Water Hashira's Favorite?!
Pairings: Tomioka Giyuu x Tsuguko(f)!reader
giyuu having reader as his tsuguko even though he promised to himself he'd never take one. -anon.
Warnings: Jealous giyuu, nipple sucking (he loves it), getting caught (almost), making out, kissing, possesive giyuu, oral (f and m), fingering, p in v, loss of virginity, morning sex
The scent of iron and charred wood hung heavy in the midnight air. Rain descended in thin, freezing needles that blurred the edges of the burning village. You gripped the hilt of your Nichirin sword, your knuckles white, your palms slick with a mixture of sweat and blood. Your chest heaved, each breath a ragged scrape against your lungs.
The demon stood ten paces away. It was a spindly thing, its skin the color of a drowned corpse, with elongated fingers that ended in jagged, obsidian claws. Three eyes, mismatched and pulsing with a sickly yellow light, tracked your every tremor. It let out a wet, clicking sound, a mockery of laughter that vibrated in the humid air.
Behind you, a small child huddled in the dirt, sobbing into a tattered kimono. The boy's eyes were wide, reflecting the orange glow of the encroaching fire. You stepped back, your boots sliding in the mud, positioning yourself as the only barrier between the monster and the innocent.
"Water Breathing, Second Form: Water Wheel."
You leaped, twisting your body to create a vertical circle of rushing water. But the form was sloppy. The arc lacked the necessary torque, the water flickering and dissipating before the blade could bite deep. The demon didn't even flinch. A single, lightning-fast swipe of its claw tore through your side.
The impact sent you spiraling across the gravel. You hit the ground hard, the air leaving your lungs in a violent wheeze. Hot blood blossomed across your ribs, soaking through your uniform. You tried to push yourself up, but your arms shook. The demon lunged, its claws poised to shred the child.
You screamed, a raw sound of desperation, and threw yourself forward. You didn't have the strength for a form, so you simply thrust the blade upward, blocking a lethal strike with a jarring clang of steel. The force drove you into the earth, the blade vibrating painfully in your grip. You stared up at the demon, seeing your own reflection in its yellow eyes—small, broken, and failing.
A sudden, oppressive stillness descended, as if the rain itself had frozen in mid-air. A blur of deep blue and mismatched haori flickered in your peripheral vision. There was no sound of a footstep, only the sudden, sharp whistle of a blade cutting through the wind.
"Water Breathing, Eleventh Form: Dead Calm."
The world went silent. The demon's claws, which had been inches from your face, stopped instantly. A ripple of crystalline water expanded outward, a perfect circle of tranquility that neutralized every attack. In a heartbeat, the demon's head slid from its shoulders, the cut so clean the creature didn't even realize it was dead until its body began to crumble into ash.
You blinked, staring at the man standing before you. He wore a haori split down the middle—one side a solid, deep red, the other a geometric pattern of green, yellow, and orange. His back was to you, his posture rigid, his eyes distant and cold as a winter lake.
"Is... are you a Hashira?"
Your voice was a fragile whisper, barely audible over the crackle of the fire. The man didn't turn. He didn't nod. He simply sheathed his sword with a clinical click. The silence he left behind was heavier than the battle. As the adrenaline ebbed, the pain in your side surged, a white-hot iron searing through your flesh. The world tilted, the orange flames of the village blurring into a haze of gray, and you collapsed into the mud.
When consciousness returned, it came with the smell of antiseptic and dried lavender. You opened your eyes to a ceiling of polished wood and white linens. The light was soft, filtered through paper shoji screens. Every muscle in your body felt as though it had been tenderized with a hammer.
A woman leaned over you, her purple eyes shimmering with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. She wore a butterfly-wing haori that fluttered with every slight movement. A small, permanent smile played on her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Good morning, sleepyhead. You really pushed your luck, didn't you?"
You tried to speak, but your throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. You managed a small cough, your gaze drifting to the bandages wrapped tightly around your torso.
The Butterfly Mansion, Shinobu Kocho replied, her voice an airy, melodic chime. "I am the Insect Hashira. You were brought here in a state that would have made a coroner blush. Truly impressive that you managed to keep a demon at bay for that long with such... underdeveloped forms."
You winced, the sting of her words mirroring the ache in your ribs. You looked down at your hands, still shaking slightly.
"The man... the one who saved me..."
Shinobu tilted her head, her smile widening."Ah, Tomioka-san. The Water Hashira. He is a man of very few words. In fact, he barely speaks at all. He mentioned that you held your ground to protect a child. "
You closed your eyes, the image of that effortless strike flashing through your mind. The way the water had obeyed him, the absolute certainty in his movement. It wasn't just strength, it was a perfection you had spent years chasing and never touching.
"I want to be like that," you whispered.
Shinobu chuckled. "A daunting goal. Most people find Tomioka-san's personality as repellent as a wet blanket, but his skill is undeniable. Now, stay still. If you rip those stitches, I will have to use a much larger needle."
Days passed in a blur of bitter medicines and grueling physical therapy. You pushed yourself harder than the nurses recommended, desperate to return to your training. You spent your afternoons in the gardens of the mansion, practicing your swings with a wooden sword, imagining the fluid grace of the Eleventh Form.
Meanwhile, at the headquarters of the Demon Slayer Corps, the atmosphere was far less serene. The Hashiras stood in a semi-circle on a pebbled courtyard, the sunlight filtering through the canopy of ancient trees.
The air was thick with the distinct personalities of the strongest slayers. Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira, stood with his arms crossed, his scarred chest heaving with a restless, aggressive energy. Beside him, the others waited in a silence that was broken only by the distant call of a crow.
Oyakata-sama entered the courtyard, his presence acting like a cooling balm on the tension. The Hashiras immediately knelt, their heads bowed in absolute reverence.
"My children," he began, his voice a soft, soothing melody that commanded attention. "I have something to share with you. A young slayer recently defended a village with great courage. Despite her lack of mastery over the Water Breathing style, she held a demon at bay until Giyuu arrived. It is a rare thing to find such spirit in a female water user of her rank."
The Hashiras shifted. Giyuu stood at the edge of the group, his expression a mask of indifference, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the horizon.
"I believe," Oyakata-sama continued, "that she possesses a spark that could be nurtured. Giyuu, I suggest that you take this girl as your Tsuguko."
A sudden, sharp burst of laughter erupted from the group. Sanemi snorted, a jagged sound of derision.
"Are you kidding me?" Sanemi barked, glancing sideways at Giyuu. "Tomioka doesn't even like people. He thinks he's too good to stand next to us, let alone teach some brat how to swing a sword. He's not fit to guide anyone because he doesn't believe he belongs here in the first place."
Giyuu didn't flinch. He didn't even look at Sanemi.
"I am not like you," Giyuu replied, his voice flat and devoid of inflection.
Sanemi's face contorted, a vein pulsing in his temple." What the hell is that supposed to mean? You arrogant piece of trash! Say it to my face!"
The tension spiked, the air vibrating with Sanemi's growing rage. But Oyakata-sama spoke again, and the wind seemed to die down instantly.
"Now, now. I respect Giyuu's decision, but I also believe that it is never too late to see what a dedicated student can achieve. Giyuu, the choice is yours, but I ask you to consider the potential of a soul that refuses to break."
Giyuu remained silent for a long moment. His internal world was a storm of doubt and old ghosts, a crushing weight of perceived failure that told him he had no right to lead anyone. He looked at his hands, then back at the distant trees.
"I have nothing to teach her," he said softly.
The meeting adjourned shortly after, leaving a lingering sense of frustration in the air.
Later that evening, you were sitting on the porch of the Butterfly Mansion, watching the moon climb the sky, when Shinobu approached you. She carried a tray of tea, her steps silent on the wooden floor.
"You'll never guess what happened at the meeting today," she said, setting the tray down.
You looked up, blinking. "What meeting?"
"The Hashira meeting. Oyakata-sama suggested that you become Tomioka-san's Tsuguko."
The tea cup in your hand nearly slipped. You felt a jolt of electricity run down your spine, a sudden, soaring hope that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
"Me? His Tsuguko? But I'm... I can barely execute the Third Form correctly."
Shinobu smiled, though there was a hint of pity in her eyes. "Indeed. And Tomioka-san rejected the idea. He claims he has nothing to teach you."
The hope didn't vanish, it curdled into a fierce, burning determination. You remembered the way he had sliced through the demon—the absolute, effortless power. The fact that he didn't think you were worthy only made you want his recognition more.
"I'll prove him wrong," you said, your voice gaining strength.
Shinobu tilted her head. "Oh? And how do you plan to do that? He is a very stubborn man."
"I'll train until I can't stand. I'll copy every movement he makes. I'll become someone he can't ignore."
For the next month, your life became a cycle of agony and repetition. You woke before the sun, your muscles screaming as you pushed your body to the limit. You begged Shinobu for every scrap of information she had on Giyuu's fighting style, his preferences, and the way he breathed.
You spent hours in the woods, hacking at bamboo stalks, trying to mimic the fluid, sweeping motions of the Water Breathing styles. You visualized the water not as a tool, but as an extension of your own blood. You failed. You fell. You bled. You bruised your shins and blistered your palms until the skin peeled away in raw, red strips.
You didn't know that Giyuu was watching.
He would appear at the edge of the clearing, hidden by the deep shadows of the cedar trees. He watched you struggle, watched your form buckle under the weight of your own desperation. At first, he felt a flicker of annoyance. Why was this girl wasting her time? He saw his own younger self in your frantic movements—the same blind drive, the same refusal to accept limitation.
One evening, as the sky turned a bruised purple, you were attempting a complex rotation. Your foot slipped on a damp root, and you went down hard, your wooden sword clattering across the stones. You stayed there for a moment, face-down in the dirt, your chest heaving.
"Why do you want to be my Tsuguko so badly?"
The voice was sudden and cold. You bolted upright, spinning around to see Giyuu standing five feet away. He looked like a ghost in the moonlight, his expression unreadable, his eyes two dark voids.
You scrambled to your feet, nearly tripping over your own sword. You bowed deeply, your forehead almost touching the grass.
"Because I want to be like you!" you exclaimed, your voice cracking. "I want to be a strong slayer! I want to be able to protect people without failing!"
Giyuu stared at you. He didn't see a student, he saw a mirror of a grief he had spent years trying to bury. He simply sighed, a sound of profound weariness, and turned his back on you.
He walked away without another word, leaving you alone in the darkening woods.
The rejection stung worse than the demon's claws. Over the next week, you tried to approach him three more times. Once, you tried to show him a corrected stance,he walked past you as if you were a piece of furniture. Another time, you brought him a small offering of ohagi, hoping to break the ice, he looked at the sweets, then at you, and told you that you were wasting your time.
You began to believe that the Water Hashira truly had no room in his heart for anyone else. The fire in you didn't go out, but it simmered down into a quiet, aching persistence.
One night, during a torrential downpour that turned the training grounds into a swamp, you were practicing the Fourth Form: Striking Tide. You were exhausted, your vision blurring, your movements becoming sluggish. You swung the sword, but your wrist was too loose, causing the blade to wobble and lose its momentum.
