#gyutaro x reader

LIVE

Step into the Light

Fandom: Demon Slayer,
Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Soft Sex, Reader is a Sex Worker, Submissive/Inexperienced Gyutaro, Threat of Violence, Minor Spoilers for the Manga (Maybe? If you squint), Grey Morality, Gyutaro is NOT the villain in this, but he’s not exactly a good guy either.
Word Count: 9.4k.

Summary:An unlikely relationship begins through one mans inability to stay away.

A/N:This is my first and probably only Demon Slayer fic. I’m just down bad for Gyutaro and had to get him out of my system. Also, this is legit some of my worst writing, but fuck it: I had fun

-> This fic has been queued. So any minor formatting mistakes will be fixed next week-ish.

‘I’ve seen you watching me.’ You call out from your perch on the steps of the house. The light from the hallway, unbarred by the open front door, spills out onto the porch and coats the wood. It soaks you, dousing your back in warmth and donating it’s hazy brightness to the edges of your silhouette. In your hands is a thin piece of material, already adorned with a collection of neatly stitched primrose’s and the start of a butterflies delicate wing. You pull at the needle in your hand, stretching the thread of purple cotton from the material before looping it back and finishing the stitch.

In the darkness, Gyutaro drops the thing in his hand and stashes it away behind a small wooden panel. He’s perched beside the porch, obscured by the thick wooden bannister of the stairs. In his chest his heart stutters. He’d thought he had been doing a good job of hiding himself, always so quiet, sticking to the shadows even though he longed to step into the light. Chewing at his lip, he sinks to his knees, trying to reduce himself to nothingness. It wouldn’t do to get caught. God knows what would happen to him, caught stealing glances at an Oiran – he’d be beaten, burned…

It’s been a few months since you first noticed his skulking, since then, you’ve grown used to the feeling of being watched. You could even say that you’ve come to like it. His eyes aren’t filled with the same lustful hunger as the other men, aren’t half as piercing, or objectifying. There’s nothing of the sort in his sick, yellow eyes. Instead, he looks at you with the curiosity and confliction of a child who’s been told only to look, but never to touch. You sigh, not bothering to search the darkness for him. 'Do you mind if I talk to you?

He doesn’t speak, but he swears his heart answers. It thuds against his ribs and makes the bone ache more than usual.

'I’m going to take that as a no.’ You pause and peer into your periphery, a smile rising to your lips as the darkness shifts. 'Of course, it would be easier to have a conversation if you’d come out from behind that rail…’

He’s been getting bolder lately, lingering for longer, seeking a closer view; it was only a matter of time before you caught him really, but the shock of it is still enough to freeze his breath in his lungs. Shuffling his feet, he resists the urge to run. There’s something about your voice that keeps him rooted to the spot, it’s hard to tell from where he’s hidden, but he’s sure he can hear you smiling.

'Another time then.’ Lowering your eyes again, you finish with the purple, tie it off and bite the thread to sever it from the material before switching to lilac. 'It’s a nice night, don’t you think?’ The music from the surrounding houses drifts lazily on the air and weaves its way around the streets, intoxicating anyone who’ll listen.

The air is mild, warm with a cool breeze that slips down the sides of the houses to caress working skin and tired muscle. You look up and down your sowing to blink at the moon. It’s almost dusk, the cicadas are singing and you’ve yet to be called away to entertain another wealthy man with delicate hands and a dirty mouth. ‘Yes,’ you breathe. ‘Definitely a fine night.’ Picking the material back from your lap, you return to your craft. ‘Of course, the company helps… It’s not often I get chance to actually talk to a man.’ You pause, cocking your head. ‘You are a man, aren’t you? I guess I just assumed… Either way: you’re a good listener, I can tell. It’s a good quality to have, attractive, something a woman can respect.’

Gyutaro’s throat tightens. A shiver runs down his spine. You couldn’t be suggesting what he suspected? No. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the idea from between his ears. No woman would ever find him attractive. He’d been told as much since a child. With his sickly body and broken teeth, no woman could possibly look upon him and feel a warmth spark inside of her. Even his own mother had remained callous and cold, unable to conjure a twinge of the love one should have for their own child. He knows this to be true and yet, he’s helpless against the hunger pains that force his body to curl at the sight of you, backlit by the hall light. Gripping his stomach, he licks along his teeth. He’d stolen half a loaf of bread this morning to share with Ume and the day before he’d managed to scrounge up a few slices of meat thrown from one of the houses; he was more full than he’d been in months. Swallowing uneasily, he stretches himself back to full height as it dawns on him: Maybe it’s not food that he’s hungry for.

‘Dear?’

The voice shakes him from his realisation and causes him to shrink back into the shadow.

An elderly woman wonders onto the porch and calls out again, softer this time. ‘Dear, Mr Doma has requested your presence.’

Twisting to observe the woman behind you, you chew at your cheek before conceding and offering her a smile. ‘I assume I’ll be having to fend off another offer to abscond to his precious little cult?’

The woman shuffles closer, eventually reducing herself to her knees beside you. ‘If I could speak out of turn, dear?’

You nod. ‘You’re always welcome to speak your mind to me, Mistress.’

Resting a hand on your shoulder, the woman lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘A girl like you could do well with a man like him. He’s sweet on you, you can see it in his eyes; he never calls on any other girls: only you and he’s yet to touch you. Most men can hardly wait to paw at a woman, but Mr Doma, he’s… Different. He likes you.’

‘All of the men like me, Mistress.’ You chuckle, gently dislodging her hand.

The woman levels you with a stare. ‘They like the thing between your legs.’ She vaguely gestures her own lap before poking a boney finger into the crook of your shoulder. ‘Not you.’ She shrugs, chuckling to herself. ‘A cunts a cunt, no matter how pretty it’s owner is.’

