Fluff, gn!reader, no use of she, he or they and crack || Thank you for the request dear<33
Rengoku Kyojuro was used to admiration, to be honest.
He was a Hashira—people looked at him with awe, fear, hope. He encouraged it loudly, proudly, because morale mattered and confidence saved lives. Praise rolled off him easily when it was shouted, exaggerated, emotional.
What he wasn’t used to was you.
It happened after training, when the sun was low and the grounds were quiet. He had just finished demonstrating a form, blade slicing cleanly through the air before returning to its sheath in one practiced motion. He turned, ready to launch into his usual booming encouragement—
And you were just watching him. Thoughtful and steady.
“That was precise,” you said. “Every movement had purpose. It’s reassuring to watch.”
Reassuring.
The word made him pause.
He smiled, of course—wide and bright and practiced. “HAHA! Of course! A swordsman must—”
But the words slowed. He cleared his throat, posture straightening even more than usual.
“…I’m glad,” he said instead. “That you feel that way.”
From then on, you spoke to him the same way, consistently, without fanfare. After missions, while others were still catching their breath or celebrating survival, you’d approach him calmly.
“You always put yourself where the danger is worst,” you said once while he cleaned his blade. “It keeps everyone else standing.”
He didn’t laugh that time.
His hand tightened briefly around the cloth before he nodded. “That is my duty.”
But later, Mitsuri noticed he was quieter than usual, gaze distant, as if replaying something over and over in his mind.
On another day, during a long train ride, you sat across from him in silence. He was relaxed, arms folded, smiling as he usually did—until you spoke again.
“You really live the way you tell others to,” you said. “No hesitation, no excuses, I respect that.”
Not amazing, not incredible.
Respect.
Rengoku’s smile softened—not dimmed, just… refined. He placed a hand over his chest, fingers pressing lightly as if to steady himself.
“…To be respected,” he said slowly, “by someone who understands the cost is no small thing.”
He looked out the window then, flames of his hair catching the light, ears faintly warm.
You never idolized him, you never placed him on a pedestal.
You saw him.
And that was what changed everything.
After that, he walked a little closer to you on missions, asked your thoughts more often thanked you—not loudly, not for show, but sincerely.
Your admiration didn’t make him flustered or reckless.
It grounded him.
And for a man who carried his heart like a blazing fire, that quiet, steady respect became something he protected just as fiercely as his duty.
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You’re not even part of the Demon Slayer corps. You live in the outskirts of the city in a humble little home with vegetables in the front garden and sunlight hitting the kitchen window just right in the morning. You don’t fight demons. You don’t swing swords.
But Kyojuro looks at you like you built the sun.
He visits often. More often than you expect a man of his position to. When you open the door and see him there—uniform slightly burnt at the edges, sandals muddy from a long trek, hair wild and eyes bright like twin infernos—he greets you with the same breathless smile every time.
Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him stop running.
“Good morning!” he says, even if it’s already late afternoon. “May I sit with you for a moment?”
Of course he can. He always can.
He brings you persimmons sometimes, or wagashi he stole from the Butterfly estate’s kitchens when Shinobu wasn’t looking. He once carved you a pair of wooden hair sticks and shyly handed them over with flushed cheeks.
You’d worn them the next morning.
Now, he comes almost weekly, always with something to share: a story, a meal, a hand-carved comb, a bundle of flowers so chaotically arranged it looks like a bush exploded. You feed him. You listen. You walk him back to the end of the path before the fields begin. He turns three times before finally leaving, like he doesn’t want to lose the sight of you.
Kyojuro doesn’t just say he loves you—he announces it.
To you. To his sword. To small birds flying by.
When you're past that stage, he stays over nights sometimes.
He wakes you with forehead kisses, then immediately asks if you slept well, if you’re warm, if you liked it, if you dreamed of him. When you mumble a groggy yes, he beams so hard it could melt snow.
Breakfast is always an enthusiastic event. He holds your bowl like it's sacred when he passes it to you, says “Please enjoy!” like you're dining in a five-star inn, and watches every bite with an eager little smile.
“I love feeding you” he says. “I’ll cook one day too—once I learn! We will cook together like an unstoppable flame duo!”
You raise a brow. “You do realize you burned rice in a pot of water, right?”
He places a dramatic hand on his chest. “My love! The flames got excited!”
He shows off a lot.
Lifting things he has no business lifting. Catching fruit midair with his katana. Flexing after training and acting like he’s not waiting for praise.
You catch him once posing topless in the garden when he knows you’re nearby. Arms crossed behind his head, sun hitting his abs, chest glistening from the well water he just splashed over himself.
“Kyojuro,” you say. “You’re glowing like a festival lantern.”
He grins. “Do you find me handsome?”
“I find you obvious.”
“And yet your cheeks are all red,” he replies, voice lowering just enough to make your stomach flutter.
He crosses the garden, hair still wet from the well. He stops just before you, leaning down, his forehead brushing yours.
