#sunrise countdown arc | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

helloescapist · 1 month

Note

Request: Yushiro x male ENTP Reader

Format: I'd like a mix of headcanons and short fic, if possible

Lady Tamayo gets a new demon assistant (y/n); a grinning trickster who seldom takes anything seriously and often uses his blood demon art to mess around. This infuriates Yushiro, who doesn't understand why Tamayo even keeps y/n around. And why on earth does he have to complete tasks and go on errands with him?! Yushiro was doing fine on his own, thank you very much.

However, as he gets to know y/n better through work, Yushiro realizes the two actually have a lot in common. Y/n lived a normal life with a family who loved him until he fell terminally ill. Tamayo offered to turn him into a demon, an offer y/n accepted. However, his family didn't accept the change and attempted to murder y/n, no longer seeing him as a member of their family. With nobody to turn to, y/n attached himself to Tamayo.

Yushiro and y/n grow closer, and after Tamayo's death, retire to live a peaceful life together.

Hello, hello,

I want to express a genuine thank you for your requestion, and initiate a sincere, sincere apology. Your request, well, it became a little derailed from what you asked for. It just screamed, Cheshire Cat, and I sort of... made an OC of you/your request. One that I do intend to visit in future shorts for Yushiro, but none the less, I sincerely hope you can forgive this. I am sincerely sorry Anon, I hope you are still able to enjoy this, and it isn't too far removed from your request.

The Secret Life of Chachamaru

Word Count: 6062

Setting: Yushiro x male!reader

Content Warning(s): malexmale, yaoi, Chachamaru AU (possibly a little out of character for the beloved feline character), character is actually Chachamaru, a little rushed, SFW, mentions of gore, small spoilers for Yushiro + Tamayo in the Infinity Castle/Sunrise Countdown Arc. mentions of sickness, depictions of lead poisoning

Summary: following the fall of the infinity castle, and the triumph of slayers over demons, Yushiro is left to face the loss of Lady Tamayo. Muddled, smeared with blood and gore, it is only through the comfort of his old friend Chachamaru that can ease his burdens, and allow him to look to the future.

A/N: I placed the reader to be born towards the end of the Edo Era, but just younger than Yushiro as I wanted for Yushiro and Tamayo to have an established bond.

You could feel the touch of his calloused fingers. Cracked, and broken skin that remained gentle and warm despite the number of fine lines and abrasions that lined his palms. The dried flecks of onyx blacks and oxidized browns clung to his fingertips, blood buried beneath his nails. The faint scent of sandalwood laced in the gore that littered his clothing.

Horror touched upon the flesh of his hands; brain matter strewn to the linens of his clothing. Draped across the lines of an unfamiliar uniform, a sad attempt at masking his nature. The heaviness of his eyelashes burdened, as the small touches of devastation touched the edge of his eyelashes. Drawn downwards as delicate lavender eyes trembled as his fingertips gently traced the orange patch across your forehead. In all the ways you preferred, years of training petting techniques into the demon before you evident in the way his body submitted to autopilot. Delicately allowed his fingers to trail along the pink of your nose at the quiver of his bottom lip and the hitch of his lower lashes. Naturally evaluating the care of his beloved companion. Pained by the state of his beloved Chachamaru held between his hands, mangled, and marred. The devastation of your state, a righteous blow to your pride though the smallest part of you enjoyed the obvious concern it elicited from the stoic man. He had worried for you, of course he had. Faintly responding to the blink of your golden eyes as you peered into his moonlight kissed features. The touch of pink of his own nose, rubbed raw in his state of misery. The bags that had accumulated beneath elegant orchid eyes, aware of the rattle of his shoulders, and the tightness of his breath hitched at the ache of his breast. Yushiro’s snivel caught, choked back as he forced the corner of his lips to curl. Delicate, and soft as he regarded the touch of your fur, luscious despite the circumstances of your body. Far too engrossed in the gesture to acknowledge the way your large ambered eyes followed the smallest of his movements. Committing this moment to memory, his movements detailed, and evaluated. The way your heart ached as his fingers tipped strolled through the high of your right cheek, delicately traced the orange patch tenderly allowing his finger to trace from your tear duct danced across the top lashes of your left eye.

Faint in this touch, careful to remove the debris that had gathered across your features. The rubble that clung to your whiskers dragged across your sensitive sinus. Snapped at your buccal cavity through your nostrils. Throbbing drenched in blood, sweat, and gray matter. The dirt that had clutched to the ends of your fur, muddied the whites of your pelt, an infringement of the beauty of your coat. Bits of gravel snagged into your ear tufts, agitating the pinna. The delicate way his fingers ticked across your features, sensitive of the abrasions that littered your state proof of your valor. Though the sentiment did not seem an act of brilliance to the man who stroked your cheek sweetly. The ache of his heart danced upon his fingers, eliciting the faintest of purrs from your soul. Warm, he was always so warm. Rubble between your eyes, traced upon your nose. A favored place in the last two decades often sought by Yushiro to nuzzle against “Chachamaru” during times of stress such as the mid of day hidden amongst the shadows when his sprawled talisman had grown slappy. When exhaustion would cling to his features, akin to a security blanket. Though in this moment there was no usual sign of the clip of his brow. Nor were his eyebrows drawn, and his lips did not pucker into a scowl. Rather, a tremble stimulated his expression, strangled. Twisted from the tight expression a vague recollection of the times in which he had to entertain the public at the clinic. Yet, this was… different. Mournful. An… expected display vulnerable despite the wandering eyes of kakushi at his side. The rare expression without fear of exposure as his smile faltered, and the tears begin to gather at the corner of his sharp eyes. Chocked back the bitter vile upon his expression that pained your heart in its silence. The tender regard as his hands caressed your heart, allowing extra attention to tracing circles at the corners at your large feline ears. Such intimate care is usually offered in the silence of night, at the flip of a page as his warm voice echoes in your ears. Enticed you to take advantage of circumstances, beckoned you to curl into his lap. “C-C-Chach,” his voice cracked. Ached as it struggled and rumbled beneath his breath as he fought for the words pressed between the sobs that threatened to spill through the cracks in his pride. Anguished to hold his composure through the rattle of his bones with each tight breath as his fingers relentlessly traced circles to the edges of your right ear. The familiar gesture, comforting and poignant, “a-amaru, L-Lady,”.

You knew.

The rattle of your own bones, the clutch upon your skull at the moment of her death, rattled as though claws had dug into the pits of your temples, wracked and harvested the essence of thought. Sunk to the pit of your stomach, you knew, and yet, yet in his consideration, Yushiro pressed as though a shattered being that endeavored to consoling a child. To hear him this way. Broken, and battered amongst the wreckage of the Infinity Castle. Topsoil exposed to the surface; bedrock shattered across the carnage. The scent of death that clung to the air, crumbled beams, and exposed wood. Sundered from its security, secrets exposed at the loss of their beams, craftsman, and paper shattered and torn from the layers of sediment. A testament to Yushiro’s will, to his rage. A testimony of his love for the mistress of his strength. The escape of rodents, and the fleeing of insects that sought suffrage. The lull of their security robbed and devastated as the demon who was renowned for his lethal tongue’s armor disintegrated before your eyes. The sharp of his canine devouring his bottom lip as he fought for the words that could not rise in his throat. Salt that poured from his cheeks and choked to his shoulders. Yet, yet he continued to allow the delicacy of his fingers to work their nostalgic comforts at the edge of your ear. The hollow of your breast touched upon the kindness Yushiro expressed despite the shattered emblems of the life he had known littered his features. The medically trained illusionist before you delicate as he worked to assist your regeneration. The crack of your four paws beneath the attachment of your severed head. The blood that trickled from your fur ached across the curve of your spine. The tingle of nerves realigned, and splintered bones that formed callous. Joints that caught to the clip of your skull as you regarded the roll of his tears.

The comfort of his fingers, and the delicate scent of saffron. Nostalgic, and vulnerable so alike and yet unfamiliar. A shattered husk of, and yet, he continued to rub his fingers. Mask the horrors of loss and devastation. Ached at the touch of his fingers as they danced across your patterned fur. Delicate as the day you had met him.

The comfort of his fingers, and the delicate scent of saffron. Nostalgic, and vulnerable, so alike and yet unfamiliar to the man. A shattered husk, and yet, the rub of his fingers masked the horrors of loss and devastation. Ached at the touch of his fingers as they danced across your pattered fur. Delicate as the day you had met him.

