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hi tsuyu :) it's been a while since your last hc posts so i was wondering if u're still taking requests? if so, can u do some about the hashiras having they're lovers as part of the slayers corp who eat demons in order to kill them like genya? not me projecting tho :P
Oh goodness, I know that this request was in my inbox for so long. I am so sorry if you're no longer on tumblr. I hope this response finds you one day!
Eating Demons | The Hashiras
Word Count:5228
Setting: gn!reader that eats demons x the hashiras
Content Warnings: contains spoilers found in the mangas and databooks. for obvious reason, we do talk about eating demon flesh. Nothing detailed, but the mention could be upsetting for some readers.
Summary: how each of the Hashiras would respond to a partner who consumes demon flesh.
[image does not belong to me, full rights to the artist, Koyoharu Gotoge]
The Water Hashira
He has witnessed death. Endured the shadow of its touched, witnessed the depths of desperation. The silent screams that cannot breath through the pounding of blood through your ears as panic sets in.
Know all too well how quickly a seemingly normal day can turn lethal, blood shed through the trees. The screams of fallen around you, desperately clinging to life, and surviving on someone else’s breath.
The Water Pillar is all too familiar with how death circles the slayer occupation, and even more acquainted with desperation than he would ever speak on. He knows of loss, of survival, and the sickening pit that follows in the bleak of your stomach as once favorite meals lose their flavor.
As such, he imagines that it is the same for you.
Giyuu is not fond of your battle tactics; it is not a route he would recommend for others let alone himself. In many ways, it’s akin to swallowing poison over a duration of time. Small slips of demon flesh carefully nibbled on over the course of meals. Tiny snippets added as though toppings to onigiri, cultivating a resistance should the time come when you must devour large quantities, or if luck should ever have it, a higher-level source.
The Water Hashira has a base understanding of the consuming of poisons to achieve one’s gain. He has witnessed Kocho sipping wisteria tea, and nodded quietly when she mocked his innocence. Clearly she must become acquainted with the extract, it is after all what she uses in her blade. She would never tell him her true intentions. There has also been times when Uzui has expressed his own selective taste, but it is still something that Tomioka himself struggles to wrap his mind around.
It is not a circumstance he understands.
But… he does not have to.
The Water Hashira is an accepting individual, willing to see past veils that would often blind the distracted. Sees the small blisters on your flesh as you tremble through side effects. Notices the way you turn from him, wary of him witnessing the small touches of change across your features in battle.
Giyuu is mindful.
Quiet.
He pretends that he does not notice the small touches of markings that litter the highs of your cheeks, or the burst of your sclera. Never admits that the light snuffed from the color or your irises stir anxiety in the lurch of his Adams apple.
No, he’s meticulous. Thoughtful in the way that he faints awareness.
Provides you with time to gather yourself. To soothe the ends of your hair back into place, to wipe the shreds from your lips if only to preserve your own sense of self within his eyes.
But he notices.
The small ways your eyes follow his back as he pretends to survey the surroundings as you right yourself.
Giyuu is traditional in many aspects, and as such, the direct communication approach is not one that he will undertake. Nor will he blatantly point out the path of destruction you have set yourself on.
Rather, it’s the small affectiosn Tomioka takes into his care of you. Never outright approaching the topic, but rather, doing his best to care for you in his own way. Ensures you have your source of survival folded within your pack, hidden from light as you’ve expressed a bit of insecurity at the side glances that shift amongst the corps. Tug a little harder on your knapsack at the hushed whisper of the kakushi.
So, he takes extra care. Goes as far as to sew a hidden pouch within your uniform for ready access if danger should find you unaware.
In the best attempt of socialization, the Water Hashira has been seen haunting the corners of the Master’s estate. A faint figment awash in the waves of the day to day, trying to find his voice amongst the household. Only pulled above water upon the master having noticed that he imagines, the Water Pillar has concerns.
The small way that the Master smiles at the straight of Giyuu’s back, the tight of his fists as tea is served. Unmoving, unspoken anxiety as clear as the morning sky as Ubuyashiki begins to share what he knows of such an unusual circumstances.
Though Tomioka never says anything in this meeting nor would the Master ever wish to push, he is absoribing all that the Demon Slayers Corps Head can share on the topic. The rarity. Potential dangers, long term damages and effects to the body. Warning signs that has been observed in other members that stumbled upon such means.
Do not think you will skip your appointments with Kocho.
As such, you cannot help but notice that the rumors of a shadow that had haunted the Master’s estate, has now become your own silhouette. Not far behind as his steps fall in line behind you. Echoed across pebbles, pattered through streams. He will follow you through the fire.
He will risk everything to pull you out.
The Insect Hashira
I’m going to level with you. It is exactly because of your demon flesh consumption that Kocho has even begun to associate with you. I mean, respectfully… there have certainly been enough fools who have attempted this quick route to slaying, but so few that survive.
She was intrigued with Genya’s survival, but now…
There are two?
Two living subjects that have undergone the same route of devouring the enemies flesh as a means of surviving. Of cultivating?
No, your meeting was not circumstantial no matter how she may have orchestrated it. It was cold. It was calculating as the fake smile plastered to her face. A mask of her intentions as feigned as the gentle hand that touches the back of your own. An intentional touch that has lit a blush to your face, and to her annoyance… your pulse. The only reason she even brazenly caressed your wrist
Kocho is not one to say it, but her silence on the matter while choosing to observe you reflects the subtle respect she has for your decision. She, too has made questionable choices for the sake of her goals. The effects of wisteria have certainly had their draw backs though nothing quite as evident as your tainted sense of humanity. Though, she certainly respects the dedication.
The beginning of your interactions on one hand, may feel affectionate. Intentional in the way her fingers trace your forms. They lovingly caress bits of flesh. Tease your reactions, and manipulates your will. It may feel that your heart has been swept away, and you may find yourself agreeing to far more than drop by visits than you had originally intended. Shinobu is aware of the coys of your heart, of the small way that these tedious movements claim your imagination of love and charms, whatever she must do to get her observations in. to feed her curiosity, her understanding.
Slowly, its shifting. Her willingness to draw blood, the not in her brow as her finger traces over a prior donation. The small bruise that mars your flesh, deepens the color and how they wander up your arms. Unaware how aggressive she had been in her scientific pursuit.
It’s how her teeth catch on her bottom lip, plastering a smile to her face as her eyes meet the canine of your teeth. Its willingness to subside becoming progressively resistant to time.
The way your cells shift and dance, the slight variation of color in the ends of your hair as dyed as the samples beneath her nails. The grit of her teeth, and the wiggle of her nose.
It’s shifted.
The way her eyes scatter over the results, less starved for details of your metabolic construction, but rather drawn to the blood count, thickness, quality.
The Insect Hashria is now beginning to fret about contamination, and not for her subject sake. The touches of demonic stain on your features, she finds her self nibbling on her nail, realizing at how her negligence has exposed you. Diseases are so often spread through blood.
Long nights poured over samples have wavered. No longer tended to the intruige of your paperwork on her desk, but gently tending to the rag upon your brow. Noticing the small marks that catch the high of your cheeks. Realizing the marks of battle are resilient under your eyelashes as your sleep.
Stifled remarks of your slayers path will not be tolerated. The Insect Hashira is renown for her demanding presence, and is the most likely to lash out with pressed tact that borders into erratic if someone throws a remark at you.
The Flame Hashira
Your existence would be one that would have to fall under review for the Flame Hashira. A pyramid constructed of the teachings of the Corps demands, Rengoku will remain stoic. Unmoving at the sight of you. Whether the sight of your demonic flare before being brought before the Master ever bothered him will not be something you will uncover even should time allow it.
He will not allow himself to be moved.
Only the hand upon the blade at his hip should the Master demand it.
Your existence is allowed through the Master’s mercy, and all that Rengoku will express is that you show him respect and sincerity for his decision. Because ultimately, the Flame Hashira would have accepted his judgement regardless if it demanded blood.
Kyojuro will remained unbothered by your approach in the initial points of meeting. After all, if the Maste has accepted your decision, it is not for the Rengoku estate to question his decisions, but rather to live by them as he does all code of ethics set by the Demon Slayer Corps.
He will also make a point of correcting those that feel otherwise.
The swordsmen lack the tact of his peers and is loud. Unabashed to proclaim his disappointment in the acceptance of their fellow members for the mizunoto who have uttered shameful responses. Will sentence to each one of them to relays.
Who doesn’t bond after some intensive training together?
You know what? He’s joining.
You’ll all feel better after a trek up the mountains and back.
As a partner, Rengoku is optimistic, and a supportive partner. I do not feel that he would be okay with you remaining on this route as he is a fairly steadfast, salt of the earth warrior. Being a slayer is something that Kyojuro has dedicated his very being to, and it did not come through meals not that he’s thinking about the energy he expends.
Whether through your own admission as to how you ended up on this route, or if Rengoku has jumped to some conclusions after talking to Genya, the Flame Hashira has in one way or another, connected that your consuming demon flesh is an attempt to stay on par with the upper tier of slayers, and to fight another day.
He can respect it, and if you were just another slayer amongst the coprs, perhaps, he would remain silent. Mind his own business, after all, all you are trying to do is rid the world of demons. Some are using swords, other sutras, wielding wisteria poison, and even a sister.
I don’t think it would ever be his attention to put you down for relying on this means of strength, but I do think he could unintentionally cause harm to his desire to encourage you, and to push you for the better.
But it’s his affection for you that will light his heart a flame. He is burning with love, and devotion. He will train you; you will feel the careful way his hands wrap around yours, the tenderness in his guidance.
Rengoku will give you his strength.
The Sound Hashira
As a slayer, Uzui would be more prone to being neutral with small sparks of interest at best. You’ve been updated to a little more than a background character with the small tidbit of consuming flesh.
And Uzui does enjoy a small bit of entertainment, so it’s natural that when given the time, he’ll seek you out to satisfied his own curiosity. How you, as yourself responds is whether or not you remain as a background character to the Sound God, or if he’ll grace you with his presence.
Dazzle him.
Really though, as a partner, Uzui does have a reasonable respect to his partners in autonomy. He’s not one to control his wives, and this will also be extended to you. You are as free as the wind, and allowed to wander to your hearts contents. To this same respect, you’re free to nibble on what you see fit.
The man is after all, a fan of puffer fish.
That being said, I do feel like Uzui will keep an eye on you. Having been trained in poisons and slowly adapted to their effects, he understands the importance of consuming small portions regularly to ensure that you will not have a major offset when a higher level sample becomes available.
Because of this, you can expect a small touch of nagging on his part, a small reminder to eat your flesh. Imagine having dinner with Hinatsuru gently reminding you as if pursuing a child with peppers. Makio is snapping at you, and telling you to just eat it for god’s sake while Suma’s sliding the peppers of of her plate onto Uzui’s as the others are distracted with fretting over you.
For that matter, any partner of Tengen, is under their care as well. You can expect Suma to fuss like a child, making her distaste clear and being chided for her rude behavior as she kicks and pinches her nose, begging you to reconsider your choices as Hinatsuru tends to the kill your husband has provided. With Makio, fist read to bop Suma for her crude reaction, and remind you that you best eat all of it after all of everyone’s efforts. You really are loved.
However, just as the wives and Tengen has agreed before your acclimation to the clan, retirement is around the corner, and as he becomes aware of the long-term effects of consuming flesh from Kocho, the Sound God is pushing for retirement more than ever.
He’s working harder, pursuing leads, and doing anything he can to hunt down an upper moon. To complete their mission, the girls are all too willing to agree to scouting the pleasure district if it means freeing you of your consumption.
The Love Hashira
The Love Hashira swings to and fro as easily as her whip blade on the topic.
To one flay, she is curious. Intrigued.
What does it taste like?
Our girl is a foodie at heart, and while the thought may gross her out, the intruisive thought sneaks into her mind and whispers food noise in her sleep.
I suspect that Kanroji would go to great lengths to praise your efforts and dedication to the Corps. While your strength is obtained in alternative route, Mitsuri would still find a great amount of pride in your determination.
She would shame any kakushi caught uttering gossip about potential cannibalism throughout the corps. One that comes off so sweet and disappointed, they’re humbled, and distraught in their actions. She has that pull on others, even if in they often have a tendency to be judging of her rash behaviors.
If you tend to the samples you collect yourself, that in cooking and preserving the specimen, Kanroji will coo your praises. Sing amazement, and joy in your ability to cook and care for a household. Her sincereity reflected in the highs of her cheeks as she rains down her delight upon your shoulders.
It’s an almost contradictory feeling as you season your strips of demon meat, the Sakura mochi kissed woman delighting in your hardwork as though she were the one to receive the food herself.
You’ll find yourself having to count your inventory because this is not a route you want for the Love Hashria, or one that she really could stomach. She’s drooling. Better go count.
As a partner, Mitsuri is supportive and loving. She will go out of her way to provide support to you in any way that she can such as finding adorable clothes to wrap your meals in, little decorations to spruce up your bento such as with little bunny rice balls she formed herself. You cannot help but laugh at her childlike touches next to macabre main course.
Her kindness will not be moved, and Kanroji’s affection towards you will not waver, even if you are pushed to the limits, and forced to eat before her. She’s not one to mind the demonic touches that encompass your features, and rather will gently sooth the ends of your hair after the battle. Dab off the flecks of bled that met the demonic markings. Marvels at your body’s resilience to the vast changes your physical features endured to protect her. Her soft smile delicate as she gently brushes your eyelashes, offering a sweet reassurance.
On the whiplash, the Love Pillar takes her commitment seriously, and any romantic endeavor is intended to be a lifelong arrangement. As such, it should come as no surprise to you the ill ease that creeps onto the wiggle between her brows. Afterall, there has to be a reason that this path is not one often cultivated, or that you dare not share your food with her.
She has suspicions, and as your partner, Mitsuri will do her best to investigate as discreetly as she can. She is not one for a direct fight, and wouldn’t want to risk shaming you. Rather, it’s her sincerity that makes bringing up the topic all around difficult.
You hadn’t made this decision lightly, and it is one you are quite serious on.
She will speak to the Master, a bit more boldly than perhaps she should.
Kanroji will pester Kocho, her love sick ramblings and anxieties drawing tears to her leaf blessed eyes that result in Shinobu providing her supplements on your behalf. Though truthfully, the Insect Hashira isn’t confident it will do much other than provide a placebo for her grief stricken peer.
Yet, there is only so much the human body can endure. At the emergence of her own Slayer mark, her fingers will trace the raw flesh. The imprint of where the design had been etched into her pores. Her body pushed to its limits.
She will begin to wonder… how close are you to yours?
What will happen when you pass that threshold.
The Stone Hashira
There are no other Hashiras set upon their path of light as that of the Stone Hashira. He is a man that towers above the average human and demon alike, and is grounded in his Buddhist foundation.
You can expect that as a partner, Himejima will not outright thwart your attempts to better yourself down this path of cultivation, but you cannot expect the praise that Kanroji would provide.
He is grounded in the Four Noble Truths, bathed in the eightfold path, and as such, your choice is not one that he will agree upon, but not one that he will speak his word into. He will be clear, direct upon the first initial conversation.
Gyomei will make his piece of this clear as he did with Genya, and you can expect that even though you are partners, little will stray from the same speech he gave the youth.
That being said, Himejima knows better than anyone else that ultimately, our paths are our own, and while he may be your partner, it does not give him the right to mandate or dictate your path.
Yet, he will find himself struggling.
Himejima will find himself tempted to stray from his path more than he ever has before. Small sutras written with care, prayers uttered in the dead of night over your form. The press of his tears conveying his unspoken concerns as he meditates into the dead of night.
As he has laminted over it in the silence of the mountains, The Stone Hashira will emerge, his own dedication clear as his instruction. He will beg of you to join Genya in his training. Do his best to cultivate sutras that you willrecite. To maintain your foundation, help you to stay grounded as the darkness whispers into your ears.
It’s concern.
One that he knows he shouldn’t partake in.
A shame that he holds in paused breaths. Such is life, suffering, and the death of a slayer, but to know that it his partner on the other end is one that he cannot easily release. An attachment that bounds him.
Catching passes, changing in breath. Prayers whispered in your partings. In your moments that fallen into a chant. A desperate plea to the gods to return you in a state of self; he can hear the way your voice has begun to change as a side effect of the demonic attributes.
He will do anything he can to drag you from this path, even though he knows that is not his place, nor his right.
Gyomei desperately wishes to pull you from the water’s edge. Afraid should you ever stumble, you will sink far from his grasp.
Never returned as you are.
It’s a love, quite and accepting as the beads that he presses into your hand.