A hand suddenly gripped your wrist.
The touch was firm and calloused, the grip like a vice. You gasped, freezing in place. Giyuu was standing behind you, his chest nearly touching your back. He didn't say a word. He simply shifted your grip, rotating your wrist two inches to the left and straightening your elbow.
"Feel the flow," he whispered, his voice right next to your ear. "You are fighting the water. Stop fighting it. Become it."
Before you could even breathe, he released you and stepped back. He didn't look at you. He didn't explain. He simply vanished back into the rain, leaving the scent of cold ozone and old fabric behind.
You stood there, drenched and shivering, but your heart was racing. You tried the swing again, applying the correction he had given you. The blade sliced through the air with a sharp, clean hiss, the movement fluid and effortless.
For the first time, you felt it. The ripple.
The next day, you returned from a low-ranking mission. You had tracked a swamp demon through a muddy ravine, and while you had won, you had returned with a deep gash across your forearm and a fever that made your head swim.
As you limped toward your room at the Butterfly Mansion, you noticed something sitting on the wooden ledge beside your door. It was a small, ceramic jar of high-grade medicinal salve and a bundle of clean linen bandages.
You stared at the medicine, a strange warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the fever.
Unaware, Giyuu had stopped a Kakushi in the hallway an hour earlier.
The Kakushi had been trembling, bowing frantically as the Water Hashira loomed over him.
"Listen," Giyuu had said, his voice low. "That girl... the one training under the Water style. She is clumsy. She gets injured too often. Assign someone to assist her with her recovery after every mission. Ensure she has the proper salves. Do not tell her I ordered this."
The Kakushi had nodded vigorously, terrified and confused, and hurried away.
Giyuu watched from the rooftops, his silhouette blending into the gray sky. He watched you find the medicine, watched the way your shoulders relaxed and the small, hopeful smile that touched your lips. He didn't understand why he was doing it. He told himself it was merely to ensure a corps asset wasn't wasted due to poor self-care. But as he watched you, the void in his chest felt slightly less empty.
A few days later, Giyuu was perched on a thick branch of a wisteria tree, his eyes narrowed as he observed your training from a distance. You were moving better now. Your forms were tighter, your breathing more synchronized. You were no longer just mimicking him, you were starting to find your own rhythm within the water.
Giyuu didn't jump, but his shoulders stiffened. Shinobu appeared beside him, landing as lightly as a feather on the branch. She leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Are you attached to someone?" she teased, her voice a playful purr. "I didn't know you had it in you to be so... attentive. Watching her from the shadows like a lonely crow. It's almost romantic."
Giyuu turned his gaze back to you. He saw you slip, laugh at yourself, and immediately get back up to try again. He saw the grit in your eyes and the way you refused to give up, even when the world seemed to tell you that you weren't enough.
The word was short, clipped, and final. He stood up and leaped from the branch, disappearing into the forest in a single, fluid motion.
But as he walked away, his hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. For the first time in years, he didn't feel the crushing weight of the ghosts behind him. Instead, he felt the pull of the current, and the quiet, steady presence of someone who refused to let him stay alone in the cold.
You sat on the edge of the engawa, your toes digging into the polished wood, watching a single leaf spiral down toward the koi pond.
Shinobu Kocho drifted beside you, her footsteps nonexistent. She held a tray of medicinal tea, the steam curling upward in lazy ribbons.
"He hates me, doesn't he?"
The question slipped out before you could catch it. You didn't look at her, you kept your gaze fixed on the orange fish darting beneath the surface of the water.
Shinobu let out a light, tinkling laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a breeze. She set the tea down with a soft clink.
"My, such a gloomy thought. Why on earth would you think Tomioka-san hates you?"
"He doesn't talk to me," you whispered, your shoulders slouching. "He looks through me like I'm a ghost. When I try to help, he tells me I'm wasting my time. If he actually liked me, or even tolerated me—he wouldn't be so... cold."
Shinobu leaned in, her purple eyes shimmering with an amused, knowing glint. She tilted her head, a stray lock of hair brushing her cheek.
"Tomioka-san is a man of very specific settings. He is either 'completely indifferent' or 'intensely focused.' There is no middle ground for him."
She paused, her smile widening.
"Believe me, if he truly hated you, he wouldn't look at you at all. To Giyuu, the things he dislikes simply cease to exist. The fact that he bothers to tell you that you're wasting your time is, in his own strange language, a form of engagement."
You frowned, unconvinced. "That's a very depressing way to be liked."
"Welcome to the experience of knowing Giyuu Tomioka," Shinobu chirped, patting your shoulder before gliding away.
The uncertainty followed you into the night, and later, into the depths of a mountain forest where the air tasted of damp earth and rot.
The mission had seemed routine—a series of disappearances in a logging village. But as the moon reached its zenith, the atmosphere curdled. The trees seemed to lean inward, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the silver sky.
It wasn't a gradual increase, it was a physical blow, an oppressive weight that slammed into your lungs. From the shadows emerged a creature with skin the color of bruised plums and eyes that glowed with a predatory, iridescent sheen. Etched into its iris was the kanji for Lower Moon.
Panic flared, a cold spark in your gut, but you suppressed it. You remembered the wooden sword, the blisters, the hours of failing in the rain. You remembered the way Giyuu’s blade had looked—absolute and unwavering.
I have to prove it, you thought, your grip tightening on your Nichirin sword. I can't be the girl who needs saving.
"Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance!"
You leaped, your blade carving a serpentine path through the air. The demon laughed, a sound like grinding stones. With a flick of its wrist, it unleashed a wave of solidified blood—jagged, crystalline shards that tore through the underbrush.
You pivoted, the movement fluid, but your timing was off. A shard sliced through your shoulder, the pain a sudden, white-hot spike. You gasped, stumbling back, but you didn't stop. You lunged forward, ignoring the blood soaking through your uniform, throwing yourself into a flurry of strikes.
The demon was too fast. It moved in a blur, its claws raking across your ribs, sending you spiraling into a cedar tree. The impact knocked the wind from your lungs, leaving you gasping, your vision swimming in a haze of red and gray.
You tried to push yourself up, your arms shaking violently. Your sword lay a few feet away, glinting in the moonlight. The demon loomed over you, its iridescent eyes wide with hunger.
"Such a spirited little thing," it hissed, its voice a wet rattle. "I'll savor the way your hope breaks."
As the demon raised its claw for the killing blow, the world suddenly went silent.
The rain, which had begun to fall in a light drizzle, seemed to freeze. A sudden, violent gust of wind swept through the clearing, carrying the scent of cold ozone and ancient grief.
Water Breathing, Ninth Form: Splashing Water Flow.
The demon’s strike didn't just stop, it vanished. A ripple of crystalline water expanded from a central point, neutralizing every ounce of the demon's momentum. In a single, seamless motion, a blur of mismatched fabric flickered.
The demon’s head slid from its shoulders before it could even blink.
Giyuu stood there, his back to you, his blade already halfway back in its sheath. The silence that followed was heavier than the battle.
As the demon crumbled into ash, Giyuu turned. His blue eyes weren't cold this time, they were turbulent. He looked at your broken form, the blood staining the dirt, and for a split second, the present vanished.
He wasn't seeing you. He was seeing a boy with a peach-colored haori and a smile that had been extinguished too soon. He was seeing the ghosts of everyone he had failed, the crushing weight of a survival he felt he hadn't earned.
Not again, a voice screamed in his head.
He realized then that his silence wasn't a shield, it was a weapon he had been accidentally wielding against the only person who had looked at him with genuine admiration in years. By trying to protect you from his world, he had left you to face it alone and unprepared.
The rage that flared in him wasn't directed at the demon, or even at you. It was a cold, searing anger directed inward.
Without a word, he knelt beside you. He didn't ask if you were okay—the blood on your chest answered that. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with an effortless strength that made you feel suddenly, terrifyingly small.
You leaned your head against his chest, hearing the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart.
"I... I almost had it," you whispered, your voice a ragged scrape.
Giyuu didn't respond. He simply tightened his grip and leaped through the canopy, heading back toward the Butterfly Mansion.
When you woke up, the world was soft. The smell of antiseptic and dried lavender filled the room. You were lying on your back, your torso wrapped in tight, clean bandages.
You expected the door to slide open and for Shinobu to enter with her teasing smile. Instead, the silhouette in the doorway was rigid and familiar.
Giyuu stepped into the room. He didn't speak. He didn't scold you for your recklessness or tell you that you had been foolish to challenge a Lower Moon alone. He simply walked to the side of your bed and sat down on a low stool.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the bandages on your arm. His touch was surprisingly gentle, the callouses of his palms grazing your skin. He began to check the dressing, his movements methodical and precise.
You watched him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The silence stretched, thick and expectant.
"I wasn't strong enough," you whispered, a tear escaping and tracing a path down your temple. "I tried so hard, but I'm just... not enough."
Giyuu stopped moving. He didn't look up, his gaze remaining on the white linen of the bandage. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, his voice broke the silence, low and steady.
"Your spirit," he said, finally meeting your eyes. His gaze was no longer a winter lake, there was a flicker of something warm there, a spark of recognition. "You fought a Lower Moon and you didn't break. Most slayers would have collapsed in terror. You fought until your body gave out."
He tied the knot of the bandage with a clinical click of efficiency.
"From now on, you will train under me."
The breath left your lungs in a violent wheeze. "You... you'll take me as your Tsuguko?"
"I will," he replied, standing up. He regained his stoic mask, his expression returning to its usual indifference, but he didn't leave immediately. "Be prepared. I am not a patient teacher."
The training that followed was a descent into a special kind of hell.
Giyuu did not believe in gradual progression. He believed in immersion. He pushed you through the grueling process of Total Concentration Breathing, demanding you maintain the state not just during combat, but every second of every day.
"Again," he would say, his voice flat.
You would be drenched in sweat, your lungs burning as if you had swallowed hot coals, your muscles trembling with exhaustion. You would execute the form, your blade slicing through the air.
"The wrist is too high," he'd remark. "Again."
You would repeat the motion a hundred times, a thousand times, until your arms felt like lead. And then, just as you felt you were about to collapse, you would nail the movement—a perfect, fluid arc of water that mirrored his own.
That single word was like a reward of gold. You would beam at him, your face flushed and beaming, and he would simply turn away, though you noticed he didn't tell you to keep going for another ten minutes, giving you a moment to breathe.
He also developed a strange, silent obsession with your nutrition. Before every training session, a bowl of hearty rice and grilled fish would appear on the porch. After every mission, he would ensure you ate until you were full, often standing silently by the door, watching you with an unreadable expression until the last grain of rice was gone.
As the months passed, you began to notice the cracks in his armor.
You noticed that he barely slept. You would see him in the early hours of the morning, staring at the moon with a look of profound longing, his posture sagging just a fraction. You realized he carried a weight that no amount of training could lift, a grief that lived in the marrow of his bones.
