown, journaled “this is hell,” and got what i wanted the next day. because it doesn’t fucking matter. it’s not about how clean you are. it’s about how firm you are.

I ROMANTICIZE, I FANFICTION, I DECLARE. I REBUILD.

i journal as well, often. i write down my desires in detail, or sometimes even write fanfiction about it because it helps me dwell in my desires.

i daydream with tears in my eyes and victory in my chest.

i listen to rampages like they’re love songs.

i romanticize myself to the point i start laughing out loud.

i make vision boards with dramatic filters and write captions like i’m giving the Oscars speech.

because i know it’s inevitable for me to have everything i want.

TO BE NIKOLAS IS TO BE A MACHINE OF CREATION.

i am a god in practice. not just in theory.

i don’t just say “i am.”

i breathe it.

i bleed it.

i wake up and choose it.

even when i spiral.

even when i doubt.

even when the 3D slaps me across the face, i slap back harder with my assumption.

i am not perfect.

but i persist.

and i do not lose.

so now what?

copy me.

steal me.

worship yourself the way i do.

be obsessive. be twisted. be dramatic.

romanticize the shit out of your process.

declare your results like they already paid rent.

build your god complex like a throne made of glass and gold and shards of your doubt’s dead body.

be a bitch about it.

be ruthless.

and you’ll get everything.

because of course you will.

you said so.

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peachdues · 1 year ago

Text

THE GREAT WAR

PART I ♤ SECRET PREGNANCY AU

A/N: After seven months, it's finally here. Part I of Giyuu's Bundle of Joy. This fic involved a ton of research and tears. I hope you all enjoy. Special shout-out to @squishybabei @kentohours @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701 @ghost-1-y and @xxsabitoxx for letting me bombard your DMs with endless snippets from this fic for feedback. Note that this is a multi-part fic, and it will be a non-linear story.

CW: explicit sexual content ☼ MDNI ☼ loss of virginity ☼ unprotected sex ☼ protective/possessive Giyuu ☼ canon-typical violence

LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST HERE

January, 1915

The moon’s rays filtered through the sparse canopy of the trees from above, bathing that small portion of the forest in its silvery glow. There, about twenty paces ahead, Giyuu locked eyes on his target.

A demon; one he’d been pursuing through the dense forest separating his Manor from the base of a great mountain for the last several miles

The demon had yet to notice him, for it was focused entirely on its own prey — a human woman, who was frantically zigzagging as she ran in a desperate effort to evade its clutches.

She was succeeding rather well in her endeavor, managing to dart out of the beast’s reach right as it snapped its sharp, deadly claws at her back. But the girl then miscalculated her movements and stumbled over something — whether it was a tree root or her own feet, he could not say — and she went airborne. For one, sickening moment, Giyuu feared he would not be fast enough to save her from falling victim to the demon he was readying to kill.

The girl squealed as she fell, just narrowly managing to avoid the swipe of the beast’s claws as they cut uselessly at the air where her back had been only seconds before. Something long and wooden flew from her hand as she sprawled across the forest floor – a broom.

Odd.

Steps quick and even, Giyuu’s thumb flicked his sword free from its scabbard. Within seconds of him drawing his weapon, the Slayer’s blade sliced seamlessly through the demon’s neck, its head thudding pathetically to the forest floor before the beast could comprehend the threat.

He landed swiftly on the balls of his feet, the Water Pillar quickly shaking his blade free of the demon’s blackened, rotted blood before sheathing it at his hip. A quick job – that was how he liked it; free of fuss.

Behind him, he heard the leaves coating the frozen ground of the forest shift and crack as the human girl he’d rescued rose to her feet. He grimaced; while helping rid the world of the blight inflicted upon it by demons was his life’s sole and true purpose, and one he fulfilled without hesitation, he was little more than a fish out of water when it came to talking to those he helped.

The girl had yet to flee; Giyuu suspected she might be in shock, if not a bit simple, and he sought to prod her along. After all, the sooner she left the forest, the less likely she’d end up a demon’s meal and waste his efforts in preserving her life.

“You should be fine now. Please return to your ho-,” The dark-haired Slayer’s words were cut off with a sputter as the head of the woman’s broom whacked him sharply up the side of his skull.

Giyuu stood there for a moment, dazed and slightly confused as he turned towards the woman whose life he’d just preserved.

The Water Pillar had not paid her much mind upon discovering her seconds away from becoming the slain horned demon’s newest meal, his attention having been entirely focused on eliminating his target. But now, without the distracting threat of a man-eating beast, he could see she was clad in the traditional attire worn by Shinto priestesses, though she looked far too young to have achieved such a status. Instead, she appeared to be much closer to himself in age. The front of her red hakama pants were streaked in mud and dirt from her fall, and several strands of hair had fallen loose from where they’d been gathered in a ribbon just below her shoulders.

And she was glaring at him.

“What are you?” She demanded, and the Water Pillar noted the faint tremor in her voice that she worked to conceal behind her defensive stance, her broom braced in front of her like a blade.

A slow blink. “I am Tomioka.”

It baffled him that he let his name slide so freely when he’d never been one particularly keen on sharing it. Yet, he’d thought that perhaps the exchange of names would get the wild woman before him to calm, and perhaps lower the sweeping tool —-

“What the hell is a Tomioka?”

Giyuu wondered whether the — Miko, that was what young priestesses in training were called — had hit her head in the fall. “My name.”

A faint dusting of red spread across the Miko’s cheeks as she realized the absurdity of her mistake, though she still did not lower her weapon. Rather, she jutted it towards him in what Giyuu thought may have been an attempt to be threatening.

“And what was that thing just now, Tomioka? And what are you?” Quickly, her eyes swept behind him, scanning. “Are there more?”

Idly, Giyuu wondered why he was bothering to indulge in such a silly conversation to begin with, chalking it up to the mere fact that they were still in a dark forest, with dawn still several hours away.

The foolish girl would end up a snack for another demon if she did not turn around and go home.

“It was a demon. I’d been tracking it for several miles when it stumbled across you. You can count yourself lucky — do not hit me again.” He cut off with a warning, eyes narrowing as the Miko drew the broom back up over her head.

There was a tense moment as the two regarded one another, Giyuu’s eyes locked on the Miko’s trembling arm as she stared distrustfully back at him.

The girl’s hands twitched as the broom cleaved through the air once more, but Giyuu knocked it easily away, sending the cleaning tool flying uselessly to the side where it rolled under a bush.

“Are you finished?” Giyuu asked, irritation creeping into his tone as he stared coolly at the flustered Miko.

“You’ve stripped me of my only weapon, so I suppose I have no choice,” the young woman sniffed, her tone as frosty as his glare.

Giyuu grimaced. “You would not have lost the privilege had you simply done as I asked.”

The Miko folded her arms stubbornly across her chest and glowered at him. “You would truly leave a woman defenseless in the woods? With nothing to protect herself?”

Giyuu scoffed. “You are not a woman; you are a menace.”

The young woman’s mouth opened and closed several times as her face flushed several shades deeper. “Y-you!”

A crack! somewhere in the woods made the sputtering Miko fall silent with a small squeak, and Giyuu was bemused to find that the woman’s hands shot to him for safety, when only moments before she’d tried to clobber him away from her.

“You said that…that thing earlier was a demon, yes?” She whispered and Giyuu nodded, tense as his eyes swept through the shadowy line of the trees, searching.

“Do you think there are more?”

“So long as we continue sitting here like a pair of lame ducks, more are bound to come sniffing.” The wary Pillar replied. “Which is why I suggest you return home — without bludgeoning me further.”

The young Priestess continued to cling to his arm, her eyes wide and anxious. Giyuu cleared this throat, and when the woman’s attention snapped back to him, he pointedly glanced down at her white-knuckled grip on the sleeve of his haori.

“Apologies,” the Miko blushed, and her hands quickly relinquished their hold on his sleeve. She wrung her hands nervously before her. “Might you escort me back to my Shrine? It’s not far from here – less than two kilometers.”

Still within his territory — albeit at the opposite end of the forest where is own Manor stood. He grimaced, but nodded stiffly. His efforts to save the woman’s life would be in vain if she walked away from him and straight into the waiting, eager claws of another beast that lurked in the shadows.

The Miko smiled brightly at him and offered her name. Giyuu elected not to reply, and the girl settled into step at his side, a small frown pulling at her lips.

“I’m sorry for earlier — for hitting you with my broom.” The girl — Y/N — said a short while later, the faintest trace of shyness in her tone.

Giyuu did not think the apology warranted a response, and so he gave none, but the chatty little devil prodded him once more.

“Did I injure you?” She gestured to the side of his head where her broom had caught him.

Giyuu snorted, raising an eyebrow at her. “The day I am hurt by a mere broom is the day I retire from the Demon Slayer Corps.”

Y/N hummed in contemplation. “And what exactly is the great and mysterious Demon Slayer Corps?”

The Water Pillar’s eyes remained forward. “I should think the name is self-explanatory. There are demons who eat humans. We slay them.”

Inwardly, Giyuu cringed at the harshness of his words. It did not happen often, but there were times when he wished he was better with them, when he wished he did not come off quite as aloof and callous —

“You do not know how to talk to people very well, do you Tomioka-sama?” Y/N’s tone was not judgmental; it rather had a mild curiosity to it, as though she were merely commenting on the weather or the quality of a cup of tea.

But the Water Pillar did not know how to answer her. Kocho once told him that others disliked him, but Giyuu wasn’t sure that was entirely true; after all, no one had ever said so much to his face.

Then again, if the young shrine maiden’s words were anything to go by, then perhaps the Insect Pillar’s scathing assessment hadn’t been too far off the mark.

“What even brought you into the forest so late at night?” Giyuu did not know why the question needled at him, but he found the pressing silence of the trees more disconcerting than the Miko’s voice, and so he was desperate for the distraction. “And why a broom?”

Y/N herself seemed surprised at his sudden interest. “Night-blooming herbs,” she said plainly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “They are critical for certain rites and medications. And I cannot collect them any other time. The broom was for protection, obviously.”

“I wasn’t aware shrines still performed rituals,” Giyuu pushed an errant tree branch out of their way, and ahead, faint lights began to swim into view. The Shrine. “Are you not a mere relic of a time long since-passed?”

“I’ll have you know that we still perform basic cleansing rites for those in the village,” Y/N bristled. “And we provide medical aid, since there is no hospital nearby.”

She shot him a cold look. “Modern medicine would not have developed but for ancient practices such as ours.”

Giyuu frowned. He hadn’t meant to insult the woman. “Be that as it may,” he said flatly. “Demons prowl at night. You wandering into the forest none the wiser is akin to you waltzing into their territory with a giant sign that says ‘Eat me.’”

Y/N grimaced. “Then what would you have me do? Neglect my duties?”

He could sympathize with that. “No, I’m not saying you should forsake your obligations,” he furrowed his eyebrows at the thought. “Perhaps it is simply a risk you must take. But you should at least be aware of your surroundings.”

Y/N looked upon him with a miserable expression. “You’re of little help, you know that?”

Giyuu only frowned, perplexed as to why she couldn’t understand the import of his words.

An awkward silence ensued, punctured only by the faint hoot of an owl. For that, the established swordsman was grateful; noise meant the absence of predators, which meant they were safe – for now.

“You mentioned tracking the demon earlier – how long had you been doing so?”

“A while.”

The girl was relentless. “And you just so happened to track it here? Where it was conveniently chasing me?”

“I patrol this region. Your rescue was nothing more than coincidence and luck on your part.”

“My gratitude is endless,” the shrine maiden said drily. “Forgive me for not falling to the ground in prostration.”

At that, Giyuu fell silent and refused to engage in any further conversation. The shrine maiden, for her part, seemed to take his cue that he had no interest in her or exchanging meaningless pleasantries, and so she too, went quiet.

The forest floor eventually began to slope gradually up, and before long, Giyuu found himself walking along a carved rock path that curved through the trees until it widened at a great set of stone stairs. At the very top of the steep incline, he could spot a great Torii gate.

Y/N turned to him with a beaming smile. “Allow me to introduce you to the Shrine." Tomioka opened his mouth to protest, but she quickly added, “You should at least know who it is you have dedicated your life to protecting.”

“I’d rather not.”

But she was already leading him up the stairs, his wrist pinched delicately between two of her fingers. Realistically, Giyuu knew it would take him no effort to shake the woman’s hold and disappear into the night. But to his own bemusement, he allowed her to tote him behind her as though he were little more than a useless pet.

The pair passed under the Torrii and into a sprawling courtyard. Though night sky was a deep, inky black, the perimeter of the courtyard was dotted with several stone lanterns -- toro -- each of which had been lit with a generous flame. Giyuu's quick perusal of the Shrine, however, was cut short as the Miko led him into the Shrine's main structure -- the honden -- and tugged him down a narrow hallway. Based on his rough appraisal of the building, Giyuu surmised she was taking him to the center of the honden, likely where the girl's master was.

His theory was proven correct when Y/N drew up to a great slat of shoji panneling. The Miko knocked softly on one of the wooden beams before she slid the door aside, revealing a great, open room that was littered with scrolls, half-dried pots of ink, and burned incense sticks. There, in the center of the room, knelt the head Priestess of the Shrine. She was an old, shriveled, wrinkled thing. The white hair that she’d gathered into a knot at her neck was as wispy as the thinnest clouds, and a quick glance over her hands revealed swollen joints covered by skin spotted with age.

But the Priestess did not appear to be a gentle elder by any means; her thin mouth was curled down into a sneer that was directed at the Miko at his side, and her eyes were hard and cold.

"Head Priestess," Y/N bowed to her elder. "This man is called Tomioka, and he helped save me tonight in the forest."

Giyuu resisted the urge to snort. Helped, indeed.

The old woman's eyes shone bright with an emotion he could not name as the Miko continued. "A creature attacked me as I was returning home. Tomioka says he is a swordsman whose occupation --"

“I know what he is, girl,” the Priestess snapped at her student before she turned those beady eyes to him. “A member of the Demon Slayer Corps will always be welcome at this Shrine – particularly one as esteemed as yourself.”

The Water Pillar straightened at the old woman’s casual mention of the Corps. “I was not aware that of any Shrines so affiliated with the Corps.”

“There was a time when the Demon Slayer Corps would partner with shrines such as this to carry out its mission,” the Priestess replied evenly. From his periphery, Giyuu spotted Y/N’s head snap toward her mentor, her jaw slack. “Once, priestesses were akin to shamans who offered a variety of rituals for cleansing and protection. You slayers relied on our connection with our communities to operate more effectively, and we in turn, counted on your protection to fight what we could not.”

Despite the distinct scent of sake that clung to the elderly shrine keeper like a cloud, her eyes remained sharp and fixed upon him, and her wrinkled mouth pulled into a rueful smile. “Now, it seems, our wise and benevolent government has forced us both to retreat to the shadows to operate in secret.”

She bowed her head. “You have nothing but my respect, Lord Hashira. You are always welcome here.”

Giyuu did not respond, but he inclined his head toward the Priestess in polite acknowledgement.

Y/N gaped at her Master. "Lord --?"

The old woman poured another generous serving of sake and brought the choko to her lips. “Though we are honored by your visit, young Lord, I’m afraid your presence is nothing more than a calculated effort by this one,” she nodded pointedly at the young shrine maiden at his side, whose cheeks pinkened. “To keep herself out of trouble. My apprentice was not permitted to leave the grounds, you see.”

“Oh hush you old drunk,” Giyuu’s eyes snapped to the irate Miko in surprise. “I told you earlier I was going to the village market –”

“Telling me while I am in the middle of lessons with the younger girls and sprinting off before I can respond is hardly me giving you permission,” the Priestess’s mouth curled into a sneer. “You’ve defied me for the last time, girl.”

The old Priestess turned away from her apprentice, dismissive. “You will take the rice bundles and hang them in the drying shed – every last one, for the next three days.”

“You hag!” Y/N fumed, her face pinched in outrage. “I was on rice duty all last week without an ounce of assistance –”

“And you apparently have yet to learn your lesson,” the old woman retorted bitterly, shooting the seething Shrine Maiden a withering glare. “Considering you still think it seemly to mouth off at any and every opportunity –”

The Miko spat a curse at the elder Priestess so filthy and colorful that even Giyuu could not mask his surprise, raising his eyebrow. But if Y/N’s outburst shocked the Shrine’s head, the old woman gave no sign. Instead, she only glowered at the young woman as the latter turned and shoved the shoji door harshly to the side. Giyuu, ever the unwilling observer, was left to be pulled by his wrist back into the hall behind the young Miko before she whipped around to face her senior once more.

Giyuu had thought himself stunned by the crassness of the Shrine Miaden’s language before, but nothing prepared him for the sight of the obscene gesture she made at the old woman before she slammed the door firmly shut.

A telling crash on the other side of the wall signaled the Elder Priestess had hurled her empty sake dish at the door with all her might. “And work on your aim!” Y/N snapped before turning sharply on her heel to stomp out of the honden, tugging the Water Pillar helplessly behind her.

“She seems unstable.” said Giyuu once they were a safe distance away from the main Honden.

Y/N brushed aside his concern with a flippant waive of her hand. “Granny is harmless. As her charge, I suppose I instigate her nearly as much as she torments me.”

Granny. It made sense, then, the curious affection the girl held for the rancorous head Priestess, even if he could not bring himself to fully understand it.

“You are more than welcome to stay the night,” the Miko’s mood lightened considerably the more she put distance between herself and the drunken head Priestess. “We serve breakfast at sunrise, but of course, you’re not obligated to attend.”

The ravenette’s mouth quirked down in a faint grimace, the only sign of his discomfort. “I should return to my own home.”

“It’s quite late,” Y/N glanced up at the night sky, now awash with stars that surrounded the fat, glowing moon like thousands of glittering jewels. She turned back to him with a radiant grin. “At least allow me to show you around.”

—

If anyone had asked him, Giyuu Tomioka would not have been able to explain the series of events that had led him here.

He distinctly remembered telling the vexatious young Shrine Maiden no, that he could not stay the night, yet somehow he’d found himself in the Shrine’s old, musty guest house, already prepared for his stay, a lantern flickering merrily in the corner.

He glanced warily at the fresh sleeping kimono folded beside his futon. The possibility of him actually sleeping in such an unfamiliar place was nil and while the Water Pillar certainly had no issue in appearing impolite to others, he thought that perhaps the Shrine was affiliated with the connection of Wisteria Houses dotted throughout the land, and he didn’t want to risk offending the head Priestess and cause her to shut her gates to other slayers in need of lodging.

So, Giyuu paced the floor of the small guest house, restless. Though his eyes remained carefully trained on the window of his room, waiting for the slightest hint of movement that would give him an excuse to leave without offending his hosts, no sign of either his crow or any demonic threat manifested. Though, he supposed with a frown, it shouldn’t surprise him that he’d not heard from Kanzaburo; the ancient bird was likely flitting about the forest, lost.

He continued to pace until finally, the sky in the East began to lighten signaling that dawn was fast approaching. Stealthily, he slipped out of the small hut that had served as his temporary accommodations and made his way toward the Torii under which he and that Miko — Y/N — had passed upon their arrival.

