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your husband sanemi shinazugawa is a softy only for you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
sanemi shinazugawa is a menace. everyone knows this. he’s got the personality of a feral cat that’s been soaked in vinegar and thrown into a thorn bush. he yells, he threatens, he looks at people like they’re gum stuck to his boot. the other hashira are used to it. the demon slayer corps is used to it. the world, quite frankly, is used to it.
you are not used to it, because the sanemi that exists in the world is not the same sanemi that exists in your bedroom.
the first time you saw him soften, you thought you were hallucinating. you had just woken up from a nightmare, gasping and shaking, and he—sanemi shinazugawa, the man who once threatened to gut a junior slayer for breathing too loud—had pulled you into his chest like you were made of glass. his voice, usually a gravelly snarl, dropped to a whisper so gentle you almost cried harder.
“you’re okay,” he’d murmured, calloused fingers combing through your hair. “i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
you’d blinked up at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, and asked, “who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
he’d flicked your forehead. hard. but then he kissed the spot better, so you figured it was a fair trade.
that’s the thing about sanemi. he’s all sharp edges and jagged lines, but with you, he sands himself down until he’s smooth enough to hold. he’ll curse out a kakushi for breathing in his direction, then turn around and ask you if you want your tea with one sugar or two, because he remembers you mentioned you like it a little sweet, and god forbid he forget something so important.
he’s not a words guy. he never has been. but he shows you in a hundred different ways, every single day.
like the time you mentioned offhandedly that you liked the way the moon looked through the wisteria trees. the next night, he dragged you out of bed at 2 a.m., grumbling about how “you’d better appreciate this, because i have patrol in four hours,” and sat you down on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders and his head in your lap. he fell asleep fifteen minutes later, but you stayed up for hours, running your fingers through his white hair and watching the moonlight catch the edges of his scars.
or the time you got sick, and he personally hunted down every ingredient for your favorite soup, even though it meant traveling to three different villages and threatening a merchant who tried to overcharge him. he set the bowl down in front of you, crossed his arms, and said, “eat. don’t make me feed you.”
you made him feed you.
he did it without complaint. he even blew on the spoon.
the other hashira don’t believe it. they’ve walked in on him braiding your hair (badly, but he’s trying) and tucking a stray strand behind your ear with such tenderness that rengoku openly wept. obanai just stares, mouth slightly agape, like he’s witnessing a cosmic anomaly. uzui cackles every time sanemi snaps at him for looking at you “with that weird smile, you’re going to scare them.”
and sanemi? he just scoffs, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you closer.
“what?” he’ll growl, daring anyone to say a word. “they’re mine. i can be nice to my own partner if i want.”
he’s not nice. he’s a menace. he’s a walking storm cloud with a bad attitude and a worse vocabulary.
but he’s yours.
and when it’s just the two of you, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he’s the softest thing you’ve ever known. he curls into you like he’s seeking shelter. he murmurs your name like a prayer. he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.
so let him be rude to everyone else. let him curse and spit and snarl. you know the truth.
your husband sanemi shinazugawa is a softy only for you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
sanemi shinazugawa is a menace. everyone knows this. he’s got the personality of a feral cat that’s been soaked in vinegar and thrown into a thorn bush. he yells, he threatens, he looks at people like they’re gum stuck to his boot. the other hashira are used to it. the demon slayer corps is used to it. the world, quite frankly, is used to it.
you are not used to it, because the sanemi that exists in the world is not the same sanemi that exists in your bedroom.
the first time you saw him soften, you thought you were hallucinating. you had just woken up from a nightmare, gasping and shaking, and he—sanemi shinazugawa, the man who once threatened to gut a junior slayer for breathing too loud—had pulled you into his chest like you were made of glass. his voice, usually a gravelly snarl, dropped to a whisper so gentle you almost cried harder.
“you’re okay,” he’d murmured, calloused fingers combing through your hair. “i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
you’d blinked up at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, and asked, “who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
he’d flicked your forehead. hard. but then he kissed the spot better, so you figured it was a fair trade.
that’s the thing about sanemi. he’s all sharp edges and jagged lines, but with you, he sands himself down until he’s smooth enough to hold. he’ll curse out a kakushi for breathing in his direction, then turn around and ask you if you want your tea with one sugar or two, because he remembers you mentioned you like it a little sweet, and god forbid he forget something so important.
he’s not a words guy. he never has been. but he shows you in a hundred different ways, every single day.
