#whippedspread

[whippedspread]

𝔽𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖 𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕕... ༝༚ ─ ·ঔঌ· ─ ༚༝

Synopsis: You're so tired of the Swordsmith Village. You're tired of the swords, the forging, the springs, and especially the Demon Slayers. You resented them. However, when Rengoku Kyojuro shows up and starts a conversation, asking you to travel with him, can you resent him too? Word Count: 14k (rounded up) Info: 18+ MDNI; fem!reader; slow burn; yearning; smut; talkative/dirty talk Rengoku; fingering; rough; gentle; overstim; slight edging; begging Rengoku; etc. A/N: don't beat me up, I ended up getting lazier around the end...

༝༚ ─ ·ঔঌ· ─ ༚༝

It was so cold.

Not the sharp, biting kind. No, this cold seemed to linger. It crept into bone and settled there, rebellious and unyielding. Strong enough to kill, maybe, if you weren’t careful.

Winter in Swordsmith Village was always like this.

Steam drifted lazily from hidden bathhouses tucked between buildings, rising in pale ribbons that blurred into the grey sky. Snow lay untouched along rooftops and mountain slopes, settling softly over the world as though trying to disguise it from Demons. Even the air felt different in winter. Quieter. More still (though cold wind would probably be horrible). Each breath you exhaled dissolved before you, a ghost of the warmth that vanished.

It was beautiful, in its own way.

You stood outside your father’s workshop, the wooden doors shut tight behind you. From within came the steady rhythm of hammer against steel, annoyingly relentless. Even through wood and stone, the sound carried. He worked as though forging was his entire world, and everything beyond it—his wife, his daughter–faded into the background.

Per usual.

You pressed your mittened hands together, rubbing them as if the friction alone might coax warmth back into your fingers. It didn’t. The cold slipped easily through wool, unimpressed by your effort.

There weren’t many women in Swordsmith Village. Your mother had followed love here, trading softer (and much warmer) landscapes for the clang of metal and the scent of smoke. She always said she had no regrets.

You weren’t exactly sure you 100% believed her.

Snow gathered around your boots as you waited. And waited. And waited.

You were supposed to deliver the sword today. A job of your father's, which he passed on to you today. He had barely lifted his gaze that morning when he placed it into your arms, already speaking proudly of its perfection. “One of his finest works”, he says. If he had looked a moment longer, he might have noticed the way your knees nearly gave beneath its weight.

More like one of his heaviest works.

You had wanted to protest. To insist that he greet the client himself. To remind him that you were not another apprentice awaiting instruction. But gosh, the words were stuck.

He had sounded almost boyish in his excitement, eyes bright as though he truly believed you would share the same joy. Which really sucked, because you didn’t.

You hated it. The constant forging, journeys, and waiting. He wasn’t a Demon Slayer. He didn’t carry a blade for himself. What if a Demon found him on the road? What if he never returned?

Sigh. This wasn’t the time to think like that.

You shifted your weight, shaking off the snow from your boots before it swallowed them whole. Burying half your face within your scarf, you carved a small frown into the snow with the toe of your foot, then quickly scuffed it away, feeling embarrassed at the childish act.

How long had you been standing here?

The village lay still, broken only by the slow fall of snow. The sword rested against a nearby crate—and you had deliberately left it there. The red and yellow tsuba stood out against the white of the snow, bright and defiant.

Ughhhh, it was so freaking cold–

“Hello.”

You nearly leapt out of your skin, looking up quickly. There wasn’t even a crunch of snow to signal anyone's presence. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if the air had grown warmer. Or perhaps the warmth came from your face, because jumping in front of a stranger isn’t exactly something you pride yourself on.

He stood before you like a burst of flame against the snow. The man’s smile was bright—impossibly so—and it seemed more suited for summer rather than winter. It wasn’t polite, nor restrained, but earnest as though he was genuinely pleased to be standing there. His arms were crossed confidently over his chest, posture straight, shoulders broad. He wasn’t merely tall. No, he was solid too, built like someone who carefully crafted his own strength.

For a moment, you simply stared.

How could you not? His hair, which was bold and untamed, burned gold with streaks of red at the tips, and his eyes were no less striking. Heck, he was handsome, too.

And his outfit— Ah. A Demon Slayer. You, of course, would recognise that uniform anywhere. The dark fabric, the white belt, the air of discipline that clung to it. As if to confirm your realisation, he spoke.

“I’m here for my sword!” His voice was strong. Clear. It carried easily through the cold air, almost startling in its cheerfulness. His words came out more as a declaration than a demand.

You blinked. “It’s… uh… right there,” you murmured, lifting your mittened hand to point toward the blade resting against the crate.

His gaze followed your gesture. Those flame-bright eyes settled on the sheathed weapon. How polite it sat there, with its white scabbard and gold tip. Waiting for him to grab it and leave. Yet, he didn’t grab it. The strange man didn’t even move, actually. Instead, one brow lifted, obviously curious.

“Why is it over there?”

Uh… How exactly were you meant to answer that? It wasn’t as though you could confess the truth. ‘I didn’t feel like holding it, and I never wanted to be waiting in the first place.’ Oh yes, a wonderful first impression. Especially since he looked like the kind of man who could be terrifying if he wished to be.

Ugh. No. That would be absurd. He seemed… kind. More-so.

You buried your face deeper into your scarf, hoping the wool concealed the small blush in your cheeks. “Well,” you muttered at last, avoiding his eyes, “it’s heavy.”

He actually laughed. Not mockingly; not at all. It was as though your answer purely amused him. Without hesitation, he stepped past you toward the waiting blade, snow crunching beneath his boots. He lifted the sword from the crate as though it weighed nothing at all.

You followed him. You weren’t sure why. Perhaps because he moved with such a certainty that standing still felt wrong.

“You’re not accustomed to handling swords,” he observed. It wasn’t a question. Of course it wasn’t. Was it that obvious? He spoke while drawing the blade from its sheath, and the metal slid free with a clean, ringing whisper. Red and black metal shimmered beneath the winter light, his name etched carefully along the steel.

Rengoku Kyojuro.

The letters gleamed as though proud of themselves.

He noticed your stare. With a small, approving nod, he drew the blade fully free, angling it just enough for you to see the craftsmanship clearly. “You appear to be near my age,” he continued, as if this were the most casual conversation ever. “Yet I don’t recall seeing you before.”

“My father’s workshop is some distance from our home. I’m usually helping my mother with the bathhouse. Herbs. Preparation. Stuff like that.”

With a soft click, the blade disappeared back into its sheath. His eyes met yours again, and this time, you were certain—the sudden warmth that surrounded the area was emitting from him. 

“Then perhaps we may call this fate.”

He said it so carelessly. Lightheartedly. Yet, for you, the word settled strangely in your stomach. Fate? “Thank you for the sword,” he added, sincerely, dipping his head.

For the first time in your life, you found yourself wanting to sit down and speak with a Demon Slayer. It wasn’t out of obligation, nor out of fear, but curiosity. But once again, words seemed to fail you.

So, instead, you watched him turn. Watched the red at the tips of his hair disappear against the pale sweep of snow. And then he was gone.

Only white remained.

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

“Wash the hot springs. We’re opening soon.”

Your mother’s voice was gentle but unmistakably firm, causing you to groan as you dragged your feet toward the bathhouse. Of all the tasks she could have given you, she just had to choose the most dreadful one.

It had been two days since you delivered the sword.

You might have forgotten the precise shape of his smile. But you had not forgotten his last sentence to you. Nor did you forget his voice every time you imagined it. Fate. You scoffed quietly as you crouched to fill a wooden bucket with warm water. Steam curled around your fingers, the heat clashing almost painfully with the lingering chill in your skin.

Fate.

It had only been a polite conversation. So why did it make such an impact on you?

You had never been the sort to entertain foolish notions. You had laughed at stories of love at first sight. Called them dramatic. Unrealistic, even. And yet… For reasons you could not name, Rengoku Kyojuro refused to leave your mind.

Were you going mad?

The bucket overflowed before you realised it, nearly burning your fingers clean off. Your mother stepped into the room, handing you a sponge with quiet efficiency, noticing your preoccupied state. “Are you well?” she asked softly. “You seem distracted lately.”

She had always been gentle. It was no wonder your father had fallen for her so completely (well, when he isn’t married to his smithing).

Aloud, you sighed. “I was just wondering why we live in a frozen village instead of somewhere warm. Somewhere beautiful like a meadow.”

