* I AM THE STORM

PIG HEAD?! PIG … HEAD?! YEAH, SURE, THERE’S   a boar mask covering his own head, but to be called such with an insulting, clearly mocking tone?! no, the king of mountains is worth much more acknowledgment  &  deserved power he currently possessed! veins burst open as arms begun aggressively swinging, clearly showing the boy raised in wilds is nothing short of pissed off.  ❛ HAAAAH?! DON’T YOU DARE CALL ME THAT, YA’ SCARRED FOOL! i’ll punch you to the fucking OBLIVION, you hear me?! ❜  

without any spark of hesitation, or even sparks of thoughts, he thrusts mid air before swinging his dual blades in one direction, aiming directly at the wind pillar. there, ground meets with angry, clearly beast-like slashes as he attacks his opponent. at this point, as much as inosuke grew more as a human rather than a ballistic animal, fighting  &  proving one’s strength is one way ticket to entertain a simple-minded man such as him.  ❛ breath of the beast, fifth fang: CRAZY CUTTING! ❜   shouts the boy as arms ghastly yet precisely slice everything in all directions, still directed towards scarface over there.

                    “I’d like to see you fucking try, pig head! Come on, bring it on!” 

          And, just like that, the boy - without a single second of hesitation, leaps at him; dual blades swinging wildly through the air and directly at him. With a trained ease, he flips back - palm striking the earth and lands seamlessly on his feet, effortlessly avoiding the first strike with a grin stretched out upon his marred features. The brat’s voice sounds like claws against a dying tree as he shouts - swords lashing out at everything around them; kicking up dirt and grass and slicing through solid wood like it was little more than air. But the strikes only served to amuse him - he’d take this stinking boar-face over that worthless brat with the demon sister any idea, at least this one was vaguely entertaining. Though his spirit was horribly misplaced at the moment because, unfortunately for him, even without drawing his own blade he was still more than capable of dodging the strikes or just taking them head on.

                “Oi, oi, I thought you were gonna punch me into fucking oblivion?                                         Come on, try harder, brat, or I’m gonna kick your head clean off!!”

If it was anyone else she’s dealing with, Shinobu wouldn’t have thought twice before parading the smugness that fills her chest at the moment. But this is Sanemi, and Shinobu knows very well that any sign that she might be enjoying having put him back in his place would just render her efforts useless and take back to the beginning all over again. But ah, nothing like a little threat to get even the worst patience to finally accept proper treatment—even if her statement did hold some truth to it, though.

So the Insect Pillar bites back a victorious grin, and instead focuses completely on the task at hands, especially now that Sanemi is being a bit more agreeable, surprisingly so. The ointment is spread generously over the cuts, rising a strong smell of herbs in its wake. Once done, Shinobu cleans her hands before grabbing some clean bandages, still just as careful as she wraps them around Sanemi’s bicep and shoulder, tight enough for them to be secure in place without getting too much in the way of his movements.

“Almost, Shinazugawa-san.”

The answer comes out like a reprimand, the kind that one usually gives to impatient children that can’t sit still for a minute longer. But loyal to her own words, Shinobu is soon done with her job—tying the ends of the bandage in a knot right above the other’s elbow, Shinobu pulls away with a satisfied smile.

“There we go~ This should work until your wounds are completely healed, Shinazugawa-san.” She says, standing up from her seat on the edge of the bed. And then she’s turning back towards the other, index finger pointed at his face as she stares at him with narrowed eyes and no ounce of playfulness left over her features to be seen. “But the warning stays the same, Shinazugawa-san—You need to rest and not move your arm too much until then. You understand?”

      His nose wrinkles gracelessly at the strong smell that rolls off of the ointment she slathers on his arm; his scared features twisting into mild disgust, but he stayed true to his unspoken word and didn’t budge (much as he wanted to), as she smoothed it out over his arm. Frankly, the pain was minimal, if it was present at all - being forced to sit down and get such minor wounds treated was more of a pain in the ass than the wounds themselves were. But, this was also coming from the guy who had just insisted he was fine a moment ago and then proceeded to rip his wound open in the very same breath. And it was painfully evident it took every drop of patience he possessed to give her the chance to properly clean and treat the wound this time around, what with how his foot bobbed up and down and the fingers of his good arm tapped relentlessly against his leg as she walked away to wash her hands. 