like the time you mentioned offhandedly that you liked the way the moon looked through the wisteria trees. the next night, he dragged you out of bed at 2 a.m., grumbling about how “you’d better appreciate this, because i have patrol in four hours,” and sat you down on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders and his head in your lap. he fell asleep fifteen minutes later, but you stayed up for hours, running your fingers through his white hair and watching the moonlight catch the edges of his scars.
or the time you got sick, and he personally hunted down every ingredient for your favorite soup, even though it meant traveling to three different villages and threatening a merchant who tried to overcharge him. he set the bowl down in front of you, crossed his arms, and said, “eat. don’t make me feed you.”
you made him feed you.
he did it without complaint. he even blew on the spoon.
the other hashira don’t believe it. they’ve walked in on him braiding your hair (badly, but he’s trying) and tucking a stray strand behind your ear with such tenderness that rengoku openly wept. obanai just stares, mouth slightly agape, like he’s witnessing a cosmic anomaly. uzui cackles every time sanemi snaps at him for looking at you “with that weird smile, you’re going to scare them.”
and sanemi? he just scoffs, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you closer.
“what?” he’ll growl, daring anyone to say a word. “they’re mine. i can be nice to my own partner if i want.”
he’s not nice. he’s a menace. he’s a walking storm cloud with a bad attitude and a worse vocabulary.
but he’s yours.
and when it’s just the two of you, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he’s the softest thing you’ve ever known. he curls into you like he’s seeking shelter. he murmurs your name like a prayer. he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.
so let him be rude to everyone else. let him curse and spit and snarl. you know the truth.
your husband sanemi shinazugawa is a softy only for you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
sanemi shinazugawa is a menace. everyone knows this. he’s got the personality of a feral cat that’s been soaked in vinegar and thrown into a thorn bush. he yells, he threatens, he looks at people like they’re gum stuck to his boot. the other hashira are used to it. the demon slayer corps is used to it. the world, quite frankly, is used to it.
you are not used to it, because the sanemi that exists in the world is not the same sanemi that exists in your bedroom.
the first time you saw him soften, you thought you were hallucinating. you had just woken up from a nightmare, gasping and shaking, and he—sanemi shinazugawa, the man who once threatened to gut a junior slayer for breathing too loud—had pulled you into his chest like you were made of glass. his voice, usually a gravelly snarl, dropped to a whisper so gentle you almost cried harder.
“you’re okay,” he’d murmured, calloused fingers combing through your hair. “i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
you’d blinked up at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, and asked, “who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
he’d flicked your forehead. hard. but then he kissed the spot better, so you figured it was a fair trade.
that’s the thing about sanemi. he’s all sharp edges and jagged lines, but with you, he sands himself down until he’s smooth enough to hold. he’ll curse out a kakushi for breathing in his direction, then turn around and ask you if you want your tea with one sugar or two, because he remembers you mentioned you like it a little sweet, and god forbid he forget something so important.
he’s not a words guy. he never has been. but he shows you in a hundred different ways, every single day.
like the time you mentioned offhandedly that you liked the way the moon looked through the wisteria trees. the next night, he dragged you out of bed at 2 a.m., grumbling about how “you’d better appreciate this, because i have patrol in four hours,” and sat you down on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders and his head in your lap. he fell asleep fifteen minutes later, but you stayed up for hours, running your fingers through his white hair and watching the moonlight catch the edges of his scars.
or the time you got sick, and he personally hunted down every ingredient for your favorite soup, even though it meant traveling to three different villages and threatening a merchant who tried to overcharge him. he set the bowl down in front of you, crossed his arms, and said, “eat. don’t make me feed you.”
you made him feed you.
he did it without complaint. he even blew on the spoon.
the other hashira don’t believe it. they’ve walked in on him braiding your hair (badly, but he’s trying) and tucking a stray strand behind your ear with such tenderness that rengoku openly wept. obanai just stares, mouth slightly agape, like he’s witnessing a cosmic anomaly. uzui cackles every time sanemi snaps at him for looking at you “with that weird smile, you’re going to scare them.”
and sanemi? he just scoffs, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you closer.