“You do like what you see,” he says warmly. “I do all this for you, you know.”
You laugh, flustered, shoving his chest—uselessly, because he’s solid as a wall. “Show-off.”
He leans in further, voice dropping to a near whisper. “You’re the only one I want to impress.”
He’s very sure about you. That certainty is the softest, warmest thing you’ve ever known. There’s no hesitation in him—not a flicker.
“I will marry you,” he says one night, holding your hand in bed, eyes glowing in the candlelight. “It is not a question. It is a promise. You are my future.”
You kiss his knuckles. “You’re not even asking?”
“I’m declaring!” he beams. “If you say yes, I will start building our future tomorrow. If you say no, I will simply ask again the next day, and the next.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart is all but melting.
He’s warm at night. Not just in temperature, but in presence. You never have to reach far—his arms are always there, around you. His voice is a lullaby at your neck. He loves touching you: your back, your waist, your stomach—wherever he rests his hand, it feels like he’s saying, mine.
You curl into him, tucked under his chin.
“Sometimes I wonder how I ended up here,” you murmur. “With you.”
Kyojuro tightens his hold. “Fate. And very good taste on your part.”
You snort. “So humble, kyo.”
“I am humble,” he replies seriously. “I only boast when it comes to things I love. Like you. And swordsmanship.”
He’s addicted to you.
In small moments, in quiet gardens or on the porch steps, he’ll pull you close just to press kisses to your temple. His hand will find yours unconsciously. He'll talk about the future easily, casually, like it's already written.
“We’ll have a house with wide windows and two futons pushed together. Maybe three.”
“Three futons?”
“Or five. I sleep like a lion. I need space to sprawl, and I want you nearby.”
When you kiss him, he melts. His whole body relaxes like you’ve extinguished something wild in him. But when he kisses you—it’s a promise. Every time.
He trails kisses down your shoulder, down your arm, over your pulse like he’s worshiping it. Like he’s grateful for your very heartbeat.
Sometimes—when the house is still, and the lanterns are low, and your breath stutters under his touch—he murmurs things between kisses.
“I will love you until I draw my final breath.”
It’s poetic. It’s dramatic. It’s Kyojuro.
And you love him so much you don’t know what to do with all the warmth.
...
He knocked twice.
No answer.
Then again, with slightly more force—though never too loud. He didn’t want to scare you, just in case you were napping, or out back picking herbs from your garden. You always forgot to close the gate when you wandered behind the house. He waited. The silence pressed into his chest.
“Beloved?” he called gently. “It’s me.”
Still, no reply.
Kyojuro tilted his head, golden eyes narrowing. That was… strange. You usually called out before he even made it up the path, waving from the kitchen or sliding the door open early to hug him before he could announce himself.
Today, the curtains were drawn. The wind tugged at the corner of the door’s cloth panel, but there was no familiar sound of your slippers padding on wood. No scent of soup. No soft, flustered laughter or that cute little “Kyoooo...I just came from the bath!!” . Just quiet.
Kyojuro glanced down at the small package in his hands—a neatly folded haori wrapped in linen and tied with a red cord. The sleeves were designed just the way you liked, and the inner lining was your favorite shade of plum. He’d asked three tailors for fabric advice and nearly thought of using the first sample as a cleaning cloth after it didn’t feel soft enough against his own cheek. Only the best for you.
You’d said once, only once, that you wished you had something warm to wear when you walked out in the evenings. He remembered. Of course he did.
He stood there a moment longer. Waited. Listened.
Then quietly, he turned away.
He’d come back later.
...
Evening came.
And with it, his worry.
He wasn’t the type to fret. Not in battle. Not when bleeding. Not when standing before something monstrous. But love made fools of even the brave—and tonight, he felt it in the pit of his stomach, gnawing quietly.
you’re just out, he told himself. Perhaps visiting your neighbor. Or helping in the village. Or maybe you simply didn’t hear him—
But the curtains were still drawn.
He approached again with steady, slower steps this time, the new haori now folded carefully under one arm. The lantern at the front had not been lit. There were no footsteps inside. The silence felt… deliberate.
He knocked once.
No answer.
Then again. Firmer. Nothing.
Then—click. The door opened—but not to you.
A young woman stood in your place. One of your close friends. She looked a bit nervous, clutching a dish towel in her hands. “Oh, Rengoku-san. Um. Hello.”
He blinked. “Ah—good evening. Forgive me, I didn’t realize someone else was here.” He glanced behind her shoulder instinctively, searching the house for a familiar silhouette. “Is she alright? I was hoping to speak with her…”
The friend hesitated. “She’s not home.”
Kyojuro stilled.
“She… left for a few days,” she added quickly. “Said she needed some air. Some time. She’ll be back soon.”
“Did something happen?” he asked, concern thick in his tone. You didn't tell him anything.
“I don’t think so,” the friend said softly. “She didn’t really say.”