The candles flickered, casting shadows across papered doors. Danced and dwindled, captives of the stagnant. Their flame stifled to the close quarters and clutched its luminosity. Threatened to snub its light from existence. Shadows that appeared hollow against the shoji, robbed of their salvo. Their once joyful illumination forced them into small rooms. Stuffy and stripped of ventilation coerced into silence by doctors and white cloths. Ghosts of laughter, and shadow puppets lost against the grain of the exposed beams. Incenses to mask the sickness, that dripped into the fabric of your linens stripped from silk. Stale and clothed in antiseptic that burned the senses. The air dripped amongst medical sutras, tainted with intentions. Stark against your sensitive, rubbed raw and denied of familiar comforts, friendly attendants, and the sheltered security of your former quarters. Loneliness bathed in the confines of an inner sanctum of your family estate.

Memories of a former life haunted the ebbs of fraying ends of your recollections. A time when you were playful, age had little meaning. One so free to explore, unbound by poverty, and bathed in riches. A family title for you alone to claim for the future, a wash in the confines of your quarters now. Back then, it was the movement of your name, the purpose of your birth. The benefactor of your freedom, petals of a camellia to frolic amongst abandoned lessons. The shadows of trees conceal your midday naps of deserted duties. Grand heists of robbed pastries, and angry chefs. Scandalized maids at attempts to parachute from the rooftops past the security of the castle walls, an adventure elicited from the tales of western men in ridiculous outfits and dipped in foreign language. Dolls crafted from the finest of silks intended dull the boredom of instructor, the one such time tucked into your bedding to take your place in the dead of night when your heart desired to gaze upon the stars at the festival of commoners past the trenches of your home. Pieces of sword play that decorated the callous of your palms, the rage of retainers that struggled to navigate your natural pension for footwork, and the expiration of your lazy swings. An insult upon their pride, the bellow of laughter it would draw from your father, languid strokes that were reminiscent of kabuki performances your nursemaid Haya had accompanied you to many times. Days spent wreaking havoc upon her mundane days, the only woman who dared to accompany your antics with a lecture of manners and etiquette. The only confidant who dared to share the confines of the innermost sanctum. Subjecting herself to the risk of infection or the curse that threatened to diminish the household.

The memories of the caretaker she had been so many years ago dipped into the linens of a basin. The distinct drips of water that echoed amongst the stifling hush of the space. Her long fingers posed, the tales of age in her movements. Fine lines that had begun to wave to faint colors as the fingers wrangled the linen. The faintest of white marred flesh caught the back of her left hand, a scar she had received so many years ago. When you were playful, when you roamed rooms heedless of the décor. A physical a testament to the loyalties she bore for you though you were far too young to understand the significance of a woman disfiguring herself on your behalf.

Fought the confusion of the phantom that slipped into her place. Recollections of a woman with chestnut hair who had yet to be claimed by time. Her features that dared to coincide with the older woman before you now. The touch of a lavish hair pin that bound grayed hair unlike the one the younger illusion bore. Far more detailed, delicate, and weaved. Far more cared for than the ghost of the past’s simplistic design that reflected war of abuse. Muddled, and tugged on the lines of memories you struggled to place together. The hazy reflection is a mere mockery of your current state. Joy robbed from your lungs and sank to the pit of your stomach. Ached and dower, the nausea pooled at the strong odors that fanned every corner of the room. Gargled sickness that met the coolness of the cloth at your back. An old figure of Haya, who’s mouth did not budge from its sedative state attempted to rub the fatigue from your form. A cusp of who you had once been, no longer capable of bearing your own weight, let alone a blade. A mere rasp of breath that trembled your form as her fingers now well practiced at bearing your weight and the task at hand. Haya’s eyes as poised as they had always been despite the white lines that had touched at the corner of your eyes. The draw of your brow as you struggled to understand when the woman had grayed. The touches of frustration that caught your consciousness. Only growing more present as she tended to the shell of a child incapable of tending to itself. Robbed of life, hostage by an unknown illness. Far more victimized than you dared to admit, more than Haya would dare to coddle.

Days of illness that claimed the weight of your muscles. Husked your consciousness and rattled your gastric. How quickly the symptoms had claimed your entire being. How quickly you had succumbed to the loss of appetite, how quickly your body yielded its abilities, and gave way. Days that had succumbed to weeks, weeks that drew your conscious, and slipped into months that robbed you of prior capabilities, before giving way to years that locked you deep into the center of your home. A plague locked away from fear of exposure, oblivious to how long it had been since Haya had sworn herself to your service. Of the dangers she exposed herself to time and time again to care for you. That remained dedicated to your education despite the unfamiliar touch of tomes between her fingers. Wielded a paintbrush when the weight became far too much for your fingers to bare, delivered notes from child to mother in the dead of night even when the responses had begun to fade. Continued to show though the remainder of the castle had since grown silent and bid reasoning when your mother’s presence slipped between your fingers. Continued to share news of the state of affairs at your request, even when it decimated her heart to share the news of a child when all hopes of an heir had passed with your confinement.

A topic Haya had not approached with the same enthusiasm as you, much to your disapproval. The fade of her hair appearing even more faded from her features. Soured at the line that drew to her lips as your voice trembled despite itself. The condition of welcoming a child having claimed what remained of her own health, and naturally the return of your letters. Quickly seize the moment to her dismay, the traces of the child she had cared for throughout the years reflected in your timing, “How is mother?”

“Young master, please save your voice,” she hummed. The touch of dryness and hesitation posed on her tongue.

“H-haya,” you weakly mewed, “h-has she been unbale to eat?”

Silence pressed between the knot of cloth rolled in circles that cusped at your rigid shoulder blades. “It is to be expected. Childbearing claims a toll, all is well.” Clueless of the twitch of her right nostril, or the way your large eyes caught the tale of her fib pressed into her cheek.

“Mushrooms, s-send” you rasped with each breath. Unmet with a response to your words just as stern of the bath cloth that rubbed at your sweated state weak against her hold. “send, the merchant. T-Taka? Tama? H-he knows how to find mushrooms. I-in the mountains.” Struggled pieces of memories, touched upon years of stark air at the wiggle of your eyebrow. “D-dango. Mother is fond of the dango sold by the stationer. W-we could go—”

“YOU will do no such thing,” stern and frigid. Quick to catch the threads of your strategy. The shatter of glass that touched upon the cool of winter, and the howl of the estate’s roof tarnished against your will. Haya always had a talent for detecting the touch of defiance, and in your fragile state, she had become especially gifted in sniffing out antics. Far harsher in her reprimands than she had been so many years ago, quick to anchor you to this sorry state of existence. Shacked to the confines of your room, her eyes as sharp as any blade you had ever been capable of drawing as she depicted the fine lines of your imprisonment. Her steady hands making quick work of the fresh linens, secured the corrupt discards into the folds of a basket. The faintest of tremble in her routine eager to leave your side. The realization drawing bitter contempt in the pit of your stomach and a scowl upon your brow. The grit of your teeth as the handmaid’s expression mirrored your own. Firm, and unyielding as the winter night save for the break of a soft sigh as she drew herself to her feet. The hem of her faded kimono barely in sight. An oddity form her usual cared for state. The small touches of rayed ends, perhaps the result of her old age as her thin frame leaned forward just enough to cusp the thick of your bangs. Her hand far smaller than you could recall, gently rustled through the strands. A pressed smile in her tone, “Lord [YN], sweet child, your mother… requires rest. As do you, please. Understand.” Her fingers drew the softest of circler motions from the arch of your nose to your forehead before falling to your ear. Just as she had done in your toddling years, how she would sooth the tears from your eyes so long ago. Though the gesture was delicate, you could not fight the sense of abandonment. The wound of pride that refused to settle upon your brow, rejecting her gaze. The track of the door sliding behind her, and signaling that once again.

You were alone.

Left only with the company of gossip that seeped through the cracks. Rumored that passed from maid to maid in the depths of the sanctum. Dipped from view and believed from ear shot. How long had it been that you had been confined to such an existence, that not even the help did not remember your presence? All evidence of their praise, of their longing for approval washed from the estate, and identified by loose tongues. Fearless of reprimand the bitter understanding of how far you had fallen from esteem. Forced reclusion, holding little more cards than a fallen daimyo. Uttered whispers of an early arrival, uttered about a frail creature. The tolls of labor that had taken far more than expected by the physician, the lady of the estate in duress. Utterances of the shame of the fall of the young master, accusations of a curse that had befallen the Head of the Household. Damned to lose those he cared for, and the tug of your fingers at the collar of your nemaki.

