about | art blog | art tag | links Hello! I'm Mio, 25, uses any pronouns, draws, selfships w/ Uzui Tengen 💎🍒 Full-time Sasanomaly/nekobolo supporter This is a multifandom + selfship blog. My fixation fluctuates alot! Ask box is always open! ♡ previously: suohomo-miokotot Header by Mewololo (twt)
Tags/TW: Hurt/Comfort, Graphic depictions of violence
Giyu Tomioka
It wasn't supposed to happen this way.
Frantic breath, feet frozen solid to the ground. His bones ached, his body nearly spent. The only warmth was the blood that soaked his uniform, but even that was cooling against the sudden paleness of his skin. His eyes are wide, emotion no longer hidden, nothing left to keep the shock at bay.
It wasn't supposed to end this way.
He panics, thoughts too fuzzy at the sight to remember his years of training. You were…still. So very still. You weren't moving- why weren't you moving?
He whispers your name as if you might hear him. But still you don't move, not an inch. He watches as crimson slowly seeps into the pure white snow, your back turned to him as you lie there. For a moment, for a breath, yet for an eternity. He just stares. Too afraid for it to be real, too terrified that it's happened again.
There's noise, yelling, something in the distance. But he can't hear it, he can't see it. He can't, he…he can't do this again.
Just as the dread begins to build bile in his throat you finally, finally move. But it's stilted, wrong, like something else moved you. Your head turns over, eyes wide and empty, horror painted permanently on your features, blood trailing from your bruised lips as they part, just before you speak.
“Giyu!” His name, clear and loud, like lightning against his ears, shoots his body straight up. The entire scene around him changes, his mind reeling as he tries to make sense of it. His eyes stayed glued to the empty wall in front of him, noticing the sheets gripped between his fists and the warmth that melts away what had once been an icy breeze up his spine. He takes staggered breaths, blinking, trying to understand what is happening when a hand lands on his arm, stilling him into stone.
“Hey,” a soft voice. Careful, so very careful as it whispers. He recognizes it immediately, that sweet sound that usually fills the emptiness within him. But in this moment that voice is a curse. It sends his already frantic heart to a rabbit's pace, his wide eyes dilating as the quiet noise wraps around him. He swallows thickly, losing his breath entirely and unable to move.
“Giyu? Can you hear me?” He can, he can. And he wants to acknowledge you, to answer you, to turn to you. But just the idea makes him nauseous. That image of you plays behind his eyes — the blood, the slumped posture. It echoes and rings, terrifying him to his very core. And so his eyes shut tightly, hoping that if he didn't see it, if he didn't acknowledge it, then maybe it would all fade away. That maybe somehow not witnessing it would save you.
Your hand trails slowly up his arm until you make it to his shoulder, the blankets shifting as you move around. He feels the weight of you in the mattress, how you lean just enough to look at him, how your grip squeezes tighter just as his eyes do the same.
He can't look, he can't. Because what if it wasn't a dream? What if he opened his eyes and you were truly gone? What if all that met his gaze was hollowed eyes and bloodstained teeth, the echo of his name the last thing on your tongue?
He feels his own weight shift, helpless to the way your hands pull him to your chest. He still doesn't move, doesn't dare to disturb the fragile air. But when he allows himself a moment he hears your heartbeat against his ears. Alive, warm, real. He focuses on it, as if trying to be certain that he hears it at all. And then right next to it he hears your lungs, the slow expansion before warm breath passes over the top of his head, tingling down his neck. His fingers twitch with a familiar want that he doesn't allow himself at first, arms remaining heavy at his side. But soon he moves, featherlight fingertips tracing the cloth of your nemaki. The slight jump of your heart freezes him again, but when it returns to its rhythm he dares a tighter grip on you, the loose cloth bunching, its soft fabric familiar in his palms. It's only then that he allows himself to finally breathe again.
Neither of you move; the moment too delicate, too preciously held. But the worry in your heart draws you to action soon enough, unable to bear the sight of him being so terrified for much longer.