He nodded, though slowly. “I see.”
He didn’t.
“Would you like to leave a message?”
Kyojuro looked down at the haori. The fabric shone faintly in the dying sun.
He shook his head. “No message. Just… tell her I stopped by. And that I hope she’s well.” He paused, then added more quietly, “Tell her I’ll be back soon.”
The friend nodded.
He bowed politely and turned to leave.
The walk back was slower. He didn’t even notice that the wind was colder tonight. That the haori in his hands felt heavier now. That the stars were beginning to blink awake above him and for once—he had no words to greet them with.
He wasn’t hurt. Not quite.
Just confused.
You’d never avoided him before.
You never hid from him before.
He trusted you. That didn’t waver. Not for a moment. He didn’t assume the worst. That wasn’t his way. But something inside him—just a small, tender flame—felt like it flickered in the wind.
Did I overstep?
Was I too much?
He had been dreaming lately. Of building things with you. Of a life. Of lazy mornings where you stole his robe and kissed his shoulder and teased him about how loudly he snored or how his hands wander even when he's asleep. He’d been thinking of names. He’d carved a butter knife for you and etched both your names in the handle. He loved you with a certainty that lit his entire body like fire.
But love was more than certainty. It was understanding. And right now, he understood that maybe… you needed space.
Still, as he entered his own quiet home and placed the wrapped haori on the low table beside his futon, he couldn’t help but press a kiss to the fabric, just once, like a prayer.
“Iam yours,” he whispered into the quiet. “And I’ll wait as long as it takes for you to come back home to me.”
Remember when everyone dreamed during Mugen Train? What if reader was with them and had a wet dream about Rengoku?
THIS.IS.GENIUS.
dream about family & friends wet dream about Kyojuro
Pairing: Kyojuro x fem!reader
Word Count: 2,1k
Synopsis: The Mugen Train leaves you breathless - not because of the fight though. Maybe because your dream doesn't revolve around your family, friends or pets. No, you dream about a certain someone - naked, on top of you.
Warnings: It's getting heated but no full on smut y'all, the trio is the trio, Rengoku is Rengoku, let's heal ourselves before getting torn apart with the new movie okay
„(y/n)! What a pleasant surprise to see you here!”
Your eyes widen in sheer disbelief. Where on earth…are you? Weren’t you on a mission just a few seconds ago? With Kyojuro, Tanjiro, Zenitsu and Inosuke? But that isn’t a mission. No, the room you’re standing in is unknown to you, almost looks like a…bedroom?
Fortunately, at least that voice is very much familiar to you.
“Kyojuro! Where…are we? And where are you?”
“I’m right here!”
You follow his voice.
And regret it instantly – or do you?
His sight makes your jaw drop in an instant. There he stands, leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but a white yukata that exposes half of his chest and legs. One wrong move and you’d be able to see everything.
Your mouth goes dry, mind going numb. Yes, everything. Except or that one part of your body, maybe.
No. You shake your head vehemently. To be honest, this is what you’ve been dreaming of whenever you get the chance to. Imagining what Kyojuro might look like underneath that uniform, what his muscles feel like with your palms pressed against them, if he’d be able to lift you up as easily as you imagine he would-
But this isn’t the time to dream, right? The mission-
Kyojuro’s voice cuts through your thoughts like a flame slicing the dark.
“There’s just you and me, (y/n). Just like I always imagined it.”
His voice, deep, warm, like honey dripping over sparks, echoes through the room and straight through your shaken core. He takes a step toward you, the dim light catches on his golden hair oh so perfectly, turning him into something unreal. Divine, even.
Fuck fuck fuck. What on earth is happening right now?
Your feet stay glued to the ground, but your breath hitches as he approaches like a hunter its prey. The yukata shifts around his body with every movement, exposing more of the hard muscles of his chest, the sculpted curve of his thigh, the lines that disappear into shadows you shouldn't be staring at - but can't stop either.
“I…this doesn’t make sense, we were just on a train…I…You…We are comrades. Sure I have a crush on you but…we never got serious…” you stammer, trying to backtrack through your thoughts, but they’re slipping away like smoke between your fingers.
Kyojuro’s lips curve into a soft, knowing smile. You feel like losing your might in an instant, just looking at him feels like losing your sanity as well.
“You're thinking too much, my flame.”
He reaches out, rough fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your face to meet his gaze. Skin against skin. Not in a serious training session, but in a bedroom. With his chest exposed. With him staring at you like this.
“You don’t have to understand. You only have to feel.”
His hand trails from your face, down the curve of your neck, leaving goosebumps on every single inch of your skin. Your knees go weak, threaten to give in. He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts over your lips. Oh, you’re so weak for this man. You’ve always been.
“Tell me… have you ever thought about what it would be like?” he murmurs, eyes blazing with more than just heat by now.
“What it would feel like… to be mine?”