The Mist Hashira
Initially, The Mist Hashira has little interest in the matter. He’s not prone to the passing of gossip amongst the kakushi and mizunoto. Even less compelled depending on what loser has brought it up in the first place.
Even if you fight along side one another in a few battles, Muichiro will take a while to even notice that you’ve nibbled into something, or that he’s even missed a meal. Let alone fret over what it is you’re consuming.
It’ll only be over time following his interactions with the Kamado siblings that his large eyes have begun to wander curiously over your shoulders. In boy like wander, curious at what it is you’ve hidden up your sleeve.
Daring to attempt to steal it, just to be disappointed that it isn’t a treat.
You certainly hid it as if it were.
Tokito will be relentless with his blunt teasing. Struggling to find the right balance of playful versus vengeful. You should feel honored as he does not show the same considerations to your peers.
From there, the jokes have begun. Small little snippets here and there as jovial as those he provides to the other Hashira. Nothing as lethal as those of the kakushi.
It’s to be expected of a young boy in love, the small way he prods you. Goads you into red cheeks.
Jokingly states that you can have something off his plate if you’re brave enough.
Requests that you’re sure not to bite him by mistake in battle.
I can even see Tokito giving you a moniker of nibbler, or perhaps even dumpling as he notices the way your cheeks puff up and round when you eat.
Unlike Kanroji, the Mist Hashira lacks the tact or consideration to dance around the topic, and will be very up front in his approach. You can expect him to call you out point blank. While this isn’t intended to be as abrasive as it comes off, he truly does come from a place of concern, it’s still likely to be a little scathing.
Such is having Muichiro’s attention.
He’s not going to sugarcoat this, or lie to you. Will bluntly tell you, you have a piece still in your teeth. Or that he likes your natural eyes over your blistered sclera. He’s young, and still learning how to interact with someone he has a crush on… go figure being harsh isn’t a hook.
That being said, Tokito shows surprising consideration in unusual places.
Overtime, Muichiro has noticed when it is you have decided to utilize your eating habit, and as such, he will do his best to interfere. To step in front of you in battle, to act as a sword and a shield if only as a means of attempting to prolong your demonic exposure. He will do everything he can from needing to rely upon your ace.
Even if it means more wounds for him.
Will occasionally poke the packaging you carry, a mute expression on his face.
Quietly considering if maybe, he could just throw it in a river.
Other times, he will smugly bring you a recent kill, a knowing smile pressed onto his childlike features. Tokito knows he’s got you with this one.
At least he’s not cooking it.
The Snake Hashira
Honestly, Obanai initially judged. It’s not something that you should take to heart, I mean, he really judges everyone at first glance. In fact, it’s likely that your relying on demon flesh to try and catch up to the pillar’s strength is a source of his distain. The dagger wielder is know for his critical views on others.
Though to some extent, your dedication to the corps to go so far as to eat demon flesh as a means to better serve their goals is not one that he will raise his nose up to in theoretical terms.
Iguro is a dedicated man, and it’s one thing he can respect in others is their willingness to sacrifice, and remain true to their cause. In this case, you’re likely to earn a bit of respect as time goes on.
While all of the Hashira have their own means of compating Muzan’s forces, and their own reasons for having found a place in the Demon Slayer Corps, Obanai’s own origins are a little bit more thorny than some when it comes to the topic of demons.
I feel like your willingness to allow even the dead to enter your body may rub hi the wrong way.
It’s sure scent wise to be off putting for the Snake Hashira as he has a heightened sense of smell. Going so far as it impacts his own diet, it’s not likely that he’ll have the easiest time smelling the meat upon your clothing like this. Though, the staunch of blood covers it up well enough.
As Obanai himself isn’t food motivated and does have that sense of smell aversion, you can expect that he won’t be as willing to help you tend to the preserving as other partners may, I can see Kaburamaru snuggled up on your lap as you tend to the fire but you will find that he is one of the most supportive partners out of all of the Hashiras.
The Snake Hashira may have a wounded pride in that he cannot help you to tend to your reserves as others might, and will develop a thorny distribute should someone offer to provide you assistance as evident as the hiss and wrath that radiates off of his small frame.
He may not agree with your path, and he certainly has your worries, but there is no partner more dedicated to you and your wellbeing than Iguro.
Obanai values your health, and will waste no time in gaining as much insight into your condition as humanly possible. Even if it means wrapping his nose, face and everything he can, he is doing his best to stomach the medical concoction that Shinobu gave him the recipe to. She knows better than to give him a placebo as she did with the Love Hashira.
He is also the sort to procure any additional ingredients, or needs you may have in tending to your samples you procured during battle, and provide you with plenty of space to ensure that you can go through the process undisturbed. Quietly supported from the branches outside.
Gifts are a common approach from the Snake Hashira in how he expresses his affections, and leaning into practicality, I can suspect that you probably have the dream kitchen, tanning, and drying location to ensure that you are prepared for your undertaking.
As well as prayer beads that he secured after a side quest following another mission that happened to pass by a shrine that Himejima had mentioned in passing. If passing by means scaling a waterfall.
Of the Hashiras, I feel that Obanai would still be able to see the beauty in you upon your transformation. The familiar cut of your eyes, the way your cheek rounds, the small marks that are significant and telling that this is but only a shift in features. One he’s tracing with his hands to ensure that he can commit it to memory. One made through sacrifice and love.
Whispered poems as his eyes follow the lines of your body, absorbs the visual information, this is not the version of you you he knows, but rather, another aspect of you, one that requires the same dedication if not more care. The one that needs acceptance.
The one he will continue to love.
The Wind Hashira
Pissed.
So very pissed.
Why are you doing this to yourself?
How could you think he would be okay with any of this?
The Wind Hashira is well acquainted with the risks that come with the occupation you both bare, but he is even more pungently concerned with your willingness to have one zori in the grave.
He is not a fool; Shinazugawa knows all to well the life long repercussions of consuming demon flesh that is to say if you are lucky enough to survive your first attempt.
Knowing that you were ever placed in a position where you had to even consider the option is enough to have Sanemi rattled, a display that comes off as seething rage. Masked over the anxiety and concern.
The sinking realization… he was so close to losing you.
His words run scathing, fast and unforgiving.
A bitter pill you will have to swallow, one that you know all too well is a betray of how much he truly cares as he lectures over the dangerous of the path you have stumbled upon. The diseases, the risks.
What if he loses you.
What if he has to slay you.
No really, how could you do this to HIM?
It really does come from a place of love, as does his actions that follow. Retirement, he’s become hellbent on it more than ever. Desperate for you to consider alternative routes. You could still continue to support the Slayers.
The Master could always use additional help around the home.
Surely the Lady Akane wouldn’t mind your assistance?
Baby sit the crows for all he gives a damn--- anything but risking sending you into an early grave, or worse… permanent darkness.
You will have to remain as steadfast as his concern, and in time, Sanemi’s natural sweet disposition will return. He’s still complaining, small little mumbles here and there, but, he is a loyal partner. One that does not abandon the ones he cares for, and as such, he finds himself bringing home little samples.
Going to great lengths to make a worthy selection more accessible for your needs, even more effort to ensure to season it with love the best he can.
Furrows when Genya offers to try it when he realizes how anxious Sanemis over the season balance.
Content Warnings: reader is a mother, fairly SFW, but does contains suggestive materials, hints at intimacy as well as loss and depression.
Summary: years following the defeat of Muzan, western influences has begun to find a place amongst the traditional village. Small pieces of memory feel threatened with the immersion, but like father, like son. The ember burns, and life must go on.
[image does not belong to me, full rights to the artist]
Voices echoed, hummed of produce and silks. Idle banter of local rumors, small slips of juicy tidbits slipped from higher households passed between two lips as easily as easily as recipes amongst maids. Details from mundane house chores, occupational hazards and opportunities to scandalous trysts under cherry blossoms, humor pressed between teeth and concealed by sleeves. Thin fingertips that danced along cabbages, investigated radishes, and surveyed seasonal produce. Selections of chestnuts and pumpkins bright in their colors. Best accompanied by the fattened seafood offered by the nearby fishmonger. Staples of rice and salt carefully regarded as wives and maids alike skimmed the market’s goods. Small children bundled in to their mother’s backs, cooed and rested quietly into content while young toddlers tugged and dared to raise their voices in protests.
Merchants peddled varieties of wealth from cotton linens to the obscure and rare ornaments to adorn a young woman’s hair. The west’s influence had begun to stain the fringes of traditions, affecting a town that you would have thought years ago untouched by time. The realization bubbling a touch of anxiety in the pit of your stomach, melancholy upon your shoulders. Shoji screens and lacquered wood frames shifted, gave way to time. Slowly but surely, touches of rare building materials mixing into surrounding structures. Up and coming cafes adorned in the unusual supplies. Stones paved of red, coaches jostled upon foot paths as pups weaved between the wheels, surveying the dust left behind for scraps. Kimonos intertwined with foreign fabrics, meticulous in their appearance. A rare bicycle occupied young men’s fancy, unusual headword that you had seen once in your visit to the harbor regions of Japan. Soon, the oiled lamps would disappear from the streets, replaced by the latest thrills. With it, the memories of silhouettes that danced amongst shoji screens in the wake of their shadows. Anxiety that trembled in your bones, as though the foundation of the path had begun to crumble despite the lack of rainfall. Uncertainty ebbed your nerves as you continued forward, tucking the fabric weaved on your back. The inherited bukuro heavy with your successful bounty of a day’s shopping.
Exchanges common place, the marketplace was alive and well. The introduction of the west had given rise to precarious sells, trade upon ships and unusual items that sprinkled into the marketplace. A few, you understood as popular dishes inspired by the coming of foreigners. Delightful rarities of korokke peddled by food stalls reminded you of a distant past, of meticulously prepared bentos eaten in great gusto. Small tokens of confections dust the back of your mind as your fingers laced gently around delicate fingers. Fragile fingertips that rubbed against your pointer finger with adoration. Hands that clung to your own, conveyed unspoken adoration and wonder as it tugged curiously. The smallest hint of knicks on such dainty flesh a right of generational passage. Proof of budding dedication, and a kindled ember. His small form twirling his head to turn and observe a passerby. Large eyes kissed in the corner, as coy as a kitten as they traced western curiosities. Long lashes that blanketed an orange sunset that dusted into a shade of red. Bright as the sun in the sky in the autumn chill. A small button nose that showed signs of sharpening in his toddler’s transition. Round cheeks that were beginning to indicate high cheek bones caught on frayed bangs that if you hadn’t known better, you would that the blonde strands had dipped into red rouge. The ends of his short hair catching on his kimono color, his head tilting every which way not to miss out on the excitement around him. A bright voice, vibrant and joyful as large vermillion pupils captured your own, “Okaasan, can we bring Jiji next time?”
You could not stop the sigh that escaped your lips. In so many ways, he was a mirror to a distant past. One that grounded you, eased your anxieties of change, and anchored you in reality. Delicately tucking the bend of your kimono as you bended your knees to meet his soft gaze. His joyful smile, having begun to form into a knowing pucker. His thick, forked eyebrows settling smally on his brow “Sofu, remember, you are to call your grandfather, Sofu,” you gently reprimanded with a forced stern press to your lips.
“Sofu says that Jiji is just fine,” he countered in a childlike indignant. One that formed a small, warm smile on your face. Innocent and unaware of the social norms, one that felt as equally confused about the formality of a given name.
Even more unaware at the way you stifled a giggle behind your kimono, the joy warmed your cheeks. How the Master would have delighted to hear of the retired Flame Pillar referred to as Jiji in such an coddled voice. A faint recollection of how your little one, bundled and bathed in the warmth of summer caught between calloused hands and raised in the air in play had dared to call him so—a habit picked up by neighboring children. The innocent interaction drenched in a faux pas that choked caught the tea in your throat, and the gentle pad of a scholar’s hand on your back. Senjuro’s own surprise barely concealed behind gentle correcting. One as quickly hushed as the sooth of his hand to your back as a smile met the head of the household’s lips. Hushed the veranda, and offered only the small tilt of an clueless child who had errored, remained unscathed, and spoiled by the sweetness of wagashi between chubby fingers. Settled in his jiji sofu’s lap.
Your fingers fought to pat away the dirt and the memory, the young Rengoku having been distracted by the creak and rumble of wooden wheels tumbled amongst stones. Age rattling through the bones of the cart, warm and all too familiar sweet scent that lingered on the chilling air. Well-practiced hands weaved through the crowd with consideration. A small bell jingled in his navigation of the pathways. The pillows of steam bundled from the weight it bore. Small pillows of smoke chugged through metal, a fire beginning to settle as quickly as he set up shop. The hummed of autumn bliss and excitement. Jovial tugging upon the fabric around your hips, wiggled in anticipation. Skillful eyes as capable as the street pups that wandered glimmered up at you practically whimpering in their request. As evident as the extra weight and tinging of coins in your purse. The aged swordsman had not lost his touch, having pressed extra coins into the palm of your hand when you had departed the estate. Foreseeing the joy and enamor of his grandson’s eyes as the sparkled at the glistening lavender delight. Yaki imo fresh, piping hot delight in the cold air that had begun to nip at your little one’s nose. Shy to admit how the weather had begun to catch on his kimono in his anticipation.
The chill had set in faster than you had wanted to admit as your sandals hit the puddles. A clamor amongst wet stones, flooded and grass that caught upon your uniform. The cotton beginning to cling to your features, rattle your teeth as you weaved through the deserted streets. A sturdy back before you, leading the way, well-practiced and accustomed to the harbor region. His vibrant hair, oddity amongst the touches of snow that clung to awnings and branches alike, providing guidance amongst the fading light. Sound rumbled shutters as mothers tucked their little ones into homes, closing doors considerately behind them. Only the small shrill of a kettle from a heart escaped through the cracks of windows. The whispers of a mundane, ordinary life taunting you as the concoction of rain and snow refreshed the blood upon your uniform. Speckled amongst your slayer uniform, sweet and iron permeating from your blade. Evidence of ash littered upon the handle as the beacon before you weaved and tucked amongst the waves of white. The onslaught of weather chilling your fingertips as your eyes found the residuals of battle upon the flame caressed haori. Puff of smokes, verifying that the Hashira before you were unscathed as it floated in the air, dissipated to the storm clouds above as his sandals slipped beneath shelter. The awning of a western inspired café offering the briefest of protection from the winter’s touch.
Not that it prevented the chill that traced up your spine. Lanterns dimmed, windows closed and boarded up for the night, the encroaching storm having bid away any opportunities of a day’s work from the host and left them with little choice but to close early for the day. The absence of life on the street tucked away behind homes, and warm hearths. Not that you could relate as the ache settled in your breast. Touched your fingertips to your mouth in a bid to warm them in your respite.
As pondering crossed the Flame Pillar’s features. His forked eyebrows having met tentatively on his brow; his lips pressed into a considerate line as his vermillion eyes surveyed the rolling clouds above. Sleet tipped upon the ends of his hair, slipping from the transitioning shades. Resemblance of kikus, the jovial color enough to humble any chrysanthemum. “Very well,” he declared. His voice booming more than necessary. Causing you to startle in surprise with wide eyes that caught his dark lashes, an occupational hazard that you should have grown accustomed to by now, but remain grateful for none the less. His unintentional outbursts a byproduct of his failing hearing, a decision he had made years prior that eased the day to day activities for you. Your soft words had slipped more times than you had cared to admit. The grin that caught his features spread to his large eyes as his teeth met with determination. Setting your heart into a clamor as his large callous hands caught he drops of hair that rolled from the ends of your bangs. Considerate, and albeit a bit clueless in the way that they utilized the weather conditions to muddle your features. Rolled across curves, ignorant of the touches that grazed into undocumented territory. Unconscious to the way your back stiffened, barely catching the blush that spread across your cheeks. The protectiveness of an employer, duty coaxing him to touch your forehead, “you’ll catch a fever at this rate.” Tucking once more, doing his best to erase any trace of your completed mission. Cocked his head, and peeked out once more, surveying for any potential breaks in the falling conditions. His loud banter attempting to reassure you, blind to the fact that you were not, at least currently at risk for a fever before determining that together you would seek shelter at a nearby inn, one he had frequented, and you suspected, only had selected as your refuge due to the yaki imo it provided in the winter months. A suspicion that had been born at the way he referenced it consistently, as though he was attempting to convince you to follow him.
The hostess was considerate enough, old in her age and joyful to see her reoccurring customer. Praised his consideration, and happily handed over the key to his usual chambers, a knowing smile pressed into her creased eyes as she regarded you. Hummed of your beauty, and teased if she should consider bringing Rengoku’s usual treats later than usual. The joke having missed its mark on the swordsman, but hadn’t gone without striking you dead on. Any rebuttals quickly shooed away at her small chuckles. “Age has not taken my eyes yet, young one,” she teased, “Your wife is a shy one, isn’t she?” Her wrinkled hands quick and deft as her small form, shoving you forward past the threshold with a small wink before slamming the rolling doors together in a suggestive clatter. Traditional wear to borrow snug in the corner, a single futon laid before you in assumed matrimony and the heat that threatened to sear you alive, not a casualty of flame breathing.
