Based on this request: "Hi! Can I request Gyomei x reader who’s insecure about her body, as I struggle with my body image a lot (I love that big blind man 😭)"
Note: slice-of-life, comfort
Note: I hope I did Gyomei justice, I love him sm but he's a walking temple. Like I need incense burning to write for him LOL
Dawn comes in slow breaths here.
Mist sits low over the stepping stones, softening their edges until the whole yard feels like a half-dream, half-waking world. The dew makes the wood cold beneath your feet when you step out of the house, your sandals left by the door. You still smell like warm rice and miso from the pot you set to simmer. If you stand very still, you can hear faint trickling of the stream and- beneath it- the tempo that has become your mornings; the steady, patient sound of prayer beads rolling and gathering in a certain pair of hands.
“Good morning,” you say, not too loud. The air feels peaceful out here, like sound should move carefully.
“Good morning,” Gyomei answers, that quiet tone that always seems to carry farther than any shout. His head tilts towards you, and even with his sightless eyes, you know he’s already found you by your breath in the cold.
He kneels on the engawa, facing east. The sun is only just beginning to rise behind the thin clouds. He has his haori folded beside him, only sporting his slayer uniform with the fabric stretched over the breadth of his shoulders. He looks unmovable the way the mountains do, but when you scoot closer, he reaches out, as if he'd been waiting for you to come closer.
His warm palm finds your wrist. The beads click softly when he lets them fall in his lap. “You rose early.”
“I wanted your breakfast to start with the sunrise,” you say, smiling. “Also, I didn’t want you walking by the kitchen thinking a cup of broth was “all you needed” again.
He hums, a guilty sound, mouth tugging at the corner. “I am properly scolded.”
“Good,” you say, and then you look down at yourself. At the way your shirt clings a little tighter than it used to, at the curve of your hip where the belt ties- and the word slips out of you wrong. “Good enough.”
Gyomei doesn’t miss much. He never has. His thumb stills against your wrist. A cloud passes over the sun and the light cools; it feels like the earth is listening.
“What would you like to train today?” He asks, like he always does.
You mean to say footwork drills. You mean to say stretching sequence. You mean to say anything but the small truth that peels up like a splinter when he offers you his time.
“Maybe… just watching for a bit,” you say lightly, and you add a laugh to make it sound like a preference, not a retreat. “I’m feeling a little… heavy. Out of rhythm.”
The word lands and echoes faintly. Heavy.
You hate the way it feels in your mouth- salted with shame, as if the body that carried you through tough nights and arrived at morning alive is a thing you’re allowed to despise. You turn your face toward the trees and pretend to look for birds you can’t see through the fog.
Gyomei puts away his beads. He rises without any rush, and the soft brush of his sandals against the grass as he steps off the engawa. Even when he looms, he never feels imposing; it’s something about the way he aligns himself to you, as if your unease is something he can lean on instead of be against.
His fingertips touch your elbow first and the slide down to your forearm. “Walk with me?”
You go because it’s impossible not to. He guides you to the edge of the river's stream where the grass curls around your ankles. When he kneels, he doesn’t pull you down. He simply stays until you choose to join him.
You kneel opposite of him, knees pressing the damp earth. He turns his face toward your voice, the line of his mouth softened by something not quite like a smile, yet not quite worry.
“You spoke to yourself unkindly,” he says in low timbre.
“I didn’t,” you lie at first, then sigh. “I’m trying not to. It’s just-” You glance down at the knot of your belt. “Some mornings it’s louder. And when I imagine training next to you, I start thinking about what I must look like from a distance. Or… standing near the others. Lean, effortless. It feels like I am… too much, all at once.”
The confession is ugly and small and a relief, all at once. You half expect him to correct it, to tell you you’re wrong, that you’re beautiful. But Gyomei doesn’t hand you easy words.
He lowers his hands to your knees. They’re large, steady, and warm- and brushed damp earth away as if clearing an altar. The touch is not possessive nor particularly intimate. It’s reverent. Your throat catches.
“Too much,” he murmurs, tasting the phrase and setting it aside without judgement. His thumbs found the roundness of your kneecaps, pressed gently, then release. “This body,” he says- and you realize he means yours, not as a concept- “carried the injured boy we found by the ravine. This body kept watch with me the night the fever took hold, when I could not leave and the others went in my stead. This body fed me when grief made me forget how to lift a bowl.”
Your eyes stung, suddenly, as if his words have come in and swept dust you’d let gather.
“You and I,” he continues, quieter, “do not offer thanks only at altars. We offer thanks to the roads that brought us home. Why would we despise the road?”
There it is- his way of seeing, making you feel at once small and held. You swallow.
“I know,” you say- and you do. You know. But some mornings the knowing is far away and the mirror is nearby. “It’s just- there are moments I… wish I were… different. You know, smaller... quieter. Less… noticeable.”
“Smaller would not make you lighter to me,” he says before he can stop himself. Then, softer, “Nor would it make you less worthy.”
You laugh, even though your eyes are wet. “You say things that sound like they should be carved in stone.”
His mouth quirks. “I would prefer they were carved into habit.” He lifts one of your hands carefully, and places your palm against his chest.
There. Heat under your hand, the thudding of his heart, the way his breath warms your wrist.
“This,” he says, as that pulse meets your lifeline, “beats because you have helped taught it to be at peace.” He bows his head until his breath ghosts your hair, tears weeping down his cheeks. “It does not beat for the one the world would choose. It beats for the one who shares its rhythm.”
You close your eyes. The cool air moves above the grass like a blessing. His words sink into you, yet something in you resists. You want to believe him- to let his reverence wash away the quiet cruelty you've learned to aim at yourself. But the habit runs deep.
It's strange how a heart can be full and still feel unworthy of what it holds. How the mind can understand tenderness but the body flinches from it anyway. You breathe in and hope that the air might carry his truth deeper than your doubt, but the ache doesn't leave. It only softens.
Your fingers curl against his chest, not to push him away, but to hold onto his something that can anchor you when your own reflection won't.
“I still feel… heavy,” you confess into the small space between you; even held like this, the old voice tries to crawl back in. “Not in a way I want to punish. Just… like I am harder to love than before... to look at... to cheer on. When I run, I notice every shake. When I stand by the water, I see angles I didn’t used to, and I think- who would choose this, if they could choose otherwise?”
“I would,” Gyomei says simply.
You laugh, startled- “You don’t have to-”
“I would,” he repeats, and you feel the words travel from his chest into your bones beneath your palm. “I am not a man trapped by the sight of his eyes. I have learned to see by other light.” He lifts and cups your face. “When I hold you, I do not think of the world’s measurements. I think of the nights you slid your feet between mine because they were cold. I think of your voice when you are brave enough to ask for what you need. I think of how you laugh with your whole body, as if joy is something you were taught to carry with both arms.”
Your breath leaves you empty because no one has ever listed your existence back to you like this and called it sacred.
He doesn’t rush the silence. He lets it grow patiently, his chest a steady rise and fall beneath your hand. When he speaks again, it is almost a whisper. “The gods do not ask flowers to remain the size of their buds.”
A shake runs through you that has nothing to with the cold.
“Train with me,” he says- not as a test nor a demand; but an invitation to greet your own strength. “Not to correct the body but to celebrate it. We will move to honor what it has carried.”
You nod before you even realize it.
He stands first, then helps you to your feet, carefully lifting you as if you were a cherished scroll. Together you walk back to the training yard. He takes position at your shoulder until you find your footing. When you set your stance, he mirrors it; even though his form is perfect, he makes the smallest adjustment so he’s matching you instead of asking you to match him.
You begin.
-
Gyomei bows his head, facing you. “Beautifully done.”
You smile, catching your breath. “I nearly tripped twice.”
His head tilts as he considers. “And yet you did not fall. That is what I call grace.”
Heat spreads in your cheeks. He always says things like that.
He makes his way toward you and offers his hand. You place your fingers in his, and both of you walk together back to the house. You sit side by side on the low steps. You fan yourself with one hand while he settles, knees set wide but is posture was relaxed. His presence feels like a wall of calm between you and the world.
“I feel stronger,” you admit quietly.
“You are stronger,” he says, a small smile paired with his voice. “Not because your movements improved… but because you did not hide from them.”
You lean your head to his body, not quite reaching his shoulder. His arm shifts automatically, drawing you closer. The beads on his wrist slide softly against your forearm. Beneath all that calm, his heartbeat drums, steady and deep.
He lets the silence stay for a while before he speaks again, “When you doubt yourself again, remember this morning. Remember the air, the sound of your breath, the way you stood back up.” He bends and presses a kiss to your hair. “And remember that I saw all of it- and was proud.”
You smile into his shoulder.
“You know,” he says, “I used to pray for peace.”
“And?” You murmur.
“Now I find it sitting beside me.”
You turn your face up toward him, smiling faintly. “That’s unfair. You can’t say things like that when I’m already emotional.”
A quiet laugh moves through his chest. “Then I’ll say it again when you’re laughing.”
Note: Consider that last bit a bonus. I was debating on adding it and said eff it lol
Hi! Can I request Gyomei x reader who’s insecure about her body, as I struggle with my body image a lot (I love that big blind man 😭)
Posted!
And I feel ya, it's really hard when those thoughts kick in. Like it's exhausting to fight your own reflection sometimes. Just remember, your body has done so much for you. You don't have to love it all the time, but I hope you can treat it with the same kindness you'd give to someone you care about.
And if you don't wanna hear it from meeee, then hear it from Gyomei lol
[synopsis]: you and who you’ve labeled as your “situationship” get into a bit of a heated moment, but you’re not ready for that yet. they comfort you, yay.
[characters]: giyuu, sanemi
[tags]: slightly suggestive, fluff, comfort
TOMIOKA GIYUU
you and giyuu were not in a relationship.
it was that simple.
do you often catch him staring at you during meetings? yes.
does his hand linger whenever he’s assisting you on missions? also yes.
do you guys share kisses within the confinement of his estate? also yes.
is the tension between you so thick it’s almost unbearable? the kind that makes your pulse jump when his eyes linger too long, when his voice drops low, when the space between you starts to feel anything but innocent?
absolutely.
so here you find yourself again, one moment you were having a casual conversation and the next you were kissing.
it wasn’t planned. it never was.
his hand was steady at your jaw, the other resting on your waist. the kiss deepened, and soon you found yourself gripping his uniform, heart racing. the warmth of him, the sound of his breath, the feeling of his lips all over your neck as if it was land he wanted to explore. it was all overwhelming in all the right and wrong ways.
your eyes flicked to your own bare chest, and his hand began to slide lower to remove the remainder of your uniform, something in you tensed.
not fear — just… a line you weren’t ready to cross. you pulled back, breath shaky.
“giyuu..” you said quietly, fingers brushing his chest to stop him.
he froze instantly. his eyes flicked to yours — calm, steady, though you could tell from the rise and fall of his chest that he was fighting himself to stay still.
“i’m sorry,” you blurted “i can’t.”
you had never felt smaller.
you expected him to pull away. to close off. to give that unreadable look he always did when things got complicated — maybe even hand you your clothes and tell you to show out or get out.
but instead, he just exhaled softly, his hand falling from your waist. “okay.”
you blinked. “…okay?”
he nodded once. “you don’t have to explain.” then, quieter: “i won’t do anything you’re not ready for.”
it shouldn’t have surprised you, but it did. he never said much, rarely let anyone in, and yet he meant every word — you could hear it in his voice.
when he noticed the way your shoulders shook, he reached for the haori resting beside him and draped it around you. the fabric was still warm from his skin, heavy enough to ground you, and you wrapped it around your bare skin.