Your lips part, but no words come out. The truth is etched all over your expression. He already knows. Damn, Kyojuro Rengoku looks at you well-knowing what effect he has on you. He chuckles low in his throat, a sound that wraps around your spine like velvet and flame.
“I’ve thought about it,” he confesses, voice husky as he steps behind you suddenly, arms sliding around your waist.
His lips brush against your ear, breath ghosting against your now burning skin, and your entire body shudders in response. You’ve never felt so weak, so needy, the control over your own mind and body slowly but surely slipping your of your fingers. This man, this force of a man you never got tired of seeing, never tired of smelling, of hearing, of everything.
“I've thought about you beneath me. Around me. Calling my name.”
You gasp.
“Kyojuro-”
“You say it so sweetly,” he purrs unusual low.
His fingers tease the edge of your clothing, feather-light, yet every touch sets fire to your skin. Nobody has ever done this before. And that it’s him, the flame hashira himself, sets your mind on fire, forces your logical thought far in the back of your head.
“We have time. The world outside can wait.”
You should be questioning this: Where are you? Why does none of this make sense? How did you end up here?
But your body betrays you with every inch of your skin. His warmth is overwhelming, addictive, intoxicating. His hands persuade you into forgetting, his lips press against your neck like a secret promise.
His lips are on your neck again, but lower this time, at the base where your pulse pounds like a war drum against his surprisingly soft lips. His teeth graze, then nip. It makes your breath stutter, your mouth opening for a silent moan. His hands start to explore your waist, fingertips dipping beneath the fabric of your uniform like they belong there.
“You’ve been hiding this body from me all this time,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with hunger.
“But I’ve imagined it. Again and again. Every time you looked at me like that and tried to pretend you weren’t burning, that we are nothing but comrades.”
You make a soft sound, half protest, half plea, as he turns you in his arms. Now face to face, you can see how wrecked he is by you. His golden eyes are molten like honey. His chest rises and falls in shallow waves beneath the parted yukata. One of your hands finds his chest, the other drifts lower, where the thin fabric does nothing to hide how much he wants you anymore.
“Kyojuro…” you breathe, dizzy.
“This is… dangerous.”
He leans in, foreheads touching, his hand slipping up your spine, cradling your neck as though you’re made of something sacred.
“So is wanting something and never touching it.”
And then he kisses you. Not soft. Not careful. Like he’s starved, like you’re air and he cannot breathe.
His mouth claims yours with a heat that lights up something primal deep within your body. His hand fists in your uniform at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. You can feel him, hard and aching, pressed against your thigh, and it sends a jolt through your entire body. You moan into his mouth before you can stop yourself.
He exhales sharply at the sound, breaking the kiss just long enough to mutter against your lips.
“Say my name again. Like that.”
You do. You don’t even realize you’ve said it until it’s already slipped from your lips in a whimper, in a desperate moan that sounds nothing like you in your own ears.
“Kyojuro…”
He groans. His hand dips lower, cupping the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist. You feel the press of his hips, the roll of his body against yours. There’s no space left between you - no hesitation, no modesty, no rules. Just you, him and this burning desire that finally takes over, that you tried to suppress for way too long.
“Let me,” he whispers, forehead still resting against yours, his voice trembling now.
“Let me show you what I’ve been holding back.”
You nod. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you just melt into his arms even more.
He understood apparently. Kyojuro’s walking you back toward the bed, his mouth never leaving yours, and you’re already falling, with him, into him, the world outside crumbling completely.
“I just wanna be yours,” you mutter against his parted lips when he strips you out of your uniform.
“You are already mine, my flame. And you’ll never be less from now on.”
He’s on top of you, his rough hands gently caressing both of your thighs before gently opening your legs.
It’s happening. Oh god, it’s really happening. The thought alone forces your eyes back into your skull, hands aimlessly searching for support where his firm muscles are.
“(y/n).”
Yes, your own name sounds like music in your ears when it’s coming from him.
“(y/n).”
You lean into him even more, desperately waiting for Kyojuro to continue, to not let you wait any longer.
“(y/n)!”
Your body starts burning, an unusual heat taking over while you slowly but surely stop to feel anything but the sensation of belonging to him.
“(Y/N), WAKE UP!”
Your eyes dart open out of instinct.
You expect to see Kyojuro on top of you, his bare chest grinning into your face. You expect to feel his warmth against yours, him inside of you.
But instead, a fully-clothed Kyojuro Rengoku stares at you obviously worried.
“(y/n), are you back? Are you okay? You were panting really hard. I was worried they already managed to attack you!”
“Me…getting attacked?” you mumble out of instinct.
But…this isn’t the bedroom. You stare down at Kyojuro in utter disbelief, his usual uniform sitting on his body as usual. And the flame hashira definitely isn’t naked as well.
“The demon lured each of us into a dream in hopes to distract us,” Kyojuro explains calmly, completely unaware of the soul-shattering shame flooding your body when reality finally sets in.