Perhaps, it had been the way the shadows caught on the shoji screens, flickered of flames from oil lanterns. The scent of fragrance in the air, or the implications of a single futon despite how he had reassured you he would sleep elsewhere. Maybe it was the residuals of survival, adrenaline that threatened your veins and urged you to desperately cling to him. You could easily blame it on how tenderly his fingers worked to wring out the water from your strands of hair, surprisingly soft as they worked their way through your scalp, heedless of the way the chill had begin to kiss upon his own flesh. The hint of his collarbone slipping from his collared uniform, having been unbuttoned before realizing how you trembled in the firelight. Though, if you were being honest, it was not the way he tended to you so feverently in the wake of the bedding, or how deftly his hands had traced into the folds of your hips, soothingly, affectionately. Nor was it the passionate nips upon your collar bone, but a demise of your own doing. The draw of your lips that met his first in a declaration that claimed the night.
“I’m going to save mine for Jiji,” a bright voice boomed. Loud enough to result in a hearty chuckle from the sweet potato vendor. A declaration of his own, bold to name the acclaimed swordsman to the villagers in such childlike affections. His eyes gleamed, glistened and warm as the beads of sweat that dissipated on the warm produce. His chubby fingers holding it as though it were a treasure as the vendor ga e the remainder of your purchase to you to carry. Not that your son stood for such a choice as he pulled the potatoes from your hands, enfolded them in his own arms. Heavy, and shouldering a burden that was not his own, but the smile did not fade from his face. The excitement practically tumbling up his spine a mixture of chill and exhilaration. One small hand that tugged onto your own, pulling you forward. Daring to run through the street regardless of the way onlookers dared to peek at such acclaimed disobedience. Blind to the joy that sprinkled his features, or the way his eyes lingered on fathers that doted on their children in the marketplace, ushered away as he pulled you forward toward home. Beckoned your own unashamed smile upon your features in return. The shadow of a past ablaze before you, kindled in love and life. Spoiled by confections, a grandfather’s love, and an uncle’s teachings. Shielded from blood, and free to live in a world of light. Free from the burdens of duty, a wooden blade as a means of tradition rather than survival. His existence is as warm of his father, as one met your own. Your hand tight on his own, a rare glimpse of mischief on your features.
“Race you there.”
A/N: you should see the timeline I constructed to make sure that this was possible. 🤫
Okaasan- mom, mother
Jii- grandfather onveys warmth and closeness while sofu is formal.
Content Warning(s): contains spoilers to Obanai’s background, hints of abuse, family discussions, mentions of pregnancy, and/or carrying a child.
A/N: I did not have a chance to proof read this, please forgive any misspellings, grammar problems, or missed points in cannon events. [I do not own the rights to this character, or the art used below. All rights are reserved by the creator, Koyoharu Gotouge.]
Summary: headcanons as to what Obanai Iguro would be like with a father, whether he ever wanted kids, why or why not, what he would be like as a parent.
Lineage is the phantom that lurks within the depths of Obanai’s mind. The thought of children haunts the corners of his subconscious, a nameless guilt that aches within his bones. Heaves into every breath he takes, weighs down his spirit and confines him to solitude.
The Obanai is stained in blood, and a title that he alone should endure.
One that coils and strangles all that it consumes.
The faint whispers of women’s giggles, that hiss in the back of his mind when he wanders the market. Engulfs the distant sound of children’s laughter, their joyful smiles marred by the buzz of venom in the back of his head. The gentle scent of summer, little beads of sweat amongst the brows of children in the market place procured from play. Honeyed syrup that clings to round cheeks, and joyful laughter between the clamor of the crowd. Sticky fingers that cling to kimonos, innocent and joyful in the hum of the crowd.
It’s the antagonizing way that the past refuses to lay to rest. How it lingers on the edge of his kimonos. Loiters in the bliss of every day moments. Slips into his thoughts, and recoils from the light.
Soft moments such as these are tarnished, small respites in which the yearning for a family begins to nest within his heart is overtaken by the predator of his clan’s history.
To begin a family with Iguro is a complicated affair, one that will require a great deal of empathy and awareness. A happy relationship requires both parties to commit to the dynamic, and in this case, you will have to familiarize yourself with navigating childhood trauma. In fact, take courses in trauma response.
He can see the way your heart yearns for a little one. The small way your eyes follow the toddler in the marketplace, fonds over the recent little one of the master’s. How do you allow little fingers to cling to your own after having reunited them with their mother.
It eats away at him.
Burrows in the pit of his stomach, nags at his self-work, coils around his neck and threatens to snap it within its grasp. Reeks of blood and shadows of weighted scented perfumes. Incense that brings tears to his eyes and can only be ushered away by whispered prayers.
No, Iguro will not willingly bring a child into Taisho era. He cannot damn an innocent to his fate, nor will he bind you to one seep in loneliness. Though it would pain him, the swordman’s loyalty to his love knows no limitations, and he would simply… let you go. You will have to do your damndest to convince him that conceiving a child is not a deal breaker.
Carrying a child or specifically yearning for a bloodline heir of Obanai would best be placed in a modern era. I do feel that some part of him would have heightened anxiety, an unknown taste of blood when he sees the positive pregnancy/knows that the surrogacy has taken draws a tremor to his bones. He cannot conceal the way his fingertips tremble, and this anxiety would stay with him throughout the duration of the pregnancy. Would fret over every little movement made. But I do believe that in a modern setting, this would fade following the birth of the first child. Little wraiths that have been laid to rest as the peaceful coos of its little cries warm the air, wrapped around his heart.
Truthfully, in terms of the Taisho era, Obanai’s ideal partner would be one that could not conceive. Not that he is going out of his way to seek out a partner such as this, but it would give him peace of mind. Let’s be honest, despite all preventive measures of the era, pregnancy was still a common occurrence. Desired or not.
In the case of an accidental pregnancy during the taisho era, there will be no part of Iguro that will blame you. He will bear the consequences of his sins. He will never forgive himself. Worry consistently over you, knows the tugging of the dead that threatens to carry both you and the child under.
He is desperately rushing to an early death, praying with each battle that he will rightfully meet his end. Distressed and anguished, lingering on the prayers of death, of forgiveness. The sooner he perishes, the sooner that he believes that you and the child will live a peaceful life. That he will break the chains of the cures his bloodline carries. As though his death will bring the cure.
Though irrational, every little thing will have him itching for death, believing that any complications, discomforts are the wrath of the departed.
He has so many nightmares with giving birth to a demon, I swear.
He is not likely to live long enough to witness the birth of his child, but it is wat he believes is utterly necessary for your safety.
Do. Not. Get. Pregnant. On. Purpose.
There will be no coming back from this betrayal. And you deserve it.
If I’m being transparent, due to Obanai’s aversion to females in general, a genderfluid lover, or male lover is the ideal scenario, and the most likely to happen organically. He could easily bond with a partner like this amongst the forces, or in his upbringing in the Rengoku care. He’d be much more forthcoming to a playmate such as this.
This is not to say that Obanai has an open disregard to children. Though his personality at times can be a bit prickly, I do believe that Obanai craves the normalcy of a family. A life of the mundane, of wiping crumbs from round cheeks, drying tears with his sleeve, and the shrills of delights of procured goodies just for them. It is everything he aspires to in life, everything he yearns for.
It’s noticeable in the way that his own eyes linger on the small bits of everyday life he is exposed to. The brief exposures to Lady Rengoku before her passing. The tender way she would tend to the end of Kyojuro’s hair, or how she allowed Senjuro to curl up on her lap. A mother’s affections still clinging to her failing frame after the illness had begun to confine her to her bed.
How the former Flame Hashira gently enfolded him in his robes upon his rescue, practiced hands that combed the filth from the strands of his hair. Muddled and dirtied, soothed by sword worn hands that folded them quietly into a braid.
The passing of sweets from the master, folded into the hands of younger slayers blistered fingers. The gentle press of his lips and regard, delicately leaving little tokens of care in the apprentice swordsmen’s quarters. Balms to sooth aches and scars.
Yes, Obanai yearns for this. Just as his spirit is bathed in the blood and sins of his clan, his existence is preserved by the kindness of the everyday passings. Of packed lunches by old maids that remain out of his sights, a gentle understanding of his unspoken scars. Of masters that correct his stance.
You will never convince me that the snake breather has not inherited his savior’s unintentional habit. Obanai brings home children from rescue missions. With the right partner, he has begun to raise his own family in an unexpected way.
I feel that this began early in his demon slaying career. Carrying the survivors to safety. Lingering in villages following the extermination of his target, tending to smaller children unable to be left on their own. Weaving little ones onto his back as he wanders throughout the rice fields. Weeding out potential leads of remaining living family, verses those who are truly worthy of caring for young children. He is not leaving them with anyone he suspects of ulterior motives.
The sweat on his brow, the bindings of his wrapped jawline clothed by white fabric secured at the base of his head. The summer heat bearing down on him as he stifles a sniffle, a little girl bound to his back as he trudges through the mud. Unsure of the wave of nausea and pounding in his chest is not the result of the weather, or the lingering scent of perfume upon the infant’s bedding. The edges of rice plants clung to his clothes as Kaburamaru snuggles into the little one’s warmth. His frustration burrowed on his shoulders, still wreathing from the dispute in which he accustomed a farmer of merely being interested in the little one as mere profit. Iguro will do his best to hush his gynophobia in such circumstances, but it finds aways to manifest in physical revolts such as sneezing, impending sense of doom and panic,nausea,
As time wears on, and this habit follows him into adulthood, and his relationship, a trusted partner would be entrusted little ones to tend to. He’s dreading adding a little girl to the mix, he tried his hardest to find her a suitable home, but gods above greed knows no bounds.
Thus, how your little family in the Taisho era began to plant itself into domestic bliss.
As a spouse, the snake Hashira is committed to his relationship and has always conveys unwavering commitment. Essentially, that is what childrearing is, a lifelong commitment. For the curved dagger wielder, parenting does not end the moment your child reaches adulthood. If you thought you were done at 18, this is not the hashira partner for you! Rather, he feels that it continues through the duration of his lifetime. He will gradually become the dutiful grandpa that always has a healthy snack in his pocket.
The same loyalty that your spouse extends to you, will lean itself into parenting, and in a funny way, Iguro is the ideal partner in the early stages of child rearing. In the modern era, he is the post partum king. Simple little creatures. (baby)
This love and adoration is quite as the child grows older.
Obanai is fairly traditional in the formation of his family hierarchy with him essentially as the head of the household in the way he carries himself. This relates to money, and ensuring that you have everything you need—child rearing and the needs of the home are fairly balanced, but you will find yourself more often than not responsible for emotional duties.
The snake hashira’s sense of duty knows no limitation. Often falling into the pit fall of going the extra mile, and doing things that no one even asked him for. In many ways, his emotional unavailability will leave lingering absences. A sense of distant between your child and himself. In many ways, it can feel detached, cold.
As though being loved from afar by a shadow that dares not touch the light. He still prioritizes his space, and often can be gone for days at a time for work, and recuperating from sensory overloads that come with raising children.
He is the sort to readily offer his serves and his affections through sweat. He is the first to take extended family to the physician regardless of how out of the way and is very effective in the role of a caretaker in terms of physical needs. He will ensure that the children will always make it to their activities, pack snacks in bags, and chilled water at their fingertips. Dutifully mends clothing that has begun to frayed, or procured better fits with their growing statures. Tend to sick children in the dead of night, exchanging warm clothes for wet ones, traveling throughout the village in search of medicine.
The snake hashira is detailed oriented, and values precision and accuracy. His home runs on set in stone routines. He has his process down to a science, and is continually scanning for mistakes. Obanai has read every literature on childrearing that he can get his hands on how his stomach flips when he learns that physical contact is a necessity. Through a mask of indifference, he’s anxious and stressed. He desires to be what the family relies on, to be the parent he wished he always had. The ones that Iguro observed in Ubuyashiki, in the grocer that tends to their little ones between sales. It’s not in his nature, but he desperately wants it to be.
Undiscussed parental responsibilities will catch him off guard, and he will despise them with all of his might. He will be there physically, a scowl on his face. Arms crossed, and lingering in the shadows, praying that no one notices his presence. Dear god, he hates parent functions. Speaking to other adults as they coo about their little snotty brats, blind to how they misbehave. He would burn the PTA to the ground if given the chance. Yet, there he stands as vicious as a viper. Desperate to recoil into the earth, dig a burrow and escape the idle chatter of the fools around him, desperately biting back snide remarks. Yet, there is no torture that would deter him from his child’s performance.
Does not offer verbal affections, nor very willing to engage in physical contact. While he loves the hugs his little ones offers, it still catches him off guard. He stiffens in their holds, frozen to the place, and thawed only by the laughter as they billow away. Though over time, this may begin to leave a wound on the child. Why doesn’t their dad hold them? Packs hearty meals, lunches crafted with nutrition in mind. Carefully cut into favorite animals.
You know the cliché dramas in which a mother stocks her fourty year old child’s fridge to the brim, all while nagging away at the expense of their child all because they do not have the emotional capacity to say “I miss you,” ? That’s Iguro.
He shows his care and love for his children in this manner, and in many ways it has its benefits, as well as it downfalls.
His brain short circuits when the little ones have fallen into distress. The tears have welled up, and tremble down their chins. Snot clinging to the tip of their nose as they desperately try to wipe it up, and poor Iguro’s heart has began to shatter. Pounding loudly to the point that it is all he can hear. Ramming into his ear drum and trembles his form. Does he pat them, wipe away the tears? What is it a parent does in these moments? He is spiraling.
It’s best for you to handle this part.
Though, he can navigate disputes amongst children with a detached sense of justice. He would be able to navigate in a detached way that could settle disputes faster than that of other households.
The strategist in him is desperately pounding a foundation. He relies heavily on facts and evidence, and often throws emotions to the side. Taking things literally, the snake enthusiast does not pick up on subtle hints or indirect communication. Which may be a bit difficult in the coparenting department, because you will need to explicitly tell him what you need from him while adhering to the foundations of your relationship (see The Hashiras in a Relationship|Obanai Iguro).
Teenagers are also more often than not emotionally charged, and unable to respond to reason no one’s fault, it’s the damn frontal lobe, or they fall on the blunt end of the spectrum, regardless. Teenagers are Obanai’s downfall.
I mean, he is very hierarchy bound, and is familiar with traditional bounds, it’s a difficult point to be able to take the disrespect that can often be dished out unintentionally. You will have to help him acknowledge that it is the teenager transitioning into adulthood as a right of passage rather than a slight to his position.
There’s the matter that what a teenager needs, is often something Iguro is not skillful at applying. He will try, and ultimately fumble, and it can lead to a rift in the relationship. One that he wishes he knew how to tend to, but children are not as simple sewing together fabric. There is no needle that can mend the relationship so dutifully.
If the teenager is not one that can acknowledge the acts of service because lets be honest, in many ways it can be very easily overlooked, children tend to view this as a duty bound. Often missing the love and care that he provides so readily without question.
He’s going to struggle to articulate the way it burdens his heart.
Obanai’s rigid personality in routine can be inflexible, and can create tension in a partner that prefers spontaneity. The predictability is comforting to him, and children whether they often want to admit to it or not, but know that a toddler will be a challenge.
Why, why do they need to touch every little thing. Why are they clinging to him, why is it that there is a battle over kimono fabric. In what world does a small creature need to be convinced to put on a scarf when there is a snow on the ground. Why. Why. Why.
Once again, he will pillage the booksmith, he needs to understand. Honestly, a great gift for him would be a book with every milestone, and he will study up as if it is the finality on being a parent.
One point that has to be addressed is not only the emotional scaring that Obanai has endured in his childhood, and why childrearing is a difficult mountain for him to climb, but there is the physical marring that he continues to bear in his life.
The flay of his flesh is often a discomfort for him, clearly marked by his desire to bind them beneath fabric wrapping despite the obvious discomfort that setting a jaw can inflict. Having assisted in binding a broken jaw, I can confirm, this is a nonstop physical discomfort that rubs on the skin, and aches in the bones. Yet, he continues to wrap them meticulously. Anxious of the scars being exposed to the air, worried of how such a horrendous sight might impact his children.