“you’re cold,” he murmured.
you shook your head, embarrassed. “i’m fine.”
but he stayed anyway, settling down beside you, close enough for his knee to brush yours. the silence between you stretched out — soft, comfortable, not heavy like you’d feared.
“i thought…” you started, hesitating. “i thought you’d just.. tell me to leave.”
he looked at you then, really looked — the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his usually unreadable face. “you think that little of me?”
you leaned against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his breathing calming your own. he didn’t move, didn’t speak — just reached up to gently adjust the haori where it had slipped, making sure you were covered.
you swallowed. “i just don’t know what this is.”
he was quiet for a long time. then: “neither do i. but i know i don’t want to hurt you.”
after a couple minutes of sitting in silence, you felt him press a soft, hesitant kiss to the side of your head.
SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA
it started the same way it always did with him — an argument that didn’t matter. you’d both been circling around each other for weeks now, too stubborn to admit what it was. every time you fought, it got louder. closer. more dangerous.
and this time, it didn’t stop with words.
“say that again,” he muttered, stepping closer. his voice wasn’t angry — it was low, edged with something else.
you should’ve backed away. you should’ve said something sharp, something to break the moment before it went too far. but you didn’t. you just looked at him. and maybe that was enough.
because in the next heartbeat, his mouth was on yours.
the kiss was messy, rough, full of pent-up frustration neither of you wanted to name. his hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing against your skin as though to anchor himself there. he tasted like wind and fire and something you shouldn’t crave but did anyway.
it wasn’t gentle — it never was with him — but there was something in the way he kissed you, desperate but careful, like he was trying to hold back even as he lost control.
your hands found his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform. you could feel the heat of him under your palms, the tension coiled tight in his muscles, the way he exhaled shakily when you pressed closer.
and then — it shifted. his hand slid down, his thumb tracing the edge of your hip, and suddenly the weight of it all hit you.
you froze.
“sanemi,” you whispered, breath catching.
he stopped. immediately. no hesitation, no complaint — just stillness. his head dropped slightly, his breath rough against your collarbone as he pulled back an inch.
“you okay?” he asked, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.
you nodded quickly, but the sound of your pulse was too loud in your ears. “i just—” you shook your head, trying to find words. “i’m not ready for that.”
he didn’t move for a long moment. you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the restrained tension in his shoulders. he was breathing hard, but when he looked up, his eyes weren’t angry. just calm. controlled.
“alright,” he said finally, the word quiet but firm.
you blinked. “alright?”
he gave a small nod. “yeah.” his voice was rougher now, but steady. “you said stop. so i stop.”
you tried to smile, but guilt crept in. “you don’t have to—”
he cut you off before you could finish, shaking his head. “don’t start with that.” his tone softened. “you think i’m gonna get pissed because you’re not ready? you think i’m that kind of guy?”
you looked down, ashamed. “…i just didn’t want to ruin this. whatever this is.”
that earned you a faint exhale that might’ve been a laugh. “you’re not gonna ruin anything.”
then, without another word, he reached behind him, tugged his shirt over his head, and tossed it toward you. “here.”
you caught it, confused. “what—”
“you’re shaking,” he said simply. “put it on.”
you hesitated, glancing up at him — broad-shouldered, bare-chested, the faint silver lines of old scars cutting across his skin. he looked fierce in the half-light, but his expression was gentle. almost careful.
you pulled the shirt on, the fabric heavy and warm against your skin, smelling faintly like him — like pine, metal, and smoke.
he watched you for a moment, then sat down beside you, leaning back against the wall. “you don’t have to look at me like that,” he said quietly. “like you owe me something.”
“i don’t?”
“no,” he said, voice soft but certain. “you don’t.”
you stayed silent, staring at your hands, unsure what to say. he reached over, tugging lightly at your sleeve. “c’mere,” he murmured.
when you hesitated, he added, “i’m not gonna try anything. just— sit with me.”
so you did. you sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his arm. for a long time, neither of you spoke. his breathing was slow, steady, the rhythm of it enough to calm you.
after a while, he reached over and adjusted the hem of his shirt where it had slipped off your shoulder, his fingers brushing your skin lightly. “you don’t get it, do you?” he said, not looking at you.
“get what?”
“that i don’t just want you for that.” his jaw tightened, like it cost him something to admit it. “if i did, i wouldn’t be sitting here right now. i’d have walked out when you said stop.”
your heart twisted at the blunt honesty in his voice. “then what do you want?”
he turned to you, meeting your eyes. the fire in them was still there, but dimmer now — something steadier burning underneath. “you,” he said simply. “but only when you want me too.”
that silence returned again, thick but not heavy. when your head finally tipped against his shoulder, he didn’t move away.
“now quit thinking,” he muttered, voice low, almost fond. “you’re safe. that’s all that matters tonight.”
Wrapped in Him: How the Hashira Men React to You Wearing Their Clothes
Note: It felt wrong to use Giyuu's haori so I improvised.
Genre: Intimate Slice-of-Life; Soft Romance; Comfort
The shoji was half-open, the last light of day spilling across the tatami in long amber streaks. You stood there hidden from Giyuu while he was getting ready for patrol. You tied his uwa-obi clumsily around your waist, the white fabric folding and slipping through your fingers. You slid the sheathed nichirin sword through the sash the way you'd seen him do countless times, but the weight dragged at your hips, far heavier than you expected. When you drew the blade halfway free, your breath caught- the steel shimmered in the low light, insanely sharp.
"You're holding it wrong."
The quiet voice startled you. You turned sharply, almost dropping the weapon.
Giyuu stood in the doorway, blue eyes steady, unreadable. Heat rushed to your cheeks. "I- I just wanted to see..."
He crossed the floor with that quiet precision of his. "You'll cut yourself if you draw it like that," he said factually, stepping close, turning you back to the opened door.
His hands slid over yours, steadying your trembling grip, adjusting the angle with care. His chest brushed your back, breath warm against your temple. "Like this," he murmured, as he guided your movements. "Keep your wrist relaxed. Don't fight the balance."
You tried to mimic his motion, but the weight still dragged your arm down. "It's so much heavier than I thought," you whispered. "How do you do this every day?"
"I don't think about it," he said simply. "It's what I have to do." A pause, softer now. "But I'd never want you to carry this weight."
His hands sank deep, making your chest ache. You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. "Even for you?"
Blue eyes met yours and stayed for a beat- his gaze flickered with something tangled. Guilt? Affection? Fear? His hand shifted, sliding from the handle to your fingers. He laced them together, gently easing the sword back into its sheath. The sound echoing softly in the quiet room before taking the weight from your hands completely. His free arm wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you into his chest.
"Especially for me," he said quietly, his lips brushing your hair.
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried conviction. For a man who spoke so little, he sure knew how to make moments romantic.
He rested his chin lightly against your head, eyes half-lidded, a sigh escaping though his nose. He didn't want for you to see this side of his world- the weight, the solitude, the blood that came with it. Just imagining you struggle with even a fraction of it made something in him twist painfully.
"You make it look so effortless," you murmured.
"It's not," he admitted. "But when I see you..." his words trailed off, as though finishing them might undo the fragility of the moment.
You leaned into him, the warmth of his haori brushing your arms. He pressed his lips to your hair before stepping back just enough to take the sword completely from our reach.
"It's just better this way," he said.
The scent of simmering broth drifted faintly from the kitchen, but Gyomei paused in the entryway of his home. His haori- the one he'd left hanging by the door before training- no longer brushed against his searching hand.
He stilled, tilting his head. That's when he caught it- the soft rhythm of your breathing, even and slow, layered with the faint rustle of fabric. He followed the sound, carefully, until the warmth of your presence reached him.
You lay curled on the mat, wrapped in the heavy folds of his haori. The garment was far too large, the hem surrounding you like a protective cocoon. He could hear the faint catch of your breath as you shifted in half-sleep, and the delicate brush of your hand against your cheek.
The realization made his chest warm. He knelt beside you, the tatami creaking faintly under his weight. His hands reached out, fingertips trailing the edge of the fabric until they found your shoulders. You didn't stir, only exhaled a long, content sigh. He adjusted his haori higher, tucking the edges under you as if this garment alone could protect you.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He bowed his head slightly, the weight of affection sitting warm in his chest, showing on his face as tears spilled down. "Even when I'm gone, you find comfort in what I leave behind," he said lowly, thick with awe.
You mumbled something incoherent in your sleep as your fingers clutched the edge of the fabric, afraid it would disappear. The motion nearly undid him. For a man who had spent his life protecting others, it struck him how easily you sought safety in the pieces of him- his warmth, his scent.
He didn't wake you. He only sat close, listening to your breathing until the bubbling broth grew louder- threating to spill over- did he rise again, pulling himself away.
You spun in front of the mirror, gripping the edge of his haori where it draped over your shoulders. The red and orange patterns flared as you turned.
Kyojuro watched from the doorway- silent, wide-eyed, a rare moment of quietness overtaking him. His haori completely took over your frame, the hem brushing your calves. And for once, the bright, bold color that so easily commanded attention had found someone even brighter to wear it.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then blinked twice. "You-" his voice caught. "You look..."
You caught his reflection and smile. “Hotter in this than you?” You teased, tugging it opened like a showman.
The question snapped him out of it. He blinked again, his cheeks coloring faintly, unprepared for how your laughter filled the room. “Hotter?” He repeated, voice somewhere between amusement and disbelief. Then, softer, "You burn differently.”
You laughed again, shaking your head. “That’s a poetic way of saying I don’t pull it off.”
He was already crossing the room before you could finish. “No,” he said firmly, though his grin tugged at the edges of his mouth. He stopped in front of you, the air warmer for his closeness. "You do, I'm absolutely captivated."
His hands rose to adjust the haori, fingers brushing your throat for a quick second. "It suits you too well, actually. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever get it back.”
His tone was light and teasing- but his eyes held something deeper. His intense gaze- like he could memorize you with one look.
You tried to laugh it off, to mask the heat crawling up your neck. “You make it sound like a threat,” you said, voice softer now.
He chuckled, “No, not a threat,” he said. “But a realization.” His fingers smoothed the fabric on your shoulders once more. “I'm captivated because of how it reflects you. Bright, fearless, full of life."
You met his gaze then and the world felt perfectly still- your breath syncing with his, and it felt like standing at the heart of something too big to name.
Then, Kyojuro straightened suddenly, grin returning with sudden, boyish enthusiasm. “But!” he said, voice booming again, as though he caught himself being too sentimental. “You are missing one crucial element!”
You tilted your head, a smile forming. “Oh? And what's that?”
He pointed to himself, beaming! “Confidence! You must wear it with pride!”
You laughed until your cheeks hurt, swatting his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Undoubtedly!” He agreed with unshakable cheer, his laugh joining yours.
Kaburamaru coiled lazily across your shoulders, tongue flickering as he nuzzled into the striped fabric hanging off your frame. Obanai’s haori was far too big for you, the sleeves trailing over your hands as you tried to coax the snake to eat. You'd even messed your hair up the way he wore his, half as a joke, half in hope the scent would comfort his serpent.
When Kaburamaru finally snuggled close, content, you giggled and called out, "Iguro! Look- he's listening to me!"
He appeared in the doorway, eyes catching on the sight. For a heartbeat, he froze. The resemblance struck him like a mirror: your figure swallowed by his haori, his snake draped across you, your smile lighting the stripes that had always guarded him.
A rare warmth touched his lips- the smallest smile. He walked over, kneeling in front of you. "You look ridiculous," he muttered, but his tone carried no bite. His hand reached out to adjust the collar of his haori where it has slipped off your shoulder, pulling it back into place with care. Seeing you like this... hit him with a strange ache.
"Don't try to be like me, okay?"