The other slayers began to gossip. You’d overhear them in the hallways of the headquarters.
"Why did Tomioka-san take a Tsuguko?" one would whisper. "He doesn't even like us. Why her?"
"Maybe she's just a tool for him," another would suggest. "Or maybe he's just bored."
You didn't care. You knew the truth in the quiet moments—the way he would subtly shift his position to block the wind when you were resting, or the way he would linger a second longer than necessary when correcting your stance.
One afternoon, after a particularly brutal session on the fifth form, you flopped onto the grass, staring up at the canopy of cedar trees.
"You know," you panted, "normal teachers usually encourage their students. They say things like 'Great job!' or 'You're doing amazing!'"
Giyuu, who was standing perfectly still beside you, didn't blink.
"I corrected your fifth form yesterday," he replied.
You sat up, blinking in disbelief. "That's encouragement?"
Giyuu went silent. He looked away, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. And then, it happened.
It was barely a movement—a slight softening of the corners of his mouth, a ghost of a curve that lasted for less than a second. It wasn't a full smile, but it was the closest thing to one you had ever seen.
Your heart leaped. "Did you just smile? You smiled! Giyuu, you actually—"
In an instant, his face snapped back into a mask of stone. He turned on his heel and walked away, his haori fluttering behind him.
"I did not," he called back, though there was no heat in his voice.
On missions, the dynamic shifted into a comfortable, unspoken rhythm. Giyuu always walked ahead, his pace brisk and purposeful. To an outsider, it looked like he was leaving you in the dust, indifferent to your struggle to keep up.
But you noticed the nuance.
Every few dozen paces, he would slow down—just a fraction, an almost imperceptible deceleration. He would stop abruptly by a tree or a bend in the path, pretending to scan the perimeter or examine a footprint in the dirt.
"Looking for something?" you'd ask, catching up to him and breathing hard.
He wouldn't look at you. "The scent of the demon is faint here."
You laughed, a bright sound that seemed to startle the birds in the trees. "You could've just said you were waiting for me, you know."
Giyuu didn't answer. He simply started walking again, but this time, he stayed exactly one step ahead of you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours.
The culmination of your hard work came during a joint exercise with the other slayers. You executed a perfect Water Breathing form, the movement so seamless it looked like a ribbon of silk dancing in the wind.
You beamed, but the moment was punctured by a sneer from a nearby slayer.
"Tch. Look at her," the man whispered, loud enough for you to hear. "She's only improving because the Water Hashira favors her. It's pathetic, really. I bet she does whatever she has to do to get that kind of attention."
You felt a sting of annoyance, but you brushed it off. You didn't need the approval of someone who spent more time talking than training.
However, over the next few weeks, something strange happened. The insults stopped. Completely.
Whenever you walked toward the group of slayers who had been mocking you, they didn't sneer. Instead, they froze. Their eyes widened, and they scrambled backward as if they had seen a Upper Moon in the flesh.
One afternoon, you approached a group of three slayers. As you got closer, they stopped talking mid-sentence, their faces turning pale. They looked terrified, their gazes fixed on something just behind your shoulder.
Giyuu was standing there. He wasn't saying anything. He wasn't even drawing his sword. He was simply... staring. His eyes were narrowed, his expression one of absolute, freezing intensity. He looked like a predator deciding exactly where to bite.
The slayers bolted, scattering in three different directions without a word.
Later, during your evening training, you leaned against your sword and looked at him.
Giyuu continued to polish his blade, his movements rhythmic and calm.
You felt a warmth spread through your chest, a flutter of something that felt like a thousand butterflies taking flight. You stepped closer to him, the space between you shrinking.
"You're actually kind of scary when you want to be," you teased.
Giyuu stopped polishing. He looked at you, and for the first time, the distance in his eyes was completely gone. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers were cold, but the gesture was searing.
"I don't like people talking about my Tsuguko," he whispered.
The world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you, the scent of the forest and the sound of your synchronized breathing. You realized then that Giyuu hadn't just accepted you as a student, he had let you into the fortress of his heart, a place he had kept locked for years.
Shinobu noticed it first, of course.
She found Giyuu sitting on the porch of the Butterfly Mansion, watching you practice your forms in the courtyard. He wasn't just observing, he was relaxed. His shoulders weren't hunched, and the permanent crease between his eyebrows had smoothed out.
"Ara ara," Shinobu purred, leaning against a pillar. "You've become quite the softy, Tomioka-san. I've never seen you look at anyone with such... tenderness."
Giyuu didn't pull away. He didn't deny it.
"She is persistent," he replied simply.
"And you are fond of her," Shinobu countered, her eyes sparkling. "The Kakushi are talking, you know. They say the Water Hashira actually talks now. That he's almost human when she's around."
Giyuu looked back at you. You had just finished a form and were laughing, wiping sweat from your forehead with your sleeve. You caught his eye and gave him a wide, triumphant grin.
For the first time in his life, Giyuu didn't feel the need to look away. He didn't feel the ghost of Sabito telling him he didn't belong. He felt the pull of the current, steady and strong, drawing him toward a future where he wasn't alone in the cold.
He didn't smile—not fully—but the look in his eyes was enough. He was no longer just the Water Hashira, he was a man who had found something worth protecting, someone who had taught him that the water didn't just wash things away—it could also sustain life.
The forest air tasted of copper and ozone, the lingering afterglow of a battle that had stretched into the gray hours of dawn. You slumped against the gnarled root of an ancient cedar, your lungs whistling with every breath. Your Nichirin sword lay beside you, the blade chipped, reflecting the pale, sickly light of the waking sun.
Your hands shook. It wasn't just the cold, it was a deep, systemic tremor born of sheer exhaustion. You had fought the demon for six hours, a grueling dance of evasion and desperate strikes that had pushed your Total Concentration Breathing to its absolute limit.
Giyuu didn't speak. He never did when the silence was already heavy enough to drown in. He simply sank onto the damp earth beside you. The scent of cold rain and cedar followed him, a grounding presence in the haze of your fatigue.
Without a word, he reached for the medical kit at his hip. He took your wrist in his hand. His grip was firm, his skin cool against your feverish heat. He began to unwind a fresh roll of bandages, his movements methodical and precise.
"I can do it," you whispered, your voice a dry rasp.
"Your hands are unstable," he replied.
His voice was a low drone, devoid of judgment but absolute in its observation. As he wound the linen around your forearm, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your wrist. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent a jolt through you that eclipsed the pain of your wounds.
The silence shifted. It was no longer the silence of exhaustion, but something thick and electric. You looked up at him, and for a moment, Giyuu didn't pull away. His blue eyes, usually as stagnant as a frozen pond, seemed to ripple. He lingered, his thumb grazing the pulse point of your wrist, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of your heart.
The air between you tightened, the space shrinking until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. You leaned in, drawn by a gravity you didn't understand.
A twig snapped in the distance.
Giyuu recoiled instantly, his hand dropping as if he had touched a hot stove. He stood up in one fluid motion, his gaze snapping toward the tree line where another slayer was approaching, calling out a greeting.
Giyuu turned away, his haori fluttering like a warning flag.
That felt dangerous, he thought, his jaw tightening. He didn't know what 'that' was, only that the sudden urge to pull you closer had been more violent than any strike he had ever delivered.
The weeks that followed were marked by a return to the grueling rhythm of training. Giyuu was a shadow that loomed over every movement, every breath, every failed strike.
One afternoon, while you were catching your breath by the training dummies, a young slayer—a boy with a bright, eager smile and a penchant for talking too much—approached you.
"You're the one Tomioka-san took as a Tsuguko, right?" the boy asked, leaning in with an open, friendly expression. "I've seen your forms. They're incredible. Maybe we could train together sometime? I've been working on a variation of the Wind Breathing style that might complement your fluidity."
You blinked, surprised by the sudden attention. You gave a small, polite laugh, stepping back slightly.
"That's very kind of you," you replied, your voice soft. "But I'm a Tsuguko. My schedule is entirely managed by Tomioka-san. I don't think I have the time."
It was a polite decline, a standard boundary. But you didn't notice the figure standing twenty paces behind you, partially obscured by the shade of a maple tree.
Giyuu had seen everything. He had seen the boy's eager lean, the brightness of his smile, and the way you had laughed—a sound that usually belonged only to the quiet spaces of his estate.
The next training session was a descent into a different kind of hell.
Giyuu was silent. More silent than usual. The air around him felt pressurized, as if a storm were brewing just beneath the surface of his skin.
You executed the Fourth Form, the blade carving a graceful arc.
"The angle is off," he said, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. He stepped forward, his hand gripping your wrist to correct your stance. He didn't just guide you, he shoved your arm into position with a harshness that left a red mark on your skin.
"Giyuu, that hurt," you gasped.
He didn't apologize. He didn't even look you in the eye.
"If a demon strikes you with that much force, you'll lose the arm. Again."
The session ended two hours early. Giyuu simply turned his back on you and walked toward his quarters without a word of critique or a single "good."
You stood in the center of the courtyard, your chest heaving, confused and stung.
"Are you angry?" you called out to his retreating back.
He paused, his silhouette rigid against the setting sun.
But that night, the sound of a sword slicing through the air echoed from the training grounds long after midnight. Giyuu trained alone, his strikes vicious and erratic. He hated it—the irrational, searing irritation that had clawed at his gut the moment that boy had spoken to you. He didn't understand the feeling, he had spent years perfecting the art of indifference. To feel this—this possessive, jagged edge of jealousy—felt like a failure of his discipline.
The young slayer never approached the estate again.
The tension remained, a simmering current beneath the surface, until the summons came. A joint mission. A village in the northern peaks where the air was thin and the shadows were long.
You had barely entered the village when the atmosphere curdled. The scent of rot was overwhelming, a thick, cloying sweetness that signaled something far more dangerous than a standard demon.
It was a physical blow, a weight that slammed into your lungs and forced you to your knees. From the canopy of the pines, a figure descended. He was pale, with eyes that burned like dying stars. Etched into his iris were the kanji for Upper Rank.
The battle was a blur of violence. Giyuu moved like a tidal wave, his blade a blur of blue and white, but the demon was a whirlwind of jagged obsidian shards.
With a guttural laugh, the creature focused its entire predatory intent on you. It saw the bond, the subtle lean of Giyuu's posture toward you, and it exploited it.
"A little pet," the demon hissed, its voice like grinding glass. "Let's see how the stoic Water Hashira reacts when his favorite thing is torn to pieces."
You snarled, leaping forward. "I am not a pet!"
"Water Breathing, Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust!"
You lunged, but the demon was faster. A shard of obsidian sliced through your thigh, and another tore through your side. You gasped, the world tilting. You tried to pivot, to find an opening, but the demon's speed was otherworldly.
Suddenly, Giyuu was there.
He didn't just intervene, he threw himself in front of you, his blade clashing against the obsidian with a sound that shook the earth. His expression was no longer stoic. It was a mask of raw, unfiltered fury.