Is clueless that his kiddos will not register this as abnormal. His kids will also never admit that they have seen him without after accidentally asking one fateful day why he does this, and seeing how heavy the silence grew around them, and how mournful Obanai sat in the ache of the stillness.
Most parents will mention having insecurities when it comes to raising their children, grandparents often giggle about the way they worried over such small matters. This is Iguro’s personal hell. He lives in a quiet, unspoken state of wondering if he is doing anything right. He was raised in a highly abusive situation I am not convinced he has not endured all forms of abuse at an early age.
Because of this, Obanai is fiercely protective of guarding his children. Like a python, he restricts his little ones. Guarding them through perils, discomforts, piercing all manners of passerby as threats. Like any abuse, he is hyper aware of his surroundings. Detects the way eyes linger on his children, rattled at the extension of glances, and is equally quick to strike. Finger jabbed out in rightful outrage, his shouting heard amongst the village as the guilty is persecuted regardless of surroundings.
The downside is, Obanai runs the risk of strangling his own children with strict regiments, and unwillingness to allow them to wander from his sights.
He needs eyes on little ones at all time from his perch in the trees.
Their areas of play must be within reach, detectable from the veranda as you tend to the wash.
For obvious reasons, a few common childhood delights will not be within their reach. Plucked without consideration to the pain it may bring, or the missed opportunities to connect with children their own age. The heaviness of the situation will not meet his comprehension and you will have to intervene as necessary. He is always on alert. Always searching for unseen dangers.
Gift giving is a love language that Obanai will adapt over time. One brought up from having the warmth spread from his chest as his little one squeals at a small dragonfly toy he had picked up on a whim. He is the parent that will bring small tokens form his ventures, grocery trips, or missions that lead him a distance.
He is never going to openly admit that he is the one that purchased them, or specifically with them in mind. He’s content to leave these little offerings of affection where they will be found, but is at peace with the credit befalling you, or older siblings.
Only suspect as they grow older it was their stoic father all along.
His past will take a toll on his mental health at times, causing him to become een mor distant from his children then expected. Feelings of low self worth, unworthy as though his mere existence is sullying them with his presence. Especially if they are of his own genetics. Worries that if by even raising children, if he has not in some way, damned them.
It’s to be expected, but a difficult pill to swallow, the Snake Hashira will be even more obscured from a female child. Not so much in a way that he sees his family in her, but rather that there is a small tug of anxiety that he cannot ignore. He is quick to cleanse himself, the martyr that is determined to take the curse from his bloodline.
The callouses from his heightened swordsman ship, the roughness in his plams make him nervous to tend to smaller children. Guilty about the sate of his own body, further proof of his fate drags him back to the puddles of blood, threatening to drown him. No, he dodges any small touches for his children. Worried that the callous of his hand may rub such delicate skin raw, the knicks in his hand a cause for discomfort and clumsy in care. He does not think himself capable of gently braiding hair such as the former Flame Hashira had for him all those years ago.
In traditional dynamics, one of the unusual way that the dagger wielder declares his affections defies the structural norms that he quietly forces. An oddity of the Taisho era, Iguro adores making food for his family, but more so, the way he dotes on them is quiet, and to the untrained eye goes missing. Though the minute Tanjiro points out how the Snake Pillar places bites from his plate onto others is enough to elicit his wrath. He could slice him open, gut him like a fish, and serve him as korokke for pointing this out to anyone. This disrespect is lenient on the taunting of adolescent children and will hit Obanai as an embarrassment. A blow he will not swallow easily.
Speaking of tradition, I feel like Obanai’s choice of names for children would lend themselves to either fairly structured names, or even those that are poetic and lyrical in their sentiments.
Shoichi for the first son, or Shoji for the second son.
Kiyo, or Nene as it was often utilized in the Edo era.
Or it will go on the opposite end.
Matsuo (“pine tree”), named for the famous Edo era poet, Matsuo Basho and often regarded as the master of Haiku.
Chiyo (“thousand generation), named for the poetess, Fukuda Chiyo-ni.
The Snake pillar is smart, and observative. He is quick at sniffing out (literally and figuratively) any discomforts in small children. He can make difficult calls as a parent, but will struggle to understand why the members of his household are upset about his decision—it was a reasonable resolution, what is there to be mad about?
Tending to tummies is not the only gift Iguro has as a stoic parent, the pillar of the family is highly capable at managing household finances. He offers consistent stability and security, you nor the children will never want for life’s basic necessities. Nor will you be asked to carry these burdens, he will endure them all.
In a fun twist, in a modern setting where the father role has taken a few twist and turns from that of the Taisho era, Obanai would find a bit of enjoyment in family events. Quietly grinning at successfully planning an itinerary that suits everyone’s needs from flower viewing to dinosaur stomping. Just don’t stray from the itinerary. With your assistance in rounding up the littles, he can ensure that it will run smoothly.
Despite his temper flare at subordinates, Iguro is not the sort to raise his voice at his children.
He will remain strong, and unmoving as a mountain. Which may result in an unintentionally imposing figure for children. One that struggles to provide comfort and warmth in emotional ways. In a sense, Obanai feels like the imposing family head, one that is quiet amongst others, and unmoving. Difficult to approach, and unintentionally instills a sense of fear of disappointing him though he has never given the impression that he has ever doubted his little ones. It could cause a disconnect in the relationship, and one that can be very difficult to mend over time.
In the future, he would make the ideal grandfather. Smelling of comforting tea leaves, soft and never demanding affections. His softness in his elder years is sure to breed distress in his older children, and you will have to work to smooth the ends of your children—just reassure them that this is how he always was. Really, an adamant push for them to spend time with Iguro in their upbringings is the best way to avoid this feeling of loneliness.
Because he really does love them.
Iguro prefers harmony in his domestic life, and will hold a noticeable calm amongst the household. He is quick to deal with sibling disputes that are minor and have clear consequences in their formative years (the stolen toy, the accidental shove), he will handle.
Emotional charged disputes as they grow older, or those that involve you he’s more likely to avoid. Often opting to ignore minor disappointments that lead to larger problems down the line.
Quiet and reserved, it’s Iguro’s devotion to you that has familiarized him with communication habits. Stress triggers, preferences, and a bit of time, will have him more prepared to navigate parenting as a partnership.
Takes being a parent to heart. He does feel a sense of duty in their upbringing and their mindsets. Aims for his children to be respected and contributing members of home and society. He will not allow for a child to disrespect you, or not contribute in small meaningful ways. Simply picking up toys, clearing the table. Small little contributions that are impactful in your day.
While he may not be as capable at navigating the drowning emotions of more sensitive children, emotional support and love will always be readily available. Just in ways that may go overlooked. This sense of duty and high standards can impact a child. While it is effective to an extent, it can be difficult for children to recognize boundaries and the love they provide. He is going to need to work on developing empathy. He has a great understanding of his child, and their needs, just falls short in executing the practice. The difference between studied and application.
He values patience and hardwork, which naturally… is not how many children work. The y do not come instilled with this, and it takes years to cultivate it (if it ever takes!). He will need your reassurance, the soft touch of your hand at his back, ensuring that this is okay so that he may lessen his hold.
Encourage him, help to soften the communications between your family and him. Provide comfort for both parties, and essentially provide translation because if taken to far, and his child is as stubborn as him, this will become his greatest regret in life. Not being as close to his children as he desires.
It is best for him to embrace and hold onto his values but also recognize that every person has their own goals. You will have to be the bridge, always pushing against the currents, beckoning him to meet his child halfway.
In truth, Obanai is proud of any accomplishment his child achieves.
Setting: Kagaya Ubuyashiki x gn!reader [platonic, more paternal relationship)
Content Warnings: implied discrimination and discriminatory gender speech, gender dysphoria is also hinted.
Summary: when ignorance is wielded by a needle and thread meets when your heart can bear no more, the Master will always welcome you home.
A/N: I have been out for a while, but this has been a fan fiction that has been on my mind for a while. I just kept thinking of how a person who struggles with gender identity would be welcomed in the Demon Slayer Corps. (continue at the bottom to avoid spoilers). I will say, i'm sorry I wrote this in a rush. Please forgive any mistakes I may have made!
Disclaimer: I do not own Ubuyashiki, or the image used below. All rights go to the artist. the song utilized in this text is Tōryanse, a Japanese folk song believed to originate in response to the high mortality rate of children.
Pain seared across your palms, marked bumps that kissed and formed peaks upon each lining of your flesh. The delicate bend of your finger frayed, pinched and blistered. The subtle sweet scent of earth fragments littered shrapnel that clung to your clothes, the ends of your hair. Pain nestled into your digits, rolled across busted knuckles. Rested at the raw splinters wedged between the palmer creases in your hand. Little punctures that gave birth to surface wounds. Smears blood caught on your fabric, having attempted to wipe it away. The scent of iron muddled by the grass buried beneath your nails. The bits of dirt that had staunched most of the bleeding. Dirtied, and hooked beneath the bed of your fingernails.
Smeared from the high of her your cheek, and the brunt of your brow. Sweat beckoned away with each wave as you stumbled through the grove. The taunting fresh scent mocking the state of your dress. Clung to your kimono, mocked the agony that wrecked your bones as you dragged your sword secured to your hip. Your shoulders screamed in anguish as your hand caught the stray leaves from your face. Bits of bamboo shrapnel clung to the shippo pattern, splinters caught in the webbing of your sleeves. The odor stained to your poors, perfumed your sweat that rolled down your neck into the back of your collar. Stray hairs that clung to the occasional low sweeping branch, proof that your hair had begun to unravel with each haggard breath as you dragged your feet across the earthen floor. The dewed blessed blades of grass that wet the underside of your sandals with faint whispers of your existence as your feet carried you home.
Tōryanse, tōryanse.
Hidden treasures of ginger and climbing vines crushed beneath your weight as you pushed forward, fought off the inner thoughts that had begun to nag at your ears. The rock of your scabbard patted against the high of your hit, tapped against you rpelvis and grazed your lowest rib. Falling in cruel sequence with the voices that haunted the forest. Sore and enflamed from careless swings. The clear abuse revealed by the bamboo that had buried into the hilt, unraveling of the bindings of the handle. The cord wrap frayed from how tightly you had gripped the blade in your anguish. The edges bared misuse, only the faint patting across your weary bones beckoned your conscious back to reality. Kozo would never forgive you. Such blatant misuse of a sword, one that bore such heavy burdens upon its craftmanship… Will this be the last time he speaks to you? His voice had held a tender note towards you. Quiet. Considerate. Accepting. Your last temper tantrum had enlightened you to the passion of the weaponsmith. As well as the creativity one could wield with his tongue. Kozo’s verbal lashing left little to the imagination in how he had plotted to dispose of your corpse as retribution. Yet the blade had been mended, but how much longer could you survive off of his borrowed kindness? The dawning realization provided little comfort, in fact it had begun to settle into the pit of your stomach. Koko wa doko no hosomichi ja? Beckoned the anxiety of rejection that clung to your sleeves. Kozo had betrayed all of the care he had into forging your weapon, and in doing so, carried his gentle spirit into most of your correspondence regardless of how your tracks often led to the bamboo forest. A desperate outlet, hushed screams in each swing. An entity far from others, that allowed you to bellow your grievances to the world. Kozo had met the marred of the blades with a fierce temper of his own, so quick to soothe. Gentle as the rage that settled upon his features, weighed his shoulders. Quietly snubbed back as you bowed forward. With the ridiculous disguise doing little to shield his understanding before he would gentle tap your shoulder. But for how much longer could he forgive you? He had already endured his fair share of slights for having undertaken you as a client.
Tenjin-sama no hosomichi ja.
Soon, he will be like the others. The hushed whispers, the withdrawn touches. The subtle aversions that bordered into polite consideration and hidden discomfort behind a plastered smile. Just as the kazushi responsible for repairing your uniform had given way.
Each correspondence had been veiled under force smiles and venoms comments that overtime had begun to dig their way to the surface of conversation. What had begun as intentionally improper pronounced peppered into conversations, scratched into the notes of clothing requests with ink. Muttered curses of your being that mocked your adjustments, tugged and pulled at the layers of fabric. Each requisition has begun to breed security of the silence you offered and those of onlookers. Opened to curse as though you were in some way contagious. Seemingly small disagreements that beckoned encounters that hid beneath the thin layers of foreign curiosities had grown into interrogation. Born from disputes over textures, arguments placed between colors and corresponding genders. Grimy sneers that revealed intentions with each way the seamster had prodded at your inseam. An aching reminder of what you could not change.
Chitto tōshite kudashanse.
How often have you abused your uniforms in attempts to avoid such disputes. Stains that soaked into the fabric. Frayed edges with little hope to be mended, and your treasured haori near splitting at the seams. The lovingly selected color, so culturally reserved for others had begun to wane with age and battle. Your prized possession, your scream across the world that you were here now hung in the balance as your nail bits buried into the flesh of your palms. Your teeth dug at your bottom lip. Fought back the propriety in your responses with the tremble of your shoulders that revealed your anxieties to quiet glances over the occasional bolt of fabric. Goyō no nai mono tōshasenu. How the request had erupted, accused perversions, and howled obscenities. Much like the tearing of the fabric between your fingers, your own patience had shattered. Revealed your agony, exposed how deeply the prolonged abuse had seared into the soul of your being. Unraveled as the seams of your haori. The pride of your foundation tattered and frayed as the tears that clung to your eyelashes and the growl in your throat at how disparagingly he had flung it to the side.
All you ever wanted was for your clothes to match your essence.
How quickly the little bastard had backpaddled. Spun his excuse and trembled in your grasp as you wretched him from his seated position. Pathetic and coiled, belly practically exposed in his fumbling. His mighty proclamations insisted you had misunderstood he nature of his questions. Had taken his jokes of your face a damn waste too seriously as you seized your clothing from his hands. Returning the jab he would never serve you when you vowed never to return to the department. Kono ko no nanatsu no oiwai ni. Ignorance was weaponized by a needle in thread as it etched into fabric revealed shames. Heated words and raised voices. A verbal spat that had escalated to physical blows that now buried into the ache of your muscles. Heavy as the sword that had endured your desperate swings to remain grounded. To shed the dysmorphic beast that haunted your steps. That whispered in each step you took. Ofuda wo osame ni mairimasu. The heave of your chest, caught in your breath as your head found itself hanging lower. The touch of your haori fabric caught upon your eyelashes as the gentle sounds of a melody rolled through the forest.
Sweet words that welcomed you from the forest clearing. Iki wa yoi yoi, kaeri wa kowai. Soothed the ache in your muscles, and the bitter voices that danced within the air. Exorcised them to the depths of the forest and beckon you forward. Familiar, far too familiar. A melody that sang of prayer, and loss as you followed its tale up the wooden stairs. Hummed peace through the blades of grass and brightened the small kept garden. Consoling as though comforting a disgruntled child. Delicate as the pale fingers that weaved their way through cotton. Encouraged the tears that caught to your eyelashes, as the small hum of a crow pecked at a spindle of thread. Its feathers soothed and relaxed as it assisted with the length of the thread. Loving fingers that took great care, held the cloth delicately between fingers. Like a mother crafting a doll for a child. Calloused hands that should have never known duty, desperately fought a battle of his own. Revealed through the small slips of his long fingers weaved slowly through the folds of fabric. Lightly tugged and petted the fabric. His song a quiet prayer, his mourning heavy. How many torn uniforms had return to him, now crumbled down to a single piece of fabric. One louder. A color, practically forbidden save for the select few. So much more of a declaration than your own haori had been as a small tremor coiled up Ubuyashiki’s back. Expensive and heavy as the breath in his lungs. Kowai nagara mo. His robe leaving little protection to the blooming spring air. The light robbed from his eyes never leaving his gentle features as your feet trembled against stone. The sight of the master, bent over on your veranda tenderly crafting a uniform surreal and shamed the heat of your cheeks. The weight of his gentle melody is as haunting as the voices that threatened you ushered away by the ghost of his reality. Your knees scratched by the edge of stones as you chocked on the sobs that had threatened your existence. Overwhelmed and shamed by your state. Bloodied and battered, the leftover remnants of a fire that had caught the kindle. Burned far further than it should, now smoldered and seared as the ache in your chest. Tended comfortingly by the fingers that gentle consoled the end of your hairs. Tōryanse, tōryanse
Welcoming you home.
A/N (continued): the Taisho era was still heavily impacted by the shifts that occurred in the Meiji era (laws banning cross dressing in 1873-1880), and as such, gender identity continued to meet restrictions in which binary roles were enforced... I wrote this fan fiction with a reader that fell out of these binary roles for one reason or another (whether transgendered, genderfluid, nonbinary, etc), because I believe that Ubuyashiki is waiting for them to return home.