You blinked at him, confused by the sudden seriousness in his tone. "Why not?"
"Because..." he said, gaze lowering. He hesitated. Inside, the answer was clear and bitter- because I'm filthy... Because of the things I've done, the blood on my hands, the life I live... not of it should touch you. But he couldn't say any of that. Not when you were sitting there in his haori, smiling through the faint crease of worry that tugged your brow.
He swallowed back the truth, and turned it into something softer. Something that wouldn't make your eyes fall. "Because Kaburamaru will like you better than me," he muttered, his tone serious but teasing.
You stared at him for half a second before bursting into laughter. The sound came bright and sudden, the kind that reached your eyes- the kind he wished he could bottle up and keep. Kaburamaru flicked his tongue against your cheek, almost as if he approved of the joke.
"See?" he said quietly, glancing away so you wouldn't notice the faint blush beneath his bandages. "He already does."
You giggled again at his shyness and petted Kaburamaru's head, the snake clearly loving it as it wiggled underneath your fingertips.
Glanced back and watched you, taking in the sight of his haori drowning you, the curvature of your smile, the way you looked at him like there was nothing monstrous to see.
You reached out, brushing the back of your fingers lightly against his sleeve, tilting your head. "Sooo... do I look cute?"
He looked you over once more, his hand softly intertwining with yours.
"Something like that."
Your laughter filled the room again, soft and unguarded, and Kaburamaru spiraled tighter around you as if he agreed. Obanai didn't even have to say it as his expression gave him away. He found you unbearably cute.
You tied his jeweled headband around your forehead, dragging the heavy cloth snug. With his makeup kit on the table, you mimicked the bold strokes he wore around his eyes, trying not to laugh. A little uneven, a little too bold… but that was part of the fun.
“Ah yes,” you said in your best dramatic voice, “look at me! The God of Festivals!” You threw your hands up, pretending to bask in invisible applause. “I think I look better than the real one, honestly.”
Tengen was in the doorway the whole time, now with one silver eyebrow lifting. “Better than the real one?”
You glanced at him through the mirror, smirking as you adjusted the heavy headband. “Please. If I go out like this, people will think you’re the knockoff. You’d look like one of those buff rats that follow you around.”
He choked on a laugh, “Buff rats? You mean my trusty ninju?”
“Sure. I’m their leader now.” You winked at your reflection. I’ll be the next flashiest one, and you can be the boring one. Like a background dancer.”
He raised both brows now and strolled over, crouching behind you. “You realize I train in stealth,” he murmured, voice dipping low near your ear. “And I’ll remind you what happens when you outshine me in my own home.”
You raised a brow, “You’ll admit defeat?”
He grinned, then his gaze softened. “You got the angle all wrong, my dear impersonator.”
Before you could ask what he meant, he sat down and pulled you easily in his lap. One massive hand tilted your chin toward the light while the other grabbed the makeup brush. He leaned in close, a focused expression but his lips twitched in amusement.
“Hold still,” he said. “If you’re going to impersonate me, at least do it right.”
The brush glided smoothly under your eye and he leaned in closer than necessary. “There, flamboyant enough even for me.”
You blinked, then grinned. “You’re blushing.”
He smirked. “I’m admiring my own reflection.”
You laughed and stood, stretching- he followed. “Well, I Iook incredible. The dull one can clean the vanity.”
As you turned to leave, you gave his backside a playful smack. The sound echoed. “I’m gonna go get a snack.”
Tengen froze for half a second then- when you were halfway out the door- his hands were on your hips, spinning you around in one motion and tugging you against him. The shoji door slid shut with a slam, followed by the sound of his low chuckle. “You don’t walk after that, darling.”
The laundry was stacked high, fresh from the line. You tugged at Sanemi’s uniform top, giggling as you slipped it over your body. The neckline hung off your shoulder, and the front gaped wide.
You turned toward the mirror, adjusting the fit, then laughed under your breath- pointing at the open chest, just realizing something. “No wonder you never button it properly, there’s none here!”
The air shifted as Sanemi made his way in, arms crossed, his eyes dark and fixed on you- well, your chest. His jaw worked once before he muttered, “Take it off,” his gaze didn’t move, lingering instead on the way the fabric dipped low.
You smirked, turning to face him, still tugging the peak of the neckline, pulling it taut. “Why? Jealous I wear it better?”
His jaw tightened, his gaze flicked down again, lingering. “Not jealous.” He said gruffly. “Just distracted.”
You arched a brow, feigning innocence. “By what?”
He took two slow steps forward, closing the distance until his shadow loomed over you. His scarred hand rose and pulled the fabric slowly to the side as if testing how far he could go before giving in.
“By you.”
You laughed softly, the sound teasing. “And here I thought you would be more difficult to charm.”
That earned you a low growl. He grabbed your waist suddenly, tugging you flush against him, his chest was hard beneath the stolen fabric. “Keep laughin’,” he muttered, voice low, dangerous. “But you’ve got no idea what that does to me.”
You smirked and tilted your chin up at him, playful even as his breath brushed your lips. “Guess you’ll have to show me.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound between restraint and warning. His hands slid down your sides, fitting around your hips.
“Uniform’s too damn big on you anyway. I don’t wanna stretch it even more out.”
You bit back a grin, tugging the neckline off your shoulders. “Yeah? Well…” Your tone dipped, sultry, challenging. “How about I keep it on while you stretch something else out?”
His breath caught- sharp, ragged- and that was it.
He hauled you closer in one motion, his mouth crashed against yours. The last sound in the room was the rustle of laundry hitting the floor.
Hiii your story is so gooddd!!! can i request about demon slayer man found out about self harm or suicidal thoughts? If its too sensitive for you , you can decline it dont worry..
Posted! Sorry it took so long! I was having trouble trying to find reasons for each one. Hope you like it!! 🥰
Note: Based on this request:
"Hiii your story is so gooddd!!! can i request about demon slayer man found out about self harm or suicidal thoughts? If its too sensitive for you , you can decline it dont worry.."
⚠️Read responsibly!⚠️
The wind off the cliff was colder than usual. It carried the smell of rain and pine, sharp and clean, like the word had been scrubbed empty. You sat at the edge, legs swinging freely, eyes on the river far below.
It felt so peaceful for once, recklessly so.
You plucked a pebble and tossed it out, watching it disappear and counted in your head how many seconds before it hit anything.
Giyuu saw you from the trail- a dark shape against the pale moonlit sky, you were too close to the drop. His chest tightened before his mind caught up.
He didn’t call out right away. He just walked closer, steps soft against the ground. You didn’t turn until he was near enough that his shadow fell over you.
“Giyuu,” you murmured, smiling faintly. “You scared me.”
He didn’t answer right away. He stopped a few feet away, eyes fixated on where you sat. “You shouldn’t sit there,” he said. The words came flat, too quiet, but there was a strain underneath. A tension he couldn’t hide.
You tilted your head, a breeze sweeping strands of hair across your face. “It’s so peaceful,” you said. “You can see everything from here. It’s like…” your voice softened. “It’s like the world stops for a second.”
He followed your gaze but didn’t really see it- just the outline of your body against the drop, how your thighs barely grazed the cliff’s edge, how your hands gripped the final border.
“Move back,” he said.
You smiled a little, teasing. “You always sound so serious.”
“Because you’re too close, you’re being reckless.” he replied, sharper this time.
You blinked, surprised by the edge in his voice. “It’s just a cliff. I’m fine. I’ve been through far worse than a fall, you know?”
He exhaled slowly, but the air left his lungs tight. “You’re not fine when you keep saying things like that.”
You frowned. “Like what?”
“Like you don’t care what happens to you.”
You raise a brow, “You think I’m going to just… slip?”
“I think you stopped caring if you do.”
Your lips parted. You wanted to deny it, but the look in his eyes- steady, soft, full of something you didn’t recognize- made the words dissolve in your throat.
He slowly stepped closer, his haori catching the wind. For a second, you thought he might grab your arm. But instead, his hand hovered near, waiting, open and patient.
You swallowed. “You worry too much.”
He hesitated, then said quietly, “Apparently I don’t worry enough.”
Something about the way he said it- fragilely, like it cost him to admit- it made your chest ache. You turned your gaze back to the river, blinking hard.
“You’ll catch me if I fall, won’t you?”
He stepped closer, “Don’t joke about that.”
You chuckled softly, but your voice wavered when you said, “I wasn’t.”
When you finally reached out and placed your hand in his, his fingers curled around yours instantly, not pulling- just anchoring.
He guided you away from the ledge, every step slow, like he was afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast.
When you finally felt the grass between your sandals, you spoke, voice small. “You can let go now.”
“Okay,” he said, but didn’t.
You almost smiled at that- almost. The tension in your chest was still thick, the kind that wouldn’t dissolve no matter how deep you breathed. “I wasn’t trying to…” you trailed, shaking your head. “I just wanted to feel calm.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead he reached up, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His knuckled lingered there a second too long. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said at last. “I’ve… felt that too.”
You finally looked up at him. “But you’re still here,” you said quietly.
He nodded. “Because I realized something. If I go, it wont make anything better. It wont change what hurts. If anything, it will cause more pain to others.”
His eyes were steady, blue like the river below- deep, sad, but calm.
“You’re not weak for feeling like this,” his gaze flickering down to your joined hands. “You don’t have to stay here alone anymore.,” he muttered.
You looked up, half smiling. "Then what? You'll sit with me instead?"
"If that's what you need." His tone was calm, but his eyes- those impossible deep, gentle eyes- said everything he couldn't.
You turned away before he could see your blush, muttering something about him being dramatic. He only hummed in reply, quiet and unreadable, standing beside you not letting go.
It was barely sunrise when you headed to his home. The mountain air was always chill against your skin but you climbed anyway- the small string of prayer beads clutched tightly in your hand.
He had given them to you weeks ago-pressed them into your palm when you said you couldn’t sleep. When you confessed that your thoughts had turned against you. “They help me ground myself,” he said softly. But they hadn’t helped. If anything, the silence around them had made it worse.
When you reached the top, your breath was uneven. The courtyard was still, faint wisps of incense came from the small alter nearby. He was kneeling there, shoulders straight and still, with the faintest mist dampening his hair.
“Gyomei,” you called quietly, your voice carrying across the wood.
He turned toward you, head tilting slightly, as if he was listening to your footsteps. “You’ve come early,” he said, voice low and calm as always.
You stepped closer, “I…came to return these.” You held the beads out, their surface slick with the sweat of your palm. “I thought they’d help me clear my mind, but they didn’t. I can’t-“ your throat tightened- “I can’t quiet it.”
He didn’t move to take them right away. “You sound tired,” he said softly.
“I am,” you murmured, your eyes dropping to the ground. “Tired of waking up. Tired of fighting. Tired of pretending it’s gonna get better.”
A long pause stretched between you, only the faint chirps of birds spoke between you.
Finally, Gyomei rose. The motion was silent, but you felt the shift in the air, the weigh of his presence. When he stood before you, he was immense. Impossibly stead in a way that made you intimidated.
He extended a hand. “May I hold them?”
You nodded, placing the beads in his palm. They looked small in his hand.
“Do you remember why I gave these to you?” He asked gently.
You hesitated. “Because they help you.”
He shook his head, his blind gaze lifting toward the warmth of the sun. “Because the reminded me of the weight I carry, and that I am still strong enough to bear it.”
You swallowed hard, voice breaking. “I don’t think I am.”
Hs hand rose slowly until his fingers brushed your shoulder and you froze, the calloused weight was grounding. "Then let me carry it for you for a while," he said softly.
Tears welled in your eyes, "I don't deserve that."
"You deserve peace," he said simply. "Even if you cannot feel it yet."
