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Headcanons | Hashiras

Charachters: Sanemi, Kyojuro, Giyu, Gyomei, Tengen

Headcanons theme: Someone knocking on the door when you are fucking

A/n: I missed writing headcanons for the Hashiras and when a new idea came up I decided to write it. I hope you like it😊

Tw: Nsfw content

rengoku☆ hes so cute,, huhuhu… (@￣▽ ￣@)

#fanart #art #rengoku kyojuro #kny rengoku #demon slayer rengoku #rengoku kyōjurō #kny fanart #kny #demon slayer #demon slayer fanart #demon slayer fandom #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu rengoku #kimetsu fanart #kyojuro rengoku #kimetsu no yaiba rengoku

Wind And Comb—⁠☆

Summary: Sanemi bought you a gift but, unfortunately, faith planned something cruel—too cruel.

Warnings: angst, Husband!Sanemi x wife!reader, pregnant!reader, mention of death.

Characters: Sanemi Shinazugawa.

A/N: I love gloomy weathers—they inspire me to write angst and then force me to cry—fun right? :)

***Many flashbacks and dreams***

The wind had never felt this gentle.

Not for Sanemi.

He walked the narrow road back toward the quiet village where you waited, the late afternoon sun bleeding orange against his shoulders. His uniform was still marked with faint streaks of blood—not his, not anymore—and his sword tapped lightly against his hip with every step. For once, the scent of iron and death didn’t cling to him as much as it used to.

Maybe it was because he was almost home.

He adjusted the small bundle in his hand—a paper-wrapped package he’d been absurdly careful not to tear. Inside was a comb, lacquered dark red, with tiny etched cranes that caught the light like tiny wings. He’d bargained hard for it in the last town. Not because it was expensive, but because he knew you’d run your fingers over the carvings and smile that little smile you always tried to hide when he spoiled you.

You’d told him not to bring anything back this time. That his safety was enough.

And yet, he could already imagine your pout when you saw the gift—how you’d cross your arms and scold him, voice soft and trembling because you couldn’t stay mad at him for long. He’d laugh, brush your hair back, and murmur something teasing like,

“Then don’t look so damn cute when you do it.”

The wind brushed against his scarred cheek. He found himself smiling.

He hadn’t meant to think of it, but the warmth in his chest pulled him into a memory—soft and fleeting, like sunlight between leaves.

He was in your home, the small one you’d both rebuilt together near the edge of the forest. The morning light filtered through the shōji screens, and you stood there with your hair undone, yawning quietly as you stirred a pot over the fire.

“Sanemi,” you’d said, not looking up. “If you sneak up behind me again, I swear I’ll burn your breakfast.”

He had grinned, all teeth and mischief, before wrapping his arms around your waist anyway.

“I’ll take the risk.”

You’d laughed—light, almost musical. It wasn’t something he heard often enough. Not in this world.

And when you turned in his arms, resting your head against his chest, he’d realized how easily you fit there—how your warmth seeped through all the cracks the world had left in him.

“You always smell like blood,” you’d murmured once, quietly.

He had stiffened, unsure what to say.

But then you’d looked up and smiled that soft, understanding smile that made him hate and love you all at once.

“It’s alright,” you’d whispered, brushing your thumb against his jaw. “As long as it’s not yours.”

A crow screeched above, yanking him back to the present.

Sanemi tilted his head up. The sky was darkening now, the last rays slipping away behind the mountain ridge. He’d been walking for hours, but it didn’t matter. Every step closer meant one step nearer to you— to the sound of your voice, the scent of home-cooked rice, the warmth that waited behind that paper door.

He wondered if you’d eaten yet.

You never did until he came back. He’d scold you for it every single time, and you’d always shrug, smiling, saying, “Food tastes better when you’re here.”

Damn woman. Always making him weak in ways no demon ever could.

He reached into his uniform's pocket and brushed against something small—the folded scrap of paper you’d tucked there before his last mission. He’d read it more times than he’d admit.

Come back safe, Sanemi. Not strong—safe. I’ll be waiting.

—Love, your idiot wife.

He chuckled under his breath. You always added that last line to make him roll his eyes.

But the truth was, he loved it. He’d even kept the old ones—hidden in a small box under the floorboards. He didn’t know why. Maybe because he never knew when a mission would be his last.

The thought flickered through his chest like a blade’s edge—but he pushed it away.

Not tonight. Not when he was this close to you.

The forest opened up, and he caught the first glimpse of the house through the trees.

The lantern by the door was dark.

Strange—you always lit it when sunset came, even if he wasn’t home yet. You said it was to help him find his way back, as if he’d ever get lost.

He slowed, boots crunching softly against the dirt path.

The night wind brushed through the trees, carrying the faint scent of rain. He listened—no laughter, no clatter of dishes, no hum of your voice from inside.

It was just quiet.

Too quiet.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Years of battle had taught him to recognize silence like this—the kind that wasn’t peace, but aftermath.

He took a slow breath.

The comb in his hand suddenly felt heavier.

You were sitting under the same porch’s eaves, knees drawn to your chest, the evening light painting your face gold. He was sitting beside you, pretending not to stare.

“Hey,” you said softly, not looking at him. “If something ever happens to me—”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t talk like that.”

You had smiled, sad and knowing.

“Sanemi, we live in a world where people disappear every day. You know that better than anyone.”

He’d wanted to shout, to cover your mouth, to tell you to shut up—but your eyes had softened, and your hand found his, fingers brushing over the calloused skin of his palm.

“If something ever happens to me,” you whispered, “I just want you to promise you’ll live. Even if it hurts.”

He had scowled then, looking away, the weight of that promise too heavy to carry.

Now, as the wind howled through the empty trees, Sanemi’s hand clenched tight around the gift.

He realized he was standing still, heart pounding too fast, the air thick with something metallic and wrong.