Your hands move from around him, predictable as they climb and cup his head, pulling him away from your comfort just to hold him in a new one, your palms cradling his face in that way that made him feel like you held his very soul in them.
“Look at me,” you whisper, something too concerned to ignore. His eyes squeeze tighter in response, nose crinkling as if he can't think of anything worse. But he remembers your warmth, your heartbeat, your breath, and despite the sickening twisting of his gut he gives you what you ask for, his eyes finally fluttering open.
Ultimate relief washes over him when he's met with your eyes catching the moonlight through the window, gleaming in that way you have to be alive to feel. Then he traces to the slight crease of worry in your brow, drawn further down to a smile both caring and strained, too small to be any type of joy. Just comfort. His or yours, he isn't sure.
“You with me now?” You question, his eyes flicking quickly back to yours. He exhales deeply, releasing the tension from his shoulders as he offers a small, silent nod.
“Bad dream?” You ask, so careful that it's clear you aren't sure you should have even asked the question. The tension returns to his shoulders for a split second, burned images passing again, but they fall just as quickly. His hands begin to move from their tight grip, trailing to your arms. He sighs and nods again.
“What about?” You push just a bit further. His lip upturns, like he wants to dismiss your words entirely. But he doesn't run from it, his hands finally coming to meet your own, still held on his face. His eyes retreat from the worry of yours before he finds any will to answer.
“You,” he manages to mumble out, tentative, like he meant to say something else. The sorrow etched into his face speaks volumes, a silent testament to the despair that haunted his dreams of you. He didn’t have to say a word for you to understand. Your thumbs trace, trying to calm him.
“Yeah?” You fill the silence as he melts further into your embrace, eyes heavy as the anxious beating of his heart finally slows..It's as if your simple touch melted every fear of his into insignificant dust.
You lean the crown of your head against his own, calmed breath mixing as his eyes flutter back to yours again, too close now to ignore.
“Feel better now?” you whisper, still unsure of his state. He hums his answer, a quick sound that is the closest to ‘yes’ that you could hope for at the moment. You feel as one of his hands traces back to your wrist, holding it still as his head turns to kiss your palm. You feel relief at the touch just as his other hand leaves to reach for your side, pulling you closer as he leans back, until you're halfway lying on his chest and he's back down on the futon.
You finally relax, your own hitched breath calming as he wraps around you. It's natural, no longer hesitant. There wasn't a part of him that could bear the separation at the moment, too afraid even an inch of distance would make his nightmare all too real again.
Your hand reaches into his hair, tangling sweetly in the loose strands as he shivers, another deep breath passing his lips as his arms squeeze even tighter around you.
“I’m still here,” you mutter, more flowing thought than words he's meant to answer. Some hum of acknowledgement passes his lips anyway, half to assure you he heard and half to assure himself that those words were true.
No other sound passes, the night drifting on. At some point you fall asleep in his arms, unable to fight the comfort of them. But sleep eludes him, too many thoughts spinning behind his eyes to even think of closing them again. It is common — the dark bags just under them are the evidence. But he doesn't mind it all that much tonight. Because at least, for the first time in so very long, he wasn't alone.
Kyojuro Rengoku
His lungs hurt, his feet hurt, his legs, his arms, his entire body and soul. He finds himself unable to move, not a muscle, not a breath. Stuck, captured in the pure unwillingness of his own flesh. He can't feel the ground, he can't hear anymore.
But his eyes. They're wide open. Even as his body stays slumped on his knees, collapsed in on itself and unable to do anything about it. Even when he can't breathe, even when everything else is so entirely broken. Frantically they dart over flames and walls painted red, slightly blurred as he finds faces in the destruction.
The first he finds is Senjuro crying in hitched screams, turning to him in between trying to free himself from a fallen beam. The boy's small hand reaches out and he can read his own name on the boy's quivering lips, calling for him.
Then his father, eyes dull as the light drains out of them, scorn etched like a permanent memory. Even in death he'd forgotten any other expression when looking upon his eldest son. ‘You have failed,’ he could imagine him saying. ‘Always a disappointment.’