"You shook your head, shoulders trembling. "You don't understand-"
"I do." His voice broke then, just slightly. "I have stood where you stand now. When I lost everyone I loved, I thought the world had ended. But the world keeps turning. Slowly. Softly. It waits for us to return."
Your breath came out uneven. "You really think there's still something left in me worth saving?"
"I know there is." he whispered.
And then you broke- shaking. He gathered you into his arms, one hand resting between your shoulder blades, the other cradling your head like something sacred.
His comfort made you break down more, sobbing against his chest as you felt the weight of it all drench you.
He lowered his head down and spoke softly. “Then stop trying to endure it,” he said, "Breathe through it. Let it move through you. Even the strongest will exhaust themselves eventually.”
Tears burned behind your eyes, “I’m so tired, Gyomei. I don’t want to keep fighting anymore.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Then do not fight,” he said simply. “There is no victory in denying pain. Sit with it. See it. Offer it compassion instead of resistance.”
He pressed the beads back into your hand, curling your fingers around them. His hand stayed there for a long time, warmth ensuring you.
“Stay here,” he murmured. “Breathe. Feel the air. You are still part of this world."
You nodded weakly, voice shaking. "I'll try."
"That's all I ask."
He hadn’t seen you in months.
At first, he told himself it was fine- missions came and went, schedules collided, but when even Senjuro's letters came back unopened, a quiet unease began to gnaw at him. And when the other slayers mentioned not seeing you, he knew something was wrong.
He didn't expect the smell.
When he slid open the shoji, the sharp sting of sake and ash met him like a slap. Empty bottles littered the floor, one toppled over onto the tatami, soaking into old reports and mission papers. You sat before the fire, your figure dim and distant, eyes vacant, lips pressed tight around whatever thought kept you still.
He froze in the doorway. You had never drunk before. Not once.
"(Y/n)," he said softly, inviting himself inside. His voice was still gentle but the usual brightness gone. "Are you- ...you shouldn't-"
You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. "You shouldn't be here."
He didn't stop moving until he was crouched down beside you, his haori brushed broken glass. "And you shouldn't be doing this," he said simply, patient.
Your laugh came out sharp and bitter- unrecognizable to him. "Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do, Rengoku. I've earned the right to stop caring."
He glanced around the room- the scattered reports, the dusty surfaces, the faint smell of smoke- and something inside of him cracked. This was the same atmosphere that haunted his father's room, the same quiet decay of someone burning alive in grief.
"Give me the bottle," he said, quieter now, but his tone left no room for argument.
You pulled it closer, knuckles white around the neck of the glass. "No."
"(Y/n)."
When he reached for it, you yanked back- too fast and hard. The bottle slipped and shattered against the floor. The sound was piercing. A sharp sting bloomed in your palm, blood welling up where a shard had sliced you.
"Damn it-" you hissed, clutching your hand, but Kyojuro was already moving.
He grabbed your wrist, using his own palm to put pressure around the wound until he could find some bandage. "Enough," he said, not angry but steady.
You glared at him with teary eyes. "You can't possibly understand. You've never failed, Kyojuro. Never. You're always parading with a smile, with something to be proud of. You don't know what it's like to see children die screaming and wonder why you got to live instead."
His jaw tightened as well as his grip. At first, his instinct was to defend himself, to speak of the blood he’s seen, the comrades he’d buried. But as he looked at you- your trembling figure, the broken spirit in your eyes- something shifted. This wasn’t about fairness. It wasn’t even about pain. It was about weight. Weight he’d been strong enough to bear, but one that had finally crushed you.
He realized that his optimism must have felt cruel to someone who’s drowning.
"You're right... I haven't failed a mission. But I've watched people destroy themselves after surviving one." His thumb brushed your pulse to ground you. "I won't watch you do the same.” He gently placed a finger under your chin to make you look at him. “You think giving up will end the pain, but it doesn’t. It just passes it to someone else… to me, to Senjuro, to anyone who loves you.”
You tried to speak, but your voice broke instead. The first sob slipped out ungracefully, followed by more. He caught you before you fell, arms wrapping around you in a desperate but gentle hold.
"Cry," he whispered against your head. "Scream if you must. Beat me if you must. But you will not disappear."
He stayed until your shaking slowed. Then with the patience of someone who'd done this before, he heloed you to your feet. "Come," he said quietly. "You'll bathe. Then I'll take you out to eat, you feel frail."
You wanted to protest but he already eased you up and guided you down the hall, hand still wrapped around yours that bled earlier.
"Why are you doing this?" you whispered.
"Because I know what it looks like when someone gives up," he said. "I watch it happen to my father every day. I couldn't stop him... but I can stop you."
His tone softened. "You matter to me. And I won't let grief turn you into something you're not."
The training grounds are always empty by evening, slayers gone for patrol with their crows fading overhead. You sat at the edge of the engawa, a bowl of untouched rice cooling in your lap. It had been days since you'd last eaten, but the thought of forcing it down made your stomach twist.
You poked at it with your chopsticks, then set them aside entirely.
A quiet voice came from behind you. "You've lost weight."
You stiffened. "Obanai."
He stood a few feet away, his usual posture straight and rigid, bandages neat around his face. Kaburamaru wound lazily around his shoulder, flicking his tongue out at the scent of food.
"Your uniform's loose," he added, stepping closer. "Your blade arm's weaker. You can barely lift your sword without shaking."
You didn't look at him, "I'm just tired."
"You're not tired." His tone cut clean through the dusk. "You're starving yourself."
That made you lift your head- barely. "I'm not."
"You are," he said, pointing a finger at you. "Don't lie."
The words landed harder than you expected. You pressed your lips together, looking down at the bowl again. "I just don't feel hungry lately."
"That's not an excuse," he said. "You need strength to fight, and right now, you look like you'd collapse if the wind blew too hard."
You tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. "Don't exaggerate."
He didn't smile, however. "I'm not."
Silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable. Kaburamaru slithered down his arm, curling around his wrist, his tongue flicking toward you curiously.
Obanai's gaze didn't waver. "Are you dumb?"
Your eyes snapped up, offended. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His voice rose just slightly. "You think the Corps can afford to lose another because you decided to stop taking care of yourself?
You gaped at him. "Why do you care?"
He stepped closer, his tone dropping. “You’re a Kinoe. Almost a Hashira. Act like one. You didn’t crawl your way through hell just to die because you forgot how to eat.”
You scoffed. “You say that like you don’t do the same. When was the last time you finished a full meal?”
“That’s different,” he said.
“Of course it is.” You gave a bitter laugh. “When it’s you, it’s discipline, but when it’s me, it’s weakness.”
He didnt’ answer immediately. He stepped closer instead, his sandals stopping just in front of you. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter- not gentle, but tight, as if he were forcing it through gritted teeth.
“Because I know what I’m doing to myself,” he said. “You don’t.”
You frowned, confused, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ve already made peace with what I am,” he said simply. “You haven’t.”
That struck something in you. You looked away but he didn’t stop.
“We’re not the same,” he went on, his tone softening. “You don’t deserve to tear yourself apart just because the world tried to.”
You exhaled shakily, staring down at the untouched rice again. “You’re making it sound so simple.”
“It isn’t,” he said, crouching down to your level. His eyes lifted to meet yours. “But eating something is.”
You gave a small humorous laugh. “You’re bad at this.”
He shrugged lightly. “So I’ve been told.”
For a moment, the silence between you stretched- not hostile but heavy with things neither of you knew how to say. Kaburamaru slithered down his sleeve and flicked his tongue against your skin.
Obanai’s eyes followed the movement. “He likes you.”
You snorted softly, “Probably just the smell of food.”
“Maybe,” he said, leaning closer.
The closeness startled you. He held your gaze long enough to make your pulse quicken before looking away again.
Then, he stood- reaching forward to grip your rice bowl to push it towards you. “Eat.”
You rolled your eyes but finally lifted the chopsticks, taking a small bite. You swallowed, glaring at him. “Are you happy now?”
“Ask me after you finish the bowl,” he replied turning away.
The house was too quiet for a home that pulsed with laughter and life. The wives were out for the morning market, and Tengen’s hand stilled in the middle of the task he wasn’t meant to be doing.
He hadn’t gone rifling. He’s just meant to fix the hinge on your vanity drawer, one of those little things he always promised to get around to. But when it stuck, when he tugged it open, the jewelry box inside had shifted. And an envelope, thin and folded, slipped loose.
At first, he smiled. You used to always leave little notes for him around the house to find. But when he picked it up he noticed the yellowing edges, the ink blots through the parchment. He opened it up and froze before finishing the first line.
The paper trembled in his hand as he read it.
It wasn’t dramatic nor poetic- just plain words. You wrote about exhaustion, about silence, about feeling like a shadow in your own home. You said you didn’t blame anyone. You just wanted peace.
By the time he reached the end, his chest had gone hollow. He read it again, slower, his thumb tracing the edge of the page, as if touching it could undo whatever had been written.
He didn’t call the others. Didn’t make a scene. He waited until the house was quiet and found you alone, folding laundry near the engawa.
“Hey,” he said, voice low enough to make you look up.
You smile faintly. “Hey yourself.”
He held up the letter, “What’s this?”
The color drained from your face. The towel in your hands slipped.
“Tengen-sama- where did you- “
“Your jewelry box.” His tone wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t playful either. “You wanna tell me why I read something that sounds like you’re saying goodbye?”
You stood frozen for a moment, jaw trembling. Then you turned away. “That’s not-” you started, voice cracking, “it’s old. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Old or not, you wrote it.” he took a slow step forward, expression unreadable. “You said you wanted to disappear.”
“It was months ago.” You lifted your hands helplessly, trying to breathe. “I-I forgot it was even there.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s not an answer.”
Your throat tightened. “I don’t have to give you one.”
Tengen exhaled slowly, but there was something steady under the calm. “You do when it’s about this.”
You crossed your arms defensive. “I was lost, all right? I felt like I was disappearing.”
His tone softened, but his jaw clenched. “Disappearing?”
You nodded weakly. “You were all so full of life. I tried to keep up, but every time I laughed it felt like it belonged to someone else. I wasn’t angry. Just… tired. Like I’d become a decoration in my own home.”
He went still and the silence stretched. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you always look happy,” you whispered. “and I didn’t want to ruin that. I thought it was better to just fade quietly than to be a burden.”
His eyes darkened, the letter crumpling slightly in his hand. “You really think I wouldn’t notice if you disappeared?”
You swallowed. “You would’ve kept going. You always do.”
His jaw tightened. “Not without you.”
He stepped closer then, slow but certain, and skimmed the paper. “Tell me why you kept it. Why not throw it away? Were you saving it?”
Your lips parted. “No-I-“ you stuttered, the lie collapsing. “Sometimes. When it gets too much, I still feel that way.”
His shoulders eased with a slow breath, kneeling before you, placing the letter on the wooden floor. “Next time you write something like that,” he whispered, “don’t hide it in a drawer. Give it to me.”
Tears blurred your vision, “You’d hate reading that.”
“Maybe, but I’d rather face your pain than never know it existed.”
He then picked up your letter, smoothing the creases with his thumb before passing it to you. “Go on,” he said quietly. “Tear it. Let it go.”
You hesitated, then met his eyes- and tore it down the middle. The sound was small but final.
His shoulders eased, “Promise me,” he said.
You nodded, voice barely above a breath. “I promise.”
Your breathing stung with the tang of blood and cold air. You'd gone too far ahead again- swinging like you were trying to erase something, not kill it. The demon's head was already gone, yet you slashed again, and again, breath heaving, hands trembling from exhaustion.
Sanemi's voice cracked through the chaos. "Enough!"