He’d almost cleared the gate when he saw the elder Priestess standing beside the Torii, apparently waiting for him. Giyuu nodded his head at her, the only expression of courtesy he was willing to give, but he was halted as the old woman flung out a single arm in front of him, her hand flat and palm turned up, waiting.

And that was how Giyuu learned the Shrine was not, in fact, a Wisteria House; not as he was forced to fork over a considerable sum of his earnings into the Priestess’s expectant hand.

Wisteria Houses meant Corps Members stayed free of charge; the price the Shrine’s keeper demanded in exchange for his brief stay bordered extortion.

At least he’d had the money; if he’d been of any lower rank, the old woman would have cleaned him out.

He scowled as he departed but his irritation quickly fell away as he finally laid eyes on Kanzaburo, who nearly collided with his Master’s head as he struggled to pant out his orders.

And so, as the Water Pillar trekked through the forest and toward his new assignment, the view of the Shrine faded behind the dense canopy of the mountain forest, and so too, did any final, sparing thoughts of it, or its inhabitants.

———-

Nearly a month passed since Giyuu stumbled across the strange shrine maiden in the forest separating his Estate from the old Shrine, and the Miko had nearly faded from his memory. Not that such a feat was difficult; the raven-haired Pillar’s mind was far more occupied with tasks like patrol and chasing down leads that could potentially lead the Corps to an Upper Rank demon to focus on much else.

He’d intended only to find a decent meal and then depart the village before nightfall to investigate rumors of women disappearing in a small town to the south. Night was rapidly approaching, however, and he’d yet to find any vendor that sold anything he liked, much to his chagrin. He was about to cut his losses and continue on, when he spied a familiar blur of white and red idly perusing one of the stalls, apparently oblivious to the impending sunset.

Without thought, his feet carried him toward her, his annoyance sparking to life.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The Miko’s – Y/N’s – head turned back and her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the Pillar standing behind her.

“Tomioka-sama,” she greeted with a polite bow. “I did not expect to see you so soon.”

He ignored her greeting, choosing instead to take a step closer. “I asked what you were doing.”

If she was taken aback by his terseness, she didn’t show it. “I am returning to my shrine after an afternoon of errands,” she replied smoothly. “As is usual for me.”

“It is nearly dark.”

“An astute observation,” and to his annoyance, he saw an amused twinkle in her eye. “Do you also know that tonight is also a full moon?”

Said moon had already made an appearance above them, growing brighter and brighter as the sky faded from twilight to night.

Giyuu had never been one for rolling his eyes, but the young woman’s knowing smirk grated at something inside him, made him feel as he often did whenever Kocho would make a sly comment with that smile of hers, that for some reason made him feel like he was the butt of some joke only she knew.

He grimaced. Teasing; that’s what the shrine maiden was doing. She was teasing him.

“It is nearly dark,” he repeated. “And I did not think you’d be naive enough to risk traveling after sunset.”

“I believe it was you who insisted I did not have to ignore my duties, so long as I paid attention to my surroundings.” She replied coolly. “So that is exactly what I am doing.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Fine. If the stubborn girl wanted to be bait for whatever awaited her in the forest once the sun finally set, then that was her choice. He’d saved her once, and he’d given her sufficient warning; what she did from then on did not concern him.

He was about to bade her farewell when a slurred, boisterous voice boomed her name from across the market. Several heads turned toward the source, including Giyuu's, until he found a round faced, piggish man stumbling away from a sake stand, his cheeks flushed a bright red.

The man repeated the Miko's name in that grating, sing-song voice of his. "Whe're you goin' all by yourself so late?"

He didn't know what possessed him to ask, but Tomioka turned to the shrine maiden. "A friend?"

“His name is Susumo,” she said airily, though she could not conceal her scowl as the man drew closer. “He’s merely the village drunk who forgets to keep his hands to himself.”

The shrine maiden’s eyes narrowed accusingly at the villager, and the Miko remarked, in a raised voice, “And he is not welcome at the Shrine, though he pretends to forget otherwise.”

Susumo only held his hands up, as though in surrender. “You can’t blame a man for wanting to know what lies under all those layers,” and as if the implication of his lechery wasn’t clear enough, he gave the Miko a leering once-over. “Can’t say I was disappointed.”

“But your friend is right,” he slurred, a smirk forming on his lips. “The dark is too dangerous for a pretty thing like you to risk walking back alone —“

“I shall escort her,” Tomioka said abruptly and she whipped back to him, her mouth falling open. “After all, I’m welcome at the Shrine.”

Susumo, too, gaped at the Swordsman. The Miko recovered quickly however, unwilling to allow the opportunity to pass or for the Slayer to suddenly come to his senses and realize he’d rather leave her to fend for herself in the forest.

“You have my gratitude, Tomioka-sama,” and she gave him a small bow of her head. Relieved, she flipped her braid over her shoulder and smiled warmly up at her raven-haired companion. “Shall we?”

She did not wait for Tomioka to answer, nor did she give any further acknowledgment to Susumo, who only continued to stare at the Hashira, his face bright red. With a feigned indifference, she breezed past him, but a sudden yelp from behind caused her to snap back in alarm.

The first thing she noticed was the proximity of the back of a dual-patterned haori as it stood between her and the village drunkard. The Water Pillar’s shroud nearly brushed the tip of her nose, forcing her to step back. Cautiously, she peered around Tomioka’s rigid form, and her eyes widened at the sight before her.

Susumo, it appeared, had tried to grab her, only to be cut off by the Water Pillar himself, who snatched him by his wrist. Though it did not appear that Tomioka was using a great deal of effort to restrain him, it was clear Susumo was struggling — greatly so — against the ferocity of the Slayer’s hold, given how a vein bulged in his forehead, his face, rapidly turning purple.

Her gaze flicked to the Swordsman’s hand, and she felt herself blanch at the odd angle of Susumo’s wrist.

She was no doctor, but she knew wrists weren’t meant to twist as his did in Tomioka’s crushing grip.

“Leave.” the Water Pillar ordered coldly, and there was a darkness in his eyes that matched the brutality of his hold. “Your presence is unnecessary and unwanted.”

“Y-you! Susumo sputtered.

But Tomioka’s grip only tightened. “Now.”

And then he released him, Susumo half-stumbling back from the Swordsman. His eyes were wide with both fear and loathing, and he muttered incoherently under his breath as he massaged his rapidly-swelling wrist.

The Water Pillar, however, did not pay any more attention to the red-faced villager. He turned only to the shrine maiden, who remained frozen in place, her eyes wide. "Shall we?"

Numbly, Y/N nodded and the two set off down the path that led back to the Shrine. Dimly, the Miko noted that the Slayer kept noticeably close to her as they walked, as though he was unwilling to let her wander too far away. The air between them as they traveled was thick and tense. She was on edge enough thanks to Susumo and his oily words, and she was desperate to do anything to distract herself from the buzzing mounting under her skin.

She cast a sly, sidelong glance at the Swordsman walking at her side. He’d not been receptive to her small-talk the last time he’d escorted her back to her Shrine, but saying something — anything — would be better than this stifling quiet threatening to choke her.

“How old are you?” Before the Swordsman could decide whether to answer, she continued on. “If I had to guess, I would suspect you’re around my age, and I just passed my nineteenth birthday.”

She hummed aloud. “You seem quite young, yet you’ve achieved some level of status as a swordsman, according to Granny.” Her eyes fell to the blade secured at his hip before she lifted them back to his profile. “Yet you’re as withdrawn and taciturn as an old man.”

Her words, thankfully, seemed to irritate him into responding. “Are you always so forthright?”

The Miko grinned. “Perhaps I am like you, Lord – what was it? Hashiba?”

“Hashira.”

“Yes, that. Perhaps I am like you, Lord Hashira – utterly lacking in social ability.” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she brushed her shoulder against his bicep. “But at least I make up for it by talking.”

“Talking is a distraction,” Tomioka monotoned, his eyes fixed resolutely on the hidden path of the forest before them. “It only serves as an interference to one’s duties.” He looked pointedly at the Miko’s profile, but inexplicably found himself unable to look away. “Or an excuse to ignore them.”

But she was unflappable. “And yet you are the one who decided to escort me all the way back to my Shrine – so who is the one ignoring their duties, Tomioka-sama?”

“I think you enjoy diverting my attention,” the Water Pillar retorted, though Y/N could see the rising annoyance in his eyes.

She felt his gaze bear into her as she flipped her loose hair behind her shoulder. “It’s not possible to distract someone unless they find the diversion in question captivating, Tomioka-sama.”

The Water Pillar almost looked amused. “And you are certainly that, Y/N.”

The Miko ducked her head to avoid that piercing gaze, so that the ravenette would not see the faint rosy blush creeping across her cheeks. “I did not think you had the constitution for teasing, Lord Hashira.”

Tomioka looked at her fully then, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do not jest.” He hesitated for a moment, eyebrows furrowed as he scrutinized her. “Nor do I lie.”

Y/N’s lips parted. There was something about the way the Swordsman beheld her that made her stomach flutter. In her last encounter with the enigmatic Slayer, she’d been so rattled by her close encounter with the demon, that she hadn’t truly noticed much about the man who’d saved her life, apart from his bland detachment and rather unfortunate social skills.

But now, the Miko was struck by how handsome the raven-haired Hashira was; she was mesmerized by the deep azure of his eyes, as vast and deep as the sea. His skin was a delicate alabaster, and, contrasted with the flesh of his hands which were calloused and scarred, his face had not a blemish in sight.

She blinked, clearing away some of the fog that had crept into her mind, put there by the vexatious Slayer. “I must return to my duties,” she said softly.

They spent the remainder of their journey back to the Shrine in silence. She was quick to break away from him the moment they passed under the Torii, though not before she muttered that he was welcome to stay, should he so choose.

She busied herself with her duties, but even the neediest obligations could not fully distract her from feeling the burning heat of his stare as the Water Pillar’s watched her fiercely from across the courtyard. And nothing, nothing at all could have prepared her for how he eventually joined her in carrying out her duties,

The Water Pillar stayed the night once more, departing sharply at daybreak. Later, as Y/N swept the courtyard free of loose brush and clutter long after his departure, she noticed a crow sitting high in a tree, its black eyes watching her every movement. Though its gaze was sharp, the presence of the great, sleek bird did not disturb her, though not as much of a feather twitched from its perch upon the branch as the Miko continued through her day.

As she’d readied for bed later that night, she realized she’d felt oddly comforted by the crow. She imagined it a silent protector, a new guardian of the Shrine, no different than the statues of the gods which dotted its grounds.

She settled into her futon with a great yawn, the image of a certain dark-haired Swordsman flickering in the back of her conscience until she was swept into sleep’s sweet embrace.

Just outside the Shrine’s sleeping quarters, the bird remained, eyes carefully tracking every shift in the shadows, waiting.

And then the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, and the threat of night receded once more.

But the crow remained.

———

Spring, 1915

The crow became a permanent fixture at the Shrine, though it always seemed to keep strictly to a single tree at the edge of the property, one that gave it a full view of the courtyard and structures surrounding the main honden.

Despite the bird's constant presence, more than a month passed before the Water Pillar returned, though he'd seemed even more sullen and withdrawn than he'd been during their previous two encounters. Y/N did not consider herself a friend to Tomioka by any means, but she was the only one brave enough to approach him as he'd lingered by the Torii, apparently unsure whether he should seek out their hospitality or return to the forest.

"You are welcome to come and sit for a hot meal," she called cordially, though she maintained a tentative distance. She frowned when he did not respond. Instead, the Water Pillar continued to stare unseeingly at the cracked stone path leading to the Shrine's courtyard.

"Tomioka-sama?" She pressed gently and the Swordsman's attention finally snapped to her, as though he'd just become aware of her presence.

The haunted look in his eyes sent a chill up her spine. The Miko cast one, cautious glance up at the sky, and her eyes narrowed at the wall of black clouds steadily rolling in from the east. A shift in the wind brought forth the distinct, metallic scent of rain, and if she listened hard enough, she swore she could hear the distant rumbles of thunder. “You know, there will be a storm tonight — please consider waiting it out here, where it’s safe.”

Tomioka only stared at her for a moment before he nodded. His hand twitched into a vague gesture inviting her to lead the way, and Y/N escorted him to the Shrine's elder, in search of her permission.

Granny Priestess agreed to let him stay, but on the condition he paid for his imposition. The Water Pillar had silently agreed, producing one small money bag from his pocket and placing it squarely in the Priestess’s outstretched, waiting hand.

The heft of the bag had made Y/N frown; it seemed a great sum in comparison to their meager lodging offerings, but the Swordsman did not object, so she held her tongue. To comment would only serve to irritate her Master, and the old hag was scornful enough to assign her to duties that would isolate her from the raven-haired Slayer.

Only after the old Priestess sauntered off, leaving behind nothing but the lingering, bitter stench of sake, did the Miko speak again.

“I’m glad to see you in good health, Tomioka-sama,” she bowed, though she thought she spied the corner of his mouth twitch down at her formal greeting. “I trust your patrol went smoothly?”

The Water Pillar’s expression was tight; dark. “It did not. The demon I was tracking managed to get away.” His jaw clenched tight. “But not before it slaughtered an entire family in the mountains.”

All at once, the world around her seemed to slow. It had been easy to assume the dark-haired Swordsman before her always managed to find his target just in time, before it could slaughter its victim. Now, as she beheld the lethal coldness that had settled over his features, Y/N knew her assumptions had been wrong.

Perhaps, she noted with a shudder, her rescue had been the exception and not the rule.

Beneath the icy stoicism limning the Water Pillar’s eyes, the shrine maiden noted a distinct heaviness that weighed down his shoulders; made them curl slightly forward, defeated.

She resisted the urge to reach out to him, in comfort. “I won’t offer you empty platitudes,” she murmured. “But I can invite you to offer your prayers for those who were lost.”

He looked at her, brows drawn, and she knew his instinct was to decline, so she added, “I will do it regardless of whether you join me.”

All at once, any protest he had was snuffed out within him. Instead, he was left with a curious softness as he regarded the shrine maiden, so assured and earnest in her invitation.

He didn’t know why he’d sought out the Shrine.

He’s been angry; angry at himself for not being faster, for allowing innocent people to die on his account of his failure.

He still felt angry. Yet, as he followed Y/N into the Shrine’s haiden to light incense, he also felt a solemn gratitude for the Miko, who’d not let him indulge in his self-loathing but instead requested he act, and act with her.

So he had; and somehow, the weight on his chest, the one that threatened to suffocate him, lightened bit by bit until Giyuu felt like he could breathe once more.

Later that night, Giyuu spotted the shrine maiden from his window as she darted around the courtyard to light the tōrō to illuminate the Shrine grounds. A deep rumble of thunder, however, signaled the spring storm had finally arrived. Y/N, however, only continued with her task, huddling over herself to strike the matches needed to finish lighting the lanterns as rain began to dampen the landscape around her.

He was about to go outside and demand she return to the warm, dry haven that was the girls’ sleeping quarters lest she catch a cold, but then the last of the lanterns were lit and the shrine maiden straightened.

And then she tilted her face up toward the sky, allowing the rain to wash over her.

And she grinned. And Giyuu was mesmerized; so much so, that he had not stopped staring at where she’d stood, laughing in the rain, even long after the Miko retired to bed.

Y/N awoke well before sunrise the following morning and spent hours laboring over the hot stoves in the kitchen. By the time the sky finally lightened, she'd only just finished her task and was in the process of boxing up her creation when she spotted one of her fellow shrine maidens passing by the entryway.

The Miko called out her name. "Has Lord Tomioka awoken yet?"

Her sister trainee lingered in the doorway. "Oh yes, he's been up for a while," and the girl looked back over her shoulder. “But he is already on his way out —“

The Miko swore viciously under her breath as she slammed a lid atop the small bento and hastily wrapped it in the small cloth she’d swiped from the laundry.

“Move,” she barked at a small group of trainees that had gathered in the hallway outside the kitchen. The girls flattened themselves against the wall as Y/N sped by. She hurtled up the stairs, nearly tripping in her haste. Just as she burst into the courtyard from the honden, panting and winded, she spotted him.

“Tomioka-sama!” Y/N called, hurrying after the retreating form of the Water Pillar before he could pass through the shrine gates. “I have something for you!”

The raven-haired slayer turned back to her, his face neutral, though Y/N could tell, by the slightest raise of his brow, that she’d piqued his interest.

“Thank goodness you hadn’t left yet,” the Miko said brightly, holding out a small bundle wrapped in furoshiki cloth. “I was worried this wouldn’t be ready before you did.”

Tomioka’s eyes dropped to the parcel in her hands. “What is it?”

Y/N motioned for him to take it, and to her slight surprise he did, holding it slightly in front of him as though it were liable to burst open. “A meal for the road. Granny and I prepared it this morning — as thanks, for everything you’ve done.”

But the Water Pillar was already shaking his head, trying to press the package back into the shrine maiden’s hands. “I need no thanks; I do my job, and your shrine happens to be part of it.”

If his words disappointed her, Y/N did not show it. “And yet we are grateful all the same,” she said firmly, arms crossing in front of her chest to avoid taking the small bento back. “Besides, it’s salmon; it will only go bad if you don’t eat it.”

Had she not been watching him, Y/N would have missed the slight widening of his eyes, or the way his hand twitched back towards himself, bringing the packed lunch closer to him.

Cerulean eyes watched her for a long moment, before dropping as Tomioka tucked the bento into his pocket.

“Thank you,” was all he said before he turned away and continued through the gates of the shrine, setting off on the path which would lead him through the forest.

If she hadn’t known better, she would’ve sworn the Water Pillar looked happy as he departed.

———

The Slayer returned exactly one week after she’d given him the home-cooked salmon – but he did not return empty-handed. For there, wrapped in the same furoshiki cloth, was a strange, oblong object, sitting in the palm of his hand though if he thought it heavy, Tomioka gave no indication.

“What’s this?” Y/N leaned curiously over the Pillar’s outstretched hand and squinted, trying to discern what the cloth could have been concealing.

Tomioka pushed his hand toward her, beseeching her to take the parcel from him. “A knife.”

The Shrine Maiden looked up at him in alarm, pulling away from the Water Pillar. “Why on earth would I need a knife?”

He rolled his eyes. “Protection.”

“From what?” The Miko wrinkled her nose down at his offering, though there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “As I recall, I walloped you just fine with my broom.”

Tomioka shot her a dull look. “Be that as it may, cleaning tools are useless against demons. Without the sun, the only thing that works against them is decapitation with this — its metal is unique.”

He parted the folds of the cloth to reveal a simple blade, though Y/N found it daunting all the same. The hilt was basic, an unembellished metal handle wrapped in plain black leather. The blade itself was an unassuming silver, slightly longer than her hand.

The Slayer motioned for her to take it, though she only shrunk away. “You know how to use one, yes?”

The Miko’s eyes met his, wide and anxious. “For domestic uses, of course, but not –”

Tomioka’s fingers closed around her wrist and lifted, guiding her hand toward the dagger. His hand moved to cover hers, wrapping them both around the hilt of the blade before squeezing. “Grip it like this,” he held their joined hands up for her to inspect. “Keep your hand in a fist; do not lift your fingers away from the grip – that’s the best way to injure yourself instead of your target.”