Your mother smiled at that. “A meadow may be beautiful,” she said, “but it is not nearly as exciting as this place. Here, you see things you would never see elsewhere, don’t you think?” You gave her a sceptical look, which only earned you a playful push against the shoulder. “Patience, my child. Something exciting may be waiting for you.”

“Now,” she added lightly, “hurry with the cleaning. Time and money don’t wait.”

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

You would rather carry a dozen freshly forged blades than scrub another stone tile.

The bathhouse had opened more than two hours ago, and still you weren’t finished. It contained four springs in total—two for men, two for women. You had managed to finish cleaning three and were now experiencing the unfortunate task of cleaning the second men’s bath. Steam hung thick in the air. You had removed your heavier layers, sleeves pushed up as humidity clung to your skin. Compared to this? The winter outside felt like another world entirely.

On your hands and knees, sponge in hand, you scrubbed the smooth stone floor until your arms ached.

At least no one was here, you had just been thinking, especially when you almost slipped. Or so you believed.

“This must be the bathhouse you mentioned!” The voice was unmistakable. After all, you may have forgotten his face, but you still hadn’t gotten to the forgetting-the-voice part. “We meet again!”

Your heart might as well have stopped. Of all the times. Of all the places. Slowly, very—very—slowly, you lifted your head. And there he stood. Or sat? It’s hard to tell when you’re in scrubbing position, and he’s in the water.

Rengoku.

Steam surrounded him, but it didn’t hide much. Even in the humidity, even without the snow to contrast him, he seemed to stand out. Everything you aren’t used to. You see him, leaning forward against the stone edge of the bath, skin dripping and hair plastered to his neck. His muscles rippled, as if begging you to draw attention to them. Um, well, it worked.

Heat rushed to your face. You had been certain, absolutely certain, that this bath had been empty. Had he not seen you? Or had you been too focused to notice him enter?

You shifted into a kneeling position, straightening your spine instinctively as though posture alone could restore any lost dignity.

For a brief, and impossibly noticeable, moment, his eyes moved over you.

Your sleeves were damp. The fabric of your clothes clung stubbornly to your skin due to steam and exertion. A strand of hair had come loose and was stuck against your cheek.

You resisted the urge to fix everything at once. Instead, you ran trembling fingers through your hair, voice quiet. “Hello.”

“Hard at work?”

Goodness, how was he so at ease? Was there truly no trace of awkwardness inside him? No tension in the air? No awareness of how weirdly intimate this felt? Because, believe it, you felt all of those at once.

“I— Yes. Sorry, I hadn’t noticed you come in. Do you… um… would you like me to leave?”

He barked out a laugh. “I’ve been here for quite some time! You were so focused that I assumed it was best not to interrupt.”

So, when was someone going to fly from the sky and slap you unconscious? Knowing that was somehow 10x worse. You tugged at your sleeve nervously, staring very hard at the sponge in your hand.

“Don’t let it bother you,” he continued warmly. “It's inspiring, really, to watch someone get a job done.”

Did your pulse just stutter?

He shifted slightly, pushing more weight on one arm. You noticed immediately. “Are you injured?” you blurted. His eyebrows lifted, and you genuinely felt your soul leave your body. “I just meant— You are a Demon Slayer, and your arm, and— I only noticed you were favouring it slightly—”

You wished the bathwater would swallow you whole. Burn you, even. Alive.

But instead of looking weirded out, he looked… amused. Dare you say, pleased? “A keen eye. Yes, I encountered a few demons that attempted to delay my journey. They were unsuccessful.” Of course they were. Look at him. “It’s nothing serious. Just sore. Everything will be easier with my new sword.”

Your father would have loved that statement.

You nodded, unsure what else to say. Combat wasn’t exactly your world. Even though most villagers living in the Swordsmith Village made swords, hardly any were good at fighting, so it’s not like you ever trained or found a natural interest in it.

“If I were a Demon Slayer…” you began quietly, “I’d probably be terrified.”

He hummed in agreement. “That fear never vanishes. One simply chooses to move on, despite it.” His eyes shifted deliberately to the sponge in your hand. “Just as not everyone is suited for battle,” he continued, “not everyone is suited for this.”

“And yet, you seem quite formidable.”

Formidable? At scrubbing stone? “If you faced demons with the same determination,” he continued, lips twitching ever-so-subtly, “I suspect they would retreat.”

Was—

Was he teasing you?

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “I doubt that.”

His smile widened.

“I don’t.” He tilted his head slightly. “Though. If this work isn’t within your preference, what would you rather be doing?”

The question caught you entirely off guard. “What would you rather be doing?” It felt far too personal for a second meeting. That was more of a third-date question, don’t you think? And yet… There was something about him. Maybe how he spoke without hesitation. Or that you couldn’t predict him. Or—the worst of it all—he, more than anything, drew your curiosity. There was a sudden unfamiliarity in your constant world. 

You shifted, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor, pulling the bucket closer and dipping the sponge into the warm water. “I don’t really know,” you admitted. “I suppose… I just want to live somewhere different.” There was no need to look at him to know his gaze was 100% focused on you. “Somewhere without steel. Without swords. Maybe with more opportunity… Somewhere warm.”

“Is it not warm here?”

“We’re in the mountains. The weather changes constantly.” A pause. “I think… perhaps I want to settle someplace steady.”

You exhaled softly, getting a little lost in the thought.

“If I were warm like you, I wouldn’t grow so tired of winter.” Your hand flew to your mouth. Whoah… Had you truly just said that…? Warm like him? This man you’ve only met twice, and definitely never touched? Have you gone mad?

Surprisingly, he didn’t seem all that bothered by the statement. Either that or he had an amazing neutral expression. His eyes, once again, seemed to flicker over you with quiet interest.

“Warm?”

Your ears burned, and you stared at the bucket, willing yourself to dissolve into it. “I meant— yesterday. When you arrived, the air seemed to change. I only meant that.” Did you sound absurd?

Rengoku was still watching you, fingers tapping absently against the stone edge he leaned against. His lips curved.

“I see.”

Relief didn’t come to you at all. If anything, you felt more uneasy. “If it's change you desire,” he continued smoothly, “then travel with me.”

Your head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

A hum. “Why not?”

“I have no experience fighting demons. I would be useless—”

“I didn’t say anything about fighting,” he interrupted. He ran a hand through his hair as he spoke, entirely unbothered, and looking rather pleasant to the eye through the action. Um… Ahem. You digress. “I have a mission nearby before returning to the Estate. You should accompany me. See if you enjoy the change of scenery.”

His gaze sharpened slightly, intent and confident. “I will, of course, ensure your safety.” The certainty in his voice was unnervingly sincere. “The villagers speak highly of you. They say you’re very skilled with herbs.”

You froze. “How would you even know that?”

“I asked.”

Of course he did.

“I’m hardly skilled,” you muttered, trying not to sound bitter. “I only know enough to help my father when he neglects his health.”

“It would still be useful.”

“I’m not going.”

For the first time since you’ve met him (well, the two days of knowing him), he sighed.  Not dramatically, but with clear disappointment. It felt strange to hear such a sound come from him. “I’ll be remaining in the village for three more days,” he said after a moment. “Spend time with me during that period.”

That was not a request. It was a hopeful wish, an offer. “Allow me to attempt to persuade you.”

You frowned. There was no persuading you. You wanted nothing to do with Demon Slayers. Nothing to do with broken blades and blood and villagers who worked themselves to exhaustion to forge replacements. If his sword shattered—

You forced the thought away.

“I plan to visit the market tomorrow,” he persisted. “Meet me there.”

Words always failed you. He mistook your silence for consideration. With a satisfied nod, he asked a soft, “Very well?”

You glared at him. “…Fine.”

You undoubtedly were planning to ditch him.

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

Bad news. You did not ditch Rengoku.

You had spent the entire day debating and pondering on whether you would go. It had become so obvious that your father noticed before the first bowl of rice was finished. “What's troubling you?” he asked bluntly, pausing mid-bite. Your mother was already watching you from across the table, obviously wondering the same thing.

You only had yourself to blame for their concern, for the food that sat in front of you was barely even picked at. Your chopsticks poked at the mackerel as you muttered, “Nothing…”

Your father snorted. “You’ve never lied well. Speak.”

A sigh escaped you, long and eerily similar to a groan (was that even possible?). Your parents exchanged a glance. “It’s just… someone,” you reluctantly admitted. “A man.”

Your mother leaned forward instantly, intrigue rearranging her expression in a way that made you regret speaking at all. She had been urging you to find a husband, get married, and have children ever since you graduated from the small village school. Like goodness, could a girl live first?