A dream. A dream. Oh god. You want to die right here on the spot, disappear into ashes, get swallowed by the ground.
You blink rapidly, suddenly hyperaware of the train rocking gently beneath you, of your haori tangled around your legs, of the fact that you’re drenched in sweat… and…
Oh no. Oh no.
You squeeze your legs together. Instinct.
You don’t need a mirror to know your face is ten shades of red.
Kyojuro, still crouched beside you, tilts his head.
“You were moaning… quite loudly,” he explains, genuinely confused, trying to evaluate if you’re still under attack.
“You kept calling out my name. Repeatedly. Passionately, I’d say. Were you in distress?”
You freeze. Your soul leaves your body. Ascends into heaven or rather hell. Spirals into the sky like a balloon with no will to live left.
“I…I-I was-” you stutter.
“It’s alright,” he interrupts, smiling warmly.
“Dreams can be very vivid. And intimate! Sometimes I dream of udon. Once I wept over tempura in my sleep.”
You want to cry. Or scream. Or throw yourself off the train. Or maybe all three exactly in that order.
Kyojuro blinks, then suddenly lowers his voice, clearly trying to be gentle with your feelings when realizing every word he says simply upsets you even more.
“You kept whispering things like ‘your hands feel so good’ and ‘I’m yours,’ and at one point you gasped so hard I thought your lungs had collapsed.”
You clutch your head in your hands, physically unable to take any more.
“Please stop.”
He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t.
“Your face was flushed, and you held onto me for dear life. You even arched your back at one point-”
“I SAID STOP!” you squeal, practically combusting in place.
Kyojuro sits back, eyes wide, confused again. This reaction is so unusual for you – he never saw you in a state like this. He was simply recalling how you behaved, after all.
“Are you… embarrassed?”
“YES, I HAD A WET DREAM ABOUT YOU, OKAY?!” you shriek at full volume.
Silence.
Not just from Kyojuro - but from the entire train carriage.
Your head whips to the side.
Tanjiro is staring at you like his soul just left his body.
Zenitsu’s jaw is hanging open so wide it could catch flies.
Inosuke, who was half-asleep upside-down on the seat, slowly peeks over the edge like a raccoon emerging from a trash can.
“Did she say wet?” Zenitsu squeals.
“I don’t know what that means,” Inosuke replies.
“But it sounds awesome.”
Kyojuro blinks, then smiles - genuinely delighted, even though the tips of his ears turn as red as his hair.
“I’m honored to have been the subject of your dream, (y/n)!” he declares brightly, placing a hand over his chest.
“I shall treasure it!”
You bury your face in your hands with a shriek, mentally digging a grave for yourself right there between the train seats.
“But may I ask you if…I did good?”
“YOU ABSOLUTELY CAN’T!”
Worst. Mission. Ever.
Bonus:
Inside the realm of dreams, Enmu grins like a maniac as he peers into the subconscious minds of his targets.
“Let’s see…” he muses, floating past one dream after another like flipping pages in a storybook.
Tanjiro: Running through fields, smiling at his family. Predictable. Boring.
Zenitsu: Women fawning over him while he weeps? Gross, but expected.
Inosuke: Fighting a mountain. Literally. Sure. Whatever.
Then Enmu floats toward your dream.
“Hmmm, the girl… quiet one. Let’s see what we’ve got here-”
He phases into your dreamscape...
And immediately shrieks.
“W-What the hell?!” Enmu cries out in horror while dream-Kyojuro sensually leans over you, whispering things that would make even a demon blush.
“Are those his thighs? What...WHAT ARE HIS HIPS DOING? Why is she moaning like that? WHY IS HE QUOTING POETRY ABOUT HER LEGS?!”
He tries to escape but gets pulled deeper into the scene just as you whimper “Kyojuro…” in a tone that would make a priest retire right on the spot.
“I DID NOT CONSENT TO THIS!” Enmu wails, yeeting himself out of your dream like a Victorian man seeing an ankle.
Later - During the fight on the train
The battle rages on, your sword slashing through Enmu’s grotesque train-flesh, your adrenaline pumping, determined to forget what just happened.
But of course, Enmu has other plans.
Mid-fight, his smug voice echoes through the air.
“Well, well, little dreamer,” he coos, his voice laced with malicious glee.
“Did you enjoy your fantasy? Or would you like me to replay it for the others?”
Your sword wobbles mid-swing. You were so close. So close to forget for at least a few minutes about what happened, about the look on Kyojuro's face when you gave in. And don't get started on Tanjiro's expression...
“What?”
“Oh come now,” Enmu purrs.
“All that moaning. All that Kyojurooo~ nonsense. Honestly, if I knew your mind was that filthy, I would’ve brought popcorn.”
You stand frozen, mortified. Somewhere, Tanjiro makes a confused noise. Zenitsu chokes on his own spit. Inosuke screams “WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT?!”
Enmu laughs, dramatic and delighted.