But the shrine maiden could hardly focus on the Pillar’s instructions. Her attention was directed entirely at the way her hand was swallowed by his, his skin warm and his grasp firm. She studied how his calluses – thick and forged from years of brutal sword training – pressed against hers; how, despite the roughness of his fingers and palms, and his solid hold still remained gentle.

“-- and thrust like this,” he remained oblivious to her distraction as moved her arm in a sharp jab, a second and then a third time, before dropping her hand. “Now do it yourself.”

His command startled her out of her trance, a heat creeping up her neck from beneath the collar of her kosode. She held out the blade awkwardly before her as scrambled to recall the Water Pillar’s words. To her dismay, all she was able to conjure was the memory of his touch, and how cold she suddenly felt without it.

Lamely, she mimed jutting the knife at an invisible enemy, the blade gracelessly wobbling through the air. Though she was by no means a swordsman, even she knew something was off, her movements disjointed and clumsy.

She glanced shyly back to the raven-haired Demon Slayer and deflated as she was met only with bemused resignation.

Tomioka shook his head in disdain. “Perhaps you would fare better with a broom.”

The Miko bristled. “I am not a swordsman —“

“You’ve made that abundantly apparent.”

“— and I do not have the basics you seem to take for granted.” She finished, glaring indignantly at her raven-haired companion. “So teach me.”

The Water Pillar considered her for a moment before he gave her the slightest, almost imperceptible nod of his head.

“Watch me.” He turned his body toward the Miko and mimed getting into a defensive stance — feet ajar, his weight evenly distributed on each leg, and bent.

He looked back to the Shrine Maiden expectantly, and she parroted his movements, crouching into what she imagined was the perfect mirror of his position.

It wasn’t.

“No — you need to—“ Tomioka straightened and huffed, impatient. He moved quickly behind her, and without thinking, his hands shot to grip her hips to guide them into the proper stance, until her weight was evenly distributed on both feet.

“Like that — now bend your knees.” The ravenette pushed down on her hips until her legs bent, apparently oblivious to the way the Miko flushed crimson.

He was close; far, far too close. She’d never been touched the way the Water Pillar touched her. Tomioka’s hands were twin brands, burning her skin even through the layers of her shrine attire, and it sent every nerve beneath her skin buzzing.

She was aware of every inch of him pressed against her; of his arms, caging her in, his hands twin brands against her hips as he turned and pulled her into the proper stance. She was aware of how warm he was, of how formidable his presence felt, even though to her, he posed no threat. Every movement of his was precise and fluid, like the water he’d claimed to style his techniques after.

And if his touch wasn’t distracting enough, his scent threatened to overwhelm every last bit of sense she’d clung onto. Y/N didn’t know how she hadn’t noticed how good he smelled — like mahogany and citrus — so rich and so warm; a stark contrast to his otherwise cold and aloof nature mask.

The swordsman, however, appeared to remain oblivious. “There,” he finally said, having satisfied that she’d achieved proper form. For moment, the two of them lingered there, with Tomioka’s chest against the shrine maiden’s back, his hands remaining steady in place on her hips. It was as though they’d frozen: Y/N, out of a mixture of shock and red-cheeked embarrassment, and Tomioka out of utter cluelessness.

Another beat passed before the Water Pillar finally realized the compromising nature of their position. His hands dropped quickly from her hips, and there was a rush of air at Y/N’s back as he swiftly stepped away, putting distance between them once more.

The raven-haired Slayer gruffly cleared his throat. “You should also keep wisteria on you.” And Y/N gulped down her embarrassment to turn back toward him.

Tomioka kept his face neutral and cool, but the tips of his ears had turned pink. “Check your perfumes for it or ask one of the other shrine girls if you can borrow theirs – oil would be better. More concentrated”

Any residual awkwardness that may have lingered fell quickly away. The Miko only stared blankly at him, her head tilted slightly to the side as her eyebrows pinched together. “Perfume?”

Tomioka blinked. “Yes. As all women have.”

It was an effort to fight off the smile twitching at the corners of her lips. “Exactly how many women do you know, Tomioka-sama? Such that you would know their perfumery habits, that is.”

His mouth thinned into a firm line. “Enough.”

And though Y/N supposed he’d meant to sound self-assured and confident, the Slayer was betrayed by the slight doubt in his voice, as though he’d been questioning his own answer.

The shrine maiden only continued to look at him, her eyebrow slightly raised, amused. The longer the silence stretched between them,the more awkward the ravenette grew, his discomfort plain from the way he shifted under her stare.

“You seem like someone who would use it.” He finally offered, after another moment of quiet.

It was her turn to blink, taken aback. Her smirk quickly slid from her face and with a grimace, she felt her right eye twitch, ever so slightly. “Apologies, then, for disappointing you.”

Tomioka frowned and he made like he was going to respond, but the Miko squared her shoulders and stalked briskly past him.

“I must return to my duties, and I’m sure you need to do the same,” she paused in the doorway of the garden hut and cast one, sidelong glance back to where he stood, clueless. “Until next time, Tomioka-sama. Thank you for the blade.”

With that, the Miko paced briskly away from the garden hut, her spine stiff. The Water Pillar remained in place for a moment, stupefied, before he collected himself once more, before setting off back toward the forest; to his Manor.

And as Giyuu retreated through the rusting Torii gate, he could not quite shake the distinct impression he’d done something wrong, though he knew not what.

–

The Water Pillar returned the following week, though to a decidedly cooler greeting than that which he’d steadily grown accustomed to receiving.

That wasn’t entirely true — the majority of the Shrine’s residents had welcomed him warmly, their kindness always far more than he thought he deserved. Only one hadn’t greeted him as enthusiastically as the others, and to his annoyance, that one was the only person whose opinion of him mattered, even if he couldn’t quite articulate why.

She hardly stopped to acknowledge his arrival, only gracing him with a brisk nod, though she’d refused to meet his eyes. Bemused, Giyuu followed her across the courtyard as she made her way to the Shrine’s small storeroom. He leaned against the doorway and watched as the Miko began pulling jars of dried herbs from the rickety shelves lining the walls and stacked them on a sizeable work counter that cut halfway across the room. All the while, she continued pointedly ignoring him, humming lightly under her breath as though she could not see or hear him as he shifted against the doorframe, waiting.

Her obstinate silence grated at him. “May I assist you?”

“No, no, I am perfectly fine, thank you.” She turned away to browse the shelves once more, before finding what she needed: a stone mortar and pestle.

The grinder settled against the wooden counter with a heavy thud and the shrine maiden snatched up one of the jars she’d stacked and dumped its contents into the bowl, followed by another bottle of herbs. Pestle in hand, she set to work grinding the leaves together, mixing in a vial of fragrant oil she’d kept in her pocket to create a thick paste.

Giyuu watched her quietly as she worked. “You’re…” he frowned. “You’re behaving strangely.”

Y/N glanced up at him. “In what way?”

“You’re trying to avoid me.”

“Am I?” She straightened, rolling her shoulders. “Only because I’ve not yet bathed today. I didn’t want to risk offending you with my stench.”

Giyuu paused. “Why would that matter?”

“You made sure to point out you thought I needed perfume during your last visit.”

He pushed off the doorframe, eyebrows knit together. “For protection.”

The shrine maiden rolled her eyes. “Yes, and apparently, because you believe I am the type to need it.” When Giyuu only continued to stare at her with that same, mildly lost expression, Y/N groaned, exasperated. “You implied I stink.”

The Water Pillar’s jaw slackened as he gaped at her. “That is not –”

“It is what you implied,” she repeated, turning away from him to focus on her task of grinding herbs, though the force with which she ground the pestle was perhaps greater than necessary.

Giyuu rounded the small countertop of the Shrine’s storeroom to face her head-on. “I like how you smell.” He insisted. “It’s nice.”

The Miko’s irritated churning of the stone paused and her eyes finally lifted to his. For a long moment, she watched him, head slightly cocked.

“You are very odd, Tomioka-sama.”

But she said it with a small smile that he almost wanted to return.

Before long, things between them returned to normal once more, with the Miko directing him to collect her gathering basket from where she’d left it in the Shrine’s infirmary and bring it to her. Once he returned, he helped her grind charcoal to make incense sticks as she chatted happily away.

Surprisingly, Giyuu found himself not only engaged in her musings about daily life at the Shrine, but offering her small personal anecdotes of his own, though he was not nearly as proficient as she when it came to story-telling.

Once the sun began setting once more, and he received no new orders from Headquarters, he simply sought out the Shrine’s head Priestess and silently passed her a small money bag.

And then Giyuu retired to the guest’s quarters for the night.

—--

As spring warmed into summer, the Water Pillar began making bi-weekly visits to the Shrine that quickly melted into habit; expectation. Once a fortnight, a thrill would settle over the young maidens in anticipation of the arrival of the stoic yet handsome Slayer, with girls of all ages eagerly looking toward the Shrine gates in hopes of spying him the moment he crossed beneath the Torii. The elder employees of the Shrine had learned to time Tomioka’s arrival by listening for their excited gasps, exhaled as a collective as brooms and rices sacks were dropped where their handlers stood, the girls far too interested in rushing to greet the exalted Slayer than they were in completing their tasks.

“I do not see the reason for such excitement,” she sniffed, though even she wasn’t stupid enough to think her fellow trainees bought her bluff. “He is only a swordsman.”

“A handsome one,” a wispy trainee named Miyoko sighed dreamily. “And no doubt strong and capable.”

The group of maidens dissolved into another fit of giggles, concealing their blushes behind their hands.

“His face is attractive, but his hair is odd,” another commented. “It looks like he’s hacked at it with his own blade.”

“Oh, who cares about his hair? I’m far more interested in what’s beneath that uniform —“

“Enough,” Y/N snapped. While her friendship with the Water Pillar was tenuous at best, the suggestive way her sisters-in-training spoke of him left her feeling decidedly discomforted.

Though, if she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she, too, wondered whether Tomioka’s strength was the product of a finely-hewn tuned physique. But she wasn’t, so she bottled that thought up and tucked it tightly away, where it belonged.

Slowly, her cohorts all turned to look at her.

“You seem to spend a great deal of time with him, Sister,” Miyoko directed at Y/N, who felt her cheeks heat. “Is there anything you’d like to share?”

“Tomioka-sama always asks where Sister Y/N is, the moment he arrives!” A tiny voice chimed, and Y/N’s eyes slid shut in an effort to fight off a wince. “Sometimes they even do chores by themselves!”

Komatsu. At only ten, she was the Shrine’s youngest trainee, and followed Y/N around like a shadow. Not that the shrine maiden minded all that much; she tended to spoil the girl a bit, when she could. But as pure as the girl’s intentions surely were, she’d yet to lose that childlike earnestness that made her prone to revealing information that Y/N rather remained a secret.

“Alone with a man?” Miyoko repeated, her eyes shining with malicious glee. “How scandalous — even for someone without a family to embarass, dear Y/N.”

“Careful, Miyoko,” she warned softly. “Don’t go speaking on matters of which you know nothing.”

“Or what? What would you do?”

As fond as Y/N was of her sisters-in-training, one did not make it through the Shrine’s rigorous education and training without learning how to trade in the kind of currency young women valued most.

Information; specifically, gossip.

So the shrine maiden only leveled Miyoko’s own smug smirk with one of her own. “Or I shall tell Granny how you spend your afternoons kissing the boys from the village, rather than tending to your lessons.”

The other girls gasped, their stares turning back to the gossiping shrine maiden. She savored how quickly the girl’s prideful grin slipped from her face as the weight of the threat settled.

While Y/N, parentless and thus without anyone to truly care about her propriety, was being primed to take over Granny Priestess’s position overseeing the shrine, her position was unique. She was parentless and thus, without anyone to truly care about her propriety or whatever other ridiculous expectations of modesty that were often attached to other young women her age. In being no one, Y/N was relatively free to do as she pleased, and that freedom almost made up for her lack of belonging.

But the other girls residing at the Shrine were different. Families across the region sent their daughters to the Shrine for training, not only in their cultural practices and arts, but also for education; to become well-rounded women who would then serve to be valuable marriage prospects once they returned home.

Scandal would not affect her; but it would affect someone like Miyoko.

“How do you think your parents would feel, to know their heir was behaving so brazenly in public? Risking her reputation on the marriage market before she’s even entered it?”

Truthfully, she liked Miyoko; had gotten along well with her, in fact. But she would not risk those sacred few moments she spent with the Water Pillar in an effort to keep the peace with another trainee. Not when those few instances she spent in his company were the only times she’d felt connection — true, human connection and belonging.

Her sister-in-training ruefully fell silent, and Y/N savored her victory. Later, when she was left with nothing but the company of her own thoughts, however, the exchange played back in her mind.

In all her posturing, she’d managed to avoid having to answer for Miyoko’s lofty observation.

You seem to spend a great deal of time with him, Sister.

She did; and, to her slight horror, she realized that she had no interest in stopping.

She only wanted more.

–

It was past dawn when Giyuu trudged under the great Torii gate of the Shrine, exhausted and aching.

It had been a long while since a demon was last capable of wounding him, but he’d been blown backward by a delayed attack that hit after he’d beheaded the damn thing. As a result, he’d been sent flying back, slamming through a dilapidated wall of the abandoned hut he’d tracked the creature to, resulting in a sizeable gash to his shoulder.

He grit his teeth in mild annoyance. He would need some treatment of his wounds — not that they were deep by any means, but they were substantial enough that he knew infection could spell trouble for him, should it spread.

Some small, irate voice in his head snidely reminded him he could have just as easily gone to the Butterfly Mansion for treatment — that, in fact, the Insect Pillar’s estate had been much closer to the location of his mission than the Shrine had been. He’d rationed that, as much as he admired and respected Kocho, he was still a bit raw from her mocking about how unliked he truly was among his comrades.

Besides, he groused. Kocho was not the one he really wanted to see, anyway.

He found Y/N in the Shrine’s storeroom, seated upon the floor with a detailed ledger spread out before her as she took inventory of various scrolls and texts.

Giyuu did not bother to announce himself. “You have medical training, do you not?”

The Miko startled, the charcoal stick she’d been using to tally the ledger clattering to the floor. She blinked up at him in surprise. “Tomioka-sama — welcome, it’s been a few weeks — forgive me, I did not see you come in.” She quickly rose to her feet, shutting the store ledger and tucking it under her arm.

Her eyes found the blood-stained shoulder of his hair and widened. “I have some; I can stitch and dress wounds —“

He nodded. “Then I require your assistance.”

—-

Y/N led him to a small office inside the honden that served as the Shrine’s unofficial infirmary. “Take a seat,” she nodded at a small stool that sat under the room’s solitary window, right by a modest working table. “Let me see what we have.”

Tomioka sat upon the stool with his back to her as she busied herself sifting through cupboards in search of supplies. “What sort of wound is it?”

She turned back and nearly dropped a tin of medicinal salve she’d located as she beheld the Water Pillar strip himself of his clothing from the waist up.

There, across his right shoulder blade, she saw it — saw his blood. Quickly, she located thread and a needle and she grabbed a roll of cloth that could double as wrappings and she crossed back across the room.

She spread her bounty out across the table, right beside the neatly folded pile of his clothing. Silently, she set to work cleaning the gash, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she saw that it was little more than a shallow flesh wound.

“Lucky you, this won’t need stitching,” she said lightly as she wiped away the last of the dried blood from the Water Pillar’s skin. “But I shall need to wrap it so it won’t become infected.”

Tomioka only gave her a curt nod. She stepped back to work open her tin of medical salve, and as she warmed the substance in her hands, she let herself fully examine the Swordsman sitting before her. Her eyes trailed over the sculpted planes of his back. It surprised her how muscular he was, given his leanness. Yet, without the layers of his uniform shirt and haori, she could see he was well-built, each muscle defined.

She didn’t know why it surprised her that there was a man beneath the mask of the Slayer, but what a man he was. Her mouth went dry at the thought. It was an effort not to allow her eyes to wander lower; to ponder what he might look like under his uniform pants, stripped and fully bare before her —

“What is that scent?” Tomioka’s sudden question startled her away from her increasingly treacherous thoughts.

She’d never been more grateful to be facing away from him. That way, he could not see the blush coloring her cheeks as she hastily slathered the salve across his wound. “Anti-septic; I know it’s rather stringent, but — ”

The Water Pillar shook his head. “I know what antiseptic smells like. I mean you. The scent you wear.”

She pursed her lips for a moment before she recalled the distinctly floral scent of her cleansing oils. “Sakaki blooms, I suppose.”

“What properties does it have — what are its effects on others?” He pressed. She was surprised at how insistent he seemed, and there was almost an urgency in his tone that unsettled her.

“None, to my knowledge — why do you ask?”

The tips of Tomioka’s ears turned pink and he turned away from her, lips pressed into a firm line. “Forget I said anything.” he muttered after a moment, his shoulders and spine stiff.

Neither one of them spoke again as Y/N finished treating the Water Pillar’s injury and wrapped it.

“You're done,” she said after a moment, tapping him lightly on his other shoulder.

“You have my thanks,” Tomioka quickly refastened the buttons of his uniform shirt as the Miko stepped aside, pointedly wiping her hands clean with a small cloth. She only looked at him once he lifted his haori from where he’d carefully laid it atop the small examination table, but her eyes narrowed as he rose from the stool, shrugging the material back over his shoulders. “I am happy to pay you for the resources you used —“

Y/N did not appear to be listening, not as she leaned forward and pinched the sleeve of his haori between her thumb and index finger.

“You have a tear,” she frowned, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. “Right here, see?”

There, on the side bearing his sister’s half of his haori, right where his sleeve met his shoulder, was indeed a small hole, the threads around it broken and shifting slightly in the wind.

The Miko’s hand fell away, and she squared her shoulders, mouth set in a firm but determined line. “If you’ll give me a moment, I assure you I can have it repaired in no time –”

“Not necessary,” the Swordsman said abruptly, twisting back from her. “I can figure it out on my own.” He would not part with it, would not so much as let another put their hands on it and risk ruining his most cherished possession.

Y/N only stepped toward him, ignoring his attempt at distance. “There’s no need to be prideful,” she huffed impatiently. “Truly, it would take no effort at all –”

“No.”

“Why are you being so difficult?” She snapped, but her hands continued reaching for him, for his sleeve –

Tomioka snatched her wrist mid-air and held it there, halting her. “No one touches this. Understand?”

Y/N’s lips parted in faint surprise at the Water Pillar’s severity. Her eyes darted to where his fingers were locked tight – uncomfortably tight – around her wrist. When she glanced back at the stone-faced Slayer, she felt a chill lick down her spine. She’d known he could be intimidating against threats, even without saying a word. It was his eyes – his eyes would harden, with the lapiz hue of his irises darkening to something more akin to indigo, as he stared down an opponent. She’d witnessed it the very first night she’d met him.

She just hadn’t thought she would ever be on the receiving end of such a cold glare.

“I understand,” she said softly, and she began flexing her wrist against his grip in an effort to work herself free from his hold. “Please forgive my indiscretion, Tomioka-sama. I overstepped.”

The raven-haired Slayer blinked and quickly let her go, her wrist falling limply back to her side. Just outside the infirmary’s small window, he heard the familiar, urgent cry of a crow.

He’d never been more grateful for a distraction. “I must be on my way.” His tone was stiff; clipped.

“But — you’ve only just arrived —“

“Farewell, Y/N.” Giyuu gave her a curt nod.