“what?” he’ll growl, daring anyone to say a word. “they’re mine. i can be nice to my own partner if i want.”
he’s not nice. he’s a menace. he’s a walking storm cloud with a bad attitude and a worse vocabulary.
but he’s yours.
and when it’s just the two of you, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he’s the softest thing you’ve ever known. he curls into you like he’s seeking shelter. he murmurs your name like a prayer. he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.
so let him be rude to everyone else. let him curse and spit and snarl. you know the truth.
your husband sanemi shinazugawa is a softy only for you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
sanemi shinazugawa is a menace. everyone knows this. he’s got the personality of a feral cat that’s been soaked in vinegar and thrown into a thorn bush. he yells, he threatens, he looks at people like they’re gum stuck to his boot. the other hashira are used to it. the demon slayer corps is used to it. the world, quite frankly, is used to it.
you are not used to it, because the sanemi that exists in the world is not the same sanemi that exists in your bedroom.
the first time you saw him soften, you thought you were hallucinating. you had just woken up from a nightmare, gasping and shaking, and he—sanemi shinazugawa, the man who once threatened to gut a junior slayer for breathing too loud—had pulled you into his chest like you were made of glass. his voice, usually a gravelly snarl, dropped to a whisper so gentle you almost cried harder.
“you’re okay,” he’d murmured, calloused fingers combing through your hair. “i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
you’d blinked up at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, and asked, “who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
he’d flicked your forehead. hard. but then he kissed the spot better, so you figured it was a fair trade.
that’s the thing about sanemi. he’s all sharp edges and jagged lines, but with you, he sands himself down until he’s smooth enough to hold. he’ll curse out a kakushi for breathing in his direction, then turn around and ask you if you want your tea with one sugar or two, because he remembers you mentioned you like it a little sweet, and god forbid he forget something so important.
he’s not a words guy. he never has been. but he shows you in a hundred different ways, every single day.
like the time you mentioned offhandedly that you liked the way the moon looked through the wisteria trees. the next night, he dragged you out of bed at 2 a.m., grumbling about how “you’d better appreciate this, because i have patrol in four hours,” and sat you down on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders and his head in your lap. he fell asleep fifteen minutes later, but you stayed up for hours, running your fingers through his white hair and watching the moonlight catch the edges of his scars.
or the time you got sick, and he personally hunted down every ingredient for your favorite soup, even though it meant traveling to three different villages and threatening a merchant who tried to overcharge him. he set the bowl down in front of you, crossed his arms, and said, “eat. don’t make me feed you.”
you made him feed you.
he did it without complaint. he even blew on the spoon.
the other hashira don’t believe it. they’ve walked in on him braiding your hair (badly, but he’s trying) and tucking a stray strand behind your ear with such tenderness that rengoku openly wept. obanai just stares, mouth slightly agape, like he’s witnessing a cosmic anomaly. uzui cackles every time sanemi snaps at him for looking at you “with that weird smile, you’re going to scare them.”
and sanemi? he just scoffs, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you closer.
“what?” he’ll growl, daring anyone to say a word. “they’re mine. i can be nice to my own partner if i want.”
he’s not nice. he’s a menace. he’s a walking storm cloud with a bad attitude and a worse vocabulary.
but he’s yours.
and when it’s just the two of you, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he’s the softest thing you’ve ever known. he curls into you like he’s seeking shelter. he murmurs your name like a prayer. he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.
so let him be rude to everyone else. let him curse and spit and snarl. you know the truth.
jujutsu kaisen men and their favorite place to kiss you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
───﹙s.g.﹚ gojo’s favorite place to kiss you is your forehead. he’s tall—annoyingly so—and he loves the way you have to tilt your head up to look at him. he’ll do it in the middle of a crowded street, in the middle of a fight, in the middle of you trying to be mad at him. he’ll lean down, press his lips to your brow, and linger there just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath. “you’re so cute when you’re flustered,” he’ll say, and you’ll shove him, but he’s already dodging, laughing, eyes crinkling behind his blindfold. he knows you love it. he does it again five minutes later.
───﹙s.g.﹚ geto’s favorite place to kiss you is your hand. not in a performative way, he’s not doing it for the crowd. it’s very deliberate. he’ll take your wrist, turn your palm up, and press his lips to the inside of it, right where your pulse flutters. sometimes he’ll kiss your knuckles, one by one, like he’s memorizing you. he’ll do it when you’re sitting across from him at a table, or when you’re walking side by side, or when you’re about to leave. it’s his way of saying i’ll see you soon without saying anything at all. his eyes stay on yours the whole time, dark and patient, and it makes your chest ache.
───﹙r.s.﹚ sukuna’s favorite place to kiss you is your neck. not gently—never gently. he’ll grab your jaw, tilt your head to the side, and press his mouth to the curve of your throat like he’s claiming you. his teeth graze, his tongue follows, and he doesn’t care if it leaves a mark. he wants it to. he’ll do it in the middle of a sentence, interrupting himself just to feel you shiver. “you’re mine,” he’ll murmur against your skin, and his voice is low, rough, like a warning and a promise all at once. you hate how much you like it.