Your lungs burned I the dead of the night, struggled to heave in the frigid air. Muscles strained from unfamiliar exhaustion. Unaccustomed to roaming as it once had freely, the heave of your shoulders pressed against the mon. The structure lavishes, and commanding. Far more than enough to conceal your state of fatigue. The rare state of peace drawing lazy shuffles of guards, unbothered by the dark corners of the estate in which you begged for air. The dark of the night, and the faint touches of the moonlight as you struggled to manage on your feet. The pads of your feet ached against the stone walkway. The tips of your toes screaming in agony as you forced your skeleton forward. Winter rattled against your bones, the hakama you had worn so many years before the fateful day you had been confined to forgotten quarters. Snug against your hips, the difference in your height inevitable, the cut of the fabric no longer bearing resemblance of a proper hakama attire befitting of a firstborn son of the samurai class. Rather, resembling a jinbei of the lower classes hiked just above your knee exposing you to the crushing winds of winter. The snow beneath your feet crunched painfully with each step you forced at the rasp of your lungs. Exhaustion threatening to crush your resolve as your grasp on memories begun to dwindle. Having exhausted recollections through your navigation of former escape attempts had faded into the present of the day, distorted and confused at the shift of buildings. Taller than you remembered, new? No, maybe? The turn of your head struggled and rasped slow to comprehend the shift of your surroundings as your form folded into the snow. The light slipping from your eyelashes.

He had found you back then. Face dug into the snow, practically frozen, and struggling for air. Younger back then than he was now, and unaccustomed to medical practices. Left only with the uncertainty of bearing your weight upon his back to seek assistance from his mistress. Why, you had never thought to ask. Though when you had come to grasp the scent of calendula. Sweet and floral notes that clung to the fingers that adjusted the cloth upon your brow. The unusual scent, and the warmth of youthful fingers. How long had it been? The joy of company, of one your age drawing you to clasp his hand in the dwindle of candlelight. Forgoing practiced manners as you cupped his hand to your cheek, to savor it for just a moment, clueless to the grin you bore, or the horror the response had elicited in your savior. Brought only to realization to the way he howled to his lady’s aid though it prevented very little of your own complaint as you attempted to lean upon his retreat. Beckon for just a moment longer pressing further even though he had anchored his padded sock to your cheek to ensure distance between the two of you. The slew of insults he had yowled to the beams, to the floorboards as you had attempted to pursue his company.

You, you had been so naïve back then. Youthful, and naïve, or perhaps, it was your optimism that had led you a stray. The desperate attempt to cling to mortality though Lady Tamayo’s diagnosis had confirmed the worst. Her offer to extend your life through her own force was enticing. The opportunity to live once more amongst the household. To greet your father in practice swordsmanship, to earn his praise once more at the dip of your quick toes. Her vitality uttered in the dark out of Yushiro’s ears, quick to wash his hands of you after such close contact, had brought back more energy than you could have dreamed. Ensure the return of the son. Of playfulness, of laughter, and of joy. Of mischief that danced upon the gardens. To deliver the sweet treasures from town for your mother, to bright up her existence once more. TO return her appetite to her side, to meet the child she had born. To know its name, to greet its first smile, and to witness its wandering amongst the corridors as you had once done. It was all so… wistful than what had happened. Your return, a phantom of what you had once been—Lady Tamayo had warned you. She had expressed your life was tied with her own. A mere figment of the child you had been, The consequences of your return marred as possession. A baneneko amongst the gardens a manifestation of the curse that had claimed the first-born child. A mocker of his form, adorned with cat ears, and flickered hair that had been dyed orange in the candlelight when you had accepted Lady Tamayo’s grace. The crass of your once black hair, bordered into the paleness of phantoms, struggling to comprehend why your mother had screamed upon the sight of feline features born upon her child. How she had clutched an infant to her breast, mournful rattle of curses for the child she had lost.

The explanation had died upon your lips, the shatter of priceless vases shattered amongst the pillage of her room. Desperately seeking to defend the child at her breast. The maids that had elicited hushed horrors. Shattered the waters of your return and stripped away the illusion you had fed yourself after so many years. The scuffle of retainers, bound by ropes and akin to the blade of your father. Haya’s scream, All of it, was a blur. A faint figment of a past you had fled in the night hours, scrapped from the approach of dawn, your exhaustion or perhaps, the trauma had resorted you to the state Tamayo had warned. Submitted to four paws once more, and collapsed into the snow. Found only by your mistress, and her attendant. The careful hold he had met you with back then. So tender, and considerate. How bitterly he had sworn curses at those who would leave scars upon such a beautiful creature, and the lower of Tamayo’s eyes. Her silence regretful, and to bear the responsibility for your loss. For your life, the slips she had allowed. Offered to tend to you, regain your form, and carry the weight of your burdens. Though, you did not hold her to such a claim. Rather, you submitted to her side. Accompanied the duties amongst the sunlight as her familiar that she could not bear. Delighted in Yushiro’s care when your words could not emerge. Days confined from daylight to be spoiled in his care,

When your form had greeted you once more, you hadn’t the forethought to consider how it would impact your relationship. Rather upon your return to his side, you had been quick to fall into old habits despite the way his horrified reaction had met your ears. Confused at the grabby, death bound boy he had met so many years ago defying the odds at he flicker of a cat’s ear as he dared to force yourself upon him once more. Some part of you enjoyed the touch of horror in the pitch of his voice and sought to keep what he knew as Chachamaru separate than your state. Rummaged havoc upon a clinic, free to go as you pleased, held together by Lady Tamayo’s silence, and the adorable way the scowl drew upon the spell weaver’s face at your antics. Misplaced bottles, touches of flipped books, targeted customers that dared to press further than they should. Seized upon the opportunity to test a younger man’s will, utilizing abilities to slip from view. Free to shatter the peace of the night clinic, delighted to shoo away ungrateful inquiries. Delighted in the uttered antics that Yushiro would confine in Chachamaru of the wanderer who drew his ire, oblivious way his lips would betray the ghost of a smile.

Yes, long ago, you had made the choice to keep the two separate. To delight in the joys of your life as you once had, to return upon mission in the dead of night at his side. To ensure his comfort, to ensure his warmth, and when Lady Tamayo had offered a more… permanent arrangement, all too aware of what fate awaited her. You had accepted without much consideration. The chance to remain at his side. To stay within his touch. You told yourself that if it was Yushiro’s desires, you would live the remainder of existence as Chachamaru To submit yourself to a life upon all fours, to relinquish the freedom of your form. To chain yourself to an existence as a mere condolence of his loss, of Lady Tamayo’s care. You had accepted the terms, though she had never damned you to such a fate. Take care of each other, she had whispered leaving no implications of what such destiny entailed.

It had been so much easier to bound yourself to such conditions.

Until the tears slipped from his eyelashes. As the snot caught upon the top of his lip, and his eyebrows quacked as though he were a small child that desperately missed the comfort of his mother’s sleeves. The rattle of his bones that robbed you of your own breath. The witness of his stat, mournful and destroyed. Confined to a fate he had not agreed to. Alone. Confined to the light of the moon, kept locked away from the presence of day. From people. From warmth, from comfort. From the touch of another, no such creature to remain at his time to catch the tears that spilled from his cheeks as Yushiro’s forehead met your own.

The quiver of his brow struggling to comprehend the shift in form. The weight upon his lap, and the arms that enveloped him within their hold. Caught upon the back of his head. Attempting to sooth the ends of his hair as though consoling a small child. The flutter of his eyelashes, caught between his tears. The wordless acceptance of a troublemaker’s presence drifted from Chachamaru’s place that regarded his loss with delicate understanding. The unsure flip of your ears to pinion against your head as your gold eyes gazed upon his. The bit of his lip, fumbled into his heart. Grasped at the situation, smart as he has always been. The relief that followed at the ache of his breast that trembled within your hold. Relinquishing his weight into your arms as the depths of his despair became your own, the soft way he whispered your name into your neck as the tears met your skin, allowing you to embrace hm as you had attempted so many times throughout the year. His breath to become your own in the dwindling of the night, drifted into eternity.

A few Yushiro+ SFW Relationship Headcanons with a ENTP Male!Reader

An unexpected relationship that one would struggle to understand. Though with patience and time I mean you have more than enough of that. It’s a relationship that can bear wonderful results.