You felt a surge of frustration, a hot flare of anger in your chest. "I can fight! Don't protect me like I'm some fragile doll!"
Giyuu didn't listen. He fought with a desperation you had never seen, his forms becoming more aggressive, more violent. He was a man possessed, driven by a terror that far outweighed the danger of the Upper Moon.
The fight lasted until the first sliver of gold touched the horizon. The demon, realizing the sun was its enemy, retreated into the depths of a nearby cave, vanishing into the darkness before Giyuu could deliver the final blow.
But the victory was hollow.
You collapsed. The blood loss was too great. Your vision swam, the blue of the sky blending into the blue of Giyuu's haori as he slid across the dirt to catch you.
"You idiot," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Why did you push yourself so hard?"
You tried to answer, but the world went black.
When you woke, the world was the color of sterile white and lavender.
The ceiling of the Butterfly Mansion blurred into focus. Aoi stood over you, her expression a mix of sternness and concern as she changed your dressings.
"You're lucky to be alive," Aoi remarked, her voice crisp. "Another inch to the left and that shard would have punctured your lung."
You looked toward the door. It remained closed.
The first day passed. Then the second. Then the third.
You lay in the bed, staring at the sliding door, waiting for the sound of his footsteps—that specific, light cadence that always signaled his arrival. But there was only the distant sound of other slayers training and the humming of the nurses.
A hollow ache formed in your chest, one that had nothing to do with your physical wounds. You missed him. You missed his silence, his harsh corrections, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching.
It's stupid, you told yourself, staring at the ceiling. To like the Water Hashira. He's a wall of ice. He's a man who doesn't know how to be loved.
One afternoon, Shinobu drifted into the room, her purple eyes shimmering with a knowing glint.
"Still awake and brooding, I see," she chirped, setting a tray of medicine on the table.
"Shinobu," you whispered, "how is Giyuu? Have you seen him?"
Shinobu paused, her head tilting. "My, such a direct question. Is Tomioka-san avoiding you?"
You looked away, your throat tightening. "I don't know. He hasn't visited."
Shinobu let out a soft, melodic laugh, though there was something sympathetic in it.
"Believe me, he isn't avoiding you because he doesn't care," Shinobu said, leaning in. "When the two of you were brought back here, I saw his face. For the first time in the years I've known him, Tomioka-san looked truly panicked. He looked like the world had ended."
"He was shaking," Shinobu confirmed. "He couldn't even speak. He just stood there, staring at your blood on his hands. He's a man who handles grief by pushing everything away. He's terrified, you see. He's terrified of how much it would hurt if you actually died."
The words settled in your heart, a warm, heavy weight.
But as the days turned into weeks, the silence continued. You returned to the Tomioka estate to resume your duties, but Giyuu was a ghost. He was always on a mission, always in a meeting, always just out of reach.
The other slayers, sensing a shift in the wind, began to whisper again.
"I told you," one slayer murmured in the hallway, loud enough for you to hear. "The Water Hashira just lost interest. The 'favorite' slayer isn't so special after all."
"Probably realized she's more trouble than she's worth," another added with a sneer.
You kept your head down, the words stinging like salt in a fresh wound. You didn't believe them, but the silence from Giyuu was a powerful weapon.
One afternoon, Shinobu arrived at the estate with a mischievous spark in her eyes.
"Ara ara! Guess who's here for a report?" she purred. "Tomioka-san is currently in the main hall. I suggest you go talk to him before he vanishes back into his shell."
You didn't need to be told twice. You stood up, your heart hammering against your ribs, and ran toward the hall.
When you slid the door open, Giyuu was already looking at you. He stood rigid, his blue eyes scanning your face, searching for the scars, the lingering pain, the signs of weakness.
You didn't stop. You smiled—a wide, triumphant grin—and ran toward him.
But as you reached him, Giyuu stepped back. He didn't embrace you. He didn't even reach out. He placed a hand on your shoulder, not to pull you in, but to keep a distance between you.
"You should be resting," he said, his voice cold, distant. "Your recovery isn't complete."
The sudden rejection hit you like a physical blow. The smile vanished from your face. You looked at his hand on your shoulder—the distance he was intentionally maintaining—and something inside you snapped.
The frustration of the weeks of silence, the loneliness of the recovery room, and the cruelty of the other slayers' words all surged to the surface. Your vision blurred. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down your cheek. Then another.
You didn't sob, you just stood there, leaking tears, your shoulders shaking.
Giyuu froze. The moment he saw the tears, the mask of indifference shattered. His eyes widened, and he actually stumbled backward, his hands hovering in the air, completely lost.
"Why... why are you crying?" he asked, his voice cracking.
He looked around frantically, as if searching for a manual on how to handle a crying woman. He looked genuinely panicked, his composure evaporating in seconds.
"I thought you hated me," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I thought I was just... a tool. Or a burden."
"No," he gasped. He stepped forward, his hesitation vanishing. He grabbed your arm, not harshly this time, but with a desperate urgency. "No, that's not it. Come. We're going back to my quarters. We need to talk."
He didn't wait for an answer. He began pulling you along, his grip firm, leading you away from the prying eyes of the other slayers, who watched in absolute shock as the frozen Water Hashira practically dragged his Tsuguko away.
The door to his private room slid shut with a definitive click.
The silence returned, but this time it was different. It was heavy with things unsaid, a pressurized chamber of emotion. Giyuu didn't let go of your hand. He led you to the center of the room and finally stopped.
He wouldn't look at you. He stared at the tatami mat, his chest heaving.
"It's my fault," he said, his voice a low murmur.
You looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
Giyuu let out a long, shuddering sigh. The sound was jagged, breaking the oppressive quiet. He finally turned, meeting your eyes, and the vulnerability there was staggering. The stoic mask he wore for the world hadn't just slipped, it had shattered.
"I shouldn't have taken you as my Tsuguko," he whispered. His voice was a dry rasp, stripped of its usual composure. "I knew the risks. I knew the world we live in. I thought I could keep you at a distance... that I could teach you to survive without letting you... without letting myself..."
He stopped, his throat bobbing as he struggled to find the words. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
"Without letting yourself what?" you asked softly.
"Attach like this," he confessed. The words sounded as if they were being ripped from his throat, raw and bleeding. "When I saw you hurt in that fight... when I thought the demon had actually..."
He closed his eyes, a violent shudder passing through his frame. He looked less like a Hashira and more like a drowning man reaching for a surface he couldn't find.
"I was scared. I have never been so fucking scared in my entire life. I couldn't look at you because every time I did, I remembered the sight of your blood. I thought if I stayed away, the fear would go away. I thought if I pushed you back, I could protect you from the part of me that can't handle losing anyone else."
The admission hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. The distance he had meticulously built between you—the cold shoulder, the curt orders, the avoided glances—wasn't born of dislike, but of a terrified, suffocating love.
You stepped closer, closing the gap he had fought so hard to maintain. The heat radiating from him was a contrast to the cool evening breeze.
"I was scared too," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I was afraid of the demon. I was afraid of the pain."
You reached up, your fingers grazing his jaw before cupping his face. His skin was cool, but he leaned into your touch with a desperation that bordered on agony.
"But I was more afraid of leaving you. I was more afraid of a world where you didn't know I..."
Giyuu's breath hitched. The admission seemed to break the last remaining seal on his heart. His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. He didn't find any.
"Don't say things like that," he groaned, the words a low vibration against your palm.
He didn't move at first. He stayed frozen, his gaze dropping to your lips. You could see the war raging inside him—the instinct to protect you by pushing you away clashing with a starving, primal need to hold you. His chest heaved, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He looked like he wanted to run and scream and pull you into his skin all at once. His hand rose, hovering near your waist, fingers twitching, fighting the urge to grab you.
The tension between you became a living thing, thick and electric. You could hear the frantic thrum of his heart, a drumming rhythm that matched your own. The silence was no longer empty, it was filled with everything he had suppressed for months.
Giyuu lunged forward, his mouth crashing against yours.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision, a desperate, starving release of weeks of tension and fear. It tasted of salt and longing. Giyuu's hands found your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a strength that bordered on bruising, pulling you flush against him as if he were trying to merge your two bodies into one.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the dark, unruly silk of his hair. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more feral. Giyuu groaned into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated hunger. His tongue slid against yours in a rhythmic, demanding dance, tasting of peppermint and desperation. The sound of your mouths meeting was wet and sloppy, the exchange of saliva a frantic dialogue of need.
With a sudden, powerful movement, he pivoted, pushing you back until your shoulders hit the wooden wall with a soft thud. He didn't stop kissing you, he only pressed harder, his heavy frame pinning you in place. He felt like a mountain of muscle and heat, trapping you in the most delicious way possible.
The world outside the room ceased to exist. There were no demons, no Hashira, no duties. There was only the heat of his skin, the scent of cedar, and the desperate, heavy sound of synchronized breathing. His lips moved from your mouth to the sensitive curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. He sucked a patch of flesh near your collarbone, creating a loud, wet squelch as he drew your skin into his mouth, leaving a dark, blossoming mark that would be impossible to hide.
"Giyuu..." you gasped, your head falling back against the wall.
He didn't answer with words. His hand traveled upward, sliding under the fabric of your demon slayer uniform. His palm was hot, calloused from years of swordplay, as it brushed against the underside of your breast. You arched your back, a soft moan escaping your lips, your heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his chest.
He fumbled with the buttons of your uniform, his fingers shaking with a sudden, renewed urgency. Once the fabric parted, he cupped your breast, his thumb circling your nipple through the thin layer of your undergarment. You whimpered, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. Giyuu groaned, his breath hot against your skin, and he tugged the fabric down, exposing you to the cool air and his burning gaze.
He stared at your breast for a heartbeat, his eyes dark with lust. Then, he leaned in, his mouth enveloping your nipple. The sensation was overwhelming—the wet heat of his tongue swirling around the peak, the suction creating a rhythmic pull that made your toes curl. He sucked greedily, the sound of his mouth on your skin a wet, rhythmic shlicking that echoed in the quiet room. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his haori, as he alternated between sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud.
Giyuu shifted his weight, his thigh sliding between your legs, pressing firmly against your center. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock through the thick fabric of his trousers, pulsing against you. The friction was intoxicating. You wrapped your leg around his waist, pulling him deeper into the crook of your thighs, wanting more of that oppressive, wonderful weight.
His other hand slid down, gripping your backside and lifting you slightly, forcing your pelvis to grind against him. A low, guttural growl ripped from his throat, a sound of pure animal need. He returned to your lips, his kiss now more frantic, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth as if he were trying to consume you whole.
Suddenly, a voice drifted from the hallway, slicing through the haze of pleasure.
"Tomioka-san? Are you in there? I have the updated reports from the south village!"
The voice was unmistakable. Murata.
You froze, your eyes widening, the sudden shock snapping you back to reality. You tried to push Giyuu away, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"Giyuu—" you whispered, panic flaring. "Someone's here!"
The door slid open with a sharp clatter.