And finally you, trying desperately to hold in the blood dripping from an open wound, looking upon the carnage just the same as him. But you are screaming, crying, fighting harder than he is. You’re dragging your broken body towards him, his name screamed from your lips just the same as Senjuro. Screaming for him. But he can't move, he can't help, he can't even bring himself to try.
He's tired, more than he's ever been in his entire life. But it's no excuse for being so still, for him to be so helpless. They are all dying there, right in front of him. And he can't bring himself to do anything about it. Too weak. Too incapable.
He feels something push against him, like the air itself intends to knock him over. And it does. There is no strength left in him to fight it. Even while staring down begging faces, even when he knows dying isn't an option. He falls easily, like he weighed nearly nothing at all, face angling for the dirt below without any intent to stop himself.
His body jolts awake just before he hits the ground, all cold sweat and taut muscle. He breathes in one sharp intake, his lungs burning after so long without air. As he does the scenery suddenly changes, pale moonlight soaking in through a curtained window, serene and calm, a sharp contrast to the bright flames he'd once endured.
The first thing he does is move, his body sitting up as he frantically looks around the room. His heart still beats in an uneven tempo, panting as his body begs for the oxygen he'd deprived it of.
A hand landing on his shoulder makes him flinch, his head snapping to the sensation in an instant, eyebrows deep set in panicked confusion.
His whole world stops when he meets your gaze, worry written deep in your eyes and lips turned into an uncommon frown. His mind recalibrates, taking in the information around him and finally calming enough to realize what happened.
“You were dreaming,” you explain just as he'd come to the conclusion. Yet still his tight muscles loosen at the words, a confirmation he didn't know he needed. All at once the fear and terror melt out of him, replaced instead by that bile-building dread that looms when adrenaline seeps away. He shakes his head as if hoping to rid himself it.
“You okay?” You question next and a whole host of different nagging feelings creep under his skin. He pulls a tight smile, straining on his face as he lands his hand on your own, hoping to comfort you.
“Perfectly fine! Just–” his words cut off quickly, mouth drying as the images passed unwillingly through his mind again. Faces pleading for him, crying for him, begging for him to do anything. To save them. To protect them.
And yours? You looked at him just the same as you do now.
He turns away, clearing his throat before continuing.
“A bad dream,” he finishes, far quieter than before. His nose twitches in disgust at his own weakness; he couldn't even look you in the eyes.
“I figured,” you answer, more carefully than before. He feels your hand trace down his shoulder, his arm, his wrist, until it slides down into his palm, fingers interlacing with his.
“I am fine,” he tries to assure you, his gaze burning against where your hand holds his own. You hum, disbelief in the sound.
“You're shaking,” you remark in a whisper. Despite the accusation the words don't strike him harshly. They are kind, gentle — reassurance more than anything. It's for only this reason that his second attempt to deflect dies in his throat, escaping as nothing more than a huff of air through his nose. He knows then that if his shaking hadn't given him away, then his silence surely would have.
But you don't push any further on the topic. Instead your other hand finds his shoulder again, just before trailing up his neck and pulling him gently towards you. He was never a man who could deny the gravity of your touch, and now more than ever he leans helplessly into it. You rest his head atop your shoulder, hand still held in his. It's only when you both lie fully on the bed again that he dares his own movements, legs lacing with yours, half of his body resting on you and the other half wrapped around whatever piece of you he could find. He lets out a heavy sigh once you are both situated, finally allowing calm to reach his bones once more.
“I love you,” he blurts out, half melted subconscious thought, half deep burning need to admit the words. He hears the way your heart stutters and he can't fight the smile grows when it does.
“I love you too. Now sleep, you work too hard to have dreams keeping you awake,” you mumble the words, a kiss laid against his forehead just after. He almost laughs, but finds himself too relaxed for it to come out as anything more than one quick huff. His body relaxes quickly, dread and adrenaline distant thoughts with you held so close. It's practically no time at all before he drifts back off, hopefully to kinder dreams.
Tengen Uzui
He could hear them echoing around him. Voices muddle against each other, breathing wrath through each tooth spat word. Hatred dripping from ‘how could you?’ and rage seething through ‘how dare you?’