         His sharp eyes watching her every movement as she returned; taking his arm up again to bandage it. Clearly on edge, and he could only bite his lip and roll his eyes when she claimed she was almost finished - her words not unlike she was attempting to placate an angry child. But he doesn’t have the energy left in him to take offense because, while he might not believe her claim about his actual injuries, he does very much trust that she will, in fact, cut off his arm if he continues to give her a hard time. So he can only, begrudgingly, mind himself as she knots the bandages tightly above his elbow and, finally - finally - she’s finished (he thinks, as if he wasn’t the sole reason it had taken twice the time it should have in the first place). 

                          “And how the hell long am I supposed to wait?”     

        Once again, his mouth opens before his better judgment can kick in. Luckily, or not, he’s swiftly distracted when she turns around to thrust her index finger in his face - the hairs on his arm standing on edge as his back becomes rigid and he glares at the offending finger. Her expression is entirely devoid of any of the typical unsettling cheer she so often carried about her and he had the sinking suspicion he had just done the equivalent of slicing open his chest in front of a large band of demons - the exception being that he could, in fact, fight a bunch of ugly ass demons and he, of course, couldn’t, really, defend himself against her (well, not with violence, at least, and what the hell else was he supposed to do).   

                                     “Ugh, fine, I get it already. I won’t.”     

SURELY, TODAY’S TRAINING BURNT AMONG   others minds after witnessing such an impressive feat of one single rookie is capable of  &  there’s doubt what she demonstrated will either cast doubt onto others ( much like the wind pillar’s currently doing with harsh glares to clear instances of letting others know they should give up on false hops ) or bring forth hope which is a more surprising choice considering most of people here screamed  &  shed tears of desperation. to sayu, however, this was nothing. comparing to years of torture she undergone whilst muzan still had control of her in order to gain more power to his liking, shinazugawa’s harsh, barbaric methods of training young, potential higher ranks was child’s play. now, this was only partially a reason she pushed through without shedding any tears nor raised her voice as her TRUE PURPOSE lied in one goal, only  –  destroy the demon lord responsible for dozens of deaths, suffering  &  licit crimes just to obtain whatever his selfish desires wanting. nothing will stop the demon the demon slayer from casting their life away just to watch the world saved from evil entities, herself included.

but of course, sayu knew a task he’s currently given her  ( well, more like an advise )  wasn’t going to be easy nor short. either way, her eyes widen upon ‘an upper moon’ being mentioned. they were the higher ranking demons, hand chosen by muzan, who held enough power to obliterate the whole corps had it not been for pillars  &  their own impeccable strength. she knew sanemi was right, albeit wording it harshly.  —   no matter what, only a skilled pillar capable of wielding their own breath style almost as if it merged with one’s body could defeat a demon as powerful as an upper moon. although aware, the only thing popping in her head was that damned douma who hid everything only to turn her in who she was. so much suffering happened because of him … he has to pay, no, all of them have to. with that, her hand clutched the sword’s hilt almost with utter rage even if her face remained neutral. sure, the technique she developed by combining wind  &  sound was unique as it was strong, as evident by today’s session, but it’s what it was - fairly new. she had to prove herself or else all of this would be in vain.

tense silence creeps in, some of students noticing her expression darkening upon being told she must defeat an upper moon but sayu merely nods  &  attempts relaxing her body after experiencing painful memories. yes, she knew the importance of a pillar rank, but … was it that important?  ❛  …i haven’t created this technique to be acknowledged. it’s to kill demons quicker  &  in silence, without disturbing others. ❜  she speaks up, ever so gently, before letting a hand move few strands of hair from her face.  ❛  as long as it can be of use  &  bring us closer to defeating the demon lord, himself, it doesn’t matter what rank i am. either way, i will do my best  &  prove myself.  ❜  once again tilting her head, sayu blinked.  

❛  ah…um, does this mean i can rest…? ❜  

          Tossing aside what little remained of the shattered and splintered sword onto the ground, he stepped forward without waiting for her to answer - jabbing his foot against one of the other rookies still half-alive on the ground; limbs in disarray and eyes glossy as they threatened to roll back into his skull. There were still a handful of others like him spread out on the ground, left behind by those who harbored enough strength left in their bones and will to survive to flee behind the fence to avoid being caught up in her trail. They were less than worthless, so weak they couldn’t even flee for their lives. He wouldn’t be surprised if the next time he saw them they were in bodybags or little more than broken bones left behind in the den of some demon - faceless, nameless, and worth less than the dirt they had died on. It pissed him off - his brows pulling together and lips slanting into a firm frown - idiots who threw their lives away were still fools who ended up dead. Who gives a damn what they died for when they’re six feet under. If they were just gonna die they shouldn’t have come here in the first place. Maybe now they would learn their damn lesson. 