He took a step toward the door.

The wood creaked under his touch.

And somewhere inside—faint, nearly gone—the scent of blood.

His breath hitched.

“...[Name]?”

Nothing. Just the hollow echo of his own voice.

The paper door slid open with a faint, trembling sound.

Sanemi’s hand stayed on the frame for a moment, knuckles white, his heart heavy with a dread he couldn’t name—not yet.

He stepped inside.

The air was cold.

Usually, your home smelled of fresh herbs, warm rice, and the faint sweetness of the soap you made yourself. But now, it smelled…wrong. Sharp. Iron. The kind of scent he’d spent a lifetime chasing down, killing through, and yet—this time—it froze him in place.

“[Name]?” His voice came out low. Careful.

Almost pleading.

No answer. Just the soft whisper of the wind outside and the gentle sway of the curtain by the kitchen.

He walked forward, each step slower than the last.

There were overturned dishes on the floor. The small wooden stool he’d carved for you lay broken near the table. And then—the faint drag of blood, thin but deliberate, like something had been pulled, or tried to crawl.

The room tilted slightly. He couldn’t breathe for a second.

His fingers tightened around the package in his hand—the comb. The paper tore slightly. He didn’t notice.

Sunlight entered through the shōji screens, your laughter bubbling in the background. He was sitting there on the porch, polishing his blade while you brushed your hair beside him.

You had looked over, grinning.

“Sanemi, do you ever stop glaring at everything?”

He’d raised a brow. “I’m not glaring.”

“You’re glaring,” you’d said again, smiling. “Even at the sunshine.”

He’d snorted, but you reached over and poked his cheek anyway. “You should learn to smile more.”

“Don’t need to,” he’d grumbled.

Then your expression softened—a little shy, a little bold.

“You smile when you look at me.”

He’d gone quiet then. Completely undone.

And for once, he hadn’t known what to say.

Now the silence pressed against him again. He forced his eyes forward.

His stomach turned as he followed the faint trail across the floor—toward the room you both slept in.

The door there was half-open. He could see the outline of a body—you.

As if that was not enough, something else made his heart stop completely—a sudden rush of dread filled his still body.

A hand.

Yours.

Smaller compared to his bigger one was still, curled loosely over your stomach as if protecting something precious.

His breath caught, harsh and uneven.

He stumbled forward, the wooden floorboards creaking under his boots, every step feeling like it tore through him.

“...No.”

The word fell from his lips, useless.

He dropped to his knees beside you. His fingers shook as they reached out— hesitant, terrified, unbelieving—before brushing against your cheek.

Cold.

Too cold.

“[Name],” he whispered. “Come on Darling, wake up.”

Nothing.

He pressed his forehead against yours, trembling.

The world spun. He could hear his own heartbeat crashing in his ears—too loud, too fast, too real.

The scent of a demon still lingered faintly in the air, weak, fading. He could tell it had been here not long ago.

He should’ve been here.

You were sitting by the fire again, that soft light painting your features golden. You were smiling shyly, hands folded over your lap.

“Sanemi,” you said quietly, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

He’d looked up, wary. “What is it?”

You bit your lip, cheeks pink. Then you took his hand, placed it over your stomach, and whispered—almost like a secret, almost like a prayer—

“We’re going to have a baby.”

He’d blinked. The words didn’t make sense at first.

Then they hit him like a warm rush of wind, like sunlight through clouds after months of rain.

He’d pulled you close, a rare smile breaking through his rough exterior, the kind that reached his eyes—the kind only you ever saw.

“...A kid?” he’d murmured, voice trembling.

You’d nodded. “So you’d better stop doing reckless things, you hear me?”

He’d laughed then—really laughed—and kissed your temple, whispering,

“I’ll protect you both. No matter what.”

He was still in the room, kneeling on the cold floor.

And the silence screamed.

His hand hovered over your stomach, trembling.

The faint swell was there. Small, new. Fragile.

He felt the weight of that promise—the one he’d made in that memory—shatter inside him.

“I—”

His voice cracked. He tried again.

“I was supposed to protect you.”

The words broke apart.

He bowed his head, clutching you against his chest, his body shaking with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but something rougher, older, rawer.

He’d seen hundreds of deaths. Thousands. Friends, comrades, strangers. But this—this wasn’t something his blade could cut through. It wasn’t a wound he could close.

He stayed there for a long time, rocking slightly, murmuring things that made no sense—your name, fragments of apologies, curses meant for himself, the demons, the gods, everything that allowed this to happen.

At some point, he realized his knuckles were bleeding—he didn’t even remember hitting the floor.

The comb lay beside you now, its red lacquer cracked, one of the carved cranes chipped away. He stared at it through the haze of tears he refused to acknowledge.

A gift for you.

Too late.

He saw you standing—soft light, laughter, the smell of cooking rice.

You were there, smiling. The air was golden.

“Don’t cry,” you whispered. “It’s alright, Sanemi.”

He shook his head, tears slipping free. “No, it's not—”

“You did you best.” you said, voice warm, fading, a whisper carried by the wind. “That's all I ever wanted.”

Then the light faded.

And he was left kneeling in the dark again, the sound of the wind and night echoing through the broken door.

When dawn finally came, the sky was pale and silent.

Sanemi stood outside the house, your body wrapped gently in his haori. Comb wrapped in your hands, pressed together like prayer.

He had cleaned the blood from the floor, set everything right—as if pretending could change anything. His movements had been mechanical, empty, like someone else’s.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t curse. Didn’t cry anymore.

He just sat there beside you until the light changed color, until the birds began to sing again—as if the world didn’t care that his had ended.

And maybe it didn’t.

The sun rose quiet that morning, now there were no birds, no warmth, just light that felt too sharp.