You snort. ‘Well that’s simply not true. If a cunt was just a cunt; I wouldn’t have found myself a nice young courtier like Mr Doma, would I?’

Rolling her eyes, the woman chuckles. ‘You remind me of myself, you know…’ She sighs. ‘It’s just something to consider, dear. I wouldn’t begrudge you a life with him should you wish to go. You’ve been loyal, done more than enough for the house -.’

‘Mistress.’ Twisting, you lay a hand on the woman’s cheek. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you where trying to get rid of me.’

‘I only want the best for you, dear. You deserve a life like what Mr Doma could give you. One filled with pretty dresses and jewels, where you’d be kept and looked after…’

A laugh trickles over your lips as you gracefully climb to you feet, bringing the elderly woman with you. ‘Well then, let’s not keep him waiting. Will you announce me? Allow me a few moments to ready myself?’

With a bow, the women nods before slipping back inside the house.

Pausing at the top

stair, your sowing now collected neatly into one of your hands, you look out into the dark. ‘I’ve been called away.’ Chewing at your cheek, you pause for a moment before speaking again to the nothingness. 'I try to come out here most nights when it’s like this. If not here, then I’ll stitch on the balcony of my room… It’s the one with the purple curtain. I wouldn’t be opposed to having company more often.’

‘Ah. There you are. Are you hiding from me, my love?’

The shadow that floods the doorway is large. It looms over you and blocks out the light, snuffing out the broad halo of luminescence that had coated your body. Gyutaro shivers. Sinking further into the dark, he steadies his breathing as the figure of a young man moves to join you on the porch. There’s a heat like he’s swallowed too many fire seeds at once in his chest when he sees the man hover a hand over the small of your back and he’s forced to clench his jaw to stop himself from spitting it up.

‘From you, love? Never.’

Your voice sounds different. It’s not as sweet, more high-pitched and tight as you indulge the man with idle small talk. He doesn’t like it.

‘Should we go on a walk, it’s a fine night for it?’

‘The parlour.’ You smile. ‘A more suitable place for a man like yourself and the conversation he brings, don’t you think?’

For a minute you think that Doma might push, might reduce himself to the usual selfishness you’ve seen from other men, but like always, he surprises you. A smile cracks his mouth as he turns, gesturing back into the house.

‘The parlour then…’

From his hiding space, Gyutaro hears your leave, the man only half a step behind as you cross the thresh-hold back into the house. He squeezes shut his eyes, blocking out the light that still trickles from the hallway, but before he can open them and hope to catch a glimpse of you one last time - the door slams shut and he’s alone with nothing, but the darkness for company.

It’s almost Thursday by the time he gets to see you again. Not yet brave enough to clamber onto the balcony of your room, he’d returned religiously to his spot beside the staircase each night and each night, you’d failed to come. Sinking deeper into his hiding spot, he presses his shoulders into splintering wood and settles down. He’ll wait until a few hours before dawn again.

A sickness crawls in his stomach as the first hour past midnight washes over the district. The air bites and scratches at the exposed skin of his chest and legs, forcing him to tuck his knees to his chest to try to preserve the little warmth his frail body can generate. Tucking his chin into his knees, he tries to forget what he’d heard the mistress say almost a week ago. ‘I wouldn’t begrudge you a life with him should you wish to go’ - the words swim in his head and make his breath quicken. Go where? He wonders. For a moment he indulges, imagines you strolling the large gardens of a manor bathed in the sunlight of a cool spring morning. Your dress would be green, like his eyes and he’d watch you, patiently commit every curve of your figure to memory as you danced between rose bush and spider lily. Maybe, maybe, he’d even join you, rising from his hidden place to feel the sun on his face, your hand in his as you walked. Another, more violent wave of sickness washes over him and forces the breath from his lungs. Would he be able to find you there? Or would he lose you? Would he be left behind with nothing, but the darkness again?

‘Mistress, please.’ The door is swung open, letting you pass onto the porch. ‘I must insist on at least an hour to myself. I’ve been beckoned from pillar to post for the best part of a week; I’ll start tearing my hair out if I have to go another moment without hearing myself think.’

‘But -.’

‘No.’ Your voice is firmer this time, your hand already wrapping the thick edge of the door as you prepare to shut it. ‘I’ll be taking the hour, at least…’

‘I must -.’

You slam the door and rest your head against the wood before speaking to the air. ‘Are you here?’

Gyutaro freezes. In his chest his heart thunders. His tongue a lead weight in his mouth refuses to move and so, instead, he wraps his knuckles twice against the staircase.

‘Oh, good.’ Rummaging in the pockets of your dress, you remove something large and round, a package that crinkles when you wrestle to open it. Drifting to the edge of the porch, you kneel to place the thing on the floor before stepping away and turning your back. ‘I was rather hoping you’d eat with me… It’s an onigiri, although I’m afraid it’s a bit messy. I had to sneak them from the kitchen and they’ve been in my pockets ever since.’ You chew at your lip. ‘I’ve turned my back if you want to take it. I promise not to look.’

For a moment, he doesn’t move. The kindness of the gesture sets something kindling in his chest and then, before he can think twice, he’s slinking from his hiding spot and reaching around the side of the porch. Feeling against the wood, he pats the wood before he locates it. The paper touches his skeletal fingers, crinkling as he gingerly closes a delicate fist. It’s an easy snatch after that. Reeling back, his prize in hand, he steals to the shadows and settles against the floor. When he unwraps it he discovers that the onigiri is large, misshapen and the most wonderful thing he has ever laid his eyes on. He takes a bite, savouring the mouthful and moans as he licks spice from his lip.