Where Yushiro hesitates, you are bod. Where he is practical, you are adventurous.

In a mutual relationship where respect and trust has properly been cultivated, communication will never be a problem between the two of you.

You will find that in many ways, you think alike.

And while Yushiro is more often than not detailed oriented, he finds your ability to adjust to the big picture a comfort that can help him to release his clutches on your existence.

In doing so, you are the answer to a happy future for Yushiro, one in which he is less bound than he would otherwise have suspected. One in which his paintings of the late Lady Tamayo are not held in anguish, but in faint recollections in the clip of your large eyes.

Reminiscent of her own. The way small little bit s of herself have been adorned into your existence both as Chachamaru and bled into your own habits. The way you hold your chopsticks as you ponder something he had whispered over dinner. Thoughtful at the way you gnaw at the tip of the utensils. A small pout as you do so.

Little traces of her slipped into your existence the result of your lives having once been bond together.

You help him to remember her, to touch upon her existence, but at the same time, you are not her, and as such, it can come up from time to time how he regards you. Often times more stiffly than he should, far too willing to offer a hand in walking as a means to assist your navigation of paths. Just as he used to for his lady. The immediate abrasion of those who would dare to greet you pushed back at a bitter tongue, just as he used to do for her.

Oblivious to how you desire engagement. The opportunity to socialize amongst the night streets with curious passerby who are intrigued by your “cosplay”.

The realization often sends a bitter wave through your core, and results in a level of push back. It is an unintentional source of conflict in your relationship.

Though you may wish to snap at him from time to time, irritability can at times be a part of your personality, it is not something that should be approached harshly. Yushiro’s own temper can get the better of him more than not, and you will end up in quite the lover’s spat if you allow your tongue to lash out.

Rather, the issues of your connection with the deceased bleeding into your relationship should be addressed with appropriate discussions. A level approach in which you lean upon his logical thinking will land far better than asking him to consider your perspective. You are not Tamayo hurts, but it’s impactful.

Though Yushiro is a meticulous individual, you may also find yourself frustrated from time to time at the speed in which his brain works, and how quick he is to dive onto topics at hand—I mean you’re already fighting, now seems like a reasonable time to draw up all grievances and air them out.

Though I know it can be difficult in the light of day, be sure to allow each other as much space as you possibly can. It will certainly be easier in the depths of night. He will not fight your escape through the window to the roof, nor to the neighborhood night market to banter with grocers or enjoy visiting a noisy bar. So long as you understand that during your escape, he has claimed your home to give himself time to proceed with the fight.

The reality is that you two are in many ways different than one another in terms of how you process information, feelings, and your environment, and it will require a bit of patient to fine iron each other’s quirks. It WILL require give and take.

Yushiro is dedicated to preserving his relationship, but he also has a tendency to believe he is right, and often unbudging. He will not yield easily, and the bright side is that you do not have the tendency to take things to heart.

You would have to learn to savor moments huddled into one another on a night in, and other times, Yushiro will have to swallow his pride, and allow you to parade him through a night festival and delight in where you will lead him. Which, he is far more willing to follow where you lead if you allow his trust to properly bloom.

He requires consistency and reliability.

If you allow yourself to be as flighty as your heart often claims, you will find the progression of your relationship not only rocky, but incapable of submerging. Though understand, he has no desire to change the manners in which you approach life—he is adjusted to the usual antics you depict, and your habits to be carried away with the wind.

He wouldn’t change it by any means.

Yushiro secretly delights in the comfort of time alone from time to time, but finds reassurance that some things never changes.

There is no need for excuse, nor a verbal sparring match.

Just. Leave. A. Note.

It’s really that simple.

I can imagine you utilizing the ability to shift into your Chachamaru form more often than you should-- especially when you realize that it is a near instant win in arguments. shame on you.

More so, I can imagine that this revert form is often a great way for you to save energy, and so I can imagine that you find yourself in this form when you are feeling fatigued, or sick.

Imagine Yushiro taking care of your little fever and whiskers.

He takes satisfaction in rubbing your ears just as he used to. More so, he can see the way you still lean into his touch when his fingers graze by your right ear. Putty in his hands, and it's the familiarity of the gesture that has him petting you (cat form or not) more than he is willing to ever confess.

He melts when you take him to a night cat cafe. Though he will never openly admit how happy he is. Such inquiries are sure to elicit a dower mouth pucker, but you are far aware that the kittens in his arm, clung to his pants, and resting upon his head are proof that he is enjoying himself.

Though part of you is jealous that others are cuddled up against him.

Don't be. Yushiro is a dedicated man, not that you need to be told. He takes his commitments very seriously, and with Lady Tamayo's approval of him to remain at your side, as the last piece of her that roams this earth, he is bound to you. His heart will never stray.

The worst you will have to prepare for is the doting I mentioned earlier.

Life in the modern future with you will make his existence far brighter. There is comfort in your willingness to adventure. On his own, Yushiro is willing to confine himself to a small apartment on the edge of existence.

With your free-spirited warmth and curiosity, he is likely to discover that there are few who would suspect his circumstances than there were so long ago. More so, you will find that there is a kindness in the wanderers of the night.

You’re accompanying him is comforting, and if you have given him time, given him the space to come to you as you know to do—you will find that Yushiro will very happily take your hand. Allow you to lead him into the adventures of the night.

#demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kny x reader #kny yushiro #yushiro x reader #kny yushiro x reader #🍡tsuyospeaks

12 notes · View notes

t-tomuras · 8 months

Text

㊌ ─── • 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐭𝐲

Pairing: Giyuu Tomioka x F!demon reader

Warnings: Canon typical violence, death, blood, minor self harm, biting, pining, spoilers for sunrise countdown (final arc) and swordsmith village arc, canon divergent.

Wordcount: 8k

Notes: Reupload, another fave, heed the warnings

Spring begets new life into the world, symbolizing rebirth from the frozen wasteland of blanketed snow. Leaves bud on barren trees and animals awaken from their months-long slumber; warmth and hope feeling more tangible as the days grow longer once more. He knows the seasons have fully shifted when he treks the countryside and every rice field is being planted by the local farmers.

He can almost feel the serenity of normalcy like this; at least for a moment, at least until he remembers why he’s ventured so far from home in the first place.

This season is good for Demon Slayers as well, the vile creatures Giyū exterminates have less time to wreak havoc upon the innocent —but it doesn’t stop them, doesn’t slow the slaughter by much to bring any solace. Giyū gets little to no rest between missions now, not with fewer slayers joining the fray and even less surviving Final Selection. His job is grim, the mortality rate high, and as a hashira, a pillar, he carries that weight on his shoulders every time he sets out in the hopes of bringing that carnage to an end. His mission now is to slay a demon terrorizing an isolated village, nestled quietly away at the foot of a mountain.

He is met by an elderly couple on the beaten dirt road upon his arrival and brought up to speed on their predicament. Their worry is evident, young men and women disappear or are left in carnage every night, grizzly scenes to be discovered by their neighbors or loved ones. The task seems daunting, like there is a strong demon or even more than one but Giyū is tried and true, has weathered many a storm.

When night falls the hunt begins, he sits quietly with his eyes closed atop one of the many village houses listening for any signs of disturbance. The nightlife is peaceful, many of the villagers early to bed and early to rise for their daily lives, Giyū’s rage for how they suffer burns the longer he thinks about it. He’s on the move the moment he hears a shrill shriek coming from the south end of the village, where he first arrived. It’s a small hut surrounded by trees, the candles light in the window flickering wildly from the scuffle within. Giyū crashes through the flimsy wooden door, collapsing it on top of the demon while it claws and growls like a wild animal at the mother that defends her two young children. She shields their eyes and ears when he moves to decapitate their assailant, the sickening squelch of flesh and crunch of bone followed by the dull thud of its lifeless body brings silence to their home.

As the ash of its withering body scatters on their floor, he looks them all over, the children and mother covered in blood but otherwise unscathed; his stomach lurches into his throat when he realizes the body of their father lies slain by their dinner table. As Giyū sheaths his sword his face appears impassive but he thinks of Kyujuro, thinks about how if he were still alive he would’ve made it on time ― that he could’ve saved their father.

“I’ll bury him,” are the only words he gives to the widow, while she tries and fails to contain her sorrow for her children’s sake.