Sanemi sat there beside you, his haori was still draped over your still form. The edges fluttered slightly in the wind, the same wind that used to make you laugh when it tangled your hair.

He tucked the comb into your hair, just like the way you used to do. His own hands were steady now, though his chest felt hollow— the kind of emptiness that didn’t fade, only settled deep, permanent.

The crow had come and gone, leaving messages, orders, the next assignment— but he hadn’t answered.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

He’d already failed the only mission that had ever mattered.

The ground near the edge of the forest was soft—the kind that held wildflowers in the spring. You had always loved them, bending to touch each bloom like it was a miracle.

That’s where he buried you.

The shovel felt heavy, every motion mechanical.

He didn’t pray. He didn’t speak. He just dug until his muscles ached and the blisters reopened across his palms, until the silence became unbearable enough to drown out his thoughts.

When it was done, he sat back on his heels, staring at the small mound of earth.

A light breeze stirred the grass, carrying a faint scent of the wild lilies that grew nearby.

He swallowed hard.

His voice came out low, raw.

“I should’ve been here.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered.

He reached into his uniform's pocket and pulled out the last letter you’d written him— the one that had survived in his pocket. It was wrinkled, smudged with ash and blood, but he could still make out the handwriting.

Come back safe, Sanemi. Not strong—safe. I’ll be waiting.

—Love, your idiot wife.

He let out a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob—and pressed the paper to his forehead.

“You waited,” he whispered. “You always did.”

The wind blew harder, lifting a few petals from the ground. They danced briefly in the sunlight, pale and fleeting, before fading into the trees.

You were sitting in the field again, sunlight painting your hair gold. You looked alive— glowing, even. There was a small flower tucked behind your ear, and you were humming softly.

“Sanemi,” you said, smiling up at him. “You’re late again.”

He froze.

You laughed—that warm, unguarded laugh he’d fallen in love with.

“Don’t look so scared,” you teased gently, reaching for his hand. “You can rest now. You did enough.”

He wanted to tell you he hadn’t. That he’d never done enough. That he still needed to make it right.

But when you touched his cheek, all the fight drained out of him.

Your voice was soft—like wind through leaves.

“Live for me.”

He woke up—and you were gone again.

The field, the sunlight, everything faded back into black.

He continued the night, staying by your grave.

He didn’t light a candle or whisper a prayer—you’d once told him you hated how people only prayed after losing something.

So instead, he just talked. Quietly. Awkwardly. Like he used to when he came home late, trying not to wake you.

“I bought that damn comb because you said your old one cracked,” he muttered, voice low. “Spent half an hour arguing with the merchant over it. Told him my wife deserved something decent. Motherfucker was showing some cheap ones.”

He let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Guess I’m the idiot now, huh?”

The wind rustled the trees above, a soft hum that might’ve been an answer.

He looked up, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red.

“I wanted—” He stopped, breath catching. “I wanted to see the kid. To…to hear you say my name again.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind.

Then, very faintly, he swore he heard your voice—a whisper threaded through the breeze.

“You still can.”

He closed his eyes. The tears came silently this time.

No rage, no screams—just grief, quiet and endless, like the night sky above him.

Days passed. Weeks, maybe.

He returned to the Corps eventually, blade in hand, face hard as ever. But something in him stayed missing—something no training, no victory, no blood could fill.

They said the Wind Hashira had grown colder. That his temper was worse.

What they didn’t see were the moments between battles—when he’d reach into his pocket and touch that folded scrap of paper, or the faint smile that sometimes crossed his face when the wind carried a familiar scent.

When the others weren’t watching, he still talked to you sometimes. Quietly.

Before a mission, he’d whisper, “I’ll be careful.”

When he saw a blooming field, he’d murmur, “You’d like this one.”

And at night, when sleep wouldn’t come, he’d close his eyes and see you standing there—smiling, reaching out your hand.

He was home again.

The door slid open, and this time, the air was warm.

You stood there by the fire, back turned, humming softly. When you looked over your shoulder, your eyes met his—bright, alive.

“You’re home,” you said simply.

He smiled—a small, trembling smile—and walked toward you.

When he reached you, his hand found yours. Your fingers laced together, warm, real.

No blood. No pain. Just peace.

You leaned into him, whispering,

“The wind brought you back.”

And for the first time in forever, Sanemi Shinazugawa let himself breathe.

What a sweet dream.

Years later, when the fields bloomed again, the wildflowers near your grave grew thicker than anywhere else.

The villagers said it was because of the soil—rich, blessed by sunlight.

But Sanemi knew better.

He’d stand there sometimes, sword slung over his shoulder, the wind tugging at his haori, and whisper your name into the breeze.

And when the petals stirred and the air turned warm, he’d almost hear your laughter again—faint, soft, carried by the wind that never left.

The comb was now kind of visible—thanks to the soil erosion—half-buried by flowers, its cracked surface catching the light.

A small, broken promise—but one that still glimmered with love.

“As long as it’s not yours,” you’d once said.

Now, the wind answered for him.

“It never was.”

Not shiny outro because Tumblr only allows 10 images :p, and thank you @saradika-graphics for making these godly dividers for us—lowly humans T^T and the headers on her account are just <3.LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!

Don't steal,copy,use or edit my works in any form without my permission.

Barelyalive out!

Endure Endure Endure Endure Endure Endure Endure

Genya!!

I still can’t figure out how I want to draw him PFFT.

𝑷𝒂𝒑𝒂'𝒔 𝑩𝒐𝒚 (𝑫𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝑺𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒊𝒄) 𝑲. 𝑹𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒐𝒌𝒖

𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Kyojuro Rengoku x Reader (You)!

𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒔: fluff, faith, slice of life, light humour, marriage, parenting, breastfeeding, mini uncle Senjuro! Rengoku is obsessed with your baby!