Helplessly, the Miko watched as the Water Pillar stalked out of the small office, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He did not so much as spare a glance back, leaving Y/N to wonder whether she would see that odd patterned haori again.

The thought she might not made something cold and heavy sink into her gut.

—-

(One week later)

It wasn’t often that Giyuu Tomioka found himself annoyed, much less angry. He much preferred channeling his existing emotions into slaying demons, allowing them to taste a fraction of the rage and hatred he felt deep within, a vicious fire he so rarely let bubble up to his service.

Until that evening. After the fiasco that was Mount Natagumo and the subsequent chaos at the Master’s mansion as a result of the Kamado boy and his demon sister, Giyuu had finally noticed that the previous day’s trials had resulted in the tear along the shoulder of his haori that he knew could no longer be ignored.

He grit his teeth; the battle against the Lower Moon spider demon had hardly required him to exert any energy — yet the demon’s last ditch attempt to preserve its life had managed to enlarge the small hole in his most prized possession, and the Water Pillar was utterly without the skill to repair it.

So, he’d been forced to sit through the meeting with the Master, the hole in his haori feeling more like a gaping wound that only festered with every passing moment, until finally, finally they’d been dismissed.

Giyuu hadn’t wasted any time departing swiftly from his Master’s estate, though that hadn’t stopped him from catching the tail end of Shinazugawa’s biting remark of how fuckin’ typical it was for him to leave without so much as a farewell to his comrades. He tried not to let the Wind Pillar’s words get to him; but he was unworthy of their company regardless, so he supposed it really didn’t matter what they thought of him. It shouldn’t.

And so, that was how Giyuu found himself padding silently along the cracked, stone pathway which led to the Shrine at the edge of his designated territory, ready to eat crow and ask for assistance from a particular Miko whom he felt certain would not hesitate to remind him of how he’d coolly rejected her help only days earlier.

Hence, his irritation.

So, his movements stiff and his mouth twisted into a firm grimace, Giyuu stalked under the Torii and into the main courtyard of the old Shrine. It was coming upon midday, though there was a thick cover of clouds overhead that threatened that open up at any moment and shower rain across the region. He ignored the respectful bows of the Shrine’s various inhabitants and staff, eyes sweeping over faces in search of her.

He located her near the storehouse, chatting with one of her fellow trainees as the pair worked to clean vegetables. Giyuu trudged over to her, eyes locked unwaveringly on her serene, easy smile, as he tried to ignore the way it made something in his gut clench and churn.

He drew to a stop right before her and her Shrine-sister, the latter looking up at him with wide eyes, her hands stilling over her work as she looked up to the Slayer in awe.

Giyuu cleared his throat but Y/N only continued wiping the dirt from carrots with her cloth.

The ravenette tried again. “I am in need of your assistance.”

Y/N’s comrade nudged her with her elbow, but the Miko only continued to clean, pointedly ignoring them both.

Giyuu pursed his lips. “With my haori. The tear has grown larger —“

“I am busy.” Y/N’s tone was clipped. “Perhaps there are others who might assist you.”

“Please.”

The Shrine Maiden’s hands finally stilled and she lifted her chin to face him. The moment she beheld the pleading sincerity in his eyes, coupled with the hard set of his jaw that betrayed just how desperate he was, her gaze softened.

She sighed. “Very well then,” she rose, brushing her hands free of any residual dirt. She held her chin high and squared her shoulders, determined not to show him how he’d bruised her ego; how he’d frightened her. “Follow me.”

—

The Shrine sat at the base of a great mountain. But, nearly half a kilometer up the winding, twisting path leading up the mountain and carved into its side, was a grassy hilltop that then plateaued into a small overlook that boasted a phenomenal aerial view of the Shrine below.

The summer grass had turned a vibrant shade of emerald, broken up only by dots of tiny white and blue wildflowers that had gathered in small clusters sprinkled throughout the overlook. At the back of the clearing stood an ancient willow tree, its trunk gnarled and knotted with age, its wisps swaying lazily in the wind.

It was her favorite spot; a little ways away from the hustle and bustle of the Shrine, which meant they would have some privacy as she worked. Y/N settled down against the grass and pulled a needle and a spool of thread from her pocket. She turned her face up toward the Water Pillar where he stood over her. “I’ll take that haori, now, if you’ll please.”

Wordlessly, Tomioka carefully slid the garment from his shoulders and handed it to her, though he hesitated in letting go as she took it gingerly into her hands.

It was clearly very important to the Slayer, and perhaps that was why she felt the need to reassure him. “I promise to take care of it.”

He nodded stiffly and let go of the fabric and the Miko quickly set to work repairing its torn shoulder. The Water Pillar lingered awkwardly beside her for a moment longer before he too, sat in the grass next to her, though his back remained straight, his posture rigid.

She glanced at him as her needle wove the haori’s fabric back together. “I suppose this happened because of your occupation?”

It was faint, but the shrine maiden swore she saw his mouth twitch into something reminiscent of a grimace. “Yes.”

“You should be lucky it wasn’t your flesh.”

At that, Tomioka scoffed. “I would not allow such a weakling to get close enough to try.”

“My, I’d not pegged you as the boastful sort, Tomioka-sama.”

“It’s not boasting; I speak only the truth.” He retorted evenly.

The shrine maiden only hummed as she worked. “And what of your family? Do they support your path as a Slayer?”

The Water Pillar turned his head away, his form stiff. For a moment, the Miko feared she would be left to repair his haori in silence, with nothing but the faint whistling of birds to keep her company.

“I have none,” Tomioka’s voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the wind. “There is no one left to object, even if they wanted to.”

Y/N’s hands paused their work as she thought. “You are alone?”

It would be nice, she supposed, to find another who, like her, belonged to no one; a kindred spirit of sorts.

“I suppose,” Tomioka spoke up after a moment, his eyes squinted in thought. “I have a mentor. But it was he who trained me to join the Corps.”

“I should hope he’s more sober than mine,” Y/N drawled. “And less irritating.”

The Miko’s attention was so fixed on her careful stitching along the hole in his haori, that she didn’t see his faint smile at her words.

——

The Slayer and the shrine maiden continued talking long after she’d finished repairing the tear in his haori. It was only when Tomioka had realized nightfall was a mere hour away that the two reluctantly descended the hillside to return to the Shrine.

“I almost forgot.” The Water Pillar said, halting in front of the honden as Y/N escorted him back to the Shrine’s entrance. He dug into his pockets and pulled something free. “Here. For you.”

The Miko gaped down at the fat red fruit that sat heavily in his palm. “This is -“ she said breathlessly, “A pomegranate!”

He nodded, arm still outstretched towards her as he waited to drop the ruby fruit into her hand.

She shook her head. “No, Tomioka-san, I cannot accept something so expensive-“

“I insist.” The Water Pillar withdrew a small knife and split the fruit in half, staining his hands crimson with the juice that spilled over its soft flesh.

Hesitantly, the young Miko accepted the half he offered her, and thumbed some of the fat, glistening jewels loose. The moment she brought them to her lips, Y/N sighed, contentedly, and for some reason, Giyuu found his cheeks heating as he watched her savor the sweet fruit.

She lazily opened her eyes after swallowing her first mouthful, but she was startled to see the Hashira staring at her, unwaveringly, and she realized he’d moved closer towards her than he had been only seconds earlier.

Tomioka’s azure eyes were fixed hard on her lips, as he leaned in close to her, Y/N flushing as he drew nearer.

Is he going to kiss me? Her traitorous heart thundered at the idea, and it caused her no short amount of grief to know she was uncertain whether she wanted him to do so. As her emotions warred with her logic, the Water Pillar’s gentle fingers cupped under her chin, and his thumb brushed delicately across her lower lip.

“Pomegranate juice,” he said, but Y/N could still feel the warmth of his breath still as his hand lingered under her chin. His eyes were wide as though he, too, could not believe what he’d just done.

“Yes,” she breathed, before she felt her cheeks heat. “I – I mean, thank you.”

The Water Pillar’s gaze dropped to her lips and her stomach twisted violently. All at once, awareness seemed to come crashing down upon him, and he then stepped back, his hand falling from its hold on her face and back to his side.

The shrine maiden remained frozen in place for a heartbeat longer. “Are you certain you’re unable to be our guest tonight?” Her voice was little more than a pitiful squeak.

Her eyes lifted to his and she knew the answer before he spoke it. “I cannot,” and to her surprise, he almost looked as disappointed as she felt, but he added hastily, “But I will be back. Soon.”

“Soon,” she echoed, feeling rather dazed. “Yes. Of course. I — we — look forward to it.”

She was thankful that Tomioka had already turned away from her as he made his way down the long, winding steps that led to the main route out of the forest; that way, he could not see the way her cheeks burned crimson, or how she buried her face in her hands as she cursed her own embarrassment.

—

Giyuu was grateful his back was to the young Miko as he retreated through the Shrine’s gates and back to the path which would lead him home. It meant she could not see as he stared at his thumb – the thumb he’d used to clear away the small bead of pomegranate juice from her lips – or how his eyebrows pinched together. It meant she could not hear his heart as it beat wildly in his chest at the memory of how soft and full her lip had been beneath the pad of his thumb, soft enough that some treacherous part of his brain had urged him to lean in, to see if her lips would feel as good against his –

He shook his head, trying desperately to dispel his wild intrusive thoughts. It was ludicrous; he did not think of the young shrine maiden in that way. Not when she frequently sought to needle him, not when she frustrated him to no end.

His collar suddenly felt tight; his skin, far too hot. His gaze dropped back down to the hand that had touched her, and it clenched.

A pomegranate. It was only a pomegranate; nothing more.

“It was a thank you gift,” Giyuu declared, as though speaking the words out loud gave them more force. “It is nothing more than an expression of gratitude.”

And even his crow, ancient and dull as he was, scoffed at the obviousness of the lie.

——

Late Summer, 1915

Summer blazed hot and humid. But neither the sweltering heat of the sun nor the most arduous missions he took exhausted Giyuu more than the complicated, tangled mess of feelings that had taken root within him. Because with every day that passed, the Miko of the Shrine at the edge of the forest occupied more and more of his mind. And Giyuu did not know what it meant or what he should do about it.

She’d not just repaired his haori or made him salmon; she’d somehow wormed her way into his every waking thought, and to his great confusion, he found himself almost unwilling to think of anything but her.

Admittedly, Giyuu Tomioka did not have the requisite tools in his social arsenal to successfully navigate human interaction. He hadn’t quite known the extent of his ineptitude however, until the Insect Pillar had so cheerfully pointed out that none of his comrades, in fact, liked him. That revelation had made him doubt every interaction he’d had since, made him wonder whether even the lower ranked Slayers viewed him with the same apathy, if not the same outright hostility toward him shared by Shinazugawa and Iguro.

He’d come to doubt them all — except her.

Y/N was different; at the end of each visit to the Shrine, the Water Pillar did not find himself feeling drained or unwanted. He felt lighter; rejuvenated, even. She was a breath of fresh air that Giyuu found more difficult to go without with each passing day.

She still picked at him, but she did so without the malice he’d normally come to expect, even from those he considered friends, like the Kocho. The young Miko had a way of teasing him that did not leave him feeling decidedly othered. Rather, her japes only spurred him to respond with his own, though admittedly, they tended to fall flat.

He’d known, from the moment she’d attempted to bludgeon him with her broom, that there was more to the Miko than met the eye; but he hadn’t imagined he’d find himself as drawn to her as he was, unable to tolerate going more than a handful of weeks without paying her a visit.

And, given the way she’d blushed after he’d thanked her for repairing his haori, perhaps she was drawn to him, too. Perhaps he hoped she was.

But he would have to wait to find out, for his obligations to the Corps had taken him to a village a considerable distance away from his designated territory. He’d been tasked with investigating a series of disappearances of young women in the region, but his orders had come abruptly enough that he’d not been able to spare a visit to the Shrine before he departed.

He was anxious — eager — to return, though not before he took care of the demon likely behind the mystery plaguing the village he now patrolled.

Nightfall was still a little ways off, and so Giyuu found himself wandering the streets to pass the time. He made his way to a sizeable outdoor market, still packed with shoppers oohing and ahhing over vibrant displays of silk, crafted jewelry, and sugary confectioneries.

Idly, he too, joined other patrons in browsing the small vending stands that lined the bustling village streets, though his perusal was disinterested, if not bored. But his eyes snagged on one small bauble displayed on the merchant’s small stand upon a swath of silk. It was small; unassuming. But the carefully crafted decoration was painted in a startling shade of crimson that he found hard to ignore.

The image of a certain Miko flashed through his mind. He couldn’t leave without it. he wouldn’t; not when its paint so perfectly matched the color of Y/N’s hakama trousers.

I spend the year longing for autumn. That was what she’d told him, that day on the hillside after she’d repaired his haori.

He almost smiled to himself. This would be a way for her to enjoy her favorite season even in the scorching heat of summer or the biting cold of winter.

He waited for the merchant to notice his presence, his fingers twisting around the small money sack he kept tucked in his pocket. His eyes flickered back to the small trinket. Idly, Giyuu wondered when he’d begun associating the color red with the shrine maiden and not with the blood he’d always imagined stained his hands.

He continued to stare the merchant down until he finally managed to catch the vendor’s eye, who flinched at the intensity of his unblinking stare.

Giyuu jutted his chin toward the small token. “How much?”

—-

He found the Miko a few mornings later, relaxing on the hillside overlooking the Shrine. She laid amongst the late summer wildflowers that had bloomed, her form framed against the grass with petals of soft blue and bright marigold.

Giyuu wordlessly settled beside her, and he tried to ignore the thunderous beat of his heart against his sternum as she rolled her head toward him to greet him with a sleepy smile. They exchanged pleasantries and settled into a comfortable silence, both content to watch the sun rise higher over the horizon.

Easy; it was so easy for him to sit beside her, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So, you are to take over the Shrine, one day?”

Y/N’s head turned to the Water Pillar in surprise; though he’d grown steadily more talkative over the months since she’d met him, it wasn’t often that he initiated conversation.

She settled back against the cool grass of the hilltop overlooking the Shrine, enjoying the precious few moments of quiet in the early morning before the chaos of the day called her away. “Yes,” though there was a slight uncertainty in her voice. “I’m sure it’s the expectation, after all. I have to repay Granny for her kindness.”

Giyuu frowned. “But is that what you want?”

“What I want is irrelevant,” the Miko folded her arms behind her head and tilted her face up toward the sky. Her eyes tracked the great, fluffy clouds that drifted lazily by, though the Water Pillar suspected she was attempting to avoid having to meet his eye.

“It’s not irrelevant,” he countered. “If nothing else, you should be allowed to consider other possibilities.”

She did not answer him, and the silence between them stretched enough that he thought to drop the subject, not wanting to press her any further.

“I think,” she said in that faraway voice that Giyuu had come to learn meant she was trying to conceal some deeply felt emotion. “I think should like to belong somewhere.” Her eyes shone. “No, that’s not it — I want someone to belong to me, and I to them.

“A husband.” He said flatly.

The Miko shook her head. “I have never belonged to anywhere or to anyone. I’ve no family to call my own - only an old woman who took pity on me as an infant and raised me. I wonder — what must it be like?” She laid back on the grass and closed her eyes. “That is the one thing I would change. I belong nowhere because I’m no one — nobody’s.”

Giyuu frowned. “I don’t think that’s true—“

“It is true,” she insisted, though she said it with such ease and conviction, like it was the most obvious and natural thing in the world. “I am here for a moment and then I will be gone, and no one will ever know or remember that there once was a shrine maiden named Y/N here. I’ve made peace with that.”

I would, Giyuu wanted to tell her. I would remember and I would tell them all.

“I am nobody as well,” Giyuu admitted quietly after a moment. “And I have no one left to belong to.”

The image of her face, so kind and sad and full of understanding at his words, had stayed with him for the rest of the morning and even as he settled in for a few hours of sleep in the Shrine’s guest wing.

And in his dreams, her face remained a constant.

—

The sky had turned a vivid shade of orange by the time the Water Pillar emerged from his guest lodgings, ready to depart and resume his duties. Y/N had been helping another shrine maiden tote firewood across the courtyard when she heard a quiet call of her name.

She turned and saw the raven-haired Swordsman standing near the great Torii gate.

She looked back to her fellow trainee, who waved her off with a knowing smile, and Y/N brushed her hands clean against her hakama pants before she approached him.

“Leaving so soon?” And she tried to mask her disappointment at the shortness of his visit.

Giyuu nodded. “We’ve been stretched thin, in light of a few…changes to our ranks.”

The Miko nodded grimly. He’d told her that a fellow Hashira had been slain a few months prior, and another had retired following a rather violent battle that had destroyed part of a far off city.

“But I wanted to give you this.”

She glanced down to his outstretched hand, where a small parcel was wrapped in plain furoshiki cloth. Stunned, she took the package from him, her eyes flicking between it and the Water Pillar watching her intently.

Gingerly, she unfolded the bundle and unveiled a long, but fragile metal and wood reed.

A hairpin, she realized with a soft gasp. Y/N could scarcely bring her fingers to run over the exquisitely crafted ridges of the leaves that adorned the top portion of the pin, afraid that even the slightest pressure from her touch would cause the Water Pillar’s precious gift to her to crumble.

I spend the year longing for autumn, she’d told him. She hadn’t thought he’d been particularly interested in listening to her talk; but as Y/N cradled the delicate ornament between her palms, she felt a blush begin to creep across her cheeks.

As her fingers traced across the delicate ridges of a cluster of maple leaves, lacquered in a thick coat of scarlet paint — a perfect match to the hue of her traditional Miko hakama pants — Y/N realized that perhaps Tomioka had been paying more attention to her than she’d realized.

For the Water Pillar had given her a piece of autumn to hold onto year-round.

“Tomioka-san, you do not-“

“Giyuu.” The ravenette interrupted her. “Please, call me by my name; it’s Giyuu.”

Y/N’s mouth closed, but she smiled softly, considering. “Alright. Giyuu — please, you do not need to feel obligated to bring gifts for us — it was only salmon.”

But Giyuu only shook his head. “I don’t bring gifts for everyone; just you.”

Y/N turned scarlet.

“Please, just-“ Giyuu frowned, and Y/N could have sworn she saw the faintest glow of pink coloring the Hashira’s cheeks. “Just take it.”

“Okay,” her voice resembled a mouse’s squeak as she cradled the pin delicately between her hands. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

“And it wasn’t just salmon.”

Y/N looked to him in surprise, her head cocked in curiosity. “Pardon?”

Giyuu exhaled harshly through his nose before stepping closer to her. “This is not only because you made salmon.” Her eyes tracked his hand as it rose to grip the front fold of his haori in his fist. “This – this is all I have left of my family.”

“My sister,” he gestured to the red half of his haori. “She died protecting me.” His hand drifted to the green and orange patterned half of the garment. “And this belonged to a dear friend. He also perished protecting me – and others.”

The Miko’s lips parted, understanding and sorrow flooding her eyes. “Tomioka-san — Giyuu — I had no idea —“

“They both died because of demons – because I could not help them. And now this is all I have left to remember them by.” And then he did the unthinkable; he grabbed her hand and pressed it against the checkered portion of his haori, right over his heart. His hand was warm and firm. Gentle, though she could feel his callouses against her knuckles as he held it in place. “So it wasn’t just salmon.” He repeated, and there was a heat in his eyes Y/N had not seen before, one that stoked a fire in her belly. “And you are not just anyone.”