                      “Oi, get out. Show up here tomorrow and I’ll kill you myself.” 

          He kicked the boy hard in his back, and he leapt up with a yelp and a string of apologizes before grabbing his fellows and retreating behind the fence with the others. With that eyesore gone, he turned his attention back to Sayu. His expression remaining severe despite the fact that, unlike the others, she had passed his trail. He doesn’t disagree with her sentiment - strength is rarely, if ever, acquired for the sole purpose of desiring attention. But it also meant little without proof of its existence and, as of right now, her own rank was barely higher than that rookie he had just kicked out. She could pass every trail he threw at her, but it was meaningless without an impressive kill count to back it up, and sure as hell wasn’t going to find herself fighting anything more than one of the lower moons until she could convince the master she was worth more, unless she got lucky and ran into something with more of a bite along the way. 

                    “No one gives a shit what your reason is. If you want to put it to use                                     then kill every demon you com across. Don’t ever leave a single one                                     of those damn things alive.”   

         He raises a hand dismissively when she voices her question, still in the process of walking away. With the remainder of the rookies having been chased away and daylight quickly dwindling, it was evident he was finished for the time being - he couldn’t afford to waste his time on a bunch of brats with no future longer than he already had. This damn trials were a waste of his time and he was eager to move on. One person had passed and, as far as he was concerned given his track record, that was good enough. As for answering her, he didn’t much care. She passed. She wasn’t his problem anymore. And that was the closest she was ever going to get to a yes from him so she should count herself lucky and take what she could get.   

Shinobu doesn’t have a chance to react when Sanemi suddenly pulls his arm back and out of her grasp in defiance. She’s left frozen on the spot, widened eyes blinking at the other a few times before they roll with clear impatience, her posture defleting. It’s no wonder why she’s always called whenever Sanemi is brought to the Estate for any kind of treatment.

She can only imagine how hard he would make another nurse’s life, with this attitude and endless stubbornnes of his.

Just as predicted, the wounds worsen under his brusque movements, blood now dripping onto the white sheets of the bed she had made him sit on. And Shinobu can only muster her heaviest deadpan glare at him when Sanemi finally, finally seems to relent, fingers closing again around his wrist to pull his arm closer to her with none of the delicacy that any doctor should have when treating a patience.

“See?” The Insect Pillar’s features distort into a wide smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, but still look way too cheerful to match the situation at hands. Much like her voice as she continues, “Your injuries might not be life-threatening, Shinazugawa-san, but if not properly taken care of, you can get a serious infection and then I will have to cut your arm off. You don’t want me to cut your arm off, right Shinazugawa-san?” voice sounding way too cheerful for the heaviness of her words, but it does add a clear underlying threat to the warning.

Just as fast as it came though, Shinobu’s smile melts away, face settling into a look of concentration as she goes back to the task. First she cleans away the blood—again—before coating the wounds with a generous amount of an herbal oilment she’s invented herself, to assist to the healing process. Unlike her previous words, the slide of her fingertips over the cuts is gentle and carry utmost care.

           The smile she wears is nearly as unsettling as her voice, cheerful as ever, when she speaks, having already taken his arm back for yet another round of treatment with about as much care as he, honestly, probably deserved at this point. Unfortunately, it had taken him complaining for ungodly amount of time and then bleeding all over the sheets he was currently resting upon, as well as his sleeve, to realize he was being just a tad bit of a pain in the ass. Would he admit it? No, not a chance in Hell. But he also couldn’t stand up and declare that he wasn’t wounded when he was bleeding all over the place, despite the fact that he very much did consider a wound of this nature to be little more than a minor scratch. He’d done worse to himself, willingly, in the past just to lure demons to himself so he could take their miserable lives - he had the scars to prove it. 

           Yet, he still flinches when Shinobu threatens (and it is a threat, not a word of warning or friendly advice despite the joyful tone in which she speaks) to cut his arm off (it might just be instinct kicking in, but he’s not about to keep arguing with her when she’s got his arm in a firm hold and God knows what poisons both on her person and in this room alone). How much he truly believes her claim regarding an infection is up for debate, given just how many nasty cuts and impressive gashes he’s left to rot over the years (and he knows he’s ‘lucky’ to be alive right now), but he’s also not an idiot and he’s aware he’s already pushed his luck quite a bit.      