Blurb: Your husband, Rengoku is a tease. Your son is the cutest thing you've ever seen. It's a playful evening in your household, filled with love, laughter, gratitude and milk.

🧡 ᡣ • . • 𐭩 🍼

“You love Papa, don't you Kei?” Kyojuro asked, giving your son an affectionate squeeze in his arms. “More than mommy.”

The man teasingly stuck his tongue out at you and mouthed, “Mine.”

Lord, why did I marry this silly man?

Kyojuro smirked as though he won a prize when Keijiro chose him over you, his mother, in a “come here” challenge to see who the baby would choose.

“Traitor!” you said playfully, grabbing a pillow next to you. You hugged it to your chest instead of throwing it like you wanted to. “You're sleeping on the couch tonight. Give me my baby back.”

You scoffed in amusement as Keijiro, your one-year-old son, slobbered all over his father's shoulder while he babbled.

“You’re Papa's boy, aren't you Kei?” Kyojuro hummed, holding the baby's back carefully while he patted his bum in a soothing rhythm. “Say Papa.”

Keijiro made gurgles, and giggled as if he understood. “Ma,” he started, “Mama.”

You laughed at the betrayed look on your husband's face and cooed at your son's flushed chubby cheeks and pouty lips. Your baby was in a duck themed onesie; entirely white with yellow flippers on his feet and a beak on its cap.

It was adorable.

You just had to buy it when you saw it.

You cherished this—them together.

Your husband and son.

The sight warmed your heart, and you thanked God for this blessing.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17, came to mind and you thought it was perfect.

Life. Love, and family.

Kyojuro Rengoku didn't have the most supportive father. After his mother, Ruka’s death his dad practically became an alcoholic. He wasn't a proper father to Kyojuro or his younger brother Senjuro after that, not really.

When Kyojuro became a teacher at Kimetsu High he took his little brother in. The fifteen-year-old boy moved in two years after your marriage with Kyojuro. It was an adjustment for you all but it went well and it was worth it.

The boy fit right into your little family.

Senjuro was a sweetheart.

You adored him.

He was a mixture of a big brother and an uncle to your son; you loved their bond.

A memory of a few weeks ago surfaced.

“Kei, look here,” the teenager called his nephew’s attention then hid his face behind his hands. “Peekaboo.”

Keijiro cried.

Senjuro panicked but was able to cheer the little one up.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry. I'm right here, Kei. Sorry bubs,” he picked the baby up and shushed him gently. “It's okay.”

“Aww, he was so scared his baba disappeared,” you whispered, holding the tears at bay at how endearing they were together.

Keijiro inherited everything in the looks department from his father. The two were identical. Matching thick, blonde hair with red streaks. Pale skin and bright golden eyes with hints of red that sparkled like flames.

And the loudness.

The tiny human loved to make noise, Keijiro was a hyper baby who loved to be talked to but grew grumpy when it was his time to nap.

“My baby's the cutest.”

You felt a rush of ‘cuteness aggression’ overtake you and wanted nothing more than to bite the almost dosing baby's cheeks and smother him with affection.

“And my husband is so handsome,” you added and waved the man over. “Come here, I'm getting lonely.”

Kyojuro wore fatherhood so well, seeing him nurture your son made your stomach flip pleasantly.

“Oh dear,” the man mused, and quickly moved to the space you patted next to you on the bed. “We can't have that,” he leaned down for a kiss but Keijiro pulled his father's hair and whined.

“Excuse me, mister,” you sassed the baby and ticked his tummy, getting a squeal out of him. “I had him first. He was my husband before he was your daddy, y'know.”

You took Keijiro from his father's arms and the boy went without a fuss.

He pawed at your shirt, then tugged harder and you immediately knew what he wanted.

“Oh, is my baby hungry?”

You were glad to be able to breastfeed your son. Not a lot of mothers did it these days—and some couldn't. It was something you treasured. Nursing made you feel closer to your son, and it was known to be good for babies.

Kyojuro propped the pillows around you to make you more comfortable.

He remained a steady presence next to you.

His gaze was soft, and showed how much he cared about you and his son.

“Okay,” you said, lifting your shirt, allowing the little one to latch on in the privacy of your room. “There you go angel.”

Keijiro’s small, chubby hand found its way to your cheek as he suckled in slow pulls. His eyelids fluttered sleepily while making a noise of contentment as he drank. You maintained eye contact with the little one, and took in every detail of his face, memorising it.

He was so tiny in your arms.

Keijiro stared at you as as if you held the stars through droopy eyes.

“Ma,” he spluttered out a slobbery. “Da.”

“My precious,” You couldn't help but smile. “Thank you Lord for this. For my family. I pray that my baby grows up strong, and healthy. I pray that you give me the gentleness, wisdom, and kindness to be a mother to him. Teach me, O God. To do the right thing.”

You felt Kyojuro lean into your side, and kiss your shoulder, muttering a prayer of his own over the two of you, and his brother. “Amen.”

“I love you,” he said, and pressed a peck to your forehead. “You're a wonderful mother. I'm thankful to God for you, beloved.”

You felt Keijiro's lips detach from your nipple, and cool air hit your chest.

“He's asleep.”

You tucked yourself away, and shifted the baby in a more comfortable position.

“You are so beautiful when you nurse, dear one.”

You knew Kyojuro meant it.

Even if your hair was messy, and your shirt was stained with the pumpkin Keijiro smeared on you from dinner.

“Stop.”

“My wife is the most beautiful,” he cupped your cheek and drew you in for a kiss.

“I'm gonna shower soon,” you announced with a yawn, nuzzling into his warm palm. “I need to get out of these clothes, and into something more comfortable.”

“Can I join?” Kyojuro asked, eyes lighting up with excitement. “I can wash your back. And your hair. We could take a bath together. It'll be more efficient for relaxation,” he perked up, and slid off the bed. “I can get it ready. You just sit tight—”

Kyojuro liked taking care of you.