The noise he makes is dull and heavy, but it pleases you non-the-less. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

He takes another bite, letting a similar noise slip from his lips. Part of him knows he should be cursing himself, he’d never intended for you to know of his existence, let alone communicate with you.

‘I’m going to assume that means I’m okay to turn back around.’ You chuckle, shoulders bouncing as you spin in the light of the hallway. Wondering to the edge of the porch, you settle against the top-most step before taking a small bite from the top of your own meal. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t

been out much. I haven’t had a moment to breathe.’ You swallow your mouthful and take another. ‘Doma, the man who interrupted us last time, he comes to see me every day now. He’s determined, I’ll give him that; even if it does feel like the Mistress is trying to sell me off some days.’ The thought sours your mouth. Doma has been growing pushy for a while, although he has yet to demand your presence at his home. Still, with each of your refusals you swear you can see something shift in his eyes. Something you’re not sure you like.

Wrinkling his nose, he pushes away the thought of you and the man. He knows men, knows what lingers behind their charming smiles and sweet words. It makes him feel uneasy.

Your stomach bubbles. ‘Do you want this?’ Thrusting your arm out, you let the onigiri balance in your palm. It’s mostly intact, save for two small bites taken from the top. ‘I’m afraid I think I’ve lost my appetite.’

Gyutaro’s eyes fix on the meal in your palm. Does your kindness know no bounds? Having more food wouldn’t do any harm, far from it. He can already see Ume’s face, her apple cheeks glowing as he presents her with the morsel. Creeping forward, he steadies himself on the staircase preparing to snatch and retreat, but as he reaches out, his fingers brush your palm. He freezes: You’re warm.

‘Your hands…’ you mumble. The hand that reaches out of the dark is large, but thin. The tendons stand out, proud and strong, connecting wrist to knuckle as he prepares to grip. His skin is sallow, an almost grey that reminds you of the clouds on stormy days and the nails are black with polish and blood blisters. Each long finger is dainty, nobbled at the joint where flesh sticks to bone, but fine in its poise. You wonder how they would feel interlaced with yours, his cold pressed to all the places you’re warm.

He flinches, moves to retract his hand and abandon the food, but before he can move, you’re thumbing at his knuckles. The touch is feather light. A barely there brush of skin on skin, but it sets him on fire. The muscles in his shoulders relax, in turn releasing his elbow and wrist. Wincing he prepares for an insult, to be spat at and shunned.

‘They’re beautiful.’ When he doesn’t move away, you twist to press more of your hand to his. Your thumb latches over the top, curling onto his palm as you lift the onigiri into his still lax grip.

The word repeats on him, making his whole body feel strange and light. He can hear the smile on your voice, picture the sides of your lips pulling up as you speak. With weak knees, he surges forward, he has to see it - your smile - the lips that had spoken a word he’d never heard, not for him.

‘My love? Are you hiding again?’

You don’t snatch your hand back, despite the way Doma’s voice shocks you. Tightening your jaw, you deflate. ‘I have to leave…’ You push the onigiri into his hand, ensuring he has tight hold before you let go. ‘I’m sorry.’

The sorrow in your voice makes a lump form in his throat as he takes the food and finally pulls back his hand. He listens to you stand, listens to the way even the floor boards that creak under foot seem sad to watch you go. He really had never intended to announce himself. Looking at you had always just been a pass time before the inevitable; before he did what he came to do. Only it’s more complicated than that now, isn’t it. Breathing deep, he speaks just loud enough to be heard over the wind. ‘Thank you.’

Winter comes early that year and brings with it a small blooming friendship. Gyutaro returns to share an evening meal as often as he can, eating in calm silence for the hour or so you can spare him. On the nights you don’t join him, you leave small packages of food, neatly wrapped and tucked under the stairs - sealed with tape and a note in delicate scrawl: ‘To my stranger, I’m sorry I can not be with you tonight.’ He has a collection of notes now, pinned to the thick panelling of the wall in the corner that he sleeps.

Pulling his robe tightly around himself, he makes his way to his hiding spot. You’re not on the porch when he settles down and there is no package when his curious hands pat at the dirt under the stairs. He hums, you’re late then. Letting his head fall back on his shoulders, he feels the familiar sensation of the wind chilling his bones as he prepares to wait. He’s been careful since the day you saw his hand, keeping further to the shadows and safely out of sight. That hasn’t quenched his desire to be seen, though. In fact, he thinks it’s made it worse. The pad of your thumb had been so warm against his skin, your voice so soft as you breathed praise into his ears. He longs for it. To hear it again. To feel you again. Clenching his jaw, he wrestles with the thing in his chest that squirms when he thinks of you.

A shout breaks him from his daydream. He jolts, hitting his head and scrambles to his feet. It takes him too long to realise that the shouting is leaking from one of the upstairs windows, but when he does, he listens close. There’s an all manner of loud noises that seep out from a whore house windows. Many of them are innocuous, better to be forgotten than listened to; in this part of town, shouting doesn’t often mean danger. He strains his ears, trying to discern the nature of the sound, but all noise is filtered from his head when he makes out the rough edges of your voice. Immediately, he’s on the move. His eyes rake over the outside of the house, searching, searching, searching.

‘Purple curtain…’ He mumbles it under his breath. ‘Purple curtain, purple curtain, purple -.’ When his eyes finally catch it, a thin slip of cotton blowing from a third level window, he finds his body moving on its own. Before he can think, his arms are reaching, his hands gripping the jutting edge of the wooden slats to help him climb. He scuttles up the side of the house, almost slipping twice as he finally grabs onto the edge of your balcony. The curtain blows gently in the breeze, obscuring his view inside and forcing him to clamber up and onto the balcony itself. He balances on its edge, the balls of his feet bearing his weight as he listens.