“Did he really say ‘Let me show you what I’ve been holding back’ or did you write that yourself? Honestly, it was hard to tell.”
But before he can go on-
“FLAME BREATHING: THIRD FORM!”
Kyojuro slams through the flesh of the train like a holy judgment, his blade glowing and righteous.
“You dare invade her dreams with dishonor?!” Kyojuro shouts, face ablaze with righteous fury.
“Oh don’t act surprised, you were naked in—”
“I SHALL CLEANSE YOU IN FLAMES FOR SUGGESTING SUCH FILTH!”
Enmu barely has time to scream before Kyojuro’s attack nearly cleaved his demon-ass in two.
You, meanwhile, turn around and bury your face in a train wall.
“...So was it like… good?” Zenitsu suddenly whispers next to you.
The memory of your wedding was still fresh in your mind. Poor Kyojuro was red in the face the whole wedding, making him look like he was overheating under the wedding attire.
He was adorable, so handsome, and so painfully perfect.
He brought you herbal tea every morning when you woke up, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead before he went to freshen up after hours of training.
And on days where he didn’t have any work, he stayed in bed with you. Always waking up with his cheek cupping your face while he spooned you, it was like a sixth sense for him when your eyes opened.
“Good morning…” his voice softly rasped, placing a tender and loving kiss on your lips before you could even wish him back.
“Morning…” you smiled back softly, turning to pull him in your chest. His arms tightened briefly around your waist as he nuzzled you, his hand resting over your belly.
“And good morning, my baby…” he leaned down to press a lingering kiss on your belly, his fingers softly brushing your soft skin like he was touching the baby growing inside you.
Growing old is beautiful. It always was.
You adored everything about it – seeing the world change with you, seeing your friends find their forever… and having him with you.
Kyojuro grew more beautiful with time. The greying of his hair looked like ashes and fire, and although his laughs grew a little bit weaker with each passing year, he was still so optimistic.
Even as your child grew up, grew older and left home to have a life of his own, Kyojuro never left your side.
Retiring from the corps after the birth of your child, he never missed a night where neither of you would fall asleep unless you were in his arms.
And sometimes, he looked young again. He looked the way he did when you two first met so many years ago.
“Kyojuro…” your wrinkles grew more pronounced as you reached up to cup his face in your hands, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “My pretty boy…”
But your Kyojuro didn’t have his normal bright, optimistic smile. It looked a little sad.
“Mom…” he reached up to gently hold your hand, pulling it away from your face as his hands held yours. “Dad’s gone…”
“What…?”
Ah.
It made sense now.
Kyojuro never came back from the Mugen Train mission.
He passed the day your baby boy was born.
It made sense why the colour of his eyes didn’t feel right when you saw him making you breakfast the past few weeks; it was why they changed every day.
And it made sense why sometimes, he looked 20 while you remained old.
Your Kyojuro was gone, leaving your poor heart with an ache that never left.
Summary: The Rengoku genes are hard to fight against, but your newborn child finds a way.
Warnings: gendered terms (wife, husband, female, male), reader has just given birth (birth not show), Kyojuro being the supportive man that is his
Word Count: 840+
A/N: First time writing for Kyojuro and I don't know why I haven't before this because I LOVE that man too much. He is one of my many, dearly beloved husbands ✋😩. I hope you all enjoy!
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You had pushed out a carbon copy of Kyojuro Rengoku.
You had thought maybe--maybe your genes would stand a chance in the creation of your child.
You thought that maybe the sweet new life you would bring into this world might have your nose or your eyes or even your cheekbones.
You, of course, thought wrong.
You didn’t know why you had hoped so passionately for your child to look like you, not when the entirety of the Rengoku line looked like one person had transported himself through time to live with himself from various different ages.
Bushy and wild yellow hair already grew from your sweet babes head. Bright, red and yellow-rimmed, owl-wide eyes blinked up at you. Pointed nose, high cheekbones, strong grip around your finger, and small but dark eyebrows.
This baby was your husband's clone, just as he and his brother had been clones of their father, and their father a clone of his father.
The one thing you had gifted your baby--the one thing that seemed to have fought tooth and nail through the overwhelming power of Rengoku genealogy had you worrying your lip between your teeth.
Your baby was born female.
Female when generation after generation of Rengoku and Flame Hashira had been male.
You couldn’t help the bit of panic that wound tightly in your chest as you turned your gaze from your baby to your husband, who burst into your room eyes shining and smile so wide you thought the corners might brush the lobe of each ear.
“How is my darling wife?” Kyojuro’s voice boomed through the room, making your midwives cringe and shush him. You, nor it seemed your child, cared. You were used to it, comforted by its consistent optimism, and your baby seemed to feel the same way.
Kyojuro noticed the shushes and whispered an apology back. A whisper that still managed to be projected further than your midwives cared for.
“Sweetheart,” You started as Kyojuro gracefully knelt next to where you sat.