“Wait, who's gonna watch Kei?”

It wasn't too dangerous to let the boy sleep alone for a little while, you knew that. You had portable baby monitors and Keijiro’s crib had bars—it was built to keep him safe but you still worried.

What if Kei wakes up and I'm not here?

At the sound of shuffling downstairs you remembered your brother-in-law was in the house too.

“I could ask Senjuro to check on our boy if you're too uncertain, darling,” he brushed his thumb over your lip, and grinned. “He loves Kei. I'm sure he won't mind, and we won't be too far either. I'd never let anything happen to our son!”

“I know,” you said, comforted by the words, and kissed him. “Okay.”

.ᐟ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡🍼♡˚

Keijiro Rengoku

Meaning of name: Joyful, blessed or celebrated second son.

Kei - joy, celebration, blessing Jirō - second son

Pronunciation:

Keijiro → KAY-jee-roh

Kyojuro → KYOH-joo-roh

†

Author Yaps 🧡

Isn't our baby the cutest tho?

What'd ya think? >//<

I wanted to continue a next scene, caretaking bath time, and more fluff and comfort. Maybe Senjuro, Tanjiro, and the gang can babysit Keijiro, and shenanigans ensue. Future fic ideas tho.

Written on 18. 07. 2026

Masterlist - for more fics!

Sakura Mochi Sweetheart

Pairing: Mitsuri Kanroji x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5,600

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Summary: A private mochi-tasting date in the garden turns deliciously heated when Mitsuri decides to savor more than just the sweets.

The Butterfly Mansion’s garden was bathed in the soft pink of late-afternoon sun, wisteria vines draping heavy over the wooden pavilion like living curtains. Petals drifted down in slow spirals, catching in Mitsuri’s loose pink-green hair as she knelt on the thick tatami mats she’d arranged earlier—blankets, cushions, a low table scattered with sakura mochi she’d spent the morning making with you.

Her yukata was a pale cherry-blossom shade, sleeves slipping off rounded shoulders to reveal smooth skin still flushed from kitchen heat. She beamed at you, emerald eyes sparkling, and patted the cushion right beside her.

“Sit close!” she chirped, voice bright and a little breathless. “I saved the prettiest ones just for you.”

You settled beside her, knees brushing. The air smelled of salted cherry leaves, sweet red bean, and the faint floral warmth that always clung to Mitsuri’s skin. She picked up a glossy pink mochi—perfectly round, dusted with sakura powder—and held it to your lips.

“Open wide, sweetheart.”

You parted your mouth. She slid the mochi inside gently, watching with rapt attention as you bit down. The rice was tender, chewy; the filling burst warm and sugary on your tongue. A tiny smear of red bean paste clung to the corner of your lip.

Mitsuri’s gaze locked on it instantly.

“Oh nooo,” she murmured, leaning in so close her breath ghosted your skin. “You’ve got a little…”

Instead of using her finger, she darted forward and licked it away—slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue—then sealed her lips over yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

The sweetness transferred between you. Mitsuri sighed happily against your mouth, one hand cupping your cheek while the other slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer.

“You taste even better than the mochi,” she whispered when she pulled back just enough to speak. Her pupils were already dilated, cheeks blooming darker pink. “I could kiss you forever.”

You smiled, brushing a stray petal from her hair. “Then don’t stop.”

That was all the permission she needed.

Mitsuri shifted, swinging one strong thigh over your lap so she straddled you fully. Her yukata parted further—revealing the soft swell of her breasts, the gentle curve of her waist. She kissed you deeper now, tongue sweeping in lazy, hungry strokes, sharing every lingering trace of sugar.

Your hands found her hips, sliding up under loose fabric to trace warm skin. She arched with a soft whimper, pressing her chest against yours.

She broke the kiss only to reach for another mochi. This time she bit into it herself—plump lips wrapping around half—then leaned in, offering you the rest mouth-to-mouth.

You met her halfway. Teeth grazed her bottom lip as you took the piece; sticky sweetness smeared between your mouths. Mitsuri giggled into the kiss, the sound vibrating sweetly.

“Messy girl,” she teased, but her voice had gone husky, breath coming faster.

She set the tray aside and guided you down onto the cushions until you were reclining, surrounded by drifting petals. Mitsuri hovered above you, hair cascading like a pink-green waterfall, framing her flushed face.

She kissed down your neck—open-mouthed, warm—nosing aside your kimono to lave attention over collarbone and chest. When she reached your breasts she paused, looking up with those wide, adoring eyes.

“May I…?”

You nodded, already breathless. “Please.”

Her smile was radiant. She tugged fabric down gently, exposing you to cool air and her hotter mouth. She took one nipple between her lips—sucking softly at first, then firmer, tongue swirling slow circles. Her hand palmed the other breast, thumb brushing back and forth until it stiffened under her touch.

You gasped, fingers threading into her hair—those silky waves spilling everywhere. She hummed in delight, the vibration shooting straight between your legs.

After worshiping both breasts until you were squirming, she kissed lower—stomach, hips—until she knelt between your thighs. Gentle hands pushed your kimono up and spread you open.

“Look at you,” she breathed, eyes fixed on your glistening folds. “So beautiful… already so ready for me.”

No teasing preamble. Mitsuri leaned in and licked one long, slow stripe from entrance to clit. Your hips jerked; she wrapped strong arms around your thighs, holding you steady, and dove in like she was savoring her favorite dessert.

Her tongue was everywhere—circling your clit in tight, quick spirals, flattening for broad laps, sucking gently then harder. Every so often she dipped lower, pushing inside you with soft, eager thrusts, moaning at your taste.

“So sweet,” she mumbled against you. “My favorite flavor.”