Mended uniform in hand. and sanemi tasked with handling a kakushi.
in terms of the boldness of the color: I left this nonspecific as it can be viewed both ways. On one hand, a more masculine color would be the subdued, black, grays, navy, etc where as bold and bright colors were considered for women.
I just imagine that the master after having caught word of what is happening would not only take it to heart and personally, but after having ensured you will never run into that beetle again, I feel like he would want to do everything he can to make it right.
to ensure that you are welcomed.
that you are loved.
and so, I just imagine him flipping through different bolts of fabric, studied different patterns. Consulted his wife on which would flatter your complexion the most. Afterall, she had done an exquisite job on their son.
I also imagine him joyfully paying far more than he should with little regard for the price tag.
Just excited to hobble home with his treasure in the desired color that would prove to you--- you are here. you belong. You are you.
Alongside the fact that Ubuyashiki has been confined to a lifestyle within the compound... he has had a lot of time to himself. in the quiet, waiting for slayers to return. Sewing is less of a hobby, and more of a lifeline. A way to soothe the anxiety and voices in his head, as he waits. feeling useless.
I used the song Tōryanse as the common agreed upon origins for the song is the high mortality rate that Japan suffered for years in which the odds of a child reaching seven were not only difficult, but deeply celebrated. I felt that it mirrored the struggle that Ubuyashiki undergoes as the Master, tending to the graves of those who have fallen, and waiting for the lucky few to return home.
He truly just found a purpose, way to be beneficial to the slayers even if it is just the tug of a thread.
Content Warning(s): MDNI, NSFW, casual and committed relationships, spoilers, hints of his past/traumas, rough, biting, past relationship/threesome hints with Kanroji, sorry if I missed any
Summary: NSFW headcannons, what sex and intimacy means to the Snake Pillar.
A/Note: honestly, I’m very rusty, and it breaks my heart that I just can’t help but feel—I didn’t give this my best. In truth, I think it’s because of the time I’ve spent away from writing that this is in many ways… my first step towards healing. Even if it isn’t pretty. Even if it leads a scar because… I miss it.
[artwork is not mine, all credit goes to the original artist, Koyoharu Gotouge].
To enter a physical relationship with Iguro Obanai is to know the burdens of loss, to mourn need and crave his breath upon your bones. Hissed prayers of absence nipped into your flesh, the ghost of a lover. Warmth that dares to linger long after he has left your bed. The absence of his touch buried into the depths of your skin, fingers that dance artfully at the tug of your hips. Haikus delivered in the dead of night between rattled desperately coiled deep into the depths of your soul. Bruised as his hips meet your own relentlessly as the tug of a biwa string. The heat of his gaze, gold dipped into the luxury of his affections that defied the blaze of the night stars. Merciless distance, unforgiving of the absence of your heart pressed into his own, bound together in a dance of limbs and poetry kissed into your skin. Your silhouette traced in affection and lingered into his touch, prey that dare not escape his gaze.
Many would assume that to enter the inner courters of the Serpent Pillar’s estate is an invitation to death. Averted gazes, and hushed whispers that usher sympathies. The shackle of fineries draped upon your shoulders, a mere reflection of enslavement. Shallow doting should you survive the first night within his company.
Truly, the rumors of the Snake Hashira’s wrath are ever prevalent as the possessive nature of his emblem. Coiled and wreathing at intrusion, rattled muscles that provide a moment of warning—and nothing more. Quick to strike, and slow to regret. In fact, the odds are that the kakushi that tend to his estate likely believed you to be little more than a sacrifice, a means to appease his silent rage.
Completely unaware of the gravity of you entering his bedchamber. Or how you might appease his hunger.
Little could truly express the severity of your presence within his bedding. The tender way his gaze follows your movements, unable to properly convey his affections in words. Though communication is prioritized in his fairs, it is the shortness of words, the weight of their meaning that can often be difficult to manage. Choked upon genuine motives, swallowed by the vulnerability that speech exposes him to. Often remembered as unforgiving, and brash in nature, Obanai Iguro’s communication is renown to leave the unintentional scathing wounds. Course and bitter, robbed of sugar coating.
To be invited into his bed is the hint of desire, the lure of his moonlight luminescent gaze. Unabashed, not one to shy away from his intentions. He is the sort to meet your gaze, daring you to avert your eyes. His steps light, drawing you into his proximity the warmth of his whisper warmed to the tip of your ears.
The dagger wielder in more ways than one is ardent. Affectionate, desperately passionate to kiss upon your flesh. Eager to weave his being into your own. Slipped away from the mask he bares as the Serpent Hashira, Iguro’s affections are unabashed. Fervently seeking the depths of your cries. Determined to knit upon the threads of your soul, threading your very beings to one another.
Intimacy is akin to worship, prayers between his teeth. Zealous in his pursuit, determination at the etch of his fingers traced upon the delicate lines of your skin. Brush to paper, as the heat of your sex in his lungs. The lingering heat of his observant gaze the thrill of a predator coiled upon its prey. His fingers seeking to elicit the hush of your cries.
Unsatisfied until your flushed skin touches upon his own, painting the tears in the corner of your eyes as the shock dances up your spine. The shattered image of tender innocence was lost amongst the bed sheets. Sweetie, he is not completely inexperienced as you may have suspected. Aching as the knot deep within your stomach, threatening to untangle with each thrust. Shattered in every stroke of his fingers, tender and firm as his dedication to the slayer Corps dedicated to your joy. To your screams pressed into the futon.
The shake of your legs is a testimony to his dedication.
The hours he will spend revering your sex, mad as the rantings of an artist in the midnight hours.
Sex is the shatter of his soul; the crack of hinoki, a splintered hannya mask laid bare. Exposed actor beneath the façade, delicate as the flesh at his collar bone. Rouge that sheds the mascaraed born of scars adoration in each stroke toyed. His imploring gaze beseeching an oath of pleasure bathed in commitment.
Connection is not an easily sought endeavor when attempting to tangle limbs with the naga tainted soul. His upbringing has inspired a sense of self-preservation, coiled and distant. Touch is often avoided by the Hashira, and one can expect that even the most devote bond will not produce much in the way of public displays of affection. Are we really surprised?
If it is one night entanglement you crave, Iguro Obanai is anything but. There has nor will there ever be one to entice him into a bed with such meager attempts. Should you prepare a hunt, prepare yourself for the inevitable wrath that such pursuits will elicit.
The concept of bedding a foreign entity is something that irks his very nature. A shallow courtship built on sex alone provokes the ghosts of his past. Allows specters to crawl amongst his skin, haunting scales that trail into the pores of his flesh. Forces the vile into his throat and leave his lungs burning. Anxious and subjugated, the venom poised on his tongue as he lashes out in bitter composed words. Lethal, and unforgiving, desperate for refuge.
Overtly familiar indications giggled from strangers desiring to saddle to his side conduct the poetry of spite.
At the surface, Obanai cannot understand the foolhardy nature of those who would welcome a stranger to their beds if even for a moment’s touch. Let alone those who fall asleep in the embrace of a passing partner. Foolish, an incomprehensible risk he cannot navigate. It reeks of deception.
But of course, it should come as to no surprise that there are those who have tried. His striking features are ethereal. One eye that mirror the golden leaf emblems signifying the purity of shrines. Tantalizing, and the other the lavish hues of foreign riches. Stones dipped in the warmth of an azure dragon. The hush of whispers of the kakushis pressed together, heavy rumors o fa fair touched child ushered into the Flame Hashira’s residence as potent as that of a courtesan’s fragrance.
The sentiment… the lingering nausea is all too familiar.
The touch of fingers dared to dance across his skin, appraising his response and cooing of his enchanting features pulls him to his childhood. Drowns him in memories, nausea that boils and deafens him to their praises. Overshadowed by the pounding in his ears.
No, brief encounters are as pungent as the perfume left behind in the wake of a courtesan’s lute. Sharp, intense and suffocating as the sweat upon his brow that crashes into the wave of nausea. Threatened tides that beckon a distant memory of faint bars.
The Snake Hashira has a curbed appetite when it comes to that of fragrance. His upbringing has born a delicate sense of scent as well as taste. There will be very few aphrodisiacs that he will entertain—though the smallest exposure to the ones he accepts is potent.
Philters such as chocolates and alcohol are likely to be experienced as pungent. I don’t need to tell you not to employ the use of snake wine… right? You will need to utilize subtle scents and textures such as blueberries
Stimulants such as flavored lubrications, warmed scents in perfumes intended to lure his attention will only produce distant between the two of you. He cannot physically endure the scent as well as the underlining indication that you believed that you had lost his favor.
The slightest hint of superficial infatuation often bears his wrath, infectious words that leave scars such as the one that lacerates from one cheek to another.
The Serpent Hashira’s distaste for one night stands, and the use of courtesans to curb appetites is renown and reluctance for physical contact. One should not fall victim to the suggestion that the dagger-wielder does not know how to wield his own. Forgive me, I couldn’t help it.
Though he is not fond of bedding strangers, you should not disillusion yourself with the phantom of innocence. Iguro is not without experience. He simply prioritizes security and trust.
I can’t help but feel that Iguro is the sort to research on behalf of his partner, or even seek advice from those with more experience *cough* Uzui *cough*.
A casual relationship with no means of commitment is not one that he inherently shuns. Though it is not one he prefers, the Snake Pillar has been known to engage in such encounters should the relationship be one of trust and consistency such as his connection with the Love Hashira, Shinazugawa, and very possibly the former Flame Pillar.
Obanai has been known to tend to his own physical needs, or rely on that of a friend to curb his appetite. His hand catered to his length, stroked achingly into the loneliness of the night.
I hate to rob you of the impression that Obanai is a virgin, inexperienced and fumbling with his dick in the quite shame of the night. Whatever shy perception of you had of him in the bedroom will be torn into once you have entered the bedroom. The façade is gone, shed as a snake’s skin and the fall of his kimono.
He is adept at handling himself. Nor is he embarrassed to tend to his needs—he is logical in this aspect.
More so, relationships are not something that occur naturally, and on the topic of a causal relationship—a small part of the Snake Pillar will ponder if it is really necessary to explore. He’s a logical man, and one that prefers the peace of his schedule and sanctimony. To put it simply, he is for the most part, content with handling his needs on his own. I just don’t see masturbation being something that Iguro would inherently shy away from as it is a natural body response though I can imagine that the persistence of an erection that has not had its satisfaction met will create an irritable environment.
It is only when his desires have robbed him of his sleep, that he will relinquish defeat and entangle in the tryst of the night. The arche of curves hovered above his cock, the sting of tears that meet the touch of moles trickled beneath the desperate mewling of clover lashes.
Engaging with anyone else would just be… messy.
Risky.
Vulnerable.
He’d much rather bury his cock in his fist, or his loneliness in Kanroji than risk finding himself in an exposed position, helpless, and defenseless such as daring to trace the silhouette of the person his heart yearns for.
A casual relationship will be that one of logic, of physical needs, and direct while maintaining distance. Minimal eye contact, but one that can lead to unintentional suffering. Hydrate dear because the Snake Hashira’s stamina is that of legends. I imagine doggy would be abused; positions such as the hot seat, stand and deliver. It’s rough, and a touch of selfishness mixed in. There’s a certain lack of care you will experience born of the need to release frustrations.
Much more growly, and impatient.
Most of the time, he’ll ensure you leave as satisfied as he is. There are no lingering kisses, peppered praises, or delicateness in his handling of your clit/tip. It’s exact, urgent, and the underlining message is deeply conveyed etched into your orgasm. He’ll be a gentleman, but he wants you to leave soon after. Though there will be times in which something may be stirring beneath the surface, and he will recoil from your touch as soon as his cum decorates your back. There is no way you are close enough to cum inside in a casual relationship.
As such, I cannot see sex being initiated within the foundational days of your relationship. The very enigma of his presence just out of your touch composed of a variety of reasons.
Of course, there is the self-preservation that Iguro strives for, often wrapping well into himself. Unsatisfied until trust has blossomed between the two of you, content only until his heart is aligned with your own.
The initial days will be deprived of contact, lingering touches just within reach, but never daring to intertwine. Close assurance of his affections, but as indirect as his adoration of you. Masked in delicate saccharinity
This is not to imply that the mind has not wandered; Iguro yearns for you in ways he dares not convey in the beginning.
It’s all consuming, desperate as the sancticty in which he his finger carefully catches an eyelash upon your cheek. The gentle caress his fingers perform, dutifully checking your tumbled ankle for injuries. The heat of your exposed skin to his gaze beneath his fingertips a searing reminder of his desires. The considerate way his hand catches the small of your back in crowded markets, protecting you from the pull of the masses. How your leg caught against his own, brushed together in the back of a mule cart your sweet smile had earned the two of you passage.
Yet, Obanai will not approach the topic half hazardly.
He is a hopeless romantic, a yearner that will torture himself in the dead of nights with fantasies of claiming you over and over.
He will subdue his appetite through other routines, and it is often overlooked due to the gentle smile he provides his lover. His affections are sincere, and never boastful, but etched into him. Once the proper channels have been explored, there will be little to part him from your side. Sex is after all akin to communication in the Serpentine man’s world.
He would be the sort to follow the customs of the time frame, and for the Meiji era this implies he would draw this out significantly through the omiai, but do not allow yourself to think that this means marriage is in the future. He will not wed with this blood soaked name.
He is passionate, and considerate to his partner. For better or worse, in kindness and harsh words, Obanai is sincere within all of his relationships. He brings this same rule into his intimate relationships. He desires to treasure you, to adore you. He will hold back for as long as his sanity maintains composure.
Hoping his patience conveys his intentions, one that is built into a committed relationship rather than a desperate need to fuck his being into your body.
Because of this, he dreads approaching the topic. Consistently worried that he is pushing his desire upon you, or moving at a pace that is too forward. Considerate to the needs of his partner, Obanai is all too aware how such topics are met with delicacy.
And so, he will refrain.
It’s going to take some time, and far more patience than you may suspect. In the beginning of the relationship, you will have to be vocal about your needs/ desires and yearning for him for his moves to act (and then its lightning fast, can he control himself is the question). Later in the relationship, he is prone to being aggressive, desiring to claim you over and over. He will pursue every suggestive flitter of your eyelashes, the meet of your brow or the wiggle of your knees as you try to hide your desire. He won’t leave you in this state.
I just know you will need to have a painful level of patience and generosity as he navigates his past trauma to flourish in a committed relationship.
The Snake Pillar is not the sort to push forward, rather he will follow your movements. Familiarize himself with the quip of your brow, what the quirk kept in the corner of your lips mean. The translations inscribed upon his memory as he ensures that he understands the entirety of you. He will use these details as weapons in the bedroom!
As time continues forward, as your own needs begin to arise in the heat of your risen breast and flushed cheeks, Obanai is the sort to ease your desires. To coo the heat of your flames, providing assistance and praise as you buck into his hands. Curl your lips into the nook of his neck, fingers splayed between his fingertips.
Observant by nature, little escapes his notice. the Snake Pillar is intuitive to his partner’s needs, needing little more than a hitch in your breath to adjust the pressure in which he pressures into you. The fall of your breast to usher the flick of his wrist, the shutter of hips to chase your orgasm. He caters to your body, allows it to guide his instinct.
Be careful, he is quick and capable with his hands, and it will be easy to fall into this trap of allowing him to divulge your desires. When in love, he can play a martyr in matters of the flesh, often finding pleasure in the contours of your body as you ache for his touch.
Essentially, this will become the status quo until you twist your frame within his hands, daring the hem of his pants. Tugging tentative. Make eye contact, assure you of your decision, and he will crumble beneath your touch.
Or at least, the pretense that he is satisfied with merely tending to your needs.
Fast as a striking viper, dropped from the trees as the met of his teeth against your own, searing the flesh of your mouth. The fierceness of his claim, bruising your lips as the limits of his restraint are shattered. Fast as the release of your clothing. It will be intentional. The thread of promises in nips and flicks of his tongue, exploring you. Testing the scent of your flesh, light and delicate to his senses as he kisses wrist, dances across your collar bone. Ached in to the crook of your neck. Haikus painted into your flesh, devotion dipped upon his tongue. Hummed the wordless poetry his heart yearns to depict within your bones. His art drawing to your tip/clit, as skillful as the paintbrush to the paper. Depicting his heart and soul in the verse.
Until that noise, the very one that elicits his urgency. The heat of adrenaline, of devotion and unrelenting passion. One he can no longer tuck beneath the bedding of his sheets alone. The catch of his hand against the back of your throat slams you into the futon. His limbs threaded through your own, knotted and wreathing with each stroke he plunders into your core. Your screams of ecstasy not fallen on deaf ears, but kindle to flame. His intent is as pure as a predator on the hunt as he buries himself into you once more. Hard, fast, relentless. The countless poems his heart wishes to etch into your skin falling into rhythm with the roll of his hips. Desperate, and yearning. Time knows nothing of his limits. Your sobs into his bedding a beautiful portrait, one he will etch into his soul. Spit caught into the ends of your hair, swollen and red as he draws yet another orgasm from your shuddered sides, and aching sex.