His eyes stay shut, each deep breath observing the sound of their scorn. He doesn't fight; he knows there is no way to. More than that he knows he has no right to. So he sits and listens to the echoed cries of anguish from faces he can't quite remember anymore, the sound of their lives taken by his hand playing vividly with each new voice. Each new hatred fueled glare that bore down upon him.
Just how many lives was it? Did it matter? When did it stop mattering? Their deaths never felt so empty before, so void of meaning. The blood he'd spilt, the family he buried, he was supposed to carry those voices with him. It was the least he could give after all he'd taken.
So why did it feel so numb now? Why did he feel so numb?
For a moment he tries to panic, to flare life back into the void that's gnawing at his chest, to drown himself in the ache so that he doesn't forget the feeling. But when the voices echo louder, angrier, meaner than before, he can't bring himself to mourn. He only hates, only loathes, only wishes to see them all stomped beneath his heel again. What right did they have to haunt him like this?! They lost their lives fairly; they were too weak to deserve their lives at all! What were they compared to him but mere insects, pests, weak beings not worthy of the Uzui name-
“Lord Tengen?” It's a soft voice that pulls him from sleep, like warm light piercing through the dark cloud forming around his mind. He feels the strain on his face, lips pulled into a scowl and nose upturned in tight disgust. But those fade as his eyes open, the fog lifting as a familiar face comes into view. From atop his chest you stare down at him, all concern and worry, holding your weight on your outstretched arms. The blanket draped just along your back begins to slowly slide down your shoulders, falling as the seconds pass. It's a peaceful sight, more welcoming than the gates of heaven ever could be.
“Hey,” his hands move slowly, voice low in a whisper, heavy with sleep as he comes to hold either side of your face. He knows he has to keep his voice quiet; he doesn't want to disturb the sleep of any of the girls just beside the two of you. Suma especially tended to get pretty grumpy if woken up when she didn't need to be.
“Something wrong?” He asks, his priority focused on your worried face. You don't let up, your pout only deepening even as you lean into his hands.
“I should be asking you that,” you mumble, almost irritated. He huffs a laugh, still quiet as he pulls you back down, laying your head against his chest where it had likely lain before.
“Just a dream,” he answers as he reaches for the fallen blanket, pulling it back over you both. He can practically feel your discontent at the answer, your body stiff, ready to pull back up again. But with a heavy sigh you fall limp, knowing the attempt is futile.
“Just a dream?” You ask anyway, mumbling the words against him. His eyes return to the ceiling, his mind flashing with the now blurry memory of that nightmare he had been stuck in. It had a bitter taste, knowing where his mind had gone, his grip on you tightening just a bit more at the thought. But something about the ache that enters his chest again feels like relief. The guilt remained, and he knew then that whatever spiral his mind had gone down wasn't his true thoughts. He still mourned them.
“Just a dream,” he assures, though the apprehension in his voice creeps ever so slightly into the words. He feels your hand searching up until it finds his own, your palm bleeding into his like you intended to put all of your care into the tips of your fingers. His hand locks with yours, securing the comfort enough to relax again. To let the memories fade and instead rest back into the bed.
“Promise you're okay?” You mutter, voice already half dripping with dreams of your own. His free hand comes to rest on the back of your neck, cradling you closer. He isn't sure if it's more for your comfort or his.
“Promise,” he half laughs the word, calm and sure, with no room left to doubt. You finally relax again, allowing the comfort to take you, no more words spoken. He smiles, softer than he would ever allow most people to see, before he finally closes his eyes again. He knew he'd likely return to that same dream, as he did almost every time he closed his eyes. But he didn't mind all that much, knowing he would open his eyes to a much kinder world than his mind allowed. He knew it was selfish, that this life he had wasn't what he deserved, that guilt and self-loathing should mark every single one of his days left in this world. But he was nothing if not a selfish man. He would take whatever good thing he could get his hands on, and he'd be damned if he ever let it go.