A soft exhale blew past her lips at the sincerity of his words. For the first time in all her nineteen years, she wondered if this was what it meant to mean something to someone.

“Thank you,” she breathed, eyes wide and sparkling with unshed emotion. “I will treasure it.”

She swore she saw a faint blush creep across the Water Pillar’s cheeks, but she brushed it aside as nothing more than the shadows of the sky as twilight darkened the horizon.

Tomioka nodded. “I must get going now; I will see you soon.”

She did not want him to go.

But the shrine maiden concealed the pang she felt in her chest with a breezy smile. “Farewell, Tomio-“

“Giyuu.”

She blushed. “Yes — Giyuu. Until next time.”

—

“I cannot believe he lets the old woman charge him an arm and a leg to stay a single night,” Miyoko said in awe as the pair watched the retreating form of the Water Pillar through the shrine house gates.

The hairpin clutched tightly in her hands suddenly felt like a stone weight. “I’m sure he stays here only for convenience’s sake,” Y/N replied airily, turning sharply away from the egress to the shrine to hide her warming cheeks.

Miyoko snorted. “Hardly. The Demon Slayer Corps has tons of safehouses throughout the country. Corps members get medical treatment, hot meals, and lodging free of charge.” Y/N’s sister-in-training grunted as she heaved a hefty bag of rice flour from the storeroom to the girls’ side, no doubt hauling it out to prepare the evening meal.

“I’ve heard of at least four such houses in this region alone. As a Hashira, Tomioka-sama could go to any one of them and be treated far more kindly than he is here.”

Y/N frowned. “I wonder why, then, he continues to return here so often? Surely our shrine is some distance from his home, given that he stays the night each time.”

Miyoko shot the young shrine maiden a knowing glance. “Perhaps he tolerates the Granny’s abuse because he is fond of the company.”

Y/N only felt her face grow hotter as she ducked down, though she felt Miyoko’s amused stare burn through her back.

—-

The Water Pillar had returned from his intel assignment and promptly journeyed to the Shrine, its inhabitants abuzz as they prepared for the arrival of autumn and the colder months, now only mere weeks away.

He found the shrine maiden of his interest inside the main wing of the manor, back in the kitchen as she prepared herbs to be incorporated into various salves and medications. Y/N smiled brightly at him as he’d sidled up beside her, taking a handful of dried greenery from the bunch next to her and deftly pulling the leaves from the stem and handing them to her.

“Is it your day off?” The Miko gratefully accepted the leaves he’d stripped and dumped them into the rocky mortar to join the others.

Giyuu felt his stomach clench as his fingers brushed against hers. “I have completed my duties for the time being, yes.”

"You're welcome to help me, as long as you do not mind a bit of busy work."

He didn't; of course he didn't. In fact, as he accepted the heavy stone pestle from the Miko and set to work mashing the leaves she handed them into the mortar, Giyuu rather supposed he would do just about anything to remain in the shrine maiden's company, even if that meant assisting her in a task as banal as grinding medicinal herbs. And though the Slayer and the Miko fell into their well-practiced habit of quietly tending to Y/N's duties side by side, there was a notable absence of the bright chatter he'd grown accustomed to hearing during his visits.

The Water Pillar frowned. “You’re quiet.” It was not a question. “There is something on your mind.”

“Is there?” Y/N hummed loftily, her hands continuing to strip leaves from their stems. “Perhaps I am simply focused.”

Giyuu found his eyes wandering to the side to study the Miko’s face more often than usual. Though she maintained a pleasant smile as they worked, he could see that it did not fully reach her eyes. And even her sage expression could not conceal the way the troubled look in her eyes, hands pausing their work as she stared at something behind the walls of the small shrine kitchen.

“Something is bothering you.” Giyuu took the bundle of herbs clutched in her hands and replaced them with his pestle, allowing her to work her frustrations over the paste forming at the bottom of the stone bowl.

She blushed and refocused her gaze, grinding the pestle hard. “Nothing is wrong!” She chirped.

“You are a dreadful liar.”

The Miko replied with an airy laugh that made his throat tighten. “So I’ve been told — often, in fact.”

“There is…trouble in the village,” Y/N said carefully, though she kept her hands busy as she continued to grind herbs into a thick paste. “It is nothing we can’t handle, but it has put many of us on edge. Particularly Granny.”

Giyuu frowned as he handed the shrine maiden another bunch of leaves from her basket. “What sort of trouble?”

She hesitated. “It is petty village drama, nothing more.”

“You won’t give any further details?”

The Water Pillar could not explain it, but he found himself troubled by the way the Shrine Maiden forced a smile and a far too casual shrug of her shoulders. “There are none worth re-hashing.”

He frowned, but he did not press her further, resolving instead to poke around later. Perhaps he would see whether the Shrine’s head Priestess’s tongue was as loose with information as it was with vulgarity once she’d properly indulged in her sake; he’d make certain she was well-stocked in advance.

Giyuu furtively glanced back at the shrine maiden’s profile, in part to see whether he could deduce anything from her expressions, but he found himself instead studying her, puzzling over a change in her appearance he hadn’t noticed before.

Sensing his stare, the Miko turned to him with a light smile that then faltered. “What –?”

“You changed your hair.” It took everything within him not to reach out, to see if her hair would feel as silky in his fingers as it looked shifting softly in the wind. “I’ve never seen it down.”

“Oh!” Her smile turned bashful, a pretty pink dusting spreading across her cheeks. “I wanted to wear my hairpin – see?”

She turned her head, the long curtain of her hair rippling smoothly with the movement. With her back to him, Giyuu could see the pin he’d given her neatly tucked into the long strands of her hair, pinning half of it back. The red of the pin’s maple leaves posed a lovely contrast with the hue of her hair.

Y/N was already quite beautiful, but with her hair partially down, he thought she looked softer; younger. She peeked over her shoulder at him, fingers nervously combing through her tresses. “It’s not practical for every day, of course, but I thought since you’d likely be arriving soon –”

His eyes widened and Giyuu became acutely aware that his heart now thumped wildly in his throat as Y/N choked off with a squeak, apparently realizing what she’d revealed. Though she hurriedly turned back around, Giyuu could see how the tips of her ears burned bright red.

Despite her efforts, her admission hung like a cloud in the air between them. She’d worn it – the hairpin – for him.

Giyuu swallowed thickly. “I like it.” He cleared his throat and turned, allowing his own unruly hair to obscure his face. “On you, that is.”

For once, the Miko had neither a quick remark nor barb to lob back at him. Instead, she only turned back to her task of grinding her herbs, a thick curtain of her hair concealing her face from his sight.

Once she'd finished bottling up her new medicinal salves, Giyuu helped her carry the tins to the Shrine's storage house, directly across the courtyard from its main wing. The shrine maiden remained curiously quiet, even in spite of his own lame attempts to converse with her. He'd finally given up after his dry comment about the weather went ignored. But every so often, he let his eyes wander to her as they returned to the honden, and that nagging feeling returned as he watched her gnaw incessantly at her bottom lip, a faraway look in her eyes.

Giyuu was not a nosy man, but the Miko's clear distraction unsettled him. He was about to pull her aside, to demand she tell him exactly what it was that had chased away the smile he so longed to see when they were approached by Y/N's haughty Master.

“Lord Tomioka,” the head Priestess nodded curtly at him in greeting. “I am glad to have run into you — I am in need of your assistance.”

The old Priestess turned to her young protégée. “Go assist the younger ones; they need to give their offerings before dinner.”

Y/N’s mouth opened to protest but the head Priestess cut her off. “Now.”

To his surprise, the shrine maiden did not argue with her Master, only turning to him to give him a helpless shrug before she began to make her way toward the Shrine’s honden.

The Water Pillar grimaced. He tried to convince himself the pit in his stomach was only because her odd behavior gnawed at him; that he was only curious to learn what it was that troubled her. But as the Miko cast one last, reluctant look over her shoulder at him, Giyuu found that he was as unwilling to watch her go as she was to leave.

If the Shrine’s head priestess noticed his inner anguish, she paid it no mind. “You will accompany me in the kitchen.”

—-

The first thing he noticed was the conspicuous absence of the scent of sake, which he’d grown accustomed to following the Priestess around like a pungent cloud of perfume. He resisted the urge to scowl; he would have to find another way to get the old woman to talk.

Giyuu followed the woman into the small structure that stood adjacent to the honden that served as the Shrine’s kitchen. He watched silently as she pulled a cleaver, large and deadly sharp, free from where it was stored in a cabinet and laid it atop a butcher’s block. The elder stepped outside of the kitchen and returned a moment later, a recently de-feathered and skinned chicken in hand.

“Things around here seem…tense,” Giyuu observed carefully as the old woman slapped the chicken on the counter for preparation.

“Tense is one word for it, I reckon,” she bit, taking up her cleaver. “The world we live in is dark. I should think you would know that better than most.”

The corner of his mouth dipped down. “But even your girls seem unusually subdued; distracted.”

Her eyes flashed to his, piercing and sharp. “You mean Y/N.”

It wasn’t a question.

“She is always restless this time of year,” the old woman sighed. “Though she loves autumn, she despises winter — or, rather, she despises how it reminds her of what she does not have. And winter is well on its way.”

He nodded, recalling what the shrine maiden had revealed to him that day, on the hillside.

“But your observation is correct — that is not all of the reason she is so distracted,” the old Priestess said darkly, and Giyuu was surprised to see how alert and focused the normally soused elder seemed. “A man from the village — Susumo — has been following her. Demanding her.”

Giyyu straightened. “What do you mean by ‘demand?’”

The haggard woman cursed below her breath as she broke down the chicken’s body. “I mean in the way that men often feel entitled to women — especially angry drunks like him.”

Every hair on Giyuu’s body stood straight as the weight of the Priestess’ warning settled.

“I have forbidden her from venturing out in the dark alone,” the Granny continued, harshly wrenching a joint on the fowl.

“She is a Priestess in training; surely that status affords her some protection?” Giyuu’s knuckles turned white where his fists clenched at his sides.

“I’m not sure the shrine is enough to keep him out for much longer. He’s been lingering — and threatening consequences, if I do not agree to hand her over to him for marriage.” The old Priestess grimaced. “Her status does her no good if he burns this place to the ground.”

The old woman set her cleaver next to her with a heavy thud, her frustration palpable. “The girl is of age, and I am not her blood family; there is no one here who can claim authority over her, not like a parent or an elder sibling.” When her eyes lifted to his, Giyuu could see a hint of fear underlying the hard anger in her gaze. “These days, I half-expect to awaken and find that she’s been stolen in the night.”

The Water Pillar felt his jaw clench. It was rare that he felt the burning flush of anger and it was not directed at a demon, but the idea that Y/N was being harassed and threatened by some village drunkard who felt entitled to her, lit something hot in his stomach. For as vexatious and confounding as he found the young Miko to be, no one deserved to be stalked like prey.

Especially her.

“I’ve had a crow stationed here to alert me of any demon attacks for months,” Giyuu began, and the old woman looked to him in surprise. “But I will assign more to keep watch during the day. If there is anything strange afoot, they will tell you.” He paused a moment before adding, “And they will alert me, too.”

The head Priestess laid down her cleaver to look at him, long and hard. “Then she may have a fighting chance yet, Lord Hashira.”

————-

By the time he found Y/N once more, dinner was over and the moon had risen high in the night sky, casting the shrine grounds in its pale, silvery glow.

He’d told her, rather tersely, that he was unable to stay the night, and he tried to ignore how his chest tightened at the crestfallen look that flashed across her face. Despite her tangible disappointment, she insisted on escorting him out of the Shrine, desperate to cling to every second that might be spared to them.

“You are rather quiet tonight,” the Miko observed, walking him to the grand Torii. “More so than usual.” It was an understatement; the Water Pillar had been downright sullen and withdrawn from the moment he’d returned from whatever takes Granny had insisted she help him with.

Rather than give her any explanation, Giyuu halted his step and reached for her wrist, stilling her. “You did not tell me you were being harassed.”

She looked up to the Water Pillar in surprise. “How did you —?”

He released her from his grip in favor of drawing closer to her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Y/N opened and closed her mouth, struggling to find her words. “I suppose,” she began, but her mouth quirked down in a frown. “I did not think you needed to be burdened by something so insignificant.”

Giyuu stared at her as he mouthed the word insignificant, the look he shot her giving the distinct impression he thought her an idiot. “I do not think your safety is insignificant,” Giyuu’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, clenching it tight. “Nor do I think you are insignificant.”

“Compared to your other obligations? I should think I’m very unimportant.” Y/N turned away from him, fiddling with a gathering basket she carried on her hip to avoid having to look him in the eyes.

But the raven-haired Pillar caught her wrist and turned her back to face him, not willing to be ignored. “If you call for me, I will come to you.”

Y/N’s heart lurched at the Water Pillar’s words, spoken with such conviction and sincerity that it made her falter in her step. “Tomioka-san,” she said breathlessly, her eyes wide as she turned to him. “You have far more important duties to see to than to concern yourself with than mere village drama —“

But the raven-haired Hashira only shook his head as he took another step towards her, his expression severe; calculating. “You have the knife I gave you, yes?” His eyes dropped to her pocket, and Y/N felt compelled to show him that the small blade was indeed tucked safely within the folds of her hakama pants.

“Giyuu,” she pled, and she noted the way that he twitched towards her at the sound of his name falling from her lips. “Please, don’t worry —“

“I do not make promises I cannot keep,” the Water Pillar cut her off, closing the distance between them until the tips of his zori nearly grazed hers, his head bent down towards her as the heat of his stare threatened to consume her. “So I repeat: if you call for me, I will come to you.”

Any thought of arguing faded from her mind as Y/N became keenly aware of the lack of space between their bodies, of the way her hands, clasped in front of her chest brushed against the folds of his haori as it shifted softly with the wind.

“I understand,” she breathed. Y/N held his gaze for a long moment, though it was in part due to the battle waging within her not to allow her eyes to drop to his lips.

She would not let herself acknowledge how close they were; how soft they looked, or how warm they might feel against hers; her skin.

Giyuu lingered as well; after a pregnant pause, he finally stepped back, blinking as though coming out of a trance. “Good,” he nodded, and he glanced furtively over her shoulder. His eyes narrowed and he nodded as though satisfied before he turned crisply on his heel to begin his trek towards his duties and away from her. “Do not forget.” He called one last time over his shoulder, before the shadows of the woods swallowed him whole.

As Y/N dazedly made her way back towards the shrine, a crow following closely behind her, she almost laughed at the suggestion she could.

——-

Autumn, 1915

The weeks passed by without much fuss, and soon, the palpable tension that had settled over the Shrine as a result of Susumo’s lingering threats subsided. Soon, life at the Shrine returned to normal, and Y/N often found her mind wandering to thoughts of raven hair and endless blue eyes.

Until that night.

It had been a normal evening at the Shrine; autumn, blissful autumn had arrived, heralding forth crisp winds and golden skies. Though the days were steadily growing shorter, Y/N found herself rejuvenated by the new chill, especially as she watched the leaves of the trees shift from green to gold to ruby.

The leaves on her hairpin indeed had been a perfect match to those which were steadily drifting from the tall maples dotting the Shrine. Though she couldn’t wear her hair down the way she had the last time the Water Pillar paid the Shrine a visit, Y/N had found new ways to incorporate his gift into her daily life, weaving it through her plait or tucking it behind her ear.

That night had been one like any other; after dinner, the girls of the Shrine had scattered to tend to their evening duties. The shrine maiden had been walking alongside her Master, planning for the upcoming festival in the nearby village, during which the Shrine would seek new patrons to keep it operational. The women mulled over which families might be more inclined to assist them, and settled on a prominent merchant known to frequent other shrines on his travels through the country.

That was when they’d spotted the smoke.

“Fire!” A shrill voice cried, and both the old Priestess and Y/N blanched. “The honden is on fire!”

All at once, chaos broke out across the Shrine grounds as girls darted to and fro, frantic. Granny began barking at her charges, ordering the younger ones to gather in the courtyard while instructing the older girls to assist in putting out the flames.

"The granary!" Someone else cried. "The granary has gone up in flames!"

The elder Priestess snatched Y/N's wrist in her weathered hand. “The scrolls!” Granny's expression of horror was a sure match to her own. “They’re in the storeroom near the granary!”

The scrolls in question had been in the Shrine’s custody for over five hundred years, carrying sacred inscriptions of the gods and prayers essential to its operation and legitimacy.

They were priceless; irreplaceable.

“I’ll go!” And before her Master could protest, the Miko had already turned away and began sprinting toward the fire that was rapidly engulfing the granary near the back of the property.

Thankfully, the storeroom had yet to catch fire, but if the one steadily consuming the granary was not dealt with soon, it wouldn’t be long before it spread to consume the small wooden hut.

And Y/N knew it wouldn’t take much to reduce the storeroom to ash.

Coughing, she pressed her arm to her nose and mouth, using the large bell sleeve of her kosode to block some of the smoke that burned her eyes and nose. She pulled her other sleeve over her hand to protect it as she pushed the storehouse’s door aside.

Inside was dark; quiet. Though the nighttime made it difficult for her to see the scrolls and prints carefully rolled and tucked away into tiny cubbies lining the hut’s walls, Y/N wasn’t stupid enough to waste time searching for a candle to light. So, with only the flames eating away at the granary at her back to light her way, she began pulling handfuls of scrolls free from their storage, tucking them under her arm.

She turned to take her first armload of priceless Shrine artifacts from the storeroom and nearly tripped over a collection of heated coal pans that had been stacked in the corner to keep the scrolls sealed within the room at a stable temperature. She managed to hold onto her scrolls, however, and she quickly moved them away from the hut, placing them safely on a nearby rock that was still far enough away from the storeroom should it catch fire. She returned to the hut to survey what else she needed to salvage, but a familiar, tiny yelp and the flurry of movement in her periphery made the Miko’s stomach twist.

“Komatsu!” Y/N turned and saw the anxious younger girl lingering at the storage hut’s door, her tiny hands trembling. “Get away from here! It’s not safe!”

“B-but Sister,” the girl cried, hopping anxiously from foot to foot. “This is too much to do on your own —“

“You need to go find Granny,” the shrine maiden ordered. “I will join you in a moment.”

The girl’s lower lip wobbled. “But —,”

“Now!”

With a great sniff, the girl turned away, leaving Y/N alone once more. The Miko sighed and resumed her hasty perusal of the hut’s shelves, searching for anything else that could not be replaced.

There was a rustling near the doorway and Y/N bit her lip in an effort not to swear in front of her younger peer. “Komatsu, what did I say —“

She turned to admonish the girl, but her reprimand dried instantly on her tongue. For there, in the entryway to the storeroom, was Komatsu, her eyes wide and her face bone-white with a terror that matched Y/N’s own.

Because the girl was not alone.

Wrapped around her bicep was a hand, as large as a small boulder, and tipped with long, wicked claws that threatened to pierce Komatsu’s bicep. The hand was attached to a forearm, inhumanly thick and muscled. Slowly, Y/N’s eyes dragged up the length of the monstrous arm to behold the sinister face that grinned at her.