───﹙n.k.﹚ nanami’s favorite place to kiss you is your shoulder. it’s subtle, almost shy. he’ll come up behind you while you’re washing dishes or reading a book, and he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder first, just breathing you in. then he’ll press a kiss to the fabric of your shirt, or your bare skin if it’s accessible, soft and unhurried. “you work too hard,” he’ll say, even though he works harder than anyone. his lips linger, and his hands find your waist, and for a moment, the world slows down. it’s his way of saying i see you. i’m here. thank you for being mine.
───﹙t.f.﹚ toji’s favorite place to kiss you is your jaw. he’s rough around the edges, always has been, but when he kisses you there—just below your ear, along the sharp line of your bone—it’s almost tender. he’ll do it when he’s passing by, hand brushing your hip, mouth grazing your skin like it’s nothing. but it’s not nothing, and you both know it. he’ll smirk when you lean into him, call you needy, but he’ll do it again anyway. and again. and again. until you’re the one pulling him closer.
───﹙h.h.﹚ higuruma’s favorite place to kiss you is your temple. he’s a man of quiet affections, he doesn’t do grand gestures and doesn’t say much when it comes to feelings. but when you’re stressed, when you’re overthinking, when you’re crying over something small, he’ll cup your face with both hands and press his lips to your temple. it’s grounding. steady. he’ll stay there for a long moment, forehead resting against yours after. “you’re okay,” he’ll whisper, and his voice is so soft, so sure, that you almost believe him. he’ll kiss you there again when you smile.
───﹙c.k.﹚ choso’s favorite place to kiss you is your nose. he’s still learning what love is, what you like, how to be gentle. but he figured this one out on his own. he’ll lean in, thumb brushing your cheek, and press a kiss to the tip of your nose, quick and earnest. his ears go red every time. “you look pretty,” he’ll say, which is his version of i love you. he’ll do it again when you laugh, and again when you’re sad, and again when you’re just sitting there, existing. it’s his favorite thing. kissing your nose. he’ll never stop doing it.
your husband sanemi shinazugawa is a softy only for you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
sanemi shinazugawa is a menace. everyone knows this. he’s got the personality of a feral cat that’s been soaked in vinegar and thrown into a thorn bush. he yells, he threatens, he looks at people like they’re gum stuck to his boot. the other hashira are used to it. the demon slayer corps is used to it. the world, quite frankly, is used to it.
you are not used to it, because the sanemi that exists in the world is not the same sanemi that exists in your bedroom.
the first time you saw him soften, you thought you were hallucinating. you had just woken up from a nightmare, gasping and shaking, and he—sanemi shinazugawa, the man who once threatened to gut a junior slayer for breathing too loud—had pulled you into his chest like you were made of glass. his voice, usually a gravelly snarl, dropped to a whisper so gentle you almost cried harder.
“you’re okay,” he’d murmured, calloused fingers combing through your hair. “i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
you’d blinked up at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, and asked, “who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
he’d flicked your forehead. hard. but then he kissed the spot better, so you figured it was a fair trade.
that’s the thing about sanemi. he’s all sharp edges and jagged lines, but with you, he sands himself down until he’s smooth enough to hold. he’ll curse out a kakushi for breathing in his direction, then turn around and ask you if you want your tea with one sugar or two, because he remembers you mentioned you like it a little sweet, and god forbid he forget something so important.
he’s not a words guy. he never has been. but he shows you in a hundred different ways, every single day.
like the time you mentioned offhandedly that you liked the way the moon looked through the wisteria trees. the next night, he dragged you out of bed at 2 a.m., grumbling about how “you’d better appreciate this, because i have patrol in four hours,” and sat you down on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders and his head in your lap. he fell asleep fifteen minutes later, but you stayed up for hours, running your fingers through his white hair and watching the moonlight catch the edges of his scars.
or the time you got sick, and he personally hunted down every ingredient for your favorite soup, even though it meant traveling to three different villages and threatening a merchant who tried to overcharge him. he set the bowl down in front of you, crossed his arms, and said, “eat. don’t make me feed you.”
you made him feed you.
he did it without complaint. he even blew on the spoon.
the other hashira don’t believe it. they’ve walked in on him braiding your hair (badly, but he’s trying) and tucking a stray strand behind your ear with such tenderness that rengoku openly wept. obanai just stares, mouth slightly agape, like he’s witnessing a cosmic anomaly. uzui cackles every time sanemi snaps at him for looking at you “with that weird smile, you’re going to scare them.”
and sanemi? he just scoffs, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you closer.