Murata stepped in, his expression helpful and bright, clutching a stack of papers. "I thought I heard someone—"
In a flash of movement, Giyuu shifted. His reflexes, honed by years of combat, were instantaneous. He didn't let go of you, but he pivoted his body, using his broad shoulders and the sweeping expanse of his oversized haori to completely shield you from view. He effectively pinned you against the wall, his back acting as a living curtain that blocked Murata's line of sight entirely.
Murata blinked, staring at Giyuu's back. The Water Hashira was standing in a strange, rigid posture, his breathing still noticeably ragged.
"Uh... Tomioka-san? Why are you standing like that? Is everything okay?"
Giyuu didn't turn around. He didn't even flinch. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, dangerous growl that sounded like a warning from a predator protecting its mate.
"Leave the reports on the floor," Giyuu commanded. "And get out."
Murata jumped, nearly dropping the papers in surprise. The sheer intensity of Giyuu's tone was enough to make anyone flee. "Right! Yes! Sorry! I'll just... I'll go now!"
The door slammed shut with a definitive thud.
Giyuu didn't move for a long moment. He remained there, shielding you, his chest heaving against your back. Slowly, he turned back to you.
The sight was chaotic. Your lips were swollen and reddened, your hair a wild nest of tangles, and the collar of your uniform was skewed and open, revealing the dark, purple hickey he had branded onto your collarbone. Your face was flushed a deep, burning crimson, your eyes wide and shimmering with a mix of adrenaline and lingering desire.
Giyuu looked at you, his gaze scanning the marks he had left. The usual coldness in his eyes was gone, replaced by a simmering heat and a strange, newfound softness. He didn't laugh—that wasn't his way—but a slow, rare smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. It was a look of possession, a silent acknowledgement that you belonged to him just as much as he belonged to you.
The smirk made your heart leap, a fresh wave of shyness washing over you. You looked down, unable to maintain eye contact with the intensity of his gaze.
"You're red," he noted, his voice returning to its low, calm drone, though it held a playful edge you had never heard before.
"Shut up," you muttered, though there was no heat in it.
Giyuu sighed, but it was a contented sound. He reached out, his fingers gentle as he began to fix your uniform. He carefully buttoned the fabric back up, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending small sparks through your nerves. He smoothed the collar over the mark on your neck, though he knew it wouldn't hide the evidence of his hunger.
As he finished, he paused, his hand lingering on your shoulder. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes finally, completely at peace. The storm had passed, leaving behind a profound, grounding stillness.
"I'm still pissed at Murata," he whispered, the smirk returning.
You let out a soft, breathless giggle, leaning into him. "I think he's just doing his job, Giyuu."
"His timing is abysmal," Giyuu replied, his voice dropping an octave.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you in a tight, protective embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He breathed you in—the scent of your skin mixed with the lingering aroma of his own cedar. For the first time in years, the void in his chest felt full. He didn't have to push you away to keep you safe; he just had to hold you close enough that the world couldn't tear you apart.
You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your ear.
The Water Estate had long been a monument to solitude, a place where the only sounds were the rhythmic drip of eaves and the distant murmur of the stream. But the silence had shifted. It was no longer a void, it was a shared breath. In the weeks following that desperate night against the wooden wall, the air between Giyuu and you had transformed from a frozen tundra into a simmering, quiet warmth.
The training continued, the clash of wooden swords still echoing through the courtyard, but the nature of the lessons had changed. Giyuu no longer stood as a distant mountain, unreachable and cold. He was closer now, his hand lingering on your shoulder to correct your stance, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered instructions. He had become a sentinel, his protectiveness bordering on the obsessive.
The shift had culminated in a rare, formal request to Oyakata-sama. Giyuu had knelt before the Master, his voice steady but infused with an underlying urgency that few had ever heard. He had asked that you, his Tsuguko, no longer be dispatched on solo missions. He argued that your growth required his direct supervision, but the truth lived in the way his heart hammered against his ribs whenever you left his sight. He could not stomach the thought of a world where he might return to an empty estate. Oyakata-sama, with his usual serene wisdom, had granted the request, recognizing the bond that now anchored the Water Hashira to the living world.
One evening, the scent of rain lingered in the air as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep indigos. You had spent the day in a haze of exhaustion, your muscles aching from a rigorous session of forms. You were drifting in that heavy, golden space between wakefulness and sleep, your head resting on a soft pillow, when the sliding door creaked open.
You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the sleep, and saw him. Giyuu stood in the doorway, his haori dusted with the grime of travel, his expression weary but softening the moment his eyes landed on you.
A smile bloomed across your face, effortless and bright. You pushed yourself up and walked toward him, your bare feet padding softly on the tatami mats. Without a word, you collided with him, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in the cool fabric of his uniform.
Giyuu let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his shoulders in one fluid motion. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him, his grip possessive and tight. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin—a mix of soap and the faint, metallic tang of training. He didn't speak, he didn't need to. The way he pressed his forehead against your collarbone told you everything.
Slowly, he shifted his weight, sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. He lifted you in a seamless bridal carry, your head lolling against his chest. You could hear the steady, thrumming beat of his heart, a rhythm that felt like home. He carried you back to the futon, laying you down with a tenderness that felt almost fragile, before sliding in beside you.
The room was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the shoji screens. You began to talk, your voice a sleepy murmur, recounting the small details of your day—the way a bird had perched on the training fence, the frustration of a missed strike, the quiet longing you had felt while he was away. Giyuu listened in his customary silence, but it was a living silence. He watched your lips move, his gaze tracing the curve of your jaw, his fingers lightly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead.
When you noticed he hadn't spoken for a long time, you shifted, looking up at him with a flicker of confusion.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice a low, velvet rasp.
"You're very quiet tonight," you whispered.
"I am always quiet," he replied, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
He paused, his eyes searching yours. He reached out, his calloused thumb grazing your cheek.
"Do you want a haori?" he asked softly.
The question caught you off guard. A haori was more than just a garment; it was a symbol of status, of identity, and in the context of your relationship, a mark of belonging. You nodded excitedly, a small gasp escaping you as you buried your face back into his chest, your heart racing. He held you close, his chin resting atop your head, and together you drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The following morning, the estate was filled with the scent of grilled fish and steamed rice. Giyuu sat across from you, his movements methodical and calm. As you ate, he spoke up, his tone matter-of-fact.
"Your uniform will be changed," he announced.
You paused, a piece of fish halfway to your mouth. "Changed? Why?"
"The current one is worn. I have already assigned someone to tailor a new set for you, along with the haori."
You beamed, the thought of a custom haori making your stomach flutter. But as the meal ended, you noticed him preparing his gear. A frown tugged at your lips.
"Do you have a mission?" you asked, your voice dropping.
"Yes," he replied. "A demon sighting in the northern peaks. I leave shortly."
You pouted, the expression instinctive. The thought of the estate returning to its oppressive silence while he was gone felt like a physical weight. You didn't want to be alone in the vastness of the Water Estate, counting the hours until his return.
Giyuu noticed the slump of your shoulders and the way you avoided his gaze. He stood up and walked toward you, his presence enveloping.
"You can stay at the Kocho estate while I am away," he suggested. "Shinobu will keep you occupied, and you will not be alone."
The pout vanished, replaced by a bright smile. You nodded vigorously, leaning into him. Before he stepped out into the morning air, Giyuu leaned down and planted a slow, lingering kiss on your forehead. It was a promise, a silent vow that he would return.
The Butterfly Mansion was a stark contrast to the Water Estate. Where Giyuu's home was a study in minimalism and silence, Shinobu's was a whirlwind of activity, smelling of medicinal herbs, wisteria, and the sharp tang of antiseptic. You spent the first few hours talking with Shinobu, the Insect Hashira listening to you with her perpetual, enigmatic smile.
"And Tomioka-san arranged this?" Shinobu asked, her voice tilting with amusement. "How very... attentive of him. I suspect he's become quite the doting master."
You flushed, glancing away. "He's just being helpful."
"Of course," Shinobu replied, her eyes twinkling.
As you helped her organize some vials, the topic of your new uniform came up. You looked at her, a sudden wave of anxiety hitting you.
"Shinobu-san, do you know who is working on my uniform?"
"I'm afraid I don't. Tomioka-san handled the arrangements privately," she answered.
You bit your lip, your expression clouded. You had heard stories about the tailor who worked on some of the more... unconventional uniforms. Specifically, the one Mitsuri Kanroji wore. The thought of a chest-baring uniform made you shiver.
"I just hope it's not the person who made Mitsuri's," you muttered.
Shinobu paused, her gaze landing on you. She knew exactly who you were talking about. She also knew Tomioka's temperament—his quiet, intense desire to keep you shielded and modest. The idea of Tomioka allowing someone to make you a revealing uniform was laughable.
"I think you can breathe easy on that front," Shinobu said, though she didn't elaborate.
Suddenly, the sliding door crashed open with a violence that nearly knocked over a tray of medicine.
"Is this where the flashy festivities are happening?!"
Tengen Uzui strode into the room, his presence filling the space instantly. He was a mountain of muscle and gold, his gemstones catching the light and his expression one of arrogant confidence. He stopped in front of you, leaning down so his face was mere inches from yours, his eyes scanning you with a playful, predatory curiosity.
"So, this is the little bird Tomioka has been hiding in his nest," Tengen declared, his voice booming.
You jumped back, your face heating up. "Uzui-san!"
"Don't be so modest!" Tengen laughed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He looked at Shinobu, then back to you, a smirk playing on his lips. "I've heard the rumors. The stoic, frozen Water Hashira has finally melted. Tell me, is he as boring in the bedroom as he is at the Hashira meetings, or does he actually have a flashy side when the doors are closed?"
"Uzui-san, please!" you squeaked, your face now a deep, burning crimson.
Shinobu sighed, though she didn't look particularly bothered. "Tengen, please try not to traumatize her. She's already stressed about her wardrobe."
Tengen let out a loud, boisterous laugh, leaning in closer to you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial stage-whisper. "Don't let him fool you with that 'I'm not liked' act. A man who guards his Tsuguko that fiercely is a man with a very specific kind of hunger. I can see it in the way you're blushing. You've been well-tended to, haven't you?"
You couldn't even find words to respond, your brain short-circuiting under the intensity of his teasing. For the next hour, Tengen remained in the estate, ostensibly to deliver a report to Shinobu, but mostly to poke fun at your relationship with Giyuu. He asked about the "secret looks" Giyuu gave you and teased you about the possessive way the Water Hashira clung to you.
When you finally returned to the Water Estate that evening, the house was dark. Giyuu had not yet returned from his mission. The silence felt heavier now, an empty space that longed for his presence. You climbed into the futon, the scent of cedar still clinging to the sheets, and fell into a fitful sleep.
In the middle of the night, a soft sound woke you. The sliding door opened, and a silhouette stepped into the moonlight. Giyuu.
He stood there for a moment, watching you sleep. A slight, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips—a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. He moved silently, shedding his haori and sliding into the futon beside you.