Two long fingers slid in—curling perfectly against that sensitive spot, pumping slow and deep while her mouth stayed latched to your clit.

Pleasure coiled tight and fast. Your hands fisted the blankets; thighs trembled around her head.

“Mitsuri—gonna come—”

She looked up without stopping, eyes shining with love. “Yes, sweetheart. Come for me. Let me taste all of it.”

You shattered—back arching off the cushions, cry muffled into your arm, pulsing hard around her fingers. Mitsuri licked softer through the aftershocks, drawing every last tremor from you until you were whimpering and oversensitive.

When she crawled back up, lips and chin glossy, she kissed you deeply—letting you taste yourself mixed with lingering sakura sugar.

“Now you,” you whispered, already reaching for her obi ties.

She helped eagerly, yukata pooling around her waist. Her body was breathtaking—soft curves over lean muscle, skin flushed and glowing. Breasts full, nipples pebbled in the evening air.

You pushed her gently onto her back amid the petals. She laughed softly as you straddled her thighs.

You reached for a mochi, bit into it, and let a slow drip of red bean filling fall onto her breast. Mitsuri gasped, then giggled.

“You’re so bad.”

You leaned down and licked it off—slow circles around her nipple, sucking the sweetness away. She moaned, back arching. You repeated on the other side, then trailed lower—drizzling a thin sticky line down her stomach.

By the time you settled between her legs she was trembling, thighs spread wide, folds slick and swollen.

You licked the last traces of mochi from her skin, then focused where she ached most. The first taste of her—warm, sweet, addictive—drew a groan from your throat.

Gentle licks at first—savoring—then quick flicks over her clit, hard sucks, tongue dipping inside. Two fingers joined, pumping in time with your mouth.

Mitsuri’s hands flew to your hair, tugging gently. “Yes—right there—don’t stop—”

You curled your fingers, rubbed that spot relentlessly while your tongue worked tight circles.

“Feels so good—your mouth—your fingers—oh—”

Three fingers now, stretching her, thrusting faster. She clenched hard, thighs shaking.

“I’m—sweetheart—I’m—”

You sucked harder. She came with a sharp, sweet cry—back bowing, hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the sound, pulsing around your fingers. You kept going softly until she tugged you up, kissing you desperately.

Still not satisfied, Mitsuri rolled you both so you lay side by side, legs tangling. She hooked your thigh over her hip, aligning your centers.

“Together,” she whispered, rolling her hips in a slow, experimental grind.

Wet heat met wet heat; you both gasped.

You matched her rhythm—slow slides building to harder grinds, clit rubbing clit. Slick sounds filled the pavilion, mingling with breathy moans.

Mitsuri’s hand slipped between you—fingers circling both clits in tight, fast loops while you rocked together.

“Look at me,” she panted. “I want to watch you come.”

You locked eyes—hers bright, teary, full of adoration. The intimacy pushed you closer.

“Come with me,” you gasped. “Mitsuri—now—”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—together—”

The orgasm crashed through you both at once—sharp, overwhelming. You cried out in unison, hips stuttering, grinding down hard as pleasure rolled in waves. Nails dug into skin, bodies trembling together.

When it finally faded you collapsed in a sweaty, petal-covered tangle—legs still entwined, chests heaving.

Mitsuri nuzzled your neck, pressing tiny kisses there. “I love you,” she whispered, voice small and reverent. “So, so much.”

You stroked her hair, smiling against her temple. “Love you more. My sweet mochi girl.”

She giggled sleepily, pulling a blanket over you both. “We should do this every afternoon.”

“Every single day,” you agreed.

Cherry blossoms continued to fall—soft pink snow—while you held each other in the golden light, hearts full, lips still tasting like sugar and each other.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUIIII‼️‼️‼️ (for the third time today)

This is my part in @rosemaryduexx ‘s Mui birthday art collab! We drew each of the Hashira interacting with him in an album/ scrapbook format! It’s really sweet and cute so everyone should check it out ‼️‼️ And support everyone involved as well we worked really hard on this ‼️‼️‼️

Muichirou is a spoiled guy today but it’s ok since is him!

Wind And Comb—⁠☆

Summary: Sanemi bought you a gift but, unfortunately, faith planned something cruel—too cruel.

Warnings: angst, Husband!Sanemi x wife!reader, pregnant!reader, mention of death.

Characters: Sanemi Shinazugawa.

A/N: I love gloomy weathers—they inspire me to write angst and then force me to cry—fun right? :)

***Many flashbacks and dreams***

The wind had never felt this gentle.

Not for Sanemi.

Maybe it was because he was almost home.

You’d told him not to bring anything back this time. That his safety was enough.

“Then don’t look so damn cute when you do it.”

The wind brushed against his scarred cheek. He found himself smiling.

He hadn’t meant to think of it, but the warmth in his chest pulled him into a memory—soft and fleeting, like sunlight between leaves.

“Sanemi,” you’d said, not looking up. “If you sneak up behind me again, I swear I’ll burn your breakfast.”

He had grinned, all teeth and mischief, before wrapping his arms around your waist anyway.

“I’ll take the risk.”

You’d laughed—light, almost musical. It wasn’t something he heard often enough. Not in this world.

And when you turned in his arms, resting your head against his chest, he’d realized how easily you fit there—how your warmth seeped through all the cracks the world had left in him.

“You always smell like blood,” you’d murmured once, quietly.

He had stiffened, unsure what to say.

But then you’d looked up and smiled that soft, understanding smile that made him hate and love you all at once.

“It’s alright,” you’d whispered, brushing your thumb against his jaw. “As long as it’s not yours.”

A crow screeched above, yanking him back to the present.

He wondered if you’d eaten yet.

You never did until he came back. He’d scold you for it every single time, and you’d always shrug, smiling, saying, “Food tastes better when you’re here.”