“what?” he’ll growl, daring anyone to say a word. “they’re mine. i can be nice to my own partner if i want.”
he’s not nice. he’s a menace. he’s a walking storm cloud with a bad attitude and a worse vocabulary.
but he’s yours.
and when it’s just the two of you, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he’s the softest thing you’ve ever known. he curls into you like he’s seeking shelter. he murmurs your name like a prayer. he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.
so let him be rude to everyone else. let him curse and spit and snarl. you know the truth.
your husband sanemi shinazugawa is a softy only for you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
sanemi shinazugawa is a menace. everyone knows this. he’s got the personality of a feral cat that’s been soaked in vinegar and thrown into a thorn bush. he yells, he threatens, he looks at people like they’re gum stuck to his boot. the other hashira are used to it. the demon slayer corps is used to it. the world, quite frankly, is used to it.
you are not used to it, because the sanemi that exists in the world is not the same sanemi that exists in your bedroom.
the first time you saw him soften, you thought you were hallucinating. you had just woken up from a nightmare, gasping and shaking, and he—sanemi shinazugawa, the man who once threatened to gut a junior slayer for breathing too loud—had pulled you into his chest like you were made of glass. his voice, usually a gravelly snarl, dropped to a whisper so gentle you almost cried harder.
“you’re okay,” he’d murmured, calloused fingers combing through your hair. “i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
you’d blinked up at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, and asked, “who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
he’d flicked your forehead. hard. but then he kissed the spot better, so you figured it was a fair trade.
that’s the thing about sanemi. he’s all sharp edges and jagged lines, but with you, he sands himself down until he’s smooth enough to hold. he’ll curse out a kakushi for breathing in his direction, then turn around and ask you if you want your tea with one sugar or two, because he remembers you mentioned you like it a little sweet, and god forbid he forget something so important.
he’s not a words guy. he never has been. but he shows you in a hundred different ways, every single day.
like the time you mentioned offhandedly that you liked the way the moon looked through the wisteria trees. the next night, he dragged you out of bed at 2 a.m., grumbling about how “you’d better appreciate this, because i have patrol in four hours,” and sat you down on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders and his head in your lap. he fell asleep fifteen minutes later, but you stayed up for hours, running your fingers through his white hair and watching the moonlight catch the edges of his scars.
or the time you got sick, and he personally hunted down every ingredient for your favorite soup, even though it meant traveling to three different villages and threatening a merchant who tried to overcharge him. he set the bowl down in front of you, crossed his arms, and said, “eat. don’t make me feed you.”
you made him feed you.
he did it without complaint. he even blew on the spoon.
the other hashira don’t believe it. they’ve walked in on him braiding your hair (badly, but he’s trying) and tucking a stray strand behind your ear with such tenderness that rengoku openly wept. obanai just stares, mouth slightly agape, like he’s witnessing a cosmic anomaly. uzui cackles every time sanemi snaps at him for looking at you “with that weird smile, you’re going to scare them.”
and sanemi? he just scoffs, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you closer.
“what?” he’ll growl, daring anyone to say a word. “they’re mine. i can be nice to my own partner if i want.”
he’s not nice. he’s a menace. he’s a walking storm cloud with a bad attitude and a worse vocabulary.
but he’s yours.
and when it’s just the two of you, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he’s the softest thing you’ve ever known. he curls into you like he’s seeking shelter. he murmurs your name like a prayer. he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.
so let him be rude to everyone else. let him curse and spit and snarl. you know the truth.
your husband sanemi shinazugawa is a softy only for you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
sanemi shinazugawa is a menace. everyone knows this. he’s got the personality of a feral cat that’s been soaked in vinegar and thrown into a thorn bush. he yells, he threatens, he looks at people like they’re gum stuck to his boot. the other hashira are used to it. the demon slayer corps is used to it. the world, quite frankly, is used to it.
you are not used to it, because the sanemi that exists in the world is not the same sanemi that exists in your bedroom.
the first time you saw him soften, you thought you were hallucinating. you had just woken up from a nightmare, gasping and shaking, and he—sanemi shinazugawa, the man who once threatened to gut a junior slayer for breathing too loud—had pulled you into his chest like you were made of glass. his voice, usually a gravelly snarl, dropped to a whisper so gentle you almost cried harder.