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.’ Your voice is harsh, blunter than he’s ever heard it; rougher than any tone you’ve ever taken with him.

‘Dear… Sweetling,’ Another voice, a purr, calls to you, poisoning the air with faux sweetness. ‘I’m not trying to say anything. I’m telling you that you’re mine.’

You laugh. ‘I am no man’s.’

Doma’s laugh is louder.

‘I don’t know how you came across the impression that I can be bought, but -.’

‘You’re a whore.’ Doma’s voice cracks like thunder. ‘The only thing you’ve ever known is commodity - I’m trying to give you more.’

‘More?’

‘A life away from this. A community, a house… Children.’ He breathes, his eyes shining as he reaches for your elbow. ‘A purpose.’

You blink, reeling back away from him. ‘There is nothing I wish for less than to bare your children, I can assure you -.’

He waves his hand and steps closer, his lips pulling back to expose sharp teeth underneath. ‘Your wishes aren’t my concern -.’

‘Excuse me -.’ The large step backwards you take isn’t enough to stop Doma’s advance. His chest presses to yours, forcing you to look up at him as his large palms come to wrap your shoulders. The grip he takes on you is unyielding and tight enough that you can feel it bruising the skin. Taking a steadying breath, you force the fear from your voice, keeping each of your words calm and steady.

You’ve met men like this, men who want to see you scared, who get off on making small things quake. You harden your jaw: You won’t give him that pleasure. ‘I will scream. If you do not take your hands off me, I will make sure no woman in this entire district will so much as look upon you again.’

Doma blinks slow. ‘Oh. Sweetling.

‘Take your hands off me.’

He tilts his head and smiles, flashing his teeth again. A tongue, long and rosy, peaks from his mouth to lick at his lips. ‘I think I’d rather like to hear you scream.’

Inhaling quick, the sound bursts from your chest, but as quickly as it shatters the air, it’s stopped by a broad hand covering your mouth.

‘But…’ Doma locks eyes with you. There’s joy swimming in his iris’, a primal glee growing as he soaks in the terror that radiates from you. You’ve put up a good front. In fact, your little show has been quite splendid… Maybe, that’s why he has to have you? ‘I’d rather hear you scream for me under different…’ He rolls his eyes, smirks. ‘Circumstances.’

Swallowing behind his hand, you try and stop the trembling in your limbs. Behind his palm your jaw is still set, a frown etched into your brow as you glare at him, but inside, you’re shaking.

He holds your gaze for a time as if making sure of your silence before lifting his hand and stepping away. ‘I will have you.’ He tells you. 'Just remember that.’ Without giving you time to respond, Doma offers you a short bow before turning to the door. ‘I must take my leave, but I’ll be back.’

You don’t grant him a response or a courtesy in response. You don’t even nod your head.

‘Oh, don’t be like that, Dear. You should be glad that I want to keep you.’ Doma chuckles as hunger crawls into his eyes. ‘You’re good enough to eat.’

The door shuts then, leaving you alone. Almost immediately you fall to the floor, your knees crunching against the wood as you weep. Each sob leaves your chest in a great heaving wrench, forcing your body to shake with the force. Fear wraps itself around your limbs, suffocating you, but your breath is frozen in your throat when you hear two knocks ring clear through your room. Clearing the tears from your cheeks, you croak: ‘Is that you, my stranger?’

The knocks come again.

You smile, despite yourself and relax a little easier against the floor. ‘You should come in, I know how harsh it is out there tonight.’

Gyutaro rocks on the balls of his feet. His heart thunders in his chest, adrenaline spiking as he tries to stay as still as possible. He’d been seconds away from leaping through your door, seconds away from putting himself to death because of a raised voice and a few harsh words. It shakes him. He’s always been a selfish man, but the way his body trembles betrays that. Carefully, he climbs down from his perch.

You sigh, knowing he’s about to bolt or settle beyond your view. The company would be nice, needed even, but you’re not in the business of forcing pretty, quiet things from their hiding places.

Gyutaro speaks before he can think better. ‘Are you okay?’ He winces. Beside yours, his voice sounds cracked and hoarse, raw when compared to your melody.

You bite your lip as a thrum of excitement runs through you. ‘Yes. Yes. Quite. Thank you… I -.’ You smile as you spot him slink behind the curtain, creeping closer to the open door. ‘I apologise if this is a little forward, but I think I’d rather like to see you tonight.’

Breathing deep, he settles hunched against the wood of the house. His mind tells him that it’s a lie, but his heart is loud enough to deafen its scolding. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Shuffling to his feet once again, he shimmies his way towards the opening. He doesn’t know if it’s the desire to be seen crawling in his stomach, or the fact that he can’t quite bring himself to believe that you’re alright that makes up his mind, but he finds himself uncaring as he hauls himself to his feet. His bones ache from his climb, his limbs and muscles whining horribly as he tries to steady his breathing. It’s a stark reminder of his weakness, of how his body betrays him,

both in function and in aesthetics. ‘I’m ugly.’

Your eyebrows furrow. Beauty, you could tell him, is subjective, is far more than looks, but in a city like this it’s hard not the believe the rhetoric. Taking a deep breath, you lick at your lips before asking: ‘Is that why you’ve been hiding?’

‘Yes.’

‘And why do you think you’re ugly?’

He scoffs. ‘I don’t think. I know.’

Clicking your tongue, you find yourself standing and looking about the room for a suitable perch. Pouting, you fold your arms. ‘Well… You’ve warned me now, come on, let me see.’