You stirred, rubbing your tired eyes as you felt the sudden shift in warmth. You looked up and saw him, his eyes dark and filled with a longing that made your breath hitch.
"Giyuu..." you whispered, your voice thick with sleep.
He didn't answer with words. He simply reached out and pulled you against him, burying your face in his chest. His heart was beating a steady, welcoming rhythm.
"It's okay," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your temple. "I'm here."
The next morning, however, the peace was short-lived. Giyuu had another mission—a follow-up to the first—and he had to leave almost immediately. But before he departed, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The tenderness of the night evolved into a starving, electric tension.
He pinned you against the futon, his body a heavy, burning weight atop yours. His hands found your waist, gripping you with a strength that bordered on bruising.
"I don't want to leave," he groaned, the words muffled against your skin.
He crashed his mouth against yours, and the kiss was not gentle. It was a collision of need. His tongue slid into your mouth, seeking yours in a rhythmic, demanding dance. You could taste the salt of his skin and the peppermint of his breath. The sound of your mouths meeting was wet and sloppy, the exchange of saliva a frantic dialogue of desire.
Giyuu's tongue pushed deeper, swirling against yours, sucking on your lower lip with a greedy intensity. You groaned, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer. He shifted, his thigh sliding between your legs, pressing the hard ridge of his cock through his trousers against your center. The friction was intoxicating, sending jolts of electricity through your core.
He broke the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. He found a sensitive spot just below your ear and sucked hard, creating a loud, wet squelch as he drew your skin into his mouth. You arched your back, a sharp moan escaping your lips, your toes curling against the sheets.
His hand slid under your uniform, his palm hot and calloused as it cupped your breast. He squeezed, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric, making you whimper. He tugged the garment down, exposing your breast to the cool morning air and his burning gaze.
Giyuu leaned in, his mouth enveloping your nipple. The sensation was overwhelming—the wet heat of his tongue swirling around the peak, the suction creating a rhythmic pull that made your vision blur. He sucked greedily, the sound of his mouth on your skin a rhythmic shlicking that echoed in the quiet room. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, as he alternated between sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud.
He moved back up to your lips, his kiss now more frantic, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth as if he were trying to consume you whole. He groaned into your mouth, a guttural sound of pure animal need, his body trembling with the effort of not taking you completely right then and there.
When he finally pulled away, he was breathing in short, ragged bursts, his eyes blown wide and dark with lust. He leaned in one last time, pressing a firm, possessive kiss to your lips.
"Wait for me," he whispered.
By the time you arrived at the Kocho estate an hour later, you were a walking disaster. Your face was the color of a ripe tomato, your hair was a wild nest, and your lips were visibly swollen and reddened from Giyuu's intensity.
As you stepped into the ward, Shinobu looked up from her notes. She blinked, her smile widening.
"My goodness," she said, her voice dripping with mock concern. "Did you run into a swarm of bees on your way here? Or perhaps a very aggressive demon?"
You nearly screamed, bringing a hand up to cover your mouth. "What... what happened to my lips?"
"They look quite swollen," Shinobu noted, standing up to examine you. "Are you okay? You look like you've been through a war."
"I'm fine!" you squeaked, though you were vibrating with embarrassment.
As if on cue, the door slid open, and Tengen Uzui stepped in, holding a stack of reports. He stopped dead, his gaze landing on your swollen lips and flushed face. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
"Well, well, well," Tengen purred, stepping closer. "Look at that. It seems Tomioka isn't as subtle as he thinks. Those are some very flashy lips you've got there. I didn't know the Water Hashira had it in him to be so... thorough."
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. Shinobu simply sighed and excused herself, leaving you alone with the flamboyant Hashira.
Tengen leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "So, tell me. Does he get like that often? Or did he just miss you that much? I bet he was practically clawing at you before he left, wasn't he?"
"I'm not talking about this with you!" you snapped, though there was no real heat in it.
Tengen laughed, the sound booming in the small room. He spent the next few minutes teasing you, his voice a constant stream of flamboyant commentary on your romantic life. As you both began to walk toward the garden, Tengen suddenly slowed his pace.
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. He saw a figure standing in the shadow of the estate's outer wall—Giyuu.
Giyuu had returned early from his briefing, and he was watching the two of you. His expression was a mask of cold, simmering jealousy. His eyes were fixed on Tengen, specifically on how close the Sound Hashira was standing to you.
Tengen noticed Giyuu's gaze and a mischievous glint entered his eyes. He decided to push the button.
"You know," Tengen said, leaning in close to you, his voice dropping to a whisper that he knew would carry. "I have a secret. A very flashy secret. Would you like to know it?"
You looked at him, confused. "What secret?"
Tengen didn't wait for a response. He leaned in, his mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin. He whispered something—completely nonsensical, likely just a joke about Giyuu's lack of friends—but the action was calculated. He did it while staring directly at Giyuu, a triumphant, mocking smile on his face.
The air suddenly turned frigid. The atmosphere shifted from playful to predatory in a heartbeat.
"Oh? You're here!" Tengen shouted, straightening up and waving.
You spun around and saw him. Giyuu was walking toward you, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. The coldness in his eyes was staggering, a frozen glare that could have turned the garden to ice. He didn't look at Tengen, his eyes were locked onto you, scanning your face, your lips, and then shifting to Tengen's position.
Giyuu stepped between the two of you, his broad shoulders effectively cutting Tengen out of your line of sight. He was like a wall of muscle and repressed rage.
Tengen started yapping, his voice loud and oblivious. "Ah, Tomioka! I was just telling your Tsuguko about a few flashy techniques! We were having a very productive conversation about—"
"Shut up," Giyuu interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
He didn't look at Tengen. He reached out, his hand gripping your wrist—not painfully, but with an absolute, unwavering firmness.
"I need my Tsuguko back at the estate," Giyuu commanded. "For practice."
Tengen paused, then let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the courtyard. He looked at Giyuu's rigid posture and the possessive grip on your arm.
"Practice, huh?" Tengen chuckled, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Sure, Tomioka. Whatever you say. Go on then, run along to your 'practice.' Just make sure she can still walk tomorrow!"
Giyuu didn't respond. He simply turned and began leading you away, his pace swift and his grip tight. You looked back at Tengen, who was still laughing, and then up at Giyuu's profile. His jaw was set, his eyes still cold, but you could feel the heat radiating from him.
As you crossed the threshold of the Water Estate and the door slammed shut behind you, Giyuu didn't let go. He spun you around, pinning you against the door with a sudden, violent intensity.
"Practice," you whispered, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.
Giyuu's gaze dropped to your mouth, his eyes darkening.
"Yes," he rasped, his voice thick with possession. "Practice."
The silence that followed was heavier than the rain that often plagued the estate. It wasn't the peaceful silence of their shared mornings; it was a predatory stillness, the kind that preceded a landslide. Giyuu’s gaze remained locked on your lips—those lips that Tengen had mocked, the ones Giyuu had swollen with his own desperation only hours before.
Slowly, deliberately, Giyuu reached for the knot of his haori. He never took his eyes off you. The mismatched fabric slid from his shoulders, pooling on the tatami mats like a discarded skin. Without the garment, the breadth of his shoulders seemed to expand, filling the narrow entryway and leaving you with nowhere to retreat.
His voice wasn't a shout. It was a low, velvet rasp, stripped of its usual indifference. It carried the weight of an order that brooked no hesitation.
Your knees trembled. The air in the room felt thick, charged with an electric tension that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. You stepped away from the door, your movements mechanical, and walked toward the futon. Every step felt like a descent into a beautiful, terrifying unknown. You knelt on the soft fabric, your breath hitching as you looked back at him.
Giyuu didn't rush. He walked toward you with a slow, predatory grace, his footsteps silent on the mats. The moonlight filtered through the shoji screens, casting long, jagged shadows across his face, carving his features into something stark and primal.
"Explain yourself," he said.
He stopped inches from you, his presence an overwhelming force. The scent of him—cold mountain air and the faint, metallic tang of a nichirin blade—swirled around you.
"I... I didn't..." you started, your voice cracking. You looked up at him, seeing the storm in his sapphire eyes. "He was just... talking, Giyuu. He was just being flashy. I didn't do anything."
Giyuu leaned down, his hand slamming into the futon beside your head. The impact jolted you. He didn't touch you yet, but the heat radiating from his body felt like a physical brand.
"He was whispering in your ear," Giyuu murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "He was touching you with his breath. You let him."
"I couldn't stop him!" you stammered, your hands clutching the sheets. "You know how Uzui-san is. He does it to provoke you, not me."
He shifted, his thigh sliding between yours, forcing your legs apart. The friction of his uniform against your skin sent a jolt of lightning straight to your core. You gasped, your head falling back against the pillow.
"We... we should be training," you whispered, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of order. "You said... practice."
Giyuu’s lips curved into a ghost of a smirk, though his eyes remained dark with a possessive hunger. He reached down, his calloused fingers gripping your chin and forcing you to look at him.
"We will train," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. Right now, there is a different kind of discipline required."
He moved with a suddenness that stole your breath, pushing you flat onto your back. He didn't kiss you—not yet. Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding his trousers down with a fluid motion. When he rose above you again, the sight of him, hard and pulsing in the dim light, made your stomach flip.
He didn't ask. He simply guided your head forward, his hand curling into the hair at the nape of your neck. It wasn't a violent grip, but it was absolute.
You obeyed, your heart racing as you leaned in. The first touch of your lips against him was an electric shock. He tasted of salt and heat. As you took him into your mouth, Giyuu let out a long, shuddering groan that vibrated through your entire skull. He remained nonchalant in expression, his face a mask of stoicism, but the way his fingers tightened in your hair betrayed him.
The sounds of the room shifted. The rhythmic, wet slides of your mouth against him filled the silence, a sloppy, desperate dialogue. Giyuu’s hips began to twitch, a subconscious reaction to the suction. He let out a low, guttural sound—not a moan, but a growl of approval. He pushed deeper, his movements becoming more demanding, guiding you to the limit of your endurance.
When he finally pulled away, he was breathing in ragged bursts. He didn't give you time to recover. He shifted, his body sliding over yours, pinning you beneath him.
"You're shaking," he observed, his voice a low vibration.
Giyuu paused. The realization hit him—the purity of the territory he was about to claim. His expression softened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of the tenderness he usually reserved for the quietest hours of the night. But the image of Tengen’s lips near your ear flashed in his mind, and the softness vanished, replaced by a simmering need to mark you as his.
He slid his hand beneath the hem of your uniform, his palm hot against your thigh. He moved upward, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you whimper. When he reached the center of your heat, he found you already drenched, your body betraying your nervousness with a desperate longing.
"So wet for me," he whispered.
He pressed a single finger inside you. You gasped, your back arching off the futon. The sensation was overwhelming—a sharp, invading pressure that felt like it was splitting you open. You were a virgin, and the sudden fullness made your eyes water.
"Giyuu... it hurts," you whimpered.
He froze instantly. He didn't pull out, but he stopped moving. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You opened your eyes, seeing the raw intensity in his gaze.