Gyomei Himejima
The sound is the worst part. The sickening crunch, the ricochet of bone splintering from where it's meant to stay. The splatter of blood catching on the walls, dripping down in unending streams. And the screams, the screams. Fear– terror stabbing through the sound of his own heart in his ears. Then the gurgle, the choked pleas as his fists connected, mercy on trembling lips. Mercy. Mercy.
He wants to stop, he's trying. He can't even hear the sound of his hoarse voice anymore, begging, screaming his own pleas for this to stop. But his hands move on their own, entirely against his will. He can't tell if it's blood or tears falling down his face anymore. Likely both.
And you just keep screaming, you won't stop. And he can't stop. It's an unending repetition of his hand through your skull and you begging for your life. You should be dead by now, a thought that he is repulsed to find himself hoping for. Wishing you were dead, wishing to not hear your screams anymore, the horror through your broken cries as he continued. Unending, unyielding. He couldn't stop-
“Gyomei!” In an instant his body jolts, tense muscles contracting all at once. Unmoving, entirely and utterly still. His breathing is heavy, eerily uneven as he tries to make sense of what just happened. His senses heighten, adrenaline pumping through his veins. The copper smell had faded, the room so quiet it almost felt like he had been dropped into still water. But he feels a hand in his own, the presence of someone at his side. And slowly, surely, it begins to make sense.
“Bad dream?” you ask, your worry all but hidden. He sits up slowly, his breath calming for the shortest moment.
And then the images play, striking against his skull like hammers, bludgeoning deep into his mind and searing the memory of them. The feeling, the smell, the sound.
He swallows thickly, once calming breath turning shaky as he tries to keep his composure. But the nightmare proves too much for him, tears pricking at his eyes quicker than he can hope to stop them, a growing cry choked back in his throat only because he's trying not to worry you more.
“Hey, hey, it's okay,” you comfort him, letting go of his hand so you can quickly hold his face in your palms. For a moment he thinks to stop you, to push you away. But he pauses just before he touches you, a sudden swirling fear stopping him from laying his hands on you again. And all the while his tears flow, and his attempts to hold back the sobs building in his chest grow ever weaker.
“I’m right here. It was just a nightmare, you're okay,” you mutter the simple comforts, wiping his tears with your thumbs. He doesn't want to break like this, guilt like acid in his chest. He had hurt you. Over and over and over again. How could he accept your comfort now? How dare he?
“I hurt you,” he admits, more shocked than anything else, his hands shaking as they hover just above your skin. Unable to land- refusing to.
He feels the way your hands tense as you hold him, your comforts disappearing into sudden silence. Worried maybe? Concerned?
Afraid.
That acid guilt only spreads.
“I could not stop I- I was–”
“Hey,” your voice freezes him cold, your tone almost harsh. One of your hands leaves his face to hold the wrist of one of his hovering hands, an action that drops his stomach with the same quickness as falling off the edge of a cliff would bring. You pull his wrist down until his hand lays on your shoulder, steady and firm, not allowing him to yield.
“You would never hurt me,” you speak with conviction, no break or waiver in your voice.
“I know you would never do that.” Your voice is calm, careful and patient. You hold tighter onto him, your breath steady and slow.
His blood pounds a furious tempo, his hands stiff with tension. Yet a grudging acceptance of your words begins to surface, a defiance against the blaring instinct to dismiss you without thought.
So he finds enough of his mind to hold you, to trust your judgement and not fear his own hands. The movement is hesitant, stiff and uneven, but he eventually pulls you towards him, fearing the distance more than anything else. Soon his arms are wrapped entirely around you, his head resting on your shoulder as you're securely tucked onto his lap. His tears spill onto the back of your nemaki as your hands carefully mix into his sweat-damp hair.
And slowly, surely, his mind stills and sense returns, adrenaline and fear melting away and leaving only a sniffling mess behind.
“Forgive me,” he mutters, voice hoarse as his hands hold even tighter onto you, still refusing to move from his spot on your shoulder.
“This was…rather childish of me,” the shame slips, embarrassment beginning to burn his face hotter. Had he truly lost so much of himself over a dream?