With shaking fingers, he reaches for the edge of the open door and slips around it. The curtain clings to his torso, wrapping him up only to be blown backwards, revealing him stood in the doorway. As soon as your eyes touch his skin, he wraps his arms around himself. It feels wrong, being looked at so intently, being observed by something as beautiful as you. He tenses, readying for a disappointed sigh, for you to retch or walk from the room, unable to keep looking at him, but once again, it never comes.

'There…’ You smile, letting your eyes rake over him slowly. He’s taller than you expected, with a lithe build and pale, greying skin. His eyes are large, but hooded and his hair is a murky black that falls from his crown in loose waves. Something fizzes gently in your stomach. He certainly isn’t ugly. '… Now shut the door and come sit down, I’ve got some food set out by the fire.’

He stumbles slightly before pulling the door shut behind him. The wood under his feet is warm, the call of your voice warmer as you shift and push yourself to your feet, asking him to sit. Without a thought he finds himself obeying. He curls himself on the floor, legs crossed under him, hands dropped into his lap as he watches you collect the food.

'Is chicken okay?’ Turning back, you retake your seat opposite him and offer out the meal. You watch, intently as he takes it from you; reaching out with those large, beautiful hands.

'Thank you.’ His eyes flicker to yours, skin prickling as he pulls back. Raising the rice ball to his lips, he takes a small bite from the top.

You watch him eat, lips curling as he nibbles at the rice barely taking more than a mouthful at a time before wiping at his face with the back of his hand. There’s something comfortable about the silence that settles on the room, something easy about the way you lapse into each other despite having shared nothing more than a few blind meals and the same air. Shuffling, you shift closer to him until you’re both facing the door. The light from the city beyond refracts off of the glass, spilling colour across the wood. You knock into his shoulder. 'Beautiful, isn’t it?’

He looks up, peering over the onigiri. 'I’ve only ever seen it from the ground.’ The light dances in his eyes, dazzling him, but even the cityscape beyond the windows isn’t enough to compare to you. His eyes flicker left, eating greedily at the side of your face as he takes in your profile and the way the cities image kisses your skin.

You smile when you catch him looking, but unlike the men you’re used to, he’s quick to look away. His innocence makes you bold, the lack of lingering motivation under his skin a magnet that draws you closer and encourages you to press your thigh to his.

He tenses at the contact, but relaxes soon after. In the space of only a few minutes, all of his wildest dreams had come true. He’d gone from stealing glances of you, his shining light in a world that was otherwise full of nothing but shit to sharing food, sitting knee to knee and feeling the warmth of your body against his. With his heart hammering against his chest, he takes a deep breath and another bite.

'Your not like the other men in this city, are you?’

Already he can feel it, the thing that writhes in his stomach when he so much as breathes your air. If only you knew. The men in this city might only have their own desires in mind, but they came with coin and conversation; offering to you something in return for the pleasure of your body. He had nothing of the sort to offer. Instead, he’d planned to rob you, stalked you only to find himself gravitating to your light helplessly and befriending you. There was nothing he could give you, but that didn’t stop his own desire. Shivering, he swallows down the thought of you discovering what he thinks about late at night while he fisted his cock. 'I’m worse.’ He mutters.

'Oh, I don’t believe that for a second.’ You flash him a smile. 'In a city full of clients and whores, it feels as if you’re my only friend sometimes, stranger.’

A blush breathes life back into his cheeks. 'A friend?’ He resists the urge to scoff. Would a friend think about kissing you the way he does? Or, how the skin on the insides of your thighs would taste, sweat-slicked and slippery. How your tongue would feel coated in his seed as you licked back into his mouth?

'You don’t look at me like the others do.’ You stare back out at the city. 'Most of my clients don’t even talk to me… Not unless it’s to whisper some sweet nothing into my ear or spit some cruel insult… They don’t see me as anything more than something warm and wet and willing.’

Shame coils inside of him causing his spine to bend. It feels wrong to keep the burning inside of him a secret while you’re being so open, so vulnerable in front of him. He wonders what a friend would do, a real one, one that doesn’t picture peeling your clothes from your skin in an almost obscene routine each night before bed. 'I -.’

'Hmm?’

He should tell you, he thinks. Should prove to you that he is everything you think he isn’t, but each time he tries the words stick in his throat. Reaching for a small glass of water beside your ankle, he takes three long swallows. 'Sometimes…’ He starts. 'Sometimes… I think of you like that, too.’

Another chuckle slips from your lips as you turn to him and cock and eyebrow. Even with his skin pressing to yours, your body almost flush to his side, he fails to take the path of so many other men before him. Instead, he steals glances and drops his hands back into his lap between bites. A dull hum sounds in the back of his throat when you shift, anxious to dampen the gentle bubbling beginning in your stomach. With an itch in your fingers, you reach out brushing your hand along the outside of his thigh. 'You do?’

The touch sends him reeling. He jumps, muscles tensing as he shoves himself away sending himself sprawling onto his elbows. Electricity shoots down his leg, scorching his skin where your fingers had grazed him. 'I -.’ He doesn’t know what he means to say, why all of a sudden his mind and body seem to be at odds. Floundering, he collects his legs again and holds himself close. 'I don’t have any – I can’t – wouldn’t be able to - .’

You swallow, eyebrows raising on your head. Something cold and heavy settles in your gut as you watch panic and lust swirl together in his eyes. Biting the inside of your cheek, you let your eyes slip to the wooden floor as the Mistress’ words echo against the walls of your skull. Maybe you are just a cunt, after all. 'I wasn’t intending to secure your business.. That’s – that isn’t what I was trying to…’ Your voice cracks. 'It’s… I’m sorry – I -. I forget sometimes, that I’m just a -.’

'You’re not.’ The dimming in your eyes has him finding his voice again, he bites his tongue, eyes pleading for you to look at him. 'I mean, you’re not just a -.’