You barely had time to turn before his hand caught your wrist mid-swing. The impact jolted your arm, sword clanking uselessly to the ground. His grip was bruising, breath ragged.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" he barked. "You could've gotten yourself torn apart!"
You blinked, startled. You stared at the fading demon then scoffed weakly. "Relax. I handled it."
"Handled it?" His voice rose, raw and disbelieving. "You're covered in blood, your blade's in two, and you think this is handling it?"
You turned away, shoulders stiff. "It doesn't matter."
Something in his chest went cold. "The hell it doesn't."
You started to walk, but he yanked you back, not hard enough to hurt, but enough that you felt his calloused fingers tremble around your wrist.
"Stop," he muttered. "Just stop for a damn second."
You sighed, not meeting his eyes. "What's gotten into you lately? You're acting like-"
"Like what?" he snapped, too fast. The silence that followed was heavy, too heavy. His jaw flexed as he forced the rest out quieter. "Like I give a damn?"
Your breath caught. Your voice came out more defensive than you meant to, "Do you?"
"Obviously." His tone dropped to something rougher, almost hoarse. "You think I'm gonna let you throw yourself at danger like you've got nothing left to lose?"
You blinked hard, a shaky laugh escaping. "You're reading into it, Sanemi. I just did my job."
He stepped closer, so close that your breath hitched. “Don’t lie to me,” he said softly. So unlike his usual bite that it made you freeze.
When you didn’t answer, he swore under his breath and let go, dragging a hand through his hair. He looked away, the muscles in his jaw tight. “You scare the shit out of me, you know that?”
You blinked, startled by his words, by the way his voice cracked around them. “I- what?”
He exhaled through his nose, rough. “Forget it.”
“No” you pressed, confused. “What do you mean.”
“Nothing.” He bit out. Then, quieter, “Just… stop making me chase after you like this.”
Your lips parted, the faintest tremor running through your fingers. “I didn’t know you cared that much.”
He scoffed, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah, well. You don’t know a lotta things.”
The wind shifted, brushing between you. His hand twitched again, like he wanted to reach for you but couldn’t. So instead, he muttered, “You’re not dying on my watch. Got it?”
You nodded faintly, and he stepped back at last- face hard, eyes softer than he’s ever let you see.
“Good,” he said roughly, turning toward the path. “Now quit staring and move your damn feet.”
You followed, shaking your head about his temper- but you couldn’t shake the way his voice had sounded when he said you scared him.
And he couldn’t shake the image of your blood on the ground.
—
Note: Why do I always write a drama episode with Tengen? I swear.
⚠️Tw: cheating/infidelity, emotional manipulation, guilt/shame, family dysfunction, public risk, breeding kink, deception, fem! reader, Yandere! Sanemi, everyone here is like 25-30. Modern AU if you squint. PWP⚠️
Summary: Years have passed, and you and your husband host a reunion. But when your possessive brother-in-law corners you with a knowing gaze, it all begins to unravel. Sanemi’s done being forgotten.
Note: 😏
The reunion is louder than you expected.
Laughter echoes from the open garden, warm lights strung across the trees. Old friends pass around cups of sake, their faces old but familiar. Genya’s hand rests on your lower back as you speak with friends- his touch is grounding, gentle, secure. Your son is running around with Tanjiro’s children, laughing wildly without a care in the world. You smile softly as Genya presses a kiss to your temple.
You have everything.
Or… you pretend that you do.
Because you can feel him watching you.
You don’t have to look to know where Sanemi is- leaning against the back porch pillar. His shirt unbuttoned, chest scarred, eyes sharp. When someone speaks to him, he barely responds. When your son runs by and calls, “Uncle Sanemi!”- he smiles, but it’s only for the boy.
You excuse yourself from Tengen’s conversation under the pretense of checking on something- maybe the food, maybe your room. You don’t even know what excuse you gave. You just need air. Silence. Space.
But of course… he’s already following you.
You feel him before you hear him.
The hallway is quiet- bathed in a low light from the bathroom night light. You’re halfway to your room when the heat of him brushed your spine- his presence always felt like a weight, even when he says nothing.
You stop, but you don’t turn around,
“Leave me alone,” you say.
You mean it. You really, really do.
But your voice is too soft. It’s not a command- it’s a plea.
Sanemi doesn’t answer. Just steps closer.
You hear the faint creek of floorboards behind you, then stillness. The space between you is barely a breath now. You heart beats faster- but not from fear.
From memory.
His voice breaks the silence, low and amused, but laced with something dangerous.
“He called me uncle again. So polite. So sweet. He even has my scowl, did you notice that?”
You jaw tightens, “He’s Genya’s son.”
“Is he?”
That gets you to turn.
He’s so close your breath catches. His pale eyes glow, and the smirk on his mouth makes your stomach twist.
“You think no one sees it,” he murmurs, “but I do. He smiles like I do, laughs like I do. He looks up at me like he knows.”
“Stop.”
“He’s mine.”
Your throat tightens. Your chest rises and falls too fast.
“He’s Genya’s,” you whisper. “He’s always been Genya’s.”
Sanemi’s hand brushes your hip- so casually, like it doesn’t burn, like it doesn’t make you tense.
“Didn’t realize you could still shake like that around me,” he says.
“I’m not shaking.”
“You are.” He steps forward and your body reacts before your mind. Your hand rises to his chest- pushing gently.
He stops, but doesn’t take a step back. The heat of his body radiates through his clothes. Clean linen, faint sweat, and the memory of a hundred nights you never talk about.
“This is over,” you whisper, pressing your palm harder against him. “You and me- we ended that years ago.”
He leans down, his breath hot. “You mean you ended it.” His voice is bitter. Wounded.
You shut your eyes. Don’t shake, don’t react. “Because it was a mistake,” you say.
“Bullshit.”
You flinch. His voice is rough- not angry. Not yet anyway.
“You had my kid. And you think I’m just going to keep playing pretend while he runs around calling me uncle?” You force your eyes to meet his.
“Yes. Because if you ever loved your brother- if you ever respected me- you’ll leave it alone.”
He looks at you like that word- respected- offended him more than anything else you’ve said.
“I do respect you,” he says. “I respect you so much I stayed quiet. I didn’t tell Genya. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t even try to take you back.” He leans in closer. “But you keep coming back, wearing my kid on your hip like I’m supposed to forget where he came from?”
“Stop it.”
He doesn’t.
“You’re trying for another,” he murmurs. “You think I can’t tell? You’ve been glowing lately. Eating healthier. Clinging to him. You’re ovulating, aren’t ya?”
Your eyes widen.
He smirks, eyes flickering over your face, hungry. “See? I recognize things that he doesn’t. I see you.” His fingers brush the side of your waist- light and testing.
You twist, but he grabs your wrist, rough enough to still you. “Let me help,” he says again, softer now. Almost gentle. “Let me give you another.”
You shake your head, but the world feels warped, like the floor isn’t beneath you anymore.
“I’ve imagined it.” He breathes. “The way you look carrying my child again- knowing it, owning it. I’d treat you so well. You wouldn’t have to lie about who made you swell.”
Your knees threatened to buckle. His voice is too close to your skin. You hate how your heart stumbles in your chest. You hate how he knows it.
“We both know you’re not gonna walk away,” he says, like it’s a fact. And then his fingers reach for the hem of your shirt, lips hovering yours.
Your breath hitches. But you don’t stop it.
His fingers hook under your shirt, tugging it up slowly, exposing the soft skin of your stomach. You feel the cool air of the hallway on your flesh, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating from Sanemi’s body as he presses closer. His lips brush yours- not a full kiss, just a tease.
Your breath catches again, sharper this time, and your hands fist in his open shirt, pulling him in even as your mind screams to push him away.
“Sanemi,” you murmur against his mouth, but it comes out weak, needy. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his free hand sliding up your side, thumb grazing the underside of your breast through your bra. “Say my name like you mean it. Like you need this.”
You shake your head, but your body arches into his touch. He lifts your shirt higher, bunching it just below your chest, and his mouth lowers- not to your lips, but to your neck. He inhales deeply, before his teeth scrap over a certain fading mark. You gasp as his tongue flicks out, tracing one of the purple bruises.
“These,” he growls, nipping harder, “from him? Trying to fuck you like he can?” His voice drips with possession, anger simmering beneath the words. “Pathetic.”
“They’re from last night,” you say, voice trembling, but you don’t pull away. Your fingers dig into his shoulder instead, holding him there. “We are… we are trying." You confirm his earlier claim.
Sanemi’s eyes flash as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his hand cupping your jaw roughly. "Trying. Right. With his useless cock that can't even get you pregnant." He yanks your shirt up further, exposing your bra, and shoves the cup down, freeing one breast to the dim light. His mouth latches, sucking hard over another hidden mark lower on your chest.
You whimper, the pull sending sparks straight to your core.
"I'm covering these," he mutters against your skin, teeth grazing as he bites down, marking you once more. The fresh hickey blooms, overlapping the old one, his way of erasing Genya's claim without a word. "Making them mine again. So when you go back out there, glowing with my cum inside you, he'll see my work and not even know."
You bite your lip, heat flooding your cheeks- and lower. "Stop talking like that," you breathed out, but your hips shift forward, seeking friction against his thigh that's wedged between your legs. The hallway feels too exposed, the distant laughter form the garden a constant reminder that anyone could wander in, but the thrill only makes your pussy clench with anticipation.
He smirks and releases your breast with a wet pop, the skin now red and throbbing. "You love it. Dirty little secret- letting your brother-in-law fuck a baby into you while your husband's out there playing daddy to my son." His hand dips lower, fingers working the button of your shorts open with practiced ease.
He shoves them down your hips, along with your panties, letting them pool at your ankles. The cool air hits your bare skin, but Sanemi's palm is there immediately, cupping your pussy possessively.
"Already soaked," he says, voice rough with hunger as he slides two fingers through your folds, coating them with in your slick. "This pussy knows who it belongs to. Not his. Mine. Dripping for the man who can actually fill it up."
"Shut up," you hiss, but your thighs part wider, giving him better access. He circles your clit with his palm, slow and teasing, while his fingers press at your entrance, not pushing in yet. You rock against his hand, chasing the pressure, your breath coming in short pants.
Sanemi's other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to expose more of your neck. He sucks another hickey there, harder this time, his teeth marking the skin as his fingers finally thrust inside you. You cry out softly, but he clamps his hand over your mouth, muffling the sound.
"Quiet" he orders, eyes locked on yours. "Don't want Genya hearing how good I make you feel. How you cream on my fingers while he's clueless." He pumps his fingers deep, curling them to stroke that spot inside that makes stars appear behind your eyelids. Your walls flutter around him, arousal dripping down his hand as he works you.
You nod against his palm, eyes watering with the intensity, but you grind down harder, fucking yourself on his fingers. The shame burns hot in your blood- but it only heightens the pleasure, making your clit throb under the heel of his hand.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, adding a third finger, stretching you wider. "taking it so well. Imagine this with my cock- splitting you open while I pump you full. You'd look so pretty, belly round with my baby again."
His shameless words spark your orgasm fast, coiling tight in your core. You moan into his hand as your pussy clamps down on his fingers. He doesn't stop. He’s thrusting them faster, rubbing your clit in tight circles until you shatter. Your juices soak his palm, legs trembling as you ride it out.
He pulls his fingers free slowly and brings them to your lips. "Taste yourself." he says, pushing them past your teeth. You suck obediently, tasting the tangy flavor of your release with a moan.
His eyes darken further, and without a word, he drops to his knees in front of you. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider despite your shorts tangling at your ankles, and lifts one of your knees to bury his face between your legs.