"Breathe," he whispered. "Just breathe with me."
He waited. He stayed perfectly still, allowing your muscles to relax, allowing the initial shock to fade into a dull throb. Once your breathing steadied, he began to move. It wasn't a fast motion; it was a slow, agonizingly deliberate slide. He added a second finger, stretching you, his calloused skin creating a friction that began to turn the pain into a searing, liquid heat.
He began to curl his fingers, seeking the small, sensitive knot of nerves at the entrance. When he found it, he flicked it with a precision that made you scream. The sound was muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him, your nails digging into the muscle of his back.
"Do you like this?" he rasped, his voice thick.
"Yes... please... Giyuu, please..."
"I don't know! Just... more!"
He didn't need to be told twice. His fingers became a blur of motion, diving deep into you, mimicking the act of penetration. He was relentless, his thumb grinding against your clitoris while his fingers hammered against your walls. You were lost in a storm of sensation, your vision blurring, your breath coming in short, sharp sobs.
Just as you reached the precipice, just as the first wave of a climax began to crash over you, he withdrew.
You let out a cry of frustration and longing, your hips twitching upward, searching for the touch he had stolen.
"Not yet," Giyuu whispered.
He positioned himself between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against your opening. He entered you with an agonizing slowness. He was careful, his jaw set in a hard line as he felt the resistance of your hymen. He stopped every few inches, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids, whispering promises of devotion that sounded more like claims of ownership.
When he was finally buried deep within you, you both froze. The fullness was staggering, a pressure that filled every void in your existence. You whimpered, your eyes closing tight.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, though he didn't move. "I'm sorry, my love."
He waited for the ache to subside, his heart hammering against your chest. Then, he began to move. The first few thrusts were shallow, cautious, almost tentative. He watched your face, searching for any sign of genuine pain. But as the friction built, as the natural lubrication of your body eased his passage, your whimpers changed.
The pain dissolved into a heavy, throbbing pleasure. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him to forget the caution.
"Harder," you begged, your voice a broken whisper. "Giyuu, please, harder."
The request snapped the last thread of his restraint. The cautious lover vanished, replaced by the possessive Hashira. He gripped your hips, his fingers bruising your skin, and slammed into you with a sudden, violent intensity.
The sound of their bodies meeting—a wet, rhythmic slapping—filled the room. Giyuu was no longer holding back. He drove into you with a primal hunger, each thrust designed to leave an indelible mark on your soul. He wasn't just taking your body; he was erasing every other presence from your mind, replacing every memory of the day with the sensation of him.
"You are mine," he groaned, the words muffled against your neck. "Only mine. Do you understand?"
You were sobbing now, the pleasure too intense to bear. Every time he hit your cervix, a jolt of electricity shot through your spine, making your toes curl and your head thrash against the pillow. Giyuu’s pace became frantic, his breathing a series of guttural grunts. He was lost in you, his eyes blown wide, the sapphire depths turned to a dark, stormy void.
When the climax hit, it was like a supernova. You screamed his name, your internal muscles clamping around him in a series of violent spasms. Giyuu let out a loud, raw roar, his body stiffening as he spilled himself deep inside you, filling you with a warmth that felt like a seal of ownership.
He collapsed onto you, his weight heavy and comforting. For a long time, the only sound was the synchronized thrumming of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again. You felt drained, your limbs like lead, your eyes fluttering shut as a deep, heavy exhaustion washed over you.
You were drifting, slipping into a dreamless sleep, when you felt something.
A sudden, wet warmth between your thighs.
Your eyes snapped open. Giyuu had shifted. He was kneeling between your legs, his head lowered. The sensation was electric—the flick of a tongue, the suction of lips. He was eating you, his tongue swirling around your clitoris with a hunger that seemed impossible after such a bout of exertion.
"Giyuu... no," you moaned, your voice weak. "I'm... I'm too tired... please..."
He didn't stop. In fact, he became more aggressive. He gripped your thighs, manhandling them wider, pinning them against the futon so you couldn't escape. He drank from you, his tongue probing deep into your folds, tasting the mixture of his own seed and your arousal.
"I can't stop," he muttered against your skin, his voice distorted. "I can still see him on you. I have to get rid of it."
The sheer possessiveness of the statement sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, despite your fatigue. You arched your back, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer even as you begged him to stop. He ignored your pleas, his tongue working with a rhythmic, relentless intensity that pushed you toward another peak.
Just as you began to tremble, he pulled away. He didn't give you a second to breathe before he rose over you again. He was hard once more, his eyes flashing with an unquenchable fire.
He slammed into you, the impact jarring your entire frame. This second round was different—it was rougher, faster, devoid of the tenderness from before. He treated you like a conquest, his movements jagged and demanding.
You were no longer the virgin he had carefully navigated, you were his partner, his Tsuguko, his obsession. He fucked the breath out of you, his body a piston of muscle and heat. You could only moan, your voice reduced to a series of broken whimpers as he drove you further and further into the mattress.
The world narrowed down to the point of contact—the wet, sliding friction and the sound of his ragged breath in your ear.
When he finally finished for the second time, he didn't immediately pull away. He stayed inside you, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. But as he began to withdraw, he didn't stop there.
He slid two fingers back into you.
You let out a sharp, startled cry, your body shaking. You were overstimulated, your nerves raw and screaming.
"Giyuu, stop... please, it's too much," you begged, your voice trembling.
He didn't stop. He began to finger you again, but this time, he was searching for something. He pushed deep, his fingers stretching you, twisting slightly. You were sobbing, your head shaking from side to side, your body vibrating with a mixture of pleasure and exhaustion.
"Look at me," he whispered.
You opened your eyes, seeing the absolute devotion and madness in his gaze.
"You're shaking," he noted, his voice almost tender, yet his fingers remained relentless. "You're so sensitive now."
He increased the speed, his fingers blurring. You were on the edge, a thin line between ecstasy and agony. You begged him to stop, your voice a frantic whisper, but the more you begged, the more he pushed. He wanted you broken, wanted you completely undone, wanted you to know that there was no part of you that didn't belong to him.
As you finally shattered, your body convulsing in a powerful, toe-curling orgasm, Giyuu didn't let the moment fade. At the very peak of your release, he replaced his fingers with his cock.
He slammed into you one last time, the transition so seamless and sudden that it felt like a physical explosion. You screamed, a long, loud sound that echoed through the empty estate, your body clamping around him in a final, desperate grip.
Giyuu groaned, his voice a guttural sound of victory. He hammered into you a few more times, his movements frantic, before he finally collapsed against you, his seed flooding you for the third time.
The silence returned to the Water Estate, but it was no longer hollow. It was full—filled with the scent of sex, the sound of labored breathing, and the heavy, oppressive weight of a love that bordered on obsession.
Giyuu rolled to the side, pulling you flush against his chest. He wrapped his arm around you, his grip still possessive, even in his exhaustion. He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering on your skin.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, his voice finally returning to its usual quietude, though a hint of the predator remained. "We will train."
You didn't answer. You couldn't. You simply closed your eyes, drifting off to sleep in the arms of the man who had claimed every inch of you, knowing that you would never be alone in the silence again.
The first light of dawn filtered through the thin shoji screens, casting a pale, milky glow across the tatami mats of the Water Estate. It was a cold light, one that clung to the corners of the room and highlighted the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air. Giyuu lay motionless, his arm draped heavily across your waist, pinning you to the futon. He had been awake for an hour.
He did not move, fearing that any sudden shift would break the spell of the moment. His sapphire eyes, usually as flat and impenetrable as a frozen lake, were wide and focused. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of your shoulders, the way your breath hitched in the deep currents of sleep. He felt a tightening in his chest, a pressure that had nothing to do with the restrictive training of the Breath of Water and everything to do with the woman trembling slightly in his hold.
His gaze drifted lower, tracing the map of his own desperation written across your skin. Deep, plum-colored bruises blossomed across the curve of your shoulder and the column of your throat. He had been relentless. The memory of your screams, the way your nails had carved crescent moons into his back, and the guttural roar he had let out when he finally claimed you, pulsed in his mind like a second heartbeat. He remembered the smell of you—salt, sweat, and the metallic tang of arousal—and the way your body had clamped around him, desperate and undone.
You shifted, a soft moan escaping your lips as you began to surface from the depths of exhaustion. Your eyelids fluttered, the long lashes casting jagged shadows on your cheeks. When your eyes finally opened, they were hazy, unfocused, and brimming with a vulnerability that made Giyuu’s grip tighten instinctively.
"Giyuu," you whispered, your voice a raspy ghost of itself.
He didn't answer immediately. He simply watched you, his expression a mask of stoicism, though his pupils were blown wide. He leaned in, his nose brushing against your temple. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of his own seed still clinging to your skin, mixed with the natural sweetness of your warmth.
The words were short, clipped, but they carried a weight of possessiveness that made your stomach flip. You tried to sit up, but a sharp jolt of soreness shot through your hips, making you gasp and sink back into the pillow.
Giyuu’s eyes darkened. He shifted his weight, sliding his hand down to the junction of your thighs. He felt the dampness there, the sticky residue of their third encounter. He let out a low, humming sound in his throat, a vibration that you felt deep in your marrow.
"It hurts," you murmured, though there was no real complaint in your voice.
"It will fade," he replied.
He didn't move his hand. Instead, he began to trace the edge of your heat, his fingers grazing the swollen folds of your pussy. You arched your back, a small, broken sound escaping you. The sensitivity was staggering, every touch felt like a lightning strike.
"Giyuu, please," you breathed, not sure if you were asking him to stop or to continue.
He knew. He always knew. He slid his hand further, his fingers dipping into the slick, warm channel he had spent the previous night expanding. He felt the way your internal muscles leaped to greet him, the desperate, rhythmic pulsing of your walls. He didn't use a finger; he shifted his body, his leg sliding between yours to force them wide.
He was already hard. The sight of him, thick and pulsing against your thigh, sent a surge of heat straight to your core. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't whisper sweet nothings. He simply gripped your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and pushed.
The entry was a wet, squelching sound that filled the quiet room. You screamed into the crook of his neck, your body shaking as he filled you once more. Because you were already stretched, the friction was different—more intense, more raw. Every slide of his cock against your walls felt like it was scraping against your very soul.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You opened your eyes, seeing the raw, predatory hunger in his gaze. He began to move, his thrusts slow and agonizingly deep. He wanted you to feel every ridge, every pulse of his vein against your cervix. The sound of their bodies meeting—the slapping of skin on skin, the wet shlicking of lubricant and seed—echoed through the hollow halls of the estate.
"You're so tight," he groaned, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "Even after everything, you still grip me like you're afraid I'll leave."
"I am," you sobbed, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. "Don't... don't stop."
He accelerated. The rhythm became frantic, a desperate collision of flesh and need. He hammered into you, his balls slapping against your perineum with a rhythmic thud. He wasn't gentle, he treated you like a conquest, his movements jagged and demanding. He watched your face, the way your eyes rolled back and your mouth hung open in a silent plea for release.