“Yes?” He murmured, softer now that he was leaning closer to gaze upon his baby. You moved her so that you could present her sleeping face to her father.
“The baby…she’s--well she’s a girl.” You heard Kyojuro take a small inhale of breath and your panic spiked. There hadn’t been a single girl in his family for generations. Not one and here you were, giving him a female heir.
You had never known your husband to grow angered. To get mad at you but--maybe this was the line? Maybe it was the line and you were panicking to know what he was thinking.
“Perfect!” He boomed spooking the midwives, some of who gave strangled yelps. “Perfect!” He repeated proudly. “A girl? Are you sure?” He turned to look back at you in his excitement, yellow and red eyes--they were brimming with tears as they looked at you. You felt your own eyes burn in relief. In your utter love for the man kneeling beside you.
“Yes, I’m sure. You’re not mad?” Kyojuro gave a barking laugh at such a thought.
“Mad? No. I’m ecstatic!” You gave your own laugh, your tears spilling from your eyes. Kyojuro brushed his calloused thumb over your cheeks, clearing them both of the racing droplets. “You know there hasn’t been a single female Rengoku since the beginning of our family line.” You nodded, giving a humming “mm-hmm” that caught in your throat, which had tightened painfully in your fear. “Many believed we were divinely blessed for this, but I always felt it was a curse.”
“Do you want to hold her?”
“More than anything.” Kyojuro beamed. You gently passed your baby to her father, her dark brows furrowing at the sudden change.
Kyojuro never once took his eyes off his child. Didn’t stop to brush his own tears away as he took in every last detail of your daughter's face, a look of such love in his eyes it was overwhelming.
“You are special. A good omen.” He whispered down to her. “And I love you. Oh dear--how my heart bursts for you.”
Your own heart felt like it would flutter so hard it would explode right from your chest at the words he gifted his daughter. He was a good man and already a good father.
You brushed your own fingers over his cheeks, clearing them of his tears and running them through his wild hair.
“Want to invite Senjuro in?”
“Only if you wish, dear.” You nodded your head and Kyojuro took a few more, unhurried minutes to hold and watch over his child before passing her back to you. As soon as she was securely within your hold once more, he was popping up to his feet.
“Senjuro!” He called, giving the midwives another frightful start. You watched your husband rush out of the room, lips in a near-painful smile as you chuckled at his excitement. “Senjuro! My baby is a girl! She’s a girl!”
You had been completely foolish to worry.
You and your daughter were in very good and loving hands.
He is the sweetest :( when he first met you, he knew from the beginning that he wants to get to know you better and he's very upfront about wanting to get to know you and possibly being in a relationship. When you two start going out it only takes him a few months or so to ask you to be official.
He's the sweetest and most caring boyfriend ever. He puts you first before everything. He can be quite clingy sometimes without even realizing he's doing it. He understands his personality can be a lot sometimes an if you need space or need to be alone, he completely understands and will give you all the space you need.
I think his love language is either physical touch or quality time. He always has to be touching you. whether it's holding your hand, having an arm around you etc he just needs to feel your touch. He also loves cuddling, he's naturally warm so during winter he's wonderful to cuddle with because he's so warm and cozy. But he also loves spending time with you, taking you on little days or just sitting down and talking to you are the best parts of his day.
I honestly can't imagine him falling for another slayer I think he'd want a partner outside the corps, he deals with so much fighting and death every day I don't think he'd want his partner involved in that at all. In fact, I think he'd tell you as little about his job as possible because he just doesn't want you involved in something like that. You know the basics, that he's a hashira that fights demons and that's about it.
One of his favorite things in the world is sitting down and eating a meal with you. He loves being able to eat dinner with you every night and just being able to talk about his day to you and listen how your day went. He cherishes little things like that because it makes his chaotic life as a hashira feel normal.
Hope you enjoyed reading! Requests have been a little slow recently so pls if you have something you'd like to see pls lmk! <3
She has that magic touch that I cant seem to explain. I’ve told myself time and time again that she must be a a sorceress who’s bewitched me. I’m lost within her aura and cant seem to find my way back to what I always believed to be my reality. Not that I want to escape, but I find myself unnerved sometimes at the power she holds over me. What scares me is that I offered up myself freely.
And now I watch her sitting quietly in the fields, surrounded by dandelions while reading a book. A giggle escapes her throat at what I assume happened on papers of fiction and I find myself getting a warm and fuzzy feeling at that. Her innocence grounds me and reminds me even momentarily, that there are good things left in this world. I quietly make my way towards her.
She smiles at me with those perfect pink lips when I halt in front of her, but she says nothing. Thats what makes her so perfect for me. She doesnt hate or berate my silence, rather she compliments my love of the quiet. And that notion makes me love her even more.