“you’re okay,” he’d murmured, calloused fingers combing through your hair. “i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
you’d blinked up at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, and asked, “who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
he’d flicked your forehead. hard. but then he kissed the spot better, so you figured it was a fair trade.
that’s the thing about sanemi. he’s all sharp edges and jagged lines, but with you, he sands himself down until he’s smooth enough to hold. he’ll curse out a kakushi for breathing in his direction, then turn around and ask you if you want your tea with one sugar or two, because he remembers you mentioned you like it a little sweet, and god forbid he forget something so important.
he’s not a words guy. he never has been. but he shows you in a hundred different ways, every single day.
like the time you mentioned offhandedly that you liked the way the moon looked through the wisteria trees. the next night, he dragged you out of bed at 2 a.m., grumbling about how “you’d better appreciate this, because i have patrol in four hours,” and sat you down on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders and his head in your lap. he fell asleep fifteen minutes later, but you stayed up for hours, running your fingers through his white hair and watching the moonlight catch the edges of his scars.
or the time you got sick, and he personally hunted down every ingredient for your favorite soup, even though it meant traveling to three different villages and threatening a merchant who tried to overcharge him. he set the bowl down in front of you, crossed his arms, and said, “eat. don’t make me feed you.”
you made him feed you.
he did it without complaint. he even blew on the spoon.
the other hashira don’t believe it. they’ve walked in on him braiding your hair (badly, but he’s trying) and tucking a stray strand behind your ear with such tenderness that rengoku openly wept. obanai just stares, mouth slightly agape, like he’s witnessing a cosmic anomaly. uzui cackles every time sanemi snaps at him for looking at you “with that weird smile, you’re going to scare them.”
and sanemi? he just scoffs, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you closer.
“what?” he’ll growl, daring anyone to say a word. “they’re mine. i can be nice to my own partner if i want.”
he’s not nice. he’s a menace. he’s a walking storm cloud with a bad attitude and a worse vocabulary.
but he’s yours.
and when it’s just the two of you, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he’s the softest thing you’ve ever known. he curls into you like he’s seeking shelter. he murmurs your name like a prayer. he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.
so let him be rude to everyone else. let him curse and spit and snarl. you know the truth.
your husband sanemi shinazugawa is a softy only for you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
sanemi shinazugawa is a menace. everyone knows this. he’s got the personality of a feral cat that’s been soaked in vinegar and thrown into a thorn bush. he yells, he threatens, he looks at people like they’re gum stuck to his boot. the other hashira are used to it. the demon slayer corps is used to it. the world, quite frankly, is used to it.
you are not used to it, because the sanemi that exists in the world is not the same sanemi that exists in your bedroom.
the first time you saw him soften, you thought you were hallucinating. you had just woken up from a nightmare, gasping and shaking, and he—sanemi shinazugawa, the man who once threatened to gut a junior slayer for breathing too loud—had pulled you into his chest like you were made of glass. his voice, usually a gravelly snarl, dropped to a whisper so gentle you almost cried harder.
“you’re okay,” he’d murmured, calloused fingers combing through your hair. “i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
you’d blinked up at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, and asked, “who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
he’d flicked your forehead. hard. but then he kissed the spot better, so you figured it was a fair trade.
that’s the thing about sanemi. he’s all sharp edges and jagged lines, but with you, he sands himself down until he’s smooth enough to hold. he’ll curse out a kakushi for breathing in his direction, then turn around and ask you if you want your tea with one sugar or two, because he remembers you mentioned you like it a little sweet, and god forbid he forget something so important.
he’s not a words guy. he never has been. but he shows you in a hundred different ways, every single day.
like the time you mentioned offhandedly that you liked the way the moon looked through the wisteria trees. the next night, he dragged you out of bed at 2 a.m., grumbling about how “you’d better appreciate this, because i have patrol in four hours,” and sat you down on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders and his head in your lap. he fell asleep fifteen minutes later, but you stayed up for hours, running your fingers through his white hair and watching the moonlight catch the edges of his scars.
or the time you got sick, and he personally hunted down every ingredient for your favorite soup, even though it meant traveling to three different villages and threatening a merchant who tried to overcharge him. he set the bowl down in front of you, crossed his arms, and said, “eat. don’t make me feed you.”
you made him feed you.
he did it without complaint. he even blew on the spoon.
the other hashira don’t believe it. they’ve walked in on him braiding your hair (badly, but he’s trying) and tucking a stray strand behind your ear with such tenderness that rengoku openly wept. obanai just stares, mouth slightly agape, like he’s witnessing a cosmic anomaly. uzui cackles every time sanemi snaps at him for looking at you “with that weird smile, you’re going to scare them.”
and sanemi? he just scoffs, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you closer.