But you don't stop your calming trace through his hair, nor do you make any attempt to mock or laugh. You only sigh, your body relaxing in his hold like you'd only just allowed yourself to breathe again.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” you are quick to deny him, your head leaning to the right and resting against his own, your arms wrapping around his neck to hold him closer.
“I wouldn't have handled a dream like that any better than you,” you admit, something like a confession held between the words. He hums a deep sound, acknowledging you through the growing exhaustion. It isn't long before he's pulling both of you back down to the futon, your body still held so tightly against his own.
“Then at least let me apologise for worrying you,” he mutters into the crook of your neck, settling against you just the same as you settle against him. There is nothing complicated about the way you both hold each other. Like a lock and key, you two slotted together perfectly.
“Would it make you feel better?” You reply, and he hums something close to a laugh, but it's more tired than anything.
“Yes,” he answers, his leg pulling yours closer, wrapping each other in warmth.
“Then I forgive you,” you reply with some exaggeration, not entirely sincere. But it still means the world. He finally allows his eyes to shut again, his body fully relaxing back into the mattress with one final heavy breath. He struggles for a while to find sleep again, the sounds still an echo in the back of his mind. But your tracing hands and soft breath against his skin slowly draw him deeper until he can't hope to fight the comfort of it any longer, falling back to sleep with what he hoped would be kinder dreams.
Sanemi Shinazugawa
Nausea twists in his stomach, bile hovering low in his throat. Every muscle in his body is tense, every fiber of his being entirely on edge as his wide eyes stare at the scene before him.
Blood, so much blood. Dripping, pooling, smeared across the dimly lit walls. His own spilling through the scratches on his skin and theirs painted across twisted faces, crimson dripping passed now hollow eyes.
His brother to the left, sharp teeth still held open, frozen in the final animalistic expression. No kindness, no mercy left in the boy's wide stare.
And you in front of him, severed head held in your own hands, staring up at him with an unrivaled rage, hatred, bloodlust.
With only a small glance did his eyes catch on the blade that had done it, the low light catching the hint of emerald green that traveled to the hilt carried in his own hands.
His hands. His blood-soaked hands.
The ones that pull that same blade to his stomach. That allow the sting to settle in just when-
“Hey!” hands shove his body and in pure unbridled instinct he snatches them into his own, moving before thinking, yanking the unknown person and throwing them over himself, pinning them below him with a bruising, deadly grip. His eyes are wide, pinpointed pupils trying to assess the situation as a snarl twists his face.
The person below gasps, but doesn't try pulling against his grip. He blinks the bleariness from his eyes, heated heavy breath hardly covering the feeling of his own heartbeat in his ears. It takes a moment there, maybe two, before he sees your face, your voice slowly coming into focus past the ringing in his ears.
“—emi? Hey, it's me! It's okay! You were- you were dreaming! You're okay!” he blinks a few more times, reality slowly dawning on him. He lets go almost instantly, pulling away like he was burned and shuffling further away still, far enough to be entirely off the futon.
You sit up, staring at him, all quick breaths and wide panicked eyes. His mind catches up quickly, understanding the situation. But when you reach for him he is quick to pull away.
“Nemi-?”
“Don't,” he mutters the word, his hands turning to fists. He catches how you rub your wrists where those same hands once held you down. Bile rises in his throat again, his gaze falling away. He can't stand the sight of you right now.
So he stands, making his way to the door.
“Hey-”
“I said don't,” he spits through gritted teeth, reaching for the door and sliding it open with a harsh pull.
He freezes when he feels his wrist caught in your own. He feels stuck, trapped, glued to where he stands. He wants to run, to get away from how your wide eyes caught tears just before he'd turned away and escape how your heavy breaths showed your fear plainly. He needed to get away, his own body the threat he was trying to save you from–
“Don't go,” you murmur, a combination of too many emotions to name. He grimaces, his muscles growing tighter, trying to fight the way he wanted to melt.
“I wouldn't be able to sleep without you,” you murmur, more thought than words, hardly audible. His scowl contrasts with how his hands begin to loosen from their tight fists.