                      “All right, I get it,” 

            He groans, accepting his fate this time around and not resisting when she sets her mind back to cleaning the wound he just reopened after she had nearly finished dressing it once before. She wasn’t cruel when she tended to the wound for the second time in the span of a few short minutes, though, even if she had been, he would have deserved it. His skin was bumpy and covered in scars, scabs, and unsightly bruises - both old and new, many from the days before he had joined the corps and was fighting demons with little more than his bare hands, a hell of a lot of spite, and suicidal tendencies that would have rivaled those of the new brats that had been added to their ranks. He imagines, when she’s through, he’ll have a new set of scars upon his skin and, very muck like the rest of them, it would be his own damn fault. 

           She’s careful even when she applies an oilment to the wounds, but he supposes she is a doctor. He wonders, briefly, how many lives she’s saved since she joined their ranks - especially when compared to the number of lives he believes he’s at fault for taking since he was born. He’s had a one-track mind for years now. His sole purpose in life is to kill as many demons as he possibly can, and his track record is impressive, no one would argue with that. To others, the time they spend here resting and licking their wounds has become the only peaceful moments they have left in this world - the only time when the world is still and everything is quiet. To him, it’s a form of torture. He finds no peace in sitting here having his wounds prodded at while there are still more demons than he can care to count outside of these walls tearing the flesh from the bones of innocent people. So he, once again, opens his mouth with a lack of judgement on his part: 

          “   i wouldn’t dream of it !!   “ his voice cracks like a broken finger ― yanked! ― out of place. the saccharine earnestness drips off of his tongue like honey from a blade. he holds out his hands in what he hopes is a placating manner ― like corralling a feral canine. “   i’m just making sure you don’t have a concussion.   “ 

                     “I don’t want your damn pity. Fuck off.” 

GHOSTS. 

Your pain takes the shape of ghosts, haunting you, always there. No one would believe you if you told them, or understand even if they did. You don't know how to make them go away, or what they want. They just follow you, casting shadows over all you do, being your fears and the embodiment of all you've lost or are afraid of losing. 

They can't touch you though... Can they?

TAGGED BY. @gosutm​ (thank you!)

slowly runs her hands down his locks then presses her fingers to his scars. "....i hope i'm not being too invasive...." // A LITTLE FLUFF NEVER KILLED NOBODY

                                                     @gosutm​

          He’s still - slowly (ever so slowly) - getting used to touch when it feels like it’s been over a decade since anyone had reached out for him with anything but hatred in their hearts (and he’s used to that - this is something entirely different). It’s been long enough, that the sensation of her fingers as they run through his short, messy hair that falls into his eyes and rubs the back of his neck is entirely foreign to him. And he’s not entirely certain how to react, so he remains mostly still. His rough features have softened a but, but there’s still a certain thorny exterior that lingers even in these quiet, peaceful moments where it’s just the two of them - left to their own devices because the remaining members of the corps know she has more authority of him than any of them could hope to. He pretends he doesn’t notice how they visibly relax the second she walks through those doors and takes over keeping on eye on him to prevent him from slipping out of bed and doing God knows what despite the severity of his wounds because he never learns (and hell if he knew what he hoped to accomplish, but anything was better than sitting around here talking to ghosts and reliving battles through his dreams). A part of him is hesitant to label the time they spend alone is peaceful - the word doesn’t feel right inside of his own head and it feels nothing short of vile when it tries to spew from his tongue before its choked back down beside a bunch of hot air. 

           When her fingers move downwards, ghosting over the scars that mar his face and remain there - feeling the raw, bumpy texture of his skin, that his eyes widen for only a moment before he forces a more neutral expression back onto his features. In truth, he has very little sensation in his skin from years of slicing open his own flesh to attract demons to himself and from more battles than he could ever hope tp keep track of, it’s difficult for him to imagine what the pads of her fingers actually feel like as they’re gingerly probing at this scars despite the fact that she’s touching him right now. It had never bothered him; had never been a hinderance to him before when he had been hellbent on tearing every last demon into a thousand pieces until there wasn’t a single one still left standing. Now, it was strange to him. It left him feeling empty. Incomplete, almost. And that frustrated him in a different way than being idle once had in the past. 

            It wasn’t that he minded. It wasn’t that it bothered him. He’d never been ashamed of the scars that litter his body, though certain ones held more weight and worse memories than others. He had once imagined what his life would be like in a world free from demons (one that was devoid of most of the people he had come to care for - one that Genya was no longer a part of it and felt like some sick, twisted joke that he was here right now instead). It was a luxury he had always avoiding thinking about because he couldn’t picture himself without a sword in hand; without fighting. Honestly, he still accepted the fact that their battle was largely over - that when he was fully recovered, he wouldn’t be greeted by the scream of his crow or the weight of his blade upon his palms. He supposed it didn’t matter. At this point, he didn’t care. Everything felt so very empty when the reason he had been fighting had been stolen from him. 