“what?” he’ll growl, daring anyone to say a word. “they’re mine. i can be nice to my own partner if i want.”
he’s not nice. he’s a menace. he’s a walking storm cloud with a bad attitude and a worse vocabulary.
but he’s yours.
and when it’s just the two of you, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he’s the softest thing you’ve ever known. he curls into you like he’s seeking shelter. he murmurs your name like a prayer. he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.
so let him be rude to everyone else. let him curse and spit and snarl. you know the truth.
that was the first thing you noticed. the second was that giyuu was sitting on the engawa with his back against a pillar, staring out at the garden like it held all the answers to the universe. his haori was loose, half-falling off one shoulder, and his hair—usually so neat—was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it.
there was a bottle of sake beside him. half-empty.
you'd been given the same room to recover in, both of you injured from the same mission, both of you too stubborn to stay at the butterfly estate for longer than necessary. the wisteria house was neutral ground. quiet. peaceful.
you hadn't expected to find him like this.
"giyuu?" you said, stepping onto the engawa. "are you—"
he turned his head.
and oh.
his cheeks were pink. not the usual pale flush of exertion or embarrassment—this was a soft, warm pink that spread all the way to the tips of his ears. his eyes were slightly unfocused, and when he looked at you, he blinked slowly, like he was trying to process your existence.
"oh," he said. "it's you."
"yeah. it's me." you sat down beside him, close enough to see the way his pupils were a little too wide. "how much did you drink?"
"not that much."
"giyuu."
"…maybe that much."
you sighed, but you couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. this was new. you'd seen giyuu tired, injured, frustrated, cold. you'd never seen him like this—soft and loose-limbed and warm.
"you should probably stop," you said gently.
"probably," he agreed. but he didn't move. he just kept looking at you, like you were something interesting he hadn't noticed before.
"what?" you asked.
"you have a nice face," he said.
you blinked. "what?"
"a nice face." he said it so matter-of-factly, like he was commenting on the weather. "i've always thought so. i just never said it."
your heart did something strange in your chest. "you—you've never said that before."
"i know." he frowned, like he was disappointed in himself. "i don't say a lot of things."
"you really don't."
"i should say more things." he turned to face you fully, and the movement made him sway slightly. you reached out instinctively, your hand landing on his arm to steady him. "you're always saying things. good things. kind things. you patched me up and you didn't even complain when i was difficult."
"you weren't difficult."
"i was. i always am." he looked down at your hand on his arm, then back up at your face. "you're still here anyway."
"of course i'm here. we're recovering together."
"no." he shook his head, and the motion was so earnest, so oddly vulnerable, that it made your breath catch. "i mean—you're always here. you stay. even when i don't say anything. even when i'm—" he gestured vaguely at himself, "—like this."
"like what?"
"quiet. boring. bad at—" he paused, searching for the word, "—people."
"you're not boring."
"i am."
"you're not," you said firmly. "you're just—you're careful. there's a difference."
he stared at you for a long moment. then, very softly, he said, "you're nice to me."
"of course i'm nice to you. you're—" you stopped. swallowed. "you're my friend."
"friend," he repeated, and there was something almost sad in his voice. "right."
the silence stretched between you, filled with the sound of wind through the wisteria and the distant chirping of crickets. giyuu's hand was still under yours, warm and solid, and you couldn't bring yourself to let go.
"giyuu," you said quietly, "what did you mean by that? when you said 'friend' like that?"
he didn't answer right away. he seemed to be thinking, his brow furrowed in that way it always did when he was trying to find the right words.
"i don't want to be just your friend," he finally said.
your heart stopped.
"what?"
"i want—" he paused, and you could see him fighting through the fog of alcohol, trying to be clear. "i want to be more. i think about you when you're not there. i think about your hands. your voice. the way you smile at me even when i don't deserve it." he looked at you, and his eyes were so honest, so open, that it hurt. "i've wanted that for a long time. i just didn't know how to say it."
you couldn't breathe.
"giyuu—"
"you don't have to say anything," he said quickly, and now there was a hint of panic in his voice, like he was already regretting it. "i know i'm—i'm not good at this. i'm not good at any of this. and the sake is making me say things i shouldn't—"
"giyuu."
"—and i don't want to make you uncomfortable, so you can just forget i said anything—"
"giyuu."
he stopped.
you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. his skin was warm, and he went very, very still, like he was afraid to move and break whatever this was.
"i like you too," you said softly. "i've liked you for a long time. i just didn't think you'd ever—"
"really?"
"really."
he stared at you. then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—not his usual tight, careful smile, but something real and open and almost disbelieving. it made him look younger. softer.
"you're not joking?" he asked.
"i'm not joking."