“I keep running into him, and now he wants to see me again.”

“Then see him again,” your mother insisted at once. “It’ll do you good to meet new people.”

“That is not the point,” you protested, stabbing your chopsticks into the rice as though it personally was the culprit behind all this evil. “He is a Demon Slayer. He lives in an entirely different world.”

“And you don’t?” your father asked suddenly.

You looked at him.

He set his chopsticks down, leaning back slightly. “We live in a swordsmithing village,” he pointed out. “Most of the world knows nothing of demons or the men that fight them. We do. You two live in more similar worlds than you think.”

“That’s different,” you argued. “We forge. They fight.”

“And because they fight, you resent them.”

You went still. He continued, voice steady. “I understand why. Broken blades mean sleepless nights. Exhaustion. Strain.” His gaze softened. “But will you spend your life resenting people you have never truly known?”

“Perhaps,” he added, “it’s better to understand something than to remain angry at it.”

You had no response. Words, well, you know the gist.

Which was how you found yourself the next morning, standing in the cold. Waiting, once again, for a Demon Slayer. The market was busy despite the snow. Merchants called out prices. Children ran between stalls. Haze rose from food carts into the pale winter air.

This time, you saw him first.

He stood tall among the crowd, scanning the area as though searching for something specific. Snow dusted his shoulders lightly. His eyes narrowed slightly against the flakes that threatened to bring an army upon him if he didn’t keep moving. He was looking for you.

Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your tiptoes and lifted your arm, waving it erratically. He spotted you immediately.

And, oh, the smile that spread across his face.

It was as though he’d been looking forward to this all day. Your heart definitely skipped a beat.

“We cross paths once more,” he greeted warmly, almost excitedly, as he approached. Before you could react, he reached forward and adjusted your scarf, tightening it carefully against your neck. The wool tickled your skin. “You left it too loose,” he explained. “The wind is unforgiving.”

Was the pink on his cheeks from the cold? He stepped back just enough to look at you properly. “I’m truly pleased you came.”

You nodded. “Yes. Hi again.”

“Shall we get going?”

Once more, you nod.

It felt a little silly that he had asked you to lead, though it was perfectly logical. You knew the market better than he did—even if he’d visited the village once or twice before. After all, you were the one who had grown up weaving through these very stalls. So, naturally, you agreed.

The village market always thrived, regardless of the season. It was no different today. “Warm gloves! Best stitching in the mountains!” “Sweet rice cakes! Freshly made!” “Perfect gifts for a fine couple!”

To be honest, you nearly tripped at that last one. Rengoku, however, only laughed heartily.

He paused at several stalls, examining the tools, fabric, and preserved goods displayed there. When he considered buying, you found yourself stepping in when prices were a bit more exaggerated. “You’re charging him traveller’s rates,” you once purred sweetly to a merchant. “Surely a respected customer deserves better?”

Flattery—when carefully applied—could work wonders.

Eventually, in no time at all, he was carrying a small bag of purchases over his arm. “You negotiate skillfully,” he complimented.

“Of course, I grew up here,” you replied. “If I never learned, we would’ve been robbed blind.”

He smiled at that.

Unfortunately, negotiating did nothing to quiet your hunger. Your stomach growls. “We should get something to eat,” you suggested, glancing back at him.

He hummed, bobbing his head up and down in agreement. “Lead on.”

You guided him toward the nearest stand, the scent of warm batter and sweet bean paste drawing you in. “Two taiyaki, please,” you told the vendor. The merchant worked quickly, pulling golden fish-shaped cakes from their molds and wrapping them in paper. All of a sudden, Rengoku was reaching for his coin pouch, causing you to reach out to interrupt the movement. Your fingers brush against his hand, successfully making him pause.

Ignore how electric the touch felt. How warm his hand was.

“Don’t,” you resisted, “I was the one who suggested finding something to eat.”

He shook his head. “And I invited you to accompany me,” he countered, far too easily. However… It’s not like he pulled away. In fact, his hand remained beneath yours. For a second.

Two.

Long enough for you to know he was fully aware of it and considering it just as much.

Three.

Do you move away? Or does he? Your heart was racing, and you wondered if he felt it. Then, slowly, he moved his hand only enough to place the payment down, his fingers grazing yours as he withdrew.

Deliberate?

Usually, in any other situation, you would’ve clicked your teeth and argued. Maybe say something like, “That is not the same thing.” Yet, for some reason—

You couldn’t. So you let him pay.

He handed you one of the warm pastries, and once more, your fingers brushed against each other as you took it. The heat that seeped into your skin had nothing to do with the taiyaki.

You hated a man who could control his facial expressions, because never before had you been so curious about what someone was thinking.

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

Hours passed. Casual shopping turned into lazy browsing, small talk drifting between the two of you as the market gradually thinned. The merchants were slower now, their voices less eager as the afternoon stretched on. The winter chill should have settled into your bones by now. However, it was chased away by Rengoku’s warmth. Without a conscious thought, you found yourself walking a little closer to him.

“We’ve been here quite a while,” he stated, glancing up at the sky as though he could measure the exact time just by looking at the sun alone. Well, he probably could. “Is there any last place you’d like to visit? If not, we can separate.”

The question was simple, really. Too simple. Easy to answer.

Your feet ached, after all. And you should probably return to the bathhouse to see if help was needed. Though… You didn’t particularly want to leave him.

Was that so bad?

A nearby clothing shop caught your eye. Your mittened hand lifted, pointing in its direction. “One last stop. Winter clothing?” To make it sound less spontaneous (and to hide your obvious goal), your gaze travelled over his attire—the black Demon Slayer uniform, the red, yellow, and white flame-patterned haori draped over his shoulders. “You could use something warmer. Natural heat doesn’t stop a cold, y’know.”

One of his eyebrows arched slightly. You weren’t convincing at all.

“Very well.”

The shop was modest but warm, the scent of oakwood and faint cinnamon lingering in the air. Masked attendants greeted you politely and guided Rengoku toward thicker winter garments. He examined them with mild interest, fingers grazing over fur-lined sleeves and heavier weaves.

Meanwhile, you drifted away. Spring pieces had already been stocked—light fabrics in softer shades, despite the fact that it was December. They were thinner. Smoother. Cuter. Your fingers paused on a dress. It was long. Flowing, too. Simple, but elegant. Silk layered with delicate lace on the sleeves. The kind of garment meant for travel… or fancy occasions, perhaps.

Not something worn often in the Swordsmith Village.

“Caught your eye?” a clerk chimed, appearing at your side with practised timing. “It’s imported from Kyoto. Fine silk. Very refined.” Her eyes flicked toward Rengoku. “Perhaps your husband would appreciate it as well?”

You immediately began waving your hands, trying to physically clear away the misunderstanding. “Oh—no, he’s not—”

“Try it on.” The now-familiar voice came from behind you. Far too close.

You turned quickly, nearly bumping into him as you did so. He looked down at the dress in your hands with quiet consideration. “There is no harm in it,” he said.

“You can’t be serious.”

He shrugged, glancing at the open doors that led to the once-bustling market. “We’ve spent most of the day looking at things I enjoy. Why not indulge yourself before we part?”

That's the thing; It wasn’t indulgence that made you anxious. It was the thought of him seeing you in such an attire. The nervous flutter in your stomach is caused by. But words—as they often did—never took your side.

The attendant guided you gently toward the dressing area, her palm resting lightly at the small of your back. As the curtain closed, you caught Rengoku’s gaze flick briefly towards the gentle touch before he leaned against the wall to wait.

Interesting.

Inside, the clerk worked rather efficiently.

Your outer layers were folded aside. A thin under-robe was adjusted. The silk dress was drawn carefully over your shoulder and smoothed down your arms. She straightened the collar with precise fingers, stepped back as if to admire her work, then came forward again to adjust the fall of the fabric.

“Stand straight.” You did. The obi was tied snugly, not too tight, but tight enough to shape the silhouette. She circled you once more, seeming somewhat satisfied. “Almost done, my dear.” From a small tray, she picked up a hairpin. It was of simple metal, elegant. At its end, a delicate flame design curved upward, thin metallic tassels swaying gently beneath it, glinting in the light.

Oh, gosh.

She slid the pin into your hair.

“There.”

You turned toward the mirror. The woman staring back at you, well… you looked… softer. The silk flowed around your frame, lace brushing your wrists. Feminine in a way you were unaccustomed to seeing. You could never imagine this was the same person who scrubbed springs and scolded her own father.

The clerk urged you to hurry up, to show off your beauty, and even began counting to five rather loudly. Before you could protest, she dramatically pulled the curtain aside.

