Archive of Our Own

The scent of warriors, a sweet, flowery perfume that lingered in the air long after she’d left a room. Gyutaro let it fill his senses at each given opportunity, gorging himself into that smell he’d never thought he’d ever crave for, or at least not as much as he did now that she was the one to wear it. Camellias were the flower of divinity, and the image did suit her well, after all.

Fleeting, pretty flowers.

A bad omen, the symbol of death held in its scarlet petals.

Daki didn’t care to ask for her name and so, Gyutaro never knew it, though he’d often wondered if she’d bear an alias as sweet as her scent. Tsubaki, he’d call her in the depths of his mind, the abysses of which she’d somehow found her way to. Her presence had settled there, unexpectedly, and was now part of him just like his sister was, in some surprising way.

It wasn’t enough, though.

Fantasies weren’t tangible. Images couldn’t be touched.

And, oh, did he want to touch.

To feel her skin shiver under his rough fingers. To trace the shape of her jaw, of her throat, of her collarbone with icy digits. To sink his teeth into her flesh and revel in her cries for help. To feast from her heart, to drink from her veins, to take and steal and devour until he possessed her whole.

He wouldn’t share, not even with Daki.

And so, he kept his hunger concealed, making a secret out of the feelings that were eating at his mind and tearing it into pieces as long as he didn’t satiate his cravings. Instead, he watched, watched, and watched through his sister’s eyes, stolen glances and hidden stares, anything to feed his obsession and soothe his yearning.

It made it worse, somehow.

Rot spread through his chest whenever he watched as the camellia-scented girl worked alongside his sister, smiling and laughing and letting sweet nothings spill from her lips coated in azalea-like crimson. She’d tilt her head to the side, doe-eyes raising to the men she’d been trained to entertain, and mold would eat at Gyutaro’s organs, heart and lungs and spleen alike. He’d feel them decay beneath his skin, no matter that the mere thought of it was impossible.

The feeling was there, as surely as if she’d cursed him herself.

She consumed his flesh with a glance, tore at his mind with the sound of a sigh.

Each breath that crossed her lips was like sun rays, as deadly as they were exquisite.

He craved, wanted, needed to consume her too. Maybe the taste of her would soothe the ache that prickled his inners, he thought, or at least would it make her disappear from everyone else’s sight but his. He’d possess her then, truly and wholly, once her blood, flesh and spirit rested in his body and soul, never to be known by anyone but him.

He wondered if she’d taste like camellias.

He’d lay some on her grave, if she was given one once he was done with her.

The night he made his move, the moon was full, hanging in the sky like the silver coins she liked to marvel at whenever her patrons filled the palms of her hands with it, that hard-earned salary of hers. In the distance, the clamor of voices and the faint sound of faraway music were thick in the air, those faint noises the only thing troubling the silence of her room.

He’d creeped inside it, quietly pushed the paper doors, each of his moves slow and gentle like he wasn’t used to be. All to make the moment last, for he’d be the true demon of her nightmares once she noticed his presence, sweet little victim awaiting for slaughter.

For now, though, she was entranced in the sight of the moon.

She sat by her window, a tiny little thing that barely let her peek outside. Moon rays licked at her cheeks, drowning her eyes with starlight that sparkled like diamonds in her irises. Her hair was untied for the first time, falling down her shoulders to the small of her back, long as she was required to keep it.

In her mane, hanging between the pretty strands was a red spider lily.

A final goodbye, it meant.

The flower born from separation. The one that adorned graves in the prettiest cemeteries. Its petals were a pinkish hue like the sunset color she wore on her lips still, and Gyutaro’s breath got stuck in his throat when she parted them to welcome a snowflake fallen on the tip of her tongue through the open window.

Hunger, hunger, hunger.

It tore at his entrails in an instant, rot and mold spreading not on his skin this time but underneath, where he couldn’t claw through it with bloody fingers and sharp nails. He still tried, though, maiming his own flesh until the pitter-patter of the drops of blood falling from his wounds on the tatami of her room made the girl raise her eyes to his.

Piercing both his body and soul with a single stare.

Her lips parted again, not for snow or pretty words this time, but to let out a scream.

She couldn’t though, not when he closed the distance between his body and hers, silencing her with a hand still shaky from the raw feelings that made a mess of his thoughts. She struggled against him, tried her best to push him away, free her voice as if anyone could save her from his grasp, but to no avail.

It was as if he’d caught a butterfly.

Weak, weak, weak, and still so desperate to spread its wings and tumble into the night sky.

“Hush,” he ordered, voice as low as he could muster. He didn’t want to be disturbed, after all. “Not a single word.”

Yet, he couldn’t keep away the smirk that crept on his face, revealing his sharp teeth and stale breath to the nameless girl who watched him with doe-like eyes. Tears like pearls sparkling in the moonlight lingered there, barely held back by the sheer force of her will, but soon enough they rolled down her cheeks and he leaned down, closer and closer and closer, to taste them. She shivered under the feel of his tongue following the damp trails littering her skin, reveling in the salty taste and the sweet scent emanating from her.

Exquisite.

He couldn’t get enough.

He wouldn’t ever get enough.

And what would happen once he devoured her, once she was nothing but a mere memory? It would be like before, when he’d kept himself hidden, when he waited, watching and observing. She’d be nothing but a fantasy, an image that couldn’t be touched nor felt under his fingers, a simple thought that lingered in his mind only. He wouldn’t get to bask in her fear as she looked at him, then, wouldn’t be able to feed on her terror anymore. The sight of her pretty eyes diving into his would be a thing of the past and nothing else.