He gives the nameless man a proper burial, the shroud of night slowly lightening as Giyū kneels before the grave, covered in dirt with his hands clasped together in prayer. His own words echo in his mind:

‘The weak exist only to be relentlessly crushed by the strong.’ The strong exist to protect the weak ― that is what he’s learned after his encounter with Tanjiro, a flame of compassion flickering to life in his gory career.

The wife has finally settled her children to rest, Giyū is brushing away the dirt from his haori and wiping the sweat from his brow when she comes to see her husband's resting place. She thanks him with a choked sob, falling to her knees with trembling shoulders and he decides it’s time for him to give her some time alone, he couldn’t console her anyway.

His payment is accepted and he’s praised for his effort by the elderly couple before he takes his leave of the village, hopefully to never return. It’s not quite dawn as he treks the beaten path out of the village, passing the shabby shrine he remembers on his arrival. There’s a mound of dirt to the side of it now, a burial mound that wasn’t present the day previous and muffled sobs can be heard from inside when he moves closer to inspect it. His hand clutches the hilt of his sword instinctively, feeling the presence of a demon inside.

Giyū pushes open the door to the shrine aggressively, sword drawn as it clatters noisily open, only to be met with a body hunched in the corner wracked by sobbing that’s only stopped by the surprised gasp at his entrance.

“Please leave, I don’t want to hurt you,” your voice is tiny, hoarse from crying for however long. Your teeth chatter at the smell of him, saliva dripping in tandem with fat, sorrowful tears. You stare at him for a moment before realizing who he is, what he is and your form slackens instead of growing more rigid like other demons do, “a slayer.”

He doesn’t respond to you, nodding only with his blade extended with one arm. You draw your knees into your chest, arms slung over them in an attempt to be made smaller.

“You’ll kill me, then,” your voice warbles, fresh tears springing to life at the realization. It should be a relief, you know, you don’t want to be this monstrosity but the fear of death still grips tightly at your heart.

“The burial mound outside, did you do that?” His sword is still pointed at you as he asks this, you answer him with a wordless nod. “Did you kill them,” another wordless response but with a shake of your head this time. His sword falls to his side, still ready to strike but giving a less offensive show of it.

“My sister. I had to bury my sister,” you offer to him after a long moment of silence, “she was sick— bedridden. I took care of her, I- I only left the room for a moment.” A sob rattles your form, ripping involuntarily from your throat that makes you halt in your explanation to him. “There was so much blood, she didn’t even scream, a—and there was a man. I didn’t—“

“A man, did you see what he looked like?” Even as Giyū asks he knows he doesn’t need to know your answer. If you’re a demon now it was him, Muzan Kibustuji, again. Twice in one night and once more from several years ago— too late.

“No, I didn’t. . . I guess I blacked out. When I woke up I was alone. Alone and. . . so hungry,” you break skin with how you dig your nails, now sharp claws, into your knees, look of resentment creasing your brow and spilling tears further from your bloodshot eyes. “I salivated over her corpse, over the blood that stained the bed.”

Giyū’s sword clatters slightly with how tightly he grips it, fist trembling around the hilt as he becomes lost in thought. He didn’t even know Muzan was here, didn’t understand why he would do this to you besides to taunt him as a Slayer. While Giyū buried the dead he couldn’t save, you fought a foreign instinct while mourning the loss of your sibling. His jaw is set tightly while you detail how you buried your sister outside then crawled into this shrine to beseech whatever god would listen only to be met with this slayer moments later, like a twisted joke of an answer.

The smile you give him next makes his stomach twist in anguish, an expression so forfeited of will, “I guess the gods’ answer is clear for me.”

He looks away from you, features knit in contemplation before he stands to face the door. Sunlight is seeping through some of the weathered cracks in the door. You assume he’ll simply let the daylight end your pathetic life, but the arm that holds his sword points to the opposite corner of where you sit without turning around. You crawl over on your hands and feet, situating yourself in the same position from earlier when he opens the door just enough to slip out so the light doesn’t touch you.

He holds the door closed tightly when he hears you stumble toward it, keeping you from swinging it open with the thought of him leaving you to the torture this new life would hold.

“I’m going to bring someone who might be able to help,” his words are reassuring to you despite how he doesn’t believe them himself. He doesn’t know if there’s any help that can be done but you release the door and slide to the floor with a flicker of hope in your chest while Giyū sends his crow to contact the only person with this type of experience.

It’s a little under a week when Tanjiro finally arrives, a torturous week of listening to you lament while Guyū stands guard.

Tanjiro greets his friend with a warm smile before the hashira gives him the rundown on why he’s been called here, warning him that you’ve gone a week since transforming and haven’t fed at all. Giyū can tell by the boy’s solemn expression, the way the corners of his lips fall slightly and the open mouthed grin presses into a thin line, that he’s thinking of the first time his sister awoke from her own transformation.

Tanjiro knocks on the door first, hearing your growl turn into a pathetic whimper followed by scurrying that they assume is you going into a corner that the light won’t touch. He peeks in gingerly, taking off the box that houses Nezuko during the day so she can greet you first. Her brother follows him when there’s no scuffle or protest, his sister is already holding you when he shuts the shrine door behind him.

Giyū doesn’t enter, doesn’t think it’s a good idea to put two humans in a room with you; he also thinks their presence will be more beneficial for you. So he opts to sit outside of the shrine, taking some time to pay respects to your sibling while the Kamado siblings (mostly Tanjiro, for obvious reasons) speak to you from experience. It isn’t until he hears your anguished cries that Tanjiro exits without his sister. He looks impossibly burdened, like the encounter weighs heavily on his chest, the boy's heart on his sleeve always.

“She’ll starve slowly, like other demons,” Tanjiro cuts to the chase, understanding his superior on a fundamental level when it comes to conversation, “she likely won’t develop like Nezuko did.”

The Water Hashira mulls on that statement for some time, he’d already resolved to that conclusion long before Tanjiro arrived but that doesn’t make the confirmation any easier to swallow.

“Will you kill her?” Giyū asks after a long bout of silence, only for Tanjiro to shake his head, “You don’t want me to do that.” The young slayer says it like he knows something Giyū doesn’t.

The boy is right, after all, that isn’t what his superior wants. It doesn’t feel like a mercy kill, it feels dirty, wrong. Something like actually killing a human despite the clear evidence to the contrary.

He doesn’t realize his face is pinched into a scowl until Tanjiro places his hand on his shoulder, trademark comforting smile plastered on his face with hope even Giyū could believe in.

“She doesn’t have to eat humans, Lady Tamayo sustains herself by consuming small amounts of blood. She doesn’t harm a single person in the process, maybe she could do that as well.”

It isn’t much, but it’s something and the thin, tense line Giyū’s lips have been set in slackens the slightest amount. Tanjiro turns back to the shrine, Giyū following behind him this time when it seems like your wailing has subsided.

They find you asleep with your head in Nezukos lap when they enter, the young woman petting your hair soothingly and brushing it away from your face; lulling you into a comfortable slumber. He looks between the Kamado siblings and thinks that, if anyone can help you, it’s them.

Giyū promises to himself, he won’t fail another person— won’t fail you, not if he can help it.

Giyū didn’t know what he was thinking, and doesn’t still the longer time ticks onwards. He left you close to your village, in the shrine he first met you in. He sends his crow for you to relay messages with him while he’s away, keeping you from experiencing a lack of human contact — and, subconsciously, for a little peace of mind of his own.

With Master Oyakata in a declining state from his disease, it’s unlikely you’d take precedence in being granted clemency only he could force the other slayers (let alone the other Hashira) to heed, you weren’t like Nezuko, you were only a casualty in this war. Giyū has no one to look to for help when it comes to you; he has Tanjiro, yes, but he was no closer to curing his sister before throwing you into the mix. He is thankful, however, for the young slayer's kindness and discretion; the cons outweigh the pros when it comes to keeping you alive and a secret.

You haven’t adapted physiologically and you likely never will, making your situation much more volatile than the Kamado siblings. All it takes is one bad day of waning willpower and some unfortunate, unsuspecting human to happen upon you. This is one of the many reasons Giyū returns to you so often, checking on your condition and ascertaining you haven’t succumbed to carnal instincts.

But as weeks carry on, things are becoming. . . difficult for you. You steadily become more restless despite collecting amenities to make the shrine more like your home when all the villagers are tucked within their beds in the dead of night. You try to give yourself some sense of normalcy, cling desperately to humanity despite how your stomach twists painfully when the breeze wafts the smell of humans your way.