All you were met with was silence.

He was staring at you. Of course he was, how could he not stare when you were so dressed up? His observation moved slowly—shoulders, sleeves, waist, hem—he didn’t even bother to hide it. In a way, you were getting quite used to the way his eyes travelled over you. Even if you weren’t sure if it was polite or held back a secret intent.

You fidgeted with the fabric until the clerk had to smack your hands away. “Stop that before you ruin the drape.”

It was torture. The silence felt like it was going on for an eternity. What was he thinking?

“You look beautiful,” he, at last, said. Oh, how the words made your heart jump. There was something in the way he said it. “It suits you very well.”

You lowered your head in a poor attempt to hide the pinkening of your cheeks. “Thank you…”

This time, you were certain the tension in the room was a mutual feeling, and not something only you felt. Heck, even the clerk seemed to sense it, because she was beyond convinced that you two were married. “Eyes never lie,” she sang knowingly as she later helped you change back into your usual attire.

It was much quicker to remove the dress compared to putting it on. Rengoku waited near the entrance when you emerged. The clerk waved happily, her day somehow made. Outside, the market had nearly emptied.

“Shall we?” he asked, and you agreed right away. 

Both of you walked in silence for a while. Then, as you neared the very entrance, he turned to you. “It was a pleasant day,” he said. “I hope we can see each other tomorrow as well.”

Instead of answering, you buried your face in your scarf. He paused, clearly hoping you would answer, but when you didn’t, he reached out for your hand. 

Just as quickly as the touch came, it was withdrawn. 

In your palm rested the flame hairpin. Your eyes widened. “When did you buy this?”

“Consider it a memento. Tomorrow, I will find you.”

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

All you could think about was Rengoku Kyojuro.

It was becoming a problem.

You realised it when you nearly burned your hand on a kettle because you had been staring at nothing, for your mind had been dwelling on him instead. When a bath attendant called your name twice before you heard it. When you forgot what you had been doing halfway through doing it.

You told yourself that this was getting ridiculous. The thoughts still refused stop.

Even in the comfort of your own blankets, his name felt heavy. Louder in your mind than the crackle of firewood outside your door.

Rengoku Kyojuro.

You shut your eyes, trying to force yourself to sleep. That only made it worse.

You saw him immediately.

Back in the spring. How the steam rose around him, doing nothing to hazify the vision of his face, or his broad shoulders. The water tracing slow paths down his skin. How his muscles shifted when he moved. Obvious. Formed with time. Delicious.

You hadn’t meant to look. Truly!

You had looked.

His hair, darkened slightly by water, and how the strands clung to him. How his hair looked so different when dried compared to when it was damp.

His eyes—confident, but warm. The way they held you. The way they had held you in the dressing room.

You turned onto your back abruptly, staring at the ceiling.

This was so foolish.

He’s a man. A passing presence. A Demon Slayer who would leave just as easily as he arrived. So why did your heart stutter every time you remembered the way his hand had remained beneath yours?

One second.

Two.

Three.

He hadn’t pulled away. Had he felt it too?

You swallowed, fingers curling into the bedding as if the memory could still be touched. As if warmth still lingered there.

Ughhhhhhh, this was stupid. Dangerous. Why couldn’t he be cruel? Rude? Disrespectful? Rash?

Because the way he had looked at you in that dress—

No.

You rolled onto your side, facing the small dish beside your bed. That's where the hairpin rested, innocent as if it wasn’t a contribution to your inner turmoil. The delicate flame-design caught the candlelight, and it shone a lovely gold.

He had bought it without you noticing. A gift. “A momento.” For you.

You could feel your pulse thudding in your throat. “Tomorrow, I will find you.”

You shifted restlessly beneath the blankets, heat pooling low in your stomach, crawling up your spine. Never before had your room felt so suffocating. You were already imagining tomorrow.

Imagining his voice being closer. His hand being lower. Your name spoken differently. His breath against your neck.

You cleared your throat loudly and forced yourself to stop. How absurd. It was only a day. Only a man. Only a comment about fate.

But when sleep finally dragged you under, it did not offer peace. Because you dreamed about him, too, and this time, his hands didn’t pull away.

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

The next day, the two of you crossed paths, as promised, on your way home. Dusk was beginning to bleed slowly, turning the sky an orange and yellow. You yawned. Around this point, you weren’t exactly sure if you should be expecting to see him, while the other half couldn’t help but hope for it. He’d been on your mind all day, a persistent tingle in your chest and stomach, a restless warmth that refused to settle. 

His shoulder brushed yours as he fell into step beside you. How in the world did he pop out of nowhere without scheduling a meeting spot?

“Hi,” he greeted, dipping his head slightly.

You felt your lips twitch slightly, and you had to force down the urge to smile. So, to make it easier for yourself, you refused to look at him. “It’s a pleasure to be in your presence once more.”

An amused hum. “I told you I would find you.”

Yes. He had. You hadn’t forgotten; you couldn’t forget.

“And you did,” you murmured.

Suddenly, his hand closed around your forearm. His hold wasn’t rough, but it was firm enough to stop you. You turned, startled, and found him closer than expected. There was something in his expression you hadn’t seen before.

An eagerness. Hope.

“Travel with me.”

The words didn’t sound casual this time. Rengoku sounded like he needed you to say yes. Like he’d been wanting to ask you again for ages. His grip tightened slightly.

Your mouth opened, then closed. All you could do was shake your head. “I can’t.”

A frown. “Why not? You wish to see the world, don’t you? Have I not convinced you?”

“It’s not that.” Then what was it? “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

A pause.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked. “I told you I would protect you.”

Frustration began to spark. “It’s more than protection, Rengoku.”

Ah— was that your first time saying his name? It felt strange on your tongue. Wrong. Right. Intimate. He must’ve felt something in it too, because he stilled, his hand faltering against your arm. You forced yourself to continue. “The thing is, I don’t belong in your world. I don’t fit in. I’m not meant to follow you while you fight demons and nearly get yourself killed. I already live with that fear here. My friends, family, and everyone risk their lives to deliver and forge the swords you use. I watch them leave. I’ve watched them return injured.”

Your voice sharpened without permission. “And you want me to walk willingly into that?”

Silence settled heavily between you.

“My world?” he repeated quietly.

You flinched. “I didn’t mean— I just—” You exhaled sharply. “I can’t fight. I can’t heal. I can’t craft. I would be… what? Dead weight?”

His jaw tightened. “I told you,” he carefully said, “that I’m not seeking your skills.”

“Then what do you seek?” you challenged.

“Your companionship.”

The word hit harder than it should have. It settled in your stomach, twisting itself until it almost felt like a phantom cramp. You tore your gaze from his, suddenly unable to withstand it. “You don’t need my companionship,” you muttered dryly. “I am just a random village girl.”

“Is that what you think I see?”

You shook your head, frustrated at yourself. At him. At this entire situation. “I can’t just leave my family. What if something happens while I’m gone? What if I return and they are not here? All because I chased some… fleeting desire.”

Snowflakes drifted down, slowly, between you. 

“The Swordsmith Village is protected,” Rengoku shot back. “And this mission won’t even last long. A month, at most.” A beat. His voice lowered, sounding a little… vulnerable. “Please? Just try.”

Please. The word might as well have slapped you in the face.

You hesitated. The truth is, you wanted to go. But wasn’t there too much to risk? What if you resented him later? What if this was nothing more than infatuation? What if you followed him and realised you don’t belong anywhere but here?

Why would a Demon Slayer truly want someone like you?

It wasn’t insecurity. You just… You shook your head again. “I can’t.”

Rengoku’s hand dropped. The absence lingered, cold rushing where warmth had once been. “Very well. If you’re so sure.” He took a step back. “There’s more to us than the roles we may carry, but I won’t force your decision.”

He ran a hand through his hair, gaze unwavering. “I want you to see me as a man,” he said quietly. “Not as a Demon Slayer.”

Hadn’t you? Hadn’t you been doing exactly that?

“If you reconsider… I’ll be at the small cabin outside the village tomorrow. I’ve been wanting to visit it for quite a bit.”

A moment of stillness, his eyes remaining on you as if he wanted to continue. Then he turned and walked away.

Leaving you behind, in the cold.

With a choice.

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

Never before had you been so furious with yourself. You couldn’t be mad at anyone else. Nor could you be upset with fate itself. You couldn’t even bring yourself to be upset with him.

Yourself.