Damn woman. Always making him weak in ways no demon ever could.

He reached into his uniform's pocket and brushed against something small—the folded scrap of paper you’d tucked there before his last mission. He’d read it more times than he’d admit.

Come back safe, Sanemi. Not strong—safe. I’ll be waiting.

—Love, your idiot wife.

He chuckled under his breath. You always added that last line to make him roll his eyes.

But the truth was, he loved it. He’d even kept the old ones—hidden in a small box under the floorboards. He didn’t know why. Maybe because he never knew when a mission would be his last.

The thought flickered through his chest like a blade’s edge—but he pushed it away.

Not tonight. Not when he was this close to you.

The forest opened up, and he caught the first glimpse of the house through the trees.

The lantern by the door was dark.

Strange—you always lit it when sunset came, even if he wasn’t home yet. You said it was to help him find his way back, as if he’d ever get lost.

He slowed, boots crunching softly against the dirt path.

The night wind brushed through the trees, carrying the faint scent of rain. He listened—no laughter, no clatter of dishes, no hum of your voice from inside.

It was just quiet.

Too quiet.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Years of battle had taught him to recognize silence like this—the kind that wasn’t peace, but aftermath.

He took a slow breath.

The comb in his hand suddenly felt heavier.

You were sitting under the same porch’s eaves, knees drawn to your chest, the evening light painting your face gold. He was sitting beside you, pretending not to stare.

“Hey,” you said softly, not looking at him. “If something ever happens to me—”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t talk like that.”

You had smiled, sad and knowing.

“Sanemi, we live in a world where people disappear every day. You know that better than anyone.”

He’d wanted to shout, to cover your mouth, to tell you to shut up—but your eyes had softened, and your hand found his, fingers brushing over the calloused skin of his palm.

“If something ever happens to me,” you whispered, “I just want you to promise you’ll live. Even if it hurts.”

He had scowled then, looking away, the weight of that promise too heavy to carry.

Now, as the wind howled through the empty trees, Sanemi’s hand clenched tight around the gift.

He realized he was standing still, heart pounding too fast, the air thick with something metallic and wrong.

He took a step toward the door.

The wood creaked under his touch.

And somewhere inside—faint, nearly gone—the scent of blood.

His breath hitched.

“...[Name]?”

Nothing. Just the hollow echo of his own voice.

The paper door slid open with a faint, trembling sound.

Sanemi’s hand stayed on the frame for a moment, knuckles white, his heart heavy with a dread he couldn’t name—not yet.

He stepped inside.

The air was cold.

“[Name]?” His voice came out low. Careful.

Almost pleading.

No answer. Just the soft whisper of the wind outside and the gentle sway of the curtain by the kitchen.

He walked forward, each step slower than the last.

The room tilted slightly. He couldn’t breathe for a second.

His fingers tightened around the package in his hand—the comb. The paper tore slightly. He didn’t notice.

Sunlight entered through the shōji screens, your laughter bubbling in the background. He was sitting there on the porch, polishing his blade while you brushed your hair beside him.

You had looked over, grinning.

“Sanemi, do you ever stop glaring at everything?”

He’d raised a brow. “I’m not glaring.”

“You’re glaring,” you’d said again, smiling. “Even at the sunshine.”

He’d snorted, but you reached over and poked his cheek anyway. “You should learn to smile more.”

“Don’t need to,” he’d grumbled.

Then your expression softened—a little shy, a little bold.

“You smile when you look at me.”

He’d gone quiet then. Completely undone.

And for once, he hadn’t known what to say.

Now the silence pressed against him again. He forced his eyes forward.

His stomach turned as he followed the faint trail across the floor—toward the room you both slept in.

The door there was half-open. He could see the outline of a body—you.

As if that was not enough, something else made his heart stop completely—a sudden rush of dread filled his still body.

A hand.

Yours.

Smaller compared to his bigger one was still, curled loosely over your stomach as if protecting something precious.

His breath caught, harsh and uneven.

He stumbled forward, the wooden floorboards creaking under his boots, every step feeling like it tore through him.

“...No.”

The word fell from his lips, useless.

He dropped to his knees beside you. His fingers shook as they reached out— hesitant, terrified, unbelieving—before brushing against your cheek.

Cold.

Too cold.

“[Name],” he whispered. “Come on Darling, wake up.”

Nothing.

He pressed his forehead against yours, trembling.

The world spun. He could hear his own heartbeat crashing in his ears—too loud, too fast, too real.

The scent of a demon still lingered faintly in the air, weak, fading. He could tell it had been here not long ago.

He should’ve been here.

You were sitting by the fire again, that soft light painting your features golden. You were smiling shyly, hands folded over your lap.

“Sanemi,” you said quietly, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

He’d looked up, wary. “What is it?”

You bit your lip, cheeks pink. Then you took his hand, placed it over your stomach, and whispered—almost like a secret, almost like a prayer—

“We’re going to have a baby.”

He’d blinked. The words didn’t make sense at first.

Then they hit him like a warm rush of wind, like sunlight through clouds after months of rain.

He’d pulled you close, a rare smile breaking through his rough exterior, the kind that reached his eyes—the kind only you ever saw.

“...A kid?” he’d murmured, voice trembling.

You’d nodded. “So you’d better stop doing reckless things, you hear me?”

He’d laughed then—really laughed—and kissed your temple, whispering,

“I’ll protect you both. No matter what.”

He was still in the room, kneeling on the cold floor.

And the silence screamed.

His hand hovered over your stomach, trembling.

The faint swell was there. Small, new. Fragile.

He felt the weight of that promise—the one he’d made in that memory—shatter inside him.

“I—”

His voice cracked. He tried again.

“I was supposed to protect you.”

The words broke apart.

He bowed his head, clutching you against his chest, his body shaking with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but something rougher, older, rawer.