His hot breath teases you before his tongue laps at your folds to collect every drop of your cum. You gasp, tugging on his hair as he laps at your pussy slowly at first, savoring the taste, his eyes locked upward to watch every twitch and gasp that escaped you. You couldn’t help it- tugging his hair closer as your hips bucked, grinding down against his mouth in desperation.
A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, vibrating against you as he watched you lose control, your face flushed and eyes half-lidded in pleasure. He sucks your clit into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you buck. "Fffuck…" he groans against you. "Tastes just like I remember. Sweet and filthy, all for me."
He devours you, tongue thrusting inside, fucking you with it while his thumb presses pressure on your swollen clit. He’s watching you wither, The wet sounds fill the hallway, it’s too risky, but he doesn't stop- he’s sucking, licking, nipping until your knees buckle and another climax rips through you. You bite on your own fist to stay quiet, body convulsing as you flood his mouth, and he drinks it down, humming in satisfaction.
He rises, your arousal glistening his lips and chin. He frees his cock with one hand, veined and leaking pre-cum. He spins you around, pressing your chest to the wall, your ass out toward him. He kicks your feet wider, your shorts limiting your movement but not stopping him. His cock nudges your entrance.
"Say it," he growls, rubbing the head through your wet folds, "Tell me you want me to breed you. Right here, where anyone could catch us."
"Sanemi…" you whisper, but you push back, trying to take him in. "I can't…"
He thrusts forward anyway, burying his length in one go. You gasp, the stretch burning so good, and he slaps a hand over your mouth again. "Liar," he pants, pulling out and slamming back in. His balls slap against your clit, and the overstimulation makes your eyes roll back. "This cunt is begging for it. Squeezing me like it never wants me to leave."
He sets a brutal pace, hips snapping against your ass, the wet sounds of him fucking you echoing in the hallway. Each thrust hits deep, the head kissing your cervix, and he angles to grind against that spot inside. His free hand roams your body- squeeezing your breast, pinching your nipple, then sliding down to grip the plush on your stomach.
"Feel that?" he grunts. "I'm gonna flood you, make sure it takes. Another kid- mine - growing in you while he raises it."
You shake your head against his hand, but your body betrays you, clenching around him, another orgasm building already. The possessiveness in his time, the anger at the marks, the dirty secret of it all- it pushes you higher. He bites down on your shoulder, claiming every inch he can without being too obvious.
"Cum for me," he demands, fingers flying over your clit. "Milk my cock, take what you need."
You do, shattering around him with a muffled scream into his palm. Your pussy spasms, gushing around his thrusts, and he groans, feeling you pull him deeper. He pounds through your climax, chasing his own.
"Fuck- here it comes," he rasps, burying himself to the hilt. His cock pulsed, hot cum erupting inside you. He holds you flush against him, grinding to push it deeper, ensuring it coats your womb. Pulse after pulse, he fills you, his cum starting to overflow as it leaks down your thighs.
He pulls out slowly, his cum dripping from your hole, and rubs the head through the mess, mixing it back in. "Not enough," he mutters, "Gotta make sure it sticks." He thrusts back in, the slick making it easier this time. The second round slower- long drags that make you whine into his hand, overstimulated but craving more.
He works your clit up again, mouth on your neck adding another layer of dull marks. "Look at you," he whispers harshly. "Covered in my bites, stuffed with my cum. You're mine. He can fuck you all he wants; but he'll never give you this.”
The words sting, but ignite you. You cum again, harder this time, vision blurring as tears stream down your face in pleasure. Your legs nearly give out but Sanemi holds you up, thrusting through it until he follows, mixing his second load deep inside.
He stays buried for a moment, breathing ragged against your ear. "You'll let him touch you again after this, won't you?" You look back at him, eyes hazy, lips parted. You don't answer. You can't. He doesn't need you to. "Good," he says, voice slick with something awful.
"You're already pregnant. I know it. But you'll let him believe it's his. Just like last time."
He pulls out with a groan. Then, gently- almost admiringly - he turns you to face him, one leg over his hip, he’s keeping you open. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting it up as his mouth crashes on yours- tongues tangled wildly while his fingers push the escaping cum back into you, plugging you briefly.
A muffled moan escaped you as he bit your lower lip hard enough to sting, drawing a gasp. He sucked on it soothingly before delving back in, gently this time before letting go.
You slump against the wall, body humming, marked and filled. He helps you pull up your shorts, tucking himself away, but his eyes promise this isn't over. “Go back to the party,” he says low. “Smile for him. But remember who you really belong to.”
Your legs wobble as you straighten your shirt, the fresh hickies throbbing under the fabric, his cum warm and sticky inside you. The hallway feels smaller now, suffocated with your secret, as you slip back toward the laughter outside. Each step sends a jolt through your core, the fullness a constant reminder of what just happened—of Sanemi's possession. Guilt twists in your gut like a knife.
How could you do this again?
To Genya, who loves you so purely, who holds your hand and dreams of a bigger family without a clue that his brother has already stolen that from him once. Your son—their son, in the eyes of the world—laughs in the garden, innocent and oblivious, and the thought of betraying that trust makes your chest ache. But beneath the shame, there's a dark thrill, a twisted satisfaction in the way Sanemi knows your body better than anyone, in the promise of his child growing inside you once more.
You hate yourself for it, for the way your pussy still clenches at the memory of his tongue, his cock, his bites.
-
As you step into the warm light, you spot Genya by the gazebo talking with Tanjiro and one of the old slayers. The moment he sees you, his smile softens.
He breaks away.
“Hey- hey, are you okay?” He asks, voice gentle as his hand fines the small of your back. His brows knit with concern as he studies your face. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
You try to answer, but your voice sticks in your throat.
So you smile. It’s weak.
“I’m alright,” you say, wrapping your arms around him. You hold him like you can borrow his steadiness for a few more seconds. “I’ll tell you later.”
He nods, misreading your silence for emotion.
His hand rubs your back. A warm, reassuring gesture.
“Maybe you’ll feel better when Sanemi comes back,” he says softly.
Your heart drops.
“…What?”
“He left a while ago. He’s grabbing more sake, he knew a place that’s still open.”
Your breath hitches.
Your lips part, ready to object. Ready to say that it isn’t possible, that he couldn’t have-
But then the front gate opens behind you.
And he’s there.
Sanemi steps inside like he’s been gone for half an hour instead of five minutes. He’s carrying a box of sake in each hand, bottles slick with condensation. He looks perfectly casual.
“Hope I didn’t miss anything,” he says grinning as he walks in. “This place had the good stuff. Figured you’d want to share.”
He tosses one of the bottles toward Genya, underhand, smooth and sure.
Genya catches it with a laugh, eyes lighting up.
“Perfect timing,” he say. He cracks the lid, then turns to you with a smile. “Here.”
He holds it out… and you take it.
Your fingers curl around the cold glass a little too tightly. Your lips tremble as you raise it to your mouth, but you drink anyway. Because anything else would’ve been weird. Because you don’t know what else to do.
Your mind races, trying to make sense of how he got there so fast. How he looks untouched. Unbothered. As if he wasn’t just fucking you hard enough to make you wobble in the hallway not even five minutes ago.
You know the truth before the question finishes forming.
He planned this.
The bottles were ready. Iced. Stashed in a trunk or under a bench. He timed everything. He always does.
Insane.
Your son breaks through the legs of the guests and runs toward him, laughing.
“Uncle!”
Sanemi kneels, scooping him up with ease.
“There’s my favorite kid,” he says, loud enough for you to hear. Then in a softer voice, he jokingly holds up his sake bottle as if offering it to the kid, “You want a sip when you’re older? Just don’t let mom find out.”
The others laugh, even Genya chuckles beside you.
Only you can hear the edge in Sanemi’s voice. The dare.
Only you feel the way your body reacts, even now.
And without meaning to, your hand lightly settles over your stomach.
The gesture was simple, almost nothing.
But his eyes catch it.
And he smiles.
Not sweet. Not smug.
Triumphant.
He stays chatting with the others, still holding your son, still joining the fun, pretending like all of this is perfectly ordinary.
But he never looks away from you.
Because in this moment- his drink on your lips, your child in his arms, and another one maybe already growing inside you-
he keeps winning.
-
Bonus:
The party ended on a blissful note, the garden lights flickering out one by one as laughter faded into quiet goodbyes.
You and Genya worked together to tidy up the house- stacking sake cups, folding blankets, the simple things to anchor the storm inside you. Your body still hummed with the echoes of the hallway, Sanemi’s touch on your skin, his seed a heavy secret between your thighs.
But you shoved it away.
By the time you’re both ready for bed, the house was still. Your son already asleep in his room, his little chest rising and falling with soft, even breaths. You pause there, just a moment- watching him. He’s the only thing in your life that grounds you. The only thing in your life you still feel worthy of.
You kneel beside him. You smooth his hair back with trembling hands.
He looks like Genya.
But he doesn’t.
You swallow hard and press a kiss to his forehead. Try not to cry. You’re not allowed to cry. Not tonight.
When you return, Genya is already sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, hair a mess from rubbing it with a towel. His eyes are soft when he looks at you.
Gentle.
Loving.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Was everything okay? You were gone a while at the party.”
You force a smile. It’s weak.
“I just needed air…”
You have to say more, find an explanation.
“Tengen mentioned how Hina’s expecting… I just got a little emotional is all.” Not a complete lie- the pang of the announcement had stirred something raw in you earlier.
He stands and crosses the room to you. His hands touch your shoulder, then your waist. You stiffen before you can stop yourself.
When Strength Turns Soft: Hashira Caring for You in Sickness.
Based on this request:
“Hiii, this is my first time asking. Could you write an angst fic about the Hashiras helping and taking care of their sick wife?? Plss”
note: I feel like these get longer the more you go down. Sorry for that lol.
Genre: Angst/bittersweet.
The medicine sat heavy in his satchel- two towns away and hours of travel, but worth it. He’d left when you were awake and sitting upright with a book opened in your lap. You had smiled at him, pale but teasing. “Don’t forget the right one this time, Giyuu,” you’d murmured. He managed a faint smile before leaving, a promise caught in his throat.
Now, the house was silent.
He slid the door open, the scent of iron striking him before he saw anything. The lamp shined gold over your futon. And there, in your hand, was a white cloth, stained deep red.
His heart stopped.
He crossed the room in three steps, dropping the satchel carelessly. "(y/n)," he breathed, already kneeling beside you. His hand pressed to your shoulder, then your throat- searching, desperate, until he felt the pulse. It was weak, but there.
His breath left him in one unsteady exhale. He stayed there, hand over your chest, waiting for the slow rise. Once. Twice. Then again.
“…Okay,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Okay.”
He sat back, closing his eyes briefly. The panic didn’t vanish- it just folded itself into his small actions that came next. He replaced your bloody cloth with a clean one, soaked and wrung from the basin. He wiped your lips carefully as to not wake you, but firm enough to erase what had nearly broken him.
"Too harsh again," he whispered quietly but heavy with emotion. "You said it was easing."
He poured clean water in a cup to stir in the bitter medicine until the herbal scent filled the room. He set it down beside you, then went to adjust the futon, straightened the blanket, and tucked it around your shoulders.
He sat back on his heels and smoothed your hair away from your temple. Your breathing stuttered, catching in your throat. When it eased again, he let out a slow breath.
"...You're scaring me." he whispered.
His voice cracked on the last word. He bowed his head, hair falling forward like a curtain between you and him.
"I should have been faster," he said, barely audible. "I shouldn't have left you alone."
The shake in his chest grew, breaking his control he clung onto. His hand grasped yours in desperation. "I told you Tanjiro could get the medicine... but you said it would be fine."
His words were smaller, breaking. "And I believed you."