Without a word I crouch down and lay myself down, laying my head on her lap. A melodious hum reverberates off her lips and she closes her book, her focus now on me. I will apologise tomorrow for taking her away from her fictitious friends, but right now I need my love. I dont remember how long I’ve loved her, but somewhere between our wordless conversations and her warm smiles, I decided that I would rip the world apart to keep our comfortable silent moments.
As if she read my mind, she undoes my ponytail and her fingernails expertly rake through my hair and scratch my scalp. I cant help but moan a little and my eyes flutter close at her actions. I band my arms around her back and pull myself deeper into her and I am rewarded with soft strokes on my scalp.
“How’s your book?” I mumble against her dress.
“Romantic,” she sighs.
I grip her tighter. “Don’t let me interrupt you. I just really needed to see you.”
She chuckles so softly I barely register it.
“This is so much better,” she whispers against my ear before placing a soft kiss atop my head and leans back again and continues to stroke my hair in comfortable silence.
I used to me homesick for a place I am nut sure even existed. One where my heart is full, my body loved and my soul understood. But now I have found my home, with her. In her embrace, in our silent moments, and slow affections, I have found my forever.
I have eternal light in my life when it comes to her. When she is angry, she is my beautiful roaring fire, who’s furious flames will burn down whomever gets in her way of her loved ones. When she is happy she is my bright sunflower, rays of joy radiation from within her. When she’s determined, she’s my little spark, witty and sharp and ready to conquer the world. But my favourite is when she is content. Then she is my little ember. Gloriously glowing in peace and small warmth that glows in my dark nights.
My God I love this woman.
She tolerates my boisterousness even when she is annoyed and laughs so bright at my grand gestures of love even when I embarrass her. Her cheeks then turn bright red and as bright as my love for her.
Currently I find my ember busying herself in the kitchen making cookies with determination. My little brother Senjuro has taken to caring for the orphans in our village and my bright little ember was all too happy to make him mountains of cookies for the young ones. Another reason why I love her so brightly, she loves my precious little brother and supports his life choices to no end.
The Gods were gracious with bringing this light into my family.
“I know you smell cookies and you want to quality control,” she says without even turning to look at me.
I let out a laugh. “How did you know I was here?” I dare ask and I can feel her raise an eyebrow, even though she is still stirring a batch of batter.
“I can feel the heat of your gaze burning into the back of my skull. Cool it down a little, will you, I’m overheated enough as is with this oven,” she quips back and my laughter echoes the walls. It has garnered me a smile.
“Yes or no on the cookie, last chance.” She turns to me, eyebrow quirked, cookie in hand.
With unusual silence, `I walk to her and drop to my knees. My arms band around her waist and I pull her tight to me.
“Kyo,” she whispers, cookie abandoned and her precious hands on my unruly hair.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?” She asks.
I let out a breath I wasnt even aware I was holding in. “For helping my brother find his own flame. Its burning bright thanks to your help.”
She smiles and strokes my hair for a few moments.
“You are just buttering me up because you want more than one cookie.”
I snort a little. “Well that too, and I want some attention. My fire is extinguishing due to your lack of attention to me. I'm drowning in the rain at the lack of affection I am receiving today.”
She rolls her eyes but laughs all the same. “All you Rengoku men are such drama queens. Only Senjuro has some pride,” she complains all the while pulling me closer to her.
I will never have darkness in my life thanks to her. And I will never lose my supply of cookies.
You lay curled up on your futon, your eyes closed and your hands pressed against your lower abdomen, silently enduring another wave of menstrual cramps.
The curtains were drawn, the windows closed, and the room was bathed in a soft, dim light.
The painkillers helped a little, but during the worst cramps, all you could do was breathe through them.
As another sharp cramp subsided, something soft and sweet brushed against your lips.
You recognized the scent immediately.
Your favorite mochi.
Without opening your eyes, you took a small bite, letting the soft dough and sweet filling melt on your tongue.
A faint smile tugged at your lips as a little color returned to your pale face.
You took another bite.
"There you go, my lovely flame," Kyojuro whispered warmly. "Eat it all. Something sweet might help make these difficult moments a little easier."
He gently stroked your hair before brushing away the dusting of cornstarch that lingered on your lips with the pad of his thumb.
You pressed a weak kiss against his fingertips, unable to find the strength to speak.
"...Mm."
"I know, sweetheart. I know."
His voice was barely above a whisper. He had learned that even ordinary sounds felt overwhelming whenever the pain became this intense.
He cracked the window open just enough for a cool breeze to drift into the room, easing the heat that had settled on your flushed cheeks.
Then he quietly moved behind you.
He tucked a soft blanket against your lower back before lying down beside you, carefully wrapping one arm around your waist. His warm hand came to rest over your lower abdomen, offering the gentle heat your aching muscles desperately needed.
With his free hand, he brushed the damp strands of hair away from your forehead and wiped away the tiny beads of sweat that clung to your skin.
Then he placed a feather-light kiss against the back of your neck.
"I'm here, honeybun," he murmured. "You're doing so well. It'll be over soon."