'A whore?’ You supply.

Forcing his body to relax, he offers you a broken smile. 'It’s not that I don’t want to… I - I want to. I do. I -.’

'Then what is it?’ You whisper, twisting to face him. Rejection tastes funny after all the years you’ve been feasting on desire, but it doesn’t sour your stomach like you’d expect it to. It stirs up a curiosity inside of you, making you cock your head and cant forward as you watch him slowly relax again.

He lifts his chin, chest trembling as he holds your gaze. Under his clothes, his skin crawls. The thought of you touching him is enough to make him dizzy, but even that isn’t enough to stop the sickness that scratches at his insides. Wrapping his arms around himself, he hides, tugging the material covering his chest away from him. 'I’m… I’m hideous and you’re… You’re beautiful.’

'Is that the only reason?’

He nods, refusing your eye.

Shifting to your knees, you crawl towards him and reach out, letting your knuckles brush against his cheek. 'You’re not hideous… Not to me, stranger.’ You can see it on his face, the moment he falls, giving in to your touch as you move to cup his cheek. A gentle brush of your thumb across his skin brings his eyes to yours and then, you’re encouraging him backwards to lie against the mats.

'I -.’ With wide eyes, he lets you lay a hand on his chest and swing your legs over his hips. The heat of your body presses to him making the air in his lungs freeze as he struggles to decide what to do with his hands. He wants to touch you, to feel the silk of your skin, the curve of your hip under his palms, but he stutters, caught in the headlights of having you on his lap.

'Touch me.’ Taking his wrists, you place his hands on your hips and cover his fingers, squeezing him until he takes hold of you. You can feel him shaking, his hips already twitching under you as you move against him with an experimental roll that earns you a gasp. His hands tighten, rough fingertips digging into the fat about your pelvis as a shaky moan wriggles its way up his throat. 'There you are…’

The muscle in his stomach twitches, tensing as a shock of pleasure crashes through his body. He’s in awe, trapped somewhere in a daydream as you grind against him again. Already his cock is fattening, pushing up and against the plush of your ass as you move backwards and grin when you feel it. Summoning all of the courage he can muster, he lets his hands slip from your hips and travel up. His palms skate over your waist, fingertips searching until they brush against the underneath of your breasts. 'Can I – want to… Want to touch you here.’

'Here?’ You peel back your robe, letting him get a full view of your chest. 'You can touch here.’

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He curls, bending himself into a half-moon to latch onto your nipple with his mouth.

A shocked gasp leaps from your mouth when you feel him suck. It’s unexpected, the vigour at which he takes to kneading and licking at your flesh. It’s hungry, starved, and sets up a furnace in your stomach. Lacing your hands into his hair, you tug and scratch, only encouraging him further with the soft whines that leak over your lips.

With his mouth wrapped around your breast, all thoughts leave his head. His hesitance vanishes, leaving him to rut up against you, his mouth tireless as he switches nipples and shares his attention.

You’re dripping. You can feel it. Slick gathers between your thighs and coats your skin, seeping into the cotton of his robe as you press your cunt to his pelvis. Tugging at his hair, you ease him backwards and smooth your hands over his cheeks. There’s something heady swimming in his eyes when he looks at you, something more than the violent lust you’re used to. His lips are blossoming, coated in a thin layer of his own spit as he gulps air as if he’s just remembered that he can’t breathe you in. Slipping your hand under his jaw, you lift his chin. 'Kiss me, stranger.’

'Gyutaro.’

You bite back a smile. 'Kiss me, then, Gyutaro.’

He does. Leaning forward, he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is tentative at first, a barely there grazing of his lips against yours, but as soon as he gets a taste, he’s ravenous. Moaning softly, he lets his mouth drop open when you press your tongue to the seam of his lips. It’s natural, the way his hands grope at your chest while you suck his lip into your mouth, the way your bodies grind, slowly, lazily, against each other.

Pulling back, you let your hands skim down his body teasing over the soft cotton of his robe until your reach his hips. You grip him, digging in your thumbs gently before dragging your nails soft over his stomach. He shivers, whimpering into your mouth as you slip under the material of his underwear and take hold of his cock.

'Fuck – I – ha.’ Gasping, he lets his mouth fall open as heat coils in his gut, but the hand you still have curled around his jaw stops him from dropping your eye. His stomach fizzes as he’s forced to keep looking at you, watching how amusement swims in your pupils with each shuddering whine you’re able to elicit from your idle stroking.

His cock fits perfectly in your palm, averagely thick, but pleasantly long and drooling. Pre-cum coats your skin, making each pass of your hand easy and smooth, even with the slow pace you set. Already you can see him coming apart, feel the pulse of his veins in your hand and the blunt ache of his fingers as he tries to gain purchase on your waist. 'That’s it…’ You hum against his mouth. 'Look at you, so pretty for me.’

'P – pr – pretty?’ His eyes threaten to roll in his head, but he struggles to stay focused. The word makes him feel hollow and full all at the same time, his skin prickling as you nod and whisper it again before feeding him it on a kiss.

'So pretty.’

A stuttering whine leaves his throat when you take back your hand, but it jams in throat when you bring it to your mouth and suck, tasting him on your fingers. He wheezes and lurches forward, only for his lips to meet your outstretched finger.

You press it to his mouth horizontally, stopping his advance. Wiggling in his lap, you push backwards sliding down his legs until you can prise them apart to slip between them. Your hands land on his thighs, skating up over pale skin until they reach his cock. With one wrapping the base, you jostle, moving closer until finally, you can wrap your lips around his head.