You opt to distract yourself from the hunger pangs, filling your time writing to Giyū; you find it lessens the crippling solitude and keeps your mind occupied along with the menial tasks you commit to.

You start yet another letter to send to him, petting the top of his crows head while it sits and waits for you to finish.

The summer heat is sweltering, even here, I can only imagine it’s worse wherever you are now. I’ve learned how to weave a basket, they’re sturdy too! I’ve taken to collecting the berries in the forest I’ve seen the rabbits eat, maybe I can make something with them the next time you check up.

It feels stupid to write to him, but that doesn’t stop you from doing so. He always responds, usually with necessary information or developments in his pursuit to help you. Giyū doesn’t make many comments on any of the tasks you usually mention but any he gives are kind, small praises or affirmations. It almost makes the gnawing hunger burning your throat bearable, almost, but not quite.

The feeling worsens as the weeks give way to months, the pain that radiates from your gut so all encompassing that you don’t notice the seasons shift from summer to fall. Your stomach feels like it’s on fire and the smell of humans so close to you only fans the flames. Nobody will notice an elderly person's disappearance right?

No, don’t think like that, you’d never forgive yourself; he’d never forgive you. He spared you on the premise that you were different, so fucking fight it.

You know you shouldn’t but you also take to leaving little tally marks on the floorboards beneath you when you’ve calmed down enough from a fit. What are you counting while your drool drips to the floor aside from how many days your mouth feels impossibly dry? What could you possibly be keeping track of, when did you start doing that? Does it matter? It seems to help, even if it’s only a little bit.

It’s easier to scream at yourself and claw at your clammy skin when it mends just as quickly as it’s split. It’s fine when there’s no evidence for Giyū to find, it keeps you grounded in a way; that is, until you notice the wounds don’t mend as quickly as they did before.

This must be what insanity feels like, it’s an off-handed thought that you chase away the second it crosses your mind. It comes often though, mixed in with the intrusive idea of, ‘just a little blood. Just one person.’ The voice that whispers it to you within the inner recesses of your mind doesn’t really sound like you, you wouldn’t entertain such abhorrent ideas, would you? Who are they, then? You wished they’d leave you alone.

There is another voice, though, one you recognize and focus on. The voice that screams for you to fight it, to stay strong— cling to humanity, is Giyū. Obviously so, and it’s so comforting, grounding whenever you feel like you’re being swallowed by the insatiable urges twisting your innards. His voice is something you seek solace in, rereading the short responses he’s sent you just to hear his words while you curl on the weathered wooden floor. It’s a little easier to hold out when you think of the kindness and mercy he’s shown you.

You do it for him more than for yourself at this point, depending heavily on his presence and waiting in agony for his return. He’ll always come back, you’ve learned, so you make sure he comes back to you and not a monster.

The time that passes between Giyū’s ‘wellness’ check-ins feels like it grows greater, though, and the duration of his stay doesn’t feel long enough before he departs on his next mission. It’s a horrible duality to feel too, the desire for his company but the desperation of controlling the pain. You know he sees the profuse sheen of sweat that coats your exposed skin, that he can see every protruding vein that bulges to show your effort at restraint. He’s perceptive, he has to be for his line of work, but that won’t stop you from trying to conceal the agony while you’re together.

He’s kind enough to not say anything, gives you that little dignity. You always scream your throat raw whenever you’re certain he’s far enough away not to hear you. Giyū will never tell you, but he worries for you nonetheless, selfishly consumed with guilt at your suffering. It’s his own sort of agony to watch you struggle with your new life, a life he could have spared you from in more ways than one.

On his next visit he can tell you’ve further declined in state, your molars click behind your tightly set jaw and most color has drained from your complexion. He sighs as you look at him with glazed eyes, almost devoid of any spirit, glassy and bloodshot from obvious tears that you barely contained when you become aware of his arrival. You’re worsened from the light sheen that was almost always a constant every time he sees you; now drenched so profusely your hair is damp and clinging to your skin.

Worst of all, he can see how you claw at your skin and that it no longer heals. The desperation you must feel, the sheer pain that leaves you with no other outlet than the sharp drags of your nails separating your own flesh to abate the desire to do it to others.

“How have your missions been?” You attempt conversation, something that should be effortless but it’s a tremendous labor for you in this state. It makes Giyū’s own jaw tense, the veins in his temple protrude and his nostrils flare. He stands abruptly, hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade and it makes his chest feel heavy with how your pupils constrict with whatever conclusion you’ve drawn from his actions.

You hold meaningful eye contact with him, hand coming up to your throat whenever the sound of his blade unsheathing meets your ears. You smile at him despite the hurt that flashes across your eyes for a millisecond, tears welling along your lash line once more, one’s that you’d say are gratitude despite the fear that settles from the uncertainty of your doom. You lean forward completely after a tense moment, nose almost touching the well-worn wood of the floorboards when his blade is extended and glinting in the candlelight.

“I’ve appreciated,” you start, swallowing thickly over the lump in your throat that strains your voice, “everything you’ve done for me.”

Giyū’s teeth feel like they’ll crack from the pressure applied, breathing in deeply at your words. His eyes slide shut so you assume the breath is for his water breathing instead of frustration, blade moving as he does so with purpose. He’s quick, the sound of flesh being sliced fills the heavy silence of the room followed quickly by the quick dripping of blood pattering against the floor. The smell of iron floods your senses and, to your horror, it’s sweet; tantalizingly so, urging saliva to fill your mouth and drip from your lips.

When you look up, Giyū is kneeling before you, his palm pooling with deep mauve. He gives you no time to deny, forcing the side of his hand to your lips and the liquid to dribble easily into your mouth when you gasp in surprise.

The relief is almost instantaneous and the desire for more feels unquenchable, your own hands covering his to tilt it and allow more of him to spill and feed on. It’s an effort to control yourself, to not literally bite the hand that feeds you. You suckle and lick at the wound until it begins to clot, color already returning to your skin and the wounds you’d inflicted beginning to mend.

A long moment of silence settles between you, only your satisfied breathing mingling in the air between you both before you nuzzle the back of his knuckles to your cheek.

When you finally open your eyes he is looking at you with an unreadable expression. You clutch tighter to his hand, his blood drying at the corner of your mouth, “You taste amazing, Tomioka. Thank you.”

Those words bring a heat to his cheeks, his heart racing for a different reason altogether when you look completely at ease once again. You look innocent, eyes still glimmering from tears shed, it feels like they look right through him before they’re hidden away behind closed lids at his tentative touch.

It’s then that the relationship shifts, a change he is welcoming of; features softening the slightest bit when he acts on the urge to pull you closer. He settles you to rest between his thighs and against his chest, your ear resting over where his heart belongs to listen to the steady beat.

“Do you have to leave soon?” Your voice sounds small, laden with the burden of exhaustion as you fight with heavy lids. It’s a losing battle now that you’re nestled comfortably, safely, within his arms.

His hands rub soothing circles into your back, subconsciously urging you closer into the warmth of his body, “I’ll stay for the night.”

Giyū visits more after that night, sends letters the times he’s away and gives you estimates of his return each time. The trek is always long unfortunately, coming from across the continent in his pursuit of Muzan and his missions in between.

He comes with good news, when he finally returns to you. The slayers defeat three of the six upper moons within a span of three months but, most importantly, Nezuko has conquered the sun, the only demon to have ever accomplished this.

Giyū is with you for only a week whenever he’s summoned for a meeting of the pillars to discuss the recent events. You’re sad to see him go, obviously, but you force the smile you always wear when you watch him leave the small shrine you call home.

He’s standing in the doorway when he turns on his heel, “I want you to move closer to my region, you can stay in the water pillar estate. My crow will show you the way and how to get in without being detected.”

He doesn’t wait for your response, closing the door behind him while you stand in shock. Heat stings your cheeks as your mind races with domestic scenarios, holding them in an attempt to abate the warmth but you’re overcome with joy; he wants you closer, Giyū has hope.

The war between humans and demons is in its endgame.

The day feels longer than it ever has before, stepping around and tidying the area you’ll hopefully never see again, if all goes well. You don’t realize the clutter you’ve collected until you’re having to figure out what you can and cannot take.

The first thing you work on is where you keep your paper and ink, a mess of folded and crumpled parchment scattered about the floor. You disturb the air when you crouch, catching a waft of the faint smell of rain showers and mountain mist; crisp clean and so obviously Giyū.