It is only in the moment that his final thrust tremors his senses back to their placement that he will realize how he has pinned you to the bed. The litter of poetry bruised and sore to the touch littered across your frame, a merciless haiku of devotion. Fallen into sympathetic strokes intended to tend to the pain he had left behind in his relentlessness.
He’ll work on it, he swears to himself as the guilt bears into him of how unforgiving his desire had lead to you unable to properly tumble from the bedding.
Obanai would carry you where ever you desire, a wordless apology at the knit of his eyebrows.
It happens more often than he would care to admit, especially the shoving your head into the mattress.
Sex is a natural steppingstone that many partners must take together, and you can expect that he will engage you following disagreements to better reconnect your souls, especially if his words betrayed his sincerity. He’s not foolish, the Snake Pillar is all too self-aware, he knows that his words can inflict senseless wounds. Ones that he must mend over time, and tender nip at your sides.
As such, he pours himself into foreplay. Shinobu’s otter opposite. Worshiped like an entity, begged prayers into the bedsheets. Loves reciting poetry into your skin. Whispered between the murmurs of your flesh, often only slips audible for your ears.
The mere touch of notes that bare the weight of his affections and revela his heart. Far to shy to ever reveal how deeply he craves for you. Delights in overstimulating and edging his power. A mindnumbing capability of enduring the harshest of environments, and as such, he will endure your desperate pleas to elicit just one more maon from your pursued lips.
Delighted when you scream out.
If anything, you’ll have to beg to return the favor.
Completely unaware how he had bullied orgasm after orgasm from your sex.
More so, the Snake Pillar has little patience for dry spells.
It’s not that he would push the matter. The petite man is not violent with his partner in such manners, and is not one to force himself upon another, but do not think that the absence of your touch upon his brow, or the trace of your finger across his abdomen has been overlooked.
He will fight to find his way back into your bed. To mend broken desires, and to savor the shatter of his name across your lips once more.
There is sentiment in a sexual relationship with Obanai, one that cannot be taken lightly as with others. It is in fact the very intimacy, the way your eyes glaze over as the words escape your mouth stroked to the ride of his hips and lost amongst the cries of his thrust.
The Snake Pillar is adamant about resource guarding and to his partner. The way your eyelashes flutter, the cute choking sound as you gurgle on your own spit, the flush of your breast to the light--- these are all things that he will keep locked away. Protected from the view of others, if you desire voyeurism, or exhibitionism, consider other Hashiras than that of Iguro.
For, he will offer no forgiveness should someone wander upon you, or witness the sights for his eyes alone.
He is by nature, private, but when it comes to the matter of his bedroom, he teeters into a possessive streak that can appear as simple adherence to the rule of kiss and tell. Not to be confused with a lack of interest or attempts to hide your relationship. The litter of his marks upon your flesh, visible through the lining of your collar are proof of his territory. A claim of ownership, warning to those around you. For only his luminescent mix-matched eyes may feast upon your sins.
For him, the opportunity to connect with one another on such a level is one that is stripped. Exposed to the chill of the night air. Free of blemishes, as pure and intentional as a freshly shed serpent’s scale. Untarnished by the sights of others, for only the trace of his lips to savor.
For only one to see, and one to know of his truest self.
Smells like a blooming yandere.
There will be no forgiveness for those who dare tread upon his love.
Only the boldness of an unexpecting Hashira that dipped into details of his sex life know the extent of his ire. Suggestive remarks likely to meet fatal encounters.
The shatter of Tengen’s coy teasing rolled from his tongue. Dipped in depravity, a shameless perception of experience. The lingering of the Snake Pillar’s shoulders as the flame swordsman’s head tilts, meeting his brow. His bright joyful eyes met at the dark of his eyebrows and the crease across his forehead. Concerning painting his features. His narrow focus leads him to inquire upon the state of your unnatural sway. Going so far as to depict the exact stagnant of your hips as your feet touch the stone walkway of the gardens. Small jumps in the height of your collar revealing the shock of lingering pains. It had been an innocent inquiry, his devotion to his craft drawing him into muddy ground lost to the cutting smirk his curiosity drew from his companion. Uzui’s stained magnolia’s haughty, struggling to suppress his amusement. The once vibrant petals stilled as the chill of a wind, winter’s breath that threatened to freeze the tender flame kindled at his side. The slice of eclipsed moonlight, a cutting gaze that bore the weight of miasma.
Rengoku is still unsure of how he drew Iguro's ire.
The Snake Pillar is fiercely protective of your privacy. I would not be surprised in the slightest to find that he has wrapped a few kakushi in tatami mats and hung them from the trees around his estate should their tongues wander. Lethal to those who dare to insinuate the gasps you elicit beneath him. How you purr into his touch, and wreath in desperation.
He is in many ways, an unforgiving jealous lover.
Often found stewing in his rage. Like a furrowed cat, his back arched, flared at those near and far. The ends of his hair curled up, lethal intent dipped in flared words and deranged muttered curses.
Poor Kaburamaru is unsure of what to make of these moments, coiled desperately around his friend’s neck, tongue flickering in a harrowed attempt to understand the surroundings that have brought forth this reaction.
Obanai’s adoration and quiet worshipping of you should not be taken likely. Though it may never lead to public decorations of romantic fantasies although you can expect the occasional jealousy fueled declarations, there is no part of Iguro that bears a sense of shame in his love. Never confuse his preservation as a means of expressing shame in your relationship. Those he cares for will be aware of your status, the same can be said of those who dare to linger to close to your side.
There is instances of indirect claiming—leaving items on you, forcing you to wear his haori in the rain.
In bed, the Snake Pillar adores for his partner to have a playful partner. He craves the simplicity of heartfelt interactions. Morning light bathed in a naked entanglement, bruised wounds from the night before lingered on your flesh. The joy you bring into the relationship, and the willingness to explore one another.
Adores the childish manner in which you toy with his hair, how you leave kisses on the bridge of his nose to the trail of his shaft. The small giggles that escape between your lips, warm and affectionate to his coaxing. He adores all of the cute little attributes you bring to the bedroom.
The willingness in which you entrust yourself to him in the heat of the moment. The range of positions you endure to the curious ways your hands need into his shoulders, or how you bat him with a pillowcase following an adorable mortifying for you moan following the kiss of his teeth at your inner thigh. Delicate beneath canine, never daring to break skin.
He craves a frisky partner whether shyly exhibited, or a bold declaration. He will accept either, so long as his partner allows their high-spirited nature to guide your interactions. Sudden outbursts, a desire to be close, warmly tugging onto his hand and slipping into an overlooked corner. Toy with the hem of his kimono, whispered dirty suggestions into his ear. Conveyed longing for the night to come. The dagger-wielder is eager to explore with you and is open to a majority of plays.
So long as the sanctity of your sex is respected, Obanai is a surprisingly adventurous lover. Far willing to delve into the deepest of your desires, and depending on the response that blossoms from you—you will find yourself treated to the experience soon once more.
A secure connection is his sexual playground.
The Serpent Breather lacks a certain amount of shame in his relationship, and in his bed. He is far too willing to strip himself bare, lay his pride to the side and coil into your lap as you thrust into him. The ache of his spine curled and blushed against gasps that escape the purse of his lips. The heat of his leer haughtily hung upon your gaze.
Be warned.
Obanai is by nature a switch that leans towards dom tendencies. He is content for his lover to claim him, delve deep into his sex, explore aspects of himself that none have wonder whether the touch of your finger, or the tip of your toy/dick.
If you wish to top him, he is more than willing to play the part but understand that this will come with a price. He is not one to submit and relinquish complete control. a top that is messy, and desperately thrusting into him is one that he will meet with affections, but one that wishes to pinion him to the bed is one that will meet his rebelliousness.
A partner that is desperately chasing their orgasm, panting and pleading as the thrust themselves upon him/in him. An adorable mess of tears and mewls is one that he will respond with delicacy. Such unmasked honesty draws the softest aspects of his nature, and his desire to take care of his partner. A tendency to dote on them and allow them to test the fullest of his restraints. The small frays of his mind begin to unravel before he loses constraint.
Whereas a partner who wishes to catch the height of his wrist and tug it above his head, hotly coy. Wretched tot his hip, tugging his legs into position, rough and demanding will be paid in kind. Let’s be clear, Obanai has no aversion to rough sex as a whole, and with the right person he enjoys the playfulness it brings. A determination seizes control of his consciousness as he bucks back into you. Near vengeful and taunting, a declaration as his hips meet your own. No longer willing to be toyed with, but rather to command the bed.
He savors reversing the norm, and is prone to conducting himself in brattish means as the submissive partner should the tease strike his mood.
There is no greater joy than the elation that follows the defiant buck of his hips as he meets your own, an inescapable gaze that follows every stutter of reaction from your form. The ache of your breath caught off guard and stumbled, the blush that emulates the height of your cheeks, and the height of your breast. Gasped and rumbled as he continued in ecstasy. Delighting in the way your body quivers above/below his maddened by the sense of glee that fills the pit of his stomach as he pursues your sex in the unexpected shift of dynamics. Chasing your high to its peak.
I feel that in a trusted bond, there is little that Iguro will not explore. Experimenting in near everything that you fancy whether it be dominance roles, roleplaying, or any other acts of power play. However, I just cannot escape the feeling that Iguro has a vengeful nature, and while he doesn’t intend to carry to the bedroom maliciously, I can’t help but feel for every cause there is a reaction. There is only so much that he will tolerate—far more willing to take his share of punishments of curiosity that you inflict upon him, but understand, the swordsmen will repay it, tenfold.
While Obanai’s stamina does not compare to most other Hashiras, it’s important to note that it is still expedited compared to that of the average man. Same for his strength! The main push for him is his determination, and lord is determined to bathe in your begging.
Sex is the cornerstone of the relationship, it’s how he can express his adoration often relying on subtle expressions of his devotion. Connection and romantic pursuits is the catalyst for him to come undone. He slips as the bandage from his mouth, desperate and snarling as he fights to bite down the deeper aspects of his desire.
However, we need to discuss the speed and flexibility that draws to the talent of his breathing technique. The Snake breather is flexible. Quick to maneuver, to pin, and to coil around you in various positions. Pliant to the contours of your body, Because of this I think he delights in the corkscrew position as it allows him to entangle himself into your form, while thrusting deep within you, or vice versa. Let’s be honest, Obanai probably has more practice with a male partner due to his female aversion.
Regardless of what position you have folded him into or he has twisted into around your body, there is without doubt--- the speed and precision he drive himself into you. He has already request the day off for you from the Master, because you are going to need the rest.
It may come as a surprise, but there is a dutiful aspect to his aftercare. Embarrassed and shamed by how far his desire carried him, robbed him of sensibility. Of his morals, and his tenderness he carries his lover with, foregone with the litter of whelps into your form.
Once he comes to his senses, a bundle of limbs that rests into your back. A natural cuddle bug, slowly but surely, his eyes are mesmerized with the trace of his passion across your form, noting the remorse that coils within his stomach. As delicate as the kisses that touch upon each wound.
He is quietly horrified, and dodging eye contact, all too aware to linger in your gaze will remind him of your screams, and risk summoning his cock once more as he gently tends to the slick of cum tacky to your legs.
Respectfully, there are very few physical partners that would deter Obanai. The Snake Pillar is proven to enjoy taller partners, and I suspect he would delight in the way he can bend his small frame around them. The gasp of shock at his sheer will. Let’s be clear, sit on his face. To the same extent, I don’t feel that his smaller stature bothers him as much as it might others, and in the private of the bedroom, he’s more than willing to explore being folded beneath you should you desire. Don’t fucking do it around Tomioka. He is baby but that bastard can never know. However, he’s always considerate of how limber, or not limber you are, never wanting to place you into an uncomfortable position.
Your pleasure is the height of his concerns. When he’s coherent.
At the risk of becoming controversial… his cock is coming in at under 6 inches. Respectable to his stature, but do not underestimate him. Due to the limber nature of his body, he will more than fulfill your expectations.
One requests that Iguro will likely grant is should you invite Kanroji into the sheets. Let’s be clear, this is not something he inherently craves, nor has he given it much thought prior. Truthfully, in a committed relationship, all prior connections have been severed, but he will accept your desires with the most consideration.
Whatever they have had in the past will be a mere reflection of the dance upon his tongue against your bone as she tends to your peaks. There is no animosity, or negative feelings between the two—he wouldn’t have slept with her if there was, but you also should not expect him to seek her out without your guidance. Though I can see a throuple forming if you’re the one to pursue it. You are the focus in this session, not her.
I firmly believe that Obanai has a higher sex drive than other Hashiras. In many ways, the Snake Pillar depends on instinct to navigate his surroundings. It is through such tactics he has survived this long, knowing when to depend on others, when to withdraw. For a man who is of little words, often blunter than he intends, it’s through sex that he feels the most vulnerable. The sincerity of all he desires to convey. What his heart wishes to share, but his tongue often betrays.
To lean into the delicate kiss upon your shoulder blade. The averted eyes shied away from having been caught lingering upon your love. Quietly devoted, the safety of your touch to ease his nightmares. Lingered upon the ghost of his brow, secure and warm by the quiet hum of your slumber. Found peace between your knees from the ghost of the past.
i love love love how in depth you are when it comes to your character posts! mitsuri is my life (i love the mitsuri in a relationship post), and i was wondering if you'd do a "hashiras in bed" post for her?
Hello 🐝Anon!!
It's so exciting to have someone request Mitsuri; you are the first! I'm thrilled, and thank you. 🥺 Our girl deserves the love! I will be releasing The Hashiras in Bed| Mitsuiri Kanroji, hopefully soon. I was planning to release her following Obanai Iguro, who is impatiently waiting edits in my drafts. With spring break coming up, I know that I will have it released by the end of March <3.
The short spill is that I am an early education teacher and my breaks are guaranteed to be spent thirsting after my waifus/husbandos. 🤤
I'll also add, that following the release of Mitsuri NSFW, I will also be following it with Mitsuri's SFW, The Hashiras with a Family. 🥰 Our Love Hashira will be receiving all the attention soon, I hope you look forward to it! I'll attach the "masterlist" for the Hashiras in Bed here for you to look back on in the month to come, and also welcome you hitting my inbox again as 🐝anon so that I can ensure you see the release! Thank you so much for your patience, and for reassuring me that readers do want to see Mitsuri!
For reference, I'm going to refer to you as 🐝anon, because youre after that Mitsuri "honey" sweetness! 😉
I SAW IT!!! Oh my goodness it's so cute!!! 🥺 Thank you so much! This made me so happy, I won't share it so that way you can remain anonymous, but oh my goodness it is adorable. Your artwork is adorable! I adore the bubblegum-pop vibe it gives off! Just so cute!
I actually just did another bit for Sincerely, it's a slightly suggestive snip of what Gyutaro would think of Daki's girlfriend having a sleepover, you can find it at Sincerely, Sleep Over.
Hiii! I'm so glad you're back again! So excited to read all the requests and inquiries you've been getting from others! I know my request here will take some time to get to (and I'm fine with that 🤗), but I'm just dropping it here anyways so I don't forget:
Daki's girlfriend from "Sincerely" visits her for a date/sleepover and meets Gyutaro for the first time. How would their interaction be?
(Also side note, I've read Sincerely at least 20 times, it's so well-written and I smile like an idiot every time I get to the confession part at the end of part 2)
-🐼
I'm back. 🥳 but goodness gracious is it taking me a while to actually be *back*. I am so grateful that you're still here, and so patient with me! Hearing that you still continue to enjoy Sincerely, brings my heart so much joy. 🥺 I just do not deserve you. Thank you for reading my work, and sending in an adorable request <3
Summary: headcanons on how a sleepover would affect the Shabanna siblings
The moment the ding went off on his phone, Gyutaro’s heart was in the pit of his stomach. He could feel the worries like anxious little butterflies that threatened to crawl up his esophagus. Etched into the anxieties with the delicate message with far too many expressive emojis depicting her excitement, and statement.
We both know that Daki never *asked* for you to spend the night. Rather, it’s a half-hazard message, devoid of details, and dripping with emojis. Something that blatantly demands that he allows you entrance into the home. You’re spending the night; the text is essentially a last-minute courtesy to ensure you feel as comfortable as you can under her roof.
Let’s be clear, it’s not the lack of permission, or missing respect within her message that Gyutaro conflicted. Rather, it’s the fact that this is the first time his little sister has ever requested a friend to spend the night.
