A/N: Hi everybody! As many of you may realize, I have a slight Taka obsession, and love to write him and my OC. As of now, this fic hasn't been fully decided yet. I have a story, and am contemplating writing it out, but it'll be impossible for me to keep the poetic feel of it if I do (it comes and goes). So this may be left as a one shot. Not sure. Either way, please read and review! Let me know what you think and if you'd want it to be further explored or left as is! :)

Occasionally, Takasugi would think that she was like smoke. Moreso than silk; the way she slipped in and out of his bed leaving no trace but her scent on the sheets and his skin. She never stayed the night. Every single morning, even before dawn, he would wake to an empty bed. As if she had never been there, or had been a figment of his imagination.

But there was nothing fictional about the marks she left behind. Scratches. A light bruise at the crook of his neck. Even less about the way she ground her hips against his, always in sync with his pace, until they were nothing but pounding pulses with dry throats in dire need of oxygen.

From the moment they had started, he knew that she was nothing like the sweet, innocent little girl Gintoki considered her to be, and she had made good on testing that hypothesis every time he showed up; moments before midnight closing for a "cup of tea". Because he did so love his beverages.

How the silver haired Samurai had missed her true colors was beyond him, but Takasugi was glad that he had. Less competition for him. Not that it would have been one if things had been any different.

If the opposition he'd received had been true, if Takasugi and Kinu really didn't make the cut, then why did his thumbs perfectly fill the dimples of her back? And if their heads were in the same place, why not their bodies too? She didn't seem to mind that he manipulated everything in his environment, or that he lied effortlessly, and stole when it suited him. Didn't care that he had barely been able to collect what shattered remains were left of his past self and filled the rest of the gaps in with the mud of corruption and each fine crack with wisps of sadistic pleasure.

Debauchery, when self control wasn't on the menu.

And he had been in the same place as her before. At the edge of whatever sliver of hope stood between oblivion and the sick desire to push forward when the fight was futile and that same sliver that could have been salvation sliced the hands that clung to it.

Any sane person would have automatically blamed him, and he knew it. But the truth wasn't so simple. She had done it. Done this. The way she kept pressing herself against him. Barely brushing her hand against his, as if she thought that she was subtle. A good man would have turned her down and away. Denied any contact, not only physical, and referred to her age. Barely an adult.

Takasugi was no good man, though. His blade didn't hesitate, and if he had, it had only lasted a fraction of a second.

Even so, her secrets, whispered into his ear in the dead of night weren't enough to keep her until he woke. They left him the same as she did. Mind to its full capacity and racing to over analyze the slightest hint at an expression that she would only spare if they were truly alone. Locked in the silent intimacy of eye contact, and vague statements that made perfect sense in that moment. A brief pinch of the lips that may have been inflicted by the other's teeth. May have been self imposed.

Still, looking at the pale back of the form stretched beside him, reminiscent of a cat nap, he didn't mind. It was the first time she'd stayed. Not like the stream of smoke from his pipe at all, though, he decided. Seeing her there; real, solid, and twisted in his sheets. She wasn't the ghost he'd made her out to be. More like her namesake, silk. Smooth against the callouses of his palm. Icy until he ignited her with his own heat, and more than willing to be set aflame and burn before his very eye. Burn for him. Until he was satisfied.

Pleased with her demonstration of self destructive submission. Her loyalty, or the sound she made when he curled his fingers inside of her and forced her to cling to him for support.

Not like smoke at all.

When she finally noticed his staring and stirred, she asked for the time. Four simple words. But Takasugi knew what she was really asking. Was she in time for the train? The clock said that she was, if she rushed, but he had a mind to claim the opposite. This was the last time. That was the only explanation as to why it was different. She wasn't coming back again. Despite that, he managed three words; cool and collected. As she expected from him.

"You'll make it."

A/N: Thank you all for reading, and please take a moment to drop a review and let me know what you think of this! :)