You couldn’t decide if what you’d done was wise or cowardly, and the uncertainty gnawed at you like it was something that was actively eating you alive. It crawled beneath your skin. Refused to let you rest. The way he left replayed over and over again. He hadn’t been angry—not even offended. “I want you to see me as a man.” The words wouldn’t stop echoing.

You buried your face into the pillow of your futon and groaned into the fabric, the sound muffled and raw with despair. The bedding smelled faintly of soap and coconut— comforting, a familiar scent you liked— and yet it did nothing to quiet the storm inside you.

If you were the protagonist of a story, would the readers be screaming at you right now?

You squeezed the pillow tighter, as if it might answer. Just go after him. Just apologize.  Stop overthinking. How ridiculous you must look from the outside, tangled in blankets, and heart racing over a single sentence.

But it wasn’t just a sentence. It was what it meant.

When it came to you, he didn’t even want to be seen as a Demon Slayer. Or was this something typical of him? Maybe you were the only person who’s ever been so indecisive around him. All you knew was that he wanted to be seen as a man. And he would rather wait, holding onto that little bit of hope he had, than hear you refuse again and again. But wouldn’t waiting be worse for him if you chose not to go to that cabin?

Tomorrow would arrive sooner than later.

And you were no closer to a choice.

You lay there staring at nothing, or perhaps at everything you were trying not to think about. A knock broke the silence, and surely would’ve scared you if you didn’t recognise the careful rhythm. You didn’t move.

“I brought you some fruit,” your mother called gently as she slid the door open.

Light from the hallway spilled in behind her, catching on the porcelain plate in her hands, which was almost overflowing with fruit, and your tear-filled eyes. Her expression softened instantly. “Oh,” she breathed.

You hadn’t even realised you were crying, and pathetically wiped your face.

She set the plate aside and knelt before you, presence always comforting. Her thumb brushed against your cheek, hand replacing yours, and catching a tear before it could fall. “My beautiful girl,” she sighed. “What’s troubling you? A man?”

You nodded.

“Did he break your heart?”

“No.” Your voice barely carried, and you were almost too embarrassed to speak. “I think… I mean, if he even likes me romantically— I might have broken his.” The hairpin that rested nearby, on the bedside dish, seemed to twinkle.

Your mother followed your eyes, and her lips curved slightly. “I don’t know what to do,” you admitted. 

“Immature child,” she said, but her tone held no bite. She lifted a slice of apple and pressed it lightly to your lips until you relented and began nibbling on it. The sweetness was an extreme contrast to the situation. “Why won’t you let him chase you? There is no point in running if you don’t even allow yourself to be caught.”

“Because it’s irrational,” you insisted. “He is a Demon Slayer. That life invites danger. It follows him. What if loving him means bringing that danger here? What if I doom us?”

Your voice cracked at the last word.

She frowned, still for a moment. “I understand. In fact, when I met your father, I was petrified.”

You blinked in surprise. “You were?”

A small smile touched her lips. “Of course. I left the city for him and followed him into the mountains. An environment I knew nothing about. Imagine, little old me, entering a life full of swords and whispers of demons.” She gave a quiet laugh. “How we met is silly, too. A slayer had passed by, seeking refuge in my home, with—get this—a broken blade.”

“We fell in love quickly,” she continued, hands placing themself calmly in her lap. “Perhaps the way you and this man have.”

Your neck suddenly burned.

“I nearly sent him away,” she confessed. “I thought loving him would destroy everything. That maybe one day, when he came to visit, he would lead monsters themselves to my door.”

“What changed?” you asked.

“I loved him more than I feared the unknown.”

“I had to choose,” she continued. “Between safety and a life that would always feel unfinished without him. Between comfort and the ache of wondering ‘what if’ forever.” Her fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. “I chose him, and I have never regretted it, dear daughter.”

When she said stuff like that, you always found yourself searching her face for hesitation. There’s no way she moved here and never missed her home. Never yearned for it. Especially in winter. Yet, as usual, there was none.

“But this is different,” you whispered, defence weak. “I barely know him.” 

Pain flicked sharply against your forehead, causing you to yelp and press your fingers against the reddening skin. “Mom. Did you just—”

She had the audacity to blow on her finger like it was a weapon.

“You’re growing older. When will you stop pretending you don’t understand your own heart? Almost every single day, you devour books about distant lands. You stare out the window like the mountains will never be enough for you. You’re restless.”

Each word made you feel more and more uncomfortable.

“And yet,” she went on, “when a brand new world stands before you—in the form of a man–and offers you something more, you just… You don’t even let yourself get a taste.”

She placed another piece of fruit in your hand. “You must like him if you’re crying over this.”

You sniffled. “Maybe a little…?” 

She laughed. “If I had let fear hold me back, you would’ve never been born, y’know. If I can do it, why can’t you?”

Your mother rose, feeling no need to say anything more, and smoothed her skirt. “Sleep,” she instructed. “And when you wake, maybe ask yourself this: are you protecting your family… or protecting yourself from change?”

With a soft smile, she left you with the soft click of the door being the last trace of her presence. To think. To choose. Just like Rengoku had. Except this time, instead of the snow, you sat in the quiet hum of the house, with barely touched fruit on your plate.

You groaned, once again.

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

The lake looked like the edge of the world.

Moonlight spilt silver across its frozen surface, making the thin ice look similar to fractured glass. Snow-dusted mountains loomed beyond it, their peaks rising high into the night sky. The clearing was quiet—much too quiet—the kind of quiet that seemed deafening.

Rengoku stood near the water’s edge, alone.

It had taken you way too long to get here. The terrain was uneven and steep, the path narrow in places where one wrong step could have sent you sliding down frost-slick stone. You had made your decision that morning, then spent the entire day preparing yourself to say it. It had been late afternoon when you felt presentable and courageous enough to leave.

And yet, when you arrived, the moon was already high.

Nevertheless, Rengoku was still waiting.

You saw him before he saw you, a tall silhouette, hair catching dimly in the light, shoulders relaxed but not comfortable. You considered walking up to him slowly to not disturb his thoughts. The universe must’ve disagreed with the idea, because a stick snapped beneath your foot.

His head whipped around. His hand twitched, inched slightly toward where his sword would have been, possibly an instinctive movement.

Then he saw it was you.

The tension melted from his posture so fast that it almost made you feel shy.

“You’re here.” You barely had time to nod before he crossed the distance between you. Hugging you.

The heat of him was overwhelming. He radiated warmth throughout the entire embrace, chest solid beneath your cheek, hand splayed across your back. For one dizzying second, you forgot why you had come. Oh, he smelled like cold air. Like fire. Like cedarwood. Like something only he carried.

You could honestly get used to this.

Then he pulled back, only enough to see your face. “Sorry,” he said, smiling in a way that proved he was, in fact, not sorry. “I’ve been waiting a very long time.”

His arms slipped from your body, and he stepped back. One step. No more. You were still close enough to feel him. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come. I must’ve gotten overjoyed”

You had to take a deep breath before answering. “Sorry...” 

Now that he was facing you, there was the opportunity to get a better look at him. His hair was partially disheveled, and his shirt hung open just enough at the collar, revealing the slope of muscle beneath, and a pale scar curved across his collar-bone.

You looked. You absolutely looked. Did he notice?

A rumble echoed across the mountains. Low, distant. Probably lightning. You tore your eyes away from him. You needed a distraction, asap.

“The lake is nearly frozen,” you said quickly, turning on your foot to crouch and poke at the thin ice with a branch. “It’s prettier in the summer.”

“Is it?” he asked, sounding half-interested. When you glanced up, he wasn’t looking at the lake. He was looking at you.

The rumble came again. Louder. No… this can’t be thunder. You’ve heard it before…

“Rengoku.” Your tone had suddenly changed, enough for his eyebrows to rise with concern. The mountain answered for you. No, the sound wasn’t thunder.

You squinted at the mountains, trying to be sure.  Snow was beginning to tear free from the mountainside in waves, greedily devouring everything in its path. The ground trembled under your boots.

Avalanche.

Though you are no Demon Slayer, you grew up in the Swordsmith Village. You had instincts, and when you realised what was happening, you hardly felt the need to think. Your hand grabbed his, and you ran. His fingers closed around yours without hesitation or question, matching your pace even if you stumbled on the incline. Snow thundered closer, as if wanting to join in on this little sprint.

The sound was beginning to sound monstrous. You nearly slipped, and his grip tightened, steadying you. The cabin was only a short climb up a hill, a few feet away. But goodness, right now it seemed like miles.

You slammed the door open and dragged him inside just as snow surged into the clearing. 