The first suck has his head falling back on his shoulders. He has to brace himself on his arms to stop himself from falling, his hands digging mercilessly into the mat behind him as he leans back. It’s a fight to stop his hips from lifting, an endless struggle to not thrust into your mouth and chase the soft wetness that has enveloped his tip. 'Fuck.’ He chews his lip. 'Feels – fuck – oh, fuck – you feel.’

'Is it good?’ Popping off his cock, you look up at him and blink. The hand you have wrapping the base of his cock slides up, thumb massaging the skin and vein’s that run along the underside of his shaft as you go. You stop short of his head, twisting your wrist just so as your thumb digs into the tender flesh below the tip to massage, drawing slow circles into the flesh.

'It’s – g – good… So – g – good.’ This time he’s helpless to stop the twitching of his hips. He ruts up, forcing your hand to slide on his cock and hisses when you squeeze tight.

'Patience, baby.’ You kiss his tip before letting your mouth fall back open to take him in and suckle. Within a few seconds you have his thighs shaking, one of his hands has curled on the mat, white knuckles clenched tight as he tries to keep the other hand soft where he’s moved it to cup your neck. It makes something swell in your chest, to be able to reduce men like this with only your mouth. It makes your own core heat, your head becoming light as you blink up at his face. His nose is wrinkled, lips pulled back over his teeth as he tries to breathe through them and steady the molten lava bubbling in his stomach.

'I’m – I.’ He’s not even able to get the entire sentence out before your mouth vanishes from his cock and your hand is back at the base, squeezing tight. Thrashing, he squirms as the heat in his stomach recedes, leaving him panting and desperate. 'No, no – please. I – I want to…’

Tilting your head, you coo at him while shuffling back into his lap. This time, you let your own robe fall aside and hook your fingers into the seat of your underwear to pull it aside. Bare cock presses to your thigh, smearing stickiness over your skin as you reposition yourself to hover over him. 'You don’t want to cum inside me?’

His eyes blow out in real time. With the haze of your touch still gripping his mind, he’d failed to even comprehend anything more than the perfection of your mouth. Stuttering, he nods, hips flexing as he brings his cock up to press at your folds. 'P – please.’

You gasp, eyebrows rising on your head, but regain your composure enough to purr soft as you slowly sink down onto him. 'Such a good boy, aren’t you? Such a good, pretty boy for me.’ The stretch is modest, far from the largest you’ve had, but pleasing none the less. He fills you easily, hollowing you out as you come to rest back against his pelvis.

Now fully seated inside of you, his chest heaves. He’s sure he’s dreaming now. There’s no other explanation for how your cunt feels wrapping him, how your hands feel when they hook over his shoulders, but all thoughts leave his head when you begin to move. The first lift of your hips has him groaning, then you sink back down and his whole body shudders. 'I can’t… Can’t – too good.’

'You going to cum already?’ You tease him, but don’t stop. Each roll of your hips becomes quicker, the sinking of your cunt on his cock harder as you ride him not for his pleasure, but for yours. You clit catches on the wiry mess of pubic hair on his groin and sends sparks of electricity up through your legs and encouraging your pace. 'Going to cum inside me, pretty boy? Gonna to make a mess, are you?’

Maybe it’s your tone, or the wicked look that blends to adoration on your face, but he’s powerless to stop the overflow. He cums quick, too quick, and with a yell. His head falls forward, mouth searching for yours to feed you his pleasure as his cock leaks heavy white into your cunt. Embarrassment coils strong and thick in his stomach. Of course, he’d ruined the moment by breaking too soon. Swallowing the anxiety that shakes his bones, he risks severing the kiss to look at you. 'Sorry, sorry. Fuck – I’m…’

'Don’t need to be sorry, baby…’ You sooth him, still smiling from the feeling of the warmth slathered inside of you.

'But…’ He pants. 'But, you didn’t…’

'Oh.’ Rocking your hips again, you cup his jaw when a whine breaks his chest. 'I’m gonna, baby. Don’t worry.’ Your thumb slips into his mouth when you set up a rhythm again and presses against his tongue keeping it pinned down. He gurgles before closing his lips and then, he’s sucking and making your head spin. 'Fuck… Good boy.’ You moan. 'Such a good fucking boy.’

The praise makes him weak, makes him want to never do another bad thing again as he watches you use him relentlessly. His cock is still hard, even if he doesn’t quite understand how. The muscle in his stomach twitching and flexing relentlessly as you ride him into overstimulation. It burns, makes him tremble and brings him to the edge of tears, but he doesn’t ask you to stop. Instead, he sucks harder at your thumb and swirls his tongue around your digit.

His cock head presses to the spongy roof of your cunt, your clit tickled by his pubes as you grind down chasing after a high you know is only a few moments away. 'I’m – I’m cumming. I’m cumming. I’m cumming.’ In a handful of thrusts, you’re coming undone. You moan, loud and unabashed as a wave of pleasure crashes into you. It makes your cunt tense, milking him as your thrusts slow to an eventual stop. Collapsing forward, you slip your thumb from his mouth and rest your head against the crook of his neck, panting into his skin.

'Was…’ He croaks after a moment. Your breath is warm as it fans against his shoulder, your lips soft as he feels them press to him, your teeth scraping after them. 'Was I good? Good for you?’

You snicker and reel back only to pull him into a lazy kiss. Usually, your clients are less than willing to subject themselves to overstimulation in search of your pleasure, but Gyutaro had been more than happy to whimper and burn for you. It makes something fizz in your stomach as you cup his cheeks in your hands again. 'So good. The best.’

Melting into your touch, he sighs. Fatigue settles on his shoulders quickly, leaving his muscles aching and his eyes almost closing. He wraps his arms around your waist and presses you close, resting his head against your shoulder as he basks in the aftermath of your praise. He should tell you, he thinks as he feels you shift and slip from his lap. He should tell you a lot of things, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t tell you that your cunt has been the first, that your lips and hands have been the only kind touch he’d received his entire life. He doesn’t tell you that he’d been watching you for months, or the real reason he’d been creeping behind your house that night. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, not any more. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment. ‘Can you - can you call me what you call him?’