It was Susumo — only it wasn’t Susumo. Y/N recognized the vague features of the face that had once belonged to the village drunk and her personal tormentor. His hair was the same as was the general shape of his face, and the cruelty of his smirk, but that was where the resemblance to the Susumo she’d once known ended.

Now, he boasted a row of sharp fangs that distended nearly to his lower lip. And his eyes — no longer were they a cold, soulless black; now they were crimson red, and his pupils were cut into catlike slits.

Demon. A voice whispered in her mind. Demon.

“Enjoy my fires, Priestess?” Even Susumo’s voice had changed, forming a growl that matched his monstrous appearance. “I set them for you — I knew you would not be able to resist seeing such a spectacle.”

“Komatsu,” Y/N ignored him in favor of addressing the young girl, though her voice was unusually high though she fought to keep it as steady as possible. “Please go find Granny and help her with the honden.”

The young trainee trembled but Susumo’s clawed hand only tightened around her arm. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that, sweet Priestess,” the demon crooned. “You have something I want, you see.”

The slick, oily look in his eyes made his desire clear.

Y/N’s eyes darted quickly around the hut, finally falling on a series of coal pans stacked to the side of the room, only a few feet from where she stood, paralyzed. Her quick, cursory glance at the pans revealed iron that was slightly red, and she swore she could see the air around them distorted by the heat.

Hot; they were still hot.

The Miko looked back to where the demon continued to leer at her, ravenous. “Fine,” she said coolly. “I will go with you, Susumo.”

Komatsu looked between her and the demon in horror, but Y/N only kept her eyes locked with the demon’s. She edged closer to where the coal pans were still burning hot, eyes not daring to drop his as she drew closer to the demon and the younger trainee. He grinned, revealing cruelly sharp and bloodstained teeth, and his yellow eyes shone with a triumphant smugness, believing the Miko was surrendering to him at last.

As she brushed past the pans, Y/N furtively reached out a hand and closed her fingers around one of the handles. “Komatsu,” the Miko kept her eyes carefully trained on the demon. “Run.”

Her hand seized around the coal pan and with every ounce of her strength, she swung it toward the demon. The hot iron of the pan slammed into the side of his head, forcing him to drop his hold on the younger girl. There was a struggle between the older shrine maiden and the demon, who fought to wrench the pan free from her fierce grip, but Y/N would not relent.

“Run!” She shrieked at the girl again, and Komatsu darted away. Y/N’s fingers stretched to close around the tiny lever on the handle of the coal pan, and with a snarl of fury, she managed to latch around it, squeezing it with all her might. The lid of the pan opened and red-hot coals spilled forth over the demon’s head. Susumo howled in fury, and Y/N dropped the pan, letting it crack against his head as she shot past him, desperate to escape the tiny storeroom.

The faster she got into open air, the better chance she had of living.

But a claw, sharp and deadly sunk into her bicep, and yanked her back. She could not help the small scream that tore from her throat as she felt his talons rip at her skin and the sleeve of her kosode was shredded into ribbons beneath his nails.

“Sister Y/N!” Komatsu’s tiny, terrified voice cried out from several feet ahead.

The shrine maiden swallowed her building panic. “Go!”

The little girl hesitated again and Y/N knew she could not follow after her, not without risking her safety once again. With a defiant scream of rage, the shrine maiden tore her arm free of the demon’s razor-like claws, fighting back the bile that rose in her throat as she felt blood run down her arm, hot and thick.

The demon grasped wildly at her but found only air. Thinking only of the safety of Komatsu and her fellow trainees, Y/N turned on her heel and ran for the trees, away from the chaos unfolding at the Shrine.

And the demon, still snarling and panting and undoubtedly enraged, followed her into the forest.

Shit, shit, shit!

Y/N hurtled over a snarled root as she ran, her life dependent upon every stride as she fled the newly-demented Susumo.

In the back of her mind, the Miko knew her efforts were in vain; because for every inch she managed to gain, the angry demon at her heels seemed to gain a foot.

“You’ve denied me for far too long!” The monster’s voice growled behind her, far too close for comfort. “I will have you!”

Y/N palmed the small nichirin knife tucked safely within the deep pockets of her hakama pants, and wildly she wondered whether it was possible to decapitate a demon with such a small blade. Perhaps the Water Pillar should have left her a sword. After all, a sword could not really be that different from a broom, and she’d walloped her fair share of handsy drunkards and would-be thieves with the cleaning tool.

If she lived through the night, she would tell him as much the next time she saw him.

Y/N’s musings did nothing to help her avoid the root of an old tree that jutted out from the earth, snarling around her ankle and sending her flailing to the forest floor. Angry tears of frustration clouded her eyes. Although she knew these paths like the back of her hand, that knowledge did her little good in the dark, as she fled for her life.

Scrambling up to her feet, Y/N caught sight of a pair of eyes watching her from the brambles, dark and inky.

A crow. The image of a certain Hashira flashed before her eyes, as Y/N recalled the way that the members of the Demon Slayer Corps used crows to communicate.

Perhaps this crow was so affiliated, and she was desperate enough to try. “Please!” Y/N begged, sobbing as the crow stared down at her with those black eyes. “Giyuu!”

———

The night had been unusually peaceful for the Water Pillar.

His ambling patrol around his territory’s perimeter hadn’t revealed so much as a whisper of demonic activity. But the absence of any conspicuous threat did not mean his guard was down; his eyes remained sharp, his ear finely tuned, listening for any shift in the wind, any sign that something was amiss and required investigation —

A sudden rustle of leaves sounded from his right, and Giyuu’s hand moved reflexively for his blade, bracing against its hilt in preparation. A small shadow burst from the canopy above him, its wings flapping wildly. He recognized it instantly as the crow he’d assigned to watch over the Shrine — to watch over her.

“Demon attack at the Mountain Shrine!” The crow squawked, circling above him frantically. “Demon attack! Go now — quickly!”

He hadn’t hesitated to turn sharply on his heel, furiously making his way toward the Shrine. He broke through the line of trees at its edge in record time, and even he’d been taken aback by the chaos that had broken out.

“The honden is on fire!” the old woman cried out to the Pillar as he swiftly landed among the chaos unfolding across the shrine grounds. “The girls were still doing their evening duties – but then another fire was started near the granary!”

“My crows said a demon had made an appearance,” Giyuu’s eyes carefully scanned the terrified, frantic faces of the Shrine’s residents, his hands braced against the hilt of his sword. “Has anyone been hurt?”

The head Priestess stared at the Water Pillar in muted horror. “I have not seen – but I haven’t taken any headcount of the girls to know –”

A piercing cry from near the south gate of the Shrine cut the old woman off, and both Priestess and Slayer whipped toward the sound. A girl, no more than nine, was half-running, half-stumbling toward them, frightened tears streaking down her face.

“Komatsu!” the old Priestess blanched as she caught sight of the small apprentice’s busted, bloodied lip. With a sob, the young girl flung herself into her elder’s arms and clung tightly to her. “What on earth –?”

“Sister Y/N!” the girl called Komatsu wailed, and Giyuu felt himself go cold. “Granny – th-that man – he’s a monster!”

The head Priestess paled in recognition. “Susumo?” Giyuu’s gut clenched at the name. The old woman knelt before the girl, her hands clutching wildly at her slim shoulders as she shook her lightly to recenter her. “Komatsu, was Susumo the monster?”

The young girl nodded. “He was so – hiccup – fast! I didn’t even see him!” She only cried harder. “And t-then Sister Y/N – she grabbed the coal pan and dumped it on him until he let go.” Komatsu trembled as she lifted a shaking hand to wipe at her cheeks. “A-and then she t-told me to r-run –”

THe old Priestess caught the girl’s quivering chin in her hand and forced her to meet her eyes. “Where is Y/N, Komatsu?”

Komatus’s eyes were wide with fear. “She ran,” she whispered. “Into the woods – b-but Granny – she was bleeding –”

The Shrine’s Priestess turned to the Slayer, ready to beg him to follow after the demon and her apprentice, but the Water Pillar was gone. For a brief moment, she feared all hope was lost; that they’d been abandoned and non one would be able to save the young Miko – her heir – from whatever horrid fate awaited her at the ends of Susumo’s crazed, brutal claws.

She caught a flurry of movement right against the dark line of trees that snagged her attention; a flap of the edge of a mismatched haori, and the glint of a blade being drawn, its wielder already furiously making his way into the shadowy depths of the forest.

The Priestess exhaled and clutched her trembling young trainee to her chest. As she soothed the shaken young girl, the old woman prayed the Water Pillar would not be too late.

–

She was fucked; well and truly fucked.

Y/N had no idea how long she’d spent sprinting furiously through the forest, but she knew she was quickly running out of stamina. Worse, it seemed the demon on her heels knew she was slowing, and was now playing with her. But even his patience seemed to be at its wit’s end; for a sudden sharp blow to her back sent the Miko flying several feet forward until she slammed against the uneven, rough terrain of the forest floor.

Y/N gasped for air that would not come as she tried to push herself up. Crawl! Her mind begged her body. Crawl, damn you!

A dark chuckle from behind sent every hair on her body standing straight on end. A hand locked around her ankle and flipped her over until she was nearly nose to nose with the demon crouched over her. “Got you,” he sang, and the moonlight glinted off the sharp edge of his fangs as he grinned.

Her fingers found the handle of the knife the Water Pillar had gifted her in her pocket. With a determined grunt, she pulled it free and plunged it deep into the meat of his shoulder, praying furiously to any god who would listen that she might have hit an artery so that he would bleed out.

The demon loosed an enraged scream and fell away from her, hands blindly fumbling for the blade.

No longer pinned beneath him, Y/N scrambled back. Her hands scraped against the broken brush and pebbles below her in her desperate attempt to put distance between herself and the demon rising to his feet ahead of her, snarling. As he began advancing toward her, Susumo gripped the knife she’d buried in his shoulder and with a grunt, he wrenched it free and tossed it carelessly to the side, right along with the last shred of any hope she’d had of making it out of the woods alive.

The demon’s mouth curled into a cruel, savage grin, the moonlight glinting off his long, wicked fangs. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he growled, saliva dripping down his chin as his nostrils widened to scent her blood and her fear.

This was it; there was nowhere for her to run, no weapon she could try and protect herself with. There was nothing she could do; she was going to die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Just as Susumo drew upon her, close enough that she could smell the rancid, pungent odor of rotted meat on his breath, he stumbled back, startled.

One moment the demon was standing mere inches from her, ready to devour her whole; the next, he was sent sailing back, his body smashing into the trunk of a nearby tree with a sickening thump!

A blur of dark matter soared over the Miko’s head toward the monster. Susumo barely had time to stand before the shadow converged on him once more. There was a flash of light — the moon reflecting off metal — followed by a dull thud. The shrine maiden’s heart lodged in her throat as she watched the head of the former village drunkard roll across the forest floor before distingrating, his body following soon after.

She was nearly hyperventilating as the shadow turned to face her, but the pall of the moon finally illuminated the face of her savior — her Water Pillar.

“G-Giyuu,” she stuttered, her eyes stinging with unshed tears of relief that washed over her all at once.

But Giyuu did not respond, his lapis eyes narrowing in on the dark stain spreading across the white of her kosode. Y/N cowered at the cold, unbridled rage that contorted the ordinarily stoic Hashira’s face as he began to shake at the sight of her blood. In a flash, Giyuu had closed the distance between them and knelt down by her side, gripping her wounded arm in his hand as he tried to pull her tattered sleeve down and inspect her wound.

“Tomioka — Giyuu,” she pled, trying to wrench her arm from his iron-like grip. “Please, it’s not that bad —“

“Did it get you anywhere else?” Giyuu demanded harshly, and the authority underlying his tone made Y/N fall silent for the first time since she’d known him. “Did it -“ the Water Pillar hesitated. “Did it touch you anywhere else?”

Y/N was trembling, and the Hashira’s hand around her arm tightened. “Ah!” She winced. “No, I promise, Giyuu, it’s just a flesh wound, I’m fine-,”

“You are bleeding. You are not fine.” Giyuu snapped back. “You could’ve been killed, or turned, or -,” the Water Pillar began to hyperventilate, and it shook the young Miko to her core. The Water Hashira was normally so unflappable, so stoic, that his panicked anger frightened her.

“-So do not tell me you’re fine,” Giyuu’s rant continued. “Not when you could’ve — not when I might’ve failed — not again --”

She was at a loss for what to do as she watched the raven-haired man struggle to form words. Vaguely, she recalled the way the Granny-Priestess had once explained to her that when someone panicked, they needed to regulate their breathing, and there were many ways someone could help force another to breathe properly…

Stomach fluttering, Y/N’s free hand came up to grip the fold of the Water Pillar’s haori. Giyuu’s incessant rambling only ended when her lips urgently pressed against his own, his eyes going wide. A heartbeat or two passed and then the Miko pulled away, her eyes serious as she stared at the stunned Water Hashira.

“You need to give me a sword.” She told him, earnestly, her face blazing.

———

Giyuu helped her back to the Shrine, though the Miko found herself needing to bat off the Water Pillar with a stern reminder that she’d only sustained a small arm wound as he’d tried to scoop her up into his arms.

The Swordsman had been rather subdued the entire journey out of the forest, his eyes curiously wide and dazed right until the pair breached the tree line at the edge of the Shrine’s property. The moment they stepped into open ground, they were swarmed by the tearful, relieved faces of the Shrine’s inhabitants. Words of gratitude to him were woven through worries over the Miko’s arm wound as they made their way across toward the small infirmary which, thankfully, had not been touched by Susumo’s fire.

The honden itself was still standing; though the flames had finally been subdued, smoke still curled up toward the sky, blocking any view of the moon or the stars.

The head Priestess waited for them outside the infirmary. Though her face was grave, Giyuu could spy the relief shining in her eyes. He stood numbly by as the Miko and her master regarded each other warily for a moment, before the elder Priestess reached forward and yanked her charge forward into a fierce embrace.

“Reckless girl,” she chastised gently against the side of Y/N’s head. “Thank every one of the gods that you’re safe.” The old Priestess’s eyes found those of the Water Pillar. “And thank you, Lord Tomioka.”

Y/N was promptly escorted inside to have her wound examined and stitched. Despite the old shrine keeper’s gratitude for his aid in saving the young shrine maiden, that thankfulness apparently did not extend to permitting him inside the infirmary with them, and for good reason. For under the Elder’s withering glare, the Water Pillar realized that Y/N’s treatment would require her to be stripped of her kosode, leaving her exposed and bare.

As unwilling as he’d been to part from her, the thought of witnessing the Miko undressed and vulnerable had been enough to temper his urge to look after her, if nothing else because the mental image of her in such a state flustered him to no end.

Though, he supposed his bewilderment also had something to do with what had transpired between them in the forest.

Kissed him; the shrine maiden had kissed him.

His fingers drifted to his lips. They still felt warm where they’d been graced by hers, and he swore he could still feel the softness of her mouth from where it had brushed against his.

He needed to talk to her; he needed to know what the hell she’d been thinking, kissing him like that.

But as shocking as the Miko’s kiss had been, there was something else, something far heavier, that weighed on his mind.

She’d nearly been killed. By a demon. On his watch.

He should’ve apologized; he should’ve begged for her forgiveness for letting her come that close with death. For letting her get wounded because he hadn’t been fast enough.

I was concerned for you, he wanted to tell her. I thought I would be too late.

No; concern didn’t cover it; did not do near enough justice to his true emotions upon learning the Miko had fled into the dark forest with a hungry, loathsome demon hot on her trail.

He’d been scared; terrified; almost beside himself at the possibility that he’d be too late and find that she’d already been reduced to the beast’s meal,

He’d been scared he’d never again see her smile or hear her laugh, and that had terrified him more than anything. For it was the memory of both that soothed his anxious nerves each time he startled awake from visions of his dead loved ones, demanding to know why they had died in his stead.

He’d feared that he would have to add her face to those he saw when he slept — the faces of those he’d failed to protect, who’d died for his sake. He’d been terrified of seeing her image in painstaking clarity, just as he saw the faces of his sister and Sabito every morning.

He did not know what to do with them, these confusing feelings, so abundant and intense that they’d welled up within him and threatened to spill over. He couldn’t name them, let alone begin to untangle the knot they’d formed within his heart. All he knew was that every one of them were inextricably tied to her.

His shrine maiden.

His.

—

Y/N’s arm ached, but it had been properly sewn and bandaged, and there was work to do before she could settle in for the night; and so, she found herself helping her peers with cleaning up the courtyard from the debris of the night’s events.

Truthfully, she'd been grateful for the distraction. Occupying herself with cleanup meant she did not have to think about what she’d done in the forest. But then Granny Priestess saw her trying to heave away broken wood with her freshly stitched arm and Y/N found herself forced to abandon her fellow trainees as the old bat smacked her upside the head and squawked about how she was going to break her stitching and complicate the healing process.

The Miko tried not to pout as she retreated, opting instead to grumble over the old woman’s dramatics as her arm stung and her ego throbbed. When she finally returned to her sleeping quarters, exhaustion slammed into her, making her limbs heavy and leaden. Unable to quite rally the energy to crawl into her futon, she slumped against the doorway of the room, her head and her heart a tangled mess of emotions she couldn’t quite name.

What she’d felt the moment the Water Pillar had stepped into the moonlight had been more than mere relief that he’d managed to save her life for the second time. She’d felt safe, so unbelievably safe that the forest itself could have been on fire and she wouldn’t have been afraid; not as long as he was there with her.

Something between them had shifted; that much was clear. In truth, things likely had begun to change the moment she repaired his haori, and she’d admitted to him her deep-seated loneliness and lack of belonging.

She only hoped he felt the change, too.

—

Much to Y/N’s chagrin, autumn was quickly giving way to blasted winter.

Though, the Miko hadn’t been able to fully resent the rapid shift in the seasons; repairs at the Shrine had consumed nearly all of her attention, and as Granny’s heir, she was expected to contribute to its reconstruction more than any other trainee.

That expectation meant Granny left the task of figuring out how to finance the necessary repairs entirely to her young protege. Y/N had spent all of two days agonizing over ways to raise the necessary funds when she awoke to find a mysterious sack of money that had been left on the doorstep of the honden. Inside had been an amount more than generous to cover the cost of repairs from the fire, with a hefty remainder that could be put toward other necessary improvements to spruce the Shrine up, and perhaps restore it to its former glory.

No note had been left with the money to indicate the identity of the Shrine’s benefactor. But amid all the excitement of her peers at the thought of being able to afford materials and laborers to assist with the more difficult aspects of the Shrine’s refurbishment, Y/N had spotted a familiar crow perched high in a nearby tree.

That position had afforded the bird with a perfect view of the money sack, allowing it to silently ensure it fell into the proper hands. But repairs had finally slowed, and Y/N now found her days returning to normal. Almost.

What was not normal was how agitated she'd become in waiting for his return.

Another week passed without any communication from the Water Pillar, and the Miko had grown desperate for any sort of distraction. She found herself one late, autumn morning passing the time in the Shrine’s garden hut. She was pretending to be searching for tools that would help her prune the wilting Shrine garden when something grazed against the small of her back. Startled, she turned and was greeted by familiar, unruly raven hair and a pair of deep azure eyes.