After a few seconds, there was silence.

Breathing hard, you rushed to the window. Snow had piled high, nearly halfway up the glass. You cussed.

Rengoku leaned down beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “Are we trapped?” he asked calmly.

“Yes.”

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

The fireplace crackled to life, warmth spreading through the small cabin. Shadows danced along the walls. The space had an intimate touch to it. One bed, one bookshelf, wooden floors, and a single window that, now, is only framed in white.

Rengoku sat on the edge of the bed, thick blankets beneath him. You stood near the fire, hands out to catch the heat, though you were anything but cold. What type of situation was this? Being stuck in a cabin with a guy you…well… were growing an interest in. It seemed like some kind of joke, really. Completely unreal.

“What bad luck… We’ll probably be here for a while,” you muttered, watching the flickering flames.

“Not entirely unfortunate.” He sounded so casual. There was a pause, as if he expected you to say something. Agree with him, maybe? Though, to be blunt, you were absolutely clueless about what he meant. “We can talk,” he emphasised.

You glanced at him. His eyes looked quite similar to the fire in front of you. They seemed to burn just the same. “I won’t ask again. Will you travel with me?”

The question sat between you two like a drawn blade. With a sigh, you moved to sit beside him. Maybe too close. Did you feel bold? Your legs stretched out in front of you, his shoulders nearly brushing yours. “I haven’t fully decided,” you disclosed. “But I don’t… oppose the idea as much.”

He beamed. “It would only be a month. And, of course, I will protect you.”

The way he said it made your chest ache. Words, as they’ve done repeatedly, failed you. So both of you sat in silence. Though once again, there was this… tension. Thicker than the bathhouse. More intense than at the market. Obvious. 

Hadn’t he been acting a little differently today?

“It’s late,” you whispered. “We may need to stay the night.”

“That doesn’t trouble me.” Of course it didn’t. “There’s a washroom, right? You should wash first,” he added, tilting his head toward the sheathed weapon that leaned against the wall. “I’ll tend to my sword.”

“Okay.”

You rose slowly, dismissing yourself.

The washroom was small but carefully kept. A low shelf was stacked with folded cotton towels. A ceramic basin rested beside a large iron pot fitted into a stone hearth, where the coals beneath were still faintly warm from the last visit. A wooden bucket sat nearby, along with a ladle. You knelt beside the hearth and fed it a bit more kindling, coaxing the embers alive until the water began to warm. Steam had started rising slowly, curling into the air.

Your fingers trembled as you untied your outer robe. You told yourself it was from the cold, not from the man in the other room.

Rengoku. He’s just in the other room.

Layer by layer, you folded the garments meticulously and set them aside. The room felt smaller without them, air brushing against your bare skin in a way that made you hyper-aware of everything.

Of him.

You dipped the ladle into the warmed water, pouring it gently over your shoulders. Heat slid down your back in slow rivulets. The water was warm.

But not nearly as warm as the memory of his arms around you. Was he, too, thinking about you just as relentlessly?

Your hair clung damply to your back as you dragged the cloth slowly across your skin.

His arms around you. The solid press of his chest when he’d pulled you close. The heat of his palm on your back. 

The palm on your back.

The way he hadn’t even hesitated before hugging you. How he clearly wasn’t sorry.

You dipped the cloth back into the basin just to give your hands something to do, watching the water ripple violently from the force. You swallowed and wondered if you were perverted, cheeks burning hotter than the steam that curled around you.

The cabin was small enough that if he spoke your name, you would hear it clearly, even with the door shut. Your fingers dragged more slowly this time across your collarbone, and you wondered how his lips would feel there.

Would he notice if your hair remained damp when you stepped out, like you had the image of his wet hair etched into your mind? If your skin was still flushed? If your breathing wasn’t quite steady?

You pressed your lips together. This was ridiculous.

Yet, if he touched you right now—

You squeezed your eyes shut. Stop. You weren’t a shameless woman. You weren’t improper. These thoughts, you needed to control them.

A sudden knock at the door made you jump, the ladle slipping from your fingers and clattering loudly against the wooden floor. “Are you alright?” Rengoku’s voice came from the other side, as if your thinking had summoned him. “I only wanted to be certain everything was working properly. You’ve been inside for quite some time.”

Had you?

When you didn’t answer immediately, the doorknob shifted. You have no idea if he planned to open the door—perhaps he was just testing if it was locked—but it was still enough to remind you how thin the barrier between the two of you truly was. You hurried forward, pulling the door open only a fraction.

Cool air slipped in, making you shiver.

His eyes lifted, then landed on you.

You weren’t exposed, not horribly so, with a sliver of shoulder and collarbone peeking out. You could feel when his gaze moved.

“I… lost track of time,” you hurriedly said. “I’ll finish up now and be as quick as I can.” Trying to save yourself from the pressure and humiliation, you tried to close the door.

His hand caught it. “What was that noise?” he asked, though his tone had subtly changed. He didn’t seem to care.

“You startled me. I dropped the ladle.”

You offered a small, sheepish smile. He didn’t return it, nor did he move. Did his jaw tighten? You froze when Regoku lifted his hand, fingers brushing gently against your cheek. Then the back of his knuckles traced your jaw. His movements weren’t hurried, as though committing it to memory. His thumb lingered just below your ear. 

When his hand slid to the back of your neck, your breathing hitched.

“I’ve tried. I’ve been really patient.” His voice was low, thumb pressing faintly at your nape (goodness, your knees could’ve given away right then and there). His touch was tender enough to allow you to pull away without guilt. Yet, instead, your fingers found the fabric of his shirt.

His eyes searched yours. “Forgive me. Usually, I’m not this lustful.”

His lips crashed into yours, and he pushed the door open the rest of the way. The way he kissed was something you could’ve never predicted. Rengoku always seemed calm and composed. Neutral or joyful. Yet, his lips were hungry, poor on restraint.

You moaned against his lips, and he groaned in response, almost giving the impression that he’d been craving the sound. That he wanted to hear it again.

His hand tightened in your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, his tongue eagerly sliding into your mouth. Heat surged through you so suddenly it felt like stepping into flame. Oh. Your body. It’s on fire.

His hands felt nothing like you’d imagined (if you’d even let yourself imagine that far). They were rough, strong yet gentle. Fingers that wielded swords against demons now traced your skin with a reverence that bordered on greedy. They wanted to devour you whole, to map every curve and hollow with his touch, to commit the silk of your flesh to memory in a single, fevered rush.

But oh, how his touch lingered: a deliberate graze over the swell of your hips, a possessive sweep along the dip of your spine, thumbs rising daringly to circle the sensitive undersides of your breasts.

You had to be the one who broke the kiss first, panting as you tried to regain your breath—your composure.

Rengoku? He didn't feel a need to relent. No, Rengoku's mouth simply began creating a new path. His lips ran down the line of your jaw, where his teeth teased ever so lightly, sending sparks of anticipation racing through your veins. Then lower, to the column of your neck, where his lips pressed hungry, open-mouthed kisses.

He groaned, the sound deep and guttural, and at last, his hands stilled on your waist. Thumbs dug in, firm and insistent, pressing into the sensitive skin just above your hip. Perhaps in an effort to anchor himself against the tide of his own desire.

"I promise... I wanted to court you first..." He lifted his head, his forehead resting against yours. Those golden eyes, usually so hard to figure out, now smouldered with a sudden desperation as they took in the sight of you flustered. "Should I just marry you instead?"

The words hung in the air like a spell, warmth pooling low in your belly despite the absurdity. "Don't say foolish things.”

Rengoku hummed, showing you that he couldn’t care less about how foolish he sounded. His lips brushed the corner of yours in a light kiss before, agonizingly, he pulled away. 

Well, not entirely.

His fingers intertwined with yours as he led you from the washroom and back into the bedroom.

"You don't mind, right...?" Rengoku murmured, guiding you to the bed. He turned you so that you were in front of him, his free hand settling on your shoulder and pressing gently, urging you down until your back met the cool blanket. You sank onto it, exposed and aching, your naked form a stark contrast to his clothed one. "If we move a little fast?"

The question, in the moment, sounded very suggestive. Was he speaking of the pace of the romance, or the rhythm he intended?

His fingers worked deftly at the buttons of his shirt, fabric parting to reveal his torso, which was marked by scars. Clothes did, indeed, seem like a mere hindrance now.

Especially when one of you was already naked.

He shrugged off the shirt, letting it fall forgotten to the floor, his gaze never leaving yours—intense, unwavering, as if daring you to look away. The muscles of his arms flexed as he leaned over you, one knee dipping into the mattress, caging you in.

