Giyu Tomioka

The morning finds Giyu already imprisoned behind a desk that is too low for his height and too cluttered for any hope of peace. He has been sitting here since the sun cleared the eastern eaves, driven into the narrow wooden chair by duty and by the gentle, unyielding bureaucracy of the Corps. His hand moves across the pages in tight, economical strokes, leaving trails of ink that feel less like records and more like a confession of some private failure. Demon sighting patterns. Supply shortages for the Swordsmith Village. A requisition for wisteria extract that requires three separate approvals. This is the war, too, he reminds himself—this sea of paper—but the knowledge does nothing to ease the screaming tension in his lower back or the dull, accumulating ache behind his eyes.

By midday, his shoulders have fused into a single bar of pain. By afternoon, a heat that has nothing to do with the temperature has settled low in his belly, humming beneath his skin like a second pulse. It is frustration, mostly—the terrible, caged energy of a man who has not drawn his blade in two days, who has not moved beyond the radius of this chair, who has not touched his spouse since the evening before last. He shifts, and the coarse fabric of his hakama drags against his half-formed arousal with a friction that makes him hiss through his teeth. He ignores it. He ignores everything. He is a Hashira. He has survived Final Selection and the loss of everyone he loved; he can survive a column of numbers.

At least, that is what he believes until the presently arriving hour crouches against the shoji screens and turns the room the color of old amber, and he realizes he has been staring at the same character for twenty minutes without comprehending it.

He hears the door slide open. The sound barely registers. A servant, perhaps, or another unfortunate Slayer arriving with more forms to expedite his misery. He does not look up. He is staring at an ink stain on the report from Fukuoka, watching it bloom like a bruise, and wondering with a dry, exhausted fatalism if he is perhaps already dead and this is his punishment. He imagines Rengoku sailing through the door with a lunch pail, declaring the midday ledger with passionate, golden enthusiasm. He imagines Shinobu perching on the desk's edge like a pale, dangerous bird, calling him gloomy, asking if rigor mortis has set in yet.

So when the floorboards beneath the desk creak, Giyu assumes it is the building sighing around him. He is wrong.

A warmth settles against his left shin. Then a chin. Then a face, nuzzling with deliberate, feline intent against the front of his hakama, pressing into the hardening outline of the frustration he has refused to name.

Giyu goes so still he might as well be carved from the chair itself. The brush freezes mid-stroke. A fat drop of ink falls onto the expense column and bleeds outward.

He looks down.

The sight is absurd enough to short-circuit what remains of his rational mind. There, folded into the cramped shadow beneath his desk, is his spouse. Their cheek is tilted against his inner thigh, their face half-buried in the dark fabric of his uniform, peering up at him with a smile that holds absolutely no shame—only mischief, devotion, and the infuriating confidence of someone who knows exactly what they are doing. Giyu stares back with the wide, startled bewilderment of a man who has opened his desk drawer and discovered the ocean inside. His mouth opens. Closes. A muscle in his jaw ticks.

"What," he says. Only that. Flat. Hoarse.

They nuzzle him again, a firmer pressure, and the shape of their grin presses like a brand against the straining front of his hakama. Something violent and electric lurches up Giyu's spine. His fingers spasm around the brush; it nearly drops from his hand.

"Get up," he whispers. He clears his throat and tries again, grasping for the commanding register he uses on the battlefield, the one that stops Tanjiro mid-sentence and cowers lesser demons. It fails him completely. "Up. Now."

They do not get up. Worse, they shift, and he feels fingers—clever, merciless fingers—working at the ties of his hakama with an efficiency that suggests premeditation.

Giyu's free hand shoots down, gripping their wrist through the cloth. "I am not finished," he says, and the deadpan sincerity of it undercut by his uneven breathing makes the moment feel even more obscene. "There are seven columns left. And the wisteria extract requisition is due by—"

A knuckle grazes the base of his cock, and the sentence dissolves into a sharp, breaking inhale.

"—evening," he finishes, voice cracking.

The cloth parts. The cool, dry air of the office hits overheated skin, and Giyu's heels dig hard into the tatami. He wants to protest again—the door, someone will hear, the Corps doesn't pay us for this—but then a wet, scorching heat envelops him, and every thought he has ever had evacuates his skull in a single, devastating rush.

The sound he makes is not dignified. It is low and punched-out and animal, and he slaps his ink-stained hand over his own mouth to muffle it, eyes squeezing shut, the back of his skull thudding against the hard wooden chair. He does not care if the statement from Fukuoka is ruined beyond salvation. He does not care that his two-toned haori has slipped from his shoulder and pooled at his elbow. He only cares about the impossible, filthy reality of his spouse beneath his desk, taking him into their mouth with a hunger that feels like retaliation for every lonely hour he has spent in this chair.

They are sloppy. It is the sloppiest head he has ever survived—gloriously, stupidly, loudly sloppy. There is no artful teasing, no practiced rhythm; there is only wet, desperate enthusiasm, the slide of a too-eager tongue, the obscene slick-slick-slick of lips meeting base in the humid silence of the office. He can hear it. He is certain the entire Corps can hear it. He should be horrified. He is ruined.

"You—" Giyu starts, and his voice breaks entirely on the next syllable. He tries again, panting hotly against his own palm. "Little menace." It is absurd. He sounds like a scolding grandfather while his spouse is beneath his desk committing crimes against his composure. "You absolute brat. You planned this."

They answer not with words but with a roll of their jaw that sends sparks darting up his spine, and Giyu's hips buck off the chair before he can stop them. The wooden frame creaks with a dangerous, carrying groan. He freezes, listening. A crow screams in the courtyard. Footsteps drift past the hallway—heavy, unhurried, terrifyingly close—and Giyu's entire body goes rigid with panic and arousal. He clamps one hand down over the top of their head, pressing them closer, deeper, using the overhang of the desk to hide them both in shadow. His heart is a war drum. He stares, unseeing, at the opposite wall, trying to arrange his face into its usual blank mask even as his cock throbs against their slick, working tongue.

The footsteps fade.

Giyu exhales a shaking breath. He looks down at them, cheeks burning, blue eyes dark and blown wide, and what he sees—the flushed skin, the sheen of saliva, the complete absence of dignity—is the final fracture in a day full of breaking points.

"Good," he whispers, and the word surprises them both. It falls from his mouth like a stone into deep water. Then another. Then a flood. "So good. Sweet thing. My sweet, reckless little—" He bites his lower lip hard enough to bruise, but it does nothing. Praise is spilling out of him now, unstoppable, the language he only speaks when they have demolished him completely. "Just like that. There. Don't stop. You're doing so well— so well for me."

His hand in their hair is no longer guarding. It is trembling, anchored, feverishly grateful. He sets a halting rhythm, guiding the bob of their head, and when they moan around him—the vibration traveling straight to the base of his spine—his restraint finally snaps like a cut wire.

He takes control with both hands, fingers threading through their hair, and he forces their head to move in earnest: up, down, up, sloppy and urgent and wet, using their mouth with a desperation he would be ashamed of if he had any shame left. The chair creaks dangerously beneath him. His jaw is clenched so tight he feels his own teeth might crack. He is no longer the stoic Water Hashira; he is an animal in a too-small chair, fucking upward into the wet heat they offer, chasing the release that has coiled under his skin since dawn.

"Move," he breathes, and the command is ruined by the whimper that chases it. "Up and down—yes— yes, just like—" He swallows a groan that tastes like copper and rain. "My good little thief. Stealing my focus. My sanity."