But it's only for a moment, the memory of his dream passing behind his eyes again, tightening his hands once more. In an instant he rips away from you, walking out the door.
He avoids you for the entire next day, unable to so much as look you in the eye. He fights with himself, angry at the situation, at his weakness, at how he can't bring himself to do anything about it. But eventually, like he always does, he finds his way back to you. Late in the evening, just before bed. He stands outside your shared bedroom like he can't bring himself to actually step in.
And then he hears your footsteps just behind him, pausing for a moment, assessing the situation. And then slowly walking up until he feels your head rest against his bare back again. But he isn't as tense as before; you can practically feel his exhaustion.
When he feels your hand against his arm his first instinct is to flinch away. But you hold there, an inch from his skin, letting him relax back into the touch before you dare move further, trailing down his arm until your hand rests in his own. He shudders at the feeling, heavy muscles flexing and shifting in obvious discomfort. But he doesn't pull away, he never does. Because truthfully, the shifting was only because the care was so foreign to him these days. He wasn't used to gentle things against his skin. He often waited for a pain that never arrived.
You hold him tighter, like iron wrapped around his hand. Solid, immovable, something he couldn't ever rip away from. On good days he'd always had a hard time pushing you away, but right now it seemed almost impossible. Right now he couldn't bring himself to if he tried. It was selfish, he knew that. He didn't deserve this, not after all he'd done. He didn't deserve you. But that was why it hurt so much. Because he couldn't help himself. He couldn't stop you.
“We don't have to talk about it, just…just stay with me,” your voice is like a siren's call, one heavy breath fanning against his bare skin. You tug him into the room and it's like his body turns slack, weak, pathetic. He's trying to fight it, he's trying. But he can't. Not when it's you.
And so you're able to pull him back onto the futon, blankets wrapped around him like he belonged there. He kept his back to you, and you never tried to turn him over. But your arm did come to rest over him, hand still tightly held in his own against his chest.
His eyes don't close; he wouldn't have dared. But he didn't move either, letting both of you lie there the rest of the night together, soaking in the silence.
And eventually, when the sun starts to peak through and the world begins to stir again, he’ll breathe one bone-deep sigh, finally relaxing just as he brings your shared grip to his lips, one careful feather-like kiss giving his worry away immediately.
“I'm sorry,” he apologizes, the rarest words you'll ever hear from him.
“For being like this,” like sandpaper past his lips he speaks the words that had likely been swimming in his head all night. You only hold him closer — tighter — resting your head between his shoulders with a sigh of your own.
“I knew who you were when I first told you I loved you,” you reply, refusing to back down. If he were the unstoppable force, then you were surely the immovable object. Two hearts caught at war with one another, pushing away and pulling back, refusing to admit defeat. Maybe that was the truth of it all. Maybe that was why he couldn't let go.
“And I don't plan on changing my mind any time soon,” you add, careful words in a shivering vibration against his skin. His lip upturns, some refusal bubbling in his chest. But he's too tired to fight your words right now, too exhausted to try. He huffs away whatever words had begun to form, instead finally closing his eyes again.
As the morning creeps in, both of you finally succumb to sleep, responsibilities be damned. You could deal with those after you two finally got some actual rest.
husband!tengen uzui and his obsession with his wife ･ﾟ☆
husband!tengen uzui who stood at the altar with his shoulders squared and his jaw set, repeating to himself don’t cry, don’t cry, dammit, but the second the music swelled and you appeared at the end of the aisle, his vision blurred so fast he had to blink twice to be sure it wasn’t a technique. his knees actually buckled. he mouthed your name like a prayer, hands clenched at his sides so hard the gold cuffs on his wrists left marks.
husband!tengen uzui who wrote his vows on the back of a mission report because parchment felt too small for what he wanted to say. when it was his turn, he pulled the crumpled sheet from his sleeve, cleared his throat three times and still cracked on the first line: “I’ve faced a thousand demons, but none ever scared me like the thought of a world without you in it.” the officiant had to pause for him to swipe at his eyes with the heel of his hand. you just smiled, and he nearly dropped to one knee again right there.