He turned his face away, catching a breath in his throat. For years, Giyuu had faced death with composure. But this was different. What was there to fight? Just you, pale and motionless, and the unbearable tension between one breath and the next.
He sniffed and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the back of your hand, his tears falling into the blankets. "I don't pray," his voice became hoarse. "I never have. Not when I lost them, not when I wanted to die with them... But if there's anything listening- please. Please let her stay."
You shifted faintly in your sleep, a small sound leaving your throat. He froze but comforted you. "You're alright," he caressed your hair. "I'm right here."
He brushed your cheek with the back of his hand, wiping away a line of sweat. "You'd laugh if you saw me right now," he whispered. I wish I could hear it.
He brushed his thumb along your hand, trying to memorize the warmth there, the tiny callus on your finger where you held the broom, the curve of your nails. Anything to ground himself.
"I'll do better," he whispered. "I'll talk more, I'll stay home longer. You said you wanted a garden- I'll plant it myself. Just.." His throat closed. "Just keep opening your eyes."
Then he lifted the corner of the blankets to lay beside you. He kept his distance at first, afraid of disturbing your rest- but the moment you let out a content sigh, he closed the space.
His arms slid carefully beneath you, drawing you against his chest. Your head rested near his heartbeat- it became steady again, to lull you deeper into sleep.
The medicine cooled, untouched, but it didn't matter. The rise and fall of your chest was all he needed. He stayed there until the lamp went out, his tears drying in the dark, his embrace never letting go.
You sat quietly, wrapped in a light robe, watching the leaves fall off the trees from the opened shogi door. The air outside was warm from the change of seasons, a bittersweet reminder of how long you’ve been ill.
“I brought clean water,” Gyomei said, his voice breaking the morning breeze. He knelt beside you, setting the wooden basin down. His big but gentle hands were still damp from the well. “The flowers are blooming early this year. The lillies are already reaching the sun.”
You smiled faintly. “You can tell?”
“I can smell them,” he replied, lips curving softly. “And I hear the bees.”
He reached for your hands then, taking them into his own. His palms were warm whereas yours were cold and stiff. He began to wash them slowly, dipping the cloth into the water and running it over your fingers, tracing the swollen joints with a patience that could only come from love.
“Does that help?” He asked.
“It does. It’s always worse in the morning.” You murmured.
“It should ease the more you move.” He reassured.
He continued in silence for a while- the soft splash of water, occasional sigh as he messaged warmth into your joints. When he finished washing your hands, he moved to your wrists, your arms, your shoulders. His movements were quiet and methodical, appreciative of the calm between you. The water had lowered significantly by the time he reached for a towel to dry you.
You leaned against him as he wrapped the fabric around your shoulders, the beads on his neck clicking with each motion.
“You’re too good to me,” you whispered.
“I’m only doing what love requires,” he said.
You smiled faintly, then paused as you hear the faint rhythm of his voice- gentle and measured words murmured under his breath. A prayer.
“Are you praying?” You asked.
He didn’t stop. “Yes.”
“For my pain?”
“For thanks,” he said simply.
That made you blink. “For thanks? When I’m still hurting?”
He paused. Then quietly, he said, “Because your breath still stirs in the air. Because the world still grants me your voice. Even pain means you live- and as long as you live, I have reason to give thanks.”
You swallowed hard, his words sinking into you. “You… thank even for suffering?”
He smiled gently, still rubbing your hands to keep the stiffness away. “Not for the suffering,” he said. “For what remains through it. Kindness, devotion, the chance to serve. Gratitude does not mean joy; it means faith that what we love still has meaning.”
Tears welled in your eyes. You tried to hide them, but he felt your shoulders tremble. “Don’t weep,” he pressed his forehead to your temple. “I am blessed to have someone to thank for.”
You turned your head up and coughed out a laugh. Of course he was weeping too after telling you not to.
He finished drying you and helped you into clean robes, each movement careful and kind. “Thank you,” you whispered.
He shook his head. “No. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me serve you.” He said softly.
You smiled, eyes still glistening. “And I thank the gods you were the one to find me.”
He chuckled quietly, his thumb brushing over your hand. “Then we both have reasons to be grateful.”
The nights had turned cold again. The paper screens lined faintly with moisture, and the faintest chill curled beneath the futon where you lay. Kyojuro was already awake, of course. You could hear the careful rustle of his uniform sleeves as he folded them away, and the faint scrape of a match as he lit the oil lamp. Then the smell of medicine followed, earthy and bitter, steeping from the small pot he’d had over the brazier.
You knew he had been awake for hours.
He always was.
When he noticed you stir, his voice came like sunlight. “Good morning, my love! Did you rest well?”
You smiled faintly. It was easier than coughing. “I dreamed you were loud even in my sleep.”
Kyojuro laughed that proud, ringing laugh that one filled the fields. But it cracked, just slightly, before he caught it. He came to your side, kneeling on the tatami, the lamp light highlighting his golden and vermillion streaks. His hands brushed your temple with unbearable care.
“You have color in your cheeks again,” he said cheerfully. “That’s a fine sign!”
“I think it’s just the fever.” You tried to smile wider, but it faltered under the weight of his gaze- all that radiant optimism struggling to stay alive.
He busied himself with the tray. He always did that when his emotions trembled too close to the surface. Fussing with the tea cup, adjusting the blanket, setting your medicine exactly straight. “There! Warm broth. With rice and sweet potato, easy to swallow.”
“I’m not hungry, Kyojuro.”
“Nonsense!” His brightness was immediate and practiced. “You must eat to keep your strength. I’ll feed you myself if I must.”
He meant it, too. He sat beside you, lifted the bowl, and offered it with the same proud patience he’d shown during training. His hand didn’t shake until you coughed- the sound cutting through the silence, wet and sharp. He froze. Then he moved again, too quickly, wiping your mouth with a cloth before you could hide the pink stain on your lips.
“It’s just from the throat,” you said softly. “It’s not-“
“…I know,” he interrupted, smiling again. But his eyes- those golden, blazing eyes- had gone distant, staring at something far beyond you. His mother’s last breath still lived there, hidden in the flicker of memory.
He swallowed hard, gently grasped your hand with both of his, and brought it to his lips. “I will not lose you,” he said, as if he could declare it to the heavens. “You will not fade, not while I’m still here.”
You rested a weak hand on the back of his. “You can’t burn sickness away, Kyo.”
“Then I will warm you until it leaves.” He sat up, stubborn but certain- as always. “You will tire of my fussing before the illness tires of you!”
You laughed, and that laugh broke into another cough, but it was worth it. He poured you more tea, fed you spoonful by spoonful, and told you about the news outside.
You smiled weakly at his doting, but your eyes studied him. Since you’ve been sick, color became a rare thing in your room. He always kept the lamps burning, as if afraid of what the dark might take. His hair was looser, voice hoarser, his optimism more cautious. You knew he was trying to stay strong.
“I’m not afraid,” you whispered.
He answered with a trembling exhale- half a laugh, half a sob. “Then I will not be, either.”
But you saw it, the tightness in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes that showed every memory he’d buried of his mother’s last nights. His hand clutched yours too tightly, and when you brushed your thumb over his knuckles, he froze.
“Kyojuro…” you called him gently. “It’s not the same.”
He shook his head, smiling too brightly. “Of course not! You’re strong- you’ve always been-”
Your finger pressed against his lips, silencing him. “You don’t have to be brave for me.”
The light in his eyes broke, and turned soft and wet. He bowed his head until his forehead touched your shoulder, breathing unsteady.
“I can’t- lose you too.”
You ran your fingers through his hair, voice barely audible. “You won’t. I’m still here.”
He clung to you tighter, “You are…” he kissed your skin softly. “You are still here.”
His breath trembled against your collarbone. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The brazier cracked softly, and the shadows on the wall swayed.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red but bright. “You’ve always been braver than I am,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “That’s not true.”’
He shook his head. “It is. You face the pain and still smile at me. My mother did that, too.” He took in a shaky inhale. “I was too young to understand then… but I see her strength in you.”
You brushed his cheek with your thumb, wiping away what little of his tears that lingered. “She would be proud of you, Kyojuro.”
He laughed quietly- a sound that cracked in the middle. “If she were here, she’d scold me for crying.”
“Then I’ll do it for her.” You whispered, and he smiled despite himself.
He leaned in and placed a kiss on your temple. “I used to think courage meant never being afraid. But now I know… it means loving you through the fear.”
The words hung there between you and you could feel his strong heartbeat through his chest. The rhythm of someone who still believed in light even when his world dimmed.
The fire burned low, lighting the room with a little more than a red glow. The house was silent except for the slow, uneven sound of your breathing. You lay still under the covers of the futon, eyes half-open, listening to the gentle scrape of Obanai’s movements. He’d been sitting there for what a felt like hours- wordless, precise, wringing a cloth into the basin beside him every few minutes.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he said without turning. His voice was low, calm, but his tone gave him away.
You smiled faintly. “And you’re supposed to be resting.”
He looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “You’re one to talk.”
His words carried that familiar edge- the sharpness he used when he was scared. You watched him fold the damp cloth, his sleeved rolled, the faint veins of his forearms catching the light. He wrung the fabric out too tightly, and Kabuaramaru slithered from his shoulder to the table with a quiet hiss.
Obanai pressed the cloth to your forehead, his touch firm but careful. “Fever’s up again,” he muttered. “Didn’t I tell you to rest?”
“I did,” you whispered, smiling weakly. “You were muttering to yourself. Hard to sleep with all that scolding.”
He stilled for a second, then huffed softly through his nose. “I wasn’t scolding.”
“You were.”
He dipped the cloth back into the bowl. “You’re hearing things again. That fever must be worse than I thought.”
You let out a hoarse laugh, coughing lightly at the end. His hand immediately rose to steady your chest. The callouses on his fingers caught the fabric of your yukata, the warmth of his palm grounding you as the fit subsided.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “You’ll tear something again.”
“I can’t help it,” you murmured.
“I know.” His voice softened for just a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “But still. Don’t”
When your breathing evened out, you turned your head toward him. His expression was calm, his knuckled were white where he gripped the edge of the futon.
“Obanai,” you said gently. “You don’t have to stay up all night.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’re lying.”
He looked down at you, and though half of his face was hidden, you could tell he was fighting a smile. “You’re getting bold.”
“I’ve always been bold,” you said softly. “You just like pretending it’s new.”
He shook his head again, and dipped the cloth back in the water. “You shouldn’t be talking this much in your condition.”
“Then stop me,” you teased, voice faint.
He glanced at you, emotions flickering in his mismatched eyes- frustration, worry, and something softer. “If I could stop you from getting sick, I would.” He said, quieter this time. “But I can’t. So I’ll settle for keeping you still.”
You watched him wring out the cloth again, his movements were so controlled that even his breathing matched their rhythm. “You’re gentle when you’re angry,” you whispered.
He blinked. “What?”
“You act mad,” you murmured, “but you only sound like that because you’re afraid.”
Obanai froze, water dripping from his fingers.
After a long pause, Obanai said quietly, “Maybe.”
He set the cloth down and took your hand, his thumb brushing along your palm. His touch trembled once, but barely noticeable. “I don’t like when you’re right.”
You smiled faintly, squeezing his fingers. “Then you’ll hate me when I get better.”
“I’d prefer that.”
You laughed weakly again, but he didn’t. His gaze lingered on your face, tracing the exhaustion there. The smile faded from his own eyes.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” he said softly. “Not with that coughing.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“I know.” He took a slow breath. “But if it happens again, wake me.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You’re my wife,” he said simply. “Bother me.”
That silence hung between you- heavy, but warm. He leaned down then, brushing his forehead lightly against yours. The gesture was brief, but you felt how much it cost for him to do it.