It was a different kind of hunger, he realized.

One that couldn’t be, wouldn’t be soothed by the taste of blood and the feel of flesh and meat ripping between his sharp teeth. It was a craving that lasted, not a hole in his stomach but one that spread through his chest instead, peaking through his rib cage and settling there until she filled it with whatever she had to give or whatever he could take from her.

His fingers slipped to her lips, digits gently brushing against the skin there, plump and soft and so damn pretty.

She didn’t scream, didn’t plead, didn’t beg, simply looking at him with that fearful gaze that made fireworks spark in his heart, thump, thump, thump, his heartbeats louder than they’d ever been. He felt the stupid organ threaten to rip through his chest when he gave a slight push on her lower lip, letting his fingers rest on her tongue.

She was so warm.

And he was so damn hungry.

“Are you going to kill me?” she whispered when his hand parted from her mouth, mourning the loss of her warmth though he’d only felt it for a second.

There was some type of recognition in her eyes.

She’d heard the stories, the whispered legends of demons that roamed the night and feasted from the flesh of young maidens like her. He looked like one, he knew, the kind of monster that could only be the stuff of nightmares, a terror in the darkness, a beast who found shelter in the shadows only.

“Yes,” he breathed, because though he wouldn’t let her heartbeat cease he would still tear her life from her grasp and make it his.

Another tear rolled down her cheek.

Pretty like chrysanthemum petals fading away in a gust of wind.

“Make it quick, please” she begged, letting her eyelids flutter close, denying him the sight of her gaze as she waited for the sweet embrace of what she thought would be death. She raised her chin, baring her throat, offering herself as a sacrifice, a little lamb awaiting its slaughter with pure, submissive devotion.

The red spider lily fell from her hair, slowly descending to the tatami next to her bare feet, scarlet petals like blood stains littering the floor there.

She trembled under his touch when he leaned in, and she winced as she expected the pain, the suffering, the hurt of his teeth tearing through the soft flesh of her throat. Instead, she felt the gentle caress of his lips there, kind and slow and sweet like he’d never really known how to be.

Her eyes startled open, and he pulled her into a violent kiss before she could protest.

All gentleness put aside this time.

If Gyutaro had known the taste of flowers, he was sure he would have found it in the warmth of her lips. He nipped at the skin there until she parted them so that he could feast from her at will, diving and drowning and melting into the sweet feel of her tongue against his. Each touch, each contact stole his breaths away and made him crave for more, more, more.

He wasn’t hungry now, but famished instead.

Once he let her go, she took a step back, shaking on her legs like a newborn fawn.

The fabric of her kimono parted in some places, the wear made messy by the way she’d struggled against him. Her ankles were bare, her shoulders too, the moon rays that poured through the windows gently licking her silky skin and making him crave for closer contact again, and again, and again, until he could soothe that yearning for her flesh at last.

She caught his gaze.

And once again, recognition filled her eyes because she knew that look. He did, too, had seen it a thousand times in the irises of scummy men that came and paid for the girls trapped in that goddamn place, and he could only imagine it in his own eyes, sparkling in the darkness of night like a threat, the promise of something worse even than death at his hands.

Lust. Obsession. Possession.

It wasn’t what it was, not really. Gyutaro was stronger than those fleeting emotions, the ones that made human men fall to their knees and beg for a scrap of attention. No, it was harsher, deeper instead. It ran through his veins, burned underneath his skin, settled in his heart until becoming fully and wholly part of him.

Love, maybe.

“Will you let me go if I…” she started, letting the end of her sentence hang in the air, unspoken words dying on her lips instead as she toyed with the hem of her obi, undoing it so that her kimono would fall open and reveal the silky expanse of her skin.

It was something she’d done a thousand times before, he knew.

Yet, it didn’t matter, for it wouldn’t happen again for anyone else but him.

He’d touch where others had touched before, erasing the feel of their fingers to replace it with the icy coldness of his own hands instead. He’d kiss where others had kissed, and leave marks as scarlet as red azaleas, as red spider lilies, as red camellias. He’d worship and love where others had taken and maimed, and maybe she’d thank him eventually, or maybe not. He wasn’t delusional enough to convince himself that she’d crave the touch of someone like him like he did hers.

An ugly, disgusting, murderous monster.

Falling for a pretty, gentle, nameless maiden.

She took a step towards him, hopeful that she’d somehow found the key to her salvation, and he welcomed her into his arms, never telling her that there was no freedom to be had for her now that he’d taken the first taste. She kissed him with all the fervor in her heart, all of her desires to live and her dreams of a future that was her own, and he kissed her back with all the knowledge that he’d steal all of those wishes from her as soon as she satiated his current hunger.

She tasted like camellias.

Smelled like chrysanthemums.

Her skin soft as the petals of that red spider lily under his touch.

Mine, mine, mine, he thought, swallowing each of her breaths and whimpers against his tongue. She’d be his alright, now and forever, and damned would be anyone who thought they could have her for themselves. Of ghosts and monsters, he was the strongest, and he couldn’t wait to show her just how monstrous he could be.

Yes, he would.

He’d pluck every flower from her garden and smile, satisfied, as the petals scattered in the wind.