It took no time at all before his hands were back on you. One trailed up your thigh, excruciatingly slow, fingertips skating over your skin. Higher and higher. Higher until they brushed against your clit.

A gasp tore from your throat, unbidden, as his thumb circled with an almost mocking pressure, not quite delving in, but letting you consider the idea of it.

"Is this too much?" he asked in a whisper, breath ghosting over your ear, lips grazing the shell of it. “Do you want me to stop?"

His thumb never ceased its circling, the movement lazy and insistent, making sure you would stay responsive. He eased his body back just enough to drink you in, eyes raking over every exposed inch splayed beneath him. 

Your breathing came out uneven.

Words always failed you, but you wouldn’t let it this time.

“No.”

The answer slipped out in a shaky pant, barely even comprehensible. Maybe you were perverted. 

Because you loved the way he let out another low groan, as though your refusal to stop was the sweetest permission he’d ever been granted.

His hand shifted—no longer giving you just the teasing pad of his thumb, but two fingers that slid along your slick folds, parting you with care before pressing deeper. “I’ll make you feel good,” Rengoku vowed, his lips hovering a hairsbreadth from yours so every word brushed your mouth like a kiss. “I’ll reward you. I’ll give you every part of me I can—every breath, every heartbeat, every last drop of fire in my veins.”

Then he pushed inside.

A broken whine clawed its way out of your throat as your walls fluttered around the intrusion, stretching to accommodate the thick glide of his fingers. He shuddered above you. “You feel—” His voice cracked, raw wonder bleeding through. “You feel amazing. So warm… so tight… I need it. I need you.”

He curled them slightly on the next slow withdrawal, dragging along that sensitive spot inside. Your hips bucked upward instinctively, chasing the pressure, silently begging for more. Rengoku obliged, pace quickening just enough to turn deliberate into eager, fingers plunging deeper with each measured thrust while his thumb resumed its merciless circling over your clit.

Inside. Out. Inside again.

He was cataloguing you, noting the exact depth that made your breath catch in sharper gasps, the rhythm that drew louder, needier whimpers, the precise pressure that sent tremors racing through your thighs. Every reaction fed him, stoked the blaze in his eyes until they burned brighter than any flame he’d ever wielded.

Your arms wound around his neck, fingers threading into the thick strands at his nape, tugging him down until his mouth crashed back into yours.

This kiss was ravaging—tongues tangling in an insatiable rhythm that matched the one between your legs. He swallowed every sound you made, drank them like they were offerings, his free hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he kissed you back.

Your legs parted wider without a conscious thought, knees falling open in silent invitation, hips rolling up to meet each thrust of his fingers. The wet sound of it filled the room, mingling with your shared, fractured breaths.

He broke the kiss this time. 

“Cum for me,” he pleaded. “I want to feel you cum on my fingers… want to watch your face when you do. Then I’ll give you more. Everything. I swear it.”

His fingers crooked again, pressing hard against that spot while his thumb flicked faster, merciless. Rengoku wanted what he asked for.

“Rengoku…” His name spilled out of you like you were begging him. 

Before you knew it, the relentless thrusting became too much. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter until it snapped like a wire. Your back arched off the bed in a curve, a broken wail tearing from your throat as your climax crashed through you in shuddering waves. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, muscles locking and releasing in a frantic rhythm while your walls clenched hard around his fingers, pulsing with every aftershock.

Your hands—still tangled in the wildfire of his hair—tugged hard without meaning to, fingers twisting in the thick strands.

Rengoku didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow.

If anything, he pressed deeper, fingered you faster, drawing and savouring every last tremor and gasp from you. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice thick with desire. “...just like that. You’re such a good girl… Giving it all to me.”

His thumb pressed down harder against your swollen clit in reward, and the sudden spike ripped another shrill, keening cry from deep in your chest. Your hips jerked upward, chasing the overstimulation even as your body tried to shy away from it, caught in the contradiction of too much and not enough.

Only then did he finally slip his fingers free, leaving you empty and fluttering around nothing. A soft, appreciative hum rumbled in his throat as he lifted his hand and licked them clean.

When Rengoku finished, his cleaner hand found one of yours, which had been clinging to the back of his neck. He pried your fingers free and guided them downward.

First, to the white belt of his uniform pants, letting your fingertips trace the cool leather and metal buckle. Letting you feel the faint spasm in his abdomen beneath. Then lower still—over the straining fabric—until your palm met the thick, insistent bulge of his erection.

He was hard. Achingly so.

The length of him throbbed beneath your touch. Even through the layers of cloth, the sheer size of him was more than impressive. The moment your fingers curled instinctively around the outline, his hips rocked forward into your hand in a single, helpless thrust before he forced himself still.

“Look at what you do to me,” he hissed, forehead dropping to rest against yours once more.

He pressed your hand firmer against him, encouraging the slow, exploratory stroke you’d begun. You felt him twitch and swell beneath your palm.

Your hand began to rub. Up, down. Firm enough to make his breath hitch. Teasing enough to drive him mad.

Rengoku's eyes snapped shut, the sharp inhale sounding like a hiss between his teeth, and his head dropped into the curve of your neck. You could feel the flex of his jaw, the way he had to fight from rutting into your palm like a starved man—the friction you so cruelly presented.

Your fingers drifted back up to his belt, and you undid the buckle with a quiet, metallic click. Then your hand found the zipper of his trousers.

He shifted at once, hips settling heavier against you, the bulge of him nudging insistently at your inner thigh through the last thin barrier of fabric.

"Already?" Rengoku gasped against your neck.

You nodded fervently, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants, and tugged "You may be patient… but I'm not."

Shame on you for staring. Shame on you for the way your entire body clenched with want at the sight.

He was overwhelming. Thick, veined, and arousal obvious as his cock already glistened with beads of precum. When your hand wrapped around it, it jerked hard in your grip, an unimaginable sound ripping from him—half growl, half broken moan.

"I've dreamed of this," you whispered, thumb sweeping over the slick tip. "But I think the real thing is better."

"Don't—" Rengoku’s voice cracked. His hands found your thighs, fingers digging in with barely-leashed strength as he pushed them wider, opening you completely beneath him. "Don't say things like that. It’ll make me… Oh, it’ll make me lose every shred of control I have left.”

“Lose it.”

ஜ⁀➴ ♡

Never underestimate a Demon Slayer's stamina.

First time:

His cock dragged slowly up and down your folds, the blunt head catching against your swollen clit with every deliberate pass. Each glide sent fresh sparks racing through you, pleasure building in maddening waves that made you squirm helplessly beneath him. He’d sometimes linger at your hole, pressing just enough to part you, to stretch you until a soft, broken whimper escaped your lips. Then, withdrawing completely, with a pleased hum, only to resume the torturous rub along your slit.

He was forcing you to wait. To never know when—or if—he would finally push inside. The uncertainty alone had you clenching around nothing, desperate.

This was entirely your fault.

After all, you were the one who had told him—with needy fingers wrapped around his length—to throw away his control. You’d given him a few more strokes before guiding his cockhead in between your legs, pleading as you whispered that you'd beg if that's what it took... 

It was all your fault.

All your fault, really, for the tension that had been growing between you two. From the spring, to the brush of your hands, to the dress, to the hug, to now.

“You want it, don’t you?” he whispered as the tip of his cock dragged, once more, along your soaked folds before settling right at your entrance. He nudged just enough to part you, to let you feel, but held himself there. “Tell me. Tell me you want me inside you.”

Your mind was already hazy and helpless, so the nod came almost on instinct. 

He clicked his teeth, the sound tender. “That’s hardly enough. Use your words.” His hips rocked with the tiniest motion—just enough to rub against your clit again. “I want to hear that pretty voice of yours. Tell me exactly what you need.”

The ache between your legs was starting to become unbearable. You tightened your arms around his neck, clinging to him as your forehead pressed to his shoulder. “I… I want you…” The words came out shaking and barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

In one powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.

You squealed, high and startled, hands dropping and fingers scrabbling at the blanket under you, clutching it for dear life as he filled you completely—stretching you wide. He didn’t pause, didn’t even give you time to adjust; he simply held himself deep, letting you feel every thick inch, every pulsing vein, the way he throbbed inside you like he was made to fit you.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your throat, the rare curse slipping out like an unexpected confession. “You’re so tight… gripping me...” His hands slid under your hips, lifting you slightly so he could sink even deeper, grinding slow circles that made you squeeze your eyes shut.