husband!tengen uzui who, during the reception, refused to let go of your hand for longer than it took to cut the cake. every time someone tried to pull you away for photos or congratulations, he’d reel you back by the waist, press a kiss to your temple, and announce to the room, “sorry, my wife’s busy being perfect, try again later.” the guests learned to wait their turn.
husband!tengen uzui who turned the first dance into a private concert. he spun you slow under the lanterns, forehead to yours, humming the lullaby his mother used to sing—off-key, voice rough from holding back more tears. when the song ended he didn’t step away. he just swayed in place, arms locked around you, until the band started the next tune and he finally remembered there were other people in the world.
husband!tengen uzui who commissioned a custom haori for you: deep crimson silk embroidered with tiny explosive crystals that caught the light like fireworks. he draped it over your shoulders the morning after the wedding, kissed the nape of your neck where the fabric met skin, and whispered, “now the whole world knows you’re the loudest thing in my life.” he wore the matching one everywhere, even on missions, until the hem frayed.
husband!tengen uzui who turned your shared bedroom into a shrine of you. polaroids pinned above the headboard: your sleepy smile at 3 a.m., flour on your cheek from attempting his favorite dango, the way you looked in his haori and nothing else. he added a new photo every week, kissing the corner before tacking it up. the wall grew so crowded he started a second row. you found him one night rearranging them by “emotional impact,” tongue between his teeth in concentration.
husband!tengen uzui who learned to braid your hair. he practiced on his own ponytail first, cursing under his breath when the strands slipped, until he could weave a perfect fishtail blindfolded. now, every morning, he sits you between his knees, fingers gentle, humming off-key again. when he ties it off with a ribbon the color of his headband, he always kisses the crown of your head and says, “there. now you’re lethal and adorable.”
husband!tengen uzui who still flinches when you touch the scars on his left arm (old habit) but melts the second your thumb traces the ridge. he started leaving that sleeve rolled higher, just to watch your fingers find the marks like you were reading braille. one night you kissed every inch of damaged skin; he buried his face in your stomach and shook so hard the bed creaked. he didn’t speak for an hour. when he finally did, it was a cracked, “I love you so much it’s stupid.”
husband!tengen uzui who turned “I’m home!” into a three-act play. act one: dramatic door kick. act two: jewelry clattering onto the table like percussion. act three: locating you wherever you are (kitchen, bath, rooftop) and scooping you into a spinning hug that ends with your legs around his waist and his forehead pressed to yours.
husband!tengen uzui who keeps a tiny notebook in his sleeve titled “things that make her glow.” entries include: rain on the window while she reads, the way she says my name when she’s half-asleep, when she wears my old training shirt and it slips off one shoulder. he adds to it religiously, then hides it in the rafters so you’ll never find it. you found it. you cried. he pretended not to notice the damp spots on the pages.
husband!tengen uzui who, years in, still wakes before you just to watch the way dawn paints your eyelashes gold. he’ll trace the slope of your nose with one careful finger, then the curve of your lip, then the line of your jaw. like he’s checking you’re still real. when you stir, he freezes, guilty, until you smile sleepily and tug him down by the neck. he goes willingly, every time, heart hammering like it’s the first morning after the wedding all over again.
husband!tengen uzui who swears the flashy life was never about the explosions or the swords, it was always the quiet moment after. when the dust settles and he gets to come home to you, press his smile into your shoulder and know the loudest thing in his universe is the steady beat of your heart against his.
aluna's note: first headcanons ever !! sorry if it's not too good, i finished the show a week ago and i'm still processing everything i watched<3 but tengen is my favorite and i needed to write for him. i'm working on a masterlist!
My most awaited (6 months) Tengen merch finally arrived earlier this week!!!! 😭😭😭
aaaa..... words can't describe how much i love this (；ᴗ；) waking up to him lovingly smiling at me blesses my tired soul... first pic is how big he is (stupidly big) as big as my bed. the struggle i had to tackle trying to iron his creases out hh
This is my view every night hehehehe
yall bet im having a good night's sleep every night (˶ᐢωᐢ˶)