“Giyuu,” his name slid easily off her tongue, and suddenly she could not remember why she’d called him anything else.

A ghost of a smile graced his lips. “Hello, Y/N.”

A poignant silence followed, and her cheeks grew hot. "Don't mind me," she said quickly, turning her head away from him as she pretended to organize stray gardening supplies. "I am only just now finishing my tasks for the day."

Though he remained silent, she became acutely aware of the way Giyuu’s eyes followed her as she tried desperately to keep herself busy, to avoid having to meet that piercing, discerning stare.

“I did not get a chance to properly thank you after the turmoil of that night,” she said casually. Nervously, she hoped that his heightened senses did not alert him to the way her heart fluttered in her chest, or how her stomach flipped in her gut. Her nails dug into her palms as she lifted her head to meet that unnerving, fathomless stare.

But the Water Pillar had already closed most of the distance between them, having moved so silently she’d not heard him, despite even the creaky, uneven slatted floor of the garden hut. “How is your wound?” He asked softly, his hand skirting up the outside of the arm Susumo had wounded. “Has it healed?”

It took a great amount of effort for Y/N to remember how to keep her breathing steady. But she forced her lips into an easy smile as she rucked up the flared sleeve of her kosode to reveal her bicep. “It will likely scar,” she admitted, her fingers lightly tracing over the three, angry red marks that remained imprinted on her skin, though they’d fully scabbed over. “I consider myself quite lucky, all things considered.”

“Why did you do it?”

The Miko ducked her head, willing the sheet of her hair to fall and conceal her mounting blush. She did not need to ask him to clarify; she knew after what he was asking.

But she feigned ignorance all the same. “I don’t know what you mean, Tomioka-sama –”

“Don’t call me that,” and even though she refused to meet his eyes, she could sense his irritation at her avoidance. “We’re well past such formalities, Y/N.” Giyuu stepped closer to her, his cerulean eyes melting into something more akin to the midnight blue of the evening sky. “You kissed me. That night.” The Water Pillar’s hand glided up the arm that Susumo had injured, caressing softly over the healed skin beneath the sleeve of her kosode.

“I-I did no such thing!” Y/N sputtered, though her reddening cheeks betrayed her. “I was only attempting to help you calm down — you were panicking, and inconsolable.”

Giyuu’s responding smirk only served to irritate her more. “Should I thank you then, Y/N?” His hand slid from her shoulder to below her chin, his delicate fingers curling to tilt her head up towards his, as he closed the distance between their bodies. “Should I show you how grateful I am that you were able to assuage my worry?”

Y/N tried to focus on anything but the feeling of Giyuu’s breath — warm and enticing — against her face as he leaned in close. “You had no reason to worry; I was completely fine before you showed up.”

“Fine,” the ravenette scoffed, his grip on her chin tightening slightly. “So fine that you were bleeding and about to become that beast’s snack — or worse.”

“But you saved me, did you not?” Y/N whispered, unable to stop her eyes from dropping to the Water Pillar’s sensual, soft-looking mouth before rising once more to meet his punishing gaze. “And then I helped you.”

Giyuu’s second hand brushed against her waist and the shrine maiden thought she might leap out of her skin. “You did,” he conceded, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a small, half-smile. “Though I apologize that you needed to do so — I suppose I become a little over-zealous when things that are precious to me are threatened.”

Even if she could have thought of some witty remark to throw back at him, those words surely would have been blocked by her heart as it lodged in her throat.

Things that were precious to him. She was precious to him.

“So I’ll ask again, Y/N,” Giyuu whispered, and his nose brushed delicately against hers. “Should I thank you for your assistance?” The fingers beneath her chin stroked her jaw. “Should I kiss you?”

She fought to suppress the excited shudder that licked up her spine. “Yes, Lord Hashira,” she breathed, and her stomach turned cartwheels as Giyuu’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “Perhaps you should.”

“Who am I to deny the request of a priestess?” Giyuu murmured, and then his lips were moving against hers, warm and soft. Y/N’s fingers flew to clutch the Water Pillar’s rocky biceps beneath the soft cloth of his haori, anchoring him against her. The hand that had gripped below her chin slid to the side of her face, tilting her head so that the Water Pillar could have better access to her as he pressed his lips harder against hers.

Y/N moaned into his kiss, wanting him closer, impossibly closer to her than he currently was.

Giyuu broke away from her once, though he kept a hand on the back of her neck to keep her in place. “What are your duties today?”

Y/N’s fingers curled around the front of the Water Pillar’s haori, her forehead resting against his. “None of import.” She gave him a sly smile. “No one will miss me if I am gone for a few hours.”

Giyuu returned her smile with a tiny smirk of his own. “In that case,” he tugged her hand and he began to lead her towards the grassy overlook where they’d spent a great deal of time talking and learning one another. “I could use your assistance.”

–

Y/N hadn’t greeted the sunrise with the intent to neglect her shrine duties, but she couldn’t say she regretted how she ended up spending the day.

They spent the day resting on the hillside overlooking the shrine grounds, rolling back and forth upon the browning grass as they kissed each other again and again.

“You weren’t wrong, that day — right after we met,” Giyuu gasped against her lips as they broke apart, the blush on Y/N’s cheeks a sure match to his own. “I do not find you captivating.”

Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed. Her mouth parted, a protest on her tongue when Giyuu surged forward, his lips brushing against her neck. The Miko’s words choked off with a squeak as the Water Pillar danced his lips to the hollow of her throat, his tongue flicking out once right where her heart pulsed wildly.

“I think you are utterly transfixing; enchanting,” he breathed against her skin. “You have cast a spell over me that I do not want broken.”

“I find it hard to believe anyone could wield that sort of power over a Hashira,” Y/N’s voice was high pitched as Giyuu’s lips made their way back to hers.

In the back of her mind, Y/N wondered if his words were motivated purely by his physical desire for her. It would not have surprised her if he was only so taken with her because he longed to be touched; held. Like him, she’d gone much of her life without intimacy from anyone. She could not blame him for seeking it from someone so willing to give as she.

“But you are not just anyone, not to me.” was all he replied, his lips moving softly against hers once more. “You are…everything.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. The Water Pillars words, dripping like honey from his lips, were only sweetened by the fervent sincerity of his eyes as he pulled back to gaze into hers, so deeply, she felt as though he could see every thought in her head.

She wondered if he lowered that piercing, discerning stare, whether he’d be able to see straight to her heart, too; see how it bore his name.

Even though her breath guttered in her throat at his words, her heart clenched painfully in her chest. The idea that she’d attached more meaning to their relationship than he, that perhaps she’d overestimated her value to him made her tense, made her want to push him away and —

“You’re distracted,” Giyuu murmured against her lips, brushing his nose against hers. “Your thoughts are loud.”

Her fingers caught the front fold of his haori, fiddling idly with it. “There is nothing for you to repay, you know. You do not owe me your time or your attention. I know the Shrine is simply a part of your designated patrol. I understand if its convenience is the only reason —”

A single finger pressed itself against her lips, quieting her. “You think and talk too much.” The ravenette chastised. Her mouth parted, a protest forming on her lips, when he cut her off again. “Ah ah,” Giyuu silenced her with his lips, his tongue flicking out to skim along her bottom lip. Above her, he shifted and allowed his weight to fall against her, pinning her beneath him. Reluctantly, his mouth broke away from hers. “It is my turn to speak.”

“I do not come to the Shrine because it is easy,” Giyuu’s lips brushed hesitantly against her jaw. “Nor do I come here out of any preconceived obligation to repay your kindness.”

He pulled back to study her, panting and flushed beneath him. As his eyes slowly combed over her, Y/N felt a strange knot pull and twist in the depths of her stomach. “There is only one thing that brings me back here, no matter how exhausted I am after weeks of endless missions; no matter how often certain junior Corps members pester me to train them.” His eyes narrowed at the hollow of the Miko’s throat, exposed by the way her kosode had shifted as the pair of them rolled around the grass. Curious, Giyuu leaned down and pressed his lips firmly against it.

And then he did the unthinkable; the Water Pillar moaned, ever so softly, against the fluttering of Y/N’s frantic pulse. The sound, so rich and full of need – of want – washed over her and drowned out all other thoughts, all other higher reasoning from her mind. INstead, the Miko was left with nothing but the sharp urge to press her thighs together, an unknown heat beginning to pool in her most sacred area.

“Do you know what that thing is, Y/N?” He whispered against the soft dip in her throat, his breath hot as it fanned across her skin. “Can you guess what it is I cannot stay away from – could not, even if I desired otherwise?”

His fingers dropped to the collar of her kosode, tracing lightly over its crisp, white fold. “When I close my eyes in the mornings, it is your face I see,” he murmured. “It is your laugh I hear in my dreams; your scent I find myself longing for when I awaken.”

The Miko shivered as his index finger traced from her collar up her throat, over her chin until it came to rest on her bottom lip, gently stroking over its curve. “It is you I seek to turn to remind myself that there is still good in this world – good still worth protecting. Why is that, Y/N?” His eyebrows furrowed and he seemed almost earnest in his question. “Why is it that my mind refuses to be occupied by anything but you?”

“Because I vex you,” she said softly, eyes wide and locked with his. “Because, try as you might, you’ve never been able to fully fit me into a box as you have with others.”

Giyuu shook his head. “Vex me?” He tsked at her. “Perhaps once that was true. But now? I desire you in ways I can hardly understand, and it drives me mad.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. “What are you saying?”

“I think I’ve been rather clear,” and instinctively, Giyuu rolled his hips against hers, desperate to relieve some of the friction mounting in his groin. “And it’s that I want –”

But the Miko did not get to hear what Giyuu wanted; not as he was drowned out by the screeching cry of a bird from high above. Only, this bird was not the dull, graying crow she’d come to associate with her Swordsman.

“I thought your crow was older?”

The Water Pillar frowned as he turned to look up, his eyebrows drawn together. “That’s not Kanzaburo — that’s one of the Master’s —“

“CAW,” the bird circled above their heads in narrow, rapid turns. “Lord Tomioka! Return to headquarters immediately!”

Giyuu’s jaw clenched. “Can it not wait?”

Y/N, however, only gaped up at the bird flying above them. “It talks —?”

But the crow only cried again, “Emergency meeting at headquarters!!

With a short, frustrated exhale, Giyuu rolled to the side of the Miko and rose, but not before he extended a hand and helped lift her to her feet.

He gingerly brushed some loose grass from her hair. “I’m sorry.”

She only shook her head as she reached to adjust his haori, righting it in his shoulders. “It’s your duty, Giyuu. I understand that.”

He scowled back up at the bird still circling above them, bleating a refrain of “Emergency! Go now!”

“I’m not finished with this conversation,” Giyuu said plainly, a frustrated hand working through his hair. Though his annoyance was plain as day, it fell away as he looked back to the Miko at his side, his gaze softening. “Nor am I finished with you.”

A single finger reached under Y/N’s chin and lifted her head toward him so he could brush another kiss against her lips. “I will come see you – soon.”

With a shy boldness, the Miko rose on her toes and gave him one final kiss, and Giyuu’s hand tightened where it rested against her waist. “I’ll wait for you, Lord Hashira.”

———

December, 1915

Y/N cursed at the ancient priestess who insisted on using only gas-powered lanterns rather than the newer, much safer, electric powered lights that other shrines had begun using.

“We are an esteemed shrine dating back hundreds of years,” the old crone had simpered, “Tradition has kept us going this far!”

Y/N hadn’t helped her cause by asking whether tradition or spite was what kept the hag from dying off and finally leaving her in peace.

And that was how the young Priestess-to-be found herself stomping through the snowy grounds of the Shrine, forced to light each and every lantern by hand using a match and oil, utterly by herself.

She knew better than to levy such an obvious taunt at the old woman, but admittedly, Y/N hadn’t been in the best of moods as of late.

Giyuu had not returned since that day on the hillside, when he’d kissed her silly and told her he could not stop thinking of her. It was as though he no longer existed; even the crows at the Shrine were no more, having all disappeared one morning before she’d awoken.

As the weeks passed, the weight of his absence had grown heavier, threatening to beat her into the ground below.

But Y/N had done her best to hold her tongue over the last weeks as her anxiety mounted, and Granny should’ve known that — so really, it was her own fault if she’d taken offense to the Miko’s barb.

She grumbled and cursed under her breath as she trudged toward the small garden hut standing at the furthest edge of the Shrine’s grounds — her last stop of the night. She shoved past the old, rickety door and braced her merrily flickering, hand-held lantern out before her, bathing the small hut in a warm, orange glow.

All was silent and quiet within the small storeroom. The air was cold, though the slatted walls of the hut offered some protection from the howling, snow-dotted winds outside. Determined to complete her task and return to the comfort of her warm futon, the Miko fumbled around one of the store shelves for a small can of oil.

“It’s you,” a quiet voice startled her from behind, and Y/N nearly dropped the lantern clutched in her hands.

But she did not feel afraid as she recognized the calm, soothing cadence of the voice, that voice that belonged to the one person capable of making her blush.

The one person who held her heart.

“It’s been a while, Giyuu. I was wondering when I’d see you again.” She turned and saw the raven-haired man standing in the doorway of the garden hut, his face characteristically neutral, though he seemed tense, even more so than usual.

Instantly, she moved toward him. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes tightened, and the darkness which swam within them betrayed his aloof facade. “Things have changed quickly in my world,” he began, and she saw his fists clench at his sides. “We believe the demons are preparing for war — and so we have been as well.

“War?” She repeated softly, her step faltering. “I hadn’t realized the demons were so…organized.”

Giyuu nodded. “One creature is responsible for all demons. He is the orchestrator; he is the one we must kill, and we believe the opportunity to do so is drawing nearer.”

The monotonous cadence of his voice fell away as he quietly added, “That is why I haven’t been able to return — we’ve been training. This battle — it may start at any moment.”

He made like he wanted to say more, but he stopped himself, pressing his lips into a tight line.

“And?” She prompted gently, taking a solitary step toward him.

“He hesitated, and she spied how his throat worked to swallow. “And I do not know when I will be able to see you again. After tonight.”

Y/N watched him for a moment, her eyes searching his. “When you say you don’t know ‘when’ we will see each other again,” she began, cautiously. “Do you mean ‘if?’”

Giyuu’s answering silence said more than any words could.

For a moment, the Miko could not remember how to speak, not as she felt the organ in her chest splinter into a thousand, mismatched pieces.

“I just wanted to see you,” the Water Pillar struggled to swallow around the growing lump in his throat. “One last time.”

She could scarcely breathe.

He was leaving and he might never return.

Leaving to go try and put an end to the scourge of demons that plagued their world. It was a noble thing to do; sacrifice in its purest form.

But she hated it.

She was filled with such a deep melancholy that it nearly brought her to her knees. As the Water Pillar turned to leave, Y/N couldn’t stop herself as she reached for him, her arms encircling him as her hands locked over his front, stilling him.

“Giyuu,” she said thickly, her face pressed into the back of his haori as she willed the tears in her eyes not to fall. “Giyuu.”

He turned in her grasp and looked down at her in awe, a finger rising to brush the errant tear that had escaped down her cheek as he held her gaze.

The flame within her lantern flickered as Giyuu softly grazed his lips against her own, Y/N’s arms weaving around his neck to hold him close to her.

His hands were gentle, if not a little uncertain as they found her waist, but once they came to a rest against her, he pulled her close, arms winding around her middle and holding her securely against him as he deepened the kiss. She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair as she opened up for him, his tongue gliding alongside her own until she was left breathless and wanting.

Vaguely, the Miko was aware that he was walking them deeper into the garden hut, allowing the old door to thud shut behind him, and the thought of not returning to her plush futon suddenly did not seem like such a loss.

Giyuu’s hands returned to her face, thumbs stroking softly along her cheeks as he broke their kiss to brush his lips against her eyes, her nose, and forehead. Y/N’s hands parted the Water Hashira’s haori from his shoulders as Giyuu’s fingers dropped to her collar bone, sliding beneath her kosode, and grazing her bare shoulder.

“You have been my most treasured encounter,” he whispered, and she felt her heart seize in her throat, tears threatening to spill anew from her eyes.

A year’s worth of interactions had all led to this moment, but it was not the satisfying payoff of the tension and longing that had been steadily building between them.

This was a goodbye.

Because it was likely that the Water Pillar would not survive the impending battle; but neither did he want to leave this end untied.

She had known, deep in her heart, that this affair had been doomed before it had ever begun, but that hadn’t stopped her from falling for the kind, brave, selfless man now kissing her like she was his entire world anyways.

She would not get to have him in the morning, so she resolved to give herself to him for the night.

Giyuu’s hands eased her kosode from her shoulders, exposing her to the cool air within the garden hut. His warm hands, however, worked to chase away any chill that spread across her skin as he ran his palms over the curve of her shoulders before sliding down to rest on her bare waist, his long fingers grazing just below the curve of her breasts.

Her own fingers trembled as she fumbled with the buttons on his uniform shirt but in time, she’d worked them open and Giyuu broke their kiss long enough to let his shirt drop to the floor beneath them.

The two stood there for a moment, chests rising and falling rapidly, as they looked at one another, half-nude and vulnerable. The shrine maiden and the slayer knew that they had come upon a precipice, and if they stepped off that ledge, there would be nothing to break their fall.

Y/N made the first move, taking a tentative step towards the Water Pillar as she trailed her fingers lightly up the beautiful, sculpted ridges of his abdomen, relishing how warm he was beneath her touch.

Giyuu shivered beneath her fingertips as the miko’s hand came to a rest against his sternum, marveling the way his heart thundered beneath her hand. “Are you certain?” He breathed, his face was impassive, but his own uncertainty was betrayed by the slight tremor in his voice. His hand rose to gently cup the side of her face, his thumb ghosting over her bottom lip.

She reached to grab the Pillar’s free hand and brought it up to rest against her sternum, mirroring her own hold on him so that he could feel the steady drum of her own heart — and how it thrummed for him. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m yours, Giyuu.”

Once, she had believed the Hashira incapable of expressing anything other than cold aloofness. she’d not been able to comprehend the subtle ways with which his eyes could signal his mood; how they darkened when angry, or how the outer corners turned up, almost imperceptibly, when he was content.

But she had long since learned to read him, and so, her stomach fluttered at the way the raven haired man’s gaze heated with both adoration and desire — for her.

Giyu brushed his nose against hers affectionately before bringing their lips together once more, his kiss growing fervent as her hands slid up to tangle in his ebony hair. Y/N gasped into his mouth as she felt Giyu bend down, his hands gripping firmly under her thighs as he lifted her up, forcing her to lock her legs around his waist. Her lips parted, and Giyuu’s tongue slid seamlessly into her mouth.

Her lover locked one steely arm firmly around her lower back to support her as Y/N felt him lower them to the floor to lay her down, the Water Pillar’s free hand coming to brace against the back of her skull, to protect her head from thudding back against the wooden slats of the hut floor. The Miko steadied herself, prepared for the cold bite of the dirty hut floor to nip at the bare skin of her back, but she was only settled against something warm and soft; something that smelled distinctively of the Slayer panting above her.

Her fingers dropped to her side and grazed against the familiar fabric of Giyuu’s haori; his most prized and cherished possession, spread out beneath her to protect her from the cold ground, a makeshift bed against which she would let him take her and make her his.