He’d seen hundreds of deaths. Thousands. Friends, comrades, strangers. But this—this wasn’t something his blade could cut through. It wasn’t a wound he could close.

At some point, he realized his knuckles were bleeding—he didn’t even remember hitting the floor.

The comb lay beside you now, its red lacquer cracked, one of the carved cranes chipped away. He stared at it through the haze of tears he refused to acknowledge.

A gift for you.

Too late.

He saw you standing—soft light, laughter, the smell of cooking rice.

You were there, smiling. The air was golden.

“Don’t cry,” you whispered. “It’s alright, Sanemi.”

He shook his head, tears slipping free. “No, it's not—”

“You did you best.” you said, voice warm, fading, a whisper carried by the wind. “That's all I ever wanted.”

Then the light faded.

And he was left kneeling in the dark again, the sound of the wind and night echoing through the broken door.

When dawn finally came, the sky was pale and silent.

Sanemi stood outside the house, your body wrapped gently in his haori. Comb wrapped in your hands, pressed together like prayer.

He had cleaned the blood from the floor, set everything right—as if pretending could change anything. His movements had been mechanical, empty, like someone else’s.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t curse. Didn’t cry anymore.

He just sat there beside you until the light changed color, until the birds began to sing again—as if the world didn’t care that his had ended.

And maybe it didn’t.

The sun rose quiet that morning, now there were no birds, no warmth, just light that felt too sharp.

Sanemi sat there beside you, his haori was still draped over your still form. The edges fluttered slightly in the wind, the same wind that used to make you laugh when it tangled your hair.

The crow had come and gone, leaving messages, orders, the next assignment— but he hadn’t answered.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

He’d already failed the only mission that had ever mattered.

The ground near the edge of the forest was soft—the kind that held wildflowers in the spring. You had always loved them, bending to touch each bloom like it was a miracle.

That’s where he buried you.

The shovel felt heavy, every motion mechanical.

He didn’t pray. He didn’t speak. He just dug until his muscles ached and the blisters reopened across his palms, until the silence became unbearable enough to drown out his thoughts.

When it was done, he sat back on his heels, staring at the small mound of earth.

A light breeze stirred the grass, carrying a faint scent of the wild lilies that grew nearby.

He swallowed hard.

His voice came out low, raw.

“I should’ve been here.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered.

Come back safe, Sanemi. Not strong—safe. I’ll be waiting.

—Love, your idiot wife.

He let out a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob—and pressed the paper to his forehead.

“You waited,” he whispered. “You always did.”

The wind blew harder, lifting a few petals from the ground. They danced briefly in the sunlight, pale and fleeting, before fading into the trees.

You were sitting in the field again, sunlight painting your hair gold. You looked alive— glowing, even. There was a small flower tucked behind your ear, and you were humming softly.

“Sanemi,” you said, smiling up at him. “You’re late again.”

He froze.

You laughed—that warm, unguarded laugh he’d fallen in love with.

“Don’t look so scared,” you teased gently, reaching for his hand. “You can rest now. You did enough.”

He wanted to tell you he hadn’t. That he’d never done enough. That he still needed to make it right.

But when you touched his cheek, all the fight drained out of him.

Your voice was soft—like wind through leaves.

“Live for me.”

He woke up—and you were gone again.

The field, the sunlight, everything faded back into black.

He continued the night, staying by your grave.

He didn’t light a candle or whisper a prayer—you’d once told him you hated how people only prayed after losing something.

So instead, he just talked. Quietly. Awkwardly. Like he used to when he came home late, trying not to wake you.

He let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Guess I’m the idiot now, huh?”

The wind rustled the trees above, a soft hum that might’ve been an answer.

He looked up, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red.

“I wanted—” He stopped, breath catching. “I wanted to see the kid. To…to hear you say my name again.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind.

Then, very faintly, he swore he heard your voice—a whisper threaded through the breeze.

“You still can.”

He closed his eyes. The tears came silently this time.

No rage, no screams—just grief, quiet and endless, like the night sky above him.

Days passed. Weeks, maybe.

He returned to the Corps eventually, blade in hand, face hard as ever. But something in him stayed missing—something no training, no victory, no blood could fill.

They said the Wind Hashira had grown colder. That his temper was worse.

When the others weren’t watching, he still talked to you sometimes. Quietly.

Before a mission, he’d whisper, “I’ll be careful.”

When he saw a blooming field, he’d murmur, “You’d like this one.”

And at night, when sleep wouldn’t come, he’d close his eyes and see you standing there—smiling, reaching out your hand.

He was home again.

The door slid open, and this time, the air was warm.

You stood there by the fire, back turned, humming softly. When you looked over your shoulder, your eyes met his—bright, alive.

“You’re home,” you said simply.

He smiled—a small, trembling smile—and walked toward you.

When he reached you, his hand found yours. Your fingers laced together, warm, real.

No blood. No pain. Just peace.

You leaned into him, whispering,

“The wind brought you back.”

And for the first time in forever, Sanemi Shinazugawa let himself breathe.

What a sweet dream.

Years later, when the fields bloomed again, the wildflowers near your grave grew thicker than anywhere else.

The villagers said it was because of the soil—rich, blessed by sunlight.

But Sanemi knew better.

He’d stand there sometimes, sword slung over his shoulder, the wind tugging at his haori, and whisper your name into the breeze.

And when the petals stirred and the air turned warm, he’d almost hear your laughter again—faint, soft, carried by the wind that never left.

The comb was now kind of visible—thanks to the soil erosion—half-buried by flowers, its cracked surface catching the light.

A small, broken promise—but one that still glimmered with love.

“As long as it’s not yours,” you’d once said.

Now, the wind answered for him.

“It never was.”

Don't steal,copy,use or edit my works in any form without my permission.

Barelyalive out!

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