"you're sure?"
"i'm sure, giyuu."
he let out a breath, and some of the tension bled out of his shoulders. and then, before you could say anything else, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours.
"okay," he murmured. "good. that's—that's good."
you laughed, soft and a little breathless. "yeah. it is."
his hand found yours, fingers intertwining. his eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and even, and you realized with a start that he was falling asleep.
"giyuu?"
"mm?"
"you're falling asleep."
"i know." he shifted closer, his head dropping to your shoulder. "you're warm."
"you're drunk."
"maybe." he nuzzled into your neck, and you could feel his smile against your skin. "still warm."
you wrapped your arm around him, pulling him closer. the wisteria swayed gently above you, and the night was quiet and still, and giyuu tomioka was asleep on your shoulder with his hand in yours and the softest expression on his face.
you pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
"you're really cute when you're tipsy," you murmured.
jujutsu kaisen men and their favorite place to kiss you 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
cw: none, gn!reader
───﹙s.g.﹚ gojo’s favorite place to kiss you is your forehead. he’s tall—annoyingly so—and he loves the way you have to tilt your head up to look at him. he’ll do it in the middle of a crowded street, in the middle of a fight, in the middle of you trying to be mad at him. he’ll lean down, press his lips to your brow, and linger there just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath. “you’re so cute when you’re flustered,” he’ll say, and you’ll shove him, but he’s already dodging, laughing, eyes crinkling behind his blindfold. he knows you love it. he does it again five minutes later.
───﹙s.g.﹚ geto’s favorite place to kiss you is your hand. not in a performative way, he’s not doing it for the crowd. it’s very deliberate. he’ll take your wrist, turn your palm up, and press his lips to the inside of it, right where your pulse flutters. sometimes he’ll kiss your knuckles, one by one, like he’s memorizing you. he’ll do it when you’re sitting across from him at a table, or when you’re walking side by side, or when you’re about to leave. it’s his way of saying i’ll see you soon without saying anything at all. his eyes stay on yours the whole time, dark and patient, and it makes your chest ache.
───﹙r.s.﹚ sukuna’s favorite place to kiss you is your neck. not gently—never gently. he’ll grab your jaw, tilt your head to the side, and press his mouth to the curve of your throat like he’s claiming you. his teeth graze, his tongue follows, and he doesn’t care if it leaves a mark. he wants it to. he’ll do it in the middle of a sentence, interrupting himself just to feel you shiver. “you’re mine,” he’ll murmur against your skin, and his voice is low, rough, like a warning and a promise all at once. you hate how much you like it.
───﹙n.k.﹚ nanami’s favorite place to kiss you is your shoulder. it’s subtle, almost shy. he’ll come up behind you while you’re washing dishes or reading a book, and he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder first, just breathing you in. then he’ll press a kiss to the fabric of your shirt, or your bare skin if it’s accessible, soft and unhurried. “you work too hard,” he’ll say, even though he works harder than anyone. his lips linger, and his hands find your waist, and for a moment, the world slows down. it’s his way of saying i see you. i’m here. thank you for being mine.
───﹙t.f.﹚ toji’s favorite place to kiss you is your jaw. he’s rough around the edges, always has been, but when he kisses you there—just below your ear, along the sharp line of your bone—it’s almost tender. he’ll do it when he’s passing by, hand brushing your hip, mouth grazing your skin like it’s nothing. but it’s not nothing, and you both know it. he’ll smirk when you lean into him, call you needy, but he’ll do it again anyway. and again. and again. until you’re the one pulling him closer.
───﹙h.h.﹚ higuruma’s favorite place to kiss you is your temple. he’s a man of quiet affections, he doesn’t do grand gestures and doesn’t say much when it comes to feelings. but when you’re stressed, when you’re overthinking, when you’re crying over something small, he’ll cup your face with both hands and press his lips to your temple. it’s grounding. steady. he’ll stay there for a long moment, forehead resting against yours after. “you’re okay,” he’ll whisper, and his voice is so soft, so sure, that you almost believe him. he’ll kiss you there again when you smile.
───﹙c.k.﹚ choso’s favorite place to kiss you is your nose. he’s still learning what love is, what you like, how to be gentle. but he figured this one out on his own. he’ll lean in, thumb brushing your cheek, and press a kiss to the tip of your nose, quick and earnest. his ears go red every time. “you look pretty,” he’ll say, which is his version of i love you. he’ll do it again when you laugh, and again when you’re sad, and again when you’re just sitting there, existing. it’s his favorite thing. kissing your nose. he’ll never stop doing it.