You take the time to unfurl some of his old letters, smiling fondly over his handwriting and remembering each day you eagerly awaited his response.

You have little to pack, the amenities you had don’t hold much sentimental value. You tuck away a box with all the letters between you and the slayer at the bottom of the basket you weaved yourself along with a few keepsakes from your past life. It feels like an eternity before night falls and you swing the basket with all the important things on your back and depart for the hashira’s territory.

The sinking sun paints the sky in vibrant pinks and dusty purples until it’s completely dipped below the horizon, giving rise to the full moon in its place. You’re finally able to make the journey to Giyū’s estate with guidance from his crow. You’d prefer to have some conversation, you’d never liked the deafening silence that night brought but you focus on the crunch of twigs underfoot and the gentle flap of your guide’s wings ahead of you.

It takes, what you can tell from the moon overhead, about half the night to reach his home. You hope, with the impending battle, this home won’t be ripped from you as well; and you don’t mean the wooden foundations of the building you can tell belongs to this world's unsung heroes.

It’s grand, yet simple, perfectly suited for the water pillar you’ve come to know over the past months. You arrive just in time, thunder rumbling in foreboding storm clouds with the threat of a winter downpour. You set your small basket on the table in the entryway after you remove your sandals, peeking into the empty rooms you pass; choosing in favor to explore the home before unpacking.

You’ve only gotten to see a few rooms and poke at the minuscule amount of decor when the door to the estate clatters open aggressively. There’s an unshakeable malicious aura that feels suffocating even for the creature that you are.

You pad quietly out of the room you’d wandered into only to see a man you don’t recognize that smells of sweet flour and wisteria blossoms; a strangely pleasant scent that is almost completely drowned out by a shift of murderous intent.

He moves lightning fast, inhumanly despite all the evidence to the contrary, grabbing you by the throat with one hand and shoving the viridian blade through your shoulder with the other. The pain is instantaneous, a burning sensation throbbing from the wound as your body fights to mend and replace the damaged cells.

“The fuck are you doin’ in here?” Even his voice is biting, a vicious growl you’d attribute to that of a wild beast.

You can see he wears the same variation of uniform Giyū wears, a slayer of high status like him as well, you’re sure. You’re a demon caught by a pillar in the home of another and you’re utterly defenseless, having never fought before. He doesn’t expect an answer to the question he poses, obviously so when he wrenches his blade from your shoulder and positions it with the assurance to sever your head with the next strike.

You clench your eyes shut out of reflex, waiting for the sickening sound of sliced flesh only for a loud crash to sound instead along with the deafening roar of thunder.

You’re slammed through a wall when you open your eyes, two bodies writhing around in a struggle of fists and grappling before your reeling mind is able to catch up to what’s happened. Giyū has finally arrived home, happening upon the situation in the nick of time. He’s knocked the other hashira’s blade out of his reach, veins protruding on his skin while he fights to keep the violet eyed man restrained, “leave! Get out of here!”

His voice is laced with a desperation you’d never heard before the other man’s fist collides with Giyūs jaw from beneath him; momentarily causing the water hashira to stagger off of him.

A gasp catches in your throat, body feeling the urge to rush to Giyū only to hear the wheezed command for you to flee once more. You’re not given the time to do so, though, watching Tomioka’s body launch through another wall with a fierce kick and the man is on you within a second.

Thick fingers knot into your hair and twist to maintain his hold. You instinctively reach for his wrist and claw at the flesh in a desperate attempt to undo his hold but stop a moment later, limbs falling slack and saliva gathering on your tongue from a new smell invading your senses.

“Ahh, look at that, like a cat with catnip,” his voice become a taunting purr, yanking you to clumsily stand on your feet and face him, “an animal, look at you fucking drool. Disgusting.”

He spits to the side, like the very idea of salivation over blood soured his tongue, before dragging you by the hair to where his katana laid unforgotten. You scream internally at yourself to struggle, to get away, but your limbs don’t feel the alertness of your mind; gaze fuzzy around the edges of your vision when you see him pick up his blade.

“Sanemi, don’t!”

Another blink of the eye and your hands fall to the tatami of the Hashiras estate following the loud clatter of another destroyed wall. You’re gasping for breath whenever the man named Sanemi isn’t within proximity, looking around in confusion whenever Giyū launches from the gaping holes in the building their scuffle created to grab you by the wrist.

“We have to leave, now,” adrenaline surges between you both, stumbling to your feet as you’re yanked behind the male. You can hear the clatter of lumber behind you but the distance widens between the three of you quickly.

It isn’t until you can no longer smell or hear the other hashira that you both slow from a sprint into a light jog. You ran in no particular direction, simply focusing on getting away but it seems that Giyū knew where he was going; it was his region, after all.

You reach the apex of a hill as thunder sounds and lightning flashes in the storm clouds above, the roaring rains a freezing assault to both of your bodies. You’re more resistant to the feeling, but not immune, and in a weakend state from lack of human consumption the frigid rain starts to feel like fine needles imbedding in your skin.

Giyū isn’t sure when his grasp slips from your wrist to your hand but he’s fully aware at how tightly he grips it as he draws in ragged breaths. Even with the use of breaths, the drop in temperature from night combined with the rain slowly burns his lungs. His chest heaves almost imperceptibly, turning to you like he’d see a single wound but, of course, is met only with the blood stains and ripped clothing; wounds long since closed to leave unmarred flesh.

You give him a reassuring smile and a gentle squeeze of your hand over his while darkened cobalt hues scan over you. The twitch of his lips is faint, still on high alert for an attack from his comrade but still gives an attempt to reciprocate the action.

The nights are long with the season but he knows the sun will be rising soon and he needs to get you to safety; Sanemi is no longer the more pressing threat to your existence.

“We can find shelter on the other side of the village to stay. He shouldn’t feel your presence.” Shouldn’t, but no guarantee. It’s a light jog through the rain as it continues to soak your clothing, weighing you down enough that you’re actually thankful to see another shrine despite living in one for the better part of a year.

Once inside, Giyū lights only a single candle for light and uses his haori to cover a withered shutter along a window where sunlight could seep through.

There’s time to settle before he returns to sit next to you, tilting your chin upwards to make sure there’s no wound. He’s close, so close to curing you and happening upon another slayer almost ripping you away makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“He must’ve meant to confront me after the hashira meeting,” Giyū offers up without any prompt, “I was in a hurry to leave and ignored him when he tried to.”

He digs into the pocket of his slayer pants, pulling out a small vial with a substance inside that you’d never smelled before.

“I stole this, it can make you human again.”

That sentence makes the world feel like it stops turning, high pitched ringing sounding in your ears while you look from the vial in his hand back to his eyes. Your mouth opens and closes several times, unable to find the words to respond with; almost a year of waiting and hoping for this, Giyū now, literally, holds your life in his hands.

“Nezuko?”

“There was enough for her, I wouldn’t have taken it if there wasn’t,” he’s desperate to fix what happened to you, make up for his failure but not at the cost of a young girl.

He sees the relief bleed into your features, tentatively reaching to settle your hand over the medicine in his palm. A new life is within reach, a chance to start over, to be human again, just beneath your fingertips.

There’s a plethora of emotions that wells within you both, Giyū earning your attention with a ghosting brush of his knuckles against your temple. The rain is the only sound that fills the silence with white noise, pattering against the roof above you both. You reach for him, cupping both of his cheeks while your heart pounds heavy in your chest. You scoot the slightest bit closer, knees knocking against his own when you do; sitting up until you can feel his soft puffs of breath fan over your lips.

“I love you, thank you, for everything,” you whisper as you close the minuscule gap between you, slotting your lips over his timidly.

It isn’t until you move to pull away that his body takes action, responding clearly that he wants you closer still. He sets the medicine safely to the side before returning them to you, clicking his tongue at the feeling of your soaked clothes. His chest rises and falls with deep breaths, lids fluttering shut the more he gets lost in the motions.

Giyū’s tongue traces over the seam of your lips in a plea for entrance, swallowing his sigh when you part for him and press further. He peels away the first layer of your clothing as his tongue slides against yours, tasting you in one of the many ways that’s plagued his thoughts for months. The desire for you only worsens when you reward him with gentle mewls, sighing in relief when he finally rids you of wet clothes.