He withdrew his lips from hers to sit back, his cerulean eyes tracing over every inch of her, from the way her dark hair spread out in a soft halo around her, to the blush staining her cheeks. His eyes darkened as they lowered to her bare chest, at the way it rose and fell jerkily as Y/N struggled to control her breathing.

Giyuu’s long, slim fingers reached out to trace along the top of her scarlet hakama pants, his finger tips just grazing along her ribs and the underside of her breasts.

“I’d never known such -,” He covered his struggle for words by pressing a sweet kiss against the hollow of her throat, a soft gasp escaping the Miko at the unfamiliar sensation. “Such beauty,” Giyuu’s lips trailed down to skirt across the ridge of her collar bone. “Not until I met you.”

His face was against her sternum, pressing kisses as he trailed his lips down her skin. “I am sorry I could not give you more time.” His voice was soft, softer than even she had ever known. Before she could respond, Giyuu’s mouth hesitantly brushed against the stiffened peak of her breast, and Y/N’s mouth fell open with a soft cry.

Azure eyes flashed up to meet hers. “Is this — is this okay?”

The Miko's eyes fluttered shut as she nodded, unable to trust that she could hold her voice steady if she spoke. Her fingers weaved their way through the Pillar’s thick, raven locks, and she grazed her nails against his scalp in encouragement.

Giyuu grunted softly at her touch, and he leaned forward to suck more of her soft mound into his hot mouth, teeth grazing lightly against her nipple as he explored her.

“Oh,” she moaned, her thighs inadvertently pressing together as Giyuu’s tongue and lips worshipped her bared flesh, licking and sucking and nipping at her in his devotion.

“Beautiful,” he murmured against the soft, sensitive skin of her breast. “So very beautiful.”

He repeated the movement again and again before he traced his mouth across her sternum and began lavishing her other breast with the same fervor. Her hands fisted in his hair as she mewled for him, enamored with the feeling of his hot mouth latched around her. He gave her more and yet it was not enough; every pass of his tongue over her stiffened peak only amplified the ache between her legs, only made the emptiness she felt more pronounced.

A breathy, whining and needy moan blew past her lips in time with a reflexive buck of her hips against his.

The ravenette pulled off her breast with a start, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed as he gazed down at her in awe. “Do that again.”

“W-what —?” She pushed herself up on her elbows to look down at him, her chest heaving.

“Tell me what to do,” Giyuu’s breath was ragged though his fingers continued trailing down her sides, seeking out the ties securing her bottoms around her waist. “Tell me how I might help you make that sound again.”

“I –” Y/N squirmed beneath the intensity of his gaze, her thighs rubbing together to stifle some of the electricity she felt between her legs. “I want you to – I need you closer.”

Her eyes drifted to the bulge that had formed between the Hashira’s thighs, and she felt her heart skip in her chest.

Giyuu pressed his groin against hers and ground. She gasped at the spark of pleasured friction the movement stoked between her thighs, and her eyes flew to meet his, only to see they were as wide as hers.

And just as hungry.

Her hand gently cupped his face. “Closer. Please.”

He pressed his cheek into her palm and with a soft groan, his fingers quickly loosened the fastenings of her bottoms and then he was pushing them down her hips and over her legs, discarding them carelessly to the side. Giyuu sat back on his knees and let his eyes roam her, now fully bare and laid out beneath him.

When his appraisal of her finally reached the thatch of curls between her thighs, the Water Pillar loosed a shaky breath. She had half a mind to cross her legs, to conceal the most intimate part of her body from the raging fire of his gaze as he studied her, but she forced herself to remain relaxed; open.

One, broad and calloused hand stretched tentatively out to run along the outside of her hip and down her leg, before smoothing back up in the inside of her thigh. His eyes flicked once to hers, and then he leaned forward and brushed delicate kisses down her abdomen, over her hip and along her thigh. He continued his descent as he slowly pushed himself back from her, and once he imparted one last, sweet press of his lips against her ankle, he rose.

The flickering light of the lantern cast shadows along the alabaster of his skin, further accentuating how the muscles of his torso and abdomen flexed and shifted as he worked to free himself of the remainder of his clothes. His eyes did not leave hers, not even as his hands found the buckle of his belt and tugged it loose, and Y/N found herself free falling into their depths.

The ravenette dropped his belt to the floor, and then his fingers were at the waistband of his trousers, pulling and fiddling with their fastening. At last, Giyuu freed his lower half from the confines of his uniform pants and stepped out from the puddle they made at his feet.

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat as her eyes raked over his beautiful form, so lean yet solid and muscular. Her cheeks burned with a renewed blush as her gaze followed the small, dark trail of hair beginning just below his navel, and down between his hips, where the evidence of his desire stood proud.

Her throat went dry. He was large — the flared head of his tip nearly grazed his navel, and his width was a little more than two of her fingers. Her thighs clamped together nervously, as she pondered how on earth she’d be able to accommodate him.

Giyuu noticed her hesitation, and a faint dusting of pink spread across his cheeks. “I have never -“

The shrine maiden shook her head. “Nor I,” she whispered, though the knowledge that this was as new to him as it was to her helped ease the clench in her stomach. For all her nervousness, the Miko could not ignore the heat and longing which burned within her as she lifted her eyes back to his. She found her muscles softening as she saw the same fire within those cyan pools she’d come to love. Y/N laid back against the floor — against the comforting soft of his haori, and let body relax, her legs falling open to him.

She held her hand out to him, beckoning, “Come back to me, Giyuu.”

The ravenette did not hesitate as he returned to her, covering her body with his own as he pulled her in for a heated kiss, the weight of his hardened length resting heavily against her hip as he settled between the cradle of her thighs.

Y/N moaned into his mouth, instinctively rolling her hips against him, desperate to feel closer to the man who had claimed her heart before she’d realized anyone was capable of holding it.

Giyuu groaned, softly, against her as she repeated the movement, breaking their kiss to look down at the flushed Miko threatening to drive him wild with her silken touch. As much as he was desperate to feel her — every part of her — he knew what they were about to do would not be nearly as pleasurable for her as it would be for him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the Water Pillar’s eyes were stormy, a tempest of competing desire and pain at the idea of causing her even the slightest discomfort raging within him.

Y/N brushed her lips against his once before trailing along his jaw, pausing only to suck softly as the soft spot beneath his ear. “I am only ever undone by you; never hurt.”

He moaned softly, lowering his head back down to reclaim her mouth firmly with his own, his lips beseeching her to let him consume her.

She was only too happy to do so, parting her mouth so that his tongue could slide in and dance languidly with hers, as he reached between them, gripping hold of his aching length and positioning himself at her entrance.

The first brush of his hot, velvety tip against her folds broke their kiss, both gasping at the new yet intoxicating feel of the other’s most intimate area.

Giyuu braced his free arm by her head, his fingers stretching to run comfortingly through her hair, as he pressed his forehead against hers. “If it becomes too much, just tell me, and we can stop.” His voice shook ever so slightly as he waited for her signal, the ache in his groin becoming nearly painful.

The Miko grazed her lips against his throat. “Don’t stop.” She murmured. She hitched her legs higher up on his hips, angling herself so the trembling man above her would have better access to her.

Slowly, so very slowly, the tip of Giyuu’s length began to push into her, and Y/N felt herself temporarily forget how to breathe. Above her, Giyuu’s eyes squeezed shut in a concerted effort not to sheathe himself within her in one stroke.

“Y/N,” Giyuu panted, unable to stop the shaky moan that fell from his lips as he sunk into her warm heat that wrapped tight, so impossibly tight around him.

The shrine maiden winced at the unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable sensation of being slowly stretched and filled by the Pillar. She felt as though she was a wave, crashing and breaking and parting around a rocky shore with every inch gained by the press of his hips against hers.

Giyuu hardly had a quarter of himself seated within her when he felt his head brush against a thin barrier. His eyes opened to look down at the Miko, panting beneath him, her eyebrows pinched in slight discomfort. When she noticed he’d stopped, she peered up at him through her thick eyelashes, her cheeks flushed.

The hand Giyuu had held at his base to help guide himself within her lifted to grip her hip, her legs relaxing as his fingers massaging soothing circles into her flesh. Giyuu removed his forehead from its resting place against hers and he buried his face into the side of her neck as he pressed his body flush against hers. The hand he’d used to brace himself found hers, and he lifted to rest above her head, his fingers twining tightly with her own.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, pressing a sweet kiss against the shell of his ear. Giyuu nearly shuddered at her words, and he pressed his hips forward, his cock finally breaching that thin, inner barrier to the rest of her welcoming heat.

Y/N cried out at the bright spark of pain that flared through her as Giyuu claimed her as his own, but the Pillar held her steady, pressing open-mouthed kisses against her neck.

A hitched gasp blew past Giyuu’s lips as he became fully seated within her heat, her core gripping him like a vice. He panted against the sweat-dampened skin of her neck as they both adjusted to the sensation, her nails digging harshly into the skin of his back as she waited for the discomfort to subside.

Giyuu pulled his face back to look down at her, the hand he’d had on her hip rising to cup her face as he brushed his lips across her cheeks and eyes.

“My beloved, are you all right?” His breath came hard and fast as he panted, the growing friction between where they were connected becoming hotter, more demanding the longer he remained still.

Y/N’s eyes slowly opened to meet his, he felt her relax as he kissed her, slow and gentle.

Her lips broke from his and she nodded, shakily. “You can move — just hold me. Please.”

Giyuu let his full weight fall against her as he wound an arm tightly around her waist, his other hand tilting her face up so he could kiss her fiercely, eager to show her what she meant to him when his words otherwise failed to do so. As she opened up to him, tongue flicking out shyly along his lip, Giyuu rolled his hips experimentally against hers.

Both the shrine maiden and the Pillar cried out in unison as Giyuu’s movement stoked an intense pleasure where they were joined.

It was like a spark of flame had ignited between her legs before shooting up to her belly, making her insides clench and pulse.

It was addicting, and, judging by the way the raven haired swordsman above her hissed, he’d felt that jolt of electrifying pleasure, too.

“Oh,” Giyuu moaned as he began to move atop her, his cock sliding in and out of her heat as he worked to set a pace. “You feel – this is –” his stutters broke off into ragged pants that melted into broken moans with every movement as he found his rhythm.

The grip he had on her hand tightened as he pulled back from her neck in favor of watching her body jolt and bounce with each of his thrusts.

His head dropped down to study how his length, now coated in something shiny, appeared with every long draw of his hips out before disappearing back into her warmth.

He threw his head back. “Heaven,” the Water Pillar groaned out, a tendon throbbing in his neck as another cracked moan slipped free from his throat. “You are heaven.”

Shallow thrusts turned deeper, more purposeful, as the Water Pillar settled into his tempo. Each push of his hips opened her up more, bit by bit, until Y/N’s limbs liquified and she was left moaning and whimpering in time with his movements.

One particular thrust made her cry out, caused her legs to reflexively tighten around Giyuu’s hips as something hot flared deep within her stomach.

“M-more,” she managed, her voice tapering off with a squeak. She needed to feel that spark again, wanted to feel that jolt of electricity that made her stomach clench. “P-please — ah!— Giyuu —“

With something between a moan and a growl, Giyuu angled himself to thrust deeper, his weight pushing her hips back from the floor. Her legs were forced to hike higher up his waist, her ankles locking instead against the dip in his spine rather than his backside.

The new angle meant that Giyuu was able to hit at a spot that sent a bolt of lightening between her legs, and she could feel herself tighten around him.

The combination of her walls fluttering and pulsing around him and the strange fullness she felt was both overwhelming and exhilarating. She did not think she could stand to feel empty again; to not feel him consuming every inch of her.

Gradually, the small garden hut was filled by the sounds of their pants and moans, weaving together to form the melody of a song meant only for them.

Giyuu began thrusting harder, and soon, a dull clap of skin began to reverberate off the hut’s slatted wood walls, adding a steady beat to the rhythm of their pleasure. Though the air inside the hut had been nearly as frigid as what lay beyond its door, both the Miko and the Slayer found themselves coated in a thin sheen of sweat that made their skin glisten in the faint, orange glow of her lantern.

Above her, the Water Pillar was as lost in his pleasure as she. Guided purely by instinct, Y/N arched her lower back away from the floor until her breasts were flush against his sternum, desperate to feel that jolting spark between her legs.

She felt the walls her of her core clench tighter around Giyuu’s length with her movement, and he answered her with a deep growl as his arm cinched tighter around her waist.

Deep; he was so deep within her, that she wondered whether he might reach her soul before they had to part.

Giyuu’s thrusts quickened, the base of his groin grinding against that sensitive spot between her thighs that had her wanting more as she moaned, her thighs squeezing the Hashira’s hips.

His head was thrown back, his eyes tightly shut as the most beautiful sounds of pleasure Y/N had ever heard poured from Giyuu’s mouth.

“I — fuck.” He growled as one arm tightened around her waist to the point of pain, the other grabbing her hand to bring it to his lips in a futile attempt to stifle the sounds lilting from him like song.

His name fell from her lips like a hallowed oath and Y/N’s legs fell to the side, allowing Giyuu to chase the crescent of his release, as hips pistoned into her with wild abandon.

“Y-Y/N,” her black-haired beauty of a lover grit through clenched teeth, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “My treasure, I-I’m gonna-“

The Water Pillar buried his face into the side of her neck, cradling his groans into her throat, and Y/N could feel his length twitch within her.

As Giyuu’s hips slammed into her one final time, so to did the realization that she loved this; she wanted always to be this close to him, wanted always to be unable to tell where she ended and he began.

She loved him.

But the bitter truth was that she’d never again get to hold Giyuu the way she was right then, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as she felt something warm gush through her, a pleasured groan, so beautiful and husky tumbling from the Hashira’s lips as he pressed a sweet kiss against her collarbone.

She would not get to love him past this most sacred rite.

If she were honest, she’d likely never again experience this intimacy with anyone, for as long as she lived — for how could anyone else ever possibly compare?

She supposed she’d been doomed to never hold onto the people who were meant to love her since the day she was born. She should’ve known better.

But as the roll of Giyuu’s hips into her heat slowed, and his labored breaths eased, Y/N could not find it within herself to regret it; to regret him.

Because, fool though she was, she loved him.

Giyuu collapsed against her, his face nuzzling into the crook of her neck as he came down from his high, still buried inside her as the two panted.

Her hands moved of their own accord to card through his raven hair, fingertips massaging his scalp as his breathing slowed, his breath adding further moisture to the already sweat-dampened skin of her neck.

She wished they could remain like that always; that the dawn creeping over the horizon would not herald forth the sun, and they could stay on the floor of the garden hut forever, wrapped in one another’s embrace. She desperately wanted to memorize the tempo of his heart as it beat steadily against his chest, the vibrations of which she felt against her ribs. Such a beautiful melody, it was, and yet it filled her with such despair to know she might never again hear its sweet song; that it might cease playing forever, the moment Giyuu resumed being the Water Pillar once more, and walked through the shrine gates for the last time.

But Y/N had never had anyone she could call her own, and as much as she loved the man nuzzling her neck as he whispered sweet nothings against her skin, he’d never been hers to keep.

“My beautiful, beautiful Y/N,” Giyuu murmured, kissing his way up her throat to her lips. “Are you alright?”

She held his lips for a moment before breaking away, letting her eyes roam his face, and she nodded. “Are you?”

To her utter surprise, the Water Pillar chuckled softly, his laugh breathy and his smile heartbreakingly beautiful. “Yes, my treasure. I am more than alright.”

He brushed a kiss against the tip of her nose. “After all, I am with you.”

———-

He’d brought her against his chest and they’d laid there together, simply staring at one another, trading soft kisses as Giyuu traced a finger over every feature of her face at least twice.

If he was to die, he knew his last thoughts would be of her, and he wanted to be sure he’d committed every last detail of her face to memory.

Soon, far too soon, the deep indigo of the night sky was broken by the first, watery rays of morning light, and both the Miko and the Slayer knew their time was up.

The lovers dressed quickly, their backs to one another as both steeled themselves for the goodbye they could no longer avoid.

And now, that time had come. Though it was Giyuu who walked to his likely doom, Y/N felt as if she was embarking on her own death march as the pair drew near the towering Shrine gate. Perhaps she was; after all, he would be taking her heart with him, and she was unlikely to get it back.

Y/N did not know whether to lean in and kiss him, one last time, or whether such a display of affection would only scratch at the gaping, open wounds they now bore on their chests, where their hearts had been.

Giyuu, apparently, did not know what to do either, so the two only stood there beneath the Torii, eyes swimming with emotions neither could bear to voice.

There was a beat, and then the two moved toward one another, drawn together like magnets as they locked themselves in a tight embrace. Giyuu’s hand cupped the back of her skull as Y/N pressed her face hard into his shoulder. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his haori, desperate to keep him rooted to her — to life, safe and away from demons.

But he couldn’t stay; she knew that. And so, with a deep inhale in a desperate attempt to memorize that mahogany and citrus scent of his she so adored, Y/N pulled away. She made to step back from him entirely, to put distance between them, but those warm fingers caught her under her chin, tilting her head up to face him before his hand slid to cup her cheek.

The emotion swimming in the azure depths of his irises threatened to chisel away at the lock she kept on her own. Tears burned in her eyes, but she would not let them fall; she would not make this harder for herself — for him — than it already was.

“If you do not hear from me, leave the mountain. Go to the city, and do not go out at night. Keep your dagger and wisteria on you at all times, even when you sleep,” Giyuu’s eyes were serious, the hand on her face holding her in place. “Live, Y/N. Grow to be an old woman. Die only from age.”

The shrine maiden closed her eyes as she willed herself not to cry. “And if you win?”

Giyuu hesitated for a moment and Y/N knew better than to ask him to make a promise he could not keep.

“Send a crow, if you can.” She whispered, feigning a small smile. “It would be nice to not be afraid to go and gather night-blooming herbs.”

The Water Pillar nodded, his hand smoothing through her hair one last time as his lips pressed against her forehead. “Thank you, Y/N.”

She didn’t need to ask what for.

She hoped she’d never forget the way he said her name; the longing and the breathless passion that dripped from every syllable, and the way it sent shivers down her spine.

Giyuu broke away from her and set off towards the east. Y/N watched until he was nothing more than a speck on the horizon, before he disappeared entirely.

He did not look back.

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He hadn’t trusted himself to look back at her, though every fiber of his being had screamed at him to turn around and behold her beauty one last time. But the Shrine Maiden had become his largest weakness, and Giyuu knew if he’d looked back, he would never make it back to his estate; to the Corps.

And if you win? She’d asked him, and he hadn’t been able to form the words of the answer he’d so desperately wanted to give her.

Because while Giyuu Tomioka never made promises he couldn’t keep, that did not mean he didn’t hope. Right then, more than anything, his greatest desire was to win this war; win it, and come back and tell Y/N that she no longer needed to fear the night.

In any other life — if Giyuu had been any other man — there would be no question as to who he’d choose to spend the rest of his days with.

And so, Giyuu thought as he forced himself to march forward, his eyes burning, if he made it out of this war alive, he would go back to the Shrine and tell Y/N of their victory himself.

And perhaps she’d then allow him to make her his wife.

Keep an eye out for Part II to see if Giyuu comes back and makes good on his promise!

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