Tengen sat beside your futon, his usual bold colors were muted for once. The sleeves of his yukata were rolled to his elbows, hair loosely tied. His wives had finally gone to rest and he insisted- no, ordered- that he take this turn himself. They argued of course. But no one could pry him from your side tonight.
Your breathing was shallow. Each inhale sounded like it had to travel too far. The fever had left your cheeks warm, your lips dry and pale. He’d wiped your forehead a dozen times already, even though the cool cloth warmed within moments.
When your lashes fluttered, he leaned closer immediately, “Hey, hey-“ his voice softened, quieter than anyone thought he could speak. “You with me, my gem?”
You blinked slowly, gaze finding him. “It’s… late,” you whispered, voice barely more than air. “You should rest.”
He smiled, though it was faint and tired at the edges. “Can’t. What if you throw a party without me?”
That earned a small, breathless laugh- one that ended in a weak cough. He caught your wrist gently, steadying you until the tremor passed. His thumb brushed the pulse there, and for a moment his eyes darkened.
“I don’t throw parties,” you murmured once the quiet settled again.
“Then I’ll throw one for you when you’re better.” He said easily, though his throat aged on the word when. “We’ll decorate the garden with lanterns… crimson, gold, and lavender, just like you love. Hina will cook that sweet rice you like, Suma will cry because she’ll spill it on her kimono.”
You smiled faintly. “and Makio will shout at her clumsiness.”
“Of course she will.” His grin grew softer. “That’s part of the fun.” He adjusted your pillow slightly, helping you sit up, though the effort drew a quiet sound from your chest. You winced, pressing a hand against your side.
Immediately, his eyes sharpened. “There it is again, isn’t it?”
You didn’t answer at first. The pain radiating from your lower back into your ribs was enough to steal the air from your lugs. The familiar heaviness settled in your stomach, the swelling in your hands and feet making movement uncomfortable.
“Tengen,” you whispered, voice tight, “don’t-”
But he was already reaching for the medicine jar, measuring the dose with surprising precision. He slid one arm behind your shoulder, the other steadying the cup at your lips.
“Small sips,” he murmured, his voice coaxing, “slow, my gem. It’ll ease the ache.”
You obeyed but grimaced at the bitter taste. He held the cup until you’d finished, then he set it aside and pressed his palm lightly against your ribs- applying careful and steady pressure, as if his hand could ground the pain and draw it away.
“Better?”
“A little.” You breathed shallowly. “You’ve gotten good at that.”
“Years of practice,” he said with a faint smirk.
You managed a small smile, but your eyes fluttered, exhaustion already claiming you.
He smoothed your hair back, thumb tracing over your temple. “You always do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Smile when you hurt,” he murmured. “Like you’re trying to trick me into thinking it’s nothing.”
You lips parted, but no sound came. The truth was- you were. You always were. Because if he ever truly saw how much it hurt, you feared what it would do to him.
“I just… don’t want you to worry,” you whispered finally.
Tengen exhaled, the sound shaky despite the smile he wore. “Too late for that, sweetheart. I started worrying for you the moment I realized how much I love you.”
You blinked at him, the corner of your mouth tilting faintly. “That’s not very… flamboyant of you.”
He laughed quietly- a real one this time, though it trembled. “Maybe not. But when it comes to you,” he said, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “I’d rather be honest than loud.”
He helped you back down and adjusted your blanket, leaning in close enough for your forehead to rest against his shoulder. “Now sleep. I’ll keep count of every breath you take, just to prove you’re still showing off without even trying.”
You managed a faint hum in response, already slipping toward sleep. He stayed there his large hand splayed against your back, feeling the uneven rhythm of your breathing- the one sound that mattered more than the quiet, or his own heartbeat.
And when the medicine took, when your pain eased and your body went still, Tengen bowed his head and whispered so softly, “Tomorrow, we’ll plan that party again. You tell me what flowers you want this time, yeah?”
The room was dim and cool when you woke. A faint drizzle patterned against the paper shoji, tracing silver threads down the wooden frame. Beside you, Sanemi had finally fallen asleep. He was sitting against the wall, one arm propped on his knee, the other stretched across the futon as if his body alone could guard you from whatever tried to take you next.
His hair was untidy, sticking to his forehead; his breath came slow and deep, for once unburdened by nightmares. You watched the rise and fall of his chest- the scar along his cheek soft in the dim morning light, his hand still resting near yours. There was a peace there you rarely saw in waking hours, and you wished you could stay in it a while longer.
The rain outside smelled clean, like the earth had exhaled. And you wanted to see it.
Slowly, you shifted your weight, pressing your hands to the futon to push yourself upright. The effort sent a dull ache through your chest- that familiar tightness, like someone was holding your heart too tightly. You didn’t want to wake him, but the futon rustled, and his hand moved before his eyes even opened.
“Hey,” his voice was rough with sleep. “What are you doing?”
You froze halfway up. “I wanted to see the garden… it’s raining.”
Sanemi sat up instantly, eyes sharp, guilt flashing there as fast as his temper. “You should’ve woken me up. Damn it, I shouldn’t have-” He clenched his jaw, looking away. “Shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”
You smiled faintly. “You can’t stay awake forever, Sanemi.”
He grunted, still scowling, still angry- but not at you. More at himself. Always himself. Then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his space, and muttered, “Hold on. Don’t move ‘til I say.”
You watched him slide the shoji door open, letting the scent of wet pine and gardenia drift in. The rain played a soft drum against the garden stones. The sky was gray, and when he came back, he knelt down and helped you up.
“Come on. You wanted to see the rain.”
With his help, you moved slowly, each step delibrate, until you both sat on the tatami before the open door- him crosslegged with you lying over his lap. The wooden engawa sparkled with the droplets, and the flowers gathered the rain so perfectly.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You leaned lightly against him. His arm went arm you automatically. “You shouldn’t push yourself,” he said quietly.. “Your heart-”
“I know.” You smiled, watching the rain. “It’s still beating, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. Just held you tighter.
The rain deepened and you closed your eyes, breathing in the damp scent of the earth with his warmth beside you.
After a moment, you whispered, “You look so peaceful when you sleep.”
He turned his head toward you. “…What?”
“You do,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Like all the anger finally left you.”
Sanemi huffed, embarrassed, his ears reddening. “Tch. Don’t say weird things.”
“It’s not weird. I like it.”
For once, he didn’t argue. The quiet stretched between you again, only the rain filling it. You could feel the tension in his chest. The way his breathing stuttered every time you shifted, fear buried under all his roughness.
“I hate this,” he finally said. “Just sittin’ here… watchin’ you get tired from breathing.”
You reached up, your fingers finding his rough hand. He was trembling faintly beneath his rough exterior. “Then don’t think about it like that,” you whispered. “You’re not watching me fade, Sanemi. You’re keeping me company while I fight to stay.”
His jaw flexed. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, voice thick. “Every time you close your eyes too long, I-” He swallowed hard. “I think maybe you won’t open ‘em again.”
You turned toward him then, laying your palm against his cheek. The dull light from outside shimmered in his eyes- stubborn, scared, and beautiful. “Just look at me now,” you said softly. “I’m still here. I’ll keep opening my eyes if it means seeing you first thing.”
He exhaled shakily, a sound caught somewhere between laughter and pain. You leaned in until your forehead brushed his collar, his familiar warmth grounding you both.
“Hey,” you murmured while your fingers traced the back of his hand, “if my heart’s tired, yours can beat for the both of us for a while. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Carrying people.”
The silence fell. Then in the small voice he ever used, he muttered, “Damn woman… you’ll be the death of me.”
-
note: I imagined if Giyuu was scared like this, he would be rambling to fill the silence and ease the panic. that's just me though, okay bye-
Also, you could probably tell in what order I wrote these in based on length lol
You'd been the one to suggest it- the idea of him being a little rough, a little less careful. You'd said it half-teasingly, expecting him to brush it off like always, but the way his eyes flicked toward you made your stomach flip.
Now standing at the edge of the futon with his sleeves rolled up and a furrow between his brows, Giyuu looked like he was preparing for a battle instead of foreplay.
"So," he began quietly, voice low and cautious, "what if the neighbors think I'm hurting you?"
You blinked. "Giyuu."
He didn't seem to catch the tone, only nodded as if it was a valid concern. "We could... could turn off the light. Or... hang an extra blanket by the door." He frowned, like he was weighting the pros and cons of each. "Though that might draw more attention."
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. "Or... you could just focus on me?"
That shut him up. For a moment, anyway. He looked at your face- hesitant, searching. Then:
"Pull your hair?" he repeated your request.
You gave him a slow nod, trying not to encourage too much.
"But it looks nice. You just styled it. It'll get ruined."
You choked on your laugh this time, hiding your face in your hands. He looked concerned, not amused. "Did I- was that not the right-?"
"No," you said, voice muffled by your palms. "It's perfect."
He looked skeptical, but pressed on, jaw tense with determination. "Okay. Um. I could choke you."
His hand came up, gently pressing at your throat- barely a whisper of contact. "How's that?"
You stared at him. "That's... not choking, Giyuu. That's- that tickles, if anything." You placed your hand over his. "Just, ease into it. Call me a bad girl, maybe that'll help."
He looked down , visibly recalibrating. "...But you're not a bad girl. You even made me those pancakes when I came home from work."
You snorted. "That's not- that's not how this works."
He paused again. There was a beat of silence as he unbuckled his belt carefully, as if one wrong move would ruin everything.
"Okay," he muttered under his breath. "You've been a very bad-
he hesitated, flushed with embarrassment, "A very bad... girl."
His voice cracked a little on girl.
You covered your face again, shoulders shaking with laughter.
He tried to recover with: "You haven't watered the plants all week."
Your laughter broke into full giggles now, and his ears turned a deeper red. Still, he raised the belt, gave a light tap, then made a back and forth motion as if he was counting in his head. tap "...Are you hurt? Tell me on the scale."
You were crying from trying not to laugh. "Devastating, Giyuu. Ten out of ten."
He nodded, serious. "I'll ease up next time."
Then came the final straw.
"Spit in your mouth?" He looked genuinely troubled. "I just ate though. It could be gross."
You lost it completely. Doubling over, you laughed so hard you couldn't breathe, and he just stood there-utterly confused but quietly proud he's done something.
After a long pause, he brushed your hair back with his thumb, voice quiet again. "Okay. Anything for you."
And maybe it was the way he said it- not sultry, not teasing, just honest- that made your chest warm and your laughter soften. Because Giyuu Tomioka might be terrible at roleplay, but he meant every word.
Your soft giggles hadn't even finished echoing when something in his gaze shifted- a flicker, low and unreadable. His hand caught your wrist mid-gesture, and before you could process it, you landed half-seated on the futon with a soft thud. He followed you down , one knee into the bedding beside your hip, and his other foot firmly planted. He wasn't fully on top of you - just close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. The atmosphere between you two changed- heavier, hotter.
His palm pressed against your throat again, no longer cautious; but firm, steady. You froze, breath hitching as his thumb brushed your pulse- a warning and a question all at once. He was done pretending not to understand what you wanted. His hair had fallen forward, brushing his cheek as he leaned in.
"Still laughing?" he asked quietly, voice barely above a murmur. You shook your head, the ghost of a smile dying against your lips.
Without breaking eye contact, his other hand slipped to his satchel nearby, fingers finding and curling around the rough coil of rope he used for missions. The sound of it sliding against his skin was slow, final. And the look in his eyes could've burned through the dim light between you.
He leaned closer, breath ghosting your ear. "Good." he said, tone steady but lower now. "Then hold still."
Note: I dont careeeee if it's ooc, it's funnyyyyyy