You blink, confused as he peers up at your through damp eyelashes. ‘Call you what, my love?’

His heart swells and he’s forced to clench his jaw to keep from crying. It feels like love as you whisper it again into his hair, his nose buried into your chest as his whole body goes light.

You smile and let him rest for a moment, mumbling sweet things to him. ‘There, you are, my love. There you are.’ Then, after a moment you take his hand, clean him down with a towel from your bathroom and pass him a warmed cup of tea when eventually he folds himself back up on the mat. He looks softer in the dying light of the city. His eyes are shining, his mouth twisted not into a scowl, but a smile. Settling yourself across from him, you chew at your lip. It’s almost domestic, with no money exchanging hands, no awkward goodbyes and re-scheduling. Your chest hollows. 'You look beautiful.’

He looks up from his tea. Looking at you as you settle down beside him, your eyes full of warmth as your hand reaches out to stroke the length of his arm he can’t help, but believe it. 'You’re beautiful, too.’

'Thank you.’ You tap your head against his. 'I’m glad you decided to come out of the shadows…’

Raising his tea to his lips, he gulps at the liquid. He could get used to this. The warmth, the food, your company. If he had been born a different man, he might find such small comforts boring, but to him, this was nothing short of paradise. Draining his cup, he tries to stop the thought from souring his stomach. He’s not that man, though, is he? No. He’s an ugly man, who has sought to hurt you before being caught in your light. 'So am I.’ He chances a glance towards the window and instantly regrets his choice when he notices that the lights of the city have already dimmed. In a few hours, the sun will rise and he’ll have to slink back into his shadows once more. 'I… I should go. Ume – Ume is probably worried.’

You mouth drops open. Shaking yourself, you press your hand to your sternum to try and flatten the jealousy that had risen there. It’s a foreign emotion, one that you’ve felt more for another woman’s shiny robe than her man, but it burns none the less. 'Ume?’

'My sister.’

'Oh.’ Taking another sip of tea, you scold yourself. 'Would I know of her?’

He shakes his head. 'She’ll be waiting for me – I…’

You chew at your lip for a moment, waiting in the baited silence. 'I – can I give you something? Something to remember me, this – I mean…’

His brow furrows, but he nods none-the-less. You need not ask really, he’d take anything you have to give.

At once you’re on your feet and rooting around in a small box beside your bedroll. You toss aside cotton and fabric, pulling out reels of thread before you finally find what you’re searching for. It’s a small piece of stitch-work. At only a few centimetres across, the material only just covers the skin of your palm as you stand and make your way back over to him. You’d been working on it for months, ever since you’d first noticed him and just last week, you’d managed to finish it. The design is simple. An elegant primrose supporting a butterfly, it’s wings splayed and stretched in an imaginary sun. You hand it to him with a shy smile.

Air sticks in his throat as he takes it gently. It looks even smaller in his palm, delicate as he cradles it, scared to ruin the image. 'For me?’

'For you.’

'I -.’ Locking eyes with you, he finds his jaw clench, mouth unable to summon the words to describe how his whole body feel light and hollow. With language failing him, he pushes himself to his feet, abandoning his cup in his anxiety to reach out to you. His hand cups your cheek, a new confidence in his movements as he brings his lips to yours in the hope that a kiss will say everything he’s unable to.

This time, he takes the lead. His lips guide you, press and knead to yours with a grace you’d not expected and in moments you’re melting. Your hands bunch in the robe covering his chest, tugging tight and keeping him close. It feels like drowning when he finally steps back and breaks the kiss.

'I should…’ He mumbles, even though his hand hasn’t left your cheek.

'Will you wait for me tomorrow?’

'I’ll try.’ Stepping away, he folds the material you’ve given him and slips it into his pocket ensuring to push it deep, save he lose it. His hand slips from your cheek to your shoulder and down your arm where he interlaces his fingers with yours.

You squeeze his hand and move together to the balcony, sharing a final fleeting kiss before you’re forced to release him entirely. The curtain billows in the wind, licking at his body as he yanks open the door and then… He steps back out of the light.

Slipping out of the door, he scales back down the side of the house as quietly as he can with the new ache in his muscles. There’s a smile on his face when he reaches the bottom, his hand touching the pocket of his robe to ensure the small stitch-work cloth is still tucked away safely. He’s about to turn and vanish back into the shadows when a large figure steps out from his hiding spot to block his path. Gyutaro freezes.

'Ah.’ Doma’s mouth stretches wide. 'So you’re the little rat she’s been feeding…’ He hums taking a step closer. 'What is it she calls you? Her little stranger?’

Gyutaro backs up until the wall of the next house stops him. His hand reaches behind him, palms blindly searching the wood for an imperfection, an indent. The second his skin touches cold metal, he’s wrapping his hand tight and pulling back, the sharp edge of a hammer now pressing into his back. He’d never moved it. Despite the abandonment of his original plan, the one he’d co-ordinated with Ume all those months ago – to sneak into your house and… He swallows. It didn’t matter now. Now, he’d slaughter anyone who dared to have such a thought about you. Doma’s voice breaks him from his daydream, causing his grip to tighten on the hammer.

'Although… I think you’re a little too familiar for all that now, aren’t you?’ He cocks his head and tuts as something dangerous dances in his eyes. Licking at his lips, he takes another step forward. His nails become daggers, teeth flashing sharp below his lip as he grins. 'And, I’m not sure I like that.’

->Masterlist