He’s not stupid--- there are variety of reasons why friendship has never welcomed Daki in their life. She’s short-tempered, irritable, competitive, and well… an acquired taste. He can still recall the time classmates had passed their ran down apartment in her elementary years. She bit back the large tears that whelped into the corner of her eyes and swallowed the shame of the disposal that carried into the streets. Unabashed by the apartment homes that stacked upon one another like a matchbox destined for kindle. The scent of sex in the air, puffs of smoke between painted lips that beckoned a day’s work. Laundering hung from clothing pins tainted by the night’s affairs and the stains of cheap beer.
Daki’s pride was foreign amongst these streets, and yet her fury remained unmatched. Self-respect clawed from the depths of impoverish upbringing as righteous as the closed fists that wretched at the other little girl’s hair, unaware of the screams that erupted from the gaggle of young onlookers. Torn school clothes, the slash of her cheek. It was a scene that Gyutaro could barely process at a young age. He’d rushed out in a dash of filth, dirtied from running street errands amongst the narrow streets. His skin rash ached as he struggled to unfurl his sister’s fist from the other little girl’s hair.
But at least he had attempted. It was more than he could say for his mother, who hadn’t even noticed the marred touches of flesh upon her daughter’s face when she had crept home five days later.
No, it was ultimately the anxiety that for once, Daki was willing to expose her home to another. A level of vulnerability that he had never considered a possibility for his little sister. True, their current living circumstances were a far call than what they had been that fateful day in the alley, but he is not stupid. He knows that the income he pulls from working various odd jobs in the late hours after school is… manageable. If he stretches his money and skips a few meals.
Gyutaro will do his best to tidy the home and run a few extra errands in order to put extra food on the table for the night. Skipped school, and lunch in favor of securing a few extra funds, and how his uneven smile breaks at the convenience store counter at the cutesy little ice cream bars he has procured alongside a few measle sides for dinner and breakfast. Humble by all means, but an extravagance within their household. He’s nervous that Daki will be embarrassed by his cooking skills. The home has been scrubbed from the top to the bottom, doing his best to recall the setting of wholesome family television shows he had watched enviously in his youth.
He welcomes you, uneasily with a diverted gaze. A slight blush on his features, doing his best to keep his mouth shut embarrassed by his lack of childhood dental care. An apron wrapped around his hips like the mothers in forgotten TV programs adorned for their child returning from school. Daki is horrified.
Gyutaro can feel her horror washed upon his features, as he tries to downplay it. Her eyes are following him throughout the narrow living space. As stiff as a corpse in his movements. He doesn’t know if he’s doing any of this right, but he’s doing his best to fake it. Tuck his temper and force his social skills to the max as he offers you snacks, and to tuck you away at the kotatsu.
Daki is even more unamused. A scathing scowl that has caught her features to see the back-and-forth awkward bending between the two of you.
Confused at the attempted brushed back ponytail. A gathered mop of stressed tangles caught between stylings. Oh, Gods above, did he… did he use her shampoo? He had attempted to tidy himself up. What is this idiot doing.
Gyutaro’s drudged up manners practiced from television shows in an attempt to appear normal, and your returned anxiety a mirror image of her brother as you dip your head back with each expression of gratitude.
It’s only a matter of time before one of you slams your head into the table.
God it’s stiff, and she’s uncomfortable.
More so, the amount of rage that begins to develop into the pit of her stomach. Jealousy that bites at her sides. As though he can sense her fingers dance across your shoulder blades, he emerges from the kitchen once more. A bleak ghost of cockblock that haunts her movements. Seduction tipped back and forth between attempts that dance across your thigh beneath the blanket, and flickered into vengeful remarks that Gyutaro does not acknowledge as excuses himself from your presence once more.
She’s ready to burst. It is by no means, the night she had planned.
Daki had pictured a scene of continuous flirting. Brazen remarks upon your skin, her fingers traced upon small freckles, daring to count them as you changed from your days clothes. She’d invite you to the neighborhood sento.
Delight at the opportunity to see as lip of flesh between soap bubbles. She’s dying for the chance to wash your back.
Daki has fantasized of night slips, snuggled between the folds of her futon. Your scent intermingled between her pillows, and she danced back and forth if your undies were more scandalized slips of lace, or little bows only to realize that you were very likely a teddy bear motif on your underwear kind of girl. She will do everything she can during this sleepover to see your panties. Daki will go to… concerningly lengths at the chance.
She’s plotting.
Shamelessly prepared to throw the tea across your packed pajamas. Let’s be honest, your prepared set are nothing compared to what she has *bought* you. The first fashionable slip that does not belong to her. Chomping at the bit for the right moment, and becoming only more irritable by her brother’s concerning interference—seriously, when did he develop an interest outside of his bedroom?
WHY IS HE STILL HERE???
Daki can count on one hand how many times Gyutaro has interacted with one of her would be entanglement, and yet, here he remained. A silent, pale figure mute to the vibe of the room.
At one point, she hits the realization that the home is cleaned, and there is a sweet scent of discount candles that hang in the air that matches the unusual image of an apron across his features, and his hair clumsily assembled into a ponytail that ignites a flare of jealousy in her movements.
Snagged at the way his polite awkward manners continue to fill the air, never getting a damn clue that she’s trying to slip into an unexplored section of your relationship. Hungered for your touch.
Or rather, what if, he’s completely aware. Never before has she entered into a competition for attention with her older sibling, and yet… she cannot help but feel the nagging compulsion that he had dared to tempt her wrath.
She’s so damn jealous she’s convinced herself that Gyutaro may also be interested in you.
Her possessive nature is at a high, and she refuses to budge her hold across your waste, forced your form into her lap and her chin upon the shoulder. Unwilling to deter despite your fussing as the warm breath tickles your neck.
Gyutaro’s lack of reaction to her blatant claim of ownership is only adding to her irritability.
For all of his sister’s odd displays of possession, Gyutaro is clueless, guided only by his curiosity. A rare phenomenon for the social recluse. The last time he felt an interest in another person was drawn from his brief interactions with the younger Kamado.
There is little said between either you or Gyutaro. Daki only making subtle jabs that is missed by either of you, or rather, quietly horrified to dare to engage further. Yet, he manages a shy smile, warmed by her scathing remarks.
She’s comfortable.
Around you.
His exhausted eyes cannot help but trace the marks upon the ragged futon that covers the kotatsu as her banter mars back and forth, pouting as though she were a small child once more, desperate to hang onto a beloved toy blind to the way his smile meets in a small pucker. His finger tips as warm as the swelling in his heart to hear her blatant insults.
Let’s be clear, Daki has named dropped a few times, in her giggly joy. The ding of a text message on her clearly outdated phone, and the utter confusion Gyutaro had suffered upon it’s ancient revival. Gone are all the sugar daddy delights. Dazzled with a cute shy and anxious cat sticker that she dotingly traces. She swears it has the same expression as when she attempts a squeeze in public. Her stories are ironically less explicit, but the details are far more vivid than they have ever been. Expressive, and hung upon every note.
I mean, the signs are there, and in hindsight, Gyutaro had everything flash before his eyes the minute his head hit the pillow. The returned gifts that she had placed time and effort into receiving. Her outfits had become less revealing, although still expressive as her personality. Rather, it seemed like she was putting more effort into her appearance aside from the slips of skin she normally relied on to snag affections. Her perfume had shifted. Less bold and demanding, but rather a flirty light floral note that required intimacy to pick up the undertones. Her nails had become shorter, still immaculate our girl loves to visit the nail salon and tended to regularly, but the jewels had taken a small dive, and the length as far more reasonable.
The realization as obvious as the giggles that picked between the divided rooms and carried as fast as the exasperated sigh between her lips as his hand slamming down the privacy wall. Red face, and flustered, outwardly horrified to find his sister crawled upon you. Brazen at her pursuits despite your obvious shame.
He has raised a predator!
The scolding has filtered between the paper-thin walls, enough for neighbors to bang on the wall, which insighted a full argumentative dispute between both siblings, and remaining tenants. Gyutaro’s disappointment at his sister’s inability to respect the obvious NO you had ushered, Daki’s relentless nagging that her brother would obviously not have a clue at how sexual relationships work out--- the sputtering of his little sister dipping so low in her accusations. Spat for spat, insult for insult, and threats spewed at neighbors to mind their business buzzed and overwhelming in the already cramped room with you able to do little more than burrow your blushed features into your hands.
Gyutaro is for lack of better words.
A cockblock.
He’s torn between being a protective big brother, part of him wants to blame you for Daki’s decent into perversion. I mean, she’s never actually pursued matters of the heart or lust before, rather she was content to tip toe around it, pillage her rewards with honeyed words, and dipped cleavage. Not once had she ever ACTED upon it.
Yet, despite how Gyutaro wants to protect his sweet, innocent sister, it is after all his duty. He’s raised her from her diapering years, packed her bentos, and ensured proper hygiene, but he’s not stupid. He is very aware that there is little to move Daki from what she has set her sights upon.
How she loves to explore, and savor new experiences. Bold enough to do so with her poor brother right next door. Gyutaro will never forgive himself for raising a predator. For all he is willing to defend Daki when she is entirely in the wrong, he is just as likely to crucify her faults, and damn her punishments.
He blames himself. He should have done a better job.
There is no way on this earth that Gyutaro is allowing her to share your bed. Regardless of her nefarious intentions, and god the way the realization hits him, the thoughts of the extent his sister was willing to take this her pursuits has him blushed from the tip of his ears down the nap of his neck.
He is forcing her into his bed. Borrowed scathing remarks, threats, an elbow of protest, and down right fending off a tantrum, and his façade has begun to slip with her shamelessness. It’s an outright cat and dog fight as he stuffs his sister into his futon, layed upon his weight to ensure she cannot escape like a black widow drawn to your bed. The stuttering blabbing of his words, fumbled and awkward as he avoids your gaze. He doubts he will ever be able to look you in the eye after realizing how his sister had practically assaulted you. Slams the wall covering with your confusion hung in the air as the siblings to continue to squabble into the late hours of the night.
Horribly exhausted in the morning. Bruised cheeks, whelps across each features. Eyebags that burrow deeper into their features than prior. Gyutaro’s yawning into his hand, unbothered by his physical state. He’s accustomed to hearing insults of his appearance, but the nagging of Daki’s heartbroken anguish when she sees how her face has faired the altered in the late hour battle is wearing. She swears that she’s practically mutilated at this point.
Yet, for all of her swearing from the toilet, and how her nails practically dig into the hollows of her cheeks, morning the loss of her flawless skin.
There’s a warm sense of quiet at the breakfast table. The mangled reclaimed discard of lawn décor fashioned into a dining set, warmed by your morning glow. Content, and smiled at each of his sister’s biting remarks, and dramatic proclamations. Soft giggles delighted to have the opportunity to experience waking up in the morning to your lover under the same roof.
Practically tickled pink as you wiggle your toes together between plush socks, hiding your warm smile into the mug curled between your hands. As Gyutaro leans across the back of his seat, exhausted and worn from defending your chastity, he cannot help but notice the way his back eases into the furniture. Peaceful by the silence that passes between you.
Familiar and comfortable as the one you both love most… rampages in the background, and for a moment, he thinks, he wishes every morning could be like this.
Hi! I really love your writing style and I thought about requesting for a while.
I just read the request guide and I'd like to request a prompt, with Shinobu Kocho from Kny, where she did hurt, or did or said smth wrong to the reader (gn) and how she goes on to make up.
Take all the time that you need, thank you<3
Oh goodness, I do not want to think about how long this has been in the ask box. I am so sorry for how long it has taken me to respond. I hope you're still here and you see this!
Full disclosure, I have not been able to proof read this. I am currently home sick with fever, and just wanted to spend a little time catching up on here. Forgive me. 💜
Composure| Shinobu Kocho
Word Count: 1297
Setting: Shinobu Kocho x gn!reader, short
Content Warnings: undertones of gaslighting, cheating
Summary: when jealousy seizes the Insect Pillar's tongue, she must face the fact that her roundabout ways of apologizing, are not enough.
A/N: if you are enjoying the concept of a fight with Shinobu Kocho, you may enjoy these Quarreling and Gifting Headcannons.
Fingers laced across her forehead, trailed from her brow to the pinches of her eyes. Lashes that folded over an exhausted gaze that flittered amongst the miscellaneous trinkets amongst her desk. Medical texts askew, papers stuck out at odd angles depicting varying states of upcoming matter. Kocho trimmed nails caught in the corner of her eyes the memories causing her brow to furrow. Her nose quivered at the bit of her teeth touching her lip. Nagging bile that ate away at her stomach as the depths of night touch aster glowered at the nick-knacks that cluttered her sacred workplace.
Medical text that had been poured on from her formative years, test samples dripped in depths of wisteria displaced from their devoted placement. Askew from the norm, chemicals and scapples pushed to the edges of her desk, foregone in place of small little spiders. Collected in the depths of the night, procured from under brushes. Leaves that decorated their home bundled into their captivity. The marks of dirt imbedded beneath her fingernails, the stray scratch of a branch scathed across her cheek, haphazardly buried beneath a bandage. Its care was neglected, marred by her frustrations as the lady Kocho’s eyes followed their delicate long legs, delicate specks of yellow across their limbs and embodied in their thorax engulfing their partner’s delicate pattern. Tender as lovers dissatisfied by the Insect Hashira’s captivity, and uninterested in the nourishments she provided. The silver beneath the moonlight that filtered from windows danced amongst the delicate dew of their webs. As luminescent and fragile as the tears that had caught upon the edges of your eyelashes.
The same lashes that dejectedly observed the very arachnids that had greeted your doorway in the early morning. The joy of a sunrise discovery, how you had poured your heart over the depictions of superstitions and omens that tipped the corners of your mouth into a wideset grin, no longer evident at the way you had followed their delicate encounter. How your eyes had strayed to the hinoki floorboards. The delight blanched from your features as your socks touched upon the Japanese cypress in small tip toed motions down the medic ward. The ghost of past joys haunted the curves of your cheekbone. Such had become the nature of encounters in recent days. The same pressed hallowed gaze that met the tray left upon her doorstep time after time. Uninterested in the offerings left in your care. Unreactive to the intricate curve of the Hashira’s personal kettle, worn through the years. The fray of the wrappings upon the handle having worn from meticulous use. The second cup nestled into the other affectionately dismissed at the gentle close of your door. Rejected the yuzu tea she had cowered from another region. The faint scent of oranges touched upon the air, and poisoning her mood further such as the day she had suffered through the bumbling of ideocracy pressed between the idle chatter of the confections salesmen. How his jovial curve of his lips had ignited her ire, his knowing whispered of young love and the spats that followed. All too foreboding of the untouched monaka treat upon your window seal. The dusk of the night before having touched upon it, the crack of the wafer cookies stale after hours exposure. The sweet scent of anko paste having attracted its ray of pests. The faint hue of wisteria faded beneath sun exposure. How you had once delighted in the blossom shaped, cooed praises of her thoughtfulness no longer uttered in sweet words.
The touch of her fingers that traced the blossom wafers, shattered beneath the smallest amount of pressure beneath her fingertip. Cracked, and shattered confection as were the memories of how you had delicately held it so many years ago. The same lingering scent of yuzu. The smell of citron doing nothing to soothe her nerves as the peels lingered alongside the remnants of other failed attempts of affection across Shinobu’s desk. The bubbling of water that echoed across the room, bubbled and rolled within the small pot. The touch of scales glistening within the moon shine, gleamed in hues of earthen brown. Pulled from the depths of a riverbed, the frays of her uniform soaked. The scent of moss and ichor stained upon the whites of her clothing, given way to the mild earth hues that touched upon her features. The scathing of her fingertips ached, left her feeling like the remnants of filth and ached at the scathing of river rock. Stones that had dug into the flesh of her hands as she dug within the depths in the late hour. Practically bathed in the waste of wildlife. Unwilling to admit how desperately she clung to fanciful attempts at an apology. Dodged encounters, horrified to meet your gaze, trinkets of remorse fallen upon neglect. Her pride writhing at the whispering memory of his name pressed between your lips.