                  “No, not really.”

@galepillar​​​ chose  INOSUKE HASHIBIRA!   /  SC.

GIANT, HOLLOW EYES AIM DIRECTLY   at the elder pillar, quietly observing him before loudly snorting  &  stomping his merry way towards the unfortunate target.  ❛ HEY, YOU! scarface! ❜  hoarse voice echoes among now creepily silent field the two stood at as his arms cross above his head, joining dueled swords in shape of ‘x’.  ❛ FIGHT ME THIS INSTANT! you’re really really damn strong! so, if i find a your weak spot, I’LL BEAT YOU DOWN!  &  when i do… i’ll be THE BEST DEMON SLAYER THERE EVER WAS! GEHEHEHEHE! ❜   obviously, normal conversation was impossible for the ever so wild king of the mountains, but did he care? of fucking course not!

                  “What the hell did you just call me, pig head?”  

        He snapped, sharp eyes narrowing upon the other as he stomped over to him. His lips pulled into a thin frown; his hand resting on the hilt of his blade even as the boy hoisted his own ragged swords above his head. But the agitation he felt; the anger welling up within his skin upon seeing the other, was mostly short-lived. He’d expected some whiny, snot-nosed brat when the other called out to him, aware, to a certain extent, that he was friends with Tanjirou, he didn’t expect him to be so wonderfully stupid enough to challenge him. It was enough to chase the frown away and replace it with a manic smile that creased his scars and stretched to the corners of his eyes as an amused laugh rippled through air - one that was far more unsettling and frightening than it was happy. If anything, he almost seemed eerily amused.      

                   “Oi, Oi, that sounds interesting, brat! Bring it on,                                                                      I’ll kick your fucking head off!”  

    Of course he can do better than that, Sabito is more than just fancy sword swings, after all. The pressure of their swords, creaking under the strain of their strength, is just what he’d been hoping for. He uses this to his advantage, pushing harder so Sanemi won’t break the connection and leaps up. Sabito moves like he’s still on the ground, like he’s walking on air, as he brings one leg back and then forward into the other man’s chest with a loud thud of zori meeting flesh.

    He watches as Sanemi is sent flying, having to pivot in mid air, a sort of twirl, to compensate for the loss of stability that the other practice sword granted him. The hashira lands solidly on his feet, sword already raised back up to anticipate the counter attack. Sabito isn’t stupid enough to think that one kick is enough to take down the other man; as much as he’s loathe to admit it, Sanemi is one of the most durable members of the corps. You’d have to be, to be constantly cutting yourself to lure demons to you. Like he said before: completely bugfuck insane.

    “Come on, Shinazugawa! You can do better than that!” He shouts out, repeating the wind hashira’s words back to him with a mocking tone, hidden eyes locked upon Sanemi’s form. “Or are you too tired from beating up the kiddies~?”

         The sound of the impact echoed through the garden, making the flowers and grass quiver as it tore through the space when it was carried back on the wind. Sanemi flew back from the force, shoes kicking up dirt to form shallow smoke about his ankles as he dug his feet into the ground to maintain his balance, managing to stay upright after being kicked; training sword still grasped within his palm, despite having been knocked back. His unorthodox hunting prior to becoming a member of the corps had made him solid for all of the holes he had torn into his own body just for the chance to kill another demon. His body was accustomed to taking hit after hit, and he was used to long drawn-out fights. One could even argue that he thrived on them, though most demons and slayers weren’t capable of keeping him with him (he seemed to harbor a live for battle, or, rather, it was the only time when he still felt alive).       

                     “You fucking wish!” 

           There was a laugh (one that was more eerie and unsettling than joyful and giddy) that rolled off of his tongue as he called back and it was difficult to tell if he was enjoying himself or if he’d simply lost his mind. He pushed off with his right leg without hesitating, closing the gap that Sabito had created between them by kicking up in an instant. The force of his own foot as he had struck the ground was enough to create a cloud of filthy sand that did nothing to deter him in the least (nothing, at this point would have - the rookies were lucky they had enough sense to flee or he would have crushed them). With the weight of Sabito’s sword still lingering against his own, he could feel how bent and weak the wood had become. If he tried to unleash an actual form with this flimsy thing he had no doubt it would shatter.