He pulls away to admire you, see you like this and commit it to memory like he doesn’t intend to experience this for the rest of your natural lives. The candlelight gives you an ethereal glow, painting you beautifully and making him strain in his pants when he lays you down to paw at your body.

It’s a tender moment despite the fervor, gasping slightly and gooseflesh erupts over your skin at his touch. His calloused thumbs provide a delicious heat to flood your system while they roll over pebbled nipples, skilled hands in swordsmanship clumsily exploring your body, soft lips lavishing the expanse of your throat with affection.

His skin is warm despite the rain soaked fabric, chilled by the winter air but that doesn’t stop you from working your fingers at the buttons of his top the needier you grow. You can hear how his heart hammers in his chest when he pulls away, eager to make himself in an equal state of undress.

You lean up on your forearms, Giyū positioned between your legs while he undoes his pants, shimmying them down to kick them away; all the while staring at the heavy length to bobs when it’s freed. You reach forward to feel the flush skin, wrapping your fingers around him with testing pressure until he hisses at a particular grip; watching in wonder at how his face twists in pleasure when you pump the length experimentally.

But he’s not interested in only receiving, corners of his mouth twitching in a small smile when nimble digits part your slick folds, rewarded with a pleased sigh and your legs spreading further for him. The room fills with the sound of sex, airy gasps and twitching thighs until the touching on both parts becomes more confident and assured. Giyū gets to the point where he pushes your hand from his throbbing length, settling to lay on top of you while his digits plunge and scissor your walls.

His erection pokes at your thigh, hips twitching into the plush skin while swallowing your mewls from every pump of his fingers until you’re begging to feel more, “Giyū, please, I need you.”

“You never needed me,” he whispers when the fingers of his other hand graze over the unmarred skin that earlier held a wound, “I needed you.”

Even with a strike from a nichirin blade you’re not as fragile as he made you out to be. You need him, but not to be protected, he understands that now. You didn’t have much deeper meaning to your plea but he always feels lost in thought because of you, more considerate and introspective, he needed you to become his best self; more than a slayer, more than a pillar. You simply need him as a man, not as a demon that needs the slayer to save them from this curse. You only need him to be yours.

You aren’t just a demon and soon you won’t even be that anymore, you’ll just be his.

He wants to be, can’t wait any longer either when he hovers above you with his cock in hand, running the leaky tip through your slit. Giyū leans down to take your lips in a chaste kiss before dotting a path over your cheek and jawline, eventually settling to drag his teeth over your earlobe; all the while rutting his hips until he’s aligned with your entrance. Your tongue laps at the taut flesh of his trapezium gently, over the scarred puncture wounds from previous feedings that makes him shiver at the contact. For the first time in your relationship together, you plant a kiss to the wound you created instead of reopening it as he sinks into you, shuddering from the affection and overflow of emotions.

You’re careful not to rake your nails too deeply down his back as he stretches you, arching into his body while he works himself in until he’s bottomed out. He pants humid breaths, dampening the skin of your clavicle when he drags almost completely out of you only to push back in just as slowly; shuddering at the tight squeeze.

The pace he sets is even, not quite desperate but the need is there when his arm snakes beneath your body to press you closer by your lower back. You meet each thrust when he does, rolling your hips and twitching the slightest bit when his pelvis rubs against your clit; Giyū taking note of the reaction and making sure to repeat it.

Your walls spasm around him, his name on your tongue in a plea to keep going as if he ever intended to stop. His lips attach to your temple in a show of affection, one hand holding your hip to keep driving into you when pleasure slowly starts to mount into euphoria. You can vaguely register the sweet sounds of his own groans before the tightly wound coil in your abdomen snaps, pitchy keen sounding that bleeds and drags into a relieved moan with starlight dancing behind closed lids.

“I love you, I love you too,” Giyū whispers his own confession to you, thrusts sloppy as you ride out your high and convulse around him until he’s emptying himself into the wet heat. His jaw drops when he does, forgetting to breathe for a moment until a groan rips from his throat and his hips stutter in rhythm; stopping completely when the sensation becomes too much.

It isn’t until you cup his face gently, giving a satisfied smile up at him before he rolls off of you, pulling you close despite the tacky sheen of sweat that clings to your skin; basking in the afterglow of your coupling. Your fingers drum along the hard planes of his chest, careful so the claws you won’t miss when you become human don’t nick his flesh. The moment feels peaceful, perfect and serene; lips splitting into a smile when you glance up to his face.

“I miss the sun,” you blurt, seemingly at random. You do, miss the warm rays that once kissed your skin but now threaten to burn and reduce you to ash. Giyū’s body is warm, it reminds you of that gentle heat and only makes you yearn more for even if the curse will be lifted soon. He looks at you with that somber expression he always gets when he thinks for too long when you sit up, pushing your bare chest to rest slightly atop his. There’s hope in his eyes, accompanied by the faintest of smiles when his hand comes to cup your cheek, thumb running over the skin in gentle strokes.

Though your circumstance was unfavorable, it hasn’t been all bad, you got to meet Giyū and experience what you’re sure can only be love; you’ve lost plenty, sure, but gained much more.

“Will you walk with me in the sun when I’m cured?” You ask as you nuzzle against his palm with your own hand resting over his.

The sentence makes his heart clench and he feels his resolve strengthen. He pulls his hand away to take yours in it, bringing it to his lips in a gentle brush over your knuckles. Giyū takes in a breath, exhaling slowly before he regards you with a tenderness he offers to no one else, “until my feet bleed and further still.”

Your heart swells at the sentiment, sitting up and reaching over him to grab the forgotten mediation until now. You turn it over thoughtfully in your hand, rubbing the pad of your finger over the glass when Giyū places his hand over yours.

“I’ll do it,” his voice soft, taking the vial with ease and uncapping the protective lid over the needle. There’s a moment of pause, Giyū’s hand hanging in the air between you when you give him a reassuring nod, “I’m ready.”

You don’t even feel the needle, the injection is over in a second but you feel the spread of warmth from the medicine blossom into a burning heat beneath your skin.

The feeling rages through your veins, spreading so quickly all you can do is gasp and reach out of Giyū. Worry etches into his features, pulling you into his lap and arms but unable to do anything for you. He can feel your temperature rise, your body either trying to burn away the medicine or the medicine already forcing the reversion into being human; he doesn’t know.

It takes an hour for you to stop screaming, drenched in sweat until you finally pass out so suddenly he’d think you’d succumbed to death if it weren’t for the labored breathing. He’s hesitant to leave your side but he has to get something dry to cover you along with cloth to dampen and cool your skin.

He makes the trip to the nearby village short, gathering his supplies and returning to care for you. He sets a pillow beneath your head, covers you with a thin sheet and prepares to do whatever you need for however long this takes.

Giyū doesn't know how long he sits at your side, hand clasped in yours to squeeze when a wave of pain washes over you. He wipes the sweat for your brow while you draw ragged breaths, face pinched in agony even while you sleep but your elongated fangs slowly recede into duller, more human canines.

At least he knows the pain is worth it, that the medicine is working, but it doesn’t make this any easier for him to watch.

Hours pass with no change, he routinely gets you new water to drink, keeping a separate basin for the one he uses to cool you down. He even has to change the candle once, burning the wick down to the bottom of the wax; it’s his only form of time keeping aside from the rays that no longer peek through the worn shutters.

Giyū grows tired as time ticks onward, exhaustion in his frame while he brushes baby hairs that have slicked to forehead. Your breathing has evened now, looking more peaceful and resting. He feels relief flood his system, like the storm has passed, body going slack though he didn’t realize he was tense at all.

His hand holds yours when he settles to lay next to you, tucking close but not adding his body heat or weight to your form. Giyū is only roused when you shift beside him, squeezing his hand the slightest bit. He practically shoots up, holding your face in his hands as if inspecting you when he gets to his knees, earning a tinkling giggle.

You’re human, the medicine worked. Your claws have receded and your irises have returned to their natural pigment, one he never knew before he met you but he’s glad to know now. He pulls you to him for a kiss, holding the feeling for a moment and making no movement to deepen it before he pulls away. His eyes are glassy, like tears will spill from pure elation and all he can do is kiss you again.

You give him a curious look when he moves to stand, handing you his haori and the first beams of morning light bleed through the window, tugging you to stand before he opens the door to the shrine.

“Walk with me,” he says with a smile, and the warmth you feel isn’t just from the sunlight on your skin for the first time in almost a year.

#vixen writes #hiatus; on queue

23 notes · View notes