It had started small. Minor encounters upon your trips to the grocer. Light humor, and traded amusements of local rumors. How you delighted in discussing the fishmonger’s recent failed love encounters… How Lady Kocho loathed the banter, and how desperately she wished she could stomach the mundane discussion. Perhaps it would have made a difference. The bumbling of day-to-day life is enough to numb her brain, the tales of your shopping difficult for her to maintain her composure and interest. The slip of his name had begun to creep into conversation; a once distant acquaintance met over the passing of leeks and seasonal produce had grown more prominent. As was the consistent influx of vegetable-based dishes within the Butterfly Estate. Yet, Kocho had bit back the disdain. Swallowed the disgust that etched her features as you giggled at a recent encounter—how you could possibly delight in his foolishness was beyond her. From the moronic way the grocer pronounced kabocha betraying every ounce of his upbringing to the numerous times the fool had worn his kimono inside out. The giggle at the tip of your tongue as you disposed of another snippet of the simpleton’s antics, the sting of familiarity as your betrayed her security. Tsuyoshi, uttered without restraint. Foreign to the Insect Pillar she felt the shake of her features stripped of her pride. How she had tried to ignore it, but the echoes of his name ate away at her insides. Tore into her consciousness and began to haunt her in the late hours of the night. How fair the familiarity of his first name had corroded her had slipped from her grasp. The composure of her well-manicured behaviors deformed and exposed at her over willingness to accompany you to the most recent grocery trip. Gnawed at her insides as the foliage gathered within her arms. Attempted to convince herself that she was content to act as your catering mule, burdened with shopping and the pungent scent of soil and leeks. Aching at the weight of your bounty, encouraged your willfulness to spoil the recent attendance of the Butterfly Estate. Foiled by the pull of your attention. The high pitch gasp once more that fell into giggles. The part of your lips, a smile not intended for herself. Bathed in the sunlight, and rush of the market. The delicate touch of your fingers that swept through his hair friendliness that bled into intimacy irked the pit of her stomach. Flamed the horror that spread across the medic’s features. How tenderly your fingers had filtered through Tsuyoshi’s hair, procuring a leaf that had stuck out at odd ends of his muddy hair. The blush that spread across his features, and the pat of his hand to the back of his neck. Humbled laughter of a fool who eagerly bowed appreciation, overtly formal. She half expected him to lose his balance as though a kappa spirit that had over exerted itself in its manners, only rewarded with the delight of your giggles.
Shinobu could not dismiss the rage that ate away at her in the moment. The slip of her composure torn away from her, exposed the underbelly of her depravity. Her wrathful jealousy is as sharp as the grasp she caught upon your wrist. Practically retching the leaf from your hand. The fury touched upon her features, cold and as lethal as the poisons she wields against an unknowing dunce. How her tongue had lashed out in a barrage of hostility. Shamed utterances of only the foulest depictions of her rage. Only furthered by the confusion that flitted on his features, and the shame that spread across your own as she tugged you away. The chill that met her features, curled down her spine as her well crafted mask slipped from her grasp as the pull of your hand, folded into the other as you avoided her scathing gaze. Swallowed the accusations she had hissed in the heat of the moment, detached. Out of reach. As though a shadow that reaches for the sunlight, unable to meet its touch as you urged Shinobu to return to the Butterfly Estate under the pretense of needing to finish the shopping. The turn of your shoulder, not providing her with a parting glimpse before you slipped into the bustle of the market. Out of her reach, devoid of her touch.
Shinobu’s finger traced the scalpel at her side, danced along the smooth edge dipped in small nicks within the discard of the scales. Ached at the touch within her heart, the small lesions of her miscellaneous adventures over the past few days misaligned as they often were. The shame of her public outburst, naked and exposed the depths of her shameful nature etched into her features. The slow stew of snakeskin bubbled and bathed the natural fatty acids, skimmed into omega 3 as a sign elicited the draw of her parted lips. It would fail—unlike a certain someone Tsuyoshi, ah no, that bitter jealousy is why she was in this mess in the first place. Though that pathetic excuse for a fishmonger had not helped in the slightest. No, no she would do with that whoremonger’s libido later. Opioid should heal that wandering --- ah no, while fantasizing about tarnishing the appetite of the rumor mill was enjoyable, and certainly easily enough to cure… Shinobu could feel her shoulders rest, her thoughts landing upon how affectionately you had said his name. How her scorn had met you unfairly, and how you had turned from her.
Danced apologies amongst yuzu tea, boiled snakeskin, and favored confections, guilt gnawed at the pit of her stomach. The recounting of the moments as though a broken record that snagged at his name, over and over. The ache of realization drawing her fists into her eyes as the tears caught upon her eyelashes. No matter the depths of her devotion, her eagerness to right her wrongs in the most awry routes, in the pit of her stomach. In the morn of her heart as her fingers tended to the boiling stew of ailments, she steeled herself to the reality. The vile of her pride diminished and sincerity left on her haori. Her shoulders working tirelessly once more, foiled over the hot pot as she filtered back and forth. Her resolve strengthened with first morning light. She would apologize, proclaim all of her wrongdoings. Shame away the roundabout ways she had attempted to ease your wrath and beg for forgiveness. The grip of her tongs beginning to dig into the soft flesh of her hand as her gaze sharpened.
I’ll apologize to the idiot--- Tsuyoshi.
I really do believe that Shinobu is capable of a quality, and sincere apology, but I also believe that it can take her time to arrive at the realization that it is needed.
I fully believe that initially, she will attempt small gestures of affections as a means to appease the mood between her and her partner. Such as leaving small snacks not cooked by herself, she's not upset about the situation. She's not trying to poison you.
That being said, I see her doing as much as she can to be considerate of you, especially when things are tense. Yes, she has a vicious tongue and can become jealous of you giving your attention to those she deems... well, stupid.
As such, Shinobu would be the sort to hear your small sneeze inthe morning air, and disappear in search of yuzu fruits to boost your immune system.
There is no greater devotion than attempting to make things right in the most round about ways-- she's attempting to soothe her guilt or her misunderstanding of the situation. Why are you so mad? She doesn't always quite understand, but she takes your feelings seriously. Even if it takes her a while to process what bump in the relationship has occurred.
Feelings are essentially a matrix zone in some ways to Shinobu... She gets it, but doesn't.. get it?
So yes, she will dedicate herself to procuring a water snake when she hears that your joints are aching due to the cold weather, hunting down spiders to greet you in what ever ridiculous superstitions you contain, just like she will shoo spiders away from your doorway in the night.
Yet, while she's out and about doing everything to make it right rather than facing her doings in the situation, she's slowly realizing... no, she did this.
Lives in repeat. The Insect Hashira will repeat everything, roll it in her mind to the brink of madness. She will overanalyze every giggle, plant misgivings where there are none. Stress her body and her mind to breaking points in an attempt to find the answer. Where she went wrong, what she could have done better.
Sadly, Kocho can stay in this space for a while, she wants to be sure, and she wants to be her best, but despite how her pride loathes to admit it--- it does not come naturally to her in these matters, but she's learning. She wants to learn.
When she has emerged from her pit of despair looking like that Sunny in Philadelphia meme, and possibly reeking of cigarettes, she's at peace, and knows without a doubt that she is at fault. Subconsciously she's known it, her actions reek of her remorse, but now that she's stewed in it, she's ready to make things right.
no matter the cost.
even apologizing to the lesser species
That being said, do not expect a flowery apology. There will be remorse, there will be sincerity, but there will not be an over embellishment.
It will be as blunt and as lethal as the hashira herself. She will take full blame for all the pain she has done, and will not run from the repercussions, but it do not hold out for a grandiose gesture--- for Shinobu swallowing her pride and admitting fault is the bouquet of roses.
Content Warning(s): mentions of gore/violence, angst
Summary: continuation of part one, you can find here.
The snap of branches beneath your feet met the wail of your bones. Agonizing strain against seating muscles as you struggled to your feet. The scrape of dirt against your sandals as you pressed forward, the bend of your back deformed and fractured amongst the wreckage of the forest. The tumbled path, forged from the force of giants in a war of strength and blood had carved itself into the mountain side. Rolled down the side, dripped from cliffs left the mourn of life in its wake. Devoid of noise, of warmth, a journey amongst severed branches that snagged at your uniform. Bit at your cheeks and scathed your bones as you struggled exhaustion, and the weight clutched to your pelvis nestled into your stomach. Delicately wrapped in your arms, the sacred will of the warrior lose in its resolve. The weight of entrusted burden is a mere mockery of any training you had received in the kakushi faction. The edge of iron unyielding beneath your fingertips, and the shallow rattle of the chains with each fumbling foot you dared. Brace your form into the mountains as you curled within yourself. The passing of hours deaf to the pains of your bones, the surge of adrenaline that echoed within your ears. Tugged at your corneas, blacked the edges of your eyelashes. The ache of bones that bit back the burden, shuffled forward, and ignorant of the gashes that the mountainside had claimed in your stumbles a victim to the plundering night.
Only faintly aware of the tears that formed in your eyes as you threatened to chock on your sob. The faint touch of ebony feathers above, distinct attempts at caws to warn you of the foreboding terrain as you trudged forward unyielding and reckless in your pursuit. Each step drawing more and more unstable as the soil shifted beneath your feet. Pebbles tumbled forward, echoed the shadows of the night and revealed the trauma the battle had inflicted. Despair born into your bones with each passing step damned to eternity. If only you were stronger—if you were faster such idle curses void of purpose. Your heart entombed beneath vial and stomach acid. The tranche scent of iron birthing a sense of nausea and deepened dread as the small Kasugai crow dipped once more, its pitiful cries fallen to the peppering of beak toggled upon the curls of your hair. Desperate to pull you forward, begging your resolve as its wings fluttered fervently as its voice shattered the night air. Drawing the small bite of your sob, the path marred in blood. His blood. The sickening realization plummeting your senses, as your forced our body forward.
The momentum of the chain and axe guiding your forward. Hurtled your body over bolders, slammed into shattered bark and reminants of trees. Exposed your skin to the night air as your blood threatened to mix with the scene, unable to make out any further evidence of interlopers. A sickening crunch of your arm as your scream shook the leaves and ruffled feathers. The distinct flicker of prayer beads shattered amongst the soil, the remainders of string that bonce bound them together snagged against a shattered trunk. The weight of its owner having snapped the mighty tree from its footing in his descent down the mountain side, and his will to drag his opponent to their death. The familiar glint of red that caught your eye and elicits your tears. The sickening realization harrowing your bones, robbing you of your senses as you desperately clung to the ball and chain like a smile child clung to its mother’s apron. The sob broke through clenched teeth before you could claim it as your own, nabbed at the desperate reach of your fingers. Snagged upon the drastic weight of a weapon meant for one of your statures, weak to the lure of the small beads before you. Warm in hue and a decoration of devotion, and much like the gods themselves just out of your reach as your prayers fell on deaf ears. They had left him. Sacrificed him to the night, allowed the demon to claim an emerging mizunoto. One that smelled of hidden comforts, the touch of citrus and the security of musk. The scent of safety, as tender as the way his large hand had met your head on that fateful night amongst the wisteria trees. The distant memory of Mount Fujikasane bathed in the break of sunrise when you had survived the Final Selection thanks to the kindness of a fellow candidate. The touch of a smile hidden under large eyes, as you tended to the blood upon his clothing. Mournful your rescue had tarnished his linens, but unable to deny the gratitude that spilled between your lips. The gradual release of your delicate words no longer able to mask the tremors of your small hands as the events of the days prior had nestled into your heart. The tears that caught upon your eyelashes as the sunlight met his soft smile, knowing and tender. Gentle as the hand that met your hair as though he were soothing a small child rather than a peer as the wisteria petals caught in his hair. The rumble of his warm voice comforting and deep as a hug that met your soul through your bones, “Describe them to me.”
Foreboding caws that practically harmonized with your agony as your fingernails gnawed the earth beneath your crumbled form. The break of skin, the bent of fingernails as your jaw snapped into place. Your fingertips desperately racking amongst the ground, if only you were faster. If only, you were stronger. If only you had described the wisteria to him. The distant memory of your tears tugged at the sleeve of your kimono as you allowed shame to rob you of your voice, and yet… his kindness had not faltered. A pressed smile, sympathetic and tender as you did your best to tuck away your silent humiliation met the gentle press of a flower petal between your two fingers. A treasure you had coveted, folded and mended, pressed into the breast of your pocket. Age had met it long ago, and yet, you had not been able to part with it. Unable to forsake the distant memory of such a gentle smile.
The snag of talons met the pitch of your shoulder, the cloth tugged and sharp. Far rougher than the crow had intended as its heart ached in the dead of night. Its press as gentle as its caregiver, his small caws having grown silent as it nestled into your hair. Grief touched upon its glossy feathers, no longer immaculately maintained. Disheveled as the state of its companion, its final hope for aide shattered to the mud and branches of dismay. “Z-Zekka,” the shatter of your voice met the clatter of your teeth as you fought back a sniffle. “P-please, please take me to him. I-I n-need to d-describe it-it to h-him.”
Sunlight broke amongst the trees bathed in the hues of colors that split the sky. Welcome dawn, and the call of bird’s tender and delicate in their chirps. The soft bristle of leaves that swept through the forest illuminated the snap of branches. Of decay and bloodshed taunted scent of iron that hinted at a distant floral note. Of earth and mud, the musk of sweat and the sight of relief that washed over your body. Cleanse your spirit and caught upon the ache of your rib cage. Hammered into the heart of your breast as the tears threatened to spill once more, traced familiar baths caked in soil that littered your eyelashes. The tremble of goosebumps pinched at your flesh touched and aching with every moment exposed to the morning chill from the lacerations that split across the seams of your uniform. The quiver of your lip that met the affectionate craw of the kakugiri crow, launched from your shoulder. Abandoned your presence in favor of comforts. Calloused large hands that peppered care that danced from the crown of his silken midnight feathers to the nape of his neck as it touched its cheek into the delicate touch. Hummed security reflected in the shake of your shoulders.
The gentle morning dew erased evidence of the horrors of the night. Soothed the wake of death and muddled screams, greeted life amongst the branches. The distant song of peasant’s coo to their mates. Gentle and tender as the daylight that kissed his high cheeks. The litter of lesions amongst his features. Caressed sun-kissed skin revealed a past life of humble upbringing. The small rumble of acknowledgement, his tone low and deep and harmonious as his flute. Aged scars faded amongst the wounds of his torn uniform; shredded seams snapped to the morning sun. Yet, peace claimed his features. The ease of the slump of his shoulders, the warmth of his breath in the morning chill. Small puffs are as delicate as watagashi. Other worldly and soft as the gaze that captivated you. Knowing of your presence, the small break of his smile as though he were comforting a frightened child. The gesture a phantom of memories elicited within the warmth of your breast as the tears fell from your cheeks, and the burden of his weapon crumbled your smaller frame. Shattered your resolve, as your limbs flickered emotions you had never dared to expose to the light of day. The façade of indifference crumbled as the fingers that met his uniform, soothed to the hands that met the crown of your head as though calming a startled kakiguiri crow. Obscure mumblings that succumbed wails ached into your bones.
“I-it’s warm. S-soft, like a child’s giggle. I-it’s the greet of spring, as though a breeze that beckons the blossoms to dance. I-it’s s-safe, safe. As secure as the presence of a komainu, and as playful as a fox’s tale. It is a slight as the warmth of sunlight upon your skin, and the joy of s-someone running their fingers through your hair.” You sobbed, “T-the flowers, they, y-you. The are beautiful, a beauty that follows you of your days. The l-lavender is soft and light as infatuation."
Hey, I'm the person who asked if you quit. I just wanted to apologize for stressing you out, it was really rude of me. I mainly just said that cuz your writing's really good, and I missed reading it (you're a huge inspiration to me). It was wrong of me to pressure you like that, though. You have a life outside of writing, after all, and nobody expects you to just pump out content.
Take all the time you need for work and personal stuff. We'll wait for however long it takes. You're not disappointing anyone 💜
Oh sweetie,
I am so sorry 💜anon. I promise I did not think of your initial response as rude-- i was horribly heavy that day, and felt as though my heart would crush beneath its own weight. Please do not feel that it was you in any way.
I hope you are doing well! Thank you and everyone for their patience with me.
i love looking through my archive. like "oh, would you look at that? All these posts, particularly catered to me!" I am but a raven resting upon her nest of reblogged treasures.
I wrote a beautiful, bone chilling horror-- a 10page story of a kakushi facing death, and recalling all of their soft moments with a certain Wind Hashira.
and.
it's.
gone.
Poof! 😭final copy is MIA, and the vague remainder of an idea is left in its wake. I'm obviously going to rewrite it, but guuuuuys my dramatic return fic deleted itself!!!
The long answer is that life is messy. I Have so many works in progress, drabbles, headcannons, and inputs on my computer patiently awaiting their drop day, but every time I set to it... I'm pulled away.
By home, by kids, by tests, by students. What they endure.
I'm honestly struggling to balance my schedule, and for those of you have hung in there with me with so much patience and kindness, I dont deserve you. I am eternally grateful that you still visit, and I hope that soon there will be a reward for your efforts and empathy
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
stormborns
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