Tears welled in your eyes, and he began to move. Slow at first, withdrawing himself almost entirely so you could feel every ridge dragging along your sensitive insides, before slamming back in with enough force to make the bed creak. A loud groan ripped out of him as he found his rhythm. Rengoku started out gentle, but then his pace quickened, his hips snapping forward with growing urgency, the wet slap of skin-on-skin filling the room.

He loved how you felt around him. How your clit was greedy for him. His mouth found yours again, tongues tangling as he pounded into you relentlessly. He refused to break away until one particularly deep thrust made your mouth slip—your teeth catching his bottom lip in a sharp, accidental nick.

Blood bloomed, a faint copper tang between you, but the tiny wound only seemed to ignite him further.

“S-sorry.” The words came out broken.

He didn’t seem to hear.

His tongue darted out, swiping across the small cut on his lower lip. The sight of it sent a fresh, shameful thrill twisting in your belly, and before you could stammer another apology, he surged forward once more, sealing his mouth over yours in another kiss. All teeth and hunger and forgiveness wrapped in ruin.

Your body was flush against his, every inch pressed impossibly close as he drove into you harder, faster, deeper.

Punishing? Rewarding? The line blurred into irrelevance—each brutal hump sending white-hot jolts of pleasure through you. Lewd, helpless moans escaped from your lips straight into his mouth, and he ate them up like they were the sweetest thing he ever tasted.

His hand found the curve of your back. He pressed there, using the leverage to arch you even further against him. Your breasts flattened against the hard planes of his chest, nipples dragging against sweat-slick skin with every punishing snap of his hips. The new angle tilted your pelvis just right; now every deep plunge dragged the thick ridge of him along that devastating spot inside you, over and over, relentless.

Your head fell back on a broken cry, throat exposed, offering itself without thought. He took the invitation—lips and teeth finding the tender column, sucking hard enough to leave a blooming mark, then soothing the sting with slow, reverent licks. The dual sensation—sharp pain blooming into molten pleasure—made your walls flutter wildly around him, squeezing so tight he groaned against your skin like he’d been struck.

“Fuck—do that again. Squeeze me just like that...”

“Come for me,” he begged.

The tension snapped taut—every muscle in your body drawing tight, thighs trembling, breath freezing in your lungs as the wave crested, higher, higher—

And then you snapped.

A wail as your climax crashed through you, cunt clamping down around him in violent, rhythmic pulses.

He didn’t stop.

He rode you through it, prolonging every shudder, drawing out your pleasure until you were sobbing his name. Only then—only when you were utterly spent in his arms—did he falter.

Second Time:

He asked for another round.

His voice turned softer. “One more,” he pleaded. “I promise I’ll be gentle this time. Slower. I just… I need to feel you again. Please?”

You nodded.

And now you were bent over for him.

Knees braced on the mattress, thighs spread wide, body exposed to his hungry gaze. Your cheek was pressed against the cool pillow, breath coming in shallow pants. Behind you, Rengoku knelt—broad shoulders filling the space, flame-colored hair falling forward as he braced one hand beside your waist and used the other to guide himself.

He didn’t rush.

It was almost worse.

Each retreat felt intentionally cruel, for you were oversensitive, and each re-entry was just as unhurried—pushing back in until he was filling you up, hips rolling in a lazy grind that pressed the base of him against your clit with maddening pressure.

He watched, enjoying the little show in front of him.

Golden eyes were fixed on the place where your bodies joined—on the way your slick folds stretched around him, on the obscene sheen coating him every time he pulled out almost entirely before sliding back in. He watched the way you quivered with every entrance, the way your shoulders shook, the way your fingers tightened and untightened on the sheets of the pillow.

Every slow glide sent aftershocks rippling through already raw nerves; every grind against your clit made fresh tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You were so sensitive now that even the brush of his thighs against the backs of yours felt electric. Soft, helpless sounds spilt from your lips with every breath—whimpers, gasps, half-formed pleas that made no sense but seemed to drive him wild anyway.

“Too much?” he asked softly, though he already knew the answer—knew from the way your hips rocked back to meet him despite the trembling.

You shook your head frantically against the pillow. “N-no… don’t stop…”

He hummed in approval.

His hand drifted lower until his fingers found your hypersensitive clit. Slow, feather-light circles. Barely there, really. Yet, perfectly timed to match his movements. The dual sensation was unbearable.

A particularly roll of his hips made you sob, and he rewarded the sound by grinding against you harder for a heartbeat, letting you feel the full pressure of him pressed right against that swollen G-spot.

His name slipped from your lips again, slurred and exhorting.

Despite it, he kept the pace torturously steady, drawing the pleasure out until it felt endless. Your arms buckled, elbows collapsing until your chest was pressed flat to the mattress, your hips tilting up further.

The new angle left you impossibly revealed.

Rengoku hissed through clenched teeth at the sight alone, rhythm stuttering for the first time since he’d promised gentleness—a single, involuntary snap of his hips that drove him deeper, faster than intended.

The sudden plunge drew out a high-pitched, broken whine from you.

“So pretty…” he groaned, trying his absolute hardest to regain his gentle control. His free hand slid over the soft curve of your ass, kneading it possessively as he leaned over your trembling body. The heat of his chest blanketed your back; sweat-slick skin slid against sweat-slick skin. His thumb, which never left her clit, added more pressure now. The circles turned firm.

Even though it was technically nothing, your entire body jolted at the intensified touch, hips bucking back instinctively. The motion drove you harder onto his cock, squeezing him in a tight pulse that earned a rough, gravelly sound from Rengoku.

He was close.

His thumb pressed harder still. He was chasing his own release, yes. But you? Oh, absolutely not, because he made sure to keep you right there on the brink with him, edging you ruthlessly.

Another grind, hips flush against your bottom, holding there while his thumb flicked once, twice, over your clit.

Your thighs were beginning to shake violently as the pleasure built up, muscles locking as you hovered right at the precipice.

Rengoku came.

His hips snapped forward one final time—harsh, deep, grinding—and he spilt inside you in hot, pulsing waves. Each thick spurt dragged a ragged moan from his throat. You felt every throb, every flood of heat filling you, claiming you so completely that it made fresh tears slip down your cheeks.

Third Time: "One more.”

He was still buried deep inside you, cock twitching with the aftershocks of his release, yet already hardening again.

You shook your head weakly, chest heaving, every breath a ragged little sob.

“Rengoku… I can’t… I’m—” The words dissolved into a whimper as he shifted, dragging out halfway only to sink back in with a slow, punishing glide.

“Please,” he pleaded. “One more. Just one more time.”

One more was never truly the last time.

He was too eager. On fire. The Demon Slayer’s stamina was consuming. Never satisfied.

When you finally agreed, he almost impatiently flipped you onto your back with impressive strength, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and drove back into you. Then came the grinding. He enjoyed dragging his hips in filthy circles against you, every ridge of his cock teasing.

When that wasn’t enough, his fingers would join the torment, two thick digits sliding alongside his cock.

He wanted to consume you like you were his last meal on earth.

Teeth grazed your throat, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breast. He marked you with blooming red and purple hickeys that would linger for days. His mouth would swallow every cry, every broken plea, every time you sobbed his name like it was the only word you still remembered.

He fucked you through another shattering orgasm—then another—each one slower, deeper, more devastating than the last, until your body was weak, you no longer caring for the obscene evidence of how many times he’d already filled you.

Only when you were utterly wrecked—unable to let out anything but whines—did he finally let himself go again, burying himself inside you one final time before cumming hard. It spilled from you, dripping down your thighs.

It felt like the two of you had never stopped. Your memory would grow hazy if you tried to recollect it.

When morning finally crept through the window, you woke to exhaustion so bone-deep it felt like gravity had doubled in weight overnight. Every muscle ached, and your body was a canvas of his devotion. Love-bites were scattered across your throat, collarbones; faint fingerprints bruised into your hips; the ache between your legs remained a constant, a throbbing reminder of how thoroughly last night had been.

And still he held you.

Rengoku slept deeply behind you, one arm draped casually across your waist, the other curled beneath your head like a pillow. His flame-bright hair was mussed, strands clinging to his forehead; faint scars scatted across his shoulders and chest, and you noticed a few fresher scratch marks you’d been the culprit of.

You shifted slightly—perhaps to test the soreness—and an involuntary whimper escaped when the movement made fresh heat trickle between your thighs. His arm tightened instinctively, pulling you closer in his sleep.

You let your eyes drift closed again, body sinking back into his embrace. The world outside could wait.

Demons, swords, the journey. 

They could all wait.