He reached down, his thumb finding your clitoris, grinding against the engorged nub with a precision that made you shatter. You let out a long, piercing cry, your internal muscles clamping around him in a series of violent spasms. Giyuu let out a raw roar, his body stiffening as he spilled himself deep inside you for the fourth time, the warmth of his release flooding your womb.
He collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the synchronized thrumming of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again.
Eventually, Giyuu withdrew. The sound of him sliding out of you was a wet, suctioning pop that left you feeling suddenly cold and empty. He rolled to the side, his eyes returning to their usual calm, though the possessive glint remained.
He stood up, his movements fluid and silent. He didn't look back as he walked across the room, his naked form a testament to the grueling training of a Hashira—lean muscle, scarred skin, and an aura of absolute authority. You watched him, your limbs feeling like lead, your mind floating in a haze of afterglow.
Giyuu reached for a lacquer chest in the corner of the room. He retrieved two bundles of fabric, carefully folded and smelling of fresh dye and cedar. He walked back to the futon and knelt beside you.
He held out a haori. It wasn't the mismatched pattern he wore, nor was it the dull colors of the standard corps attire. It was a deep, vibrant red—the color of a setting sun, the color of fresh blood, the color of a passion that burned too hot to be contained.
You stared at the fabric, your breath catching.
"And this," he added, handing you a new demon slayer uniform. It was tailored perfectly to your measurements, the black fabric crisp and smelling of newness.
You reached out, your fingers trembling as you touched the red silk. You looked up at him, a small, genuine smile breaking through your exhaustion.
"Thank you, Giyuu. It's beautiful."
He didn't smile back, but the tension in his jaw relaxed. He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead.
"It suits you," he murmured. "The red. It marks you."
You knew what he meant. He didn't want you to blend into the background. He wanted the world to see you, and he wanted them to know exactly who you belonged to.
"I have to get dressed," you whispered. "We're supposed to train today."
Giyuu’s expression shifted. A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, though his eyes remained dark.
"We will train," he said. "But not yet. You can barely stand."
"I can stand," you protested, attempting to push yourself up.
A sharp wince crossed your face as your sore muscles protested. Giyuu caught you by the waist, pulling you back down with a sudden, firm motion.
"You cannot," he corrected. "Rest. I will bring you tea."
He left the room, his footsteps fading into the distance. You lay there for a moment, clutching the red haori to your chest. The fabric felt warm, almost as if it held the heat of his touch. You felt a sense of belonging that you had never known before—a terrifying, consuming kind of love that stripped you bare and rebuilt you in his image.
By the time Giyuu returned with a tray of steaming tea and simple rice cakes, you had managed to dress. The uniform fit like a second skin, and the red haori draped over your shoulders like a royal mantle. You felt a surge of confidence as you looked at your reflection in the small mirror by the door. The hickeys were still there, stark and vivid against your pale skin, but you didn't try to hide them. They were his marks.
As you stepped out onto the engawa, the morning air hit you with a refreshing chill. The Water Estate was quiet, the only sound the distant trickle of a bamboo water fountain. But the silence was broken as a loud, abrasive voice echoed from the front gates.
"Tomioka! You lazy bastard! I know you're in there!"
You stiffened. You recognized that voice. Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira, was not known for his patience or his subtlety.
Giyuu didn't flinch. He stood beside you, his presence a grounding force. He didn't say a word as Sanemi stormed into the courtyard, his white haori fluttering behind him like a storm cloud. Sanemi’s eyes were wide and manic, his face a map of scars and aggression.
He stopped dead when he saw you. His gaze traveled from your face, down to the vibrant red haori, and then lingered on the dark bruises marking your neck.
Sanemi’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at Giyuu, then back at you, his expression shifting from irritation to genuine confusion.
"What the hell is this?" Sanemi barked, pointing a scarred finger at your haori. "Since when do you give out fancy clothes, Tomioka? And what happened to her neck? Did a demon get a hold of her while you were napping?"
Giyuu’s expression remained flat. He stepped slightly in front of you, a subtle movement that signaled a boundary.
"She is my Tsuguko," Giyuu replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "And she is under my protection."
Sanemi let out a harsh, barking laugh. He stepped closer, his aura radiating a violent energy that made the air vibrate.
"Protection? Is that what you call it? She looks like she's been chewed up and spit out," Sanemi sneered. He looked at you, his eyes narrowing. "Hey, girl. You alright? Or has the Water Hashira finally lost his mind and started treating his students like chew toys?"
You felt a flush of heat creep up your neck. You looked at Giyuu, seeing the way his jaw tightened.
"I am fine, Shinazugawa-san," you replied, your voice steady. "The haori was a gift. I appreciate it."
Sanemi scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at Giyuu with a mixture of disdain and a strange, begrudging curiosity.
"A gift, huh? You're getting soft, Tomioka. I never thought I'd see the day you actually cared enough about someone to buy them a piece of cloth. What's next? A poem? A bouquet of flowers?"
Giyuu didn't take the bait. He didn't even blink.
"The training session is scheduled for noon," Giyuu said, effectively ending the conversation. "You are early."
"I'm not early, you're just slow!" Sanemi yelled, though the edge of his anger seemed to have dulled into a sort of bewildered annoyance. He glanced at you one last time, his eyes lingering on the red fabric. "Red, huh? Flashy. Uzui would probably love it. Just don't let that color get too stained with blood, kid. It's a pain to wash out."
With a final, disgruntled huff, Sanemi turned on his heel and marched toward the training grounds, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.
As he disappeared from view, the silence returned to the estate. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"He's... intense," you whispered.
"He is a storm," Giyuu replied. "Storms are loud, but they eventually pass."
You looked up at him, noticing the way the sunlight caught the blue of his eyes. For the first time, you saw a flicker of something other than stoicism. There was a quiet pride there, a satisfaction in the way Sanemi had reacted to your appearance.
"Do you like that he noticed?" you asked.
Giyuu looked away, but not before you saw the slight curve of his lips.
"I like that he knows," he murmured.
He reached out, his hand sliding around the back of your neck, his fingers grazing the hickeys he had left. He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours.
You closed your eyes, leaning into his warmth. The soreness in your body was still there, a lingering reminder of the night's intensity, but it no longer felt like pain. It felt like a map—a guide leading you back to the only person who truly saw you.
The morning continued in a slow, languid rhythm. Giyuu led you back inside, insisting that you eat a full breakfast before any thought of training entered your mind. He moved with a quiet efficiency, preparing a meal of grilled salmon and miso soup. You watched him, admiring the way he navigated the kitchen, his movements precise and controlled.
As you ate, the conversation remained sparse, but the silence was no longer heavy. It was a shared space, a sanctuary they had built out of broken pieces and desperate needs.
"Finish your meal. Sanemi will not be patient for long, and if you perform poorly in training, he will never let me hear the end of it."
You laughed, a bright, clear sound that seemed to light up the dim room.
"Are you worried about your reputation, Giyuu?"
He stood up, clearing the plates with a swift motion. He stopped beside you, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your temple.
"My reputation is irrelevant," he whispered. "Only your progress matters."
The walk to the training grounds was a slow process. Your legs still felt like jelly, and every step was a reminder of the way Giyuu had claimed you. But as you walked, you felt a strange sense of power. You weren't just a student, you weren't just a Tsuguko. You were the center of Giyuu Tomioka's world, the only person allowed behind the wall of ice.
When you arrived at the training field, Sanemi was already there, swinging his sword in a blur of violent motion. Each strike created a miniature whirlwind, the air whistling with the force of his attacks. He stopped the moment he saw you, his eyes immediately darting to the red haori.
"Finally! I thought you'd decided to take a nap in the middle of the courtyard!" Sanemi yelled.
Giyuu stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his nichirin blade.
"Begin the sparring," Giyuu commanded.
The training was brutal. Sanemi did not hold back, his attacks fast and unpredictable. He pushed you to your limits, forcing you to dodge and weave through the chaos of his Wind Breathing. You struggled at first, your body still recovering from the night's exertion, but the red haori seemed to lend you a strength you didn't know you possessed.
Every time you stumbled, you felt Giyuu's gaze on you. He didn't offer words of encouragement, he didn't shout instructions. He simply watched, his presence a silent anchor in the storm.
At one point, Sanemi lunged forward, his blade a streak of silver. You reacted instinctively, sliding beneath his guard and delivering a sharp strike to his ribs. The impact wasn't enough to injure him, but it was enough to surprise him.
Sanemi leaped back, a wide, manic grin spreading across his face.
"Not bad, kid! You've actually got some bite to you! Maybe Tomioka hasn't spent all his time keeping you in bed!"
You flushed crimson, the color matching your haori. You glanced at Giyuu, who remained expressionless, though you noticed the way his fingers tightened on his sword.
"Focus, Sanemi," Giyuu said coldly. "Your footwork is sloppy."
"My footwork is fine, you arrogant prick!" Sanemi roared, launching himself at Giyuu.
The two Hashira collided in a clash of steel and elements. The courtyard became a battlefield of crashing waves and howling winds. The sound of their blades meeting was like thunder, the shockwaves rippling through the air and kicking up clouds of dust.
You stood back, watching them. You saw the way Giyuu moved—fluid, effortless, and precise. He was the ocean, absorbing Sanemi's aggression and redirecting it with a lethal grace. But there was a difference in Giyuu's fighting style today. He was more aggressive, more decisive. He fought with a renewed sense of purpose, as if he were proving something.
As the spar ended, both men were breathing hard, their uniforms dampened with sweat. Sanemi let out a loud, booming laugh, sheathing his sword with a sharp click.
"Fine! You win this round, Tomioka! But don't think I'm going easy on the girl next time!"
He turned to you and gave a mock salute.
"Keep wearing that red, kid. It makes it easier to see where you're failing!"
With that, Sanemi stormed off, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
Giyuu walked toward you, his chest heaving. He stopped inches away, the scent of ozone and salt clinging to him. He didn't say anything at first; he simply reached out and adjusted the collar of your haori, his fingers lingering on the skin of your neck.
"I felt like I was dying for a few minutes there," you admitted, leaning into him.
"That is how you grow," he replied.
He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his side. As you walked back toward the Water Estate, the sun high in the sky, you felt a profound sense of peace.
The world outside the estate was filled with demons, blood, and the constant threat of death. The Corps was a place of sacrifice and sorrow. But within the walls of the Water Estate, in the quiet moments between the storms, there was something else.
There was a love that was as deep and crushing as the ocean, a passion that burned like a red flame, and a devotion that defied the silence of the world.
As you entered the house, Giyuu stopped you in the hallway. He turned you around, pinning you against the wooden wall. His eyes were dark again, the predatory hunger returning.
"The training is over," he whispered, his voice a low vibration.
"Is it?" you asked, a playful smile touching your lips.
"For the day," he murmured, his hand sliding down to the hem of your uniform. "But I believe we have some unfinished business from this morning."
a/n: first post on this account ><
